My Man-Crushes Manifest: David Gray & Craig Ferguson Live!

UPDATE: David Gray appeared on Craig Ferguson's show Friday, November 20! Regarding David's English heritage, Craig said he's "one of the good ones." I love it! Check out the video, then read on about my week with these two man-crushes o' mine!





Back on September 22, I celebrated the release of David Gray's latest album Draw the Line and Craig Ferguson's autobiography American On Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot by dubbing both men my latest man-crushes. Well, if you thought I was excited that day, imagine the heights of my fanboy ecstasy as I saw both of them live this week! Yes, I had the pleasure of attending David Gray's concert at Los Angeles' Orpheum Theater on Monday, and, with Veterans' Day off from work, I seized the rare available weekday to reserve tickets for a taping of The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Both opportunities offered a sense of comprehensive appreciation for these guys' work, and of unexpected fulfillment for liking them so much in the first place.



The David Gray concert on Monday, November 9, was sold out, but I acquired my ticket through a Craigslist contact that opted for the impromptu Band of Horses show that night instead. (Thanks again, Erykah!) My friend Jennie joined me, and we waited in line and enjoyed the swanky digs of the Orpheum before Gray's opening act, Lisa Hannigan, took the stage. Lisa reminded me of a more eclectic Dolores O'Riordan (from the Cranberries), as she played a variety of stringed instruments and closed her set with a rockin' cover of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus." Fortunately, it wasn't long after that my evening's savior took the stage . . .



. . . and I was pleased that Gray started his set with "First Chance," since I'm a sucker for wordplay. Amazingly, he found just the right balance between new material and the hits his fans would want to hear -- though thanks to my listening to Draw the Line several times a week already, I'm a fan of it all. Highlights included an extended ending to "Nemesis," which Gray introduced as a very personal tune, a simple yet poignantly effective light show to "Slow Motion," and a stripped down version of "Ain't No Love," which kicked off his shorter encore set and admittedly brought tears to my eyes. Hey, it ain't called a man-crush for nothin', okay?! In the end, we heard all of the songs that have achieved radio play in the past few years, and over half of the new album -- but, of course, I was left wanting more. Leave it to a master performer like David Gray to know when to draw the line.



On Wednesday, my friend and coworker Konrad and I left Orange County around 1:30 p.m. to get to Craig Ferguson's 3:30 p.m. taping, and after navigating the labyrinth of one-way streets and full parking lots around the CBS Studios in Hollywood, we managed to get in the end of the line just in time to make the cut of 108 attendees. (I don't know if anyone was cut, but that sounds pretty dramatic, right?) The audience warm-up guy, Chunky B, joined us downstairs before we entered the studio, and amusingly talked about the importance of Veterans' Day, how he needed us to help Craig, a proactive American citizen, make dynamic television that night. As he put it, we weren't watching TV -- that afternoon, we were TV. Surely not as important as military service, but I took the responsibility pretty seriously . . .

. . . and by seriously, I mean not seriously at all, as we were frequently encouraged to laugh loudly, even if Chunky's jokes weren't that funny. Konrad commented on the awkwardness of being demanded to have a good time, and I agree that it's ironic, but, hey, that's show business, baby. Eventually, Craig came out to deliver his monologue, which included commentary about Polish Independence Day and the recent inductees into the Toy Hall of Fame. Now, I'm both Polish and an avid toy collector, so I could think of few other monologues that could've been more perfect for me to witness in person. After the monologue, and then in between tapings for segments, Craig talked to the audience as a whole, and while he offered no chance to get an autograph, he was nevertheless charming and sincere. Indeed, he was a gracious host in every sense of the word.

So, two man-crushes in one week. Only in Los Angeles, eh? Both experiences were unique yet united by my unadulterated excitement at the chance to see these masters of their respective crafts in person, if only as part of a larger audience. Perhaps that's the best way to do it -- to experience these shows in the midst of others that might feel the same way. Vindication isn't too far a leap from the realm of entertainment, right? Further, and finally, the chance to see them live, to catch any flaws or vulnerabilities in their performances, only makes their significance as male role models that much more poignant. After all, what better evidence is there than a peek behind the scenes to prove that their work is worthy of getting under my skin?

The Karaoke Chronicles: An Evening with Grace

I've been to dozens of bars and lounges in my many years as a karaoke enthusiast, but I've never considered myself a "regular" at any of them . . . except the Kopa Room. Nestled in the 24 hour Linbrook Bowling Alley in Anaheim, California, the Kopa Room would probably be considered a "dive bar" by today's swanky standards, what with its dim lights, the arcade card and trivia games, the mirrored walls. Yet, I've grown to appreciate these bastions of nightlife, because if you want to get in deep, you have to dive.

I've dragged many karaoke accomplices to the Kopa Room over the years, beginning with my old friend Eric. For a strong several months, he and I went to the Kopa at least once a week, recognizing the regulars and witnessing some of the strangest performances I've ever seen to this day. Who can forget the deaf gentleman's stirring rendition of "Lean On Me?" Or the time the KJ brazenly and blatantly stole my song? My friend and coworker Konrad is the latest to accompany me to, and find himself enchanted by, the Kopa Room, regularly on Tuesdays of all nights. Too late to continue the frivolity of the previous weekend and too early to acknowledge the upcoming one, one might liken Tuesday to the friend that comes to the party without a six pack, but you'd be surprised. Isn't it always the quiet ones?

A few weeks ago, Konrad and I strolled into the Kopa Room as we had for several weeks, and the crowd seemed no more or less interesting: a few scattered couples occupying the tables, the regulars at the bar. We took a table, turned in some songs with our favorite KJ Bill, and infiltrated the rotation in no time. I probably sang "Tiny Dancer" or "Careless Whisper," one of the many ballads I reserve for quiet nights like that . . . surely not the kind of song that would've garnered attention from the beautiful Asian chick sitting at the table in front of us -- with her stoic boyfriend. Konrad and I had noticed them earlier, how she was much more affectionate than he was, how he ignored her advances with a silently inflated bravado. Despite his seemingly cold shoulder, I didn't expect the young lady to turn and talk to us, but . . .

"Do you guys rap?" she turned and asked us suddenly, almost accusingly.

"I can rap," I quickly retorted, as I'm never one to pass up a potential karaoke request.

"This room needs some rap," she concluded.

Truly, we had been challenged, if not personally, then socially, to breathe some life into an otherwise dismal evening. So, I turned in Vanilla Ice's classic "Ice Ice Baby." I've sung "Ice Ice Baby," more than once in the Kopa with Eric, in fact, but never at someone's behest, so I was eager to see the room's response. When Bill called my name, the young lady actually joined me onstage, but I warned her not to steal my spotlight. Oh, and I was serious. Sure, she had requested the song, but I'll be damned if someone uses me to enter the rotation prematurely. Fortunately, my dramatic interpretation of that Lyrical Poet with a Master Plan's masterpiece overshadowed her suggestive dancing, and I returned to my seat vindicated in the attempt to amuse the crowd.

Eventually, we were invited to the couple's table, along with another, much larger gentleman, who had also started the evening in the company of a female Asian friend who hastily exited after he dragged her onstage for a birthday song. Introductions went around the table: the large gentleman's name was Jeff, Mr. Strong-'n-Silent's name was Steve, and his girlfriend, the one that brought us all together, was Grace. Now, I frequently made steady eye contact with Steve to make sure he wasn't seething at our intrusion, but he warmed up to us quickly and even bought a round. Shortly, Konrad and I were more in Steve's pocket than Grace's pants, which was just fine with us.

When a group of rowdy Yankees fans burst into the room, the root of Steve's smoldering became apparent. See, the Yankees were playing our Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (long name . . . need to . . . catch . . . my breath) in the World Series, and apparently Steve was an Angels fan. To say he admonished the Yankees fans is being kind to the concept of admonishment, but despite his alcohol drenched rage, he kept his balled up fists to himself. Grace was a different story, though. At one point, she removed one of the fan's caps and placed it over a table's candle centerpiece, and it sat there long enough for me to think that Steve's athletic allegiance wasn't the only thing that could inflame the room. Thankfully, Bill quickly warned Grace that another move like that would get us kicked out. Alas, the Kopa Room had more in store for us that Tuesday night.

A group of Samoans stumbled into the room, obviously continuing a party from somewhere else, and their birthday girl, deliciously named Muffin, was quickly taken by Grace. Grace and I had made a motion for our group to dance, but Muffin cut in, and, as we had learned, Grace's hospitality knew no bounds. Before long, she and Muffin were onstage singing the Pussycat Dolls' "Don'cha," and Konrad, Jeff, and I verbosely wondered if "Muffin" was a nickname for the birthday gal's preferences in life. Don't get me wrong; Muffin sang incredibly, but she was also a party animal determined to have a great time. In the Kopa Room that night, that great time was Grace . . .

. . . who, after many drinks, hardly lived up to her name. By closing time, she was stumbling out of the bowling alley surrounded by Muffin's posse, and Steve-o wasn't pleased. I reckon all of the attention was more than he could take. Interestingly, he shook hands with his World Series rivals, but the Samoans' advances had crossed a line.

"Give me your keys!" he demanded of Grace. "I'm getting your car!"

Konrad, Jeff, and I were amused that he was getting her car, but the look in his eyes assured us that the time for joking around was over. Emboldened by her admirers, Grace was rebellious, which only fueled her boyfriend's fire. When he finally pulled up the car, he and Muffin played tug-o'-war with Grace, which was as awkward to watch as it must've been to experience. My friends and I were in the middle of an interesting and potentially dangerous predicament; if we attempted to mediate, we could've found ourselves in a fracas with practical strangers that might've cost us the chance to return to our favorite karaoke venue. If we didn't intervene with our sober objectivity, someone might've been seriously hurt, someone who had shown us strangers nothing but kindness otherwise. The situation was over before we could act either way, as Steve won the war, pulled Grace into the car, and squealed away. The Samoans barked their amusement before we parted ways, and Konrad and I shook Jeff's hand with the unspoken assurance that we'd see him the following Tuesday with the hopes that it would all happen again.

That singular experience betrays everything I love about karaoke as the ultimate social experiment. Consider: the boyfriend/girlfriend dynamic, the culture clash (Steve was a Hispanic dude with an Asian girlfriend who beckoned white guys like us to her table and attracted Samoans like Muffin on the dance floor), even the pop culture influence of the World Series. Push this motley crew of behavioral variables into a pool of booze and you have a Tuesday night with all of the excitement of a Friday night, and perhaps all of the regret of a Sunday morning. Finally, these variables would've never gathered around the edge of the same pool if they hadn't been invited by karaoke, the most hospitable host of all. Karaoke is the only phenomenon I know that can take any ol' boring evening . . . a give it a little grace.


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 karaoke misadventure's major players.

Veterans' Day

I've had the privilege of meeting some hard-working veterans over the years, of course including my own grandfather, but none outside of my own family impacted me more than Tom, an old timer that volunteered for the after school program where I work. He passed away back in September 2006, and to celebrate Veterans' Day I've dug up this old LiveJournal entry about it to share again here. One of the most sincere honors I've ever experienced is hearing how much his wife enjoyed this remembrance.

"Tom Goes . . ."
written September 28, 2006

My experience with global communication technologies is extremely limited by the modern standards of the science, but I am grateful for what little I understand, because without e-mail or text messaging I would be minutes or hours behind some of the most life-changing news I've ever received. Less than a year ago, when I woke up around 2 a.m. on the morning of my birthday for an unexpected and annoying call from Mother Nature, my cell phone was blinking with an important text message from a friend/co-worker, announcing the early and equally unexpected birth of his baby boy. I'll never forget it: "HE IS HERE." Like a caption in a comic book, the words were simple but powerful, and further, I was honored to be on the list of folks he contacted in those undoubtedly hectic hospital moments. Text messaging made that possible.

This morning, I received a similarly important message but from the other end of the spectrum. My boss sent us the news that Tom, a volunteer that had been working for our organization for three years, passed away last night. The message wasn't surprising; Tom was old. I bet he wasn't even as old as he looked. Tom was like a walking smokestack. He must have had a cigarette for every half hour I knew him, indicative by a hoarse cough that usually announced his presence before you heard the scuffing of his patented old man walk. More essentially to my analogy, however, Tom had a fire in his belly for technology. He was a freelance computer technician, an ironic profession for a man that must have been born before the advent of the iconoscope, and his know-how has been an asset to us since his inaugural smoke in our parking lot. Before long he felt at home with our organization, and although he never really grasped the importance of watching his mouth around children, his intent was to assure the kids' complete and comprehensive access to computers and technology. And he did it for free. Tom was the first to tell you that, in his line of work, he was the most inexpensive option available; corporate competitors charge upwards to eighty dollars just for walking through your door. He charged twenty. And if your problem was a quick fix, a hearty "thank you" was the only other payment he expected. In his old age, Tom was confident that helping people was its own reward.

I know this because he told me so. The day before yesterday, Tom sat in my office, winded by the walk from his car. Tom loved a strong cup of coffee, and over a cup of freshly brewed Folgers we talked about his days as a weather man for the Air Force, the troubles of his small business, and the joys of working with children. In a rare moment of warmth, Tom mentioned the happiness on a child's face when they experience something new, like how to operate a computer on a higher level. Oh, and I should mention that Tom had an eye for the ladies. He hit on every woman in our office, in as shameless and crude a manner as possible. A few weeks ago, he asked one of my employees if she was married, and I interrupted, "She isn't, Tom, but you are!" He instantly retorted, "I'm not, but my wife is." Tom had an old wit and charm about him that evoked my instant respect. I've met plenty of old folks that boast a bitterness about how "the way things are now aren't the way things used to be," but as a tech guy, Tom embraced change. No, change is the wrong word. Tom liked to see things develop for the better, from the computers he fixed to the people that used them afterward.

Of course, my appreciation for the man has solidified only now that he's gone. I often thanked him for his help in our computer lab, more so than I think I've thanked anyone, but I wouldn't have minded a few more conversations like the one we had on Tuesday, exploring his undoubtedly colorful past. Interestingly, although Tom and I talked often, I remember sensing an importance about that particular talk, making a conscious effort to remember things like the clink of the coffee pot in my hand to the Superman mug in his when I poured "the soup," as he called it. I don't feel that lingering uneasiness folks feel at a loved one's passing, because that last conversation was a very pleasant experience and an excellent way to remember him. I was blessed with a solid sense of closure. If I had just known that would've been his second to last day alive, maybe I would've encouraged him to spend less time laying wires in our Learning Center and more time with other people needing a final few minutes with him, too.

I had finally programmed Tom's number in my cell a few days ago, and I'm looking at his name in my address book now, grieving a bit for his family. I'm amazed that this list, which I normally perceive as little digital channels to all of the important people in my life, now includes a route that is completely closed off. A technological bridge that, if I dialed it now, leads to nowhere. Of course, fond memories of Tom will abound in the office for weeks to come, and through the help he offered us these past three years, his legacy will linger for a long time, as cheesy as that sounds. But Tom understands it. Global communication technology isn't just wires and hardware and invisible broadcast waves in the atmosphere. It's our priceless connection with people. Thanks for reminding us, Old Man.

And if there's a heaven, Tom is standing outside of its gates, having that last cigarette, and when he turtle-walks to St. Peter for check-in, he'll wryly extend his hand and say, "Hello, I don't know who you are, but you can call me Sue."

When Favorite Things Collide: A Barenaked Whisper

"Careless Whisper" is an intensely personal song I love to karaoke, and the Barenaked Ladies is one of my all-time favorite bands. I saw their Anaheim show on this 2000 tour and was delighted to find someone had captured this performance.

Reviving Halloween

Since Halloween was on a Saturday this year, some celebrated the hallowed holiday all weekend long. For me, that's not long enough. I celebrated Halloween all October long, planning a haunted house at work and reviewing Halloween-oriented comics over at my funnybook review blog A Comic A Day. This year, my varied observations and experiences about Halloween intertwine and in some cases have implications or undertones that transcend the holiday, as any annual celebration should, so, like a child separating his favorite candies after a successful night of trick-or-treating, permit me this indulgence in organizing these thoughts, lest they linger like Haunted House cobwebs in my brain.


Bloody dancers, Mother, and superfluous terror on the War of the Worlds set.

First of all, at the beginning of October, some friends, my girlfriend, and I went to Universal Studios' Horror Nights. Yes, every year, my favorite holiday and my favorite theme park have a baby, and it's possessed, and we paid to see it puke all over the room. With the rights to some of the world's most memorable monsters, and the addition of the latest icons of dementia like Freddy Kruger and that creepy Saw puppet, the event is a comprehensive tour of terror, especially the backlot tram ride, where every fanboy's dream of walking up to those classic cinematic facades comes true -- at a price, unless you don't mind chainsaw welding freaks getting in your face on the front steps of Norman Bates' house. The War of the Worlds crash site is definitely the highlight of the tour, as if the grim sight of an airplane's carcass isn't enough to make your skin crawl in this post-9/11 age. Afterward, I found myself grateful to have my feet firmly on the ground, and six feet above it, to boot.

A few weeks later, following my experience as a fortune teller, I was in Arizona for the annual Arizona Treasure Hunt and caught a news story about a haunted house in Tempe suffering from neighborhood complaints of traffic and noise, so I just had to see what the commotion was all about. My girlfriend looked up the address and we swung by on Sunday evening to find the gentleman, Richard Stoudt, setting up props in his front yard, and when we told him we'd seen the news story, he chuckled humbly and allowed us to tour what he'd already built. The multi-room haunted house spanned his front yard, backyard, and garage, with years' and thousands of dollars' worth of props creating a feel as authentic as anything I'd seen accomplished on a professional level, and frankly I was both jealous at its scope and thankful that the similar events I've hosted these past several years were comparable, if only on a smaller scale.


From Stoudt's set-up.

Unfortunately, like most good things, local politics have threatened Stoudt's annual event, which has attracted over 2,000 in recent years. Yes, traffic and noise are apparently an issue for his neighbors, undoubtedly keeping them up all hours of the night as any real ghosts and goblins would, but the city as a whole also takes issue with his tip jar. I understand the dilemma, because just the suggestion of collecting funds transforms his obsessive hobby into a small business, but after meeting the man, I find the antagonism tragic, because he is obviously only a man that seeks to share a passion with other appreciative people. I hope he finds the capital to rent space next year and take his haunted house to the next level. The thought that homemade events like his are endangered in this day of age scares me more than anything.

With Universal Studios and Stoudt on the brain, interestingly each on either end of the corporate haunted house spectrum, I prepared my own eerie event at work for the kids in our community. Traditionally, I like to host this event on Halloween night and provide a safe place for kids to come and uniquely experience the holiday in their own proverbial backyard, but weekend events of any caliber are difficult when families are conditioned to utilize us after school only, so my staff and I opted for Halloween Eve, Friday night. One of the keys to a structured haunted house is deciding themed rooms, to focus one's shopping for props when a seemingly endless array of thematic props is available. In past years, I've built dungeons, demented doctors' offices, graveyards, and pirate ships, some of which I've documented before, but this year my staff wanted to try something different: a scary circus room, a freaky fast food room, and a gypsy room. With this in mind, and a Michael Jackson's "Thriller" theme in mind for our outdoor graveyard, we went to work.

My thrilling beauty, the freaky fast food room, and scenes from the scary circus room.

Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans. Our event was scheduled from 7 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., and by 7:20, we had a line of 40 or more people waiting to get in. As the tour guide, I took groups four to six at a time, and the interior rooms took about five minutes to explore. Toward the end of the night, kids started to tour for a second or third time, and feeling more at ease, they started to tear things down. Outside, they were worse, kicking dirt at and taunting our faux Michael Jackson, who just so happened to be my girlfriend. I've never had problems like that, perhaps in part because I opt to host haunted houses on Halloween, when our event is just one stop among many in the neighborhood, and kids' hands are too busy protecting their candy to wreak havoc. As much as everything looked good (and how 'bout that zombie Jacko, eh?!), the lesson is clear -- forget about ghosts, goblins, witches, and monsters. Unattended children are the real terrors.



Halloween is truly the only holiday where bumping into pirates, ninjas, robots, and superheroes is commonplace, and I love to spread the cheer as much as possible. At my favorite local poetry reading Wednesday night, I read this favorite old blog post, and on Thursday, a coworker and I went to karaoke hosted by Alice Cooper (complete with dead babies, pictured above), which was actually a little more creepy than this Halloween karaoke scene sketched by my buddy Brent. On Halloween itself, my girlfriend and I had breakfast in our witch and fortuneteller costumes, respectively, and the wait staff at Norm's were dressed up, too, so we blended right in. That night, Batgirl and I hit another karaoke venue and to honor the resident Karate Kid costume, I sang Peter Cetera's "The Glory of Love" from the Karate Kid II soundtrack. To my delight, and perhaps one of the highlights of my karaoke career, when I sang the line, "Like a knight in shining armor from a long time ago," I stood next to a knight in shining armor from a long time ago! What happens on Halloween can only happen on Halloween!


Batgirl never looked so hot, Mr. T never looked so white, and a knight has never had better timing!

I can think of no better way to end the Halloween weekend than by watching the undead haunt the waking world on the big screen. No, I'm not talking about Zombieland (though that's a great flick, too), but Michael Jackson's This Is It. Indeed, watching Michael post-mortem attempt to revive his career through a patchwork of beloved hits has a certain Dr. Frankenstein quality to it, but we enjoyed the film and in spite of our observations couldn't pinpoint evidence of Jacko's drug use. If he was as strung out as they say, I expected my cynical eye to find some lack of lucidity, but at worst This Is It is the story of an eccentric performer, which is what we'd expect from a king of pop anyway. Appropriately, "Thriller" is the film's centerpiece, though the high notes of "Human Nature" were haunting in the context of Michael's life and untimely death. If concert footage can have a subplot, it's these performers' inability to experience this highlight in their careers. Make-up and special effects aside, what This Is It could've been is truly a ghost among us.

Now, like every year, Halloween itself is the ghost, long dead in the shadow of the impending Christmas season, haunting the 50%-90% off shelves at Target and Wal-Mart. As much as I love it, that's just where it should be, because you can't get too much of a good thing. Still, throughout the year, whenever I hear "Thriller" on the radio, or I see something that could easily be bloodied for a haunted house, or I reminisce about my favorite candy, Halloween creeps into the dark corners of my brain, like those persistent cobwebs in the corners of the attic. No blog post can clear those webs away.