A downward spiral can be entertaining, unless you are on the receiving end of it. Zachary Blasto, a man consumed by music, alcohol and the visions in his head, is a broken record skipping into oblivion as he tries to come to terms with loss; of love, of family and of his mind.

This is Rainbow Around the Sun, a voyeuristic thrill-ride at once beautiful, intriguing, sad, invigorating, hopeful, remorseful and stunning. The life of the medium alone has experienced a metamorphosis from concept album, staged concert and now, the movie, coming home for the Oklahoma premiere at the Dead Center Film Festival in June.

The love child of local talent Matthew Alvin Brown, Rainbow is a tour de force of the complications a mind can plague the owner with when abused by the creative forces of music, sex, and familial obligation. Blasto himself is somewhat a rainbow of personalities; different hues to different people. An asshole. A loving son. A shitty boyfriend. A mess. A musical prodigy.

Blasto is a musician hiding in his mind to avoid dealing with the problems in his disastrous life. Failing as a lover and grasping to his last moments with his father, he reflects on the stages of his life, all the while tied to his band, the musical umbilical cord sustaining what is left of his shattered heartbeat.

And no, I haven’t seen the movie. I have the album and was lucky enough to see the staged “reading” of the music last weekend on a rare night out.

Directed by Kevin Ely, (local writer and playwright of the fantastic “Feigning Grace”), and Beau Leland, with book by Ely, and all music by Brown and The Fellowship Students, the movie was chosen as an official selection of the South by Southwest Film Festival and the 2008 Florida Film Festival. Dead Center will premiere the movie opening night outdoors at 9:30 p.m. June 11th and again at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art at 5:30 p.m. June 13th.

Supporting local artists, whether in film, music or the visual or theatrical arts, is important to our community. Our state has so many creative individuals waiting to share their crafts with you. Matt Brown is one of those rare performers who truly shares a piece of his soul and inspiration while simultaneously entertaining you. He and Ely are sweet, talented, dandy men and I am thrilled to support their endeavors and call them friends. Bravo, guys.

www.rainbowaroundthesun.com
 

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is William Thomas Fairport III, and I write this letter holding the utmost contempt for a recent review of Douglas Hofstadter’s Godel, Escher, and Bach published within the pages of your modern electro-zine. After the egregious review of this book by the most esteemed M. Vesuvuis, I found myself taking serious umbrage to the most villainous caricature of this classic work by Mr. Hofstadter. How could the journal of our Fair City be so horribly wrong?

As support for my thesis, I present a small excerpt from another expert, the Beligerent A. Toh:

My favorite quote in this book? On page 559 we read ‘We can now construct one of the main theses of this book’… And it took me three months of reading to get that far. And this is my second time through this book!!!

And it really does take a lot of that 559 pages to really get to the point. The reader is led through a fairly interesting discussion of symbolic logic and basic number theory, illustrated not by graphs, charts, and tables, but by an overarching series of narrative vignettes starring the recurring characters of the Turtle, Achilles, and Mr. Crab.

And…

But… This book isn’t for the faint of heart. I wouldn’t recommend it to the uninitiated, unwashed, unenlightened masses of non-geekdom. Even those with a fairly refined love of math, art, or music (or even all three) are sometimes lost in the highly technical descriptions of the MIU and TNT systems, and are totally lost when the discussion of self-referential languages, mathematical systems, and even biology turns to the technical. I’m glad it wasn’t recommended to me until I was well entrenched in grad school, and had a fair grasp of Turing Machines and automata of various stripes.

What’s significant about this book, though, is that for those “in the know” (wink, wink), it is the best work that pulls the esthetic elements of art and music into the world of mathematical theory, artificial intelligence, and graduate level computer science topics. And what’s REALLY surprising is that this book was written over 30 years ago, yet the topics discussed and theses postulated are still being validated and discussed. In a sense, it has become the “classic” work that all computer scientists should read.

And further:

Several epiphanic moments came after reading about crab canons (You’ll have to read the book). While playing the guitar, a certain pattern seemed to arise from the chord progressions and the melodies I was playing. It made some sense to me finally, but not in an aesthetic sense, but in a structured, patterned way. And the chapter I was reading in GEB provided the handles for me to be able to understand why it had “clicked” for me… Math… Patterns of numbers… The music of the spheres!!!

So… I suggest you find some REAL book reviewers, and leave the serious books to the less namby-pamby staffers out there – or I shall have to contact my close compatriot Herman T. Zweibel, whom I believe is still editor-at-large for that most heavenly paper The Onion, and have him give you a thorough tongue-lashing.

Signed,

WTF

The movie High Fidelity starring John Cusack and Jack Black has been frequently playing on daytime television in the recent past. I have caught it a few times, jarring how much I love that movie back into my brain, the Top Five lists especially. Since the movie debuted, I often send out five questions to my friends on Fridays, asking various things, but I realized today I had not sent the query in a while asking their all-time Top Five: your list of celebrities. In reviewing my own choices, I realized just how incredibly nerdy my preferences are, and wondered why I can’t have the normal Matthew McConaughey-hay-hay and Brad Pitt on mine. It would be so much easier than having to answer the automatic response of “Who?” for almost all of them. Both Billy Crystal and Philip Seymour Hoffman have recently been removed from the list for “out of sight, out of mind reasons,” Billy especially. I will still have mad love for them, along with Kevin Spacey, who dwelled in the Number One spot for probably close to ten years. My current list is as follows…

NUMBER FIVE – RICHARD Blaise
He’s one of those people flamboyant enough to be called just by their last name. He sports a faux-hawk and pink Crocs, rocks the Molecular Gastronomy style of cooking, and knows what to do with a blow torch. And yeah, he’s straight. Owner and designer of Trail-Blaise restaurant in Atlanta, GA, Top Chef Season 4 contestant Blaise is a welcome, tunky-nerd addition to my Top Five. He is hilarious, competitive, extremely interesting and let’s face it…a man who cooks is always a plus. I think you can win this bitch. Rock out a few more wins!

NUMBER FOUR – JEMAINE Clement
He describes his look as an “Ogre who works in a library.” I don’t have a problem with that. He is hilarious, a fantastic writer, (both screen and song), can sing and is just really strangely enticing to look at. Plus, funny will always trump sexy. It just will. I don’t care who you are. It just will.

NUMBER THREE – JOHN Linnell
The soulful eyes, inventive lyrics and penetrating voice make him an irresistible nerd welcomed to my list about three years ago. There is something to be said if you are in a room full of people watching him sing, and you feel like you are the only person there, nearly in tears because his songs are so personal. So adorably nerd-sexy.

NUMBER TWO – DAVID Wain
For several reasons, I love him. First, he is one-third of Stella. Second, he directed Wet Hot American Summer. Third, he is hot. Fourth, he recently wrote and starred in his own YouTube series called Wainy Days, which is hilarious. Fifth, one of the funniest segments of Best Week Ever was his feature on how annoying David Blain the magician was when he did his stint in the bubble thing, and started a protest outside of it saying “Quit trying to out-Blain David Wain!” Sixth, when I get my email notices on Stella, WHAS and The State, it’s often him who writes them, and he’ll write you back. Seventh, his web site is hilarious. And he’s just hot.

NUMBER ONE – MICHAEL Emerson
It was a gestational crush. I’d been a fan of his for a while because of Lost and had even seen him on Broadway in The Iceman Cometh during the Kevin Spacey days, but never had a crush on him. Then I got pregnant. And I had those hormone-induced pregnancy dreams of jungle love on Lost’s freaky-deaky island with him, and afterward he would sit on a fallen tree and tell me what was missing from the book I have been trying to write for the past year. Then I had to find everything he was in and watch it. And I had more dreams where he would be my muse, guiding my writing. He usually plays a murderer. Very well. Even Entertainment Weekly had him do his own list of top five horror movies he loves and what scary is to him because he’s creepy. And I love him. I got all the way to Waikiki this past January, where he lives during filming, but due to the Q-bert signs Writer’s Strike, he was back in New York and I was unable to stare at him. So he’s going on 55, his hair is getting sparse and he’s married. Does it really matter? He has a liquid voice, an exceptional vocabulary, is into Shakespeare and the Greeks, and taught for years. I love him.

I have come to love grocery store Saturdays. In the morning I’ll roll out of bed at whatever time I feel like it, go to the store with list in hand and make my rounds through the aisles at a leisurely pace. I do my best to not get run over by the people in their motorized carts who have ostensibly given up on upright life and go to the check-out counter, smile at the middle-aged cashier as a couple weeks’ worth of food goes parading between us, each item making that beep sound. Sometimes I’ll ask a particularly unenthusiastic cashier if they ever get tired of hearing the beeping. It comes from all of the registers in the store during an eight hour shift. Ceaseless-the actual sound of sustenance and commerce.

(I keep to myself the idea that I wish the cash register manufacturers would design their systems with adjustable pitches for the beeps. Imagine how much more interesting the check-out process would be if each register was tuned to a different scale degree. Every day would present the opportunity for employees to participate in a brand new aleatoric piece of music.)

Sometimes a particularly talkative cashier will observe my inclusion of some out-of-the-ordinary produce. A pack of shallots here or a colorful squash there will start a conversation like: “Wow! What’s that for?” And then I’ll tell them about a new recipe I’m trying that week.

Or sometimes I’ll want to splurge for company and pay a visit to Rhett’s Meat Market and he’ll show me the book he published about the history of early rock n’ roll records by Oklahoma musicians in between dispensing tips on the best way to cook up some lamb and how truly good, right, and salutary a stew is in the middle of winter.

All of these seemingly innocuous, insignificant human interactions combine to make life more enjoyable and interesting. Trading perspectives with fellow humans reminds me of my own humanity.

That is why last week’s Time magazine feature about “10 Ideas That Are Changing the World” sent me into a tailspin of despair. As part of the special coverage Barbara Kiviat, in “The End of Customer Service” paints a picture of a world where the cashier is no longer necessary, replaced by do-it-yourself kiosks. Here is the most troubling sentence: “Companies love self-service for the money it saves, and with consumers finally playing along, the need to interact with human beings is quickly disappearing.” Did you catch that last little bit? The need to interact is becoming a thing of the past!

This is a truly dystopian vision of the future: wandering around the store in silence with your cart, avoiding the other consumer-entities, staring fully in front of you, the only emanating sound being the ever-present beeps of computerized efficiency. Or consider doing all of your purchasing with only the company of the warm glow of your home computer’s monitor. It’s a page right out of Orwell or Huxley, the mass of humanity reduced to unrelated, lonely machines, made distinct only by their purchasing power.

Let us pray we never reach that state of total self-sufficient mechanization. For it is the collection of the inefficient elements of life, our reacting to and interacting with the wondrously unpredictable “other” that keeps us fully human, regardless of corporations and their collective bottom line.

Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Thriller…Those aren’t my genres. Or weren’t until I was introduced to you, my dear J.J. Abrams, and your Bad Robot productions. Oh, how I will follow you and your pop culture phenomena to the ends of the earth. How you dangle unknown actors in my face, tie me into story lines and tease me with unbearable cliff-hangers. I love you. I hate you. I can’t live without you.

It all started in 1998 with Felicity. I had nowhere to go. The tangled dorm life of a bookish girl embroiled with the bad boy, the good boy, the quirky roommate, the gay friend and the pseudo-depressive best friend; it was irresistible. I even contemplated a perm, desperate for Keri Russell’s locks.

Because of you, I actually watched Underworld because Scott Speedman was in it. And I followed you to Alias because Noel’s nerdy girlfriend was playing the lead, so you are also responsible for Jennifer Garner’s success. That’s when you really did a number on me. That isn’t my type of show: espionage, crime, judo, ridiculous stories involving death and resurrection of the same person more than once.

And yet I couldn’t turn my eyes.

You are responsible for Greg Grunberg. If you said “Who the hell is that?” you are not worthy of Nerd City. Go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. Greg is J.J.’s go-to cameo boy: the funny guy in Felicity. The best friend in Alias. The pilot on Lost. Matt Parkman in Heroes. That’s right…soak up the shame.

Lost had been on for several weeks before I finally decided to take a look, finding out you were the producer. I thought it was Survivor, but with Matthew Fox crying, and it didn’t sound appealing at all. Yet I was instantly hooked. Then you screwed with my heart by adding Him. You know of whom I speak. My dear, sweet Ben (Michael Emerson.) Oh, how I long to have him manipulate me on a weekly basis. You are a genius. And now he is a pop culture phenomena all on his own. In fact, may I be so bold as to suggest a face-off between Michael Emerson and Michael Emerson for the Tournament of Villainy: Zep Hindle vs. Ben Linus? William Hinks vs. Allan Shaye? Gerry Rankin vs. Henry Gale? All his characters have a charming yet chilling educated civility to them…much like Magneto. …But I digress.

Now, I’m theatrically entranced by Cloverfield.

Little planned dialogue, a handheld camera, and not the cheese of Blair Witch Project; just good, simple fun and very little cursing, which surprised me from what I can assume was largely ad-libbed.

What I enjoy most is that you use largely unknown actors, gain sympathy with them because we know so little of their talents, we buy them as the person you tell us they are, then catapult them into stardom. I love it. I love how you take as much risk in the casting as you do in the concepts themselves.

I love you and your Science Fiction sexy.

Just add in a little more Ben.

Even though I’m not that kind of girl.

Imagine a world…

Before there were Hogwart’s and Harry and a whole host of humorously literary hijinx…

It’s the late 1800s in rugged Utah. The small town is Adenville, populated by regular, pleasant people. Nary a one of them can perform mystical, Latin-sounding spells, but there are plenty of quaint little adventures and amusing events revolving around the life of one pre-teen kid, Thomas D Fitzgerald, aka “The Great Brain.”

John D. Fitzgerald wrote a series of seven books in the late sixties and early seventies that, philosophically, were a precursor to the Harry Potter books. With titles such as The Great Brain at the Academy and The Great Brain Does It Again, they were a rare achievement in that they were stories of childhood that kids could read and not be talked down to by the author.

I read The Great Brain at the Academy when I was in third or fourth grade, just discovering the wonderful world of books and bookstores, and decided to revisit the entire series just to appease the child inside and I can tell you from experience there is a little bit to think about in these books as an adult as well.

For one thing there is the issue of narration. The tales in these books are told from the perspective of JD, younger brother to “The Great Brain.” You see, the bulk of these stories are about Tom’s schemes to make money off of other kids in town. He pulls off all kinds of plans, usually involving betting or fixed games of chance, and JD is almost always one of those feeling swindled at the end. So what we have here is a wonderfully unreliable narrator and part of the fun for an adult is to try to separate the facts from the coloring of the facts.

Another interesting thing to look for in these books is-how are adults portrayed through the eyes of a child? In general, in JDs world, adults are capable of all manner of things: robbing trains, being outlaws, sheriffs, homemakers…Case in point-Papa. As the editor of the town newspaper he is pretty much assumed to be the smartest man in town. Yet, he also has a history and reputation of being a first-adopter of all kinds of wild-eyed inventions that don’t work. This is a typical youthful depiction of adults as being dullards. Yet he and Mama are capable of great compassion as they adopt a young boy whose parents died in a landslide.

There is a realistic roundness to the main adults that contrasts with the static-ness of the kids of the neighborhood, who mostly play to type: the swindler, the fat kid who speaks in rhymes, the bully, etc.

Another more humorous aspect to these books is the mind-body separation. Over and over, Tom refers to “my great brain” as a separate entity from himself. The idea of someone being able to openly appreciate his or her own intellect without egotism is funny enough, but the idea of separating it from who you are is even more amusing.

And finally, I come to the most intriguing element of these stories, JD’s very perceptive discussion of the motivation behind Tom and his cheating ways. Over and over, when discussing the possibility of Tom’s reforming from his swindling, JD makes the point that it’s not Tom’s great brain that causes him to cheat people, but rather it’s his “money-loving heart.” This is a very adult discussion to make and provides food for thought as you read about all of the trouble that Tom gets into, as well as the few times that he saves the day. (But you better believe he does it with the expectation of reward.)

Coming in at just about 120 pages per book, you can read the entire collection of Fitzgerald’s Great Brain books, including the posthumously published The Great Brain is Back, in about the time it takes to read a single volume of the Harry Potter series and, having recently fed the third grader living inside of me with these books I can confidently say that the humorously simple portrait it paints of the American family at the turn of the century provides for some enjoyably fun reading.

Halloween is awesome. It is a time of the year that one of my nerd traits is equalized by society. I loved, okay love, dressing up into alter egos. I do not just mean comic book characters. I would dress up as Mr. T, Vanilla Ice, Condor Man, Ninja, Caveman, Guitar Guy, and anybody else for whom I could put a hodge podge of an outfit together. This would all be on your average afternoon, and have nothing to do with Halloween.

Then that great and glorious time of the year would come when the world would dress up with me. I started smelling candy, pumpkins and Charlie Brown shows in August. My mom would take me to the fabric store with her, and I would pick out the pattern for almost whatever costume I wanted.

I was never allowed to be a ninja. They are evil men of no moral or ethical boundaries, according to my dad, but I could be a Samurai. They have morals and ethics when they kill people I guess.

I had the big three that I almost always picked. Zorro. The Lone Ranger. Dracula. My mom made the sweetest Lone Ranger outfit. It had details like real cowboy stitching on the shirt, and the mask tied. None of that cheap elastic crap on my mask. The inside of my Dracula cap was lined with red material. She always went the extra mile to make the outfit seem real, which meant a lot back then, because you could not just go to Target and get a real Aragorn outfit with all the accessories. You had to make your outfits. Target was where you would go for candy.

As an adult I moved on to more adult attire at Halloween. You know- The Crow, Merlin, and yes, my beloved ninjas. I kept up the tradition of realistic costumes. When I was The Crow I had long hair that I dyed black, and I pieced the costume together at thrift stores. I think the need to have an authentic outfit is what keeps me in the nerd category even at Halloween.

Now as a parent I have a new temptation toward realism in my costumes as well as a new temptation to dress up my unsuspecting child as a sidekick, a partner or an archenemy. This year he is going as a dragon, and I am thinking about going as a wizard or knight. I might even try to get my wife to be a princess. We almost bought him a Curious George outfit, which would have been more than enough excuse for me to be The Man in the Yellow Hat.

I want Lil’ Dude to be able to pick his own costumes and learn to love Halloween as much as I do. I just cannot help my need to go as Batman and Robin, Superman and Jimmy, or Kid Rock and his midget. I only have so many Halloweens before I die, and he will have his own son to torture one day, right?

Does this sound like a mom, a daughter and a wedding to anyone else?

His faculty advisor stated “Along with being the only mountain dwarf in his family to ever attend college, he has excelled in many academic pursuits, not the least of which being his studies in Argumentative Rhetoric, rising to star placement as a Master Debater on the debate team. We’re extremely proud of him here at Eff U.”

Mr. Toh has been a member in good standing of several academic fellowships his entire college career, the two most prestigious being I Ata Pi, the fraternity of culinary arts aficionados as well as the popular leisure studies Honor Society, I Felta Thi.

He was also chosen to be among a handful of students across the nation to receive special financial consideration by the honorable Electrical Engineering National Interscholastic Endowment, (EENIE) as well as the more specified Microscopic Electrical Engineering National Interscholastic Endowment, (MEENIE.)

But home always had a special place in his heart and thus his equally impressive volunteer work in his hometown of Owatonna, MN– a rare advisory board placement with the Minnesota Institute for Nurturing Enterprising Youth, (MINEY) and the Minnesota Organization of Entrepreneurs, (MOE.) “We here at MINEY are very proud of the momentous, altruistic work that Mr. Toh has been able to fit in to his six years as a college student,” gushes president Adolph Oliver Knipple

But a sense of balance between studies and fun is a rare commodity in the lives of academically gifted people. However, Amdnarg has managed it quite well. “What’s that saying? ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?’” opines girlfriend Anita Mann. “Well, Ammy, (as he’s known to close friends) is certainly not a dull boy,” referring to his activity as apostle of school spirit on the yell team.

“He made a great impact on many of us here. His sense of camaraderie and love for his fellow man was evident,” quipped Jimbo Berkinghamshirewood, the president of the yell team.

“At basketball games, he was always able to gather the students into a rhythmic chant of Eff-U Forever!” says fellow student Harry Palms.

“He even sometimes tried to make the referees feel like a part of the team by shouting Eff-U! at them continually from the sideline – What a guy!” quipped sophomore student Amanda Hugginkiss.

In addition to his Degree in Argumentative Studies and additional engineering research, he was granted the Argumentative Studies Specialty designation on his diploma. He was recorded as saying “Whenever I look at my diploma on the wall, and see that they realized that I was such an ASS, I’ll think to myself – thank God. Eff-U Forever!”

If the circus is “The Greatest Show on Earth,” then my name is JC Penney.

I recently found myself on the outside of the center ring at a county circus. It was completely by accident. You see, I was traversing the countryside by a buggy powered by two actual horses from Dublin to London…Arkansas. The trip was going as planned. The atmosphere was placid and the air was pure and extremely oxygenated by the not-so-existent Arkansas rainforest. The air was actually polluted by gaseous fowl hovering no more than fourteen meters above my travel capsule…a capsule that used to be black but is now completely white. I would not call it an off-white…more of a poop white.

Now then, where was I?

Oh yes, after he stabbed me I found myself lying alone in a ditch filled with Ozarka spring water. I had been robbed of all my possessions: my wallet, Dr. Martin dress boots, even my magical monocle. This monocle allowed me to see into the future…of rock ‘n’ roll.

It was an incredible experience. I had only looked into it once for fear that it would steal my soul and bring judgment onto my people.

But the one time I looked into the mysterious lens, I was taken to a great field once used for raising pet corn. On this day, however, it had been conquered by a great people from a place called Hip. Upon a gargantuan platform stood a man…a very dark-skinned man. (Before this I had only heard there were such a charred people.) He was strapped into a medium-sized electronic device which seemed to have taken over his body and was using him as a medium through which to speak. His voice was deep with a regal growl as if he was proclaiming his majesty and well-being.

Then, without any warning at all, he let out something that, upon deep reflection, I determined to be a battle cry.

At this point everyone lying in the field stood at attention and obeyed every command that came forth from this dark god’s fiery, electric voice. Then a giant fireball came out of the sky and consumed everything and everyone in sight. Upon further inspection I found a deep hole and in this hole was some sort of container that contained, ironically, a baby.

This is my account of how I believe the world will come to an end 32 years from now in the year of our Lord 1969.

Ok… since I’ve now embraced this bluegrass “funk” in which I find myself, I thought I’d elaborate on some of the more interesting musical experiences of my youth. If you didn’t grow up in the south with parents that had a penchant for southern gospel music, then you may not even have heard of these, much less seen them played live. I’ve seen ‘em all.

My parents attended a small Freewill Baptist church in Arkansas when I was in the first and second grade. Usually, one Sunday out of the month was “Singspiration Sunday”. This was basically an excuse to have a chaotic musical free for all, with the intent of somehow lifting us all from our spiritual complacency into heavenly bliss. Often it was a chore to endure to the end – now that I think about it, I did become more patient. Maybe that’s the enlightenment I was supposed to get. Anyway, I about flipped out when I saw a guy bust out a hammer and hand saw. By placing one end of the saw in his lap, and holding the other end in his hand, he was able to hammer out a tune, accompanied by the church pianist.

My next introduction to homegrown music was at Silver Dollar City in good ole’ Branson Missouri. Often, the park would invite local musicians to play at various venues to entertain the visitors. I was sitting listening to two guys, one with a guitar and one with a banjo, strumming and picking along just fine. Then a guy walks up in overalls. He must have been around 70 or so. He donned some of the old strap-on roller skates with metal wheels. I thought – “What’s he up to?” He proceeded to do a kind of sliding/rolling tap dance as a percussion back-beat to the bluegrass the two other guys were playing. It wasn’t bad percussion, mind you, just atypical. In fact, I was more interested in whether he was going to fall and break a hip than I was about the quality of the beat he was a’ layin’ down.

The most recent example was of someone “Playing the Bones”. No – that’s not some sort of tawdry euphemism. Playing the bones is another percussive technique that involves the use of rib bones or wood carved in the shape of rib bones. The bones are held between the fingers, and a technique used to flop the arms and wrists in the air and against the chest to create a clickety-clack kind of percussion, in time with the music. Two of the most popular techniques are called the “full upper body dry heave” and the “epilepsy in A minor.”

Another back-woods folk instrument worth mentioning is the jug. Most kids have at one time or another made a soda bottle whistle by blowing across the opening. Some have even noticed the differing pitch as the bottle is emptied, and have set up multiple bottles with differing levels of fluid in them to produce multiple notes. But the standard is to use empty ceramic moonshine, or corn mash jugs, sans alcohol. Some say that the enlightenment to play the jug comes during the emptying process. Anyway, large jugs such as the kind that are typically portrayed in bluegrass settings, are used as a droning bass percussion. However, I once saw a group of about ten people, each with 3-4 soda bottles, play a fairly complicated multi-part musical number, handbell style. It was in Mexico, on a work and witness trip, so I’m not sure it counts in my litany of southern culture home brew instruments, but hey – this is my story.

Each year at this time, the age-old question of what to be for Halloween plagues me as I try to come up with something original for my friend’s annual Halloween Bash. The array of clever ideas other people can come up with never ceases to amaze me when I walk through the door, and for once I want to really concoct something fantastic.

There are usually several “partner costumes,” which is what James and I usually shoot for. We have been Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf in Granny’s Pajamas. A few friends and family members stole this idea for other Halloween parties. The guy in the equation chose a robe to throw over his clothes. Not James. He picked out a short-sleeved, scoop-necked nightgown. Lavendar with flowers. And an orange child’s sized “wolf” hood and a snout. He looked like an elderly female dog wearing a caftan, but I thought it was awesome and everyone laughed. Last year we were supposed to be a barnyard family: Philip was a horse, James was a cow, (but the udders were a little risqué, he realized once he got to the party and was groped all night), and I had a tasteful French Maid outfit I’d strapped baby bottles to the apron of to be their Milk Maid. Long story short, James went alone because Philip got sick and puked all over me. Anyone need a slightly-used French Maid outfit?

Some of the costumes have been incredibly simple, but I’ve never forgotten them. Some have been from other parties, too, that stuck with me. Here are a few of my personal favorites:

• Hooter’s Waitress: My friend Dwayne pulled this off, complete with the official outfit of tight T, short shorts and tray. But he made himself look elderly, made fake boobies out of panty hose that hung down beneath the cropped top, had in fake teeth and a cigarette with tons of lipstick on it sitting on the tray.
• Bok Choy Man: Literally strapped Bok Choy all over himself. Everyone laughed all night. Sounds stupid, but it was really funny.
• Miss Conception: A girl made herself look pregnant in an evening gown and strapped a beauty queen banner across her chest with Miss Conception in glitter. Brilliant.
• Either Sigfried or Roy: The one that got attacked. Dwayne again. Stuffed an adult-sized Tigger outfit and tied it around his neck, which he covered in blood.
• Drowned Rat: I don’t remember her name, but my friend David went as the little girl from The Ring. Hilarious.
• The Red Hat Society: Dwayne again. Hysterical.
• Missing Pet: There is a Far Side cartoon of a woman posting signs saying Missing Cat: Reward, and the cat is tucked into her crack, that you have probably seen. Two girls had handed out flyers saying Missing Cat and Missing Dog all over the party, but I didn’t get the costume. Until I saw them turn around. They had sewn tiny Beanie Babies into the crack of their pants.
• Brokeback Mountain: Dwayne again. Dressed in cowboy garb and carried a little blowup sheep.
• I did not see this one personally, but heard about it: a friend went as a Hummel figurine, dressed in lederhosen and posed with a basket of roses all night.

Though it would have been funny, I talked James out of one of his best ideas, purely because of logistics. He wanted to go as Dick Cheney. He wanted to buy one of those costumes that’s kind of an inflatable penis. And wrap a chain around it. I have to admit, I couldn’t stop laughing. However, let’s imagine he got pulled over. Or had to pump gas because the car got low. Or stop for beer. Could you imagine just going about your business and seeing that thing climb out of the car next to you? Okay, now I’m about to wet my pants, I’m laughing so hard.

We have been scheming, (“we” meaning me), for months to come up with a good idea. I am open to suggestions. There are four of us, so we can do something relating to one another. CAUTION: Do not suggest the Wiggles if you want to continue living. Actually, that’s not true. Our impending infant daughter, Evelyn, will be a Whoopi Cushion, courtesy of our friend Angela. It’s a warm bunting outfit, very funny. But we may just hire a sitter and go by ourselves, so it’s anyone’s game. I really want Philip to be a garden gnome.

This is what I’ve come up with so far:

• Black Snake Moan: Since I will have given birth less than a month before, I would opt for the Samuel L. wife-beater t-shirt and jeans, making James wear the cropped flag t-shirt and undies, complete with chain.
• Mr. Heat-Miser and Mr. Freeze: This could be really funny to do, and pretty easy to create cheaply on a sewing machine.
• Kermit and Miss Piggy: I would love for James and Philip to do this for the ratio of size. How funny would that be for Philip to be a tiny frog and James to go as Piggy, especially since there is a large chance I’ll be stuck at home with the baby. Comedian David Wain went as Piggy last year and it was brilliant. Also cheap and easy to create.

See, I suck at Halloween. I need Nerdy help. Please suggest all you can and help me not embarrass myself this year at the Halloween party. Or I’ll end up with Dick Cheney at my side, and I’m not sure I can cope with people nudging me in the arm all night saying, “Man, that guy’s such a prick.”

Joseph Allen Reed was confirmed dead at 4:17 p.m. on June 24th, 2082.

According to Rwandan authorities he was shot twice by a member of a radical Rwandan political movement known only by a symbol: a pink beret. The suspect is in custody and has released no comment.

Dr. Reed was in the midst of delivering a speech promoting peace and compromise in the midst of civil unrest. Born on May 23, 1982, Dr. Reed was still speaking and doing work among the poor at 100 years of age. This was his greatest passion. His heart was full of love and compassion. He once stated that if he could ask God for one thing it would be to “give me a bigger heart and more compassion for the masses.” He lived every single moment of his life to the fullest, always taking time to meet the needs of every person around him.

Dr. Joseph Allen Reed was born in a small town in the panhandle of Oklahoma. He graduated at the top of his high school class and went on to gain a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology at Southern Nazarene University. After graduating in the top 15% of his class, he went on to get a Master’s degree in School Psychology from the University of Central Oklahoma and then a Doctorate in Theology from Fuller Seminary.

Dr. Reed then went to work as a School Psychologist in the public school system in southern California. It was there that he wrote his first of thirty-seven books. His most popular work is entitled The Diaries of Andrew. It was heralded as the “most important work for adolescents in this generation,” and received a Pulitzer Prize. Some of the topics it covers include self-esteem, sexual orientation, and abuse.

Dr. Reed was very passionate about empowering the younger generation to become great leaders. He started many after-school programs in addition to his writing, which helped to foster the development of the leadership qualities and education of children of all ages. This small program later became known as the American Youth Movement. Many of our current leaders have been through this program in some way, including President Walters.

It was shortly after graduation that he met his future wife, Michelle Kwan. He had always loved ice-skating and fell in love after the Winter Games in Nagano, Japan. He wrote a letter to her every day for seven years until he got his first response. After eight months of courtship, they were married on a traditional Japanese water garden in southern California.

Upon their marriage, Dr. and Mrs. Reed began doing much traveling to promote the American Youth Movement. Together they worked to establish this program in all fifty states within five years. Many political leaders in other nations took notice. Dr. Reed was invited to speak to the governments of many developed and developing nations alike. In just ten years, the American Youth Movement became the Global Youth Movement.

After spending twenty years working with GYM, Dr. Reed began to focus more attention to one of his earliest childhood passions: music. Joseph loved to write music. He began as part of a trio known as Mr. Blue and the Colortones. They had one song, “Why, Darlene,” break into the Top 100. After little success as part of the trio, Dr. Reed went to work as a solo artist. He wrote and recorded everything himself in his home studio in Laguna Beach, CA. His first album, The Panic Project, went triple platinum and spawned many Top 5 hits including his number-one smash hit: “Excuse my Irresponsibility, I am Improperly Trained.” After experiencing the success of his first album, Dr. Reed recorded three further albums, each less successful than the previous.

After his brief stint at the top of the charts, Dr. Reed and his wife then spent the next forty years doing more work in conjunction with the Global Youth Movement. Together, they toured the world working to establish GYM in every country on earth. To this day, France is the only country yet to be responsive. It was during this time that Michelle became ill with the flu and passed on to the next life at the age of 59. Shortly after her death, Dr. Reed returned to his home in Orange County, CA and went into what he called in his autobiography, Man with a Mission, his “orange period.” He spent many days watching slide shows of him and his wife, eating nothing but oranges, and lying in his empty pool. After a few days, he finally “came to his senses,” as he called it, and began working again in the public school system as a School Psychologist in Orange County, California.

It was during this time that he wrote his final book, The Art of Exercise, which was a humorous satire on the public education system. It was only mildly successful as it contained much more gibberish than actual words.

After working fifteen years as a school psychologist, he retired at the age of 79. He moved in to a retirement community where he played horseshoes and drank coffee every morning at 6:00 a.m. He would appear in public on several occasions on behalf of the Global Youth Movement, delivering speeches and promoting his ideas of peace and compassion. It was during one of these speeches in Kigali, Rwanda that he was assassinated.

Dr. Reed had no children, as he was sterile due to frostbite while climbing Mt. Everest when he was in college. He is the longest surviving member of his family.

Dr. Reed’s funeral service was very large, attended by more than 5,000 people and televised on CNN. It was attended by people of every walk of life, including diplomats, presidents, teachers, and lumberjacks. President Walters made this statement in his eulogy, which sums up the kind of life Dr. Reed lived: “His music, his writing, and the Global Youth Movement are his legacy. Though he has no natural children, he has many who would call him father. I am one of his children. He will be missed.”

Dr. Reed’s last wish is that his entire estate be converted into an orphanage for hungry and homeless Asian children and the royalties from his music be donated to the Global Youth Movement and VH1. He is encouraging all who are inspired or have been impacted by GYM to contribute something, whether it be time, money, or any type of resource so that its continued impact would be felt among the nations of the world.

Part I

The Bathroom

“Damn zipper.”

“Why do you always wear those pants anyways?”

(To the zipper) “Come on. Come on…” (To his companion) “What?”

“I said why do you always wear those pants anyways?”

“These are my effen Rockstar pants! That’s why! Now pull down right here while I yank the zipper up.”

Bam! Bathroom door slams against the wall.

“I knew I’d find you wusses in here puking. You should at least go in a stall if you’re going to play with each other.”

“Effe you Craig my zipper is stuck.”

“You ain’t a Rockstar, so why you always wearing those leather pants?”

“It is all about appearance on stage, and Kay says they make her want to copulate.”

“Copulate? Did you just say copulate? No one says ‘copulate.’ You sound like my Grandma talking about the chimps screwing, doing it, banging, hittin’ skins or any other term a normal person might use for chimps having sex at the zoo.”

“Shut the chimps having sex up Craig. You are a nonentity, and that is why you effen open. Take a piss, or get out. Dave, can’t you do anything right? I told you to hold right there.”

“Sorry.”

“Got it. Shit! I caught my pubes.”

“I’ll see you losers on stage.”

Craig leaves laughing.

“I hate him Matt. Why do you keep him?”

“You know he is the best opener we have. Do you have a pair of scissors or a knife?”

“Why don’t you wear underwear?”

“What?”

“I said why don’t you wear underwear?”

“I heard you, fag. Kay doesn’t like seeing lines. Why, does it turn you on, fag?”

“You promised not to say that. You promised.”

“Shut up, and get out. I’ll see you on stage.”

“You’re not even a musician, Mr. Rockstar!”

“Screw you. Kay says I can sing.”

Friend leaves Matt alone in the bathroom. Where he proceeds to jerk on the front of his pants trying to free his pubic hairs.

Part II

The Stage

“And now introducing our debate team from District 37 David, Katherine, Craig and Team Captain, Matthew.”

Connections. Life is all about connections. When we meet new people we try to connect, and then we try to stay connected. It is always interesting to be part of a new group of people. Maybe it is a new book club, maybe it is a church retreat, a business convention, or just two new neighbors on the lawn, but somehow conversation takes away the strangeness of strangers. (On a side note, staring at people only adds to your strangeness.) One topic that always seems to come up is television and what we watch. What we currently watch becomes what we used to watch, and then we are able to gauge how similar we are. Did they watch The Smurfs, The A-Team, and Mr. Rogers, or do they belong to a different generation?

What happens when they watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles instead of Speed Racer? They watched Howdy Doody and not Captain Kangaroo? I’ll tell you what happens.

You start talking about food.

We start to recognize a slight generational difference, and we need to bridge that gap. So we naturally discuss which cereal makes the best chocolate milk. If the difference is too big you will move on to politics or religion, but God forbid you have to discuss anything so grown-up. No, lets stick to the important philosophical issues.

So let me, The Dude, connect with you the reader in a way I can’t over on the Superhero Information Initiative front. Since you will have gotten an idea of my age by a few of the shows I mentioned, and I have no idea were that leaves us generationally, I will skip right to cereal.

If you are watching Saturday morning cartoons now, or then, you know that there are some fine cereal options out there. I always had to decide between three areas of concern: taste, sugar, and milk. Taste and sugar are easy: the obvious choice for taste would be Applejacks, and the search for sugar would lead you to Lucky Charms.

Milk is a more important choice than you may realize. I am not talking about the milk you put in, but the milk you drink out. Do you want chocolate milk at the end, and how chocolaty? Do you want milk that almost just tastes like milk, or do you want a sugary sludge? With the best cereals you can get a great combination of all three. I still have yet to discover how to get a chocolaty, sugary sludge that works, though.

I will not argue with anyone over where the chocolatiest milk comes from. Hands down- Cocoa Pebbles. The best chocolate milk, (that with the best consistencies of chocolate and milk), comes from Cocoa Puffs, though. While I am an amateur connoisseur of cereals that turn your milk chocolaty, I will confess it is not my area of expertise.

I dedicated my childhood to discovering how to get the perfect amount of milk and sugar at the end of every bowl. I wanted such a thickness at the end that I would need a spoon to eat it and not drink it. What is running through your mind, reader? 10 bowls of Lucky Charms + 5 bowls of Frosted Flakes = sugary sludge. Wrong. Let me just tell you what cereal to use… Rice Krispies.

Does “Snap, Crackle, Pop” even have sugar in it? I don’t know. What I do know is you can add it. If you follow these simple instructions, (patent pending), then you will get the best sugar high ever. Pour a bowl of Rice Krispies almost to the rim. Next poor milk in until the cereal won’t stay in. Take your spoon and slowly dunk all the cereal into the milk. Once you have got a wet glaze over your cereal take a spoon full of sugar and sprinkle it across the top until gone. Now take your spoon, (use two spoons- one for eating, one for sugar), and eat just the top layer by scraping it up. Then reapply sugar to the next layer, and proceed like this until all the cereal is gone. It will probably take you about three bowls of cereal using the same milk, but I promise you will end up with the best sludge of milk you ever ate. I might mention just pouring sugar into your milk does not work as well. I don’t know why, it just doesn’t.

Let me share the perfect Saturday morning meal with you. You get up early and get a small plate of pecans, and sneak a few scoops of brown sugar. Excellent appetizer course, and no matter what you do you will get in trouble for the brown sugar. Clean the utensils and put them back, leave no trace in the brown sugar, but your mom will know. Next you move on to Rice Krispies, milk and sugar. At which point a parental figure will show up and demand you eat something healthy, so I suggest grapefruit. You can coat grapefruit in sugar, but I prefer brown sugar on mine. Either way the sugar is there. Last, you will need an air popper for some popcorn. Which will require you to melt real butter. I suggest enough butter to make your shriveled up popcorn float.

By now your cartoons will be over, and the sugar high will just be peaking. What to do? May I suggest that you run outside to play in your moon boots, tighty whities, and waving a cardboard gift wrapping tube yelling, “By the power of Greyskull.” It will make perfect sense by then, trust me.