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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #36

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

LONELY ON THE FOURTH OF JULY

Writing about America today is much like trying to message an ex-girlfriend. And if you haven’t written an ex-girlfriend in a state of desperation, perhaps on the eve of a meaningful anniversary that provokes feelings of only the good times (*cough* July Fourth *cough*)—congratulations, you’ve saved yourself the trouble doing something incredibly stupid.

But upon reflecting on this year’s Fourth of July and the ambivalence the country feels towards celebrating its day of Independence, it feels like a tale of broken love. So, if you’re struggling with how to feel this Fourth of July, might I invite you to indulge in an episode of writing your ex a message.

Please enjoy:

**

            Yes, it’s tempting to send HER a message. You’ve spent draft after draft writing your heart into the text, explaining everything as you saw it. Now, all that’s left to do is send the message, digitally, in a world where there are no take backs (Ha ha!). After all, why shouldn’t you send it? You want to still like this person, even love them, but you also understand that with all your differences and the storied history of how it all went wrong between the two of you…there’s no healing those old wounds.

            Some things should be left to scab up and become ugly scar tissue as a reminder of why things go so horribly wrong to begin with.

            So, let’s take a moment and explore just why, on this Fourth of July, you are writing HER (America, if you haven’t caught on with the symbolism here yet).

            Well, isn’t it obvious? SHE’s still pretty hot, even after all these years. Plus, SHE’s single and, well, you’re single…so why can’t you two just, you know, work it out and relive some of those great years the two of you had together?

            Ok, not all the years were great. SHE did have a fling with that guy Terry when you thought SHE needed a break to sort herself out. Why did SHE ever go for a guy like Terry? Everyone knew he was loud and obnoxious. He told enormous lies about how great he was, lies about business ventures that were major successes (they were not), and how he was a savvy real-estate tycoon, which, sorry, has anyone ever bought a house from Terry? Would you buy a house from Terry? Because NO ONE buys a house from a guy like Terry.

            Ugh.

            But you’re understanding. You could still see the appeal of why SHE would go for a guy like that. He was the opposite of what you were: confident, brash, outspoken, and lots of people loved him…yes, so very annoyingly so. But eventually SHE saw Terry wasn’t the end-all-be-all. He was terrible boyfriend material and should have never been elected to boyfriend status. Four years later, SHE finally rounded the corner and dumped him. Thank God!

            (Well, Terry claims he dumped HER, but EVERYONE knows it was really the other way around. Sorry Terry, you’re not fooling anyone.)

            So here you are on the Fourth of July and things are better, right? SHE’s single, you’re new and improved, having grown so much since the old days. Just send HER the great message you wrote about how it can work out again. You just need HER to join you and work as a team. How could SHE say no to all of that?

            Then you remember: it isn’t just HER any longer. There’s also Todd, HER 2-year-old son.

            Yes, Terry’s son. Turns out, there were consequences with Terry being in the picture–you don’t just escape from Terrys of the world.

            SHE had Todd with Terry just after SHE was done with you. And even though you washed your hands of HER, you heard through the grapevine that SHE was pregnant. The betrayal! SHE said SHE would only have a kid with someone SHE truly loved! And SHE had a child with Terry of all people?!

            Terry???

            You’re double the man Terry ever was. Just about any man is double the man that Terry is.

            So, now you’re hesitating to send the heartfelt message that would win HER heart back. Maybe it isn’t worth reconciling with someone like that, the type of person to have a Todd with a Terry (the absolute worst).

            Yeah, that’s right! You remember it all, now! You remember the last fight and all the terrible things SHE said about you before she left.

            “I just feel like we’re going in different directions,” SHE had said that night. “I want to get things back on track, and the only way to do that is through my Supreme Court commandeering a constitutional agenda with zero oversight. It’s the only hope our relationship has, don’t you get it? We have to throw away our bipartisan objectivity and start ruling on legislative agendas that derail the entire democratic process if we’re ever going to get anywhere. We all want this.”

            “Where is this coming from? I thought we were happy,” you tell HER, with scoff followed by confused, hopeless scoff.

            SHE quickly dries a tear from HER eye, as though this speech is hurting HER more than it is hurting you. “I wish you would have just supported me when I needed it. If you had approved of the direction my court was taking us in supplanting its responsibilities and taking the reins of whatever jurisdiction is being awarded by a passive congress and picketing White House, we might had had a chance. But I have to do what’s right for me, and that’s supporting the RIGHT team so that they win. I’m sorry…if you’re not with me, you’re against me.”

            “What is this, 9/11? Like I haven’t heard that before!” You tell HER. But SHE’s already gone to the bedroom to pack up a suitcase.

            And you stood there. You stood there wondering how SHE could say such nonsense. Where did SHE learn any of this? From that one cable news network? Why is it shown in restaurants like that? Scaring kids and adults, and apparently ruining relationships!

            SHE couldn’t have been serious. What did courts have to do with your love? You were both BIGGER than any court in the land, right? Did SHE mean something else instead? No, no, SHE really did change. This isn’t the same person you fell in love with. Something happened to HER. SHE wasn’t always this excluding and cruel, conforming to the “right” team winning (who was SHE even referring to? Tell me it wasn’t TERRY!!).

            Now you’re riled up. You’re pacing the room. This is all HER fault!

            It’s clear what you have to do: delete the message. 

            There’s no reconciliation. There’s no “friends with benefits” between the two of you. SHE has clearly gone crazy! It’s not like you said anything hurtful.

            …well, that’s not entirely true. 

            You did get your say that night as you followed HER to the bedroom where SHE packed the suitcase. You stood in the doorway and said:

            “What kind of backwards and dystopian world being gerrymandered by troll-looking white men with no other currency than fat bank accounts, hedge funds, and insider trading for investments given to them by their rich Troll fathers are you talking about?” 

            You might have shouted this, doesn’t matter. SHE deserved to finally hear what’s been on your mind. 

            “What? You want us to be like all the other white elitists parading intellectually empty minds around like its a badge of honor, who claim religious superiority and values as a skimpy disguise for textbook patriarchy and a Machiavellian pursuit to rule everyone else for no other reason than to hide a crippling and intense sense of insecurity? Am I getting this right? You want us to flaunt that change is BAD and we will all rue the day when new policy helps evolve and leave the world a different place, which will upend the inevitable power struggle of – and I’ll say it again – FAT, PASTY white men who look EXACTLY like storybook TROLLS?? Seriously, who would ever fuck these guys?”

            SHE was oddly quiet when you said this. Little did you know that Terry was already back in the picture even before you two officially ended.

            “Since when did you become a parasitic, weak woman subservient to the patriarchal hierarchy, painted red, white, and blue with the period blood of your canceled reproductive rights, along with a laundry list of other liberties they will invariably take from you next!”

            “You just don’t get it,” SHE said. “You never have.”

            That’s when SHE walked out. Without the suitcase.

            SHE didn’t even have the decency to say it was over. And maybe that was a hip, Hollywood way of saying it was really over anyway, kind of like characters who don’t need to say obvious lines in a movie if there’s a better way of relaying the information through imagery or symbolism. But still! It was classless to just walk out.

            …and back into Terry’s arms. Probably. You haven’t checked HER Facebook photos recently…

            (You can’t state enough how much you hate Terry…)

            And now there’s little Todd, who might as well be the next Terry.

            You sit down, not knowing what to do.

            Is it worth messaging HER? Was any of this worth fussing over? Things were great, once, but can it ever be again with HER?

            That’s when it hits you:

            Maybe not this year.

            Save a draft of the message, stash it in a folder somewhere in the cloud, and reread it next year.

            Maybe it will make more sense later on. Give it some more time.

            Bang.

            Boom.

            Red, white, and blue in the windowpanes.

            Fireworks light up the treetops of the neighbor’s property. They’ve bought the good stuff again this year. At least there’s that.

            How pretty, you think.

            Kind of like how SHE used to be…

***

SO, I CURRENTLY HAVE COVID…

            As I write all this, I’m currently quarantined in a room recovering from Covid-19. It’s my first positive test, which is a strange feeling. To many of us, a Covid test is like a viral pregnancy test (which sounds like a pregnancy test that “everyone must see to believe!”, but that’s not what I mean—I mean “viral” as in “virus-based”. Duh). You swab your nose, put the swab in the tube, swish it around, put on the cap, pinch four drops onto the testing dial, and then wait twenty minutes for results.

            If there’s one line, it means negative.

            If two lines, IT MEANS YOU ARE GOING TO BE A NEW DAD!!

            **Stadium cheers**

            (I’m kidding. And the scope of that joke is even shallower than usual considering the abysmal decision of the Supreme Court’s re-ruling on Roe v. Wade—seriously, fuck that institution and it’s geriatric need to revert back to the “good ol’ days” of an imaginary “perfect” White, patriarchal America.)

            But much like any positive testing, there is a moment when you realize that your life was one way, and, after the test, it is now another. There was a conscious understanding of, “Oh, now I can’t go out and see people if I want to,” and “Oh, now I have to stay in a room for a week and keep to myself”.

            And if you’re a creative introvert (like me) who thrives with being alone and would have loved to take a week away from everyone and everything anyway…

I can happily report it was a much needed vacation!

            As I’m coming to the tail-end of my quarantine, the biggest thing I’ve learned about myself is how much shaving I should start doing on a regular basis. Honestly, a shave every 3-4 days just isn’t enough.

            And if this wasn’t the life lesson that a potentially debilitating virus was trying to teach me in my 33rd year of living, then I don’t know what is. Maybe I should have thought more about prioritizing my health and relationships, but that’s just not how it played out. I can’t help it, life isn’t pretty—and the lesson I gleaned from this time of solitude was PLEASE SHAVE MORE OFTEN.

            Thank you, Covid, I will follow thy sage lesson and remind myself to shave more.

            …and will totally forget to apply said lesson when life becomes busy again.

            Maybe on the next mutation I catch I will finally apply it.

            Speaking of, when’s that third booster coming out? Soonish?

***

OOO! THAT NEW BIOSHOCK INFINITE LOOK…

            Hey, the answer was in the section title: I’ve redesigned my website in the style of Bioshock Infinite. You guessed it, another one of my favorite video games. 

            I’ll save on the spoilers in case you haven’t seen/played/heard of Bioshock Infinite, but it is a game that I feel strongly encompasses the current mood of this American cultural climate. As such, it felt like the perfect design to accompany this website through the summer months of 2022 as we try – VERY HARD – to not devolve into a dystopian state.

            I’m mostly kidding. Dystopia is a strong word. But if I were currently playing America: The Game (set to release on PC in 2025), I’m not sure how I would avoid the word “Dystopia” in describing the game…see what I mean?

            Hmm, maybe I’m looking for a different “Dys” word, just a step before a Dystopia.

            Dysfunctional. Hey, that’s a better word!

            We’ll go with Dysfunctional.

            Anyway, attached below is the art I’ve made for the background and header. If you look closely behind the torn American flag of the background image, you might see the menacing copper eye of the Songbird.

            **Shivers**

            And serious question: is the Songbird a machine, a mutated man, or just a really big bird? There’s lore behind it, I’m sure, but I was always too terrified to check it out personally.

            But now that I’m nearly recovered from Covid, maybe I am now brave enough to look up the answer myself?

            Nah.

            Best not tempt Covid to overhear and come back even stronger. Some things are best kept secret.

            That’s right, easily-lookup-able-information, you win this round…

***

  1. “Meteorite” by Anna of the North & Gus Dapperton
  2. “Unconditional I (Lookout Kid)” by Arcade Fire
  3. “Break the Rules” by Charli XCX

***

Wishing everyone as well as they can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #35

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

IS IT MAD OR MADNESS?

            Isn’t it exciting to write about the latest Marvel thing on a weekly basis? You gotta hand it to the scheduling and release partners at Disney: they know how to keep everyone talking about the latest superhero centerpiece (that goes for Star Wars, too).

            Doctor Strange and the Multiverse of Madness did an incredible job in its promotional material. Throughout the trailers, there were hints that Wanda Maximoff (the Scarlett Witch) was going to accompany Doctor Strange on a Multiversal adventure. This ends up being true, but Wanda is the antagonist of the film, which paved a way for a horror/superhero mashup (thanks to Director Sam Raimi and his expertise of the genre) that explores the ideas of just how powerful someone in the MCU can be. Turns out with great power comes great potentiality for horror and gore.

            And also: just a ton of fun.

            Spoilers aside, this is another MCU movie that explores the larger idea of the Multiverse. And, I’m beginning to see a concern:

            If there are an infinite number of replacements that can fill in for any given hero dying, what does it matter if someone actually tragically gets killed? Can’t we just, you know, replace them with another variant from another universe?

            I immediately thought about Avengers: Endgame when Tony Stark (I suppose spoilers for those who have not seen it…but I’d also ask: what are you even reading this for?) sacrifices himself in order to use the Infinity Stones to stop Thanos. This moment kills Iron Man, as it did Robert Downey Jr.’s portrayal of the beloved snarky genius/billionaire. Well, by the nature of the Multiverse, what’s to stop another Tony Stark (another that looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.) to transplant into the current MCU timeline? Does it all mean nothing if we can replace the death of Iron Man with a brand new, fresh-off-the-shelf Multiversal variant?

            What about Captain America and his “retirement” to a life with his true love from WW2, Peggie Carter? Do we simply pluck another Captain America (specifically a Chris Evans portrayal of Steve Rogers) from the shelf and continue as though nothing happened?

            I think toying with the ideas of loss in this way is dangerous for how we feel about characters. If there are no consequences, why care about death and loss and stakes at all?

            And yet, I think this plays out much like the nature of playing video games. In a game, you get infinite lives, infinite chances to complete the level/story/playthrough.There are games that are more brutal than others, that punish the player for dying (any Souls-like game, really), but does that make them more satisfying to beat or meaningful to play if the penalty for losing a life costs that much more?

            I think the answer here is no.

            If the point is to see the conclusion of the game, perhaps there’s little value in placing strict punishment on the player for dying. 

            After all, we just want to see what happens next.

            And I think this is why we accept the notion of a MCU Multiverse: we care about the characters and respect who they were in any given story. Just because there’s a Tony Stark nearly identical to Robert Downey Jr.’s portrayal somewhere out there who could just take over the role…I don’t think that means the original fate of the original Iron Man meant nothing. I think it means just as much because Iron Man isn’t a commodity, he was a beloved character we built a relationship with. 

            Without that connection, without those key moments, it doesn’t matter how identical a character appears to be, they will never be the same thing as before. So, naturally, we care about BOTH.

            And we, the audience, understand the difference.

            I think this is encouraging in terms of story evolution. Will we like new properties that have yet to appear such as the Young Avengers and the Illuminati? Yes, I think so. If Marvel has done one thing with the MCU, they have kept things interesting. I want to know what happens next. I don’t know why, but I like what I’ve seen and I want to see more.

            If there’s anything a strong story has at its core it is the ability to make the audience want to turn the page and see what happens next.

            So, after having watched Doctor Strange and the Multiverse of Madness, I say:

            “Cool. What’s next?”

***

THE BEST TIMELINE OF ROBERTHYMAWRITES.COM

            Speaking of multiple universes, is it not likely that this reality (yup, the one you’re reading this from) is not going so well? It’s hard to look around in the year 2022 and think that everything is going swimmingly. It feels like an ancient Egyptian tomb was desecrated and a curse was placed over the land (a never-ending Pandemic, a political landscape close to implosion because of outright zany ideas about racial superiority and those that deserve more than others). 

            I mean, what’s going on? It feels like opposite world: yes means no, no means yes, and somehow everyone finds it ok to pay for internet when it should be free.

            This universe has gone sour.

            Naturally, I can only wonder if there’s a reality out there where Robert Hyma (me) is happy and successful with being a writer and owns a similarly titled website (perhaps called something snarkier like “RobertHymaCreates.com, a much more accurate depiction of someone who does more than just write). Maybe in this other universe, I’ve conquered my fear of possible success and showing people the creative works I make and have no problem accepting a compliment or criticism. Maybe I’ve ridden himself of the anxiety of perfectionism and wanting to make everything as great as possible before showing someone.

            Yes, in that reality, I would be happily married, with delightful children (who adore and respect me, of course—none of that, “Oh, your kids won’t appreciate you or what you do because MINE sure will…in this reality, that is). I will have found financial stability in a way that lets me give back to my parents and community that has been supportive and paramount in shaping me into the competent writer (creator) I eventually became.

            And on and on and on it goes…

            Yeah, doesn’t sound half bad.

            To be fair, though, I should give myself ONE debilitating attribute. No reality is perfect, so let’s say in the best timeline of Roberthymawrites.com I have a horrible fear of mice. I don’t in this universe, but in the other universe, I’m as afraid as Scooby-Doo and Shaggy are of g-g-g-ghosts! From my fame and name, there are those that still hate my work (which, even in the best universe is ridiculous to me, but hey, it is statistically likely that I’m going to be despised by about 33% of people who know of my work). So, they send package after package of live mice to my rather humble home (probably just outside a major city). Someone graffities a whimsical mouse character on my mailbox, my car, even tossing fake mice at my children as they walk to school (yes, in this universe walking to school is still a thing).

            The mice are getting out of hand, and I try to plead with these people to stop harassing my family and home with all the mice. But these mice terrorists are malicious. There’s no convincing them that firing mouse after mouse from home-made catapults is not only a violation of PETA, but causing a huge uptick in maggots and rodents in the area.

            I’m still happy, in this other universe, but the mice are a huge problem. Especially for my nerves.

            Anyway, that’s another timeline. In THIS timeline, I’m just an anonymous, small-town writer named Robert Hyma attempting to write another Weekly Post-Ed and this was my best idea.

            (In many ways, I think I’d take this material over the mice.)

            Still, through it all, I remember as the great philosopher René Descartes once said:

            “I think (I exist in other universes), therefore I am (probably happier there…minus the rodents).”

***

  1. “Rain On Me” (Purple Disco Machine Remix – Edit) by Lady Gaga, Ariana Grande, and Purple Disco Machine
  2. “Ring Starr” by Max Frost
  3. “Disposable Friends” by AVIV

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #34

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

MOONLIGHTING

            Watching the latest Marvel Disney+ series has become a weekly staple. WandaVision and Loki were experimental in ways that helped bolster the Marvel Cinematic Universe and expanded upon ideas that helps set up movies in ways that, perhaps, were not going to go over well if entirely introduced through films alone. Every little bit helps, especially with a concept like the Multiverse, and a rendition of explanations for how it all stems together (time travel, multiple selves, multiple realities, and the consequences of traveling from one to the other) makes it all a bit easier to swallow.

            If your head is spinning from that paragraph alone, then wait, there’s more.

            Moon Knight is a show that follows the superhero exploits of a man suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) or commonly known as multiple personalities. Oscar Isaac plays two completely different characters mashed into one: the English-speaking Steven Grant, and the former mercenary Marc Spector who is responsible for donning the cape and cowl of the Moon Knight avatar in the first place.

            Oh, and not to mention that Moon Knight is endowed with the powers of the Egyptian god Khonshu, a 10-foot tall skeletal bird wrapped in mummy cloth and wielding a giant crescent staff.

            What floored me about the show was Oscar Isaac’s versatility. It was easy to care for Steven Grant, the personality imbued with goodness and someone down on his luck, the character we begin the show following. And when the supernatural occurs (Egyptian creatures chasing after the unlucky Steven Grant) it was easy to like Marc Spector, the typical hero type with a messy, violent skillset and scarred past to heal from. Both sets of characters complimented the other and were eventually forced to work together in order to defeat a bigger threat—yet another Egyptian god shaped like a anthropomorphic crocodile/lady named Ammit and her biggest follower, Arthur Harrow (as played by the great Ethan Hawk).

            The show builds around the mystery of how one personality (Steven Grand and Marc Spector) of hides from the other and just what happens when the two are forced to confront one another. In the greatest episode of the series, Marc and Steven are two separate entities attempting to escape death (or, really, an asylum designed by either Steven and Marc in order to cope with the realities of sharing a body between two completely separate personalities). It’s the deepest dive yet into the idea of self love, that even a made-up coping mechanism such as a personality (Steven Grant, it turns out) can be just as formidable and important as our original self, and that there can be love shared between the two. 

            My biggest gripe with the show is that the final episode felt rushed. A climax needed to take place with lots of action – and there was plenty with more Moon Knight fight scenes, giant kaiju battles between Egyptian gods, and another superhero borne from the action (whom I will not spoil) – and it felt like forty minutes was devoted to raising the ante. Maybe there was a question if the show could rebound with the previous episode being entirely devoted to the uncovering of backstory and the origins of Marc Specter and Steven Grant, but I think more trust needed to be placed in the two coming out of that headspace. Also, it was a heartbreaker that Ethan Hawk’s character, Harrow, was essentially tossed aside once the “true ” villain of the show emerged–a bit of an antithetical Dias Ex Machima in my opinion–I would have liked to see Harrow in the driver’s seat of his own actions and dealing with the consequences.

            It just felt like the show was over and quickly. I wish there had been another act to put everything to rest.

            But I suppose there will be a Moon Knight Season 2, so why give away all the tricks in a single run of the show? This certainly accounts for the twist ending in which [REDACTED] happens. Crazy, I know.

            Moon Knight was a very enjoyable watch. I’m always surprised and delighted at the subject matter Marvel explores with every new show, each new character. It truly is a big universe out there with the MCU, one that seems to never stop expanding.

***

DATES AND DETAILS #3

The Online Irish Goodbye

            Since dating apps bear no real consequences when it comes to messaging someone, there’s often a lot of ghosting (people who suddenly stop responding). Can you really blame anyone, though? Most ghosting isn’t malicious or intended to hurt anyone; it is just the result of too much volume. When matching with others, you aren’t waiting around for ONE specific person to reply. No, you’re casting a wide net and trying to get as many bites back as you can. This inevitably leads to many conversations going on at once, and in many cases, you just don’t have the conversational bandwidth to keep up.

            Some people get left behind. Or, that too much effort is required to keep the conversation going in the first place (ie. People who don’t ask questions, who don’t offer up details about their lives, and it makes it hard to comment–yeah, a little help on the other end would be nice).

            Conversations trail away and that’s just the way of online dating. Hey, people lead busy lives, what do you expect?

            But there’s another form of ghosting that’s unilaterally nasty in my opinion—and that’s un-matching someone without notice.

            In my experience, here are the only times to un-match with someone:

  1. After a consistent record of offensive comments has been said and the most viable option is to disconnect.
  2. It’s been a long time since any interaction has taken place, which likely means no date is imminent anyway.
  3. Ghosting by the other person and it’s been more than a week.

These scenarios make sense to drop someone.

            However, there are conversations I’ve had where someone un-matches MID-CONVERSATION. As in the three bubbles of someone typing their reply is on screen and suddenly…

            POOF!

            Un-Matched.

            So, why is this happening?

            Since people are not altogether menacing (in my experiences), I don’t think the intention is to hurt anyone. Rather, un-matching is probably about circumstances rather than the person (maybe she realized you live far away and didn’t realize it before, or he has a political/religious view or job that doesn’t mesh well with your lifestyle, etc). 

            Either way, the conversation ends the same way and that’s with a complete lack of saying goodbye.

            …which is kind of a rotten thing to do to someone, even by online standards.

            No one is obligated in the modern age to be cordial or kind on the internet. You don’t have to “officially” end anything with a line-in-the-sand statement to say it is over, but I think it does say something about the person who DOES the considerate thing and braves a little honesty. I think it speaks to how upstanding and aware of boundaries the person is, and I often come away respecting those who would say a brief, “Hey, sorry, but it’s not going to work out between us.”

            Of course, it’s easier NOT TO DO ANY OF THAT and, instead, give the ol’ Online Irish Goodbye where people just leave mid-conversation.

            But it is a bit strange. Even in real life.

            Have you ever experienced the Irish Goodbye? At party, say? Maybe you’ve been talking to someone, even platonically, and it’s going pretty well. You’re laughing. They’re laughing. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. And then this person just up and leaves??? You wonder what was wrong with that person. Why would leave without saying goodbye or having the decency to come up with a convincing lie?

            EVEN THE LIE IS MORE CONSIDERATE THAN JUST DISAPPEARING!

            Which is why, whenever I get the Ol’ Online Irish Goodbye, I come up with my own cover stories for those that suddenly disappear.

            So, Erin, let me just say this:

            “It’s ok, I get it. You’ve got a long history of OCD and when you see a stray dog from your cheap apartment window, you have to race after it, even at the cost of running into traffic and causing major accidents on rural roads (there were a fair few reported last week in the Grand Rapids area, please be forward and say you caused them, ok?). I know you wanted to check in with our pretty great conversation we were having, but the Sergeant in charge at the police station realized someone like you shouldn’t be dating, and immediately Un-Matched with me. He said it was for my own good. And you know? I have to agree.

            “So, Erin, this comes from the bottom of my heart (so you know it’s true): I am definitely too good for you and it was the right decision to disappear without a trace. Best of luck, and may all dogs escape your psychopathic need to chase after them into oncoming traffic.

            “Keep well (and properly medicated going forward).”

            Robert

***

  1. “This Time” by Sure Sure
  2. “CHAMPAGNE” by Valley
  3. “Honey” by Abhi The Nomad

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #33

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

ALWAYS NEW DEPTHS

            DISCLAIMER: I’ve hesitated to post this Weekly Post-Ed because I felt I didn’t have anything remarkable to say about Bloc Party beyond, “This band means a lot to me,” and so I’ve been struggling to come up with a better message. Since it is Thursday and the week is nearly through, I’ve decided that sharing how I feel on a personal website is totally fine.

            In short: I’m a huge fan of the band. Here’s why:

**

            I used to stay up late on weeknights to watch Late Night with Conan O’Brien in high school. If not for much needed laughs at the time, then for the musical guests that were featured in the mid 2000s. Unlike the Tonight Show, Conan’s musical guests were indie/alternative starlets making a big impact on the music scene. Many were European, a fair few coming from the UK and for good reason—the indie-punk revival was in full bloom over there when I was 15.

            And on one fateful night, Conan introduced the musical guest, “Ladies and gentlemen, Bloc Party!”

            The frantic back-and-forth guitar duet of the song “Banquet” jammed out through my old bedroom 14’’ CRT lightbulb television speakers.

            And I was changed forever.

            “Banquet” is the hit song from Bloc Party’s first EP, Silent Alarm. If you haven’t listened to that album, it’s one of the greatest and complete 54-minutes of music ever made. Every song hits because every song WAS a hit.

            Bloc Party was only the beginning. It felt like week after week I was being introduced to the likes of Interpol, Kaiser Chiefs, Foals, Shout Out Louds, Arcade Fire, The Hives, The Bravery, and all the other seminal bands of my teenage years who appeared on Conan O’Brien one after the other. But there has never been a band like Bloc Party for me. They were the first band where I appreciated just about every song they’ve ever made.

            Chris Rock once said, “The music you listen to when you’re a teenager is the music you will listen to the rest of your life.” The thing is I had heard The Beatles by this time. I’ve listened to countless hours of many of the 70’s bands my dad often listened to like Elton John, Chicago, or ABBA. I appreciated what I heard, but it never moved me. Bloc Party was different. Their music resonated on what I can only assume was a spiritual level for me. The licks of Russell Lissack’s guitar, the beats of Matt Tong on drums, Gordon Moakes on bass with an amazing rhythm section, and Kele Okereke’s piercing lyrics and guitar riffs combined to make music full of angst and energy that felt like the proper soundtrack of my life at the time.

And, as it turned out, for most of my adult life, too.

Original Bloc Party (Left to Right): Matt Tong, Gordon Moakes, Kele Okereke, Russell Lissack

            I didn’t know it at the time but the single greatest thing the band showed me throughout the years was the fearlessness of their musical direction—every new album offered something different, an evolution of character and music that spoke of a band growing up into fame and new influences in their lives. They wrote about deep personal issues in their music (about drugs, shallow love, true intimacy, and so much more) and in ways that only Bloc Party ever could. They embraced change, never repeating the same tricks twice, and this made each new album 3-dimensional and with a sense of purpose. When you listened to a new Bloc Party song, it was a hit on many different levels: lyrically, rhythmically, emotionally.

            This was the band that taught me (like another one of their hits) that there are Always New Depths. And even if I wasn’t aware of how influencial these ideas were while cranking up music to ten on my first CD player at the time, it’s something I’m cognizant of now as I make my own stuff.

Bloc Party, “Always New Depths”

            I’ll listen to everything they put out, if for no other reason than be fascinated by what’s new and different in the world.

***

THOUGHTS ON ALPHA GAMES

            Ok, so I’m no music critic. Very rarely do I listen to the lyrics of a song and understand the subtextual meaning, or how the composition of instruments and riffs adds to a theme of a song. Sorry, I’m very basic in my consumption of music: if I like it, I’ll listen to the song more.

Bloc Party, Alpha Games

            That being said, my first full listen of Bloc Party’s Alpha Games was underwhelming. Here, I was expecting the old Bloc Party, the high-tempo post-punk modern sound that burgeoned onto the music scene with their first EP Silent Alarm (and even subsequent albums A Weekend in the City, Intimacy, and Four). I was expecting a better sophomore approach from a rebuilt band that saw the likes of founding bassist Gordon Moakes and drummer Matt Tong depart in 2015.

            But after listening to the album several more times and gaining a better appreciation for what was attempted by this new Bloc Party, I think the biggest issue with the music was in my assumption of what the band ought to be for me.

            Bloc Party is still a big deal—one of those tentpole influences of my teenage years and, as it turns out, my adult life. Of course I associate a certain feeling with that brand of music and want more. I want that old connection, the one where I felt younger and fluid and full of energy. I’m sure Bloc Party, the band, felt the same way about their original sound, but that was 17-years-ago. Things have changed, not only in the makeup of the band (which now includes incredible newcomers in bassist Justin Harris and drummer Louise Bartle). To assume the band would reproduce an old signature sound isn’t fair; not only for an evolving band, but for the creative process, too.

Modern Bloc Party (Left to Right): Justin Harris, Kele Okereke, Louise Bartle, Russell Lissack

            And what Alpha Games turned out to be is like everything I’ve ever appreciated about Bloc Party: it’s another deep exploration into something new and the brave attempt to follow that instinct.

            It’s true that an album is like a relationship: the more time spent with an album, the more of a connection we feel with it. After my first listen, I wasn’t sure what I was hearing with the lyrics, and so looked them up. Apple Music has a neat feature with newer albums that includes interviews with the band. Kele Okereke, the lead singer, broke down each song with the intention behind the lyrics and the choice in sound and mood. After reading about the album, I liked it so much more and could better appreciate it. 

            After all, who doesn’t better appreciate Shakespeare or Byron after learning a bit more about the work they made? That’s what makes literature so alluring, that it can mean so many things.

            And I think Alpha Games is very much in this same literary vein.

            It’s one of the more unique Bloc Party albums to date, one I find myself listening to more and more, finding new reasons to listen to tracks I didn’t find musically interesting on the first playthrough.

            I hope there is more to come, more momentum to be gained with a proper infusion of new band members and new musical voices in the group. It’s not the Bloc Party that represented the energy and angst of my teenage years any longer

And that’s perfectly ok.

            Instead, Bloc Party’s music has grown u. Alpha Games is a matured and wisened album, one that comes from experiences of losing and finding love, and if it means anything in the end.

            In many ways, this is probably what Bloc party – the band – probably felt about themselves while making it: do they still mean something?

            For me, the answer is emphatically YES.

            I think they’ve still got it, and I can’t wait to hear more.

***

            Obviously I recommend the entire album of Alpha Games, but I do have a few favorite tracks that have been on repeat in the car. I’ll list them below:

  1. “Traps” by Bloc Party
  2. “Sex Magik” by Bloc Party
  3. “In Situ” by Bloc Party

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #32

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

Hey, Now I’m Perfect!

            I just finished reading Michael Schur’s book on philosophy called How to be Perfect: the Correct Answer to Every Moral Question. If you haven’t heard of Michael Schur, you’ve likely seen one of his famed television shows. He is a writer/producer/creator/director of such shows as The Office, Parks and Recreation, and The Good Place. The latter television show dealt with moral philosophy and its many dilemmas, none of which were easy to solve, and which drove the central problem of the show: can someone, should they really want to, become a good person?

            Through his experiences making The Good Place, Michael Schur wrote a book that finally explains fully and clearly how to be a perfect person.

            And ever since I concluded the final page, I feel MORE perfect (if such a thing were possible). 

            Before I started reading the book, I was pretty sure I was the most perfect human being imaginable (perhaps a minor league Jesus Christ, the second perfect person in existence), but now I treat people nicely, which, as Michael Schur stated over and over (almost a little annoyingly) in his book made for being a better person. 

            I don’t know; jury’s still out if being kind makes life better for anyone, but if it makes me a little more perfect, I suppose I can give it a try…

            *And so ends the sarcastic commentary*

            In all seriousness, Michael Schur’s book was a triumph not only because of the erudite and relatable explanations of the basic concepts of philosophy, but also because this was the first book I’ve ever read in which I ACTUALLY REMEMBERED specific things about philosophical argumement.

            Deontology? Introduced by Immanual Kant, it means there are universal moral laws that must be followed (don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t steal) because, in this school of thought, there is a RIGHT and WRONG to every problem.

            Utilitarianism? Simply put, it’s the benefit of most that determines the right action (for example: if more people benefit from YOUR death, then, by all means, you must be killed to make other’s lives better).

            Contractualism? Easy: to agree on a set of reasonable rules that society must follow, and that these rules cannot be reasonably revoked by anyone (ie: you should throw away your trash; opening the door for others is a nice thing to do; running someone off the road is bad; etc).

            Michael Schur made every philosophical problem entertaining and interesting while only throwing in a few schools of western philosophical thought to balance each scenario. There are famous thought experiments – most famously the Trolley Problem – and how it isn’t such a guaranteed solution to think about. Should a runaway trolley be forced to either crash into one person or five on a split in the tracks, which would you choose? The lone person seems like a clear contender to die—but there are consequences in assuming this answer. What if a doctor needs an organ transplant and the only one around with a healthy liver is you? Does that mean you are obligated to donate it on the spot?

            This, along with tons of other examples made for a funny and enlightening way to read philosophy.

            As an aside, one section I appreciated the most was just why Ayn Rand’s idea of “Everyone for themselves leads to world happiness!” is such a stupid, childish idea. Michael Schur does a splendid job tearing this bad idea a new one and the book is worth the purchase alone just to read all about it.

            Seriously, what a dumb idea that was, Ayn.

            It was a joy to read How to be Perfect and I cannot recommend it enough.

***

NAIL CLIPPERS

            I don’t have a take on this true story from this week other than to say, “Ew!”

            At a staff meeting, I sat at a round table with six teachers. We were asked to discuss the most recent batch of data pertaining to children performance in our classrooms. The task was to come up with reasons the data worked, what was missing, and if there was any way to make recording the data a better experience.

            Across the table from myself was another teacher who happened to take out a neon pink silicon coin purse. The floor was hers to begin.

            “I think the data is pretty easy to fill in during the day,” she said, unclasping the pink coin purse. “Does anyone else have any problems?”

            “I wish we had more time to take notes and fill in tables like we’re supposed to. It feels like there isn’t enough time,” offered another teacher.

            UNCLASP. From the pink purse came a pair of nail clippers. The clippers readied on the left-handed pointer finger of the teacher leading the discussion.

            “Robert, any thoughts?”

            I didn’t hear the question. I was focused on the nail clippers and just what, in a conference room with forty teachers, they were doing there and about to do.

            “On the data?” I asked, not sure if I even said this aloud.

            “Well, duh,” said the teacher, shaking her head. She looked to her nails.

            CLIP. CLIP. CLIP.

            Like purple, glossed shrapnel, bits of fingernail flung away like some World War I dogfight shooting the hulls of their airplanes out of the sky.“Fire!” I heard a captain shout, and a pepper-spray of debris flew everywhere, entrenching the table with debris.

            “Robert?” asked the teacher, taking a break from clipping. “Did you hear me?”

            “Right,” I said, staring at the nail clippers. “Well, it would be nice if we had more time to enter in data,”

            “I think we said that already.” CLIP, CLIP, CLIPPITY.

            A nail flew upward, the apex of its arc certain to land in the open lid of my coffee. Quickly, I sealed the opening with my bare palm, the steam burning my skin to curdles. The shard of nail glanced off my protecting hand, which, induced a welling in my throat of near-vomit projectile.

            CLIP. CLIP. “Anyone else have any thoughts?” CLIP.

            I peered around the table, the other teachers either peering down at their data spreadsheets or sipping a frozen coffee from a straw from the plastic container—they were the lucky ones; the nails had no way to penetrate the Bigby Frozen Coffee lid defenses. And yet, seemingly no one paid any mind to the egregious thing happening before us. No one seemed to notice bits of fingernail littering the table like a surgeon had finished sawing through bone on the operating table, but hadn’t quite broomed away the calcified bone bits into the trash can (or wherever such things end up).

            “Maybe they should TRIM down our spreadsheets,” I offered, stunned by the nail trimmings.

            There was unanimous agreement around the table. No one had caught the pun, that I was mocking the woman with the nail clippers.

            “Ok,” said the teacher, inspecting all ten finished fingernails.

            I sighed in relief, unclasping the lid of my coffee. I turned my hand over and looked over the soaked third-degree burns I must have suffered by protecting the hot liquid inside.

            But the teacher was not done. She started pawing at the clippings, rounding them up into a frenzied pile. And then, with one quick swish of the hand (like a magician might) she flung the pile of nail trimmings off the table and onto the conference room carpet.

            I was agape with shock.

            “Ok, listen up everyone!” said our director. “I think we’ve had enough time to discuss the data. I think we could use a break and do something fun. Let’s get on the floor and share a bit about our classrooms, something positive.”

            “I have to go to the bathroom,” I declared, perhaps too loudly.

            And it was there I stayed, looking in the mirror, for several minutes, certain that the activity on the floor with the nail trimmings lodged in the fine carpet would be over. In the reflection, I saw the state of my nails and said, “Huh. Could use a trim.”

            I washed my hands and rejoined the meeting.

***

  1. “T” by 88rising, Hikaru Utada & Warren Hue
  2. “Nightmare” by instant crush
  3. “Cool Kids” by Max Frost

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #31

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

SEEING ‘TURNING RED’

            Only the foulest and most detestable of preschool teachers sets up a computer monitor and shows a movie to a classroom of kids at the end of a long week. Of course, I would never subject my kids to such “low education”. Any teacher that does should feel ashamed of themselves. Because when you have kids that are bored with the monotony of everyday life in a classroom, who just want nothing more than to get outside and play (but can’t because of this laughably unending Michigan winter season), and are still force-fed curriculum, indoors, and that, at this time of year, consists of dull and droning material such as, “Hey, did you know this type of plant grows, too???”

            *Insert facepalm GIF of your choice*

            …you feel tempted to shuck away all modes of teaching and just park the kids down with a snack and a movie and call it a day.

            Teaching, in actual practice (it should be noted) is oftentimes a war of attrition.

            So, supposing I were one of these lowly teachers that brought in a computer monitor just to show his kids the Pixar film Turning Red on a Friday afternoon, it might go something like this:

**

            It’s becoming a trend for me to say, “Yeah, so I just saw this movie that’s been out for, like, 3 MONTHS, and here’s what I thought of it…”

            How I see new movies is like my seeing a post on Twitter about the latest Wordle: I know vaguely of it, but I couldn’t exactly explain it or just when I’ll get around to learning about what it even is.

            Anyway, more on Wordle in my next Weekly Post-Ed…

            But why stop at simply seeing a new movie? Why not subject yourself to watching it with a bunch of 5-year-olds in a classroom—which is the audience you should see a highly anticipated movie with. Not only have all my students seen the movie before, they just want the highlights—mostly the 4*Town songs written by Billie Eilish and Finneas O’Connell. The rest of the movie is red fluff for them, which doesn’t bode well for a semi-professional writer who cannot help but get absorbed in the story and underlying themes of a movie. Not only that, but the film was a surprisingly dense and unique way of investigating teenage womanhood and the act of breaking free of parental norms to embrace individuality.

            So: let’s press PLAY and see how far we get.

            –TWENTY MINUTES LATER–

            “Mr. Robert, is the movie almost done?” asks the little girl closest to me. She’s tossed her teddy bear across her cot like a tumbleweed by this point, the stuffing frayed from blunt-force trauma.

            “No, it isn’t,” I tell her calmly, with a warm smile. After all, I’m enjoying the movie and am entranced with what’s going on and assume everyone else should be.

            The astounding thing about Pixar is how purposeful everything is in their movies. For example, a seemingly dull Father acts timid around an ultra-protective, oftentimes judgmental Wife/Mother? Sure, let’s have that in the movie.

            But wait! It pays off. You see, the Father is this way because, as it turns out, HE was the object of—

            “Is the movie almost done now?” wines a little boy next to the little girl who asked the first time. The blunt-force trauma of the teddy bear tossed between the two of them has me wondering if we should be teaching stuffed animal civil rights.

            “No,” I say, with a bit more growl, but still smiling. “It’ll be over soon.”

            “Ok,” they say, and I gesture to keep the teddy bear still for fear that it will end up in teddy bear E.R. with any more blows to the head.

            Where was I? Oh! So, the Father is the crucial element that helps Mei Lee, the hero, realize that the Red Panda transformation, which – and I skipped over this – acts as the magical embodiment for young womanhood that I spoke about before. And it’s such a great symbol! That’s because whenever Mei Lee turns into a Red Panda, it’s her true feelings that come out, thereby confronting her obligation to “honor” her Mother and remain a child—a necessary rite of passage. When the Red Panda comes out, it is a wild, freeing form of expression, and it is precisely what—

            “Mr. Robert?”

            It’s the first little girl again. I turn to her with what can only be described as Academy Award Winning patience and resolve. “Yes?” I smile, all my facial muscles wanting to succumb to irritation instead. “What is it now?”

            “Is the movie almost over yet?”

            I sigh. “It’s been three minutes since you last asked me,” I say to the little girl who seems to have the attention span of a goldish. I’m also wondering how this girl “claims” to have seen Turning Red if she interrupts every umpteen minutes to ask if it is almost over. IF YOU SAW THE MOVIE, YOU WOULD KNOW! *Counts to four, five, six, seven…* 

            “No,” I say with a smile, “we just started the movie 25 minutes ago,” and you can tell I’m addled; I quantified time in front a preschooler, which is pointless—5 minutes might as well be 5 hours to a kid that can’t tell time. “I’ll let you know when the movie is close to being over.”

            Which is a lie, but I mean no harm–I haven’t seen this movie and want to experience this great thing playing on a 27’’ computer monitor sitting atop a 2-foot tall Lego table at the front of the classroom.

            All is quiet again. I sink back into my chair and watch.

            Have I mentioned the role Mei Lee’s three friends play in aiding a journey into independent womanhood? I mean, wow! As a male, I have zero idea how the journey into womanhood works, and I was mystified (yes, MYSTIFIED) by the importance of community and embracing friendship as a means of overcoming the stresses and sheer terror of stepping out of that comfort zone of what we know as our honoring our parents.

            “Mr. Robert?”

            Same little girl.

            “Yes?” I ask, noticing my teeth turn into Red Panda-like fangs.

            “Is the movie almost—”

            “No,” I growl, red panda ears sprouting from my head. I also bounce up another foot in my chair when my Red Panda tail blooms underneath me. “The movie is not done. Not ten seconds ago when you last asked, and not ten minutes from now when the movie will still be going on! Does it look like we’ve arrived at the Act II climax? I didn’t think so!”

            “Uh…”

            (If you thought introducing quantifiable time was a problem for preschoolers, now I’ve just hoisted the notion of plot elements only writers care about as though it were something kids ought to know alongside colors, numbers, and letters of the alphabet.)

            I calm down and summarize to the little girl with a candid smile, “Just be quiet and enjoy the movie.”

            Anyway, as I was saying: Yes! The Mother in the movie is losing control just as her daughter is, representing the symmetry of BOTH mother and daughter having to let go of previous notions of who the other previously was! The mother is a Red Panda, but massive, her insecurities and fears of what will become this new daughter, this new identity, and she becomes a Godzilla-esque kaiju monster as a result! She’s about to storm the concert venue that Mei Lee has escaped to with her friends and—

            “Mr. Robert?”

            I don’t even let her finish. I grow ten-feet tall, my rabid Red Panda snout towering over this little girl who was given the option of sleeping during rest time or enjoying a movie, only to keep annoyingly asking (the audacity, right?) if we are done with the movie.

            Luckily, before I can claw her to bits, the Red Panda taking over my entire persona (as all teachers have their own Red Panda and have known this LONG before Turning Red was ever released), the credits roll.

            Oh no, I think, sitting down in my chair, I’ve missed the finale. I’m defeated. I was deeply enjoying the movie, but instead I had to hear the constant inerruptions of:

            “Mr. Robert?” asks the little girl, again…

            I smile back at her, meakly. I shrink back to normal size, the Red Panda gone. I feel a slight welling in the back of my throat. It was a wonderful movie, from what I saw of it. I look around at the dozen or so kids that were watching; they seem mildly pleased and are getting up off their cots. Most are interested in finding something else to play with in the room.

            “Yes, the movie is done now,” I say to her before she can even ask.

            “Can I have a hug now?”

            I open my arms, half annoyed, but mostly grateful to be able to give a kid a hug.

            That’s the other side of teaching: that if you can endure all the hair-ripping frustrations of it, you can still give a kid something they really need (connection, fun, or, most times, a simple hug), and it feels pretty dang good.

            “Did you like the movie?” I ask the little girl, expecting her to say she didn’t even watch it, blah blah blah.

            Instead, she says, “Yeah. It’s my favorite movie. I’m going to watch it at home.”

            It then dawns on me that I, too, can go home and watch the movie. And I can watch it in private, reverse-engineering how it was all put together to my heart’s content. It also occurs to me how stupid I was for getting irritated.

            “Can we watch another movie?” asks the little girl.

            I look to the other kids. Most come back to their cots, each with an idea of what we should watch next. I look to the clock, that mystifying circular object on the wall, and see there’s an hour and a half left of school.

            “Sure,” I say, “we have a few more minutes. Why not?”

**

            This is all fictional, of course. A teacher would never show a movie when there is important curriculum to be taught instead.

            I mean it; cross my Red Panda paws and hope to die.

***

POLIWHIRL IN THE RAIN

            In my quest to get better at digital illustration and draw every Pokémon card I own, I often get bored with the mundanity of some of the earliest cards (their poses, backgrounds, etc) and so choose to experiment with concepts of my own. I’m not sure why but when I think of Poliwhirl, I always think of a Broadway Musical Actor ready to break into singsong and choreographed dance numbers (maybe it’s those big, white gloves that would suit any tuxedo?). So, I’ve illustrated Poliwhirl in the pose of the great Gene Kelly from the movie poster of “Singin’ In The Rain”.

            Good idea or not, this illustration makes me laugh. I hope you all find some joy in it, too!

***

  1. “Almost Lost” by Saint Kochi
  2. “Downers” by Jalle & Issey Cross
  3. “Secret in the Dusk” by PENDANT

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #30

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

ROBERT HYMA, FORMER SEVENTH GRADE PIRATE

            There are times in my adult life when I think all my ideas are great ideas because – and I think we all feel this way – they come from me. There’s a system of checks and balances in place, certainly, but upon first stumbling upon an idea or loosely assembled philosophy I assume my ideas are justified mostly because I thought of them.

            During these times, there’s a specific set of memories I replay from my childhood that remind me of other “great ideas” I’ve had and how – get this – it turns out they WEREN’T great ideas. At all.

            So, I thought I’d share one of the memories from my childhood I reference for a reality check from time to time.

**

            When I was in seventh grade, I pretended I was a pirate for three entire months.

            Maybe some context:

            I didn’t quite understand how to be true to myself when I was thirteen. What I liked, back then, were characters in movies I had seen at the time because they were cool, capable, and unabashedly themselves—a complete mystery to my 13-year-old self. So: imagine a quiet, unintrusive middle schooler without a whole lot going for him other than being (I assume) not so annoying and fairly decent with grades.

            And then: Pirates of the Caribbean came out, and I soaked up that movie for an entire summer. Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Jack Sparrow was the coolest thing I had ever seen to that point: funny, charming, always had a plan, talked in an interesting way, his look was unique, and above else:

            He was cool—everything I wasn’t.

            (To illustrate how warped my tastes were as a teenager: I LOVED Dragonball Z, but I felt “Meh,” when I first saw Star Wars—so, just an objective critic in the making.) 

            And at some point near the beginning of the school year, I assumed the Jack Sparrow identity. I don’t know when, but I imagine there was a penultimate scene right before I made the decision. At 13-years-old, I was scrawny, pasty, with a hairstyle that said, “Gel, what’s that?” as it fell frumpily over my expressive forehead. I must have looked myself in the bathroom mirror with a belated sigh and said, “Ok, this isn’t working.”

            And I started talking, acting, and otherwise BEING Jack Sparrow everywhere I went.

            No, I didn’t dress like a pirate. I’d like to state that. But this likely made it all the stranger my mannerisms and gesticulations, my complete change of diction and talking style, and just what the hell that thing I wore on my ring and pinky finger was. I had found an old necklace that was torn and weathered, so I wrapped it in loops and tied knots to wear around my fingers because I thought it looked “pirate-y”. No one asked what it was or where it came from, and I think that speaks to the capacity human beings have for accepting others (yes, that’s the interpretation I’m sticking to).

            The other remarkable coincidence from this era, and because I had an absence of close friendships at the time (“I wonder why,” he said, rolling his eyes), was that I sat at a table of what can only be described as “popular girls”. I had unofficially joined a group of seventh grade boys in somehow attaining a girlfriend, which, at the time, was a little like ordering a meal from a restaurant (“Yes, I’ll take one girlfriend and I’d like it on the side with fries, thank you.”). And with a girlfriend came an unofficial credential to sit at this so-called “popular table”.

            But then the fad of “having girlfriends” faded early in the year and there were mass breakups from all of us puppy-love boys (including me, which ended in a similar restaurant-fashion: “Yes, could you send this back to the chef? No, I didn’t like it and would like to try being a single teenager again. No, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. What do you mean you have to ‘call’ her?”)

            Unbeknownst to me, all the boys left the “popular table” and I stayed.

            Because I didn’t understand what was happening, I just kept sitting with the girls, not knowing any better, having nothing much to say to them, and they never said anything about it in all that time I sat awkwardly (which, in hindsight, was very kind of them).

            And then I became Jack Sparrow.

            “Hi, Robert,” said one of the popular girls (I’ll call her Jen) at the table upon my arrival in the cafeteria.

            “I’d say hello, but you already knew I was going to say that.” I said, twisting my face like Johnny Depp might in the movie.

            Jen said nothing back, quickly turning to a lifeline next to her, and I sat down in a very pirate-y way.

            “What’s on your hand?” asked another popular girl (Maggie).

            “This?” I said, twirling my hand like it had a mystical power. “Some say it’s good luck.”

            “So, what is it?” she asked again, after a beat.

            “Save-ee, just a trinket I found.”

            “What does SAVE-EE mean?”

            “I think he means SAVVY,” said Jen, keeping a straight face while the table laughed.

            “Drink up Me-hearties,” I said—I should note I seldom ate, so there was no tray or drink in front of me, which confused everyone.

            Three girls lifted their Dasani waters. “Yo-ho.”

            And from that I thought I was massive success. After all, I was barely speaking to anyone before becoming a pirate. This character brought on confidence, and I was speaking to pretty girls—I mean, it worked for Johnny Depp in the movies, why couldn’t I have that in my life?

            So I kept it up, purposely becoming a pirate every time someone spoke to me.

            “Could you be a dear lass and pass the ketchup?” I’d say to my sister at the dinner table. Several weeks into this character and no one asked questions. I was readily ignored, which seemed normal for my sister at the time anyway. No alarms there.

            One day I had to get a physical with my family physician. My dad went along, silently watching as I fingered the bracelet that I twirled through my fingertips in the waiting room. This was before smartphones, so no distracting himself from the character being portrayed by his burgeoning son. He watched on, ignoring the magazine periodicals he might have sifted through on another occasion.

            “Mr. Hyma?” called the nurse.

            The nurse took my preliminary assessment, asking me questions about drugs, pains, how much soda I was drinking. I answered, “Aye,” every time when I might have said, “Yes.”

            “The doctor will be right in,” said the nurse, happy to scamper out of the room and away from this odd teenager.

            Our family physician had a beard that made his smile friendlier, somehow. He was always calculating and reassuring, chalking up most medical problems like he was helping a recently married couple pick the right coat of paint at a hardware store. “A sore shoulder, huh? Ok, let’s rotate it this way. How does it feel? Does it hurt when you bend it like this? Hmm, sounds like a sore rotator cuff. Try not sleeping on that side at night for a week, that should help. I’ll prescribe some pain relievers, too. Give me a call in two weeks and we’ll do something else about it if it still bothers you. Have you considered dressing your bedroom in Cerulean instead of Lapis blue?”

            Quick and easy and our family was always out the family med-center without problems.

            The doctor came in with that familiar bearded smile. “Hello, Robert! How are things? How do you feel?”

            “A mighty fine day, even better to sail the seas, if it weren’t December, I’d say.”

            The doctor looked to my father, who shrugged.

            The doctor smiled again. “Ok, and how are you feeling health-wise? Anything bothering you?”

            “A clicking in my ankle, nothing serious. Perhaps scurvy.”

            “Scurvy?” repeated the doctor.

            “He doesn’t know what that is,” said my dad.

            “Ah,” said the doctor. “Steve,” that’s my dad, “can we chat for a minute while Robert gets out his clothes in the other room? I’ll be in with you in a moment for your physical. I just have to ask your dad a few things.”

            Behind closed doors, changing into that napkin-like skirt that ties in the back, I overheard them. “Why is he talking like that?”

            My dad sighed, the kind of sigh that was pent up for three straight months of enduring his son talk like Johnny Depp—which was longer than Pirates of the Caribbean was relevant at the Box Office. In fact, this resulted in a second sigh just to emphasize the first. “He thinks he’s a pirate.”

            It all made sense to the doctor. “I see, now. Well, it was a good movie, but he’ll grow out of it.”

            “That’s what we thought would happen by now.”

            “I can give him scurvy,” suggested the doctor. “Maybe then being a pirate won’t be as fun.”

            The doctor laughed. My dad laughed. The popular girls at the lunch table laughed (maybe not about this, but I’m sure they were—that’s what they did most of the time).

            And as the doctor came into the adjacent room and placed an ice-cold stethoscope on my back, I reevaluated my life decision to be a pirate.

            “Cough please,” said the doctor.

            Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to become Jack Sparrow.

            “Cough again,” said the doctor.

            Maybe being Jack Sparrow is only cool if you’re an actor cast in a movie about pirates and someone writes you all the best lines.

            “One more time,” said the doctor.

            “Ok, I get it already,” I told him.

            “What was that?” asked the doctor.

            “Sorry, I’m in the middle of this essay and it’s getting a little testy.”

            The doctor shrugged. “Right. Speaking of, drop your underpants for me, would you?”

            After my physical, I dropped being a pirate forever. I put away the old bracelet I used as pirate-y rings around my fingers in a desk drawer. I still have it and took it out the other day, prompting a memory that led to this Weekly Post-Ed. It actually looks movie-authentic; I had a talent for wardrobe, anyway.

            “Hey Robert,” said Jen, one of the popular girls at lunchtime the following Monday. I still didn’t have the sense to sit elsewhere, even after sobering to a world in which I was acting like a pirate for the past three months.

            “Hi,” I said normally, deflated.

            The girls looked to one another. Maggie asked, “Are you ok?”

            “Oh, just Save-ee,” I said, with a meager smile, making fun of myself.

            They laughed, I tried to. And they hit my arm, playfully, because they liked me this way better, the kind of person who could make fun of himself.

            Except, I didn’t know that.

            I just wanted to be cool.

            That next week I had watched A Beautiful Mind about a dozen times. I thought, “John Nash – you know, besides the schizophrenia and government paranoia –  seems to be charming and funny to all the girls in that movie. I bet I could act like that…”

***

PPF MUSIC

            I’ll share this because his videos mystify me with how complex and brilliant they are. YouTuber PPF makes wonderful scores of old video game soundtracks with his own collection of instruments and assembles them into excellent videos that are released twice a year. This most recent cover was “Fear Factory” from Donkey Kong Country, one of my favorite games of all time. All of his videos are phenomenal – including all the renditions of songs from Chrono Trigger – and I hope you check him out!

***

  1. “If We Get Caught” by Bloc Party
  2. “picture” by dee holt & Chris James
  3. “All I Need” by Sir Woman

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #29

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

BUILT UPON KLEENEX BOXES

            I’ve had a lingering sickness for the past two weeks (not Covid, thankfully), the kind that doesn’t go away or want to get better. I wonder if there are certain colds that the Kleenex company hopes makes the rounds more than others because it means going through (in my case) entire boxes of tissues at a time. The metrics would be read out in a stately board room with men in dapper suits and an elderly CEO standing at the head of the room-length mahogany table.

            “Yes, this year’s cold and flu season should see a rise in boxes-per-household sold. If the numbers hold, this will be a record for most tissues sold in a single year.”

            And instead of rounds of applause, every board member takes a single tissue and blows their nose into a moisturizing Kleenex tissue. Yes, every board member has a cold to show commitment to selling every box of Kleenex available.

            The glass door of the boardroom opens abruptly, a sniffle and cough followed by, “Sorry, what did I miss? I was using the restroom.”

            “Glen, I’m shocked! How could you miss the good news!” says the CEO. 

            “There’s always more work to do, isn’t there, sir?”

            A wry, knowing smile wrinkles over the already wrinkled face of the elderly CEO (perhaps counter-wrinkling his expression into something unrecognizable) “Did you wash your hands after using the restroom?”

            “Of course not,” says Glen with a cough and a grin (two contradictory actions–you try it). “I would never kill the germs this company could profit from!”

            The members of the board, looking to one another, laugh, then look to one another once more to make sure they ought to be laughing, and finally erupt into unfiltered hilarity. But all is cut short by huffing and coughing fits that invariably leads to more blowing of noses into tissues from each board member’s box of Kleenex.

            “That’s my boy!” sniffles the CEO. He coughs but doesn’t bother to cover his mouth. “I can rest easy knowing that the company will be in productive, germy hands once I’m gone.”

            And the CEO was gone, the following week; he had forgotten to pack a Kleenex box on a swanky vacation to Kashmir and died of a nasal infection. He was 146-years-old.

            His gravestone, placed in the Restricted Section of some (also swanky) New York City cemetery reads:

            “Here lies a great man, not in a casket, but in the largest box of Kleenex ever made.”

            A Post-Script:

            I know nothing about the Kleenex company; that’s just what my family and I have always referred to facial tissues as. “Could you pass me a Kleenex?” “Do we have another box of Kleenex in the house?” “I’m running out of Kleenex upstairs.” Nothing against Kleenex, I just enjoy the vernacular of using the term KLEENEX as opposed to calling tissue by any other name.

            I actually enjoy Puffs more, but, you know, I still call them Kleenex.

***

DATES AND DETAILS #2

            The Kind of Texter Who…

DISCLAIMER: I’m by no means an expert with dating apps or claim to be (for there isn’t such a thing as a dating app expert anyway). Since I’m a single guy looking for a single gal, these are the things I’ve seen from my time with dating apps that are worth writing about. Please enjoy!

**

            Here’s another prompt I find answered often on dating apps:

            “I’m the Kind of Texter Who…”

            Most answers follow this formula:

  • “Reads your text, thinks I’ve responded, but then I forget to press send.” *Smile*
  • “Responds hours later, or not at all—I don’t like to be on my phone all day.”
  • “Doesn’t.”

            Are these women really bragging about how unpunctual and rude they are? No, even if it reads this way. Most women look at messages and don’t respond because – get this – they aren’t interested. It has nothing to do with obligation or being forgetful.

            When the above responses are given for “I’m the kind of texter who…” what’s really being said is: I’m not available for just anyone. These responses are declarations of importance. These women are trying to say they are in demand and have busy, exciting lives that you (yes, you) must be impressive enough to be become a normal part of.

            But why does any of this need to be said? Why answer this prompt at all? It’s a strange thing to declare yourself “too busy/important” to answer messages; what’s going on here?

            From the array of dating advice articles I’ve sifted through, there still remains a chivalric code with how men and women should behave towards one another. A woman who lives a busy, exciting life must be chased after by a man who keeps coming back for more, because (and I’ve read this over and over again) “it is the man’s job to stand out by making the woman he’s messaging feel important and wanted.”

            (Disclaimer: these are things that are constantly written about, which, to me, help perpetuate the stereotypes of how anyone behaves on dating apps. Also, dating apps are not organic ways of meeting people anyway, so perhaps 21stcentury social ideas don’t apply in that pretend world, either. Just a thought…)

            Considering how many woman answer this prompt in nearly the EXACT same way, I’m guessing there’s a tactic out there that this creates an air of mystery for men, that they will chase women all the more because of how unavailable they are. This owes to the axiom that the less available you are, the more someone wants you.

            Except, it doesn’t work.

            That’s because dating is, in this age, still about two people connecting, and it doesn’t work if you are intentionally withholding very basic acts of curtesy (like holding open doors and asking your match questions about their life as a means of basic conversation (because you don’t want to seem TOO interested by asking them questions, another widely held belief in the dating app world)).

            Advertising that you are “too important” is a lame tactic, anyway. After all, you’re on a dating app—the POINT is to message and converse with someone in order to get to the DATE. If you’re not responding or reading your messages, what are you doing there? When I go to a bowling alley, I’m pretty sure I’m going to bowl…or else why would I go?

            Any time I see someone answer the prompt, “I’m the kind of texter who…”, I immediately pass—with the same vigor and efficiency as when I see someone post their Instagram address on a dating app because, as many profiles skillfully lie: “I’m not on here often, follow me on Instagram and we can message better on there!”

            To say you are not available is an attempt to seem more appealing than you really are. Men have fish pictures, women express their lack of availability (or scarcity).

            Am I, the guy, saying in response to your prompt answer, “Oh, I wonder why you are so busy? I bet you are such an interesting and important person! I’ll inquire more!” No, I’m solely thinking, “Do you really not text anyone back because you don’t feel like it? Kind of a cruddy thing to do. I’ll pass.”

            It’s much along the same lines of bravado as saying, “Yeah, I don’t wipe my ass most the time. Hey, I got things to do, DATES to go on—haven’t got TIME to check if I need a wipe or not!” *smiles*

            Is that impressive?

            If it is, I think that prompt – “I wipe my own ass when…” – will start making the rounds on dating apps, and, honestly, it might bring together a whole group of people that needed that connecting point in order to find someone in the first place—very likely the ones who answer the “I’m the kind of texter who…”

***

OH, AND A NEW LOOK!

            I nearly forgot to mention the new look of the website (duh)! It’s based off Kirby: Star Allies that launched on Nintendo Switch in 2018. To this day, it is one of my favorite Kirby games because of the battle system, graphics, music, and a TON of guest characters added as playable fighters. It was truly a game of nostalgia love and remains a yearly playthrough for me.

            And since a new Kirby game launched two weeks ago, it felt like the right time to make the website about the pink balloon/fighter/thing.

            The graphics for the website, I must say, are some of my favorites I’ve made. The image behind my Author Image is a flat-design remake of the Dream Friends from the game, while the background image of the site (which I’ll post in all its glory below) is an original using the Copy Ability icons found in-game as the trail of warp stars following Kirby through space.

            The logo at the top of the site is a rendition of Kirby: Star Allies and it was one of the most difficult to reproduce. I find that the amount of layers that goes making 3-Dimensional logos is quite extensive, and I wonder how advertising houses come up with them. I’m quite proud of my version and it was a fun 10 hours to make it!

***

NEW PLAYLISTS SECTION

            One last item.

            I posted my first playlist on the site. I like to find new music and assemble a playlist for each quarter of the year, building up around 20 tracks of new stuff I’ve found and liked, and I’ll be adding those selections to the website in case anyone wants something new to listen to.

            There are some really great songs in this most recent playlist, so please check it out!

***

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #28

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A TRAIL OF ROTTEN BIRTHDAYS

            My birthday was this past Sunday and, I must say, it wasn’t half bad.

            Perhaps some context because, for me, aiming for par is what I want for my birthday.

            Two birthdays in a row I’ve spent sick and resting, which has become normalized with every celebration. It’s a huge bummer.

            I wrote about this in a Weekly Post-Ed from last March, but I was sick on my birthday last year and had to cancel plans to watch a virtual comedy show hosted by Mike Birbiglia with a friend. I ended up watching it alone, in my office chair with a box of tissues, trying to get better from whatever sickness was (fingers crossed) NOT Covid at that time. 

            This year faired no differently as, two days before the big day, I began to feel sick again and spent the weekend recovering in much the same way (with even more fingers crossed that it was NOT the new variant of Covid going around). There was no Mike Birbiglia show as a consolation prize, but the consistent theme of birthdays-gone-bad was becoming a yearly spectacle.

            When I think about it, this lack of fortune isn’t uncommon for my birthday. Usually, the 27th of March invites all kinds of hardship. I can’t think of a single birthday in which something horrendous didn’t happen: every significant romantic relationship I’ve ever had ended around this time; being sick is the most common trend; I’ve incurred serious sports injuries about this time of year; and I’ve had various altercations involving past workplaces (usually with managers who, like the example ahead, probably wanted to punch me in the face).

            Something has always occurred on my birthday, which, I suppose makes it exciting to write about, but I never look forward to experiencing the next one. Upon experiencing a string of grief-striven birthdays (my marriage ended the day after my birthday a few years ago), I went so far as to hide away at the Student Center of my old university campus until the day was nearly over, preventing my family from celebrating or gathering for cake and dinner—that’s how badly I wanted to avoid it. Even now, I seldom tell anyone when my birthday is, and if I’m given a surprise “Happy birthday!” by someone I know, I’m quick to dismiss it like any other compliment in my life—a quick smile, a wavery, “Thank you,” and changing the subject because I’m just as awkward receiving Happy Birthdays as I am compliments.

            (A facepalming example: a mother once was said to me about her child I had as a student, “Thanks for drawing Pokémon pictures for him, it meant a lot this year.” My response: a shrug “You do what you can—I think I’m going to find a restroom.” The kid in question was standing next to his mother, cherrishing a Pikachu drawing of mine that he had carefully colored in crayon for me to see, which I never did take a good look at—but hey, I had to QUICKLY find that restroom, apparently.)

            The benefit of being sick on your birthday, if you’re someone like me who wants to avoid celebrating it with others, is that family doesn’t want to get sick, so you’re mostly on your own. As I recovered from losing my voice, a knives-in-the-back-of-my-esophagus sore throat, and a haggard cough, I was pleasantly surprised to find this birthday calming and without excitement, and I think I preferred it this way. It wasn’t storybook material but was a contemplative day to think about moving forward. The best part was an intimate conversation I had with my mother  over coffee, in which I mentioned some old memories. 

            Apparently, I had never mentioned them to anyone before.

            I told about my freshman year of high school when I had a government teacher who said to me at one point before Christmas, “You have the kind of face I’d like to punch.” My mother was shocked to hear this, and I never thought to share this moment before because, really, I didn’t think it was a big deal. In hindsight, and since I have been employed as an educator for some time now, yes, that’s a seriously damaging thing to say to a kid.

            This government teacher made the comment after several months of being frustrated about my vocal stance on the Iraq War back in 2002. I was 15 at the time and had no problem regurgitating my father’s ideas about former President George Bush not being an adequate leader. That’s what young, yuppie Liberals do (as well as Conservatives, I think): spew out the rhetoric of the people they idolize in their youth, in this case my dad. I said in class that President Bush should have put down the book he was reading to children that day in order to attend to the Twin Towers in NYC being crashed into by commercial airliners. My government teacher took offense at that, defending that former President Bush was just as shocked and stymied as anyone in his position would be. I disagreed, which infuriated him. And ever after this teacher took pop-shots at my character (well, he did as all Conservatives would do: identify a political enemy and interrogate them justly).  Any time there was a political opinion in class related to Liberals, I, a 15-year-old, was designated spokesperson for the Democratic Party…you know, as all pubescent boys must be to older Conservative government teachers who must win the day.

            At one point in the year, the news of my becoming a hockey goalie (I had just started) came out in class and my government teacher wanted me to stand in front of the large whiteboard at the front of the room so he could throw a tennis ball to “test my reactions”. I wasn’t dumb enough to do this because I was certain that he wanted to hurt me, even if by “accident”—something I’m still unsure of why an adult would want to do to this day. I think this teacher is retired now, but I learned in this class that if I shut my mouth, smiled, and appeared pleasant that this would mitigate his aggressions.

            I never considered the adverse effects that bad teachers had on my life growing up, but they were plentiful. I think episodes like this (and there were many more with others teachers growing up—I must have had a face they wanted to punch, too) explains, largely, why I’m so coy about sharing my opinions about things. Even jokes. I’m still that smiling, pleasant fellow who likes to laugh but seldom contributes anything about his life unless prodded for information. Even amongst my Sunday Night hockey team, a group of guys I meet with and play hockey on a weekly basis for most of the year, I’m confident hardly any of them knows what I do for a living, where I live, or if I’ve ever been married or not. It’s a strange thing to be familiar but so vaguely defined with people you see weekly.

            Which is my fault, I’m not so open to share unless asked.

            What strange memories to think about on a birthday! But I think there’s a connection between them and my special day: I’ve always viewed birthdays as something meaningful and meant to be celebrated. Except, my experiences with birthdays have always been a series of rotten events that happened to occur around that time. So, too, do I think of the unfortunate dealings with teachers I’ve had. 

            I mean, those could have been teachable, encouraging moments. 

            Even though I was opposed politically to this former teacher, it could have been an opportunity to encourage debate and be a better researcher of political ideas (you know, instead of regurgitating everything my father said at the time). Instead, I must have offended this poor man because what I received was the scorn of someone who took my opinion personally, and so the opportunity for encouragement (or whatever teaching moment there could have been: INSERT YOUR OWN HERE) never happened.

            It’s much like how I think birthdays could have been enjoyable had it not been for a long history of rotten experiences.

            I write this not to ask for sympathy but for understanding of why it has been difficult to vocalize my ambitions and opinions. Frankly, it seems remarkable that I haven’t followed a more self-destructive path in life. I’ve never smoked, never done drugs or hard drinking (hockey notwithstanding), and I’ve fallen into depression so much as grief and loss were attached to it.

            And on my 33rd birthday, I spent most of the day planning for how how I can be better. In spite of all of the bad experiences I’ve had on this day, or from unfortunate dealings with teachers, I still think better days are ahead. Birthdays and bad teachers don’t make a person (although, they’d had more than their fair share). 

            It’s the choices we make despite the experiences we’ve had that make us who we are.

            So, even if I have a face that people would like to punch, I think I’ll just go along my way regardless if they punch it or not (which, I hope they don’t—no one likes a punch in face).

            I’m still going to blow out the candles and make a wish.

            And eat some delicious cake.

            (Seriously, I can’t emphasize enough how excellent the cake my parent’s bake always is. It’s the kind that saves birthdays from most everything—even annual sicknesses.)

***

KIRBY AND THE FORGOTTEN JOY

            I’ve babbled on long enough, but one of the birthday presents I bought for myself this year was a digital copy of Kirby and the Forgotten Land for Nintendo Switch. I’ll be brief:

            It’s fantastic!

            I’ll always marvel at how Nintendo’s developers manage to make their games look so great (comparatively) on outdated hardware. The cutscenes in Kirby and the Forgotten Land might as well have come from a movie. Not only does everything look polished and vibrant in 1080p, but even the art direction helps bolster the Forgotten Land that Kirby is warped into. Perhaps the most awe-inspiring view (and I literally gasped with awe whenever they came around) were the brief introductory sections to levels like the Factory or a snowy London cityscape. The camera angle points upward, showing incredible detail for these new locales. It truly was a place full of detail and grit that has been slowly adopted into the rather plasticy-graphic past of previous Nintendo franchises (Super Mario games, I’m looking at you).

            These games keep looking better and better.

            The game itself was a joy, but also tedious in parts, mostly because the structure of the game is very basic: rescue the Waddle-Dees in each level through a serious a story objectives, then fly around the Overworld map to complete “Test Trial” levels that reward you with Rare Stones to use as copy ability upgrades…and that’s about it. Something else added to the formula would have loosened the grind to completing the game, but the sheer joy of the copy abilities, plus the great orchestrated score, and fulfillment of freeing all the captured Waddle-Dees and great characters and vistas made this entry in the series one of the best.

            I absolutely recommend playing through the main game. It made a sniffling, coughing face smile and laugh with delight more than anticipated.

            And here’s an extra smile for the road!

***

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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Weekly Post-Ed #27

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

MAGICALLY MISCHIEVOUS

            I seldom write about my day job which is that of a preschool teacher. A myriad of interesting storylines happens each day (I could write a book about it and likely will, one day), but to remain topical in celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day this past week, I’ll recant one of the more fascinating classroom celebrations: a visit from a Leprechaun.

            Like Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, preschool teachers help propagate the mythology that there are magical beings out there in the world that, apparently, need to interact with children. Except Leprechauns are quickly adored and then hated for their shenanigans. I’ll explain.

            In class, teachers read books about Leprechauns, usually something like Leprechaun On the Loose by Marcia Thornton Jones and illustrated by Cyd Moore, which depicts a waist-high, green-coated little person causing all sorts of trouble: making messes, licking the frosting off of cupcakes, and placing the blame on some clueless kiddo who is then scolded for causing all the damages. The book leads to the Leprechaun being caught (as they all must be, apparently) wherein we learn of two choices:

            1. Keep the little guy in your sights and show the world that they do, in fact, exist.

OR

            2. Make a deal to let him go and keep a pile of treasure as a reward.

            (All kids choose the treasure over showing the world that Leprechauns exist, which I always find intriguing. I always thought this meant kids were aware of the hassle of tying up a hostage in order to make sure he doesn’t escape—as even 4-year-olds realize how difficult it is to wrongfully detain someone for long periods for fame or an exchange of funds.

            …But the real answer is that kids will give up most anything for shiny, glimmering cold coins.)

            With the story read, the kids go home in anticipation for if a Leprechaun visits the classroom on Saint Patrick’s Day.

            A Leprechaun always does. And makes a huge mess.

            Chairs are flipped over, green footprints line the walls, lockers, and bathroom toilet. Glitter is littered everywhere in the room (to the chagrin of custodial staff in the building). The traps that were set (a couple of painted cardboard boxes with a stick propping them upright and a string to spring the trap closed) are flipped over, tossed aside like nothing, not one capable of catching our vandalizing Leprechaun.

            The gag is that we teachers tour the classroom, taking stock of what damage the little green guy dealt. Then, we all clean up the mess, and the kids are quick to realize what makes Leprechauns their least favorite of magical creatures:

            The mess needs cleaning up, and guess who gets to help?

            That’s right: the kids.

            Quickly, the classroom of excited children turns into an angry mob, spewing smut and shaming the Leprechaun for causing such a headache.

            “I hate leprechauns!” proclaims a little girl.

            “If that leprechaun comes in this classroom again, I’m going to punch him in the face,” says the one boy in my room predisposed to solving EVERY issue with a punch to the face or worse.

            “Why did he make a mess of our classroom” Another little boy asks as he tries to sweep up glitter from our rubberized tile flooring (a task too herculean even for us teachers).

            As a reward for our foiled attempts to catch the Leprechaun, we are given chocolate coins in golden foil and a lot of green-frosted cupcakes with shamrock candies on top. There’s often a note left behind that the leprechaun has written, teasing the kids for being incapable of catching him.

            “Tee hee hee! You see? I knew you’d never catch me! But keep on trying, and someday finding, my pot O’ gold before I flee!”

            Once the mess is cleaned up and the treats handed out, the outrage simmers but is not forgotten. Every time a Leprechaun is mentioned, kids conspire to catch one and just what they’d do.

            “I’ll choke him with a rope,” says one little boy—I’ll let you guess which one.

            And just like that, we’ve taught the kids a very valuable lesson about mischievous creatures that cause messes: they are hated with a mob-like vengeance unless they give delicious treats.

            And in this way, I think we keep a healthy dose of mob-like mentality going in schools.

            Plus, the green cupcakes were pretty good this year.

***

A SPIDEY’S WAY HOME

            I’m late to the party because I did not see Spider-Man: No Way Home until it was released digitally this past week (due to an upsurge in Covid cases when it was released in October, it didn’t seem worth it to brave the theater at that time). Now that I’ve seen the movie, I can say definitively the movie does things with nostalgia no other film has done before it. What Spider-Man: No Way Home accomplished was validating previous iterations of the franchise. Spider-Man existed as Tobey Maguire and Andrew Garfield, and there was always a sense of defeat when one saga ended and another reboot was around the corner.

            Until Spider-Man: No Way Home, those previous entries felt dejected, pointless, and hollow.

            Building off the multi-verse that other Marvel movies and series such as Loki and Avengers: Endgame established, it made sense for previous Spider-Men to arrive and continue to have a life. They weren’t wasted renditions of a superhero cinematic formula that wasn’t polished by the Marvel Studios team or botched by spearheading more films by Sony executives looking to make bank on their cheaply bought superhero property. Instead, those stories could live on and impact the present, introducing a 3-dimensional history of the Peter Parker character whereby Toby’s Spider-Man is in his upper 40s, Andrew Garfield’s in his 30s, and the two showing what became of their lives in other universes.

            And the film chose critical moments from Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy and Garfield’s Amazing Spider-Man. The impact of what it means to fail, what it means to watch Uncle Ben die and be told, “With great power comes great responsibility,” (and was told through the dying words of Aunt May—Marisa Tomei’s character in the modern telling) hit the hardest of the three only because the original movies set the groundwork to enhance that message. It was no longer a line stereotypically required for Spider-Man to hear, but was now for Tom Holland’s Peter Parker, specifically—it was the missing piece of his origin, that the one closest to him had to die and recant this ominous rite of passage and change his destiny forever.

            None of this could have happened without the brilliant recall in the script and bringing all the familiar faces of the cinematic Spider-Man canon together. Those moments hit hardest when we saw both Toby and Andrew struggling to guide young Tom Holland (his Peter Parker character, of course) because they know what he’s going through—the dread, the anger, the pain, the desire for vengeance, knowing the only way forward is to be virtuous in the face of despair. Toby and Andrew’s Peter Parker watched a younger version of themselves suffer through the pinnacle moments that defined their own lives. And there was no changing this, only being present to say they know how he feels because they experienced it, too.

            That was the cost of Spider-Man with Toby Maguire and sacrificing his personal dreams for the responsibility of protecting those that needed help. It was the cost of losing Gwen with Andrew Garfield’s Amazing Spider-Man, knowing there was no way back to a normal life after the loved one that meant the most to him dies. And in this film, Tom Holland’s Peter Parker loses his Aunt May, his most prized love.

            And now the tale can be told anew.

            I’ve never seen a more wonderful symphony conducted with all the original pieces in place. So many great moments were redeemed from movies that meant so much for so long—but were seemingly meaningless with every failed attempt to be the definitive edition of the Spider-Man. I don’t think Tom Holland is the definitive Spider-Man because I loved the old franchises for their own unique telling of the story. What made this film special, was the cohesive strength of the three Peter Parkers coming together in a rich tapestry that made all those past moments matter.

            And isn’t it wonderful that it all meant something after all?

***

***

Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,

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