Ginger Demon

This might be the most hilariously disgusting mascot I’ve ever seen. That would be true even if it weren’t representing something that is ostensibly supposed to go in your mouth. There’s probably something to be said for truth in advertising, but this is not the place. Honestly, the thing looks as though it’s moulting. He looks like Frankenstein’s monster without the poise.

That’s a nice cushion behind him, though. That cushion would be a better mascot. My vote’s for the cushion.

But I don’t really eat much ginger anyway.

Update on 2014-02-16 05:55 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Favourite mascot? Count Chocula. I've never tried his cereal, but that guy has style.

"Flash" Is a Great Name in the Majority of Situations

The name speaks less of fresh, delicious vegetables and more of well groomed rocks. 

I've been meaning to watch "Flash Gordon" for a while now. Perhaps this time could be measured in years. For some reason, I never got around to it. This seemed weird to me, but I've come to discover that my procrastination served a higher purpose. A local theatre played the majestic space opera recently, which gave me the opportunity to experience the film for the first time on the big screen. In full consideration, this was the ideal way to be introduced to it. I also invited Dave along, but it was a while before I learned that he'd agreed without having any actual concept of the movie, which can only serve as an enhancement to the whole ordeal. This willingness also says lovely things about him in my mind.

For some reason, he vaguely thought that it was a football movie. I suppose that there's the faintest grain of truth in this, but it reminded me of my introduction to James Bond on my eigth birthday. For some reason, I was brought without input to an IMAX screening of "Tomorrow Never Dies" by my parents. It instantly brought out my passion, but I remember being very reluctant on the journey to the theatre, for the only thing I knew about James Bond was a foggy notion about his affinity for special shoes. I thought that he might have been a cobbler or something. The idea that his footwear contained fantastical devices never occurred to me. I wasn't even really sure that he was fictional before that. In fairness, his name was specifically chosen because it was boring. A child could be forgiven for steering away from such things. I had the same issue with Harry Potter before the first book was foisted upon me during a day of sickness in elementary school. My tastse for euphony meant that I frequently neglected to gather information on anything with a boring title. Seriously, man. My name's Jaymes Buckman. If your appellation can't match that, I'm less inclined to pay attention.

In these days of gritty 007 movies, the modern answer to the whimsy and adventure of the character's classic era is most obviously embodied in the "Iron Man" film series, and I can't ignore the possibility that the names in those franchise to do something to make it more immediately attractive to the youths who would have looked to Her Majesty's top agent for fantasy in earlier times. Even if you take away the superhero sobriquet, you're still left with "Tony Stark", which is just brilliant. Even the supporting cast have names that soundly defeat the mysterious mongrams of the British intelligence service's employees. From whom would you take orders? M? No, man. Nick Fury! There's a name that tells you everything you need to know immediately. Actually, while we're on the subject, I can't go amiss by mentioning that "Judi Dench" is far more intriguing to the ear than "M", and that's true even without the honorific. I am, however, willing to admit that "Pepper Potts" and "Moneypenny" stand on roughly equal ground.

Anyway, despite my passing familiarity with some of the more salient names in the cast of "Flash Gordon", both of us were mildly surprised to notice the presence of Richard O'Brien from "The Rocky Horror Picture Show", a shared favourite. At the very least, that seemed appropriate.

Update on 2014-02-10 01:29 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best Flash? Bart Allen.

Medical Miracles

In the middle of the last week, I realised that there were two things that I had to do at the beginning of February. One was attending a visiting friend's concert, and the other was visiting the dentist's office. I decided to get the latter out of the way first.

I'm not fond of visiting the dentist. There isn't a lot of pain, but they always think that I'm on drugs, and it's not for the usual reasons. But I went. I dealt with it. I did it in service of enjoying my friend's show with a clear head.

Actually, I should talk about that show for a moment. The band's called Tropical Dripps, and the friend who started it was Hot Apollo's first bassist. We parted amicably when he realised that he had to be the leader of his own band, and he's been making a success of that plan since. You can check them out at tropicaldripps.bandcamp.com. You really should. 

Anyway, after I'd finished the day's business at the dentist's office, they sent me on my way with a record, which I promptly forgot to remove from my bag.

My next lapse of memory came on the following day when I left for the Dripps show at a local sushi house without my identification. This can be partially attributed to the fact that I generally don't think of the need for such things at a restaurant, but apparently some places have age limits at night. I don't know, man. I'm no restaurateur. I don't even spend much time at the places.

I get there around midnight. After a casual discussion with the doorman about the necessity of identification, I begin to leave. As I stand by the door, my fingers sift through the contents of my bag in vain hope for some form of salvation. That's when I realise that I still have the record from my dental appointment. It has no picture, but it has my birth date and a variant of my name. At this point in the night, that's enough for the doorman. 

When I got in, I discovered that I'd missed my friend's set, but I got to see the guy for the first time in ages, and I found some enjoyment in the performances of the other bands. 

In the end, I was gratified to note that my reluctant visit to the dentist, which I'd scheduled mainly to heighten my enjoyment of the weekend, was actually crucial to enacting my weekend plans at all.

Update on 2014-02-03 06:02 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best tooth? Sweet.

Cosmic Regalia

Why are astronauts always wearing full space gear in their photographs? That stuff can’t be comfortable. Right? But every astronaut in the history of NASA always has the same outfit with the same pose against the same backdrop. The last two parts make the most sense, but I can’t imagine that everyone wants to wear that orange monstrosity when circumstances don’t dictate it. Oh, I’m sure that some people enjoy the pomp and tradition. That’s fine. But there must be many who don’t want to have to deal with the whole apparatus in circumstances that don’t actually necessitate it. They wear those things for months at a time. I can’t believe that they want to take up such burdens when they’re on Earth. Two or three probably just want to wear pyjamas to the shoot. What’s wrong with that? They sacrifice all sorts of worldly comforts while they’re out and about in the frigid void. I can’t honestly fathom the imposition of an extra inconvenience for a meagre bit of publicity.

“But Jaymes!” you say. “You wander around in ridiculous outfits all the time! Surely that can be inconvenient!”

But that is my comfort, and that’s my choice. It’s not done out of solemn duty to external tradition. I only expect the same freedom for the servitors of extraterrestrial exploration.

Update on 2014-01-27 05:30 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Rocket Robin Hood versus Sherlock Holmes of the 22nd century? When all else is equal, the guy with the jetpack is going to win. Robot Watson, who may more properly be called "Robotson", could probably even things up somewhat, but that would give Robin implicit permission to call in his Merry Men. That would be a massacre.

Resistance Training

I’ve been trying. I honestly have. I think that I’ve managed to increase my tolerance to the cold by 10 degrees. At least. That’s not much. I’m well aware. What can one say? I’m a creature of heat. I can’t easily abide the frosty winds. But the season seems incapable of meeting me in the middle.

We were having some good days. I’m on the verge of love for the zero temperature. Unless I’m already cold, that kind of thing seems quite balmy in the absence of wind. After the montoh's frigid start, I forced myself to hope that things had levelled off. Wouldn’t that have been fantastic? Indeed. Indeed it would have been. But that doesn’t appear to be the case. Instead, I’m getting all of this randomness. As though it felt some incorrigible desire to reinforce the popular antipathy for Mondays, the cold has been making a point of giving its worst directly after the weekend. As I post this, things shall surely be progressing towards their weekly nadir.

But do you know the worst part?

It’s forcing me to wear a hat.

Update on 2014-01-20 02:21 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Coldest part? Fingertips. 

Keep On Rocking in the New Year

Well, Hot Apollo's fresh from our first show of the year, which was also the debut of our new drummer, Aldo Camarena. It was truly fabulous to get back out there with full love and electricity. We'll be doing more of that quite soon. 

Update on 2014-01-13 03:22 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best drummer? Totally.

Furry Little Tramps

I’ve come to notice that raccoons, the vagrants of the trees, are still rather active in this weather. They are called the vagrants of the trees, aren’t they? I’m sure that people have referred to them like that before. It’s just striking me now because their spirits at this time of year seem to be significantly higher than those of the regular kind of vagrant. This is despite the similarities in their dietary habits and living conditions.

“But Jaymes!” some might say. To that I say, “Jaymes!” I say this because I really just love hearing my own name. But some others might continue.

“But Jaymes, the raccoon revels in these temperatures due to its natural fur coating, which protects it from the elements that are so inimical to those who would walk the world upon two legs.”

Well, I often wear enough fur to cover three quarters of a raccoon at least, yet I’m frequently cold. I even throw on feathers. Admittedly, all of this is synthetic. Still, the average homeless man is quite adept in the use of layers, and it is not too uncommon to see a vagrant whose outfit exceeds the thickness of a raccoon’s integument. Perhaps I have a right to be surprised at the ineffectiveness of this strategy in raising the wearer’s comfort levels to those of the legendary raccoon. Admittedly, I gave up on warmth ages ago. I dress for aesthetics because I don’t believe that attempts to dress practically will actually do anything to affect my perception of the temperature. Surprise might not be appropriate.

Raccoons also seem to react with far greater glee to a discarded sandwich than a vagrant would. Conversely, raccoons don’t seem to receive small change with the same relish that homeless men display. On this, I think that I must take the side of the raccoons. The market value of a discarded sandwich is probably equal to the sum of several quarters.  

Update on 2014-01-06 03:25 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best rodent? Squirrel.

New Show!

Good news, dudes! Hot Apollo are taking to the stage again on the 8th of January at The Cage! The Cage is a lovely little venue at 292 College. Near Spadina!

This will be the inaugural show of our new drummer, who currently goes by the name of Aldo Camarena because he hasn’t been able to think of a good pseudonym. I like “Aldo Camarena”, though. Do you? Maybe we’ll take a poll!

Everyone should totally come. It’ll probably be the greatest Wednesday in recent memory. It’s definitely going to be one of my favourites, though that could be helped by the fact that it’s also the date of the debut of Peter David’s new “X-Factor” series.

Anyway, it’s going to be a great day for a variety of reasons, and Hot Apollo is foremost among those. Love and luck!

Snatching Bodies From Cold, Dead Bodies

Remember the Body Snatchers? They were pretty big in 1956. And 1978. And 1993. And they might have popped up again in 2007. Their whole deal basically involved the implementation of a perfectly ordered universe through the removal of emotion. They caused problems for Earth by replacing its inhabitants with stoic substitutes that were beholden to a hive mind. The mechanism was usually a botanical pod of some sort. An admirable goal? Perhaps. But the same could be said about communism.

Anyway. I always wondered about what the Snatchers did with the people who were already emotionless. There are people who dedicate their entire lives to cold logic and exclude all else, and I’m sure that a lot of them would be able to get along with the pod people. What would happen if the pods landed in Gotham City? I’m not really thinking about the potential for their defeat at the hands of the Batman, though a case could admittedly be made for that. I’ll just assume that he’s out of town for the moment. Maybe he’s dealing with some galactic Justice League business or something. That sort of thing. I’d really just like to see the pod people meet Mr. Freeze. At his best, I think that he actually makes the whole emotionless thing work even better than they do. He’d intimidate the pods before they got a chance to turn him.

“Guys, I know that we’re here to spread implacable logic and order throughout the cosmos and all that, but this dude’s taken it to a whole other level. Dude said that he's beyond emotions. What am I even supposed to do with that? I’m not sure that I’m entirely comfortable with this Earth place. Can we just, like, leave it for now and maybe circle around back to it when we’re done with the rest of the universe? Who’s with me?”

 “Yeah, and not for nothing, but isn’t cold supposed to be bad for plants? Which is basically what we are? Like, I’m no botanist or whatever, but this Freeze guy seems to have us fucked from both sides here. Let’s, uh . . . Let’s skadoodle.”

“Yeah, on second thought, let’s not take the Earth. It is a silly place.”

Update on 2013-12-23 01:09 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Cyclops or Mr. Freeze. Who wears red sunglasses better?

Cyclops. Even Gambit started imitating his look.

A Gorgeous Abortion

For the past half decade, I’ve been getting this sort of hollow expectant feeling on the periphery at this time of year. For clarity’s sake, I’ll state right now that it’s none of that holiday depression nonsense. That stuff’s for the lonely and the poor, and while I might feel like both of those things sometimes, I know that I’m technically neither. The whole Christmas suicide thing is rather baffling. The whole world’s in celebration mode! I know that this spirit is rarely capable of removing your problems, but at the very least it should be enough to motivate you to postpone your death plans for a few weeks. If you’re going to kill yourself at any point in the winter, you should do it right after Christmas. The beginning of January’s perfect. If you do it then, you’ll be dead before all the feelings of camaraderie and charity fade. Your final memories will be ones of oecumenical joy. Also, you won’t have to worry about new year resolutions. Bonus!

None of that’s related to what I’ve been experiencing for the last five years, though. I believe that I mentioned that. On the contrary, the little empty corner of my soul is reserved for something far shallower.

At the end of the year 2007, I had the privilege of great boredom during the theatrical reign of an adaptation of one of my favourite childhood novels, “The Golden Compass”. It wasn’t actually much of a reign, though. It felt huge to me at the time, and the fact that my friends shared my fervour meant that I was drawn to several repeat viewings. Unfortunately, the rather mediocre business it did served to dash the promises of sequels.

This did not become clear to me for a while.

I just expected that “The Subtle Knife” would follow by the next Christmas. When that season strode in, I was bemused by the thorough absence of any sign or portent of the trilogy’s middle installment. Then I thought, “Bah! It’s probably just one of those two-year cycles. The director’s brilliant. Daniel Craig’s huge. They’ve obviously just been busy. Next year, baby.”

I think that I finally got around to the barest bit of research at some point during the following 12 months. That’s when I finally took notice of the wider public’s apparent apathy and the director’s subsequent feelings of resigned acceptance of the indefinite hiatus that was forced upon his stillborn franchise. I didn’t really focus on that part, though. There seemed to be a fatuous glimmer of hope in all of this, and I was glad to blow upon those embers.

Whenever the anniversary of the movie’s release sauntered along, the ashes of the story’s cinematic future glowed anew within my heart. Recently, I decided to take a slightly closer look at this unfulfilled desire. This finally allowed me to fully remember something that was clear when I first read those books.

The first book was my favourite by a prodigious margin. In contrast to the fairy tale beginnings and epic escalation of “The Golden Compass”, “The Subtle Knife” opened with the death of a cynical child’s parent in a world without miracles, and “The Amber Spyglass” ended with the erasure of the hero’s childhood and most of its vestiges. The series was grand and beautiful, and I honestly enjoyed reading every piece of it, but I now realise that a fair bit of that had to do with the momentum of the initial book. The fantastical spirit that was still somehow intact after the tribulations of that first story was not maintained in its undiluted state through the sequels. This was obviously an adept execution of a metaphor for the onset of adulthood, but the fact that childlike wonder is one of my primary motivations means that such themes are never completely satisfying to me. There’s abundant space for ugliness in fantasy, but I always prefer to approach it with a touch of ecstasy. That’s partially why the most horrific aspects of Greek mythology are more attractive to me than the comparatively naturalistic way in which the Bible renders suffering.

Anyway, I think that I’m essentially at peace with the whole situation now. The film didn’t conclude neatly, but that makes perfect sense to my conception of life. The ending it has is just the horizon of the next adventure.

Update on 2013-12-16 01:15 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best dark material? Velvet.

Red Flagon

After a succession of cancelled attempts that began just after the film’s release, I finally went with some friends to see “Thor 2” at Rainbow Cinema. It’s not my favourite theatre, but everyone else seems to love it, and there’s a fatuous kind of propriety in being taken to Asgard via a rainbow.

The film was worth the wait, though. That wasn’t surprising to me. To satisfy me, the movie basically just had to show up. Some spectacular mess would have needed to happen in order to disappoint me. This was basically like “Silence of the Lambs” with Loki in place of Anthony Hopkins and Anthony Hopkins in some other role. And Loki’s a petulant young godling instead of an urbane cannibal. And the bad guy’s an elf instead of a fairy. In a very real sense, the movie wasn’t actually like “Silence of the Lambs” at all, but in a truer, deeper, more meaningful, and far less coherent sense, it was almost exactly like “Silence of the Lambs”.

Update on 2013-12-09 03:09 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best Scandinavian cannibal? Grendel.

A Soupcon of Sin

I have nothing against history or its study. For its devotees, it is a field full of intrigue and insight. Still, I sometimes feel a modicum of doubt at the pedestrian repetition of the claim that those who do not learn from the mistakes of the past are destined to repeat them, and my skepticism grows when the parrots suggest that this maxim necessitates a universal awareness of historical minutiae.

First, one rarely needs to know the details to see the mistakes. For instance, a cursory knowledge of the Second World War is enough to show all but the most stubborn of cretins what went wrong. Some fool had an extraordinary bit of ambition and put its pursuit above the weal of everyone outside a fairly arbitrary group he selected to serve him. Strife ensued. It didn’t end well.

At the very least, that gives one enough information to understand that such actions are not to be imitated. One doesn’t need to know about the paintings. One doesn’t need to know about the boots. One doesn’t even need to know the dates. Hitler doesn’t really need to be the example either, but he works well because he was arguably the last in a long line of similar figures, and he certainly stands out because he was one of the first to prove that the schemes of such men are even less advisable in the modern world than they were in any other era. Basically, a brief recapitulation of any atrocity is enough to dissuade a sane audience from that kind of course. If you know Hitler, you don’t need to hear about Napoleon to realise that world domination probably isn’t going to work for you.

Admittedly, this is a rather extreme example, but most of history’s great mistakes fit into a fairly small number of categories. A mere taste of each is enough to learn the relevant lessons.

Furthermore, the merit of such lessons can generally be grasped by the simple exercise of reason. Perhaps this sounds odd from one to whom unreason comes so naturally, but I think that the point still stands. Any intelligent being who can’t see the folly in a thing like genocide for himself isn’t going to be convinced by hearing about examples. That’s why Hitler still has fans. In fairness, many of his modern supporters wilfully excise the bits that don’t fit with their personal ideals, but this is not commonly attributable to a lack of education on the man and his actions. The only salient effect of this self-imposed ignorance seems to be a kind of diversity among neo-Nazis that wouldn’t have appealed to their forbears. At least they can take solace in the fact that the Nazis of old did that stuff too.

If any Nazis happen to be listening to this from the Thirties through sheer chance or diligent application of your crazy Nazi science, I’d just like to say that Great Freddy detested your language, Bismarck wouldn’t have let you kiss his boots, and Nietzsche hated all of you.

Update on 2013-12-02 01:13 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Who would win in a fight between Hitler and Napoleon? Napoleon. The moustache makes Adolf vulnerable. As a dirty fighter, Napoleon goes for that immediately. 

This Merchant's Flesh

Circumstances recently led to my discovery of adhesive strips that come in a variety of skin tones. Perhaps they’ve been around for a bit of a while, but I wouldn’t know. I don’t use that stuff. I like to keep my wounds open. Exposed to the elements. That’s how my healing process works.

Anyway, the intent behind their introduction seems clear. The manufacturers must have been trying to address a perceived problem with their product. I just think that they misunderstood the problem.

The fact that their product’s flesh tone was only applicable to white people was unreasonable in their opinion. They set out to create tones that were suitable for various ethnicities. In my opinion, those other ethnicities were the lucky ones in this particular situation.

Let’s take a look at the original flesh tone of this bandage.

Whose flesh is that? That’s not how skin is supposed to look! Even if one Caucasian individual were theoretically lucky enough to have skin of a shade that perfectly matched the colour of this thing, it’s not going to fool anyone who’s standing within 40 metres. It’s rough and slick like rubber. It’s bumpy and ludicrously porous. It’s marked by the same problems that make modern prostheses seem so inimical to me. If I have a choice between something that tries and fails to seem human and something that’s functionally successful in accordance with its own distinct aesthetic, I’ll always choose the latter. Captain Hook’s namesake wasn’t a thing of terror by itself. It was a mere device that afforded its owner some measure of convenience after his altercation with that sneaky crocodile. By the same token, we have that shiny metal hand that Anakin got before he went down the inadvisable path that led to his transformation into the more explicitly robotic Darth Vader.

From opposite ends of the technological spectrum, these prostheses fulfill their duties without making any unjustifiable claims to humanity. Unfortunately, the current state of this science lies mainly in the middle, yet it makes pretensions to the kind of verisimilitude that exists only at the highest end of that spectrum. There’s no use in trying to skip straight to the seamless cybernetic perfection that Luke Skywalker’s replacement hand achieved when you can’t even succeed in replicating the functional versatility of his father’s less comely attachment.

The aesthetic failings of the prosthetic game should be heeded by the makers of these adhesive strips. In both cases, the point stands. If you can’t make the imitation perfect, don’t bother to imitate at all. There’s a reason for which more traditional types of medical dressing have generally been white. It’s a neutral colour. It doesn’t try to seem organic or inconspicuous. It just does its job without putting anyone off. No one feels disturbed at the sight of a white cast. Why did Band-Aid make a mission of mimicking Caucasian skin in the first place? Would a plain white design really be so unbearable? Neither option would fool anyone into ignoring the bandage, but at least the one that’s actually white wouldn’t try to do so.

Now, I haven’t worn one of these things since childhood, but the flesh tone wasn’t preferable even then. The ones that bore bright, gaudy designs were always the clear choice. I think that the last adhesive strip I ever wore had the logo of Spider-Man upon its face. I’d make the same choice today.

The answer to your problem is clear, manufacturer. Remove all the flesh tones. Remove them entirely and replace them with Spider-Man. If that doesn’t work for you for some bizarre reason, plain white is always an option.

Spider-Man’s the safe bet, though.

Update on 2013-11-25 00:23 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best flesh? Young.

Shoelace

I finally managed to get an appropriate pair of resilient shoes a few weeks ago. For the past several years, I’ve gone through a minimum of three pairs annually. I generally prefer to have one pair for everything, but even when I relented and got some leather boots for particularly harsh weather, my main shoes just wouldn’t last. When my most recent favourites reached a state of unacceptable deterioration at the end of the winter, I felt vulnerable enough to temporarily set aside some of my aesthetic concerns. I wanted a reprieve from this cycle of decay, and I decided to provide a bit of extra emphasis to function over form. After a brief search, I found some suitably garish running shoes that seemed to promise a degree of longevity. With that, I resolved to clear thoughts of footwear from my mind for a healthy period.

After a while, this resolution began to lessen. This gradual process was presaged by my first pedicure, which made sandals seem like a possibility for the first time in a decade. The ones I found weren’t terribly useful for frequent wear, but they marked my return to the open toe world quite well.

Right?

Months passed before I began to consider new shoes again, but the incongruity of what I wore on my feet against every other aspect of my appearance was never too far from my mind. When a pair of Hassidic businessmen stopped me during a busking expedition to comment on this harsh contrast, I finally started to actively search for something new.

Eventually, I happened to find a Chuck Taylor variant with shiny black scales. Obviously, I purchased them immediately. Their laces were extremely thick, which was probably why a pair of standard laces was included with them. I liked the aesthetic of the default lace, but the thickness seemed mildly inconvenient, for I like to tie my laces quite tightly. In the spirit of compromise, I switched the lace of the right shoe to the thinner one, leaving the option of a switch for the left shoe for a later date. Following this, I promptly lost the other replacement lace. Within the last week or two, the thickness of the left shoe’s lace started to seem undesirable, but I wasn’t motivated to do anything about it.

Another thing for which I feel no motivation is the prospect of paying for parties. It’s not a big thing for me, and I certainly wouldn’t decide against a good party for that reason, but in most situations, the whole process basically amounts to paying to dance. I am fond of dancing, but it’s generally not something I do with any intent. It’s usually just something I do when the mood strikes. It’s the kind of thing I do to assuage my impatience on subway rides. It’s a good diversion when I’ve completely given up on sleep. It’s an activity that can ably fill a variety of situations, but it’s rarely the central point of the situation. Can you imagine a library with a door fee? That’s how cover charges feel to me sometimes. Reading’s a fine activity, but I wouldn’t pay to do it in a place where I couldn’t even choose the book.

But I did say that I don’t avoid good parties, and I maintain that position. Thus, I eagerly accepted a friend’s invitation to join him at his organisation’s concert on Friday. In fairness, the deal was lent a touch of extra sugar by the discount that my friend’s relationship with the party’s benefactors afforded me.

The whole night was great, and it certainly would have been worth the $5 on its own merits. I was therefore surprised and gratified to receive a gift bag as I left the club. A gift bag that contained soft, vivid shoelaces! I still don’t really know what else is in the bag, and I don’t really care. I switched out the lace in my left shoe with this shiny new one at the first opportunity. Now my awesome shoes match each other in comfort even as they maintain the visual asymmetry of which I am so fond.

This is what happens when I pay to dance.

Update on 2013-11-18 04:11 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best lace? Old.

Grampa Gal

I’ve been thinking that Galactus is basically the ultimate expression of that old stereotype of the bitter, entitled old man. For the sake of clarity, I’m not endorsing faith in that stereotype. I know the folly of such things. Indeed, I could almost be the face of the stereotype of the entitled young man, but that does little to bolster its validity.

Anyway, I’m thinking about this guy. This guy who holds on fiercely to the fashions of a bygone era. This man who refuses to give up his giant old car despite its obvious inconveniences and the fact that he doesn’t even really need it.

Your grandfather's Edsel fills the entire garage. Galactus's Worldship fills an entire solar system.

He devours worlds for a living. The consumption of planets is literally what he does to live. Healthy planets. The sorts of planets that often support life. Despite the gargantuan scale of the atrocities he has committed in search of a good meal, he seems less willing than most to countenance any aspersions on his morality. On the contrary, he feels that whatever he's done is fair because he's been through a lot. Nothing's going to change him. He's old and set in his ways.

“You’ve really got to stop eating all of these planets, Galactus. It’s bad form.” “But I’m an old man!” “That’s not an excuse.” “I’ve been through hardships!” “Like what? World War II?” “The death of my universe.” “Yeah, well. We’ve all got problems.”

Bugs in Beds and Heads

I happened to leave the movie theatre tonight just as a shift was ending, and I overheard the farewells of the counter staff as I wandered towards the exit. One individual chose to recite a series of platitudes to a colleague in an apparent attempt to send her off with high spirits.

"Good luck. Drive safe. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

That last phrase provoked sincere nervousness in the girl. She protested the very mention of bedbugs and expressed her vicious aversion to the mere consideration of the potential for bedbugs in her home. 

I was struck by her reaction, which mirrored a stark sense of sober unease about bedbugs that seems increasingly pervasive in today's society. I'm 23, and I think that this girl might have been younger by a few years, which would fit with my casual observations of the prevalence of this attiude among people around her age. I suppose that these people are technically quite close to my age too, but I feel that the difference of a few years is somewhat significant in this case.

Working in the gay club scene in 2012, I'd often hear people hastily beseech each other for impromptu trysts around closing time. Such encounters could usually be arranged with little bother, for the night's chill can combine with inebriated passions to soothe any sparks of worry or reluctance that a potential lover might feel. However, some people went beyond the standard claims of their homes' warmth and proximity in these perfunctory invitations. One feature that seemed to recur in these discussions was an assurance of the destination's absolute freedom from bedbugs, and the people that included this addendum generally fell within the fairly narrow age bracket of that girl from the cinema.

As I am not exactly a man of the people, I'm reluctant to speak for everyone, but I can say that my ignorance of the bedbug scourge is strongly tied to the fact that my childhood fell near the end of the era in which these creatures scarcely had an existence outside lullabies. When I heard that rhyme, the subject bore no weight but that of a harmless hobgoblin. However, what fell beneath my notice was the very real renaissance of the bedbug plague in the years after I outgrew that facetious bedtime maxim. While the children whose births came shortly after mine grrew up in a world where bedbugs were a true concern, I'm unable to feel any kind of actual fear for the minuscule beasts because my conception of them is forever stuck in that childhood mode.

On the other hand, my mother, who holds a bit of contempt for my deep loathing of spiders, has become quite wary of the bedbug menace in the years since she jokingly whispered of their bite to my infant self. This implies that my inability to partake in this modern sentiment is partially due to my stubborn psyche, which makes a bit of sense too.

Update on 2013-11-04 08:02 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Worst part about this post? I lost the entire thing when my computer froze in the middle of the last sentence. 

Armgasm

Recently, I was fortunate enough to hear from a friend who decided that he’d like to drum in my band for a while. That seat has been empty for most of the last year, and when we got together for our first practice session, all of us were gratified to finally play with a full band again.

Since the spring, I’ve been having some problems with my left shoulder. The whole thing started when a seizure caused a dislocation, which seems to have loosened things to a point where new dislocations are wont to occur with randomness and relative ease. Fortunately, I’m almost always able to sort things out within a few minutes. I even dislocated it once in the middle of a busking session during the summer, but no one noticed because Dave was playing a guitar solo at the time. If I’d been singing, I might have momentarily stopped and made the incident more obvious thereby, but I wasn’t. Dave was displaying his musical wizardry while I did my usual convulsive dance. When the dislocation occurred, it probably didn’t seem too incongruent with what I was doing at the time. Things were back to normality by the arrival of the next verse anyway.

During this rehearsal, I wasn’t so lucky. I dislocated my shoulder right in the middle of a stanza, and my line was cut short by a curt shriek. Now, I won’t deny that I have been known on occasion to punctuate my songs with screams of various types, but these utterances never interrupt my words, and I’d hardly call them curt.

The incident wasn’t too bad. I left the room momentarily to sort myself out, and I was back in fine form before the drummer even arrived.

I actually just remembered that the drummer wasn’t present when this happened. I think that the rest of us were just warming up while we waited for him to arrive. I’d probably be remiss if I didn’t mention the fact that his tardiness was caused by circumstances outside of his control. He’s not some “Spinal Tap” caricature. He’s a decent guy who was simply beset by transit trouble. In full honesty, I’m almost definitely the worst person in the band in matters of punctuality. I also started my musical life as a drummer, but that had nothing to do with my tendency to arrive late. It had everything to do with the fact that nobody wanted to hear me sing.

Anyway, when I got back from my brief rest, jokes were made about the potential for this kind of thing to happen during an actual performance. It seemed like a fairly hilarious prospect in the middle of a rock-and-roll show. But the whole thing got me to think about something else for a moment.

If anything of this sort happened in the middle of a Bruno Mars concert, everyone would probably be quite understanding. Festivities would stop, he’d be rushed offstage, and the headlines would be sympathetic. If the exact same thing happened to Mick Jagger, David Lee Roth, or anyone else who’s too old to be Bruno’s sibling, the accident would be a target of laughter and derision. The fact that episodes of infirmity are much commoner in older people than they are in those who share a generation with Bruno and me doesn’t really seem to make it easier for those older people to get a pass when such things actually happen to them. It’s like that phenomenon whereby fat babies are hilarious to everyone despite the fact that most babies are rather plump anyway.

I will say this, though. The feeling I get when I pop things back into place after a dislocation almost makes the whole ordeal worth it. That’s some powerful pleasure. Have you ever had a sneeze that completely removed the cold that caused it? Does that happen? I don’t know. I just know that it’s an incredible sensation. If everyone could do that on command, genitals would come to teeter on the edge of obsolescence. At this point of the night, I don’t fully feel irresponsible enough to recommend the experience, but I would advise you to enjoy this part if you happen to find yourself in it.

Update on 2013-10-28 07:49 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best Mars? Mars Ultor.

"And Leonard Nimoy as Moundshroud"

On Saturday, I had my annual viewing of Ray Bradbury’s “The Halloween Tree”. Among other things, my childhood experience with this film was largely responsible for igniting my lifelong yearning for crystal sugar candy skulls, a desire that was finally satisfied upon my trip to Mexico in 2010 for the Day of the Dead. It might have been partially due to the dehydration I suffered from being stranded on a volcano for the previous 24 hours, but I couldn’t even finish my first skull in one sitting. This is coming from a guy with an avowed taste for the sweet stuff. Those things are serious.

But that’s probably a different story.

On this occasion, I decided to share this fine film with a friend for the first time since 2007, when my attempts to enlighten a comrade to this movie’s majesty were met with impatience and an early departure. I’m pleased to say that this night went far better, for Dave, this year's friend, displayed an appreciation for the piece that justified my hopes.

Anyway, this particular encounter made me realise that Moundshroud and Ms. Frizzle would make an amazing couple.

At their cores, both have a strong love for teaching. Obviously, there are differences in motivation and approach. The Frizz has an indefatigable passion for knowledge and exploration in all of its forms, and she’s not shy about showing her fondness for anyone who’s willing to learn what she has to teach.

In contrast, Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud is primarily driven by a singular sort of purpose. Halloween is his thing. Admittedly, he works as a psychopomp; that’s his occupation. He generally performs well in this role, but Halloween is his obsession. When the young night travellers first met him, he tried to brush them off in order to get back to his job, but his attentions quickly shifted to the group upon his realisation of their affection for his beloved holiday. At this moment, he was gripped with an implacable urge to turn the naive, incomplete flame they held for Halloween into a ravenous blaze that could rival the inferno in his own heart. He took it upon himself to educate these children in the meanings behind this tradition’s myriad forms, and it was this impromptu field trip that enabled his sour facade to slip. Behind his initially uncongenial demeanour was a sense of compassion for his pupils that matched any Ms. Frizzle ever felt.

This whole revelation also brought about a lesser epiphany. The mummy of this film was named Ralph, but I’ve always had a tendency to subconsciously attach his name to his larger friend. Tonight I finally understood that this was due to the fact that the latter filled the archetype that was performed by a boy named Ralph in “The Magic School Bus”. On the other hand, the film’s Ralph bears a certain physical resemblance to Arnold.

Incidentally, both cartoons have incredible soundtracks. I'm just going to assume that every human being in the entire world is intimately familiar with Little Richard's timeless work on the "Magic School Bus" theme, for anyone who isn't has missed a key part of what it means to be human. John Debney's score for this film is equally enduring, though any who have not had the pleasure of hearing it should know that their error is an understandable and venial one. In any case, this seems like the time and place to rectify it.

Man, did you see the backgrounds in that video? Beautiful. Those are some beautiful backgrounds. Maybe you should watch it again. Just check out all the backgrounds right there. Man, those backgrounds.

Update on 2013-10-20 20:20 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best Halloween movie of all time? Yes.

Lobstruck

I don't want to eat this guy.

Lobsters! Am I right? Where was I?

Right. Alright. So. Lobster pizza. I mentioned my recent discovery of that. Coincidentally, that discovery came shortly after my discovery of lobster ice cream. Despite their temporal proximity, these revelations came from completely different sources. I think that I heard about the latter on a podcast. Later in that week, I saw a sign outside of the restaurant at the end of my old street that advertised the former. I’d probably be interested in trying all sorts of things like this if I had any taste for the involved foods.

I can’t really speak to the specifics of my disinterest in ice cream and pizza. The latter was definitely a significant part of my childhood, and it might actually bear the distinction of being one of the only significant parts of my childhood that fell away. My tastes haven’t actually changed that much. They’ve expanded in various ways, but that expansion rarely comes at the cost of my early loves.

Ice cream’s a bit of a different matter. I never had that grand, bombastic passion for it that’s supposed to be one of the classical features of early youth. In contrast to the common chant, it was never something for which I screamed. I might have screamed around it. I might have screamed in its presence on occasion. I was always a screamer. I scream for a lot of reasons. I’m just saying that ice cream was never a motivating factor in my screaming.

My preference for the more esoteric varieties of the dessert might have reinforced my natural ambivalence for the substance. Tiger Tail was a great flavour when you could find it, and I’ve always had a spot in my heart for Monkey God Chocolate Chip despite the fact that I’m constantly being told that it doesn’t actually exist. Whatever. Such nonsense angers the Monkey God.

My reasons for avoiding lobster are much firmer. In comparison to many of my other opinions, they may seem downright logical. Some have even expressed agreement with them. Willingly.

I always had a taste for seafood. Fish was an early favourite, and I fell in love with sushi upon my first encounter with it at the age of six. That little eel bundle tasted like candy of the most intriguing kind. Damn. I think that I’m working up some desire for sushi now. I’m not saying that the world will end if I don’t get sushi soon, but . . . Well, I don’t know. Things might get somewhat apocalyptic if I don’t get sushi soon.

But Ragnarok can’t stop my talk!

My fondness for the flesh of aquatic organisms would probably have made lobster a likely candidate for a new dining experience even if I hadn’t been tied from birth to a lineage with strong roots in Prince Edward Island, but my maternal family’s maritime proclivities led to the ascendance of the supposedly delectable crustacean into a position of mystique, reverence, and wonder. It became an iconic representation of culinary supremacy. This apotheosis was aided by the rather potent presence of the Red Lobster restaurant chain in my life, which came about in the first place because Red Lobster is a perfectly obvious destination for parents who wish to dine out with children in possession of a preternatural hunger for fish. Despite the fact that I never actually ordered the lobster there, the establishment’s assiduous symbology had an indelible effect on my young, carnivorous psyche.

I might even still have some of the lobster memorabilia I collected on that road trip through the east coast my family took on the way to one of our annual Prince Edward Island visits. That whole area is obsessed with lobster. It’s like Maine’s Statue of Liberty. Incidentally, that’s where the lobster ice cream is, but I didn’t notice it while I was there. It’s like that to some extent in Prince Edward Island too, but the effect is diluted somewhat by the province’s pronounced pride of its red sand. There’s also that whole Lucy Montgomery thing, but that’s another matter. That whole region does all kinds of things with lobster. Lobster products at McDonald’s? Yeah. That’s a thing. I think that I heard that that’s spreading throughout the continent now, but it’s always been there. The collective menus of that entire region are dominated by the results of arcane experimentation with this crunchy, chitinous creature.

Anyway, I finally tried the stuff. It might even have been on that trip. It was definitely in Prince Edward Island. The whole thing was an ordeal from the beginning. The dish is preceded by the arrival of a special bib that often bears some sort of design to remind you of the idealised form of the animal that will soon find its way into your mouth. Some places even give a set of cutlery that’s unique to those who have chosen to order the lobster. These sorts of rituals only serve to strengthen the lobster’s deification. Lobster is also the only meal I’ve ever seen that comes with its own cup of liquid butter. You can do whatever you want with that butter. You can infer that it should go on the lobster, but that’s up to you. If you’ve ever wanted to drink hot butter, order lobster. This is your chance.

But lobster just didn’t come close to living up to the myth for me. First, it requires a ridiculous amount of work. I’m not talking about preparation. I don’t cook. That’s never a concern. I’m saying that one really needs to work to get to the meat. You have to interrupt yourself repeatedly to work through a new section of the carapace. I don’t even like cutting my steak. This is basically why I don’t eat oranges often. I’m an avowed fanatic of orange juice, and the fruit from which it comes is rather delectable, but it’s rarely worth the effort. You have to peel the thing, and the skin comes off in tiny chunks. The acidic ichor oozes out, and it attempts to join the albedo under your fingernails. I’ll admit that blood oranges are worth it, but they’re actually easier to peel than most members of the citrus family. Grapefruits are similarly problematic. Even after you’ve cut the thing open, it still tries to force you to cut out its chunks individually. Balls to that noise. On the rare occasions when I have the desire and patience for a grapefruit, I’m going to scoop out what I can and drink its nectar.

Back to lobster. After all of that work, there isn’t exactly a large amount of meat. The thing’s magnificently gigantic on the plate, but its consumable content accounts for a mere fraction of its prodigious size. Ultimately, the meat that is there just doesn’t taste that good to me.

And let’s be honest.  What is a lobster? In many ways, it’s incredibly close to a giant, aquatic version of a spider. You’re basically eating a more resilient and versatile kind of spider.

Spot the differences. There aren't enough.

Update on 2013-10-14 04:19 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best aquatic spider thing? Byatis, the Serpent-Bearded.

Playing for Pizza

Actually, I'm pretty sure that she'll have to share it with Emma Frost.

Nuit Blanche happened yesterday. That was alright. It doesn’t really do anything for me as a showcase of urban art, but it works quite well as a backdrop for my adventures. I don’t really appreciate the art, but I enjoy the energy. I just can’t really bring myself to care about what anyone else is doing when I have all of this awesomeness right in my own head. Seriously. Have you seen my stuff? That’s some glory right there.

Anyway, this was the first Nuit Blanche in three years that didn’t coincide with a Hot Apollo show. Performing always seemed like a great way to spend these nights because it allowed me to get out and feel the spirit of the occasion without actually dealing with any of it. Due to some injuries sustained by the hands of David, the guitarist, a formal gig couldn’t really be managed for this weekend, but we still decided to bring out a guitar and add a bit of tuneful flavour to our aimless wandering.

At one point during our walk down Spadina, Dave decided that a bit of food would be just the thing to aid in his convalescence. To that end, we stopped by Harbord to grab some pizza at a little shop that had served as a peripheral point of interest at my life in bygone eras. In the waning days of high school, its proximity to the apartment that hosted many of my friends’ meetings secured its spot in their hearts. Over the course of my tenure at the university pasta shop, my boss’s respect for that pizza place was the reason for which I was always instructed to stay on the opposite side of the street whenever I was sent to hand out flyers at Harbord.

As I don’t really have a taste for pizza, Dave’s decision left me without much to occupy my attention. Not wishing to be idle, I took up the guitar and played some classic Hot Apollo tunes outside the restaurant while I waited. Though I didn’t notice the tossing of any coins into the open guitar case by my feet, I was pleasantly surprised to receive the patronage of the restaurant’s manager. Upon realising that Dave and I were a team, she decided that the majesty of our music warranted free pizza. I think that she’s also sticking our picture up in her store? I’m not really sure. It was slightly hard to tell through the delightful thickness of her accent, which doubtlessly infuses her business with the kind of authenticity that stands in stark contrast to the cosmopolitan vagueness of the lurking Subway sandwich shop on her store’s left side.

Anyway. That’s when I took note of the late hour and realised that my ancient, tenuous plans to finally visit the Dance Cave, a club that has been recommended to me for ages by various acquaintances, would not be brought to fruition on this night. But that’s alright.

Update on 2013-10-07 06:30 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best pizza? I don't know. I just discovered lobster pizza. I'd probably give that a try if I ate pizza or lobster.

Maybe I should talk about lobster more.