When Y'all Don't Write...

It leads to me creating my own fun. Like collecting bullshit events that have happened in the past few weeks and making a "Shepherd's Pie" like post. This is the scrapple and bullshit of my life in the last couple of weeks, condensed in a single place for your consumption. Enjoy!

You ever notice how you get the most attention from the people you want it from the least? That, my dear bloggers, is the story of my life.

Email from Charlize Theron:
We haven't been able to hook up in months. Either you're too busy or I'm too busy. In any case, I believe that our inability to connect speaks to a greater meaning. I think it's time we stopped "messing around" and took our relationship to the next level.

Ummm...*delete*

Voicemail from Carmel:
If you're here for Thanksgiving, I'd really like to see you. You need to stop being so mean and keep in touch in with me. My girl Punkin had a sex toy party at my house a few days ago and I wanna try some stuff out.

Ummm....*save*

Discussion with Batshit:
Bats: I know you'd be the perfect donor. I'd have you sign a contract relieving you of all your fatherly duties. I'm serious. I'm ready to have a baby, with or without a husband.
KZ: Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?
Bats: I'm serious.
KZ: I'm not the man for that job. You need to pick one of those other cats. That'll never be me, man.
Bats: You know you want a baby.
KZ: I want a sane baby.

Text message from Ivana:
You'z a buster! Why you running from the pussy?

Ummm...forward to Three with LOL addendum.

Email from FIFA Booty:
Hello Mr. Zednanreh, I was hoping we'd be able to see one another again before the year ends. Sincerely, FIFA Booty.

Squo? Ummm....*delete*

Voicemail from Flakette, a one date chick:
I can't believe it's been over a month since we went out. You were on my mind and I was wondering if you were busy this weekend. Give me a call when you get a chance.

Bitch, was I on your mind when you flaked out on the second date we made? Ummm...*ghettoredhotdelete*

Wanna trade? Anybody?

KZ

A Personal History of Dredlocs, Part I

I'd been contemplating it for awhile. I'd been walking around with this uncombed afro (I never called it an "afro" for the record, it was a "natural") for the better part of 3 years and I couldn't pull the trigger. I read this article in the Metro Times about locs in the workplace. Sistas were getting snide comments here and there, but the men in the article seemed to be catching hell. There was this one dude that worked in the same building as I and who had really mature locs. He was quoted in the article as saying, "I just came to grips to the fact that when I got locs I had pretty much sealed my fate. I basically gave up any upward mobility that I may have had in the company." That was the day I knew I'd get locs and defy the odds.

Now I'd had "faux locs" before, during my college years. See?:

This time it was gonna be the real deal.

My thinking was simple. I was going to be a man of the people and everytime they looked at me, they'd know it. No matter how high I rose or how much juice I got, I was always connected to the most maligned of us. People fuckin' hate dredlocs. Nobody knows that more than people that have them. I think Black people hate 'em more than white people.

So I went to this loctician and got them started. This was 1997. I spent $100 bucks to get them done. The next morning I woke up and panicked. How was I gonna go to this ultra conservative place I worked all loc'ed up? I spent that morning cutting my hair off. All of it.

It would be two years later before I tried again.

KZ

For A Reason

Epiphanies are rare occurrences, but when they happen, maaaaaaannnn....

I was at work today and I smiled. I never fuckin' smile at work. What for? But I start smiling because after a hundred muthafuckas have said it, I finally get it. I get it. All you advice giving muthafuckas with your unsolicited bullshit, I finally get it!!! After I threatened to drive to Detroit and beat Three within an inch of his life, I get it.

I'm am here, in Satan's Anus, for introspection. It has been made apparent that I'm am supposed to spend my time not reading or writing, but thinking. Everything else has been used to blunt my tools of reason and my connection to the divine. I'm supposed to be fuckin' thinking!

I formulate thoughts and perform actions, but I haven't been thinking worth a damn. My brain is clogged. Not just with minutiae, but with the mundane, going through the motions type of shit. How many times have you driven home and forgotten how you got there? It's like you're on auto pilot.

This was a mental exhortation to live in the moment a little more. Live in the moment or be doomed to repeat it.

One Half Ape...And The Other Half Munkee

Verbin'
I talked to my boys this weekend, but I didn't head to the D. I was afraid of all the "Dupreeing" that would be offered, you know couches to crash on. I wasn't trying to Dupree, just hang out a little, so I declined and stayed put.

I Loc Nessed instead. Laid low and attempted to be introspective. Negatory. I didn't read a lot. I watched TV. I went to the movies and saw Ca.sin.o Ro.yal.e. I loved that shit, this new Bond shit. Extra grimy like a laundromat on the Eastside. I even fucked around and ended up watching shit I never wanted to see in my life. I mean, this one cat Heathed this other muthafucka all up in his Gyllenhaal!

I was ready to Yeti, but the snow never came. It was in the 60's all weekend. So I Sasquatched and watched my hair and feet grow under sandpapery, low thread count sheets as I laid on my back trying to make out the images on my dusty ass TV.

The best laid plans of mice and men...
I was supposed to spend all this extra time cleaning up and shit. I didn't wash clothes, scrub, scour, mop, vacuum, or otherwise improve my home. My house is likely worse for the shit I messed up by being home an extra couple of days. I got shoes to shine and suits to steam.

Part Gorilla
I'm feeling this extra aggressive thing whenever I get ready to go to work these days. This real "punch a muthafucka in the face" sorta thing. What is that? Life?

Delusional defined
LoLo: You comin' to my birthday party?
KZ: Naw. Imma, uhh, be visitin' my parents. Imma be in Florida.
LoLo: I bet your parents would love me. You should give me your mother's number. She'd love talking to me and she'd probably invite me down for Christmas.

KZ

Newy Tagged Me!

I thought my "nerd reading" would be off the charts because of this meme. But I think it actually confirms what most of y'all already know.

This is how it the list was achieved:

1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)

2. Put it on shuffle

3. Press play

4. For every question, type the song that's playing

5. When you go to a new question, press the next button

6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...

Opening Credits: Get Down, Craig Mack

Waking Up: I Got It Made, Special Ed

First Day At School: We Run Things, Bush Babees

Falling In Love: The Gas Face, 3rd Bass

Fight Song: Change The Style, Son of Bazerk

Breaking Up: Ante Up, M.O.P.

Prom: Ego Trip (Part Three), De La Soul

Life is good: Fuck Tha Police remake, Jay Dee a.k.a. J Dilla

Mental Breakdown: I Know You Got Soul, Eric B. and Rakim

Driving: Stick 'Em, The Fat Boys

Flashback: Dominoes, Donald Byrd and the Blackbyrds

Getting Back Together: Peg, Steely Dan

Wedding: Lyte As A Rock, MC Lyte

Birth of Child: SuperThug, Noreaga

Final Battle: Peter Piper, RunDMC

Funeral Song: Are We Cuttin'?, Pastor Troy

End Credits: Bitch Betta Have My Money, AMG

I ain't taggin' nobody. If you wanna do this, do it.

Quasi

I had a dream in which I was an amnesiac. I wandered around in a mental fog, seeing people I knew but couldn't place. I ran into a woman I'd never seen before. She had a kind face and a gentle demeanor. She took my hand and proceeded to tell me who I was. I smile when I think of this dream, because I understand.

***************

Everyone deserves an opportunity for happiness. They deserve an opportunity for passion in their lives. I would never begrudge anyone who sought out beauty and perfection. The desire for quality in one's life is admirable. I read that somewhere once. I hope no one resents my journey.

***************

My youth is burned onto five inch disks scattered throughout my living room. Everytime I play one, I'm there again. Today I'm 28, yesterday I was 23, tomorrow I'll be 19, 33, 14. I listen and I am transported.

KZ

Thanks For What?

It took a little while to write this because I'm motivated by, no, INVESTED in my negativity. These are the things I've thankful for in no particular order:

My parents: my father for the gift of skepticism, my mother for the EDGE.
My brother Zach: to be fed the same food and live under the roof, we couldn't be more opposite. I wish you the best.
My "brother" Three: gon' to Cali, African. We built for this shit.
Both my sisters: Ugh, y'all somebody's mothers? Unbelievable!
My general good health
Every Muslim girl/woman I've ever dated
June, my loctician: the voice of dissent
Kenneth Cole: I'd still be arguing with bouncers in Downtown Detroit if it wasn't for you.
The B.O.B.: more fun to watch than a Simpson's marathon.
The job: as much as I beef, the opportunity is tremendous. Time to take the next step.
Coffee
The personal computer: a.k.a. the porno machine.
The spirit of hip-hop
The desire to do better

KZ

Musings On The Day Before Thanksgiving

My Blah Blah Blah Inspired Pic

I had a meeting this morning with Wispy and her union rep. She wanted to talk about how she's not getting the support she needs from her co-workers. At 8:00 am. First fucking thing in the morning. Wispy maintains that she's the best employee in the department and "the others" are highly intimidated by her. She needs her own office to get away from the hustle and bustle of the front office. Speaking of delusional women...

I was over Batshit's crib playing Scr.abble last night. I know what y'all thinking, but the nature of our relationship has changed since I used to write about her all the time. She's basically the only friend I got in this city. So we hang out once in a while and I was in a particularly shitty mood yesterday, so I kinda needed it. So we're playing Scr.abble and she asks me if I ever think she'll get married. "Fuck, anything is possible. We could have a Black pope one day." I was trying to be funny, but it came off mean. I left soon thereafter.

When the fuck am I going to be grown? When the fuck am I gonna be the patriarch sitting at the head of a table carving the turkey in my fucking house? Actually, the bigger question is "Do I want all the shit that comes with it?"

My ex-girlfriend Thelma is 37 today. I dodged that gift-giving bullet. My oldest sister will be 42 tomorrow. I got next.

These muthafuckas are actually gonna make me work today. I can't believe it.

KZ

What The Fuck Ever

Just as I started to write this post, I got this feeling that I'm writing the same shit over and over again. Not that that's necessarily so, but I got the same variation on the same theme. I think a lot of us are like that. I think I need to find the "unified field theory" on my blog. Maybe it's insecurity, or desire, or pain. I don't know, but there's something there. Anyway, let me talk about what I'd planned to talk about.

So I'd just finished jackin' off right? Using my secret two handed technique. I learned it from the Mayans during that summer I spent backpacking in the mountainous regions of the Yucatan Peninsula. So anyways, I'd just finished, right? And it was quite productive I might say. I got a muse now. Anyway, so I'm cleaning up and I realize I have a Netflix movie that I should watch because I wanna get to the bottom of my queue and cancel they ass.

Yeah, so the movie I'm watching is called Ame.rican Sp.len.dor. The movie is fantastic, weird in places, but it's about weird people. It's about this dude, Har.vey Pe.kar, who decides to make a comic book about his life. His dull ass, ordinary life. He's just a guy that works as a file clerk in a VA Hospital in Cle.ve.land. He's isolated, bitter, lonely, and has some weird assed co-workers. By most accounts this dude is a loser.

I watched it and saw a kindred spirit. I identified with this cat in so many ways it wasn't funny. I thought about it afterwards and I keep thinking about it today. Damn, I gotta admit it's got me shook. I don't wanna be a fuckin' loser, man!

That's all I got.

KZ

Road Worrier

I spent Saturday and Sunday in Detroit. I had to get my CD changer re-installed and of course, to see my peoples. I hooked up with Three and we had an interesting talk about his immediate future. He's likely about to move to L.A. in the next few months. The dude is jonesin' for this chick. I think as talented an artist as he is, that may be a good move for him. I just suggest that he not move to be with a chick that makes goo-gobs more dough than he does. Ask Ryan Phillipe or Chad Lowe.

Later that night, me and T.A.D. went to this neo soul thing. It was tight up until the end. We were deeply ensconced in the belly of the Black bohemian beast. More dredlocs and African musk oils than the law allows. It was my kinda crowd.

I gotta ask my Philly peeps to help get Jaguar Wright to a detox center, stat! Her set was all cussin' and smokin' and drankin' and shit. It was a bit MUCH. And I really don't give a fuck about any of those things in and of themselves. But it was like watchin' a bootleg film of Redd Foxx at the Kit Kat Club circa 1962 . Tighten that shit up, Jag!

Everytime I see T.A.D. I'm like a sponge, trying to soak her up. I need more time with her. I gotta find a way to see her more. It's fuckin' depressing when we have to part company after basically short periods of time and I've thought about seeing her for days. I was open to this shit happening just like I was afraid of.

On Sunday morning Robyn and I went to breakfast. That was the fucking ticket. It's the shit I needed. We both vented alot. We're both extra frustrated about shit. I didn't even have to do a lot of talking for her to understand what I was feeling. To paraphrase Jay-Z, Robyn and I go back like T.yra Ba.nks' hairline. She knows me, period. More so than even my boy Three.

And that drive back to Satan's Anus doesn't get any less depressing.

KZ

Hi, Gene!

Ay folks, I got a little situation to talk about. This is kinda graphic so bear with me a minute. It gives me ammo for my already skewed belief system.

I was in the restroom at work today, working out some issues and whatnot. Using the facilities. Making a "boo-kee" as my moms would so eloquently put it when I was 3. This dude that works with me comes in. I'm tense because there are only two stalls in the restroom, and I don't wanna sit next to nobody when using the facilities. First off, it grosses me out. If you're cool sitting next to a dude on the toilet, your orientation rhymes with "domorexual". Second, I'm "boo-kee" shy. The only time I use it outside of my home is when I absolutely, positively have to go. So you know this was a minor emergency.

He stops short of the stalls goes to the urinal. I'm saved. I look at his shoes and recognize who it is. The cat does his biz and leaves. What did I leave out? That's right. He didn't wash his fuckin' hands.

This cat was one of the main ones touting his wares at the POTLUCK WE HAD YESTERDAY. You know how I hate potlucks!!! Luckily I'd only eaten shit like pretzels and chips and shit. No homemade items. Nasty bastards!

KZ

Closure Fo' Sho'

Hey y'all! What's up? I'm writing this post for Slish, who apparently thinks I don't humiliate myself enough on this blog. I didn't have much to write today anyway, so I'll give y'all the conclusion to the story on me and the infamous Grilled Cheese. Ready? Cool.

I'm thinking this was about 3 to 4 weeks ago. Grilled Cheese and I went out to this place to play pool. It was a good date. Everything flowed smoothly, conversation was good. After we left the billiards spot, we went to Red Lobster. It was packed in that place, but there is no other place to really go to get seafood in the city, and we were both sold on seafood. We sat for about 30 minutes waiting to get a table. Lots of room for conversation, no?

We were finally seated, perusing the menus. I was feeling good. Feeling like myself again. A regular cat doing regular things. It was almost like I was at home again. During the lull, GC decided to open up.

"I've got something to tell you and I don't know how to say it." I freeze. What's coming? Does she have a disease? A dick? A tail? I brace myself for the worst.

"Go on. Spit it out." She's looking at me with the saddest eyes. "Well, I had a housewarming party a couple of months ago when I bought my house. And I invited a lot of people, one of them being my son's father. Well..." The waitress came back to the table to refill water glasses.

When the waitress left, I finished GC's thought for her. "You're pregnant."

"Yeah, I'm pregnant. Two months." "I see." I took a long swig of water. At this point I'm thinking, what would my brother do? What would my boys do? What would Joe Nut from the Eastside Nutty Boys do? For some reason, I'm thinking of the most ignorant Africans I can think of, because this chick played me. She had all the opportunity in the world to tell me to push on. Shit, the incident that gave her that nickname would have been a good break off point. She knew she was pregnant then!

"I really like you and I'd like to keep seeing you, but if you don't want to see me again, I'll understand." Oh, I'm damn sure glad you'll understand I'm not trying to see a chick that's swellin' up with some other cat's seed in her!

Did I clown her? Did I grab her and say "let's go"? Did I show my ass? Nope. The food came and we ate. Then I took her home.

In front of her house she asks "Am I gonna see you again?"

"You just dropped a lot of shit on me at once. This shit is crazy. At this point, I can't answer that question."

She got out of the truck and I left without looking back.

Fuckin' Satan's Anus!

KZ

The Hat Post

Well, it's winter in North America, fuck what the calendar says. So that means one thing: I'm trying to find a suitable hat to wear on my big fuckin' head. It's hard to hat shop when you're cranially endowed. It's like having a giant casaba attached to your neck. Even if I shaved my hair off (which is forthcoming) my head is fuckin' too huge to buy a hat off the shelf. Right now, I'm wearing scullies. Scullies and suits? Uncool, brotha!

I checked out the ethnic haberdasher (a.k.a. Suit N!gga) in town and he flaked out like most of Satan's Anus does. I went and got sized for a custom brim, he took down the order, and he said he'd call me in a few weeks. I went back a few weeks later and he said "So you want me to order a hat for you?" "Dude, you measured me for a hat weeks ago. Didn't you place the order?" "I musta forgot." OK, Roy Jones, you win this round.

So now I'm running around looking like JFK and shit, all hatless and whatnot.

There are a few simple truths you must know about hats:
1) Any muthafucka that wears a cowboy hat anywhere other than a cattle ranch is an asshole. A certified, unredeemable asshole.
2) Any woman that wears a big hat anywhere but church or the beach is a bitch. A unsatisfiable uber shrew.
3) Unless you're under 30 or in one of those fancy hip-hop bands, there is no good reason to be walking around in a ball cap with an unbent brim.
4) For men, any hat that is not earth toned should not be worn. Period.

That's all I got.

Peace,
KZ

Days Like This

I've had two women in my office today before 9:00 am crying their eyes out. I know what you're thinking. "What did you do, Zed? Did you smack 'em? Long dick 'em into a state of uncontrollable ecstasy? Steal their purses? What ever did you do?"

The short answer: nothing. All I am is their bosses' boss. Dey leapfroggin' folks to make complaints about dey peoples.

The first woman has been off work for two months on stress related leave. Her job contains no real stress, just like Tang contains no real juice. But she got a gullible ass doctor to buy into it and was off for a good long while. I wish it was me.

Anyway, she came into my office crying just as I carried my cup of coffee from the kitchen area. "Look at my calendar! It's ridiculously full!" she screeched as she waved the printed pages from MS Outlook. I sipped, bored and barely awake. "We're trying to ease you back into things. It's not as full as your regular calendar would have been. We were expecting you last week. If you would have come in then, you would have had nothing but office work to do." "I couldn't come back last week I had bronchitis!" she spat, fresh nicotine staining her wretched teeth. "I'll see what I can do" which as all women should know by now, means I'll do nothing.

Next came Wispy. Good ol' Wispy. She was hysterical (Yeah, I know this is not a politically correct term. And no, I don't recommend that she get a hysterectomy). Wispy claims that she was being menaced by her Black co-worker. I'm sure her co-worker is sick of her whining about everything under the sun, but I can't let her walk out of my office into a "dangerous" situation. So I ask for a rundown of the shit Debbiee (yes, that's the way she spells it) is doing to her.

"She makes me ask permission to use the printer. And she doesn't answer the phones so I have to do it. When a customer comes in and needs assistance, she walks away from the front counter." Yeah, she's pretty much made you her bitch, Wispy. This is Wispy's first legitimate complaint ever, so I'm writing shit down and she's bawling like she can't breathe. I'm really not good at consoling people, so I'm letting her ass hyperventilate. I tell her I'll follow up and she crawls her ass out of my office.

I really don't like this aspect of my gig. It's days like today that are pushing my ass out before my plan is done.

Peace,
KZ

Learn French

I drove to the D this weekend for two reasons. One of which became a bust. The other reason turned out much better.

I came back to get my cd changer put back in, but the place that repaired it forgot to send back the accompanying wires to the stereo shop. In short, I was fucked. Driving across state and they drop the fuckin' ball.

The other reason was to re-up with T.A.D. She just don't know. She think she know, but she just don't know.

We went to the movies to see "The Departed". Yeah, I saw it dolo a few weeks ago. Yeah, I'm a sucker, I went back. Me, the non-movie going muthafucka. I liked seeing it again. Especially liked the company.

After the flick, we went to this Cuban restaurant downtown. The ambiance was cool. The place was crowded and loud. Everytime I'm around dyed-in-the-wool Cubans, I realize how half-assed I am about that particular part of my cultural background. I don't speak Spanish, I've never eaten most of the staples of the Cuban diet, and I hate Miami.

So anyway, we wuz eatin' and talkin' and drinkin' and shit. Everything was good. I saw one of my boys in there and now he's officially suspect for reasons I ain't discussin' here. We talked a lot after we left. A whole lot. Today, I realized I wasn't on my P's and Q's at all. I was thrown off my square and dropped a gang of cool points. I know better next time.

Anyway, I think it's time I took French. I think it's about that time.

KZ

What Am I Doing?

I'm writing on my yellow pad, not cognizant of anything being said of which I need to be aware. Most of the words are dark from the multiple times I've outlined them. The boldness is mildly exhilarating, which tells you just how bored I really am.

I look over at Cindy, the recording secretary. She's got blond highlights in her hair. They're not all that becoming on her, but it's different. At least that's something. Now Rick's talking. It's an overlong explanation of something that doesn't need to be explained. When he gets to talk uninterrupted, I tell you, he glows like a pregnant teenage hillbilly.

I'm looking down, happy to have found my glasses yesterday, which had gone missing for three weeks. I start trying to make anagrams. I'm no good at that sort of thing, but I always try.

The room gets eerily quiet. That can only mean one thing. I've been asked a question and I don't realize it. I look up and everyone is looking at me. I look at Mike, the coordinator of this particular meeting.

"What part of this do you need me to clarify?" I'm looking at Mike directly in the eye, like my ol' man taught me so many years ago. But Mike has one of those "googly" eyes. You know, when you're talking to a person and you don't know which eye to look at 'cuz one of 'em is, ummm, googly. I'm trying to concentrate on the question and figure out which eye is the "live" one. Curse you, father!

Mike helps me pinpoint the subject matter I'm speaking to and I go forth, bullshitting my way to the goalline with no blocking, a la Barry Sanders. My functional purpose at the meeting is over and I go back to darkening letters on my pad.

Repeat five times and you have my day today.

KZ

Mourning In Michigan

Ay, yo, check this link out and tell me what you think.

Hey Happy Campers! What's good? I'm just glad to be here, quite frankly.

I hate politics. All politics: organizational, office, local, national, you name it. I hate politics. To me politics are an underhanded, dirty business. It's a way to finesse how you really feel. That's my ultimate beef with politics. It's inherently deceitful.

There were 5 proposals on Michigan ballots yesterday, two highly controversial ones: Prop 2 and Prop 3. Prop 2 called for the end to all race and gender based assistance to be outlawed in the Michigan state constitution, effectively ending affirmative action in the state. Prop 3 called for a prohibition on hunting mourning doves. Apparently, this being a HUGE hunting state, hunters didn't have enough shit to shoot at and now wanted to blast the international symbol of love out of the air.

The interesting thing that greeted me this morning wasn't surprising at all. At least not if you live here. The compassionate people of the State of Michigan decided that Blacks were being treated mighty fairly. Too "fair" in most cases and rejected "race based preferences". So there will be no leveling mechanism, no matter how poorly constructed, to counteract the long standing tradition of "I know his dad, he's hired".

Those same people also felt that killing mourning doves was a bit much and overwhelmingly voted against letting hunters have at it.

It's been long understood that some people will protest fur-wearing and cruelty to animals, and those same people will become alarmed if a Black person moved on their block or dated their kids. I've seen bigots let their dogs lick them in the mouth.

That's the nature of compassion and empathy in these United States. Save the animals, let the human condition grow worse.

Man, I hate politics.

KZ

The MeMe by Me For Me

1. Favorite Water - ice
2. Favorite Foot - the left, my sex foot.
3. Weirdest relative - Randy (R.I.P)
4. Vastest Wasteland - Idaho/Utah (tie)
5. Wackest Lyric - "Scooby Doo, whoopie doo/Scenario's ready yo, rates more than four"
6. Golden Time Of Day - 11:00 pm
7. Best Ape - Cornelius
8. Favorite Parent - That one, you know the one, with the advice and whatnot
9. Sleaziest Tactic - Omission
10. Most Inappropriately Named Thanksgiving Accoutrement - cranberry sauce
11. Best Whatsaname - Uh, ol' boy. From around the way. You know, from the spot.
12. Favorite Website Password - sweetdetpussy
13. Favorite Crayon to Have my Nephew Ask For - Bwown/Gway (tie)
14. Most Bestest Pornography - http://www.plumprumps.com
15. Coolest Sibling - That one, with the kids and stuff.
16. Favorite Dolemite Movie - The Human Tornado
17. Most Coveted Chick, 1983 - Charron
18. Most Dangerous Place for People Allergic to Horses - Belmont, NY/Flavor of Love set (tie)
19. Greatest Alias - Hugh Jorgan
20. Darkest Bodypart - right asscheek

Peace,
KZ

An Election Day Problem

OK, let's say you have two candidates for one office. One candidate you have issues with because of his involvement in a political cover-up that affected you personally (financially). The other, you know one of his immediate family members that gave you the scoop on his maliciousness many years prior to his foray into politics. The office they are running for is a highly important one and shouldn't be simply skipped when voting. What would you do? I'll be voting this afternoon.

KZ

Rollin' Thru

I been in a weird musical place for a few days. I just bought the new John Legend CD, though I haven't opened it yet. And I've been listening to the first BDP album, Criminal Minded as well as the only Anttex album, Suburban Etiquette. I don't know what the fuck is going on in my head. So anyway...

Last Friday was a doozy, my African. I didn't write about it because I was still steaming about it when I posted. I told y'all about my issue with union here. I had a meeting with the union president and the grievance officer on Friday. They insisted that their member didn't call the resident an "idiot" but instead said his actions were "idiotic". I started in on the G.O.

KZ: The resident heard himself being called an idiot. It was at the very least a poor choice of words.
GO: I don't think it was a bad choice of words. The resident was doing some idiotic stuff.
KZ: The root word of "idiotic" is "idiot". He felt like he was being called an idiot. I think rightfully so.
GO: Just because someone is being called idiotic doesn't mean he's being called an idiot.
KZ: How about I just call your line of reasoning asinine? Do you feel like I'm calling you an ass?
GO: (quietly) I think we'll just have to agree to disagree.
KZ: So now we're agreeing on things. See, that's progress.

That muthafucka was heated the rest of the meeting and so was I. Don't play semantics with me. I'm the master of that shit.

I went to the movies (again) this weekend and saw Bo.rat. I can honestly say I've never laughed so hard at a movie in my life. It will make you uncomfortable as all get out in many places. You wonder about the sanity, level of committment and balls to do most of the shit that you see on screen. I went to the movies TWICE all of 2005. I've been five times that this year. That, my friends, is telltale.

Be Focused,
KZ

Rosalyn

"Homicide wanna meet you."

I hardly ever reminiscence on the blog, but I gotta write this down 'cuz it just hit me like a ton of bricks.

Back in '87 I was a freshman in college. I was young, newly de-virginized, and highly corrupted, but all in all, still a really nice boy. I had a lot of female friends in my dorm. Little did I know at the time that all of them wanted to fuck me. I couldn't see the signs, but one by one, they let me know by my sophomore year.

Anyway, one of my friends was this girl from Detroit named Rosalyn. Rosalyn was beautiful, a short, large breasted, flashy dressing, gold digging hoodrat (in the parlance of the era she would have been called a "Sackchaser" or a "Mica Babe") . She had a little beef with the girl I lost my virginity with. They lived next door to one another. "Texas" hated that Rosalyn was always in my room and Rosalyn hated Texas' clingy ways. Rosalyn used to spend the night with me on several occasions, saying her roommate was always entertaining. We slept in the same little twin bed, spooning. I never even tried to bone, it didn't occur to me that I could. I thought she was out of my league.

Rosalyn had a boyfriend back in the D nicknamed "Homicide". He was a drug dealer on the Westside. She showed me a gang of pictures of her and this dude. Had to be at least 50 pics, no smirk, no grin. Lots of money and guns. In every picture she looked like a million bucks, tax free. Dressed to the nines, big fuckin' smile. She'd go home every other weekend to see this murdering gangster muthafucka.

After one such weekend trip, she came to my room. She had a funny little look on her face. We talked about what she'd done when she was at home. And then, out of nowhere, she leaned in and kissed me. Long and deep.

I was stunned. I can't even say I was happy. My overwhelming emotion was surprise. "What did you do that for?" was the only response my feeble sixteen year old mind could come up with. She then said the one thing that I least wanted to hear in all my life, "Homicide wanna meet you."

Panic set in almost immediately. "Why Homicide wanna meet me? I didn't do nothin'! Awww, man! You just kissed me! I didn't do nothin'!" You could almost hear the onset of bubbleguts.

"I told him I wanted to break up with him. I'd been tellin' him about you the whole time. He just put two and two together."

"Two and two? You don't wanna be with me! How is that puttin' two and two together?"

"You're the only fool who doesn't know I wanna be with you. Everybody else knows better."

"So now he wanna meet me and I ain't even do nothin'. You tryin' to get me kilt!"

I never met Homicide, nor did I ever kick it with Rosalyn. All those emotions came rushing back to me today. I went to lunch and I saw this woman that looks like I imagine Rosalyn would look today.

Peace,
KZ

Anywho...

The list of shit I hate grows...

Grown men that use the word "co-inky-dink" or "anywho"
Actually PEOPLE that use the word "co-inky-dink" or "anywho"
Muthafuckas who talk to you at urinals.
Teenagers
Gospel Hip-Hop
Staunch advocates of anything
Election season
Chicks without a hairstyle. Long hair ain't a hairstyle.
Uneven drafting boards, crooked t-squares
Quiefs
The 90's
The Satan's Anus Municipal Employee Association
Frat business (the real stuff)
Anger management classes
People who forget the first rule of "Fight Club"
"It won't fit"
Buying milk in the smallest possible usable quantity and still having it go bad, unopened
Being wrong
Zombies
People who say shit like "Hate is a strong word". Not as strong as your fuckin' breath.

Stay Bitter,
KZ

P.S. Gotta luv "The Onion" though.

Killin' Me

On the phone

Three: What you been writin' lately?
KZ: Fuck you mean? You don't read 'em?
3: Fuck you! I'm busy.
KZ: OK. (silence)
3: For real, what you been writin' about?
KZ: I thought you might be too busy to hear about it.
3: What kinda bitch *African* is you? Stop bein' so damn sensitive.
KZ: If you read the fuckin' blog, you'd see I'm in a bad place right now.
3: Well, you got your health. What the fuck else you want?
KZ: Ehh.
3: I got an idea for a new blog.
KZ: I don't need your ideas.
3: I'm tellin' you, you'd have a buncha muthafuckas commentin'. You'd own that bitch.
KZ: What's the idea?
3: You and a few of them blog *Africans* need to get together and have a shared blog called "These Bitches Kill Me".
KZ: "These Bitches Kill Me"? What the fuck would we be writing about?
3: The various muthafuckin' ways in which, umm, various bitches and the like, umm, you know, effectively be killin' y'all *Africans*, and so on and so forth.
KZ: Hunh?
3: You know with the shit they do. "Three get my nails done", "Zed come over my mama's house with me". You know, that shit.
KZ: I already got a blog like that. I call it "Babee Munkees and Clams". Ever heard of it?
3: Well, this way it wouldn't just be you! Everybody got different ways they get got. Y'all need to compile that shit into one giant finger, the finger of blame, pointin' at hoes. "Does this shit sound familiar?"
KZ: I'll think about it.
3: You better do this shit before somebody else take it.
KZ: You think there's an audience for that?
3: There's an audience for that bullshit you be writin'.
KZ: Duly noted.

Peace,
KZ

Knockout And The Art Of Secks

Hey folks? What gives? I went to the movies last night. I'm not much of a moviegoer, but recently I've been trying to counteract my boredom. Also it was Halloween and I live in a complex where I don't control the external porchlight. It automatically comes on, so I would have spent all night answering the door saying "No, I'm not giving away shit, little vampire."

So I went to the movies. I saw "The Pr.estige", a pretty good movie. Yes, Sc.arlett Jo.han.ssen has big titties. No, I don't see the big deal about her acting ability. I also think Christian Bale might be lightweight evil in real life. I see a common thread in all his roles that lead me to believe at the very least he's an asshole.

Anyway, so I'm in the movie and my phone vibrates. It's a text message:
I miss that dick! I had a dream about us last night. Too bad we didn't tape that shit!

I closed the phone. This is the third message I've gotten like this in the last two days, from three different women. All I could do is laugh to keep from crying. Still the King of The Desert.

I think women send these messages just to fuck with me. If I wanted to follow up, I can't. Two of the texters are from out of state. One from earlier that day:
I know good girls don't ask this, but when can I have you again? I'm getting wet just thinking about you! Don't you want me? Tell the truth! I can handle it.

WTF? I guess it's easier to write this shit than to say it over the phone. They oughta know better. I'm not responding to a text like that, even if I was interested. That shit is EVIDENCE, my African.

This shit frustrates me to no end, even though I think I might be turning into an asexual being. Lack of actual, bona fide oochie-coochie over a long stretch of time does that.

My advice for the sex texters out there: key phrases, one or two words can do the trick ero.tic.ally speaking. Also, it becomes less appealing for the object of your affection to post your shit on his or her blog. And try not to torture a muthafucka who can't get laid. That's another important facet of this story. It was pretty pathetic to look at that text while sitting in a movie theater alone.

Be Cool,
KZ