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Thursday, December 24, 2009

Write Now: Sick Cycle Carousel

NOTE: So, I'd love to be writing more fiction, but time won't give me time like my name was Boy George. In 2010, I plan to drop fresh installments of The Messenger on your brain while also getting two big announcements in the field of content, if all goes well. I don't like talking much about stuff I can't really reveal, since I feel that's like a "coming soon" page on a website -- ambition outstripping ability. I like to be productive and actually create.

Luckily, I still have much smaller ideas, like this one, which come out as microfiction and I can lob over the wall of the web like a grenade. This piece is brand spanking new, born from an idea I had absently while standing in my bedroom. Super early draft, hope you like it, and I hope to work on it further.
Gray clouds hung low over Burbank as a Boeing 737 lazily drifted west towards the airport. Below, Liz -- a bespectacled Asian woman with round cheeks, a shy smile and the hint of her second child still haunting her midsection -- walked along with Lindsey, her co-worker. Lindsey was crowned with a plume of blondish brown hair, the circular frames of her glasses poking out from beneath her bangs. Both wore puffy dark 3/4 length jackets as they strolled the pathways of the corporate park that held their place of employment, and scarves knitted by Liz's sure hand clung close to their necks.

Lindsey took a long drag from the Natural American Spirit cigarette in her petite left hand, the tan line from where her wedding ring sat just six months before still showing, her other hand jammed deep into a jacket pocket, and blew the smoke straight up away from the two of them.

"Those things aren't any safer than regular cigarettes," Liz admonished sadly.

"I'm doing a half-pack of these a day instead of a pack and a half of Virginia Slims," Lindsey shrugged, a brush of wind pushing aside the unguarded end of her jacket and showing off the slim waist that three children and twenty years since leaving her mother's Alabama home hadn't managed to alter. "Isn't that progress?"

Liz shook her head sadly, the suede-shod footfalls of her boots falling into line next to Lindsey's New Balance sneakers on the gray twisting sidewalk. "You're gonna worry me to death one of these days," the younger woman said sadly.

"With all the layoffs in IT, let me have my little pleasures, willya?" Lindsey said tiredly. "We work in internet marketing, so it's way easier to let us go than people who run the machines." Looking forgivingly at Liz's downturned face, she softened her tone. "Look, honey, I'll quit as soon as the economy stops making me worry about my mortgage, okay?"

They walked a few more feet, approaching two men sitting on a stone bench, one positioned precariously on the back of the seat, while another man spoke to the one seated higher from a standing position. The man speaking -- a shaven headed Black man built like a football player but wearing a burnt orange shirt with a black tie -- gestured as he spoke, and the man seated lowest chuckled as the conversation went on. The third man -- spiky red hair and a natty Van Dyke underneath his rakish smile, a cigarette tucked behind his right ear -- seemed to be less interested in what was being said to him and more intent on following the curve of Lindsey's tights up her lithe leggings and towards the hem of her coat.

"... not just a jerk, you're like the king of the jerks!" the Black man said as they came into earshot. "When other jerks look for leadership, they just pick up their cell phone and you're pre-programmed in as the first entry on their speed dial! You can't just leave a girl at the mall because she wanted to share your fries, Dave! That's just not ..."

As they walked on, the Black man's voice fell away and Lindsey glanced back to see the redhead still checking her out.

"Can you believe that?" Liz asked, shocked. "Some guys just can't act right ..."

"Uh huh ..." Lindsey returned absently, considering for a moment. Throwing down her cigarette and grinding it with her toe, she said, "Listen, you go on ahead, I'm gonna go back and bum a fresh smoke from that Dave guy, be right back ..."

Without another word, she started walking back towards the stone bench. Liz slumped her shoulders slightly and sighed, twisting her wedding ring on her hand, and went after her friend to make sure she didn't do anything too stupid ...

Playing (Music): "Nothing On You" by B.O.B. feat. Bruno Mars

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The Waiting Game

As you may know, my wife and I are waiting for the birth of our new daughter.

After looking at calendars and astrological charts, we determined that given the current mix in our home (I'm a Capricorn/Aquarius, my wife's a Libra and my stepdaughter's a Capricorn) the best thing we could do would be to bring a Sagittarius home. While we love our current daughter's Capricorn energies, we were worried that two in one house would lead to open conflict. So we calendared and planned and ... uh, did what it takes and got the baby into development.

However, our little Ella Simone has her own ideas. The deadline for being a Sag came and went as she rested comfortably and happily in my wife's belly (which has still allowed some amusement). What's been funniest is the repetitive nature of conversations around us ...
Have you had the baby yet?

Aren't you late?

Is the baby all right?

How's your wife feeling?

Will you guys induce?

Isn't it time to do something?

Let me (personally) know when you know something.
As I've turned ignoring people into high art, I barely noticed this until this week. However, my wife has been inundated by this sort of thing, even as they see she's perfectly fine, talking to them and there's a baby inside her stomach. Her voice mail has been changed to reflect this, and it's way too hilarious for me to try to recreate, but it's worth it. This is a moment where privacy and solitude, meditation and reflection are needed, and apparently the intrusive wondering of even the best intentioned can screw with the vibe.

In any case, we wait. There's plans with the midwives we're working with (want a word to screw with your brain? "Midwifery," pronounced "mid-whiff-er-ee" -- sounds wrong no matter how people use it). If there's something to know, my Twitter feed will have the first word of it. "No gnus is good gnus," as the puppet once said. In the mean time, the management apologizes for any inconvenience caused by silent running.

Hang on ... this just handed to me ... apparently Friday signifies some kind of pagan-adapted holiday for people all over the western world. In the past, I'd have had to spew bile all over and pee in the corn flakes of such celebrants. This year? It's a recession. We're all doing what we can. If that gives you some kind of joy and maybe makes people be a little bit less of a douchebag to somebody, well, that's okay in my book. Festivus, Kwanzaa, or whatever you celebrate (or don't) in the privacy of your life, I wish you the best moving past this solstice into brighter days and a new year (if you're on the same calendar as I am).

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Playing (Music): "Rag Doll" by Aerosmith

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Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Write Now: This Is Not Power

Before the family got home, I saw a tweet from writer Aliya S. King that said, "Write something NOW. Continue from last night. Or not. Do something that comes out of you at THIS moment. email it 2 me ..." So I did. This is what came out, first draft, no editing, as wife and child came in the door and I cleaned up for the evening.
"I stand in your fire and laugh!"

Neil held in his intestines by more will than any physical endeavor, although his left arm stayed close to his lean, bleeding abdomen while his right hand held the katana almost like an afterthought, its blade broken at the tip. Threads from his frayed blue sweater blew in the breeze of battle.

The Alabaster Prince chuckled mere yards away, a broadsword swinging in an arc, passed between his hands, his chalk white armor unmarred save some tiny flecks of dust along the boots. Neil's spellcasting had scorched the ground around the warlord, and fires lit in the sky still burned, but the enemy was undeterred.

"This ... is not power ..." Neil managed, his brown lips dry and cracking. Breathing heavily, he tried to stand upright, show some defiance, but slumped into leaning on the broken sword, stuck into the ground.

"Still steeped in the confidence of complacency," the Prince laughed, his booming voice like a slap in the face. "You were so sure, weren't you? Now, you will die like your forefathers before you."

Baring hungry white teeth, the Alabaster Prince stepped forward with his right foot and never even saw the ward carved in the ground beneath the ashes. Without another word, he was flash frozen into a monument of ice, a man shaped statue.

"Know the field of battle ..." Neil coughed, blood spraying from his open mouth, "... asshole."

Without another word, Neil fell over at the Alabaster Prince's feet and bled silently as the skies returned to a shade of blue.

Playing (Music): "In Your Head" by Jason DeRulo

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Parks and Miscreation

the event flyer ... ooh, professional-looking!  Or, conversely, not ...
The following is an email I sent to some representatives of Councilmember Bernard Parks, regarding the events of November 30th at the 8th Council District's Leimert Park Tree Lighting ceremony.I emailed it and then thought, "you know what, this'd make a funny blog ..." So here goes ...

ATTENTION:
Christine Dixon (Christine.Dixon@lacity.org)
William Stelly (William.Stelly@lacity.org)
Ta-Lecia Arbor (Ta-Lecia.Arbor@lacity.org)

I am writing in regards to concerns I had about last night's event. I spoke with Ms. Arbor this afternoon via phone, and decided that a verifiable email was much better for my sense of decorum than phone calls.

After arriving at the stroke of 6PM, I was pleasantly surprised to see the event starting by 6:08 -- for our community, that's downright speedy. However, there were a number of elements I can only characterize as "unprofessional," elements which created great consternation amongst would-be participants and voters. I'm sure that it's wonderful that people contributing to the community on the level of "Little Peewee" or a representative from Tower General Contractors or the "I've never seen a microphone I didn't like, I don't care that people hate the parking meters I forced into Leimert Park, and by the way I beat Bernard Parks in an election like he stole something hahaha" stylings of Mark Ridley-Thomas got their chance to come up on stage and speak at length about ... well, honestly, I lost interest, I couldn't tell you what they were talking about. In any case, while these people (and more deathly dry speakers) got their time, uninterrupted and unabbreviated, some of the people specifically asked to perform had less of a chance. I'm sure it's a wonderful sentiment that Mercedes Robinson York, a vocalist of the rarefied level of quality seen in every Black church within a 100 mile radius, had to stop her performance to summon a swarm of children to sit in front of the stage and listen to her working through the less-than-equalized sound system (interesting that the speakers on stage right stopped working after the Charger cheerleaders did the first of two dance routines). That made so big a difference.

No, my concerns are not about the lackluster sound, the overbearing individuals speaking on stage nor even the idea that the tree lighting had to be moved up because a hired Santa wanted to leave and do something else. No no no, this is new business.

The Lula Washington Dance Studio was invited to present, and as such asked the families who constitute its audience of supporters to make sacrifices to help this happen. I, for example, have a five year old stepdaughter (she'll be six in January) named [STEPDAUGHTER'S NAME REDACTED, LET'S CALL HER MOOCH], whose taken classes and been a regular fixture at Lula's, in the heart of the 8th District, since before she could walk. She got an expensive and thin white dress (not great for handling the elements) and went with my pregnant wife (she's due in 12 days, thanks for asking) and came dutifully down to the event. I drove all the way from Pasadena (after the closing of the Los Angeles Herald-Dispatch, where I was editor-in-chief for six years, I went to work as a website producer for Kaiser Permanente) to Leimert Park for a chance to lose feeling in my fingers and see our little girl perform.

Did I mention our daughter loves to perform? Taking classes in multiple disciplines, Lula herself has spotlighted the talented little angel more than once. My wife -- bereft of sleep due to the discomforts of pregnancy and nursing an aching hip -- still stood out in the cold, for more than an hour (the six o'clock hour's normally family dinner time, especially on Mondays) while waiting on Mooch's performance. We don't even celebrate Christmas, and the idea of these adaptations of Pagan ceremonies repulses us. Supporting the efforts of the LWDS, however, is important to us, so there we were, alongside five other families sitting in the first two rows, anxiously awaiting a chance to photograph or videotape their children celebrating the holiday season.

However, my wife was told by a sister with "a short natural" (Ms.Dixon, perhaps? I was in the front row of the audience, just north of the aisle, so I didn't know the backstage shenanigans), "We're going to have to cut you guys short." Parents from those five other families, some of whom drove long distances and braved the elements just to see their kids? Bright eyed grade schoolers anxious to show off their hard work, work they were invited to display?

The sentiment they received -- intended or not -- was, "Yeah, screw all that."

My question, then, is to know whether or not this -- unprofessional show management and disrespect of the time of constituents -- is indicative of the policies of Councilmember Parks' organization. Not for any specific reason, mind you. I'm not the sort of person who'd pick up the phone to call my old friends in editorial at the LA Times, the LA Weekly, or any of the producers I've had drinks with at KJLH or KTLA and say, "you know, this kind of mismanagement of resources and abuse of children's spirits in a season of hope should be reported on." It's not as though I'd use the video and studio equipment I have on hand to produce anti-Parks podcasts and video spots for YouTube, starting a guerrilla campaign against him. I'm not that kind of vengeful. Anymore. No, this is simply good information to have on hand, that if the representative of a community that's been home for me since I first took the #38 bus west down Jefferson from USC to come to the late, lamented Good Life Health Food Centre, and graduated to move specifically to an apartment on Potomac in what some refer to as "The Jungles," puts forth such policies through his staff ... well, I for one would like to know that sort of thing.

Now, you can save your limp apologies and invitations to bring my daughter out for some opportunistic photo op -- I know the game all too well and I have no interest in subjecting M'ma-Syrai to that level of grubby politicking (unless that's what she one day decides to do, spirit bless her). I simply believe that when children and families are concerned, maybe some consideration to their logistical and emotional involvement should be taken before, oh, I dunno, Little damned well Peewee and Mark Ridley-freaking-Thomas (who, by the way, hates Bernard Parks, fun fact). Perhaps tax payers and future voters before, oh, I dunno, some white guy in a suit (who, fun fact, mispronounced the name "Leimert Park" -- way to give a damn there, pal). These are just thoughts I had, based on the numbers I have here.

I don't mean to imply sour grapes, but the situation has too many instances of ... oddness to it. The parents who came to Leimert last night didn't ask for this "opportunity" to have their scions perform. Lula's students know the stage at the Luckman like the back of their hand, know the stage entrances for the Henry Ford with their eyes closed. A makeshift wheeled platform across from a Starbucks doesn't give them any warm fuzzy feelings inside. However, if my wife has to come home crying and emotionally write a blog (like this) ... well, that means our daughter has a bad night, and then my wife has a bad night, which in turn makes me have a bad night.

I don't like to have bad nights, especially at the fault of something as capricious as this.

As a recommendation (uninvited I know, but since we're here), in the future, as well as performing something as rudimentary as a sound check so the speakers don't give out mid-show (I used to work as a club DJ and karaoke host, so I know a little bit about the technology, and given the sharpness of the equalization whenever KJLH's Adai Lamar let out one of her ear-piercing cackles, I know the equipment was not up to the job nor configured properly), how about leaving the production of the event to someone who's actually successfully run an on-time show. Think of it as providing jobs in the community. I could even give you some names, if you're in a pickle. Also, perhaps have all the acts with young children go first, so Santa can get back to whatever ramshackle bar he calls home (I did think he looked familiar from the Family Room, but it's pretty dark in there) before the end of happy hour and nobody goes home crying. Just some thoughts.

I appreciate your time and attention, and hope we don't see this sort of thing at future events ... it might make some feel more inclined to behave in older ways.

Sincerely,
Hannibal Tabu
December 1, 2009

Playing (Music): "Your Sweetness" by The Good Girls
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