Thursday, September 28, 2006
KZ: This is T.O.
3: Hi, this is Bill Parcells. We missed you at this morning's meeting.
KZ: What's up there, Sunshine?
3: Nothin' much there, Handsome. What's crackin'?
KZ: Nothin' man. Bitter. Bitter. Old, curmudgeonly, and bitter.
3: That sounds about right. What's the science?
KZ: Puss deprivation, my African. That's the science.
3: You should be in Detroit. I got three bitches on my lap as we speak, African. AS WE SPEAK!
KZ: Anyway, yeah. Puss deprivation.
3: You gotta be meetin' more women by now.
KZ: *I tell him the story about the chick I met on Friday*
3: There you have it, Champion. That sounds pretty good to me. How was the follow up?
KZ: I don't think I wanna tell you.
3: You sure?
KZ: I'm not in the mood to be laughed at, dude.
3: (In pimp's voice) Baby, what's my name?
KZ: Alright man, but reserve judgement. I am in the fuckin' boonies and shit.
3: I'll do my muthafuckin' best, Winner.
KZ: I called her on Saturday, but I didn't talk to her. I left a message with somebody. I have no idea who.
3: Man or woman?
KZ: Woman. So I didn't call again until today. As a matter of fact, I just got off the phone with her before you called.
3: What happened?
KZ: Well...dude, don't laugh, OK? I'm kinda fragile and shit right now.
3: African, just talk!
KZ: OK, well I called and she answered...
KZ: I asked if she was busy, and she told me she was making a grilled cheese sandwich and she needed to call me back.
3: *The loudest, most uproarious laughter one can ever imagine erupting from a human orifice* Dude, you got dissed for a grilled cheese sandwich? Damn, you're a bigger loser than I thought.
KZ: I can't imagine ever being that much of a loser, dude.
3: I mean damn, she coulda just said she was cookin' but she told you specifically a grilled cheese sandwich. Gotdamn!
KZ: That's the story of Satan's Anus right there.
3: And you attribute that to what? To you? You takin' that one for yourself?
KZ: I can't blame shit but me.
3: If a bitch is too stupid to give you run, not a run-of-the-mill gotdamn loser, but YOU, why are you putting that on yourself?
KZ: 'Cuz, African, the only constant is me.
3: The only constant is those broads in the Anus be settlin' for less and lookin' at you as an example of what their men could do better. You fuckin' trippin'. You better not internalize that shit. Your ego is letting you believe it's all about you. Maybe she got some other factors goin' on in her life. Man up and stop takin' everything so gotdamn personal.
KZ: Man, fuck you.
3: Hey, don't hate me African. I'm not a grilled cheese!
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
So we're leaving the restaurant, right? And I see this familiar grip in the drive thru of this adjacent restaurant. The personalized license place tells the whole story, "Carmel C". So I laugh, right? Batshit asks what's funny. I tell her that's my ol' jump off over yonder and I wonder if she sees me. Batshit's driving and I get in the passenger seat. My celly vibrates. I pull it out my pocket and look at it. "You might as well answer it", Batshit advises, and I do.
"Hey Zed! Was that you I just saw in the parking lot of that Chinese place?" I'm thinking about saying no, it was one of the other 6'3", 300 lb dreadloc'ed dudes wearing business suits that you see roaming around Satan's Anus on the daily. But I don't.
"Yeah, that was me." "Did you get a new truck?" "Naw, I'm a passenger." She goes on to talk about how she spent her summer, how her friends are doing, and how I shouldn't be a stranger. So I gets off the phone, right? I look at Batshit and I say "Y'all funny." "How so?"
"That shit was a test. If I didn't answer, she woulda assumed we were a couple. Since I did answer, she knows we're not an item. Women are funny and shit." "It's a good thing I told you to answer then, hunh?" "I think not. I really think not."
Gym Etiquette, revisited
This question is for the fellas. Once again these dudes at the gym have got me vexed. I wanna know what kind of question is "How was your workout?" How do you answer that? I personally don't know how it should be answered or better yet why it's asked. It seems like a homo conversation starter when I'm naked. Help me out with this shit before I crack a clown's skull.
Monday, September 25, 2006
He saw her with her friend, sitting at the edge of the stage sipping big awkwardly constructed drinks, full of fruit and color. In fact, they possessed the only color in the place. He watched for a little while, looking for their men to approach. Her friend was definitely wearing a wedding rock, but she herself was ringless.
He ordered a drink from Mike and took a seat at the other end of the stage so he had a direct line of sight to them. Slowly he sipped the Cuba Libre, waiting for signs that they were accompanied by men. He never saw any.
He walked back to the bar. "Mike, I need a small favor." "What is it?" "There are two women sitting at the stage. I wanna send them some drinks." "You wanna send them a shot?" "Nah, whatever they want. I just need you to tell their server and put it on my tab." And he went back to his seat.
A few minutes later, the waitress walks over to ask the ladies a question, and very conservative looking drinks arrived at the table. The waitress bent down to respond to a question by the single one and she answered by twisting her hair.
The ladies looked up and raised their drinks, mouthing "thank you". He raised his glass in a return salute and continued to watch the band. A moment or so later, the married one went to the restroom. It was time to move.
He was extremely self conscious as he walked across the room. He'd never felt so aware of the length of his stride or the bounce in his step.
He knelt beside her chair. "Hi, I'm Zed." "I'm Teresa." She smiled and shook his hand. She was warm or the dress with the plunging neckline made him feel warmer.
"My friend and I had a bet that you're either a professor or a musician. Which one is it?" "That's pretty good. At least you didn't think I was a bum. Actually, I'm a [blank]." "Really? We were kind of far off, weren't we?" "Yeah, I think so." They laughed and he was at ease. The conversation flowed freely.
And that's how he got comfortable on the other side of the looking glass.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Luther's been married and divorced 3 times. He's got bad credit and was moving weight in the dope game in the 80's. He works for the state in correctional facilities, and they were the ones that transferred him to Satan's Anus.
He goes to Second Ebenezer Church. The Pastor's country as all get out, but there are a lot of women there. He's getting his fair share, but the women here are missing...something. He can't put his finger on it. He's trying not to fuck our neighbor, the woman that lives next door to him. She's diggin' on him.
How cool are me and Luther? We're not cool at all. You see, I made the mistake of keeping to myself. I went to the gotdamn mailbox and this muthafucka decided he wanted to get to know me, so he came outside, stopped me as I was returning to my house, and told me his fuckin' life story. And I told it to all y'all on the internet. He wanted to know about me. You wanna know what he knows about me? I'm 35, I work for the city, and I drive a blue Chevy Tahoe. That's it.
What part of the game has it become for Black folks to be tellin' all their fuckin' business? I changed the names, but I didn't make up one single element of that story. I know all that information about him from ONE THIRTY MINUTE CONVERSATION. We really need to tighten that shit up.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
If this cat ain't gay, he's doing a helluva impersonation. When I was going to the shower one day, he was at the sink shaving. Shaving. What man hangs around a fuckin' locker room to shave? I don't know one. Dudes just don't like the proximity of other naked dudes that much to stand around and shave. He left with this white dude and he was wearing a pair of these:
I bullshit you not.
On Monday I was in the locker room going to the shower. I walk past the steam room and this bitch is laying down on the wooden bench, stretched out with most of his body exposed, a little part of the towel covering his genitalia, like a pin up hoe. He ought not speak to me.
Meli Mel, the Furious One
So Tuesday, ol' dude finally showed up at her crib. She wanted some face-to-face interaction. She starts cussin' him out, because she's from Detroit and that's what they do. Read him the riot act. He told her he meant to do it. He didn't care that she saw who he sent it to. Anyway, ol' boy said "I don't know why you called them other chicks. But that's OK though. Two of 'em love me even more now. So I'm still gettin' mine."
I asked her afterwards, "What did you think would happen. I mean, dude is arrogant. Wasn't this expected?"
She told me yeah, actually it was expected. "I just needed to cuss his bitch ass out face to face. I knew he wasn't shit! I called him a bitch a bunch of times right to his face and he just waved it off. An African from Detroit woulda kicked my ass. Fuckin' Omaha African!" And that was that. I guess.
OK, after I told her I wasn't feeling her and all we could be is friends, LoLo kept calling. Now the agenda is different. It's career advice. She's about to start Law School and she's continuing to work so she wants to talk about the balance. LoLo is interviewing for a new gig and is using me as a reference. So she's got an excuse to call. Then, a couple of nights ago, there it was again.
Lo: When are you coming back to Detroit?
KZ: I don't know. Spring maybe.
Lo: Spring? Spring? You're scared to come to Detroit, aren't you?
KZ: Why would I be scared of Detroit?
Lo: You're scared of me. Scared Imma put it on ya.
KZ: Ummmm, no. I don't have any reason to think that. We clarified that, didn't we?
Lo: African, I ain't tryin' to marry you. I'm trying to fuck you. You scared of pussy?
And there you have it. Question an African's manhood and he's gotta prove you wrong, right?
KZ: I'm scared of the cost of pussy, that's what I'm scared of.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
You have to deal with the fact that if you are over the age of 24, this person is not likely your first choice for matrimony. Unspoken, unfair comparisions of the mate you have to "the one that mercifully escaped your crazy ass" is inevitable and color's one's judgement in the creation of a happy life together. You will never be that African, no matter how cool you are. A memory doesn't scratch his nuts or fart at the boss' dinner party. A memory doesn't nag or go on "pussy strike". The muthafucka who ain't here is the gold standard. The taint of being "settled for" will hover over your relationship like a dark storm cloud.
This is something I call the "What the fuck?" factor. The older you get, relationships get more dangerous. It's like a high stakes game of musical chairs. Muthafuckas fight for that last chair, hoping they're not the one left standing. Anxiety builds everytime a chair is taken away. Your dating pool is shrinking, like a ball sac in cold water. If you win this game of musical chairs, you may find out that you didn't want the fuckin' chair in the first place. The chair you wanted was in a room four doors over. It's too late to start over. What the fuck! I'll just stick with the chair I got.
Then there's the myth of "growing together". People don't actually grow together. That's not even human nature. People get stuck in the same fuckin' rut. That's the best one can hope for. That's what we call a successful marriage. "We go to plays, the opera, concerts, movies, you name it, we do it." I know women tend to like the idea of having a "built in date" for shit, but gotdamn! I gotta share my rut with you too? You know those couples that are always together? Those cute, inseparable couples? Don't leave the back gate open 'cuz one of 'em will escape.
Then there's the idea that you're in a partnership. A one-sided, dictatorial partnership, one in which pussy is the only bargaining chip used to negotiate. Fellas, there's only one pussy in the relationship and you don't have it. That other side of the sack gets ice cold when she's not getting her way.
You'd also be surprised at how much info about your dick is hitting the streets. Shit you'd never tell another dude about your ol' lady is fair game the other way around. Mind you, she don't even like the broads she's gossipin' with, but she's still talking about your every habit, lapse, skill set and shortcoming to this chick. This part of the backlash about you not being the muthafucka that got away, who's idealized because...well he's not you!
This is just my very limited list about my least favorite institution, behind mental, educational, and correctional.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Meli, my young protege, is trying to hold it down in Nebraska of all places. Her great new gig is in the rottenest of places, but she's maintaining. She and I are in similar situations, both from Detroit and separated from our 'hood roots. She's 25, so I think she might be coping better than I am, seeing as I'm more set in my ways.
She's been cyber-dating, which is something the youngsters seem to enjoy these days, along with their MW-8 players and their rock and roll, which is fine by me. I mean, who am I to judge? So anyways, as I was saying, Meli picked herself up a feller offa the cybernet and he began a courtin' and whatnot.
This guy is a young, successful Black man, making goo-gobs of loot, in this dearth of Black success known as Nebraska. So she's happy and they decide to go out on a date.
He's mad young, just like she is, so his conversation tends to be lacking. Like he's pretty self centered and seems to have some sort of hetero-crush on his frat brothers, judging by the way he talks about them. But she kinda likes the feller, so she lets it slide. (This is the sacrifice part.)
Two days later, this cat calls her at midnight. For all y'all that pay attention, this is one hour past the Booty Call Parallax. He then leaves a text that says "I miss you, I want to see you." Unfortunately (or fortunately) for him, she doesn't see it for hours later because she's sleeping. She's awakened by the next text he sends at 2:30 am. "I'd really like to see you tonight." He's buggin' she thought, and returned to sleep. At 5:00 am Meli is awakened again, as he sends her picture mail. It's a picture of himself, lest she forget. She is highly irritated at this point. When looking at the picture, incredulously, she sees her phone number at the bottom along with 4 other phone numbers. This arrogant asshole has slipped up. He sent the same thing to 4 other chicks, hoping one would respond the right way. It's the oldest trick in the book, the ol' "buckshot method", used by wanna be playas and Dick Cheney.
She calls him right then and there. "African, you done fucked up! You have fucked up this time, dude. " He's talking, he's backing up, fast talking and shit. "Please let me explain." She stands firm and hangs up on him, contemplating whether or not to give this heads up to these other chicks.
So, she does what any intelligent, distressed, bosomy woman would do: call Big Zed for advice.
"Listen, Meli, don't call them chicks. Just let that cat stew in his juices. He's shook, you don't have to do any more."
He called her again and begged her to see him just for a minute so he could explain. She gave this dude a window. "You can come over, but I might not let you in." "OK, I'll take my chances. I'll be over in an hour."
I talked to her on the phone as she tried to figure out what she was going to do with him. I had to kick her off the phone before he got there, because I had business of my own to handle...with the TV.
As I was cocooning, watching The Wire, I get a text message. "Zed, I called those other chicks and gave them the 411 on ol' dude. He's done. Finished!" (That's the redemption part.)
*UPDATE: I left out an important part. He said he'd be over in an hour and he never showed, thus pissing her the fuck off even more.*
Friday, September 15, 2006
I've self-censored my blog when it's supposed to be for me. I've deleted shit that's supposed to be a mirror of my experiences. Why? The need to be accepted, most likely. I find this simmering rage in my expression these days and I don't like it.
What happened to this muthafucka? I don't know. Say what you will about me, but I was honest to a fault. I don't mind going back to a situation where me and Robyn were the only ones reading my shit. I think that "people pleaser" inside got the best of me.
I'm making a committment to do something different over and over again. What's that the definition of?
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
I'm walking through the east wing of our office suite yesterday after talking with my senior staff person, and I get stopped by Office Broccoli. "I forgot to order your business cards." "You mean the ones I'm almost out of? The ones I asked you to order three weeks ago? Those cards?" "Yeah. I've been distracted. My son got arrested on carrying a concealed weapons charges last week and I've been trying to help him. "
This breaks down into an extended story that delves into all of her son's bidness. Late child support payments, driving record, etc. and her assistance throughout. Yeah, I'm Black, and I'm supposed to understand and relate to all this ghetto shit. But it has nothing to do with the fact that I asked for these business cards three weeks ago because I saw myself running out. I'm down to around 10.
I interrupt the story. "Please just order the cards. I need them soon."
I went to the gym after work and before this evening meeting I had. I knew time would be tight. I tried to go during lunch but "Animal" was in there and I didn't need to see her. Animal is a woman who works for the City in HR. She's a little redheaded woman who makes inappropriately intimate noises when she works out. In addition, she tends to favor spandex body suits that show off the physique she works so hard to maintain, the physique of an eight year old boy.
Going after work, I always run into "Louganis", a middle aged Black dude of slight build who only comes to the gym to swim. This African is always in the lockerroom wearing fuckin' Speedos and looking creepy. Ladies, your man could be Mister fuckin' Universe, but if that African wears Speedos, he's a fag.
Louganis walks around the lockerroom greeting muthafuckas. "Hey how's it goin'?" Everytime he speaks to me, I'm short as hell. Muthafucka, step back! There's certain lockerroom etiquette: you don't look at a man below the chin, you don't stand too close and you don't try to strike up a friendship with a naked muthafucka. Louganis, you'z a fruit.
I'm sitting at a meeting of historic preservationists. They are pissed because the City allowed the demolition of a "historic" property for economic development purposes and they want assurances that there will be more stringent guidelines on demolition in the future. So all eyes are on me. I talk to them. I don't really bullshit them like I've been known to do. I'm completely straightforward in my assessment. "We might consider this option, but the other option is off the table."
This one particular woman is the head of the historic zealots. She tells me in no uncertain terms that the City should take money set aside for social programs and give it to preservation efforts. So I ask the question, "We should take money from battered women's shelters and low income home ownership initiatives to give to historic preservation programs?" Without batting an eye she tells me "Yes". The others all nod in agreement.
There is a special place in hell for historic preservationists, the same muthafuckas who want to turn former slave quarters into live/work lofts. The same bastards who long for the even more racist era gone by and look at it only as a period where the architecture and craftsmanship was better. History has not been kind to Black Americans. I don't know how sympathetic I was supposed to be to their cause, but I think I might facilitate knocking down more old shit for the fuck of it.
Y'all be cool,
Monday, September 11, 2006
Opposing all forms of sweet talk and concession.
Rebuke every effort to conjure the past.
Ball's been dropped.
Game is done.
Believe me, I've become the cat I need to be.
Dismissive, forgetful, frivolous and recalcitrant.
Without chalant, lacking ruth, but filled with malice and venom.
Advising you to retain cloth for removal of egg from your grill.
Mistakes have been made.
Forest full of oaks and you parlayin' with a willow.
Took one step back to observe the poultry in you.
Your ability to dream small never ceases to amaze.
Carly was right.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Books continue to change my life. If I were to pick one, it would be The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
2. ONE BOOK YOU HAVE READ MORE THAN ONCE?
There are a few including Malcolm X. The yearly read is Catch 22 by Joseph Heller.
3. ONE BOOK YOU WOULD WANT ON A DESERT ISLAND?
1001 Ways to Prepare Sand. That or Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
4. ONE BOOK THAT MADE YOU LAUGH?
Aside from the one I'm writing (which, by the way, is hilarious), that would have to be...
5. ONE BOOK THAT MADE YOU CRY?
The one my ex-girlfriend hit me in the balls with.
6. ONE BOOK YOU WISH YOU HAD WRITTEN?
7. ONE BOOK YOU WISH HAD NEVER BEEN WRITTEN?
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. It spawned more ultra-conservative idiots than the law allows.
8. ONE BOOK YOU ARE CURRENTLY READING?
I'm reading several simultaneously, which makes it hard to finish even the shorter ones. But since you've asked for one, I'll say Misquoting Jesus by Bart Ehrman, which I've been reading for about 2 months now.
9. ONE BOOK YOU HAVE BEEN MEANING TO READ?
This Is Your Brain On Music
Friday, September 08, 2006
I went out with Blandette yesterday. I want to clarify something right up front. I described her as not pretty/not ugly, kinda middle of the road in all aspects. I need to apologize for that. She is much worse than I thought she was. On closer inspection, she's highly unattractive, not mediocre. And she's less interesting than I thought she was.
I still chickened out. I chickened the fuck out. I didn't tell her straight out that I was not feeling her and I'm sure it's gonna bite me in the ass. I talked about all these different women I was dating, but y'all know the deal. This shit was a smokescreen. Apparently a thin, badly conceived smokescreen. After dinner (at least I didn't pay) she said she'd call me. I hope she doesn't.
After the dinner, I had an evening meeting in which I was accused of leaving Black people out of the governmental process. I always enjoy meetings like that. A room full of white government officials and I'm the one accused of racism. I felt like that idiot in American Beauty who was videotaping that plastic bag. Mesmerized by bullshit.
So after the meeting, I'm at the crib flipping back and forth between Miss Ahmad's show and NFL Football. The phone rings and it's LoLo. So I'm talking to LoLo and she's throwing yet another set of innuendo about how she'd put it on me. Saying it, but not really saying it. After the day I had, she's the victim.
KZ: You know, the first time I saw you I told my boy Rainier that I had to have you.
Lo: For real?
Lo: *long assed soliloquy on how she told her girl she had to have me*
KZ: I didn't pursue it because we worked together.
Lo: So why don't you pursue it now?
KZ: That time has passed. We're cool now. We're just cool. I can't even go there with you.
Lo: Awww, nah! How you gon' tell me you liked me and now it's over?
KZ: I felt like I had to tell you. If we keep talking to each other, we'll talk like friends do. We'll keep it in the "friend zone". If you can't handle that, we can't talk.
Lo: *silence for the first time ever on the other end of the phone*.
That's a small part of what's happening with me.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Translation: These professional looking sistas started hittin' on me yesterday at lunch. I've seen them at least 20 times this summer with absolutely no acknowledgement.
So I'm sleepin' right? Takin' a muhfuckin' nap and shit after work. My phone is rangin' and shit. Rangin' and rangin'. I'm irritated. So I finally look at the phone. It's ol' Hymenina, the virgin. I ain't talked to her ass in many, many months. I listen to the message and shit. Some ol' bullshit about missin' me and bringin' back the Sunday Night Show.
Translation: The little 25 year old virgin has seen the error of her ways and wants to come off the bench. I say nay. I'll put her on waivers and hope another team picks her up.
My take? Winter comes early in Michigan. These squirrels are scrambling for deez nutz. In the summer, I'm on some Ralph Ellison shit. As fall approaches, I'm moving up like Elisha Otis.
I think I'll stay in and smoke.
P.S. Y'all need to check out Robyn for a thorough run-down of our experience at the A Tribe Called Quest set.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
"The Legends Concert" at Chene Park will be indelibly etched into my memory for all time. The line up was as follows: Black Sheep, Das Efx, Slum Village (I love Slum, I've seen them in concert about 3 times prior, but at a "Legends" gig?), EPMD and Redman, and last but certainly not least, these cats.
This entire blog could be about the feelings and fuckin' energy of the whole venue when ATCQ hit the stage. It was amazing. Ali Shaheed Muhammad, Phife, Q-Tip, and JAROBI!!! That shit was magical. I felt like I was 20 again. Jumpin', yellin', dancin'. I looked up every few minutes to see Robyn (I forgot to say something, but yeah, I saw you rockin' the shirt!) and her husband doing the same damn thing. The Tribe could've rocked all night. The fuckin' venue shut the power off on 'em. The City and noise regulations and shit. I need not to obsess over every detail. It'll suffice to just say Friday was good.
On Saturday, I was supposed to see Frankie Beverly and Maze, but I didn't get the tickets I was promised. I have to keep learning the lesson: never count on muthafuckas, ever. So I ended up just perusing the Detroit Jazz Festival for the day. It wasn't bad at all if you're a traditional jazz head, which I don't claim to be, but I own an awful lot of it.
It started raining after this. Pretty hard. So I dipped inside the Compuware Building for a second and played tourist.
Went back out to see the Regal Brass Band on the New Orleans stage,
all the while waiting for Rachelle Farrell,
Sunday I was going to the Arts, Beats and Eats Festival, but decided against it. I was sick of spending loot, so I went home. As I drove back to Satan's Anus a rock hit my windshield and cracked it. I probably could have stayed in Detroit another day and missed the rock completely. C'est La Vie.
P.S. Happy Belated Birthday to "The Epitome", Miss Ahmad. I hope it was special, sweetie.
Friday, September 01, 2006
She's filthy, overly dramatic, overly familiar, extremely violent, unstable, highly unprofessional, nearly bankrupt, promiscuous, and unable to give or receive love. Completely unworthy of admiration, but always demanding respect.
I'll soak her spirit in and smile. I'm too enamored with the she I used to know. I don't know if she ever existed in that form. I just know she's different now.
I'll spend the weekend tryin' to let her know how I feel. "You're beautiful, but we can't be together. It's over." I'm moving on. It will be gradual, but I'll move on.
It's funny how you never realize how much pull something has over you until you try to leave. I've spent what feels like my whole life in love, thought I was over it, then it's back full fledged. I really believe that this is the last hurrah.
The last weekend of summer will appropriately be spent in the Motor. Helping me to bid a fond adieu will be A Tribe Called Quest tonight, Frankie Beverly and Maze tomorrow, the Detroit Jazz Festival, The Arts, Beats, and Eats Festival, and excessive amounts of alcohol.
The "D" is amazing in the summer. Absolutely amazing. I can't wait to tell her how beautiful she is.