Look and Learn Spanish Saturday

When I saw Dell Publishing's 1962 Look and Learn Spanish recently, I had to have it -- not because I really want to learn Spanish (though that might be a pleasant side effect), but because Aliki Brandenberg's little illustrations are the most charming slice-of-life instructions I've ever seen.  I just had to share them.

Here's a double dose to celebrate Groundhog Day, with images for winter and spring, just to cover our bases.  

That kid is really happy, considering her mom is carrying the dog through the snow.

Text copyright Francisco Ibarra.  Illustrations copyright Aliki Brandenberg. Look and Learn Spanish, Laurel Edition copyright Dell Publishing.

Webcomics Wednesday at Nerdvana

Here's the first page of the three page strip I posted on Nerdvana today, continuing the adventures of Zombie Santa.  Check out the rest of the strip here!

Thank You, April . . .

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.

The Karaoke Chronicles: Scaraoke at Kirk's

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!

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.

My Ugly Mug at the Ugly Mug

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

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

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?

Veterans' Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reviving Halloween

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


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

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

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


From Stoudt's set-up.

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

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

Happy Halloween!

A Bewitching Guide to Pumpkin Carving:


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


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


3. Carve along your perforated pumpkin design.


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

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

I See Halloween in Our Future

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



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



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

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

She replied, "Yes, sometimes I do!"

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

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

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



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

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

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 . . .

Of Being American: Idle

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inauguration Day

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

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

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

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

Five Flashlights for Christmas

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

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

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

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

"Keep it up."

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

Keep it up.

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

Keep it up.

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

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

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

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Russmas

In many ways, I am the most self-indulgent person I know. My apartment is a virtual museum of me -- sure, everybody's residence is a virtual museum of him, but if I could place every trinket and memento in a labeled glass case, like the Batcave or Superman's Fortress of Solitude, I would. Then I'd give tours. Until then . . . I have three active blogs, with another on the horizon. I draw myself . . . all the time. Really, if the general public was interested in a comic book starring me with a me sidekick fighting an evil version of me, I'd be a millionaire. Then, when Hollywood would decide to adapt my comic to film, I'd play as me. I'm familiar with the role.

Keep in mind, "self-indulgent" does not mean arrogant, or egotistic. Like I said, I'm familiar with the role of me, complete with its faults and shortcomings. I'm just very comfortable in my life, pleased with what I've accomplished, and confident that I have interesting things to offer society in general. With that established, since my birthday is three days before Christmas, some years ago I decided to dub the day "Russmas." This year, I've decided to celebrate the 29th anniversary of my birthday with a "12 Days of Russmas" karaoke marathon.

Remember. Not arrogant. Just indulgent.

Uhm, I made a flyer.



I began Russmas prematurely this evening at my favorite local poetry reading, where I shared three pieces: "Superheroes, Strippers, and Gangsters," "Papa's Sweaters," and "Shut Up and Drive." I was the last open reader/poet-before-the-feature of the year, which was an honor, and made me think about what I'd fill the usual twenty minutes with if I were ever the feature of the night. It wouldn't be hard to find an array of personal favorites, from pieces I've written to that which has influenced me, though it wouldn't all be poetry. Once these 12 Days of Russmas are complete, I'll strive for that goal by 2010. A pre-30-years-old bucket list item, if you will.

So, my Southern California tour has already begun. If I could sit in my own front row, I would.

Ghosts, Goblins, Gays, and Ghouls

November 2, 2008. 6:20 p.m., Pacific Standard Time. Halloween isn't over yet.

Nevermind that I still have a haunted house to tear down, or that the annual Simpsons "Treehouse of Horror" episode hasn't aired yet. These things would be enough to delay the official retirement of Halloween 2008, but something else looms on America's horizon, something more frightening than any ghost or goblin . . . Election Day. A friend of mine texted me a few days ago and asked if I thought the liberal media had prematurely declared their winner, and I didn't reply because the following day I listened to Limbaugh and Hannity in the radio, both of whom predicted a very different outcome than "the mainstream," so . . . It's more suspenseful than any horror movie. Though, to be specific, I feel like the kid in the corner of the room in The Blair Witch Project.* I know something terrible is going to happen, and I'm going to be a part of it, but . . . what?

In the meantime, citizens can assume some control over their more local circumstances. Propositions, we call them. Even as I sit here at Starbucks, fifty or more folks are protesting California's Prop 8, which means to amend the state's constitution and define marriage as a union between only a man and a woman. In short, it wants to eliminate "gay marriage." I've heard all sides of the pro-Prop 8 argument, from the corporate resistance to permitting same sex partners the insurance rights of a traditional spouse, to the standard religious arguments, but I can't buy either of them. I'm definitely voting no on Prop 8, for many reasons, the first and foremost of which is its discriminatory context. What business owners and the religious fail to realize is that once we decide to change the state constitution in a way that definitively excludes a certain group of people, they might be soon to follow as a potentially discriminated group. Like censorship, this sword is double-edged; even if you're the one swinging it, you still stand the risk of slicing yourself.

To the business owners, I would suggest that their fear about paying overwhelming, domestically defined insurance premiums is small change in comparison to how they might limit their potential employee pool with this rejection. Generally, married people are more stable and productive in the workplace, and I don't know how a "gay married" person would be any different. To the religious, my argument is more philosophical; frankly, by so publicly protesting Prop 8, they've given the homosexual community a bigger opportunity and platform to spread their word, too. In the case of wanting to abolish something, keeping it subversive is best, lest it attract more supporters. Folks that might have voted for Prop 8 for tradition's sake might have since reconsidered it as a civil rights issue and decided to vote it down. A more persuasive argument about the supposedly destructive nature of gay marriage is to let it pass; then, when the first gay couple divorces, religious zealots can proclaim, "See! We told you so! It just doesn't work!"

Of course, how many business owners have used the benefits of an insurance premium for their own ends? How many "religious" people (I'm avoiding the term "Christian" to be all-inclusive) have been divorced, defiling marriage's "sacred tradition?" There's that swinging sword again.

Homosexual themes have been pretty pervasive in my blogs lately. No, I'm not coming out, but I'm waking up to the reality that these people, men and women, are a vocal sect of our general American fabric, and they deserve a chance at life, liberty, and most specifically the pursuit of happiness as much as everyone else. Gay marriage won't lead to polygamy, or bestiality, or any of the other extreme hypotheticals I've heard. At the very worst, it will lead to either more families, or more divorce. Like this election at the Presidential level, it will lead to something different . . . that will seem somehow exactly the same. We're cornered, and it's scary.

* Speaking of Blair Witch, I reviewed the Oni Blair Witch comic book at A Comic A Day. Check it out!