Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Originoo Gun Clappaz

"Deeply rooted from my Timbs to my dick above." -Smif and Wesson, Bucktown

I used to love home so much, but man, I don't know. I had an interview last week with this city in North Carolina. The dude asked me "Why should I hire you if you're looking for work after 23 months in Satan's Anus?" I didn't have a real answer. I told him I thought I could make an impact in their city, whereas my current community needs the help less. It didn't work, I'm sure, but I gave it a shot.

So home came calling, right? I got a call out of the blue from this dude at the City of Detroit asking if I thought about coming back. Now, I was waiting to hear from this org in Detroit to be their Executive Director, but now The City was calling. It was weird.

I talked to him about it, but I don't know if I'd go. They really didn't appreciate my skill set when I was there the first time. The guy that called holds the position my old boss did. He was in a different capacity when I was there. My old boss told me I didn't want to advance bad enough to get promoted. Translation: I didn't kiss her ass. So I left, and I'm here. He's gotta know if I come back, I got a list of people I must be superior to. It's not even negotiable.

But I have this nagging ass feeling that I don't wanna go back. I was there this weekend, and quite frankly, Africans are nuts. I go to the 'burbs all the time to see my chick, but I hardly go in the City. Muthafuckas are off the chain. A lot of shit came flooding back.

We were watching the news and shit seems so....violent. I never thought so, but damn, Detroit is dangerous, yo! An African will lose his life for nothin'. I think I was jaded to that fact, but I'm thinking if I come back and I'm staying, trying to raise seeds in the future...I just don't know.

It's on my mind and shit. I'm just saying...


Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Open Pit

Friday's are the shit in most cases. They are the beginning of the weekend. If you work a straight up 9 to 5, Friday is nirvana. But if you're me, and one of your staff people keeps begging you to come over for dinner so they can kiss your ass on "some Friday", it's pure hell. Especially since they remind you weekly that they'd really love to have you over, and also since it's this guy.

But I had this guy go above and beyond for this project. "Thanks, Dub, I owe you one." Why the fuck didn't I choose my words more carefully? "Well if you'd really like to pay me back, take me and my wife up on the dinner invitation."

I'm thinking, if this cat had a inkling of who I am, he'd leave me the fuck alone. I like people who allow me to be anti-social. But I'm not trying to hurt his filthy feelings. I accepted and went over to their crib for dinner on Friday.

What do I have in common with a 60 year old white couple and their 30 something son? Nothing. It was painfully clear. They were grilling this eve and the joy juice was plentiful. So I drank away the pain. Everything was a lot more bearable.

Sweet, sweet TAD was trying to help me out by calling me claiming to be stranded by the road and needing help. I fucked that up by not feeling the phone vibrate when she called.

His little round wife asked if I like asparagus. I responded affirmatively, vigorously. Dub C, my staff person, went to take the veggies, covered in olive oil, out to the grill in a dish. He made a pit stop. That's right, to the restroom, before he took them out to the grill. He came out of the bathroom post haste. I heard the toilet flush as he opened the door. No sink faucets were turned.

He made his way out to the grill, placed the dish by his side and began to manipulate the olive oiled veggies to make sure the were properly lubricated. With his hands. His bare hands.

I watched as he put the asparagus on the grill, once again with his bare hands, in horror. All I could do was pray.

Fuck these dubs, and fuck hospitality. People are fucking disgusting, and I'll be damned if I accept another invitation to a horror show. Satan's Anus earned it's name that night, with the inane conversation and the hours filled with "how did you get to upper management from the ghetto" type insinuation about my background.

I don't wanna talk to you about my life, I don't wanna hear about yours, and stop trying to feed me pissy asparagus!

That's all I got.


Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Fuck Pork

One moment off topic...

David Muthafuckin' Chase.

Now, back to my life....

Hey folks, what's poppin'? I haven't done much this week, but this weekend was pretty good, all things considered. I went to the local NA.ACP Freedom Fun.d Dinner. I figured I'd see all the movers and shakers in one place. That I did. Also, I got to see Satan's Anus's entire inventory of dresses that show off titties and ass. Good job, ladies.

The keynote speaker was a physician, and he sure knew how to bring down a room. Sure, the occasion was quite serious, but fuck!!! He laid down some shit that really got my head spinning.

I work with statistics a lot. At least I used to. Now I delegate that shit. But when I was in number-cruncher mode, justifying whatever project for whatever amount of money, stats fascinated me. This keynote speaker had me from the first slide. Here's some shit to chew on, Homey:

In Satan's Anus County, the white teenage pregnancy rate is 20 per 1,000 teen females. For Black teens? 100 per 1,000.

In S.A.C., the rate of gonorrhea amongst teen white males is .1%. Amongst teen Black males? 25%.

In AMERICA, the infant mortality rate among American born Blacks is 14%. American born Whites? 4%. This is the kicker: Amongst AFRICAN born Blacks giving birth in America? 5%
What the fuck? It's not inherently racial issue, it's us.

Wanna hear something else? When they normalize for socio-economic factors, the shit is still foul. Black women with master's degrees have a far worse infant mortality rate than white women with a ninth grade education or lower. What the fuck?

This shit gets even worse. They did a study where they sent ACTORS to the same set of doctors with the same set of symptoms. The actors were of all the same age and general physique. The only difference was their races. You know the Black actors were given similar bootleg ass advice, quite different than that given to the white actors? The white actors were given the "upscale, upmarket" advice while the Blacks were told shit like "Eat more neckbones!"

I don't have any answers and he didn't either. But his bottom line is all the fuck we got is us. We gotta start taking better care of ourselves.

And really, that's all that came out of this weekend.

Stay Real,

Friday, June 08, 2007


In no particular order, the shit that has gotten me through the week....
  • $2 L.I.I.Ts at Bennigan's
  • My glasses
  • A-Dub, one of my assistants
  • Central air
  • Maxwell House
  • The Pharcyde's "Otha Fish"
  • Common's Like Water For Chocolate CD
  • Lunchtime meditation
  • The first (and only) season of The Ben Stiller Show DVD
  • Sweet, hot pornography
  • "Fleshy"
  • My new BBQ grill
  • My boy Hutty complaining about his son
  • My dreams
  • Indian food
  • Friday
Man, I'm glad this week is over.

Tighten it up,

Thursday, June 07, 2007

The Sound Of Silence

When is silence deafening? There a many instances when a statement is made and there is not follow up or it's ignored wholescale, you know how the listener has responded. There is an implied contract between speaker and listener. If you say something that is ignored, then repeat it and it's still ignored, the listener has decided not to respond. Therein lies your response.

The implied contract tells you that the listener has both heard and understood what was said and has decided to respond would be a fool's game. One in which they've decided to participate. The response would agitate an otherwise pleasant situation. At least for the listener.

The speaker at this point does in fact become agitated. The speaker made a statement, waited for the response and was rebuked. The ignoring of the statement by the listener is a response. No words need be spoken to gather that the response is negative, therefore coloring the rest of the conversation. It may be seemingly pleasant, but make no mistake, the situation is tense and there is an undercurrent of anger for the remainder.

I say all this to say, be careful what you say. Or what you don't.


Wednesday, June 06, 2007

The Choice Is Yours

I'm really job hunting now. I got two interviews coming up in the next two weeks, one in Detroit, the other in North Carolina. Detroit was definitely out of the picture a few months ago, but shit, things change. So now, it's actually back on the list. Probably because there is a perfect job for me available with the perfect salary in a familiar circumstance.

I know what you're thinking, but stop thinking it. I'm not looking at the "D"for love. Money muthafuckin' talks. If anything, I love my hometown, and the chance to do something to help improve it. But man does not live on love alone. They are gonna have to grease my palms.

The North Carolina gig is cool, but I'd be kinda isoloted. I'd be close to my Uncle Zed, but is that really a bonus? I mean, I hate everybody, especially family, because they didn't earn shit. They just expect shit.

One thing's for sure, if I get offered both jobs, I'll know immediately which one to take. Whichever gig doesn't make my dick itch when I talk about it is the winner. No ifs, ands, or buts. My dick is smarter than my brain, and if it gets itchy, then that's a tell-tale sign that I shouldn't take the job. My dick has only been wrong once, and I think that's because I was wearing tweed underwear.

In the meantime, I'm still looking at everything east of the Mississippi and north of South Carolina. Here's to hoping I don't get an itchy dick.