Smitten

From that week I dove into my e.e. cummings book:

re(mind) me to
carry (your) books

gr(own)-ups can still

no, now you're all

(business)

My Favorite Lyrics, part 2: Best Allegory Edition

The following lyrics best capture the concept of "allegory" via song.

She on the left, he on the right/They sit in their living room/Stare at the fire,/Sparks up the flu/Escape to the night, Bedtime soon/and sure there's plenty to talk about/but there ain't much to say/God's on the mantlepiece/and what's he got to do with all of this anyway/and the silence here is written/it's the holiest you've ever seen/These two just bookends/to the spaces in between. -- "Bookends," Eddie from Ohio

Don't stand beneath me/I'm dangerous/I can break/Fall at anytime/Oh, but you're not concerned/If anything I've learned/You're the queen of content/and I'm the master of dreaming/I've been frozen here for three months now/Waiting desperately for spring to come/and every now and then/you see me when you press your lips/upon the windowpane/then you're gone/Dream on . . . -- "Icicle," Troll for Trout

Buy me a shiny new machine that runs on lies and gasoline/And all those batteries we stole from smoke alarms/And disassembles my despair/It never took me anywhere/It never once bought me a drink -- "Reconstruction Site," The Weakerthans

Justice League Holidays

The attacks on Santa have begun.

I've explained the palpable connection between the holidays and comic book culture once before: in a nutshell, both are colorful cultural genres that hinge on selfless, sometimes myth-based icons conveyed via a childlike suspension of disbelief. I liken these politically correct attacks on Santa and his peers with Dr. Fredric Wertham's Seduction of the Innocent scare from the '50s. Indeed, St. Nick is as sexist with his "ho"-ridden chuckle as Batman and Robin are gay.

Yes, I'm a staunch advocate for Santa Claus and have been ever since I saw a TV special advocating his existence, which even included celebrity eye witness accounts from the likes of Stevie Wonder. (Figure that one out.) I consider the charitable work I facilitate around this time of year as direct marching orders from Kringle, because, in these days leading up to The Big Night, he's too busy to do everything. After all those years of He-Man and Super Powers action figures under the tree, it's the least I can do.

I even wrote a comic book about Santa Claus. Still have some copies laying around if anyone want to cough up the three bucks. I'm actually thinking about revisiting the material, if time and inspiration permit . . .

Incidentally, considering Santa's frequent cameos in comics, I've speculated that he should be an honorary member of the Justice League, but since I've established a roster of reality star Leaguers, I now feel compelled to do so with holiday iconography, too. So, sitting around the Watchtower, North Pole Branch would be:

1. Santa Claus. Of course. He's the Superman of the holiday season, boasting the most special abilities and even an Arctic fortress of solitude.

2. The Easter Bunny. Trapped in Santa's shadow, the Easter Bunny is the Batman of the group, particularly since his existence hinges around a holiday steeped in the implications of death.

3. The Tooth Fairy. Like Nancy Grace in my "real Justice League," the Tooth Fairy offers a woman's touch to the group and, when roundtable arguments get too heated, can always tell the boys to watch their mouths. Yes.

4. Cupid. The Most Powerful Baby Alive.

5. Uncle Sam. Representing Independence Day, Presidents Day, Memorial Day, and Veterans Day, Uncle Sam has the biggest burden to bear. More than upholding any one of these holidays, he carries the weight of The American Dream.

6. A leprechaun. Drunk. Like Aquaman must be. Also, rich.

7. The Halloween Chair. Halloween has a steady rotation of representative mythical characters, from vampires to witches to mummies to Frankenstein. I don't know if any one of them truly stand up as the ultimate liaison, though a classically sheeted ghost could conceal almost anyone's identity . . .

With Thanksgiving right around the corner, I'm tempted to include a turkey, but I don't think he would last very long.

Despite that article, I know Santa respects women, but I don't think he can resist a good meal.

Current Events Round-up: Blue Mooney

Less than a week after Dog the Bounty Hunter's public apology for using the n-word on Larry King, comedian Paul Mooney's new stand-up special, "Jesus was Black, So Was Cleopatra" premiered on Showtime last night. Filmed before The Michael Richards Incident, Mooney drops "the n-bomb" literally hundreds of times, with the same eerie Laugh Factory backdrop looming over him as from the now infamous Richards video clip. The connection, and contrast, was striking.

As a diehard fan of stand-up comedy, I enjoyed the hour and a half special, and while many of his view are outright conspiratorial, Mooney's confidence is intoxicating and his affiliation with some of comedy's late-'n-greatest places him in the proverbial hall of fame, even before his beloved cameos on Chappelle's Show.

The thing is, after The Richards Incident, Mooney swore off the n-word. Particularly after The Dog Incident, why would he consent to air this special? Why perpetuate the "n-word alcoholism" he had blatantly denounced almost exactly a year ago? I'm not making a subversive criticism here, I'm genuinely curious.

Is Mooney back on the wagon, or is the implication that the n-word's offense actually wears off?

Quality Customer Service

She remembers my name
which is nothing more
than quality customer service
but I have to wonder
if she's called it out before
somewhere other than
over my freshly blended coffee.

And the Award for Best Apocalyptic Lyrics Goes to . . .

The Postal Service's "We Will Become Silhouettes" --

I wanted to walk through the empty streets
And feel something constant under my feet,
But all the news reports recommended that I stay indoors
Because the air outside will make
Our cells divide at an alarming rate
Until our shells simply cannot hold
All our insides in,
And that's when we'll explode
(And it won't be a pretty sight)

Old Flannel Old Friend

It's good to see you
old flannel old friend
it's good to feel
your embrace again

You pull me in
like a second skin
where i wear you
like you've always been

You've got my back
and my heart on your sleeve
so together we lift
we carry we heave

Three months pass
like a dangling thread
for a moment your memory
looms over my head

It's good to know
I'll see you again
folded not forgotten
old flannel old friend.

Recent Guilty Pleasure

"Baby Got Back" by Jonathan Coulton

I Am the Water

I am the water
and you are the tea;
the best of you
comes best through me.

Return to the Drink

He sat across the table
stirring his Italian soda,
watching the bubbles
shake free of the straw,
rise to the surface,
and dissolve,
returning to the drink.

"Everything we've known
as normalcy
for the past four years
is going to change,"
he said.

Of course
he used different words then
and I don't remember
all of them,
but the words
weren't as important
as the tone
of his voice.

It sounded heavy,
like from the weight
of an anchor.

An Answer for Everything

My cell phone is dead.
I need to charge it.

I can't afford this month's electric bill.
I need to charge it.

The enemy's army is gathering just over the hill.
I see their shadow and hear their battle cry.

I need to charge it.

Shut Up and Drive

Through the filter
of a bus window
the world looks
a little less
forgiving.

Who am I
to say
who are you
for succeeding
where I have
failed?

Sometimes life
is like public transportation:

It can take you
almost anywhere
you want,
but sometimes stop
just short
so you have to walk
the rest
of the way.

Letter B

I've had this song stuck in my head for twenty years, and I didn't think until today to finally find it on YouTube. "Bless the b-b sound of letter b!"

There, but for the Grace of Dog . . .

First of all, before I dive into my defense of Dog the Bounty Hunter, I insist that I would never condone flagrant use of the n-word, nor do I condone his flagrant use of the n-word. At 52-years-old, I'd hope that a constant target for criticism like Dog would know better than to use that word in public discourse. Now, we can't control his thoughts or ingrained inclinations, and in fact I think our society must accept the fact that the n-word, and a few other terms like it, will only die when its respective generation dies, too. As long as someone's ninety-year-old grandfather, who used the term all the time without reservation or offense some thirty-five years ago, still utters the n-word unapologetically in traffic, even in the confines of his own car, the term and its implications still exist . . . and as much as it isn't right, it's also just as sure.

In fact, arguably, the word isn't as powerful when it's used as much as when it's rebutted and rebuked. I'm not saying that one shouldn't respond to its use, but pure offense without a trace of hope for a better future, without the call to rise about a former generation's misgivings, is contrary to the Civil Rights Movement's dream. It did have a dream, remember? It wasn't content simply perpetuating the nightmare in which it lived with constant reactive retaliation.

Which brings me to Dog the Bounty Hunter, now the hunted, by all accounts. I wrote a bit about Dog earlier this summer in a two-part "My Man-Crushes" LiveJournal entry: " . . . by taking these addicts down hard, calling them 'dope heads' and such, then reminding them of their forlorn families and forsaken religions or cultures, Chapman and co. exposes them to the consequences of criminal life and the benefits of 'going straight.' By working with his family, Dog unwittingly reveals the camaraderie of domesticity and embodies the good cop/bad cop paradigm, a technique many cannot emotionally balance and convey." I stand by my fandom of Dog, because, while criticism of his methods and character abound, few real law enforcement officers can handle what he does, which is essentially clean up their mess. You track and capture hundreds of drug addicts and try to keep a clean mouth, despite your religious beliefs. Dog's straight-edged naysayers would fold like the cheap suits they wear if they strapped on the bounty hunter's boots for one day.

Nevertheless, Chapman should've watched his mouth, and his heart, while talking to his son recently, particularly in the context of his fear about recorded conversations. Interestingly, that's how the now nationally heard soundbyte on the National Enquirer's website begins, with Dog's explanation of how such a leak would ruin his career. While what immediately follows, his disappointingly racist tirade, has attracted the most attention, listen to the longer version of the conversation; Dog reveals some amount of terror at his son Tucker's girlfriend and her previous intimidations, but still offers Tucker a job if only he'd drop the chick. That's the elephant in the room -- Tucker needs the money. Probably wants to be on TV like his brothers Duane Lee and Leland. So, when Daddy tells him to choose between his seven-month romance and his family (his apparent lifeline), he finds a way to do both: exploiting the latter with the plans of the former. Character Assassination 101. How much did the Enquirer pay for that recording, I wonder?

Dog's critics don't care about that, though. That the methods used to record Chapman, and their flagrant use of terms like "redneck," "white trash," and "flamboyant," are just as hateful as the n-word, sans history, don't register with them. Where is this n-word b-word that Dog hates so much, anyway? Shouldn't she demand retribution for such a racist, sexist attack? Or, if we did see her on television, would we realize that she's just like Dog's family -- visually unsettling, and easy to mock? We really couldn't express honest outrage if we actually saw her for the celebrity-stalking dead weight Dog thinks she is, could we? Black white trash, I presume. Ironically, the other story that battled for its fifteen minutes this weekend was Bill Cosby's book about self-depreciating juvenile African American culture. Coincidence?

Circumstances like this are the only way folks from the older generation will realize the bygone nature of their pre-progressive ways, that's for sure. Dog is actually one of the lucky ones to find these traces exposed and hopefully burned away by the searing spotlight. For a man that gets arrested for trying to uphold the law, and now faces accusations of racism despite his Jesus freakishness, I'm not worried for Chapman's career. (He might be right now, though . . .) It's that ninety-year-old grandpa that's the real threat, the strands of racism that still run undiscovered through our roots, the ones we feel completely comfortable ignoring when a celebrity's shortcomings make us feel a bit better about ourselves.

Mock Dog all you want, but by hounding him as you have, Big Media, you're just an awkwardly opened leather jacket and tight pair of black jeans away from being him.

The Ghost that Haunts Me

Halloween said good-bye this morning with a big, wet kiss.

Through sleep-crusted eyes I reached out to its fleeting silhouette in my doorway and choked desperately, “Was it good for you?”

Building the haunted house, though time-consuming, isn’t the hardest part. Making every five-minute tour a uniquely haunting experience is the real challenge. After all, these kids see us everyday. They know, or they think they know, what we’re capable of. Yes, the fear grabs them when we’ve stretched the bounds of their expectations, and perhaps even their imaginations, and completely embraced the spectral spirit of Halloween.

For example, as I was browsing through Target’s premature Halloween aisles two months ago, I was inspired by their adult-sized Operation game costume. What if our Learning Center, in which kids often play Operation, was really haunted? What if the books moved off the shelves like the opening act in Ghostbusters, and the games sprung to life?

Oh, we’ve done the “creepy doctor’s table” before, complete with the cooked, cold spaghetti guts, but when the kids saw this,

,

they weren’t sure what to think. Only options, really: laugh your head off, or proceed with caution. The creepiness had settled in, but the fear . . . it reached out and grabbed them when our Operation patient did, when she activated the buzzer hidden underneath her latex-gloved hand. Sure, anybody can go to Target and look like the Operation game, but to sound like it? If it touches me, will it shock me, too?

The question is enough.

Our mummy’s tomb, staged in the computer lab as an homage to ancient Egypt’s knack for advanced technology, was pure old school Universal Studios, with a fraction of a fraction of the budget. I wanted a brochure-style photo of our proverbial grand finale, and our impromptu photographer pulled it off:

.

Working with children (and the operative phrase is “working for them”), the question that drives my mania behind every significant event like our annual haunted house is, “Will it be memorable?” I don’t care if the kids talk about last night’s haunted house today, but ten years from now, when they’re old enough to reflect upon (and hopefully long for) their youth, will they fondly remember anything we do for them? My job is as selfish as it is selfless – I do not want my hard work and good intentions buried beneath these kids’ better memories. Not that I want to be above them, either, but right there beside them: home, school, church, and my team and me. If one future grown-up can say that we helped imbed his childhood as a treasured experience. . .

Everybody says that. “If I can change just one life.” I’ll take a few dozen. A hundred. I say making a difference means that the difference between the people you meet and the people you influence is zero. Quantity and quality are not conflicting or contradicting qualities.

“Was it good for you?”

Halloween comes but once a year, but the question haunts me everyday.