Tag:

apple music

| Weekly Post-Eds |

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,

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| 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,

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| 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,

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| 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,

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| 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,

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| Weekly Post-Eds |

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,

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| Weekly Post-Eds |

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,

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #26

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A HERITAGE CLASSIC

            Last Sunday, the 2022 Heritage Classic was held in Hamilton, Ontario between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Buffalo Sabres. The Heritage Classic was the first in outdoor games to be hosted during the NHL regular season, a tradition that has kept on and has since grown to include the Stadium Series and the New Year’s Day Winter Classic, bringing hockey back to its roots as a sport that began on frozen lakes and ponds.

            One of the greater attractions to this year’s Heritage Classic was the inclusion of the NHL’s greatest player, Wayne Gretzky, as one the commentators during the game. While most hockey commentating includes feverish and passionate play-by-play calls and insightful color commentary about a recent play on the ice, this was an opportunity to spend 2.5 hours with the greatest there ever was (the all-time scoring leader in points, assists, and goals).

            Like a cherished storyteller sitting around a campfire, Wayne Gretzky told stories about what it was like playing in his early days, how his father collected every piece of memorabilia – not with the intention of auctioning it off, but just because he loved his son. He spoke about how flat the curve of his hockey stick was, that he found it easiest to pass without having to worry about shooting wrist shots or snap shots; everyone else could score if he could pass them the puck, he figured. If he had to shoot, he preferred a slap shot, something that was easier with a flattened curve. He spoke about players of the past, ones that have since passed away like Dale Hawerchuk, and stories of playing on that legendary Edmonton Oilers team in the 1980s that included the likes of Mark Messier, Jari Kurri, and Paul Coffey.

            Even his co-commentators (that included Eddie Olczyk, Kieth Jones, and play-by-play commentary of Kenny Alberts) took the opportunity to turn away from the scheduled game – which was a fairly entertaining matchup between a playoff-bound/struggling Toronto Maple Leafs team and a near-bottom-of-the-standings Buffalo Sabres group – to become fans themselves.

            By the first intermission, I think most of the Heritage Classic viewership thought the game was secondary to the man on the microphone, and we were all fine with it.

Just because I love the process of logo-making, this infographic explains all the chosen elements that went into the 2022 Heritage Classic logo.

            I think what was the most astounding about Wayne Gretzky on Sunday was just how humble and heartwarming he was throughout his stories. He had a genuine care for the players and the game, was happy to share any story asked of him. Two and half hours flew by and, if it wasn’t for the frenzied final 3-minutes of the hockey game, most of us would have forgotten about the final horn and that the game was over.

            I was thankful the NHL scheduled an official hockey game in the background while we all listened to campfire conversations with Wayne Gretzky. Hopefully, next time the guest commentator isn’t someone considered the GOAT. You know, a regular player, maybe someone like Mario Lemieux, just in case we wanted to watch the outdoor game instead.

            Jeez, there’s always next year.

***

SOFT STONE

            While sitting for my haircut, the stylist talked about her daughter selling chakra bracelets. I’m never assigned the same stylist twice (because I’m a beatnick when it comes to scheduling haircuts and simply call a day or two before in order to schedule one), and the conversations that start with these complete stranger always mystify me—not so much in what comes about, but in what people are willing to share with complete strangers. So, as I sat in the chair, being pumped to the correct height for a scissor cut, my stylist spoke about her daughter’s latest business venture selling these bracelets.

            “They’re made of a soft stone,” the stylist kept telling me, which was a point she made sure was emphasized. “I didn’t believe in all that spirituality stuff, but then it started to rain and the evil was coming out of my bracelet.”

            I blinked. “The evil was coming out of your bracelet?”

            “Yeah. My daughter warned me not to get it wet because I was a wearing a soft stone, but I didn’t believe her. All the sudden, my wrist started feeling funny, and my daughter ripped off the bracelet and told me it was the evil coming out.”

            Baffled, I asked, “What evil?”

            “Oh, I don’t know, but you don’t want to know. Anyway, my daughter ripped it off because I couldn’t get it wet.”

            “The soft stone?”

            “Right, the soft stone.”

            “So, why wear the bracelet if the evil comes out of it?”

            “It only comes out when it gets wet. It’s a soft stone.”

            The conversation died here as I wished her daughter luck on her venture, but I think I was defeated by this point in my day.

            You see, three hours earlier, I was in another chair, this one an optometrist at an eyeglasses chain store (once again, I chose this establishment to get an appointment on the quick). While examining a throbbing pump on my eyelid with her robotics (which is what medieval torture dungeons must have appeared as long ago), the lady optometrist turned my head in the light and reached her naked fingertip towards my eye.

            “Umm,” I protested, “shouldn’t you be wearing a glove if you’re going to touch my eye?”

            “I just washed my hands,” she said, as if this sufficed for reason to touch a complete stranger’s eyeball. “Why, would it make you feel better if I wore a glove?”

            “Yes,” I said.

            And with a unabashed harrumph, she put on Latex and continued the operation, much less diligently than I had liked—she prodded my eye like a squishy fidget toy for children.

            Back in the present, I looked to my stylist in the mirror, silently Clip, Clip, Clipping my hair. Here were two capable adults, a stylist employed to use a pair sharp sheers and an optometrist in charge of tending to one of the more sensitive and complex of human organs (the eyeball), and yet I was nearly poked with a purely-manicured finger and told about the evil that spawns from a wetted Chakra bracelet.

            I looked at myself in the mirror, my hair seemed to be cut uneven on one side. I might have protested, but instead I sighed and looked to my stylist snip, snip, snipping away and said, “It was a soft stone?”

            “Oh yes, a soft stone.”

            “I’ll take one,” I said.

            “Oh, she’s all sold out.”

            “Just my luck.”

            “Oh, they’re not for luck. It’s a–“

            “I know. A soft stone.”

            I’m not sure what that lesson is here, but I feel it is important to state that I learned one.

            Whatever it was.

            And I’ll be sure to call ahead in the future, just in case that helps, too.

***

***

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

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #25

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

TO (NOT) REVIEW

            Firstly, I don’t write reviews. To my mind, there are two types of reviews, one of which is pointless: Socially Aware and Critical reviews

            Critical reviews are the most interesting to read/watch/overhear friends talk about because at least the subject matter lies with the piece of art in question. 

  • Did the plot make sense? 
  • Did the ending lag? 
  • Were there any loose ends that didn’t make sense? 
  • Was there more fluff to the movie than there needed to be? 

            These are all potent questions and worth discussing so long as the criticism applies to the work as a function of art (the craft it pertains to).

            Socially Aware reviews are entirely useless. These reviews seek to explore the public impact of said movie/book/thing. Their aim to act as the barometer for the times that something arrives into the world. 

  • Does the world need something this dark/stupid/emotional right now?
  • Should your children watch something like this? How about the elderly or emotionally disturbed?
  • What does it say about the writer/director/producer/actor that they participated in making something like this?

            These questions are based on intrigue, upon a feeling, and has nothing to do with the piece of art in question. Also, it’s nearly impossible to gauge how something fairs in the immediate time of release (remember the Roger and Ebert reviews of The Graduate that said Simon and Garfunkel’s original songs for the movie would never hold up?—yeah, stuff like that). These reviews act as a type of social policing for how art ought to be perceived, which defeats the purpose of art in the first place:

            Art is meant to be experienced.

            In fact, I believe Critical reviews can be just as dangerous to an audience that seeks guidance before experiencing something. There’s something to be said about a culture that has a review/hot-take of some publication or YouTube channel flooding social media feeds right before/during release. We’re willing to put aside curiosity for the sake of certainty, which is so tempting when those that are “experts” have so much to say, and immediately, about something before anyone else might experience it.

            I’m not interested in having an opinion before seeing something.

            That’s why I don’t write reviews; it isn’t meaningful for me.

***

ANYWAY, SO ABOUT THE BATMAN…

            I loved this movie! The tone was immediately darker and more grimy than previous film iterations, and I liked the serial killer/noir atmosphere of the movie. I’ve always been a big fan of the Christopher Nolan trilogy, and I couldn’t wait to see how Matt Reeve’s would do things differently. The Riddler was an intriguing foil/mirror to Batman’s mission, and the twists throughout made the film enjoyable even with a 3-hour runtime.

            This movie has flaws, but what story doesn’t? What makes The Batman so gripping is that it committed to a darker Gotham City, a place where oppression and corruption has bled onto its citizens as well as the villains and heroes. It’s a visceral world on screen and should not be missed. Even in terms of the protagonist, I can’t speak enough to the achievement of capturing the darkness and the light of a Batman/Bruce Wayne as he sorts through a life spent in pursuit of righting the wrongs of his past and that of the city.

            That’s why Batman will always be one of the most enticing heroes: he is the mortal in all of us donning the cape and cowl, attempting to become something bigger than what he could ever be in his own skin. This is a movie about retribution, about inflicting the pains of a scarred life upon those that wish to do the same, but it is also a movie about hope. It’s about stepping into the light and recognizing that we can become more than the shadows, that in spite it all, we can become a beacon.

            I didn’t expect such a dark movie to be so hopeful towards the end, especially to see a portrayal of Batman have a true character pivot. A new choice was made, a new Batman exists from this point forward in Matt Reeve’s interpretation.

            And I’m excited to see where all of this leads next. Kudos on a great film Matt Reeves and all the filmmakers.

***

RAID DAY: “VOW OF THE DISCIPLE” AND THE JOY OF PUZZLE SOLVING

            There’s an event in the gaming world unlike any other. After each expansion in Destiny 2, there comes a special mission that requires the teamwork of six people joining up as a fireteam called a Raid. Each Raid has its own rules, a new set of puzzles and mechanics to discover, none of it hinted at or explained to the player. To participate means to use puzzle solving in order to complete each encounter, something that is not easy to do and is, from the past few Raids I’ve watched, an exciting exhibition in teamwork and perseverance.

            I haven’t participated in a Contest-Mode Raid (Raid Launch Day) because I’m not a serious player of Destiny 2. I’m a casual player who enjoys Strikes and each Expansion’s Campaign (by the way, The Witch Queen is one of the best campaigns in the game’s history). So, when it comes to Raid Day, I snuggle up to my computer monitor, turn on a few Twitch streams, and watch as each team attempts to complete the Raid.

            Teams must use a variety of skills and past knowledge to complete each encounter. Putting together the logic behind symbols, defeating a set order of enemies, and how it all links together in a cohesive story mission is a fascinating process. It often requires a process of elimination, figuring out what works and what doesn’t in order to put aside a current theory or idea that isn’t progressing the encounter.

            Watching this really reminds me of the creative process, honestly. Without an idea of what the rules are, you set about to discover them as if in a fog, without knowing anything except that the farther you get, the closer you must be to solving the puzzles within. Novelists often work blind, having an idea of where a story ought to go, but since the length is so massive, it’s nearly impossible to account for each detail before beginning. Eventually, the writer gets lost, and has to improvise or make a series of decisions that, hopefully, progress the plot forward in a way that keeps the intention of the story intact.

            “Vow of the Disciple” used a myriad of symbols that needed to be memorized and communicated amongst fireteams, none of which was explained or defined. Allowing the swarming Hive to damage an obelisk, or to act too slowly when searching for a specific Fallen enemy to kill, made the first encounter Wipe. The order of operations is always paramount in a Raid, and to watch teams figure out what progresses encounters and what does not speaks to the creative process in a way that most video games never allow players to access.

            It feels like the architect of each Destiny 2 Raid is asking players to discover how to defeat enemies just as he/she figured out how to craft said Raid.

            Raids take a long time to decipher, often lasting 7 to 8 hours before the first team completes one to become the coveted World’s First. It’s a frantic race and is also some of the most fun watching gamers play the game they love.

            The reception to “Vow of the Disciple” has been unanimously positive. Along with the success of The Witch Queen expansion, Bungie (the developer) is making something truly remarkable in the gaming space.

            I’m looking forward to whatever they make next, which, as several job postings have hinted at, means an entirely unknown game in the future. But that’s after the story of Destiny is complete.

            One step at a time, Guardian.

            Well done, Bungie! 

***

            This week’s new music is the entire The Batman original soundtrack by Michael Giacchino. It’s a masterpiece score and worth relistening to. However, I’ll post some of the more notable tracks below:

***

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

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #22

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

AGDQ 2022

https://www.twitch.tv/gamesdonequick

            Perhaps you’ve experienced this before: you hear about something again, maybe you’ve forgotten about it for a long time, but the moment you hear of it there’s this immediate elation, that feeling that so much good can come because of it?

            (I can hear some of yours answers: kids after picking them up from daycare, Thai food, reruns of the hit show The Big Bang Theory). 

            What’s that thing for me?

            It’s a marathon charity event called Awesome Games Done Quick. 

            For those of you that don’t know, Awesome Games Done Quick is a week-long charity event featuring some of the best speedrunners from around the world (people who play video games in the quickest manner possible depending on the category—think: beating Super Mario Bros. 3 in under 2 minutes!). It’s a 24/7 online event streamed over 7 days over at Twitch.tv showcasing some of the best runs of video games, all the while raising money for the Prevent Cancer Foundation. Historically, the event has raised an average of 2 million dollars per event, all of which goes to charity and a good cause.

            What makes Awesome Games Done Quick such a wholesome spectacle is it’s commitment to two great mediums: a showcase of some of the most talented people in the world demonstrating their craft, and also that of a group of people coming together to do some good in the world. And after the beginning of the New Year, when signs of abandoned resolutions and the bitter uptick in wintry weather begins, there’s no better place to look for goodness than those institutions that come around to remind us of joy and community working towards something greater.

            Unfortunately, the event will be remote this year again due to the newest resurgence of Covid-19, but none of that detracts from the mission of putting on a good show. AGDQ is truly unique in that people from every walk of life tune in, either to bask in the once-upon-a-time glory of nostalgia, or to support a favorite streamer or game being featured. Tens of thousands watch at any given moment during the 7-day marathon, taking the time to donate and connect through an event that blasts through bandwidth every January.

            Here is a sampling of noteworthy runs I’m looking forward to this week:

            AGDQ 2022 airs January 9-15. Below is a link to the Twitch.tv stream. You can check out the schedule of games being played here.

***

DATES & DETAILS #1

            [This is the beginning of a new segment called Dates & Details where I give short anecdotes of things I’ve experienced while online dating over the past few months. These aren’t exactly stories, more like small happenings that I’ve found peculiar and worth writing about. I’ll post about these experiences from time to time when they arise, starting with this first segment below about matching up with others…]

Refuted Match

            I’ve seen this a few times where someone attempts to match with me through a comment that disputes something I had put on my dating profile. The most recent example was someone who responded with “It takes more than 2 days to travel across the country by train.”

            So, in hopes of helping anyone else who has the idea of refuting a dating profile prompt, here’s my advice: don’t do it. 

            If you’re curious, this woman’s comment was attached to this prompt: Two Truths and a Lie. My answer to this prompt was: 

“1.) Once took a two-day train ride across the country…in coach, 2.) Hockey player, 3.) Discovered Uranium.” 

            Not a bad prompt answer, but not the greatest. However, quality is mostly beside the point. Other than following the rule: “don’t be boring, be specific,” the point of a prompt is act as an ice-breaker, something that gets the conversation started. Answers are not facts, nor are they intended to be. I’m not writing my Wikipedia page on a dating profile, I’m just trying to catch your eye about something. Likewise, if someone has photos of themselves skydiving, it doesn’t mean they are avid skydivers or know the mechanics of jumping out of small aircraft like an expert…it’s just something they did once and thought interesting to share. Photos of adventure seekers are saying, “I like adventures and want someone who also enjoys this sort of thing, are you someone like me?”

            That’s because prompts are really segues into the bigger discussion of, “Do we have chemistry or not?” Which, in my own personal experience, is only discovered once out on an actual date.

            So, what was this person doing by refuting my prompt? What was the play?

            I think someone who needs to refute the “accuracy” of something said on a dating profile isn’t trying to connect with someone at all; they are being confrontational for their own sake. It’s an insecurity, which is often why people attack one another. I’m guessing this person has had little luck with getting responses and is going on the attack because nothing else is working. It could be bitterness, it could be a lot of things, but when there’s a lack of curiosity when reaching out to someone new, there’s also a lack of confidence, and it says much more about you (the attacker) than it does me (the dating prospect).

            In my opinion, when you refute a part of someone’s dating profile, it also disqualifies you as a candidate for a date (which, get this, is the point of a dating app). You’re not going to change anyone’s mind about what they said in the prompt. Even if someone wrote, “I once traveled to the capital of Michigan, Detroit, and hated it,” by telling someone, “Uh, the capital of Michigan is actually Lansing,” is not going to change their answer. And really, as an experienced dating app user, you should have learned enough about this person based on the incorrect location of where he/she thinks the capital of Michigan is, so the answer is to move along to the next person anyway.

            Online dating isn’t about “being right”, it’s about finding someone compatible with you.

            If you want to be confrontational from the start, what does that say about the potential first date? Am I going to have to defend myself against a chronic fact-checker? Is this person like this always? Refutation is a bad first impression, simply put.

            In my own defense (since I’m willing to share my prompt with all of you), this person read the answer to my prompt incorrectly. She thought I meant, “It only takes two days on a train to travel across the country.” What I actually said was, “I spent two days on a train traveling across the country,” meaning, I spent two days OF TIME on a train traveling across the country. I didn’t mean that was the precise, physical distance a train travels to get to the other side of the country.

            Which, you know, says more about her than it does for me, obviously.

            Then again, I’m the fool writing about this on the internet, so who is really the smart one here?

            Either way, I’ll shrug at this just as I did when deleting her comment and move on my merry way.

***

THE SWITCH TO APPLE MUSIC

            This is likely to be one of the more controversial things I write about, but it must be said bluntly:

            I’ve made the switch from Spotify to Apple Music.

            *Cue the boos and cries of treason here.*

            I know, I know. Such news is scandalous and I’m sure there’s something to answer for…but I just don’t care. I’m not a devoted user of any platform so much as I see the current benefit of using it. I was an Android user for several years but have made the switch to Apple. And not for some fanboy-ism reason, but simply because the platform does what I need it to do right now—I like how everything is integrated between devices.

            So, what was wrong with Spotify? Nothing, it’s a great platform. Apple Music, in my experience, just sounds better on an Apple Device, and (whether this is imagined or not) that’s really the only reason for the switch. Spotify has a better interface, easier music liking features, better sharing capabilities, and the catered playlists are pretty damned good, too. 

            But I like the uptick in sound quality I have with Apple Music, so I’ll stay this route for a while longer.

            So, with that, I’ll shrug at all the ill will about which platform to support (supposing a thing should ever be important on this website—I don’t care either way). I like what I like, and that’s all there is to it.

            What matters, really, is finding new music, which continues below with some great new finds. Here’s the list this week and a new graphic to go with it:

  1. “Get Up” by Mother Mother
  2. “Lights & Music” by Cut Copy
  3. “Beautiful Life” by Michael Kiwanuka

***

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

0 comments
0 FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail
Newer Posts
Older Posts