12/21/04 2:52 AM: Let's broaden our minds!

THE SEASON OF THE WOLF: So I'm having some interesting times. I've been hustling my behind to save up enough cash to get a new iBook (but if you'd like to get me a new PowerBook for Kwanzaa I'd be super appreciative >8^), which is the laptop I can afford (and yes, I've adjusted my usage downwards some), and that means a bunch of extra karaoke hosting. My homegirl Dana is freezing her butt off in Philly, so I'm covering her at Mel's on Thursday and at the San Franciscan in Torrance on Wednesday. Which is cool. However, there's a dark cloud around my silver lining.

My Tuesday night gig at Harry O's was a disaster. The bar, I've heard rumor, is being sold and they wanted to get a Tuesday night going so the place would look more attractive for potential buyers. The proposed audience -- the Tuesday night tacos crowd at the Mexican restaurant next door -- never materialized, because the waitresses there would much rather drive the audience to the longstanding Tuesday night show across the street (at -- shocker -- another Mexican restaurant), which now has the same library that I do. I was told by management that I should promote more, when I was under the belief that I was plugging into their promotional machine. Allegedly the show is "on hiatus" until the new year, but I'd be shocked if they bring me back.

Then the Wednesday night gig at Dano's in Harbor City also hit a snag. The audience has apparently been dropping off since before I took over (and despite protestations to the contrary, I've noticed that a good number of people visibly recoil at the sight of me, which I have to attribute more to my race than my appearance) and now they wanna knock the fee down to $100 from the $150 that already happened. That means a reduction of my money, which I'm still considering. I'll try it -- four hours for $50 is telemarketing money, and about the same level of stress -- but we'll see how long it'll last into 2005.

Friday nights at the Bowl are my saving grace -- a crowd that's used to me and a great venue. But even there, my Christmas Eve show was pulled at the dead last minute, which is a pill. But a workable one.

But I'm looking ahead as well. I've agreed to be Director of Marketing (also known as "Grand Verbalizer") for Hawke Studios, the print subsidiary of Speakeasy Comics. I can't say much more, but it's where my own proposed 3rd quarter comic book will be coming out. My philosophy is that I can help the first books succeed, paving the way for myself to have a bit easier a road. More on that when I can say more on that.

... AND JUSTICE FOR ALL: Martha Stewart is in jail. True, it's a five month sentence, but it's supposed to show us that the criminal justice system allegedly has some teeth. However, when I find out that she gets a new TV show, while still serving jail sentence ... it just makes me sick to my ass. When I was younger, there was a clear attempt to cover up most of the unequal protection under the law. Now? Subtlety is so twentieth century.

KEEP ON MOVIN: Between my social life, working (I covered a play last night, and a big society event on Wednesday, plus the hosting) and still trying to be creative (I am making karaoke versions of some of my own original songs, which is whimsical) ... I am, in the words of my old co-worker Bronwyn Jones a "bloser," not keeping the blog updated (while I still do all the comic book reviews every week, and all the Comic Reel stuff at CBR every weekday). I don't know what I think about that.

SEVEN PRINCIPLES: Here's a pointless story about Kwanzaa:

During most of the early 90s, I played online games called MUDs (Multi User Dimensions), which were basically text-based Dungeons and Dragons games accessed via Telnet (something latter-day netizens have probably never heard of). I became quite well known, eventually rising to the rank of player administrator, kind of a babysitting job for people who put in the time and didn't seem completely insane. Everybody on the game, when in trouble, would use these "scrolls of recall" that you could "buy" in the "magic shop" for a pittance. The economy of the game is a subpoint too unimportant to address. Anyway, the scroll dropped you in the Temple of Midgaard, which was also where your character appeared, naked and beaten, if you "died." Everybody had to go through there. So, to make sure nothing went wrong -- players stealing from each other there, or what have you, a hugely dangerous "non-player character" was placed there, a sheriff or something. I don't remember exactly. Anyway, as a player administrator, or "god" character, I had the ability to rename these NPCs with a command called "string." I could change the description you'd see when you looked at them as well. So every December, whenever I was on and the game was up, people would pop into the temple to see the Kwanzaa Damu standing there. I made him a jolly old Black guy in red, black and green, writing about the Nguzo Saba. This amused me to no end. Most people ignored it. I rarely ever tell that story.

Anyway, I'm doing something slightly similar on my CBR column. Every day, instead of one of my normal sign off lines ("Keeping it reel" or "Ready for your close up?") I've been doing a Kwanzaa countdown. Why? Because I can't go six damned inches out my front door without being bombarded by images about Christmas (or Nimrod's birthday, or whatever). A little balance, even spitting in the wind, won't hurt anybody important.

GOING POSTAL: I needed to mail something, to guarantee it got from LA to Anaheim in two days. I paid extra for this, and had a postal worker assure me it would arrive. Five days later, it has not. We're done. Fed Ex can get my business, and since they're based in Memphis, it's a kind of loyalty.

EXACT: My good friend Mikey, who taught me half of my KJ repertoire, turned 29 on Sunday. He asked people to come see him at work, and swore the evil owners would not be there. Now, I've had a serious beef with this place, but I wanted to set that aside to make my friend happy.

Of course, that never goes well for me.

I go, I buy some drinks, I eat, I sing a couple of songs. The owners are, in fact, not there. But somebody who knows our beef is, and calls. They order my ejection, based on the aforementioned beef, written on this site. I'm ... displeased. More on that soon, as I have a plan to exact my revenge.

UNMITIGATED GALL, PART 8,230,129: And now, two funny stories about people I know:

I used to date a really dangerously attractive woman named Antoinette (see us in photo to left). Antoinette was a lot of the things I like in a woman, and some amazing extras. She loves sex. She loves comic books (particularly Storm of the X-Men). She found me fascinating and brilliant. She has astute political views, and could discuss current events. She was witty and urbane, well read and intelligent. She had, without a doubt, the softest and most amazing skin I have ever encountered in my entire life. Oh, and she had amazing breasts. She had a sweet voice, a dazzling smile, and killer curves.

As with all women, however, she had some issues. She'd slept with a good friend of mine before hooking up with me (which all parties know and none care about). She'd received a head trauma in her early twenties that no one, family or friends knew about (and somebody's probably mad at me talking about it now, but what do I care?) that regularly causes her some issues with short term memory and cognitive awareness. Yes, a lot like 50 First Dates (seeing that movie together made her break down and tell me this, perhaps another betrayal of confidence, but I'm not so sure privelege should survive the termination of a relationship, I'm of two minds on the subject). Now, Antoinette had always been a little ... determined to rope me into a long-term commitment, but she told me after seeing that Adam Sandler movie that it was because she would periodically forget all the nice things that happened between us, and need reassurance through police-style interrogation and pressurings of me. This happened about once every three weeks -- bliss bliss bliss then a kind of nagging that made Peg Bundy look like a saint. I kind of got used to it, partially because I really cared for her and partially because I really wanted it to work, and true, partially because the sex was un-freakin-believable. Anyway, after a while, her job got really busy and it started to get easier for her to remember her concerns and harder to remember the solutions to them, so we kind of drifted apart. Some time after that, I wrote some stuff while waxing philosophical on the subject of love, and she read it, interpreted it through her own version of the facts, and responded negatively on her weblog.

I went back and forth in my mind about going over there and posting to try and set her straight, but I ultimately could find no profit in it. She's gonna remember herself as the victim and me as the bad guy, regardless of piddling things like facts. She's moved on, and so have I. But once in a while I'll run across something she bought me, or something will remind me of her, and I'll remember that skin, and the amazing scent of her, and smile a little.

On the less-good front, there was a columnist at my newspaper named Michael St. John. He'd been with the paper for, seemingly, ever. According to my publisher, he'd read trade magazines -- Variety or The Hollywood Reporter -- and write things about the stars in it like they were his friends. "Brad Pitt told me ..." and so on. I had no beef with it, as I don't know a single person who works at the paper who cares what's in it, present company included.

Except for one detail. My publisher noted that I should try to use material about and of interest to Black people. St. John would often send in bits about, say, Liza Minelli or some other aging white celeb. I routinely cut them. St. John doesn't read the paper (I often wonder if anyone does) and never noticed. This was, apparently best. When he sent in a really interesting bit one time, amidst a score of items about white people, I emailed back something like, "wow, great work, thank you. Even with having to cut out the white parts, it's an amazing story." He got in a huff, started trading angry emails with me, blah blah. This had happened before -- see he never, and I mean never spell checked (or fact checked, really, I caught several inaccuracies) his work, figuring that'd be handled "down the line." Since I am all that's "down the line," that meant more work for me. But I suffered through, a very minor twinge in a largely seamless operation. But now he was mad.

So he emails the publisher. Who, gloriously old school cat that he is, prints the email out and shows it to me. I was instructed to email St. John saying that the white must go, and if he doesn't wanna submit, fine. I said as much, adding that I was disappointed that someone of his alleged experience felt the need to try and go over my head instead of talking things out with me like a man. He emailed back the following: "It is so sad that you are so filled with poison and envy, I only feel a tremendous amount of pity for you. You are obviously a very lonely, evil dark soul. God Bless."

After I almost snorted lemonade out of my nose laughing at this, I told my publisher when I went in. He said, succinctly, "So no more of him, then." Funny.

TECHNICAL: My email forwarding box in Texas has been under recurrent denial of service attacks, and mail to me has been bouncing a little. I don't like that at all. Thinking about that, and I hate thinking about that.

MOVIN' ON UP: Apparently, Jay-Z has become president of Def Jam. Now, I've had my concerns about Jigga, and said some unkind things after he changed his style from the lightning-fast delivery he used on Original Flavor's album to the thug-scented tunes he eventually became famous for. But still -- Marcy Projects to the big chair at a major label? Props. That's all.

PUBLISH OR PERISH: In the first quarter of 2005, The Crown will be published by a small LA company called Telepoetics. Once that's done, only the first three chapters of each book will be online, so smoke 'em while you've got 'em. Anyway, I took forever to take another long look at it all (noting a lot of typos, argh), and still have yet to get it over to my old AOL editor Jenna, who cut me quite a deal for polish. I am super behind on it, but I did start Book Three (if a guy named "Hannibal" used Roman numerals, it would be a very severe kind of self-hating blasphemy) and I'm pretty pleased at the overall development of the larger story. Which, once paperwork is filed, I can talk about some. Which will be a relief, as I've been dreaming up crazy ideas about it forever.

SPEAKING OF PLEASED: My karaoke boss Tony called and said, "I finally heard that group Coldplay, as I'd never heard their stuff outside of you singing it. They need to fire their lead singer, because you do their stuff better than they do." This is a guy who owns a karaoke business and hears a lot of people sing. That's just swank, in my book.

At no fewer than six times in the last few weeks, I've been driving in my car and gotten literally teary thinking about how happy I am in my life. It's really amazing. I almost don't know what to do with it, since the biggest problem in 2004 was cars.

"It's been a long December, and there's reason to believe maybe next year will be better than the last."

GOODNIGHT, SWEETHEART, GOODNIGHT: That about covers it. I wanna try shorter blogs, but I never seem to get around to it ...