Giving unto ceasar

They shouldn't require us, the tax collection guys shouldn't, to fill in those tax return forms. Some of us at least. Those who's only source of income is a salary which comes with the tax already taken out.

This year was the first time I had an idea of what was actually going into those forms. The other times I've filled the returns have been in zombie mode, copying what the next guy had on his. And it's always terrified me the thought of doing the return. Not sure why. Unless I become a celeb or something, they are unlikely to come after me for back taxes and the like. So I actually tried to do some calculations this year. What folly. I don't know what got into me. Must be all those P9 forms. [Note to self: Don't change jobs more than 3 times in a year] I finally did get everything done. The act of handing in the return has been another source of terror. The thought of being grilled by a government official always torments me. Last year was wonderful. Walked into a supermarket and dropped it off there. I doubt very much the lovely lady receiving the forms was a civil servant. Come this year and the alternative drop off points weren't exactly at locations convenient to me. I ended up at the KRA tent. Immediately after handing in the form I started to wonder what all my paranoia was about. The guy taking the form barely checked that I had my name on there [unless his trained eye scanned the rest of the document while I was blinking]. And looking at the other guys in the queue made me realise how foolish it was fearing that I'd filled in something incorrectly. We would probably be millions in the same boat. As a result, I'm no longer afraid of doing my returns. Bring on next year's forms. [I'll probably still be living at home so that landlords' PIN business shouldn't come into play]

Buying a phone

I've been contemplating buying my first mobile phone. I've had a total of two so far. The one I currently have, which was handed down to me, and the first, which was basically a house phone which I carried around once in a while [it wasn't mine mine].

Apart from the fact [pointed out to me by one of the docs] that chics' reactions would change instantly on seeing my current phone, and the fact that it reboots [just learnt init 6 the other day] itself every so often, I really have to qualms about it. From previous experiences, the period from the thought of buying something to actually having some wrapping of some sort to throw away [because I actually bought said thing] can approach infinity. They need to invent a new word for this kind of procrastination. And there's a whole bunch of shops, and models. There's a reason for defaults. Do I go to this shop, or the one next to it, or the one on the other side of the street. The choices of models are similarly mind boggling. I think it's why the names are mostly numerical derivatives. They couldn't possibly come up with meaningful names for all those phones. And the features? Do I need bluetooth, GPRS, cameras and the like. Do I really want them.

Ah,...the atrocities of Rugby

The darkness is in and introverted is 2 years old. Plus its a Wednesday. Who needs an excuse to drink? I run out of the office like an escaped convict and make the first stop at Sarit. ATM card slotted in ...hum hum hum hum. No money. what? That can't be right. I move to the next machine. Zip zero. It is going to be very limited fun tonight.

On to the hang-out. Kamikaze and Samborera are already there. Drinks are flowing. The doc arrives. I guess when it comes to dear Tusker there are no holds barred cause drink is flowing with little or no effort on my part (thank you folks!)

Then boom! kamikaze spots his elusive lady P. This man has quite the sight cause the place is dark and there is cigarette smoke everywhere.

Lets take a look back.
Saturday 23 June 2007.
A different club, same activities: Drinking, admiring fine women, attempting to talk to them. One different activity. A lady "mans" up and directly goes for Kamikaze. Lucky ba**ard. She wants to dance with the guy. She is rubbing herself on him. I almost swallow my tongue. Kamikaze is not moving. He points to his knees and gives a long narration about a short and eventful rugby career in a past life. Says can't dance. Knee injuries. Lack of knee oil or something like that. Absolutely refuses to dance. But hey, Kamikaze is a f**___ star so the mama sticks around (who knows, the chap might change his mind with the convincing effects of alcohol). Pep talk. At some point she leaves, dejected. But not before yanking Kamikaze's phone from his hand and punching in her number. Then another fly mama is just swaggering back and forth, displaying her body to full effect. Aii! Not fair. It was like a well choreographed musical piece. Cluck-cluck of heels. All conversation stops. Glasses pause mid-air, heads turn right (or left). Lust was so thick in the air you could cut it with a knife. Later on I stop the mama.
Hi. How are you?
Fine.
My name is 0.5 ( I am trying my damn hardest from straying my eyes to her cleavage. Ahhh the torture!).
Mine is [something or the other, can't remember]. Kamikaze introduces himself.
Those are not your real names right?

She Can't believe we are giving our real names. Why would a guy give a fake name to such a hot woman? So out come the health membership cards.
See? This here says this is my name.

She still does not believe it. National ids come out!!!! (That was a dumb thing to do!). Small talk. Hey can I have your number?
No, I don't give out my number.

Discouraging, demoralizing, proud even, but honest. Brushing aside my bruised little ego, I look at the whole thing logically and conclude that she did not click with me and probably resents the idea of me going after her. Thats cool. Saves me a lot of agony. Wish more chics could just straight out refuse to give out their number, rather than give a number, then ignore the call. Or give a fake number. Don't be polite. It had just happened minutes ago on the same table.
Hey, kwani your phone is not ringing? Cr*p!

Kamikaze tried his luck after I bowed out. Whichever deity controls romance and all that darting stuff was pissed with him I guess. Can't reject one chic and want another all in the space of one hour. So the fly woman walks off with her buddies.

Where was I? Yes. Digressed a bit there. You see I am feeling fresh now (my hungover has just run out of its term). The doc and Sam' are already gone. More pals have checked in. Moments later, P comes and sits down next to him. His face lights up like a neon sign. She moves to the dance floor - sorry, the space between tables where people dance, and starts grooving. There is such a thing as miracle healing because Kamikaze's knees, professed to suffer the effects of stumping boots, kicks and knockdowns, propel him with amazing speed from his chair to where P is dancing. He does not stop there. He pulls very smooth moves, all signs of earlier knee ailments completely gone. I am impressed. This P is quite the chic. For P Kamikaze will dance. For H, Kamikaze will get knee injuries. It is a beautiful arrangement. I try not to burst into laughter when I see the guy point to his knees and go ..."aaaahhh ai, I can't dance. I have very bad knees. You see ......"

We get plastered.

Effect: I report to work at one. I am telling myself that I will not drink again on Wednesday. I had told myself that last week, but seem to have forgotten somehow.

The receptionist[s]

I check into this firm. There's a lovely lady at the front desk. My day's just been made. Loads of endorphins are being produced. That gorgeous-woman high. I'm having a gigagaga moment. Giga gaga gaga. It's all I can muster. At some point in this interaction, I got to see her strut her stuff up and down the office corridor. <insert appropriate exclamation here>.

There's a certain brightness to her appearance. An eagerness in her smile. An enchantment to her voice. What am I saying. Crazy talk. Anyway. If I was a business owner, I'd go to that firm for any service I needed that they provided. The very next day. Here is my contact. Oh, my mobile [personal] number won't do? Sorry, what was I thinking. Here's my office number. And. Do you have access to email? Yeah? Let me just add mine to the bottom here. Thankfully, I stopped at that, and left.

Same scene, different cast. The leading lady this time wasn't as striking physically, but the way she spoke made her equally captivating. Confident. Pleasant. Apologised 2 mins after the appointment time had come and gone. Who does such a thing.

It's one of the places I'm grateful for an endurance of gender imbalance. Front desk jobs. Makes for a pleasant experience. Perhaps not so much for [straight] female clients/visitors but the world isn't exactly fair anyway. This business of putting stern faced security guards at reception desks is a real dump[er].

Brand knowledge

I have a tendency to get intimidated by stuff I'm unfamiliar with. "I'm an OCP", he declares and respect is immediately established. Afterall, he knows what a tablespace is.

But the more I learn, the more I ask, "Is this it?". The instructor makes a decent effort at teaching the course contents. As I look around though, it hits me that some things can't be taught in one day, or one week. The teacher writes some statement on the board. We all type away and feel happy about ourselves when the command runs successfully. Even more so if we missed out a character first time round and got some terrifying error message. And so the class goes on, to more complex statements.

It's a pity though that most guys don't really understand the mechanics of what they are doing. Faced with a query that's not written on the board for them to type, or for which a template isn't otherwise available, it's a real struggle. It's not their fault. In fact, considering some of their backgrounds, it's admirable the stuff they're able to do after just a couple of days. They'll get certificates indicating their knowledge of this and the other. CVs will declare proficiency in all sorts of things. I wonder what happens when they actually get those jobs.

The instructor, also, can't be expected to get across certain things in the duration given for the course. Will he talk about the intricacies of programming language constructs, or tell you what to type to get certain desired results. He himself probably took the same course so he couldn't help with that anyway. But who cares about concepts. All the boss cares about is results.

I was talking with one of my fellow students. He had indicated in the obligatory introductory session at the start of the class that he had just finished campus. "What were you doing?", I ask. "Computer science". I'm intrigued. "Where?". Such and such university. Interesting. "So, what kind of job would you like to do?". "DBA". Very interesting. "Just Oracle DBs or also stuff like SQL Server?". "Si SQL is part of Oracle". "No. No. No. SQL Server. As in ...". How do I describe what SQL Server is. To a computer science graduate. It doesn't shock me as much anymore this kind of sitution, but I'm still baffled. "Microsoft SQL Server. The Microsoft ...". "Oh, the one for windows...", he cuts me off as some quasi-recognition shows on his face. I don't pursue the issue any further. I'm just glad I didn't have to finish my description. "The Microsoft thingy" was going to be my next attempt at an explanation of what I was talking about. Onto my next question to fresh comp. science graduates. "Would you like to do some programming?". Actually, I don't know why I still ask this question. The answer is always the same. "NO!". Always delivered with such finality. He goes on to proudly declare how he didn't write any code for his final year project. "Good for you". What a pity.

Playing Hockey

No. Its nothing to do with things like table penis or bedmington.
I actually got this excuse once. Playing hockey.

As usual, I was drinking. I ask Miss. P over for a few drinks at the usual. I mean, we are grown people (I think I am), but her reply left me feeling sad. Not primarily because she was not showing up. It was her reason for not being able to. She is in college. Granted, there is sports and stuff. Alot of stuff. I love campus stuff. Anyway. I am thinking that hockey over the weekend is as silly a lie as you can come up with. Perhaps she had used up all other lies. That says more about me than her. She had been out of town severally. Thika, Kisumu, Nyeri. Such like places. Yeah, while still going for class.

I'd much rather hear that you are at home. That you can't be bothered to leave the house. Or I'm out with my buddies. I won't press the issue on the gender of your buddies, they're your buddies.

Once we were supposed to hook up with this same Miss. P. She said she was at Carnivore. One of those New Jack Swing nights. I got all vamped up thinking at last! Finally I can pin her down (and yes I'm insinuating). So I am rallying the troops. Have about 4 dudes at the table. Can't remember who exactly but I'm thinking its the usual suspects. I ask about her company, she says 6 gals. Its my lucky day I think. The boys are good. We can move. I let her know we are moving, Quick Like A Bunny. Good thing we still hadn't budged cause she replies that they've actually left. Apparently one of the buddies got suddenly ill. They're out. I reply that we are at the gates, I can't see you for a minute? Oh no, she says, we left about 5 minutes ago, sorry, another day. I just sat back and continued with the drinks. Peeved? Annoyed? All those. Disappointed? Very much. Again not because we weren't hooking up. The silliness of her manouvering.

It's this being stringed along. Always with the hope that today will be the day. Well, I quit doing that a while back. I think. If we can't lie in the proper manner, then forget it.

Out of town. Hockey tournament. Nuts.

And I think there is this thing about not being where you say you are. Just say where you are!! I'm at winkers. Lets meet there. You show up. Oh, sorry. I haven't got there yet, I'm Ngong Rd. What the #~''@;:. One TallThing used that on me once. Says she is at some club in tao. I say I'm coming over, oh now she is not there. 3 clubs she moved through in the space of 45 minutes. Superwoman.

I'd even prefer you don't reply.

You're screwing with me, right?

Thats what I was thinking. Saturday morning - 5.00 am or so, formerly Friday night.
Lets go back. I know, 0.5 is going like "don't do it man, don't do it!"

Here we go.

Friday evening. Got some quid in my pocket. Thirst in my throat. Airtime on my phone. A few smses and phone calls are tossed around. 0.5 still at work. Sam is meeting someone somewhere. aJamaa is not answering any smses. Later he gives a very poor excuse as to why he can't show up. Thus, its me and the two resident doctors meeting at a club near our offices. Silly traffic jam. Always happens on Fridays. But I'm in no rush. Nothing amazing happens. I get there just as the docs do. We sit down to some organised drinking. Alot of nonesense is said, as usual. One of the doc's gals shows up. I mean one of the gals for one of the docs shows up. We try and keep the stories as useless as possible. Finally doc and his gal have to leave. They do. I'm left with other doc. Other doc has to work real early the next day (still don't understand why he had to leave).

0.5 and two other gang members are already set up elsewhere so I make tracks there. More useless stories. More imbibing. Meanwhile, I have sent out a plethora of smses. The flowery kind, to all and sundry female in my phonebook. I got back one regret, another promise for the next day and plenty of silly replies. I have a whole post on silly replies I've been getting of late. Thus, I was not really set up for any meets that night. Unless I was to meet someone new that day. Yeah right, like thats going to happen I thought. With an attitude like that, its no wonder I didn't meet anyone.

Thus, the gang disbanded and the folks made their ways homewards. 0.5 and I parted ways as I went in search of a cab.

10 maybe 15 steps after leaving 0.5 to his means, I hear an "excuse me".

Hi.
Me: Hi.
Where are you going?
Me: (thats none of your freaking business!! - all that in my head). Home (I say out loud).
Why?
Me: (this is really stupid. Why am I even talking?) Because I'm tired. Its been a long day.
Don't you want to have fun?
Me: Excuse me?
Fun.
Me: Well...I...ahhh...What kind of fun?
Them: Group Sex.
Me: Your kidding right? (its about 5.00 am, its cold. I have images dancing in my head. Mind boggling images. This I never thought of. But I have always been quick to recover.)
Me: What sort of price are we looking at for this fun?
Their spokesperson: No cost.
Me: (not really thinking). Sure. Why not?

I think I have to stop this post here because its all downhill from here on. Lets just say in the end - all of saturday - I am left speechless and in need of psychiatric help. They say talking about it helps. I'm trying.

And I'm not screwing with you.

It was the night before introversion...

I know, thats a stupid title. But, this is how the blog itself started. With stupid titles and posts. Almost 2 years ago. To the date. 27th June 2005. The introverts found a home. A place to extrovert themselves, so to speak (if you think thats a stupid sentence, I refer you to the first three sentences). I should find some time and go through those posts again. How time flies.

The blog has had highs (multiple posts a day from the introverts), it has had lows (no posts whatsoever for months on end - not really, Mr. S and 0.5. have steadfastly contributed).

Anyways, in my corny sentimental way, I figured I'd have to say something on the eve of our second birthday. 2 years of laughs, giggles, tear-jerking stories (wait. Have we had any of those? Unless they were tears of laughter).

Memorable posts. I had thought of getting some of them. That was actually a stupid idea. 2 years of posts and I'm supposed to find a memorable one? I'd end up replicating the blog. You will just have to go over the blog yourselves. They are all memorable.

Thus, I wish you all, introverts and like, a happy birthday. Of course you know this means I am drinking tomorrow. Like I needed a reason. But its nice to have one anyway.

Quick pointer. In June 2005 there were two posts only. Yes from myself. Don't think I have posted anything in eons, thus I shall strive to add another to this one. Its bound to be baseless as I'm only trying to make up numbers.

which way captain?

SO!

Jey is a les**an (yes, that J)! Or bi-sexual. I have always wanted to meet one of those. I was richly rewarded by the revelation. For the life of me I cannot remember how the topic came up, just that suddenly, there it was, like a giant, red rhinoceros in a small room.
J: Did you know that I am bi-sexual?
I: NO KIDDING!
(shock, awe and disbelief spanning for five minutes)
I: So how does that work for you?
J: Its nice.
I: So you touch and lick other girls' boo*ies and stuff?
(Head running riot with imagination)
J: (nonchalantly) Yeah-Duuh!
I: So how is it?
J: Very nice. You see chics know where to touch and what to do ...chics come on to me, so they do some pretty amazing things to please me.
(POOFF -- mind exploding!)
I: So why do you f___ guys?
J: Cause after the prepping and for_play, you are still expecting some thiiing,...
I: And toys?
J: Got those but ....they don't grab, huff, puff and pant. Warmth, and those outrageous lies men tell. Its also good to see guys pull all stops to get some some....so its a kind of a curious thing to see how the guy will turn out ....

Yeah. One crazy jumping bean.

I must have a blazing neon sign on my forehead: Come hither all yee crazy chics out there!

****

I have so many broken systems on my hands that I do not know where to begin. It is so unreal, its like I am having an out of body experience with guys coming to my desk, yelling...
0.5 system A is broken!
0.5 this data is wrong!
where are we on this?
I smile numbly. If I could I would ask them: How many brains and hands do I have?
I have had six meetings this week! I consider it bad when a technical guy like me is attending so many bloody meetings! People drone on endlessly. They are like court proceedings. Usually, we (foot-soldiers) are the accused cause we DO the stuff. Only there is no defence counsel. Sometimes I snarl and feel like pointing at some self-appreciating hob-nob and asking: When was the last time that you actually worked at something? If you drain a guy, you are gonna get indifference.
Is it ready?
No
Why?
There is a lot to do around here.
So when is it going to be ready?
Hard to say.
I need a date.
Could take one day. Or weeks. Its a bug and those are unpredictable and need time.
Next week Monday.
Right.

Old skool is the new hype?

There was a time when you couldn't hear [mid] 90's music anywhere. Unless, of course, you had some tapes. I lost most of mine. It's one of the reasons I don't like extended family that much. None of that good stuff. Nothing that some of us grew up on anyway.

There were all manner of fads and in-things. All sorts of music but little of a really captivating nature. That's how I started listening to reggae. A major shift but the dearth of anything moving made it so much easier. A guy at the office gave me a really nice playlist and there was no turning back. Carni did their thing with New Jack Swing nights. [I've only just discovered [googled] the name isn't some made up marketing gimmick. It's a recognized 'genre'. Who knew] My most memorable of these was when I met the bima chic. There was also the night of the Tropez chic, but carni was interesting that day because virtually the whole bunch of introverts were there, including the 2 resident doctors. I've never really enjoyed any other that I've attended. Not sure why.

Then it became a bit more common hearing that 90's music at the odd pub. On the odd Friday or something. [They probably played it all along; I just don't frequent the bars that often] I always figured that majority of the patronage was of the generation that would fancy those vibes and playing nothing but those hits [and virtually all the music of that period was awesome] wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Now, it's the in thing, playing old skool. Or expressing one's affinity to it. I hear Aaliyah on my way to work [that's when the mat is not tuned to Citizen, traumatizing most everyone in it]. I've watched the Five on it video a couple of times now in several different mats. My local plays superb selection of songs. [I don't often use words like superb] Stuff that really moves me. Well, until around midnight anyway when the younger audience gets their dose of crank, and some of us leave to go home. Oh. They also play bongo flava which I love.

I think it's dawning on people that there's no music being made anymore. And it's not even a generation gap kind of thing. I actually get amused seeing young guys singing along to music that must have been produced way before their pubescent years. [adole as it was called where I came from] I'm reminded of blacktop's declaration of her love for old skool. Well, she did say she was 24.

But if those old folks don't come out of retirement and make some music, we'll be left listening to those songs we grew up with. Not that that would be a terrible thing, but it would be nice to have new stuff to get excited over. Not always looking to the good ol' days. Kwanza did I read that 50 cent had 'retired'. Ati just like Emineme. Ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. Wait. Is he also retired. Somebody will [hopefully] come along and save the situation. Apparently fashion had a really bad decade in the 80's so there's hope. In the meantime, I'll be enjoying riddims.

Mirror Mirror

I was in a lift yesterday. Going down. Actually, I've witnessed the scene quite a few times. A lovely lady [it's always a lady] starts checking herself out in the lift's mirror Patting her hair [I hear a lot about weaves these days. Probably one of those] and stuff, not that it makes a big difference. More straightening, I think of the top this time. Then a slight twist to see how the booty looks. At this point, she's not the only one checking her out. OK. I've been checking her out all along. More in amazement though [and that's what I'm sticking to]. She seems to be oblivious to the fact that I'm standing right next to her, staring. I think she's enjoying it, admiring her reflection. I've noticed the same kind of fascination on the odd night out. Where some kind of mirror is present in the interior decor, you'll find a gal dancing with it as it were. With herself, really loving seeing what she's doing. I've also heard about the dancing in front of a mirror naked thing. Not sure how common that one is. Overall, it seems like gals like to check themselves out. And I totally understand. I like checking them out too. I, however, tend to burst into laughter at the sight of my reflection. And when in a lift, I wait until everyone else is off before turning. Wouldn't want them thinking I'm some mental guy when I let out the hearty chuckle that invariably overwhelms me. There's a mirror in the bathroom but I don't exactly stand there and scrutinize the size of my stomach.

Those jeans

What is a guy meant to do, when a gal says something like "I don't wear underwear, when I wear those jeans". Why would a chic who isn't a [prospective] galfriend offer such information. What are you meant to do with it. You could run with it, but nothing could possibly happen between the two of you. It's probably why she's sharing. So you just stare at her and shake your head, and long for the day you'll see her in those jeans. It's a step in unraveling the mystery though. That's how they manage to fit into those jeans. Part of it anyway. No underwear.

One month

That's the amount of time one TD gave me. From the time I move out to the time I get married. And the marriage would be to a high school, no, primary school dropout.

Can't quite remember the logic behind all this right now. Actually, I can't get past the memory of him handing out flowers [roses?] at the pub that night. And he's not in the flowers or sales industry. What was the guy doing with all those flowers. There's something to it though. That flowers thing. We left the guy at the pub with a newly acquired friend. I don't have sufficient guts to walk into a pub with 2 bunches of flowers of some sort and offer them, or at least attempt to, to the ladies. Some of us will have to stick with "do you come here often" and "can I buy you a drink".

So it made sense at the time. A bit of sense anyway. Something about getting used to living at home and struggling to get to grips to the bachelor's life. That I would be drawn to the first person to shower attention my way. Sprinkle even. True, the first female to press the issue stands a good chance. And I don't have anything against dropouts. Not too hang up on the negative perceptions about that particular label.

It's always terrified me though, the thought of hooking up with someone. Or going gaga about them. Ever since I got asked out on a date in my pre-teen years. If and when I stop doing the running man, one month might be all it takes.

Authorities on men.

0019 Hrs. I am still up. Watching The Dresden Files on my computer. The set is on mute, I am waiting for Saturday comedy hour. Sunday actually, if you want to split hairs. Then this card on Ricki Lake comes up.















Should be interesting. Press space on the machine and unmute. Women who are authorities on men.
Preamble:
There are four women of varying looks on stage for the prosecution.
















Sorry about the picture. The TV is old and my phone camera isn't all that.
For the defense there are 3 dudes. Sorry. No pictures of the dudes. I am totally biased here.
This one is a looker. Wouldn't you agree? Also the most intelligent of them ensemble cast.
















Christine says men are stupid. Profound statement huh?
















And you thought I was imagining stuff
















Spoiled little boys? What can you say to that?
















Its all depressing really.

Wow they have started talking. Quick now, I get a pencil and paper. I want to get this right. It seems, they all have rules. Rules of engagement if you will. Here is a list. It is not exhaustive, they are talking too fast for my pencil (plus my mind is freezing at some of the suggestions).

• Only date men with money
• Cook dinner in the nude
• Always have an erotic imagination
• Be willing to be freaky in bed
• Don't pump up a man's ego
• Treat men like the dogs they are
• Do not display fondness or interest
  

And when done with the poor bloke, to speedily get rid of him: -

• Wear rollers to bed
• Ridicule his pen*s. Or more precisely the size of his pen*s. [I am going to go on a limb and say what they probably mean is tell the guy he has a weeny, tiny pen*s]
• Start talking marriage [that WORKS!]
• Start talking about getting kids
• Be very possessive
• Demand expensive gifts
  

Ahh. Another wimp has walked in. He has come to confirm that indeed there are women who are authorities on men based on his past relationship with one of the women on the set.

Time for those skills to meet the road. They say the testing of a pie is in eating it. So they bring on this lab rat. This guy....
















who throws a spanner into all the moves and pick-up lines. Apparently the all time favourite is ..."hi, I seem to have forgotten my [object], can I borrow some of yours?"

The women in the audience were not impressed. They hit hard at the four women, all lyrical about independence, compatibility, self-respect and other buzz words. I have had my laugh. Comedy is here.

0116 Hrs. Still no report. My grammar seems to evaporate when it comes to that. Elizabeth Taylor on TCM. That chic was a looker back in the days. I will wait for inspiration.

Parting Shot: Some of the most demanding and most obnoxious women don't have much to offer.
















Guys, we might have to look for another planet to inhabit. This one has become too hostile.

Saturday.

I had forgotten how nice it was to just sit at your digs on a Saturday night; The doc is supposedly celebrating his girl's birthday. Meanwhile, I was being pounded by a 500 metre rain. Both movies on TV suck. On NTV is The Beach. On KTN is some Brad Pitt movie where he plays Henrik, an Austrian. Cr*p. There is no plot.

All is not lost though. Just read a momentous piece in The Nation. Clay Muganda. The gist of the story is: Your heart cannot be broken unless you allow it. Touche.

That being said, I cannot for the life of me understand why people read inspirational books. I have met many folks who have read "Rich Dad, Poor Dad". They are still poor. You do not need to fork out some shillings so that some bloke can tell you "you are strong! Believe in yourself!" There is only one book for inspiration (among other things). It is called The Bible. Haven't read a single line of the Quran (or the Hindu holy book), so I have no expertise there.

Ahhhh well. Back to work. Reports. Recommendations. Awwwful. Is there anyone who enjoys filing reports? Or reading them?

Strangers in the night

I am quite the actor, as Kamikaze can tell you. I am in my element when I want to get rid of female company and they are blissfully ignorant, by either accident or design. From changing states (sober to drunk) like a flip-flop, to practically looking sick and about to throw up. I have traversed the spectrum.

Why do these talents have to be called upon? There is this woman who refuses to understand that what we have - had, is a casual affair, one night stands on many nights, a convenient f____g arrangement, as I have come to read on some sites. Perhaps she desires to change me. Win me over or something like that. I refuse to be won over. But I want some....ok I don't think I will be entertaining her again. So I asked in the manner one might ask for the salt shaker in a common dining hall:
Do you wan't to f__k?
Yeah, no problem.
How much more dry and dusty can it get? A guy who is romantically interested would take you to dinner, movies, find you a nice pair of all those ridiculous shoes women wear, sing poetry and recite verses.

Yet she comes to my digs one day bearing food.
FOOD!
Luckily for me I don't open the door. She is vexed. Causes a tantrum next time I find her in the pub. Conversation goes like:
Her:I came to visit you on Sunday, I knocked on your door but no one opened.
I:May be I was not there. Why didn't you call?
Her: Where were you?
I:I have no idea. Can't remember.
Her: I will call next time.
I: No, don't come.
Her: Why?
I: Do you hear me asking to come visit your digs?
I was pretty pissed that she had decided to ambush me like that.

So on a random Friday, I enter my favorite haunt and see her at the corner. Slight nod. I figure I am not in the mood for female company. She comes over. I pull out the thoroughly-exhausted act. After a few monosyllabic answers from me, she finals asks:
Kwani you don't want to talk to me?
No, not really. I reply.
FINE! She storms off.

Me and my pal Tiidii get plastered and stagger out. Music is boring anyway. Winkers it is. Looking for cheap thrills. By beer one the phone is ringing. It is the woman from earlier.
Hi. Where are you?
My local.
Just chill I am coming to join you.
whaddhafaack?
No. Are you insane? Its 2 AM.
Click. she disconnects. Another pint and we are ready to move. I arrive at the stage and I am just about to check into the mathree...whoa! She is in the freaking vehicle ready to march on to my "local". She is surprised to see me. She steps out speedily, yelling at the same time.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, I THOUGHT YOU WERE AT YOUR LOCAL, WHY ARE YOU LYING TO ME?
Tiidii takes one look at the scene and takes off laughing.
Why are you following me?
Cause I want to be with you .......blah blah blah...
She unleashed an uninterrupted 5 minutes of that gut-wrenching s__t that can give you a brain aneurysm if you are not careful and filter it out. People are looking now, amused or amazed. Can't tell the difference.
After an eternal five minutes during which I had travelled to a distant galaxy, I was back just in time to hear ARE WE GOING OR NOT? yelled in my ear.
WHAT? Hell no. She walked off.

The next day I sent an SMS. Hi. We can't do that screwing thing that we usually do anymore. You frighten me. I might do something stupid or you might. So. Bye.

She said something just as nasty.

Well, its all over now.

What the fuss?

That was my reaction after reading some column in the paper the other day. For a guy who doesn't read newspapers, I sure seem to be referring to them a lot.

This particular columnist [lass] was going on about how much fun she had and how she'd been blown away by some guy she danced with on some night out. Or who danced with her. A lot of things went through my mind. A lot of questions. How old was she? There's a degree of enthusiasm that can only be associated with youth. Had she never danced with someone before? The experience, from her account, was definitely profound. Had it just not happened in a while? These days people don't really go out to dance. That's the impression I get at least. And maybe it's because age has caught up with most of us. But I see so many young people content to sit and drink away, dancing to the odd song only as a by the way. I remember being on the dance floor all night on numerous occasions in first year. Dancing to all songs on offer. Until they started playing blues that is, when I had to leave. It's a bit tricky grooving to those slow ballads without female company. Although I have done it once. It's a pity though seeing youngsters going out dancing in pubs, having to watch not to knock over the table as they do their thing. Not that I haven't been known to do this myself.

Anyway. I found it a bit sad that it was something so extraordinary that she danced with some guy, not dirty dancing or grinding that loads of women apparently don't like, and didn't exchange numbers or hook up in the course of the night or after. He must have been a decent dancer but getting your groove on with some guy and have it as just that can't be that out of this world, can it. That's the kind of thing that makes my Saturday night. I didn't get Vanilla's number. Or slow wind Grace. Or a host of other people I've enjoyed a song or two with, without saying a word. You do your thing and go home, and life is wonderful.

A gal dancing all by herself does tug at my heart though. A gal should never have to dance alone. Not unless she wants to of course. I for one don't grab someone like the guy in this particular story did. Then again from her reaction, I probably should. I can see how that would be attractive.

It's probably what a guy needs. What I need. Someone to dance with. [I think I first saw the concept on some other blog]. Not necessarily a galfriend, or a shrink. That would be really cool.

Dreads and Double DDs

There's this time I was in the company of a couple of women who declared their inclination towards guys with dreadlocks. Not a revelation as such. These types are chic magnets [apparently 0.5 knows a thing or two about magnets]. Was never quite sure what it was that made women give them that look. The look that said they were totally taken by them. The look that said "take me". Take me now". What made women throw themselves at them, literally. The guys never seemed to put in much effort. No romantic moves or humorous quips. Sure, I was jealous. I wanted to be them. But intrigue was far more powerful than envy. What was it exactly. What was the nature of their beacon. Well, a beacon by definition can't be explained.

All this was brought to the fore of my mind as I was reading [skimming?] through a newspaper the other day. An article by the same guy who talked about geeks making better mates. I like that column. The guy made a mention of [straight?] women being attracted to masculine men. OK. That sounds rather dumb [duh] when I say it. The point I think was that there's some instinctive, primordial, hard coded attraction for women towards masculinity. The more the better? Although he did also mention that [straight?] women fancy female bodies just about as much as the male form. I think I've remembered the the real reason this article interested me so. So much for the metrosexual. No wonder dreadlocked dudes have to beat the women off with sticks. Loads of hair has got to be as primeval a feature as one is going to get. Anyway, macho is a term used before for this masculinity. If you're oozing machismo, you're set.

What is good for the goose, of course, is good for the gander. Men fancy feminine women. Although I'm not sure where my finding of women with short hair hot puts me. And not every guy likes big busted [bootyed] women. I guess they are the exception that proves the rule.

Powerful forces at work. A host of defaults in the game of attraction.