KaraokeFanboy Blogs

Love 'Im or Hate 'Im: Sheriff Joe Arpaio

2012-01-13T12:10:00.000-08:00

Honestly? Sheriff Joe Arpaio is the reason I'm still self-publishing comics, because inner conflict is the most poignant conflict of all.

I should preface this article with the following disclaimer: I'm not a law student. I know next to nothing about criminology. The following observations and opinions are from a purely layman's perspective, from a guy that pays attention to current events via "infotainment."

That said, I can safely say, Sheriff Joe is paradoxically the most hated official that everybody keeps voting for. Most recently, the Department of Justice has joined in Arpaio's perpetually vocal detractors, yet, the guy is still in office -- and is planning to run again this year. As a loud-mouthed, polarizing galvanizer, and as such the epitome of what makes the news my guilty pleasure.

But, in comic book terms, is he a good guy or a bad guy? During my brief media blitz last summer, that was the most commonly asked question, and I wonder if reporters expected to hear "bad guy" from an artist like me, since artists are often perceived as liberal-types. Actually, my answer was rather political, if I do say so myself: I explained Arpaio was neither hero or villain, but rather a catalyst for the actions that made the other characters heroes or villains. Yeah? Yeah? See what I did there?

Actually, I do have an opinion of Arpaio. It's the same opinion I had of Tommy Lee Jones' portrayal of Deputy Gerard in The Fugitive. Remember that scene in the sewer tube, before Harrison Ford/Dr. Kimble jumps into the waterfall? He shouts to Gerard, "I didn't kill my wife!"

Gerard answers, "I don't care!" That's Sheriff Joe Arpaio.

For years now, those supporting the immigrants Arpaio has fought to deport have shouted at the system, "They're good workers! They have families to support!" Sheriff Joe has stood against the current, as Gerard did in that tube, and replied, "I don't care." It's that simple.

"Caring" isn't Arpaio's job. Law enforcement is. Of course, a degree of compassion toward one's fellow man is a part of law enforcement, but the how is a separate argument from the what, and I think many of Arpaio's detractors blame him for their disagreements with the law. That's like blaming a plumber for why the sewer stinks. The Sheriff is just a regulator; you can blame him when things don't run smoothly, but he didn't invent the way things run.

Guys like Russell Pearce do that. But I digress.

So, no, Sheriff Joe isn't a hero or a villain; he's just a guy enforcing the law, which isn't a black-and-white kind of job. Sometimes, it's a whatever-it-takes kind of job -- which is how I see Commissioner Gordon. Jim Gordon is a good cop -- but he also endorses the activities of vigilantes. That's a whatever-it-takes attitude.

The premise of Amazing Arizona Comics is that Sheriff Joe secretly does the same thing. In fact, his recruiting a "secret superhero deputized posse" is a great way to explain some of the more outrageous events in and around Phoenix, because it often really is the stuff of good superhero comics. But, most importantly, the ambiguity of a superhero's existence in general is a poignant allegory to Arpaio's "love him or hate him" impression.

Because, frankly, if you hate crime, you should hate vigilante superheroes, too. Yet, crime in its most extreme incarnation seems to require superheroes to fight it, so they're accepted as the much lesser of two evils. Maybe that's why Sheriff Joe is paradoxically the most hated official that everybody keeps voting for.

Remember when I said inner conflict is the most poignant conflict of all? Yeah, I wasn't talking about Arpaio's. Sheriff Joe doesn't care about that, remember? That conflict is ours. We need him, and we hate it.

One Year Later

2012-01-09T13:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday honored the one year anniversary of the Tucson tragedy, and while thousands of citizens in Arizona gathered to respect the survivors, I silently acknowledged the day I became truly proud to live in the Grand Canyon State.

I'll rewind a bit: I moved to Arizona from California in 2009, and in so doing, I realized my twelve-year stint in the Golden State instilled me with a very California-centric mentality. I wasn't Anthony Kiedis or anything, but I definitely thought many of the country's, if not the world's, most critical developments revolved around California. After all, the mantra of American Idol is, "I'm going to Hollywood!" -- as if such a sojourn is the end all, be all of sojourns. In short, a part of me genuinely thought moving to Arizona made me less important in the grand scheme, because I wouldn't be living in California anymore.

Then, in January 2010, something crazy happened. Many of the country's, if not the world's, most critical developments revolved around Arizona. The SB 1070 debate at the forefront, with the caricatures of Sheriff Joe Arpaio and Governor Jan Brewer in tow, Arizona was the leading topic for news stations' talking head shows and late night comedy monologues. I loved it, but still a bit out of my familiar element, I didn't know how to process it --

-- so I made a comic book. Amazing Arizona Comics became a mini-comic turned epic concept: What if superheroes lived in Arizona, too? How would they react and interact to these already fantastic stories? So, one part political cartoon, one part superhero story, I steadily self-published the first three issues before the end of 2010, trying my best to keep up with the headlines. Sometimes, the news cycle was gracious. Other times, not so much.

Indeed, the biggest challenge so far has just been keeping up. If I see a fun catalyst for a story in the news, my imagination will translate it into a superhero adventure, and I'll want to draw it and distribute it immediately. Unfortunately, I'm just one man! For instance, I'm finally finishing the sixth issue, which guest stars Prince Harry -- yet his Arizona visit was news almost two months ago! Hey, a guy's gotta work, right?! That, and maintaining a great relationship with my future wife, consumes a lot of time; in other words, life happens, but fortunately that's what ultimately fuels the inspiration for this comic, so I can't complain.

And that's what leads me back to the anniversary of the Tucson tragedy. If you don't really know what happened on January 8, 2011, Google it; mine isn't the forum for recap -- nor will I mention the shooter's name. He's received enough press, and, frankly, I don't think we should ever dignify him with mention in the context of that day's survivors. Bluntly -- hey, news outlets, stop flashing that creepy pic in every "One Year Later" montage. At this point, it's distasteful. But I digress.

The day of the Tucson tragedy is as much the stuff of comics as any silly Jan Brewer gaff, but for completely different reasons. That morning one year ago, in a Safeway parking lot, Tucson faced no greater, tangible example of good versus evil -- it was as clear as Superman brawling with Brainiac. Further, the nation saw perfect examples of real heroes -- these are people that stepping in the pathway of bullets to protect others, and/or tackle the villain despite impending danger and harm. There's no other word to describe these people: Heroes.

I was at a comic con selling a mini-comic about heroes in Arizona when I first heard the news about Tucson, and Gaby Giffords. The irony didn't escape me. Some asked if I'd include the incident in the comic. I don't see the need. It's already a good versus evil story. What more can I offer that the actual events haven't -- and, what greater examples of heroism can I interject? My little comic book about current events exploits the reasons I enjoy living in Arizona, but the examples of the brave people that stepped up during the Tucson tragedy are the reasons I'm proud to live here.

To that end, since 2012 is the Grand Canyon State's centennial, I'm going to spend some time on the blog this year discussing the inspirations for Amazing Arizona Comics -- and the local/national news that drives my ongoing interest in current events. I'm excited to document these thoughts, because, like I said, sometimes the comic can't do it fast enough. And, sometimes, you don't need pictures.

KaraokeFanboy 3.0

2011-08-06T18:52:00.000-07:00

Picture this: an eleven-year-old boy, hair so red his head might as well be on fire, pale white skin turning radioactive under the Arizona sun. He's playing in a big, empty field, soon to become a neighborhood but already littered with evidence of civilization, the water bottle fast food wrapper refuge of passing traffic. Something colorful catches the kid's eye, bright green against the desert sepia. He finds a broken toy frog, the kind you wind-up and that swims with you in the pool or bathtub. One of the frog's legs is broken off and laying nearby; otherwise, the thing looks brand new, not yet faded by summer's punishment. The boy can't stop glancing at it. He knows it's trash, probably accidentally tossed from a car window. But the thing looks brand new. So, he takes it home. He hardly ever plays with it, but it remains among his other toys. Among other toys is where it belongs.

Picture this, too: another boy: around the same age, but much, much bigger. He's screaming. Some might call it a bellow. And he's tearing the posters off of my office wall. Thankfully, I get the posters for free at Comic Con every year, but it hurts to watch, nevertheless. Who knows what set him off -- a friend didn't share something, maybe? Or maybe somebody touched him; he didn't like being touched a lot. Anyway, I was the boss, and I had an office, so let's put him in there and get back to having fun with the other kids, right?. You know, the normal kids that don't go from passive to postal at eight in the morning. Okay, so I'm watching him destroy my office when he recognizes Booster Gold on a Justice League International poster. Booster Gold isn't your Superman/Spider-man/Lone Ranger household superhero, so I'm curious. He can name every member of the JLI '87. Rocket Red, for crying out loud. The storm calms, then passes, and never reaches that fevered pitch again, for the years we know each other. We have a cure.

One more: I'm sitting at Starbucks. Don't judge me: it was open 'til midnight in that college town. And a college kid comes up to me, slowly at first. (I call him a "kid" -- he was probably 17, and I was probably 28, and he probably could've kicked my ass?) "Mr. K.?" he asks cautiously. I know the name. The kids called me "Mr. K." when I was a third grade teacher's assistant, because my last name shouldn't exist in a third grader's vocabulary. "Yes?" I answer. He reminds me who he is and tells playground stories we shared like that happened yesterday and I'm flattered, clueless, and embarrassed I don't remember him that much, but what are you gonna do? He concludes with, "I still have that Daredevil picture you drew for me. It's up in my dorm room." I do that math. That's a ten year old drawing. And it's probably terrible. But he kept it. It's cool enough to hang up in his dorm room.

Where it belongs.

The Karaoke Chronicles: Darwin's Waiting Room Bar & Grill

2011-06-26T14:13:00.000-07:00

Charles Darwin once wrote, "In the struggle for survival, the fittest win at the expense of their rivals because they succeed in adapting themselves best to their environment." I don't know if this quote is the mission statement for karaoke night at Darwin's Waiting Room Bar & Grill, but if so I wouldn't be surprised.

On Friday night, after an inspiring Serene Dominic show at Donna Jean's Libations in Glendale, my friends and I returned to downtown Phoenix to check out Darwin's, across the street from Hazelwood's First Place Bar & Grill. Hazelwood's, though tied with Darwin's in the superfluous long name category, was recently voted the BEST karaoke in Phoenix by our local liberal freebie, The New Times, and has become an impossible endeavor for karaoke enthusiasts that show up an hour into the evening and hope to squeeze in a song in their whopping fifty person rotation. So, we wanted to see if Darwin's was evolving to accommodate the castaways looking for a convenient alternative.

Unfortunately, we may have picked the worst night for it. Apparently, the owner was celebrating his birthday on Friday night and the joint was more crowded than usual. As soon as my party arrived, I turned in the Monkees' "(I'm Not Your) Stepping Stone," and shortly afterward my friends (including Serene!) turned in their choice tunes. Then the waiting began.

Right before we scored a booth, the KJs blatantly announced, "We have 27 singers in the rotation! [That must be a lot of Darwin's, albeit it still pales to Hazelwood's 50 plus.] So, if you wanna move up, you know what to do!"

Suddenly, legitimately patronizing the bar wasn't enough to participate in the karaoke. Now, as a karaoke enthusiast, oblige me some commentary on the practice of tipping the KJ. Do you tip the waitress before your meal arrives? Do you tip your barber before your haircut? Do you tip the valet before he parks your car? Of course not -- right? -- because the tip often depends on the quality of service. If the waitress gets your order wrong, or the barber gives you a mullet, or the valet steals your car, this significantly affects your gratuity -- yes, that's "gratuity," which shares the same root as "gratitude," as in, appreciation after the fact.

So . . . why the heck should I tip the KJ before I sing? What if he doesn't play the right song, or the song track is damaged and can't be played, or the sound system fails, or [enter any other variable that might make the experience something other than the pure fun it should be]? If a "cover" is required to sing, announce that upfront. That may potentially trim the rotation, anyway, and folks that really want to sing will pay to dominate the mic. Otherwise, I say, hospitably announce your long list of performers and treat the crowd like patrons, not johns on Van Buren. Remember: every KJ is just one good band booking away from losing that gig. That's survival of the fittest.

If only my gripes ended there. Before long, we realized the rotation was taking forever because the KJs and their friends were singing every fourth or fifth song! Didn't you just say the rotation was longer than usual? This mic hoggery baffled me to no end, and while my friends and I did get to sing, sophomore efforts were looking grim. (Incidentally, I briefly lost my glasses during a head-banging rendition of "Stepping Stone," a problem I reckon Micky Dolenz never had!) In the end, I decided to play the system. After last call, I approached and highly complimented one of the ladies blessed with frequency in the rotation, then asked if she'd do me the honor of singing a duet. She quickly turned the song in, and two performers later, we were up. It would've been a crime had I not anticipated it in the first place.

The song we sang was Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)." Yes, that tune betrayed my penchant for parenthetical songs that night, more importantly it challenges the concept of the duet, as the female vocals are essentially a choral epilogue at the tail end of 'Loaf's signature six minute soliloquy of song. My partner was chomping at the bit for her turn, and perhaps for the most fleeting of moments, she understood how the rest of us felt that night, watching her sing time after time. Justice? Yes -- but more poignantly, survival through adaptation.

These variable make my first tryst at Darwin's Waiting Room Bar & Grill difficult to evaluate from a karaoke night perspective. Maybe the joint isn't as much about the waiting when the manager isn't celebrating his birthday. To be fair, the wait staff was attentive and the joint itself had that post-modern dive quality that's all the rage right now, so I would definitely give it another shot. Let's just get one thing straight, Darwin's: I may like to sing the Monkees' songs, but even the forefather of evolution isn't gonna make a monkey out of me.

The Karaoke Chronicles: Recent Sound Bytes

2011-06-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

In an effort to streamline "The Karaoke Chronicles," here are some smaller reviews that were buried in other blog posts recently.

The Mobile Karaoke Unit

April 1 was also Phoenix's monthly "First Friday" art walk, which has become less about art and more about adolescents offering "free hugs" to oblige their attention-starved hormones. That night, my friends and I found the Mobile Karaoke Unit, a bicycle-propelled karaoke machine that tours First Friday and other events in metro Phoenix. Much to my delight, I sang the Monkees' "Daydream Believer," and many passers-by stopped to sing along. The MKU is an ingenious idea, I give credit to its K.J. for combining my two favorite hobbies (riding bikes and karaoke) into a virtual portable event. I'll endure hundreds of offers for free, sweaty hugs if it means singing another Monkees tune to the beautiful Phoenix skyline.

*****

Song Choice: T.O.I.L.

I was excited to discover recently that Hazelwood's First Place Bar & Grill has a very decent selection of David Gray songs ("Babylon" is usually the only one to be found), so I signed up to sing "The One I Love." When David includes this song on concert song lists, it's abbreviated "T.O.I.L.," which I think is an ironic way to describe the one you love, but you can't find the alphabet, plain and simple.

You also can't fight a large lady on her fifty-third birthday. Hazelwood's has a Celebrity Room apart from the main bar, and I like to sing to the folks that think they may be safe from the karaoke. In this case, when they saw the title of the song, they were more than eager to have me dance for their birthday girl. They didn't suspect the gravity of the song, and honestly I didn't let it stop me from simulating a lap dance, to the best of my ability. So, I was singing lines like, "I'm leaking life faster than I'm leaking blood," while this rather large woman slapped my butt and pulled me onto her lap. I sang, "Don't see Elysium, don't see no fiery hell" when my head was in her chest. Well, I guess David got that right.

So, "The One I Love" is a song of juxtapositions. I'm really not surprised.

The Sky Cake is Falling!

2011-05-23T17:55:00.000-07:00

Say what you will about the crazy media coverage surrounding Pastor Harold Camping's prophecy about Judgement Day, but the fervor indicates a genuine interest in spiritual matters in America, and a base desire to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. Of course, if I were still an avid church-goer, I'd be righteously outraged that the very concept of the Rapture inadvertently became the country's punchline for a week, but where there's satire, there's a chance to share some truth, too. For me, the truth is we're all looking to the sky for something. Patton Oswalt calls it sky cake. I say it's a need to rise above our circumstances to be a part of something greater than what's just plum around us. Maybe you'll find it in church. Maybe you'll find it in art. Just find it. Quick! -- because if you don't, and judgement day really comes sometime soon, your most harsh judge will be yourself, with a gavel of regret.

The Day of Blond Bombshells

2011-05-01T14:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was full of blond bombshells.

First of all, in the morning, I had the opportunity to sell some of my comics and see an advanced showing of this summer's first blockbuster Thor at the Tempe Marketplace, thanks to Samurai Comics. The pre-show festivities didn't last long, but I drew several pictures for kids in a short period of time, and enjoyed my fellow geeks engaging in a little cosplay. Events like that always validate why I love being a geek -- because characters like Thor unite people of all ages and inspire creativity in a different light, from sketching to costuming. Stan Lee, did you know what you were starting . . .?

Of course, I was super stoked to see Thor, as the Marvel movies of late have been the best superhero adaptations on film yet. (Smallville is a possible contender for its sheer longevity.) I've often said that I think Iron Man is the best superhero film, period, because it most successfully establishes a global threat while examining its hero's motivations, rather than motivating the hero through personal tragedy -- the best evidence of this is the uber-emo Spider-man 3, which needlessly incorporated Sandman into Spidey's origin, making both villains so tied into Peter Parker's personal history that all ramifications for their actions hardly affected anyone else at all. Heroes are much less selfish than that, and Thor exploits that theme to tell a tale of a god discovering his humanity with two worlds in the balance. No spoiler alerts here: just rest assured that the casting is perfect, the conflicts are poignant, and action is intense. I'll happily see Thor at least one more time in the theater -- and next time I'll pay for it!

That night, I was on the list to perform at Arizona's Encyclopedia Show. The best way to describe the Encyclopedia Show is: it's an episode of SNL with a topic as the guest host. So, acts range from poetry to monologues to skits, with the topic appearing in some way or another every time. Last night's topic was the spectrum of color, and my assignment was "mustard." Colonel Mustard from Clue kept coming to mind, but as a redhead I wondered how I could represent such a blond-hued character effectively. That's when it hit me: in my monologue, Colonel Mustard would reveal his true gingerness, pulling off a blond wig and reading a letter of unashamed introspection to his disapproving father. I've posted the letter at KaraokeFanboy Press, and it's perhaps my most pun-intensive work to date. I was excited to perform something in character, and with theatrical props, to boot. It's nice to know my work can cut the mustard.

Next month: Free Comic Book Day at Samurai Comics, the Kabam poetry slam in Kingman, and Phoenix Comic Con!

Thank You, April . . .

2011-04-17T13:59:00.000-07:00

As expected, the coming of spring has blossomed its fair share of creativity, starting with two of the best April Fool's Day jokes I've ever perpetuated, thanks to the persuasive power of the Internet, and its star agent Facebook. Firstly, I basically convinced many of my friends on Facebook that I've had a stalker since 2009 via his or her blog, Big Kaz Fan. On that blog, you'll see the second joke, a video we produced at work featuring the first ever "embroidery tattoo." Fortunately, tweezer removal is a lot less painful than that with a laser.

April 1 was also Phoenix's monthly "First Friday" art walk, which has become less about art and more about adolescents offering "free hugs" to oblige their attention-starved hormones. That night, my friends and I found the Mobile Karaoke Unit, a bicycle-propelled karaoke machine that tours First Friday and other events in metro Phoenix. Much to my delight, I sang the Monkees' "Daydream Believer," and many passers-by stopped to sing along. The MKU is an ingenious idea, I give credit to its K.J. for combining my two favorite hobbies (riding bikes and karaoke) into a virtual portable event. I'll endure hundreds of offers for free, sweaty hugs if it means singing another Monkees tune to the beautiful Phoenix skyline.

April is National Poetry Month, so I've been fulfilling the so-called 30/30 challenge by writing a poem a day until the 30th. I did this last year, too, but I'm much more pleased with this month's efforts so far; of course, I'll probably say the same thing next year, but so it goes as an ever self-critical writer. I try to be my own biggest fan first; if I'm happy, it's one less person to worry about pleasing in the crowd. I'm posting the pieces at KaraokeFanboy Press.

Speaking of performing poetry, I participated in my first competitive "prop slam" last week. Poetry slams (which are three-round readings where participants are scored by judges for the win) discourage props, so when they're allowed, it's often a proverbial show-and-tell of bric-a-brac muses. My girlfriend came in third place using my sombrero, her "Talk Nerdy to Me" T-shirt, and a laptop, and I'm very proud of her . . . but I'm most proud of my second-round performance. I utilized my Superman and Hulk action figures to demonstrate who would win in a fight . . . for five minutes. Mind you, a slam piece is supposed to be three minutes, but I got a little carried away. I tried to display all of Superman's and Hulk's powers, and elaborate on Superman's inner struggle to pull his punches in fear of actually killing his adversary (or the ol' heat vision lobotomy a la the Justice Lords from Justice League Unlimited). Ultimately, Supes won by flying the Hulk into the outer atmosphere, where he passed out, reverted to Banner, and was detained back in Metropolis. In case you were wondering.

Finally, I'm diligently working on Amazing Arizona Comics #4 this month, hoping to have it, and the following issue, complete for the Phoenix Comic Con on Memorial Day weekend. I've changed the story three times to accommodate local current events, and my recent discovery of Retro TV has inspired a story sure to please connoisseurs of Arizona lore and pop culture alike. In the meantime, at the end of the month I'm scheduled to appear at Grand Ave. Live (a local live talk show) as the host of Conspire's weekly open mic, then again at the Encyclopedia Show as a performer addressing "mustard" on the spectrum of color. Thank you, April, for keeping me on my toes.

A New Day at Midnight, A New Cat at Dusk

2011-03-27T21:50:00.001-07:00

I've decided that she is my outdoor cat. Her name is Anew, because: (1.) David Gray has a great song called "A New Day at Midnight," and (2.) Midnight is a very common name for black cats. When I first moved in to my new, downtown Phoenix condo, this black cat ran in while my hands were too full to stop her, like she owned the place. She comes around every time I get home from work, so I've decided to feed her and dub her my outdoor cat. The other neighborhood cats are jealous, but I think they understand. It's a territorial thing. It's a dibs thing. Also, I've always wanted a black cat. When my first cat, Amazo, stops hissing at her through the window, I might let Anew in again. Sure, black cats are supposed to bring bad luck . . . but what if bad luck was there first, and you treat it right? Can you turn bad luck around by realizing your just a guest in its house?

*****

The Karaoke Chronicles: T.O.I.L. I was excited to discover recently that Hazelwood's First Place Bar & Grill has a very decent selection of David Gray songs ("Babylon" is usually the only one to be found), so I signed up to sing "The One I Love." When David includes this song on concert song lists, it's abbreviated "T.O.I.L.," which I think is an ironic way to describe the one you love, but you can't find the alphabet, plain and simple.

You also can't fight a large lady on her fifty-third birthday. Hazelwood's has a Celebrity Room apart from the main bar, and I like to sing to the folks that think they may be safe from the karaoke. In this case, when they saw the title of the song, they were more than eager to have me dance for their birthday girl. They didn't suspect the gravity of the song, and honestly I didn't let it stop me from simulating a lap dance, to the best of my ability. So, I was singing lines like, "I'm leaking life faster than I'm leaking blood," while this rather large woman slapped my butt and pulled me onto her lap. I sang, "Don't see Elysium, don't see no fiery hell" when my head was in her chest. Well, I guess David got that right.

So, "The One I Love" is a song of juxtapositions. I'm really not surprised.

*****

GB: The Pitch Internet rumors have long circulated about a third Ghostbusters film. I have a better idea. GB:NY. Hear me out.

GB:NY is an hour long comedy/drama featuring a new branch of the Ghostbusters in New York, with aspirations for nationwide franchising (i.e. GB: Chicago, GB: LA, etc.). GB:NY would feature a different aspect of ghost-busting, since the use of nuclear accelerators on one's back is prohibited in a post 9/11 New York; now, the Ghostbusters have to find and isolate the specter by figuring out why it hasn't passed into the afterlife. (This would save a network quite a bit on its SFX budget.) Each episode is a mystery, with an opening teaser that features regular folks discovering a haunting (like the old, "Hey, is that a body?" motif in the Law & Order series), followed by an investigation that plays like the library and sewer scenes in Ghostbusters I and II, respectively. Of course, the Ghostbusters still trap and contain ghosts, much to the EPA's chagrin, establishing an ongoing civil subplot. An ongoing series allows writers the chance to fully explore and exploit the hilarity of the genre, like Venkman did, but also integrate some of Winston's smoldering spiritual curiosity. Further, shot with a handicam like The Office, with the CSI plot unfurling formula, GB:NY could combine the most successful motifs on television today with one of the most beloved film franchises of all time.

So . . . who are ya gonna call?

The Karaoke Chronicles: DiVerti Bar & Grill

2011-03-17T18:10:00.000-07:00

originally published in an issue of Tempe Starving Artist

diverti (adj.): 1. amused, entertained (French to English translation); 2. the latest bar and grill to inhabit the northeast corner of Mill Ave. and University Dr. in Tempe.

Longtime Tempe residents and ASU students on the ten-year plan might remember when 4 E. University Dr. was Ruby Tuesday's, then most recently Sucker Punch Sally's. Now, with hardly enough time to mourn these fallen comrades in Mill Avenue's war against the struggling economy (and the sneak attack by the Tempe Marketplace), DiVerti rises to defy the odds and remain a college town staple. I hope. I don't handle change well.

On Wednesday night, December 1, I was riding my bike past DiVerti from ASU's Empty Space Open Mic (on Rural and University, the first Wednesday of the month) when I saw the “Karaoke Tonight!” sandwich sign on the sidewalk. I was excited. See, growing up in Peoria, Mill Avenue was a magical, faraway place where cool college kids hung out. The few times we endured the trek to the distant East Valley, the tales we'd heard of all-night parties and sidewalk entertainment were confirmed, from drum circles to manic street preachers to the Coffee Plantation's mocha to Jack in the Box's treacherous drive-thru. Now, in adulthood, the beer goggles have been lifted and I see Mill as the desperate, strung-out whore it's always been, but, still, the thought of singing karaoke at its hub roused my inner child. If only my old chums from high school could see me now, me, well over 21 and strolling into a Mill Ave. bar on a WEEK night! Ha!

Of course, they didn't see me – and I don't know if anyone did. At 10 p.m., DiVerti was dead, and the K.J. (dubbed DJ Doubt It) was singing “Marco Polo” to just a few folks scattered around the dining room. The bartender, Eric, was hospitable, and we briefly discussed the doom and gloom of business at that corner before a large group came in and distracted his attention. A young lady among them sang Meatloaf's “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” wins the endurance award for her ten minute rendition, and was the highlight of my ninety minutes there.

So, this isn't much of a karaoke adventure. It's more of a plea. Please, go to DiVerti on Wednesday night for DJ Doubt It's karaoke time. My inner child wants to invite his friends next time and would be terribly embarrassed if the joint was closed.

You'll have an extensive song list to look forward to, and while I appreciate the KJ's attempt to lay down some ground rules at the beginning of the folder (including a rule that dissuades against depressing, broken-hearted ballads, a phenomenon easily avoided if those songs weren't options at all), the bottom line is, don't be an obnoxious mic hog. Drink specials are very affordable, too, with beers ranging from $2 to $4. All of this makes for a great midweek diversion, which may be what DiVerti means . . .

. . . Hopefully, it's not just a short phonetic jump to that bittersweet good-bye, a rivederci. I hope. I don't handle change well.

Telling Tails Out of School

2011-03-17T18:09:00.000-07:00

On bunnies, karaoke, and comics . . .

Do You See the Bunnies??

I'm honored to be a part of Klang's first themed exhibit in downtown Phoenix. The theme is bunnies, and while I had some cool ideas for original work, my recent move to the Garfield District prevented me from getting crafty, so my contribution is a collection, like you'd see at a state fair. Basically, I had some comics and toys about bunnies, but putting them together conjured thoughts I narrated in a bunny-centric bio, which will also be on display. Though not original by way of art I've made, these comics and toys represent a significant part of my life, and to have them affiliated with the beginnings of Klang's life is a thrill. Neil and Heather Gearns are two of the nicest people you'll ever meet (they let me sleep on their floor not too long ago, technically my first attempt at downtown living -- and I obviously liked it enough to stick around), not to mention, the Gearns are incredibly talented, too, so please check out the gallery and its contributors' efforts. They'd love to hear what you have to say! That's right -- hop to it! They're all ears!

*****

Shirts So Good

A fellow comic book fan recently gave me a hard time for wearing more Marvel Comics T-shirts than DC Comics T-shirts. I hadn't noticed, actually, and was genuinely surprised by the personal trend, because I'm more of a DC fan.

After some thought, though, I've decided I like the way Marvel heroes look more than DC's stable of icons. Just look at these pictures of the Justice League and the Avengers. The Leaguers are all tights, chest emblems, belts, underwear, and the occasional cape. The Avengers are a bit more dynamic -- Iron Man's suit, Hulk's pseudo-nudism, Thor's godly garb. Sure, the capes and tights are there, too, but the core members are quite diverse and frankly more fun to look at.

Further, Marvel's costumes are critical to their characters' origins and motives; if he hadn't invented his Iron Man armor, Tony Stark would've died! Spider-man's suit was first his wrestling garb, to make money from his powers. The Hulk . . . well, he rips his clothes off. You get the point. In Marvel's universe, the clothes definitively make the hero. Half of the Justice League don't even wear masks! Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Black Canary -- are they even trying to have a secret identity?

Bottom line: DC may have the most iconic characters, but Marvel has better costumes. So, they make better shirts. Good clothes make good clothes. That just makes sense.

The Karaoke Chronicles: O'Kelley's

2011-03-07T14:09:00.000-08:00

originally published in an issue of "Tempe Starving Artist"

On Guadalupe and Dobson in westernmost Mesa, O'Kelley's is just far enough from the ASU campus to get away from all those Mill Avenue-oriented, amateur freshmen bar-hoppers*, but just close enough to offer more experienced drinkers a chance to enjoy a good dive bar in their own backyard. As the name implies, O'Kelley's is an Irish pub, with all the typical bar food trimmings and drink specials that would make St. Patrick forget about those pesky snakes – but most importantly, on Mondays and Thursdays, karaoke starts at 9 p.m.

I've been to O'Kelley's a few times, but only the latest visit was with the intention of writing a review, so I was particularly cognizant of the elements that would make for a great night of karaoke. Firstly, the song selection is tops, with a wide variety of rock classics, country (if you're into that), and some contemporary hits. (My date was impressed to find HIM, a Finnish goth band, in the folder, so I guess we should be, too!) The K.J. seems genuinely excited when you perform, and she plays an applause track that sounds like a hailstorm, sure to boost even the most timid performer's ego. The sound system is great, as well, but the bar divides the joint into two rooms, with one half dedicated to pool and darts, and venturing anywhere into that area is a karaoke black hole. Nobody over there is interested in hearing your rendition of Weezer's “Say It Ain't So,” and we both know that's their loss.

Be warned, though, that the distance from ASU is as much a blessing as it is a curse. On the right night, O'Kelley's is the kind of place that, if you bump into a tough guy's girlfriend during your, uhm, enthusiastic interpretation of Tenacious D's “Wonderboy,” said tough guy will shake your hand with a death grip and offer to “put you down” if you do it again. It's the kind of place that, if you offer the tough guy's girlfriend a drink to apologize for the accident, she will quickly and knowingly ask for a shot of Patron Silver, chilled, which is no cheap peace offering. Fortunately, it's the kind of place where such a gesture is well received, where the tough guy will shake your hand again afterward, calling your apology a “class move,” adding, “I like you now.” I'm not saying this happened to me or anything. O'Kelley's just strikes me as that kind of place.

If you get to O'Kelley's early, you'll sing all three of the songs you listed on your request slip, so I highly recommend this bar to karaoke enthusiasts interested in singing for fellow karaoke enthusiasts. It's a respite on the fringes of a college town, with all the implications that come with the territory.

*The kind that somehow puts a “w” in “shots,” i.e. “Let's do shawts!”

Marching Orders

2011-03-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

I'm blogging again. I hope to do this once a week, as the new title of this thing, KaraokeFanboy Weekly, kind of implies. Here you'll find a compilation of writing, old and new, some photos from my phone, favorite videos, and newish poems in the sidebar. Here we go.

*****

What's on the Mantle, part 1
originally posted as a Facebook note on March 6, 2011

I have a fireplace now. Consequently, I have a mantle, and that's much more important to me. I love Sherlock Holmes, and I have very vivid memories of the Jeremy Brett Holmes (the definitive film incarnation, in my opinion) perusing his mantle at 221B Baker Street for past cases' mementos.* Of course, a painting of Reichenbach Falls hung over the fireplace to celebrate Holmes' greatest triumph, his faked death and the defeat of Professor Moriarty . . . but I digress. I'd like to decorate my mantle with such trinkets, seemingly random objects that boast some story about me, if anyone cared to know. When I scored the keys to my new abode, I already had the first items in my backpack, ready to break it all in:

THE "R"-INSCRIBED CUFFLINKS.

These are the latest treasured trinkets I've collected, from "The Adventure of the Birthday Party Feature." In January, after the weekly Pink Slip Poetry Slam at Jobot, one "Mark Susan" approached me and praised my poetry, specifically "Dear Lady Gaga's Meat Dress." I was ready to dismiss his praise with my usual self-doubting humility, when Susan asked insistently, "Would you perform at my buddy's birthday party later this month?" The offer was as flattering as it was just plain weird. As I documented on my other blog and via Facebook, I certainly did perform, and Mark expressed his appreciation with a six-pack of Fat Tire (my favorite beer) and these "R"-inscribed cufflinks.

"I don't even know if you have a French-cuffed shirt, but here you go," he offered.

That night was also significant as the inaugural Tombstone Poetry Slam, where I came off two recent out-of-town slam victories only to score a whopping FOUR for "Man-Church" (oh, which caused two attendees to leave the birthday party, too), and where I saw Patrick Hare read for the first time. My friend Ian (who would play a better Holmes on television than I would, for the record) agreed to drive to the birthday party afterward, a perpetual gift for which I'm always grateful, and of course that night was my first real date with Jess, too. So, these cufflinks represent the fast-paced pulse of a fun, memorable evening. That they even have an "R" on them makes their significance even more personal. Somebody valued my poetry enough to ask me to share it with his friends, and in turn I had friends that supported me.

Yes, I'm a sentimental fool, but, rest assured, I know if all of this stuff burned down tomorrow, the memories attached to that smoldering heap are what's most valuable and irreplaceable, anyway. I am putting these things on a mantle, after all, where they'd be most exposed to flame. Because I have a fireplace now.

*Superman's Fortress of Solitude and Batman's Trophy Room in the Batcave are also good examples of my heroes' irrepressible sentimentality, and why it's so ingrained in me as an adult, thank you very much.

*****

In a Jack in the Box bathroom on Mill Avenue in Tempe, Arizona.

*****

For the Love of Paper
originally posted on LiveJournal on April 5, 2009

With an entire afternoon and evening to myself, I went on a whirlwind tour of Southern California creativity yesterday. It started, as many recent Saturdays have, at the Frank & Sons Collectible Show in the City of Industry, best known as the comics and sports trade show where O.J. Simpson was planning on selling the stuff he was stealing back from the people that stole the stuff from him -- or something like that. Anyway, ever since I cataloged my comic book collection a few weeks ago, I'm determined to fill in some holes before I take on any new series or storylines, so I was grateful to discover a few gems in the multitude of quarter-priced back issue bins, including Jim Krueger's The Foot Soldiers #4 and The Sword of Solomon Kane #2, illustrated by one of my favorites, Bret Blevins. Of course, I couldn't resist one or two issues I certainly didn't need, but for their flagrant uniqueness, including Ted Seko's Billy Cole #2, about a talking baby trying to recruit some wrestlers to help him fight the evil in the world, illustrated with the stark black and white contrast of Frank Miller's early Sin City. Issues like Billy Cole #2 make the craft of comics seem easy and difficult all at the same time -- which can also be said for trying to buy them with scrutiny.

The highlight of the day came at dusk, when I went to a poetry reading hosted by the non-profit organization Beyond Baroque in Venice. A few of the acquaintances I've made at my local poetry reading were featured, so I went to both lend support to local talent and broaden my horizons. I wasn't disappointed in either case, as I experienced poets' work I wouldn't have seen otherwise, and as the performers I knew delivered incredible vocal interpretations of their work. I'm featuring at a local coffeeshop in just a month, now, on Cinco de Mayo, so watching the way others present their poetry has inspired me to take twists I wouldn't have considered before. Further, in the Beyond Baroque gift shop, I found whole racks of chapbooks and zines that utilized the small press medium in ways I haven't seen for a long time -- not since my last trip to the Alternative Press Expo in San Francisco in '07. In fact, many of those self-publishing efforts exceeding anything I've seen before, not only in the sophistication of their content but in their craftsmanship, as well. From the use of label makers and envelopes as slipcovers to folding and binding techniques -- I've just now begun to self-publish confidently, with my monthly poetry zine series and my forthcoming Karaoke Comics #1, and beholding these others' works have already inspired me to raise my game. Now, if only I had a place to put these finished products . . .

In April, it's rare to hear anyone talk about their New Year's resolutions, but I'm proud to be fulfilling mine -- my desire to maintain my creative efforts, and create tangible results. I've already produced a mini-sketchbook, three poetry zines, a few single page comic strips (called "Vs. Current Events", found at my other blog), and with Karaoke Comics #1 on the horizon, I feel like a viable artist. The biggest lesson isn't in the output, though, but in the consumption. The more I'm surrounded by these mediums I love, and the more I purchase pieces of choice, the more I want to contribute to them in some way. Goes to show, you have to spend a little paper to make something of value on it, eventually.

Birthday Becomes Eclectic

2010-12-26T18:07:00.001-08:00

On my birthday, a new David Gray performance was posted by the Morning Becomes Eclectic radio show on KCRW. It's a great set, and I recommend listening or watching it in their archives, found here. Did I mention it came out on my birthday? What a great gift from the world, and one of its greatest musicians.

California Dreamin' . . . and Arizona Slammin'

2010-12-12T18:55:00.001-08:00

Three months ago, I came in dead last at the semi-monthly Sedona Poetry Slam, when I tried to perform pieces from memory before I was really ready. Yesterday, in a competition that came down to one second and .1 of a point, I won the Sedona Poetry Slam and its $100 prize -- and, yes, I had the poems on paper in front of me. You'd think that would be the lesson -- be prepared -- but you'd be wrong.

Yesterday was also the 12th day of Russmas, the beginning of my countdown to my 31st birthday on December 22. Exactly one year ago on that date, when I turned 30, I moved back to Arizona after twelve years in Fullerton, California. The hardest part of that move was leaving behind a community of coworkers that had become a surrogate family, and their love and support in my life has been one of the greatest unexpected gifts I've ever received. I feared I'd never find such hospitality again.

Fortunately, Arizona is known for its warmth, and I was delighted to find a hot poetry scene in Phoenix. After a few weeks as spectator, I began signing up for the open mic and quickly made a few pleasant acquaintances, first at Conspire's open mic, then at the weekly Mesa Poetry Slam. Its host, the Klute, was actually very careful to greet me and say "see ya next time" every week, which was important to my feeling welcome there at all. Though the Mesa Slam ended, then Sound Effects (hosted by the Valley's most bombastic performer Bill Campana), I'm happy that my friendship with its alumni has continued at coffee every week (thanks again to Bob Nelson's vehicular hospitality) and other readings around town. In a way, the Sedona Poetry Slam and the breakfast we poets shared beforehand ended a year that started under a blanket of insecurity with an assurance of hope and inspiration for the one to come.

You can read about the Sedona Poetry Slam at its host's blog, Fox the Poet. Further, I'll be guest-hosting Conspire's Russmas Extravaganza in just eleven days! Where I once tread with trepidation about feeling welcomed, now I'm guest-hosting on my birthday.

And that's the lesson, folks. Nothing is more inspiring and empowering than the support of your peers. My name is Russ Kazmierczak, Jr., and life has taught me that nothing beats the strength of a strong community.

A Tale of Two Cities

2010-11-07T10:54:00.000-08:00

I love to visit cities. I don't do it often enough. Fortunately, self-publishing my own comic book has driven me to visit two cities over the past two months -- San Francisco in October for the Alternative Press Expo, and Tucson in November for the Tucson Comic Con. I've been to both cities before, but every visit offers a unique opportunity to experience something new, or something familiar from a new perspective -- and this time, for the first time, I had a camera phone with me.

If I had to summarize my tale of two cities without the benefit of pictures, I'd say I found one town a desolate, almost ramshackle smattering of rundown buildings and wandering homeless, and the other, a hip, bustling city rife with art, heart, and nightlife. You'd be surprised which was which.

Granted, my weekend in San Francisco was a cold, rainy one, and the Concourse, which hosts APE every year, isn't in the best corner of town. I'm used to this San Francisco, the perpetually overcast City by the Bay, the dichotomy of Fisherman's Wharf versus the industrial outer banks closer to urban Oakland. What I can't get used to is Market Street. Market is home to my favorite corner in San Francisco, where you can find the Mint (the best karaoke bar in America) on one side, with Al's Comics, Grooves Vinyl Attractions, and It's Tops Coffee Shop (one of the last great greasy spoons around) all across the street. With this quartet of cool on one end, and some touristy shops and trolley stops on the other, you'd think Market Street would be a crown jewel in downtown San Francisco's crown. Alas, it isn't even in the throne room.

Year after year, I stroll down Market Street and am consistently shocked at its rapid deterioration. The homeless population is just plain ridiculous, especially in contrast to the growing number of large, vacant buildings that once boasted a vibrant urban culture. What would be the harm in opening some of those doors for the homeless, especially on a rainy night? Behold these theaters turned porno shops -- and even they're out of business now, victims of the economy and the Internet, I presume. Market's downfall wouldn't be as baffling if I couldn't see the colorfully illuminated City Hall just a few blocks away, with its stoic, hierarchical architecture. The final straw for my perspective of San Francisco's seemingly schizophrenic image in the City Council's recent Happy Meal ban; in a city with so many hungry, regulating food for fat kids' sake seems like a misplaced priority.

Surprisingly, Tucson offered a breath of fresh air, though my friend Nathan warned me of the city's perpetual sewer smell -- which I didn't even notice. Instead, I saw a tight knit downtown glowing with inviting neon, from the historic Fox Theater (seems like every downtown has a Fox Theater) to the Railto to the Congress Hotel. Galleries were open late, and the Screening Room movie theater was showing a film about comic book writer Grant Morrison as a prelude to the Tucson Comic Con. The graffiti claimed no gang allegiance and instead did its best impression of urban art, in many cases, successfully. I didn't see a single homeless person, not that I doubt their presence in Tucson, but as a visitor to the city they didn't make a first or long lasting impression on me -- which is rare. If Tucson wasn't an entity in itself, the last great American metropolis before the Mexican border, I'd actually consider living there someday. Any city with its own growing comics convention is a contender in my book!

Next year, if I visit the San Francisco and Tucson again, I may have two totally different experiences. I may wander to Fisherman's Wharf and experience a bit more of San Francisco's rich history -- or I may wander off Tucson's beaten path and find myself kidnapped by a band of desert meandering meth heads. They say location is everything, but so's the timing -- because, at some point in its life, every city was a great American city. Every city was once somebody's favorite to visit.

The Karaoke Chronicles: Scaraoke at Kirk's

2010-10-30T19:01:00.001-07:00

I love Halloween. I love karaoke. So, when I heard the two were joining forces as “scaraoke” at Kirk's Sports Grill after downtown Mesa's Second Friday in October, I was excited to see the result. According to Second Friday's Facebook, the deal was simple: Come to Kirk's in costume, get discounts on food and drinks. Oh, I love food and drinks, too.

With just that much encouragement, my girlfriend donned her sexy witch costume, and my buddy Ian gathered his gaudiest clothing possible to pull off a believable porn star (er, no pun intended). I dressed in my mother's old full body pumpkin costume, which is exactly as Oedipal as it sounds. The three of us were Halloween incarnate, and we excitedly entered Kirk's to join others presumably as enraptured by the spirit of the season as we were.

Turns out, “enraptured” is the wrong word, unless “biker” is the most popular Halloween costume this year.

Yes, we were the only ones in costume, but, undaunted, the witch, the pumpkin, and the porn star took a table and signed up to sing as readily as the rest of 'em. At that point, we had to. Fortunately, Kirk's is as open-minded and accepting as any other sports bar on Main Street in downtown Mesa. The crowd, with its wide age range and surprisingly even male/female ratio, sang along to my stirring rendition of “Piano Man,” at least until I obnoxiously slurred the classic chorus into, “Make us a pie, you're the Pumpkin Man . . .!”

Kirk's prices are probably the best in town; a pitcher of Amber Bock cost us five bucks, so ten bucks kept our glasses full for hours. Further, the karaoke jockey is a gracious host, and while I usually loathe k.j.s that invite themselves into a duet (this is MY fifteen minutes of fame, dammit!), his contributions were more supportive than selfish. Ian forgot to put his name on his song submission, which theoretically shouldn't have been a problem considering his distinguished porn star garb, but when we realized what was taking so long the k.j. quickly compensated, and my buddy's impression of Freddie Mercury was soon complete.

Granted, dressed as a pumpkin, I had a unique experience that probably doesn't reflect a regular Friday night at Kirk's Sports Grill. My girlfriend was afraid I'd get beaten up, but my theory stood true: Who's the bigger wuss, the guy dressed as the pumpkin, or the guy that picks on the guy dressed as the pumpkin? That I walked out of Kirk's safely, with a memorable night of karaoke to boot, definitely put a smile on this Jack O'Lantern's face.

This Is Heavy!

2010-10-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

Blogger's Note: An extended version of this entry appeared in the most recent issue of Restless: An Arts Anthology, published in Mesa, Arizona. If you'd like a copy, drop me a line.

Today, October 25, 2010, marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of when Dr. Emmett Brown unveiled his DeLorean time machine to '80s hipster Marty McFly, so I was ecstatic to catch the Back to the Future trilogy on television recently. My favorite trilogy of all time (pun intended), I vividly remember watching the first installment on HBO when I was five or six years old and feeling absolutely jarred by those final frantic moments, as Doc returns from 2015 and whisks Marty and Jennifer away on a new adventure, only to shove a “To Be Continued” in the audience's collective face. I wasn't an avid comic book reader yet, so I hadn't grasped this concept of “to be continued,” but I'm grateful that Doc introduced it to me. Who better to instill an appreciation for looking forward to the future than the guy that invented the Flux Capacitor?

However, watching Back to the Future II as an adult inspired thoughts that hadn't occurred to me previously, specifically about the nature of time travel. To recap, at the beginning of this second film, Doc takes Marty and Jennifer from 1985 to 2015, where their susceptible son takes the fall for a crime committed by the gruesome Griff Tannen, a singular event that spirals the McFly family into irreversible turmoil. Doc hatches a plan to change “future history” and keep the McFly family intact, a noble gesture of selfless friendship that now strikes me as inherently impossible in the context of the rest of the Back to the Future trilogy.

“Well, of course!” you retort. “Throughout the films, Doc is adamant about the dangers of time travel and messing with the natural course of events, lest one cause a rift in the space/time continuum that could destroy the universe!” To this I say, aw, who cares? What's a little chronological paradox between true friends like Doc and Marty?

What I'm saying is, the 2015 that Doc, Marty, and Jennifer visit simply doesn't exist. Never mind that we live in 2010 and are nowhere near self-tying shoes, hoverboards, and flying cars yet. Rather, I insist that once Doc picked up Marty and Jennifer from 1985, he negated the 2015 he initially experienced with Griff and Marty, Jr., because while Marty and Jennifer travel to the future, time still naturally progresses forward but now without them, or else a 2015 wouldn't be there for them to see at all. So, the McFly family shouldn't exist when they arrive in future Hill Valley! The Fox television show Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles briefly explored this concept in its series finale, when young John Connor landed in the future and discovered a rebellion he didn't lead because he hadn't existed in history forward from the moment he disappeared in that time traveling portal. Ah, pretty heavy, Doc!

In Back to the Future, I'd accept the concept of alternate realities, a domino effect from affecting the natural course of events, but the DeLorean is a time machine, not a Superboy Prime punch. Thus, the oversight must be a thematic one, since screenwriter Bob Gale and director Robert Zemeckis aren't idiots. See, I love these movies despite their inherent hypocrisies because they present genuinely engaging, realistically flawed characters, and their time-spanning journey is as much one of self discovery as it is chronological repair job. Marty is teenage hubris personified in his inability to resist the challenge of being called “chicken,” and Doc's brilliance makes him so socially awkward, he has to create a time machine to get in touch with his fellow man. (Take that, Mark Zuckerberg!) It's a perfect pairing of imperfection, and by maintaining a McFly-infested 2015 despite Marty's absence from time and consequential inability to make that family, Gale and Zemeckis show us that self-improvement must always possible. It's the most timeless pursuit known to man.

Of course, Doc makes this clear at the end of Back to the Future III, when he shows up at Eastwood Ravine to tell Marty, “The future isn't written yet! The future is what you make it, so make it a good one.” When I was a kid watching these movies for the first time, I had no idea my future would be a better one because of the Back to the Future trilogy . . . not to mention that everyday would be a “to be continued” waiting to happen.

KaraokeFanboy Weekly #4: The "Come Talk to Me" Issue

2010-08-08T20:42:00.000-07:00

KaraokeFanboy Weekly, vol. 1 no. 4: The "Come Talk to Me" Issue

*****

The latest issue of KaraokeFanboy Weekly makes its way online a little later than usual, but I have a good excuse: I was the featured poet at Conspire's Open Mic in Phoenix on Wednesday, August 4. Fortunately, the event was recorded and I've published my reading in four parts on YouTube; you can find them at my channel. This was my third feature but the first I've ever made available for public consumption; I hope you enjoy it!

*****

To parallel my posting the Conspire feature, this week's theme is connection, specifically the connections we share with people and our surroundings, and I can think of no better song (or performance) than Peter Gabriel's "Come Talk to Me." This live performance (which introduced Paula Cole to the world) is especially stirring.

*****

I scratched a comedian off of my bucket list this weekend when my girlfriend, my oldest friend Wade and his girlfriend, and I saw Nick Dipaolo at the Comedy Spot in Scottsdale. I didn't know of any other comedy venues in the greater Phoenix area than the Tempe Improv, and while I was grateful to find a new venue, the intimate setting was almost too much so for a quick smart mouth like Dipaolo, who absolutely couldn't stand the loud table behind us. He badgered them (and rightfully so) into silence many times throughout the show until they just eventually left -- but why anyone would go to a comedy show and talk through it is beyond me. In many ways, even above the intricate and delicate word play of slam poetry, stand-up comedy is the last great demonstration of oration in contemporary society. Whereas slam poetry is designed to elicit a variety of emotions depending on the piece, and even the humorous ones don't demand laughter, stand-up demands laughter. This laughter implied an attentiveness -- that's where the audience participates. Unless heckling enhances a comedian's routine (and sometimes it really does), just sit back and enjoy the show. Indeed, the way many comedians analyze their job is no laughing matter. Thankfully, Dipaolo is better than anything a stuck up Scottsdale crowd can throw at him, and his show was worth the wait.

*****

Note: I'm eager to include two new staples to KaraokeFanboy Weekly; the first is a weekly comic book review. From July 2006 to June 2007, I actually reviewed A Comic A Day on a blog with that very name; my sophomore effort to read another 365 comics failed barely one fourth of the way through the year, and the blog's recent incarnation to find the daily influence of comics was a flop, too. So, I'll continue the legacy here, albeit weekly, with whatever comic or graphic novel I've read lately.

Batman: Snow (DC Comics): written by Dan Curtis Johnson & J.H. Williams, illustrated by Seth Fisher

A year and a half into his career as the Batman, Bruce Wayne is both tired yet determined to continue his one man war on crime. When he realizes his few friends in arms are limited by their allegiance to the law (James Gordon as a cop, and Harvey Dent as a lawyer, of course), Batman assembles a small, diverse of talented individuals that could offer research and reconnaissance to his cause, and at first their efforts are successful. Unfortunately, parallel to their efforts in capturing an up-and-coming crime lord, the origin of the villainous Mr. Freeze is unfolding elsewhere in Gotham City, and when the plots collide, the results are certainly a snowball of circumstance Batman can no longer control. In the end, Batman dissolves the group and resolves the only partnership that could really benefit him is one involving someone willing to listen to his every marching -- somebody that can watch his back. Good thing the circus, with their feature act the Flying Graysons, are coming to town . . .!

Seth Fisher's art is this story's true selling point, as the artist passed away way before his time and this work stands along Green Lantern: Willworld and Flash: Time Flies as his most mainstream, superhero work. I hate to say it, but honestly I'm not a fan of Fisher's Batman. His work is simply too detail-oriented to depict the Dark Knight as the living shadow many artists personify; for better or worse, Fisher's Batman is way too human. I do like his Mr. Freeze, and the character's incremental development from scientist to hallucinating madman suit Fisher's eclectic style perfectly. Above all, Fisher's passion for illustration is prevalent throughout the story (originally published in single issues of Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight) and is greater evidence that the industry lost a star way too soon.

Mr. Freeze has always been one of my favorite villains, but I hadn't thought of him as Batman's first super-powered villain until this storyline. Indeed, thanks to his suit, his strength and defense is more than an average person could handle, so when Mr. Freeze's bosses and the Gotham underworld work together to weaponize that cryogenic technology, everybody's in over their head, especially Batman. Further, while Batman always brags about flying solo, he is in fact one of the neediest characters in comics, and this story ambitiously and successfully sets the tone for both Bruce Wayne's need to work with others and why he's just so darn picky about it. Batman realizes his limitation as one lone ranger in Gotham, but as events unfold in Snow, he also discovers how a group of conflicting personalities becomes a greater liability than its worth. As much as this is Mr. Freeze's origin, it's also that of Batman's feelings toward Robin and the Justice League. Robin's the kid he was able to mold into the perfect partner; the Justice League is a bunch of adults with different, oft unyielding methods and opinions. Mr. Freeze gave Batman a good reason to have a cold shoulder.

*****

The other new feature for KaraokeFanboy Weekly is actually an old feature of sorts, recycling posts from my old LiveJournal. Since I started this blog, my LiveJournal has slowly but surely breathed its last, but I don't want to abandon it entirely, as it represents a foundational part of my life in writing. In their recycled incarnations here, I can hopefully offer some insight to my mentality when I wrote this stuff; I know in this case, I was examining the crossroads of my life in California and the possibility of moving to Arizona. I was sitting at the Coffee Plantation in Scottsdale before heading out to Comic Con, and Phil Collins' "Take Me Home" came on the radio. I was already thinking of Plato's analogy of the cave, and the concepts clicked. So, submitted for your approval:

"Take Me Home, Because I Don't Remember"
originally posted on Tuesday, July 21, 2009, 3:34 p.m. on KaraokeFanboy LiveJournal

First of all, Phil Collins is the Plato of our generation. Don't believe me? Listen to his song "Take Me Home," or at least read its lyrics here, then remember Plato's Allegory of the Cave, summarized like all things by and for general consumption at its Wikipedia. Both contributions to society depict a character that has been "a prisoner all my life," with a "fire that's been burning right outside my door," and that seems content with the delusions that have pervaded his life. Indeed, adult contemporary radio is the Socratic dialogue of our generation.

I first heard of Plato, Socrates, and the Allegory of the Cave my freshman year in high school, when Mr. Poslaiko introduced them in a discussion about the relevance of learning via our five senses. Of course, this analogy easily extends and can describe the way one lives his life, as well. Unlike the victims of Plato's allegory, some people choose to live chained and to behold those vapid shadows as their only understanding of reality. In one of his dialogues, Plato even explains how one freed from those chains and dragged into the real world might prefer the shadows, as they were his original and thus true perception of the way things should be -- and some people act like that today, as well.

We call these people the Amish. Kidding . . . That was too easy.

I don't live in a cave. I live in a tunnel. At either opening, I can turn to see a different vibrant reality, but right now I'm looking at the shadows they cast on the wall. These shadows sometimes blend into one distorted image with the dancing shapes of each, depending on the way the fire behind me burns and pops. Other times, the shadows are cast so far apart, I may as well crane my neck that extra inch to look outside, but then I see the opposing reality in its colorful, third dimensional glory, in stark contrast to that different, static silhouette, and I get confused. It's enough to make me want to put that that fire out.

I suppose Plato's prisoners had a third option, though I don't think he ever explored it: though their limbs and heads were bounds and immobile, they could've closed their eyes and refused the shadows to create a reality all their own. The snag in this plan is that the imagination could only conjure and distort what it's already seen, so even their make-believe escape would consist solely of shadow, too -- but in my case, I've seen it all. I've seen both ends of the tunnel, the shadows they cast, the tunnel itself. I've seen the ground beneath my feet and can easily tunnel another way out, something I've done a few times before and would rather not do again. That it's always an option is enough.

Yet keeping the two worlds at bay to remain in the tunnel is not enough; it is, as the Allegory of the Cave insists, an empty existence. So, what's the answer? Good student that I am, I consult the Phil(osopher) Collins and his treatise: I feign memory loss, and I demand: Take me home. After all, I'm not a prisoner; I walked into this tunnel. Someone lead me whence I came, out the way I'm most familiar. Take me home.

*****

There's no place like it,
Russ a.k.a. KaraokeFanboy

KaraokeFanboy Weekly #3: The "When the Walls Fall Down" Issue

2010-07-30T16:41:00.000-07:00

KaraokeFanboy Weekly vol. 1, no. 3: "When the Walls Fall Down" Issue

*****

I decided to do something differently this issue and precede the content with my video of choice, so perhaps you could listen to the music while you read. I'm not going to promise a Dark Side of the Rainbow experience, but if something you see happens to synchronize thematically with something you hear, I'll definitely take credit for it.

*****

I spotted this piece of "urban art" a few weeks ago in downtown Phoenix and snapped a picture of it -- good thing, too, because it's since been covered. When I lived in Fullerton, I was wildly amused by taggers' monikers; around my apartment complex, punks dubbing themselves "TipC" and "Book" marked their territory all over the place, and I grew to appreciate the irony of their alter egos. Was their graffiti less gang-related and more social commentary, emphasizing the rampant drug use and illiteracy afflicting today's youth? Only their homies know for sure.

In this case, the message is clear: "2lavery" is a double-edged sword. On one hand, in the simplest terms, we define slavery as being forced to do something you don't want to do. Yet, perceiving it from another perspective, slavery is also being in a position where you can't do something you want to do. I presume the young person that tagged this fence hasn't been forced into slavery as we know it historically, yet he undoubtedly feels trapped by his surroundings, essentially enslaved to circumstance.

I don't necessarily condone rampant graffiti, but I can only imagine, in my own romantic way, that, to that young man, the hissing of that spray paint can sounded like the clanging of a sledgehammer against the bricks around his neighborhood, the strokes of those lines like the seams of a tunnel he's slowly but assuredly digging to escape. The truth is in his tool of choice. It's a spray can . . . and someday, maybe he will.

*****

Ever since 2006, I've been following news that comic book writer/artist Frank Miller was producing a new graphic novel called Holy Terror, Batman, featuring the Caped Crusader against Al Qaeda. Despite my mixed feelings on Miller's latest works, I was looking forward to this one; his best (and arguably the best) Batman story ever, The Dark Knight Returns, contrasts Batman's world with the realities of the Reagan era Cold War, and I thought Holy Terror might parallel those possibilities in a contemporary context. Alas, according to Robot 6, apparently he'll complete the project sans Batman, replacing the Dark Knight with a new superhero called the Fixer. To paraphrase, Miller feels the story pushes Batman too far outside of the realm of his inherent character, which makes sense considering how different the comic book world is from the real world . . .

. . . which I thought was the point. Miller's taking the lazy way out, and I think I know why. In comics, at least traditional superhero comics, battles between good and evil always have a definitive end. If the Joker plans to poison the Gotham City reservoir, when Batman foils the plan and throws the Clown Prince of Crime back into Arkham Asylum, the story's over. In real life, our war against terror could go on generations . . . and Miller couldn't find a way to let an iconic character like Batman cope with that. If Al Quaeda attacked Gotham, and Batman pursued them to the Middle East and even confronted and defeated Osama bin Laden, it certainly wouldn't end the terrorist leader's evil influence in the world -- and Batman would have to live with that. Further, the reader would have to live with that, an uncomfortable prospect for any writer/artist hoping to make a statement on a contemporary issue.

Personally, I was eager to see if Batman would conclude that vigilantism can't combat terrorism, if he'd resign to America's perpetual occupation in Iraq as a viable, temporary solution. The Dark Knight has fought plenty of eclectic villains and won by deconstructing their dementia, but he's never fought an ideology with global influence. Now, with a new, throw-away hero in Batman's stead, Miller can do whatever he wants without fear of consequence, without shattering the context of a character's limitations. The Fixer can shoot bin Laden in the head, end of story. Even if Batman were capable of such assassination, he would know that it wouldn't solve the problem of terrorism overall, and now Miller is free of that burden. I'll reserve judgment until I read the story, but I'm certainly approaching it now with more reservations than before.

On long road trips to Comic Con or the Alternative Press Expo in San Francisco, my small press partner Brent and I would often pontificate on what we'd do with landmark characters like Superman and Batman had we a year at the reigns of their respective comics. For Batman, we brainstormed a series of short stories emphasizing the weaknesses of his vigilante-style war on crime; one of my contributions was a tale called "Slaves and Masters," in which Batman combats prostitution. If Gotham City is really as bad as they'd lead us to believe, prostitution would have to be a rampant issue, yet I've never read a story that tackles it directly. In the end, Batman would realize that a pimp's psychological hold over a prostitute isn't as easy to break as the guy's jaw might be. While Bats saves one woman from the lifestyle, he certainly can't save them all -- the problem is too deeply rooted in the city's infrastructure, and indeed in history itself. At the end of the story, Alfred tries to console Batman and unwittingly challenges our hero to reevaluate their relationship . . .

ALFRED: Is there anything I can fetch for you, Master Bruce?
BATMAN: No, thank you, Alfred . . . Actually, there is one thing.
ALFRED: Yes, Sir?
BATMAN: It's just Bruce. No more "Master." From now on, just -- call me Bruce.
ALFRED: . . . Of course . . . Bruce . . .

The lesson, the one Miller is so deftly dodging, is sometimes we have to solve the problem at home before we venture abroad.

*****

Finally, I'd be remiss not to mention what's been happening in my own backyard this week, namely the SB 1070 protests in downtown Phoenix. I've been reevaluating my mentality on the issue since the debate began months ago, and this week I realized that pundits and broadcast commentary have been analysing the issue in a terribly impersonal way. I certainly understand -- and often demand -- objective reporting, but the way certain news personalities talk about immigrants is the way parents sometimes talk about their children, like they weren't in the room. They're here. They're listening. They need to be included in the conversation, whether you condone their presence here or not. Acknowledging their plight to leave Mexico may just open the doors for a process that enables them to achieve citizenship legally and expediently someday.

Until that day arrives, I wrote a piece for the SB 1070-themed night at Conspire Open Mic last month (where I'll be the featured poet this Wednesday, August 4).

Immigrant Envy

I envy the so-called illegal immigrant,
because I've never so wanted to somewhere
that I'd endure the distinction: "illegal."
My very presence, a crime,
any participation, a threat,
the prejudice, preferable to where I've come from.
I envy his potential for perpetual appreciation,
the realization that any moment could be his last.
I've never had a dream so dire,
I preserved it through nightmare,
pursued it in every waking hour,
under high desert suns that rise and set like a pendulum,
ticking to kingdom come
or kingdom, come to me,
whoever gets there first.
I envy the illegal immigrant,
because I've never done anything so wrong
I had rights worth fighting for,
and I've never done anything so right
I was the only one left --
a man without a country,
outside legality,
fodder for pop culture punditry,
no family,
just fueled to the death by envy
to have what others were born with.
I envy him,
his ability to say,
It's totally worth it.

*****

Check KaraokeFanboy Press for the latest in stuff I've self-published, and some local events I'm participating in around Phoenix.

Can't write anymore. I'm hitting the wall.
Russ a.k.a. KaraokeFanboy

KaraokeFanboy Weekly #2: The "Like To Hear It, Here It Goes" Issue

2010-07-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

Internet magic is permitting me to post this even as I'm attending the San Diego Comic Con right now, so while I wander among X-Men, Storm Troopers, and Ghostbusters, your daily dose of geek will have to come from . . .

*****

KaraokeFanboy Weekly vol. 1, no. 2: The "Like to Hear It, Here It Goes" Issue

*****

I'm grateful to live in a metropolis named after something. When I lived near Los Angeles, I could use its old adage, "a city of angels," to explain certain benevolent events, especially in contrast to how absolutely dismal downtown Los Angeles really is. Now, in Phoenix, I'm often experiencing examples of rebirth, just like that fiery, mythical bird, and every now and then she actually spreads her wings for me, to prove she really exists. For example, I captured this picture from the loop 202/I-10 interchange last Friday, heading to (of all places) Firestage.

A few months ago, I took a totally different picture that captured that same spirit, and even wrote a poem about it for National Poetry Month. Just goes to show, a phoenix has fiery feathers aplenty.

*****

That night, I saw and captured this poster, too.

I've been studying the art form of the contemporary protest sign for a few years now (in fact, I self-published a zine collecting four years' worth of anti-war protests in Los Angeles if you're interested), and this poster has all of the demonizing staples: devil's horns, swastika, Hitler-'stache. (Michael Jordan is just two away from making a bold statement of his own.) These symbols easily conjure thoughts of evil -- but have we ever established the imagery necessary to depict someone favorably? A halo could be the opposite of devil's horns . . . but the opposite of a swastika? A happy face? A rainbow? Uh, those may already be taken. And has anyone done as much good as Hitler did evil for us to warrant his facial hair worthy of sainthood? Our priorities are clear -- pointing out the problem is much easier than seeking the solution.

Interestingly, whoever designed this poster used the same image I Google-imaged and turned into this custom T-shirt. That's a KaraokeFanboy original!

*****

Al and Tipper Gore announced their divorce a few months ago now, long before Al's MasseuseGate, and I was absolutely dumbfounded by it. Initially, Al wanted to pursue his environment-oriented career and Tipper wanted to focus on family -- which was what I thought they were doing anyway, but with the benefit of one another's support. That something -- perhaps MasseuseGate (though CigarGate didn't shatter the Clinton franchise) -- finally broke this bond baffled me, and indicated a turning point in the already rocky age of marital fidelity. With divorce rates teetering at 50/50, when public marriages forty years deep dissolve, marriage as a whole may just go the way of the dodo. Since other events have buried this headline, I wanted to post this piece now, before it's ancient history.

The Inconvenient Truth

The Gores are getting divorced.
And like any child of divorce, the Internet wants to know,
“Mommy, Daddy – Is it my fault?”
I suppose we should be grateful.
If Al was able to juggle his marriage with inventing the Internet,
who knows what he’s capable of now that’s he’s shucked off the old ball and chain? Holographic television? Star Trek-like matter transporters? Cities on the moon? Al – the future is waiting for you to claim it.
Tipper isn’t one to sit idly, either.
Surely rappers have invented new swear words
since her last campaign against the music industry,
words like assolicious and twatastic.
Now that she doesn’t have to baby her husband’s ego anymore,
she can get back to the business of being America’s mother.

No, what they’re going to do isn’t the question –
but, after 40 years of marriage, the question is why are they doing it?
Thanks to Al Gore’s headlining running mate,
America has been unwaveringly faithful to infidelity.
America wants to know, did Al cheat?
Where’s the mistress?
But we all know the answer.
We’ve seen Al out with his other woman.
Talking about her fondly.
Brazenly buying her expensive jewelry like Oscars and Pulitzers.
He’s even said outright that she’s been getting hot and bothered for him for years. This is Mother Earth we’re talking about – the ultimate seductress.
What a slut, the way she lets men walk all over her.
Talk about everybody getting a turn.
Tipper never had a chance.

Who would? Who does, when men feel owed the world?
The inconvenient truth of the Gores’ divorce
is that everyone is his own self-righteous cause.
I see a day coming
when the cold shoulders of neglected spouses will melt and flood the earth,
when the hot air from heated arguments will rise and burn a hole in the ozone layer, when everything we’ve ever wanted finally takes that plunge
from the tips of our tongues and when we part our lips . . . apocalypse.

The Internet doesn’t come around the old neighborhood anymore.
When he does pop up, he just wants to sell me pills.

*****

All of this writing about what I've most recently seen or experienced reminds me of my favorite In Loving Color character, Calhoun Tubbs. His tag line is as topical as it is timeless: "Wrote a song about it -- like to hear it, here it goes!"

That's one cat that always tells it like it is.

I'm cheating on Mother Earth with Father Time's daughter,
Russ a.k.a. KaraokeFanboy

KaraokeFanboy Weekly #1: The "What Are You Running From?" Issue

2010-07-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

Following "KaraokeFanboy 202," I've decided to attempt a weekly newsletter compiling my week's worth of napkin scribbling and cell phone photography, with the occasional drawing or YouTube link tossed in for good measure. The hope is to collect things that have inspired thought and add a little something to them to further the creative process. Sometimes, like this week, they'll share a theme. We'll see how it goes, and if I actually write more than.

*****

KaraokeFanboy Weekly vol. 1, no. 1: The "What Are You Running From?" Issue

*****

First of all, since I moved back to Arizona, I've discovered slam poetry. I've been writing poetry for a long time, and I've had the honor of featuring a few times in Orange County, but the realm of slam is a bit different. It's competitive -- and frankly reminds me a bit of my high school speech and debate, but fortunately the Phoenix area is dense with immense talent, stripping away the awkwardness of that association and challenging my writing to evolve. I've been trying to write more topical pieces; I wrote and read this one just yesterday, an elaboration on a poem I wrote for National Poetry Month. Transcribing it from scratch paper makes it official:

The Greatest Storytellers of Our Time

Forget the poets.
Their nouns are too proper for the common man;
their verbs aren't helping anyone anymore.

Forget the novelists, too.
They're too thick to think of the little things.

Forget the musicians, the movie makers, even the ministers --
they keep telling the same tired tall tales.
If history really repeats itself,
researchers can pinpoint precisely when the circle stops and starts again
by the way these stories rerun.

Skip class.
Your professor has nothing new to say.
His syllabus is just academia's answer to intellectual recycling,
if only he didn't waste the paper.

You really want to learn something?
Gather, ye, at the feet of the adulterer, the cheat.
These are the greatest storytellers of our time.
These, who invest in story like their bonds were at stake;
these, who digest the story, their bread and butter,
but not for a publisher's sake.
They don't sweat over submissions, creators' rights infringements,
The New York Times Best Sellers' list, pop radio top 40 hits --
they're just redefining what "is" is.
(Remember that line?)

The story is the perfect accomplice,
the where-have-you-been,
the, "Tiger, did you learn anything?"
Their story's only ambition is to be the custodian of the status quo,
sweeping their secrets under the carpet so their loved ones never know.

Theirs aren't t he adventures over Reading Rainbow.
When Joseph Campbell wrote of the hard-travelling hero,
he dreamt of stormy seas, Odysseus, Ahab --
he never considered paparazzi, tabloids, sex addition rehab,
but, Great Storyteller, don't apologise for your disgraced celebrity!
That plot device we couldn't see coming, your tarnished integrity,
man, we revel in those twists!
Our faith in you, the hapless victim!
Like Kaiser Sose losing his limp,
like Luke's father slapping him on the wrist,
we're hanging on every word!

Adulterer, cheater, with this, the sermon of your mount,
we're moved by your words,
we feel the spirit --
welifhlakjwehiwiumcnalweoiah!

Oh, I wasn't speaking in tongues.
That's just what my fist typed when it pounded the keyboard.
Even wanton outbursts of raw emotion have something to say,
and sometimes it doesn't make sense.
Great storyteller, I'm finally speaking your language.

So forget the ministers, their holy fables,
and the music makers, their record labels.
Forget the novelists, with their tiding endings.
Forget rhyme and reason.

Forget the poets.

*****

With another new album on the horizon in less than a year, David Gray continues to prove himself my favorite singer/songwriter. Further, I'm officially dubbed the release from his last album, Draw the Line, called "Fugitive," my favorite song. Dave Matthews Band's "Warehouse," held that distinction for a long time, since it's first lines captured a reverence for youth as the foundation for a progressive adulthood: "Hey, restless mind/Don't throw away your playful beginnings." Interestingly, "Fugitive" takes it a step further, as Gray asks, "Is the answer none of the above/Crouched in a hole like a mud-streaked fugitive?" I need some time to understand his analogy, but it makes sense to me now; life often offers us a distinct list of options, and sometimes none of them are what we envisioned for the future. This dissatisfied side of ourselves can only run, like a fugitive from his bonds, for coveted freedom. On top of that vivid lesson, the video for "Fugitive" has some great artwork -- also symbolic of life's endless possibilities, perhaps?

*****

Below: Poster montage on 20th Street and Washington in Phoenix. The voices are getting louder, the fists, more tightly clenched -- on both sides of the argument. I've had a few revelations about the immigration debate lately, mainly, that I lock my door at night. Every night. And I know I'm not the only one. I'm willing to wager that the folks that pasted up these posters do, too. However, if my deadbolt broke, I was too lazy to fix it, and my neighbors decided to stroll in and help themselves to my stuff, I couldn't blame them. Despite the law that demands they resist that urge, my laziness toward the lock was the real problem. Besides, I have some awesome stuff! Who wouldn't want some of it? Now, if my neighbors were completely happy with what they had in their place, maybe they wouldn't peep into my apartment at all, or if they did, we could invite one another over freely. Honestly, that's the real issue, but it's too daunting to address . . . or, as these posters spread, we're too afraid to behold what we may yet become.

*****

Finally, today is the first full day in Arizona without speed cameras in a long time. Speed Cameron mourns his fallen brethren today. Wait, who's Speed Cameron, you ask? Well, click here to find out!

My legs are tired.
Russ, a.k.a. KaraokeFanboy

Double Rainbow Guy Meets Kim Kardashian

2010-07-12T17:48:00.000-07:00

KaraokeFanboy 202

2010-07-05T11:16:00.000-07:00

One hundred posts ago, I offered a "KaraokeFanboy 101," an autobiographical, introductory course to the tenants that motivate me -- and oftentimes, my blogging. Since this is my 202nd post here, I feel compelled to offer the next lesson. While "KaraokeFanboy 101" referenced my internal motivations, let's examine my external influences, specifically the two halves of my on-line moniker: karaoke + fanboy, which really entail my love of music + comic books. I discuss these media often enough, but what draws me to them, and to liking specific genres and works within them? Since I often don't think about my beloved hobbies in the big picture, enjoy this, yet another exercise in self-indulgence, disguised as introspective tutorial.

Fortunately, music and comics share a few mutual characteristics that are worthy of analysis. First, both music and comics couple language with a worthy partner -- for the former, lyrics and melody, the latter, story and illustration. While both melody and illustration can obviously exist without the benefit of linear language, these linguistics still add a backbone to otherwise free-floating art, which in turn adds connection between potentially misconstrued or disconnected ideas. I like free association as much as a the next scatter-brained Joe, but even the illusion of language helps keep these genres on the ground, from the shrieking in Pink Floyd's "Great Gig in the Sky" (an ironic title in this context) to the sound effects in a dialogue-free comic book slugfest. Simple as it seems, words always help say something.

Further, the economy of words has always impressed me -- a work's ability to say a lot, or at least just enough, with a little. Consider one of my favorite Face to Face songs, "Lost," a four minute, fifteen second tune: "And all I thought I want I lost it all tonight./ Do you know there's only so much you control?/ You can try to save my soul if you like but I'm sure this time it's no different." This song can be about breaking up, spiritual depression, even losing a job -- in three simple sentences, it sums up a feeling of aimlessness perfectly. On a lighter note, my favorite Incubus song is "Are You In?" Its lyrics: "It's so much better when everyone is in. Are you in?/ It's so much easier when sea foam green is in fashion." What a flippant but effective way to inspire an apathetic friend, for -- what? The beauty of this simple song is the listener supplies what everyone is in for! See, in this case, it's my convincing you how less is more!

Comics function a little differently. Some stories can last for all of a few panels, other times they could take a year or more to finish between dozens of titles and issues. I don't like those stories. An effective single issue tale is my favorite, or, if a series is complete, a concise graphic novel collection, like Preacher or Transmetropolitan. Consider Batman, who was dramatically changed in Frank Miller's 1986 classic The Dark Knight Returns. In four prestige format issues, Miller unraveled decades of convoluted character development, pressing reset for future writers and artists. Unfortunately, these writers and artists, including Frank Miller himself, need years to make a mark even remotely similar now, with story's involving breaking Batman's back, to rocking Gotham City in an earthquake, to accusing Bruce Wayne of murder. Grant Morrison is coming close with his long-winded run, from "Batman and Son" to "The Return of Bruce Wayne," but I long for the days when Alan Grant could tell a multifaceted tale in two issues of Detective Comics. My wallet does, too.

Finally, if I haven't completely excluded you from the discussion with my fanboy-centric comics talk, that's just my final point -- I prefer works that allow an outsider to jump in without fear of context or history, and good music and comics do that. I'll start with comics in this case, as those multi-issue arcs are the worst example of introductory issues for new readers -- in fact, once those stories are finally over, publishers often emblazon the next issue with "New Story Arc" or "Great Jumping On Point" blurbs to encourage a new wave of readership. If I can't hand a young person your comic book, with the assumption that any issue could be someone's first, something is a little lacking. Marvel has recently included title pages with synopses and character descriptions in every issue, which certainly helps, and to be fair not every mainstream comic book suffers from this trend. Alas, when characters like Iron Man and Hellboy are now as common household names as Batman and Spider-man, one would hope their native medium would be as approachable as the big screen projects that made their appeal possible.

Interestingly, I approach music the same way, from a linear perspective, with a daunting need to understand what came before. If I'm interested in a musical artist, I feel I should know their work chronologically, versus just jumping aboard from the song or album that peaked my interest. This inclination is cumbersome but fully integrated, I'm afraid, which has consequently bred a closed-mindedness to new music unless I muster the willpower to pick up an artist's complete discography. Granted, I'm slowly coming out of this funk, thanks to singles I've heard from The Weakerthans, Bedouin Soundclash, and The Holloways, but my lifelong favorites like The Monkees or David Gray are only so because I'm intimately familiar with their entire careers. I suppose it only took one song to make that possible at some point, right?

So, to summarize, I like music and comics that use language, use language economically, and in a way that allows easy approachability. Considering these traits, it's safe to say that "KaraokeFanboy" was born because of how easily one can participate in and contribute to these media once wholly immersed in them. Karaoke is a given -- since my brother inherited all of the music prowess the chemistry of our parents has to offer, simply singing along to my favorite songs in public is enough for me, and easy, too! Comics require a bit more dedication, but combining story with illustration is a great way to process one's intake of pop culture as a whole (for example, my latest Amazing Arizona Comics). See, without participation, music and comics are just media. As I've tried to contribute to them in my small way, they've now become art. I've found self-esteem in graduating from audience to artist. Like in any on-line moniker, it's become an identity -- one that, despite any centennially intermittent blogpost, I'm always eager to understand more.

Can YOU Find the A-Team?

2010-06-14T10:08:00.000-07:00

On Friday, June 11, the '80s returned in a box office brawl of rock 'em, sock 'em proportions, pitting the Karate Kid against my beloved A-Team -- and based on the weekend's ticket sales, America prefers kids beating each other up over fugitive soldiers of fortune. Despite my bias as an A-Team super-fan, I totally understand -- until now, The Karate Kid has been a four film franchise (and that's generously including The Karate Kid 3 and The Next Karate Kid), which entails much less commitment from an audience than The A-Team's five seasons' worth of television. Children of the '80s are more likely to have seen a Karate Kid film than an episode of The A-Team, by proxy of time and availability, so nostalgia for the former will trump any interest in the latter. Plus, The Karate Kid is a family film, which always take the gold. So, like I said, I get it. These trends speak for themselves.

I just don't have to like it. The A-Team is still an awesome franchise, and wholly misunderstood, and the new movie only makes it more so. Here's why.

First of all, the original A-Team series was among the last of the hour long dramedies (comedy + drama) that didn't require fanatically faithful viewership. Fans of Lost know what I'm talking about -- miss one episode, and you'll never know why the smoke monster is a manager at McDonald's in a parallel dimension. Everything you needed to know about the A-Team, you heard in the first twenty seconds of any given episode: "In 1972 a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit . . . Now they survive as soldiers of fortune." Any questions? No? Okay, let's start blowing stuff up.

Sure, this new film falls into the prequel/reboot trap, like Batman Begins, Casino Royale, and Star Trek before it, creating the illusion of contextual substance, but therein also lies the promise of a baggage-free cinematic experience. You already know how it's going to end! Bruce Wayne becomes Batman, Kirk becomes the Captain, and the A-Team, despite 90 minutes' worth of righteous fury, will still be on the run from the government. If they weren't, they wouldn't be the A-Team! So, as is the case for these origin tales, the fun isn't in the destination, but the journey. Since so many films are twist-ending oriented nowadays, predictability is almost as unpredictable, and equally appreciated. I'll call it painless predictability. Sometimes people just need structure.

Unfortunately, the critics expected too much of it. As connoisseurs of the cinema, surely the likes of Roger Ebert understand that The A-Team isn't Shakespeare. It isn't based on a true story, or even inspired by real events. It is, as a movie, inspired by a television show and should be judged accordingly. So, the burning question is, does The A-Team accomplish in 90 minutes what the original series did in 100 episodes? I think so, and since I own all five seasons, I think I trump Ebert and company in this category. This contemporary A-Team could've easily exaggerated its roots in military espionage, making a statement about corruption at all levels of power, but it didn't. It remained a live action cartoon, where tanks can fall out of the sky and drive away, and men can kick attackers clear across a room.

This is the A-Team -- superheroes, sans spandex. No, they have gold chains and flight jackets, instead -- costumes all the same. Sure, their dramatic catchphrase, "I love it when a plan comes together" is much less convicting than, "With great power comes great responsibility," but it's a little less barbaric than, "It's clobberin' time!" They have a specialized vehicle, even, one they drive in the light of day despite their status as government fugitives -- and they never get caught. They made cannons of air conditioner tubing and shot lettuce heads at corrupt land barons. These rules don't apply to films like, say, The Hurt Locker, or Saving Private Ryan, or even McHale's Navy. The A-Team was never meant to be M*A*S*H. Bugs Bunny is more like it, with the army their babbling Elmer Fudd. These "critics" should relate. For all their sophosticated analysis, the A-Team still eludes them.

So more than any crime they didn't commit, what haunts the A-Team now is time. As heady as it seems, perhaps a post-9/11 world can't understand the A-Team, and how the potential corruption of the military offers a backdrop for goofy, violent vigilante justice. Its core audience has aged, too, and with kids in tow would favor the more family-friendly fare of The Karate Kid. As it was, my friends dropped their kids off with a babysitter to catch the midnight premiere with my girlfriend and me. Thankfully, I can rest assured, that the spirit of the A-Team will always be around . . . as long as someone is willing to find them.

200 Posts Later: 100 Awesome Things About Arizornia!

2010-03-30T16:54:00.001-07:00

Welcome to my 200th post at The Inner Child Speaketh! Apparently, the inner child has much to say.

I've recently moved from Fullerton, California to Mesa, Arizona, and I couldn't have picked a more controversial time to call both states my home! Arizona's SB 1070 has ignited heated debate bordering (pun intended) on sociopolitical fanaticism, but if California's recent Republican gubernatorial primaries have taught us anything (aside from where your eBay surcharges were going all these years), it's that a fine line in the desert doesn't distinguish the shared responsibility of our nation's integrity. Of course, "our nation's integrity" is a subjective phrase -- for some, it means sanctifying America's borders, and for others, it means an American dream that's accessible to all, no matter what. I've made my opinions public on Facebook, the perfect forum for in-your-face opinions, since that's kind of in its name and all. Here, I've decided to pledge allegiance to both California and Arizona with "100 Awesome Things about Arizornia!"

Yes, "awesome" knows no border, and this is a completely arbitrary list of the places and personalities that make Arizornia such a cool place to live. It's by no means comprehensive, but each entry represents unique experiences I've had by way of the hobbies I most enjoy, like comics, coffee, comedy, etc. A tad autobiographical? Perhaps. A call to arms to experiences these things for yourself? Absolutely. Even if you never visit Arizornia, perhaps my recollection of a person, place, or thing therein will remind you of some similar experience from your personal travels, and we'll at least share that nostalgia -- because whether your America is a well-defined nation of borders or an open ideal for the world to pursue (and I'm not saying one is better than the other!), it's always been a place that tries to remember its roots.

Note: I've distinguished which side of the desert you can find these most awesome of landmarks with red and blue. I think you'll figure out the rest.

1. 24 Hour Wal-Mart, Valleywide: because sometimes you need a pair of tube socks and Drain-o at 4 a.m.
2. A&J’s, Fullerton: a nostalgic walk-up grease pit
3. All About Books & Comics, Phoenix: to the best of my knowledge, the only comic book store accessible from the light rail!
4. ArtSpace, Scottsdale: a gallery in swanky Scottsdale that isn’t afraid to host steampunk exhibits
5. Ash Avenue Comics, Tempe: for their large rack of indie books
6. Atomic Comics, Mesa: Phoenix’s major chain of comic book stores, and fortunately for me the biggest and best location is in Mesa
7. Azteca, Garden Grove: the best collection of Elvis memorabilia at a Mexican restaurant, with karaoke on the weekend!
8. Barney's Boathouse, Tempe: specifically, their $5 burger baskets on Wednesdays and Fridays
9. Beach & Ball, Anaheim: a quaint corner, home to Beachball Comics and three collectible toy stores, including Phat Collectibles, an overpriced collectible toy store – more of a toy museum, really, with action figures in glass cases that I could never afford
10. Beach Blvd. between La Palma and Lincoln, Buena Park: the southbound drive to Knott’s Berry Farm, including Medieval Times and the now-abandoned Wax Museum, is the OC’s answer to Hollywood Blvd.
11. Bee-line Café, Payson: one of the best diners in Arizona, thanks to its rich family history
12. Bill Campana: my favorite local poet/Larry King hater
13. Bill Handel: the best morning radio talk show host, ever
14. Bookmans, Mesa: an excellent source for new and used books and music, and in the same strip mall as Atomic Comics . . . and a 99 Cents Store! Has someone been reading my wish journal?
15. Bragg's Pie Factory, Phoenix: whoever thought to convert an old pie factory into an art exhibit with piñatas – genius. And, is it just me, or does it still smell like pie?
16. Brea Improv, Brea: always emailed me free passes, so they deserve props
17. Canter’s Deli, Hollywood: delicious kosher food – come for the pickles, stay for the bakery!
18. Cheba Hut, Mesa: a cool local sandwich shop with an, uhm, unique theme
19. Cine-Capri, Tempe: though not as historically poignant as the original, this Cine-Capri captures the Valley movie-going experience with the biggest bang around
20. CinemaFusion, Anaheim: with a 21 and over lounge, where you can bring your beer into the theater . . . ‘Nuff said!
21. Coffee Plantation, Scottsdale: What happened to the Arizona-based coffee chain I knew so well?
22. Comedy Store, Hollywood: specifically, its homage to Andy Kaufman
23. Comics, Toons, ‘N Toys, Tustin: my favorite comic book store in life so far
24. Conspire Coffee House, Phoenix: the most daring, eclectic poetry open mic in town
25. CornerStore Comics, Fullerton: a distributor of collectibles, but also a community-minded shop – they frequently donated comics to the Boys & Girls Clubs of Fullerton
26. Date Shack, Newport Beach: now owned and operated by Ruby’s, and home of the my favorite date shack, the Monkey Flip
27. Downtown Fullerton, Fullerton: dubbed “Sunset Blvd. East” by The Los Angeles Times, an antique row turned college town block party
28. Downtown Glendale, Glendale: a time capsule of antique shops, anchored by my favorite, Bo’s Funky Stuff
29. Downtown Los Angeles, Los Angeles: for being like a Monet – beautiful to look at from a distance, but baffling and disoriented up close
30. Downtown Mesa, Mesa: Downtown Mesa has more potential cool than viable cool, but its residents seem to be a patient people
31. Drawn to Comics, Glendale: gets the best customer service award
32. Dunkin' Donuts, Valleywide: California doesn’t have a single Dunkin’ Donuts. I swear; look it up. In Arizona, they’re on every corner. Win.
33. Durty Nelly’s, Costa Mesa: and the best karaoke jockey in Orange County, Kevin
34. El Torito, Cypress: for hosting karaoke on Friday nights, and allowing me to invade so many unsuspecting couples’ romantic dinners with “You Give Love a Bad Name”
35. Evermore Nevermore, Mesa: an oasis of comics and goth punk culture
36. Frank & Sons Collectibles Show, City of Industry: a Mecca of comics and collectibles, and where O.J. Simpson planned to sell the stuff he stole, or that was stolen from him, or whatever
37. Fuzzy Bear’s, Stanton: an enigma I highly recommend
38. Golden Apple Comics, Hollywood: a genuinely famous comic book store
39. Goodwill, Valleywide: every other Saturday is 50% day . . . because $2 for that genuine vintage Tee is about 50% more than I’d be willing to pay!
40. Grand Ave., Phoenix: in the shadow of Phoenix’s rising downtown, a pocket of dive bars and art galleries remain unchanged . . . ironically making them the hippest spot around
41. Greg's Comics, Mesa: when I put $6 worth of back issues on the counter, and the clerk rang me up with, “Ah, let’s say $4,” I knew Greg’s was a cool comics shop
42. Gypsy Den, Santa Ana: delicious coffee, and the home of an amazing open mic – where I first featured!
43. Hollywood Sign, Hollywood: the world’s biggest real estate sign
44. Hollywood Walk of Fame, Hollywood: the only place I can see the Monkees and Mary Tyler Moore all in the same place
45. Jesse James Comics, Glendale: Drawn to Comics gets best customer service, but Jesse James gets most thoughtful; I get there maybe once a month, and he remembers every conversation we had, setting aside recommended comics and offering discounts aplenty
46. June Gloom, overhead: summer’s good morning kiss
47. La Palma Chicken Pie Shop, Anaheim: old school food at old school prices
48. Laugh Factory, Hollywood: a controversial comedy haven
49. Lee Mallory: I daresay the Godfather of Orange County poetry, and a sexy redhead, to boot
50. Light Rail, Valleywide: Phoenix’s bloodstream, and the only way I can get to half the stuff I like around here
51. Linbrook Bowl & the Kopa Room, Anaheim: the best place you will ever karaoke, if you manage to get a turn
52. Long Beach Antique Flea Market, Long Beach: the Antiques Roadshow meets your grandmother’s garage
53. Long Beach’s Antique Row, Long Beach: everything Urban Outfitters wishes it could be – and home of Portfolio Coffee House, the LBC’s best cup of java
54. Los Angeles Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention, the Shrine Auditorium, Los Angeles: the best monthly comic book convention in the worst part of town
55. Macayo’s Depot Cantina, Tempe: right off the light rail, converted from the original train station, and offering a free buffet at the bar Monday through Friday, 4 p.m. to 6 p.m.!
56. Marctini Lounge, Glendale: the West Valley has a karaoke oasis, and it is the vainly named and conversely madly hospitable Marctini Lounge
57. Marjle’s, Phoenix: the best place to watch a Suns game – and if it’s too crowded, Cooperstown is an equally accessible plan B
58. McClains Coffee House, Fullerton: my favorite local coffee shop
59. Meltdown Comics, Hollywood: an excellent source of alt and indie comics in the heart of Hollywood’s mainstream
60. Mesa’s Tiny Poetry Slam, Mesa: a thoughtful, funny group of people keepin’ Slam alive in the East Valley
61. Metro Comics, Santa Barbara: holds a fond place in my heart as the shop that introduced me to Vertigo’s Human Target
62. Mill Ave., Tempe: a nine-month long college block party – and a ghost town during the summertime
63. Monsoon, summertime: when I was a kid, I used to put on my Ghostbusters plastic proton pack and glare up at the red night sky, ready for action – thankfully, I scared the specters off
64. Norm’s, Anaheim: They never close.
65. O’Kelly’s Sports Bar, Tempe: karaoke and Ms. Pac-Man under one roof? Yeah, I’m gonna be here awhile
66. OC Weekly: Orange County’s weekly liberal rag – a great read, even if they dropped “Red Meat” and “This Modern World”
67. OCTA: Orange County’s bloodstream
68. Orange Circle, Orange: a row of antique stores, conveniently positioned in a circle to remind us that everything old can be new again
69. Orpheum, Phoenix: a cool venue for even cooler performances, most notably when I saw Kevin Smith there in April
70. Peoria Café, Peoria: the best greasy spoon in the West Valley
71. Phoenix Comicon, Phoenix: I saw Stan Lee, Wil Wheaton, LeVar Burton, and Jonathan Frakes without having to waiting in San Diego Comic Con-like lines – so I’m looking forward to next year
72. Phoenix New Times: Phoenix’s token liberal rag, with fun regular pieces about the history of Van Buren Blvd. and Fry Girl’s fast food rants
73. Phoenix Skyline: as triumphant as a resurrected bird of flame
74. Pofolks, Buena Park: good old-fashioned eats, and the only Pofolks left in the west!
75. Pop Culture Paradise, Tempe: a comic book store with a tight fit and a nice selection of toys and back issues
76. Queen’s Pizzeria, Mesa: the hospitable host of the Mesa Poetry Slam, not to mention a huge, tasty, affordable Greek salad
77. Robin Hood Motel, Anaheim: for the cool sign
78. Rutabegortz, Fullerton: vegetarian cuisine so good, you’d think it had meat in it!
79. Samurai Comics, Phoenix: like All About Books and Comics, a cool downtown location, with another impressive rack of indies and local talent
80. Sherriff Joe Arpaio: I don’t care for his politics, but few have made local law enforcement more dramatically entertaining
81. Sherwood Inn, Anaheim: this ain’t Robin Hood’s Sherwood . . . Who want drink milk?!
82. Starbucks, 5th St. & Mill Ave.: the best vantage point for a bustling college town
83. Starbucks, Chapman Ave. & Harbor Blvd.: the best vantage point for downtown Fullerton
84. Sunrise Café, Tempe – café cookin’ with Mediterranean flair
85. T.C. Eggington's, Mesa: a tasty breakfast with a surprisingly hilarious mythology on its menu
86. Tempe Improv, Tempe: the first comedy club I ever went to (and saw Jon Stewart pre-Daily Show), and now where I’ve seen the most edgy comedy show ever, with Greg Fitzsimmons
87. The Other Place, Anaheim: the perfect plan B
88. Third Street Promenade, Santa Monica: specifically, the street preachers, the guys that play the buckets, and the picture of the Monkees in the corner Irish pub
89. Tilted Kilt, Tempe: waitresses in kilts . . . I’m just sayin’
90. TomKat Lounge, Anaheim: a dive bar so low, you touch the bottom of the pool – and don’t play the drums onstage during karaoke!
91. Two Idiots Peddling Poetry/Ugly Mug, Orange: Orange County’s best poetry reading at one of its coolest coffee shops, and some of the nicest guys that ever inspired me to keep writing
92. Uncle Monkey's, Mesa: karaoke stumbling distance from my apartment, every night of the week – and with a name like that, who wouldn’t check it out
93. Universal Studios/CityWalk, Hollywood: comics, stand-up comedy, PEZ . . . all in one place? This is where dreams come to dream!
94. Uptown Whittier: the best . . . oh, never mind . . . I’ll never be as punk rock as Uptown Whittier
95. Venice Beach: weirdo central
96. Village Inn, Valleywide: my favorite Denny’s alternative where my mom works
97. Wayne Resnick: the best weekend radio talk show host that deserves a regular weekly time slot
98. Westward Ho, Phoenix: the hotel from the beginning of Psycho stands proud in the heart of Phoenix and looks ready to stab the Chase building in the back
99. Xtreme Bean, Tempe: an old bank converted to Tempe’s best coffeehouse, and the old walk-in safe is a study room!
100. Zia’s, Tempe: one of the last, great record stores

The Age of Adultery

2010-03-20T10:21:00.001-07:00

Over fifteen years ago, my good friend Wade presented me with an interesting scenario: "A man makes arrangements for his mistress to meet him at home after work one night while his wife is out of town. She's to be in his bed with the lights off so he can slip in beside her. However, when the mistress arrives, she sees the wife's car in the driveway and takes off. The husband comes home late, doesn't see his wife's car, and slips into bed with her. In the dark, the man thinks his wife is his mistress, and they make love. Has the man cheated on his wife?"

At the time, I thought the scenario was a bit contrived, and I focused on the minutiae, like how could the guy miss his wife's car out front? Why didn't he at least feel the difference between his mistress and his wife (unless he just really has a type)? Now, though, nothing seems far-fetched about the predicament at all, and in fact Wade was just ahead of his time in thinking aloud about such things. Ever since President Clinton's affair with Monica Lewinsky made adultery a matter of public record, the question is always on our pop collective minds: "Who's cheating now?"

As of this writing, the answer is obvious: Jesse James. Before him, Tiger Woods wore the title (and yet perhaps always will -- that's one green jacket you can never dry clean), then David Letterman, John Edwards, and so. From all strata of social influence -- politics, entertainment, sports -- these men make the news interesting, and as they continue to stand revealed, they make answering that question absolutely impossible. Who's cheating now? It could be anyone!

By Wade's story's standard, it could be everyone.

What committed man doesn't look twice at a passing woman on any given day? Sometimes once is enough. Hands to your side, from the safety of your car or the other side of the street or your table at Starbucks, from that harmless distance, in that innocent moment of admiration, are you no better than Tiger Woods? I won't even touch (pun intended) the Internet phenomenon, the powerful porn industry, the pop-up ads of scantily clad women I can't control alongside my email inbox or Facebook homepage. In this context, we see hundreds of alluring women all week long, making Tiger's alleged seventeen seem tame. He'd be a saint for keeping it under twenty.

The ladies aren't free of this burden, either, and in fact they may even perpetuate it in pop culture at large, making them the most guilty of all. Consider Leap Year, this year's movie about a redheaded Amy Adams travelling to Ireland to propose to her boyfriend, per Irish tradition. Never mind that this isn't a leap year; that's a cheat on Father Time right there. No, Adams' encounter with and reliance on a chiseled innkeeper makes her trip interesting, and throws a little wrench into her plans. Without the distraction of another possible romance, the film wouldn't have been more than one woman's wretched travels, which I could watch at any given Southwest Airlines terminal for free. Now, I admit I didn't see the movie and I don't know how it ends, but turn the tables for a moment: a man travels to propose to his girlfriend but gets distracted by the chance to hook up with a hotter, more dangerous babe along the way. What a scumbag, right?! Who would want to watch a movie about some "playa," let alone make one?

Actually, such a movie was made. It's called Forces of Nature. The hotter, more dangerous woman is played by Sandra Bullock. Oops.

So, the realm of fiction boasts no double standard; man or woman, that filter of potential romance, fueled by emotionally contrived character development and circumstance, totally justifies rocking the foundation of commitment and fidelity. It must -- we pay to see it, then we revel in it when it happens to these people in real life. Interestingly, ultimately, I think we're learning to reserve judgement in favor of the spectacle's entertainment value. At least, I think I'm hearing, "Oh, what a jerk!" a lot less than before, when the stories were fewer and far between. I think we're coming to grips with the fact that the phenomenon of cheating is more widespread than we thought, transcending the realm of Jerry Springer's reality TV circus and affecting even the elite, the politicians and entertainers that we count on to set the standards for our beloved pop culture.

Every time, we're relieved that it isn't just us, and that makes it okay.

Like every era in human history, when will this Age of Adultery end? Consider that man from Wade's story. He'd obviously rather be with his mistress than his wife. Though he's legally married to one, his preference -- his heart? -- is with the other. So, by being with his wife in the end, he's defying his newly self-established norm, cheating on the plans he's made. The real question isn't if he cheated on his wife, then, but now is his wife really his mistress? Yes, I just blew my own mind. When someone wants so desperately to be with someone else but instead loves the one they're with, which is the real crime?

How long before cheating becomes the only way to play the game?

Vs. Current Events #5: The League of Outed Unfaithful Spouses!

2010-02-19T10:12:00.000-08:00

Did you know Tiger Woods held a press conference this morning and made a public apology for his marital transgressions? I don't know if it made headlines. Even less public is this meeting of the League of Outed Unfaithful Spouses (L.O.U.S.) that was held last night. Fortunately, someone chronicled the whole thing in comic strip form.

Okay, seriously, I cranked this out last night/this morning to beat the press conference, and I had some fun with my new pens and markers in the meantime. I was going for that old Cracked magazine watercolor look. No need to beat me over the head about it -- oh, what?! Too soon?

Milling About My New 'Hood

2010-02-07T21:12:00.001-08:00

"On your way to the Justice League meeting?" the barista asked.

For a moment, I wondered if she knew me. No, I'm not a member of the Justice League, but anyone that knows me knows how close my apartment might resemble the Watchtower Trophy Room. Then I realized that she was just making fun of my Justice League T-shirt, and I decided to play along.

"Just came from it, actually," I replied.

"Any pressing business?" she quipped.

"No global crises tonight," I persisted, "but if there were, you'd never know. We're that good." I proceeded to order a Chai tea and take a seat.

I'd hoped to blog about my new neighborhood tonight. I now live just a few blocks away from Mill Avenue, the row adjacent to Arizona State University that once earned the campus Playboy acclaim, but the strip is an echo of its former self in the shadow of our current economy. When I was younger, Mill was the place to hang out if you dared the drive from the west to east valley, if you wanted to look and feel cool. I once distributed Christian poetry here, because Mill was where the sinners met. Since I didn't go to ASU like so many of my friends, Mill maintained this mythical status to me, and I've reveled in my recent proximity to it.

Of course, even on a Sunday night, clubs still flood the street with their tribal bass, but it's a dying heartbeat. My favorite coffeeshop is like a missing tooth, so I'm resigned to the Starbucks standard, pondering how this town lost its bite. Maybe I just toughened up a bit.

Twelve years ago, I might not have shrugged off that barista's dry wit so effortlessly, but I realize I'm just as cool as Mill used to be, perhaps only a few years too late. I can live with that. I don't mind being an honorary member of its past, if it gives my memories a little more justice.

The Man-Crush Hall of Fame: Andy Kaufman

2009-12-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

Thirty years ago today, Andy Kaufman made his eleventh appearance on Saturday Night Live. He wrestled women, as he was prone to do at the time. I also wrestled a woman that day. I was being born.

Exactly twenty years later, on my twentieth birthday (go figure), several of my closest friends from high school and I went to see Jim Carrey portray Andy Kaufman in the biopic Man on the Moon, and my life changed. Yes, Jim Carrey's performance was just that good, but he had phenomenal material to work with, namely the life and antics of one of comedy's most influential, cutting edge voices . . . ever. My exposure to Andy Kaufman's work shaped my opinions of (and attempted participation in) entertainment and news media. He was a force to be reckoned with then, and in light of theories that he faked his death as the ultimate put-on, he's a force to be reckoned with now.

According to Bob Zmuda's biography of Kaufman (pictured here on my desk next to fellow man-crush Les Stroud), Andy didn't perform his stand-up comedy and variety acts to entertain others; he simply sought to entertain himself. While his humor seemed to be at others' expense, Bob was often a plant with whom the audience could sympathize, making Andy (or his counterpart Tony Clifton) the villain -- and Andy understood that the bad guy is often the most compelling character of all. His love of this old vaudevillian rapport with the house didn't jive with audiences then, and I don't think audiences would get it now, but knowing just that much about the man behind the curtain only makes his work that much more impressive.

In 2004, I had the chance to attend the 20th anniversary "celebration" of Andy's death at the House of Blues in Hollywood. Comedians like Jim Norton performed, Tony Clifton made an honorable appearance, and afterward hangers-on were treated to a Mexican wrestling show at the Comedy Store across the street. (Actually, true believers that stayed until the wee hours were treated to more than that, but I was foolish enough to go home and miss out.) Just this year, on December 3, I had the chance to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of Andy's death with a special screening of Dear Andy Kaufman, I Hate Your Guts! at the Silent Movie Theater, a montage of rare Kaufman clips hosted by his girlfriend Lynne Margulies. Tony Clifton made a substantially hilarious appearance (you can find it on YouTube), as did Andy Dick and Zmuda, who shared in fans' speculation about Andy's death. Lynne (and Bob) was kind enough to sign my copy of her latest book, a compilation of angry letters Andy received while wrestling women in the '70s. I actually found out about this event when The Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson e-mailed me an offer to see another taping and I sought other events in the area to make the drive to Hollywood worthwhile. Obviously, like when I saw Man on the Moon ten years ago, it was meant to be.

So what makes Andy Kaufman a worthy man-crush, not to mention a place in my man-crush hall of fame? Simply put, Andy developed a conscious philosophy about entertainment and pop culture that fueled his career, and more so than any genre of comedy or performance art, he upheld that philosophy until his controversial dying day -- to the point where some folks don't believe he died! He transcended traditional stand-up, was more than any sitcom or sketch show could bare, and blazed a trail so daring few others have walked it as successfully since.

As much as I love pop culture entertainment, this mentality -- the philosophy turned lifestyle -- applies to all things: for me personally, my life has been an attempt to preserve the sanctity, innocence, and wonder of childhood, firstly by maintaining the same likes and hobbies I had as a kid, and secondly by finding a job that helps me inspire others to this philosophy. Today, on my thirtieth birthday, the first day of the rest of my life, I'm faced with the challenge of finding other ways to do that. Andy Kaufman showed us that the sky's the limit -- you can go beyond the sky, in fact. You can be the man on the moon.

In the meantime, Merry Russmas, and enjoy this gift, which may or may not be related to that fateful day I met Andy.

My Ugly Mug at the Ugly Mug

2009-12-19T02:06:00.000-08:00

As I've shamelessly plugged on my blogs for a few weeks now (and what else are blogs for?), I was the featured poet at Two Idiots Peddling Poetry last Wednesday, December 16, at the Ugly Mug in Orange, California. As I've mentioned before, I've been an avid attendee and frequent participant in their open readings for a little over a year now, so I was honored that they'd ask me to feature -- and ecstatic when the host, Ben, decided to dub the night "Two Geeks Peddling Poetry." Both Ben and Steve (the idiots, but hardly) are comic book fanboys like me, so they were happy to pick my scheduled feature night to experiment with the geeky format. Mission accomplished.

To celebrate the "Geek Extravaganza," Ben gave open readers an obscure geek reference to quote before sharing their poetry, and some attendees were kind enough to donate superhero action figures for a toy drive that benefited the Boys & Girls Clubs of Fullerton. Many of my friends and co-workers attended, as well, which was initially intimidating, as I knew a crash-and-burn failure behind the mic would be something they'd never let me forget, but in the end it helped me be myself, rather than the pretentious young poet I could easily become with a stage and fifteen minutes of local fame. I was most grateful for the chance to read a poem about -- and essentially to -- my girlfriend, in attendance all the way from Arizona! It was a national affair!

I read poems from my 2009 Poetry Zine series, which concludes this month with nine out of an initially conceived twelve tiny volumes (one for every month, but I combined the summer and holiday months) and a few other "bonus tracks." Indeed, as an open mic and karaoke enthusiast, an open mic poetry gig is the closest I've come to having an "original gig," complete with "set list" and even "groupies." It was both an exciting and humbling experience, and in the end I actually made money from pimping my creative efforts -- something every artist dreams of. I've considered 2009 my most productive year creatively, from the poetry to Karaoke Comics to the other KaraokeFanboy Press stuff I've self-published, so this was a great way to wrap it up and anticipate a hopefully equally inspired 2010. Who knows what a change in scenery might offer . . . but more on that later.

In the meantime, my sincere thanks to everyone that checked out my ugly mug at the ugly mug, and here's "The Difference," the poem that concluded my set and which is whole-heartedly dedicated to my girlfriend. It's wintry, to boot -- just in time for the holidays!

The Difference

The falling snow is a silent symphony
of endless possibility,
each unique flake a crystalline doorway into
a parallel world.
If I could shrink to their size,
I could walk through their icy thresholds
and behold different you’s and me’s:
like wildly successful corporate you,
and drunk and homeless me.
Country music fan you,
jailed political activist me.
Crazy cat lady you,
underground street fighter me.
Religious cult leader you,
crazy cat lady me.
Playboy bunny you.
Eunuch me.

My every instinct to ruin this moment
with what-ifs and where-we-could-be’s
is hushed by the sound of these worlds
colliding outside the window,
little crescendo cymbals crashing, playing,
and laying the groundwork for this world.
Now the only one that really exists.

Upcoming Poetry Feature

2009-12-11T16:03:00.000-08:00

I'll be the featured poet this coming Wednesday, December 16, at the Ugly Mug's Two Idiots Peddling Poetry. The hosts were kind enough to agree to coordinating an action figure toy drive with my reading, specifically to celebrate our corporate geekness. All the info is in the flyer above. If you're in the area, I hope to see you there!

Let's Give 'Em Something to Talk About

2009-12-09T21:04:00.001-08:00

I love talk radio. When done well, talk radio has the uncanny ability to transport the mind from the confines of one's car in rush hour traffic to the edges of the world, with topics ranging in importance and influence. From Octomom to Tiger Woods, from the economy to terrorism in Israel, good talk radio is a no holds barred discussion of global proportions. More than once, it has saved me from boredom and closed-mindedness.

My first and most consistent exposure to talk radio is Southern California's KFI 640 AM. Many years ago, one night in my old dorm room, frustrated with the repetition of mainstream FM radio, I switched to the AM dial and struggled to mind the clearest signal. Enter: Phil Hendrie. Initially, Phil's format seemed pretty standard: a sarcastic personality fielding phone calls from listeners about the day's most persistent topics and news stories. I quickly saw the proverbial man behind the curtain, and while I won't reveal the magician's tricks, I strongly suggest you visit Phil's website and listen to his archives. While he isn't prominent in the Southern California market anymore, I still haven't heard anything quite like him, but I was amused enough to keep my radio tuned in long after his show was over.

I'm reminiscing about talk radio because I had the pleasure of seeing it in action yesterday, as KFI hosted a radio-thon to raise money and collect nonperishable goods for the Salvation Army. They facilitated two broadcast/collections sites, one in Orange and another in Glendale, California. Since I live close enough to the Ayres Inn in Orange, I dared to wake up early for the short morning commute, and I watched Bill Handel and his morning crew push their audience for donations while quipping about Tiger Woods and another recent headlines. Bill interviewed a head honcho from the Salvation Army, and chapters of local Star Wars fan societies arrived in costume to attract a crowd, so I particularly appreciated the emphasis on the non-profit world and geek culture. To see these things I love collide for a worthy cause was more entertaining than I imagined.

I returned in the evening to watch the final segments of "The John and Ken Show." I've seen John and Ken live before, as well, when they were protesting tax hikes in my own backyard last year. Essentially bookending my day with these experiences was highly entertaining and most importantly mind-opening, both reminding me of the inherent needs in society, made most vulnerable during the holiday season, and the power of the media when focused on something positive, like trying to meet those needs. I'm not so disillusioned that I think one man can change the world, but one man with a microphone can encourage others to try, too, and that militant effort is a powerful thing. If talk radio can reach into the dorm room of a lonely geek and change his life for the better, who knows what else it's capable of?

Current Events Round-up: Crash Into Me(dia)

2009-12-05T21:04:00.000-08:00

What a difference a week makes. Just eight days ago, Tiger Woods was still a faithful husband and the White House was still the safest place on Earth. Now, two of the planet's most beloved half-black celebrities are struggling with the fallout of two headline-hogging scandals, so much so that I needn't even summarize them here. Everybody knows what I'm talking about . . . and everybody has an opinion. I've tried not to feel anything other than amusement at these stories, because neither affect my life personally, but hearing others' opinions has inadvertently inspired me to formulate my own. Funny how that happens.

So, based on the initial evidence of Tiger's crash Thanksgiving night, my girlfriend, my best friend, and I pieced together what took most media outlets days to conclude -- that Woods' wife didn't rescue him from a wayward drive in the front yard but instead unwittingly caused it by chasing him with the golf club originally rumored to have saved his life. The information that has been released since that night has cracked Tiger's reclusive resolve as much as his car was, but none of it has surprised me. I understand how cheaters need to retain complete control over their lives, which is what that leaked voice mail to Mistress #2 was all about. Just like superheroes, cheaters lead multiple lives and do their best to keep a fine line drawn between them. That voice mail message was Tiger's eleventh hour contingency plan, like Superman's phone call to his shapeshifting buddy Martian Manhunter to do a Clark Kent impression with him in the same room as Lois Lane. Obviously, ultimately neither plan worked out very well.

I can't judge Tiger Woods for cheating on his wife, nor should anyone in the media, since they're also in show business and undoubtedly understand the pressures of 24-hour worldwide scrutiny coupled with the discreet relief frequent global travel could offer. In this context, nor will I demand the Woods family deserves its privacy; we revere celebrities and athletes and if they don't know the dangers of their lifestyles by now, they're stupid and their wealth is undeserved. (Personally, the only reason I justify celebrities having vocal political opinions is our corresponding right to know where they eat or who they're dating, but that's another story.) No, the biggest issue I have with Tiger, Tiger's burning plight is the demand that his behavior violates his place as a role model.

Again, my best friend put it best: "If Tiger Woods is a role model, what's the role?" If America's perpetually susceptible children should consider Woods a role model, it shouldn't be for marital faithfulness -- but for, I don't know . . . how about golf? Still, since I've spent a third of my life trying as a role model for kids -- for a living -- I always wonder (I did earlier this year, in fact) why actors, musicians, and athletes are role models more than teachers, or plumbers, or (gasp) lawyers. Sure, the former get paid more, but the latter actually went to school for their trades, and all achieve success by striving for excellence. That's the real life lesson offered by anyone that masters their field of work, as Tiger has: be the best at what you love to do (uh, or at what your daddy made you do, if I want to include Andre Agassi in that parable). Nowhere in his training as a golfer did he agree to remain faithful to his wife, so in his role as a golfer (the only role that has made him a household name), he should be absolved of these sins. His corporate sponsors think so . . . until this controversy actually affects his game, they probably couldn't care less.

That's why I don't, either. I'm amused, but ultimately apathetic about the outcome, which is why I'm also grateful that this story has legs. It could go on forever and I'd be endlessly entertained . . . honestly more so than I've ever been by golf.

Crashing into things has been the story of the week, between Tiger and that odd couple that snuck into the White House State Dinner. I'm equally frustrated with the media's judgment of the Salahis, and I can sum up why in one light-shedding sentence: No one has tried to get on television harder than the newscasters and commentators that have criticized the Salahis for trying hard to get on television. This hasty, hypocritical scrutiny is why they've become a laughing stock, scrambling to find some story other than the obvious truth: they just wanted to be on television. Mingle and flirt with celebrity. In a culture that nominates nobodies for stardom through singing and dancing contests, we have no right to judge anyone for jumping in front of a camera when opportunity knocks. Heck, essentially breaking into the White House takes more talent than most American Idol contestants have!

Indeed, the grasp for celebrity has become as integral to the American dream as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, from the number of followers one has on Twitter on up to the airwave-choking trend of reality television. Considering the way we adore them, who can blame us? Or do you think I'm blogging for my health? Now, the Salahis are learning the hard way that our stargazing includes an eagerness to see them fall. Interestingly, in contrast to the Woods, nobody has commented on the Salahis' teamwork in crashing the President's party. They're the model for a marriage with singular purpose! Or is the sanctity of the White House guest list more important than family values? Just what we'd expect from a Democrat, eh?

When intertwined, these tales have a clear moral, just like an Aesop fable: Be careful what you wish for. The more you strive to be on the top, the farther you can fall. If you're going to cheat on your wife or sneak into the White House State Dinner, have an alibi. Even the best laid plans have a way of crashing down around you. What a difference a week makes.

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

2009-11-22T19:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-13T10:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-07T21:12:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-02T08:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T18:38:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-10-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-26T14:00:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-23T22:48:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-21T16:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-15T23:47:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-04T18:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Route 66: Size Matters

2009-09-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

For many, the mythology of Route 66 is larger than life, but those that have actually traversed the Mother Road know that some of it really is. Large, I mean. Nowadays, we like our excesses as small as possible, like our cell phones or smart cars, but when Route 66 was an active American highway, we commemorated its grand scope and vision with things just as grand in size. Even in the relatively short stretch between San Bernadino, California and Holbrook, Arizona, my girlfriend and I beheld plenty of pompous pavement props, now chronicled here! I've decided to categorize them as either "the wonders of the world" or "the marvels of man," as these enormous attractions must've been built with the intention of celebrating something significant . . . right?

The Wonders of the World

One of the first "giant alerts" my girlfriend and I encountered was Bono's Historic Orange Stand, which, contrary to popular belief, does not belong to U2's lead singer but instead the late Bono family, who owned and operated an Italian restaurant next door. Other "giant orange" stands were opened by Frank E. Pohl in the '20s and '30s and celebrated the region's rich bounty, but this is one of the few that remain standing, complete with Route 66, ahem, appeal. Yeah, sorry about that.

The next few images depict the virtual zoo of enormous animals that inhabit the Route 66 roadside, from the Polly Gas parrot outside of Barstow, to the sadly squashed roadrunner of the Roadrunner's Retreat and Restaurant near Amboy.

Of course, my favorite of these quiche creatures is the jackrabbit outside of the aptly named Jack Rabbit Trading Post in Joseph City, Arizona. Billboards boast the bodacious bunny for miles, inviting spectators to ride the rabbit, so I couldn't resist. Surely if you've been looking to fulfill your giant jackrabbit needs, the sign outside of the trading post tells you where such satisfaction awaits: "Here it is!"

What better way to bookend Route 66's world wonders than with another plant, though unlike Bono's faux fruit, this one is real -- oh, at least it was. The world's largest petrified tree is also in Joseph City, though I don't think you can ride it.

The Marvels of Man

This batch of towering tourist traps truly celebrates humanity's rich history along Route 66, starting with the Madonna of the Trail and Ye Bridle Path in Upland. The former honors the colonial women damned to hear the cries of their children while exploring the Old West, the latter the upward climb to the region's neighboring mountains.

In the context of Old West exploration, this magic lamp might seem out of place, but hear me out on this one. What better way to epitomize how those old explorers' wishes of Manifest Destiny were coming true than building a restaurant/bar with a genie's home out front? You're welcome, Magic Lamp Inn.

The rest of the attractions we encountered were definitively Old West, celebrating the stereotypical culture of cowboys and Indians. For instance, behold this totem pole outside of the Grand Canyon Caverns in Peach Springs, Arizona -- and more importantly consider the bold political statement my gorgeous girlfriend is making. Indeed, to the untrained, even cynical eye, one might assume she is desecrating the spirit of the totem by simulating a pole dance, but the socially analytical mind would realize she is merely physically commenting on how contemporary accounts of history have unnecessarily sexualized Native American culture through such sultry depictions like Dances With Wolves or even Disney's Pocahontas. Yes. She is just that brilliant.

Two of my favorite stops on our trip were Two Guns and Twin Arrows in Arizona. The Two Guns site is little more than the remnants of an old theme park (and debris-ridden, so beware, drivers!), and the Twin Arrows, thankfully recently renovated, mark the spot of an old trading post/cafe, but considering their close proximity to one another, my inner child can't help but think that the two represent the timeless conflicts of the Old West. Perhaps, back in the day, giant cowboys and giant Indians fought in this desert stretch, with these the only signs of that lofty legendary battle. Maybe that's why they call it "high" noon -- because these old icons were just that tall . . . or you'd have to be high to think of such a thing.

Finally, the best way to end this journal of our gigantic journey is here, at the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona. These wigwams are truly larger than life, and for a price as reasonable as any other roadside motel, you can sleep in one! In a way, residing in a wigwam if only for one night helps the weary traveller feel as big as the other giants along Route 66, becoming in some small way a part of the grand mythology that consumes America's Mother Road. I was certainly grateful for our stay in that strange round room, which reminded me that no matter how far we've come from Route 66's rich history, no matter how our tastes have seemingly shrunk over the years, some things eventually come full circle. High hopes for humanity, indeed . . .

Upcoming Poetry Things

2009-09-25T15:59:00.000-07:00

I will speak more of these things in the months to come, but know now that I will have a poem published in the December issue of the on-line zine poeticdiversity, and I will be the featured poet at the December 16 reading at the Ugly Mug Cafe in Orange, California. It's never too early to promote.

My Man-Crushes 2009: David Gray & Craig Ferguson Double Feature!

2009-09-22T23:56:00.000-07:00

Today, Tuesday, September 22, is a special day for four distinct reasons: (1.) It's the first day of autumn, though one wouldn't know it from summer's tenacious grip on southern California, (2.) my birthday is exactly three months away, (3.) David Gray's new album, Draw the Line, comes out today, and (4.) so does Craig Ferguson's new book, American on Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot. Interestingly, I had already planned on dubbing both Gray and Ferguson current man-crushes, so to celebrate their latest contributions to pop culture I offer a man-crush double feature!

David Gray

Contemporary Influence: David Gray had been making music long before his single "Babylon" achieved regular radio play, but that hit single put Gray on the map -- and rightfully so, as "Babylon" betrays the introspection, urban plight, and clever word play that infuses many of Gray's best songs. Although few other singles of his have enjoyed as much American air play, Gray's songs have been used frequently in film and on television; recently, I heard "As I'm Leaving" playing during a promo for William Peterson's final episode of CSI. That track was from Gray's Lost Songs album, released in the States after "Babylon" and White Ladder started making serious waves. If even a lost song can get that kind of attention, who knows what David might accomplish when the world finally finds what he's capable of?

Practical Knowledge of the Opposite Sex: While most mainstream musicians boast knowledge of the opposite sex by way of the love ballad, David Gray is bold enough to lyrically document the hard times, too. Consider the lines: "And honey please don't stop your talking/'Cos there's a feeling won't leave me alone/What we gonna do when the money runs out/I wish that there was something left to say/How we gonna find the eyes to see/a brighter day?" If women like their men to emote, it doesn't get more emotional than that -- but in a definitively masculine way, mind you, as nothing frustrates a man more than a lack of tangible solutions. Thankfully, despite his name, Gray is one to pay less attention to the dark cloud and more its silver lining, as he proclaims, "Tell the repo man/And the stars above/That you're the one I love." In other words, no matter what this world may take away, there's no ceiling to true love. Even fools know that this what women want to hear, but only a David Gray can put it so eloquently.

Global Significance: Did you know that White Ladder is still the best selling album of all time in Ireland? Yes, the same way we Americans love Michael Jackson's Thriller or Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, the Irish love White Ladder (which may explain my affinity for it, as well). More so than that, as I mentioned earlier, Gray's ongoing themes are a bit more transcendent than your usual top 40s fare, and I submit for your consideration this live version of "Ain't No Love," my favorite of his songs. In three short verses, Gray muses about urban life, creativity, love, and religion, all in an introspective attempt to explain his direction (or lack thereof?) in life. Who can't relate to that?

Moved? Now, if you act fast, you may be able to acquire David's latest single, "Fugitive," at Starbucks for free via their free iTunes Pick of the Week!

Craig Ferguson

Contemporary Influence: I love late night television, and when done properly I believe it can be both a humorously seasoned synopsis of any given day and a timeless piece of pop culture entertainment. Every weeknight, Craig Ferguson embraces this opportunity wholeheartedly, balancing vaudevillian comedy via puppets and impromptu self-deprivation with relevant expositions on current events, like his recent rant about Congressman Joe Wilson's calling President Obama a liar. Consider this introduction from his September 11th episode, which combines these two elements in a virtual politically puppeted cartoon!

As an aside, Craig shamefully mentions in his book that the Monkees' Headquarters album was the first vinyl he ever owned, and it's the one I have signed by three out of four Monkees themselves! It doesn't get any more personal than that!

A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: As I said, Craig's new autobiography dropped today, and as a celebrity boasting the addictions of his past in the same context as his bid for American citizenship, he probably could've appeared on any talk show to promote his book. So, where did he show up this morning? The View. Yes, his Scottish accent wooed the ladies of The View, and their natural feelings-oriented line of questioning was the perfect forum for Craig to express his former weaknesses and future career hopes and speculations. In other words, even in light of his latest success, Craig put the ladies first -- and in the morning, to boot!

Global Significance: From what I understand, Craig is a Scotsman that came to the United States in a drunken, drug-addled stupor in a mad quest for fame and celebrity -- and he eventually found it by shamelessly shedding his vices. He's often spoke of his first trip to America with his father, to New York, of course, where he vowed to return one day. This is the American dream for so many folks around the world -- that the U.S. is a land of first and second chances -- and we naturally born citizens take that for granted. That Craig takes any opportunity to share his joy at being American, from speaking at the President's White House Correspondence Dinner last year to nightly on CBS, proves he is a true patriot, indeed. Just look up his latest tattoo if you need any more proof!

There you have it: two more Europeans on my list of man-crushes (Gordon Ramsey being the first, of course). I'm grateful they're so eager to come to the U.S. and share their talent, but where are the American-bred icons? Is reality television so saturating the potential for homemade heroes that I must look overseas for masculine role models? Time will tell . . .

Route 66: Ghosts of the Past

2009-09-18T11:38:00.000-07:00

To prove how haunting a trip along the southwest stretch of Route 66 could be, just this morning, almost two weeks to the very hour my girlfriend and I embarked on the journey, I sat down in Starbucks to chronicle the creepy places we encountered when "(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66" began to play in the store. When the song was composed and originally recorded, it celebrated the rife culture along America's Mother Road, but considering some of its more abandoned and dilapidated areas now, the tune has become a spooky echo from the past. I experienced some of these spectres firsthand, and I dare journal them for public consumption, lest these ghosts haunt me forever!

Of course, one needn't hear a "boo" to feel a place is haunted, if only by its own once-glorious past. Places like the McDonald's museum in San Bernandino, where the McDonald brothers opened their first hamburger stand, or Roy's Motel and Cafe in Amboy are actually still inhabited by moderate business and infrequent tourism, but they are by no means the attractions they once were. Consider these signs I found behind the McDonald's museum (pic above), or the sheer desolate desert behind my beautiful girlfriend and me at Roy's. If these places were haunted, even the ghosts would get bored.

The Arizona desert is much more tantalizing in its paranormal possibilities, starting east of Kingman in Valentine, Arizona, appropriately named for those in love with creepy places. The Valentine Indian School was built to serve the Native American kids in northern Arizona (the white kids had a separate schoolhouse, of course) and ultimately closed in 1969. Any school yard can be scary at night, with its creaky swings and jangling tetherball chains, but this abandoned school yard made our skin crawl in the bright light of morning. I found a hole in the schoolhouse's barricaded door and took a peek inside to find the usual debris and vandalism, but the thought of a room full of wide-eyed ghost-children still waiting for that final recess bell to ring was enough to run me out of there. Lesson learned.

Further east of Valentine and Flagstaff, Two Guns and Twin Arrows await, both perfect hideouts for Batman's enemy Two-Face, if even his deformed face wasn't a sight for sore eyes in comparison. These two places are best remembered as current homes for some of Route 66's beloved "big things," to be featured in another blog post, but I'd be remiss not to include an interior pic of the Twin Arrows Trading Post I took when trespassing. I hoped to find an old menu or something, but vandals (and daring historians, I hope) had cleaned the place out of anything valuable or useful. Still, with some of the original tables in place on top of that retro-checkered floor, I imagined what this cafe must've been like in its heyday, the kind of hoppin' '50s restaurant that modern franchises like Johnny Rockets can only hope to emulate. Unfortunately, Twin Arrows took its final bow in the late '90s, the only thing left on its menu now a boo-plate special.

The Ellas Frontier Trading Post (with its adjacent Red Arrows Camp) is a similar gaping hole to the past, less protected and revered but equally interesting in its ruin.

The grand finale for anyone ghost hunting in northern Arizona lingers in the Holbrook Courthouse, which also features a museum and the original prison cell that once housed some sixteen inmates at a time. With sentences that could've lasted as long as 20 years, these guys had plenty of time to draw some of the murals my girlfriend dutifully captured on camera. Further, according to our impromptu tour guide Randy, the courthouse is still home to seven ghosts, one of whom, Mary, was a prostitute sentenced to hang for killing an abusive john. In solitary, she hastened her fate and hung herself; now she has her own bedroom in the museum, where Randy apparently engages her in conversation. Free accommodations and friendship? Who says crime doesn't pay?

To conclude, I'm compelled to distinguish between my first Route 66 post and this second installment, as both ghosts and dinosaurs are creatures from the past. The difference is, the faux dinosaurs we encountered along Route 66 were present as an homage to something long gone. These spooky places still exist in this perpetual stage of epilogue to their former glory, the desert wind that blows through the cracks in their boarded windows a last gasp of life. They're prisoners to the past, students of isolation, traded away for paved progress. You don't have to believe in ghosts to feel that these attractions are still haunted -- if only by the lives they lived.

Of Being American: Idle

2009-09-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, like anything else, the further away we get from the tragic events of September 11, 2001, the less palpable our raw emotions from that day feel. A mere eight years later, local Patriot Day celebrations are simply headline fodder now, lost in the shuffle with stories about political bipartisanship, celebrity scandal, and sports scores -- you know, like it's every day we honor a sudden terrorist attack on America's soil. Oh, don't mistake my self-righteous tone with patriotic legitimacy; I barely acknowledged Patriot Day, too. Fortunately, like anything else, sometimes something has to be shoved in your face to remind you how important it is.

Last night, a coworker and I volunteered at a fundraiser in Dana Point, California that raised money for our nonprofit effort, along with the Make-A-Wish Foundation and the Wounded Warriors Project. We were excited because the experience promised little real work and the high chance for a celebrity encounter or two, and it delivered on both fronts, as I giddily met American Idol Bo Bice (and heard Brooke White and Elliot Yamin perform) and my coworker met boxing champ Sugar Ray Leonard, sportscaster Roy Firestone, and Sopranos star (and his presumed look-alike) Steve Schirripa.

Yet, despite these beloved stars taking the stage during the event's more formal ceremonies, I couldn't help but recoil at who really brought the crowd to a standing ovation: a representative from the Wounded Warriors Project, who spoke briefly but succinctly about how the non-profit came to his aid after an unexpected IED encounter blew off his legs, shattered his jaw, and ultimately resulted in some 60 surgeries to have his body repaired. The soldier spoke of the backpack Wounded Warriors initially provided him, with clothes and (most strikingly to me) a deck of cards, all of which, he claimed, mean the world when one is alone in the hospital. For a moment I put myself in his place, having a deck of cards as my only recreational luxury in the world. No comics? No toys? No blogging on the Internet? And I complain when I can't get a strong wireless connection . . .

Oh, and Charlie Duke was there, one of only twenty men who have landed on the moon! He too was warmly received, and while many were obviously enthralled with the American Idols' performances, only the Wounded Warriors Projected and Charlie Duke brought the audience to an absolute hush.

In the face of a roomful of celebrities, and how starstruck any of us can get, I was grateful for the brief wake-up call. Helps put things in perspective. From my meager voluntarism as a fellow non-profit employee, to the corporate financial contributions of an auction, to the inspiring words of real war and space heroes, to musical performance . . . when the various dimensions of everyday American life work together, despite the apparent contrasts in their global significance, something special can happen -- even if that something special is simply reminding one frequently close-minded person like me of that potential's possibility.

Route 66: Endangered, but Not Extinct!

2009-09-11T09:51:00.000-07:00

Route 66 is like America's embarrassing childhood photo album, full of painfully awkward images of its wanton youth. Perhaps that's why John Steinbeck decided to call Route 66 "the Mother Road" in the classic I've never read, The Grapes of Wrath, because despite their seeming futility America's mom simply refuses to throw away these precious old memories. My girlfriend and I recently traveled the stretch from San Bernadino, California to Holbrook, Arizona, and despite our aspirations to finish the route someday, I feel very satisfied with this definitively southwestern experience, perfectly capturing the past of these two states I've called home for so long.

While many of the well-documented attractions along Route 66 essentially amount to abandoned ruins, these sites are thankfully only endangered -- not extinct, like the dozens of dinosaurs you'll find along this eastern-bound trip. To best chronicle this experience, I've decided to treat this trip topically, versus geographically as many other explorers and travellers have. After all, I'm simply a casual observer, enraptured by the more pedestrian attractions, whereas others enjoy digging up the mysterious histories of these exotic Americana roots. No, I'm a much simpler man; show me some dinosaurs, tell me some ghost stories, give me an old-fashioned ice cream, and I'm happy. Perhaps that's why Route 66 has endured for so long . . . as much as it exploits 20th century America's youth, it unabashedly reminds us of our own.

After a mildly inspiring initial encounter with metal-made dinosaurs in San Bernadino, our next 'saurus-sighting was in Peach Springs, Arizona, at the Grand Canyon Caverns. I'll talk about the caverns in a later post, but I was most impressed with how the air one breathes in this underground rocky wonderland comes from a crack in the Grand Canyon some sixty miles away, hence the caverns' name. At the entrance to the park, this googily-eyed dinosaur welcomes you.

Then, once parked near the restaurant and caverns' entrance, this towering T-Rex snarls at you, a sly smile that says, "Ah, nothin's tastier than a tourist's wallet!"

I actually felt sorry for this fella, though, who brought new meaning to the phrase, "Look, Ma, no hands!" I wonder, did he try to touch the meteor that felled his long lost brothers? Or were Jurassic veterinarians just that bad at declawing pets?

My love affair with these roadside raptors and whatnot ended in Holbrook, Arizona, where the remains of a dinosaur theme park are preserved at this rock store. Thankfully, I had my dinosaur theme park T-shirt on to celebrate the sighting. As you can see, at my girlfriend's behest, I tried to kiss one of the dinosaurs good-bye, but he craned his neck away. He wasn't having it. Perhaps in his carnivorous heart he knew, "This isn't good-bye. Oh, you'll be back."

Alibi

2009-09-01T10:35:00.001-07:00

This has quickly become one of my favorite music vidoes, and perhaps hints at who my next man-crush will be . . .

My Man-Crushes 2009: Mr. T

2009-08-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I almost removed Mr. T from my man-crush list. I know -- but hear me out! Considering the categories I've established by which to judge candidates, I wasn't sure if he'd fit the bill. Yes, Mr. T is definitely a man's man, and his body of work in the entertainment industry is multi-faceted and exhaustive, but frankly I was afraid that it was exhausted. Since his reality show on TV Land, which was airing when I wrote my first man-crush list, I haven't seen hide or mohawked hair of Mr. T . . . until a few weeks ago. Then, I saw this:

Mr. T is back -- and full of flavor! So, as if you really needed me to explain it, here's how Mr. T measures up by my man-crush standards!

Contemporary Influence: Hello? The FlavorWave? Need I go on?! Seriously, despite his delegation to infomercial celebrity, Mr. T has still made an impression on current events, as recently as a few years ago when he decided to give up wearing his token gold jewelry to help victims of Hurricane Katrina. How many celebrities would literally shed the skin of their wealth to help others so selflessly? That Mr. T hasn't been in the limelight as much lately is perhaps indicative of his continued good deeds behind the scenes -- that he'll stretch his head above water for a six minute infomercial is enough to say he's just paying the bills to get back to his real work: pitying fools.

A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: I don't know about you, but frankly I can't imagine what Mrs. T would be like. She certainly wouldn't be prone to no jibber-jabber, that's for sure! Yet, Mr. T has always expressed the importance for loving one's mother, which speaks straight to the heart of women everywhere. Also, Mr. T is a problem-solving team player, which sends an important message to the opposite sex, as established from his role on The A-Team and as a leader in the Mr. T cartoon. Yes, there was a Mr. T cartoon -- which further says to the ladies, "Hey . . . I like kids." Sometimes the simplest gestures are the most important.

Global Significance: Finally, I dare say that Mr. T has become an ambassador of America to the world through his virtual conquest of all important media. From his role as Clubber Lang in Rocky III, to his delicious breakfast cereal, Mr. T knows the way to society's heart is through its stomach -- whether he's punching it or filling it with the most important meal of the day. Most importantly to me, Mr. T has appeared in a variety of comics, most recently in a series published by Mohawk Media in the UK. That's right -- the United Kingdom! Is that global enough for you?!

Finally, despite his getting on in years, Mr. T can undoubtedly crush me for not keeping him on my list, so rest assured -- even without those gold chains, Mr. T has earned a wealth . . . of my respect.

ADDENDUM: Did you know Mr. T stars in the animated film, Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs?! I didn't until his fellow man-crush Craig Ferguson mentioned it on his September 21 show, when he boldly stated, "If you don't think Mr. T is awesome, I have a question for you: How long have you been in Al Qaeda?" Amen!

Don't Dis District 9!

2009-08-18T12:41:00.000-07:00

District 9 exceeded expectations both in the box office and in my imagination this weekend, and as I've browsed the Internet for more information about the movie's development, I'm surprised to discover critics and sci-fi fans alike as divided about it as the aliens were from the humans in this film. Permit me the chance to contribute to the conversation with this succinct list of the top nine things I liked about District 9, in least-to-greatest order of importance, to boot! Spoiler alert! Don't proceed unless you've already seen the movie or don't care about having some of the plot spoiled!

Marketing. Based exclusively on its marketing, District 9 could've easily been mistaken as another alien invasion flick. Prior to the film's release, what did anyone know of the story other than the divisive human versus alien theme? I mean, how often do humans have the upper hand in movies like this?

Setting. Just as commentators explain at the beginning of the film, that these aliens don't descend upon world capitals like Washington D.C., or London, or Hong Kong is truly the most peculiar context of this film's story. In many ways, the director's native Johannesburg, South Africa is as purely human to a mainstream cinematic audience as it is alien, making it the perfect arid setting for this film about being both.

Budget. At $30 million, this film was totally produced at the cost most singular American actors like Brad Pitt or Jim Carrey are paid just to star. At $30 million, this film's crew made a stranded spaceship look as natural as any cloud on the horizon, made an entire extraterrestrial race come desperately alive, made a cache of alien weapons look as realistic and dangerous as any brandished in another more established franchise.

Original Screenplay. At a time when science fiction movies are inspired by comic books or a series of young adult novels, I'm grateful that District 9 is the brainchild of a writer/director willing and able to utilize cinema as an original means of telling a multi-dimensional story. Neill Blomkamp's short film pilot for the concept, Alive in Joberg, is a little sloppy and amateurish in comparison, but his dedication and development for the project is admirable in today's industry of fleeting sensations.

Variety of Perspective. I've already read critics' on-line comparisons of District 9 to Cloverfield, and while this flick certainly exploits the intimacy of the handheld camera perspective, its incorporation of documentary-style expert interviews, helicopter news footage, and traditional character-oriented perspective creates a rich tapestry through which to understand this story's impact on its world at large. For instance, some twenty years along, would an extraterrestrial refugee camp in South Africa really affect the average American's life -- any more so than the similar global crises that affect our society in real life? Only through the media's relentless analysis of such a phenomenon would a hovering spaceship in Johannesburg not become just some fantastic but accepted eighth wonder of the world.

Respect for the Audience. Thankfully, Blomkamp's vision weaves District 9 together; rather than introduce the MNU footage in the beginning as a teaser or visual attention-getter, he uses it as legitimate vehicle for storytelling and assumes that the audience can keep up. Also, one of my favorite aspects of the film was the way humans and aliens could vaguely understand each other, asserting that two decades in each others' company established a familiarity with their respective languages, just as we humans experience enculturalization in reality. The characters didn't break the fourth wall to explain this to the viewer but simply relied on the audience's similar experiences, sans otherworldly aliens, of course.

Allegory. Until the story exploits the more fantastic science fiction aspects of the aliens' culture and technology, its tale of a rounded-up, persecuted race is practically historical. The "prawns" could've just as easily been Jews in 1940s Germany, blacks in 1840s America, the Irish, the Portuguese . . . Interestingly, the arrival of a helpless alien race seems to bind the globe via a peace-keeping Multi-National United effort. As an American viewer, when South Africans were interviewed man-on-the-street style, I hardly noticed his or her thick accent in comparison to the all-too-human feelings of fear and frustration at the aliens' supposed imposition, proving that we earthlings really aren't all that different from each other. In fact, the lead character's horrid metamorphosis, and his relative ease at becoming a sympathizer and revolutionary for the other side, depicts just how similar all us cosmic creatures might be from the inside out -- which was, I imagine, the point.

Cast. Having a cast of first-timers and virtual unknowns is as much a gamble as it is a strength. When I told my mom how great this movie was, her first question was, "Who's in it?" With no mainstream names to tout, her interest in it waned. At the same time, sci-fi fans that take the risk are instantly sucked into this parallel world, sans preconceptions from any of the actors' previous roles or potentially highly publicized private lives. Actor Sharlto Copley's Wikus van de Merwe is a South African Lieutenant Dangle from Reno 911, complete with the false bravado that comes from the pseudo-celebrity of a documentary film camera, yet his Kafka-esque plight ironically dubs him the everyman -- something a Brad Pitt or Will Smith couldn't have accomplished. This cast effectively fenced us into Blomkamp's vision, like a little District 9 in itself.

Lightning Gun. It blew people to bits. That's cool.

The Karaoke Chronicles: Palm Springs Eternal

2009-08-09T20:35:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I wrote, "Palm Springs dies every night at 11 p.m." I retracted that statement when I discovered Peabody's Coffee Bar, a joint that unapologetically offers weekend karaoke, but for the past two years Peabody's has been closed when my coworkers and I have ventured into the desert for our annual leadership retreat. So, like a cowboy in the Old West looking for a hospitable small town saloon, I've spent two dreary summers scouring Internet listings for karaoke venues in the high desert -- and, to my surprise, I've never been disappointed. In short, I've been to Palm Springs five times now, and every time I've enjoyed a fond karaoke experience. Does that searing sun bring out one's need to experience a proverbial spotlight at night, too? I've decided to compile these experiences in an attempt to answer this question and uncover the mystery that is memorable karaoke in Palm Springs.

My first trip to Palm Springs was for a friend's bachelor party (apparently, this was the last time something happened to him), and I confess that I don't remember the experience that well, so I asked a few of those old pals for their fondest recollections of that weekend. Interestingly, their respective goggles were lifted as they remembered the same things. Their descriptions of that night's supporting cast are most intriguing: The woman wearing the see-through shirt that wouldn't stop checking herself out in the mirror . . . The larger woman that proudly sang Alanis Morissette's "You Outta Know" . . . The karaoke jockey that planted a kiss right on our bachelor's lips . . . Each of these caricatures reflects a need to be seen and heard, to emerge as a flower from the otherwise barren desert. This may yet prove my theory.

I remember that place we frequented those years ago, and in fact I ventured back there again just last year, but their karaoke equipment was on the fritz. A coworker of mine is pretty handy with computers and sound equipment, so we resurrected the system enough to illicit a crackle of music, but despite my ability to beckon folks in from the street, the bartender was hesitant to let us lead any karaoke festivities. Fortunately, we found an upstairs bar across the street that offered a perfect karaoke memory, where I actually burst onto the balcony to serenade the whole city for a time. Some wayward coworkers went to that initial joint first and told us later that they had indeed cranked the crackling crooning without us -- essentially taking advantage of our help then kicking us out. Were the regulars afraid we'd steal the spotlight? Man, we just wanted to turn it on for them!

Fortunately, this year's experience was more fruitful, as I dragged coworkers to not one but two nights of karaoke, in two totally different locations, no less. On that Thursday night, my cohorts and I were browsing the farmers' market downtown when I spotted an inviting banner outside of the Alternate Route. The karaoke had already begun but the crowd was sparse, so I was able to sing a whopping six songs before the night was over. As the name of the bar suggests, the Alternate Lounge was particularly friendly toward Palm Springs' homosexual community, and while I was afraid that my usually conservative boss would cower at the sight of two men cuddling on the couches around us, he took to the open atmosphere happily. Speaking of alternatives, the comfortable couches were a pleasant change of pace from the usual bar stool or wooden table, so despite the K.J.'s penchant for talking to performers while they sing, everyone was quite comfortable -- with the joint, and each other -- making for a pleasant evening of karaoke all around.

The next night required a little more research, but we found Cicchi's Sports Shack in Palm Springs' neighboring Cathedral City (thanks in large part to our calling the place some four times) with no expectation that it would offer one of the most memorable karaoke experiences I've ever had. Cicchi's is a much more traditional bar than the Alternate Route; without using too much hyperbole, let's just say that a white guy like me, having acquiring some redness on my neck fro the desert sun that day, felt right at home. Within minutes, some rowdy young gentlemen befriended the pretty young ladies in our group, and my song choices, like "Summer of '69" and "You Give Love a Bad Name," were bar-wide favorites. However, when two Valley girls on the prowl for an easy karaoke crowd showed up, they easily stole the show. One sang well enough, but the other was rather . . . outgoing . . . and by the end of the night she left none of her assets to the imagination. Needless to say, I left Cathedral City saying, "Holy . . .!" -- but fortunately I wasn't the one determined to end up on his knees.

While two hot chicks singing and flashing their goods makes for a great story, I wouldn't do my purist propensity for karaoke justice without pointing out how their drunken obnoxiousness threatened the sanctity of the evening. See, Cicchi's doesn't have a stage, which is fine if you tend to stand on chairs like me, but one's vulnerability to crowd interference is becomes greater, especially as the booze flows more freely. I frowned when one of the Valley girls began blowing on performer's ears, especially one hapless gentleman's who seems flushed by her and eager just to finish his tune. When she threatened to interfere in one of my songs, I rebuked her, to which she snidely replied, "Oh, you just want the spotlight, is that it? Do you want the spotlight?" Uhm . . . yeah?! Isn't that why I've volunteered to sing a familiar song in front of a room full of strangers? For some of us, crooning a tune is our makeshift lifting of the skirt, our showing off what the good Lord gave us. At least I can show off what my pipes are capable of in polite society . . .

Now, when her dancing inspired another (an admitted mother of five?) to join her for a virtual strip-off during my Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)," who was I to stop them? Their contest only drew more eyes to where I was singing, and in those rare moments I essentially facilitated entertainment even those averse to karaoke could enjoy (not to mention coming closer to making my ideal small business a reality).

Which finally proves my point. Something about Palm Springs inspires anyone within its city limits to seek that spotlight, despite the blaring sun's rays during the day. Some use it to escape the monotony of living there, while others of us travel there for the opportunity, and every time I've had that chance I've never been disappointed. Even in the heat of the high desert, one can rest assured that karaoke will always be waiting there, like that stereotypical bull's skull, giving locals and wayward travellers alike a chance to be cool -- if only for the length of their favorite song.

The Inner Child's Outer Limits -- Another Comic Con Retrospective, part 2

2009-07-31T09:33:00.000-07:00

On the heels of my initial thoughts about the subject, retailer-oriented blogs at sites like Mile High Comics and Comics 212 have been lamenting about comics' diminishing presence and influence at Comic Con, even while the industry maintains its reverence as the event's inspiration. Some commentators have already rung the Con's death knell, and while I share their frustrations I'm certainly not eager to agree whole-heartedly yet. Remember, I hope to remain neither optimistic or pessimistic but realistic on the subject; so, while the comic book as a singular entity may be inadvertently ostracized from its own convention, I contend that the spirit of science fiction and fantasy that birthed it will remain in those hallowed halls for decades to come. Just consider the following experiences I enjoyed as a fanboy at Comic Con.

The Clothes Make the Man-Child

First of all, you can take all of the comics out of Comic Con that you want, but you'll never take away the costumes inspired by them! Superman, Captain America, and multitudes of Storm Troopers and Klingons will forever remind the Twilight 'tweens of the future where Comic Con comes from. Now, one of the most frequent questions I'm asked when I tell people I go to Con is, "Oh, do you dress up?" I confess I've thought about it but recently decided that I enjoy wearing fresh clothes each of the four days I attend, and not one Guy Gardner costume four different times. I mean, wearing a costume at Comic Con must be like wearing a uniform to work, right? While you have it on, you must fulfill certain responsibilities -- namely, taking pictures with other geeks like me. It's akin to customer service; even if a patron grabs you on your way to the break room, you're obligated to help. Staying in plain clothes means that when I leave the Con, I can leave the Con behind, that I'm not wearing it on my sleeve -- that I can blend in with the crowd if I just want a coffee at It's A Grind. Still, these makeshift heroes may yet save Comic Con from itself, always reminding it of its roots by blurring the line between fantasy and the reality of San Diego's Gaslamp District for those four memorable days.

Sketch a Falling Star

Wolverine by Jeff Johnson

Another consistent Comic Con phenomenon is what I have dubbed the Sketchbook Spirit. Now, this spirit moves in mysterious ways and usually adapts to the host it inhabits. In some cases, the spirit demands compensation for even the smallest of signs, in this case a pencil or ink sketch. In other cases, grand miracles are performed sans payment, like this crayon-colored sketch from Tiny Titans artist Franco, on the heels of his Eisner win, no less!

Hyperbole aside, this was the first year I decided to visit professionals with a sketchbook in tow, and like some others I've witnessed I selected a theme -- karaoke, of course. I only solicited artists of personal importance to me, and none are more important than Erik Larsen, so despite his response to my weird Dragon-singing-karaoke request ("What the hell?"), he delivered beyond expectation. Generally, I was very pleased with the experience, as it gave my roaming on the floor some purpose, though as I eluded I was intrigued with the inconsistency between some lesser known artists charging for a sketch, while others poured their heart onto a page for free. The inquiry is in the artists' perspective. What's more valuable, the $15 for a sketch now, or an experience that might move me investment in your ongoing product?

It's Not the Size of the Press, It's How You Use It

As a former Small Press exhibitor, I spent a significant amount of time in that minimal section of the convention floor, and I was pleased to purchase a bundled set of mini-comics from Robot Publishing that I've admired for years. Artist Robert Goodin was kind enough to contribute to my sketchbook, too, and he epitomised the essence of that area; he let his Small Press merchandise speak for itself. His peers ranged from brooding isolationists, pushed as far back from the table (and any potential customers) as possible, to practical used car pitchmen, thrusting flyers or samples with the fervor of a Las Vegas porn peddler. Either way, when K.O. Comix had its own table in this venue, I quickly developed the understanding that my comic book will stay with the customer longer than my conversation ever will -- so it has to be good. The comic should make a reader come back to my table every year whether I talk to him or not.

Further, for some, Comic Con is often the only forum for their wares, yet it also pits them against powerhouses like DC and Image. Like artists feeling the Sketchbook Spirit, the question is, do Small Press publishers charge the true cost (plus moderate profit) of their low-run, professionally bound book at the risk of facing low to no sales at all, or do they eat some cost at an event like this for sheer exposure? Frankly, I finally bought those excellent Robot Publishing books because Goodin reduced their price. That's change I can believe in.

As a fledgling self-publisher myself, I sought to distribute samples of my first solo effort, Karaoke Comics #1, at the Con's token freebie table. When I handed the samples to a volunteer on Friday, he scrutinized them, asking, "Are they appropriate for all ages?" Now, the story takes place in a bar, boasts homosexual themes, and ends with me in my underwear, but it's all very subtle, so I was confident when I replied, "Oh, yeah, sure!" I didn't have a lot of copies to offer, so I figured the title would attract enough interested readers to deplete the pile before a child's wayward hand was even a concern. After examining the sample further, the volunteer said, "We'll work with it." I don't know what that means, but the exchange put me off, as I wondered why a younger twenty-something suddenly had control over whether my work would reach a broad audience. As a volunteer, he doesn't have a paying job to lose if some kid sees a crude drawing of me in my underwear, so . . .

In this way, Comic Con is a lot like karaoke. Some come to sing country, others rap, others rock 'n roll, just as some come for Twilight, some for sketches, others for comics and merchandise. Everything isn't for everybody, but anybody should be able to find something there they like. Who would sing a song they don't like? Who would find themselves in an area of the exhibit hall they can't appreciate? The experience is truly what you make it, as far as your inner child will allow. At this point in its career, Comic Con doesn't need to know you. You need to know Comic Con . . . and yourself.

* Other karaoke sketches can be found here, and other Comic Con pics have been posted here!

My Man-Crushes 2009: Gordon Ramsey

2009-07-29T21:47:00.000-07:00

This month’s new season premiere of Hell’s Kitchen assures that Gordon Ramsey will have a place on my man-crush roll call for a long time. Perhaps the singular celebrity that actually inspired me to start such a list, Gordon has both embraced and demolished the American reality show’s obligatory British judge chair and reflects the compassion and conviction of a consummate professional. Indeed, he represents the epitome of the American working spirit in a way that should inspire any man, like so . . .

Contemporary Influence: Like I said, a new season of Hell’s Kitchen has begun just this month, putting Ramsey’s sour puss in American homes around the country once a week. Further, the contestants’ grand prize in every Hell’s Kitchen contest is a head chef position at some new prestigious restaurant -- which can only help the economy, making Ramsey himself relevant during these trying times. Of course, that his show adapts a reality game show format plays to everything successful on television nowadays, though Gordon’s gruff demeanor pits the contestants more at odds with him than at each other . . . but I’ll talk about that later.

A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: Any prime time television show about cooking is bound to attract the attention of the average American housewife. That isn’t a sexist statement; it’s what a network like Fox is counting on. Further, Ramsey’s confidence in the kitchen elevates the foul-mouthed Brit implies a smoldering sexuality, as it’s indicative of life lead by passion. That he calls the female contestants in Hell’s Kitchen “dumb cows” isn’t the point; that the women have a chance to beat a team of men is. If the women decide to devolve into helpless drama queens, well . . . that’s utterly disappointing. What better pet name would they deserve?

Global Significance: I started watching Hell’s Kitchen in the first place because it represented a necessary aspect of life, food preparation and presentation. Singing, dancing, dating, and the other practices that consume reality television are not necessities for living. Eating is. So, that Gordon has come from across the pond to teach us hapless Americans how to cook properly is essential, and that a component of his instruction includes successful business management is practically historical. Huh? Oh, yes, think about it; other British reality show judges usually critique without any contextual standard for their own expertise. Yet Ramsey drives contestants to be better than him, sometimes to the point of rebellion, just as our American forefathers decided to do.

So, I dare say, when you watch Hell’s Kitchen every Tuesday night on Fox (or, like me, on Wednesday nights once Fox.com has posted the episode on-line), Gordon Ramsey is holding up a mirror to America, reminding us of our entrepreneurial roots. He isn’t just feeding our bellies, but our egos, too, if we let him. You don’t have to boast a passion for cooking to strive for excellence in the field of your choice, and Ramsey’s message is based on simply taking that chance -- even if it’s a chance in Hell.

The Inner Child's Outer Limits -- Another Comic Con Retrospective, part 1

2009-07-26T12:52:00.000-07:00

"I'm getting too old for this $#!+." -- Danny Glover, Lethal Weapon

The irony that this year's San Diego Comic Con Preview Night was on Danny Glover's birthday isn't lost on me, as my first impression of "nerd prom" reflected his famous lament from Lethal Weapon. I've attended Comic Con for ten years now, a solid fourth of its celebratory 40 years, and my experiences as both an exhibitor and an attendee have varied as much as the event's now infamously costumed crowd. In the past decade, I've felt a virtual euphoria at the chance to contribute to the industry via my own self-published comics, and I've been honored to meet or behold some my favorite talents in comics. At the same time, I've felt overwhelmed by the crowds and financial drain of it all, and I've especially been burned by an exclusive product's limited availability. My overall perspective isn't either optimistic or pessimistic but simply realistic in the face of diverse experiences.

This year, I was excited to once again attend Comic Con with my old friend Booth (and, no, I am not his "Bones"), who is equally enthusiastic for pop culture and flexible to this event's hustle and bustle, so managing transportation and the crowd in general was amiable enough. My objectives were twofold: (1.) As a fan, I hoped to fill in some gaps in my collection, since I just recently archived my comics into a simple text format readable in my easily portable mp3 player. Further, as a lifelong He-Man fan, I really wanted Mattel's Masters of the Universe art book, limited to 1000 units. (2.) As a hopeful professional, I sought to promote KaraokeFanboy Press via a Karaoke Comics sampler and further observe other small press and secondary publishers in action as I gear up for October's Alternative Press Expo in San Francisco. With Booth's cooperation, I thought these goals easy to meet -- but as any Con attendee that has accidentally bumped into a Klingon in the men's room knows, Comic Con is full of surprises!

Twilight of the Fangirls

I purchased my four day pass mere hours before Comic Con sold out on-line, but since Booth wasn't fast enough and had to purchase each day individually, he was denied the "privilege" of Preview Night. As we approached the convention center for the first time to determine how to pick up our badges, we were shocked by a long line of tents already formed outside, and I feared this was the registration line we sought. When we noticed all of the campers were girls, I predicted what they were actually waiting for and found myself correct when I asked.

"Twilight!" a fangirl tirelessly replied.

Indeed, the legendary Hall H, now reserved for previews and premieres from movie production companies like Warner Brothers and Paramount Pictures, was the victim of 'tweens longing for vampire love, and correspondingly I feared this trend would suck the life from the Con itself. I wonder, since passes were sold out months for months, yet the program was only posted a few weeks ago, how did these teenyboppers know to lay in wait for Twilight? Was it simply assumed that such a mainstream supernatural property would be a part of Comic Con? It isn't a comics-based property . . . So while the Twilight panel's high appeal actually eased congestion in the exhibit hall for browsing fanboys like me, what it represents surely reflects the long-standing debate about Comic Con's identity -- namely, that it isn't so much a comic convention anymore, but a pop culture con. The comics industry may be the life's blood that birthed it, but movies, television, and video games have become the muscles that make it move. How long can such an entity exist before it becomes too gluttonous, bloated, and eventually too congested to have a heart?

Matty 20:16

Okay, I really wanted the Masters of the Universe art book. I've been a He-Man since early childhood, and as recently as last year's Comic Con I wondered what had become of the original paintings produced to adorn those memorable toys' packaging, so this compilation of character designs and production art was a dream come true. Fifty bucks? Only one thousand units available? I usually don't indulge in these extravagantly priced exclusives, but this is He-Man -- obviously the most powerful man in Mattel's marketable universe. My K.O. Comix partner in crime Brent and I found our way into the rear entrance of the exhibit hall as soon as the doors were opened for Preview Night, and anticipating the crowd I rushed to Mattel's new retail-only booth -- only to find the line cut off a mere eight minutes into the evening. Daunted, I knew they had divided the inventory 50/50 between Preview Night and Thursday, so I vowed to be ahead of the crowd the next morning.

By ahead of the crowd, I mean Booth and I arrived at the convention center at 5:30 a.m. He waited in the registration line to pick up his daily badge, and I waited in the pass holders' line, which by 7:30 a.m. was gradually herded inside and divided into smaller groups. I found myself upstairs near the registration and freebie tables -- where, around 8:45 a.m., Booth was stationed just a few rows behind me. Somehow, despite my presumed prevalence and undeniable patience as a four-day pass holder, my line had merged with the folks just fluidly arriving, and I assume a similar phenomenon was happening all over the Con. When the doors opened, I knew where to go . . . but again, less than eight minutes after my feet touched the exhibit hall floor, I was too late. The line was cut off, and I already saw folks dragging totes full of product, in some cases the maximum they could purchase of each item, to their cars and inevitably to their eBay stores.

Frustrated, I resorted to drastic action and befriended a young couple in line to buy the book for me. I feared judgment, that I'd be perceived like one of those products pirates that I hate, but when they determined that I was a true He-Man fan, they readily agreed. Thankfully, they were quite pleasant people with similar interests in comics and toys, so I was pleased to find some men- and women-in-arms against the race against monopolizing merchants. I don't know about the mythology on He-Man's planet Eternia, but on Earth the Bible claims, "So the last will be first, and the first will be last" (Matthew 20:16, New International Version). In this case, I didn't have the power and had to put it in others' hands -- but the quest proved to be a good journey in the end.

Cover Me, He-Man

As I previously posted, I was delighted to see the back of my head immortalized on one of my favorite websites, Action Figure Insider, because I sat in front of "Unemployed Skeletor" (pictured above by Booth in his full glory, or lack thereof) at a Mattel panel. Further, the Masters of the Universe secured another oddly personal (or personally odd?) Con moment, when I found an original, mint-in-package He-Man tablecloth -- the same from a beloved picture of my fifth birthday! I purchased the memorabilia for a mere dollar, yet it contributes to a priceless memory, so how could I possibly pass it up?

Thankfully, finding this gem in a comparatively quiet Con moment assures me that Comic Con as an event can still be special to its core, comics-oriented fan base. These moments may be harder to come by, but they're there, like the single back issue buried amidst long boxes that just might complete your collection. You really just need to know where to look -- and usually it isn't much further than where you left your inner child in the first place. Perhaps it isn't that I'm getting too old, but that everything that little kid in me ever loved is finally in one place, once a year at one time, and the guidance he needs forces me to grow up a little bit. Indeed, at Comic Con, my inner child doesn't know where to start . . . or if he should wish it to ever end . . .

Next: The pros of the Con!

Uh . . . not that kind of pro . . .!

Staying Ahead in the Eternian Economy

2009-07-26T12:48:00.000-07:00

The back of my head was immortalized on one of my favorite websites, Action Figure Insider, while sitting in front of "Umemployed Skeletor" in Mattel's action figure panel at Comic Con.

Taking an About Face -- book

2009-07-21T16:12:00.001-07:00

Something strange recently happened to me.

I was beckoned into a stark white room. I don't remember who beckoned me, and in fact I may have heard several voices in legion calling out to me, but I admit walking into the room of my own volition. I remember that much. I wasn't alone in the room very long; I was soon surrounded by a variety of friends, some still in my life today, others I haven't seen in several years. I could hear them, too, but they weren't talking to me. They weren't talking to anybody, but everybody. Some of them even talked about me, like I wasn't in the room, and I responded . . . to no avail. Soon, people I didn't know entered and sought me, not in flesh but in spirit, again talking about me as if I weren't there. I wondered, how did I come to once feel so welcomed, now to feel like a virtual stranger in my own skin?

Then, it struck me. There are two kinds of gatherings like this, like where friends of all walks of life and even some strangers gather in your honor and talk to the ether. One is your funeral.

The other is Facebook.

Yes, I tried Facebook for about three hours. Nearly all of the friends I care about now contacted me within that short period of time, but shortly thereafter some people I didn't know or remember began to "friend" me, too, and my inbox was overwhelmed with unsolicited requests and updates that convinced me one more on-line forum simply wasn't worth it. Friends, if I don't already know where you are or what you're doing, I'll find out via e-mail, text, or telephone. Everyone else, if I'm not talking to you now, I'm probably not interested -- but it doesn't hurt to ask with a content-based e-mail. If we were friends in some capacity before, you need not request the status again now. Let's just pick up where we left off, okay?

Otherwise, I feel you're talking about me like I'm not in the same room with you, as if, "Aw, I really wish I was his friend." Further, if you're not making an effort to read my blogs now, why would you want to read my writing on your wall anyway? It's a reactive, almost retrospective relationship. Like a eulogy. Like a funeral.

In the meantime, summertime has always been blogging time for me, and I've created a new forum for my solo, self-publishing efforts: KaraokeFanboy Press. Just in time for Comic Con (and eventually, APE), I have begun to extract conversation about my printed efforts from here and will now discuss and promote them there -- so check it out for the latest on Karaoke Comics, my 2009 Poetry Zine Series, the Far and Wee fanzine, and more. This blog shall remain my ongoing commentary on comics, coffee, and celebrity -- you know, the three c's of significant living -- while I've finally recently updated my LiveJournal with some more personal allegory, too.

This is where you can turn and face me on the Internet -- if you dare.

McCute

2009-07-14T13:49:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, 711 gave away free 7 oz. Slurpees. Every Monday for the next few weeks, McDonalds will give away free 7 oz. mochas. Quenching my thirst has never been so cute.

My Man-Crushes 2009, Prelude Addendum: Michael Jackson, the King of Pop

2009-07-08T14:15:00.000-07:00

I should be clear that the qualities I look for in a man-crush -- contemporary influence, a practical understanding of the opposite sex, and global significance -- must be modeled in a positive way, lest the man not crush me but himself under the weight of his own self-inflation. Just as I took advantage of the recent passing of Billy Mays to illustrate these traits productively, I've decided to process the worldwide media frenzy over Michael Jackson's death as an example in contrast. Otherwise, the news' nonstop coverage of the King of Pop's passing might just pop a vein in forehead.

Michael Jackson is the consummate example of contemporary influence, from his role as lead singer for the first real boy band to the controversy surrounding his supposed love of little boys -- in other words, if he isn't topping the charts, he's topping the headlines. However, I won't indulge in easy jabs about his social awkwardness; frankly, it's too easy, and despite all else, when someone, anyone, dies, a family hurts, and that isn't funny. Therein lies the tragedy of his falling short of man-crush status: while some celebrities can separate their personal and professional lives, or while some are able to distinguish their personal failings from their professional accomplishments, Michael insisted that his two lives had no line between them. The same benevolence he demonstrated in songs like We Are the World and Man in the Mirror is the very justification he expressed for his inappropriate behavior with children, his unhealthy appreciation for youth. Yes, he didn't have a regular childhood; yet, a man can enjoy childlike delights without dragging children into it! Again, this is why I won't make the usual Wacko Jacko jokes -- like a child, he's too vulnerable a target.

This detachment from adulthood jades Michael's practical understanding of the opposite sex, too. Oh, and Michael did have an understanding of women, especially in his early career, with songs like Billy Jean and Can't Stop 'Til You Get Enough implying the reckless playboy lifestyle one might expect from a budding pop star. Come on, any man with that kind of stage presence and body control is bound to attract some bedroom eyes -- but the most controversy that ever surrounded Jackson's bedroom involved milk and cookies, for those that remember his infamous interview with Martin Bashir. So, like the stunted child the King of Pop might've been, his romantic platitudes were as empty as a real child's would be, with little real experience to back up his claims or views of women.

Interlude: A Jacko defender may be quick to point out the star's two marriages, and I, too, will point them out here as a contrary footnote to my point, but not to discuss his potential as a man-crush. Rather, Jackson's marriages to Debbie Rowe and Lisa Marie Presley were obviously less about love and more about Michael's self-interests, the former in having children, the latter in attaining an elite status of celebrity. Think about it -- not only did Michael Jackson quickly become the King of Pop, but in that term he married the King's daughter and owned a part of the Beatles' catalog. Financial woes aside, will any star ever have that kind of influence in their industry again?

Global significance? Need I even explain? First of all, Jackson told us, we are the world. Further, his funeral was beheld but a speculated billion people worldwide. I had no idea Michael Jackson was that worthy, so I can't even grasp who else will be so globally mourned. The Pope? By Catholics, maybe, but that's a very specific sect of people. President Obama? His politics and decidedly racial significance in history simply cannot make his passing, either suddenly tragic or naturally inevitable, as universally grief-worthy as we'd like to think. No, only the arts could have this kind of humanity-wide influence, and obviously music in particular. Further, while much ado has been made of Jackson's extravagant funeral, I'll go on record in saying it was necessary if only in proceedings (not specifically in its monetary indulgence), as reps from every realm of social influence were present: politics, athletics, religion, the arts, and within the media of the arts, music, film, dance, and technology. Truly Michael Jackson was a part of no more globally significant event than his own memorial.

Yet, the controversy about its funding taints that ceremony and makes me wonder, if Jacko was such a saint, would he have wanted such a circus wrought in his memory? Wouldn't the money spent on security, facility, and logistics have been better served in the war hospitals and orphanages Michael supposedly frequently toured? That Michael's global image included even the inclination that he would've approved of these festivities instead makes him significant, but in every way that's wrong. Let's start with the man in the mirror, indeed.

The onslaught of controversy has now coughed its way into yet another week, as sister LaToya speculates that Michael's death was the result of foul play, maybe even murder. This is the final dividing line between a man like Billy Mays' potential as a man-crush, versus Michael Jackson. The Pitchman died with a bit of humility and, much like his products, was free of mess. The King of Pop's untimely death is as mysterious as his life -- a phenomenon his family are content to perpetuate for their own ends. Forget about a crush; they're going to beat it . . . to death all over again.

My Man-Crushes 2009, Prelude: Billy Mays, the Pitchman

2009-07-07T14:02:00.000-07:00

A few summers ago, I dared list “my man-crushes” (click to read parts one and two), a term I shudder to use, as it perpetuates the slow but steady erosion of masculinity in America. However, in this case, some men are such consummate examples of this brand of gravitas that I don’t mind bending my own self-image in homage to them. This summer, I sought to revise the list through thorough installments -- these guys are my Argentine soul mate or anything, but for me a breath of fresh air against this summer’s pop culture pessimism.

So, while I brainstormed who would remain on the list, who would be removed, and with whom they’d be replaced, Billy Mays came to mind. Now that he has so unexpectedly passed away, I’m aghast at the thought of my new man-crush list becoming an ill omen for its subjects. Of course, that’s not going to stop me from making it -- but know that the concern exists.

Now, while I dare not include Mays posthumously, I will use him as the comprehensive example of what qualifies as a “man-crush” to me, establishing the categories by which future candidates will be judged and honoring his enduring memory at the same time. Also, I should quickly mention that I will only allow myself seven man-crushes at any given time (the perfect number), and that all man-crushes must maintain the characteristics I describe, lest they loose their place on my list. These characteristics are:

1. Contemporary Influence: Anybody that stays up past midnight will understand that Billy Mays is as much a fixture on late night television as is the end table you fixed with Mighty Putty in your living room. However, the urgent necessity of his products transcended afterhours and made him a household name via daytime commercials and his reality show, The Pitchmen. Mays perfectly epitomizes the consummate man-crush’s requirement to remain currently relevant; his products systematically solve life’s greatest problems! First, Oxyclean promised to keep the house clean, then Hercules Hooks assured that anything can be hung in said clean house, and so on. Who knows, if Mays were still us, he may have wrought world peace with an intangible adhesive that binds one to his fellow man . . . and if we acted fast enough, we’d have received that halogen reading lamp at no extra cost.

2. A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: The key word in this requirement is “practical.” My man-crushes model how to fulfill a woman’s basic needs -- and without hyperbole. He doesn’t need a list of rules or the ambiguity of contemporary pop psycho-babble, like claiming men are from Mars, to make a woman happy. Again, consider Billy Mays. His products wipe up spills. Fix broken coffee mugs. In other words, the banes of every housewife’s existence. Billy found a way to defeat these persistent demons effortlessly -- giving women competence in the problem-solving role many relationship experts mindlessly assign to men. In their compartmentalization of the genders, these “experts” actually depowered women. Now, thanks to Billy Mays, a woman can open her own pickle jar. You’re welcome.

3. Global Significance: Everyone has heard the old saying, “Think globally, act locally.” Billy Mays personified this mantra perfectly. First of all, he acted as locally as his very own kitchen (or, at least, a set that simulated it) -- but I’m not even talking about the necessity of his problem-solving products. No, Billy represented a self confidence more piercing and powerful than any Hercules Hook. He embodied an ability to believe in something and share it with conviction , with clear and concise language. His recent interview on The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien reveals the intent behind his volume, as he insisted that he wasn’t yelling, but merely projecting -- a lesson many of us should learn. Also, in many of his commercials, Billy wasn’t obscured by a workbench or kitchen island, unless in the instance of a demonstration. Instead, Mays’ blue-collared-shirt-tucked-into-his-belted-khaki-pants-covered torso was unencumbered and in fact coming toward you, hands beckoning outward in an invitation of domestic satisfaction. “Billy Mays here,” he always introduced, as if selling himself first was critical to the selling of his product. He was right.

These three simple categories are the standards by which I’ll hold my man-crushes from now on, and as I eluded, I will replace candidates if they fail to deliver in comparison to another up-‘n-comer. While I shun the term “man-crush” by name, I embrace the concept, as nothing defines real masculinity as the desire to learn from one’s fellow man -- the hope that those held in esteem offer something to the greater good of this global village we live in. Remember, thanks to the Internet and reality television, anybody can be manufactured into a plain old celebrity nowadays . . . and, thankfully, it takes a man’s man to crush these delicate sensibilities.

The Classroom and Comics vs. the Red Pen of Time

2009-06-10T20:59:00.001-07:00

Teachers and superheroes have plenty in common. Their target audience is children, they're both generally altruistic, and, as much as they'd like to work alone, they both usually suffer from the obligations of unions. Just try to convince me Batman isn't paying his dues when he's relegated to Justice League monitor duty. Seriously, teachers and superheroes also share the privilege of having taught me the transcendent, subjective nature of time, a realization I've had recently as the summer of '09 draws ever closer. Allow me to explain.

A few days ago, I heard a teacher describe June as "the end of the year." She was quick to clarify, "Oh, I'm sorry, but I think of a year as September through June -- a school year. I've thought that way since I was five, I guess . . ." Since I've worked with children in an after school program since college graduation, I find myself conditioned to this mentality, too. Whereas most folks make new year's resolutions in January, the beginning of summertime often brings the most change to my life, personally and professionally. It's a generally holiday-free purgatory that only spotlights, under a blistering heat to boot, the importance a school year's structure provides children, which stays with us as adults whether we abide by the teachers' calendar or not. Alas, for most grown-ups, how much does an average work day differ from getting up and going to school as kids, really?

Superheroes are similarly subject to this transcendence of time, though not necessary through the framework of time itself. Consider characters like Superman, Batman, Spider-man, or the Hulk, who have entertained readers for decades. How many different writers and artists have consequentially interpreted or directed the hero differently, developing the character in a way that clearly defines their "era" apart from the others? Peter David's run on The Incredible Hulk taught me this lesson most clearly, as he transformed the gray goliath from a desert-rampaging behemoth to a Las Vegas bouncer, then from the fragmented personality of a tormented child to the combination of these personas that amounted to Bruce Banner's brain in the green Hulk's body. These phases were so clearly defined with their respective supporting casts that I often think of my own life this way, with a rotating roster of acquaintances, so goes the way of life.

A coworker recently emphasized this point by musing about his ever-changing circle of friends. "I had high school friends, then I had college friends, now I have work friends. I don't see the high school and college friends anymore; they don't fit in my life right now." Indeed -- Superman has his Smallville friends, and his Metropolis friends, and unless it's in the context of an hour-long CW drama targeting emo 'tweens, these cliques rarely meet. At one time (my favorite of the Batman eras), the "Batman family" included Robin, Nightwing, Alfred, Leslie Thompkins, Harold the techno-savant, and Ace the Bat-hound. Then came that darn cataclysmic earthquake in Gotham City . . .

There's the rub. For every impression made by a comic book creative team, another comes along to redirect the hero in their own image, with their own agenda -- just as, every September, a teacher engages a new set of students and has the challenge of establishing a life-altering impression all their own, on top of whatever has come before. The parallel is actually quite striking, and brings my argument full circle.

What's the point? Is this train of thought merely more evidence of my inner child's sovereignty in my life? Perhaps -- but it also toughens the kid, teaching him the lesson of adaptability. If the teachers I've so admired in life can essentially move on every nine months -- if even the heroes that can boast the stability of decades' of popularity can experience "eras" in their own right -- so too should everyone. Ah, there's the difference: teachers, and my peers in after school programs, have chosen this crazy, out-of-synch life. Superheroes are merely the whim of fictional and marketing trends and, for all their universal appeal, cannot help but fall victim to the red pen of time. That both teachers and superheroes cater to children is no coincidence, then, because it's in those formative that one makes the decision: Will I perceive the transcendent, subjective nature of time as an enemy, or the lesson always worth learning?

The First Karaoke Comics Review Is In!

2009-05-26T13:35:00.000-07:00

Storming the Tower graciously took the time to review my complimentary copy of Karaoke Comics #1, and her criticism is constructive and well articulated. Check it out here!

If YOU review comics on-line and would like an advance copy of my first solo self-publishing effort, drop me a line. I'm looking for some comprehensive feedback, and I wouldn't mind a quote or two of praise for the back cover . . .!

Check out a three-page preview of Karaoke Comics #1 at my ComicSpace.

Terminating Expectations: A Spoilerish Review of "Terminator: Salvation"

2009-05-22T10:55:00.000-07:00

Spoiler alert! Read this review at your own risk!

In my opinion, good science fiction establishes alternative takes on reality through dynamic storytelling and compelling character development. Great science fiction uses this alternative reality to make a socially relevant point about this reality. In both cases, the fantastic elements that make the story truly "science fiction" are merely a backseat driver, so quickly and well established that we the audience are drawn into these worlds through the eyes of its heroes (or villains) without the need for elaborate explanation. By this standard, Terminator: Salvation has condemned itself . . . and has no where to go if it wants to live.

To offer some context, consider my favorite film of last summer's blockbuster cavalcade, Iron Man. In the Marvel universe, a little nuclear reactor can substitute a pacemaker, and heroes and villains alike can seemingly effortlessly build cybernetic interactive suits of armor. Yet, these details take a backseat to Tony Stark's convictions about his industry, and his development from callous billionaire inventor to bleeding heart international hero. The blend of action, special effects, romance, and humor made the flick a great summer event; the social relevance of the story and its character growth made it a great story. This year, Star Trek accomplished the same thing -- which is what creator Gene Roddenberry intended with his proverbial "wagon train to the stars" anyway. Captain Kirk is a fantastical cosmic hero, but this year's reboot reminds us that he's an Iowa farm boy first -- that even an extravagant, special effects-ridden star trek begins with the very grounded, human need to "do better."

So, you might understand my expectations of Terminator: Salvation. First of all, the title implies a spiritual journey, which makes sense considering the franchise's comprehensive themes of destiny and purpose. Indeed, in a world where humanity-hating robots travel back in time to destroy civilization, the potential for spiritual allegory is endless -- and while the whole world hangs in the balance against SkyNet's wrath, Terminator has always been about one kid, John Connor, and his singular ability to embrace his potential and save mankind. This is why I loved Fox's Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles and was particularly excited with its last season's finale, when John jumped into the future, skipping over the events of Judgment Day that make him a hero, and could no longer depend on his name to save the day. As the series had promised, we were going to see how John goes from long-haired, flannel-wearing punk-o'-the-'90s to militant, optimistic revolutionary. Then, the show was cancelled. Then, this film's title took on new life. Could it save the Terminator franchise?

Hasta la vista, baby. Terminator as you knew it is over. Remember the introduction to Terminator 2, when the cyborg crushes the human skull against the dark backdrop of a SkyNet-conquered future? So cool, right? In Salvation, the best action sequences take place in the light of day, sans any sign of polluted, machine-driven conquest. Sure, cities are decimated into ghost towns and deserts, but the future John's mother warned us about was one part this Mad Max illusion, one part The Matrix cybernetic sprawl. Of course, all of this sunlight exposes that the science fiction is meant to take center stage, and that the three characters' respective plights -- Connor, his young father Kyle Reese, and newcomer/Cyberdine prototype Marcus Wright -- are so distilled between them that none of them crystallizes to fulfill a true sense of "salvation" for anyone.

When I write reviews like this, I try to keep things conceptual and not stray into the Comic Book Guy tendency to expose plot holes, but Terminator: Salvation has a big one I can't overcome. When the Resistance discovers a frequency that halts machines in their tracks, Connor and Malcom infiltrate SkyNet to rescue its human guinea pigs (Kyle Reese included) and discover the frequency was a red herring planted by the machines to draw them out. Then, Connor finds the nuclear batteries that power the Terminator robots and realizes he could easily blow up the whole compound. Now, didn't John already know about these nuclear power sources? Why doesn't the Resistance simply bomb all of these factories assured that the nuclear power within will decimate everything? "Salvation" can be achieved within days! I don't get it.

Finally, I had a few expectations of the plot itself and was sorely disappointed when they didn't come to pass. I blame X-Men Origins: Wolverine for this optimism; when I saw a young Cyclops in the commercials for Wolverine, I hoped that the two heroes would work together without actually meeting (to maintain the continuity of the franchise), and that Scott would at least get pointed in Professor X's direction in the end. Charles' cameo was a fanboy delight -- so, in Terminator: Salvation, amidst rumors of an appearance by the Governator himself, I'd hoped to see Arnold's character sent back in time for the first film, or perhaps Kyle Reese sent back at John's behest, contributing to his own conception. This would've given Salvation a sense of purpose outside of itself, with a cyclical effect that could've ended the film series or prepared it for a new direction. Yet, while rescuing his father is initially self-serving on John's part, that Kyle's untimely death would change everything about Terminator as we know it was barely explored -- and time travel actually never happened in the film, at all. This is like Iron Man without repulsor rays, or Star Trek without beaming up. It's a critical part of this alternative world we've been forced to accept, and if the infrastructure of this reality is so in our face, why not exploit its every angle?

Interestingly, I think Terminator: Salvation did foretell a dark future, and I'm not looking forward to it. First of all, the Robert Downey, Jr.-fueled Sherlock Holmes trailer that preceded the film promised the demise of another favorite franchise, in this case before it even begins. Also, amidst rumors of more Ghostbusters and He-Man films, I'm afraid the action-first, story-later standard will become the norm for summer blockbusters. Indeed, despite appearing in two movies and two seasons' worth of television, for all of that potential training, John Connor's greatest weapon in this, his ultimate act, was his name. "I'm John Connor." He says it so many times, I wonder who he's trying to convince, and in the same way, upcoming movies like Holmes or He-Man may reflect their heroes by name only. The more these films terminate these contemporary myths into mere special effects resumes for production companies, the more I'll feel compelled to tell my local theater, "I won't be back."

A Mad Break: Saying So Long to Two TV Faves

2009-05-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

This weekend brought the series finales to two of my favorite television shows: Prison Break and MadTV. Although I've watched both shows infrequently lately, I've been a fan and have seen most episodes of each series, so I made sure to catch these last ones, (1.) for that necessary sense of closure and (2.) to see if my faithfulness would be rewarded with a satisfactory resolution. Though both shows are vastly different in genre and format, they delivered the best they could considering the circumstances. Indulge me an analysis of each.

Prison Break

"A brother's love . . . is a brother's love." -- Detective Roland Castlebeck (portrayed by Delroy Lindo) in Gone in Sixty Seconds

I confess, I didn't watch Prison Break's hasty return to television last month. Fox didn't hesitate to advertise the last half of this season as "the final episodes," so, if the network barely cared about the series, why should I? Still, four years later, I just had to see if/how the brothers Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows survived their run from the law (though the show's plot couldn't take place for a period of time more than just several months). To summarize the series' twists into a single, comprehensive synopsis, near as I can tell (spoiler alert): Lincoln was framed for the murder of the Vice President's brother so Michael would develop the prison break skills and a secret society led by their mother could plant him in a Panama prison to break out the man capable of delivering Scylla, a hard drive with data about global infrastructure. In the end, Michael protects Scylla from his mother and the Company, another shadow group with evil intentions, and he eventually cuts a deal with the United Nations in exchange for his comrades' freedom.

Trust me, the four seasons' worth of television was much more interesting than that synopsis. Fortunately, I was less interested in the perpetual mystery and more in the development of the characters, specifically Scofield and Burrows, who, as this finale explains, symbolize the concept of nature versus nurture. While Lincoln lived a criminal life (he wasn't hard to frame), Michael overcame their neglected childhood to become a successful architect. Further, these characters could've been the Hardy Boys for a new generation, as Frank was definitively the brains and Joe the brawn -- except in Prison Break, their mystery was too self-oriented. Indeed, with a title like Prison Break, even when the show didn't take place in a prison, it focused on issues of both internally and externally exposed exile, escaping both circumstantial bonds and the constrictions of one's own perceptions and personality. If you're branded a criminal, are you forced to live that life, even if you were originally innocent? Ironically, even an innocent man on the run is guilty of being a fugitive! As this show's bittersweet final moments prove, some things in life simply can't be outrun.

MadTV

What, me canceled?

I've said it before and I'll say it again: MadTV is better than Saturday Night Live. I use the present tense because many of MadTV's sketches retain a timeless comedy that should experience success via the likes of YouTube and Hulu or years to come. The secret to this success is simple: MadTV always put comedy first. SNL has frequently struggled with relevance and casting, and when either has suffered, the show has, as well; MadTV has been consistent in its content and delivery from day one. While many comic book fans don't consider MadTV a traditional page-to-screen adaptation, its goofy satire reflects what the magazine has done for decades. Unlike SNL, it never took itself too seriously to think it could make a difference on any social or political landscape, and it only sought to remain relevant in the realm of comedy, by offering memorable characters like Stewart, or by making celebrities like Kenny Rogers so exaggerated they might as well be as made up.

Consider the recent Presidential election. In their skits about Sarah Palin, SNL gave us a barely costumed Tina Fey simply reiterating the candidate's verbal pratfalls verbatim, as if giving America a chance to laugh at it again is genuinely clever or original. I actually blogged about this before, when I wrote, " . . . 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."

I'll especially miss Bobby Lee's characters: the Asian interpreter and his catchphrase, "Uh oh, hot dog," or Tank, or most recently Johnny Gan. For fourteen years, MadTV made Saturday night a night worth staying home -- and I couldn't help but take its mock charity fundraiser season finale a little emotionally. That's right -- I took it hard, and sloppy.

Like I said at the top, these final episodes did the best they could with what had been established, surprisingly faithful to longtime viewers with imagery and callbacks to first season standards. I was wondering why I felt like something was lacking after each finale, but I realize now -- it's not that the episode was missing something. It's that, now my life will be . . . not that I won't be looking for a substitute, though. Indeed, television is the prison from which we can never escape.

Vs. Current Events #4: Star Trump!

2009-05-13T10:14:00.000-07:00

I'm still working on saving the file in a way that makes the shading and the lettering look as good as they do in the original Publisher document; .jpg files pixelize the lettering, and .gif files muddy up the shading. I'm not a tech guy. Any suggestions? More commentary coming soon. Hopefully the comic speaks for itself.

Poetry Superhighway

2009-05-07T15:59:00.000-07:00

I'm one of two featured poets on the website Poetry Superhighway this week. The poems I submitted have already been posted here, but click the link to see them in a different format! Yay!

KaraokeFanboy Weekly

2009-05-05T18:16:00.001-07:00

I've scoured the OC Weekly for over a decade looking for local, inexpensive events to attend . . . and now I'm one of them! Check out this screen cap from their website!

ADDENDUM: Click on the "Featuring my Feature" link to the right to read my synopsis of the event. In short -- I'm still my biggest fan.

My Poetry Feature Cometh

2009-05-02T15:46:00.000-07:00

Fred-at-Arms

2009-04-23T20:16:00.001-07:00

A year ago, my boss broke his shoulder, so I drew this comic to celebrate the anniversary of his recovery.

Shelf Porn

2009-04-15T13:10:00.001-07:00

My hostile takeover of the Internet continues, with my collection featured on Robot 6's latest edition of "Shelf Porn." Check it out, if you dare.