Longing, Regret And Justification

The Second Verse of "Fall In Love" by Slum Village

(T-3)
Yeah, Jay Dee man I see sometimes,
I sit and wonder when I think about these written rhymes.
How’d I get to the point constantly taking all my time?
Time I could of been spending gettin’ cash, gettin’ mine.
Hoping one day it comes around.
One day when I’m the nigga gettin’ money, gettin’ cash, gettin’ signed
Getting the fuck out the ghetto, cause I’m tired of crime.
But it’s a crime that I feel this fucking waste of time.
But sometimes I feel like this shit here is a waste of time, yours and mine.
To these niggas out here trying to rhyme.
Your reason for better shoulda been genuine.
I do it because it gives me a sort of peace-of-mind.
And for the love.

When I went back to Detroit on Saturday for a few hours, I had an epiphany. I looked around and saw things that I helped set in motion being accomplished. It was my career-long struggle to make things happen, get things built was moving forward. All it took was for me to get the fuck out of the way. Even though I didn't direct the movie, it's my script. I wish I could've been in charge.

I went home to get some loc maintenance which is an ego boost in itself. I always get a lot of attention from the women who are waiting for their turns. When you get noticed by women with a lot of choices, who don't know your socio-economic standing, it's legitimate.

I was home from 11:00 am until 9:00 pm. I made two dates and sold them both out to hang with my boy, Three. I received a long lecture on how my "benefit of the doubt" had been revoked, but it was fine with me. I rarely get to hang out with a non-agenda having person who looks out for my best interests.

I got to look at large congregations of Black women and have of choice of type or disposition. This was done in a comfortable, familiar setting with a wing-man. I didn't even pull and I had a ball.

After I dropped Three off and before I headed back to Satan's Anus, I decided to stop by the new Ikea store in Metro Detroit. I finally found a bookcase (yes finally, Blah Blah Blah!) for a reasonable price. That fuckin' store and it's setup is a mess. I remember talking to those Swedish bastards about putting that store in Detroit proper and they wouldn't budge, just like Whole Foods before them. They wanted to hold the city hostage and make it economically disasterous to build a store there. I'm makin' a fuckin' list and I'm checkin' it twice, bitches.

I keep learning the same fuckin' lessons over and over again. Money won't make me happy. I gotta do what I do for the love.

KZ

The Original Boogeyman

*UPDATE ON THESE SO CALLED TERRORISTS - CLICK HERE*

So, this weekend in this corny, whitebread 'burg, we'll be having Island Fest. This is an opportunity for white people to don faux Carribean accents and dreadloc wigs. It also allows them the opportunity to approach me wearing said wig and say "Look, we're twins!" because that's the type of shit YT does. Like back in college after Spring Break, there would be the inevitable melanin-less person who would return tanned, walk up to you and place their arm in close proximity to yours. "I'm almost as dark as you!" Needless to say, I'll do my best to steer clear of this "celebration".

I'm writing this post as my own form of celebration. We are boogeymen (and women) again. It seems this cabal of "Black Muslim terrorists" were uncovered in Miami. They apparently had designs on blowing up the Sears Tower. I was up at 2:30 am Eastern time when this story broke. Anderson Cooper (the gay, gray haired cat on CNN) was talking to some alleged expert about the ramifications. The expert said "We have a group of terrorists who were born here for the most part. They look like us, they sound like us, so they can infiltrate all facets of American life." Except the Annual Rockerfeller Family Hamptons Christmas party. Because, you see, these dudes were Black. So they don't look like "them" or sound like "them". They can easily racially profile Black people as they always have. Except this time, it can be under the auspices of fighting terrorism.

Since September 11, 2001, we've "enjoyed" a brief respite from being Public Enemy number 1. But we're back, bitches! It's a celebration! We're all A-1, top priority suspects again. Damn, it's good to be home!

KZ

Emotionally Available

Well, the other shoe has dropped. I knew it was coming and I didn't really plan for it. It's like a great burden has been lifted from me, and now that it's gone, I miss the burden.

Last night I was talking to Thelma, she of incredible, indescribable hotness, my future babymama. She said the shit I'd been thinking but couldn't bring myself to say. "I don't feel any sort of connection to you. I don't think we should see each other anymore."

Just like that, I became emotionally available. "You're right. We don't need to hold on to something that's finished. We need to move on." That's what I said to her, exhaling. I didn't think we were a particularly good couple. We had fun, be we were intellectually and sexually incompatible.

But that little part of me thought she'd be my next wife. So I kept a part of me out of every little side relationship I had. I can't be with any other chick emotionally. I have a chick. No matter how much I fuck or how much I go out with you, you can't have me. I'm with someone.

With the conversation I had last night, it was gone. That part of me was freed. Through a string of overlapping serial relationships, I haven't been emotionally available since 1990. So now, even casual dating becomes scary as fuck. Any broad could be lurking in the grassy knoll, with my bachelorhood in her sights. And my guard would be down.

Now I have to turn my shit up a few notches, become the uber-asshole, just to fend off potential lifemates. Every date becomes an adventure, laced with potential. I haven't been here in a long time.

KZ

Lovers

Sidenote: It's funny. I wanna talk about this chick I blogged about before, but I'd forgotten her "code name". And then when I found it, I didn't recognize any of the chicks I was talking about in that post except two. Memory is a funny thing.

Anyway, this chick named Shelly I used to see called me last week. The last time we talked was before Memorial Day. She wanted to come be with me for that weekend. At first I said yes. When I thought about it for a week or so, I changed my mind. I told her I'd be in Atlanta that weekend. Yeah, I lied.

So she asked me last week if she could come see me for the July 4th weekend. I told her I'd be out of town, likely a true scenario. I'm bugged. Yeah, I wanna bang out, but why are you trying to pick these long weekends and shit? She finally asked if she could come the weekend of July 7. I said yes. Then she tells me, "Good, because my birthday is the 8th, so you gotta treat me well."

That shit irritated me to no end. I was upset she was trying to spend "special" days with me. I went from upset to pretty sad when I thought about it. I'm just "Jump-off Johnny". If she wants to spend these days with me of all people, then I'm all she's got. And that's pretty sad.

She started talking about she and I being "lovers" which a find to be a gay fucking term. "If we were lovers we could..." blahzay, blahzay, muthafuckin' blah. Dream world shit.

I just wanted to write this shit down before I forgot.

Peace,
KZ

Live On Stage

I was walking through the park to go to City Hall yesterday. It was almost time for the City Commission meeting and I was walking so that I could go over my presentation in my head.

"Do you do your own dreadlocks?" was the question presented to me by the pasty, big girl on the bicycle. "No", I responded, not looking up to see the questioner. She pulls up to the side of me. "What are you, a lawyer?" Finally I look up to see her, a blonde woman wearing cutoffs and a bikini top that was size inappropriate. "No, I'm not a lawyer." "Are you in trouble with the law? You goin' ta court?" I laughed. "No." "Well what do you do?" "I'm a Blee Blah Blah for the City of Satan's Anus." "I knew you had some kinda important job." "You enjoy your day."

I'm trying to get my mind focused on the presentation and this chick is pushing me off my square. I think I'm ready. We stand for the Pledge of Allegiance recited before each City Commission meeting and once again I mouth the words. I can't say 'em, it's bad enough I stand up for 'em. But it's almost presentation time. I sit down. ***RIIIIIPPPPP**** What the fuck?

My pocket gets caught on the armrest of the auditorium chair and the left side of the front of my pants rip, exposing boxer briefs. Shit, I gotta stand up in a minute. This is fucked up! Right now it's concealed. Will my suit jacket keep it covered?

Finally it's my turn on the agenda. I stand and the jacket keeps it covered. But I'm preoccupied. Every few seconds another space filler. "Ahhh....ahhhh....ahhhh...." Shit, I know I'm doing it but I can't stop. I look up and I'm looking directly in the camera. The City Commissioners are staring. The Vice Mayor is looking at me like "African, why are you so nervous?"

Fifteen minutes later and it's done. I sit back down and the weight of the world is gone.

But my fuckin' suit is ruined.

KZ

Conversing All-Stars

On the phone a few minutes ago
KZ: You weren't serious about coming, right? I mean we never said anything like that.
LoLo: I guess you weren't serious. It's probably a good thing I didn't come. We don't want to have any regrets.
KZ: Right, right. Exactly.
LoLo: If you didn't want me to come, you should've just said so.
KZ: Wouldn't that apply if I did actually want you to come too?
And that was that.

So I'm back in the swing of things. In my office, preparing for a presentation in front of City Commission. I hate fuckin' public speaking and it is one of the biggest parts of my job (aside from budget issues). I'm always afraid I'm underprepared and tentative when I have to present. I'm no fun for anyone.

My boy Rainier called telling me that he saw SugarChicken (don't ask! This is the chick I brought to your surprise b-day party Robyn) in a drop-top Beamer with one of our frat brothers. Keep makin' my day, dude.

The call before LoLo
R: Dude, guess who I saw?
KZ: Don't care.
R: Dude, lemme tell you.
KZ: I don't care.
R: I saw Brother Caldwell, 60 year old Brother Caldwell cakin' up with SugarChicken, African. Your SugarChicken.
KZ: Thanks. I appreciate you telling me. I gotta go.

I'm anxious and nervous. I need to get broke off pronto. I'm stuck in a quandry. Do I buss off in any ol' chick or do I stay the course and avoid all unneccesary drama? It's hard for a brother like me to maintain in this state. I mean, what if I do break down and try to actively pursue some broad and get stuck with a N.I.M.P.H.*? I'm not in cuddle mode. I'm in Splackaville.

Last week
Three: Where's your hoes?
KZ: Gone.
3: What you mean "gone"?
KZ: Dey gone.
3: (laughing) Shit, it be that way sometimes. Sometimes dey just be gone.

Sometimes dey just do.

KZ

*Not In My Pussy Hole

Be Better

KZ: "Jed, what you doin' today?"
JZ: "I don't know, man. Depends on ya mother."

This post is about my father, Jedediah X. Zednanreh. It's Father's Day so I guess it's fitting. I just got off the phone with him and he's burning CDs and shit. My mother is evidently getting on his nerves about where he wants to go for dinner.

I didn't like my old man for most of my life. I started off pretty scared of him, then it turned to extreme dislike. He doesn't talk much, so I didn't trust him. He always gave me unsolicited advice. He was always the "no" to my mother's "yes".

Jed worked nights most of my life. (This is the same cat who told me and my siblings to call him "Jed" 'cuz he was too fly to be called "daddy"). When I came home from school, he was gone to work. When I went to school in the morning, he was asleep. The only time I ever interacted with him was on weekend. I stayed the fuck out of the house as much as I could.

When I was a freshman in high school and I brought home my first report card, he called the school. "Are you sure y'all don't give out 'A pluses'?" He thought I could have done better than 4.0

When I got kicked out of college, he kicked me out of the house. "Time to be man, big fella." I moved in with a chick that didn't respect me because I made minimum wage. I bounced from job to job until I surrended. I learned my lesson. I'll try to get back in college.

When I graduated from college, I lived at home again for a couple of years. I dragged broad after broad through that house, in the basement. Jed asked me, "do you care about any of these women?" I laughed. He said, "I guess disrespecting them makes you feel like you're doing something. That ain't a man." I moved out a month later. I ain't givin' up broads for you African!

When I got married, he silently protested. "I can't make the wedding, son." He thought my ex wife lacked couth.

When I got separated, I moved back in for a month. Talking to my mother about my next steps, my feeling of failure. He listened for awhile, then he spoke. "You are the best thing I ever had a part of. You gon' be alright. I'm proud of you. Shit, you make me want to be better. Everything will be alright." I was stunned.

Somewhere between my divorce and right now, my father and I became friends. He has been the bastion of sound advice, he's funny as hell (well, we have the same sense of humor), and he's giving. Jed is more thoughtful as he moves up in age and more family oriented. It's funny to watch. Seeing everything he is makes me want to be better.

Happy Father's Day, African.

KZ

Hate From Home

I was in a workshop session on Friday and my phone was vibrating like crazy. I'm horrible at checking my voicemail but I saw an unfamiliar number listed as a missed call, so I was curious. I listened to my messages. I had 20 some odd voicemails and I was mad I missed the one from the unfamiliar number (beautiful voice, ma!). Two of the messages fucked my head up.

You see, when I talked to LoLo the other day, I told her I'd be in the Chi for a few days. She said "I'm coming to stay with you Friday night." I laughed and we moved on to the next subject.

LoLo left a message. "Let me know if you still want me to come to Chicago. I need to know so I can try to beat traffic. Give me a call." Once again I laughed to myself. A few messages later, "Zed, you're really fucking with my travel schedule. I need to get on the road." Her tone's harsher, plus she never cusses. She's serious! LoLo thought I was gonna cake up with her on the company dime in Chicago. There are so many things wrong with that assumption:

1. You're not in my stable (i.e. we haven't boned so you might not put out).
2. You've never even checked me out in Satan's Anus or expressed the desire, which means you don't give a fuck about me. You don't get special treatment.
3. We didn't agree to this. Who the fuck is in your head talking to you in my voice?
4. If I haven't fucked you or am not related to you, you don't have the right to get pissy with me.
   

I didn't want to ruin my day so I didn't call her back. I'll call her Saturday and completely piss her off.

In better news, let's give it up to my young homie Robert Mack. I went to see his play Friday night and the man is smooth. The play was funny as hell! Mack's role was that of a nice guy that came out on top. His storyline was the one that actually made me feel the best. I don't even "know, know" Mack, but I was proud of that cat. I left the theatre feeling good. Big thangs, Rob Mack!

Peace,
KZ

The Wacker On Wacker

This is for Robert Mack, Hassan, or any other brother from Chicago on the blog: At the Starbucks next door to Garrett's Popcorn on Michigan Avenue there's this chick. She works behind the counter. At first glance, she'll seems skinny. Thin face, thin arms, slender neck. She is fooling everyone that doesn't investigate. All of her weight is being carried in her ASS. And it's beautiful. I named it "Priscilla".

You two cats, Nsane, Chi Bloggers, gotta get at me, dabigplanet@hotmail.com, so I can give you my number. I'm going to the Negro League Cafe tonight and then some jazz spot on 47th.

In other news: I'm having a colored folk overdose!!! I almost proposed twice yesterday. Broads are giving me no love. I feel like I'm back in Detroit.

Seriously, I've been chillin', eating buttered crack (a.k.a. Garrett's Popcorn) and being freakin' overwhelmed. Not necessarily with my surroundings, but this damn workshop I'm taking. I've never been much with finance and it's showing. There's this brotha in my class. He's in his late 40's. This cat has dreads, too, real long ones. Anyway he struck up this conversation and I was like "yeah, this cat is alright." Then he started bragging. It wasn't even brag worthy shit, but boasty ass boasters are one of my pet piss's. I let it slide. Hell, we're the only two Black people in this class. So then two seconds later he brags about some other shit that kinda seemed like a swipe at me. I'm trying not to be a bitch-made African, so I'm letting this shit roll. Then "Bam", third boast. "Alright dude, we can hit some spots." I'll duck his ass and he's gone tomorrow. I'm here until Saturday. Get your insecure ass outta here.

So I'm trying to get into some shit without spending all my per diem so I can cop some kicks on the company. I just need some direction. And some free access to the 'net. What happened to the free Wi-Fi Movement? I'm sick of this walking shit for now, so Imma hop in my grip and make it happen. Remember Chi-Lites, get at me.

Stay Cool,
KZ

Dreams

I don't dream very often. And trust me when I say I don't dream very imaginative dreams. OK, I dream pretty good shit occasionally, but I mostly dream about fighting. That mainly has to do with my preparation issues. I'm never prepared for the fight and I always lose. Keeps me on my toes when I'm awake.

Anyway I had a two parter last night, which is extremely rare. In the first one, I was waiting in line to use the restroom. It was at my office building and there was a long line for some reason. I was almost in when this group of cats came in and pushed a bunch of us out of the way. I rushed into the restroom and started talking shit to one of the guys, who was much bigger than I was. He laughed it off and pushed me again. "Go somewhere and be a good nigger, OK?" That's what he said to me. Time to fight again, right? Nope. I laughed too. We were laughing together. I was frustrated and upset, but I couldn't stop laughing. He patted me on my back and I walked out and got back in line.

The second dream consisted of a muthafucka talking to me that I couldn't see. He was telling me who wrote the derogatory comments anonymously on my blog a few months ago. I don't know why I dreamt it, except for the fact that I blog too much. I hadn't thought about those comments in awhile and I know in my heart who wrote that shit anyway.

Of course this shit is full of symbolism and deep seeded anxiety, but there was something more at work. I woke up pissed. I coulda choked a muthafucka. It's still physically bothering me and I don't dream like that. I can't shake this shit.

I'll be in Chicago until Saturday afternoon then I'll be in Detroit for legitimate frat business. I don't know how much I'll blog since I'll be in real cities until Sunday. Surely I'll get some stories out to y'all.

Be Easy,
KZ

The Sickness

So I was on the phone with this woman that I used to work with. I'll call her Lo Lo, short for loqacious. She's a talker. Anyway, she's always trying to impress me with her intelligence and the fact that she's ambitious. 'Cuz she wants me to marry her. This is not just my ego at work. This is her stated intention. "You know I'm the perfect woman for you. You need to take me to meet your parents." Bitch, please! The only way you'd meet my parents is at my funeral.

So she's talking to me, right? And she's describing how she's the most brilliant person in the office. So I describe a problem to her that I was having involving a grant and the hoops the Feds put you through. She tells me about a similar problem, tells me the solution, and begins to let me know what else I need.

"If you wanted to get with me, you'd have to do me right. You'd have to jump through some hoops, you couldn't just do what you wanted to do." I'm wondering how we got back to this, but I don't say anything, hoping she'd just forget about it. Lo Lo keeps going. "You think doing what I ask you to do is a way for me to exert some sort of authority on you. And the way the feel about authority, you'd just not do what I'd ask because you'd feel like you were giving in."

Psychobabble bullshit. I won't jump through hoops for her because I don't want her.

Actually, that's not true. She was partially right. I really don't want her, but that's never stopped me from fucking a broad. I don't like getting what I want on anybody else's terms. It's silly assed reasoning like this that has me trying to move in executive circles with dreadlocs.

I was at the supermarket today and I saw a bunch of couples shopping. I was laughing inside as I saw mismatched couples, one after another. "Damn, she settled for less. Oooh, his babe is a dog!"were the things I said to myself the entire time I was shopping. After awhile I just got angry. I realized I was angry at these people for being happy with "less". I was actually angry because they were happy. That's some sick shit. So sick, it's hard to admit it.

I was boiling mad because these people found the person they could be happy with and I'd never be there. I know I'll never be there. I've never been satisfied in my life. The lack of satisfaction in my life is my entire motivation. If I was ever satisfied, I think I'd just cease to exist. Is that being goal oriented or just unrealistic?

In Buddhist teachings, desire is the cause for all discomfort. Once one ceases to desire things, that person becomes comfortable and is at a higher level of understanding. I don't even know if I want that level of understanding. I just know where I am today and it's not pretty.

Be Cool,
KZ

Shake Your Junk

The livest commercial out!

The Strength of My Weakness

If I ever buy a female dog, I'm gonna name her Blogger. I swear. I was itching to post but this contraption was on the serious fritz. I had a pretty eventful day.

I spent the first half of the day in training. ORIENTATION, eleven months after the fact. It's mandatory, so I had to go. When I got back, shit was off the hook. I had a couple of staff people send me e-mails wondering what the status is of their pay status upgrades. I'm gonna have to tell 'em they're lucky to be employed. I'm not paying them MORE for the little shit they have to do.

As I was checking all my e-mails, my secretary comes in. "There's a 'Carmel Coates' here to see you."

Oh shit. I'm nervous. What is this chick doing here. Of course I haven't talked to her since this incident, and she pulls a "pop-up". This is all fucked up. "Send her in." If she doesn't shoot me, I'm tearing into her ass.

She walks in and all bets are off. Stunning. Face and titties. I'm nonchalant. "What you need?" "Nothing. I was passing by on my way back to work and I wanted to see how you were." Bullshit. "I'm alright. So you workin', hunh?" "Yeah, I started about a week ago."

I'm looking at her, and I'm thinking about the last time she was here. I get up and close the door. And I grab her and I hold her. I felt her up. Then I let her go and she left. Is all forgiven? When your dick is hard enough, the short answer is "yes". I told her I overreacted. She apologized for bringing that cat around. That was that.

So I go to two more meetings and arrive back in the office later in the day. I went to see Auntie Anita to handle some budgetary issues. She's looking at me as I sign some manager timesheets. "You just cold hearted, hunh? " "What?" "You dissed my girl." I laugh. "What?" "You dissed Endo. She's all wondering what she did. You just stopped calling her." Now this is a bullshit account of what actually happened, but I don't wanna go into my side with Anita. I'm still holding out hope I can hit Auntie.

Endo was trying to be cool. Half assed returning my calls, talking about how busy she was. I wasn't going to sweat this young chick, so my pride took over. The last time I saw her was the weekend before Memorial weekend. I just opted out. Fuck it. I'll beat off before I over-call a broad. I won't be the subject of a girlfriend gigglefest.

I just told Auntie Anita, "Your niece is a busy woman. Her schedule is extremely tight." Basically her bellyachin' to her Aunt about me has ruined any chance of me bussin' off in Anita in my opinion. So I can't ruin my career by fuckin' her. So I guess that's a good thing.

Fuck Blogger,
KZ

Auntie Anita

Sometimes I wonder if reading my blog is a lot like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I think most of y'all know that there's always something illicit just under the surface of these innocuous little tales of life in the small city.

Like last Thursday, when I got this invitation from this woman I've been diggin' for a while to check her out. She was only going to be in Beelzebub's Colon overnight and she wanted me to come see her. No haps. I had an evening meeting that didn't let out until 11:00 pm so I missed out. Yesterday I got a phone call from an ex-collegue. She told me she'd be in Lansing for a business meeting overnight and she wanted me to come visit. No haps. I had another evening meeting that lasted until 11:30 pm. So my chances of gettin' mines go out the door. I don't like writing about this shit. It's depressing.

So goes the story of Auntie Anita. Remember Endo, my little 24 year old virgin chick? Well, part of the story I neglected to tell everybody except her is that Endo's aunt works for me. I knew I'd hear cries of "don't mess with that young girl especially with her aunt right there" and all that type of shit. So I didn't blog it. Sue me.

Endo's Auntie Anita is 40 years old. She's dark skinned and petite, the complete physical opposite of Endo. She's the type of woman a lot of cats without keen eyes might overlook. She's OK looking, but not FINE. Dudes would see the way she dresses and think she's skinny. The thing is she's got a tremendous body. That ass is off the chain. You'd never know it by her conservative dress. Little ass waist, hips kickin'. I noticed that shit when I first started working here. I once designated a casual day during the holidays just so I could see her in jeans. It was worth it!

Anyway, the first time I saw Endo, she was visiting Auntie Anita. I asked Anita who she was and I got the third degree before she told me. "My niece is too young for you." "What's young?" "Twenty-three (at the time)". "I'm only thirty-four (at the time)". "Give it a rest, gramps." I would have gladly taken Auntie Anita over Endo, but Anita worked for me and was thusly off limits.

The thing that kills me is that I don't even see Endo anymore. I haven't seen or talked to her in around 3 weeks. And daily I get to see pulchritudious excellence in the form of Auntie Anita. She used to strike me as so serious and untouchable. Daily I see more of her personality and playfulness on display. It's attractive as hell. I think that's especially so since she's off limits.

Stay Greasy,
KZ

P.S. Happy 6/6/06 from Satan's Anus!

Grape Ape Weekend

"N*ggas never realize how close they are to success 'cuz they always give up too early." - Russell Simmons

I'm actually glad to be back at work this morning. Some cats ain't shit left to their own devices, and I'm one of them. All the best laid plans fell apart. I didn't do laundry, I didn't clean (except dishes), I didn't read, and I didn't write.

On Saturday morning I went to this parade that Satan's Anus has every year to celebrate the summer season. It was a little corny parade that helped me recognized some of that small town charm people talk about. They also had an art fair this weekend. There had to be around 200 vendors here. It was massive for the size of this city. All the art sucked ass. There was only one Black vendor and I actually recognized this cat from Detroit. He was heavily in the hip-hop scene.

I've been here for 11 whole months as of today. I'm ubiquitous. I'm on TV, I'm in the newspaper and I still get these Grape Ape moments. Don't these fuckers have TVs? There are bigger Africans everywhere. How the fuck are you gonna look up at me and audibly gasp when you see me? I'm 6'3", 300 lbs, I'm not the fuckin' Washington Monument. All this fucking "A gorilililililiaaaa!" shit has got to stop. Trust me, muthafuckas, I'll be leaving as soon as possible, but I can't give up too early.

The best part of the weekend happened when I was leaving the parade. I saw this sista, a slim pretty chick, walking towards me. She looked at me once with this kind of startled look. I'm thinking "Here the fuck we go again. Grape Ape time." We kept walking toward each other and she looked at me again and it was all smiles. She said "Hi" and I said "Hi" (yes, I did die a little inside) and we walked past each other. I looked back and she was looking back, smiling. At the time I was like "Oh shit! I really dropped the ball." But summer in Satan's Anus is different. I'll definitely see her again. The town comes out in entirety for events and festivals all summer. I'll recoup.

I'm glad I'll at least have warm weather in this little slice of barren real estate.

Be Easy,
KZ

The Gathering

So here I am, trying to find a way to escape. It's no use. I'm trapped in a world of my own making. I knew it would come to this. All the inflated levels of responsibility on my resume, which led to me getting this job, which in turn put me in a leadership position today. All of which makes my escape impossible. Why did it have to come to this?

I have to participate in an office potluck.

Just inject my ass with the plague right now. These semi-hand washing, cat owning, crystal meth trailer livin', ass diggin' troglodytes trying to serve me food? All because my irritating know-it-all staff person will be gone on maternity leave for 3 months? She shoulda left when I was on vacation.

I fuckin' hate potlucks. Why the fuck should I be subjected to somebody's random ass cooking? And then people mill around me and say shit like "Did you try my Tuna Cake? It's got coconut icing!" People make the weirdest shit and call it "food". I refuse to eat fried gerbil on a skewer!

This shit is like torture. I've tried to do this thing where I socialize with a full plate and don't eat anything, then throw it away when I go back to my office. It never fails, one muthafucka will say "You not eatin'?" and I'm exposed.

When I was just a staff person at other jobs, I could just opt out or come up with a solution. At my last gig, I asked the office secretary to make cards to place by each dish saying something like, "Sweet Potato Pie, Courtesy of Zed". That way I'd know what was made by people with good hygiene and what was made by Shitty McNotwashhands.

I don't have a cool secretary at my disposal (maybe I shoulda took 'em all out on Secretaries Day!) so that's wasn't an option today. So I gotta go to this thing, for the sake of office politics and fragile morale, and pretend to like it.

Wish me luck.

Peace,
KZ

SoWiseSista Tagged Me...

so my bullshit thoughts get put on the back burner today. Enjoy this or just tolerate it.

1. If you could be doing what you really want to be doing for a living, what would it be?
I'd be a profession writer. Or a porn site webmaster.

2. If you could slap the shit out of any famous person, alive or dead, who would it be?

Why would I slap a dead person? This is a difficult question. I hate so many people. This won't mean shit to anybody else, but I'd like to slap the shit out of William Clay Ford, Sr., owner of the Detroit Lions. That son of a bitch has ruined more of my weeks than any other person I can think of.

3. What's the dumbest decision you've made in the past 5 years?

That's easy. Buying "Bluie", my Chevy Tahoe. High ass gas prices coupled with the muthafucka falling apart around me has made this question a no-brainer.

4. Give up one for a year: (good) sex or (good) music.

Since moving to Satan's Anus I've kind of given up both. But I'll pick good music. The memory of good music lasts longer, so I can hum to myself.

5. Dudes, would you rather have a big dick or a great sense of humor?

Ladies, nice tits & azz or common sense?

I didn't have to choose!!! If I did, I'd pick the sense of humor. Without the sense of humor, they'll never find out about your dick size.


6. So you've been invited to an all expense paid Blogger Prom in The Bahamas. You're sitting at the bar on the beach. Which blogger do you want to join you for hours of good convo?

The one that's fuckin'.

7. Which blogger would you most like to cuddle with on the beach? (and don't defer to your current signif other either. Infidelity won't count against you. Duh.)

I'm really trying to fuck too many bloggers to answer this.

8. You're going on a 5 hour road trip...which 5 CDs do you bring?

1. Fantastic, Volume One - Slum Village
2. The Best of Otis Redding - Otis Redding
3. Buhloone Mindstate - De La Soul
4. S.O.N.O.G.R.A.M. - One.Be.Lo
5. A Decade of Steely Dan - Steely Dan

9. Would you rather bury your children young or have your children bury you young?

SoWise, what type of morbid shit...? I'd rather have them fuckers bury me.


10. What's your biggest insecurity?

I'm always afraid of being unprepared in any situation.

11.What's the first blog you read every day...or however often you read them? (And I swear to God, don't be saying mine just cuz I'm the one asking...unless of course you really mean it. lol)

Cocoa Girl's blog is first and I don't know how it got that way. It's the first one I check daily.


12. When's the last time you peed your pants?

1976. I was in 2nd grade and the teacher wouldn't give me permission to go to the bathroom. We'd just gone as a class and I didn't use it. So out of spite, she said "no".

I had to wear "Goodwill box" donated pants home.


13. Which was better, your first kiss or your first pay check?

My first check. I don't even remember the first kiss. Ask me about my first blowjob.

14. Do you have kids? Want kids?

I don't have kids. I seriously want kids. At least 2.


15. You get dropped off at home after the office holiday party by your bitch azz boss that you can't effing stand...you exit the car and he peels out, runs a red light at your corner and rolls up an unsuspecting midget. The next day the midget watch groups are on TV outraged at the heartless hit and run, and are calling for any witnesses to please come fwd...that half dead midget has a family at home waiting on C-mas presents. Would you take $1000 hush money? $500? $100? A six pack?

Since that would make me the boss, and my job isn't very different from his except for the pay, I'd snitch.

16. Live the rest of your life without your eyebrows or your fingernails?

I think I can go around looking like Charlie Villanueva.









17. What makes you angry?

Shit like this.

18. What makes you horny?

The air I breathe.

19. What makes you nervous?

Adult braces.

20. What makes you smile?

New porn.

47 Deep

I often wonder what I'm doing here. Not in a metaphysical sense, but quite literally. What the fuck am I doing here? I blog more than I work. I actually get more satisfaction from coming up with witty comments to interesting blogs than I do from my life's calling. This is coupled with the fact that I not only have to do my job, but I have to manage quite a few other people as they do their jobs.

Ask anyone that is employed in their field and you'll likely find that person in the steadfast belief that they would like their boss' job. "I can do that muthafucka's job. All he does is tell us what to do." The bigger paycheck, the lighter workload. It's all gravy, right?

There will be a lot of people that resent this analogy, but check this out: Can you imagine parenting 47 children, each demanding personal attention and immediate responsiveness to their every desire? I don't exaggerate when I say this. I took out one secretary for Secretary's Day and I had 6 secretaries mad at me. Why? 'Cuz I'm Deputy Director and I should have looked out for all of them. Naw, I think the DIRECTOR should have looked out for all of them. I looked out for mine.

I absolutely hate funerals. I know it's not a good occasion for anybody, but I really can't deal with them. Unfortunately I've had to attend two of them for the loved ones of staff since I've been here. I got a blistering e-mail yesterday from a staff person saying management didn't acknowledge it when her stepfather died and we're playing favorites. I had to remind her I wasn't here when her stepfather died and that we'd be more equitable in the future.

The executive offices are on the east side of the suite. The more "blue collar" area is on the west side. We're accused of having everything on the east side from better coffee, cooler air conditioning, bigger offices, brighter sunshine. This shit is insane.

In the meantime, I gotta defend our budget to City Hall and proclaim all these muthafuckas "necessary" even when I feel quite a few of them need to go. But if I do that, the union will be on my back.

I quite honestly would work for less money and give up the responsibility to respond to the whining to someone else. I'm physically exhausted at the end of the day from all the bitching.

I hope your situation is better.

Peace,
KZ

Held Down

I complain about a lot of shit on this blog. This entry will be different in that respect. I promise I won't complain once. This entry is about the women who work to keep me sane in Satan's Anus.

There are four women here who are doing their darndest to try to make me feel comfortable in what they know is an uncomfortable situation. It's a shame I've never written about them before in any significant fashion. They are a group of older professional women and they really try to make sure I'm cool in this city.

This Saturday they had a barbeque to get a group of Black folks (all transplants) together. I was in Detroit on Saturday to....ahem....do some stuff and I missed it. They refused to let it lie. They did it all again Monday to make sure I didn't miss out on the get together. It was important to them that I was there.

We were at Janice's house, she's the youngest of the women, on the back deck where it was hotter than leather pussy. We didn't do anything extra special. Barbequed, played Spades (where I kept underbidding like a punk), talked shit, but it was cool that they wanted to me to be a part of it.

Everytime I talk about being lonely and isolated, I ought to check that. They tell me constantly "call if you just wanna hang" and I blow it off. I don't want to inconvenience anybody or to thrust myself in the midst of anyone's life. They tell me they got me, so I should take them at their words.

Be Easy,
KZ

P.S. Note to my blogging friend that wants to stick up for white people: If you want to make an anti-racist point, don't use racist language. The word you're looking for is "Inuit" not "Eskimo". Eskimo is offensive to the Inuit people, bitch. I don't try to make anti-racist points, I make pro-Black statements.

The Softest Things

If a man is raised the proper way is always struggling to find out if his life's journey is the path a "real man" should be taking. One constantly challenges oneself on the purity of their "walk". I've found certain things make you question your manliness quotient (M.Q. copyright, Zed Zednanreh, 1989) more than others.

It seems like everytime I need something for my house to make it more comfortable, I end up in the gayest place on Earth. It's hard to be a tough guy standing in line for throw pillows and a duvet.

Isn't "Hi" a bitch ass greeting? I mean, think about it.

Hi.
Look at how soft that shit looks. Sitting there with that lowercase "i" with that fuckin' gay ass dot over it! Everytime I say it or write it at the top of an e-mail, I die a little inside. As a matter of fact, fuck all letters with dots over 'em. I'm lookin' at you, lowercase "j"!!!

Today I'm wearing loafers. What muthafucka first decided to make shoes with no strings? What kinda punk ass shit is that?

I was at the bank last week signing a check and handing it over to a teller. I waited for her to give me money back. I felt like a real hoe, standing there all passive and shit. Waitin' like bitch. I shoulda jumped over the counter and took my shit!

And what's up with reading and shit? One word following the next and shit. A homo musta invented reading. That's some ol' soft shit if I've ever seen it.

And while we're at it, lets look at typing. What type of heterosexual male sits around typing and shit? I'm cutting that shit out right after this blog entry is written. I'm a man, gotdamn it!

And eatin' pussy....nevermind.

Anyway, I think men as a whole owe it to ourselves to call anything we can't do or understand UNMANLY. Then we should over-use cuss words to show people we're tough. That way we all feel better about our place in society.

That's just my two cents. Muthafuckas.

KZ

The Bootstrap Factory

How come white people lie so much? They lie so fuckin' much they believe the shit they keep repeating. Lies get passed down from generation to generation until the truth gets lost forever. Then the next generation manufactures new lies.

I had this muthafucka here in Satan's Anus talk to me about how his granddad built his business from the ground up. Using it as fuel for his argument AGAINST working towards DIVERSITY. He's sitting across from an African (bootleg, right Nsane?) railing against diversity because life is full of hard knocks and that's the way groups of people grow. Mind you, he's sitting across from me wearing a company polo. The company is Quincy Garage Doors. His name: Jason Quincy. His age: 34. His title: Vice President. His Dad: President. His Granddad: CEO and Founder.

This what happens when white people lie to their children. You see, his granddad started this company using a Small Business Administration loan, the kind of loan that was FEDERALLY PROHIBITED TO BE GIVEN TO BLACKS DURING THE TIME HIS GRANDDAD GOT IT. In addition, he was loaned additional money by his dad (Jason's great-granddad) who owned a gas station. THE ONLY GAS STATION IN TOWN. That gas station was funded in part by the loan his great-grandfather received from HIS father in law, the bank president.

These are convenient parts of the "bootstrap myth" that get omitted. That muthafuckas great-grandfather owned a fuckin' bootstrap factory! The fuckin' bootstraps were even passed down! "His own bootstraps"! This cracker believes he's Vice President of his father's company because he was the best man for the job. Disgusting.

Work hard, keep your nose to the grindstone and you too can leave no discernable wealth for your offspring. That's the legacy Black people deal with daily.

Fuck these people,
KZ

When My Homies Call

I realized that I don't talk that much about my boys on this blog. It's not that I have a lack of cats I roll with, it's that my tolerance for them cats is so low. Irritate me once and I won't see your ass for months. The only dude I hang with on a consistent basis is my boy Three. And that's pretty much because it's like we share a brain. Same thoughts at the same time. Parallel opinions and tastes.

Other cats tend to be harbingers of bad news. So this weekend when my phone rang from 3 of my boys (other than Three) I was reluctant to answer. The reason being the calls I get from these brothers for the most part are regarding Hoe Sightings.

"Hey Zed, guess who I saw your girl Pinky with?" "Hey Zed, your ex-wife Katherine is at the club with some African." "Zed, you won't believe who I saw Somi with!"

I'm all the way in Satan's Anus. I understand misery loves company, but why would somebody irritate me like this? These ain't my women. They are women I've dated/fucked in the past. I don't need to track them. I don't care. Everytime I get a message from these cats and I return it, it's the same thing. It starts off with small talk. "How you doin'? How's Satan's Anus? How are the hoes?" And then the other shoe drops. "Yeah, I saw Marisol the other day. She was with some African." I doesn't matter that I haven't seen Marisol since I was a sophomore in college, they feel I have a right to know.

The reason I get so upset when they do this is that I already feel so detached from my old life that it makes me inconsolably homesick. I don't care what these women do, I just miss being home, and being able to do the shit I want to do.

They don't understand no matter how much I try to tell them. They just keep calling.

KZ

The Revenge of Frat Business

Hey y'all, what's happenin'? A little karma has caught up with me. A few days ago I got a call from one of my older frat brothers telling me I was voted Vice President of my chapter. This happened in absentia, I'd only been to one meeting in ten months in Satan's Anus. Now, I'm the defacto chairman of a bunch of committees and subcommittees, making sure the frat works smoothly. Which means real frat business. A lot of real frat business. I guess I deserved this.

I was on my way to the barbershop yesterday. Just for an edge-up and some tapering on the side. My visits are usually pretty short. So your girl, Carmel, calls me and asks where I'm going. I tell her and she's like "I'm right near there. Can I come see you?" Now, I don't know what's so major that she HAS to see a brotha at the barbershop, so I'm hesistant. Really, I'm irritated.

I've been dodging her for awhile because of her neediness. She wants to talk on the phone 8 to 9 times a day. She's stuck with her shorties most of the time and she's latching on to my (nonexistent) life to see how the other half lives. I can't do that. When I see her number, I ig it for the most part until I feel like talking.

Today, I'm like "what the hell" so I answered the phone and she wanted to see me, so I said OK. I'm waiting for my turn in the chair and I see her riding shotgun in a silver Lexus with rims. I look at the driver and it's some cat with a ball cap on, straight bill, and an oversized polo shirt on. You know, a jackass.

So they come in and Carmel introduces me to her "friend" Anthony. So I'm like "What's goin' on, man?" and she's leaning over to hug me. He walks out the shop. She tells me that cat is visiting from Chicago and he's originally from Satan's Anus. They went to college together. I'm pretty bored with this line of conversation. Really I'm like they need to go off someplace and fuck each other. I'd really like her to go.

Carmel says "Did you see his car? It's beautiful ain't it?" I'm like "Hell yes! Magnificent!" all uber-excited and fake so she can see I really don't give a fuck. So she asks if she could see me later. I tell her I have a lot of errands to run and I'd call her afterwards.

Do you know the type of person who is never together? Always scatterbrained and disorganized? Whenever you set a time to do something it's always at least 40 minutes off because they're lollygaggin' and generally fucking up? Well, that's Carmel. Those types of people bug me because I'm very time conscious. It strikes me as a form of disrespect. So I decide to disrespect her right back on this day.

I call her back around seven hours later. Carmel doesn't even know she's being disrespected, so I don't even get the joy out of it that I want to. She starts talking to me about the conversation she and Anthony had after they left the shop. I'm like "unhunh", iggin' her once again. Then she tells me Anthony and her baby daddy are "boys". They grew up together. Then I flip.

"So you tellin' this African* my business and he's cool with a cat I got problems with?" She's trying to downplay it, but I won't let it go. Actually it's a minor thing, but I see my opening. I will get rid of her ass once and for all. "You don't know shit about discretion. Didn't they teach you that shit when you pledged? You are fuckin' up!" She's getting emotional, I'm getting madder. "You gotta learn how to keep your mouth shut!" "Well you tell your boy Three all types of stuff about us." "Three is MY FRIEND. Three don't discuss you with a broad I used to fuck. Shit, you still fuckin' your baby daddy! That shit is foul!"

She keeps trying to justify it, but this is too good to pass up. I'm cuttin' her needy ass loose. We got off the phone, she texted me. I didn't respond. Let's see how long this holds up. It depends on my sex drive or how much frat business I have.

Peace,
KZ

What Was I Thinking?!?

Damn! I forgot! I had been planning to take this day off for weeks and I'm here anyway.

Happy 81st Birthday, Malcolm X.

You are missed.

KZ

Tom Breihan's mama

To 99.9% of the bloggers, this post won't mean a damn thing.

Fuck Tom Breihan. This cracker has a gig reviewing hip-hop at the Village Voice and he writes like a bitch. This cracker believes that the world revolves around DipSet and Young Jeezy. He is a semi-literate jock sniffin' wanna be down ofay muthafucker. And if I ever see him, I'd kick him in the throat.

This bastard is what I call a contra-contrarian. If a contrarian takes the opposite side of an argument for the fuck of it, he takes the opposite of the opposite side of an argument. Which means he takes the populist side of an argument just because it pisses off the anti-establishment. The more ignorant and detrimental something is to the Black community, the more this cracker embraces it.

He don't know beats for shit and his simplistic fuckin' analysis is like a battle cry for anti-intellectualism. So I'm writing this blog to mirror his thought pattern, belligerent and ignorant. Fuckin' bleach bunny. And this bitch is a hip-hop reviewer in a widely read weekly mag.

Cracker.

KZ

The Short Man's Wife

It was Tuesday night in Detroit, which meant "open mike poetry night" at every bar, diner, catfish hut, and nail salon in the City. But you see, I'm above all that. To me that shit had played out when I was 24. So when The Short Man's Wife called me and asked me to come watch her read at the Camillian Cafe, I balked. She was persistent and she drove all the way from Grand Rapids just to read, so I went.

When she finished, she wanted to leave, just like all self-centered poets do. We walked hand in hand, like I didn't have a girlfriend and she wasn't The Short Man's wife. We found a place to sit across the street from Flood's Bar, where business cards are passed out like a drunken debutante.

"I wrote a poem for you" she said, instantly sending a chill up my spine. "That shit's like the Boogeyman. You know I don't believe in that shit." My response was equal parts fear and anger. I was scared of her feelings and mad at her for feeling them. "So you don't want to hear it?" she asked sweetly. "It's not that I don't want to hear it. It's that I don't believe in writing for anyone. Shit, write for you!" Even though I was upset, I didn't mean to sound so pissed. "Why don't you write for him?"
"For who?"
"Najma, who else? The Short Man!"

"He's not interested in this" is what slipped through her mostly closed mouth. I looked over at Flood's and saw my line brother getting his car valeted. "I'm not either."

"Yes you are. You're just actin' funny. At least we can talk about books and the art of writing. He's not even a thinker." She sounded desperate.

"And yet here we are, you, married to The Short Man with a house and two seeds, and me..."

She exhaled, interrupting me. "Can I just read it to you?"

Sure, I thought. Buss your nut. "Go ahead."

I listened for the next 2 and half minutes to the most abstract, saccharine sweet treacle ever spoken. I couldn't let her see my facial expressions. My face gives everything away. I looked at my shoes, at her hips, then her mouth. When her mouth stopped moving, I guessed she was finished.

"Let me walk you back to your car" I offered.
"Can I stay with you?" She was looking in my eyes.
"Don't you hafta get back to G.R.?" I knew she could see the weakness.
"I only teach in the afternoon on Wednesday." She moved closer.
"What about The Short Man?" I asked.
"What about Najma?" she countered.

What about Najma, indeed.

KZ

Concentration

"I miss u! I want u 2 eat my pussy!"

It's Saturday night and I'm trying to get work done. I'm behind like nobody's business and honestly I'm in a zone. I'm writing reports, closing out tasks, ensuring that Monday will be better than it's been in a while. My phone vibrates. I look at it and there's a text message.

"I miss u! I want u 2 eat my pussy!"

So now I'm out of the zone. I can't concentrate on what I'm doing. My pants get tight. I gotta focus. I see who it's from and it's that chick from Texas. Why fuck with me long distance? Everytime I hear from her, I think about burying my face in that in that big black ass like a g-string. It's after sex when I start hating her. Before I buss, it's all good.

But I don't reply to a dirty text. Never. That's evidence. A real brotha knows anything you put in writing to a chick will be later used as evidence. So I ignore it.

So I look at my phone and start looking at local options. Who can I dig out? My Satan' s Anus options are so limited anyway, but I'm dodging Carmel and Endo is out of town. Then I remember one of the chicks I met in February, the same day I met Carmel. She emailed me a couple of days ago telling me she's still looking forward to hooking up with me. She'd moved and she gave me her new number. I'm glad I put it in my phone. After all this time she's still down?!?

I call her. She's not home and I only have the home number. My only chance to try to convert is over.

I'm frustrated and I can't concentrate on work now. She got me.

KZ

Mid Week Malaise

Hey Africans (Bootleg, that is), I'm still here. My weekend sucked and my week is not going any better.

I'm swamped at the gig and I need to write. Really write, not blog.

I was in Detroit this past weekend and me and my boy Three went to this bookstore. This local chick was selling her book. I bought it to support her hustle. Atrocious. Really, really bad. But she's published, which means I'm slacking. I gotta write.

I'll talk to y'all soon.

Peace,
KZ

Love Me Or Leave Me Alone

So I'm driving in Satan's Anus, right? Just driving aimlessly, as I'm liable to do when I'm bored, and I get stopped at a traffic light. I'm listening to hip hop at an excessively loud level and so is this cat next to me. I hear strains of his music and I turn my radio down. It's "Love Me or Leave Me Alone" by Brand Nubian (sans Grand Puba). I look at this cat and he had to be in his early twenties. I wanna yell "Dude, what you know about Brand Nubian in their heyday?" That's me and hip hop, though. As standoffish and anti-social as I am, I'll talk to anybody about hip hop.

So I keep driving through the "Black" parts of this little town 'cuz it's hot and chicks in Michigan will undress at the drop of a hat for a little warm weather. I wanna see some goods out from under winter garments. My phone keeps ringing. I look at it and put it down. One after another, the Detroit brigade keeps blowin' my shit up. Pretty soon, Satan's Anus gets into the act. Batshit, E.T., Carmel. The Endomorph doesn't call, which doesn't surprise me. She's bound to be getting the attention she wants from somewhere else.

Well because I didn't take my own best advice from my last post, I called Carmel back. I needed a pick me up, something quick. She's horny. "I miss you. You never come see me." This is the same broad that called me to cuss me out and tell me she was bonin' baby daddy again. But I didn't let that information cloud my judgement. I was trying to get some of that patented Head (U.S. patent #34894, Carmel).

"I can only come through for a minute. I got a ton of work to do. My boss will be out for the next four weeks and I gotta pick up the slack." She was silent for a minute, then the words came quickly. "Zed, you need to treat me right or just don't talk to me. I don't like this." "Hey, I gotta do what I gotta do. This is the life I've chosen." Ganked straight from Hyman Roth. "Well I don't wanna see you in a bunch of short visits. I want you to spend time with me." "Carmel, I can give you a lot of shit, but time is not one of 'em. I don't have time." I say as I casually drive through the hood. Her response is terse. "Well, you do what you have to do and so will I." "Alright. See ya around."

So I continue drivin' through the hood on some ol' Ichabod Crane shit. Headless.

Stay Cool,
KZ

Unpack Your Bag

This has already been a pretty shitty week for me. My boss broke his fuckin' leg in two places this weekend while refereeing his kids' soccer game. That shit leaves me going for delf. I gotta do my shit (which is basically nothing) plus his shit (nothing plus 9 more meetings a week) for the next two weeks. Fuckin' calcium deficient bastard!

Anyway, the weekend had me contemplating some real shit. The prospect of how much happiness, or my interpretation thereof, is important to me. Would I stay and stick with my two year plan, or jet and move somewhere civilized? It was time for reflection and serious evaluation. There was only one thing to do: Grab my favorite porno and beat my meat.

Now I know you're asking yourselves "Why is this muthafucka staving off serious thought by jerking off? Shouldn't he be meditating/praying on this decision he's trying to make?" Ah, mere mortals. You do not understand the proper thought process. Only a foolish man makes a decision without first emptying his ball sac.

A dude will always make the wrong decision about anything if he's got any semen in his body whatsoever. That's the truth. Every decision he makes will be influenced by women. A cat goes to Subway to get a sandwich and a pretty broad is behind the counter with a low cut shirt. The sandwich he picks will have the most ingredients JUST so he can watch her keep bending over. A man with an empty sac just wants to fuckin' eat. If a dude is shopping for a car, the one that will give him the most broads will be the one he picks, regardless of fucked up gas mileage. If that same man has just blasted an outstanding one off, he'll be more sensible in his decision. A man with an empty sac never proposes marriage. Trust me.

The thing is women always find their way into every decision we make, no matter how much we try to keep it rational. We'll always go back to subconsciously thinking about what will get us closer to broads.

So I blasted off on Saturday. And when I did, I decided to follow through on my two year plan. I also decided not to fuck Carmel again and to finish reading this book I just bought. Good rational decisions, all of which would last for the next 20 minutes. I guess it's not the perfect way to go through life, but if you're a dude, I suggest it the next time you go house hunting.

Be Easy,
KZ

Hip Hop Quiz

This is the direct result of too much time on a dude's hands: a diversion for “golden age” hip hop fans. This is a modified "gank" of one of Cocoa Girl's ideas.

As you know, most hip hop artists and producers have an alias that they give themselves outside of their rap names. Q-Tip is also known as the Abstract Poet, KRS-One is The Teacher, Eminem is Slim Shady, etc. How well versed are you in your “golden age” alternative nicknames? Some will be very easy, others, incredibly hard. Do yo’ thang!

1. Da Funk Docktor Spot

2. Chocolate Boy Wonder

3. The TR-808

4. Plug 4

5. Doodle Bug

6. Xtra P

7. Yippity Yowzer

8. D.J. Akshun

9. The Chinaman

10. MC Ricky D

Bonus: Baby Dayliner

Petty Shit

This shit just happened around 1:00 pm today. I wanted to know what y'all think.

I was eating lunch at this Chinese restaurant and reading "The World Is Flat" by Thomas Friedman. The book is about the phenomenon of globalization and the economics associated with it.

Anyway this Asian cat walks up to my table and says "That's a good book." I'm 3/4 of the way through it, so I respond "So far you're right." He says "Who told you to read that?" "What?" My face is mad grim, supa screwface. "Who told you to read that?" he repeats. "What do you mean who told me to read this? I'm reading it 'cuz I wanna read it!" He tries to laugh it off after he sees he offended me. "You must be a CEO, that's how you know to read that." And he walks away.

Now this cat has a HEAVY accent, like he's 3 days off the fuckin' boat. And he has the nerve to question why I'm reading the fuckin' book I'm reading. I was highly pissed. That muthafucka ruined my appetite.

What I'd like to know is, am I overreacting?

KZ

Head or Gut

My prospects for a good weekend are dwindling. I'm watching them evaporate before my very eyes. It's that thing, that internal thing that gnaws at you and asks "Is having something to do really worth putting up with this?" It's a toss up. What I call the "Almond Joy/Mounds" conundrum. Sometimes you feel like a nut...

Anyway, I'm watching the prospects slip away 'cuz I'm hiding. I'm getting phone calls from Detroit one after another. Women wanna check me out for the weekend. All friggin' winter the calls were sporadic with me doing the travel. Now, when I'm doing better and know more people, they wanna come this way. Sure. Why not. Why not NOT.

When Carmel called me earlier this week, drunk dialing while hanging with friends, I listened. Not because I wanted anything from her, but I wanted to give her the opportunity for closure. I haven't seen her since I got back from Florida. I'd only talked to her about computer issues since. She cussed me out and told me I wasn't shit. Told me she slept with her baby daddy because I wouldn't answer my phone. Am I going to answer my phone now?

Her homeboy, the cop I told you about here got on the phone. "What's up cousin?" "What up man?" "Ay, are you coming to this community event on Sunday at Holy Roller Municipal Sanctified Palace and Waffle Emporium?" "What community event?" "They're having a program to promote better relations between the police and the Black community."

Right then my 3 worlds collided, my job that includes hella community outreach, my unnatural and sustained hatred of the police, and my unnatural and sustained mistrust of the church in the Black community. I told him I'd try to go. He's a cool guy, plus knowing more cops, I'll be able to get out of more tickets!

But, I might just flake out. You know, frat business.

Let's Hear It For Spring,
KZ

The Freedom To "Be"

Hey peoples, what's what? I've relaxing, reading, and giving myself the opportunity to comtemplate big picture shit. When I was on vacation, I was watching C-Span (nerd alert) and I got into an interview being conducted with author Shelby Steele. If you don't know this cat, it doesn't matter. He's a fuckin' black conservative like Armstrong Williams, Larry Elder, and a buncha other Africans I can't stand.

Anyway I'm watching it 'cuz anything writers discuss in interviews I take note. He actually said something that hit home. Steele was asked about the Dyson/Cosby feud and he had an interesting take. He said Bill Cosby was challenging Black people to be free, to pursue greatness without asking permission, to do unusual, stimlating things without fear of failure or need for affirmation. I don't think that's what Old Bill was doing but I think Steele had a point in one area.

Any Black person who has lived for more than two minutes amongst our own knows one thing: We constantly define what is or is not Black. At a young age, muthafuckas will shame you out of any activity not deemed "African acceptable". I've heard the bullshit about Black kids being shunned in school because they were doing well and cats said they were "Acting white". That hasn't been my experience. You might not have gotten respect for being a street cat, but you got respect for being book smart. Where I'm from you take respect where you can get it.

The thing is we limit our own freedom by limiting what's acceptable for our people. We need to take those bullshit walls down and allow ourselves to do anything we want to do. White people limit our shit enough without us putting up barriers to what we can or can't do. If a cat rejects the barriers and becomes an iconoclast, like Shani Davis, he or she lives in virtual no-mans land. Black people don't respect what he does, white people just hate him.

We are excellent in every field of human endeavor we pursue, we just need to allow ourselves the freedom to pursue it.

Stay Ready,
KZ

The Uniform

When did it happen? When did it come to this? I'm a muthafuckin' revolutionary! I'm a muthafuckin' hip-hop head! I'm am a underground, countercultured, two-fisted contrarian! What happened?

O.K., it's like this. I'm 35. I'm not a kid anymore, but I'm not a fuckin' old man. I'm 35 and I can't find shit to wear. I look through my closet and it hits me. I've got more work clothes than casual clothes. I've got more dress shoes than gym shoes. I've got 12 suits and 3 sportscoats. And two pairs of jeans.

Where's my cool shit? I got some irony filled t-shirts, some polo shirts...but where's my cool shit? The only thing I got is compliments to "the uniform".

Everyday I would get ready for work and it would be kind of an inside joke. I'd try to be the most conservative dresser in the office. I'd wear bowties and patterned shirts, cufflinks and suspenders, wingtips and oxfords, just for kicks. My work wardrobe was a joke on everybody I worked with or worked for. The cat you're seeing is the complete polar opposite of the "real" me. The cat at underground hip-hop clubs until 4:00 am. The weed smoking, hard drinking hedonist with the uncombed afro that later became locs. There is no fucking way I'd be caught in a suit after work. If a co-worker saw me in streets, I'd likely be wearing something that would offend them or at the very least shock them to see me wearing it.

My favorite shirt was from Spencer's Gifts. It had a picture of Buddha on it and it read "I May Be Fat But My Dick Is Huge". Can't wear that bitch in the Anus. I don't even know where it is. Maybe that's for the best.

I was getting dressed this morning, I tied my tie and took one last look in the mirror. It was then I realized I got dressed without a hint of ironic detachment. I cared what the fuck I looked like, that I was coordinated and together. In a fucking suit!

My and my boys, all in "corporate" gigs, used to joke that the cats we saw out on weekends in suits must not have to wear suits to work. Now I wonder how long before I'm a weekend-suit-wearing muthafucka.

Be Easy,
KZ

The Value of Candor

Or, Honesty is the Worst Policy

Hey folks, what gives? I had a pretty good weekend. Pretty good. I had company all the way from NYC. Trying to show someone from New York all the hot spots in Satan's Anus is futile. What the fuck can I show her in this hellhole that will be of consequence to her? Nada. That's not to say this weekend wasn't a learning experience.

My first question to you, the reader, is what do you think you know about me? Do you think you can gauge an accurate picture of who I am through the blog? Or is the blog a tool for me to record some of my more unspeakable actions or unpopular opinions in a generally passive forum? Are Knockout Zed and Zed Zednanreh the same person? Is Knockout Zed fictional? Should this record of my thoughts be held against me if I were to meet you?

I'll answer the most basic questions first. Knockout Zed and Zed Zednanreh are the same person to an extent. KZ is much more blunt and loquacious than ZZ is. I (regular ol' Zed) am a pretty quiet, studious type cat. I talk the most when I'm trying to get a woman's number. I'm most blunt after we've had sex. The blog was a tool to help me "unblock" my writer's block. It has actually hindered my "real" writing.

So this weekend, I'm with this woman that I know from the blog. And I think (though she may think differently) that things I've said in the blog are being held against me. I'm not just talking about the women I'm juggling, I'm talking about the way I think. It's not the first time this has happened and I doubt that it will be the last. There are a few options available: (1) start lying on the blog, (2) don't meet women who know you from the blog, or (3) tell the women you meet from the blog that your blog is a complete work of fiction.

The subtitle of my blog was originally "Unfiltered thoughts from the mind of a male heterosexual troglodyte". It was my intent to share insight and let women know what a cat is REALLY thinking, the shit he can't tell you for fear of backlash. The shit Tyler Perry can't fuckin' tell you, 'cuz he don't know. It was an attempt to foster some understanding between the sexes. It has kind of devolved into "Who is Zed fucking today?", but the original intent was to create dialogue between us.

I've come to the conclusion that being candid ain't worth the trouble. The blog will stay real, I'll just lie in real life.

Honestly Yours,
KZ

Selfish a.k.a. The Pineapple Juice Chronicles

"Yeah maybe I'm selfish/I want you to myself I can't help it" -Slum Village, "Selfish"

There is one character flaw that if I could eliminate, it would make me a happy man. I want it all. I want a wife. And a concubine. And a girlfriend. And a platonic female friend that introduces me to all her hot friends.

I can't leave exes alone. Except for my marriage, every breakup I've had has been on amiable terms. I can go ask any of my ex-girlfriends for anything. Almost anything. And I can have sex with most of them.

I have this way about me that makes women very comfortable. I give a lot of time and attention to them and it makes them want to be around me. Sometimes it's a good thing, other times...
The good thing is it doesn't take a woman that long to want to be sexual with me. The bad thing is they believe that it's just them, not matter how many times I tell them otherwise.

They all think it's just them and they can sense the presence of another.

So this weekend, I'm getting a visit from a Big Apple Stunna. And it's like they all know.

Phone Call #1
Thelma: What you doin' this weekend?
KZ: Nuttin'. Chillin'.
Thelma: That's not good. Idle hands...
KZ: I'm cool. Just doing what I do.
Thelma: I think you need some company.
KZ: Naw. I'll be busy.
Thelma: You just told me you wasn't.
KZ: Well, you know...frat stuff.

Phone Call #2
Charlize Theron: When can I come and suck on that fat dick?
KZ: Hunh?!?
CT: Now you can't hear? You never had that trouble before.
KZ: Naw, I mean dang, shit, that was just kinda...damn.
CT: Oh get the fuck outta here! You're the bluntest *African* I know. Now you all brand new? So answer my question.
KZ: This weekend is bad. I got all types of frat shit goin' on. (Notice a pattern?)

Phone Call #3
Puddin': Do you miss me?
KZ: No. Why would you ask me that?
Puddin': My girl saw you in Detroit a couple of weeks ago. You was walking through the mall with some girl.
KZ: (laughing) That musta been a hologram.
Puddin': A dark skinned girl with dimples.
KZ: What the fuck she do? Hire a sketch artist?
Puddin': I wanna come up there soon. When can I come?
KZ: I don't know I be busy. Work, frat shit. Lots of shit.

Phone Call #4
Batshit: Weren't you supposed to call me?
KZ: Why was I supposed to call you?
Batshit: I thought you told me you were gonna call me.
KZ: Nope, I don't recall that conversation.
Batshit: What you doin'?
KZ: Nuttin'. Driving around.
Batshit: You stickin' around here this weekend?
KZ: Yeah. I'll be here.
Batshit: Take me to the movies.
KZ: Number 1, we've never been to the movies together. Why would I start now? Number 2, I'm busy this weekend. Frat shit.

Phone Call #5
KZ: You just need to let that *African* know. I don't talk to dudes on the phone if it ain't about business. If that *African* wants to talk to me, we'll do it face to face. The phone is for lovers and bitches.
Carmel: He has no reason to talk to you. He and I don't have a relationship and you and I don't have one either.
KZ: O.K., whatever. That *African* just shouldn't ever call me. He ain't built for the shit he's startin'. Me and you don't have to see each other again.
Carmel: So all that pineapple juice I told you to buy is going to waste, hunh?
KZ: Nope I drink it. It might help some other chick out.
Carmel: Maybe this weekend we can say goodbye to each other. I can taste it to see if the pineapple juice is working.
KZ: Naw, I got frat business to handle this weekend. It probably wouldn't be a good idea anyway.

I gotta work on my selfishness. Constantly.

Stay Focused,
KZ

Tagged By A Diva

Dammit SanginDiva! How U gon' tag an African? How am I gon' tell these people all my quirks and whatnot? Just for that, I'm gonna masterbate to your pics. (Like I wasn't gonna do that anyway!)

I gotta think of 6 things about myself I haven't told everybody already. Here goes:

1. I listen to some pretty soft shit.
Outside the hip hop and Coltrane, I got some pretty soft taste. Electric Light Orchestra, Billy Joel, Elton John, Peter Frampton. Yes, I am a Black man. Why do you ask?

2. I've only hired women I wanted to fuck.
Yeah, this is pretty horrible to admit. Everytime I've interviewed a woman, if she wasn't hot, I didn't hire her. Qualified or not. It's pretty illegal, too. Don't tell nobody.

3. I graduated from high school with a 4.0 and college with a 2.0
That's exactly half! African, what?

4. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to be a man just like my father.
That cat is a hard working, loyal, strong, and smart dude. It's hard to get there from here.

5. Everytime I play "Electric Relaxation" in my car I become the most ignorant muthafucka you ever wanna meet.
Bouncin', bobbin', swervin', gesturin'. In a suit or jeans and a t-shirt. On the way to work, a charity function, or to the grocery store. I become hood, personified.

6. I like eating pussy more than receiving head.
But you knew that, didn't you

I don't even know who reads my shit anymore. My blogroll don't reflect it, but I'll try taggin'
Chele, Coco, Honest, Nic, and ZiaMunkee

Florida and Other Freaks of Nature

Let's see, where should I start. Lemme start off by ending the suspense: I didn't get laid. That was mostly my fault. I was committed to having an actual vacation. No planned activity, no computers, no chasing women, nothing. Just the act of unwinding. My cousins use me as the "Get out of married jail card" whenever I come to town. "Baby, he's here from Detroit. I gotta show him around." So they're pissed that I don't wanna hang. I'm not a "Club" cat anyway. That's not how I get down.

I did do doofus, nerdy shit in Tampa like going to Busch Gardens, the Aquarium, Ybor City and Channelside. And of course, I went to Miami. I was supposed to hook up with my cousin in Miami, but his wife's brother-in-law died, so he had family responsibilities. I was left to my own devices and we see how well that went.

The trip gave me some perspective though.

Some Observations

Beige Girls: Florida is full of beige women, carbon copies of each other. I got so excited whenever I ran into dark-skinned women. Y'all cats can keep those Latina broads, for real. Some of that shit y'all calling crack ain't crack. Y'all givin' out too much credit. Over-fuckin'-rated.

Pastels: A little much, hunh? Miami, I'm talking to you!

Our older citizens, aka "the greatest generation": Driving is played out! Leave that bullshit to us peons under 70.

My Parents: The two greatest people I know. They kept cats (relatives and anybody else) away from me for 9 full days and looked out in every way imaginable when my wallet was gone.

Crab Shala: Another reason my mother is the greatest. Friggin delicious!

My Job: This shit is a proverbial cakewalk. Except there's no cake. I need to stick to my 2 year plan and stop looking for satisfaction from this thing.

The Sandwich Impaired: Just because it's "shorts weather" don't mean errbody can wear shorts.

Carmel: OK, so I fucked her. You knew that was coming right? It happened a few days before I left. Then she called me constantly when I was on vacation. Then her baby daddy called me from her crib. Then I called her and told her to tighten that shit up. Then I realized I shouldn't be fucking her, but of course it was too late by then. Then I realized I write like shit.

Satan's Anus: Damn, it's good to be home.


Be cool,
KZ

My Lost Love

She was perfect. Dark brown, thick in all the right places. She always had just what I needed. We'd been together for 3 short years and now she was gone, just like that.

She was my wallet.

Some muthafucka picked my pocket on Ocean Drive in Miami Beach and stole my fucking wallet!!!

No picture ID, no credit card, $80 in my pocket in South Florida. It was a bitch to get back home, but I'm here.

Later,
KZ

Erick Sermon

Hey peoples, I'm back in the office after one of the worst conferences I've ever attended. Imagine out of towners coming up to you constantly in your hometown, asking you where all the hotspots are. Now, imagine if you were black! (A little John Grisham humor there.)

This lady at the conference, was around 45, 46. Pretty and built like a brick shithouse. At the end of the conference she gives me her card and I give her mine. We exchange pleasantries and she walks away. I look at the card and her home number is written above her work number with the note: "I'd like to get to know you better." I'm becoming an older woman magnet. Where is that shit coming from?

Anyway, the only thing that sucks about being back is being here with my boss, Allen Qaeda, Al for short. You see I'm come to a conclusion about Al and his passive aggressiveness. He's jealous of my personal liberty and an enemy to my great way of life.

This muthafucka signs off on my vacation (which starts today at 4:59 pm) a month and a half ago and has been talking about it ever since. I told him where I was going. I didn't want to because I'M A PRIVATE PERSON, but I did anyway in the spirit of glasnost. This is the way conversations have proceeded since:

AQ: So, where are you going on your vacation?
KZ: Florida, to visit my parents.
AQ: That ought to be fun. What are you doing when you get there?
KZ: Nothing much. Family stuff.
AQ: It must be nice to take off like that.
KZ: (silence)
AQ: It must really be nice.

This is followed by discussion of trips he's taken in the past with his homely, mammy-made gear havin' sweetie and his two point five tax exemptions. Then he gives me a big, fat assed time consuming assignment that, for all intents and purposes, is busy work. Mind you, this happens every other day. Al Qaeda hates my freedom!

Now, I'm a old school cat. I don't get caught up in all these new fangled, high falutin' ideas about being "playa hated" or just plain "hated". I believe in the good, old fashioned, Klan endorsed concept of envy, the green eyed monster.

You, too, can have a failed marriage, bad credit, an over active sex drive, stress headaches, a ridiculous car payment, intimacy issues, a hair trigger temper and a phobia about reproducing because you don't want to pass on your flaws to an innocent. No, please, envy me. Step into my shoes, they are COMFORTABLE AS FUCK!!!

I'm off to enjoy my time off. I'll be gone until April 18th and I won't touch a fuckin' computer, believe me. I'll talk to you guys when I return.

Peace,
KZ

Bussin' Nuts

So, I'm at this conference, right? And we're on a break, so I go get some coffee in the lobby of the host hotel. White people are looking at me strange as they are prone to do when I come around, but even more so now. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the bow-tie. They always assume a Black man with a bow-tie is Malcolm Farrakhan. A bow-tie automatically labels a person as one of three things: NOI member (Black men only), the smartest guy in the room, or the biggest asshole in the room. Anyway I'm standing in line for coffee and who walks by? Any guesses? Anyone?

"Zed!" I know that inappropriately loud voice. I fucking hate when people yell my name. As a private person, it pisses me off. There are only like four Black women in the city that know me. I turn around slowly. I smile, dryly, showing no teeth. "Hi." "Oooh, you been dodgin' me!" "Nah, E.T., it ain't like that. I've been busy."

Coming face to face with her, I didn't have the heart to just trash her. "You don't even return my calls. Did I do something to you?" She knows what led to me not returning her calls. I say nothing. She continues, "I ran into Batshit and we were talking about you." Delusional. You just "ran into" Batshit, hunh? O.K.

"Really? Well, I've been busy as hell. Fuckin' alot. The whole nine." I say this shit deadpan. She's flustered. "Dang, you just outcold like that?" I stand firm. "I'm just telling you. I've been working hard and playing hard. I haven't been calling anybody." I stay nonchalant, trying to get her to hate my ass.

She goes on this rambling dialogue about the business she's working one and how well it's going. You see, this is why E.T. wants to call me and be around me. She doesn't like me at all. I'm cursed with being perceived as a good listener. I don't talk alot, so women get their jollies by talking to me and not getting interrupted. They do the female equivalent of a booty call. They talk to your ass, get out all the silly shit that's bottled up in their head out to a "sympathetic" male ear, then they leave you high and dry. Basically, bussin' a nut on ya back and jettin'.

So I stand there looking disinterested, checking my watch, and scoping broads walking by. I'm disinvested and it's killing her. "Look, I gotta get back to this session." I start walking away. "We gotta go out for a drink soon!" is what this loony bitch yells across the lobby to me. I go down the escalator and I smile at her, dryly.

KZ

The Dropped Ball

So I'm at this conference, right? Right here in Satan's Anus. People from around the state are here, so I'm hoping for some Detroit representation. I'm talking euphemistically here. I'm using the word "Detroit" like white people from Michigan use it, to denote "Black". "We do things different that they do in Detroit" is the thing they say to mean "Stop actin' so fuckin' Black!"

Anyway, I get no such luck. 150 people, less than 10 Africans. That includes these two sistas who I think are trying to "pass". I knew she would be here, I just didn't know how I would react when I saw her. Shondra. One of those that got away.

I met her at a conference just like this three years ago. She worked with a state agency with my friend Jay. He introduced us. She was smart, beautiful and exceedingly sexy. I started just like a jackass. "I don't know if Jay told you this, but I'm a very important person to know." "Dude, you trippin'!" I tell ya, it was luv.

She lived in Lansing about 100 miles from Detroit. There was a lot of "out of sight, out of mind" type shit. I was living the bachelor life, calling her occasionally. She asked me to come see her. This was during homecoming at MSU in East Lansing, making it extra convenient for me. When I got to East Lansing, I got caught up in hanging with old friends and chasing ol' broads. I blew her off and that was that.

She walked in the conference today. Still smart, beautiful, exceedingly sexy, and married.

KZ

Randomness

This thing is outta control. My blog is turning into a sex journal!!! Not what I was looking to do, not cool. This shit came all of a sudden, out of the blue. I'm leaving the subject alone for a spell.

How was my weekend, you ask? Was it full of sex? I found out two very important things this weekend: 1) That blowjob was not a fluke. Not at all. 2) One chick I'm fuckin' with still has her hymen. I felt it. It's real. How's that for inexperience, you fuckin' doubters!

Now that that's out of the way, let's get to some other shit.

E.T. still calls me and texts me on the reg. "Let's get together and have drinks." Bitch, that ship has sank. I have not spoken to her since this day. I guess some people just gotta be told.

This shit makes me laugh to no end. I have a stupid sense of humor.

So does this. People have too much time on their hands, me included.

The women that have "Insane" in their moniker on the blog (e.g. Insanity, InsanelySane) are some of the realest chicks in this piece. Overtly sane.

When I first laid eyes on my homegirl Robyn, I knew that would be my woman. I was absolutely sure. Of course, she never was. Tells you how good my prognostication skills are.

The blog is a funny thing. I have had crazy ass blog crushes, sight unseen. I actually ached to meet broads I didn't know for shit. Shit came and went. The women never even knew it.

My boss is a real square. I always thought cats like him were faking it, hiding some perverted assed persona underneath their exterior. But this guy really is a milquetoast, bland, tight ass. This cat blushes when I say something like "We're getting screwed!". He rushed his wife out of a piano bar because the songs were getting "kinda racy". What the fuck were they playing in a piano bar? 2 Live Crew?

That older chick from the Vice-Mayor's party sent me an e-mail trying to hook up. What do you think I'm gonna do with her?

Did y'all see Treach get shot in the ass on the Sopranos last night? What about Lord Jamar (Brand Nubian) as the shot-up hip hop star? What happpened the rap stars of the early 90's? They're getting shot the fuck up on TV, that's what.

I'm still on the hunt for a new couch. Wish me luck.

Peace,
KZ