The Day of Blond Bombshells

Yesterday was full of blond bombshells.

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

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



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

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

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.

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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.

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

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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.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immigrant Envy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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



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

The Inconvenient Truth

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

The Greatest Storytellers of Our Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forget the poets.

*****

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



*****

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



*****

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

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