KaraokeFanboy

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.

Thanks to the open mic I’ve been attending for the past eight months, I’ve been trying to write more poetry than usual lately. Friends have complimented many of my pieces, and I’m grateful, but you know the old saying, that you’re your own worst critic. To that end, I’ve decided to offer some commentary for my latest poem, not necessarily to “expose its secrets” or overindulge myself in its meaning, but to understand the economy of words and images. Chronicling my mentality here might help with future writing endeavors, and maybe help you understand the motivation of the piece.  In other words, I'm analyzing my own work here, and I hope it doesn't sound as pompous as it seems.

 

The poem is posted here, so you’ll have to crossover to read it, and for the rest of this post to make sense!

 

The poem and its first four lines were inspired by an event last Friday night. At work, we hosted a Valentine’s Day event that allowed parents to leave their kids at our program until 10 p.m. For hours, one of the kids bugged me to let him take the trash to the dumpster, but since it was a long walk in the dark, rainy night, I repeatedly told him to wait until I could go, too. Finally, we made the trek, and on the way back to our facility, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Thank you for letting me help!” The innocence of that moment, coupled with the tangibility of his breath in the cold air, seemed poem-worthy to me.

 

Further, I’ve long sought to personify the inner child as a character in a poem and its ongoing conviction to keep things simple and fun in life. This kid’s energy, made visible in this huffing and puffing that trash can around, seemed like a good example for that. While this poem doesn’t take the direction I had envisioned for my Inner Child Treatise, I’m pleased with the result.

 

The ongoing imagery is twofold, as I attribute the topic’s body to different obstacles in life. First, from the breath to the arms and legs, this progression travels from the inner to the outer, from a mentality to action. Second, the symbolic obstacles are an allegory, too, for travelling through life. The smelling salts infer awareness, and the canoe denotes finding a place. The fire envisions setting up camp or shelter, and the garden insists on self-reliance or sustenance. (Interlude: The words “hole” and “whole” are awesome, because as homonyms they can either mean an absence or completeness at the same time. If I read this piece out loud, how would you hear it?) Running uphill and feeling an embrace aren’t another leg in the journey (pardon the pun), but an acceptance of one’s accomplishment. Standing atop the hill, the first person is saying, “Look at what I’ve done,” a real king-of-the-mountain kind of thing. Also, I often use hugging to symbolize the orbital sky, for future reference . . .!

 

The last line is the twist. “I knew you had it in you.” While the poem boasts codependence, the theme is actually independence, that the drive from within can be manifested into results. This is the boundless energy and imagination of the inner child in an adult world of challenge and hardship, and when that little student becomes the teacher. Hence, the title: “I Want To --.” Poets love their titles, and when I read this at the open mic, I introduced it as untitled, but now I think the repetition of those words warrants the headline. The first person doesn’t want to live vicariously through anybody’s strength but his own and is seeking a way to show it.

 

I recently read that no poem is ever finished, just abandoned. I agree with the sentiment, as I’m often mulling over pieces I’ve essentially completed. I always wonder if another word would sound better here, or if I really need that line there. I wonder if the point really gets across, or if I just strung together a bunch of clever little thoughts. Sometimes, like a child, you just have to play with the toys you have. Sometimes, you just have to trust that everything will be okay.

If you live in Southern California and you tuned in to the 10 o'clock news last night, you couldn't help but watch the snail's pace car chase between police and the unknown driver of a rather expensive Bentley sedan.  The subsequent stand-off lasted longer than the news coverage could allow, and at 12:41 a.m. this morning, the driver committed suicide.  According to this article from the L.A. Times, this chase was the fifth in the Los Angeles area in past two weeks, not to mention the second just yesterday.  Ever since I moved to California, I've been fascinated by these spectacles, but not just because of the media hype that surrounds them.  (And yes, last night's chase betrayed shades of O.J., what with its low speeds, and an expensive white vehicle that implied the potential for celebrity.)  I'm drawn to these chases for the same reasons I'm repulsed by pratfall prone underdog-driven comedies like Meet the Parents -- I always project myself into the starring role.

The psychology of the car chase can be evaluated in three stages: (1.) before the chase, (2.) the chase itself, and (3.) the stand-off.  In this case, the four hour long incident began when someone called the cops about the suspect assaulting his girlfriend, and when officers arrived, the guy just drove away slowly, apparently fearing confrontation.  Other chases usually begin when suspects refuse to pull over for traffic violations, and in both circumstances, an obvious conscious decision is made to refuse submission to the authorities.  That's easy enough to understand; the mentality is either, "Screw the police, I've done nothing wrong," or "I'm caught!  I gotta get out of here!"  The safety, security, and presumed anonymity of one's own car make the choice to run that much easier; all at once the car becomes a weapon and a shield.  For the scared and the guilty, it appeals to the basest of human desires -- the need for shelter.

I'm most fascinated by the minutes between stages one and two, when the driver decides to power through his initial sense of rebellion and make it an apparent lifestyle.  As spectators, we often wonder, "Where is he going?  Doesn't he know he can't get away?"  At that point of despair, I don't think the suspect really is fleeing the crime anymore; he's fleeing the decision he made to flee, realizing he's created a situation bigger than himself.  Most times, the chase circles the same area where it started, and in last night's case, it came full circle, to the same street, proving that, for all the ground covered, the real journey was an internal one.  I always imagine, what is this guy listening to on the radio?  Is he analyzing how many miles to the gallon he has left?  Is he crying, swearing, praying?  Does he have a plan?  Or is every time that helicopter spotlight pierces the windshield a reminder of how the very problems that began this pursuit have become manifest into a full fledged media event?

The stand-off is the most tragic part of this process, though, as both the suspect's car and mind stop racing long enough to realize the gravity of it all.  Most adrenaline-drenched imaginations probably picture the worst -- that police will throw you to the ground, beat you, sic the K9 unit on you for fun, and throw you in a jail cell forever.  Sitting in the middle of the street, police at the ready behind me, I know I'd look around the cab of my car, memorizing its contours, touching its upholstery, figuring those moments to be the last of my own for a long time.  How surreal to be in a state that projects the only possible future ahead an eternity in prison, that running was even an option in the first place.  Of course, I know suspects have other motivations and mentalities for fleeing, but the common man caught in an unexpected situation like that knows only what he's seen on television.

Which brings this thought full circle, as to why I'm enthralled by the Southern California car chase.  For every O.J. or Bentley, we see dozens of common folk and beat-up Hondas on the wrong side of the helicopter spotlight.  How close are any of us to the brink of, "Is that a cop?  Oh, screw it, I can outrun 'im!  Who needs a $150 speeding ticket in this economy, eh?"  Are we really just slack-jawed rubber-neckers at the promise of a breaking news story car chase . . . or are we researching our own possible future?

"There is a subtle difference between a mission and a promise.  A mission is something you strive to accomplish -- a promise is something you are compelled to keep.  One is individual, the other is shared.  When a mission and a promise are one in the same . . . that's when mountains are moved and races are won." -- Hala Moddelmog, President & CEO, Susan G. Komen for the Cure, via "The Way I See It" #299 on my Starbucks cup

When I was in the sixth grade, my friends and I bumped into some younger kids we'd never seen before in the field we usually occupied for fort building.  At that time in suburban Phoenix (and even now in some places), dirt fields were prevalent and undeveloped, rife with the kind of desert landscape and wildlife that came to define my childhood.  Anyway, so we found these little kids on our turf, and rather than bully them away, we opted to help them build their fort, too.  I don't remember the specifics of the day, nor do I think we ever saw those kids again, but the feeling of helping someone younger accomplish something I knew how to do naturally stuck with me.  The fact that I was still very much a child became integrated into that memory, as well, as if my juvenile passions (i.e. fort building!) actually found some significance in befriending and mentoring those smaller ones, if only for the day.

Enter: me, twenty years later.  A geek obsessed with comics, cartoons, and toys, working with and for youth in a non-profit after school program.  I've taken the beginning of this new year (and now this Chinese new year) to realign my multiple blogs with purpose, from a personal reflection on pop culture and current events, to analyzing said work with kids, to my reviewing the comics subculture that so grips me, to this, a simple journal entry, and I'm delighted to discover one thing -- there's little difference between one and the other.  In the face of an inconsistent world, I'm proud to be a reliably consistent person, even if that means my tastes haven't changed in some twenty years.  I imagine myself on that day in the dirt field: helping kids build a fort, then undoubtedly going home to crank up and sing along to the Monkees and play with action figures until Letterman.  While I don't help children build forts, I certainly strive to get them some kind of structure, and though I don't play with my toys much anymore, I take every opportunity to rearrange them on my shelves . . . and my singing has graduated from the bedroom to the karaoke stage.  It's all the same!  How many people can say that, and be proud of it?

The quote on my Starbucks cup today helped me put this is perspective, as I struggled with how to complete my blog-series on the new year.  Having a lifelong mission that incorporates fulfilling a promise to others isn't easy; many people clearly distinguish work from play, their nine-to-five from the rest of their day.  Me, I make a conscious effort to wear the sensitivities of my youth on my sleeve to help others understand the same process in the real time of their childhood.  Don't get me wrong -- this effort often stands in contrast to the responsibilities of adulthood; for instance, working with a non-profit is just that, frequently unprofitable, and when I have to choose between student loans and action figures (it's a harder decision than it sounds), I wonder why I didn't choose a different path in life.  A cubicle job could surely afford both, or at least help keep my chin above water long enough to buy that Aquaman eventually.  Then I wonder, would Earth-Cubicle Russ open Aquaman, or keep him collectible in his clear plastic case?  Would he condemn Aquaman to the same square world of his own cubicle?  I'd rather be the one out of the box, cracking my points of articulation, even if it means leaving Aquaman on the pegs at Target.  My inner child remembers playing with those Super Powers toys, and my imagination will always stay in mint condition. 

People tend to call my mentality a "Peter Pan Complex," like that's a bad thing.  That's just like an adult, to put the word "complex" after something so simple.  There's a big difference between embracing the whims of one's inner child and acting childish.  The inner child is a tamed beast, subject to discipline and time-outs like any kid.  Plainly put, I can turn off my fanboy nature and be a man, an attitude that actually enables the inner child even more, as it puts the lessons he learned in life into practice.  At work, when I explain to children why fighting is wrong, I'm very much an adult using the vernacular of youth to prove a point -- otherwise, I might as well be speaking another language altogether.  Other adults in different work environments practice their old juvenile ways when they talk excitedly about the exploits of their weekend, or the movies they've seen, etc.  This is child-like, not childish, though one may lead to the other if one isn't careful.  "Oh, yeah, well, my Friday night was better than yours, so nyahhh!"  You see what I mean.  Further, I don't mean to imply that mine should be everybody's mission-meets-promise; for some, this synthesis is religion-oriented, or even completely self-serving.  It's the harmony that's most important for contentment, I think -- the whole "getting paid for what you love" thing, or at least having the freedom in experience both equally and painlessly.  Even Peter Pan had to face his fair share of hooks and ticking clocks, but he always did it with an effortless smile on his face. 

Which brings me to the point: I'm making 2009 my year to purge the old ideas that cluttered my twenties to make way for new stories and adventures.  I've internalized this mission/promise for too long, keeping the sketches in their sketchbooks and the poems on their scattered napkins for too long.  This year, I'm taking all of the creative juices I've spilt and bottling them for distribution.  I've currently scanned seven sketchbooks' worth of material to compile a portfolio, and I've already completed a little poetry zine for January, February, and March, with hopefully one to follow every month until December.  Where this stuff is going, I don't know, but it's in "take this" form now, so I'll have no excuse when the new ideas take shape.  No strings.  Believe me, living a life surrounded by all things kid, the mind generates some crazy stuff.  (I can only imagine what it'll be like to have one . . .!)  Compiling it into a format I can hand an adult peer under the guise of creativity will hopefully help him explore those oft ignored recesses of the brain -- you know, the one that had fun at recess.

"Here are some sketches I did, and a few poems I wrote."  It's the closest one can come to, "Surround your fort with tumbleweeds to dissuade bullies, and stones to keep the dirt in place in case of a monsoon," . . . at least at my age.  When you build something vulnerable to the winds of change, you don't let a little thing like grown-ups or age tear it down.  You keep it up.
 

My new year began with my best friend's portents of doom, as he very logically explained how America's recent economic downturn may result in a Russia-like disbanding of the United States, effectively creating fifty little, self-sustaining, independent countries -- which, if you consider the mere 400 mile difference between states like California and Arizona, isn't too far a leap of the imagination, as both states retain the most contrasting identities one can fathom between neighbors.  I grew up in Arizona, but I feel like I really became a functioning individual in California, so my perspective of the two states may be mired in my respective state of mind, but that's all I have to go on anyway.  I couldn't elaborate on my friend's doom-'n-gloom philosophy if I wanted to; I know as little about world history and economics as the next idiot Jay Leno manages to find at Universal Citywalk.  Still, his thesis is enough to make you think.  President-Elect Obama is promising change of mass proportions, and everyone assumes it's for the better.  Change is a double-edged sword, as promising as the new year's resolution you never keep.

Identity may be a key component in 2009, as the token news story of the new year has been the Muslim family kicked off an airplane for talking about which might be the safest seat.  The CNN story quotes them: "We were (discussing whether it was safest to sit near) the wing, or the engine or the back or the front, but that's it. We didn't say anything else that would raise any suspicion."  While the phrase has become tragically cliche, in a "post-9/11 America, anybody talking about the safest seat in an airplane raises suspicion.  Unfortunately, if you're Muslim, or you even look Middle Eastern, a constant orange alert cloud looms over your head, and in my opinion your rightful pride in your ethnicity or appearance should include this understanding, not exclude it via the justification of potential prejudice.  If I were Middle Eastern, I'd walk onto every airplane exuding a spirit of conscience peace in an attempt to chip away at that fear.  "We are not inherently evil people.  Look at me.  I'm just here to travel safely, just like you."  By now, the lifestyle should be one of dignity, not perpetual victimization, and taught to children.

Before you stamp "racist" on my head, consider this: When you see an Amber Alert for, say, a dark green Dodge Caravan, don't you stare at every green van on the highway a little longer than usual?  It could a lighter shade of green, or a Ford, or even a camper or something, but you look at it suspiciously, as for the margin of those microseconds, that driver is a kidnapping rapist . . . Right?  Now, consider this Muslim family, who, when they appeared on the news, were very neatly dressed (their kids were even dressed alike), in definitive Muslim garb, -- and add to that the flagrant talk about airplane safety.  I'll take it a conspiratorial step further: they were traveling on 1/1/09, which, backwards and excluding the zero, is 911.  I know!

I'm not saying the family shouldn't feel offended; I just don't think they should feel surprised, and to their credit, they've praised the professionalism of the FBI agents that interrogated them.  It's the airline they've chastised, and the communication between the feds and AirTran.  This is my problem, and why I started my argument with statements about dignity.  Forgive the airline their trespasses, and accept a lifetime's worth of waivers, if you play your cards right.  But understand that one family's inconvenience if worth the sanctity of our country's safety, or at least the illusion of it.

Of course, I'm not Middle Eastern, and it wasn't my family inconvenienced, so this is all very easy for me to say.  Yet, in my quest to understand 2009's potential trend toward identity crisis, seeing things through someone else's perspective is critical.  As much as a California liberal would scoff at those blasted traffic cameras on seemingly every corner in Phoenix, would the same person stuck in traffic on the 101 everyday prefer the smoother freeways and decreased accidents as a result?  To feel the comprehensive soil of America beneath our feet, it's paramount that we try on someone else's shoes from time to time -- even if you have to take them off at the airport, too.  I'm resolving to give it a try, why there's still an America to understand.

If you had asked me as a child, “Russ, what would you like to do when you grow up?” I undoubtedly would’ve answered, “Meet the Monkees.” Then, you’d probably right your question by clarifying, “I meant what do you want to be when you grow up?” Then I would’ve answered, “I want to be the guy that has lunch with the Monkees!” As a kid watching reruns on Nick at Nite, I was under the impression that the Monkees were still together, and the best of friends. My family and I went to one of their 1986 reunion shows, which affirmed my hopes, but as I grew up and information about the group’s history became more available on this dang-blasted Internet, I learned otherwise. Tethered to their Monkees image but wanting to broaden their horizons, the guys quickly grew apart, and though they’ve toured and collaborated many times over the years, my childhood dreams of having lunch with all of them has very much faded.

 

(And incidentally I think having lunch with them distinguishes me from any Teen Beat readers’ fantasies of something more intimate, okay? It’s a hero worship thing, much like but slightly different from a man-crush thing -- and I’ve already established my man-crushes here . . . and here.)

 

So, what’s the next best thing? Meeting the Monkees one-on-one works for me, and, when I had the opportunity to meet Micky a few years ago, I trumped the concept by buying an original ’66 Headquarters, the first album on which they played their own instruments, for them to sign. I’ve briefly chronicled that Micky meet, and then some months later my trek to Tork. Consider this my penultimate Monkees post: the day I met Davy Jones!

 

This story began forty years ago, when the Monkees wrote and starred in a feature length film called Head. It failed miserably and essentially ended their two-year stint as the first full fledged American idols. Simply put, the flick is too psychedelic! When I was a kid, I had the film’s soundtrack, featuring some of the group’s best songs, but I had no idea how the soundbytes came together to form a linear plot. When my buddy Wade and I found Head on cable one night, I realized those soundbytes . . . didn’t. Now, I understand that the hodgepodge of mildly amusing skits that make up the whole movie are really pieces of an allegorical puzzle about celebrity; in fact, I dare say that despite its artsy-fartsy vanity Head is one of the most humble movies ever made, and in its rich symbolism one of my favorites with or without the Monkees. That I recognize the four goofballs going from war trenches to dandruff shampoo spokesmen just helps the pill go down -- which, in the ‘60s, probably wasn’t a problem.

 

So, the nonprofit group American Cinematique showed the film at Hollywood’s Egyptian Theater last week to celebrate the forty year anniversary, with a full program that included rare Monkees episodes, a Q & A with music producers Chip Douglas and Bobby Hart, and most importantly, appearances by Peter Tork and (gasp) Davy Jones. I was excited for the whole thing, dubbing it the definitive Monkees event of my generation and all that, but my singular goal was for the Davy autograph and picture, as I’d acquired from Micky and Peter. Now, Davy has a reputation for being more . . . difficult than the others, which makes sense considering how he was the diva of the group. During the Q & A, he was very dismissive of some of the questions, explaining that he doesn’t remember or understand much of the Monkees phenomenon. (I know, it was forty years ago, but for me, it was just twenty!) Davy and Peter’s rapport seemed strained at first, but the more they talked, the more their on-screen chemistry overcame them, and I was pleased to see half of my favorite team working together, albeit briefly, yet completely for my benefit as a fan. Peter even claimed that Davy was one of the most talented musicians he’d ever met, remembering the time Jones picked up the bass for “I’m A Believer” and took to it so naturally. I hoped he would take to my album and camera as easily!

 

As an aside, Pete seems like the most approachable of the gang, and his tone completely suited fans anxious to hear stories about the old days. When asked if the Monkees experience had in any way marred his overall career, he said no, explaining that exposure to television, film, music, and concert production was priceless. Amen!

 

So, the Q & A ended, and the mob began. When I met Micky and Peter, the signing and photo session was very organized, following respective concerts, but I’d already warned my girlfriend that this one might be require more . . . aggression . . . in a good way -- more tenacity in the midst of a crowd all intent on the same goal . . . you know. Anyway, we made our way into the orbit of fans around them, and as Davy and Peter parted, we stuck with Jones, patiently waiting as he entertained stories from folks trying to connect with him in some way or another. “My dad drove your limo from the airport to the hotel in the summer of ’67 . . .” or “Isn’t it weird that Peter and I have the same birthday?” In spite my inner child’s persistence, I was more realistic than these fans, completely happy with the ten seconds I needed for the autograph and picture. Sure enough, mission accomplished, thanks to my girlfriend’s height and photographic eye and my seizing the right moment to step into Davy’s personal space. 

 

“Hey, Davy, could you sign my album, please? And a picture, right there?” Sign. Snap. Done.

 

 

“Thank you, Davy.”

 

I think I enjoyed calling him “Davy” the most, as if we got it like that. I mean, who goes by “Davy” anymore? “Dave” is really more like it. That’s the thing that has assured their fame and corresponding frustration, though: for so many people, the Monkees will forever be the Monkees, trapped in those two years of stardom and seemingly eternal youth. Everyone that cares looks at my pictures with a small glimmer of memory, either from watching the television show or from hearing those old songs, and it cracks a smile, every time. With a legacy like that, it’s no wonder these guys keep showing up to events like this, baggage and all.

 

Now, Michael Nesmith. Good luck with that one, Little Russ. Papa Nez, as his hardcore fans call him, is a recluse, still producing entertainment but at a long arm’s length from anything Monkees -- at least as far as I see it. At this point, though? Three out of four Monkees in just the past few years, at definitively separate occasions? It’s hard to believe, if you’re not a believer. A kid can daydream, right?
 

Recent thoughts about California’s Prop 8 and parallel dimensions have made me wonder how I would’ve reacted to the latest circumstances surrounding gay marriage had I pursued and fulfilled my desire to become a pastor.  If I had my own congregation, would I have persuaded them to vote a certain way, and what would I say now about the protests that have ensued, especially if they came knocking on our church’s door, as they have for others across the southland? 

 

I’d like to think that I would have still voted “no” for the constitution-changing proposition, but for different reasons.  As I’ve explained, the Prop 8 controversy has given gay rights advocates the most media exposure they’ve had in a long time, either as a proactive force for civil rights or as a reactive cry against their opposition’s persecution.  Assuming that Pastor Russ would believe the Bible verses condemning homosexuality (and there are eight of them, if I remember correctly, with four per testament), I think he would’ve voted “no” on Prop 8, permitting the continuation of gay marriage in California, just to get them out of the spotlight.  The more reason they have to fight and the longer they retain mainstream attention, the more people might consider their argument and either change their mind or resort to apathy, which is just as effective against the passionate religious argument.  Once the issue is completely out of government’s hands, the church can tackle it as the spiritual cancer they’ve made it out to be.

 

I hope Pastor Russ would remember 1 Peter 4:8, which says, “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”  If the religious groups that opposed this measure were comprehensive with their scripture, they’d remember this verse and implement it in a “kill them with kindness” way.  For all of the emphasis on missionary work and evangelism, how much easier would it be to spread the good news than by providing an atmosphere of acceptance that invites these “sinners” to come to you without fear of prejudice?  If gays are so open to adopting the tradition of family, religion might not be far behind, if a church let them in.  Shouldn’t that behavior overpower any state constitution? 

 

Based on what I’ve read and heard, the Mormon church has been specifically targeted by the no-on-8 crowd because it funded 70% of the yes-on-8 campaign, with funds linked to their Utah-based headquarters.  Thus, the concern is twofold: (1.) Should a spiritual entity, with tax exemption status, have the power to lobby so strongly for a civil issue? (2.)  Should an out-of-state entity have the power to lobby so strongly for an issue targeting the California constitution?  See, however else one feels about the supposed separation between church and state, when the line is blurred this way, the effectiveness of both is blurred, as well.  If anyone really wants to combat gay marriage, they should decide whether or not it’s a civil rights issue, or a legitimate spiritual concern.  Otherwise, the opposing argument seems divided, too.

 

Fortunately, I am not.  In this reality, I’ve decided that the issue is a definitively civil one, with widespread ramifications if continually denied.  Once we decide to amend the constitution for the sake of narrowing opportunity, anyone is vulnerable.  This year, it’s gay marriage.  Religious organizations may be next.  Or various media.  Can you imagine a world that prohibits any facet of the way you live?  How many dimensions can discrimination create?

 

I've realized why I like building haunted houses so much.

For the past several Halloweens, my staff and I have built a haunted house inside our after school program facility, and while the experience is fulfilling on a community-service level, something else about the process has tugged at my heartstrings, and I haven't been able to put my finger on it . . . until this year.  About a month, one of my staff was riffling through an unmarked box in our storage room and extracted some twine, asking if we should put it in the arts and crafts room. 

"No!" I exclaimed, taking the twine excitedly.  "We'll need this for the haunted house!"  In that moment, holding the spool of coarse rope, I realized why I love building haunted houses.  I'll call it The A-Team Factor.

See, the A-Team was infamous for building weapons out of whatever was handy.  Not unlike MacGuyver, but as a team, they often built an arsenal from the most common of things.  Remember the time they used air conditioning tubing to make a lettuce head bazooka?  Or the time they were locked in a storage room and built an armor out of trash cans?  And that was before Jon Favreau's Iron Man!  Halloween, specifically its horror component, allows for this hasty, sometimes messy impromptu application.  For example, when we black out the rooms for our haunted house, we don't loop the duct tape behind the fileted trash bags; we let the duct tape show, because its presence implies a sloppy precision -- a sense of planned chaos.  Twine, the disheveled cousin of yarn, is scary in itself, but when it's used to tie a rubber shrunken head to a fence post, its texture takes on a different identity altogether.  When the A-Team built their makeshift weapons, they didn't have time for aesthetics -- just results. 

On Friday morning, as I put the last of the AA batteries into the glowing skulls, as I zip-tied the last of the tarps into place, as I tied those rubber shrunken heads to the fence, I didn't see my hands, but instead the gold-jeweled hands of B.A. Baracus.  My smile wasn't my own, but that of a satisfied, cigar-chomping Hannibal Smith.  And in the end, when the kids ran crying and screaming from our haunted house that night, which in the strobe-riddled dark hid its 99 Cent Store props in a bone-chilling mystique, my thoughts were his, too.

"I love it when a plan comes together."

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.

A few months ago, I celebrated 100 posts on my other blog, so I thought to begin the next hundred with “KaraokeFanboy 101,” a treatise of my general belief system. As I was writing the first two of these four perspectives, I decided to divide the diatribe in half, mostly because I was due to meet my old buddy Booth and his wife for dinner in the midst of the San Diego Comic Con, but also because the effort was an emotional drain. You try summarizing your life into four concise, meaningful maxims! It isn’t as easy as it seems.

 

Retrospectively, why four, I wonder? As I wrap up my twenty-eighth year of existence, the penultimate year of my twenties, perhaps my subconscious was trying to divide my life into a neat quartet of quandaries, each with its own proverbial Aesop-esque moral. Does my first point reflect my first seven years, while the second exposes the cumulative revelations of years eight through fourteen? The forthcoming #3 does reference my freshmen year of high school, and, though I was technically thirteen, who says this is a fine science, that we can’t allow for a little overlap? Seven is only the perfect number, and the best things in life come in fours (i.e. the Monkees, the Golden Girls, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles et. al.), so twenty-eight makes for the perfect age to draft one’s worldview. Again, really, you should try it.

 

Incidentally, this isn’t “KaraokeFanboy 202.” This is “KaraokeFanboy 101B.” I have much bigger things planned for “KaraokeFanboy 202.” It’s an advanced course.   Until then, pass this:

 

3. Your best sense is your sixth: your sense of humor. On my first day of high school, my first period Seminar teacher Mr. Poslaiko asked a terrified room of sleepy-eyed freshmen, "If a baby is born without any of its five senses, would it still know anything?" His inquiry quickly reminded me of comedian Rick Reynolds’ eyeball joke, which had become my favorite anecdote for nearly everything:

 

“A man is pacing in the waiting room of a hospital. His wife is in the delivery room having a baby. This couple has already had a few children, but they’d all been terribly deformed, so naturally the man is concerned about the safety of his wife and newborn. The doctor enters with a look of consternation on his face and says, “Sir, would you still love your child if he were, say, missing an arm or a leg?” 

 

“Of course I would!” the man replies. “Just take me to my wife and baby!”

 

“Well, brace yourself and follow me.”

 

The doctor leads the man down a long corridor and finally they enter the delivery room, where the man sees his wife in bed holding a blanketed bundle in her arms. He walks up to her, kisses her on the forehead, and moves aside the blanket to reveal (gasp) a huge, ten pound eyeball.

 

“Oh, my God!” the man cries. “How can this get any worse?”

 

The doctor replies, “He’s blind.”

 

That joke has it all! Most of all, it combines the cornerstones of humor -- an exploitation of what we can see and the potential ironies of what we cannot understand or control. It’s the observational comedy of Jerry Seinfeld meets the existential tomfoolery Andy Kaufman. It’s “Why did the chicken cross the road?” meets “Who’s on first?”

 

When I was nine or ten years old, a rather sweaty fat man jogged past our street just as we pulled out of the driveway, and my mother commented with her well practiced sarcasm, “You’re gonna have to jog a little more than that, buddy.” Yes, the poor guy was that fat, and my mom’s quip was so quick and accurate that it instantly instilled in me an appreciation for exploitation as humor. Imagine the lines a real ten pound eyeball of a kid might inspire! “I bet he’ll make a great pupil in school!” “Gross! Somebody put a lid on that thing!” “How are you gonna punish your son, by lashing him?” Yet, the eyeball itself isn’t the eyeball joke’s punch line . . .

 

No, the joke comes from the doctor’s sudden revelation: “He’s blind.” If you laugh at that cruelty, according to Reynolds, you’re a born asshole, but that’s beside the point. It’s funny because it’s unexpected; as a holodeck-generated Joe Piscopo explained to Data in a second season episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, such unexpected, uncontrollable misdirection can be hilarious. 

 

Mr. Poslaiko, I still don’t know if that senseless baby would know anything, but I hope that poor ten pound eyeball would be able to look at itself in the mirror and laugh. Or cry. Probably cry. What else could it do? At least a pack of Kleenex is cheaper than a box of Huggies. 

 

4. Power to the people. Never doubt the power of “the team.” Very few successful ventures are accomplished alone; very few stories star a single protagonist, and those that do often end in tragedy. Childhood tales featuring the perils of Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood subtly teach us the dangers of going it alone, while, if you believe in the Bible, even the Son of God needed a good dozen friends to accomplish his mission. Sherlock Holmes needs his Dr. Watson to pen his cases, Vladimir need Estragon to wait for Godot, and Batman needs his Robin -- even after one grows up and another gets blown up, Batman needs his Robin. 

(Incidentally, those are the three examples I used in an impromptu speech to win first place in the category at Arizona's state 4A Speech & Debate competition in 1996.  The topic was a fortune cookie slip that read: "The best mirror is a good friend.")

 

My tenure as the director of an after school program reminds me of this lesson most consistently. When I first acquired my job, the negligence of my then-boss forced me to learn many lessons on my own; further, when I was under his wing, I quickly caught the stink of abused and misused power. Pardon the pun, but it was the pits. I won’t taint this treatise with those troubling times, only to say this: no one person is God’s gift to any righteous effort. I could master every activity my after school program has to offer, from athletics to the arts, but what can that knowledge accomplish when 100 kids come barreling down the door? What can even the most capable of us do for such a diverse majority? Sure, I can play basketball with the kids, no problem, but the sport itself isn’t as important as the connection they’d see between a genuine athlete and the game. Also, what of the 70 or so kids uninterested in basketball? Enter the arts expert, the board games expert, etc. The idea is, once I’ve led my team toward a standard of general excellence in our program (the details of which I describe in another blog), my calling in sick on any given day shouldn’t effect its success . . . but if they call in sick? I’m screwed. 

 

To be clear, I’m not talking about a mob mentality here. The quality of the people is just as important as the quantity. Consider the bumpersticker that has hung above my beloved childhood desk since I picked it up in Santa Monica almost ten years ago: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world -- Margaret Mead.” The key words are thoughtful and committed, implying intent and longevity -- quality. Another philosopher put it just as well; the great Colonel Hannibal Smith, at the end of the second season A-Team episode “Deadly Maneuvers,” in which some mutual enemies team up to take down our heroic fugitives as a proverbial anti-A-Team. Of course, the baddies fail, and Smith quips to their leader, “Now the next time you think you want to take somebody out, pal, don’t get yourself a squad. Get yourself a team.” Cue explosion. Best episode ever.

 

Yet “power to the people” transcends this interpretation and has attained a much more spiritual significance for me, as well. I’ve never really documented this, but when I graduated high school I moved to Southern California to become a preacher. Now, when some teenagers leave home for the first time, they experiment with drugs, or perhaps indulge in promiscuous sex, to deal with stress and homesickness. Me, I turned to something much more dangerous, based on the reactions of my private Christian college’s administration -- I developed a propensity . . . for pranks. My new friends and I pulled off some incredible capers (though nothing compares to Phoenix’s Nativity Nightmare of 1999), one of which got us arrested, and several of which almost had me expelled, and during this disciplinary process, I developed a distaste for “the religious institution.” Considering the frequently touted imperfection of Man, I struggled with how any one man could judge another, from the miniscule musings of a Bart Simpson-like prankster, to the grander schemes of sexual orientation or political affiliation. I guess I projected my sense of betrayal and victimization at the hands of those ultraconservative administrators toward anyone else that might’ve felt a similar (or probably more dire) sense of oppression. I mean, didn’t those deans experience outbursts of antiauthoritarianism when they first left home? So who cares if I put a toilet in the university pool, compared to the other things I could’ve done?

 

Of course, other environmental factors contributed to my denunciation of religion -- for example, living in a dorm with the same dudes that led our worship services. Try taking anyone leading an auditorium in a chorus of “Our God is an Awesome God” seriously when just the night before you dumbfoundedly watched him tenaciously try to slap his roommate’s scrotum. Because that isn’t worse than my stealing the campus Christmas tree. Also, I read DC Comics’ Vertigo title Preacher, which, among many other things, emphasizes the hypocrisy of a god addicted to love from his creation yet denies them the same chance to be as selfish. Finally, these meandering thoughts found harmony thanks to a line from the Face to Face song “Handout,” which claims, “Why won’t you believe that you’re the same as me?” I’ve since concluded that everybody has the same needs, the need for love and acceptance, for creative expression and comprehension, for establishing a legacy, and honestly religion offers that to many people. Me, while denouncing religion, I was simultaneously discovering my desire to work with kids, which epitomizes these needs in everyone and fulfills them in me just fine.

 

Which brings us full circle, and right up to today.

 

As I conclude this diatribe (which took much longer to write than it was worth, but which was also very rewarding in its retrospective introspection), I wonder if any of these relatively simple tenets are subject to change. Is twenty-eight years old too young to claim such a concise, four-fold grip on life? Or perhaps it’s just the opportune time to write down some conclusions, reserving the right to maintain an open mind for change? I mean, I hope I have plenty of life left to change my mind. I mean, who knows what starting a family might do to any of these thoughts? Who knows if one day my own child will read this blog and, whether or not I’ve changed my worldview or lifestyle, get a better idea of who their father was . . . and who they can be, too?

The Southern California sky pulled a Two-Face this morning, clearly divided between the bright morning sun and the thick gray clouds that held it back like sober friends in the midst of a bar fight.  The sun got a few licks in, though, and the result was a spattering of multicolored raindrops that unearthed that wet cement smell that takes us all back to the downpours of our youth, those blessed days when opening your mouth toward plummeting precipitation wasn't perceived as puerile or potentially poisonous.  It made my wait at the bus stop more enjoyable and dramatic than usual, and the ride to Starbucks a proverbial kaleidoscope of climate, as the sun won a few blocks here, the rain, a few blocks there.

But, like most of America, it's our country's political climate that dominates my thoughts today, as the dust settles from Friday night's Presidential debates, as a troops rally around their lieges for the Vice Presidential debates this Thursday.  That the first Presidential debate was on a Friday is critical, as the mainstream news generally hibernates between its 11 o'clock last gasp on Friday night and its pseudo-sophisticated awakening on Sunday mornings, so, unless you subjected yourself to the basic cable/talk radio 24-hour news cycle, you might've been able to generate your own opinion on the matter, void of preplanned partisan positions by pundits well paid to keep their side of the fence painted a fleck-free white.  And, no, that isn't a slight toward Obama.  It's a metaphor.

In fact, even Obama's "naive inexperience," to summarize McCain's frequent criticism of his opponent, couldn't sway the masses from wearing his name or likeness on a flurry of fashionable shirts and pins this weekend.  Granted, my girlfriend and I began our weekend in the Valley, then in West Hollywood, both relatively safe terrain for Obamania, but the sheer volume of stylish support was commentary enough, forget that Hannity or Colmes wouldn't dominate the airwaves again until Monday.  We scored an Obama pin from a kindly old couple working a voter registration booth, but I was a little off-put by its "$3 suggested donation."  Aren't campaign funds raised to produce these marketing materials?  Isn't virtually charging civilian supporters for these materials double dipping?  Heck, if I want a pin, assuming I wear it on the economically hard-hit Main Street like a walking campaign poster, shouldn't Obama give me $3 for the rented shirt space?

Speaking of Obama giving money away, I was wondering why he didn't give McCain his two cents about those flagrant "what the Senator doesn't understand" comments from Friday night.  A simple, "At least I've traveled around the world, unlike somebody's running mate," would've effectively shushed any retorts about inexperience, I figure.  But, Obama isn't running against Sarah Palin -- his running mate, Joe Biden, is.  At this point, I see Biden rolling up his sleeves on Thursday night and saying the things his better half of the ticket can't.  At the first mention of foreign policy, I'd have no problem with Biden blurting, "Listen, Obama's too good to say anything, but all of McCain's yammering about his naivete?  Hey, Sarah, where've you been, huh?  What are you bringing to the table of diplomacy besides your pretty smile, Fargo accent, and some years of local political experience now shrouded in scandal and speculation?  McCain can name drop all he wants, but with Barrack and me, America is getting a balance of international expertise, so if he bites it, the world is still in good hands.  Oh, I'm sorry what was the question?"

Of course, considering Biden's diagnosis of foot-in-mouth disease, he'd probably end any tough guy treatise like that with, "And Hillary could've done the same thing, only better!" so he'd best quit when he gets ahead.  It's just like this morning, where, with just a month and a few days between today and Election Day, a casual breeze can mean all the difference between rain or shine, no matter which candidate you prefer.  Like my bus ride, some streets are already set on a sunny day, while others are running to their cars to avoid the scattered shower.  The streets in between are the ones that we really have to worry about.  Right now, the possibilities of America's future really are as divergent as the spectrum of sunlight striking a plummeting raindrop.

August 15, 1995.  Red Rocks, Colorado.  LeRoi Moore had me at "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," before I ever even knew the Dave Matthews Band existed.

It's a stupid little thing, really, but Moore ended his four minute saxophone solo during the song "Lie In Our Graves" with the choral notes from "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."  I don't know if he'd practiced and planned it, or if the riff was some impromptu inside joke, but some years later, when I first heard it on the band's "Live at Red Rocks" album, this casual listener became a lifelong fan.  See, my friends and I were in the midst of synchronizing Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" with The Wizard of Oz -- by transferring the film from VHS to hard drive in those precious years before the DVD revolution, mind you -- so I was somewhat obsessed with Baum's fairytale brought to life.  Little did I suspect then that my friend Nathan's tireless efforts at the computer would come to define my entire worldview now, would develop into an almost spiritual appreciation for the little synchronicities in the universe.

So you might appreciate the fact that exactly thirteen years and three days after that original Red Rocks performance, I was saddened to learn of LeRoi Moore's passing, from injuries he received in an ATV accident.  My brother texted me the news around 3 a.m. Pacific Standard Time (so around 6 a.m. his time on the East Coast), but I wasn't really receptive to the news until a few hours later, when I listened to the live "Listener Supported" recording of the DMB fan favorite "#41."  In the band's traditional jam style, the song ends with an over five minute musical tete-e-tete between Moore and violinist Boyd Tinsley, and although I myself am no musician and cannot by any means describe the science of their art, in that moment the group's comprehensive competence as performers is completely unparalleled.  When I had a MySpace, I described my heroes as anyone capable of working with a team -- I jokingly cited the A-Team as a perfect example.  A band is a better one, as their art is essentially effective teamwork in audible incarnate -- equal yet unique parts coming together to create a whole.  By this definition, the Dave Matthews Band is one of the best examples.  The fact that their live performances, when the most can go wrong, are for all intents and purposes so right is all the evidence I can offer.

It's a combination of this and Moore's subtle influence in my oh-so-critical adolescence that makes his passing that much more disappointing than any other highly publicized celebrity's death.  My friends and I spent hours cruising Phoenix's hot summer streets at night, singing along loudly to DMB's "Two Step" or "All Along the Watchtower" cover and, now more importantly, nodding our heads and tapping our feet to Moore's instrumental interludes.  We didn't know then that those horns were much more important than the lyrics we competed with one another to memorize, that the bass sax was the proverbial heartbeat of the whole operation.  For all of the live recordings and bootlegs, it saddens me most to know that these thousands of recordings are in many ways now the definitive versions of these songs, the hallmark of the "Moore era" of the Dave Matthews Band . . . because of course the band will continue.  That's what an effective team does.  It endures in the face of changes and challenges.  

Times like this make me grateful that some of my friends from that seemingly bygone summer feel the same way, and that maybe some of the others will come around again.  That song that started it all, "Lie In Our Graves," says it best: "I can't believe that we would lie in our graves wondering if we had spent our living days well."  Assuming my sentiments are just one in hundreds of thousands, LeRoi Moore need not worry about that.

The X-Men paid for our hotel room.  Not often I get to say that!

This weekend I turned down a surefire booty call.

Today, I sold a small but significant portion of my action figure collection to pay for part of a weekend getaway with my gal.

What is this thing that I've become . . .?

Everything I've always wanted to be.

One of the best things about having a new, significant person in your life is the necessity of constantly "explaining yourself" -- a phrase often negatively assigned to apologetic exposition.  "You're an hour late!  Explain yourself!"  No, in this case, I'm coining the phrase quite literally; a new, significant person in your life wants to know who you are and how you came to be, like a comic book origin story.  "In this issue: Enter: Russ!  Who he is and how he came to be!!"  Of course, self-centered species that we are, most people don't mind divulging.  I certainly don't.  In fact, as a geek that maintains an almost obsessive commitment to the passions of his past, I revel in it.  Where did my sense of humor come from?  Why do I still collect action figures?  I can answer these and almost any other question about myself rather quickly, because, while those definitive moments in my life were retrospectively fleeting, I've thought about them so much now that they've begun to last as long as my life itself.

It doesn't help that two of my favorite fictional heroes, Batman and Sherlock Holmes, kept lairs that doubled as virtual museums to their adventures.  From Batman's giant penny, robot dinosaur, and old costume/prop display cases, to Holmes' Irene Adler locket and Richenbach Falls painting -- this is my room, to a much lesser extent.  The old pirate busts my Aunt Gloria made, that haunted my grandparents' house until Papa passed away, Mima moved in with Mom, and they became mine.  The Principal's Award I surprisingly earned in the eighth grade, under the tutelage of Mr. Burbridge, Mr. George, and Mr. Highland.  The Dumbfounded tapes.  The S.A.M.M. press release.  Oh, I know you don't know what I'm talking about, but I do -- these and dozens of other momentos that have become a virtual incarnation of my most beloved memories, littered around my room in a cocoon of indulgent accomplishment.  My own 221-B Baker Street flat.  My Bat-cave.

Now, I have an incredible new person in my life to share these adventures with, and with whom to experience more adventures.  I won't dub her a Robin or Dr. Watson, though, because she's no mere sidekick.  No, she has a personal museum all her own, and we've been swapping war stories.  Proverbial, sometimes literal, memoirs.  It's as exciting as it is intimidating, as one begins to wonder if the treasures of his life are really worthy of sharing with other people, specifically with the person who might end up living with that junk for the rest of her life.  One man's Bat-cave is just another person's trash heap, right?  

No, this insecurity can be overcome with the mementos one can never tangibly exhibit -- the lessons one has learned throughout his toy-ridden life.  You can't put these lessons on a shelf, rearrange them, tape them down in case of an earthquake.  They're just . . . there, and they come out when needed, like the good China.  So, since I have all of the tangibles of my life readily available in my new little studio, I've decided to pull out these old lessons, stand them up just once alongside one another, for everyone's sake including my own.  Like a complete collection of Bucky O'Hare action figures (and I do have them all), it's good to see them together, just as it's good to pack them away again, because, as I've learned from my tiny new studio, one's complete collection need not be on display to know that they're still yours, that they're still there. Fortunately, like the Bucky O'Hare figures, I didn't have many lessons to collect -- just a quartet of key philosophies that fuel this little life and explain why I've kept all this dusty old stuff in the first place.

Like these thoughts of mine, good things come in four: The Monkees.  The Golden Girls.  The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  The kind of play that precedes the real action.  So, you know if I'm ready to talk about these first few chapters of my life, I'm ready to move on with the rest of it.  It takes an incredibly special person to make one leave the past in the past.  To make a manic collector like me clear off some shelf space for the future.  I don't feel the need to explain myself to myself anymore.  The big picture has never been more clear.

I was going to post something else, and still might, but when I saw this writing prompt, I had to respond, because I think every geek has secretly thought about it.  Yes, "it" -- the inevitable zombie outbreak.  Heck, you'd think today's earthquake in Southern California was the portent of such doom, the way the news covered this casualty-free, minimal property damage inducing catastrophe.  (If casualties are soon recorded, I'll promptly remove my tongue from my cheek . . .)  

So, am I prepared?  Well, it depends on where I am when this crap storm begins.  If I'm at home, I'm screwed, because the only "weapons" I have are my action figures' accessories.  I don't think the Scorpion's spring-loaded tail missile would faze a flesh hungry zombie.  Nor does my cat, named Amazo for the evil android that boasts all of the powers of the Justice League, have all of the powers of the Justice League, so I think he'd be little help.  No, at home at be done for.  At least I'd die where all of my stuff is, until I was undead, and Amazo turned into a chicken leg like when Sylvester from those old Looney Tunes was too delirious with hunger to see straight.

Now, at work, I'm ready.  If you don't know, I work for a facility-based, nationally recognized youth-oriented after school/summer program.  The "facility-based" part is important, because this facility is much like a classroom -- well, it's more like a classroom-meets-a frat house, minus the alcohol, in that we have a pool table, a foosball table, and some other recreational equipment boys of all ages like.  Can you imagine the damage I could do to a pudgy, gooey, walking corpse with the likes of a broken billiards stick?  That's just in the Gamesroom; if I ventured into the Arts Room, I'd have an entirely different kind of arsenal -- the likes of exacto knives and paper cutters.  Ever see The Faculty?  That paper cutter scene fulfilled my violent childhood fantasies to no end.  Ah, those zombies wouldn't stand a chance.

So: home, I'm dead, work, I'm a champ.  Goes to show where my priorities are, eh?  Yes, now I know what I must do . . . I need a pool table at home. 

You probably haven't realized it yet, but time travel exists.  It is real and as among us this very LiveJournal.  It isn't like in the movies, though, where Marty can meet his future self and learn the valuable lesson of choosing one's battles more wisely so that he doesn't get into that car accident and end up a former rocker-turned-corporate stooge working for Needles.  Or something.  No, our time travel is one way, to the past, and we can't interact with our past selves to mess up their future, e.g. our present -- no, we can only see it, probably vaguely remember, and inevitably feel those tired old emotions all over again with the tainted knowledge of what's really to come.  See, this filtered form of time travel is a mistake.  We've created a monster . . . No, we've created a ghost.  It's destined to haunt us, if we let it.

Today, I let it.  I took a look at the past, but not my past, and it's only completely my fault.  For those fleeting moments one spends in the past, it becomes his present, right?  Ironically?  So, I did this intrusive thing, peeking at the past, where and when I wasn't meant to be, where and when things needed to happen the way they did to make my present so absolutely awesome . . . so, of course, if I could take anything back, undo anything from this abandoned timeframe, it would only be that.  That I looked.  Leave it be, I'm telling myself.  Forget you ever went there.  You didn't belong there then, and you really didn't belong there now, you nosy moron.  Throw away the almanac and never make that gamble again.  This is the problem with science fiction.  When it becomes a reality, we run the risk of losing its authored happy ending.  The future shouldn't be this interactive.

Since I'm a pretty big fan of everything I've ever done in my life, this is a difficult question to answer, but two accomplishments come to mind, each reserved to specific category of life, because existence is nothing but dual, yes?

Professional: This past April, I was in charge of an elementary school's annual PTA carnival; since I'm the director of the site's After School Program, which facilitates community-wide events all the time, the PTA President reckoned I'd be a natural in the role.  She would've been right, if the carnival's projected date didn't conflict with said community-wide events that I help facilitate all the time!  Still, with a superhero theme (that I didn't pick out, I swear!), and a dedicated team of staff, teachers, parents, and volunteers, we pulled it off and raised a significant amount of dough for the school and my program.  Hundreds of kids played superhero-themed carnival games, received free comics thanks to an impromptu donation from Cornerstore Comics here in Orange County, and met the likes of Darth Vader and Boba Fett courtesy of the Orange County Star Wars Society.  It was safe, fun, relatively easy to set up and tear down, and by far the culmination of two of my life's greatest passions.  'Nuff said!

Personal: December 1999.  Bill Clinton was ending his second term in office.  A young Britney Spears was still an innocent pop princess, her genitalia still a mystery to a grateful world.  And the Andy Kaufman biopic Man on the Moon was in theaters, celebrating the fifteen-year anniversary of his untimely death.  My friends and I took in the Jim Carrey vehicle on my birthday, and it so rapidly changed my life that I was determined to pull a media-worthy prank that met the likes of Kaufman and Zmuda's early '80s escapades.  T.p.ing houses simply was no longer enough, and besides, we were all in or approaching our early '20s and thus getting too old for that kind of thing.  It was Christmastime, so . . . well, I've posted the results here.  They got their little savior back, okay?  And I assume the others are still in the Peoria Police Department evidence locker, waiting to be claimed.  Story of Jesus' life, if you think about it.

Of course, if I died now, in this moment, and it was a fairly fantastic death -- like "Geek Crushed by Towering Comic Book Collection," or "High School Rival T.P.s Geek to Death" -- then that would be my greatest accomplishment . . . building something so big (i.e. my comics long boxes or another's need for revenge) that it defined me to the end.  Who among us can claim that?