Hank has published and produced numerous magazine and newspaper articles, e-books, poems, short stories, non-fiction essays, plays, interviews, research papers and surveys. He's had columns in the NYTimes.com, Salon.com, SFGate.com, and he's anthologized in several collections. Below are three samples, and there's a resume here.
Black Power Statue
Tommie Smith and John Carlos are honored alumni on the San Jose State University campus for their protest gesture on the awards podium at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City. The $300,000 statue demonstrates the university’s concern for social justice.
Mr. Smith won the gold medal in the 200 meters, and his time of 19.83 seconds set a world record that was not broken for 11 years. His early childhood was spent in rural Texas picking cotton and harvesting corn and sugar cane with his sharecropper family. Mr. Carlos, who won a bronze medal, is from Harlem. Continued HERE
My Spawn Arrives!
In the third installment of his lesbian sperm donor saga, Hank describes the arrivals of his two babies -- born 21 days apart.
Glorious is my newborn daughter! I am a blessed daddy, cheeks and chin wet with tears!
The beautiful baby plucked from my wife's c-sectioned womb is purple, pretty and as pudgy as a Buddha with enormous bright blue eyes and fat fists that she swings defensively as she tries to fight off the hoses that three nurses are slithering down her esophagus to extract all the meconium (neonatal feces) that she has possibly swallowed.
“Sit down,” a nurse orders me. “Here, hold her. She’s yours.”
My daughter, Tallulah. Squirming, like my heart. She’s my angel, delivered to me to illuminate and exonerate my measly 47-year-old life, which in retrospect seems to have been so shallow and devoid of integrity before her arrival.
“You are m-my ba-baby.” Continued HERE
Sneaking Into Shelter: My Hideous Homeless Night
Disguised in stained slacks, torn sweatshirt, black ski cap and five-day facial stubble, I walked into Mission Rock Homeless Shelter last Thursday, begging for lodging.
Wretchedly, I slept that night with the poorest of the City's poor.
Are shelters benevolent oases of hope, or dangerous filthy pits of bureaucratic cruelty? I wanted to inspect the shelters as a journalist, but I was denied access by every administrator I telephoned. The only possible entry, I realized, was to costume myself as an indigent.
"I hope we get in," an African American man named Benjamin frets as we shiver by the gate with 100 or so other hopefuls, waiting for our names to be called. Continued HERE
#1 The Ukrainian Human Barbie Doll - Valeria Lukyanova - Is this the future of cosmetic enhancement?
The following article was first published on IEET on May 18, 2012 and is the #1 most viewed of the year.
Immaculate doll-face, globulous breasts, teeny waist, slender limbs, vacant ice-blue eyes, long platinum hair - Valeria Lukyanova of Odessa, Ukraine, has re-designed her physical form to resemble Barbie, the plastic Mattel toy. Is the result “beautiful”? Critics screech that she’s “creepy” and “lifeless” with an “uncanny valley” absence of sexuality, but… let’s not kid ourselves here.
The 5’ 7” 21-year-old Plastic Fantastic internet sensation is lauded as extraordinarily desirable - an ideal female aesthetic - by thousands of commenters and 215,000+ “Like” clickers on her Facebook page that’s only 24 days old. Plus she’s been awarded mainstream attention by Forbes, HuffingtonPost, Daily Mail, Fox News, ABC News, New York Daily News, and International Business Times. Eventually, millions of wide-eyed adorers will gaze greedily at the 11,00 photos of her already online. Continued HERE
Angry Daddy can’t get no respect
Being a father today means I get no respect. None. Is it because I'm the only male in the house? Raised by a military dad? From a bygone era?
“Daddy! You didn’t melt the cheese!”
Our family of four just sat down for a lovely Mexican meal that I cooked, but already my teenage daughter is scolding me. Let’s call her “Blaze.”
“Hey, honey…” My voice is steady, but the arteries in my face are steadily engorging. “Why can’t you say, ‘Thanks for providing me with food?’ Where’s your gratitude?”
“I hate tacos with cold cheese,” she fumes. “Why can’t Mom cook?”
She continues to talk about the indignities of cold cheese, but I’m not listening. This is not the first time I’ve heard this inane first-world diatribe, but suddenly I’m determined it’s going to be my last.
“You are SO RUDE!” I thunder. “EVERY ******* NIGHT! I CAN’T STAND IT ANY LONGER. GO TO YOUR ROOM!”