An Inner Child's Manifesto: Things You Shouldn't Pass Out on Halloween

A few years ago, I posted a list of things folks should not pass out on Halloween. In these few rare, quiet minutes between shopping for candy and setting up our Haunted House at work, I'd like to re-post and add two more items to the list:

1. Apples. First of all, they're heavy, and they take up valuable bag space. I mean, the surface area of an apple is undoubtedly equivalent to two or three fun-sized Snickers. And I'm not trick or treating for my health. If you're gonna pass out apples, dip it in something sugary first, or at least stick a gummy worm in it. God.

2. Loose change. I'm not a bum. I don't want your money. I want your candy. I can find loose change in payphones and in gas station leave-a-penny trays. Plus, how can I toilet paper your yard later with loose change rattling around in my bag? Now you can hear me coming! That was your plan all along, wasn't it?

3. Religious literature. Of any kind. I don't care what you believe in. Halloween is about one thing: dressing up like restless spirits and devourers of human flesh to beg neighbors for candy. What's so spiritual about that? Actually, I have a solution. Chocolate Jesus. The best part is, one fun size Chocolate Jesus can feed 5000, with a few wrapper-fulls to spare. I just made that up.

4. School supplies. School started two months ago. If I couldn't afford a pencil then, don't you think that food would be more valuable to me now?

5. Candy substitutes. Granola bars aren't candy. Pretzels aren't candy. Potato chips aren't candy. Popcorn balls are good, but they're not candy. If its headline ingredients aren't sugar, chocolate, corn syrup, and partially hydrogenated vegetable, soybean, or palm kernel oil, it isn't candy.

Listen to you inner child. If he wouldn't want it, the kids in your neighborhood don't, either. If you don't listen, beware, because nothing is more frightening than a neighborhood full of unsatisfied children. Halloween would just be the beginning.

Second Time's the Charm

I read at the poetry open mic again last night. I was introduced as a second time reader, which prompted me to muse, "So, I should know exactly what I'm doing now, right?" I felt a little more comfortable this time around, though, perhaps because I was starting with "For Whom the Recess Bell Tolls," a poem that was a labor of love to write and is a piece of cake to share. The other two pieces were actually found digging around some old stuff, in this blog and my perpetual poetry Word doc. I got big laughs with "Where the Luck Goes," but I hesitate to post it because it contains a bit of profanity, and I've made a personal pledge to keep my blogs clean in case a kid from work looks me up. (I can always e-mail it if you're really interested.) It's interesting to hear the hums of acknowledgment at a well written or poignant line, or the shuffling in the seats when a poem might go for too long. I like it, though, since the guys hosting the thing are very humble and oftentimes hilarious -- it adds levity to something that could end up direly serious, or "emo," as the kids call it. Makes me want to keep writing despite the forecast of a dry spell. I have three or four poems kicking around right now, in fact, and a few other things I really want to purge. I think autumn just does that.

So, the set list: "For Whom the Recess Bell Tolls," "Where the Luck Goes," and "Worm Hole."

In other self-indulgent news, A Comic A Day was recently linked in Steven Grant's "Permanent Damage" column because I won his weekly comics cover challenge, which I swear I've tried to win for years, at least in my head. Two weeks ago I realized he posts every Wednesday, so I tried to be the first to e-mail a solution, obviously with great results just my second time around. Another second. Makes sense, as we measure life by them.

Next week, Halloween. Means plenty of things I'll want to write, with little time to do it. Can't I go as a blogger for Halloween?

Saturday Night is Alive . . . But Is It Really Living?

On Saturday night, my girlfriend, my best friend, some other friends and I were combing the Arizona desert with flashlights and cordless drills in a treasure hunt (I'll save that one for another post), so I missed the originally airing of Sarah Palin's appearance on Saturday Night Live. Considering the coverage her cameo received in the mainstream media, watching it on Monday afternoon like we did, one would think we were months behind the times, as her performance had already been thoroughly analysed and evaluated, as its ultimate impact on the overall election had already been considered and dissected with the same weight and clarity as any one of the four debates. In fact, Palin's appearance on SNL was something of a debate, with her greatest rival yet -- not Biden, but the media itself, specifically entertainment media. Palin has given the likes of The Daily Show, SNL, and David Letterman so much fodder that one had to wonder (1.) if they could really do it to her face, (2.) if she would give them even more ammunition in their very midst, and (3.) how she should stand up to them, with either a sense of stoicism or a sense of humorous humility. My verdict . . .?

Sarah Palin vs. Saturday Night Live -- Winner: Palin.

Considering the strength of SNL's writing lately, I couldn't tell whether or not they'd put on the kid gloves, but Palin emerged victorious by proving she could dwell in the lion's den and not get her arm chewed off. In fact, I dare say that SNL muzzled its own maw, stifling any true potential for comedy with a dire need to remain relevant in a world where comedy has its own central station, and even where it isn't the only show in the town of Saturday late night. Yes, I dare say MadTV offers a more lighthearted approach to political satire, which keeps its spoofery (I'm trademarking that one) so lighthearted and obnoxious one might forget that Obama and McCain are real people and not exaggerated characters like their classics Stewart or Ms. Swan. Indeed, a squirrely old McCain that frequently asks for his shawl is much more subversive than a Palin lookalike that reiterates the source material with a smirk that’s somehow supposed to make the reality of it all more derisively funny. "Mavericky" isn't a punchline; it's a shortcut. Obama and McCain in a dance-off, which would most likely and ironically receive higher primetime ratings than one of their debates anyway? Hilarious.

Finally, the Palin/SNL faceoff reminded me of another sketch comedy pet peeve. Basically, for years, SNL has been able to make even the most accomplished actor look like a bad high school play thespian, barely able to remember his lines. Alec Baldwin's contribution to the show's opening sketch could've been a show stealer; he confuses the real Palin for Tina Fey and slanders the V.P. candidate while pleading to Lorne Michaels about pitting the two together. His blatant reading of cue cards reminded me of The Simpsons episode with Krusty the Clown saying, "And now my favorite part of the show! What’s that say? Talking to the audience? Aw, this is always death!" Baldwin was just a hiccup away from: "[Palin] represent everything we stand . . . What's that say? Oh, yeah. Against!" Her retort, "Stephen is my favorite Baldwin," was more convincing. Sure, it's only one, easily memorized line, but who's the actor in the room?

Of course, for all of this analysis, I don't think anyone has changed their mind about their Presidential pick based on a few minutes of Saturday Night Live. My only gripe with the whole thing is that SNL comes off like someone should have, that satire shouldn’t just echo reality anymore, but shape it, too. It's a cyclical thing. If the reality of our national situation wasn’t hilarious enough by itself, we really wouldn’t have anything to ridicule in the first place. Unfortunately, in the case of electing the next President, I keep getting the creeping suspicion that we the people are the punchline . . . and I still don't get it.

ADDENDUM: This image is going around on the 'net, and while I wouldn't call it satire, it's absolutely hilarious. Entitled, "Next Season on Dancing With the Stars." Exposes the celebrity in politics, eh!

Our Annual Adventure

Once a year
we pick up
right where we
left off
and have
an adventure
just like old times.

We get our shoes
all dirty
with red desert dust
and who cares
if we blow a tire
because we're on
an adventure.

For a few hours
the baby is
rock-a-bye-bye,
the student loans
are paid off,
candy is
the new spinach.

We're retrospectively
recruiting,
convincing these
tagalongs
that the old days
were the best days
and the worst mistake
they ever made
was not being around
the first time around.

Three-hundred
and sixty-four days
are the predator.
Our annual adventure
is the prey.

Fortunately, the desert
is a terrible place
to hide.

A very subtle sequel to "Return to the Drink."

"Are You In?" -- Reading at the Poetry Open Mic for the First Time

I've been speaking or performing in public for as long as I can remember -- from as early as age five and six, singing Monkees songs for my parents' friends on the staircase stoop in our living room, to as recently as two weekends ago, when I M.C.'ed an auction for work at the Richard Nixon Library in Yorba Linda. I've become the go-to guy for mastering ceremonies in my community, and friends and family know and have experienced my passion for karaoke . . . so reading a few poems at a local open mic should really be no sweat for a guy like me, right?

Wrong. Very wrong, indeed.

For a few months now, I've been attending this poetry open mic at an independent coffee shop here in Orange County, initially in the hopes of meeting chicks, but eventually because I'm inspired by the regulars' creativity. Particularly these past few weeks, I've been itching to graduate from spectator to join the ranks of the readers, but sharing one's poetry is much different than my other pretentious vice, karaoke. First of all, in karaoke, the words aren't yours -- you're merely channeling them, perhaps reinterpreting them, but either way you can't be blamed for any of their faults . . . and in fact karaoke often celebrates that. Secondly, in poetry reading, one has no synthesized instrumental in which to hide; it's just your voice and the very potential stillness of the crowd. No booze, either, but rather coffee, to make any smoldering criticism that much more aware. Finally, unlike M.C.'ing an event that requires specific salutations or agendas, one has complete control over his topical content when reading poetry. Love poems are the easy way out, but politics? Religion? Social commentary? Personal memories? All fair game. The gamble is, will anyone really care about what you have to say?

So, tonight, I dove in. For some reason, I've been listening to Incubus' "Are You In?" a lot lately, so I decided to answer its call. My girlfriend will be disappointed that she wasn't there, but I think she'll understand that I preferred it that way, that this virgin experience remains introspective in its afterglow. I had printed a "set list" a few weeks ago, but I started a new poem just yesterday, so I decided to finish it and include it, as well, like inviting a new friend to an old friend's party. Long story short, the reading went well enough; I was fifth on the list, and the first in a trio of "new readers." The guy that sits in the front and laughs way too loud laughed at the lines I intended for humor or cleverness, and the whole crowd responded well when I began my second poem, the new piece, with this:

"One of the things I've been enjoying about these readings is when a poet tells an introductory story about their poem. So, I'm going to do that for this new piece, called 'Cowboy at Bus Stop.' I wrote it when I saw a cowboy at a bus stop. Here it goes . . ."

Then, when I sat down, a lady behind me whispered, "That was awesome." Good thing, because the kid after me, proudly fresh to California from Indiana, was all about the performance, with an extroverted spoken word style most folks associate with such forums. I might've shrunk in his shadow. Fortunately, everything went well enough for me to want to do it again. My life has been a testament to the fact that, once you taste the spotlight, you'll take it any way you can.

Incidentally, my first "set list" was: "Picking Up the Party," "Cowboy at Bus Stop," and "An Answer for Everything." You can find two of them buried in this blog, and the other will find its way here soon enough. Thanks for listening.

The Karaoke Chronicles: "The Best I Ever Had"

Ever since my passion for karaoke began, I've wondered why I can't karaoke during the daytime. Of course, nighttime's cover of darkness lowers inhibitions a bit, particularly since the booze flows more freely when the sun sets, but what about those of us that don't need alcohol or nocturnal subterfuge? What about those of us that just want to squeeze in our fifteen minutes of fame during our lunch hour? I'm aware that many (traditionally Asian) karaoke venues offer rooms for rent, but these places are most exclusively for groups or private parties, so . . . What of the the traveling man? The desperado? The ones that don't want the sun to go down on them?

So, you can imagine my delight when I investigated karaoke venues in San Francisco prior to the Alternative Press Expo last year and discovered The Mint Karaoke Lounge, a bar that opens at noon and starts karaoke as early as 4 p.m., which, though not lunchtime, is the earliest I've ever found karaoke accessible to a general audience. I arrived in San Francisco and found a hotel room too late to enjoy karaoke by sunlight, but my first night at the Mint was memorable nevertheless; as the name of the joint suggests, the Mint is dedicated to karaoke, and the K.J. I've experienced there, Frank, runs a very tight ship. The song selection is diverse enough, and the drinks are reasonably priced. After my interpretation of Wham's "Careless Whisper," a friendly party of lesbians welcomed me into their fold, where I spent the rest of my hazy night until that awkward stumble back to the Travelodge. The hospitality of the Mint was such a breath of fresh air (pun intended), that I vowed to return every time I'm in San Francisco.

Did I mention the comic book store across the street? 'Nuff said.

At the time, I didn't suspect that I'd be back less than a year later; my work hosted a conference in San Francisco, and I won the raffle to go. The Mint instantly came to mind and was immediately on my schedule, and this time, I was determined to sing during the daytime. The last mandatory workshop ended around 4:00 p.m., so I told my supervisor I'd return in a few hours for dinner and began my sojourn on foot. The two mile walk seemed longer than it was, since the Mint rests on the fringe of 'Cisco's Tenderloin, a quarter-square mile notorious for homelessness and prostitution. The Mint quickly became even more of a safe haven, the siren song of karaoke beckoning to me before I even strolled through the door. I was just one of less than ten patrons at 5 o'clock on a Tuesday evening, but the singing rotation was already in full swing, with Frank once again at the helm. In honor of the dusty rays of sunlight streaming in from the front door and cracks in the window blinds, I sang "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," rather well, I might add.

However, the experience achieved a spiritual status when a twentysomething guy sang Vertical Horizon's "The Best I Ever Had." The guy was black, handsome, and presumably gay, and his voice was rich with emotion and betrayed that the song had some personal significance for him. I hadn't thought much of that song since its heyday in the '90s, but suddenly the ballad became the definitive anthem for a broken heart to me -- and the Mint, the perfect place to exorcise these demons before nighttime demands that fun be had by all. In retrospect, I wish I could've thanked that guy for his well intentioned, beautifully rendered performance. Sexual orientation be damned; a broken heart feels the same kind of terrible for everyone.

After dinner, I coerced my boss and two female coworkers to return with me to the Mint. The walk was the same but also frighteningly different between 5 p.m. and 9 p.m., what with that cloak of darkness I eluded to earlier; we saw the same riffraff I'd encountered at dusk, but now emboldened by shadow. Thankfully, strength in numbers prevailed and instilled a sense that we'd be laughing about our self-imposed feelings of peril later. The four hour difference also transformed the Mint from a sunset lounge to a virtual night club, especially for a Tuesday night. Now, it is in San Francisco, so we met plenty of folks that indulge in alternative lifestyles, which made my conservative supervisor squirm . . . but karaoke quickly bound everyone in the room, and even my boss sang along as gay or transgendered performers crooned some of his favorite tunes.

Our table was closest to the stage, so we often chatted with the performers before, after, and sometimes even during their songs -- and, in one case, when some drunks were butchering one of my favorite '80s hits, The Outfield's "Your Love," I loudly tried to help them mend it and was pulled onstage. Unfortunately, by then, the damage was done; the song was over and very few of its lyrics were sung correctly, which is a shame, but the performers weren't done with me . . . at least not the drunken third wheel, whose sickeningly sweet perfume filled my nostrils when she leaned in to ask if my red hair was real, or if I was Irish or Scottish, or something. Needless to say, I could've gotten lucky and added another aspect to my experience at the Mint, but as I explained to my boss, my first love there is the karaoke . . . and, as I learned from that guy's Vertical Horizon performance, who really needs another broken heart?

That night, when I'd left the Mint before dinner time, the bartender Tiffany (who I'd met my first time there some months earlier) waved good-bye to me and called me by name, and, bathed in sunlight and knowing I'd drag my coworkers in some hours later, I replied assuredly that I'd be back. That's a perpetual promise. I've been to plenty of karaoke joints before and since, and I have plenty of favorite venues and K.J.'s, but when it comes to the Mint? It's only the best I ever had.