soapbox: the hannibal tabu blog

"... fame, fame, fatal fame ..."

2010-03-10T17:30:00.000-08:00

As part of my ongoing preparation to be the keynote speaker for Blogworld 2012 (joined on stage by Erick Sermon and introduced by Jenny "The Bloggess" Lawson ... what? It has to be true, it's on the internet already), I agreed to be the subject of a new interview at a site called Blog Interviewer.

You're probably asking yourself, "What the hell do I care?" Well, this part is what is considered a call to action for you: If you'll note, there's a voting button (thumbs up/thumbs down) in the upper left hand corner, and it will enhance my prestige and therefore help in making an all-around more interesting presentation. Plus, it takes all of two seconds to vote and confirm, no giving them your email or what not.

Vote for Hannibal Tabu's Soapbox as an awesome blog! DO IT!

So, if you'd be so kind as to click here and VOTE for me (and my blogs -- it actually represents The Soapbox and The Hundred and Four, so it's like two votes jammed into one), I'd be ever so grateful.

Playing (Music): "I'm You" by Ne-Yo

Not my smartest move ...

2010-03-08T02:10:00.000-08:00

It's 2:11 AM as I start typing this.

I just got done writing a major and difficult scene for my third novel. I've been all over Google Maps, keeping my eye on a TGIF and a building in Tokyo, Japan (see the photo, courtesy of Nikuyakun) and outlining action scenes in my head. I got to a huge plot point and backed the material up. I feel good about it.

It could be years before I can explain why I was so interested in this picture
(Photo by Nikuyakun)

However, it's 2:11 AM and the sink's full of dirty dishes, and oh, yeah, I'm out of wash cloths and jeans, so I'm headed to the 24 hour laundromat down the street. I have to be at work in less than seven hours.

I could blame one element of my life being two hours late, making me sleepy and throwing me off of my rhythm, but my little girl let me sleep until 10AM today, which went largely without interruption given that the wife and baby are out of town. I should know better, basically, and should have worked more quickly.

But I didn't. So tonight's gonna be a long night. Bygones.

Playing (Music): "Go Crazy" remix by Krave feat. Lil Jon, Flo-Rida and Pitbull

NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...

Macaulay Culkin

2010-03-06T19:03:00.000-08:00

The pitter patter of lacksadaisical raindrops beat against the windows of my apartment as I sit in strange solitude. My wife and our two-month-old baby are hundreds of miles away, surprising an old friend and celebrating with another. It's the longest I've gone without seeing the new life we put together, and the first separation of more than a half day for me and the wife in a month of Sundays.

She's probably tossing her head back in laughter with people who knew her before she was legal, and I'm chilling (not literally -- I started running the heat the second she left and never looked back). The beloved stepdaughter was my road dawg today, as we experimented with music making, sculpted in clay and took her to a capoeira class. She's getting ready for bed and Hulu awaits me while I sit and listen to the rain and write until I'm ready to sleep.

Once upon a time, this kind of night was de rigeur -- the soft light of a single lamp and some gun-wielding entertainment the accompaniment to the sound of my brain churning out copy. Now, it's weird, like a throwback Jon Kitna Seahawks jersey, a reminder of "glory days" that weren't really anything to write home about.

Tomorrow, Mooch's dad picks her up and I'll have the house to myself, with laundry to complete and dishes to put away before the family starts its week in earnest. Now, she wants to read Diary of a Wimpy Kid in anticipation of the big screen adaptation before her 8PM bedtime comes down like Mjolnir, and I'm happy for the company, suddenly uncomfortable in the space that's taken up most of my life. Hopefully a deluge of writing, coding, TV and games will get me through tomorrow.

"... and to all a good night ..."

Playing (Music): "God Put A Smile Upon Your Face" by Coldplay

NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...

People Everyday (plus a round up of what else is going on)

2010-02-08T11:49:00.000-08:00

The Aeron chair reclines easily, the lumbar support just beneath the swing of my shoulder blades, and another workday moves by with glacial surety. Two bright rectangles beam light at my glasses-framed face, while a third dark rectangle waits for me to figure out what to do with it. Super Bowl memories drift in from neighboring "bull pens" where corporate-minded suits converse, vying with the tapping of computer keys and the incessant clicking of mice (digital, not rodents).

The sixth person I know tells me, " I know you are on a social media sabbatical, but Facebook is not the same without you." I chuckle, oddly noting that Twitter was harder to kick, given it ability to supply me with new data and new reference points. No, I'm right in believing that I need the time to cut external input for a while, give my own processes time to marinate and mix before unleashing the next salvos of content on an unsuspecting world. Oddly enough, I already know what my first tweet will be when I'm back on January 20, 2011 ... and I may tell somebody, if asked properly.

I have a bit of an addictive personality, so I've switched a fraction of the energy that used to go into incessantly checking my status updates to Google Reader, which is ironic given some of the ways I've been talking about the Mountain View company these days. Google has, however temporarily, given me tools to maintain some of my broadcast desires during my sabbatical -- I used to keep a lengthy text file full of links for my own reference on an SD card, but with the demise of my last smartphone that's been harder, and here's Google Reader to help me keep track of these weird links, and in public too. Who knew?

To be honest, given how twitchy Facebook Mobile was getting in making me log in twice to see my notifications, it's a little harder to miss than open-armed Twitter, which often held a less fleeting degree of discourse. Not to say I don't miss the good features of sharing on Facebook, but it's a more distant ache. Oddly enough, not even three weeks into the vacation from social networking, I barely feel the twinge, and I'm even able to walk away from my nicotine patch-esque applications of email and Google Reader for long stretches of time on the weekend. Who knows how uninformed -- and productive -- I'll be in a few months?

I can't wait to find out.

In other news, here's what I've been doing that you might have missed:

- My lengthy blog against cloud computing where I come down hard on Android phones, non-local productivity apps, distributed entertainment media and the idea of trusting somebody else to babysit your stuff.
- Every week I do comic book reviews for this site called Comic Book Resources, and I post commentary tracks almost every week after I've had a little more time to reflect, adding back stories and what have you.
- Finally published a long-forgotten blog giving my position on abortion.
- As noted, I'm sharing links with Google Reader so you can see where my mind is going. Hm, I gotta include that link on the front page of my website ...

C'est fini.

Playing (Music): "Dream Shatterer" by Big Pun, who died ten years ago yesterday

NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...

That looks familiar ...

2010-02-05T15:31:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite columnists is Jon Carroll of the San Francisco Chronicle. From politics to the circus, dinner parties to rock and roll, his writing knows no bounds and he can do things inside of 600 words that can make your head spin. He's lived an amazing life and has great stories to tell with a great perspective.

However, he is not for all people. For example: he often writes columns about his cats. I hate the columns about his cats. I never read them anymore, even though I'll admit some grander truths sometimes lie within. I just can't make myself do it. I hate cats and I hate cat columns. Carroll recognizes this, and often warns readers who hate his cat columns (and there are a number of them, sometimes vocal) before he leaps into things.

I think I'm gonna be that way about parenting. I'm going to write about it. Sure, I'll still write about technology and flash fiction and comic books and what have you, but fatherhood and husbandhood will slip in. This may not be what some of my readers are here for, but to be honest, I'm writing more for me than anything, to get this stuff out of my head (stories and all). So lump it if you don't like it. Here's another parenting bit:

Remember when I said that my new daughter Ella does this weird thing, where she puts her thumb between her middle and index finger, just like I did when I was little? I would sit like that, sometimes sucking the thumb through the fingers but more often not. Well, here's what the latest iteration looks like ...

Just like me ...
Photo by Supa Sista Designs

She does it mostly when she's hungry, but that's what her version looks like. Funny, to this day, I still find the gesture comforting. Weird coincidence ... but a remarkable one.

Playing (Music): "Daddy's Home" by Usher

NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...

Cloud Cover: This is probably my fault ...

2010-02-04T13:11:00.000-08:00

Given how much time I spent developing my case against cloud computing and talking about Google and their momma, I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised when I saw this ...

Google will no longer allow FTP publishing on its Blogger service beginning March 26.

Hh. What a coincidence. I use FTP to publish both of my blogs (including this one), through Google's Blogger service (I started last year, after resisting blogging engines for a long time and only using MySpace's blog because I used to be very active there). I set up a client site and even my wife's blog that way, because I believe people should run their own servers (and I'm no fan of Google's hosting).

That said, I like lots of things about Google. The search engine's top notch, the Google Reader has helped me organize my info gathering (and sharing it, as seen on the Hundred and Four pages). Their efforts to get further into my life, however ...

So now they're striking back. Oh, sure, it's likely not a personal move against me -- I'm not that much of a narcissistic megalomaniac to think they spotlighted me for this -- but the time and energy I'm gonna have to put into integrating Tumblr or (heaven forbid) Wordpress into my own site ... gah, it makes my sphincter tighten.

Yes, I appreciate the irony of having a cloud-based link feed (which is as much a set of bookmarks for me as anything else) and posting this "stop hitting me, Google" blog through Google's blogger engine. Such is life in the future -- wrapped in irony and smothered by circumstance. Another project for my disturbingly brief weekend work time ...

Playing (Music): "Jump" by Paul Anka from his Rock Swings project

NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...

The Night Shift

2010-01-28T17:01:00.000-08:00

My daughter Ella was, at best, reluctant to join us out here in what we laughingly refer to as society. Twenty days past her due date, a Cuban surgeon pulled her from a blood-covered incision in my wife to bring this diaphanous angel to us, still enjoying the protection of vernix and fairly a little surprised to be sucking down oxygen with the rest of humanity while 2009 was still churning on down the tachyon-strewn road of time.

She's still not adjusted to what most people consider a normal circadian rhythm. She sleeps about eighteen hours a day, but sometimes chooses to make the waking hours in the dead of the night. "Just like her father," my brain tossed up at 3:30 AM one night, remembering the years and years of nocturnal activity, sitting up writing or watching Star Trek reruns, navigating the digitally hazy streets of Vice City or simply staring into the crisp void of a blackened sky. Unfortunately, many nights this burden falls on my wife, who wakes up to breastfeed our littlest girl and try to comfort the furrowed brow back to something resembling slumber.

Fun side fact: when I was little, I'd place my thumb between my index and middle finger a lot, sometimes sucking it, sometimes just sitting around with my hand that way. Turns out that whenever she's hungry or eating, Ella does the same. Weirdest damned thing. Wonderful, though.

Somebody's not ready to sleep just yet ...

However, there are nights when my wife can't take it, and I gladly leap into service. I have, as many would suspect, a method. Since Ella responded to both motion and me singing very, very early, I set up my wife's iPod docking station next to my black leather recliner in the living room -- a wide open expanse of hard wood and earth tones -- I tended to cradle Ella in the crook of my arm, parallel to the floor, and "walk it out."

"... cause you know, I can't live without my radio ..."

Moving slowly but rhythmically, I moved in a lazy oval (I learned sharp turns slowed down her path to sleep) around the living room, often singing in a low voice so there was less concern about my voice carrying (very different from my karaoke hosting days) and more about the vibrations of my voice in my torso, sticking to my lower register as much as possible. I have literally sang every song I know to this girl -- "As" by Stevie Wonder, "The Scientist" by Coldplay, "My Girl" by the Temptations, "Smile Like You Mean It" by The Killers, "Raspberry Beret" by Prince, "Alone" by Heart, "Hold My Hand" by Sean Paul and Keri Hilson, plus so many more -- and learned that I know far fewer songs by heart than I thought I did (rap songs, sadly, didn't do anything for her). If the music's playing, even an instrumental, sure, I can pick up the thread and sing probably fifty or sixty songs ... but in the silent coolness of a winter night, sleep-addled size twelve slippers treading along a hardwood floor, my knowledge is considerably less comprehensive.

Hence the iPod. At first, I had music playing through my phone's earpiece as I sang along (which immediately upped the number of songs I could pull off geometrically) but I realized the ambient nature of the sound helped, as Ella was used to the swishing and sloshing of her mother's innards performing their duties, sustaining life, and the unnatural quiet of the world was sensory deprivation that distracted.

"Why not just sing the same songs over and over?" Good question. The answer: I tried that. Much like her father (again), hearing the same song (or even snippets of the same song, as "Hard" by Rihanna got stuck in my head for almost a week, and I kept interpolating riffs of that, which made her live up to her nickname, Fuss) too often can annoy. Her sister Mooch? That girl can hear the same song, over and over, for ... heck, probably days on end, and she's fine with it. Mooch drove my wife nuts with "We Will Rock You" because it's on some commercial ... which I didn't realize until after I put it on Mooch's playlist in my iPod.

But we digress ...

So there I am, mostly after 3AM (and unfortunately often on nights before I have to work in the morning), I've been making my orbit of empty space, humming and singing along to mostly jazz, slower alternative rock and soul music. As Ella settles down, I am not so confident I could safely lay her back down in the bassinet (sp?) and get back in bed without taking precious moments of rest from my wife. I've found it easier to just grab a couple of these "throw" blankets populating the living room, sit down in the recliner, prop a pillow under whichever elbow is supporting Ella's head, lean the chair back and keep humming until I fall asleep myself. My phone nearby (and Mooch waking up and wandering in as sunlight sneaks through the blinds) has kept me from dangerously oversleeping so far, and I actually spent many nights conked out in this chair after a session of Grand Theft Auto, so I don't even mind. and it's a little thing that I have with my new daughter, something I can cherish and embarrass her with as a story when she's at her rehearsal dinner.

There's baba's little angel ...

I thought that taking a "normal" job and giving up my night life working schedule (save still doing comics reviews on Wednesday nights) would mean an end to my enjoyment of the quiet of night. Thanks to my new daughter, I have an all new joy in the period when the earth turns away from the sun, and it only cost me a little coherency and my seratonin/melatonin balance ...

"... I can't get to sleep ... I think about the implications ..."

Playing (Music): "Taking Chances" from the first volume of the Glee soundtrack

NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...

Older 2010

2010-01-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

I am selfish.

I am childish in a way that borders on embarrassing. I'm arrogant in areas where I have no right to feel superior, I'm weak when I need to be strong, I've been known to let go when I should hold on and vice versa. When I should be a soldier, I've stood on the sidelines and when I needed to stand down, I've been in the thick of the fight.

It's very rare when I know that something has gone "too far." I am beloved and betrayed by some of the most interesting people around. I've revealed things about people that they'd much rather never been known. My trust has found its way into the possession of many, many people who didn't deserve it. I've easily thrown out close to a hundred thousand dollars through making bad decisions. I've been many things -- villain, scapegoat, surprise philanderer, probable cuckold, patsy, scoundrel and fool -- that I never should have chosen to be.

Or, to speak in the words of Crossfade, "what I really meant to say is that I'm sorry for the way that I am ..."

However ...

I know how to build a website from the ground up. I can comfort a child or make dinner for four. I know how to drive with some rapidity, regardless of time of day, from Granada Hills to Rancho Palos Verdes on the streets, avoiding the freeways. I know all the words to "Wonderwall" and "As" and "The Scientist" and "Raspberry Beret" and "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get."

I work hard. I'm probably a workaholic. At this very moment, I am simultaneously working on three novels and twenty or so poems, while keeping three sitcom pilots, four children's books, sixteen songs and a website design project that's at best overly ambitious (given how much time I have on my hands). I have two and a half jobs right now, after cutting down from my height of five.

I'm a husband, a father, an employee, a brother, a son, a writer, a fan, a critic, a journalist, a novelist, a poet and a friend.

I'm thirty seven years old today. I don't know a whole lot about a whole lot, but I know I'm still here, putting one foot in front of the other.

Happy birthday to me.

In that vein, here's the big announcement: I am retiring from social networking for 2010, Jay-Z/Jordan style.

Take a moment. Take it all in.

Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, Plurk ... all those accounts of mine go dark for 365 consecutive days starting ... well, now. This may mean an uptick in blogging, and email's still going to be up and running, but I will not check nor respond to any social networking communications during the next year. No retweets, no notifications, no instant messaging (save for work), no GMail Talk -- no digital mingling of any kind.

Why? There are many reasons -- focusing more on real conversations and writing taking place in spaces longer than 140 characters, et cetera. Pretty much at the top of the list, I'd hope it goes without saying, would be this ...

That's what I'm talking about ...

Also, I feel like taking this time off and gaining some perspective will help make me a stronger keynote speaker for Blogworld 2012 (which should take place in LA, I should be taking the stage alongside Erick Sermon and get introduced by Jenny "The Bloggess" Lawson ... what, you thought I was kidding? That's still happening, so keep talking to people about it). So, in the words of my wife's "other husband" (I hate saying that), "I've been thinkin' I've got my reasons ..."

Shade and sweet water, travelers. Tabu out.

Playing (Music): "Nothin' On You" by B.O.B. featuring Bruno Mars

Guest Blog: The Ax Forgets But The Tree Always Remembers

2010-01-04T13:39:00.000-08:00

Note: Today, I'm guest blogging on my wife's site, and she's blogging here on mine. We each wrote about the birth experience from our perspectives. If you would like to read mine, please check that out on Supa Sista Designs. Her inestimable perspective follows ...

While hundreds gathered in New York's Time Square last Thursday for America's largest New Years Eve ritual, I sat at Kaiser Permanente in West Los Angeles waiting for a different ball to drop. I had carried my daughter for 43 weeks, and it was time to give birth.

I lay in the observation room with a saturnine disposition plastered across my face. I'd been cajoled into just doing the surgery on the 31st instead of the first. I'm assuming surgeons prefer not to work on New Year's Day. Still experiencing the violent irregular contractions that had been initiated five days prior with Castor oil and blue cohosh, I wasn't the most difficult person to talk into getting it over with. The IV of electrolytes (and other crap found in Gatorade) had at least managed to space the pains out. I was only having a contraction every 20 minutes at this point, so there was time to think, pray, and worry. I was excited that I'd be meeting my baby girl after waiting so long, but I was making lists in my head of things that needed to be done. Just when I realized that I needed something to turn my brain off, I looked up and noticed the idiot box staring at me. Turning it on, I fished through a bunch of Tiger Woods crap until I got to something at least slightly funny -- Seinfeld. I watched the episode and started to doze off when Wendy Williams came on. I swear she used to be a man.

Anyway, in the middle of one of my snoozes, Hannibal returned from dropping off Mooch, buying a new cellphone, and getting a much needed haircut. We talked, laughed, and joked like we do most of the time. We find amusement even in things that probably shouldn't be funny. I'd been there since 9am with no food. 5pm was quickly approaching with no sign of my4pm surgery beginning anytime soon. Then our nurse came in and told Hannibal to get dressed. He had way too much fun with his outfit. He popped and locked, professed to be a scientist, and even brought the darn thing home. Don't believe me:

The surgeon, Ramon Yera, a high-strung Cuban guy with a friendly yet borderline snarky sense of humor (Think Ricky Martin meets Simon Cowell. I know Ricky is Puerto Rican, but still.) came in to discuss something that I'd asked the nurse. After walking me through a detailed explanation of the surgery, he and Hannibal started planning a musical number to perform during the operation. *blank stare*

"I can't sing, but I'm an excellent salsa dancer." exclaimed Ramon.

"I've got you covered on the singing!" Hannibal said adjusting his glasses.

"I'm having a c-section not a Glee-section" I thought. He left after bragging about what a great job he does on bikini line incisions, and we waited another 2 hours for an operating room to be cleaned. During this time, the shift changed. I hate change! My nurse came in and said she was leaving. I almost had a nervous breakdown. Hannibal offered to pay her to stay, but she said she couldn't accept. "What about all the stuff we discussed -- no Erythromycin, no Vitamin K, etc. -- will the new nurse know that?" I asked.

"Of course. I briefed her on everything. You'll be fine." She said.

"You said you'd bring the baby to my face so I could kiss her, does this other lady know that?" I asked.

"I'll tell her." She said. "You're really kind of freaking out." I sat up and tried to meditate. I thought positively. Then I had to pee. I unhooked all my monitors and threw the cords over my shoulder. When I got back, the new nurse came in and said it was time to get going.

Here's what happened next:

My partner was ushered into a green room to wait.

I was taken into the operating room and asked to sit on a table leaning forward and be very still. All alone. No team. No partner. No hand to hold. I leaned on the new nurse that I didn't know. She barely spoke my language. I was told if I felt an electric-like shock to let them know, and then I was stabbed in the spine and quickly crucified on a cross-shaped operating table. Arms strapped down, my legs became heavy. A catheter was inserted. I didn't feel most of that. This spinal was much more dense than the epidural I had last time. I felt powerless. Nauseated. Dizzy.

They brought in my husband with camera in tow. I hated for him to see me this way. Betadine solution smeared, taking short lifeless breaths, my words were muffled by the oxygen mask. "Don't take any pictures of me like this. I don't want to remember it. I don't want to know what it looks like."

I stared at the blue drape, and hoped that Hannibal couldn't see over it. He can't even stomach a scene from from Grey's Anatomy or Nip/Tuck [NOTE: Just the needle parts!]. Was he holding my hand? I guess. I was numb up to the chest. They seriously discussed the musical number while he was operating on me. I felt so helpless. The anesthesiologist kept checking on me. I felt pressure. Lots of pressure on my chest, and then I heard loud screaming. "She's here." I thought. I didn't have the strength to cry, but I was overcome with emotion.

"She has a tooth -- a natal tooth!" The surgeon exclaimed.

"I've never actually seen one in person." said the attending Certified Nurse Midwife.

"What the hell?" I mumbled to myself. "Did she come out with a college degree, too, because that would save me a lot of money?" They gave me a quick glance of her from 6 feet away. That's not what I was promised. She screamed for the next 20 minutes. "I want to touch her. I want to kiss her." I said loud enough to be heard.

"Hang on. Hang on. I've gotta stitch you up. Hold your horses." the surgeon said. I didn't like that tone at all. I'll never forget it (especially since Hannibal video taped it). Hannibal talked to the baby through her whole process, but it wasn't soothing her. I saw nothing. The doctor and the midwife sat discussing their holiday vacations as they wrapped up the procedure. They cleared my womb, stitched my uterus, fixed my "sticky" bladder, mended my muscles, stapled me closed, and finally transferred me to a stretcher. It felt like forever.

She stopped crying as soon as they handed her to me. I kissed her forehead. As soon as I rubbed her cheek, the Morphine itch started. They used a new type called Duramorph, which would wear off in 18-24 hours, but that's still a long time to be itching. I fought through the itching to connect with my baby. I even breastfed her in the recovery room. She latched on like a pro.

I was so uncomfortable. Cords were plugged into me everywhere. My blood pressure was being taken every 3 minutes automatically. All my vitals were fine. I just had to remember to breathe. They put some futuristic leg cuffs on my calves to promote circulation. It worked, because I could lift my hips within 30 minutes. It still took almost 2 hours for us to go to our room though.

Write Now: Sick Cycle Carousel

2009-12-24T19:38:00.000-08:00

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

The Waiting Game

2009-12-24T06:30:00.000-08:00

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

Write Now: This Is Not Power

2009-12-01T21:14:00.000-08:00

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

Parks and Miscreation

2009-12-01T14:21:00.000-08:00

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

Happy Anniversary 2009

2009-11-23T14:53:00.000-08:00

I met my wife on this day in 2006.

I wasn't, at the time, looking for a wife. I was doing some lazy womanizing with people I didn't really have much interest in, floating from here to there while engaging in the deep hedonism of fifteen-hour stretches of sleep, fifteen-hour stretches of video games and a relentless number of late nights out in bars, singing and carousing with my friends. Probably still reeling from the wreckage of a failed marriage that haunted me even then. I wasn't looking for anything, just taking what I found.

Apropos of nothing, a young woman caught my eye on the MySpace profile of a promoter I was working with, and her profile was filled with things that made me smile and laugh -- her greatest fear and greatest disappointment, for example, listed as "the US government." Seven years my junior and more beautiful than anyone had a right to be, I thought, "if she's not a nutjob, she'll probably make some young brother very happy one day." I sent her a message noting that I had no intentions towards her and that I wanted to encourage her to keep on with such ideas and such spirit. Given the ladies of ill repute with which I trafficked at the time, I couldn't see my darkness clouding her brilliance.

When she responded back with flirtation, I was shocked. Movie star good looks taking an interest in me? I'd always considered myself a solid second option, the Scottie Pippen of dating (not with the head ridges or camel face, though) -- damned good but not the superstar that got everybody's attention. She was everything that I'd never been able to reach before, so I shrugged in the leather couch dimness of my Jungles apartment and wrote back, opening myself up to possibility.

Our first date was supposed to happen on a Friday night, but a freak bathroom fire at the bar where I hosted karaoke changed my plans. I was sitting at my aunt's house, lazily flipping through Black Friday sales circulars and ignoring whatever game was on the TV when her text messages came through like a ray of light. Accepting her invitation, I skipped a long line at Best Buy and turned down another invitation to see what dreams might come.

The night was nothing I expected. Often great looking online photos are an indication of a past state, but she was as striking as the digital representations had suggested -- lean framed, expressive eyes, waterfall crown of reddish dreadlocks and a smile that could illuminate galaxies. She beat me relentlessly at a game called Pente, then mixed her crass nature (which I later learned) with an up-front shyness as she put down romantic themed words on a Scrabble board. She wanted to put down an abbreviation, "lube," which I offered to allow for the cost of a kiss. I thought that was too forward when she recoiled, until she softly asked, six turns later, "is that offer still on the table?"

The kiss led to holding while we traded crazed queries -- I asked her thoughts on stem cell research, she insisted that the Smurfs were analogues of the Ku Klux Klan -- and she didn't want me to leave. I was intent on not besmirching this star with my really forward advances, but eventually agreed to stay, sleeping clothed by her side.

When a bundle of cheeks and whimsy toddled in between us the next morning, describing an imaginary backpack and showing no trepidation at the weird guy in mommy's bed, I had to smile. It felt normal. It felt good.

Three years later it still does. She's managed -- if you let my friends tell it, laughing at the car seat in my sedan -- to brighten my blackest fires. I fear, however, that darkness within me may have shadowed her sunshine somewhat, but we're walking through this life together and the story's nowhere near it's end. In just a few weeks, she's going to give me the finest gift of all -- a new baby daughter to go with the promise of forever we shared in March.

I've told this story before -- I meant to grab the copy off of our wedding website before it fell victim to time -- and I tell it again, with great joy. It's been a hell of a ride so far, and I can't wait for the next twist and turn, holding her close by my side.

Playing (Music): "Defying Gravity" by the cast of Glee

... or you could read her take on things ...

The Ghost of Halloween Past

2009-11-09T11:40:00.000-08:00

Remember I said I got roped into judging a Halloween contest at my job? I never said that to you? Must have been somebody else.

Anyway, here's what the judges looked like ...

...and here's who won ...

... and I can't find a photo here (one of my co-worker's Facebook account has way more than the official work photo album) but there's a ghoul costume which I thought was way more effective. Que sera sera.

All judges used decimals for their five point votes, I kept rewinding Michael Jackson's "Thriller" on my iPod while they walked down the hallway and amusement was had by all.

If you're wondering, it was also Jersey Friday at my office (I was at a branch location when this madness was happening), so I just decided my costume would be "the jackass at the club," and kept telling everyone I saw in an affected voice -- men and women -- "hey baby, lemme buy you a fish sammich!" Hilarity!

Playing (Music): "Georgie Porgy" by Eric Benet feat. Faith Evans

The Beautiful Struggle

2009-11-04T10:47:00.001-08:00

I woke up and found a wish trapped in my welcome mat.

The mat's a fairly new addition to the house's earth tone decor, a brown rectangle with a surface reminiscent of dry scrub brush. Despite the mid-sixty degree temperatures, bright morning sun shone down on me and I had to squint behind my clip-on sunglasses.

Still, I looked down at this ... sorry, I realize everybody may not have grown up where I did. A "wish" is a kind of floating seed/spore with long, white ethereal extensions from a very small center that's light in mass. They might be dandelion seeds. I'm not really sure. These things can move with the wind and are often found by children, who pick them up, close their eyes, make a wish and blow them back into the wind. If they soar, it allegedly increases the chance of the wish succeeding. If they sink and get stuck in the grass, not so much. I'd always considered these things little fragment of wonder that I never let go of from my childhood, the possibility of amazing, shining through the crushing tedium of everyday life.

Anyway, so I bent down and picked up the wish. I concentrated and shut my eyes tight before blowing and watching it fly north and upwards, into the clear blue sky. I took a deep breath and walked to my car before driving to work.

I didn't see any ice bursting up from the ground, frozen demons staggering through their last sulfuric breaths, so I guess my wish didn't come true.

Yet.

Playing (Music): "Make Her Say" by Kid Cudi, Kanye West and Common

Dia de los Muertos? Try again later.

2009-10-31T21:01:00.000-07:00

I'm not what you'd call a traditional celebrant of Dia de los Muertos, nor of All Hallows Eve, nor the festival of Samhein, or whatever October 31st might be called in your neck of the woods. Still, our little girl got all dressed up (you can check my wife's blog on Tuesday for data on that) so I did what I could with, say, no real time nor interest.

So that was me, in Ladera Heights and at the new Fox Hills Mall (Cinnabon! Woo hoo!) and over by Dorsey High, with a print out of the Fail Whale safety pinned to my chest, trailing behind the pregnant cat (kitties painted on the belly) and the magical, Afrocentric witch. I also said to anybody who asked, "Too many tweets! Sorry, try again later. Our technical staff is aware of the problem, and it should be fixed soon!"

Handle it.

Playing (Music): "Somebody's Watching Me" by Rockwell, feat. Michael Jackson on the choruses

UPDATED: How about a clearer look at my costume from my wife's blog?

Ella Simone Tabu: The Sneak Preview

2009-10-25T15:37:00.000-07:00

Today, the family drove down to Redondo Beach to get what's called a "4D sonogram" of our new addition (who's not a candy girl).

At first, she was reluctant to be seen before her world premiere ...

"... next time I'm in church, please, no photos ..."

... because she was sleepy. She probably had a long night, downloading information from god about how she was coming to run this planet ...

"... so if you're tired ... then go take a nap!"

But after a while, with her elder sister and her father speaking at her belly-home like it was a fast food drive in menu, she brightened up ...

"... tomorrow will bring, better you, better me ..."

... which led the tech to ask, "how did you make such a happy baby?"

It's hard work, every day, but we're doing it. Every day.

Playing (Music): "Who's Your Daddy" by Mook & Fair

The Erick Sermon of Blogging

2009-10-02T12:05:00.001-07:00

The brown-eyed bandit can't stand it ...

I've decided that I should be the keynote speaker for BlogWorld 2012. It should also be held in Los Angeles, since I don't really have much interest in domestic travel (unless they hold it, say, somewhere really fly and they'll comp my whole family).

Anyway, yeah, I should be the keynote speaker. The topic of my speech will be a closely guarded secret until I step on stage, when the screen will light up with the display for it. It'll be awesome.

Why should I get such a huge stage from which to speak? When there's Huffington and Guy Kawasaki and Koz and even The Bloggess, why should they invite a guy who only had one book on the market as of 2009 and works on a website for a major nonprofit in a wholly non-creative capacity? The reason why is because, basically, I'm the Erick Sermon of blogging (and the whole internet, really, as I've done it all from telnetting into MUDs to building the bricks that make the web to doing tech support at Earthlink).

How so? Like E-Dub, I've got a respectable underground following (in both urban music circles and comics) but have rarely penetrated the mainstream. Like the Green-Eyed Bandit, I've gone gold but never platinum (at one point, I estimated that around 50,000 people a week read my work between the community newspaper I ran and two web columns, and I have more than 204,000 blog views on MySpace alone, which is none-too-shabby). Long before anybody ever put together "word" and "press," I was writing a weekly summary of my dating life called "Love Notes" on my Geocities site (which has now even mostly disappeared from the Wayback Machine), as far back as 1998, writing the pages individually in raw HTML and frames for the love of pie, much like Sermon put it down in the formative days of hip hop. On the strength of my opinions alone, I've been hired by not one but two major pop culture sites (two years at Underground Online and many, many more at Comic Book Resources -- much like Clive Davis' J Records brought on Def Squad. Don't even get me started on all the places my work's appeared, from Morphizm on out. I have a MySpace user number in the low six figures (the higher the number, the later you got on board), I was on Friendster before it invented the fail whale, and I'm all over Twitter like Jack Nicholson's all over 27-year-old starlets and bad calls at the Staples Center. All of that's similar to how many hits and stars have seen Erick Sermon's influence on their way to super stardom (despite the disturbing fact that my 19-year-old brother thought the only "hit" he'd ever had was "Music" after seeing it on the TV show Platinum -- which got a bad rap, by the way, no pun intended). Like the E-R-I-C-K, I've said things and done things some might think are wrong and I'm still here to tell the tale.

Dude, I'm kind of a big deal.

So I need a few more feathers for my cap and then they'll have to pick up the mickey fickey phone and dial. I'm working on two at once as Director of Online Marketing for Stranger Comics (the website's coming along, kids), which I'll have some more news about soon. I'm also throwing down in a major way here and on The Hundred and Four. It should be fine.

This is where you come in. You're reading this blog, so either you hate my freaking guts (which I'm totally cool with, by the way) or because you think my writing's pretty cool. Or you could be an ex stalking me, or some other type of weirdo stalking me, or in some very rare and unusual cases, you're somebody who dated or wants to date somebody I know and think that following whatever I write will give you some insight into them. Strange but true, it's happened, which reinforces my basic thesis: if you're so dope that you can make other people you just know parenthetically more visible on the global information marketplace, like semen on a blue dress, you're kind of the business, joe.

In any case, it's your job to a) get Blogworld 2012 to Los Angeles and b) get me put on as keynote speaker. As a reward for doing this, anybody who shows up at my keynote in 2012 and references this blog, I will take your email address and contact you so you can either get a hard or soft copy of an exclusive short story from my fourth book (which is about 25% written before I realized I needed to finish some of the other books first) The Last Testament, one that has never been seen by anyone outside of my disturbingly small "read this and make sure I'm not a complete hack" group of professional writers and editors.

My job? Continuing to support my brand position and drivin' y'all crazy with the stuff coming out of my brain.

We can do this! Let's get it crackin' and I'll see you at the LA Convention Center in fall 2012!

Playing (Music): "Bad Habits" by Maxwell

The Laundromat

2009-09-24T23:20:00.001-07:00

I went to do probably a month's worth of laundry with the family tonight. My stepdaughter was reading aloud, perched on a counter with one of those rolling carts for a safety net. It made me feel poetic for some reason, watching it all. Here's the first draft, and I'm working on it.

There is a little girl reading aloud.

Dryers spin with reckless abandon
and a little girl with an afro puff
is sitting on a counter, reading aloud.

A muscular Latino man gestures emphatically
on a twenty seven inch TV screen
while captions run in Spanish
his co-star pouts, endless vistas of hair
cascading down her exposed shoulders.
Below, towels duel with socks
in seemingly infinite circles.
Words of Barbara Park
slowly work their way
through a five year old's brain,
sitting on a counter
reading aloud.

An older Chicano boy stomps his feet
demanding a fourth candy bar after
his tired mother finally drew the line
leading to stare-gathering meltdown
raised voices and judgements being levied
by people with no right.
Overhead the Latino actor
sweeps the big haired woman into his arms,
music swelling behind them
in soft focus lighting, irrespective of
dance between delicates and drawstring sweats,
moisture losing its battle against heat
while a little girl adjusts her glasses,
enunciating Junie B. Jones'
tattered talk and mangled messages

It's Thursday night,
Headlights of busy thoroughfare
blur by outside
like dreams left behind
and sure,
we'd all probably love change
and justice
and maybe, just maybe
for tomorrow to be even a little bit better than today.

But that's tomorrow.
Tonight there's tantrums and Telemundo,
towels and t-shirts,
and two eyes
looking through glasses
enjoying newfound power of understanding
what all those funny little squiggles mean
with every syllable
from her sweet little lips.

"The Laundromat"
By Hannibal Tabu
090924

I welcome thoughts and constructive criticism, thanks.

Playing (Music): "Down" by Jay Sean feat. Lil Wayne

Don't Worry, Baby ...

2009-09-24T02:23:00.000-07:00

I am free of worry.

Not for any reason that makes any sense. As noted in Mark Morford's latest column, all of us can fall victim to slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so far outside of our conceptions that it'd be like a failure of gravity. You can save for a whole lifetime and either have your bank go out of business (FDIC insurance? Maybe ...) or your retirement fund get eaten by rapacious corporate fatcats or maybe the employer you gave thirty years to suddenly cuts your health benefits decades after your retirement. Maybe it's a gun-wielding teenager high on weed and PCP, in Columbine or Compton. Maybe some workday stiff pounded back too many shots at the bar after a long day and accidentally careens into your family of five, heading back from church. Hell, rocks from space can make their way through the atmosphere and smash you into nothingness. Whatever. We live, as the Chinese curse demanded, in interesting times. From a statistical standpoint, there is no absolute safety for anybody, anywhere, and there probably never has been.

I don't worry about these things.

Part of that, I'm sad to say, has to do with a certain degree of faith. For many years, I said, "faith is for suckers," and attested to my mantras of personal responsibility and energy manipulation. In the final analysis, I have to admit that "faith" is the final answer, however, because I believe I'm going to be (overall) okay based on my belief that following what I believe to be a path of spirit (with some unfortunate and admitted digressions) sets me apart. True, my belief is so certain as to be virtually indistinguishable from knowing, but there have been things I've known before, immutable facts to my father's father and his father before him -- a Black US president is impossible, the Red Sox cannot win the World Series, and so on -- that have fallen due to the simple factors of time. Sooner or later, anything can happen, and with proper motivation, it probably will. I have a faith in my "knowledge" which is just as easily, and in the last decade just as often proven fallible.

The bigger part of me not worrying is because I recognize the complexity of the system. To me, with my dangerously limited horizons and freakishly small perception, there seems to be chaos. On a larger scale, that chaos is a song with a melody I can't even comprehend. Babies are born and old people die. Electrons circle nuclei. Gases combust in the form of stars, spreading light and heat for millions of miles around. Water pushes ever so patiently against the cliff wall, knowing that one day it will join its old friend gravity in victory. Everything works, even if I don't see it or don't understand it because on a long enough time scale, I don't matter and neither does my piddling perception.

This used to manifest in my life through something I said a lot. My old, dear friend and sister Brandi gave me a book when I was in college, Love is Hell by Matt Groening, a collection of his bitter, pre-Simpsons cartoons. On one page there was a line that had on the left end something like "the unknowable mists of the past" and on the other end was something like "eighty kajillion years in the future." In the middle, very small, was a dot, and an arrow pointing to it, that was labeled, "your life." The accompanying text said something like, "next time you're worried about a decision, ponder this question: 'how long will I be dead?' With that in mind, you can justify pretty much anything your devious little mind can come up with. Go on. You're welcome. See you in hell."

This applies not only to my decisions -- should I have that donut? wait for this parking space or pick one farther away -- and my concerns. The world my daughters will inherit is terrifying and horrible. But they chose to be born into it, outside of delicate dances between egg and spermatozoa. Or, to go back to Butterfly from Digable Planet, "we're just babies, we're just babies, man ..."

Maybe I'm too stupid, or too jaded, or too broken, or too tired to know the difference, to not worry where I should. I don't know, and honestly I don't care.

So mostly I don't worry. It never seemed to make much difference. I'm pretty sure things will be, for the most part, okay. Whatever comes up, I deal with it. Really, what choice is there?

Everything is gonna be all right, whether you know it or not. Whether you can understand it or not. It's okay. Shhh ...

Playing (Music): "Why R U?" remix by Amerie feat. Nas, Jadakiss, Cain and Rick Ross

Just Like You

2009-09-16T14:10:00.000-07:00

I'm just like you.

Maybe not the you that you're experiencing today. Maybe the you of some years ago, maybe the you of some point in the future. I may be dumber than you or smarter than you, at some point, have darker skin or speak a different language. However, the things that make us different, really, are considerably fewer than the things that make us the same.

I get up every day and drive to a job. I like my job for the most part -- the people I work with are smart and know what they're doing, and the few problems we have are very rarely ones we created (I made a minor screw up a few weeks ago, but I fixed that). I pay the rent, I eat stuff, I keep gas in the tank, the cell phone number rings when you call. Just like you, at some point in your life, probably.⁽¹⁾

I come home from my job and spend time with my beautiful wife and hilarious daughter,⁽²⁾ trying to catch a few moments of TV or have energy to be affectionate, waiting for the birth of a new baby girl. I live on a block with many other families, and I smile and wave and speak when I see neighbors passing by.

Just like many of you, I try to watch my money, but I like fried food (often take out) and I like staying up late. I've made some less than optimal decisions in the past that I still work on fixing. I wanna have better things for my family, just like you. A nicer car.⁽³⁾ A bigger yard. Quiet Sunday mornings and the vigor to clown around with the ones I love.

I read the news and I shudder at the ravages of the economy.⁽⁴⁾ I hear the squeaks and feel the vibration in the right front wheel of my car and know I've gotta get those tie rod bushings and those brakes fixed one of these days. I look at my phone and realize that even though it gets the job done, there's so much more I'd like to do and know I'm not running out to get the next big thing that'll do everything I want ... right until the day it becomes old and outdated. With every surprise and crisis that pops up, professional and personal, I keep going, just like you.⁽⁵⁾

Like some of you, I am driven by ambition. I've said it many times -- I want to be the Black George Lucas ... with better writing ... and less isolation ... and hopefully being thinner. In the words of The Bloggess, "I'm constantly scribbling on notebooks and napkins and my own legs and when I physically make myself stop writing my head gets so full it literally feels like it's constipated. And it's not even constipated with good sh** like poetry and kick-ass ballads. It's all jumbled stories about Cyclopses and why stealing toilet paper is good for America." I have a story in mind -- epic in scope, intricate in the details, and a tapestry rich enough for me to license and create for the rest of my life.⁽⁶⁾

Just like you, I get frustrated. Just like you, I get tired.

Just like you.

At this point in most interesting stories, something big happens. Michael Douglas gets a freakin' sweet rocket launcher in Falling Down. Larenz Tate starts looking at guns in Dead Presidents. The lead character makes some grand gesture or some momentous decision and charges the story in a dangerous new direction, often involving pulling triggers and body counts.

However, I'm just like you. Our stories are rarely that dramatic. I start looking for things I can do from home -- asking about agents and studios who need someone to write coverage.⁽⁷⁾ I mentally push back the date I can get that new phone, wondering how long it'll take used models at lower prices to pop up on eBay. I set the computer aside when the five-year-old wants to tell me about something in her room that I probably helped pay for. I look for hidden bottles of cocoa butter or expensive pre-health-care-dustup Whole Foods salve to rub on a pregnant belly on the seventeenth hour awake for that day.

Just like you, I choose family. Like many of you, I choose solutions.

Like all too few of you, I choose joy.

I could have been dead probably twenty times over, from stupid stuff I did or from overambitious socio-political posturing. A slip of circumstance could have had me convicted for so many things, staring at some ugly guy named Ray Ray instead of this. Turn a different corner, and I could be covered in scars, reaching for pistols instead of tomorrow, every single day.

So how am I doing?

How am I? Really?

Man, life is good. I can't complain.

Just.

Like.

You.

Playing (Music): "Whatcha Say?" by Jason DeRulo

FOOTNOTES:

(1) = I'm well aware "eating" is harder to come by in, say, Sudan or in desolate corners of Colombia. If they're living long enough to see they're different from somebody else, they ate something. I'm working a simile here, people!

(2) = Maybe your kid's not as entertaining as mine. Maybe your wife's uglier. Or vice versa. Doesn't matter. Well, the chance that your wife's better looking than mine, or that your kid's funnier, is pretty freakin' unlikely, but for argument's sake, let's assume a statistical possibility there. For your sake.

(3) = Especially today.

(4) = You may not read the news, but when even Lil Wayne raps about it ("...and honestly, I'm down like the economy ..."), the word is clearly getting around.

(5) = ... because if you hadn't, you'd be dead, or in a shelter somewhere, and not reading this blog.

(6) = Oh, you haven't heard? You haven't checked out my first novel or bought a copy at Amazon? Haven't read the second novel either? Well, the new project, a graphic novel deal with Stranger Comics (and the new fantasy title from Sebastian Jones, The Untamed is in October Previews and comic shops in December) will hopefully have some stuff I can show shortly ...

(7) = If you know anybody, I'd love for them to contact me, my ability to read, comprehend and analyze quickly is the core of my weekly comic book reviews, more than six years strong.

Do you know what today is?

2009-09-14T14:26:00.000-07:00

Six months ago, it went down like this ...

... I was blessed beyond compare, I was delighted, and most importantly, I was changed.

I can't remember what poet said, "if it didn't change you, it wasn't love." Well, as has so often been noted by my best man Denzil and in so many others, I'm a changed man. "Car seat in the back, snacks and extra clothes in the trunk" different. "The voice of reason and the less crass one" changes. "Planning to be alive to see 41 years old" sort of things, which weren't necessarily the case previously. Even "living north of the 10, driving north of the 101 every day for an office job with cubicles and everything" kind of alterations. It's a change you can believe in.

"You went soft," some would say. "You sold out!" I was told I couldn't be rowdy and hold a baby or someone's hand at the same time. Anybody who's ever known the aforementioned Denzil knows that's just plain not true. I'm considerably more dangerous now because I have something to lose. I'm more committed to a better future, a finer world, because I have little treasures anxious to inherit it. I'm better prepared for almost everything.

I have one woman to thank for all this, my blushing bride, the first woman to make me seem conservative and normal by comparison ...

... and -- for reasons I can't begin to fathom -- she's head over heels in love with me, leaving me alternatively stricken with awe and eternally grateful.

FTW, indeed. Thank you for our life, honey. Let's keep making it awesome!

Playing (Music): "Would You Go With Me?" by Josh Turner

Finale for Fatback

2009-09-11T12:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, the employee known as Fatback was terminated from my day gig.

Who's Fatback? You'll have to read that for yourself as it's too lengthy to replicate here. Long story short = crazy, unkempt co-worker.

This was a sad event to me, because it meant the end of lots and lots of humor at the workplace. Pretty much everybody laughed at her, which was fine until she was in your way of getting some actual work done. Some final funnies for her farewell.

Despite the fact she didn't have more than a contract job, she was desperately trying to get the white "hipsters" she dated to impregnate her. Lately, she's been angling to adopt, theorizing that since there are lots of Black kids in the system, they'd be desperate enough to dump one on her. Remember, this is a girl who lost a piece of her own weave in the office, and once couldn't get the zipper on a dress closed, so she wore a sweater to cover it up.

She apparently had an issue with public toilets, so she would try to squat over the toilet ... and often missed the bowl. Her shoes would frequently be wet when she'd return from a restroom trip. Two days in a row, there was fecal matter on the floor of the ladies' lavatory. No one can prove it was her, but the suspicion remain.

So what finally ended it for this lunatic? Well, her job is to take requests from people in other parts of the company and make them happen. Somebody was sending Fatback requests and getting ignored. Not doing her job was, of course, way too far. I may be marginally crazy, but I'm good at my job. Her? Not so much. So her agency called her at home on a Wednesday night and she suddenly became a statistic in the weekly news cycle. "Unemployment rates amongst the crazy and marginally competent are on the rise! More on that after sports ..."

I'm normally reluctant to post stuff about my job, but Fatback's funny transcended the workplace. Back at eHobbies, I hired this lady in this crazy zip code, one that did more explaining in emails why she wasn't doing her work than actual working, and in similar fashion the kooky truth eventually came out like Adam Lambert.

A little less whimsy, but a much easier path to actually getting things done.

Playing (Music): "Six Underground" by the Sneaker Pimps

"There's a two drink minimum ..."

2009-09-10T12:51:00.000-07:00

In the normal course of transacting business, I was told that the long bartender from the Palos Verdes Bowl, Willie, had a heart attack.

My wife was quick to point out that this happened just a few weeks after I'd quit hosting Friday night karaoke there, weeks shy of my fifth anniversary.⁽¹⁾ Also, I'd received reports that Friday nights hadn't exactly gone smoothly since I left. He was always very particular about the karaoke and servicing the clientele. I don't want to believe that my exodus had anything to do with it -- Willie lived hard -- but it was an unusual coincidence in timing.

Willie, if you can't tell from the photo, is Italian. From New York. In his seventies, he grew up in the days of wiseguys and doo wop. He loved to regale me with tales of his "connected" cousins and his "boy band" long gone days as a singer . There was no credit at the bar -- cash only, or take that plastic stuff out to the ATM and eat a $2 fee. Every once in a while, he'd want to grab the mic and belt out "Teenager In Love" by Dion and the Belmonts, and heaven forbid somebody wanted to sing Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" without him singing along, "bop-bop-baa ... so good, so good, so good!"⁽²⁾

Many customers either loved or hated Willie's gruffness. The bar had a two drink minimum to sing, which Willie enforced with a vigor some felt was overzealous. Many of my regulars -- Eddie the Guitar Man, long haired Howie and more -- refused to return, tired of getting hassled to buy drinks week after week after blessed week. "If I come here this often, I deserve a little slack," was their rationale. Willie had a harder view of this -- cash up front. Every day. Money he had was better than money he might get.

Still, for all his gruffness and his initial ambivalence towards me (my rigid rotation took some time for people to get used to, and then became a gold standard), I came to appreciate him. We were a steady presence for each other, and I perfected my show style while he looked on, amber hops pouring into clear glass. I came to grasp his love for Sinatra, wielding my baritone through renditions of "That's Life" and "Fly Me To The Moon," his half-smile visible almost every time. He came to appreciate my exaggerated sense of fair play, never letting even my friends get extra turns to sing and never penalizing even the worst vocalists.⁽³⁾

He never questioned my decision to retire from hosting weekly karaoke shows. "You're a newlywed, Hannibal," he'd say, cigarette hanging from his lip as we closed down. "You've got this baby on the way, she wants you there ... it's only right." He was old school in a way that was often hilarious to me, because I didn't have to worry about whether I ordered my bottled water from the bar or got it from the vending machine.⁽⁴⁾

I hope this isn't an obituary. I hope he heals and has many more years of slinging drinks and puffing on cigarettes and rolling his eyes at people on stage.

Playing (Music): "Sing, Swing, Sing" by Benny Goodman

FOOTNOTES:

(1) = September 2005 to August 2009. I missed less than fifteen Friday shows that whole span -- business trips and family dinners. Oh, and that one Friday when the power went out for the whole block, which was weird.

(2) = He was actually not bad. The cigarettes had dulled his voice a lot, but you could hear the nugget of melody still there.

(3) = There was a lady who sang "Memory" from the musical Cats in the voice of a cat. Meowing and all. Her I denied. But even buzz kills like Princess (also known as Janine), Lenny (always polite, not a bad singer per se, but killing me with five minute salvos of Pink Floyd) and so on got their turns, fair and square.

(4) = I finally had to switch when I saw that the water coming from the bar's tap was actual fawcet water. No thanks.