KaraokeFanboy 3.0

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

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

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

Where it belongs.

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.

I See Halloween in Our Future

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



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



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

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

She replied, "Yes, sometimes I do!"

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

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

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



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

Of Being American: Idle

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



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



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

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



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

The Classroom and Comics vs. the Red Pen of Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

Current Events Round-up: Roll Me Another Role Model, Dude!

Shortly following the release of the now infamous photo that got Michael Phelps in hot water, a morning news show aired some man on the street interviews, and a middle-aged woman commented (to paraphrase), "I thought he was a role model just like any other athlete, but now I don't know . . .)

A role model -- like any other athlete? I'm assuming her generalization excludes the baseball and football steroid scandals, or the Kobe Bryant sexual assault case, or Mike Tyson's appetite for opponent's earlobes. Or O.J. Simpson, period. No, ma'm, athletes are not known for their reputations as role models. Their known for their obsession with image, or their shameless pursuits of self-indulgence, or their fierce competitive hunger. At least Phelps was only harming himself, and even that is a consistent topic of debate in society.

Christian Bale's uber-satirized tirade against the Director of Photography on the Terminator: Salvation set faces similar criticism; I've been following the comments on the MSN story, and many contributors have made the same claim, that Bale blew it as a role model. I've tried to be an advocate for kids against certain pop culture phenomena on more than one occasion, but in this case I don't think Bale's Bale-stic tantrum demands a Bale-out -- instead, I think parents finally need to evaluate who they dub "role model" more carefully.

Simply put, the more people we claim as "role models," the more we'll be disappointed. At this rate, anybody famous, from politics to sports, from music to film, qualifies -- so I'm not surprised our children are in a perpetual state of victimization and that America's parents boast a constant feeling of outrage. So, Phelps' successful worldwide representation of the United States means nothing in contrast to his private recreational use of marijuana? Bale's summer-long blockbuster box office status suffers when he flips out for a few minutes?

My buddy Brent summed it up quite nicely in an e-mail I hope he doesn't mind my quoting here: "[Bale] doesn't need to be a good person to be Batman. He doesn't need to be nice, or cool, or calm, or fun. As long as he's a good actor he can make me believe he's all those things while playing a character. That's all I need to know."

Remember when parents seized news stories like this to teach life lessons, instead of leap at the chance to claim offense? The lesson should be clear: "Now, Billy, sometimes even Batman gets mad. Nobody's perfect. What matters is that you try to be the best you can be at what you do, like Michael Phelps does, and when you make a mistake broadcast on the Internet someday, hope for the same kind of understanding we'll give them."

Then maybe you should add, "Because if you don't, Billy, we're through professionally! I mean it, we're done." Because America's enraged opinion that Bale's enraged opinion about a terrible work performance is a terrible work performance makes a lot of sense in the first place.

Keep It Up: An Anti-List for 2009 Compendium

I didn't know I knew the word "compendium" until now! Here's the compendium of my blog crossover series about the new year!

Home: using a little pop culture current event to explore the promise of a new year, which led to . . .
Damn Noisy Kids: analyzing a year's work with kids in a new after school program, which triggered . . .
A Comic A Day: remembering a year in comics and anticipating another in fanaticism, and finally . . .
LiveJournal: about doing my own creative thing this year, and tying it all together.

They read like poking a pin around a pincushion: it's the same point, from a little different angle every time.

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

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

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

"Keep it up."

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

Keep it up.

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

Keep it up.

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

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

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

An Inner Child's Manifesto: Things You Shouldn't Pass Out on Halloween

A few years ago, I posted a list of things folks should not pass out on Halloween. In these few rare, quiet minutes between shopping for candy and setting up our Haunted House at work, I'd like to re-post and add two more items to the list:

1. Apples. First of all, they're heavy, and they take up valuable bag space. I mean, the surface area of an apple is undoubtedly equivalent to two or three fun-sized Snickers. And I'm not trick or treating for my health. If you're gonna pass out apples, dip it in something sugary first, or at least stick a gummy worm in it. God.

2. Loose change. I'm not a bum. I don't want your money. I want your candy. I can find loose change in payphones and in gas station leave-a-penny trays. Plus, how can I toilet paper your yard later with loose change rattling around in my bag? Now you can hear me coming! That was your plan all along, wasn't it?

3. Religious literature. Of any kind. I don't care what you believe in. Halloween is about one thing: dressing up like restless spirits and devourers of human flesh to beg neighbors for candy. What's so spiritual about that? Actually, I have a solution. Chocolate Jesus. The best part is, one fun size Chocolate Jesus can feed 5000, with a few wrapper-fulls to spare. I just made that up.

4. School supplies. School started two months ago. If I couldn't afford a pencil then, don't you think that food would be more valuable to me now?

5. Candy substitutes. Granola bars aren't candy. Pretzels aren't candy. Potato chips aren't candy. Popcorn balls are good, but they're not candy. If its headline ingredients aren't sugar, chocolate, corn syrup, and partially hydrogenated vegetable, soybean, or palm kernel oil, it isn't candy.

Listen to you inner child. If he wouldn't want it, the kids in your neighborhood don't, either. If you don't listen, beware, because nothing is more frightening than a neighborhood full of unsatisfied children. Halloween would just be the beginning.

Karaokefanboy 101

Hello, my name is Russ, a.k.a. Karaokefanboy, and this is my blog's 101st post. What better way to commemorate that numeric accomplishment, and my feeble attempt to redefine my on-line identity, than by providing some "Karaokefanboy 101?" Though I've decided to allocate more personal writing to my LiveJournal, a concise autobiography seems equally appropriate for this forum, now more dedicated to creative writing and my brazen, often ignorant opinions of pop culture, religion, and politics. If this blog is unto an on-line zine, then consider this my "About the Author." The LiveJournal is . . . well, a journal -- a diary with a deliberately broken lock and spread open for anyone in the world-wide-web that cares.

So, how does one write an autobiography without sounding totally self-indulgent? I could easily recount a succinct chronology of the most important events of in my life, each of which would imply a milestone of philosophical and existential revelation, culminating in my general sense of what's right and wrong in life, but that would be too easy. Instead, I've decided to list these revelations outright, with a brief description of how I realized them. Thinking about them, I've discovered that listing them in order of significance actually reveals something of a chronology anyway, and in the case of the first and most important, a cyclical lifestyle or deeply ingrained modus operandi. Then again, perhaps assuming that these life lessons are so important that they must be listed and shared with the world is the most self-indulgent of all! I wouldn't have it any other way, either way.

So, without further ado, allow me to present the Autobiographical Philosophies of a Karaokefanboy!

1. Your inner child is and always should be the loudest voice in your head. Now, I could easily explain the obvious: I'm a huge geek that loves cartoons, comic books, and action figures, just as I did when I was a child, and further I believe everyone is a geek in that we're all secretly faithful to our childhood passions, i.e. sports, literature, music, movies, etc. "Geek" as we define it nowadays is more akin to "fanatic" than its classic carnival root (which, ironically, oft referred to a cape-wearing performer, hence the superhero connection -- Wikipedia it). Yes, by this standard, even "jocks" are really just "sports geeks." Get over it. ("Comic book jocks?" See, that just doesn't make any sense.)

Yet, I take this revelation a step further than the fact that my parents condoned and enabled my fanaticism for cartoons and comics, that they never had the yard sale everyone else's folks seemed to have where their treasured toys were peddled for pennies apiece. Even when we moved from my native Stratford, Connecticut to Peoria, Arizona, my Masters of the Universe and Super Powers action figures and my Monkees albums made it intact. (I did lose King Hiss's left snap-on arm, which totally blew his human disguise, but I digress.) No, I'm not talking about the props of a healthy childhood; I'm talking about the script.

Simply put, the emotions you experienced as a child, and the natural way you experienced them, are the best therapy for any seemingly adult trauma. Kids freakin' feel it, man. When they're happy, they dance; when they're pissed, they rant. The best part of the latter is, when it's over, it's over. Children don't suppress their rage, nor should they. Nor should anyone, ever, suppress any genuine feeling. "Regret" is born of suppressed love; "grudges" are born of suppressed anger. If emotions are allowed to live, breathe, and eventually die naturally, these grown-up words would become extinct. And, no, naysayers -- regret doesn't teach a valuable lesson. Love or desire fulfilled or denied does. See this little geek standing next to the He-Man birthday party table? He was never told not to make a wish when he blew out the cake's candles, yet he sometimes learned that those wishes don't come true. That never stopped him.



Where's the cyclical part come in? Well, I work with children now, in a nationally recognized after school/summer program. I actually have a whole blog about that (though currently dormant but intended for revival), but I mention it here to assert that my seemingly selfless career is a beloved, selfish reminder of this hard-learned life lesson -- a constant virtual portal to my own loud-mouthed inner child. I often tell the angry child that feeling mad isn't wrong; what they do with that anger betrays their intrinsic morality (which firmly establishes the "murder is wrong" clause in my "mad is okay" philosophy). Yes, nothing brings out my inner child more than being surrounded by them. Try it. Believe me, it'll make you want to go to your room -- your safe, New Kids on the Block-poster riddled room. If you were that kind of a geek, anyway.

2. Creative expression of any kind heals the soul. One of the defining days of my life was spent at the beige kitchen counter at our home in Stratford, when and where my father showed me show to properly sketch the human shape. Until then, I'd drawn He-Man as a square body with a circle head, apparently my dad had had enough; he modeled how to use the pencil lightly, to sketch the shapes before adding the details, and all of the stuff kids usually learn from those campy "How to Draw" books. Of course, it meant more coming from my father, and seeing the skills demonstrated live. I remember that afternoon as the definitive moment my feeble artistry began, and as the moment I realized I could create my own superhero adventures, like the ones I enjoyed in comics, on television, or even when I played with my Marvel Secret Wars action figures.

On another level, I don't quite remember the first time I heard the Monkees -- that's how long they've been a part of my life. (I do remember my mother buying me the Rhino Records "Then & Now" compilation album, the first record I ever consciously wanted!) Most importantly, the goofiness of their TV show, which reran on Nick at Nite and MTV, was overshadowed by the frequent "live" performances that followed every psychedelic misadventure, which instilled in me a natural desire to perform those songs myself. I remember using our staircase stoop as a stage and putting on concerts for my parents' friends -- my first karaoke performances, though I didn't realize it then. As far as I was concerned, those '60s pop tunes were poetry set to music, and it would've been a crime not to share them.

See the connection? As my appreciation for various media -- comics, television, and music -- developed, so did my desire to interact and contribute to them. In a very Jungian way, I think everybody shares this desire, from the random doodle whilst chatting on the phone to one's secret personal serenade in the car or the shower. Unfortunately, a certain shame in light of their beloved media's self-appointed perfection prevents many people from expressing themselves in public, from dragging their anthems from the car seat to the karaoke stage! "I could never sing as well as so-and-so," these people claim. "Oh, I don't know how to draw," others explain sheepishly. Since when does personal expression require talent? As the great Andy Kaufman believed, one's sense of entertainment often comes when the audience is perceived as the performers, exhibiting their natural reactions to whatever disturbing thing is unfolding before them. In other words, the tone deaf karaoke singer is as natural as the audience that winces to him, and both are perfectly synced to their inherent sense of self-expression.

Incidentally, when my family moved to Arizona and my parents divorced, the men that fulfilled a father figure role in my life all encouraged me to express myself creatively, from Mr. Burbridge's and Mr. Poslaiko's penchant for literary examination, to Mr. Martin's and Mr. Keene's mastery of public speech and the broadcast arts. Every time I learned something new at their proverbial knee, I was sitting with my father at the kitchen counter again, or shopping at the record store with my Davy Jones-lovin' mom. They all made me a believer . . . in myself.

This is getting pretty long, and I don't want to abbreviate my thoughts, so for your sake . . . to be continued . . .!

For Whom the Recess Bell Tolls

The yellow jumprope
shields her in a golden cocoon;
it slaps the blacktop with
a tribal beat
that inspires a tap
from even the most concrete feet.

Somewhere a child
willfully defies authority
and leaps from a swing
he's spent twenty whole Mississippis
pumping with his little legs,
higher and higher
his feet kicking the clouds,
the chains rattle behind him
when his hands let go.

In the dark shadows
of the handball court,
a shakedown:
thirty-two cents later
a bookworm crawls back
into the earth
and a bully feels about
four feet tall,
the strength of a giant.

For every child
on the basketball court
lost in the game
a dozen watch
from courtside
lost in the crowd;
wallflowers in training,
their roots in the shallow soil
of a shifting sandbox.

The longest line stretches
from the tetherball court
where every time he loses his turn
he's that much closer to learning
the lesson:
hit it just high enough
so your opponent can't reach,
but just low enough
to take another swing;
so victory becomes the old ball and chain
hanging from the top
like the new year's ball,
or a pendulum,
or a lynching.

Taking It to the Limit

Working with children is like stepping into an emotional time machine. When I behold a child experiencing something that they will undoubtedly remember for their entire lifetime, I’m virtually transported to a time from my youth when I felt the same way. It’s like when the smell of a Christmas tree takes you back to every other memorable Christmas before. Last night was one such instance, and while I was reminded of similar experiences from my own childhood, I know that last night will also join them in the category of Critical Events I Will Remember Forever.

It started exactly one week ago, as my coworkers and I planned our annual formal recognition awards ceremony, at which core members of our after school programs receive accolades for their participation and achievements. Each branch of our program has a top tier award, with three nominees vying for the spot, though we insist that nomination is award enough. Anyway, this year my program’s nominees were by far three of my favorite kids -- yes, we have favorites. Anybody that works with kids and tells you he doesn’t have a favorite is liar. For one of the kids, this was his second year in the running and as it turned out his second year just falling short. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed more excited about the dinner I’ve traditionally offered afterward than some plaque with his name on it!

So, on Monday, he started bugging me about dinner. I told him we’d go sometime soon, but he pressed for some night this week. I dismissed his insistence until Wednesday, when he asked to speak to me privately.

“We have to go this week because we’re moving on Friday,” he explained. “My mom is keeping it a secret. You’re the only one that knows.”

I couldn’t believe it. This kid has attended my program for as long as I can remember, and he has the most adult sense of humor I’ve ever experienced for someone his age. I mean, inappropriate humor that, as a mentor, I simply couldn’t dissuade in the midst of my own hypocritical laughter. He’d become a friend and reminded me of the type of friends I had at his age. Therefore, I had to respect his family’s plans on a much more than professional level. Pardon the drama, not to mention the cliché, but this one was personal.

Of course, the other nominee that joined us for dinner, the winner of the award, is this kid’s best friend and was soon in on the unfortunate news. As much as we had fun at Red Robin and Baskin Robbins, an air of sadness blanketed the evening, since we all knew that these fleeting moments would be the last spent together. I won’t bore you with how the kids talked our waiter into an extra order of free fries, or how they scored the hostess’s phone number. I won’t divulge how they nearly got me beat up over ice cream as they insulted other customers in helium-induced chipmunk voices. You really can’t put those things into words.

It was when I dropped the kids off at home that I traveled back in time, to those last minutes shared with friends that moved away when I was young. I dropped off the best friend first, and his mother joining us outside was a welcome relief. I was grateful that another adult was present as the boys put off their good-byes, inadvertently keeping me grounded in the here and now. I almost lost it when one of the kids said that we were breaking up the three musketeers -- that I was their proverbial Dartanian. The best friend ran upstairs and brought his buddy some keepsakes, and that the kid knew what the gifts were before the exchange took place was all the more evidence of their camaraderie.

“Animorphs,” he said solemnly, accepting the books knowingly. I never thought I’d hear that word uttered with so much raw emotion.

Before I knew it, it was over. The kids, becoming young men, said good-bye, and I took the child to a local pizza place to meet his family. The drive was quieter than I expected, but I knew his thoughts well. He was at the cusp of a new era in life, that challenging time when a family uproots from one state and starts anew in another. I fought the tears when his mother grabbed me, hugged me, and thanked me for changing her son’s life. It was an awkward good-bye, reminiscent of the suddenness of their departure, but I knew the embrace well enough from when my grandparents moved to Arizona and I grabbed my grandfather’s leg when their flight was called. Of course, a few months later, we followed -- on November 1, to be specific. I vaguely remember the airplane ride over Connecticut, a last, visual grip of the only place I knew then. My young friend experienced such a flight just this morning. As much as he’s left me behind, I hope he’s taken me with him, if only in that moment of critical transition. Although we didn’t experience it together, it’s a memory we’ll always share.

Another fond farewell from my youth was the last episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Yes, I know, such a geeky recollection cheapens the story, but I’m sticking with the sci-fi analogy. More importantly, people that know the child I’m talking about can appreciate Captain Picard’s last line -- an homage to trekking the stars, sure, but also a perfect way to summarize how it feels to work with children, the very vastness of emotional investment one experiences when he does it well enough. What better way to describe the potential for joy and heartbreak that comes with having children in your life than this -- ?

“The sky’s the limit.”

8:54 a.m. to 1:41 p.m.

I'm in the middle of a much-needed morning sabbatical, following yesterday's comprehensive evaluation at work. No need to document details about that, other than to comment that the folks responsible for funding much of our country's concept of "the after school program" obviously don't inhabit said programs long enough to understand the real essence of fulfilling a community's needs. These grants are written by desk jockeys that presume their experiences from some twenty years ago, and what they saw on Dateline last night, is enough to inform them about what best for the average 2008 kid.

Little do they know that the 2008 kid would just as quickly take your cell phone if you left it unattended as he would fall prey to a wandering neighborhood pedophile. Balance that . . .

Fortunately, the new year isn't all high expectations and embittered confrontations. Thanks to the hardships of moving amidst the holidays, 2007 latched onto my leg like a little stubborn pitbull that I kept trying to shake free. Then, 2008 showered Southern California in a baptism of watery resolutions, washing away the previous 365, and thankfully not some high-priced Malibu cul-de-sac. (Not that they weren't prepared. I didn't know there was enough sand on those Malibu beaches to fill so many burlap sacks. Still, for all their fire and landslide deterrents, nothing will help them when one of Pamela Anderson's breasts breaks free of its host and self-replicates into an army of silicone Tribbles . . . yes, you heard it here first.)

So I hopped on a bus toward my favorite comic book stop with my .mp3 player freshly loaded with some favorite tunes when, at my transfer point, Mother Nature called. No, it wasn't the kind of call you can transfer to voice mail; it was an urgent, potentially lengthy conversation. With just a 20 minute window before my next bus arrived, I was fortunate to take the call in an adjacent Wal-Mart and find the Legendary Comic Book Heroes series three Sin City Marv action figure. I made it back to curb just as the bus was pulling up. When Mother calls, she has a good reason.

I've begun my second year of A Comic A Day, my daily attempt to read and review a comic book I've never read before. Time to type up an entry about The Drowners #1 by Nabiel Kanan, finish this organic iced chai tea latte at Tustin's Lost Bean, then stroll to the comic book store for a good half hour's worth of perusing, then take the buses back to work just in time for the kids to get out of school. A better day really couldn't be written.

Winter Break is Coming . . .

The Winter Break sign (and the drawing of my staff and I in detail) I made for the door at work. I took our logo out for posterity's sake.

The Soup

Cockroaches in our new apartment. Moving everything we own just a few hours every night, on a cul-de-sac where folks have no problem triple parking. On Friday, in the rain. Big shots from the county inspecting my staff and work ethic. A fundraiser, a shopping spree for kids, a death in a good friend's family. Last week was one of the most difficult I've experienced in a long time, but fortunately it ended with this:



That's right. Joel McHale, one of my admitted man-crushes, and me. My life is that much more complete.

Justice League Holidays

The attacks on Santa have begun.

I've explained the palpable connection between the holidays and comic book culture once before: in a nutshell, both are colorful cultural genres that hinge on selfless, sometimes myth-based icons conveyed via a childlike suspension of disbelief. I liken these politically correct attacks on Santa and his peers with Dr. Fredric Wertham's Seduction of the Innocent scare from the '50s. Indeed, St. Nick is as sexist with his "ho"-ridden chuckle as Batman and Robin are gay.

Yes, I'm a staunch advocate for Santa Claus and have been ever since I saw a TV special advocating his existence, which even included celebrity eye witness accounts from the likes of Stevie Wonder. (Figure that one out.) I consider the charitable work I facilitate around this time of year as direct marching orders from Kringle, because, in these days leading up to The Big Night, he's too busy to do everything. After all those years of He-Man and Super Powers action figures under the tree, it's the least I can do.

I even wrote a comic book about Santa Claus. Still have some copies laying around if anyone want to cough up the three bucks. I'm actually thinking about revisiting the material, if time and inspiration permit . . .

Incidentally, considering Santa's frequent cameos in comics, I've speculated that he should be an honorary member of the Justice League, but since I've established a roster of reality star Leaguers, I now feel compelled to do so with holiday iconography, too. So, sitting around the Watchtower, North Pole Branch would be:

1. Santa Claus. Of course. He's the Superman of the holiday season, boasting the most special abilities and even an Arctic fortress of solitude.

2. The Easter Bunny. Trapped in Santa's shadow, the Easter Bunny is the Batman of the group, particularly since his existence hinges around a holiday steeped in the implications of death.

3. The Tooth Fairy. Like Nancy Grace in my "real Justice League," the Tooth Fairy offers a woman's touch to the group and, when roundtable arguments get too heated, can always tell the boys to watch their mouths. Yes.

4. Cupid. The Most Powerful Baby Alive.

5. Uncle Sam. Representing Independence Day, Presidents Day, Memorial Day, and Veterans Day, Uncle Sam has the biggest burden to bear. More than upholding any one of these holidays, he carries the weight of The American Dream.

6. A leprechaun. Drunk. Like Aquaman must be. Also, rich.

7. The Halloween Chair. Halloween has a steady rotation of representative mythical characters, from vampires to witches to mummies to Frankenstein. I don't know if any one of them truly stand up as the ultimate liaison, though a classically sheeted ghost could conceal almost anyone's identity . . .

With Thanksgiving right around the corner, I'm tempted to include a turkey, but I don't think he would last very long.

Despite that article, I know Santa respects women, but I don't think he can resist a good meal.

The Ghost that Haunts Me

Halloween said good-bye this morning with a big, wet kiss.

Through sleep-crusted eyes I reached out to its fleeting silhouette in my doorway and choked desperately, “Was it good for you?”

Building the haunted house, though time-consuming, isn’t the hardest part. Making every five-minute tour a uniquely haunting experience is the real challenge. After all, these kids see us everyday. They know, or they think they know, what we’re capable of. Yes, the fear grabs them when we’ve stretched the bounds of their expectations, and perhaps even their imaginations, and completely embraced the spectral spirit of Halloween.

For example, as I was browsing through Target’s premature Halloween aisles two months ago, I was inspired by their adult-sized Operation game costume. What if our Learning Center, in which kids often play Operation, was really haunted? What if the books moved off the shelves like the opening act in Ghostbusters, and the games sprung to life?

Oh, we’ve done the “creepy doctor’s table” before, complete with the cooked, cold spaghetti guts, but when the kids saw this,

,

they weren’t sure what to think. Only options, really: laugh your head off, or proceed with caution. The creepiness had settled in, but the fear . . . it reached out and grabbed them when our Operation patient did, when she activated the buzzer hidden underneath her latex-gloved hand. Sure, anybody can go to Target and look like the Operation game, but to sound like it? If it touches me, will it shock me, too?

The question is enough.

Our mummy’s tomb, staged in the computer lab as an homage to ancient Egypt’s knack for advanced technology, was pure old school Universal Studios, with a fraction of a fraction of the budget. I wanted a brochure-style photo of our proverbial grand finale, and our impromptu photographer pulled it off:

.

Working with children (and the operative phrase is “working for them”), the question that drives my mania behind every significant event like our annual haunted house is, “Will it be memorable?” I don’t care if the kids talk about last night’s haunted house today, but ten years from now, when they’re old enough to reflect upon (and hopefully long for) their youth, will they fondly remember anything we do for them? My job is as selfish as it is selfless – I do not want my hard work and good intentions buried beneath these kids’ better memories. Not that I want to be above them, either, but right there beside them: home, school, church, and my team and me. If one future grown-up can say that we helped imbed his childhood as a treasured experience. . .

Everybody says that. “If I can change just one life.” I’ll take a few dozen. A hundred. I say making a difference means that the difference between the people you meet and the people you influence is zero. Quantity and quality are not conflicting or contradicting qualities.

“Was it good for you?”

Halloween comes but once a year, but the question haunts me everyday.

Mother Nature's Halloween Prank

Orange County school district superintendents united via conference call last week to deem local air quality too poor for outdoor play until further notice, which has severely cramped my Halloween plans. Our after school program facilitates an annual Penny Carnival and Costume Contest every Halloween afternoon, which is usually run outside, but with the ash from the 2007 Wildfires still spectral in the atmosphere, the festivities will have to come inside -- a challenge considering the, er, quaintness of our facility. We've managed to pull it off for the past week, utilizing our knowledge of indoor games from countless training and workshops, but to recreate the spirit of a definitively outdoor holiday under a roof will be hard -- like "Bah, humbug" Halloween equivalent, I reckon. Additionally, with our Haunted House hidden behind hanging tarps, one of my Staff will have to embrace the assignment of dissuading kids from peeking, a task that sounds scary in itself.

What stinks more than that lingering scent of ash is how clear the weather seems to be, and, as my natural rebel churns, I wonder what standard or gauge the superintendents are using to judge the air quality. Are they more concerned about potential parental backlash if the kids are permitted to play? Do they, and those parents ready to chomp at the bit about their children's safety when they should be making dinner anyway, understand what they're doing to their teachers' day, when students can't storm the playground but rather remain seated for some contrived game of Heads-up 7-Up at recesstime? These lessons should be exploited and explained to children . . .

Because nothing might promote arson prevention and fire safety more than the risk they pose to the pursuit of free candy.

I Am the Boss of Them

My Staff was really kind to me on Boss's Day a few weeks ago, presenting me with two sweaters, a wallet, and a lunch from Boston Market, so I drew them this picture as a thank you note, making light of one of the kids in our program that struggles with pooping his pants. Actually, I guess it isn't much a struggle; he poops his pants, damn near everyday.

I erased the logos I drew on our shirts to keep our organization confidential; as I've described in previous blogs, I don't want to inadvertently represent a nationally recognized after school program with my silly little ramblings.

Someday soon I'll probably update this post with a "roll call" style description of my Staff, or, at the very least, liken them to crew members of the Enterprise-D . . .

Kids Make the Darnedest Things

I confiscated this lovely item this morning:



These pictures are intentionally blurry for the sake of national security, so if you can't tell, it's a dual slingshot: one made by a paperclip, the other by a creatively reconstructed mechanical pencil and a pen shaft. Masking tape holds the whole thing together surprisingly well, assuring equally surprising distance and accuracy.



My friends and I used to make things like this (I wasn't capable of this kind of craftsmanship), which resulted in The Mrs. Long's 6th Grade Class Great Staple War of 1990, but in light of recent headlines (recent being, like, this week), how can I condone this kind of homemade weaponry, despite its ingenuity? Is a paperclip taped to a mechanical pencil a gateway weapon to something more, say, automatic?