Happy Halloween!

A Bewitching Guide to Pumpkin Carving:


1. Cut off the top of the pumpkin and scoop out the innards. Try not to look so excited.


2. Carefully apply design stencil and poke holes along its guidelines.


3. Carve along your perforated pumpkin design.


4. Give it up when you realize you'll never look as hot as this!

Alas, I wasn't deterred . . . What a little devil.

How Does It Feel To Be Hunted?

I've tried to describe it before. It's a treasure hunt . . . but no treasure is involved. It's competitive . . . but you really don't want to win. It tests your endurance by taking place in the desert at nighttime . . . but your greatest tool is your intellectual mettle. Over 500 people participate in it . . . but you'd never know it was going on, let alone so close to the Phoenix metropolitan area. It's the annual Arizona Treasure Hunt. And after four years, I still don't know if I'm the predator or the prey . . .

. . . because in the weeks leading up to the Hunt, participants receive a hints sheet to decipher in preparation for the impending clue sites they might find, and this research can consume the mind if you aren't careful -- or don't have a life. I won't waste valuable blog space describing the Hunt in detail, because my friend and teammate Jenny has done so more effectively on her blog, but I will share our team pic, to preserve the memory and offer something for you to decipher.



The answer: Yes, I really did eat two pieces of pie -- after a slab of steak, some barbecue chicken, a baked potato, baked beans, a slice of bread, gobs of candy, half a bacon cheeseburger with fries, and three Dunkin Donuts.

Speaking of indulgence, check out these pics from the hotel our team used as a headquarters. I've heard of screwing in a lightbulb, but those lamps take it to a-whole-nother level -- and, yes, those are clouds and a tumbleweed in the hotel lobby. This place has its own ecosystem, for cryin' out loud!



The bottom line isn't on those lamps, though. Regarding the Hunt, few other events of any caliber will make one's obsession with pop culture genuinely useful. That's the real prize: sweet validation.

Addendum: My poem, "Our Annual Adventure," is inspired by the Hunt. I told you, it's consuming.


This detail is from a larger drawing of October events, and I've been wanting to color it for naught, so at least I can put this piece up here to illustrate this desert misadventure!

Goin' APE, Addendum

A special thanks to John Parkin from the blog Robot 6 for his detailed article about this year's Alternative Press Expo at Comic Book Resources, and for including some quotes from yours truly! Not to brag, but one of my quotes was actually used as the article's headline!

If anyone is checking out my humble little blog as a result of that article, drop me a line, and I'll happily send you a complimentary copy of my first solo self-published comic, Karaoke Comics #1. Otherwise, the rest of my self-published work can be found at KaraokeFanboy Press -- and don't forget to check out my K.O. Comix buddy Brent's new dogs vs. cats apocalyptic western, Dog Town, too!

Handout

Yes, I wrote a poem about the "bummer" I described in my post about the Alternative Press Expo a few days ago. It's out of my system now. I promise.

Handout

her hand down his pants
his hand down hers
another hand grips a wallet
another hand clutches a purse

but they don’t want your money today

and he’s dancing,
funkier than the funky chicken
more forbidden than the Lambada

sticking
to the shadows
and it
to each other

on the upper east side
a family man
would give anything
to wear those worn out shoes

hypocritical city
infinitesimal pity
local political subcommittee
wants to clean up
this part of town

but the filthiest part
isn’t what they’re doing

it’s that they’ve no place to go
when it’s over

Goin' APE

San Francisco is the only city I’ve ever been to that charges a cover at the door. The four dollar toll at the Bay Bridge is the promise of exclusivity, like the city itself is a nightclub full of bright flashing colors and the heartbeat of bass-heavy music and strange people that would love to meet you as much as forget you in the morning. All of this is sponsored by Coca-Cola, apparently, if that big glittery billboard that towers over the skyline means anything. Fortunately, every time I’ve visited the city by the bay, I’ve had a purpose -- namely, the Alternative Press Expo, a little comic con for folks like me that make their comics and zines by hand. With APE as a pseudo-professional pivot for the weekend, one can only monkey around so much . . . but sometimes trouble finds its way to you, too.



Barreling Down the Highway

I’ve been making comics with my buddy Brent for years, but we haven’t exhibited at APE together since 2006, so I was excited for a chance to show off our respective works since then. His latest solo effort, Dog Town, is an awesome comic book; even if you don’t read comics, peruse the sketches on his blog and behold his amazing talent. Anyway, he and I rented a car from Orange County and began the northbound trek on the 5 freeway shortly after lunch on Friday afternoon. Thanks to talk radio’s obsession with Bubble Boy, the drive was entertaining enough, and even when the stench of cow country infiltrated the car, Brent and I didn’t whine one bit.

Little did we suspect that the freeway had plenty of “whine” in store for us. Just before the 580 freeway, a truck hauling huge, old-fashioned wine barrels lost one. It shattered in the road and the debris struck a lot of cars in a lot of different ways -- and we were no exception. I swerved to avoid the twisted metal, which in the white headlights looked like the macabre skeleton of a barrel, but it punctured our driver’s side front tire. We pulled over and Brent quickly put on the spare while I called our rental car place to file an incident report. We pulled over in the next closest town, Livermore, to inspect the car in better light and discovered a leak, the possibility of a damaged oil pan.



A tow company was to deliver us a new car but the closest open location was the San Francisco airport, so we killed a few hours eating at Applebee’s. When the tow truck arrived with a nice new Ford Focus, the glassy-eyed driver took his time, which by then was par for our course. Brent watched the guy eat a Lunchable -- you know, a little round piece of bologna, a little square piece of cheese, a faux Ritz cracker. Assemble. Eat. Repeat. When we finally got back on the road, we were in San Francisco within the better part of an hour, and in our hotel room at the Bay Bridge Inn by 11 p.m. When we checked in, the clerk asked if we minded the milk he was storing in our room’s refrigerator. We didn’t. We were utterly exhausted.

What A Bummer

I’ve seriously contemplated sharing this part of our weekend, because I know it’s one Brent would love to forget, but as long as I’ve had the privilege of exploring the inner city in any capacity, I’ve been fascinated by homelessness. I even wrote a comic book about, Doug Deever, Dumpster Diver. I’d like to think my interest transcends mere rubbernecking; I’m genuinely curious in the origins of homelessness, from the traditional stereotype of the shell shocked war veteran, to the strung out alcoholic, to . . . what? The question I always ask, at what point in a person’s life do they run out of loved ones willing to help? How many friends and family would I have to burn through to end up on the street, too? I know the phenomenon is by no means this simple, but in a dense city like San Francisco, where homelessness is rampant, it’s a challenge to look at them as people, and not just part of the ornate architecture. Sometimes it’s better not to.

Consider our Saturday morning, when Brent and I were strolling toward Market Street in the hopes of a Starbucks. Perhaps our minds were eager for APE as we took in the street art, from graffiti to intentional attempts at beautification. At an intersection on 7th Street, in the heart of what appeared to be a skid row, Brent and I caught sight of something I’ll never forget: two homeless folks, an old white man and a black woman, with their hands down the other’s pants. Though I could tell they had been trying to conceal themselves with their jackets, they were beyond the point of subtly, and the man especially was rocking back and forth in a ragged dance of hasty desperation.

You know what they were doing, so don’t make me say it . . . and as much as the sight was admittedly hilarious, it humanized these two people beyond the thought of normal street dressing. Perverse, sure, but no more so than any seemingly “civilized” businessman visiting a strip club or massage parlor -- but in this case, perhaps more -- cherished? In the context of urban survival, perhaps more forgiving, this moment of fleeting respite? I don’t judge them, and, as sick as it sounds, I’m grateful that I shared in that moment of raw intimacy. Beyond the preconception of begging drunks, these are still people, with just as many complicated needs as the rest of us -- and dark reflection of there but for the grace of God go I.



Similarly, several times on our way back to the hotel throughout the weekend, we passed this vintage owl pillow in a locked doorway, and by Sunday evening, I just had to take it and give it a home. What it represents -- discarded old wisdom, ironic discomfort -- epitomizes San Francisco’s homelessness perfectly. I only hope that smell comes out in the wash . . .

The Fresh Maker

Whenever I’m in San Francisco, I have to visit the Mint Karaoke Lounge. I discovered the Mint during APE 2007, and I’ve been a handful of times since. I’ve talked about it here in The Karaoke Chronicles before, but it’s worth mentioning again, because the karaoke starts there at 4 p.m. every day! You gotta love a place that respects karaoke enough to kick it off during the waning daytime hours!

Anyway, so I hoped to get to the Mint Friday night, and even though we were exhausted after The Wine Barrel Incident, I cruised by to see if I could find easy parking, with no luck. Plus, navigating the labyrinth of one-way streets in San Francisco infuriated me after cruising at some 80 mph on the freeways, so I retired earlier than I’d hoped. Saturday night, after Brent and I went to the Cartoon Art Museum APE after party, I hoofed it up Market Street to the lounge, where the one free bar stool in the whole joint was waiting for me.



At first, I was intimidated by the crowd, because I thought the rotation might be too long to get a song in. I threw in my token “Piano Man,” anyway, and thankfully the KJ Frank runs a very tight stage, letting you know who’s going to sing three performers in advance, and playing songs right on top of each other if necessary. He’s also an excellent singer himself, so his passion fuels the vibe in the room. When I approached to sing, I had my drink in tow to swing along to Billy Joel’s piano, but Frank frowned against it. You can see how I mimed a drink, but fortunately the crowd was happy enough to oblige, and I received plenty of praise for my song choice. (My fave pic from the night is here; check out the guy in front worshipping me!) Of course, I let the crowd sing for me during that last chorus, as if the Mint itself was performing for me. As the name implies, it always leaves a great taste in my mouth.

Goin’ APE

APE, the reason we were in San Francisco in the first place, is unlike any other comic book show I’ve attended, and I’ve been to the San Diego Comic Con, the Los Angeles Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention, and trade shows like Frank & Sons in the City of Industry. At APE, the press is truly “alternative,” ranging from traditional zines, to hand drawn mini-comics, to homemade crafts and prints. I’ll be reviewing the stuff I picked up at my comics review blog A Comic A Day, and I’m generally pretty pleased with the haul.

Setting up the K.O. Comix table is always a challenge, because we want our booth to clearly exhibit our work in a visually appealing way. In the past, I’ve brought props to emphasize our books’ themes, like a little Christmas tree to highlight our comic Little Christmas, but this time we kept it simple by stacking up pure product. Dog Town was the centerpiece as far as I was concerned, it being the newest and most professional piece on the table, and I pushed my 2009 Poetry Zine Series for free, just to get that stuff out there. Still, like any other con, I’m talking about comics getting into the hands of consumers, so what makes APE so different?



The simple answer: At APE, there’s no middle man. It’s the artist standing behind his or her work, with potential fans passing by, and sometimes the artist only has a second or two to make an impression. At other cons, retailers or office jockeys push product, which is critical to the industry, but at APE and other zine-friendly shows, the material is usually hot off the press, or straight out of the copy machine at work, into readers’ hands. It’s pure, and brutal, if you’ve poured your heart into something passers-by won’t give a second glance. In that case, pricing is critical; Brent and I both agree that our books are priced to sell, not to make a profit. The assumption is, interest now generates business and profit later. If we actually pursued K.O. Comix with some consistency, we might succeed with that model. Other creators, I encourage you to try it!

So, I’d be remiss not to mention, check out the K.O. Comix blog, and my tangible creative efforts at the KaraokeFanboy Press blog! At the very least, you’ll see some pretty pictures!

Fortunately, the drive home was uneventful. No wine barrels, no shameless homeless folks, no karaoke, no peddling comics. Just two guys worn out by an eclectic weekend. Of course, San Francisco doesn’t charge you to leave the city, which would be equally profitable, but the message is clear . . . Get out! Just like a nightclub, whenever your personal closing time arrives, they want you up and out of there, probably to make room for more folks in such a cramped space. I’m usually ready to leave anyway. I don’t know if I could live in a city so densely populated -- but I certainly like visiting as frequently as possible. I don’t mind the cover charge -- because the memories are priceless.

I See Halloween in Our Future

My favorite holiday, Halloween, rapidly approaches, and thanks in large part to my day job at a community-oriented non-profit organization, I've already begun to celebrate. First of all, I created a KaraokeFanboy O'Lantern this week . . .



And last weekend, I had the chance to play fortune teller at a local charitable dinner. A coworker asked if I'd play the role, since I have a reputation for thinking on my feet and embracing any chance to dress up, and I happily obliged in both departments. I wanted to secure a Johnny Carson as Carnac look, and a local Halloween shop had a hat (albeit yellow), so at a whopping $15 for headwear, I vowed to make the rest of the costume obscenely affordable. Some yard sale hopping produced the shirt, a silken woman's top, for a mere dollar, and the scarf, 100% silk and made in India, was the perfect accessory from Goodwill for $4. One gaudy 99 Cent Store belt later, I was a sheik, ready to wow a wine soaked crowd with my ability to foresee the future.



Unfortunately, I do not have the ability to foresee the future. My alternative was purchasing fortune cookies and helping my subjects interpret them, and in the last moments before the party, I decided to fill a "Bag of Chance" with some random "Baubles of Fate" from work -- essentially discarded carnival prizes and useless, donated incentives, most notably a slew of personalized "Patrick" calculators and undoubtedly lead-lined lip gloss. Anyway, the host of the shindig decorated her damp wine cellar for me, and after enjoying some free food and drink, my first subject descended to hear her future. Of course, she opted for a bauble of fate, and when I drew a Chinese finger trap, I smirked knowingly.

"The Bag of Chance has chosen a Chinese finger trap for you. Tell me, do you feel trapped in life?"

She replied, "Yes, sometimes I do!"

I paused. "Oh. Uhm, well, you may remember the riddle of the Chinese finger trap, as many try to pull it apart to free their fingers, but the trick is to bring your fingers together," I demonstrated, "like so. Can you think of someone or something that will help free you from your prison, if you pull them closer?"

Yes!" she blurted. "Yes, I think I can! Thank you!"

She ascended the staircase excitedly, as I sat in amazement at my own abilities to -- what? Bluff my way through a pseudo-soothsaying? Or do I really have a gift? Was it a coincidence the only Styrofoam glider I brought was pulled for the guy that was hopping on a plane to Texas the next day? Or that one of the folks to receive a Patrick calculator knew a Patrick? Or that I pulled a rattle for a pregnant woman? (Okay, it was more of a maraca . . . but maybe she had a burrito for lunch!) The experience was as hilariously fulfilling as I'd hoped, but for reasons I surely didn't expect. Perhaps that answers my question; if I truly had a gift, I would've seen it coming.



One thing is for sure: Halloween will be here before we know it. I can't wait for the future.

The Man-Crush Hall of Fame: David Letterman

Back in the primitive year of 2007, I consciously decided to publicly proclaim my appreciation for six male celebrities and their distinctive masculinity. Those celebrities were:



Duane "Dog the Bounty Hunter" Chapman
Vincet D'Onofrio
Chris Hanson
Joel McHale
Gordon Ramsey
Mr. T

Of course, things change in just two years, so I recently began revising this list of Man-Crushes, so far including:



Craig Ferguson
David Gray
Gordon Ramsey
Mr. T

Since I've vowed to retain only seven man-crushes at a time, making the list somewhat exclusive and contemporary, who among Chapman, D'Onofrio, Hanson, and McHale will make the cut remains to be seen. However, I have recently decided that I must also create a Man-Crush Hall of Fame, honoring male celebrities that I admired in my youth and continue to respect today. These men demonstrate such unapologetic masculinity that they transcend the three categories I've assigned to my regular man-crush list and establish a lifelong standard all their own. My inaugural choice for the Man-Crush Hall of Fame is one I made several months ago, and in light of current events, now deserves mention and description. Yes, the first man to enter my Man-Crush Hall of Fame is . . . David Letterman.

More than once, David Letterman was the only friend I had on New Year's Eve. Before he became Jay Leno's late night rival, Dave followed Johnny Carson on NBC with Late Night with David Letterman, the show then-rookie Conan O'Brien took over in 1993. Yes, more than once, I rang in an Arizona new year with Dave (and once, I vividly remember, a whole bucket of fried chicken), since his show was on at midnight. Before his move to CBS, Dave was like a real life cartoon character, his wide, circular glasses and informal khaki pants mere accessories to his exaggerated facial expressions and wacky themed segments. His interview style threw reverence to the wind and was all Bugs Bunny on Elmer Fudd, comically combative and ultimately harmless. Obviously intended for a younger audience, I don't know if Dave sought emulation from an eleven-year-old kid like me, but he got it anyway.



When Johnny Carson retired and Jay Leno won the Tonight Show mantle in '93 (the same year I started high school), CBS offered a jilted Letterman a prestigious opposing show, and Dave classed up the joint when he moved into America's homes an hour earlier. Since then, The Late Show with David Letterman has been a comforting, reliable influence in my life, primarily as a source for hilarious daily commentary and raucous, ridiculous comedy. In 1994, I visited my father in New York, got my picture taken with Hello Deli's Rupert Jee, and saw Patrick Stewart entering the Ed Sullivan Theater, then in '99, I saw a live taping. My sophomore year of high school, I joined the media club and I began reading weekly top 10 lists for our campus's televised announcements and was quickly dubbed "Top 10 Boy." As if to seal the deal, when I finally discovered Frank Miller's definitive Batman work The Dark Knight Returns, I was delighted to behold Dave's cameo -- a crossover with reality that secured Letterman's iconic place as my comedic hero.





I didn't realize just how important Dave had become in pop culture and the American landscape at large until his heart surgery in 2000. Then, after September 11, his somber reflections as a New York commuter gripped me more than any supposedly objective newscaster dared. During the writers' strike in 2007, The Late Show was the first to make a deal and return to air, and Dave's "strike beard" was a more shocking statement than any picket sign those writers cleverly penned. However, Letterman's personal life is most striking to me; Bill O'Reilly has frequently dubbed him a celebrity recluse, yet the details of Dave's personal life have always been forefront, usually thanks to his gossip-dodging transparency. I mean, Dave had a suicidal stalker in the '80s, frequently speaks openly of his surgery from 2000, talks proudly of his son Harry, and invites us into his mother's home every Thanksgiving to play "guess the pie." Further, like many others, my mouth hung open when he nonchalantly announced his matrimony on March 23, shrouded in a congratulatory note to the also newly wedded Bruce Willis. Sure, Dave isn't often caught in front of the paparazzi cameras, but he has a camera to himself every night that he uses just as candidly.

Ah, and October 1's episode was no exception. Like the other landmark Letterman episodes, I almost missed it if not for happenstance; in this case, the nightly news' teased an extortion attempt against him. I watched reverently as Dave explained the strange plot as best he could, concluding with his confession of infidelity with female members of his staff, and in the moments afterward, I silently renewed my vow to forever be a fan. See, as I heard Los Angeles talk radio personality Dave McIntyre explain, Letterman isn't really in charge of anything important. He's an entertainer, and his private life is ultimately inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I agree, but I admire Letterman, so why hasn't his sex scandal embittered me? Well, unlike politicians caught in similar schemes (incidentally, politicians are in charge of things), Dave confessed to his personal crimes and apologized to anyone it has adversely affected. Just as his heart surgery exposed his mortality, this latest development exposes his morality, and the man frequently, publicly struggles with both. Who am I to question his struggle, and make it worse by joining him in it?

Finally, and most importantly, Dave did not let his now scandalous personal life get in the way of doing his job. He didn't cancel his show and call a press conference, or schedule a heart-wrenching interview with Barbara Walters. Dave used his show as a personal forum to explain his misconduct in an honest, self-abashing humorous way, then proceeded business as usual. That's the lesson -- always has been. Jay Leno gets your dream job. Heart surgery. Whether or not it floats. September 11th. Sex scandal. Pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and go to work.

With almost 30 years on television, I can't think of a better time to be a David Letterman fan. Just a few weeks ago, he interviewed the President of the United States, for crying out loud. His production company introduced fellow man-crush Craig Ferguson to the world of late night, and it is so much better for it. You remember that Craig spoke at the White House Correspondents' Dinner last year and just released his autobiography, right? Dave's longtime partner, Paul Shaffer, recently released a memoir about his career in the music industry, too. Now, we watch a television icon overcome some personal hardship -- again -- the best way anyone can . . . by telling jokes at others' expense. Since I was eleven, Dave's been one of the funniest guys I know, and that was me finding him over ten years into his career. Now, closing in on thirty years? That's as long as Johnny Carson was the host of The Tonight Show! Everything else be damned. Has any celebrity been anything for almost 30 years, let alone hilarious? And the number one reason Dave is in my Man-Crush Hall of Fame is? Just that.