You Have Thunder?

I was on a coffee date last night with "Batshit" and it was going pretty well. We were talking about work and other miscellaneous stuff. In the past month and a half since I've known her my opinions on her have ranged from "a little crazy" to "fucking insane". Last night was one of her saner moments.

I know there are a lot of women out there like this. Fucked around in their twenties and now in their early to mid thirties want to wash away their pasts by "total immersion religion". TIR consists of an all gospel music collection, heavy judgment against all things perceived as wicked (unless it's "Girlfriends" or some shit like that), becoming a born again virgin, faithful attendance at a really strict church, undying devotion to a pimp-like pastor, and non stop chatter about the need for everyone within listening range to get saved. That's "Batshit" in a nutshell. She's not the first woman I've met like this, and she surely won't be the last. And I'm not really judging her, though it sounds like it. If you have an agenda that puts marriage high on your list and you think this is the path, WORK YOUR PROGRAM. It's just not the way to fuck with me. I like bad girls. The badder the better.

Anyway, we were ordering coffee and she was standing in front of me. She ordered. When she was finished she stepped back into me so that her back was in my chest. I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her closer to me. She leaned her head into my shoulder. I leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. And we stayed like that for a little while. This seems minor but it was a giant step in our completely non-physical dating game.

We sat down and talked about a bunch of different stuff, then I spilled my guts. "Listen, I really like you. I'm physically attracted to you, I have been since the first time I saw you. And as I'm getting to know you, I like you more and more." Why the hell am I being this frank with her? I could not tell you, it just felt right. "I don't think we could ever be a couple. I don't think we're compatible. You are seriously religious and I don't trust any organized religion. You want to live in a little house in a small community with a white picket fence. I want to live in a penthouse in Manhattan. This won't work on any serious level."

"Batshit" stared at me the entire time I talked. When I finished she said "How long have you been thinking about this." I told her I didn't know which was the truth. I don't consciously remember when I started to think about this. Trust me readers, y'all would know. She said, "I couldn't progress in the way I want to with a man who didn't take Christ as his savior. Anything else I could compromise."

When we left that coffeehouse, I planned on not ever talking to her again. I was going to suck it up and go it alone in that small town. But she called me a few times last night and we talked a little this morning. Not serious and deep. Just friendly stuff. Honestly, that's probably at the level it will stay.

This morning I had a meeting with a bunch of regional government leaders in my area. Is there no end to the number of white women bureaucrats with short manly looking haircuts and leisure suits? All those hoes look like Richie Cunningham's dad. And those fucking meeting cliches are killing me. "I'd like to piggyback on what Zed just said." No, you can't piggyback on what I said you fucking sodomite!!! This muthafucka this morning who spoke after another guy says "Daryl just stole my thunder." You got thunder?!? Where the fuck did you get thunder? How come I didn't get thunder? You see how they do the black man? How the fuck he get thunder and I didn't get no muthafuckin' thunder? That's some bullshit!!!

Platonically yours,
KZ

Ash Tuesday

Greetings Fellow Munkees, glad you could stop by. Honestly there's not much going on with me except that good ol' sinking feeling. I was in a budget meeting today for 2 1/2 hours. I was completely clueless and trust me, that doesn't happen much. For the first time since I've been here, I consciously thought "what the fuck am I doing here?" Big City Slick was feeling a little overwhelmed. I think I've finally gotten to the point where I'm like the furniture around here. It has stopped raising an eyebrow when my big dreadlocked ass walks into a room. Maybe there is some future here. But best believe I'm still doing that phone interview for that California job I told y'all about a little while ago. Mo' scrilla, mo' scrilla...

Damn my knuckles are ashy. I've been boycotting Jergens and all other lotions for their unfair labor practices in the Sudan. That sounds good, right? Actually, I left the house and forgot to put on lotion and now I look like I work the night shift at KFC on the sifting machine.

I guess by now you've figured out I don't have too much to talk about today. And I'm sooooooooooo bored. I think I'll spend the rest of the day readin' y'all shit.

Stay chisel,
KZ

Know Your Limitations

One of my favorite joints back in the day was from the Souls of Mischief, a four MC group from Oakland, California. These cats were (and still are, don't sleep) exceptionally talented MCs. The song was called "Limitations" from the CD "'93 till Infinity". Classic disc. The chorus was "Emcees should know their limitations, their limitations." I always thought that title translated well to other shit.

Hell, everybody should know their limitations, right? You could be an optimist, not recognize any limitations and excel to the highest heights. But that's bullshit. You already think you're much better than you really are. Everyone does. We all have that fatal blind spot in our skill set that fucks us up whenever we try to fly too high with those waxy assed wings, Icarus.

Anyway, let's get to the heart of this discussion, which is my weekend. I got a visit on Saturday from this chick from Detroit. I'm kinda getting a rhythm going now, I think. More visits and interests in visits from home. I've known this broad for a little while now. She's cute. One of those natural women. No perm, cowrie shells, yoga lessons, body oils and all that shit. I tend to attract these women because I have dreadlocks. They believe that I have a higher form of consciousness, but readers, we all know that's not true, don't we? She has some E-fucking -normous breasts. Nice shape overall, but you don't really hit the jackpot of breasts and ass. That, my friends is a rarity. This broad wears her hair short. Real short. #1 guard on the hair clippers short. I hadn't really noticed this before, but now I was face to face with her bald assed head. And it was kind of funny shaped. It wasn't good. I kept peeping this shit trying to come to terms with it's egginess. I just couldn't get past it. It kept a brotha out of the mood. That fucking head.

I would have liked for someone along the way, a real friend to tell this broad, "You just can't pull this look off. Your shit looks eggy." But, noooo. No one said anything to her, and she didn't realize her limitations. And now this broad is hittin' the scene looking like Charles "Roc" Dutton. Know your limitations.

Some of you are wondering if I ever got over her egghead and hit it. If you ask that question, you obviously haven't been reading the blog.

Forever Nasty,
KZ

Respect My Shit

What's up folks? I hope your days are going better than mine. I can't seem to catch a break. I went out on a date Thursday night. I know. If you've been reading this blog, you figure I haven't met anyone to date, but I've actually met one chick that I kinda dig. She's excessively pious, extremely judgemental, and overly superficial. But I need company, so I'm not so choosy in the boonies. Just happy to find a good looking single woman with a college degree from an accredited university. And of course since she's over 30, she's fucking crazy as bat-shit! I think I'll call her "Batshit". Anyway, we were sitting down at a restaurant for a reciprocity dinner (her taking me out after I took her out) and our waitress stepped up. This woman was a cute, lighter skinned sista with her hair braided in that played-out zig zag pattern that used to be favored by young thugs everywhere. She took our orders and was extremely professional. I excused myself to go the restroom. When I returned, Batshit tells me that the waitress hit on her. I looked over at the waitress who was over at another table, but she didn't look back. I asked "What happened?". Batshit tells me "She asked me if this was our first date. I said 'no'. Then she asked if we were a couple. I told her 'no' again. Then she started spitting compliments at me one after another. 'You look nice. You're so pretty. You look good in that dress' Stuff like that. When you came back, she walked away" All I could do is chuckle. If it was a dude, I could check him. What do you do in that situation? I try (God knows I try) to respect gay people and whatever they gotta do. But shit, stay out of my fledgling assed love life, please. If she was to get that ass before me, I don't know what I'd do. As soon as I can, I'll write about my weekend.

Keep it tight for Big Daddy,
KZ

What Do Y'all Think?

What's crackin' folks? This work week has been kind of slow. My boss is out so I'm completely in charge, and you know I take it easy on myself. I been given some breathing room to reflect on the things I'm asked to do on a regular basis and slowly but surely, I realize what kind of shell game this whole thing is. There has been an elaborate effort to pump up the work we do to appear more busy than we have to be. I won't be so arrogant as to assume this was all because of me, but it's starting to look that way. It's been kind of a "let's create more work so the city boy doesn't get bored" type of thing, and frankly it sux.

I spent 2 hours in one meeting and 1 hour in another that was based strictly on semantics. "I prefer that we state it this way..." "No, I would like it put this way...". At my old job those muthafuckas woulda been blackballed and put on paperclip collection duty. Do you know why? Because I don't work as a friggin' English Professor, my work is based on ACTION. The more we discuss the wording in a document, the less that gets done. But that's obvious to you isn't it?

I got a call for an interview for this other gig in Northern California. I was suprised by the call, I'd forgotten I applied. Mind you, I just started this gig less than two months ago. The gig in Northern Cali pays about $20,000 a year more than this gig. I told them I was willing to interview over the phone. They wanted me to fly out. I told them I just started a new gig, I was intrigued by their position, but I couldn't fly out. They are now arranging for me to interview over the phone. In the words of the immortal KRS One, "now tell me what the *bleep* that I'm supposed to do" if I'm offered the gig? Should I take it or honor my committment? The Cali job is in a community with real problems that could use experienced help. My current gig is in a cupcake ass community with no real problems but a lot of entitlement issues. I've never seen such a big group of "haves" think that they have been so put upon. This shit is sickening. But if this was my only choice, I could stay for a few years. What do y'all think?

Completely Off Topic

I asked one of my staff people where another person was, and she answered "I don't know. I didn't know I was supposed to watch her" and proceeded to her office. I followed. I walked into her doorway and said "Alright, wise guy" waiting until she made eye contact to let her see there was no joking in my tone and no smile on my face. She made a little face and said "I know what that means. Sorry!" No, bitch, I don't accept your apology. I will can your ass in this fucked up economy and leave you for the fucking wolves you pasty bitch.

Sex Camel

What up, folks? It's your friendly neighborhood jackass talking smack. I just got back from Detroit this weekend. Maaaaaan, what a way to start the week. I had an excellent time in the city. I hit a gang of my old haunts and got sufficiently drunk. I called every woman I knew on Friday night and got every excuse in the book on why I couldn't score until Saturday night. I resigned myself to chillin' with the fellas on Friday, then the call came.

I got a call from one of my former interns. She's not from Detroit, but she was in town for another ex-interns bridal shower. (Full disclosure: yeah, I used to smash it, but not while she was my intern. I saw what happened to Bill C.) She told me she was downtown and she wanted to see me. I met her at a club that was full of niggas and broads who watch too much BET. Anyway, I see her and I couldn't believe my eyes. It looked like this broad was on an all pudding diet. She was huge. No, better yet, she was DENSE, VOLUMOUS, STUFFED, MASSIVE, DOUGHY. I was taken aback. I had just seen her a year ago and she was curvy and just thick.

So I walk up to her and hug her. Puddin' (that's what we'll call her) whispers in my ear, "Take me somewhere and fuck me." "What?" says I. "Take me somewhere and let me sit on your dick." I smile, but I'm kind of torn. I love a blunt woman, but damn, man, what happened to the goods? Any past readers of my illustrious blog knows about my sex life, or rather lack of it. Me and Ms. Palmer are old friends but I'm sick of her at this juncture. I need coochie, man! I say, "Let's go".

We're walking out of the club and she grabs my hand. I tense up. I don't think I'll be able to go through with this. I'm really not feeling good. I look over at Puddin' and I'm just not feeling it. We got to my car and we sit in it, not moving and not talking. I say "I'm really supposed to hook up with this other girl tonight. That's where I'm supposed to stay. " I'm lying, of course, because I've lost my nerve. She begins to rub on my crotch through my pants and says "I won't keep you all night. " I say to her "I can't chance it. I don't have any money for a hotel room and that's where I was planning to stay." Puddin' says, "I'll pay for a room." OK, so now I'm stuck, not to mention my little friend is wide awake and ready for action. Everyone who knows me knows that he's the brains of this operation. Eff it. I get on the freeway to go to a motel.

Driving on the freeway, Puddin' unzips my slacks and starts to ummmm....you know........ummmmmmmm...oops, sorry, flashback. I'm losing it. "Don't crash" says Puddin' and I'm having real trouble steering.

We get to a motel, she pays, and the rest as they say is history. That wasn't the only adventure I had this weekend, but it was the most noteable. I am now relegated to the role of "Sex Camel". Going to the city, getting as much as I can, and then going for long periods of time without. Much like our noble, hump-backed desert friend stores water, I store memories of getting the goods.

Keep it movin'
KZ

You'z A Bitch

Hey folks, another interesting day in the Booniehood. My staff is buggin'. These cats really can't stand having a young, black boss. And I can't blame them!!!! I suck!!!

Episode 1
This cat came into my office a couple of days ago, I'll call him Dub C. He's pretty new like me, a 55+ year old, balding white dude and he's bitchin' about his supervisor. I helped him come to a realization about how things are going to go down with him and his boss. In other words, I laid the hammer down, baby. Instead of leaving with his head down and mumbling under his breath, this joker says to me "How come 'so and so' gives you so much to do", so and so being MY boss, "he should be doing some more of this work or else paying you more". I looked at this cat and said "Dub C, I'm very busy here, I'll talk to you later".

Folks, let me tell you something in case you don't know. THERE IS NO WAY IN HELL THAT A MIDDLE AGED WHITE MAN IS LOOKING OUT FOR MY WELL BEING!!! Especially one who is my underling. This cat tried some ol' Willie Lynch shit on a nigga, some ol' transference shit on a cat. Get my ass disgruntled and uneasy about my workload and my pay.

Episode 2
I have a staff person directly under me, his title is "Assistant whatever the hell my title is". Passive aggressive ass cat. He's in his mid-forties, white, and he's been with the organization for about 8 years. He has to prepare documents for me to sign all of the time and he neglects to put my title on the document. Or he forgets my professional designation/certification at the end of my name. Or he puts his name on the document. Or he forgets to tell me about a certain meeting that he's involved in so that he can run it instead of me. In MasterCard parlance, this muthafucka is priceless. As a matter of fact, in this blog, he'll be henceforth referred to as Priceless. Anyway, Priceless leaves my ass a document in my mailbox that has to be signed. It leaves off my professional designation. I return the muthafucka to him in his mailbox with a note: "I have held the designation/certification since 1998. The designation was extremely difficult to attain and a source of pride. Do not leave those letters off after my name on any document you produce for me from now on. Regards, Zed."

Epilogue
These small episodes are examples of the daily slights that I have to endure in Hicksville, USA and the reason I propose the "You'z A Bitch" Award for Outstanding Achievement in Bitch-like Behaviors. These men are my two nominees. If you have any nominees for this dubious distinction, please feel free to comment and let me know why they should receive this aluminum foil trophy in the shape of JaRule and 50 Cent arguing.

Bleu Balls

This is the most difficult part of my new life is lack of "hits". "Buns", "skins", "tail", or as my blog title suggests "clams", were a pretty regular part of my daily routine. I don't know one broad in this city. The ones I meet are directly linked back to my job, which is a bad thing if you didn't know.

The crazy thing about the clams I left is that I get inundated with e-mails daily talking about how much they miss me. Miss me? Really? When I told y'all I was leaving, you acted like you had forever to hook up with me. No sense of urgency whatsoever. Now, were both assed out. Oh well.

I had a "special friend" come see me this weekend. This friend (I'll call her Dee), who I've hooked up with a million times before, has a new cat in her life. I knew this and wanted her to come anyway. Why in the hell did I want her to come? Because I wanted some good company and the possibility(the very likely probability) to spread some alfredo on the clam.

Maaaaaaaan, can I tell you that nothing jumped off. Not a damn thing. No hand, no mouth, nothing. She was sooooo caught up with this new cat that I barely got a hug. WTF? I remained a gentleman throughout. I didn't pout or act out despite a serious case of the bleus. Dee, how in the hell are you going to walk around a red blooded man with tight shirts on showing off the most beautiful set of kegs in America and expect him to be cool? You know my access is limited out here in the hinterland. You could have just stayed in the big city with that new cat if you weren't going to hook me up!!!

The most effed up thing about this whole situation is that I'm at the mercy of these bumpkin-assed broads from the boonies. Understand me, I don't want pity, I just want you to relate to the story. You can only do so much for yourself (feel me?). The Club here is not the Club in the big city. No casual hook ups because everybody knows everybody, especially in the incredibly small black community.

Every woman I know from Detroit that reads this should understand this statement: If you come to my house to spend the weekend, expect to get boned. The longer I stay here, the less patience I have with female "friends". And mind you, it's only been a month and a half, so take heed.

Still Tru Bleu,
KZ

Well it has begun...

My tale is a simple one. I am a fish out of water. I've lived all my life in a big city and now, in my mid thirties, have relocated to a speck of real estate on the other side of the state.

Am I lonely? Not really. Just alone. But the funny thing is, as I am trying to adjust to this new place, the curiousity (really old fashioned noisy-ness) of new co-workers and people in general is getting on my nerves.

"Where did you come from?" That's an innocent question. The way it's been posed, not so much. It's more like "Where'd they get you from nigga?" Honest to God, these cats haven't seen anything like me. If you knew me, you'd know that not even remotely a boast. It's just a true statement. I pretty much suck. I'm a 34 year old black man, 6'3" with shoulder length dreadlocks with an affinity for bowties. And I've taken over the reins of one of this city's most vital municipal departments. "Where the fuck did you come from? Why the fuck is he qualified to be my boss? Who is this muthafucka that just walked in this meeting?"

Sometimes I feel like I just walked into a scene from "Mississippi Burning" or some shit like that. Naw, I guess it's more like "Rosewood" the way my brothers and sisters treat me. Man, I came from a really, really black city. Black folks run my home town. It's about 85% black. These cats here are coming to me like I just rode in on a horse to save 'em and shit. I am completely and positively pro-black, but I come from a small town called "Kujichagulia", niggas. You gotta be about self-determination at some level and stop letting the Saltine Masses define and limit you.

I know what you're thinking. This ol' house nigga is on some Condolezza Rice bullshit. Naw, no Republican in me. I just see the shit I'm doing as part of a bigger plan that don't include liberating every nigga in town. At least not right now. Give ya own self free, Cinque. I'm workin' on my shit right now.

Basically this first post is to give you cats a little background. This blog will get better. It'll probably be pretty funny, too. Enjoy yourself.

I'm working on some sign-off phases, so critique a muthafucka and let him know how he's doin'.

Carpe Testicularis!
(Seize these nuts!)

Just testing. I'll be ready to write later.

Peace, hoes.