The Pseudo-Arts

Yo, what's up? It's ya boy with another entry full of misadventures and shit. I was in my office on Friday and who should walk in but E.T. She was at the spot visiting with Poppins and decided to stop by. I had forgotten that I made a date with her that night to go to this poetry reading.

Let me let y'all in on a little secret: I hate fuckin' spoken word, light an incense, head wrap, beat the bongos type shit. People see a nigga with 'locs and automatically they think "What an enlightened muthafucka!" Nope. Not even a little bit. "Spoken word artists" are some of the most facile, non-imaginative niggas that ever stumbled across a copy of "Love Jones" in the previously viewed pile at Blockbuster. That being said, I made the date a week prior because I was horny then and forgot I made it.

Anyway she popped into my office with those fuckin' titties showing, reminded me of the date and I said "Sure. I'll be there." We hooked up later that evening at a bar with a jungle theme before we went to the spot. Monkeys were everywhere. I took that as a good sign. I drank a couple of L.I.I.T.s and waited. She showed up with even more of those titties showing and I was happy. She drank some and we left.

The poetry spot was an old firehouse. The shit had a nice ambience. We were the only black people there except for the owners. I hardly noticed anything else until it was too late. The poets came up one by one on the open mic. All women, all white. All professing their love for pussy. I looked at E.T. "Take me back to my car. I'm not listening to this shit." I never identify with these spoken word muthafuckas. I especially didn't identify with this shit. She didn't want to part company.

"Let's go drink at Picasso's" she said. I obliged. It was packed when we got there, fulla crackas. I grabbed a Guinness, she got a martini. Pretentious bitch. "You wanna go to my place and let me eat your pussy?" I said, really trying to cut through the bullshit. "What?" "I wanna know if you gon' let me suck your clit." She laughed. "It'll get awkward between us." "How so?" "I'll want to let you do more than that. I'm still looking for a new job. If we start something and it doesn't work out, you won't want to help me." So that's where it was. That's where I was. I am a resource, a means to something better for so many people around here. I guess I never really thought about it.

"Hey can you get these drinks. I'm tapped." I said. And she bought those drinks and the next ones I ordered. We left Picasso's and went to another spot, a blues spot. I drank and she paid. It was a cool spot but by then I'd disconnected with her and my surroundings. I was happy to let someone else be a resource for a change.

When we were done at that spot she dropped me off at my car. "I have a bottle of wine chilling at my house." she smiled as she looked at me. "Naw, I'm an old man. I wanna go home and sleep." I got out and went home. I miss my home, my real home, my real friends. I just need to lay low until I'm able to reassess my life here.

I am Zedediah X. Zednanreh, the favored son of Africa, nephew of the Drum and the Spear, first cousin of Cuba, the lion of the Zednanreh bloodline. These niggas won't soon forget that when I'm done.

Peace,
KZ