As I write this blog, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in Seattle with some of my fellow crew mates. I just asked one of The Cast members, Matt, if he wanted to see a photo of a sexy bear. His reply: “OK, I guess?” Then I realized I should clarify. “No, an actual big, furry… This isn’t making it better, is it?”
Really enjoying the second week of this cruise. We’re having great weather, so the views are much clearer. Snapped this one while I was eating lunch by the pool this afternoon. No way anything gets much better this.
I trust you read that in Smokey Robinson falsetto. Yesterday, we cruised thru Glacier Bay National Park and saw the Margarie Glacier. This is her/it—I’m not sure which pronoun glaciers prefer. Look how blue that ice is! I’ve seen the Portage Glacier from Anchorage, but this was a completely different experience because we cruised so much closer than I’ve ever been to Portage. I took a gang of glacier selfies, trying to get this photo, when I could have just asked someone to do take it for me. But these other cruisers don’t know my good angles…
I still plan on getting my #GirlTrek on while I’m on this ship. I will work out at least 5 days a week. No excuses. I expect all 3 of y’all regular readers to hold me accountable. Saturday, I even invited 1,800 people to carb-shame me in the dining rooms if they catch me slipping on my eating plan. Even if they’re not gonna do it, it’s keeping me in line. Wish me luck on #OperationLoseWeightOnACruiseShip #ImGoingToAWeddingTheDayAfterIGetHome
I texted my mom to let her know I’d arrived and safely boarded the cruise ship I’ll be performing on for the next month. She sent me this text back, and I thought it was super sweet. She hasn’t always been super excited about my career as a comic, but her concerns lie mainly in her desire for me to have job security, a steady paycheck and the ability to fill my pantry with groceries from a supermarket—not shrimp-flavored ramen from Rite-Aid. But she’s on board now, pun absolutely intended, because she realized a few years ago that despite the struggle, this is the life I’ve chosen. Success ebbs and flows, but funny is my thing.
Last Saturday, on my way up to The Berkshires for a show, I made a pit stop at Philiipsburg Manor–an historic site located in Sleepy Hollow, NY. In the 1800’s, it was a complex operated by a family of Dutch merchants who owned 23 enslaved Africans. Similar to Colonial Williamsburg, they offer tours where you can learn the little-known story of enslavement in the colonial north. I visited on this particular day because it was Pinkster–(a Dutch-turned-African-American holiday celebrated mainly in the Hudson Valley), and having just heard about it for the first time that morning, I wanted to learn more.
Here are a few photos from my tour of the manor. Scroll thru them right quick, so we can get back to the lady in this video.
Y’all finished? Or are you done? Either way, let’s get back to the issue at hand: how did this white woman end up with this responsibility? Was Keisha on break and she thought, “I did take an African Dance class that one Saturday, and I saw the wedding scene in that Arsenio Hall movie about Africans like 2 times…I’ll fill in for you, Keisha!” I don’t have the words for what this is or how incongruous it felt or how the black woman dancer who was dancing before her was looking at her while she was dancing or for how the drummers were smirking at me while I was giving this white lady the big eyes… This is why the caged bird stopped singing; she had no more songs.
I love a good museum adventure, and learning about Pinkster was dope–especially because it was one of the very few times the enslaved were given time off. But this ish right here is why there should be a 15-20 minute limit for black people at historical sites having to do with slavery.
“But I didn’t even see the upstairs, yet. I’m gon’ get my full 14 dollars worth.”
“Ma’am, I think it’s best you head on out now, for your own peace of mind.”
Because at minute 21, some chit like this happens.
I just finished listening to game tape from a set I did back on May 6 in Cincinnati. The audience was awesome and towards the end of the show, I asked them if they’d gone out the night before for Cinco de Mayo. A bunch of them had, but no one seemed to know what the day actually signifies. So I told them what my friend Damon told me it was…
I cannot take credit for all the ignorance that comes out of my mouth; sometimes, I’m just the conduit. But this fool said, “Sing, sing, celebrate,” y’all. I hate him for this. And you should, too.
I don’t know why the name of this bank bothers me so much, but for years, whenever I’m in the Midwest and see it, I wanna scream,? “REDUCE THE FRACTION!!!” It should be 1 2/3 bank.* Per Wikipedia:
“Fifth Third’s unusual name is the result of the June 1, 1908, merger of Third National Bank and Fifth National Bank, to become the Fifth-Third National Bank of Cincinnati (the hyphen was later dropped).”
Well, you know what? That’s dumb. My friend Hanna said that, since it was a merger, they should have just called it Eighth Bank. Because: addition. I guess we should just be glad they didn’t call it 3/5 Bank. Because: slavery.
I bet the Third National Bank people fought to have their name first, though. I bet they were all, “We were two national banks ahead of you! Our name should go first!!!” I wonder how close they came to that catastrophe. I’m willing to bet they had all the stationery printed, bought the domain name (yes, in 1908)… and then a dude named Earl came in like, “Aww naw! Hell naw, man!”**
I know nothing about the quality of services they provide, but I hate this bank.
*actual neuroses, not a joke. *joke, not an indication of actual wiilingness to bet