FRIENDS FOR LIFE?

Now, I’m a friendly guy. I think so. I totally believe in friendship, and the selflessness that sometimes comes with it.

Friends don’t always get along though, needless to say. If anything, most fights are between friends. Like, sometimes at work my boys and I argue, and violently, almost to the point of pummeling each other to bits. Someone would intervene and then we’d hang around all sullen and stuff. At 5 o’clock [B.E.T. – o’glog, ha ha!] we’d be leaving work and then dude would be like:

“Yo, >d®, you still coming over Thursday?”
“Faw shaw,” I’d respond. Then we’d give each other a pound and it would be all good.

Girls – it takes considerably more effort to get back into their good books. Still, between friends it’s all good. Like, my friend G.R. and I fight all the time. Not physically, of course. Then she’d say something like:
I love you and all but forget you man. Then it would be all good.
My other female friends, especially A1, are cool as sh*t. A1 always keeps it gully, to say the least. We’ve had our share of fights, of course, but we’ve always been cool for years on end, coz we both know the friendship is greater than all the other bullsh*t we might fight about, as it should be.

Like I said, I’m a friendly guy. There are, though, some friends that I’ve fought but never made up with. I can’t stay mad for long so I always try to patch things up, but I’m sick and tired of friends who constantly resist my efforts to make it all good between us. It’s almost as if they’d want me to grovel & beg for reinstatement. Never that. D-money’s not the one.

So, from today, it’s official: I’m done babysitting y’all. Life goes on. Papa’s got a brand new bag, like James Brown.

Shout out to my boy Danc, pictured here with yours truly, below. You pick out who you’d want me to be, if you can ‘fix’ the photo. I didn’t even blur it out this time!

FIRSTS

I went to church today. Well, on Sunday. Yes, all you skeptics, B.E.T. & ‘em, I do go to church. I’ll admit though that I don’t get to go to church half as often as I’d want to. I’ve been working on trying to change that though.

It was all nice & warm inside the church and the sermon was long. That and the fact that I’ve been up and about all weekend long, not to mention the unusually strenuous workout I endured, [don’t read too much into that] made me more than a little sleepy while the sermon was going on. Fortunately I remembered just in time what someone once told me, something to the effect of:

Always pay attention to something you might not be particularly interested in; it often turns out to be most important.

So I forced myself to listen, and was I glad I did, coz it turned out to be a really good sermon. Pastor what’s-his-name was talking about going back to the first love. As in when you first discover God you’re so excited about it but then lose the fire, as he put it. Good sermon.

That got me thinking about my firsts though, the first time I ever did whatever. Let’s take a stroll down d-money’s memory lane. I’ll try and keep it in chronological order.

First time I figured out my name was >d®:
Of course I don’t remember the exact moment, but it has to be when I was a toddler and my siblings called out my name 24-7. I’m slow sometimes but the repetition was such that I had to get it.

First time I got my ass beat:
Oh, I remember this one! My first real encounter with the cane was when I snuck over to my then best friend’s house when I’d specifically been told not to go there. It still smarts.

First time I got my ass kicked: [not to be confused with the one above]
Primary school. Some playa-haters jumped me while I was kicking the all-newspaper-and-juala soccer ball around the playground. I was smaller & there were three of them, punks. Needless to say they damn near beat me to a pulp. All good. Get at me now fellas.

First time I noticed the physical differences between boys & girls:
Of course the fact that we wore shorts & they wore skirts gave me a clue. There was, however, one neighborhood girl that was one of us; a diehard tomboy. [Maybe that explains my special weakness for such chics] During one of our pissing games, you know, the one where we tried to see who could piss the furthest, the girl joined in. As if the fact that she had to lean back to piss forward wasn’t evidence enough, the other boys and I were instantly intrigued by the girl's artillery – or lack thereof.

First time I noticed the physical differences between boys & girls, pt. 2:
Imagine my horror when the girls in my class suddenly shot up and loomed over us. We’d always taken pleasure in terrorizing them but they were suddenly formidable – and merciless. I’ll be man enough to admit that a girl has whopped my ass. The WWF influence didn’t help much either coz yo, she picked me up and body-slammed me onto the Maragua dust. Then there were these funny-looking lumps growing on their chests that I was tempted to touch, like Rupee.

First time I had a wet dream
I remember it like it was just yesterday. I’d started having weird dreams, dreams about suddenly-gigantic girls with lumps on their chests. One night the dream was unusually intense and I think it ended just when I was about to unveil ‘the mystery of the lumps’ when a sudden, warm wetness enveloped my groin. I awoke thinking: oh sh*t, I know I didn’t just piss in bed after 10 piss-free years! But then, as I was making a beeline for the bathroom, I noticed that the front of my PJs looked like a tepee. Upon further inspection I noticed, by the consistency of the fluid that had drenched my drawers, that this was anything but piss. I’ll leave it at that.

First time I made the girls=hard connection:
My Ma one day had an unusual number of laborers at the farm, in addition to yours truly, of course. The usual sufs were too small for this one day so Mama d® told me to go to a neighbor’s house and borrow their biggest suf, which was considerably larger than our biggest. I go over there, walk around but there’s no one in sight. I yell out for anyone and finally the neighbor’s daughter comes thru. I said wsup and explained that I needed to borrow the suf. She was in the process of handing it over when she suddenly had that wicked glint in her eye [which I later came to recognize as horniness] and she grabbed my .. er… arm and asked me to come inside the house to see what she had for me. I was initially reluctant but I went in anyway and before I knew it, she had yours truly pinned against the wall and was doing things. Fortunately [or is it unfortunately?] there was the familiar sound of tires on gravel signaling her parents’ return and needless to say I ran all the way home, suf and all. As I was running for home I noticed the tepee again in my pants and that’s when I had the epiphany.

First time I knew I liked girls:
Shortly after my above epiphany I was at church one day trying to endure the usual routine. [Hey, I was only interested in fun back then & church wasn’t exactly fun] I used to sing at church and while going through the motions I noticed some girl in the crowd about my age. All of a sudden everyone & everything else ceased to exist, like I’d suddenly gotten tunnel vision, apart from this girl. I was enraptured by everything about her. It didn’t help much that it was Communion time so she walked up front and I’ll tell you what, I could hear music playing as she walked to and from the pulpit. And I don’t mean church music. There was music when she walked to the pulpit, music when she knelt on the padded section to receive the Body & Blood, music when she downed them, music as she got up, music as she walked back to her seat and music as she sat down. I knew then, and I know now. *Sigh!* I love women.

First nookie:
Sloppy, very sloppy. All 10 or so minutes of it. Hey, it’s not like I was timing it. Explosive, Mind-boggling. Inexplicably good. Copious fluid.

First kiss:
Forget all the hype about how special a first kiss is, for real. This one was all wet and sloppy. And I loved every blissful moment of it. I was ‘studying’ in this one classroom with some chic, just she and I. One moment we were discussing Algebra and the next we were swapping spit. I’ll describe it as such coz that’s what it was. Let’s just say I had Orbit gum in my mouth prior to the kiss and that it was missing when we were done. Neither of us knew what happened to it. I lost my gum again though, later on. And not just once.

First realization that I have an OK brain, albeit a little… er…. whacky:
In my final year of high school cats would wake up in the wee hours of the morning to go study. I succumbed to the pressure and did that one time, and one time only. From then on they would try & wake me up but I’d be like hell no, y’all go do your thing. My then best friend tried to make me do it but I was like hell to the no; quality, not quantity. Even Mama d® was like dude, I don’t think you’ll pass the exam. O they of little faith. I did pass, and if it wasn’t for that damned Swa I would’ve done a lot better, but I did OK still.

First time in the U.S. of A.:
Think about this one for a minute: I’d just come from shags straight to the United States. Needless to say I was more than a little out of place and I proved that by buying a can of Cherry Coke from some Jewish-looking dude for $5.00 at the airport. Later on I would get startled when the double doors opened up by themselves at Kmart. Oh, and did I mention my first brush with the law? And how about the first time I was told about daylight savings time? Filing taxes? Social Security #s? Yo, it’s amazing most of this stuff is 2nd nature to me now. Adaptation is definitely key.

First time in the slammer:
Here. Then here.

First time blogging:
I have to give credit where it’s due and say that the very first KBW blog I ever visited was Udi’s. He & I go back like 8-tracks but I didn’t know about the blog till I stumbled across it while surfing. Thanks to that one experience performancefirst was conceived. Wsup Udi.

First time I felt like an adult:
So, I succumbed to the pressure of going to this one bash. It was good, great actually. Lots to eat and drink, fly people, good music; the works. I was vibing this one chic, a friend of a friend, all night long and by night’s end we were both hammered, and tired, and horny, coz we’d been dancing and flirting and talking exclusively the whole time. One thing led to another and we went back home to the crib and it was about to be on & poppin’. I suddenly started rationalizing the whole thing and was like:
What the hell am I doing? You know you don’t like this girl like that. Is this really worth it? Can you handle the drama that will inevitably come after this incident?
So I killed it. I literally pulled the pants back up and was like: I’m sorry but I gotta go. Trust me fellas, those words sounded as foreign to me then as they do now coz that had never happened before. Then I walked out.

I’ve already said too much. Ciao, y’all.

SO SHORT, SO MUCH

7 Beloved, let us love one another,
for love is of God; and everyone who loves
is born of God and knows God.

8 He who does not love does not know God,
for God is love.

1 John 4: 7-8

GUESS WHO'S BACK

Yeah, I'm back, thank God. I'd underestimated how busy I'd be coz I'd thought I'd only be MIA in February and here we are, halfway through March already! The workload has diminished as suddenly as it begun so here I am again. Thank y'all for checking out performancefirst from time to time.

It's like 1.57am. [I mentioned before that I'm nocturnal, I hope] Just got back home; drove about 2.5hrs straight. I almost wished the trip was longer, really, because I was enjoying myself.

Not so much because I was driving - though I always enjoy that. [The Honda Civic I smoked on i83 made the driving experience even better. It's the first time since my incarceration that I've sped well into the triple digits. Tsk tsk. I never learn, do I?] What made the drive so enjoyable is the fact that I [re]discovered that I'm in love.

Yes, that's what I said, in love.
I've been so busy being busy I forgot all about it. Well, not forgot, more like took it for granted.
I absolutely, positively love music. And I just don't love music, I'm in love with it.

Granted, I listen to pretty much all genres but much more to Hip Hop & RnB. Here's a screen shot of the Hip Hop I was listening to while riding.


Busta Rhymes' 'Touch It' remix is absolutely sizzling, not to mention T.I.'s 'What You Know About That.' As you can see from the list I like that Durrty South Hip Hop a lot.

Here's another screen shot, this one showing the RnB songs. I haven't updated the list lately so these are comparatively much fewer but still in heavy rotation.


Needless to say I've got a bunch of Keyshia Cole joints. I like Anthony Hamilton's new one, not to mention Heather Headley's. For some reason the songs that exhibit hurt and regret have enormous appeal, eh?

Anyhow, let me try & catch a few winks just so I'm not a complete zombie tomorrow. [Though tomorrow's today already] Besides, the bed's looking real good to me right now!

BIO. SORT OF.

There was once a little girl. She was born in a golden era, so to speak, when we still had faith in our leaders. She wasn’t an only child – far from it. She had numerous siblings, older ones. Still does. Later on there would be one younger sibling, so for some time she was the ‘baby.’

She always had that inexplicable special something no one could duplicate… or try to. Everyone recognized it, though they reacted to it in different ways:
Her elder sisters would bully her, naturally. Her eldest brother was nothing but gracious to her. But then again, he’d always been that way to everyone. Everyone loves him. Her second eldest brother was her nemesis. But then again, he’d always been that way to everyone. Everyone loves him too.

Her elder sisters would mother her all the time, but she always had that certain independence. They would push her around, but she always came out on top because her iron will was a force to be reckoned with. She always absolutely adored her eldest brother, who was always the perfect example of what, and how, a big brother should be. The other elder brother though, as much as she loved him, tested her patience to the max. He once lifted her up under a tree and made her grab a low branch and hold on to it. He then pushed a basin full of water under her flailing feet and left her hanging there.

Oh, and don’t think it was all good with her younger brother. She had to change his diapers, feed him, watch over him…… in short, everything an older sibling has to do for their younger sibling[s] but detests every minute of. Not only that, but once he was older and big enough to be a real challenge he thanked her for all those years of selfless servitude by grabbing her by her hair and dragging her all over the living room floor. She got instant gratification though because their Mom & Dad lit his ass up for doing that, amid warnings of never to lay hands on a female. The point was well taken.

Despite sometimes having a temper not unlike, but not quite like, basictastes’, she always represented everything that was good, and loyal, and pure, and loving; to say the least. She was always a Christian but never too heavenly-minded to be any earthly good, like the saying goes. She was always there for everyone, still is, though she let ‘em have it if they were out of line – if WE were out of line.

I always called her my little sister, though she’s a little older than I am. Hey, she’s the youngest of my sisters, what? Justifiable term of endearment, I say.

She climbed MT. Kenya once, braved the Maragua dust all her life, endured my brothers’ taunts, learned to drive Dad’s 1970 Datsun pickup – not easy, believe me, sneaked out sometimes in the evenings but always had me as her chaperon, played field hockey in High School and College and was great at it, convinced yours truly that ‘Push It’ by Salt & Pepper wasn’t exactly a song you could sing just about anywhere, and generally watched over yours truly since day zero and still calls me “kid” to this day.

Life really is as fleeting as the wind, coz all those memories are still as fresh in my mind like it was just yesterday. And you know what, that little girl just got married this past weekend.

Congratulations, S. Love you.

BOOT CAMP, KENYA STYLE

Growing up in Maragua definitely had its perks – and its shortcomings. The local Primary School I went to was a complete pushover, thanks to my larger-than-life imagination and the association with my older siblings. Besides, Mom was a teacher at the same school back then and I was forced to be smart, literally. She was much harder on me than the other students and that really sucked, but that made me perform better in school.

I literally waltzed through the first half of primo, Std. 1 thru 4. Not to say I was always first in class – far from it. I always did OK though, with little – if any – effort on my part, and was just starting to get used to the idea that school was easy. Unfortunately Mama >d® [M.D.] mistakenly thought me a young prodigy and often verbalized that I should be shipped off to a more challenging school where I could realize my full potential. Not only that, but I was starting to get into trouble and sometimes came home all cut up from neighborhood scrapes or with my uniform torn or dirtied. After a number of such eventualities M.D. was like hell to the no, >d-money needs out of this school. And that, ladies & gentlemen, is how I found myself in boot camp.

After much research and word-of-mouth, [she had climbed a couple of rungs up the ladder and packed considerable clout] she settled on a school in Murang’a – St. Martin’s Boys Hostel.

That name right there should’ve set off multiple alarms in M.D.’s or my head, but it didn’t. Hostel? Whoever names a school Hostel?! Isn’t a hostel a place for the incapacitated or the ill; a Hospice?

Before I knew it, I had a bucket in one hand and an all-metal box in the other standing in line waiting to get my student ID # along with 100 or so other newbies, all the while stealing glances at the formidable-looking faculty members, all of who wore stern expressions. After the ID-ing we were herded off to the dorms and shown our respective bunk beds. After all the orientation and familiarization was complete, life in that hellhole began. That was the end of life as I’d known it and the beginning of what I can only describe as Armageddon. Let me fill y’all in.

*This was a Catholic school. There was a Headmaster and Deputy and everyone else below them as is customary, but the one that really ran that joint was a Catholic monk. ‘Monk’ would probably best describe what he was, I think, coz he went by the name of Brother Martin.*

I was 10 years old then – just an FYI. The day began early – 4.20 am. The bell would go off and a split-second later the lights in the dorm would come on – stark white fluorescent lighting that actually hurt when they first came on – that’s how bright it was. Now, Brother Martin was always on the prowl at this hour, preying on those poor souls that were a little slow in getting up. If that poor soul happened to be you your little ass was toast. He’d pull you out of bed and give you 2 of his best, right then and there, underwear or not.

After that we’d put water into buckets and clean the dorm. Yes, that early. We had till 4.45 am to finish the job and then we’d go to class for early-morning prep. As anti-morning as I’ve always been this was easily the worst time of the day. No one could, or would, dare doze off coz Bro-man was still on the prowl and would light that ass up if he caught you dozing off. Prep would proceed till 6 am when we would all shuffle off, zombie-like, toward the chapel. Like I’d said, this was a Catholic school and Catholic or not, Christian or not, early morning mass [and every other mass for that matter] was mandatory. I wasn’t raised Catholic but best believe I was reciting Hail Marys in a few short days. I had no excuse not to anyway coz they gave each of us a booklet with all the Catholic ‘recitals’ in it. Besides, good ol’ Martin would drag you out the chapel kicking and screaming and light it up if he caught you not pleading with Mary to pray for you. Over time this recital became personal coz you started praying in earnest; the phrase Holy Mary mother of God pray for us sinners… ceased from being a forced recital to a cry for help.

Mass was usually over in 40/45 minutes and we'd trudge to the dining hall for some of that oh-so-delectable institutional porridge. The cooks usually served the muck while we were at mass and by the time we got to the DH and sat at our designated spots with our personalized bowls the porridge would’ve morphed into this half-ug half-porridge sugarless and milkless barely-ingestible thing that I absolutely detested but HAD to put down. That was the rule – everybody eats or everybody gets punished.

After choking that down the day got better coz the classes began. That’s one thing the institution had going for them – great teachers. Of course we got our share of classroom horrors like getting beat over low grades or making noise in class but it was good for the most part – with the exception of my Std. 6 B-Ed teacher who was so passionate about the subject he wanted to shower all of us with it, literally. I never did fathom how so much spit could come out of a single mouth but believe me, there was enough for all of us! It didn’t help much either that I sat at the center column, and in the front row, which meant I usually was the brunt of all this ‘affection.’ I specifically remember a phrase he said that somehow stuck with me: [or is it stuck TO me?]
“…. and you feel a lot of pain….”
Not pretty. Some words should’ve been erased from his vocabulary.

Lunchtime: usually murram or ug. I’m a shags modo so the murram is like 2nd nature. Not so for the ug – I never could eat too much of it, and definitely not that institutional ug that tasted raw, was spiced-up with weevils and had numerous uncooked spots in it – as in you cut a piece off and flour poured out. Need I remind you the everybody eats or everybody gets punished motto? Veggies – they were grossly overcooked and humongous – they cooked the carrots whole and didn’t shred the cabbage at all, or so it seemed.

Then it was back to class for the afternoon session. This was the laziest time of the day coz we were all stuffed and it was usually hot. It wasn’t too bad though, save the infrequent instances when the Deputy caught you dozing off. Some guys were slick though, like this one dude that could sleep with his eyes wide open. Lucky bastard. Wish I could’ve done that.

After classes were finally over with we all had to do what was loosely described as ‘General Cleaning.’ There was nothing general about it at all, believe me. If anything it was very specific, and we each had designated spots that were supposed to remain spotless all the time; something like ‘Adopt a Highway,’ only then it was more like ‘Pick up the trash or your ass is grass.’

After that we could chill and goof around. This was easily the best time of the day coz we just acted a fool or picked fights or instigated them. In short, normal, healthy boy stuff. This lasted till we had to go for the evening mass and, after a couple of hundred Hail Marys, we'd hit the DH for supper where, again, we either had ug or murram depending on the day.

Soon after it would be time for the dreaded evening prep. It was easily the most treacherous and the longest, but it could also be the most entertaining depending on, of course, how much homework we had to do. People dozed off all the time and other cats played tricks on them while they were asleep – funny, funny stuff. The funniest, by far, was smearing a dab of Vicks Vaporub right below Sleeping Beauty’s eyes. When dude awoke he’d at first be fine, but then the vapors would irritate his eyes and he’d rub them absentmindedly but inadvertently smear the Vaporub into his eyes and in a matter of moments he’d be in agony and would make a beeline for the nearest bathroom.

Sometimes we’d be making a racket and Brother Martin would burst in through the door, larger than life and brandishing that [infamous] flexible cane and give us 2 of his best, every last one of us. Either that or he’d find people dozing off and order us to open the windows and to keep them open. That, of course, meant that we’d be sitting ducks for the mosquitoes and all sorts of other insects. You’d almost think they’d be waiting outside hoping the brother would let them in coz they flew, crawled or hopped their way in soon as the windows were open. Not only that but we’d be freezing our asses off. [@ CK – “Brrrrr!”]

Prep was over at 10pm and we’d almost make a run for the dorm trying to go get some shuteye. Best believe I’d be knocked out soon as my head touched the pillow and I’d try not to think about the following day which would be a virtual replicate of the one we’d just got over.

Now, if that isn’t boot camp – and it was - I don't know what is. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to being in one. It’s just wrong to do that to a 10 year old. M.D., see how it really was like for me? I know I started getting better grades but at the expense of becoming Brother Martin’s bitch? Fair trade-off? I think not. But then again, to quote my friend G.R. who we go back like 8-tracks, all that shiznit is what made me who I am today. [I hope she meant in a good way.]

Weekends were always unpredictable, of course depending on The Brother’s mood. The one constant though was that on Saturday afternoons we’d have an hour-long singing session. You’d think that would be fun but it wasn’t, coz we sang some retarded songs that came from a songbook, if that’s what that was, compiled by none other than – you guessed it – The Brother himself. His taste in music was questionable, and I’m being extremely generous when I describe it as such. Shoot, how else can you explain a song that went like this:

Laughter makes the world go round
So the wise men say;
Laughter is the recipe
To make us all feel gay.

THE [DREADED] 'L' WORD

[Blame this on Valentines day or whatever]

Tell me, really, what is love?

Forget Webster’s definition of the word or what all those mushy love songs croon about. What is it, somebody tell me? Now, don’t get me wrong; it’s not like I’m over here all destitute thinking about what could be but isn’t – no. I’m just trying to understand what all the hype is about.

I must admit I’m more than a little skeptical about the love thing. I’ve seen too many people go through too much $hit to trust love implicitly. I’ve seen people hurt, cheated on, mad about or just plain fed up over love. Sometimes trying to love is as futile as a car chase. That, I’ll be honest with y’all, is not stuff I’d want to go through at all so if this is what love entails, love needs to have another think coming to try and entice me to its camp!

Like everyone else, I suspect, I thought I was in love once [or twice.] I was kicking myself after it was all over with coz it’s almost as if, during the entire period, I was in some sort of daze, and when I snapped out of it I realized what an idiot I’d been. Not only that, but I was looking for the wrong attribute – beauty. Kanye told it like it is when he said ‘the prettiest people do the ugliest things.’ Physical appearance is important, I agree, but it’s far from being the ‘staple’ that attracts you to the other person.

Which begs the question: if beauty is not it, what is then? That, dear reader, is a question I still have no answer to. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I don’t know $hit when it comes to what girl I’d wanna be with. I guess I’ll just have to wait to be surprised, but I still think about it tho. I also remind myself that perfection isn’t attainable in this lifetime. I’m far from it, so why should I expect the girl to be perfect?

There’s only one girl in this lifetime that ever had me feel like I might be in love, at least according to all the mushy songs that talk about love and joy and hurt. No one ever made me as happy, or as sad, or as angry, or as whatever else, as she did. No one else, before or since. What’s worse, it was over between us even before it really got started. But enough about that; that’s water under the bridge.

Anyhow, what’s a brother to do to understand the love thing? All I wanna do is understand it, damnit! I’ve met girls with all these strong attributes that are extremely alluring, but would that suffice as love? How about those very few [who are already taken by the way] with the whole beauty+sexiness+intelligence+street-smarts+ aggressiveness+gulliness package like my good friends Wams or Kacu? Should that be what I should be looking for?

In any case I’m like whateva man. The best things [or worst, unfortunately] hit you when you least expect it. I guess I’ll wait till I get knocked senseless. I’ve got 99 problems and, unfortunately, understanding the love thing is one of them.

**Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only. It may not necessarily reflect the author’s opinion, namely me. But then again, it may.

AcoTag

I managed to get tagged by none other than The Acolyte. This was a long time coming; I was tagged a long minute ago - my bad Aco. Anyhow, here we go:

1. Favourite Kenya Food
- Chapo, hands down
- Ug
- Nyamchom
- chips & saugages [can I get an amen, anyone?]

2. Favourite Kenyan Drink
- Coke baridi. [didn’t drink then. BET, can you believe it! Now I’m a connoisseur of sorts!]

3. Favourite Kenyan TV Programme
- Redykyulass
- Professional View [Just kidding. Who watched that show, ever, anyway?]
- Vitimbi & ‘em. [Hey, that’s all we could catch in Maragua - KBC. Mutumia, Guess, ain’t that the truth?]

4. Top 3 Kenyan Hangouts
Does chilling with the animals count? Coz that’s all I ever did when I was out there, in addition to working at the mugunda and driving mbuyu’s old pickup truck to & from Maragua to pick up animal feed. There, that’s my 3 hangout spots.

5. Top Holiday Kenyan Destination
- Coast, no doubt

6. 3 Kenyan phrases you use a lot (ati, nini, nani DO NOT count and neither does bilaz!)
- "Umedinya point." [Thanks to my estranged friend J]
- "Ukwenda gutamuruo."
- "pale pale, huko huko" [while mimicking Kibaki]

7. Three things about Kenya/Kenyans that make you go ‘hmmm’
- Kenyan dudes all of a sudden want to get married, and it doesn’t seem to matter who to
- To second Aco, Kenyan girls & guys don’t seem to see eye to eye lately
- The hating we do. C’mon, be happy for your fellow countryman when he/she does better than you!

8. Three things non-Kenyans say about Kenya/Kenyans that make you go ‘hmmm’
- “You speak so well for an African!”
- “Huh? Say what? I still don’t understand you!” Understand these n*ts, mo%herf*cker! [excuse my French]
- “You speak African?”

9. Three things about Kenya/Kenyans which non-Kenyans ought to know.
- Yes, I did wear clothes. [I still do, as you can see] I even wore diapers when I was an infant. True, they were cotton & re-usable but they were diapers nonetheless.
- Every country in Africa is self-governing. And just to reiterate, there’s no such language as ‘African.’
- Don’t believe everything you see in the Discovery channel. With the exception of the larger-than-life penises sported by the near-naked dudes. Oh, and we don’t wear clothes coz it’s hot as hell.

10. Complete this sentence: I am Kenyan because…..
- ….I said so and you don’t know no better. What?

TMI

Last week was a bad blog week. This week too. I’m rarely this busy but historically, at least for the few years I’ve been an employee at our one-of-a-kind company, [and I don’t mean that in a nice way] February is one of the biggest months of the year, if not the biggest, in sales. That means yours truly really has to step his game up these next couple of weeks. There goes my resolution to write 2 posts every week. All I can do is try, I guess. ‘Normal service’ will resume in March, I trust.

People talk too damn much. Not only that, but they get into discussions or situations that have nothing to do with them and it’s annoying as hell. My boss calls it hijacking a conversation, and that’s the best way to describe it. I hope Mutumia won’t mind as I jock her style yet again.

Exhibit A:
A couple of weeks ago American Idol started and, as is customary, pretty much everyone at the office was talking about it at the waterhole or by the coffeepot.

I haven’t watched one entire episode of American Idol, ever. Not that the show isn’t entertaining – no. I’m not half as much of a TV or movie buff as I once was, for whatever reason. Gone are the days when I used to clear my schedule so I could watch TV. That was probably back in Maragua, when watching Wild Rose, The Bold and the Beautiful and The Rich Also Cry was at par with food and water as basic necessities. [I cringe at the thought that I actually watched soaps and liked it. Wow.]

Moving right along: I was listening in on the American Idol conversation as I was pouring a mugfull of that laxative they call coffee that’s dispensed liberally throughout the premises. I had no choice but to listen to the animated conversation since I was right there. Let’s see if I can remember how the conversation went, though I rarely remember any conversation verbatim.

“Did you see that one guy who was a Marine?” someone said.
“You mean the black dude that was in the Army?” someone else responded.
This next chic was 2 offices away listening in on the conversation and she bellowed:
‘You mean the Air Force, Jerry?!”
Jerry and the other guy glanced at each other, then in the general direction of the chic’s office, then back at each other again and shrugged.
“Yes, the Air Force,” Jerry said. “The one who stopped in the middle of a song, pulled out his sunglasses and said something to the effect of replay?”
“I think he said remix, Jerry!” the chic bellowed again. Jerry, visibly annoyed, didn’t say anything; he just grabbed his coffee and went back to his office.

I was laughing my ass off though! Y’all gotta admit that would be annoying as hell. Thing is, this happens all the time and the people doing it seem clueless about it!

Exhibit B:
I was driving home one evening not too long ago. It was one of those days when Old Man Winter takes a breather and it was unseasonably warm. I had the windows down and the music bumpin’ having a good old time when, inevitably, traffic lights turned red in front of me. I stopped and waited while nodding my head to the music when this old pick-up truck pulled up alongside me and this middle-aged Caucasian lady stuck her head out the window and yelled out at me.

“Hey, sir!”
I turned the music down and was like: “Huh?”
“I was watching how you were driving and you were switching lanes without regard of the safety of the other drivers,” she continued, yelling to be heard above the rumble-sputter of her old F150. “That’s how accidents happen. If you keep that up I will have to call the police on you!”
I looked at her, incredulous, wondering if I was hearing things. Did she just get in my grill about my driving, knowing especially that I’d been driving [rather] slowly that evening? Knowing that I never switch lanes without indicating? [This much is true] Knowing that I could contract a serious bout of road rage and pummel her into oblivion, for all she knew? I decided to be grown up about it though and smiled at her and was like:
“Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. I guess I was a little distracted; my mind was rather far away.”
That always gets them when you talk all polite and are grammatically correct.
She seemed at a loss for words coz I guess she had been hoping for a cuss-word battle. B*tch. Suddenly, the light turned green and I grinned at her, revved the lancer to 4500 rpm and released the clutch, damn near popping it. In those couple of seconds there was thick grey smoke everywhere. The spinning tires were screaming angrily, trying to grip the tarmac. The roar of the engine, accentuated by the exhaust and intake, further enhanced the burnout experience. Above all this I saw the startled, and disbelieving, look on the nosy b*tch’s face and I loved it.

Priceless.

Exhibit C:
I was in the zone at work some day last week, on the grind, when the receptionist roared through the intercom commanding me to help out some customer who was at the front desk. I grudgingly got up and tried to rub the weariness out my eyes as I walked up front. At the risk of seeming conceited, which I am not, the customer was an oldish man who had driven all the way from PG County, Maryland, and needed yours truly to work his magic on this project.

Anyhow, I collected all the paperwork and was about to go back to the office and get on it when he told me that he wouldn’t be at his office all week long and to call him on his cellie. I agreed and was about to leave again when he added that he couldn’t be at the office for long coz he’d just had surgery. That's how it started, this tale about his health woes.

Apparently he had been diagnosed with some malignant growth in his colon and they had to cut a nice, long piece off. How they went about it, he explained, was a little unorthodox coz they went through his rear orifice instead of incising his belly. [Trust me, his description was a lot more colorful. I’m only paraphrasing this, trying to make it family-friendly.] Apparently the none-too-smart surgeons slit his sphincter to gain access to the gory depths of wherever they needed to reach. The surgery was, according to the surgeons, a resounding success. There was the problem of the slit sphincter though [no kidding] and that’s what was buggin’ this poor man. Apparently he experienced excruciating pain – not surprisingly – whenever he tried to release the grease or drain the main vein, if you catch my drift. He even drove around sitting on some sort of hollowed-out-pillow contraption that relieved some of the pressure off the mutilated sphincter, he said.

As much as I sympathize with the dude, all that detail was totally unnecessary; though I felt so sorry for him coz I could only imagine the agony he must’ve been going through and my over-active imagination could, unfortunately, visualize his anatomy in explicit detail as he described the procedure in vivid detail, and I almost smiled while picturing him driving gingerly, wincing when he hit a bump, but I caught myself. [Guess, how’s that for a complex sentence, huh? ;) ]

Like Trey Songz says, I don’t wanna leave but I gotta go right now. By all means, feelanga free to share your TMI experiences here. Mi blog es su blog. [Spanish-speaking folk - is this even correct? Kinda like Mi casa es su casa, I hope?]

SNAP, CRACKLE, OUCH

TGIF, that’s all I gotta say. Friday can never get here fast enough, ever. Shoot, on Monday mornings I think about what imma do the following weekend, for real. Not that I do a whole lot over the weekends, no. It’s just that these days, more than ever, there seems to be less and less time to chill. I don’t mean just sitting around the house doing nada, no. I’m talking about the increasing unavailability of Me Time. I previously dismissed the Me Time issue, or lack thereof, as kawa. Oh, we gotta do what we gotta do, I said to myself. Which is true though coz it’s not like we can chill all the time; that would be detrimental to our well being. Not to mention the fact that bills are relentless. I still manage to spend most of my time at work and that leaves precious little time for anything else. At least I don’t work weekends, thank God.

Not only does work suck for the most part but there’s something else that’s bugging the heck outta me about the whole working experience. And I don’t mean the usual Same-$hit-Different-Day [SSDD] stuff. There’s always the demanding customers, the not-too-smart vendors, the 2-hours-late UPS delivery guy, the boss-man breathing down my neck, the incessant phone calls, the stack of paperwork in all 5 of my inboxes, the usual technical issues like the computer locking up in the middle of an unsaved project, the infrequent [but buggin’] f*ck-ups, the too-short 30 minute lunch break….. I can go on and on. All these tribulations, however, take a back seat to the current numero uno problem - static.

[Indulge me while I break it down.] We’re smack in the middle of winter, needless to say. Temperatures are below freezing and it follows, naturally, that most, if not all, moisture in everyday air condenses, liquefies then solidifies. There’s lots of electricity in the air, and I don’t mean in a boy’s-eyes-meet-girl’s kind of way. Moisture, for whatever reason, seems to neutralize this electricity. It follows that since the humidity is super low these days I constantly need to lick my lips at a rate that would make LL Cool J jealous. [Kinda awkward when I’m talking to, say, a dude and I’m constantly licking my lips, huh?] I also need to keep re-lotioning my hands, not to mention parts of my body that wouldn’t ordinarily need moisturizing. Like, I woke up this morning and bent over to pick up my shoes and it felt like the skin on my back had just cracked open - that’s how it felt. I had to look in the mirror to see what the hell was going on but all I could see was that my back was ashy as hell. [How do you even lotion your back?] I didn’t have the time to mess with anything so I just left for work, ashy back and all. My legs these days look like I’ve been kicking flour and my scalp, clean-shaven and all, would look like desert terrain if I didn’t grease it up. But that’s nothing compared to the numero uno problem - static.

The drive to work these days isn’t any better. Seems like everyone and their mama’s moving to Woodbridge and its environs. It’s all stop-and-go these days. Pisses me off. But that’s nothing compared to the numero uno problem - static.

The moment I get outside the workplace is when the numero uno problem - static - begins. I’m usually like 15-20 minutes early and that gives me time to catnap or read a couple of chapters of my Dean Koontz. [He's easily my favorite author. Gotta be borderline insane, it seems to me, to write the stuff he writes about. Hmm, could be I’m demented too, you think?] I don’t very well have too much space in the Lancer, particularly due to the steering wheel, to be comfortable so I slide over to the co-driver’s side. My knee accidentally touches the all-metal shifter and >zap<, a miniature lightning bolt jumps between my knee and the shifter. Either that or I reach for the reclining lever on the co-driver’s seat and >zap<.

At 0744hrs I leave the car coz you know I gotta be in the premises at exactly 0745hrs like clockwork, like Juelz Santana say. I open the car door and step out, then reach for the door to shut it and >zap<. I walk to the entrance and as I open the door to the building, >zap<. I go to the computer to punch in and on touching the keyboard, >zap<. I get to my office and as I take the coat off, >snap, crackle, ouch<. I go to hang the coat on the hook and my hand inadvertently touches the all-metal hook and >zap<. I sit down on the chair and reach down to turn the computer on and a split-second before my finger touches the power-on button - >zap<. Then it’s all good.

My eyelids keep threatening to glue themselves shut so I go to grab some of that nasty corporate coffee. I get up and go to the coffeepot and as I reach for it, >zap<. I fix the coffee and go back to my desk, reach for the mouse and >zap<. Then it’s all good.

It’s a little nippy so I go to my little in-office closet to grab my sweatshirt and >zap<. As I wear it, >snap, crackle, ouch<. I sit back down, reach for the mouse again and >zap<. Then it’s all good.

The phone rings and [>zap<] a customer or vendor needs me to grab some paperwork so I get up and go towards the all-steel filing cabinet(s). I reach for one of the drawers and >very major zap<. I go back to the desk, reach for the mouse and - you guessed it - >zap<.

My boy swings by work to say wsup. I get up from my desk soon as the receptionist bellows for me to go up front, see my boy and go to give him a pound and >zap<. Wsup man, ouch!, both of us simultaneously say.

I go to the Signs Department to holla at my boy Steve-O, the resident genius. He’s over there messing with the wide-format digital printer and we talk for a minute. He reaches for a sheet of acrylic and, when he holds the sheet above his head, his hair stands up on end. He puts the sheet down, leans against the monstrous all-steel-and-rubber laminator and >zap<. Then he’s standing right next to the printer and his lower torso is in the immediate vicinity of the printer and >zap<, a bolt jumps from his member to the printer and a split-second later he grabs his stuff and hurls expletives. [This is a true story, by the way]

The same things keep recurring all day long, as well as numerous other incidents that I forget. 1700hrs finally arrives after what seems like 24 hours later and, thankfully, it’s quittin’ time. I shut the computer down: >zap<. I take off the sweatshirt >snap, crackle, ouch<. I put my coat on, go to the computer to punch out >zap<. Get to the whip, turn it on, reach for the shifter and >zap<. Get home, step out, reach over to shut the car door and >zap<. Get to the door, fumble with the keys and as I insert the key into the lock, >zap<. I step in, close the door, reach for the light switch and >zap<. Go upstairs, turn lights on >zap<, take clothes off and put other clothes on >snap, crackle, ouch<, reach for the computer’s power button to check out all y’all bloggers’ latest posts and >major, major zap<.

I’ll be damned. Now you see what I mean about the static problem. It almost makes me not wanna touch anything ever again - with a couple of exceptions. I could use the static problem as a corny line when I’m trying to holla at a chick I just met. We would shake hands, both get zapped and I’d say something stupid like:

“Dang, I can already feel the electricity between us.”

'Good morning, my neighbors,' as Eddie Murphy would've said.

Don't get me wrong - it's not that I'm all chipper this morning; I almost never am. Not only that, but I woke up at 4am and drove from Philly to VA this morning straight to work. I'm now sitting at my desk at work glaring at the 2-inch-thick stack of paperwork in my inbox.

*Speechless*

I'm just happy to be here safe & sound coz it was raining all through and I was in one of my belligerent driving moods. Let's just say I made excellent time back and The Car handled beautifully in the wet, but so much could've gone wrong.

That's why, despite my usual Monday morning crabbiness, I'm thankful this morning.

Have a good week, y'all. V^6, wsup baby boy.

INALIENABLE TRUTHS

There’s nothing like a lazy weekend to make one think about stuff, life in general. I particularly didn’t do too much this weekend, partly because I was – and still am – a little under the weather [flu] and partly because I chose not to do anything. I’m usually restless all the time but I’m trying to get some decent shuteye while I can. I don’t know if this is true for y’all but sleep for me is cumulative, as in I can sleep all day and night one day and be awake all of the following day and night. Weird but true.

In any case, I was thinking a lot about the boy-meets-girl-likes-girl-she-likes-him-back thing and these are some of the things that stood out for me. Feel free to agree/disagree with any of them.

- Every man fancies himself a player [few really are]

- A true player doesn’t brag about his exploits.

- A lot of girls are fine but they don’t know it.

- [I said this once before] Even though a girl might smile at you she really might hate your guts.

- A lot of women are players. They do a much better job at it too.

- Women think about sex just as much as men do, if not more so.

- Women have the uncanny ability to remember things in explicit detail. Ask your girl what you were wearing the night you first met – she’ll remember.

- Fellas, think about it: The average girl gets hit on at least a couple of times a day, every day. Please upgrade your pick-up lines. Gone are the days of lines like: You must have a mirror in your pants coz I see me in ‘em. Be original. Please.

- Once a man is in a woman’s heart other men, to her, seem bland in comparison. Not so for men. A dude can penda a girl to death but will still be momentarily sidetracked by some foxy feline. It doesn’t mean he likes his girl any less though. [F_ed up but true]

- A dude that compliments a girl all the time is full of $hit. Believe that ladies.

- It’s really all about the nookie for us. At least 98% of the time.

- You never really know someone until you live with them for about a week.

- Men tell the most lies. Women tell the biggest lies. Typical male lie: I was over at my boy’s house. Typical female lie: of all the people I’ve been with you’re the biggest.

- A woman knows that she digs a dude from the first moment. A dude might not think about it right away but after some time [or after a couple of beers] he'll be like: Hmm, she’s kinda hot.

- Beauty and brains seldom occupy the same space at the same time. There’s the occasional exception though. This goes both ways, male or female.

- You almost always meet a guy/girl’s representative when you first meet them, not their true self.

- No one's unattainable. Ask my boy Danc. [Wsup playa]

- If you can make her laugh you’re halfway there.

- A woman doesn’t want a guy no one else wants. That’s why girls are hopelessly attracted to bad boys and playas.

- A woman never forgets. Never. Did I say never?

- You’re only as faithful as your options. Otherwise the moment someone better comes along you’re out of the current relationship in a quick minute.

- [This one I’ve never understood, but it’s true. From my experience anyway] The more you don’t pay a girl no mind the more she seems to like you. Correct me if I’m wrong.

- If you’re like myself who’s blessed/cursed with somewhat youthful looks and who always seems to attract the young’ns, always ask the other person’s age before doing anything ‘incriminating.’ Ask for ID if you have to. Trust me on this one.

- Talk to your girl. I mean, really talk to your girl. It can mean the difference between a good or bad relationship.

- This whole boy/girl thing is not that serious. It really isn’t. Relax. If it happens, it happens; if it don’t, it don’t. Chill the f_*k out.

- Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Quit thinking about talking to that girl in the corner. Go ahead and do it. What’s the worst that could happen? Act like Chris Brown and ask her if her man’s on the floor and if he ain’t to let you know. If she’s not feeling you I’m sure you’ll know in a quick minute.

- Lots of people say they’re happily single but that’s a bunch of bull. Man isn’t a solitary animal.

- A guy always exaggerates the number of chics he’s been with. A woman always understates it.

Dang, it seems like I bit off more than I can chew with this post; I can go on and on with this. Help me out here.

REVELATORY

In a revelatory mood today, for whatever reason. These moments don't last long but I thrive on spontaneity so here goes, some pics.

I didn't seek permission before putting other people's pics on here. [Hmm, that can't be good now, can it? Maybe I should've asked. Too late.]

Click here to view.

Later y'all.

OUR OWN WORST ENEMY?

[This is one of the longest posts I’ve ever written. Just a friendly warning.]

I’ve been psyching myself to write about my very first time in Florida and it’s slow going. I mean, if I could write that much about one night at a club [Platinum] how much more material do I have to break down after one week in Florida, know what I’m saying? It’s coming though, dear reader, it’s coming.

Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday is around the corner and I can’t help but admire the man more and more with each passing year coz he truly was one of the greatest revolutionists ever. He dispensed so much wisdom in so short a period it’s amazing. [See here] He’s a prime example that one man can indeed change the world. As black people, foreigners or not, we cannot take his efforts lightly coz if it wasn’t for him some of the everyday freedoms we take for granted today wouldn’t exist.

Why do we always kill some of the greatest people that ever walked the earth? Seems like everyone who talks about peace and who really cares about the well-being of humankind gets their ass killed. Jesus, Martin Luther King Jr. & Malcolm X, to quote a few well-known examples, were all peace-loving, liberated men but were all plucked in their prime. Are we really against ‘world peace’ [at the risk of sounding like a quote from a beauty pageant contestant] that much? Food for thought.

I sometimes think we’re our own worst enemy. Now, I love black people to death. We’re easily the most imitated [but never duplicated] people ever. Like Paul Mooney says, “Everybody wanna be a nigga but nobody wanna be a nigga.” Everyone imitates black culture but no one wants to be black – ain’t that a bitch? In addition, few other people/race have endured as much as black people have. One of the best quotes I’ve ever heard concerning ‘blackness’ is from back in the day during the Harlem Renaissance and it goes a little something like this:

Beatings, castrations and more beatings…
It almost passes human understanding
How a people can be so socially despised
Yet artistically esteemed;
So degraded yet
Culturally influential;
So ostracized and yet
A dominant editorial force in American life.

[Time to talk about some real everyday $hit]

Black people’s attitude is sometimes really f_ed up, and it makes me mad as hell. This is more so when it comes to the corporate world where this alarming trend is legendary in its proportions. For instance very few, if any, of the black people I’ve worked with really bust their ass at work. They always come in late, leave early, take hour-long lunch breaks when it’s supposed to be a half-hour long, call off sick every week…. I can go on and on. Good work ethic is so important, so very important. We already have one strike against us. Let’s not perpetuate the stereotype that black people are unreliable in the corporate world.

I know I’m far from perfect but I’m always on time for work, always, with the exception of the instances where the horrendous D.C. traffic leaves me no choice but to be late. You might think these cats really don’t care but my boss always cracks jokes like ‘Damn, I can set my watch by the time you step in through the door!’ This, however, makes him trust me implicitly coz he knows that I’ll be there to hold it down. Trust, dear reader, is of utmost importance, especially because it’s earned and not given. Even though we might feel they screw us over – as in we work too hard and earn too little – please get $hit done. No one bad job lasts forever. Not only that, but that readies you for the tenacity of that dream job, and high-profile jobs are extremely demanding most of the time. Even if you started your own business you’d need to really step your game up attitude-wise. You feel me tho?

What prompted this tirade though are some things that have happened recently. To jock mutumia’s style I’ll break it down like this:

Exhibit A:
I went to a Wendy’s the other day. This one is in the heart of Woodbridge [WB], VA. Now, I like Wendy’s better than The King or The Clown, if you catch my drift, and I particularly like their spicy chicken sandwich, which is all I ever buy there. Now, my usual Wendy’s is Caucasian-owned and managed and it follows, not surprisingly, that most of the employees are white. My chicken sandwich is always fresh there. The lettuce is crisp, the mayo is actually spread over the bun & the chicken is actually borderline-hot. Everything is tucked all nice and neat between the buns. I’m around and out the drive-thru in 90 seconds flat. Nice.
This one Wendy’s I went to in WB is Negro-owned and managed and – you guessed it – most of the workforce is black. Not only did it take a full minute for someone to take my order but there was 10 cars in front of me, the cashier gave me the wrong change & didn’t even apologize – or at least be like my bad, the sandwich was cold and the lettuce was soggy and wilted, the mayo was a huge glob on one side of the bun and the chicken was ice-cold and was hanging out one side like a virtual tongue!
I realize it could’ve been a busy day for them but yo, at least center everything between the buns. It’s really not that difficult!

Exhibit B:
So, yesterday – I mean Friday - I go to get my car’s registration renewed. I intensely dislike going to the DMV coz the lines – or queues for all y’all British-English-speaking folk – are ridiculous. [American English is so… so… annoying sometimes. It’s like having to re-learn terminologies all over again!] There’s this one DMV that everyone and their mama goes to where you’d spend the better part of the day waiting just to, say, pick up your tags, which should take all of 2 minutes to get it over with. This one DMV center I shall name ‘The White DMV.’
I discovered another little-known center someplace else a while back though. That’s where I went to coz I can’t line up all day long, nosir. There was almost no one at this center and I was elated. Let’s name this one ‘The Black DMV.’ Most of the workforce is black, as are the receptionists, two middle-aged ladies. So I go over there to reception and say hi. They didn’t even acknowledge my presence. They were engaged in animated conversation talking about:

“… so that was him you were talking about?”
“Yes girl, didn’t you read the paper? That was back in October.”
“Oh my God, that was you, the lady in the paper?
“Yessir. I thought I would die….”
And on and on and on they went.

My elation quickly fizzled and I was like:
“Uh, hello? I need to renew my registration.”
“Hold on one second,” bitch #1 said. [Excuse my French.] They kept on talking! My patience was really running thin and I was about to say something nasty when bitch #2 was like:
“Can I help you?”
“Yes you may,” I said, making no attempt to disguise my tone. “I need to renew my registration.”
“You need this form here and this form here,” #1 said, flashing a rainbow-colored 2-inch-long fake nail with sparkle all over it. #2 pushed a button to give me a number and #1 was like:
“Not ‘D.’ Push ‘C,’ remember? ‘D’ is for tags, girl.”
“Oh, right,” #2 said absentmindedly. No sooner had I been handed the number than their oh-so-interesting conversation resumed in vull vorce [wsup B.E.T.], as our High School Deputy always said.

Exhibit C:
Something happened to my phone in Florida so I went to Cingular to get another. It was another Black establishment. [Smelled funky in there too. The air quality reminded me of FCPD’s] I stepped in there and the reps were busy talking to other customers. I was the only one without a rep helping me out but there was this one rep just chilling. I didn’t know that’s what he was doing at first; looked like he was doing something serious coz he just glanced at me when I stepped into the store and went on doing something on his computer. I waited for like 3 minutes when this middle-aged Caucasian lady stepped in and the rep immediately smiled at her and was like: May I help you ma’am? I couldn’t believe it and I was like: Excuse me?! Then he had the nerve to say something like: Did you need help sir?
Lord, gimme strength!

Exhibit D:
[A1 can attest to this one. Wsup girl] Need I even talk about this one? I’m talking about our very own Kenyan Embassy in D.C. You’d think Western efficiency would’ve penetrated the inner workings of that establishment by now but no. It’s a virtual Nyayo House in there. I go to renew my passport and the receptionist lady was like: I’m not dealing with passports today. Talk to that man over there. When I go to the dude he’s shutting down his computer and picking his keys up and before I even say anything he’s like: I need to go. Talk to [dude] over there. I was speechless. I went back to the receptionist lady and was like: Look, all I need to do is drop this off. Can I do that? She was like: Just leave it here on my desk, at your own risk.
I usually don’t have violent tendencies but yo, that’s as close as I’ve ever come to bitch-slapping anyone. That kind of behavior is so unnecessary, so unnecessary.

Before I roll out, my beloved black people – and everyone else, of course, watch out now. King Jr. made it all better for us. Please take the time to click on the link at the beginning of this post to read some of the man’s quotes. Perfection isn’t attainable in this lifetime; we could all use some improvement, every last one of us. I reiterate from a previous post – complacency is a terrible thing.

A NEW >d FOR THE ‘06

I’m back. And yes, I’m not exactly thrilled to be back to the same old same old, but nothing good lasts forever, so someone said.

A week off work can wreak havoc on your ability to work, as I learned first hand today. The vacation was worth every penny though, as crazy as it was. Nothing beats mid-70 degree temperatures in the thick of winter. Had to call everyone I knew and I had to, as a by the way of course, mention that I was walking around in shorts while they were all bundled up trying to ward off 20 and 30-degree temps, not to mention considerably colder precipitation. [Seems like I’m trying to beat Guess over here for the ability to make long, complex sentences, huh?]

As much as you might hate reading it, I’ll write about what went on while in Florida. Not now though coz I need to catch up on shuteye. I can’t leave you hanging so go here to get a sneak preview of what’s coming.

http://www.iamdown.8m.com/fla.htm

Keep it right here. Happy New Year, everyone!