Slices

Work

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."

Gym

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.

Meeting

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,
KZ