Karaokefanboy 101

Hello, my name is Russ, a.k.a. Karaokefanboy, and this is my blog's 101st post. What better way to commemorate that numeric accomplishment, and my feeble attempt to redefine my on-line identity, than by providing some "Karaokefanboy 101?" Though I've decided to allocate more personal writing to my LiveJournal, a concise autobiography seems equally appropriate for this forum, now more dedicated to creative writing and my brazen, often ignorant opinions of pop culture, religion, and politics. If this blog is unto an on-line zine, then consider this my "About the Author." The LiveJournal is . . . well, a journal -- a diary with a deliberately broken lock and spread open for anyone in the world-wide-web that cares.

So, how does one write an autobiography without sounding totally self-indulgent? I could easily recount a succinct chronology of the most important events of in my life, each of which would imply a milestone of philosophical and existential revelation, culminating in my general sense of what's right and wrong in life, but that would be too easy. Instead, I've decided to list these revelations outright, with a brief description of how I realized them. Thinking about them, I've discovered that listing them in order of significance actually reveals something of a chronology anyway, and in the case of the first and most important, a cyclical lifestyle or deeply ingrained modus operandi. Then again, perhaps assuming that these life lessons are so important that they must be listed and shared with the world is the most self-indulgent of all! I wouldn't have it any other way, either way.

So, without further ado, allow me to present the Autobiographical Philosophies of a Karaokefanboy!

1. Your inner child is and always should be the loudest voice in your head. Now, I could easily explain the obvious: I'm a huge geek that loves cartoons, comic books, and action figures, just as I did when I was a child, and further I believe everyone is a geek in that we're all secretly faithful to our childhood passions, i.e. sports, literature, music, movies, etc. "Geek" as we define it nowadays is more akin to "fanatic" than its classic carnival root (which, ironically, oft referred to a cape-wearing performer, hence the superhero connection -- Wikipedia it). Yes, by this standard, even "jocks" are really just "sports geeks." Get over it. ("Comic book jocks?" See, that just doesn't make any sense.)

Yet, I take this revelation a step further than the fact that my parents condoned and enabled my fanaticism for cartoons and comics, that they never had the yard sale everyone else's folks seemed to have where their treasured toys were peddled for pennies apiece. Even when we moved from my native Stratford, Connecticut to Peoria, Arizona, my Masters of the Universe and Super Powers action figures and my Monkees albums made it intact. (I did lose King Hiss's left snap-on arm, which totally blew his human disguise, but I digress.) No, I'm not talking about the props of a healthy childhood; I'm talking about the script.

Simply put, the emotions you experienced as a child, and the natural way you experienced them, are the best therapy for any seemingly adult trauma. Kids freakin' feel it, man. When they're happy, they dance; when they're pissed, they rant. The best part of the latter is, when it's over, it's over. Children don't suppress their rage, nor should they. Nor should anyone, ever, suppress any genuine feeling. "Regret" is born of suppressed love; "grudges" are born of suppressed anger. If emotions are allowed to live, breathe, and eventually die naturally, these grown-up words would become extinct. And, no, naysayers -- regret doesn't teach a valuable lesson. Love or desire fulfilled or denied does. See this little geek standing next to the He-Man birthday party table? He was never told not to make a wish when he blew out the cake's candles, yet he sometimes learned that those wishes don't come true. That never stopped him.



Where's the cyclical part come in? Well, I work with children now, in a nationally recognized after school/summer program. I actually have a whole blog about that (though currently dormant but intended for revival), but I mention it here to assert that my seemingly selfless career is a beloved, selfish reminder of this hard-learned life lesson -- a constant virtual portal to my own loud-mouthed inner child. I often tell the angry child that feeling mad isn't wrong; what they do with that anger betrays their intrinsic morality (which firmly establishes the "murder is wrong" clause in my "mad is okay" philosophy). Yes, nothing brings out my inner child more than being surrounded by them. Try it. Believe me, it'll make you want to go to your room -- your safe, New Kids on the Block-poster riddled room. If you were that kind of a geek, anyway.

2. Creative expression of any kind heals the soul. One of the defining days of my life was spent at the beige kitchen counter at our home in Stratford, when and where my father showed me show to properly sketch the human shape. Until then, I'd drawn He-Man as a square body with a circle head, apparently my dad had had enough; he modeled how to use the pencil lightly, to sketch the shapes before adding the details, and all of the stuff kids usually learn from those campy "How to Draw" books. Of course, it meant more coming from my father, and seeing the skills demonstrated live. I remember that afternoon as the definitive moment my feeble artistry began, and as the moment I realized I could create my own superhero adventures, like the ones I enjoyed in comics, on television, or even when I played with my Marvel Secret Wars action figures.

On another level, I don't quite remember the first time I heard the Monkees -- that's how long they've been a part of my life. (I do remember my mother buying me the Rhino Records "Then & Now" compilation album, the first record I ever consciously wanted!) Most importantly, the goofiness of their TV show, which reran on Nick at Nite and MTV, was overshadowed by the frequent "live" performances that followed every psychedelic misadventure, which instilled in me a natural desire to perform those songs myself. I remember using our staircase stoop as a stage and putting on concerts for my parents' friends -- my first karaoke performances, though I didn't realize it then. As far as I was concerned, those '60s pop tunes were poetry set to music, and it would've been a crime not to share them.

See the connection? As my appreciation for various media -- comics, television, and music -- developed, so did my desire to interact and contribute to them. In a very Jungian way, I think everybody shares this desire, from the random doodle whilst chatting on the phone to one's secret personal serenade in the car or the shower. Unfortunately, a certain shame in light of their beloved media's self-appointed perfection prevents many people from expressing themselves in public, from dragging their anthems from the car seat to the karaoke stage! "I could never sing as well as so-and-so," these people claim. "Oh, I don't know how to draw," others explain sheepishly. Since when does personal expression require talent? As the great Andy Kaufman believed, one's sense of entertainment often comes when the audience is perceived as the performers, exhibiting their natural reactions to whatever disturbing thing is unfolding before them. In other words, the tone deaf karaoke singer is as natural as the audience that winces to him, and both are perfectly synced to their inherent sense of self-expression.

Incidentally, when my family moved to Arizona and my parents divorced, the men that fulfilled a father figure role in my life all encouraged me to express myself creatively, from Mr. Burbridge's and Mr. Poslaiko's penchant for literary examination, to Mr. Martin's and Mr. Keene's mastery of public speech and the broadcast arts. Every time I learned something new at their proverbial knee, I was sitting with my father at the kitchen counter again, or shopping at the record store with my Davy Jones-lovin' mom. They all made me a believer . . . in myself.

This is getting pretty long, and I don't want to abbreviate my thoughts, so for your sake . . . to be continued . . .!

My Centennial Post

Of course my one hundredth post would be my attempt to recommit to blogging, my umpteenth promise to myself to maintain a frequent, consistent record of my thoughts on all things personal and pop-cultural -- which I often exaggerate as unnecessarily personal, anyway. Consider the recent passing of Estelle Getty. While some might think of her death as frivolous pop culture trivia (not to mention long overdue, when one realizes that a Golden Girls reunion was still very much possible until Sunday night), I take it personally, since I've long deemed Getty one-fourth of television's second best comedic quartet.* The loss of even just one of them forever closes the book on that original dynamic and places a definitive sense of closure on Lifetime's enduring Golden Girls reruns. Knowing Getty is gone, the viewer can never imagine an epilogue to the ladies' cumulative story, at not one that isn't tainted with tragedy.

I felt much the same way when Universal Studios closed the Back to the Future ride. Sure, the BTTF films are the best, tidiest trilogy of all time (in my opinion), and a cinematic revisitation would only threaten such self-enclosed canon, but at least I could still visit Doc Brown's labs and face young Biff's rage if I jonesed an interactive addendum. Figures that, a week after the Simpsons ride opened and officially replaced the Time Travel Institute, Universal Studios' backlot burns down and takes the clock tower with it. Some things are best treasured in the past, I suppose . . .

No! See, near as I can figure, blogging exists as a form of time travel, not necessarily to the past or future, but in mere preservation of the present. How many thoughts do I wish I recorded these past few months? How many feelings was I afraid to share with this Google-happy world? Who cares? For every petty reservation, that's just one more personal moment lost in the ether of my fading, compartmentalizing memory. In other words, what was once so important that I wanted to blog it was just as easily forgotten, and I wish it wasn't so! I may not be as witty as one of the Golden Girls, but I'm entitled to my own reruns, yes? From my own lifetime? Ah, too much, but you know what I mean.

So, this Blogspot will continue to exist as a record of my impressions of all things pop culture. The more personal stuff is going up at my own LiveJournal, because I hate to have so many abandoned facets of my on-line personality. Damn Noisy Kids! will continue to chronicle the struggle of my working with youth in the context of an unnecessarily politically burdened non-profit organization. And A Comic A Day . . . will become something else. You'll see.

Or you won't. Remember. I'm not doing this for Fenster. I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for me. I'm going to finish this thing . . .

*I'm sorry, no one can top the Monkees. It's hereditary. And you're wrong! The Monkees will never die! **
** A riff from Grant Morrison's current "Batman: R.I.P." storyline, okay? A footnote for a footnote?! I love blogging!

Curiosity: A Haiku

Your cats are wrestling.
Let them. You know they love it.
We know how they feel.

Fallout

I emerge from fallout
radioactive
bioluminescent
cutting a swath through the earth

I need a chemical shower
or I’ll be a danger
to everyone

Do I have superpowers now?
Can I fly?
Do I have the strength
of a hundred men?

I have the strength of a hundred men!
I can lift tanks over my head!
Fear me! Revere me!
I am a god among you!
The radiation hath made me so!

I feel funny
my fingertips are falling off
I’m melting
melting

quick, mop me up
put me in the freezer
in a million years
we might have a cure

Independence Day

From "75 Things Every Man Should Master" at Esquire magazine:

58. Avoid boredom. You have enough to eat. You can move. This must be acknowledged as a kind of freedom. You don't always have to buy things, put things in your mouth, or be delighted.

Today is Independence Day.

For Whom the Recess Bell Tolls

The yellow jumprope
shields her in a golden cocoon;
it slaps the blacktop with
a tribal beat
that inspires a tap
from even the most concrete feet.

Somewhere a child
willfully defies authority
and leaps from a swing
he's spent twenty whole Mississippis
pumping with his little legs,
higher and higher
his feet kicking the clouds,
the chains rattle behind him
when his hands let go.

In the dark shadows
of the handball court,
a shakedown:
thirty-two cents later
a bookworm crawls back
into the earth
and a bully feels about
four feet tall,
the strength of a giant.

For every child
on the basketball court
lost in the game
a dozen watch
from courtside
lost in the crowd;
wallflowers in training,
their roots in the shallow soil
of a shifting sandbox.

The longest line stretches
from the tetherball court
where every time he loses his turn
he's that much closer to learning
the lesson:
hit it just high enough
so your opponent can't reach,
but just low enough
to take another swing;
so victory becomes the old ball and chain
hanging from the top
like the new year's ball,
or a pendulum,
or a lynching.