Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Three Things

Life is funny. I know that's not a profound statement or a new revelation or anything. It just is. Life is funny.

Dead Woman Walking
I was in a meeting yesterday with my boss and Gasbag. He was asking her to do some follow up work on the his.toric d.istrict thing she was supposed to present at the city commission meeting a couple of weeks ago. I say "supposed to" because the mayor had it pulled from the agenda after she insulted her at that pre-meeting. The excuse given wasn't that the mayor has thin skin and was basically being vengeful, the excuse of record was that the proposal wasn't thoroughly researched and needed more work. My boss and I were giving her direction on how to follow up. He and I both know that this is bullshit, that the proposal doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of passing after she opened her fucking mouth. She doesnt' seem to have a clue. Further, she doesn't seem to know that Hannibalette will do everything in her power come budget time to eliminate her position. I hate walking around acting like everything's OK when I know someone's about to get crushed. Shit, people could be doing that around me as we speak.

Batshit has left the building. She's now officially a resident of Atlanta. Enjoy, people! The thing is, I miss her already. Yeah, I gave her all types of grief on this very blog. But like most things, y'all only got part of the story. When all romantic possibility was gone, long gone, we were still friends. I saw her all the time. We did shit together no one else would do with us. All types of loserish, dateless Saturday night shit. Batshit was my sounding board, my Scrabble opponent, and above all, a non-judgemental friend. I gave her some parting advice. "Don't settle. You don't have to settle. And don't marry a gay dude." Good luck, Bats.

This Friday we (the Transplants) are having a little get together for the Vice-Mayor's birthday. One of Transplants, Karen, asked me to invite one of my frat brothers to the gathering. "Uh, Karen, you know he's married, right?" "Yeah I know. I just wanna look at him." Keep in mind she's fucking Sam, another one of my frat brothers. Y'all be talkin' 'bout men!

Be Thorough,

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

In Praise (or Defense) of Weak Kneed Passion

I was reading this month's G.entleman's Quarte.rly (GQ for all you abbreviators), the one with Lin.dsay L.ohan on the cover, and I came across an interesting article.

It was written by To.ri Spe.lling's ex-husband. Now, an article like this would usually get passed by, but I stopped because the teaser said he found out his wife was having an affair by seeing her with this other dude in a tabloid. Score one for the paparazzi, I guess. Anyway, he got called to their marriage counselor's office and she's sitting there with the counselor. He thinks he's there for a last ditch effort to save his marriage. He's wrong. Tori tells him she doesn't love him and never has. She says that she can't imagine living another day with him. She said the only reason she married him is because he loved her so much and he treated her well. That was his crime, that Tori didn't get that "weak in the knees" feeling from him.

I'm on Tori's side on this one. I'm not in favor of desecrating the marital bed, that was completely fucked up. But I get it. She settled and it bit her in the ass. She shoulda figured that shit out before she took him down with her.

I think people underestimate the role excitement plays in a relationship, at least early on. If you can't get excited about someone you'll ostensibly be spending the rest of your life with, why bother? Life is fuckin' hard enough without getting shackled in a long, long, long term commitment with a muthafuckin' also-ran.

Though I'm not a romantic or a flitty man-girl, I do believe there is something to be said for fuckin' goosebumps and butterflies when it comes to new relationships and new stages in relationships. Honestly, if it ain't there, why bother? Why the fuck do you wanna call somebody and have them think, "Fuck. Her/him again?" Or knock on the door and be greeted by someone with a blank assed expression? That shit is for the poultry.

Life is too short to be settling for a life without passion.


Monday, March 26, 2007

Nothing Like It

What's crackin' folks? I hope you had a good weekend, I certainly did. I was in the Chi this weekend trying to stay out of the way of all the earnest looking white people who apparently were on their way somewhere. I spent some time looking at dinosaur bones at the Fi.eld M.useum and looking at fish and whatnot at Sh.edd A.quarium on the world's foggiest day. You couldn't even see fuckin' Lake Michigan, which I thought was virtually impossible at such a close distance. When I left on Sunday, the weather was perfect. Beautiful.

Do you think people in Miami get excited about a 68 degree day in March? What about in Charlotte? Or Phoenix? I'm willing to venture that they don't. In Michigan, this is great shit. In the D in specific, if your ass is lucky enough to see an above 60 day in March, you will see African setting up grills on the sidewalk, Dubs driving around with convertable tops down, sporting Hawaiian shirts and zinc on their noses. Muthafuckas here lose their minds when it's "warm" or at least "not cold".

That's my primary argument for not living in a moderate climate. There is no joy like the joy when the weather finally breaks. Months upon months of absolute desolation and then, BAM, warmth. The smallest modicum of good weather and your whole entire outlook changes. We smile at one another. We're better to one another. Our lives have meaning again. Your mate is more attractive, you job doesn't suck so much, the boil on your ass is less painful. Everything's better when it gets hotter, that's why consistent warm weather is actually more miserable than snowbelt living. At least that's the argument I'll make as it warms up here.


Wednesday, March 21, 2007

When I Think...

about every piece of shit thing that I did, I realize I have no room for self pity in my life. If you don't believe in karma, you really should.

I think about shit like telling women to go to hell when they said they missed me. Dodging 'em when they wanted to see me. And making any women that said they loved me go through an oral exam. Or making women cry when they said they wanted to see me more. In general, being an asshole. 'Cuz man oh man, do you pay when that shit's on the other foot.

I honestly feel like spending my day making phone calls. "How are you? Long time no hear from. Listen, can I talk to you about something? The way I treated you when we were seeing each other, I have to apologize. I didn't take into consideration the way it made you feel. I was selfish and unfeeling. To tell you the truth, I'm apologizing out of selfish reasons, too. I need to feel better, so I sought you out. I hope that doesn't lessen in your mind the profound sadness I feel about the way I treated you. I thought about it from time to time, but I never addressed it. I wanted you when I wanted you. If you wanted me, I didn't think it was important or worthy of addressing. I'm not asking to be forgiven, I'm just apologizing."

Maybe it will be enough to bring them closure, maybe not. But I know the feeling and man, I don't think it could hurt.

Stay Loose,

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Simple Truths

If we are going to give public speeches, my fellow Africans, we should really learn more about conjugation and plural tenses of words. "Peoples, I were disappointed in the lack of fishes in the lake."

If you name your son "Marquis" or your daughter "Shaqua-anything", don't EXPECT to be sitting at a Harvard entrance interview in 18 years. I'm not judgin', I'm just tellin' you.

Your shit does indeed stink. Remember that.

An object's value never exceeds what the dumbest person you encounter is willing to pay (or do) for it. Not a penny more.

You never know how important a father is to a child until you meet a child with a lousy one. The proof is in the pudding.

Fuck what you say, I still find it amazing that you can dial 11 digits and speak to the person of your choice. It's fascinating to me.

...Or for that matter send a note across country for under 40 cents.

I love clumsy bitches named "Grace".

Most dudes act extra appreciative when receiving head, even when it's lackluster. We do it because we know it only takes the slightest thing to give a woman any excuse not to put the dick in her mouth.

The golden time of day: when you shut the fuck up and I'm reading something interesting.

If I was an NCAA basketball team, my record would have been 21-10, with an RPI of 68. Yeah, I woulda been on the bubble in February.

You knew the answer to that bullshit before you asked it.

Everyday, at some point in the day, I buss a freestyle. It's usually pretty wack, but I test it out, just in case I run up on a sucka MC.

If you could get away with it, without ANY chance of getting caught, you'd do it. That ain't guilt, potna, that's the fear of getting caught.

I got a gang of student loans to be able to do a job I'm positive I coulda done straight outta high school.

If you don't really fuckin' believe it, why should I?

That's All I Got,

Quandries For Everybody

I've probably written about this before. If I have, excuse the self-indulgence for a moment. This is the conundrum most of us get into every election cycle. You elected a muthafucka, for whatever reason. Maybe his/her platform mirrored our personal beliefs, or maybe he/she was a cutie, or his/her mama used babysit us. Whatever reason we had, our person is in office.

Two, four or six years later, depending on the office, our boy/girl is up for re-election. In that time, we've found nothing of consequence that they've done to earn our vote again. In fact, at every opportunity to do "the right thing" they've either done nothing or acquiesced to the opposition.

If you are lucky enough to talk to them, the rational is likely to be something like this: the majority party did blah, blah, blah and we weren't able to push our agenda strongly. Or, we're in the majority party and we had a lot of things on our plates. Re-elect me and I'll be sure it gets done on our watch next go 'round. If I'm not in office, there is NO WAY your agenda gets addressed at all. Therein lies your conundrum.

A muthafuckin' in office doesn't have the balls to do anything life changing, because either they don't sense there is "constituent will" to do anything on that topic or they're looking towards re-election and not offending anyone. Then, when pressed, they claim that if re-elected, it'll definitely be the item they'll pursue. Your only alternative? The muthafucka in the opposition party that doesn't even have said item as a part of their platform or they actively oppose the stance.

That's the problem with our system as it stands. You can best believe that if Ba.rack O.bama (or worse Hillary Cl.inton) gets elected president, the state of civil rights (and I don't just mean "Black rights", I mean civil rights across the board) in this country will worsen. That's what the fuck I said: WORSEN. He doesn't have to be beholden to what the fuck you want, you'll vote for him anyway. What other choice you got? G.uiliani? Mitt Fuckin' Ro.mney? Good luck, African!

That's the shit that's got me disillusioned about politics in general. No balls. Any position any politician takes will coincide with who the fuck is financing his campaign. And believe me, it ain't you! Local politics is worse. There's nothing more untrustworthy than an ultra ambitious politician. When a muthafucka believes the sky's the limit, he/she will leave your ass high and dry on the way to greener pastures.

I really wish I could opt the fuck out and just not vote. If it wasn't for the history of lynchings, literacy tests, and poll taxes, I wouldn't. I just wish my shit mattered.


Monday, March 19, 2007

For The Love Of Nothing

What up, troopers? I'm easing back into the work week after sleeping the weekend away. There is absolutely nothing like not doing a gotdamn thing. It can't be replicated. If you try to replicate it, you're doing something, thusly, nullifying the experiment. Feel me? Anyway, I didn't do shit and it was cool.

On Saturday I went to Unholy Products, Inc. Sam's Club to buy shit in quantities I'll never finish in my entire lifetime. Why I love that place, I'll never know. I keep renewing my damn membership like I have a family of 12. I might as well just buy shit and throw half of it in the trash immediately.

I know people in the northeast (and Chicago) are nice and sick of the Irish (and Irish wannabes) this Monday morning. I certainly am. As much as I love doing nothing, I have a hard time doing nothing, so Saturday night I went out. I went to play pool with Agent Zero, this local chick that works as an advocate in the community. I call her Agent Zero because she's quite possibly the skinniest adult human female I've ever known. Anyway, we were at this pool hall and there was this band all shilleighly'ed out, sportin' shamrocks and green tophats and shit. The lead singer in the band was this chick. She was glammed out, all sequins and tall boots and shit, peroxided up and whatnot. I know she was fuckin' the band leader, because she had a horrible voice. She was really just forcing that shit on us all night. I was sorry I suggested pool. On top of all that the Spartans lost to the fuckin' Tar Heels in the midst of this bitch screeching out "Little Red Corvette". Remind me to never buy a fuckin' Corvette. Another thing: why do women always have unreasonable expectations? How come Agent Zero ordered a apple martini and wasn't satisfied. It's a fuckin' pool hall, dunn! Try again!

Sunday was supposed to be the day I spent cleaning up my apartment. No dice, kid. I went out and bought some rubber gloves, gathered up all my supplies in the master bathroom, and did nothing. The only thing I managed to do is change my bedsheets. I spent most of the day on the phone with TAD, which was a helluva lot more enjoyable than pouring CLR in every toilet in the house and scrubbing sinks.

I could really use a few more leisurely days in my life.


Friday, March 16, 2007

When The Shit Goes Down

"When the shit goes down, you betta be ready" -Cypress Hill, 1993

So, this morning was like any other Friday morning. I'm at work early for the 7:30 am meeting to discuss what we'll discuss at the 7:00 pm Monday evening meeting. I hate this standing pre-meeting, but the powers that be deem it necessary, so I'm there. My boss has another meeting at 8:00, so he skipped this one and went directly to that one.

Anyway, the City Manager and the Mayor call on one of my direct reports, Gasbag*, to give a project update. I sit in my seat ready to fill in any gaps in information. This particular report is on establishing a new h.istoric di.strict. This means everybody who lives within the boundaries will have to abide by the design criteria set by the his.toric dist.rict co.mmittee before they repair their houses. The Mayor lives in the area of the proposed district and opposes it. She tells Gasbag, "I think this designation should be reserved for neighborhoods on the decline. A neighborhood like mine doesn't need an extra level of protection".

Gasbag breaks protocol. "May I ask a question?", something that's never done at these meetings by staff. The mayor allows it and my staff person says "So you're comfortable allowing this designation to occur in poorer neighborhoods, keeping the burden of maintaining historic homes to the people who can least afford it?"

The room got eerily quiet. I put my head down. This is one of my direct reports asking the Mayor if she was advocating injustice. The City Manager glared at me, the Deputy City Manager, Hannibalette, leaned over and said "Your staff person just crossed the line". She was pissed so I knew I hadn't heard the last of it. When Gasbag was dismissed from the table, I knew my day wouldn't go well.

After the meeting I talked to Gasbag and told her she made the Mayor look bad in front of citizens and the press. Gave her advice on technique to educate the Commission while not making them look foolish. Once I left and got back to my office, the heat was on.

Hannibalette called me. She was pissed. "You are responsible for your staff. Your staff made the Mayor look like she was in favor of injustice and inequality. We are advisory to the City Commiss.ion. How dare she ask a question of the Mayor in that forum, in that manner? In no uncertain terms, I want her to know that either she's advisory to the City C.ommission or she's an advocate. We don't pay advocates. She's a budget line item. Nothing more, nothing less. Are we clear?"

When my boss came in, I gave him the background story. He's thinking about the next steps. In my heart, I know the die has been cast. I can guarantee you this: when the next budget comes around, there won't be a historic preservation line item.

Be Easy,

*This is a double edged nickname. Gasbag is always "breaking wind" in meetings. Every time we're in a meeting, she's letting out these silent but deadlys. She thinks just because they don't make a noise folks won't notice. She's wrong! She also talks all the time, a mile a minute. Thusly, she's a gasbag.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Concerto Of Frustration, 8th Movement

Hey peoples, what it be like? I'm just getting back to the office from a doctor's appointment, trying to see if I can stop the woman repeller that is my awful, awful snoring. Looks like I gotta participate in a sleep study to see if I got The Apnea and whatnot, so that'll be splendid.

So as I drive back to the office, I realize, there is no sweeter torture that is being dished out anywhere in the world, not at A.bu Gh.raib, not at Gu.antanamo, not by, than that of driving in Satan's Anus. I bullshit you not, I've driven in NYC, Chicago, DC, ATL, and the retiree capital of the world, the great state of Florida, and there are no worse drivers on the planet than the denizens of Satan's Anus. How the fuck are you driving an Impala 10 miles below the speed limit in the far left lane? The only time most of these muthafuckas tap their gas pedals is when the light is yellow and they try to make it. They are inconsiderate, they cut you off, they drive parallel to you for miles or they hover in your blindspot. All in all, they suck. They suck so bad, they almost made me forget what I really want to talk about.

I want to talk about your kids. Yes, your kids. Don't look around thinking I'm talking about somebody else. I'm talking about you. *tappingthemonitorwithmyindexfinger* Hey, proud parent: Fuck your kid!

I have no real tolerance for my sister or my mother telling me about my nieces and nephews little adventures. I feign interest because, hell, I love my siblings and by extention, love their children. That doesn't mean I care a whole hell of a lot if they said something cute or appear to be precocious.

Now, that being said, why the fuck do I give a fuck about some unrelated muthafucka's demon spawn and their ability to wipe their own asses? Or the fact that they know their fuckin' alphabet. I don't give a fuck what little Jasper said to the milkman last Tuesday. Fuck little Jasper! Be fuckin' considerate. How boring is that story to me? Think about me for once, dammit!

And while I'm on the subject, wrangle those little bastards a little better. I don't need your fuckin' kids looking at me like I'm a gotdamn safari animal as I'm waiting for the doctor or eating at a restaurant. The minute you see 'em standing in front of me staring and they're over the age of 2, grab 'em, or I'll be ready to shove 'em back from whence they came.

Wow, I can't believe I had all that stored up in me. As you were.


Tuesday, March 13, 2007

The Cop Out

I guess a good thing has occurred. I have "blogger's block", but I've been writing like mad offline. So I guess that's a good thing. I really don't have much to talk about and the stuff I would talk about will bore anyone reading who's not involved. Usually this is where I put in a "pet peeve" or as I like to call them "pet piss" blog, where I talk about shit that irritates me. I'm not that irritated, though. My life isn't perfect, but I feel great. I can't really complain.

This, my friends, is where I get to cop out. I've got as few readers as I've had since I started, so this is a good place to do this, nice and under the radar. There won't be too much pressure, so I'll let you have at it. I'll allow three questions from each commenter that I will answer honestly and completely. Maybe you've read enough (or even know me well enough) that you won't have anything to ask. But don't say I've never given you the opportunity. Ask away and be gentle.

Be Easy,

Friday, March 09, 2007

The Great Gravy Conspiracy, Part 4

Everybody reading this knows I'm not a young man. I'm not even "youngish". I'm on the highway to 40. But for some reason, I always get the "you fell off the turnip truck", bargain basement, "this is the way of the world" talk from a lot of my "not that much more" elders.

It's not a big deal. People always wanna feel like they're imparting some wisdom on their younger counterparts, so if I can help them serve that purpose, it's fine with me. Drop knowledge 'til your heart's content, I won't stand in the way. I'll even listen, somewhat. The only reason I'm talking about it now is that it happened to me twice this morning.

I got the same warning from two different people in roughly the same timeframe . It was pretty strange. We were talking real estate in Satan's Anus. Both of 'em, separately, were asking me questions that I could answer, but didn't answer, because it likely would have bitten me in the ass. So I heard the questions and gave them advice on follow up questions for someone who would be willing to discuss these matters with them. Yeah, I know this is all pretty vague, but it's all I can comfortably write about.

Anyway, both parties, away from the other party, decided to bend my ear and talk about the backwards assed mentality of the townsfolks. They also decided to tell me not to trust Dubs, that Dubs was just trying subjegate and marginalize Black people in the city. Dubs didn't wanna see us make an honest buck. I shouldn't be fooled by them making nice with me, that I should always stay on my toes. It was a very interesting conversation.

What I mean to say is, it would have been very interesting if I was 16 fucking years old or something. You 'Bama ass Africans must not know 'bout me. Who are you schoolin'? Both conversations were made even more comical because both parties are...ready?...wait for it...wait for it...MARRIED TO DUBS!!! Raise ya fist! Black Powerlessness!

Now that shit is funny to me.

Be Safe,

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

In and Out and In Again (The Clean Version)

Hey Emirates and Talibs, what's crackin'? I've been enjoying some of the finest personal transportation options that Satan's Anus has to offer. I'm referring, of course, to the taxi drivers that have been chauffeuring me to the job in the morning. I called one taxi company and they sent a guy right away. He was driving a white, old school Lincoln Town Car adorned with American flags. In the "D" (and any other major city I've been in) there is about two inches of (allegedly) bullet proof glass between driver and passenger. There is no barrier between me and the driver and frankly I'm not used to this shit.

Per my usual experience with every bastard in this slimy hellhole, he starts spouting off about his bullshit beliefs. In the meantime, I'm using my camera phone to take pictures of my crotch to pass the time as he rails on modernity and dissing George W. Bush. When the cab ride is over, mercifully, I go into work so I can voluntarily let another piece of myself die as I try to add my worldly gravitas to issues such as chain link vs. picket fencing.

The next day, I call another cab company, trying to get a different driver, and they tell me that it'll be about 30 - 45 minutes before they can get a cab my way. They only have one cab running this time of day (7:00 am). By the time the guy arrives, I'm ready to run to work. This dude is driving a regular yellow cab, with American flags all over it. I've actually had him as a driver before, the last time my car broke down. I remember I asked his name after the ride, then when he told me, the next day when I called for a cab, I specifically asked he not be my driver. Anyway he spouted off his bullshit beliefs, railing on modernity and thanking God for George W. Bush, while I texted TAD.

I arrived at work, ready to kill yet another part of myself as we discussed rearranging the office to make it more conducive to customer service (and nullify some scent issues), when I got the phone call from the garage that basically said "We're ready to become $2000 richer now". I asked one of my staff people to give me a ride to the shop and I begrudgingly said goodbye to the money Uncle Sam was holding on to for me. Once again me and Bluey were rollin' out.

When I got home last night a funny thing happened. I put the car in park and it started rolling backwards. Linkage issue. I had to take it back to the shop this morning so they could fix it. I hope I can stay out of cabs for a minute, though.

Stay Real,

Monday, March 05, 2007

Even Esteban

I've heard one or two of you asking, "Zedediah, when is karma gonna bite you in the ass? You are highly anti-social and pretty arrogant. Something's gotta give." I say to you, one and all, first of all "fuck you". Second of all, here's the story of how karma bit me in the ass.

I had a pretty good weekend. I got my income tax refund back and I was enjoying a portion of the money that I wasn't going to put in my savings account. I bought some frivolous shit, some necessary shit, and was looking at some HDTVs that I might like to buy in the near future.

I even went to see Zod.iac on Sunday afternoon, which I loved. Something about how darkness draws people in. It was confirmed upon viewing that C.hloe Se.vigny is the ugliest white woman in movies today. I'm sure even her mother would say so.

Anyway, I'm driving to run a few errands and my beloved, my favorite girl, Bluey The Bomba Momma, starts lurching. I'm on a busy street and I'm going in 10 mph spurts. The truck stops, then moves. I know what's happening, but I don't want to believe it.

I lurch my ass all the way up to where I work and park in the lot. I can't really keep trying to drive Bluey to my house. I decide to keep it in the lot and get a ride home. I have nobody to call, mainly because I don't wanna be bothered by anybody. I don't have anyone's phone number in my celly because I don't ever call 'em, so my frat brothers couldn't help. I called the one person I could call in the city: Batshit. Wouldn't you know it, she was out of town. I was fucked.

What were my choices? ET, Carmel, Vice-Mayor Ass Pirate, Luther? I had a lot of choices, all involving unpleasant people. I looked through my phone and started calling (almost) anybody that had a local area code. Nobody was answering. I took a shot at calling a friend of an acquaintance who had been trying to help promote our Friday events in nearby Lucifer's Rectum. Of all the messages I left, she was the one that came through. So that's how I got home.

I took the car in to be serviced today. Bluey needs a new transmission that's gonna cost $2000. The exact same amount I was gonna put into savings from my tax return. So I guess that's a net no-loss. And I get to treat the people I know a little better for any future issues that might come up. Everybody wins!

Be Cool,

Friday, March 02, 2007

Requiem For A Delusionist

Everything is cyclical. I believe in that like I believe in aloe vera on ashy knees. That shit is real, especially in my life. In a life where it always takes me a couple of times to learn the lesson I'm supposed to, this is important. I'm a little slow witted, but when something is happening to me that I'm seen before, I'm pretty good at recognizing how I can make it different the next time.

I searched this blog for every occurrance of the name "LoLo". In each and every entry in which I've mentioned her I've been pretty consistent. She's offered me the ass and I've declined. There are a bunch of conversations that I've had with her that I didn't write about because they were the same ol' shit. But, I've been consistent throughout. No leading her on, no anything.

So when she called me a couple of days ago around noon for what has now turned into her monthly offering, I turned the conversation to work related topics. I was sick of having the same discussions about me not taking it. So as soon as she went down that road again...

LoLo: Since we're on the phone, you need anything. 'Cuz if you do, I think I got that for ya.
KZ: Naw (laughing it off), I'm straight. I'm good.
LoLo: You sure?
KZ: Ay, when you get a chance call me tonight.
LoLo: Did I do something wrong?
KZ: Naw, I just need totalk to you about something and I can't talk about it now.

So we get off the phone. And I don't think any more about it. Of course, when you tell anybody you need to talk, that shit looms large in their minds. She called me back around 7:00 pm.

LoLo: OK, what do you wanna talk about.
KZ: Yeah, that conversation we had earlier, we can't have that conversation again.
LoLo: What are you talking about?
KZ: Well, I'm seeing somebody now. I'm thinking this could be serious and I think it's inappropriate for me to entertain that kind of conversation with you.
LoLo: So, you seein' some chick? Some chick you met after me? What does she have that I don't have? I can't believe you! I fuckin' can't believe you! How could you do me like that?
KZ: How am I doin' you? I haven't led you on. We never fucked or kissed or even hugged. What did I do to you?
LoLo: You hooked up with a chick you met after me. You didn't even give me a chance. First my ex-boyfriend tells me he has a woman and now you. This is some bullshit. We don't need to talk. I don't need to talk to you ever again. *silence*
KZ: Hello? Hello?
LoLo: *evenmoresilence*

Technology. You don't even hear a click when someone hangs up on your ass cellularly.


Thursday, March 01, 2007

Game Over

It always happens in my head like this:

I see the woman of my dreams across the room at a social gathering. A formal get together. Everyone’s drinking, including the two of us. I smile. She looks over at me, a little startled, then she looks away. I walk over and I start my spiel.

I’m equal parts Tricky (from the little seen, vastly underappreciated “Under The Cherry Moon”), James Bond, Detroit Red, and my older brother Zachary. I can’t lose. Except for the part of me that’s Zach. Zach always loses, but he’s funny in the process.

“Enjoying yourself?” I ask, not particularly interested in the answer, but willing to listen. “I don’t know. It’s a little staid for my taste. How about you?” “I can’t say that I’m not enjoying myself, but I understand your dilemma. You don’t have the same things to look at as I do.” At that point I sip, waiting to see if this bullshit bait is taken. “Point taken,” she says, smiling, “but the view isn’t so bad from where I’m standing either.” She sips, giving me time to contemplate what comes next. “Perhaps we can find something else to do, go somewhere that’s a bit more to your liking.” “What do you have in mind?” “I have a place in mind. It’s someplace where we can ruminate on the origin of the phrase ‘fits like a glove’.” I take her hand, and we take leave of our guests.

This is the way it would happen in real life:

I’m over a friend’s house that is having an informal get together. I see the woman of my dreams who is clearly irritated that I keep looking in her direction. As soon as she dips away from the rest of the crowd, maybe to go to the kitchen or the restroom I’m there.

“Ay, how you doin’?” “I’m fine.” “You sholl is. Dang. It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass.” “Excuse me?” I start to speak louder, “I said, ‘It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass’.” The woman then walks off in a huff and rejoins the rest of the group.

I was born with an affliction called formally known as Lackus Schemia, or the Zed Zednanreh Syndrome. (What kind of irony is that to be afflicted with a condition named after you?) I gots no game. None. Nada. It doesn’t exist. My last name nor my brother’s last name is Parker. There is no Milton Bradley in my family tree. I believe that all the run I’ve ever gotten has been in spite of the shit that comes out of my mouth.

It takes a certain amount of braggadocio and bluff to pull off the Mack thing. I lack both of those things in spades. I hate braggers and name-droppers. And I can’t bluff to save my life. If I’m standing in front of you, I’ll never be able to convince you of something that wasn’t true. My face is a living lie detector. It gives up the goods on me every time.

If I had some level of game, I’d be a master hustler, probably at least “hood rich” or something. I wonder how much shit I leave on the table by being a dork.

Be Easy,