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.

A New Day at Midnight, A New Cat at Dusk

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?

Telling Tails Out of School

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.

Marching Orders

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.

A Tale of Two Cities

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

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.

KaraokeFanboy 202

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.

200 Posts Later: 100 Awesome Things About Arizornia!

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 Karaoke Chronicles: An Evening with Grace

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

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

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

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

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

"This room needs some rap," she concluded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

When Favorite Things Collide: A Barenaked Whisper

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

Reviving Halloween

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


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

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

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


From Stoudt's set-up.

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

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

Goin' APE

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



Barreling Down the Highway

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

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



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

What A Bummer

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

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

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



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

The Fresh Maker

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

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



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

Goin’ APE

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

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



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

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

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

The Karaoke Chronicles: Palm Springs Eternal

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.