KaraokeFanboy

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?

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: karaoke strip club.  "They dance to the songs you sing!"

Another contribution of mine to 52 Comic Challenges: Draw a Song.  Check out why scooterboy1234 has slowly but surely stolen my dreams.

Also, the VMAs: Umbrella is a better anthem than Girlfriend AND Lip Gloss?  No way.  I hate 'tweens.

I've finally posted an original piece of art on-line for public consumption.  

Lately I've been testing the waters with a new blog, a forum for my more obscure, creative pursuits, and there I've posted my first contribution to the 52 Comic Challenges project, hosted by scooterboy1234 and Young American Comics.

Without repeating what I blogged there, I simply ask, check it out and let me know what you think.  Posting it was a big step for me.

My babies, Amazo and Adora.

Back to the Future: The Ride -- R.I.P.

Crisis of Infinite Action Figures (or, What I Do on a Sunday Night When My Girlfriend Watches Desperate Housewives or Big Brother)

We've made robots that can explore the surface of the moon and Mars, but we're still sending men into the Earth to mine.

America is, if anthing else, dangerously nostalgic with the safety of its bravest men and women.

I cropped my head out of my picture with Peter Tork and got Simpsonized!  The website requires some patience, but it's fun, too!

(Maybe I should Simpsonize Peter next . . .)

I blame myself.

The Weekly World News is releasing its last issue at the end of the month, and it's all my fault.

I've been a fan of The Weekly World News for almost two decades, though my conscious appreciation of the tabloid began in 1992, when the now infamous Bat Boy first appeared on its cover.  My twelve-year-old mind was enthralled with the Bat Boy concept; even though I knew he was a mere photographic fabrication, I admired the paper's sheer tenacity to the tale.  Somewhere, some adults' job was to create this elaborate mythology about a half-bat, half-boy . . . and it wasn't a comic book.  Bat Boy's adventures became more frequent and specific, eventually inspiring an off-Broadway play, but I only followed them as a casual observer.  Like many others, I merely perused The Weekly World News in grocery store check-out lines, passing those arduous few minutes away with a smirk on my face, bewilderment at how our weird world could appear even weirder with Photoshop's help, and the contentment that such black and white escapism would always be waiting for me next to all that gum and candy.

Yes, when magazines and tabloids were reporting on global tragedies or celebrity pratfalls, The Weekly World News insisted that Elvis was alive and well on a galaxy-hopping spaceship, and that was the most important headline of the day.  And we all took it for granted.  If I'd purchased even one of the issues I briefly enjoyed, would I have made a difference?  Would you have?  Without The Weekly World News, we wouldn't have TheOnion.com -- and perhaps any on-line competitor to satirical print news in the first place.  Does even Jon Stewart owe The Weekly World News some thanks for his successful career on The Daily Show?

I'm sorry I couldn't help you, The Weekly World News.  You were the real Bat Boy, you know -- oddly cute and interesting, but destined never to be accepted.  Fly away on gossamer wings, old friend.  We hardly knew ye.

August 9, 2007

Dear Boy Shakira,

I've been thinking about writing to you for a few weeks now.  Today I discovered another open letter to you, and while I completely agree with that writer's sentiments, his are not the reasons I think you should exist.  Not that you need anyone's permission, but in this ironic era of twenty-four hour news and pop culture analysis, sometimes minutia elicits in-depth evaluation and sometimes significant events are lost in the maelstrom, and frankly, my dear, you're a bit of both.  Our criticism of you comes from our inability to understand you, and though you've been cast off of America's Got Talent, your role in the landscape of American entertainment isn't finished yet.  We need you a little while longer.

But like I said, I have my own reasons.  Yes, you've inadvertently become an icon for the crossdressing community, but it isn't what you do that interests me -- it's who.  Simply put, you're a better female pop star than the female pop stars you impersonate, and we need you to take their place.  Definitively.

Boy Shakira, this year you've spent more time being Britany on television than the real Britany has . . . and you did it with a smile.  Despite inevitable mockery and even David Hasselhoff's snide commentary (like he has the right to judge anybody), you were a whole-hearted entertainer, specifically without the baggage of drunken-driving convictions, or underground sex tapes, or failed album sales or box office returns.  You essentially filled the role established by Britany, Lindsay, and the rest of "Generation DUI," and if these young ladies are going to continue cycling through rehab, garnering tabloid headlines, and burning bridges in Hollywood, you might as well take their place permanently.  America loves such "bubblegum entertainment," but these girls obviously bit off more than they could chew.  It's up to you, now.

Help us, Boy Shakira.  You're our only hope.

I understand that this is a tremendous request and responsibility, but I trust that you will not take it lightly.  Actually, I trust that you will not take taking it lightly lightly.  Your apparent weightlessness is the essense of your charm, and the characteristic that just might convince even America's most conservative citizens to embrace you as a role model.  Yes, girls will look to Boy Shakira as an example.  I know you've been voted off of the show that spawned you, but, seriously, if that isn't talent, I don't know what is.

Sincerely,
KaraokeFanboy

I've admired the Monkees for years, but I do not envy them.  Imagine building a legitimate career in the shadow of just three years' worth of success, and welcome to the Monkees' day jobs.  In fact, calling Micky Dolenz, Davy Jones, Mike Nesmith, and Peter Tork "the Monkees" is a misnomer, since they haven't performed together in years.  Alas, each of them have been branded for life, despite their supplemental musical pursuits, or stints on broadway, or other film and television projects; in fact, arguably, these careers were made possible in large part thanks to their Monkees work.  The dilemma is whether or not they embrace that.  When I heard that Peter Tork and his band Shoe Suede Blues were playing at the Orange County Performing Arts Pavilion in Santa Ana this month, I briefly wondered if, as a life-long Monkees fan, I should go.  After all, Peter was the first to leave the band back in '68, and despite their multiple reunion tours (most of which I've seen), I know his skills and tastes are more eclectic than the Monkees' repertoire.  Forty years later, and with a new group of musicians, would he even play any of the few songs he sang?

Who cares?  I told you, my hesitation was brief, and my commitment as a fan isn't that shallow.  I went, I saw, and, yes, Peter Tork conquered.

First of all, the new Orange County Performing Arts Pavilion is a beautiful, intimate venue.  My girlfriend was quick enough to score front row seats (my foot was literally against the stage), but any seat there would've been acceptible.  I've seen the Monkees perform together in arenas or individually in a park (last year's Micky & Coco Dolenz show, specifically), but the atmosphere of the OCAP exuded a reverence even my youthful admiration couldn't instill in a Monkee.  In short, it was unexpectedly classy -- perhaps too classy for Tork's opening act, a Monkees tribute band dubbed Pleasant Valley Sunday.  Last year, I saw another Monkees tribute band, the Missing Links, whose website claims that they're the only Monkees tribute band -- and they might as well be, based on PVS's performance.  They weren't bad, but they were remarkably bland, and whereas the Links' both looked and sounded the part (offering all four vocals and even changing from the red eight-button shirts to the group's more psychedelic season two garb midway through their act), PVS offered only the required, and often strained, Dolenz vocals with a heavy emphasis on the Jones canon.  "She" and "Cuddly Toy" were pleasant surprises, though the latter was somewhat diminished by a cute but hapless go-go dancer.  Pleasant Valley Sunday succeeded in setting the mood but failed to capture the spirit, so I assumed that Peter would make up the difference.



As his band's name implies, Shoe Suede Blues is also a tribute band of sorts, dipping into America's blues catalog, not to mention Tork's influences as a musician, and even a hardcore pop music fan (yes, those with a penchant for Monkees music) couldn't stop their foot from tapping under SSB's melodic influence.  I won't pretend to know the songs they performed, only to say that I specifically enjoyed a song with a line in its chorus, "It's not your fault I have the blues," or something like that.  Tork's deep voice is more compatible with these low, soulful tones more than anything from the Monkees' canon, including his "Long Titile: Do I Have to Do This All Over Again" from the Head soundtrack.  In fact, forty years after Peter first sang that song, he answered its question . . . and obligingly sang "Your Auntie Grizelda" to much of the audience's delight, myself included.  While not my favorite song, "Grizelda" was Tork's first and most notable solo vocal performance in all of the Monkees' discography, so to hear him sing it live was particularly rewarding.  Shoe Suede Blues' reinterpretation of "Last Train to Clarksville" was also surprisingly territorial, and appropriately followed by Peter's keyboard heavy "Daydream Believer," with an audience sing-along that undoubtedly rivaled the band's earliest crowds, if not in quantity, then definitely in heartfelt quality.  The fact that SSB's newest album only boasts "Clarksville" and "For Pete's Sake" (originally sung by Micky during the TV show's closing credits) proves that these other two songs were truly treats exclusively for the Pavillion audience.



Peter wasn't without his usual flubs, though, often claiming that he'd lost control of the show from the first few minutes of their performance.  I guess his monitor wasn't detecting his lead vocals, which threw off the quality of the first song entirely.  Also, in my opinion (and I'm no musician or sound technician), Shoe Suede Blues' lead guitarist was just a little louder than Tork's strings, so when they "threw" from one to the other it sounded a little unbalanced.  Still, the passion for their music was the driving force behind their performance, and by the end of the concert such appreciation was infectious.  I've actually been saving Shoe Suede Blues' album for a more meaningful listening experience, but I'm confident that those tracks will take me back to that night -- the night Peter Tork took a daydream and made it a reality.



Tork was kind enough to sign memorabilia after the show, and I was one of the first fans in line.  Just like my brief moments with Micky some months back, I didn't know what to say, other than, "Could you please sign my albums?" and "Meeting you is a real honor."  How do you articulate a lifetime's worth of admiration?  How could you tell anyone that their music helped shape your worldview (listen to "Shades of Gray," "Daily Nightly," and "Zor & Zam," you naysayers!) and literally beckons to a more pure time in your life?  (In my case, that time was spent cross-legged in front of my record player in my old Stratford, Connecticut play room, rocking back and forth to those old Rhino re-releases, making up the words to songs like "Little Girl" when I couldn't understand the lyrics.)  What's worse, how can anyone, like Peter Tork, accept that kind of responsibility when they have their own lives and legacies to worry about?  No, I do not envy the Monkees.  But I still cannot wait to meet them all.

A concert review looms, but first, the picture:



Two Monkees down, two more to go!

Palm Springs dies every night at 11 p.m.

This weekend's leadership retreat for work is the third time I've been to Palm Springs; last year's retreat was the second, and a friend's bachelor party a few years ago was the first.  Each time I've been, the city's downtown, a thoroughfare of restaurants, pubs, and novelty shops, seems as increasingly barren as the desert surrounding it.  Expecting to karaoke after a late dinner, my coworkers and I arrived at Peabody's Cafe around the aforementioned 11 p.m., only to coattail its last call.  We found a faint heartbeat in the Village Pub, where a raucous band covered some of the songs we would've sung anyway, but even after a few drinks and a few more laughs at some hapless barflies' expense, I was still disappointed in this getaway town.  While my friends were eyeballing the babes, I lamented the loss of my first love -- yes, the karaoke.  I've had a few songs brewing for a while, just about ready to percolate.  (I'm thinking of you, Billy Joel's "Big Shot.")  Well, if Palm Springs doesn't want it, it doesn't get it.

I never thought that I'd ever review an entire city, but sometimes even nothing demands something.

Addendum (added 8/6/07): I wrote the first part of this entry on a disappointed Saturday morning, but I returned to Peabody's on an optimistic Saturday night and discovered an entirely different scene.  Busting at the seams, Peabody's became a karaoke oasis!  By nine o'clock the regular crowd had shuffled in (so regular in fact that the owner presented a beloved customer with a big birthday cake, a moment that was completely charming), and by 10:10 p.m. I was singing about it via Billy Joel's "Piano Man."  ("Big Shot" wasn't on the list.  Next time, Palm Springs . . . NEXT TIME!)  The KJ was a humbly talented performer that only allocated stage time for himself during lulls in the rotation, which, to my surprise, was "tickering" on the monitors between songs.  Yes, you could actually count down to your turn, a knowledge some KJs horde like an UFO cover-up.  Full disclosure, audience participation, and moderately priced drinks -- the next time you find yourself in Palm Springs, find yourself in Peabody's, too . . . 

. . . but only on Saturdays. 

Reviewing Superman: Doomsday, premiered at the San Diego Comic Con:

Superman must be a terribly challenging character to write.  On one hand, Superman is Earth's first and most powerful superhero, vulnerable only to Kryptonite, magic, and women whose names begin with "L," so devising an original, truly original opponent is the fictional equivalent of God making a rock so heavy even He can't lift it.  Yet, on the other hand, Kal-El is the orphan of an entire world that is actually willing to conceal his abilities to become a part of ours.  That chunks of his home planet weaken him is both a physical and spiritual vulnerability; those little green rocks are proof that Clark Kent really isn't from around here and will never truly be human.  Still, Superman is comics' most enduring character, mastering print, radio, and film in multiple capacities, so stories about the Man of Steel surely aren't difficult to come by.  So why would DC Comics and Warner Brothers Animation decide to reincarnate any Superman story, even the most widely known and highest selling in the companies' rich history, for a direct-to-DVD feature length release?

Because, in its simplest form, Superman: Doomsday is the perfect Superman story.  Here's why . . . 

First of all, when "The Death of Superman" story began all those years ago, I didn't wait in line for the black-bagged final blow issue, because even in my formidable youth I knew that Superman wouldn't stay dead.  Further, had I committed to the story, it would've lost me somewhere during the "four imposters" arc, because my Phoenix suburb simply didn't have enough lawns for me to mow and earn the money necessary for those years' worth of stories.  So, when I heard that Warner Brothers Animation was going to launch their adaptations of classic DC epics with Superman: Doomsday, I wondered what pertinent plot points they would include to make a single, self-contained film.  After all, "The Death of Superman" isn't just long but also mired in early '90s continuity, including an agreeable, redheaded Lex Luthor.  Would Bruce Timm, in his seeming allegiance to these characters' core, retain these dogmatic details?

Thankfully, when Timm expresses that he sought to capture the spirit of the death of Superman, he did just that, essentially using DC's years-long epic as a rough outline to tell a brand new story, which is, as I asserted, the perfect Superman story.  (Note: "Perfect" does not mean "best," which is a distinction only someone that has beheld every Superman story can make, and you'd have to be Big Blue to find that kind of time!)  To wrap up the plot of Superman: Doomsday in a spoiler free sentence, when an alien juggernaut is unearthed and begins to destroy Metropolis, Superman fights the super-soldier to the death, and as the world mourns, Lois Lane, Jimmy Olson, and Lex Luthor find distinct ways to mourn, some of which threaten the sanctity of Superman's spirit and Metropolis' safety and prompt the Man of Steel to return.  Convoluted, right?  Ultimately, Superman: Doomsday is an excellent cause and effect film, epitomizing how the loss of Earth's greatest hero would affect his loved ones, his city, and the world.

Further, while I once believed that Doomsday was merely the brainchild of an editorial decision to create a much-hyped, high selling comic book arc, Superman: Doomsday establishes the behemoth as a legitimate element to the Superman mythos.  (I still have similar reservations about Bane, though a good Batman story could persuade me otherwise.)  Thanks to his depiction in this story, Doomsday is Superman's perfect antithesis, even more so than Lex Luthor; whereas Kal-El's Superman identity is a well thought out guise for heroism, Doomsday is a mindless strength machine void of care or concern for life.  Clark goes to great lengths to conceal his identity and fit in with humankind, and Doomsday goes to great lengths to simply destroy it.  His motive is as pure as the Man of Steel's -- only much more fatal, obviously.  Now, don't get me wrong: I don't think Doomsday's creators intended this spiritual connection any more so than Siegel and Schuster envisioned Superman as an allegory for immigration and the American dream.  Both were created with profit in mind, but that's the rub, anyway -- both stand little to gain alone.

Despite its brutal action sequences, which earn the movie's PG-13 rating by WB's previously kid glove standards, Superman: Doomsday is a surprising character study of Superman's supporting cast, as well.  The Superman/Lois Lane love story is finally unleashed, addressing their inherent love triangle, and Jimmy Olson's dependency on celebrity is explored as a subtle comedic subplot.  The scenes with Ma Pent are absolutely heart wrenching.  Of course, Lex's grief propels the plot, eerily resonating with Michael Rosenbaum's interpretation of the character and his need for a yin to his irrepressible yang.  At the risk of leaking a spoiler (which means skip to the next paragraph, spoiler-haters!), the use of cloning in the second and third acts of this film are less of a tether to the source material, or even an atmospheric "scary movie" element, but more of a scientific cry for help.  Despite his lamentations, perhaps Luthor can't achieve king of the mountain status, because it would alleviate his constant need to be better.  As Lois' newfound heroism throughout the film attests, Superman has that affect on everyone.

Visually, Superman: Doomsday actually doesn't deviate too much from similar Warner Brothers Animation projects from the past.  Not that it's a bad thing, because anything under Bruce Timm's ink brush and watchful eye is masterful, but his "recasting" of the characters (as he described in their new designs in the panel following the film's Comic Con premiere) boasts only minor changes to the original animated series' look.  Honestly, everybody looks a little skinnier, from Lois' figure to Luthor's sunken cheeks.  Superman and Doomsday remain respectively and comparatively massive, but that's to be expected.  Also, the directing team did an exceptional job maintaining both a contrasting universal and domestic perspective, pulling the camera view back when it needed to be, exuding a grandiose essence to a story that really deserved it.  At the risk of dropping another spoiler (yeah, that means next paragraph again), though we are deprived of the windows-shattering blow that finally brings Doomsday down (Timm and co. animated that sequence in the Justice Lords episode of Justice League anyway), a truly cosmic sense is applied to the monster's demise, which implies the potential of his destruction.  Superman: Doomsday looks as good as it feels and maintains the integrity of the franchise's reputation in . . . well, a single bound.

Unfortunately, this DVD isn't slated for release until September, but the wait is truly worth it.  I didn't anticipate that famous black-bagged issue of Superman those years ago because I didn't know what to expect, but with Superman: Doomsday, the knowledge that the death and return of a hero is handled so reverently, not to mention that I've ironically already seen the film, makes me want to rush out and buy it all the more.  After seventy years of success in every medium imaginable, writing a good Superman story must be a doomsday in itself . . . but, when done right, it's by all means the easiest and most fun thing to watch.

A few weeks ago, my apartment key snapped off in the front door dead bolt, and I had to replace the whole thing.  I was surprised to discover that a moderately priced dead bolt lock (not the cheapest, but not the most expensive, either) cost fifteen dollars.  Our sense of safety and security is essentially epitomized by a fifteen buck chunk of metal available at any corner hardware store.  Something about that got me thinking.

If you believe two of this summer's box office blockbusters, our nation's proverbial dead bolt is just as vulnerable.  In both Live Free or Die Hard and Transformers, the bad guys break into our government's top secret computer networks to acquire potentially dangerous information too effortlessly for my tastes (granted, one of those hackers is a twitchy alien boom box), which makes me wonder how long Americans need to fear abrupt steampipe explosions in the Big Apple over the seemingly harmless pop-up attached to Perez Hilton's website, for example.  One evokes images of the Twin Towers' disaster, while the other barely elicits our attention -- and in the future, those descriptions might be reversed.

Chris Hansen wants us to believe that even our children, though innocent to many terrors in the world, are vulnerable to any predator in the world thanks to the global gateway that is the Internet.  The first installment in NBC's eleventh To Catch a Predator investigative series premiered last night, a guilty pleasure in info-tainment as ever, especially considering the New Jersey beachhouse backdrop Hansen and the organization Perverted Justice chose to stage their stings.  As Hansen implies, even the reverence of a shorefront getaway can't dissuade a perverted predator from pursuing an apparently home-alone pre-teen.  If your child isn't safe in the bosom of our country's beaches, the entire nation is sure to fall.

Of course, I am in no way affiliated with the Department of Homeland Security, so please pardon these tangible, pop culture-inspired examples of potential terrors to America.  Apparently, I need only muse that my gut senses the gaps in our armor . . .  without worry that someone might criticize my statement as a self-fulfilling prophecy.  I mean, that guy is getting paid, right?  Could a McDonald's employee casually speculate, "I have a feeling our Quarter-Pounders are from a bad stock of beef," and not get fired?

I guess I can rest assured that said employee would still have to work two hours to earn the equivalent of the price of my front door lock.  We find our security blankets where we can.

“You don't have to sing it well; you just have to sing it right.”  No, this wasn’t the catchphrase for Al Gore’s Live Earth concert, though speculations of lip-synching, faux guitar playing, and unapproved profanity have tainted the global concert’s otherwise altruistic efforts toward environmental absolution.  NBC boasted this catchphrase during Tuesday night’s premiere of The Singing Bee, an one-part karaoke/one-part lyrics quiz game show that challenges contestants to complete the choruses to pop culture’s favorite ditties.  As a karaoke fanatic, this concept intrigued me, not so much because I proverbially play this game every time I turn on the radio, but because I wondered how the competition would translate to television.  Is The Spelling Bee as catchy as the songs its participants sing?

Oh, yes, catchy is the word for it.  In the premiere’s opening act, former boy band icon turned celebrity dancer Joey Fatone is a whirling dervish, finding worthy contestants in a crowd rife with idols in training, already singing and clapping along to the raucous band’s multifaceted melodies.  Fatone maintains his rediscovered agility throughout the episode, even “humoring” the band’s interpretation of ‘N Sync’s classic “Bye Bye Bye” with a staged but blushing grin before throwing to commercial with its near-patented choreography.  Fatone forsakes the stoicism of recent has-beens turned game show hosts like Howie Mandel or Bob Saget and succumbs to the concept’s goofiness, and what he lacks in those peers’ inherent wit he makes up for with a humble charm.

 

Fatone exudes, “Ten years ago my picture was hanging up in every girl’s bedroom in America.  Now I’m hosting a summertime timeslot filler that lumps my old hits with the forgotten best-ofs of the ‘80s . . . and I’m okay with that.” Hopefully his participation in this series will set Bee apart from the Fox clone, absolutely effortlessly titled Don't Forget the Lyrics! 

 

Actually, the Bee’s fodder ranges from the ‘60s to the late ‘90s, with an emphasis on the Reagan years for its undeniable multigenerational appeal.  In this first episode, the first hiccup in the contestants’ lyrical languishing to graduate to the next round came from the Bananarama hit “Venus,” and the chosen six quickly learn just how rigid the show’s rules are when each of them forget the understandably forgettable "at" in the line, “I’m your Venus/I’m your fire/At your desire.”  Even an unintentional “oh” and “well” before any given line, a colloquial slip for any enraptured karaoke enthusiast, elicits elimination, creating the smirk-worthy impression that these oft-abused lyrics are akin to Holy Scripture.  “Well, Lord, I'm coming home to you?  ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ won’t tolerate such desecration!”

 

A second round of jumbled lyrics, similar to puzzles found on DVD-based pop culture oriented board games, is a worthy attempt at some quizzical diversity, but when ZZ Top’s “Tush” is handled with the syntactical relevance of “Four score and seven years ago,” I’d prefer a transitional round of literal trivia, i.e. “From Dallas, Texas to Hollywood, ZZ Top isn’t asking for much, but just what are they looking for in their 1975 hit?”

 

In contrast to its preceding America’s Got Talent (with which I have beefs to be discussed later), The Spelling Bee is an afterthought of regurgitated variety show standards, complete with yellow and black bikinied dancing girls (my vote for best thematic skimpiness in television) and orchestra-level pop music, but for that precious half hour, which is exactly as long as it needs to be, even the most tight-lipped of viewers are united by an endearing affinity for these songs.  While these tunes haven’t banded together to prevent global warming, they prove they’re still hot in the realm of entertainment . . . which is what they were intended for in the first place.