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

The End Of Head

OK, so I wasn't going to talk about this on the blog. I didn't mention this, but on Monday I ate the coochie. Carmel's that is. I went over to her crib to help fix a computer problem. One thing led to another and I talked her into letting me taste it. I didn't ask for any reciprocity, I didn't need it. I just ate it. Of course, me being kinda slow witted, I thought that was it.

We saw each other on Tuesday. She came over to my house. We talked about some shit, we didn't do anything because she came on her period.

She wanted to see me on Wednesday. We had some miscommunication issues, so it didn't happen.

Thursday she called me around 10:00 am and asked me what I was doing that evening. "I got a date." "With who, that young chick?" "Yep." "Oh....OK." She called me back a few minutes later. "Can I see you before you go see her?" "I don't know. We're hooking up right after work." "What about your lunch hour?" "I have a lunch meeting. I don't have a big enough gap in my day to come see you. Why don't you come to my office around 2:00?" "Alright."

She came through around 2:30 (C.P.T., man). My secretary is funny. She comes to my office looking at me like "You muthafucka." She says "There's a 'Carmel' out front for you." I got a poker face on. "Send her back, please."

Carmel comes in all color combinated and shit. It's 70 outside, so I shoulda expected it. Toes out, painted pink. Tight lime green shirt, pink shades, tight blue jeans. She comes in my office, closes the door and locks it.

"What's up, Carm?" "I want you to think about me when you're on your little date tonight." I'm looking at her as she takes the gum from her mouth and tosses it in the trash can. "Pull your pants down." "What?" "You scared?" I look at the door. I go test the lock, then I return to my chair and pull down my pants.

You'll think I was just given to exaggeration or overcome by adrenaline when I say this, but yesterday I received THE VERY BEST BLOWJOB I'VE EVER RECEIVED IN MY ENTIRE 35 YEARS. PERIOD. BAR FUCKING NONE.

It was the wettest, sloppiest, most technically proficient sexual act I've ever been a party to. And I've been a party to a few in my day. Fuck Charlize Theron, fuck everybody else. Carmel is all skill. I came so hard I was ashamed afterwards. Mag-fucking-nificient.

When she was finished, I walked her to the restroom. When she came out she just said one sentence, "Enjoy your date."

On the date I was flashing back the whole time.

KZ

I Need Answers, Dammit! Part II

O.K., the first part was a setup. I was working on an analogy that would help me to defend my position on something to a fellow blogger.

You see, the blogger in mind believes that I'm being hoodwinked by the young chick, Endo. This blogger is getting a kick out of my dealings with her. "She's playing you, son! She's not that innocent. She's playing a role with you. "

I asked her to stand in my shoes and she wasn't feeling me. The way y'all answered the question didn't help my argument at all. My argument was "How the fuck is she getting over on me when all I care about is the ass?" Endo's exhausting valuable energy if she's trying to play a role.

If she's giving me the ass, I win. Period. She could be feeling like she's getting over by acting inexperienced or even giving me the okey doke at the movies. But I'm fucking, and that's all I want.

My thing is if I want the pussy and she's giving me the pussy, why get upset about particulars? My fellow blogger didn't get it, y'all probably won't either. But I gave it a shot.

Thanks,
KZ

I Need Answers, Dammit! Part I

Hypothetically speaking:

I’m posing this question blindly. Whoever wants to answer it should feel free to do so.

Say you were dating a big time dope dealer, or any person with deep pockets from doing illegal things. Let’s say you’re not morally opposed to those illegal activities. Would it matter to you if they lied to you about how that money was earned (i.e. claiming they worked a legal job)? Or would it just matter that they were giving you money whenever you asked for it?

KZ

Weekend In Review

Friday night was cool. I was at Carmel's crib talking to her waiting for her sister or Punkin or somebody else to come through. Her homegirl (the one with the six stragglers) was there. I ain't touchin' that with a hundred foot pole. I was there from about 10 to 3 am, drinking and talking shit. When I left, she wanted me to stay. There is no way I would've done that. I invite enough disaster into my life.

Saturday I had a date with Endo to go see "The Inside Man". It was set for early in the day because I had to go to the Vice-Mayor's birthday party that night. We were going to meet at the theater. I waited until the movie was about to start at 1:40. No show. I was fuming. Livid. Her celly has been broken for a while and we had been working around it. She doesn't have long distance on her phone at home, and my phone still has a 313 area code. I walked in the movie solo, with the extra ticket I bought in my pocket.

I tried to enjoy the movie but I was heated the whole time. Spike did alright, but I was unsatisfied by the ending. I left the theater and went to the bookstore/coffee shop. I called her cell and left a message. "Hey Endo, this is Zed. You know it's real fucked up of you to stand a nigga up. It's FUCKED UP! That's some immature, irresponsible shit. I guess you just showin' your age. I fuckin' shoulda known better. Later."

I'm sitting drinking coffee. My cell rings. "Old man, you are pissed at me!" "Why wouldn't I be?" "Because I was there. I got there five minutes late. I thought you stood me up. I was at the movie." "Bullshit!" "I was in the front of the theater. " "Really?" "Yes, really!" "Damn." "I'm keeping this message. Everytime you try to be sweet I'ma play it to remind myself what kinda G you can be."

Saturday night I went to the Vice-Mayor's gig. I was the second youngest dude there. The youngest dude brought a white chick. The sisters were sitting around me watching me drink away my bad day, asking me questions. "What do you think about older women?" "They're alright. My ex-wife was older than me." "Really?" "Yeah, by about five years." The more I drink, they drink. And they're asking me more and more provocative questions. The women start milling around the party and one sticks close to me. "When's the last time you went all night?" I think about Batshit. "It's been a few months." "Really? You got stamina?" I'm fucked up right about now. Pissy drunk. "Look, you're trying to ask me about shit you can find out the answer to tonight. You wanna find out? I mean, if you wanna find out, we can tell these people we leavin', and you can find out." She's smiling. I keep asking, "you wanna find out?" She was like "Can you at least take me out somewhere you've never taken anyone else before?" I looked at her with as sober a look I could manage. "I thought you was serious about wanting to find out. You just talkin'." I left the set soon after.

Sunday was better.

Enjoy,
KZ

Ten Things She Must Possess

I hate your ass so much right now Nikki, you just don't know. Then I go over to your page and see your smiling face and your...attributes, and I'm ok again. So I'm about to do what I've been asked to do by the ultra-prolific one and discuss the 10 qualities I need in a PERFECT MATE.

So here goes:
1. She must honor the intimacy of our relationship
This is basically about discretion and privacy. As an extremely private person, I can't have my ol' lady putting our business out in the street. I won't keep any secrets from her, but they become OUR secrets.

2. She must be spontaneous
When we are childless and free, she gotta be ready to be up and out at a moment's notice all the time.

3. She must enjoy porn
I can't stress this enough. She doesn't have to be a connoisseur, but she's gotta be able to watch without critiquing what the chicks are wearing or how their hair is styled.

4. She's gotta be appropriately sexual
No, we can't fuck at my boss's house party. No, we can't fuck at your cousin's baby shower. No, this wake is inappropriate, too. Yes, we can fuck in the back row of a scarcely attended motion picture, but only if you wear a skirt.

5. She's gotta be good with money
I'm fucking horrible with money. She's gotta compliment me in that respect. I'll fuckin' buy guns when we're outta butter.

6. She has to sufficiently have my back
My ex-wife was a backstabbing contrarian. I didn't realize how important it is to have your woman in your corner to support you even if she disagrees with you.

7. I need her to be pretty well read
Traditionally, the woman is the primary caregiver to one's children. Children learn the most from their mothers in their earliest years. I just want my ol' lady to be able to teach the kid a little sumthin' extra. In addition, I read a lot. I'd just like to be able to share ideas with her based on information we've both ingested.

8. She should have a good sense of fashion
Shit, I don't want a fuckin' hobo or a chicken on my arm. Style is important as fuck.

9. She must be politically astute
Both major political parties are corrupt and morally bankrupt. I don't mean politics in that sense. I mean politics in the realm of black empowerment and advancement. She's gotta recognize the bullshit and be willing to work to counteract it.

10. She probably needs an ass like this (be careful before clicking!)

KZ

The Life Aquatic with Zed Zednanreh

A.K.A. The Fishbowl

I walked into my bank yesterday, like I do once a week. I approached the teller and smiled. I hand her my I.D. "I don't need that Mr. Zednanreh. I know you!" This is the same routine I followed in Detroit. The same bank downtown. The same tellers. Twelve years. They scrutinized my I.D. every single time I came in. Twelve years.

I walked across the street to this little diner for lunch. I'd been in there twice before. I sat down in a booth. The waitress approached. "Diet Coke, right?" I nod and she goes to get it.

After work I walked to this bar downtown. I've been there four times in nine months. I sit at the bar. "Bacardi and Diet Coke, right?" I nod and he begins making the drink.

I'm on TV twice a week and quoted in the paper at least once a month. I'm 6'3" with shoulder length dreadlocs. I'm the only "director level" black man working for the city government. There is no flying under the radar in this town.

There's this black millionaire in town. This cat is major paid. He used to be a sports agent for several Hall of Fame athletes. He came into my office yesterday and told me he'd heard about me. "I had to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." You had to meet ME? This is not false modesty, I was truly surprised. I'm a fucking nobody.

All my instincts are off. I'm still the same cat who used to get head at Belle Isle Park. The one who was notorious for having 3 date Saturdays (afternoon, evening, and booty call). The cat who elevated road rage into an artform when me and Three chased these dudes with baseball bats in Downtown Detroit for flipping us the bird.

I'm floating through this city not able to trust myself. Because I know it's only a matter of time before I revert to my true nature. There is only so much public face I can put on. The real dude is a lot grimier. And he's got a digital camcorder.

Yours Truly,
KZ