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Music: Hannibal Tabu DJs the Los Angeles County Fair During September

Posted in awesomeness, business, driving, music, narcissism, whimsy, work on September 10th, 2012 by Hannibal Tabu

During the month of September, I’ll be DJing the pre and post shows for grandstand concerts at the Los Angeles County Fair. I will likely not interact with the talent. I will not get you a free ticket. I will be working and not very chatty. I will rock the party that, likely, will rock your body, should you attend.

All shows take place at the Pomona Fairplex (I got lost on my way to Pomona once with my mom, ask me some time, funny story). I start rocking around 7:30 or 8 and will be done around midnight, at which time the fair closes and they will hurl you from the premises. Just kidding. Probably.


In order, here’s the list of shows I’m doing …

I already did one “warm up” show (because I was rusty and didn’t feel confident, but it went pretty well) where I did a mostly 80s set for the B-52s. Super fun getting a chance to play “The Batter Ram” and two songs by LA’s Dream Team!


I’m doing these shows in conjunction with YNotLive Entertainment, the company formerly known as Starlight Entertainment. I probably won’t be drunk. Right, then.

If you’re making the drive, be patient with the roads as they’re super crowded and stuff ain’t going anywhere. Leave early, be prepared for them to search your bags and have fun. I know I will!

Playing (Music): “Girls on Film” by Duran Duran

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Poetry: On A Road To Nowhere [#napowrimo2012]

Posted in bad ideas, creativity, culture, fatherhood, history, life, napowrimo, poetry, sadness, warfare on April 24th, 2012 by Hannibal Tabu
poetry header image

Here we go now …


There’s no such thing as peace.

Rocket propelled grenades
sit next to breakfast bowl
play with 7.62 mm shell casings,
find blood splattered on street
four days out of seven.
More dead from fever and hunger,
less discriminating surge.

Baba fights the Americans,
Kalashnikov his companion
more often than mama.
Baba’s baba fought the Russians,
Americans at his side
more than his bride
whispered Pashto in his ear.

I am eleven years old.
I have never been kissed
by anyone not a blood relative.
I can make out
a passage or two of scripture,
know rustle of baba’s thick beard
and coarse clothes
when he hugs me,
taste of mama’s kahdoos.

Two years ago,
American soldiers
left a magazine near marketplace.
Kept it hidden for a month,
buried behind the house,
before daring to gaze upon
impossibly smooth skinned westerners.
Smiling and immodest,
shaven faced men,
like children, really
women’s bosoms in view.
They look like they’ve never known
bits of gravel in stew,
like they eat meat
less gamy than goat,
and not just on special days.
They look like relentless,
cloying smell of poppies
isn’t woven into every memory.

I don’t hate them,
fat and godless,
but I understand those who do.
I’m too hungry
to hate them.

At night,
sounds of shelling and screams
hopefully far from my pallet.
Wonder what nights are like
beyond hills of Sharobi,
where baby faced boy-men
sleep next to red lipped harlots
on endless pillows,
in safety,
in safety …
too busy tracking down survival
under unrelenting sunshine.

Mama tells stories
about golden days of Afghanistan,
days when quiet wasn’t frightening,
times of plenty.
Baba snorts
when she’s not around,
says we’ve always been
stop on somebody’s road
never wanting to be here,
always needing to control the way.

Baba says,
there’s no such thing as peace.

I don’t know about any of that.
I know sand and stone,
I know running and gunfire,
body parts and explosions,
prayer and waiting
for freedom even I don’t believe
will ever come.

”Jangi Shah: A Hymn For Afghanistan”
By Hannibal Tabu

Thanks to my wife Myshell for this idea, driving and listening to KPFK.

Playing (Music): “Sin City” by Sin City (Verbal and Icarus)

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