Double Damn

So the other day I was walking about when this chic [lady/other politically correct term] walked by. In [very very tight] white pants [hipsters?]. Like a zombie, I followed her. With my eyes. I must confess that this is a typical reaction, but this time I honestly had no choice in the matter. Stood absolutely no chance. Her butt cheeks were practically out of her pants. She might as well not have been wearing any. It was like she only had body paint on. I did try to look elsewhere. The traffic, the sky, people across the road, but as I said. I stood no chance. Transfixed. Did I mention zombie. At some point I managed to pull myself out of this state, albeit temporarily, and wonder how she managed to get out of the house, go to work and generally walk around, seemingly quite comfortable and carefree. She must be feeling my eyes on her. Mine and every single person [even gals look] who encounters her. Or is that the point. Now, I'm a rather shy guy [although some people I've told as much refuse to believe me], and even jogging around the neighbourhood in shorts makes me a little self-conscious [I just can't exercise in a tracksuit]. I guess, though, women get used to it. Guys probably start staring at some point in their teens so it becomes just one of those things. And a similar scene played itself out this past Wednesday, and Saturday. [I've been using the word damn a lot lately] Perhaps I'm turning into a dirty old man. [and the only thing new there would be the old bit]

UNIX haters

The very best of them hated Unix (probably still hate it). And wrote a hilarious book about it (already laughing before I was through with the foreword). Its more of a collection of mailing-list rants (kind of what Introverted is).

And no, its not an MSFT plot.

If you have never heard of grep, you probably should not bother reading.

I will get a kid wen I'm 25

These sentiments are obviously not my own. First, I'm not big on SMS speak. I'm the kind of guy who'll actually type 'tomorrow' in an sms [thankfully I can also use kesho]. What can I say. I don't like change. Then, of course, I already turned 25. A long time ago now.

And I just may not want anyone to father it. That startled me a bit. For a moment, I wasn't sure of my reaction. I'm still not, actually. Why would a chic want such a thing. Ok. Apparently women start to crave and dream of babies at some point. But when did single parenthood [motherhood?] become so attractive. The model to strive for. Sure, all men are dogs. Or cows. Or pigs. Or some other domesticated animal, but they've always been. And nice cows are boring so there's no winning here. It's a sad statement though. On so many levels.

Wouldn't mind if it was u. More startlement. The whole day I looked at that statement. Again, more uncertainty about my reaction. At least I'd make her A list.

Still not wearing red

It's one of those things I don't do, because everyone else is doing it. I'll send you flowers tomorrow, buy you chocolate next week, write you poetry next year, put on red in the next decade [maybe]. Today, I'm wearing blue.

Want To Run Away

Heard this story in the mat, on the way to the office. Surprisingly the mat
I was in was not switched to Classic FM. It seems that's all everyone is
listening to nowadays. Tales of my cheating husband, I have 2 mistresses, I
am a mistress, my husband won't have sex with me, I can't get it
up...sickening.

Anyways, it was Kiss FM I think. The only reason I paid attention was
because it was those anecdotes at the end of the news reading.

You heard it? Some Chinese (was it Japanese?) kid ran away from home. He got
onto a train. Now, having seen those trains on TV and knowing the speeds
they make, plus the number of people in that country (Yes, it was Chinese),
a kid can very well get lost. He was found, which is a miracle in itself,
one thousand miles away (that's probably after 15 minutes on those trains).

Why did the kid run? He couldn't stand the pressure. By the way, I think the
kid is like 8 or 9. They were given too much homework for winter break. Ati
two fat books of assignments. Like a hundred math questions, hard ones. Then
to make things worse, his mum checked some of the work he had done, found he
had messed up on some math question, made the guy re-do it, then copy it 100
times. 100 times! On the 50th the guy bailed. That's it! I'm out.

As funny as it is, its also sad.

I also feel like bailing. No, not because of Vals. I don't have a girlfriend
mind you.

Its all this work. When everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves, I am
going nuts here. Guys have smiles on their faces, breezing through work. I
guess someone out there is about to say something silly like I am not
organised. If I was organised, I would enjoy my work, get things done
faster, be happier. B0ll0cks! Basically everyone else is here for the ride.
Looking to a few guys here to pull their weight. And sadly, most of them are
the guys in charge. What to do? I want to run away. I'm going to crack.

Wait a second. I feel much better after writing it down. I guess I can stay
and be used some more.

Of deleted numbers and swaps

When sam speaks of deleting numbers, i am fresh from such an experience. It's called a weak moment. I am trying to reach someone. The first time it rings once and then 'Number busy'. From then the voice mail on the other end does the honours. It continues for 2 days. I reckon at this point that some brand of Alcatel which she happens to own allows someone to block some numbers. Pure ingenuity on her part.

To prevent me from calling a number i cannot reach i safely deleted the number and went away. If you are reading this, pls introduce yopurself the next time you call.

Nature has it's own way of comforting broken hearted people. I walk into my local mall 1 hr after realizing the fate.Looking for some junk food to indulge. A very nice looking chic beckons me.Now she is in those dresses that Samborera and i loves. Her smile so warm. "Where have you been?" She opens up for a hug. Such firm and promising embrace. (Trust me nowhere on earth have i seen this beauty. I am good in cramming faces but this one. aa.). I have read in some forums that whatever i do, i should neeever ask for the name.

What happenned you never called!-what will i say? i manage to figure out one that could work on everyone." Oh my. i lost my phone" What was your number again? "072*******". She takes a piece of paper and writes down her physical address and walks away. "See you on wednesday evening and don't keep me waiting", she shouts on her way out of the mail. Certainly i will be winning enough Bonga points in the next few weeks.

I am startled, perplexed and singing " If tommorrow EVER comes". The Government inpector is about to replay again

swing on the hair

There's a way chics with braids or long hair swing their heads in an inviting to take the hair back behind the ears. Now that an anchor that never get's out of my mind especially if i have stakes in the chic.

Men looking for women

Sam, a 34-year-old, down-to-earth professional man seeks to meet you for friendship and ultimate companionship if you're a staunch catholic single lady aged between 28 and 35, beautiful, charismatic, open-minded, tidy, trustworthy and hard-working Medical, legal or finance professinals are encouraged but all shall be responded to. Send your brief to...

It's a testament to the effect the blog is having on me that I was actually startled when I saw this ad in a lonely hearts column this past weekend. True, I can relate to a lot of what the guy is saying [I'm not too keen on tidyness] but this would have to be a really last resort, in the attempt to escape the impending companionship of 50 cats. [I don't particularly like pets even]

Meeting people can be tricky though. Busy lives and more focus on the individual rather than the community mean opportunities of finding a mate or companion or whatever are diminished. Where can a guy meet women. Church? These new establishments have loads of potential. Work. Woe unto you if you aren't in a gender-balanced [or imbalanced in your favour] profession/department/organisation. Bars. Not sure how many long term [longer than 2 weeks] relationships are borne here, but the setting/environment/alcohol/attire? makes this whole business a tad easier. And exciting. A couple of people have told me about networking. Attending events, fora, enrolling in clubs or other social institutions or gatherings. There's the brave new world of the Internet. I remember being at a cyber cafe and it hitting me the number of women [then and before] who were on sites searching out men. White men? [what else are you meant to do as you wait for your inbox to be rendered]

The way I figure though, there's a woman for every man. [several if you live in Nairobi] It just depends on what you want or are looking for. Or what you think you're looking for anyway. [It's the women who choose you, not the other way round] If you don't have a checklist of must haves [there's another guy who wanted a woman who 'Must be a smoker'. Hilariously and refreshingly open given the typical ads in this section] or don't subscribe to some utopian notions concerning the fairer sex, you should be set.

How

How do guys do it. There's an Introvert who says [said] how it isn't fair that a guy should have just the one woman. You want to be with this one some of the time but this other one is equally interesting and you want to be with her some of the other time. I think I've asked somewhere whether a guy with a chic is allowed to talk/hang out with other chics. And if so, where do the boundaries of what can/can't be said/done dlie. Can you ask other people, for instance, what they are wearing [that always causes a rush to my head], or must you stick to safer waters, and the weather. I also used to wonder how guys manage to go out with someone for like a year. I figured that must be some deep stuff going on to be able to pull that off, in which case you should just get hitched and get it over with.

And what is a guy meant to do, when there's a chic who isn't the chic [guys will never admit to such] in one corner, another singing in his ear and kissing his neck, and yet another in between these with her hands all over her own breasts, inviting him to do likewise.

Don't be polite

Don't give me your number if you don't intend to respond. Or if you're going to hang up on me. Or if you otherwise don't want to give me your number. Saying "No!" is perfectly ok. It's what you really want to say anyway. And saves me having to go through the whole number deletion routine.

The Hustle

I think most people know that Cassidy song (it always feels weird referring
to rap music as songs, is it even music? Can I say that Cassidy rap?).
Anyways, "I'm A Hustla, I'm a I'm a hustla homie.." That is the basis of
this story.

Wednesday 6.45pm - Tropez.

I check in. Feeling abit drowsy. Still tired from Tuesday's drinking, a
bunch of work at the office didn't help much. But its Wednesday! What's
there not to like? Ladies night as it's called. They come out to play. 0.5
is still at work, maybe for another hour or so. All good. I can hang out and
watch these two ladies next to me drinking any and everything. At the rate
they are going, I see myself getting a number at some point in the night.
Maybe more. A guy can always hope eh? Hooters flashes me. I call back. She
is out of town, just wanted to say hi. "Mbona umenitupa?" I want to say
apparently not far enough. Anyways, we waste my airtime on some grunts and
uh huhs, acknowledging that we are both ok, we will hook up when you come
back eh? Good. She says to say hi to 0.5. He and her cousin are tight like
that.

Around 9 (I'm going to stop tracking this cause, I really wasn't paying much
attention to the time).

0.5 checks in. Business as usual. Drinking. Remember BigDread? Her sister?
SisterDread. Yes? Well, she pops out of nowhere, castigates me for not
calling and not buying alcohol. I am not that high yet so I promise to buy
alcohol later, not now. At some point I am passing their table, meet
SisterDread again. She is also sulking about something I did, or didn't do.
I really don't give a hoot. As the evening progresses, guys get higher, the
singing gets louder and worse (Karaoke night). I'm loving it. We get to
talking to our drinking compadres (the ladies at our table drinking
everything on the menu - and they are still going strong. She doesn't look
high. Try to convince them to belt out some song. They refuse. Definitely
not high enough. Scary women. I get a number, set a date for Friday. One of
them says Friday is a must-drink day. Right On!! Still thinking of a name
for them. Double-tot sisters? Just an idea. At some point they really have
to leave. Slurred speech. Ahh yes, so they are human. Goodbyes are
exchanged, promises of future imbibing are dispensed. Its a date. Now we
have two empty seats.

The Hustle begins.

BigDread comes over and states they are leaving. I act disappointed. So
soon? What time is it? Ok, don't look at the time, its too early to leave.
She claims all she has left is cab fare, she has to leave. I suggest one
more drink, just one more then you guys can leave. Yes, that was my little
head thinking. She agrees. They move to our table. BigDread engulfs 0.5 (I
couldn't see the guy). SisterDread sits with me. It moved from one
"harmless" drink to lap dance in a blink of an eye. I mean, first of all it
was just fun and games. Then SisterDread took it to a whole other level. 0.5
and BigDread were forgotten. How can you think of anything with someone
sticking their tongue in your ear while trying to swallow your lower lip? I
mean I am not a shy guy, I think, but public shows of affection (although I
don't think we can call it that) just don't sit well with me. I don't mind
the odd hug here and there. However, ravenous sucking of tongues is
something else. Only time I came up for air was to search for more cash for
liquor. That was the cleanest jacking I have ever experienced. For the price
of some d1ck grabbing (yes, that happened. I think I was in shock-plus other
feelings-when it happened so I was slow to react to it), lap dancing,
tongue-in-ear action; liquor was bought. She had a short skirt on, which she
kept pulling up while dancing. She can't have been that high. No she can't.
I could see her finery (panties just sounds nasty). But she was being nasty.
They would spill pint all over the table, it would be quickly wiped off by
the waiters and I promptly replenish. I'm so easy. I'm sure that's what they
were thinking when they left. Not that there was much warning. One minute
she was there. Next she was gone. At least I got her number this time (I
thought I was going to get much more, I really did. I was promised a night
of debauchery later. Don't think it will materialise.). What I do know is
that she was probably singing that Cassidy rap (song?) as she left. I'm a
hustla, I'm a I'm a hustla homie, you're a customer.

Anyways. What better way to spend your Wednesday? No happy ending though.

Give dem a run

It was a long time ago when I first heard of a heart run. And that time my desire to participate was rather strong. I figured it was the natural thing to do, my heart condition and all. But there's something about having to rise at the crack of dawn. To go run. Even in high school I couldn't manage this feat. I'm just not a morning person. Never have been.

I somehow got myself signed up for the heart-to-heart run [walk?] later this month though. Something about not being able to say no to a woman.

Why r u so quiet?

The question that invariably follows where is this headed.

Living Single

I am home. Had slept at two the previous night and its nine pm already. Ati Scripting. Reading. problems to be solved. There are some loud noises..wait! That is my stomach. I shuffle my feet to the kitchen. There is a geographical feature there staring back at me; it is a mountain of unwashed dishes. Another day and I will have a zoo of unknown species of animals and plants. If I eat more fries I will pass cooking oil as urine. Can't stand the stuff anymore. Another tune from my stomach and I am thinking...not so fast. i can push the stuff down with a stick if I have to.

Moving down the stairs. There is a group of women doing aerobics. My residential building has a church, a gym, a butchery, a doctor's office and a pharmacy. I kid you not. Think about it. You can comfortably contract RV fever from the butcher's meat and just march in and have a doctor stick steel needles in your butt, point you to the pharmacy for some haze inducing chemicals without the necessity to go outside.
Walk around. There are policemen everywhere. With rifles. Why do those guys have to carry rifles? A country in peacetime and you see no less than forty ugly rifles a day. A totally irrelevant question. The fries do not want me today. All the places are closed.

Discovery pub is playing some genge. Very tempted but no. I don't do local these days. It is a self-preservation mechanism. I would drink every day. Back at my place. Switch on the TV. Switch it off. It is news again. This moron said this. This other moron said that. I would rather watch my toe nails grow. I pick my phone. A new number has recently checked in. Cousin to the memorable Hooters. SMSes having been flying lately. It is the itch. The itch to call or SMS. I want to. I do not want to. This never ends well, at least not with me. This is how numbers get deleted. It has reached that point where something has to give. I have to show a definite interest or let her walk. Confused. I have become wary of going past making a pass in a pub and having her sit down for a high-spirited, Tusker-fuelled talk.

Someone is knocking. Please go away!!! I don't say it. It is my neighbour, a young chap attending University (like Sam said, college and university are not the same thing in this country), who stays with his sister next door. Had some beautiful schemes for the sister....except she stays about 10 feet from my place. In any case, the thought of the guy punching my face while the sister performed crude surgery on my genitalia is not appealing. I digress. He thinks mine is a nice place to hang about, likes to take my movies, without my permission and return them seven months later, or not at all. Is there a heavy metal rod around? Ahh yes..only I would have to dismantle the steel door and i can't achieve that feat on an empty stomach.

He rushes to my PC. Boots up. Lots of text rushing down the screen Matrix style. PC is done booting. The Bloke stares at the screen for fifteen minutes straight waiting for control-alt-delete. Its SuSe Linux.
Whats up with your PC?
Nothing. Type root and root.
Hmmmm...looking for the start button..can't find it.
Where is grand theft auto?
There is no grand theft auto. swapped the hard disks. Had tried removing dlls earlier which ensured that no games could be played only for the guy to open solitaire and play into the early morning.
It must be in here somewhere. Ahh here it is. Show the guy an ascii file named 'Grand theft auto'. It won't start. He tries to look for solitaire. He gets stumped and finally leaves my computer alone.

I pick a book. Smiley's People by John LéCarre. Can't go past page one. Who are these guys? I have read all Ludlums, Clancies and Forsyths. There are no authors left.
There is a guy who used to constantly argue with his wife. Choice words, blue and rich. Why can't they start now? OK may be it should not. It never ends well for the woman. When the she verbally outguns him, I usually hear a sharp clap and the sound of things breaking. On occasion she would sit at the gate sobbing softly. Then the chap would walk down to beg her. Garbage. Does not make any sense.

Snatch! For the seventh time. Took the place of Frank Miller's Sin City real quick. Sit still dear stomach. Could not finish Donnie Brasco by the way. May be some other time. Time to sleep. Tomorrow might be more fun. Its Tuesday. There are always beautiful girls in the mathree. May be I could try and be like one 'Issey Miyake' and sit on one as I find my way to a seat.
Ohhh I am so sorry. These mathrees are so tiny getting into one is an exercise in contortionism. Anyway what's your name?

Where is this headed

Or, where are we headed. Dreadful questions. Key word being dread.

Urkel is alive

There was an article in last Sunday's Nation, the Buzz section I think, about how Jaleel White had died. Sad I thought, so I did what I tend to do with this kind of news. I found it immediately strange that among the google results was stuff about a hoax. Indeed the words in the article were copied and pasted from this apparent story. Our journalists are rather fond of this kind of thing, but it wouldn't have taken much googling to figure out that wasn't an article to put in the country's best selling daily. Or was it April fools last Sunday.

WWMD

What would men do. With all their money. Without women. I really wonder. I know the independent ladies would beg to protest but a guy can only talk about what he knows.

Long, long ago, men were given the task of providing. I think women got the bearing of children [with considerable pain?]. Providing isn't such a bad thing. So that was the nature of things, for the most part. Agreed and accepted. Then came womens' liberation and empowerment. I can do what you can do. Better. I can do the jobs you do [female makangas are so wrong], have sex with anyone with a chest, like you do. However, the notion of her money being hers and yours being ours still persists. And for some reason it's still guys spending on women rather than the other way round. It's quite second nature actually, and isn't a big deal for me, whether the chic can actually chip in or not.

I have found though that the amount of savings I've made, the times I've actually saved anything, have been inversely proportional to the number of chics in my phonebook. Yes. Even dry spells have silver linings. All those calls, drinks, movies, lunches, sambazas take a toll on the wallet. That miscellaneous item in the budget ends up getting a life of its own, wanting to be given more recognition, and a proper name. [It's amazing that I've not mentioned older women here even once]