John Updike, R.I.P.

Writer John Updike died today, and though I'm not intimately familiar with his work, this little poem of his has stuck with me over the years.

"Upon Shaving Off One's Beard"

The scissors cut the long-grown hair;
the razor scrapes the remnant fuzz.
Small-jawed, weak-chinned, bug-eyed, I stare
at the forgotten boy I was.

Keep It Up: An Anti-List for 2009 Compendium

I didn't know I knew the word "compendium" until now! Here's the compendium of my blog crossover series about the new year!

Home: using a little pop culture current event to explore the promise of a new year, which led to . . .
Damn Noisy Kids: analyzing a year's work with kids in a new after school program, which triggered . . .
A Comic A Day: remembering a year in comics and anticipating another in fanaticism, and finally . . .
LiveJournal: about doing my own creative thing this year, and tying it all together.

They read like poking a pin around a pincushion: it's the same point, from a little different angle every time.

The Screening Process: Recent Thoughts About Television and Film, part 1 -- The Boob Tube

A few nagging tidbits about television and film have plagued my thoughts lately, so I've decided to purge them here for your enjoyment!

* While I was as compelled by the last season of American Idol as the squeaky teeny-bopper, I'm half-watching this season -- literally, since it airs on the Wednesdays I usually participate in a local poetry open mic. Even if I did reserve Hump Day for the latest round of Idol antics, a moment from season eight's premiere may have turned me off to the hunt for America's next diva altogether. Rocker Randy Madden betrayed his sensitive side when he cried for the camera, and after his ambitious performance of Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer," the judges said that Randy hadn't learned any of the industry's hard lessons, that he wasn't qualified based on a lack of experience and presumably its subsequent disappointments. In the same segment, they let a sixteen-year-old girl through to Hollywood, based on, gasp, her singing voice. The judges sugar-coating their critique with claims that life lessons are necessary for stardom when in the same fifteen minutes they open the door for a middle class teenager with nothing to lose . . . is hypocritical. It cheapens the show, even these first few episodes apparently dedicated to superficial value judgements based on a virtual freak show of wanna-be singers. Randy wasn't "make it to Hollywood" material, but at least guys like him know what they want. Me, I don't know how much entertainment I can derive from watching them fail anymore, especially in the face of judges that don't even know why they're there.

* Prison Break has been cancelled, probably for its own good. I've read the episodes that have been filmed will air in April, but the series finale hasn't been shot yet and maybe never will be. As a fan of the show, of course I'm anxious to see how these four seasons reach their end, and while such an action-packed show would undoubtedly demand a significant budget for a finale, I don't see why Fox wouldn't deem it worthy. First of all, a concise conclusion makes for a great complete Prison Break boxed set; second, a few more episodes might cement syndication sales. I mean, who would watch the reruns knowing that it all just leaves you hanging? Finally, since the show has always been an allegory for overcoming others' perspectives (the whole reason Lincoln was successfully framed and convicted for killing the Vice President's brother was because of his lifestyle as a thug, plain and simple), a series finale makes symbolic sense. We viewers have been chasing after the show's dangling threads for years; now, here we are, face to face with the fugitive that is Prison Break in the proverbial leaky sewer tube, except, unlike Tommy Lee Jones, we do care. Don't leave us hanging here, Fox! Like Michael Scofield, learn that hard lesson: finish what you start, no matter what!

* Sean Hannity recently interviewed Rush Limbaugh about President Barack Obama's economic plans. I didn't watch the interview, and I don't know if I have to, because I can predict how they feel and really can't get past the conversation's very concept. Its logistics. Hannity interviewing Rush is like a person getting interviewed by his own echo. It's like my left testicle high-fiving my right. It's like that verse in the Bible that says the Bible is the inspired word of God because the Bible tells us so! (That's 2 Timothy 3:16, folks.) Of course, the interview wasn't really a chance for Rush to share his thoughts on just-inaugurated President Obama -- he has a nationally syndicated talk show for that. No, sitting down with Sean Hannity was a purely militant move, akin to a platoon beholding its field commander chatting with their staff sergeant. The message is loud and clear: "As the newly elected minority, the more of us in a room, the louder we can be!" Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity: Keeping the can in Republican!

* In the wake of the holiday season, I've realized how important The Late Show with David Letterman is in my life. Long-time friends will remember my "Top 10 Boy" alter ego in high school, but on a much more personal level, unlike other television staples Letterman has adhered to a few traditions on his show that have become integral to my sense of the holiday spirit. For instance, on Thanksgiving night, when Dave began the "guess the pie" segment with his mom from Indiana, I nodded fondly, familiarly. Then again, when Jay Thomas tossed a football to knock down the Christmas tree meatball in December, I smirked knowingly, remembering I had seen the bit some years before. Dave's always been a sensitive guy, but especially since his heart attack, September 11, and the birth of his son, his vulnerability for tradition is apparent now more than ever -- and I'm all the more appreciative of his comedy as a result. When I first moved to California, I thought I should pledge an allegiance with Leno by way of coast, but Dave proves it every year: home is where the heart is. I couldn't deny my own late night nature for too long.

Now, these thoughts aren't in order of importance or anything, but I consciously concluded the diatribe on a high note. Needless to say, when it comes to the boob tube, I usually always have something to get off my chest . . . but the silver screen isn't safe, either! To be continued!

Inauguration Day

Good luck finding anything on television today. Not that Inauguration Day doesn't deserve a little coverage, especially this one, the historical day Dr. King's dream comes true and blah, blah, blah. Honestly, the news media hyperbole dried up weeks ago, culminating in today's practically speechless awe toward now President Barack Obama's first official day in office. I caught a few minutes of Fox's network coverage (preempting my beloved Steve Edwards and Good Day, L.A.), and Shepard Smith's (or someone that sounded like him) commentary was practically golf-game in its hushed reverence. To paraphrase, he explained, "The eyes of the world are on America today, as it inaugurates its President in a way no other country does." In other words, we throw the biggest party . . . and why not? So long, Circuit City -- you've been replaced with the most successful brand name in recent history: Obama. Are we inaugurating a President or cutting the ribbon on a new Starbucks over there?

How much does Inauguration Day cost, anyway? I'm sure U2 and Bruce Springsteen didn't perform for free, and since tickets are supposed to be free, what covers the cost of logistical arrangement, broadcast preparations, additional security . . .? Of course, I'm asking these questions without doing a lick of research, which, in this context, would make me a great conservative talk show host. Point me toward the closest golden microphone!

I'm grateful Hilary Clinton didn't win (for many reasons), but chew on this: If Hilary was being inaugurated today, only two families would've held Presidential office since 1988, if you exclude Bush, Sr.'s two terms as Vice President. That's practically my entire lifetime, in an American led by only two families: the Bushes and the Clintons. Considering today's ceremony, I'd think less "Hail to the Chief" and more "God Save the Queen." Thankfully, change has come.

Indeed, I'm really as excited for President Barack Obama as the next guy, but I'm less interested in the house warming party and more in his getting to work. True change will be the day a Presidential nominee opts for less pomp in favor of dire circumstance, the day a politician holds up his hands and says, "This isn't about me. Now, where do I clock in?" This is the same day Dr. King's dream is so fulfilled, we don't even have to mention it anymore. Can we get there? Yes, we can . . . dream.

Five Flashlights for Christmas

I was in the dark
that I was in the dark
but four of my closest friends
can't be wrong,
and the office party gift exchange . . .
Was it a cosmic Black Friday coincidence
or the white elephant in the room
all year long?
The real question is,
if this is lost,
where am I supposed to be?
If this is dark,
what am I supposed to see?
Maybe it isn't about me --
with one for each hand, both feet,
one between my teeth,
I could be a beacon
for disoriented travelers
or lost freighters,
a search party leader
that combs that caverns and craters
for wayward wanderers
too unfortunate to have friends
as thoughtful as mine.
Who knows what I'd find
with these, a little torch
for every corner and the very core
of the earth?
Maybe the universe
is recruiting agents
for the day the sun inevitably goes out,
for the day wise men heed me
and I shout,
"He who followeth me need not
wander in darkness . . .!"
Maybe I just have cheap friends . . .
who in a flash have exposed that
all the riddles in the world
could never shed light
on where I should shed light --

Keep It Up: An Anti-List for 2009, part 1

The beginning of a new year means the summing up of its predecessor, usually by way of ultimately insignificant lists that actually lend more clout to their content via context than, say, originality. When I saw MSN's headline, "Best Part-Time Jobs for 2009," however, I was intrigued by its optimism; in an America ravaged by economic hardship (This just in: the adult film industry needs a bail-out? They specialize in money shots!), my most skeptical self thought "best" and "part-time" two halves of an oxymoron. Then, number eight struck me: teacher assistant. As an after school program director, in turn supervising a very capable team of "youth development professionals," I wholeheartedly recognize that "teacher assistant" is the closest anyone might come to comprehending this otherwise overlooked part of a child's day. So, in this case, I'm happy with the peripheral praise and in fact perceive this mention as a promise of positivity for the coming year.

As I just comprehensively detailed in "The Twelve Nights of Russmas," my twenty-ninth birthday has recently come and gone, and in its midst I contemplated drafting a "twenty-something bucket list," things I'd like to accomplish before I hit the big 3-0. Only one phrase came to mind, after much soul-searching and introspection . . .

"Keep it up."

My life is heading in a direction that excites and challenges me daily, thanks in large part to my career, which was a completely unforeseen "X" on the treasure map of my adulthood. I left the nest to pursue ministry and, having never maintained a real job, I latched on to what seemed closest and easiest at the old college freshman job fair: yes, the "teacher assistant." In those formidable hours around my class schedule, while my peers drove for miles to serve crumbling churches in inner cities ravaged by the very distance they had to drive, I rode my bike to our city's own backyard and helped third graders learn single-digit multiplication, or the names of the bones in the body. When summer came, I found out where kids without a backyard go to play, and I got a job there. Fast-forward some nine years later. I'm still working there, at that youth-oriented non-profit* in a management capacity, with not only the pleasure of molding children's lives but also influencing a staff of undergrads in the same position I held nearly a decade ago. It seems like the natural next step.

Keep it up.

When I was home for the holidays, my mom asked if my staff were basically babysitters -- if I was basically the boss to a bunch of babysitters. I decided to say "yes," because if I indulged her in the list of my annual responsibilities, I might as well put the hours it would take on my time sheet (which would be futile in itself, being a salaried employee and all). I could've listed the numerous special activities, community events, fundraisers, staff trainings, and marketing strategies that I facilitate -- but that would've just been from December. If I do my job right, it demands every dimension of the talents my loved ones think I've put to waste or in the ground, skills like drawing and graphic design, or public speaking, or even this, the writing. Thanks to my job, I've M.C.'ed stand-up comedy nights, I've drawn countless caricatures and comics, I've designed T-shirts, and I've been handed the proverbial pulpit from which to preach my perspective on child development and human services. I've even been paid to shop for toys -- definitely a skill I've honed. I'm not bragging -- if you saw the paycheck of a non-profit stooge like me, you'd know I'm not bragging. I'm challenging myself with that year-end list, the very things I need to do to fulfill my three-word bucket list.

Keep it up.

When you find a job that harmonizes your passions, the things you'd do for fun anyway, you put that job on your shoulders where ever you go. Yes, you brag, and in the face of debt and heartbreak, you wave it like the soldier who has painstakingly shed blood for the flag he flies in the battlefield. You don't let it touch the ground for even a minute. Whatever drags behind slows you down; like Sisyphus you push it in front of you, on that incline above you. You keep it up.

A good teacher assistant knows there's nothing "part-time" about sincerely caring for kids. A great teacher assistant decides to find a way to get paid for it anyway.

*Like in my blog specifically about work, Damn Noisy Kids, I'm making a conscience effort not to mention the name of my organization, because I'd hate to inadvertantly misrepresent it through anything I write here. My thoughts on child development, pop culture, and the world at large are not nearly as big and important as the sanctity of that century-old institution! Speaking of which, though, why not another new year's thought of mine at my LiveJournal? Waste as much time at work reading my blogs as I do writing them!

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Twelfth Night of Russmas

Eleven days after the Twelve Nights of Russmas began, my birthday actually arrived, just as I had planned. The beginning of my two week vacation from work, I could've slept in that morning, but I awoke early in anticipation of Les Stroud's Good Morning America interview. Stroud, my latest man-crush, is the host of the Discovery Channel's Survivorman, an one-man reality show in which he authentically recreates seven days' worth of survival in tumultuous terrains. While twelve consecutive nights of karaoke by no means compare to a week of endurance in places like the Kalahari Desert or Canada's Boreal forest, I can relate the concept of committing to a project that demands the kind of determination that changes one's lifestyle. On the brink of my thirties, I'm not quite a homebody, but I'm definitely not a swinging socialite, either; in other words, I enjoy staying in as much as I enjoy going out. Twelve nights in a row? Surely even Paris Hilton isn't capable of that, but with karaoke as a catalyst, the effort is truly its own reward.

So what does one learn from twelve consecutive nights of karaoke in eleven different locations throughout Orange County, you ask? That the Kid Rock/Sheryl Crow duet "Picture" quickly becomes the most annoying song in the history of music when heard all twelve of those nights, that's what. Actually, the muses spared us that final night, perhaps because the Linbrook Bowling Alley's Kopa Room was just as dead that Monday as it was the Thursday night we started. Yet, one lesson learned is the tenacity of karaoke itself, how, despite the night of the week, it's still happening anywhere, it's still demanding participation from the faithful and inexperienced alike. For some places, karaoke fills the void between weekends; for other venues, it is the weekend. For some people, it's a whim; for others, it's a must. The soundtrack of dive bars and steakhouses alike, karaoke has become a staple in American nightlife, and there's no escaping it . . . much to Kid Rock's delight, I'm sure, as it keeps his career afloat.

Further, experiencing the karaoke has only been half of the Russmas celebration; blogging about it has been the proverbial pumpkin pie to this holiday's highly anticipated turkey dinner. My aim for these twelve Karaoke Chronicles has been threefold, an effort to (1.) recount a memorable, hopefully quirky evening of karaoke with friends, (2.) review specific karaoke venues throughout Orange County, (3.) to reminisce over certain songs or musicians that have made an impact on my life, and thus that I must "pay forward" to others via karaoke. Mission accomplished, on all fronts.

The final night of Russmas was relatively uneventful by way of peculiarity. The Kopa's Monday night K.J. kept the short rotation moving, and the participants varied from the standard stiffs to the talented extroverted. I was able to sing four songs: two that I had saved for my birthday, and two that have become personal favorites. They were:

"I'm A Believer" -- The Monkees
"Careless Whisper" -- Wham
"The Authority Song" -- John Mellancamp
"Piano Man" -- Billy Joel

I've been an avid Monkees fan for as long as I can remember; since my mom had an admittedly crush on Davy Jones, I dare say my fanaticism is genetic. I have plenty of blog entries dedicated to that, so . . . After "Piano Man," "Careless Whisper" is one of the first songs I ever sang karaoke. My mom has the Wham single on its original vinyl (actually, I have it now), and I fondly remember she and my dad slow-dancing to the tune in our living room when I was a kid. The ballad has become a part of my life's soundtrack; I'm sure you have similar songs. In my opinion, these are the best to share, because your performance will be authentic and free of trepidation. With a lifetime's worth of fondness for that particular tune, who cares what anyone thinks about the way you sing it? Careless, yes, but a whisper, hardly.

In attendance for my actual birthday was my ever-faithful girlfriend, who endured every night with patience and grace, and our friend Stephanie, the runner-up for most dedicated to the cause. A few other co-workers joined us, one of whom was accompanied by an old friend that resides in Japan. Kim had been in town a few months prior and I met him at the Kopa then, too, so his participation this time 'round was darn near poetic; on that June night, he wowed the crowd with a harmonica solo that rivaled the best blues musicians. He was in similar form on my birthday, and I was thrilled when he agreed to join me for "Piano Man," blowing harp to my vocals and making for a truly memorable last performance. He answered that persistent question, "Man, what are you doing here?" with a musical poignancy.

"I'm here to conclude a dozen nights of marathon karaoke that celebrate my twenty-ninth year of life, that's what!" Sing 'em a song, I did . . . actually, thirty-two songs in all . . . and I survived.