Friday, June 30, 2006

The Skeptic

In the spirit of the influx of superheroes showing up at America's cineplexes, I'd like to talk about my new secret identity.

I've had a secret identity for quite awhile now. I don't know how many of you have heard of my alter-ego, The Righthander. During the day, I'm a (somewhat) mild mannered left-handed city official. At night, when horniness spreads throughout the land, I become The Righthander, purveyor of pornography and self-molester.

A new alter-ego has emerged, though I must confess, The Righthander ain't goin' nowhere. Due to the overwhelming volume of bullshit phone calls, emails, and one to one communications I receive, I've had to develop...(dah dah dah)...The Skeptic.
The Skeptic doesn't take anything you say at face value. Nothing is discussed with The Skeptic without the underlying motive to deceive. Every conversation is propaganda. He's not buying it "Muthafucka, ya lyin'! You got an agenda!"

Case #1
Rainier, a friend of Zed's, calls him, saying he has something funny to tell him. Zed listens for approximately three minutes before The Skeptic grabs the phone away from him. The Skeptic recognizes the story that the friend is telling. It's the one where it obstensibly is for entertainment purposes, but ends up about one of Zed's exes. "I have to go now", The Skeptic says, and the crisis is averted.

Case #2
Mary Sue, an employee of Zed's, asks if she could speak with him for a few minutes. He gives her time 30 minutes before another meeting of his is scheduled to start. "Don't worrry, it's about something positive", she says. Immediately, The Skeptic becomes suspicious. "Why would this perennially unhappy, constantly bitching woman want to discuss something positive to Zed?" The Skeptic springs into action. A couple of minutes listing positive things in the office turns to a tear-filled anxiety fest. "What have you done to contribute to this atmosphere?" The Skeptic asks. "Nothing" Mary Sue replies. "Haven't you taken every opportunity you could to bad mouth your co-workers to anyone who would listen? Didn't you think that would get back to them?" The Skeptic continues. Mary Sue asks to be excused. Another job well done.

Case #3
Carmel, a gigantic breasted, pretty faced mammal, calls Zed after a few weeks without contact. Zed misses the call and plays the voicemail. "Hey Zed, I was just calling to say I just saw you out and about a few days ago. I think you were with a co-worker or something. Tina said she saw you on TV last week, too. You were presenting something, I don't know what it was. Alright...well, I guess I'll talk to you later." The Skeptic laughs and erases the voicemail. The phone call was received at 10:30 pm, on the cusp of the Booty Call Parallax. This attempt to catch Zed at his weakest, just before The Righthander takes over, was pathetic at best. Mortals! The Skeptic once again saves the day.

Whenever the credibility of a person you come in contact with comes into question and you need that special assistance to scrutinize these bullshitters, call The Skeptic. Just twist your lips thusly:

and he'll come running.

Stay Cool,

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Head or Gut, Part Deux

*This is the shit that good moods are made of!!!!*

Some stupid shit happened to me Tuesday. Just weird. That comedienne chick, Shelly, the needy one that's coming to Satan's Anus for her birthday, sent me something in the mail. It was a headshot of herself as a huge refrigerator magnet that said "Don't forget July 8th!!! Your baby is coming to see you, Big Papi!!!"

There are so many things wrong with this, not including the overzealous and egregious use of exclamation points. Maybe it's what the comics li
ke to call "sarcasm". I'm no comedian, so I don't exactly know.

There's the headshot. Shelly ain't pretty. I think I've alluded to that before. She ain't pretty. Helluva body, mediocrity above the neck. Why send me a headshot? So I can regret saying that you could come? How long can I look at your grill and justify me letting you spend more than one day here?

Then, there's the caption. Fuck July 8th. My baby? Really? Comedians! Big Papi? O.K., I don't have a real problem with Big Papi. My big cousin Juan
told me once, if a non-Spanish chick calls you "Papi", she's a freak. I don't know how true that is, and in this case it doesn't matter. But I thought I'd just put that out there as a warning to any sistas callin' a cat "Papi".

Then there's the refrigerator magnet thing. Maybe I could put it up as an appetite suppresant on the 'frig. Think Ookla The Moc.

Maybe this is why she's hasn't blown up as a comedienne. This shit ain't even a little funny.

What also didn't help is that I got a call from Thelma yesterday. A generally decent phone call. Except for the part where she asked for some dick. Which is not exactly a bonus situation for me, given her poor performance. I also now think that she's more N'bushe than Thelma. Either way she's tight.

All other things being equal (except the off-the-meathook sex with Shelly), when comparing two women who you don't necessarily like, is it wrong to prefer the one that is most attractive? That's not really a question for you to answer, I just wanted to let you know I'm thinking about this shit.


Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Loc'ed And Loaded

So last night, once again, I'm at an evening meeting. Even when I was in Detroit and I had these types of meetings, the population seems the same. I was watching The Daily Show last week and Jon Stewart made the same point. Only extremists on either side of the political spectrum make time to get involved in civic matters. Everybody else has shit to do. So I'm making a presentation to a bunch of people without shit to do. A beautiful, sunny afternoon and I have a room full of people accusing me of everything under the sun. Apparently, I'm trying to take their property. Even the renters! Also, I'm trying to suppress their property values so that white people can buy their land for cheap. That's what I'm trying to do. Because I'm a sellout.

Anyway, these meetings have never had anyone resembling a hottie within 10 square miles of them. Ever. So towards the end of the meeting when everyone is milling around, looking at maps and generally telling me they're just giving me a hard time, a couple walks in.

The dude has some sort of process in his hair with a derby on, tilted haughtily, and a white suit on. The woman has locs, a skin tight black dress on, and some extreme high heels. Her ass was incredible.

So now I'm thinking about how much I have in my bank account, because obviously this cat's a pimp and I'm about to buy this pussy. He walks up to me and says, "Is the meeting over?" I tell him it is, and he grabs the woman's hand and walks out. I'm watching her exit.

So I'm standing there doing nothing waiting for these nutjobs to finish talking to each other so I can take the maps and dude walks back in towards me. I'm thinking he musta saw me looking at his ol' lady's tush. He's about to confront me. Instead, he hands me a card. "Beautifully Natural Loc Salon, Robert 'The Loc Man', proprietor"

I'll be damned. This cat is a loctician. With a process. I don't know much, but I know not to go to a loctician without locs.

I went to his website when I went home so I could see some more pics of his chick, who turned out to be his wife. Unfortunately, there were no below the waist shots and she's pretty unattractive, aside from the locs and the ass. He had a lot of pretty clients, too.

Maybe I can stop through for a consultation.


Tuesday, June 27, 2006

The Freak MeMe

Nsane Lee Sane, that paragon of hotness and pulchritude, has tagged me. Now if I could only return the favor...

Sad to say, but I've barely gotten mine this year. It's more than half over.

Yes. I got arrested for it, too.

Yep. It's due to the funny ass shit women say when you're puttin' in work.

Only if I don't cum.

I can't stand the friggin' heat. Don't touch me.

All the time. As soon as I buss.

Nope. Is that possible on the male side of things?

I'm always talking shit. I need to feel "in the moment". I used to want my ex-wife to shut the fuck up. She had the worst sex talk in the world.

Yeah. I had to make sure I wasn't a stat, so doctor's visits stay consistent.

No, I'd probably just meet someone who looked like her and live out my little fantasy that way.

Yeah. Was it cool? Nope. One day when I'm in a nostalgic mood, I'll blog about it. In retrospect, funniest shit in the world.

I chickened out TWICE on a threesome when I was in my twenties. I didn't have confidence that I could handle both the women at the same time. I was a stupid, practical youngster.

Yeah. It used to be mandatory.

Only when I was fuckin' Thelma.

It was the cause of my last pregnancy scare.

Aside from getting arrested? In college I was fuckin' my girlfriend. It was intense. A middle of the afternoon scorcher. I guess she was loud. I didn't remember her being that loud. When we finished, I came out of the dorm room to get us some water. A bunch of dudes were in the hallway and they just looked at me and started applauding. There were a gang of 'em cheering me on. That was pretty embarrassing for a private dude.

I was 16. My first week in college. With a 19 year old girl from Arlington, Texas. After my first college party. A lot of "firsts" at the same time.

The funny thing is, as high as my sex drive is, the answer is nobody. Everytime I think about having sex with a chick, all I think about are the hoops I have to jump through.

Yes, it's possible for me not to get laid.

Nope. I got meetings.

How do you know I haven't?

Monday, June 26, 2006

Longing, Regret And Justification

The Second Verse of "Fall In Love" by Slum Village

Yeah, Jay Dee man I see sometimes,
I sit and wonder when I think about these written rhymes.
How’d I get to the point constantly taking all my time?
Time I could of been spending gettin’ cash, gettin’ mine.
Hoping one day it comes around.
One day when I’m the nigga gettin’ money, gettin’ cash, gettin’ signed
Getting the fuck out the ghetto, cause I’m tired of crime.
But it’s a crime that I feel this fucking waste of time.
But sometimes I feel like this shit here is a waste of time, yours and mine.
To these niggas out here trying to rhyme.
Your reason for better shoulda been genuine.
I do it because it gives me a sort of peace-of-mind.
And for the love.

When I went back to Detroit on Saturday for a few hours, I had an epiphany. I looked around and saw things that I helped set in motion being accomplished. It was my career-long struggle to make things happen, get things built was moving forward. All it took was for me to get the fuck out of the way. Even though I didn't direct the movie, it's my script. I wish I could've been in charge.

I went home to get some loc maintenance which is an ego boost in itself. I always get a lot of attention from the women who are waiting for their turns. When you get noticed by women with a lot of choices, who don't know your socio-economic standing, it's legitimate.

I was home from 11:00 am until 9:00 pm. I made two dates and sold them both out to hang with my boy, Three. I received a long lecture on how my "benefit of the doubt" had been revoked, but it was fine with me. I rarely get to hang out with a non-agenda having person who looks out for my best interests.

I got to look at large congregations of Black women and have of choice of type or disposition. This was done in a comfortable, familiar setting with a wing-man. I didn't even pull and I had a ball.

After I dropped Three off and before I headed back to Satan's Anus, I decided to stop by the new Ikea store in Metro Detroit. I finally found a bookcase (yes finally, Blah Blah Blah!) for a reasonable price. That fuckin' store and it's setup is a mess. I remember talking to those Swedish bastards about putting that store in Detroit proper and they wouldn't budge, just like Whole Foods before them. They wanted to hold the city hostage and make it economically disasterous to build a store there. I'm makin' a fuckin' list and I'm checkin' it twice, bitches.

I keep learning the same fuckin' lessons over and over again. Money won't make me happy. I gotta do what I do for the love.


Friday, June 23, 2006

The Original Boogeyman

So, this weekend in this corny, whitebread 'burg, we'll be having Island Fest. This is an opportunity for white people to don faux Carribean accents and dreadloc wigs. It also allows them the opportunity to approach me wearing said wig and say "Look, we're twins!" because that's the type of shit YT does. Like back in college after Spring Break, there would be the inevitable melanin-less person who would return tanned, walk up to you and place their arm in close proximity to yours. "I'm almost as dark as you!" Needless to say, I'll do my best to steer clear of this "celebration".

I'm writing this post as my own form of celebration. We are boogeymen (and women) again. It seems this cabal of "Black Muslim terrorists" were uncovered in Miami. They apparently had designs on blowing up the Sears Tower. I was up at 2:30 am Eastern time when this story broke. Anderson Cooper (the gay, gray haired cat on CNN) was talking to some alleged expert about the ramifications. The expert said "We have a group of terrorists who were born here for the most part. They look like us, they sound like us, so they can infiltrate all facets of American life." Except the Annual Rockerfeller Family Hamptons Christmas party. Because, you see, these dudes were Black. So they don't look like "them" or sound like "them". They can easily racially profile Black people as they always have. Except this time, it can be under the auspices of fighting terrorism.

Since September 11, 2001, we've "enjoyed" a brief respite from being Public Enemy number 1. But we're back, bitches! It's a celebration! We're all A-1, top priority suspects again. Damn, it's good to be home!


Thursday, June 22, 2006

Emotionally Available

Well, the other shoe has dropped. I knew it was coming and I didn't really plan for it. It's like a great burden has been lifted from me, and now that it's gone, I miss the burden.

Last night I was talking to Thelma, she of incredible, indescribable hotness, my future babymama. She said the shit I'd been thinking but couldn't bring myself to say. "I don't feel any sort of connection to you. I don't think we should see each other anymore."

Just like that, I became emotionally available. "You're right. We don't need to hold on to something that's finished. We need to move on." That's what I said to her, exhaling. I didn't think we were a particularly good couple. We had fun, be we were intellectually and sexually incompatible.

But that little part of me thought she'd be my next wife. So I kept a part of me out of every little side relationship I had. I can't be with any other chick emotionally. I have a chick. No matter how much I fuck or how much I go out with you, you can't have me. I'm with someone.

With the conversation I had last night, it was gone. That part of me was freed. Through a string of overlapping serial relationships, I haven't been emotionally available since 1990. So now, even casual dating becomes scary as fuck. Any broad could be lurking in the grassy knoll, with my bachelorhood in her sights. And my guard would be down.

Now I have to turn my shit up a few notches, become the uber-asshole, just to fend off potential lifemates. Every date becomes an adventure, laced with potential. I haven't been here in a long time.


Wednesday, June 21, 2006


Sidenote: It's funny. I wanna talk about this chick I blogged about before, but I'd forgotten her "code name". And then when I found it, I didn't recognize any of the chicks I was talking about in that post except two. Memory is a funny thing.

Anyway, this chick named Shelly I used to see called me last week. The last time we talked was before Memorial Day. She wanted to come be with me for that weekend. At first I said yes. When I thought about it for a week or so, I changed my mind. I told her I'd be in Atlanta that weekend. Yeah, I lied.

So she asked me last week if she could come see me for the July 4th weekend. I told her I'd be out of town, likely a true scenario. I'm bugged. Yeah, I wanna bang out, but why are you trying to pick these long weekends and shit? She finally asked if she could come the weekend of July 7. I said yes. Then she tells me, "Good, because my birthday is the 8th, so you gotta treat me well."

That shit irritated me to no end. I was upset she was trying to spend "special" days with me. I went from upset to pretty sad when I thought about it. I'm just "Jump-off Johnny". If she wants to spend these days with me of all people, then I'm all she's got. And that's pretty sad.

She started talking about she and I being "lovers" which a find to be a gay fucking term. "If we were lovers we could..." blahzay, blahzay, muthafuckin' blah. Dream world shit.

I just wanted to write this shit down before I forgot.


Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Live On Stage

I was walking through the park to go to City Hall yesterday. It was almost time for the City Commission meeting and I was walking so that I could go over my presentation in my head.

"Do you do your own dreadlocks?" was the question presented to me by the pasty, big girl on the bicycle. "No", I responded, not looking up to see the questioner. She pulls up to the side of me. "What are you, a lawyer?" Finally I look up to see her, a blonde woman wearing cutoffs and a bikini top that was size inappropriate. "No, I'm not a lawyer." "Are you in trouble with the law? You goin' ta court?" I laughed. "No." "Well what do you do?" "I'm a Blee Blah Blah for the City of Satan's Anus." "I knew you had some kinda important job." "You enjoy your day."

I'm trying to get my mind focused on the presentation and this chick is pushing me off my square. I think I'm ready. We stand for the Pledge of Allegiance recited before each City Commission meeting and once again I mouth the words. I can't say 'em, it's bad enough I stand up for 'em. But it's almost presentation time. I sit down. ***RIIIIIPPPPP**** What the fuck?

My pocket gets caught on the armrest of the auditorium chair and the left side of the front of my pants rip, exposing boxer briefs. Shit, I gotta stand up in a minute. This is fucked up! Right now it's concealed. Will my suit jacket keep it covered?

Finally it's my turn on the agenda. I stand and the jacket keeps it covered. But I'm preoccupied. Every few seconds another space filler. "Ahhh....ahhhh....ahhhh...." Shit, I know I'm doing it but I can't stop. I look up and I'm looking directly in the camera. The City Commissioners are staring. The Vice Mayor is looking at me like "African, why are you so nervous?"

Fifteen minutes later and it's done. I sit back down and the weight of the world is gone.

But my fuckin' suit is ruined.


Monday, June 19, 2006

Conversing All-Stars

On the phone a few minutes ago
KZ: You weren't serious about coming, right? I mean we never said anything like that.
LoLo: I guess you weren't serious. It's probably a good thing I didn't come. We don't want to have any regrets.
KZ: Right, right. Exactly.
LoLo: If you didn't want me to come, you should've just said so.
KZ: Wouldn't that apply if I did actually want you to come too?
And that was that.

So I'm back in the swing of things. In my office, preparing for a presentation in front of City Commission. I hate fuckin' public speaking and it is one of the biggest parts of my job (aside from budget issues). I'm always afraid I'm underprepared and tentative when I have to present. I'm no fun for anyone.

My boy Rainier called telling me that he saw SugarChicken (don't ask! This is the chick I brought to your surprise b-day party Robyn) in a drop-top Beamer with one of our frat brothers. Keep makin' my day, dude.

The call before LoLo
R: Dude, guess who I saw?
KZ: Don't care.
R: Dude, lemme tell you.
KZ: I don't care.
R: I saw Brother Caldwell, 60 year old Brother Caldwell cakin' up with SugarChicken, African. Your SugarChicken.
KZ: Thanks. I appreciate you telling me. I gotta go.

I'm anxious and nervous. I need to get broke off pronto. I'm stuck in a quandry. Do I buss off in any ol' chick or do I stay the course and avoid all unneccesary drama? It's hard for a brother like me to maintain in this state. I mean, what if I do break down and try to actively pursue some broad and get stuck with a N.I.M.P.H.*? I'm not in cuddle mode. I'm in Splackaville.

Last week
Three: Where's your hoes?
KZ: Gone.
3: What you mean "gone"?
KZ: Dey gone.
3: (laughing) Shit, it be that way sometimes. Sometimes dey just be gone.

Sometimes dey just do.


*Not In My Pussy Hole

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Be Better

KZ: "Jed, what you doin' today?"
JZ: "I don't know, man. Depends on ya mother."

This post is about my father, Jedediah X. Zednanreh. It's Father's Day so I guess it's fitting. I just got off the phone with him and he's burning CDs and shit. My mother is evidently getting on his nerves about where he wants to go for dinner.

I didn't like my old man for most of my life. I started off pretty scared of him, then it turned to extreme dislike. He doesn't talk much, so I didn't trust him. He always gave me unsolicited advice. He was always the "no" to my mother's "yes".

Jed worked nights most of my life. (This is the same cat who told me and my siblings to call him "Jed" 'cuz he was too fly to be called "daddy"). When I came home from school, he was gone to work. When I went to school in the morning, he was asleep. The only time I ever interacted with him was on weekend. I stayed the fuck out of the house as much as I could.

When I was a freshman in high school and I brought home my first report card, he called the school. "Are you sure y'all don't give out 'A pluses'?" He thought I could have done better than 4.0

When I got kicked out of college, he kicked me out of the house. "Time to be man, big fella." I moved in with a chick that didn't respect me because I made minimum wage. I bounced from job to job until I surrended. I learned my lesson. I'll try to get back in college.

When I graduated from college, I lived at home again for a couple of years. I dragged broad after broad through that house, in the basement. Jed asked me, "do you care about any of these women?" I laughed. He said, "I guess disrespecting them makes you feel like you're doing something. That ain't a man." I moved out a month later. I ain't givin' up broads for you African!

When I got married, he silently protested. "I can't make the wedding, son." He thought my ex wife lacked couth.

When I got separated, I moved back in for a month. Talking to my mother about my next steps, my feeling of failure. He listened for awhile, then he spoke. "You are the best thing I ever had a part of. You gon' be alright. I'm proud of you. Shit, you make me want to be better. Everything will be alright." I was stunned.

Somewhere between my divorce and right now, my father and I became friends. He has been the bastion of sound advice, he's funny as hell (well, we have the same sense of humor), and he's giving. Jed is more thoughtful as he moves up in age and more family oriented. It's funny to watch. Seeing everything he is makes me want to be better.

Happy Father's Day, African.


Saturday, June 17, 2006

Hate From Home

I was in a workshop session on Friday and my phone was vibrating like crazy. I'm horrible at checking my voicemail but I saw an unfamiliar number listed as a missed call, so I was curious. I listened to my messages. I had 20 some odd voicemails and I was mad I missed the one from the unfamiliar number (beautiful voice, ma!). Two of the messages fucked my head up.

You see, when I talked to LoLo the other day, I told her I'd be in the Chi for a few days. She said "I'm coming to stay with you Friday night." I laughed and we moved on to the next subject.

LoLo left a message. "Let me know if you still want me to come to Chicago. I need to know so I can try to beat traffic. Give me a call." Once again I laughed to myself. A few messages later, "Zed, you're really fucking with my travel schedule. I need to get on the road." Her tone's harsher, plus she never cusses. She's serious! LoLo thought I was gonna cake up with her on the company dime in Chicago. There are so many things wrong with that assumption:

  1. You're not in my stable (i.e. we haven't boned so you might not put out).
  2. You've never even checked me out in Satan's Anus or expressed the desire, which means you don't give a fuck about me. You don't get special treatment.
  3. We didn't agree to this. Who the fuck is in your head talking to you in my voice?
  4. If I haven't fucked you or am not related to you, you don't have the right to get pissy with me.
I didn't want to ruin my day so I didn't call her back. I'll call her Saturday and completely piss her off.

In better news, let's give it up to my young homie Robert Mack. I went to see his play Friday night and the man is smooth. The play was funny as hell! Mack's role was that of a nice guy that came out on top. His storyline was the one that actually made me feel the best. I don't even "know, know" Mack, but I was proud of that cat. I left the theatre feeling good. Big thangs, Rob Mack!


Wednesday, June 14, 2006

The Wacker On Wacker

This is for Robert Mack, Hassan, or any other brother from Chicago on the blog: At the Starbucks next door to Garrett's Popcorn on Michigan Avenue there's this chick. She works behind the counter. At first glance, she'll seems skinny. Thin face, thin arms, slender neck. She is fooling everyone that doesn't investigate. All of her weight is being carried in her ASS. And it's beautiful. I named it "Priscilla".

You two cats, Nsane, Chi Bloggers, gotta get at me,, so I can give you my number. I'm going to the Negro League Cafe tonight and then some jazz spot on 47th.

In other news: I'm having a colored folk overdose!!! I almost proposed twice yesterday. Broads are giving me no love. I feel like I'm back in Detroit.

Seriously, I've been chillin', eating buttered crack (a.k.a. Garrett's Popcorn) and being freakin' overwhelmed. Not necessarily with my surroundings, but this damn workshop I'm taking. I've never been much with finance and it's showing. There's this brotha in my class. He's in his late 40's. This cat has dreads, too, real long ones. Anyway he struck up this conversation and I was like "yeah, this cat is alright." Then he started bragging. It wasn't even brag worthy shit, but boasty ass boasters are one of my pet piss's. I let it slide. Hell, we're the only two Black people in this class. So then two seconds later he brags about some other shit that kinda seemed like a swipe at me. I'm trying not to be a bitch-made African, so I'm letting this shit roll. Then "Bam", third boast. "Alright dude, we can hit some spots." I'll duck his ass and he's gone tomorrow. I'm here until Saturday. Get your insecure ass outta here.

So I'm trying to get into some shit without spending all my per diem so I can cop some kicks on the company. I just need some direction. And some free access to the 'net. What happened to the free Wi-Fi Movement? I'm sick of this walking shit for now, so Imma hop in my grip and make it happen. Remember Chi-Lites, get at me.

Stay Cool,

Tuesday, June 13, 2006


I don't dream very often. And trust me when I say I don't dream very imaginative dreams. OK, I dream pretty good shit occasionally, but I mostly dream about fighting. That mainly has to do with my preparation issues. I'm never prepared for the fight and I always lose. Keeps me on my toes when I'm awake.

Anyway I had a two parter last night, which is extremely rare. In the first one, I was waiting in line to use the restroom. It was at my office building and there was a long line for some reason. I was almost in when this group of cats came in and pushed a bunch of us out of the way. I rushed into the restroom and started talking shit to one of the guys, who was much bigger than I was. He laughed it off and pushed me again. "Go somewhere and be a good nigger, OK?" That's what he said to me. Time to fight again, right? Nope. I laughed too. We were laughing together. I was frustrated and upset, but I couldn't stop laughing. He patted me on my back and I walked out and got back in line.

The second dream consisted of a muthafucka talking to me that I couldn't see. He was telling me who wrote the derogatory comments anonymously on my blog a few months ago. I don't know why I dreamt it, except for the fact that I blog too much. I hadn't thought about those comments in awhile and I know in my heart who wrote that shit anyway.

Of course this shit is full of symbolism and deep seeded anxiety, but there was something more at work. I woke up pissed. I coulda choked a muthafucka. It's still physically bothering me and I don't dream like that. I can't shake this shit.

I'll be in Chicago until Saturday afternoon then I'll be in Detroit for legitimate frat business. I don't know how much I'll blog since I'll be in real cities until Sunday. Surely I'll get some stories out to y'all.

Be Easy,

Sunday, June 11, 2006

The Sickness

So I was on the phone with this woman that I used to work with. I'll call her Lo Lo, short for loqacious. She's a talker. Anyway, she's always trying to impress me with her intelligence and the fact that she's ambitious. 'Cuz she wants me to marry her. This is not just my ego at work. This is her stated intention. "You know I'm the perfect woman for you. You need to take me to meet your parents." Bitch, please! The only way you'd meet my parents is at my funeral.

So she's talking to me, right? And she's describing how she's the most brilliant person in the office. So I describe a problem to her that I was having involving a grant and the hoops the Feds put you through. She tells me about a similar problem, tells me the solution, and begins to let me know what else I need.

"If you wanted to get with me, you'd have to do me right. You'd have to jump through some hoops, you couldn't just do what you wanted to do." I'm wondering how we got back to this, but I don't say anything, hoping she'd just forget about it. Lo Lo keeps going. "You think doing what I ask you to do is a way for me to exert some sort of authority on you. And the way the feel about authority, you'd just not do what I'd ask because you'd feel like you were giving in."

Psychobabble bullshit. I won't jump through hoops for her because I don't want her.

Actually, that's not true. She was partially right. I really don't want her, but that's never stopped me from fucking a broad. I don't like getting what I want on anybody else's terms. It's silly assed reasoning like this that has me trying to move in executive circles with dreadlocs.

I was at the supermarket today and I saw a bunch of couples shopping. I was laughing inside as I saw mismatched couples, one after another. "Damn, she settled for less. Oooh, his babe is a dog!"were the things I said to myself the entire time I was shopping. After awhile I just got angry. I realized I was angry at these people for being happy with "less". I was actually angry because they were happy. That's some sick shit. So sick, it's hard to admit it.

I was boiling mad because these people found the person they could be happy with and I'd never be there. I know I'll never be there. I've never been satisfied in my life. The lack of satisfaction in my life is my entire motivation. If I was ever satisfied, I think I'd just cease to exist. Is that being goal oriented or just unrealistic?

In Buddhist teachings, desire is the cause for all discomfort. Once one ceases to desire things, that person becomes comfortable and is at a higher level of understanding. I don't even know if I want that level of understanding. I just know where I am today and it's not pretty.

Be Cool,

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Thursday, June 08, 2006

The Strength of My Weakness

If I ever buy a female dog, I'm gonna name her Blogger. I swear. I was itching to post but this contraption was on the serious fritz. I had a pretty eventful day.

I spent the first half of the day in training. ORIENTATION, eleven months after the fact. It's mandatory, so I had to go. When I got back, shit was off the hook. I had a couple of staff people send me e-mails wondering what the status is of their pay status upgrades. I'm gonna have to tell 'em they're lucky to be employed. I'm not paying them MORE for the little shit they have to do.

As I was checking all my e-mails, my secretary comes in. "There's a 'Carmel Coates' here to see you."

Oh shit. I'm nervous. What is this chick doing here. Of course I haven't talked to her since this incident, and she pulls a "pop-up". This is all fucked up. "Send her in." If she doesn't shoot me, I'm tearing into her ass.

She walks in and all bets are off. Stunning. Face and titties. I'm nonchalant. "What you need?" "Nothing. I was passing by on my way back to work and I wanted to see how you were." Bullshit. "I'm alright. So you workin', hunh?" "Yeah, I started about a week ago."

I'm looking at her, and I'm thinking about the last time she was here. I get up and close the door. And I grab her and I hold her. I felt her up. Then I let her go and she left. Is all forgiven? When your dick is hard enough, the short answer is "yes". I told her I overreacted. She apologized for bringing that cat around. That was that.

So I go to two more meetings and arrive back in the office later in the day. I went to see Auntie Anita to handle some budgetary issues. She's looking at me as I sign some manager timesheets. "You just cold hearted, hunh? " "What?" "You dissed my girl." I laugh. "What?" "You dissed Endo. She's all wondering what she did. You just stopped calling her." Now this is a bullshit account of what actually happened, but I don't wanna go into my side with Anita. I'm still holding out hope I can hit Auntie.

Endo was trying to be cool. Half assed returning my calls, talking about how busy she was. I wasn't going to sweat this young chick, so my pride took over. The last time I saw her was the weekend before Memorial weekend. I just opted out. Fuck it. I'll beat off before I over-call a broad. I won't be the subject of a girlfriend gigglefest.

I just told Auntie Anita, "Your niece is a busy woman. Her schedule is extremely tight." Basically her bellyachin' to her Aunt about me has ruined any chance of me bussin' off in Anita in my opinion. So I can't ruin my career by fuckin' her. So I guess that's a good thing.

Fuck Blogger,

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Auntie Anita

Sometimes I wonder if reading my blog is a lot like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I think most of y'all know that there's always something illicit just under the surface of these innocuous little tales of life in the small city.

Like last Thursday, when I got this invitation from this woman I've been diggin' for a while to check her out. She was only going to be in Beelzebub's Colon overnight and she wanted me to come see her. No haps. I had an evening meeting that didn't let out until 11:00 pm so I missed out. Yesterday I got a phone call from an ex-collegue. She told me she'd be in Lansing for a business meeting overnight and she wanted me to come visit. No haps. I had another evening meeting that lasted until 11:30 pm. So my chances of gettin' mines go out the door. I don't like writing about this shit. It's depressing.

So goes the story of Auntie Anita. Remember Endo, my little 24 year old virgin chick? Well, part of the story I neglected to tell everybody except her is that Endo's aunt works for me. I knew I'd hear cries of "don't mess with that young girl especially with her aunt right there" and all that type of shit. So I didn't blog it. Sue me.

Endo's Auntie Anita is 40 years old. She's dark skinned and petite, the complete physical opposite of Endo. She's the type of woman a lot of cats without keen eyes might overlook. She's OK looking, but not FINE. Dudes would see the way she dresses and think she's skinny. The thing is she's got a tremendous body. That ass is off the chain. You'd never know it by her conservative dress. Little ass waist, hips kickin'. I noticed that shit when I first started working here. I once designated a casual day during the holidays just so I could see her in jeans. It was worth it!

Anyway, the first time I saw Endo, she was visiting Auntie Anita. I asked Anita who she was and I got the third degree before she told me. "My niece is too young for you." "What's young?" "Twenty-three (at the time)". "I'm only thirty-four (at the time)". "Give it a rest, gramps." I would have gladly taken Auntie Anita over Endo, but Anita worked for me and was thusly off limits.

The thing that kills me is that I don't even see Endo anymore. I haven't seen or talked to her in around 3 weeks. And daily I get to see pulchritudious excellence in the form of Auntie Anita. She used to strike me as so serious and untouchable. Daily I see more of her personality and playfulness on display. It's attractive as hell. I think that's especially so since she's off limits.

Stay Greasy,

P.S. Happy 6/6/06 from Satan's Anus!

Monday, June 05, 2006

Grape Ape Weekend

"N*ggas never realize how close they are to success 'cuz they always give up too early." - Russell Simmons

I'm actually glad to be back at work this morning. Some cats ain't shit left to their own devices, and I'm one of them. All the best laid plans fell apart. I didn't do laundry, I didn't clean (except dishes), I didn't read, and I didn't write.

On Saturday morning I went to this parade that Satan's Anus has every year to celebrate the summer season. It was a little corny parade that helped me recognized some of that small town charm people talk about. They also had an art fair this weekend. There had to be around 200 vendors here. It was massive for the size of this city. All the art sucked ass. There was only one Black vendor and I actually recognized this cat from Detroit. He was heavily in the hip-hop scene.

I've been here for 11 whole months as of today. I'm ubiquitous. I'm on TV, I'm in the newspaper and I still get these Grape Ape moments. Don't these fuckers have TVs? There are bigger Africans everywhere. How the fuck are you gonna look up at me and audibly gasp when you see me? I'm 6'3", 300 lbs, I'm not the fuckin' Washington Monument. All this fucking "A gorilililililiaaaa!" shit has got to stop. Trust me, muthafuckas, I'll be leaving as soon as possible, but I can't give up too early.

The best part of the weekend happened when I was leaving the parade. I saw this sista, a slim pretty chick, walking towards me. She looked at me once with this kind of startled look. I'm thinking "Here the fuck we go again. Grape Ape time." We kept walking toward each other and she looked at me again and it was all smiles. She said "Hi" and I said "Hi" (yes, I did die a little inside) and we walked past each other. I looked back and she was looking back, smiling. At the time I was like "Oh shit! I really dropped the ball." But summer in Satan's Anus is different. I'll definitely see her again. The town comes out in entirety for events and festivals all summer. I'll recoup.

I'm glad I'll at least have warm weather in this little slice of barren real estate.

Be Easy,

Friday, June 02, 2006

The Gathering

So here I am, trying to find a way to escape. It's no use. I'm trapped in a world of my own making. I knew it would come to this. All the inflated levels of responsibility on my resume, which led to me getting this job, which in turn put me in a leadership position today. All of which makes my escape impossible. Why did it have to come to this?

I have to participate in an office potluck.

Just inject my ass with the plague right now. These semi-hand washing, cat owning, crystal meth trailer livin', ass diggin' troglodytes trying to serve me food? All because my irritating know-it-all staff person will be gone on maternity leave for 3 months? She shoulda left when I was on vacation.

I fuckin' hate potlucks. Why the fuck should I be subjected to somebody's random ass cooking? And then people mill around me and say shit like "Did you try my Tuna Cake? It's got coconut icing!" People make the weirdest shit and call it "food". I refuse to eat fried gerbil on a skewer!

This shit is like torture. I've tried to do this thing where I socialize with a full plate and don't eat anything, then throw it away when I go back to my office. It never fails, one muthafucka will say "You not eatin'?" and I'm exposed.

When I was just a staff person at other jobs, I could just opt out or come up with a solution. At my last gig, I asked the office secretary to make cards to place by each dish saying something like, "Sweet Potato Pie, Courtesy of Zed". That way I'd know what was made by people with good hygiene and what was made by Shitty McNotwashhands.

I don't have a cool secretary at my disposal (maybe I shoulda took 'em all out on Secretaries Day!) so that's wasn't an option today. So I gotta go to this thing, for the sake of office politics and fragile morale, and pretend to like it.

Wish me luck.


Thursday, June 01, 2006

SoWiseSista Tagged Me...

so my bullshit thoughts get put on the back burner today. Enjoy this or just tolerate it.

1. If you could be doing what you really want to be doing for a living, what would it be?
I'd be a profession writer. Or a porn site webmaster.

2. If you could slap the shit out of any famous person, alive or dead, who would it be?

Why would I slap a dead person? This is a difficult question. I hate so many people. This won't mean shit to anybody else, but I'd like to slap the shit out of William Clay Ford, Sr., owner of the Detroit Lions. That son of a bitch has ruined more of my weeks than any other person I can think of.

3. What's the dumbest decision you've made in the past 5 years?

That's easy. Buying "Bluie", my Chevy Tahoe. High ass gas prices coupled with the muthafucka falling apart around me has made this question a no-brainer.

4. Give up one for a year: (good) sex or (good) music.

Since moving to Satan's Anus I've kind of given up both. But I'll pick good music. The memory of good music lasts longer, so I can hum to myself.

5. Dudes, would you rather have a big dick or a great sense of humor?

Ladies, nice tits & azz or common sense?

I didn't have to choose!!! If I did, I'd pick the sense of humor. Without the sense of humor, they'll never find out about your dick size.

6. So you've been invited to an all expense paid Blogger Prom in The Bahamas. You're sitting at the bar on the beach. Which blogger do you want to join you for hours of good convo?

The one that's fuckin'.

7. Which blogger would you most like to cuddle with on the beach? (and don't defer to your current signif other either. Infidelity won't count against you. Duh.)

I'm really trying to fuck too many bloggers to answer this.

8. You're going on a 5 hour road trip...which 5 CDs do you bring?

1. Fantastic, Volume One - Slum Village
2. The Best of Otis Redding - Otis Redding
3. Buhloone Mindstate - De La Soul
4. S.O.N.O.G.R.A.M. - One.Be.Lo
5. A Decade of Steely Dan - Steely Dan

9. Would you rather bury your children young or have your children bury you young?

SoWise, what type of morbid shit...? I'd rather have them fuckers bury me.

10. What's your biggest insecurity?

I'm always afraid of being unprepared in any situation.

11.What's the first blog you read every day...or however often you read them? (And I swear to God, don't be saying mine just cuz I'm the one asking...unless of course you really mean it. lol)

Cocoa Girl's blog is first and I don't know how it got that way. It's the first one I check daily.

12. When's the last time you peed your pants?

1976. I was in 2nd grade and the teacher wouldn't give me permission to go to the bathroom. We'd just gone as a class and I didn't use it. So out of spite, she said "no".

I had to wear "Goodwill box" donated pants home.

13. Which was better, your first kiss or your first pay check?

My first check. I don't even remember the first kiss. Ask me about my first blowjob.

14. Do you have kids? Want kids?

I don't have kids. I seriously want kids. At least 2.

15. You get dropped off at home after the office holiday party by your bitch azz boss that you can't effing exit the car and he peels out, runs a red light at your corner and rolls up an unsuspecting midget. The next day the midget watch groups are on TV outraged at the heartless hit and run, and are calling for any witnesses to please come fwd...that half dead midget has a family at home waiting on C-mas presents. Would you take $1000 hush money? $500? $100? A six pack?

Since that would make me the boss, and my job isn't very different from his except for the pay, I'd snitch.

16. Live the rest of your life without your eyebrows or your fingernails?

I think I can go around looking like Charlie Villanueva.

17. What makes you angry?

Shit like this.

18. What makes you horny?

The air I breathe.

19. What makes you nervous?

Adult braces.

20. What makes you smile?

New porn.