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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #47

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

Down With Paragraphs

It’s good to see you again, it’s been a while, jibber-jabber, jibber-jabber, it’s good to be back, you look great, obviously! 

But hey, let’s get to the point:

My new stance on paragraphs: I’ve been painstakingly formatting Weekly Post-Eds with indentations since this website began, but I’m slowly coming to understand this is NOT the preferred formatting on the rest of the internet. And, I already knew that before indenting, but I’m doing away with it for the pain-in-the-ass reason that not all browsers/viewing experiences mesh well with indentations. Sometimes indentations appear correctly, like so:

            “Hey, I’m a happy indented line! Don’t I look nice and formatted?”

But other times sentences look like this:

                                                            “What the hell happened here, Robert? Why are you starting in the middle of the page? What in the f*** is wrong with—”

You get the point. So, for the next while I’m joining the ranks of the rest of the internet and nixing paragraph indentations. It’s a test run, but I’m assuming it will stick around.

Ironically, in my personal writings, I never indent paragraphs. Funny how I do the opposite when presenting my writing.

Anyway, onto more indentation-less goodies.

***

She-Hulk Thoughts

The latest experiment from the Disney+ Marvel Cinematic Universe was another attempt to improve the streaming service television formula. She-Hulk: Attorney at Law followed the sagas of Moon Knight, Loki, WandaVision, and Hawkeye, as each carved out a niche with their respective heroes and furthered the debate about what works and what does not within the scope of MCU limited series.

She-Hulk: Attorney at Law used a gimmick that no other show could, something that is inspired from the comic books: breaking the fourth wall. Jennifer Walters often speaks directly to us, the audience, about the state of things (the show, characters, lazy storylines, etc). Whereas breaking the fourth wall isn’t a new invention (especially with the recent duo of movies featuring Deadpool that did it so well), I couldn’t help but notice something was different about this iteration of the theatrical technique. Breaking the fourth wall wasn’t so much about addressing the audience or being socially aware of tropes within the superhero medium in this show; there was something else going on.

That’s why I waited to write anything about She-Hulk until after the show concluded. 

The show featured a refreshingly female take on the world of superheroes and what it means to be marginalized and stereotyped as another “Hulk figure”, something that mirrored the arduous and infinitely frustrating journey of being a woman in modern day America. Jennifer Walters combatted what the world thought of her, warping her own perceptions through a lens of pop-culture, modern gender roles, and exceptionalism (as well as the ugly underbelly of internet message forums that seeks to defame or destroy women entirely). 

The series was 9-episodes long, most of which were frustratingly comical or situational. “Where is this going?” I found myself saying to my computer monitor during the credits of each building storyline. There wasn’t a main villain, no obvious thread that connected to the movie universe, nor was there any discernable urgency for Jennifer Walters to overcome some mounting problem. I felt I was watching “a day in the life” of the protagonist as she assailed issues from all sides of the feminine spectrum.

I was frustrated, but I would come to understand that the seeming monotony and subtlety of the series was playing into the overall message of the show. 

And by the finale, everything would pay off in spades.

The finale of She-Hulk: Attorney at Law is one of the best I’ve ever seen in television. My earlier intuition that fourth wall breaking was leading to something more came true in the most visceral sense. The climax of the finale featured the usual mashup of characters, all combatting one another in a stereotypical and unfulfilling superhero fashion.

Until She-Hulk breaks the fourth wall a final time, literally breaking out of the Disney+ show.

Jennifer Walters was finished with the restraints that every other MCU streaming show has encountered until this point. It was a proverbial rite of passage to break free of formula and superhero tropes. The screen froze, She-Hulk surveyed the Disney+ desktop main menu, and enters another show to demand answers for why her show has been so directionless and kische.

I won’t spoil the rest. It’s a wonderful half-hour of television. Most importantly, I found that the monotony I was experiencing was purposeful, a slow realization that the subtle irritations Jennifer Walters faced on her journey were the public expectations of comic book fans from the internet, and also men with patriarchal views about outdated gender roles, and the total absurdity of finding true belonging in a world that wishes to pull a person a million different directions for the sake of fitting into an outdated and worn paradigm—even the superhero cliché. 

Ultimately, the show was asking how anyone (primarily women) can find their place in the world, one that makes sense and is liberating?

It’s a question that women face in nearly every facet of life, something that She-Hulk: Attorney at Law showed a glimpse of through the guise of a superpowered Hulk lady.

This was the best television show yet from Marvel Studios. I enjoyed the risk-taking and breaking of old formulas. It’s an exciting place to find the MCU exploring, and I can’t wait to see what other issues can be worked into the fabric of new characters. 

I’ll be rewatching She-Hulk: Attorney at Law. It’s the first time I felt that way about a Marvel Disney+ show thus far. Well done!

***

The Merry Blokes of Merry Wives

“The Merry Wives of Windsor” @ Grand Valley State University

Theater departments are doing the best they can. That’s the first thing to understand when attending student productions at any university. Some are better than others, but I often find that the ones that present student struggles give the most to talk about.

Before it appears that I’m a total duschbag to the handful of Grand Valley State University theater students that are polishing their acting chops on the stage, this is not my intention. I was a horrible actor in college (let’s be honest, things haven’t exactly improved with age in that department) and I understand it takes many at-bats to figure out what the hell to do with any character. I’m not criticizing the students…

But the Director on the other hand? Oh, let’s talk about those creative choices.

The play I saw last weekend was “The Merry Wives of Windsor”, a Shakespearean comedy about the sneaky exploits of the wives of the male protagonists too enmeshed in their own egos to see they are being easily manipulated. It’s a wonderful play and I enjoyed this viewing thoroughly enough.

Except for two reasons characters.

Shallow (a character given the modern makeover as leather-jacketed preacher) carries an entirely INCOMPREHENSIBLE Scottish accent. My date and I ratioed that we understood 1 in 5 words. Secondly, Doctor Caius is often portrayed as a bumbling Frenchman. This rendition, however, featured a French accent that often slipped into German pronunciations, then trailing into potentially Swedish accents. Needless to say, Doctor Caius had just as poor delivery as Shallow.

When the inevitable occurred and the two characters vomited lines of Shakespearean dialogue at one another in a scene featuring only those two cantankerous actors, it was pure drivel.

I don’t blame the students donning their roles. I blame the decision to give these actors the direction of being incomprehensible in a play by William Shakespeare, perhaps the greatest wordsmith in the English language! It was like the Louvre opting to paint lines over the Mona Lisa, or playing a laugh track over Beethoven’s “9thSymphony”.

Just…why?

After a few days of pondering, I think I know why these incomprehensible characters were allowed to gallivant the stage in this fashion.

And I think it gives a modern lesson: sometimes a car wreck is the most effective entertainment.

It was certainly that on a cold fall evening on GVSU’s Allendale campus.

As Shakespeare once commented on his own works: “Suck on that, Bard. I’ll say it how I want.”

(No, he did not say this.)

***

I’ve been listening to an entire album by Sure Sure called the “Lonely One” EP. It’s another solid release by a band that generates danceable hits and deep digs and themes with their music. Below is the track listing. Be sure to check out “Facc” “This Time” and “Funky Galileo”, some new favorites of mine.

“Lonely” EP by Sure Sure
  1. “Lonely One”
  2. “123”
  3. “Facc”
  4. “This Time”
  5. “Peaceful In My Mind”
  6. “Funky Galileo”
  7. “Receive”

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #46

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

DICAPRIO TAKES NO S***

I’m terrible at saying Thank You. All my life I’ve struggled to say it. I know what you’re thinking: wow, what an ungrateful and selfish human being. Robert Hyma can’t say thank you? Suppose a surgeon finished removing a tumor the size of a Jeep Cherokee headlight from his leg, would he puff up his chest, grin like a 40’s gangster, and say, “What? That’s what they pay you for, Doc! I’m outta here…”?

            In another life, one in which I’m terribly cruel to other human beings (and perhaps introducing the torture of impalement), that’s exactly what I’d say. However, my real response would be just the opposite: 

            I would track down the surgeon, ascertain his address, type up a heartfelt letter (that probably reveals a childhood traumatic event that he had also helped clear up), and hope that – along with the many thousands of dollars I owe with my insurance co-pay – that I wish there was some other way I could show my appreciation for his having saved my life.

            That’s because I have the exact opposite of a Thank You problem.

            I have a “can’t say Thank You good enough” problem.

            Unlike most of my adulthood issues, I know where this problem started. On Christmas Day when I was about 10 years old, my mother (or Santa, depending) gifted me what I had been asking for all summer: a CD case for my growing collection of comedy albums. I had imagined a sleek, faux-leather double-sleeved case with a rain-proof zipper, the kind you took along for long road trips just as importantly as one of those hygiene travel bags stuffed with a toothbrush, facial cleanser, and deodorant. 

            When I opened my present that Christmas, instead of the premium CD case of my dreams, it turned out to be a rough-fabric, camouflage, single slot CD case—just the opposite of the sleek, trendy one I had wanted.

            My mother waited eagerly for my response to hear how pleased I was. “Do you like it?” she asked.

            I might as well have been Leo DiCaprio from The Wolf of Wallstreet. “This?” I said, turning over the camouflage aberration in my hands. “Look, this isn’t what I wanted. I mean, I wanted a CD case – you got that part right – but what is this? Camouflage? Really?”

            I gave my mother a “you know that I know that this ain’t it” look.

Steve Martin’s “Let’s Get Small” album

            Except she didn’t know. In fact, she silently moved away from me, like an extra on a movie set being directed off-camera because her part in the scene was over.

            Meanwhile, I thought I was objectionably correct. It was a shabby CD case. And who was it for? It was camouflage: supposing I was going to take up hunting, I imagined a herd of deer in the woods might race past my collection of CDs and would not be tempted to steal them (as we all know herds of deer are wont to do). In hindsight, this thought made much more sense since my most coveted CD at the time was Steve Martin’s “Let’s Get Small” album, which was damn near impossible to find in West Michigan at the time.

            With a shrug, I watched my family finish opening their presents, loosely aware that my mother’s stare into the middle distance—a despondent look that usually accompanied shame and embarrassment.

            What I didn’t notice, however, was my father’s vengeful glare from across the room. Shortly after opening presents, he pulled me aside with a swift wrench of the arm.

            “Why did you say that to your mother?” he growled.

            Hey, DiCaprio takes no shit, so I showed him the CD case. “Have you seen this?”

            He swatted the CD case out of my hand, and it landed on a nearby armchair. “It doesn’t matter what it is; your mother gave that to you because she loves you. Now go say ‘Thank You’ and really mean it.”

            He didn’t yell, just growled like the inner Grizzley bear that seldom came out whenever my sister and I did something insensitive. We never saw the bear paws, but we always saw the tracks on the ground.

            I sighed. He was right. I was a jerky jerkwad. So, I sheepishly went up to my mother. “Hey, Thank You for the CD case.”

            “You’re welcome,” she smiled. “I’m glad you like it.” And she gave me a hug.

            That next Christmas, I said Thank You to her again for the gifts. I don’t remember what they were, but I made sure to say it regardless.

            I had seen the Grizzley tracks nearby.

***

THANKS FOR THE PIZZA

            23 years later and I still haven’t forgotten the lessons of saying Thank You to those who do something thoughtful. It so happens that I felt the same obligation to give another satisfying Thank You this past week, this time to the gift of a pizza party following Thursday Night Hockey.

            I seldom write about this part of my life that has been with me for well over a decade now. Once a week, I play hockey with the same group of guys in something affectionally called Thursday Night Hockey. It’s a weekly gathering of the relieved; twenty of us working up a sweat on the ice and then clambering to a dank locker room to guzzle cans of beer afterwards. We gather at an ice rink, an oasis located just off the highway, with brick walls and painted black ceilings that likely hide the real killer among us: a steady trickle of asbestos falling like invisible snowflakes.

            It doesn’t matter.

            No one minds the late-night skate time in the middle of a workweek or traveling far to play (many coming from 20 or more minutes away). That’s because Thursday Night Hockey is about camaraderie. And despite the mindboggling averageness of our hockey skills over the past decade (yes, mine included), we gather like a tribe, celebrating that we’re together in the first place.

            Of course, you would never say this out loud (you would much rather write it on a personal website and assume it is true).

Dr. Suess’s “The Sneetches”

            Over the summer, our weekly gatherings morphed from a late-night happy hour to something that resembled an open house or campfire cookout. Where there was beer in coolers and idle conversation at the start, there was soon JBL speakers pulsing with 80s rock ballads and a Sam’s Club sized pretzel mix container being passed around. Most brought canvas chairs, others preferred to stand, which invariably created a “Sneetches on the Beaches” scenario of those who sat versus those who remained standing.

            The comforts kept growing, and I wondered if the summer had lasted another two months that we might had had portable firepits, pavilion tents, assorted cheeses and meats on a charcuterie board, and maybe hire a caricature artist for an evening.

            Ok, I’m exaggerating: the caricature artist would only be invited if they brought the beer.

            So, for the first time in our history, we decided to celebrate the final skate of the summer with boxes of pizza.

            If you’ve never woofed down pizza at 11:30 at night, there are consequences. Not only does one mentally note if a bottle of Tums is stocked at home for afterwards, but there’s also concern for how the pizza arrives.

            The pizza was delivered from Dominos by a driver with questionable delivery skills. With thick-framed glasses and a beard of a man who likely dwells in the mountains, the delivery guy turned into the ice rink parking lot with his brights on, needing the light of a medium-sized star to see twenty feet ahead of the front bumper. He then stopped the car in front of our group and pulled a 36-point turn to aim his car towards the exit of the parking lot. We all watched in amazement at this five-minute-long process. Maybe this driver had a former life as a bank heist driver, sitting out front with the engine running, waiting for a trio of guys with stuffed duffle bags and ski masks to shout, “Go! Go! Go!” before stomping the gas pedal.

            We all looked to one another, skeptical about how great a condition the pizza was going to be from this guy.

            Luckily, after the private stunt show, the delivery driver peeled away, the pizza safely delivered on a folding table. Twenty of us flocked to paper plates, steaming slices of pizza, and another beer in tow. No one cared about the consequences of eating heavy pizza late at night; we reveled as this group knew how: talking about anything else but hockey, drinking beer, and laughter, lots of laughter.

            We were all having a great time.

            Until I looked down and saw the Grizzley bear tracks at my feet. 

            I realized I was going to have to say Thank You to the guy that provided the pizza, the organizer of our weekly gathering, Jonny.

            I was one of the last to leave, mostly because I watched with envy how the others said Thank You, as though they never received a camouflage CD case at Christmastime, and have never lived with a guilty obligation to over-stress a Thank You. “Thanks again, Jonny,” they would say and walk away, not even looking back for affirmation they were heard or not.

            “Oh,” I thought. “That’s easy. I can do that.”

            I blew it immediately. I approached Jonny like I had two royal trumpeters finishing their introductions before I could speak—I just hovered awkwardly, waiting for an opening. I imagined my herald introducing me: “May I present to you, Sir Robert the Dumb, of Making-This-Harder-Than-This-Needs-To-Be”.

            Finally, I took my opening. “Thanks again for the pizza, Jonny. That was very thoughtful, and I appreciate it.”

            I heard the record skip. It was very thoughtful? AND I appreciate it? Was I talking to a girlfriend over our first Christmas together, and I was reassuring her that it was the effort that counted the most? No! I was talking to middle-aged hockey players: guys with 401Ks and bustling family lives—you know, normal people who don’t need validation for providing boxes of pizza.

            “Yeah, no problem,” said Jonny.

            Of course, to my Thank You impaired brain, this wasn’t enough. I felt I needed to keep getting through. Best not leave now, I figured. I should find another opportunity to fit in a joke, stick around for a while longer—just something to show an indication that I was REALLY thankful.

            I said a joke.

            A polite laugh from Jonny. Grizzley bear tracks all around.

            Obviously, I had to keep trying harder; can’t leave after a so-so joke.  Maybe I could offer to help clean up, take care of the folding table, make sure—

            “Do you want to take the pizzas home?” Jonny asked suddenly. “I’m just going to throw them away. Better take them if you want.”

            Relief. Exoneration. Something I could do to show appreciation. I hid my glee. “You’re sure?”

            “Yup, otherwise it’s going in the trash,” he said.

            I repressed a smile. “Cool, I’ll take them if no one wants them.”

            No one else did (401ks, bustling family lives). I scooped up the two remaining pizza boxes with extra slices stuffed inside and headed towards my car. I didn’t want the pizzas, but by taking them I showed how thankful I was for the pizza…ok, I would eat a slice on the road, but still!

            And I did it all without tracking down an address, writing a letter, or revealing a childhood trauma that was also resolved in the process.

            Well…

            Anyway, I drove home with pizza boxes steaming on the passenger seat, unsure of how I’d store the slices in my already crammed refrigerator at home. Oh well, I was confident I could find space for it.

            Just like the camouflage CD case that I still own.

            Hey, DiCaprio takes no shit.

            But he does take home leftovers.

***

  1. “High School in Jakarta” by NIKI
  2. “hell yeah” by corook
  3. “Heat Above” by Greta Van Fleet

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #44

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

HANGMAN

There was a classmate playing a game of Hangman in front of one of my classes and I hated him immediately.

            Which isn’t fair to write about this kid, but I’ll explain my reaction:

            Usually, the professor strolls into class as the bell rings (a metaphorical one—there isn’t a classroom bell on a college campus), which means that the punctual among us sit in silence before he walks through the door. It’s dead silent before class, either because no one is familiar with each other, hesitant to start conversations that would be obviously eavesdropped upon should they start, or that everyone is on a phone perusing social media apps in place of real-life experiences (as we all do). 

            This isn’t uncommon practice. Most of my classes feature this lack of conversational atmosphere. It’s deathly silent in the preceding minutes before class starts.

            Except for when I walked into my class last Friday.

            There, stationed at the whiteboard was a sandy-haired, twig-thin literature type adding the last limb to a stick figure dangling from a crookedly drawn gallows, signifying that he had just won a game of Hangman. I perused the words that had so stumped the two or three other participants that played (the rest of the class had their heads down and didn’t give a shit).

O B F U S C A T I O N

M A L F E A S A N C E

“T O  D R E A M  I S  T O  D I E”

             I made the last quote up, but he had something just as obscure and niche. The point is: where there was silence – despondent, antisocial, un-spirited silence – now there was a game of Hangman hosted by a literature fan showing off his vocabulary and knowledge of little-known quotes.

            And I thought, “Oh, f*** you.”

            Here’s why:

            There’s a difference between enthusiasm and ego. Regarding this game of Hangman, were the words chosen to loosen up the class, to get people talking? No. Did this guy choose words or phrases that might draw a laugh or cue some recognition? No. The words were obnoxiously chosen and the quote was obscure and meant nothing to anyone else. This was a game of vanity, of ego. This guy was showing off how smart he was and to get a little attention by playacting cavalier at the front of the class.

            Not only was the game an eye roll, but then this guy took pride in winning the game! Of f***ing Hangman! I know this is true because he laughed with glee when the two or three other classmates offered up guesses (with the same enthusiasm as an employee reluctantly volunteering to clean out the toilets at a grimy diner, “I guess I’ll do it. Is there an ‘A’?”). This game of Hangman was proof of wit.

            Which incurred another silent, “Oh,  f*** you,” as I took my seat.

            I then felt guilty. How old was this literature enthusiast: 18, 19-years-old? Why was I responding so harshly? Was it because I secretly wanted to rile the class, to spread my influence as a seasoned 33-year-old who understood how to NOT be like a pompous academic? And, honestly, if I had tried ANYTHING like this classmate of mine, it would have backfired anyway. I would have been like a parent that “tries to be cool” and my efforts would have tanked just as hard.

            So, maybe I needed to let up. Let this classmate be pompous and gleeful. He’ll grow out of it. After all, wasn’t he trying to break the ice? He’ll learn how to NOT be a tightwad in the future, I thought.

            The next thing I knew, the metaphorical bell rang for class and in walked the professor. He examined the whiteboard, which still had the game of Hangman on it for some reason (all the better to have the professor admire your prowess of recalling English words longer than 8 letters, I guess).

            “Obfuscation, malfeasance,” listed off the professor, rubbing his chin and considering the terms. “I’m going to leave this up, today. I’ll write things on the other whiteboard. Looks like a great game of Hangman was had here. Great vocabulary, whoever was playing.”

            All my previous patience and understanding went out the window. “Well, f*** you, too,” I thought.

            Therein was the cause of my classmate’s misplaced enthusiasm: a professor that enabled academic pageantry.

            For the next minute, the professor and twiggy classmate bantered back and forth, pitching even more obnoxious words to stump future players with.

            And I, with a herculean effort to resist groaning, sat in the back of the class, content with my omniscient view of the world, knowing how truly cringy the past five minutes of class had been.

            At least I wouldn’t ever degrade myself like my classmate had, I thought.

            I, after all, had dignity.

            “Alright, let’s take attendance,” said the professor. “Bertie? Where’s Bertie…ah! There you are. How’s it going Bertie?”

            The professor was still calling me Bertie. (Read more about it here.)

            “Good,” I answered the professor with a sigh. I proceeded to draw my own game of Hangman on a fresh sheet of paper. I couldn’t figure out the last letter of my own game, though.

            Maybe you can help me fill it in?

***

WATER WITCHES

            This was irresistible to write about.

            There’s a family neighbor in northern Michigan with a truck drilling a water well that is still in the front yard. The truck has been there several months, the well digging deeper and deeper without any luck. Either water has been undrinkable or there hasn’t been enough to act as a well for an entire household.

            My mother adds to this piece of news, “They should hire a Water Witch.”

            “A what?” I asked.

            “That’s not what they’re called, but that’s who used to find spots to dig wells.”

            “Explain,” I said. I couldn’t wait to hear this.

            “If you were looking to dig a well out by a farm, you’d hire a Water Witch. The Water Witch would look around for a tree branch, shaped like a Y, and when he found a good one, he’d wander around the grounds and wait for the tree branch to start shaking.”

            (It turns out you can use just about anything, but most modern Water Witches – yes, this is still a thing –  prefer using two metal rods.)

            “Go on,” I said, almost drooling with anticipation.

            My mother shrugged. “Once the stick is shaking, that’s the spot you started digging a well.”

            “And this worked? People really dug wells like this?”

            “Oh, sure. They were hired all the time.”

            “These people were hired?!”

            “Well, yes. They were never wrong,” said my mother.

            My father put down his mug of coffee. “Of course they weren’t wrong! It’s Michigan; if you dig deep enough, you’ll find water no matter where the branch starts shaking.”

            “Oh come on,” said my mother, egging him on, “Those tree branches really shook.”

            “Because the guy was shaking it himself!”

            “You don’t believe that do you?” asked my mother with a coy smile.

            And while the merits of the Water Witch were playfully debated by my parents, I had a renewed sense of hope in humanity. If a Water Witch was really a paid position in the history of American farming, then I can see no better future for a people who were creative enough to shake a stick and say, “Dig your well here, Farmer John.”

            Entire neighborhoods had wells dug on such foundations.

            Kind of gives you a tingly feeling of pride in grassroots American history, doesn’t it?

            For your viewing pleasure, I’ve attached an article about Water Witches from Time Magazine. Apparently, they are still sought after during droughts, particularly the dry season in California. I won’t spoil the end of the article; it isn’t a very long read.

https://time.com/11462/california-farmers-are-using-water-witches-to-make-your-two-buck-chuck/

***

  1. “Earth Worship” by Rubblebucket
  2. “Seize The Power” by Yonaka
  3. “Bird Sing” by Anna of the North

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #43

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

BACK TO COLLEGE

I’ve made the decision to head back to college full time to finish my BA. This meant quitting my job as a preschool teacher and heading back to a university as a 33-year-old. Over the past few weeks, I’ve had many anxieties about what it means to be, on average, 12-years older than everyone else attending an university. So, as the first week of classes is nearly at an end, I thought I’d bring you through some of my adventures from the first week of the semester.

***

THE LAST TIME I WAS HERE…

            Having a decade between stints of attending college full-time, I’ve had a chance to reflect on how things went in my early twenties.

            In short: it wasn’t pretty. 

            I’m sure there were successful moments, but as I was lying awake in bed, waiting for the sun to rise on another stint as a full-time student, I could only recall the things that were of particular embarrassment. Here’s a few of them:

  • I once emailed my Astronomy 101 professor, someone whom I greatly admired, and asked why he wasn’t more famous in his field. I wrote to him, “You seem so capable. Why are you a professor at a community college instead of conducting research at an observatory, or at NASA?” 

            I meant this in earnest, but in hindsight I can see this translates to: “Why are you a loser in your field?” It never dawned on me that not everyone rises to the top of prominence because they want to. There is such a thing as luck and academic politics to consider, as well as geography (observatories aren’t nestled in the farmlands of West Michigan, typically). Never mind family responsibilities, his general expertise, or if he wanted any part of that burgeoning astronomer life (in which, I imagine, consists of a series of Friday nights staring at the stars and uncorking bottles of champagne as new coordinates are punched into the sensitive instrumentation of the observatory telescopes—a real party scene amongst scientists. This isn’t accurate in the slightest, but I can dream).

            The professor never responded to my email, which was gracious in hindsight.

Here’s another:

  •  I once woke up late for class and drove in a sleepy haze to campus, running to class only to find a classroom full of strangers there. The professor, whom I had also never seen before, said in all this confusion, “Can I help you?”

            “Sorry, I’m late,” I said, and proceeded to find an empty seat to sit down.

            “Uh, I think you’re in the wrong class,” said the professor.

            “No, I don’t think that’s right,” I said, still in a sleepy haze. “I think you all are.”

            Imagine: an entirely different group of classmates, an unknown professor, and YOU are the one telling the class THEY are in the wrong place. I was like a theater director telling the cast to stop the performance because they were performing the wrong play.

            Just imagine the confusion, which, was probably the same look as everyone else in the class who stared at me.

            Eventually, I emerged from sleepy usurping and realized how wrong I was. I stood up, probably bowed politely (as all the crazies ought to do when they politely leave) and sped out of the classroom. I looked to my watch and saw that it was exactly an hour before I was supposed to arrive for my first class.

            How could this mismatch have happened, then? It dawned on me:

            I hadn’t adjusted the clock in my car to Daylight Savings Time. In my sleepy stupor, I referenced this clock on the road, in which I thought I was slightly late for my class instead of an hour early.

            Oops.

            I later learned that the class I had interrupted was a Psychology 101 course. In hindsight, I figure I gave them a real-life case study.

            So, you’re welcome, Science.

            These and other memories came to mind, but I’ll spare the others for now. It was time to get out of bed and begin another stint of full-time university life at the age of 33.

            Little did I know, things hadn’t changed much.

 ***

‘RACE CAR’ SPELLED BACKWARDS IS ‘STUDENT PARKING’

            Ok, not really. “Race Car” spelled backwards is “Race Car” (as opposed to the old Bugs Bunny joke: “Mud spelt backwards is Dumb”). Strolling through the parking lot towards campus, I noticed cars lapping the already filled parking spaces. That’s because students arriving later in the day might as well have been driving race cars around an elliptical raceway. Most student commuters do laps around parking lots, waiting for a parking spot to open up. This could take hours, so if you’re observant enough to stop and watch the traffic, you could be treated to a miniature Indianapolis 500 in Lot B2. Most students want parking spots up front to limit walking (Hiss! The horror!), so the route most cars follows looked like this:

Student Parking Route

Many spots open up towards the back of the lot, which results in the route being changed to this over time:

Student Parking route over the course of many hours

            Needless to say, there were multitudes of classmates missing during my classes, most of them hemmed into bumper-to-bumper traffic, awaiting the rescue of pit crews to help change tires from the wear and tear of driving laps around the Lot B2 raceway.

***

CLASSROOM SEATING

            As I sat down for my first class, I recognized a distinct pattern in where everyone chose to sit. Most students clustered to seats along the exterior, lining the walls and keeping away from the middle aisle. Maybe it’s a social anxiety, but I like to think my classmates pick seats pretending there’s a massive canon pointed directly at them from the head of the classroom and they are taking cover.

            Most professors enter class right as the hour starts, so they wander through this patch of uninhabited seats, wondering why students avoid the middle of the classroom. Then, the professor takes attendance aloud (this is for the first few days until they are familiar with names, then this task is silently done). It is then obvious why there are vacant seats: 

            This is where the professor looks while lecturing. He’ll look to you for acknowledgement, to make sure ideas are setting in.

            It’s unwanted attention and no one wants to be looked at as though they are about to be called forth for jury duty.

            Everyone bows their head as though to say, “Just look somewhere else, please!”

            Well, most keep to the outer perimeter except for a few yuppie students sitting towards the front who adore the professor and want to impress the room with some witty banter.

            And after a few, “Hey, I’ve had you in one of my other classes, right?” and “You’re an English major? I’ll have to get you in touch with another professor I know. He’s into that obscure novel you’re reading, too, haha!”, one can’t but hope for a literal canon to blast the room to smithereens.

***

QUAKING QUAKERS

            The center of campus has an impressive clocktower in the middle of a circular walkway. The opening day of classes invites student groups to get a head start with recruitment, so many organizations set up tables to hand out fliers, hold sign-ups, and invite passersby to attend upcoming events. On my first day, I passed a set of photographers that offered to take a “First Day of School Photo”, which led to a five-minute pitch session on attending a prayer group held on Thursday nights.

            It’s a entrepreneur’s world on the first few days of class.

            Towards the afternoon of my first day, I passed by the clocktower where a pair of older, potbellied men offered pamphlets to join a Quaker campus group. To the discontent of one of the students passing by, he turned round and shouted at the Quakers, “You don’t know anything about Quakers! Quakers take a vow of silence on Sundays!”

            “Ok, do you want to talk about it?” asked the potbellied Quaker passing out the pamphlets, probably to calm the outburst. “Do you want to talk?”

            The disgruntled student turned around and shouted, “Yeah I want to talk! BECAUSE you don’t get it!”

            I stopped to listen into the oncoming argument.

            “Quakers QUAKE on Sundays!!!”

            I nodded, happy about the gift of a great soundbite, even if I had no clue what it meant. Quaker’s quake? Are they fearful on Sundays? Are they literally shaking wildly to appease their God? I couldn’t help but wonder.

            This led to a rabbit hole of other religious acts based on names.

            “If Quakers quake,” I thought, “do you think Christians christen?”

            I liked the idea of Christians gathering on the docks of Lake Michigan to formally bless the launching of boats. On Sundays, they would smash champagne bottles against the hulls of anyone renting at the marina.

            I decided I like being at college if I could hear more things like this.

***

IT’S BERT, NOT BERTIE

            By 3 PM on the first day of classes, I thought I made it through the first day without any major embarrassment. I hadn’t emailed a professor to ask why he wasn’t more successful in his field, nor did I enter another classroom to accuse everyone of being in the wrong place. As my last class started, I thought fortunes had changed for me; maybe I had ceased to do stupid things.

            Nopity. Nope. And nope.

            I have a professor twice in a single day—once in the morning and in the late afternoon. In the morning session, the professor called my name for attendance with little mind, “Robert Hyma?” and he marked me present as I raised my hand. In the second class, he called my name and stopped with recognition, “I have you in another class, right?”

            “Yes,” I said, hating every moment of conversations that happen in front of other people. I could feel all my classmates watching.

            “Robert, is it? Is that what you want to be called?”

            Blame it on the monotony of the question, or that I felt there was an audience, but I wanted to play with this notion. “I can change my name to anything?”

            “Sure,” he said.

            “My friends call me Bert,” I said, feeling brave.

            “Bertie? They call you Bertie?”

             “No, Bert,” I corrected. “Bert. Just call me Bert.”

            “Bertie?” He asked again. “Ok, I’ll call you Bertie if you want.”

            Bertie, which isn’t close to sounding like the name Bert, by the way, was the worst interpretation of my name I’ve ever heard. Luckily, another classmate, a girl I can’t remember, chimed in. “He’s saying Bert, like as in the second part of Ro-Bert.”

            “Oh,” said the professor. “I kept hearing Bertie for some reason.” He smiled through awkward laughs around the class. “Side note,” he continued, “the reason I kept hearing ‘Bertie’ is because I have a grandma named ‘Roberta’ and that’s what we call her: either ‘Bob’ or ‘Bertie’ for short.”

            “Oh,” I muttered. “I wish I would have known that two minutes ago.”

            “But alright, I’ll remember,” said the professor, and moved on to the next person with attendance.

            Thank God, I thought, reflecting on the lesson I just learned: next time, just say your normal goddam name.

            “Ok, I think that’s everyone,” said the professor, concluding attendance. “I’ll try not to babble this afternoon like I did in my morning class. I don’t know what it is about the first day, but I just can’t stop from gabbing at the start. Was anyone in my first class that saw me? Bertie! That’s right, you were there. I just couldn’t stop talking, could I Bertie?”

            Not even a hint of recognition from the guy. At first, I thought he was screwing with me, saying the absurd rendition of my name as a joke, but I was wrong. He was searching my face for recognition, to give credence to his anecdote about the morning class. “Sure,” I said, not knowing how to handle the fact that for the rest of the semester I might be called Bertie.

            “I promise I won’t do that this time,” said the professor, and then he went on to show us a documentary about American Whaling that showed in vivid detail how sperm whales were hunted, harpooned, stripped for parts, and the carcass thrown back to sea.

            I sat there watching the vivid description of whale murder and thought, “Motherf***er! Now I’m Bertie.”

            Oh well, beats my last name, which is often mispronounced. To my confusion growing up, teachers often called out Hyma (Hi-mah) but added an ‘N’ to the end for some reason, making my name ‘Hyman‘. This always drew laughs, and I didn’t realize why until high school when it was explained to me that a ‘hymen’ was a part of female genitalia. People like to laugh at the guy who had a last name that was associated with the vagina.

            At least my first name wasn’t “Dick”, which would have caused people’s heads to explode (I’m sure there’s a sexual innuendo joke in that sentence somewhere).

            So, since my first name has now mutated into Bertie, I suppose my faux full name is Bertie Hyman, which roughly translates to “A grandmother’s vaginal tissue”.

            Hard to live that one down, but it’s a long semester.

            More adventures will surely follow. 

            Stay tuned for more…

***

  1. “The Walk Home” by Young the Giant
  2. “Maybe You Saved Me” by Bad Suns & PVRIS
  3. “No Place I’d Rather Be” by The Wrecks

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #42

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

42

How could you not write about the Ultimate Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything in Weekly Post-Ed #42? 

            Perhaps some context:

            Long ago on the distant planet of Magrathea, the greatest computer ever built, Default, was tasked to find an answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. For millions of years Default calculated all that it knew about existence and millions of years later, it was finally ready to reveal the answer.

            “42,” said Default.

            It’s a wonderful piece of comedy that comes from Douglas Adam’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Over the weekend, I rewatched the 2005 movie adaptation starring Martin Freeman, Zoey Deschanel, Mos Def, and Sam Rockwell. From the opening musical number about dolphins leaving the planet earth from impending doom (the musical theater ballad, “So Long and Thanks for All the Fish”), I reverted back to being 14 again and why the movie meant so much.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy DVD Box Art, 2005

            Up until that first viewing, I had known about the comedy of Monty Python, Mel Brooks, the Marx Brothers and so many others, but The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy opened up the entire cosmos of what could be funny. Whereas a Mel Brooks film delved into the world of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (Young Frankenstein), or a saga of the wild west (Blazing Saddles), the jokes were related to the story’s characters, never central to moving the plot forward itself. Hitchhiker’s not only had outlandish comedy, but it was the reason the story existed at all.

  • Planet earth being demolished to make room for a hyperspace expressway? Yes, that’s the incident that begins the story!
  • A paperwork-obsessed, bureaucratic race of aliens with the stinginess of an elitist British Parliament? Why yes, they’re the villains of the movie!

            Anything was possible in the vast universe of Douglas Adam’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (which I soon discovered were also a series of novels). You could poke fun of a religion’s odd celebrations and rituals, answer philosophical questions in meaningful but obtuse ways (the answer of 42 for example), and show that planets are really manufactured like any other product bought at a department store. All of this was possible to cram into a single narrative.

            “You can write things like this?” I thought, and suddenly I felt like I had been given the freedom to make whatever I wanted.

            After watching the film again, I also recalled that it was the major reason why I wanted to write fiction in the first place. Suddenly, it made sense to write big ideas into a concise, comedic packaging. There was a wider universe out there and I couldn’t wait to write all about it. 

            And I would go on to keep writing forever after.

            (Psst: more on those stories in the future!)

***

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

            I find that as I grow older, I watch my favorite movies from a different perspective. Nowhere in my personal experience has this been more the case than rewatching old Looney Tunes shorts. Packed inside those ten-minute episodes were layers of adult humor amidst the antics of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck.

            Rewatching favorite movies and television shows after many years is like eating a favorite meal once in a while: you remember why it was so damn good to begin with.

            It must have been three or four years since I’ve seen 2005’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which meant another round of life experiences acting as the lens through which I watched it. The biggest change over the course of the past few years has been my going on numerous dates, which I suspect has changed how I’ve viewed romance in movies. 

            Certainly, I have a much more prevalent sense of skepticism when it comes to the romantic “Love at First Sight” motif.

            The romantic spine of the 2005 adaptation of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (the books are much different) follows Arthur Dent (Martin Freeman) regretting his missed opportunity to capture the heart of Trillion McMillan (Zoey Deschanel). At a costume party, they meet awkwardly, but sweetly, and soon get to chatting. Then, Trillion says, “We should go to Madagascar.” Arthur is confused and thinks this means a new swanky club, but Trillion means the country off the coast of Africa. Arthur realizes she is serious and says he can’t just go to Madagascar. Trillion is let down when he offers somewhere local instead. Then along comes a man with flowing blonde locks, a faux Elvis Presley accent, and futuristic wardrobe.

            “Is this man boring you?” he says. “I’m from a different planet. Want to see my spaceship?”

            Trillion goes with spaceman, leaving Arthur behind, and that’s the extent of their meeting.

            Before, I never blinked an eye at this initial meeting. It works in the movie and I get it: Arthur likes her, she likes him, but along the way came a more interesting and adventurous man that swept Trillion away. 

            Cool, right?

            Not really.

            When thinking about the logistics of meeting someone at a party, I assume Arthur and Trillion knew one another for about two or three hours in total. This means that Arthur is convinced Trillion is someone significant over that short time. So much so, in fact, that he comes to think of her as “The One That Got Away”.

            I’m amazed at the confidence required to make Arthur think so. Either Arthur doesn’t get out and date very much (which is likely), or there was something wonderful about Trillion that quietly disposed of any other potential love interests he had. Since Trillion up and leaves him at a party for another man, I can’t imagine she showed him the affection he was looking for. So, what was the appeal at the party?

            I’m skeptical a man would be love-drunk over a woman like this who has experienced more dates. It’s unclear the amount of time that passes between this first meeting at the party and when the earth is destroyed for a hyperspace expressway (spoilers), but I think most would have moved on from the girl at the party after a certain length of time. As someone who has gone on many dates and has been ghosted for less interesting reasons, it’s amazing to think Arthur would remain hung up on this girl when she leaves with another man from the same party.

            This is why I’m concerned about Arthur’s mental state during this viewing of the movie–he’s willing to endure the thought of a girl running off with another man as karma for his not jumping on a plane immediately to travel with her to Madagascar.

            It’s a little sad, honestly.

            Later, Trillion and Arthur are reunited on a spaceship that improbably passed by the exact coordinates he was thrown off another ship into the vacuum of space. Aboard the ship, Arthur comes across the spaceman from the party, who turned out to be President of the Galaxy Zaphod Beeblebrox. Arthur’s first actions upon being on a spaceship after surviving the ether of outer space? He immediately inquires what became of Trillion after the party.

            If I’m Trillion, I’d be on my guard with this guy. Perhaps it’s the improbability of the two of them meeting on the same spaceship, but Trillion doesn’t blink when this guy immediately starts demanding “why didn’t you fall in love with me instead?” 

            Uh, what?

            The correct response for Trillion should have been: “Hey, we hung out for a while at that party, which was really great, but I CLEARLY left with someone else, remember? You were really nice, Arthur, but it’s not going to work out. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

            That’s it, problem solved!

            But that doesn’t happen. Instead, she hints that they shouldn’t talk about it in front of Zaphod Beeblebrox in order not to upset him.

            Not to be deterred, Arthur’s motive is to bring up their brief courtship whenever possible throughout the movie. He’s pleading his case that they were something special and should pick up where they left off.

            It’s downright creepy to assume that anything marginally approaching romance should exist between these two people. Couples who have sex have less incentive to think romance or a relationship is taking place! Why does Arthur’s reluctance to give up on Trillion mean that she’ll ever return his affections?

            I think the reason for their eventual romance is interwoven with the meaning of the film.

            Why Arthur loses out on Trillion at the party is because he refuses to give up his usual comforts and spontaneously travel with her across the world. He has a rational point—they’ve just met, he has a job to go to in the morning…it’s not realistic to do something so drastic. However, Trillion sees this as another sign of another disappointing man who isn’t adventurous and willing to see the wider world.

            What Trillion is asking of Arthur is if he’ll put in the effort for her. Yes, she wants the trip because she wants affirmation that the world has more to offer, but she’s also watching to see if he’s willing to fight for her.

            When Arthur joins Zaphod and Trillion aboard the ship to zip around the galaxy in search of the ultimate answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, Trillion gets into all the danger. It’s up to Arthur to save her. Zaphod, the mysterious spaceman from the party, does not. While Zaphod Beeblebrox won Trillion over with a willingness to travel the universe on a whim, he also didn’t think of her anything more than collected cargo. Zaphod was only interested in fame, recognition, and Trillion was always an afterthought.

            Even when Trillion was imprisoned on another planet by the Vogons, he doesn’t think to go rescue her (although, his brain is technically being run on lemons at that point in the movie, so maybe a little leniency in his case). Couple along the reveal that Zaphod was the one who signed the order to demolish the earth in the first place, and Trillion really grew to dislike him.

            This left Trillion to ponder why the aimlessness of her life on earth has followed her through the cosmos. By going somewhere else, be it Madagascar or the vastness of space, she was seeking greater meaning.

            What she discovered is that there wasn’t an answer to her life, the universe, and everything (even if it ended up being 42). Bereft in space, she was without a home planet, without anyone. 

            She was done looking outward for answers and instead looked around. It’s then that she realizes she just wants to be loved by someone who wants her.

            Trillion now sees Arthur’s journey. He has learned how to fight for what he wants. His life is about embracing adventure so that he can be present for someone else.

            Now there may be romance between the two of them. He sees her, and she sees him.

            And they can roll around with their towels.

            But there’s one question that still bothers me: why her? With only a few hours of talking at a party, why did Arthur maintain that he missed out on Trillion this entire time?

            In my limited experience with truly remarkable women (since romance is the angle I’m writing this from), I can say there’s no logical reason. Once you see someone great, you just know it. It’s a recognition of something within them, perhaps something you can’t quite explain. And once recognized, there’s no going back to the way things were.

            Ironically, this is how I felt upon first watching The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I couldn’t tell you why it meant so much to see this movie, but it did.

            I’ll just call it Love at First Sight.

***

THAT MCTAVISH SAVE

            Usually, I’d stray away from posting a hockey highlight, but the final moments of Team Canada winning gold at the 2022 World Junior Hockey Championships was one of the greatest moments I’ve ever seen in hockey. I’ll include the highlights below but be sure to watch the goal-line save by Mason McTavish who literally kept his team alive in Overtime by an inch.

https://youtu.be/N1F_1IbJNxw

***

  1. “Sweet (Single Edit)” by Jon Batiste, Pentatonix & Diane Warren
  2. “BDSM” by corook
  3. “Up” by Cardi B

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #41

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

LIVING THE DREAM

A few weeks after graduating from high school, I went up to my varsity goalie coach to talk about where I could play next season. He was standing by the glass at the ice rink, watching another up-and-coming goalie, a sophomore who could potentially make the varsity team next year. He saw me in the corner of his eye, and I awkwardly put my hands into my pocket and approached.

            “Hey coach,” I said. “Got a second?”

            “Sure,” he said, still watching the sophomore practice. “What’s on your mind?”

            “I was just wondering if…you know…you had any suggestions of where I could play next year?”

            My former goalie coach turned away from the glass and looked to see if I was kidding. Pitifully, he saw I wasn’t. “You can always try the community college team. I hear they’re bringing the program back around.”

            “I mean, I can go anywhere, right? What teams should I try out for?”

            He turned back to watching the sophomore. “You played four games last year, Robert. Not a lot of teams had a good look at you, or even know who you are. I’d say the beer leagues are a great place to start.”

            At the time, I thought that his answer was dismissive. However, from the vantage of my mid-thirties and looking back at my 18-year-old self that had just completed his first year of competitive hockey, this answer was gracious in hindsight. My former coach knew my story. He knew I started playing ice hockey three years before and started taking goalie lessons only a year after I had begun. He knew my knowledge about travel hockey was next to nil.

            It was a gracious answer because he didn’t tell me the truth—which was that I was a dreamer who had no idea what the road to pro hockey looked like.

            My former goalie coach was Carl Howell, a former pro goaltender who played minor league hockey. Carl played goalie in an era when wearing a thin layer of molded fiberglass over your face was the best protection available—you know, the “Jason” mask from the film Friday the 13th.

            His career ended when scrambling in his goal crease for a loose puck, and a stick struck him in the eye, plucking it out of the socket. This was also the era where dirty tactics were the norm. Many forwards pounded a nail into the top of the blade of their hockey sticks, which made it all the easier to hook a guy and cut him open in the process (because if you’re going to get a 2-minute penalty for hooking, you might as well cut an incision big enough for a surgeon on your way to the penalty box). 

            Scrambling in the crease, a nail stuck into his eye and pulled the eye clean out of his face.

            The eye was saved and reinserted into the socket, but my former coach lost most of his depth perception, which made stopping pucks nearly impossible, thereby ending his career. He might have played in the NHL full time had he had better fortune.

            “Ok,” I answered my goalie coach after he told me to play in the beer leagues. “Do you know which one I should join?”

            He smiled, a brimming, knowing smile full of hockey knowledge I could never know or understand. “They’ll find you if they want you. Keep your phone on.”            

            It took years to realize that, no, I wasn’t going to be scouted to play pro hockey. I had a dream when I started playing, and only years after that did the bigger picture of the pro hockey life start to dawn on me.

            All I had was a dream and I thought it was enough to make the NHL.

            I’ve always pondered the phrase “Living the Dream”. To me, the phrase meant to have the ideal life where one was doing the work they loved, the kind where real struggle and toil were nonexistent. While watching the 2022 World Junior Hockey Championship over the last week, I discovered a vastly different view form what it means to live the dream. 

            Many of the players participating in the 2022 World Junior Hockey Championship are living the dream. To be chosen to represent your country is indication that you are the best of your age group. You see the names that have made previous Canadian or US World Junior teams and many have become stars in the NHL. To assume these young players are on a path to greatness seems logical. Aren’t these players living the dream?

            Not exactly. 

            To have arrived at the World Junior stage, these players have grown up with a constant pressure to perform since they’ve put on a pair of skates and shown superior skills compared to everyone else their age. With these superior skills came a caravan of interested parties: parents, coaches, scouts, former pros, and everyone else who saw the potential of someone who, one day, could have his name on the back of a NHL jersey. All these young players had to leave their families to play in the top Junior Leagues in the country, living with host families in place of their own, devoting their whole life to playing the game they hope will lead to becoming a professional. 

            The 2022 World Junior Championship is just a steppingstone along the way to being a professional. It’s another measuring station to prove that these prospects are on task and exceeding even greater expectations. There’s no downtime. These players are still required to produce, to keep separating themselves from the competition, to put up the best numbers of their careers in their draft year just to move up a few spots into the coveted Top 5 of the NHL Draft.

            These players know the road to pro hockey by 17-years-old because it has been instilled into their belief system since they started. They are the future, and they play every shift like it, too.

            And after watching a few games of these future stars, I thought back to when I was 17-years-old with the dream of becoming one of them.

            I can laugh at how absurd that dream was.

            A year before talking with my varsity goalie coach, I was at my neighborhood park on a cement rink with a painted goalie crease and undersized net, donning plastic-shelled street hockey goalie gear. I spent nights duct-taping the goalie pads back together after they had disintegrated from the last time of sliding across the cement crease. A group of five of us played along with whichever neighborhood kids came around, ranging from elementary to high schoolers. Most everyone ran in tennis shoes or didn’t own a pair of rollerblades. Hardly any wore hockey gloves and had blisters on their hands after a few hours of shooting with old wooden hockey sticks.

            We played in 90-degree heat. All of us wearing a replica jersey of our favorite NHL teams we had bid on eBay for cheap. We were the neighborhood all-stars without a clue about what it meant to play the pro game, but it didn’t much matter.

            I was never going to play at a level remotely close to what the best players in the world could play at age 17. It still doesn’t much matter. I still play hockey even with a worsening arthritic wrist and pinched nerve near a hip flexor that feels like absolute agony after playing all these years. 

            I’ll keep playing because I’ve decided the dream is to keep it going for as long as possible.

            That’s what I share with those 2022 World Junior players—the will to keep living the dream.

            It’s not worth losing an eye over, maybe, but for a sore wrist and stiff hip?

            I’ll keep my phone on.

***

GOODY TWO-SHOES

            I struggle to write about movies because they inevitably morph into mini reviews. And truthfully, I don’t want to write reviews on this website. Reviews, and criticism for that matter, revolve around an air of expertise, that because a thing has flaws or was masterful in some way, it means that the reviewer had the pedigree to point out why. A good critic is a fine thing to have in the world (allegedly), but overall, I think an audience knows how they feel about entertainment without someone defining terms.

            In the world of entertainment, I’ve seldom found a review useful before experiencing something first. 

            So, if you haven’t seen Luck, don’t worry—I won’t be reviewing the movie. Instead, I’m interested in the ramifications of the hero of the movie, the aged-out orphan, Sam.

            Sam is fascinating because there isn’t much to her character other than the fact that she was an orphan with bad luck and was never adopted. She is good to a fault and wants nothing more than for others to succeed in life. Samrepresents the ideal kind and selfless person, someone willing to sacrifice her own wellbeing for the sake of others. Of course, this goodness leads to her saving the day and everyone lives happily ever after by the end.

            Hey, this is a kid’s movie after all—why would everything not work out?

            However, it’s the subject matter of the movie that further complicates the character of Sam. The movie is about “bad luck” and its value in the world. Can someone with bad luck still strive to be a good person despite how things have turned out? What would be different about our lives if we had had “good luck” instead of “bad luck”? 

            These are fun concepts to debate, but let’s think about it in terms of Sam’s character as the ideal selfless giver. 

            In Luck, the question the film wants us to ask of Sam is, “Will she ever get rid of her bad luck?”

            And this was my problem with Sam: I didn’t really care if she got rid of bad luck or not.

            Here’s the thing: I want to believe in the characters of the movie. I want to follow and cheer for them when they get what they need. With characters like Sam, however, I found myself rolling my eyes at her selfless acts and goodwill. She was SO GOOD that I began to see this as annoying. I started to feel the gimmick of bad luck following her around all the time was JUSTIFIED.

            There’s a name for this wanting someone to have misfortune. No, it’s not schadenfreude, which is pleasure we derive from others’ pain. No, this was more of a feeling of wanting bad things to happen to someone attempting to do “too much” good.

            We’ve heard the term before. We call these people who do good without reciprocity a Goody Two-Shoes.

            We want a Goody Two-Shoes to fail. They’re the ones who always raise their hand in class because they have the right answer, the ones who always have a compliment or positive thing to say about someone, the ones who pitch in and help clean up a mess they didn’t make. While these are all wonderful qualities, we want terrible things to befall this person.

            Why?

            Because none of it is justified without acknowledgment of a dark side. Goodness is impressive with 3-dimensional characters, not as a moral set of instructions.

            Sam is good for goodness sake (yes, like the Christmas song) and for no other reason that’s given. Perhaps there wasn’t time to further flesh out why she behaves this way, but I had a hard time empathizing with someone passed over for adoption, who certainly suffers from some history of childhood trauma or abandonment issues with no symptoms at age 18. This is someone I’m not rooting for because I don’t understand her.

            I’d argue this choice of character doesn’t work. I like goodness, but like love, I want to see it earned. In a romantic comedy, the audience knows the leading man and lady are going to end up together in the end…but the fun of the story is the style and stakes of the obstacles that prevent this.

            In Luck, without consequences to Sam’s “bad luck” other than the universe backfiring on her every waking move, there’s very little reason to care.

            (Unless you feel the idea of a “good person” is enough…in which case, good for you—two enthusiastic thumbs up.)

            Sam isn’t responsible for her misfortune; the universe is.

            In other words, Deus Ex Machina, which is why I think the story all falls apart.

            Something else influences Sam’s destiny, not her choices.

            It’s difficult to root for someone who isn’t in control of their destiny. With Sam, I felt neutral about her misfortunes coming to an end. I liked her, but what else was there?

            I wanted to know more about Sam.

            I just didn’t get it.

            Which is just my luck!

***

MY FIRST ESSAY IS OUT NOW!

            That’s right, my first full essay was posted last Sunday! It’s about EVO, the Evolution Championship Seriesor the premiere fighting game tournament held in Las Vegas every summer. The tournament has undergone quite a storied couple of years and I wanted to write about my history following the fighting game community during that time. I’m happy with how the essay turned out and will link it below.

            I plan on writing more essays like the EVO piece more often. I have a few in the pipeline but I haven’t much else to share right now, so to stay tuned!

            Please give EVO: Reunion a read! I’m always looking for feedback and would love to read your thoughts!

***

  1. “Wonderful Life” by Two Door Cinema Club
  2. “Breathe Me In” by Strabe
  3. “it’s ok!” by corook

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #39

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

ROCK GODS

            Why is music today so terrible? 

            It’s an argument I hear from anyone older (my generation included) who turns on any modern FM radio station: “Music isn’t like it used to be,” and “They aren’t even playing instruments now,” or, most frequently, “What do you call this crap, anyway?”

            And I tend to agree. My golden age of music was from a post-punk UK indie movement where Bloc Party, Foals, Interpol, Kaiser Chiefs and the like were my Rock Gods and wrote the anthems that defined my adolescent years. They ruled the stage, sold out arenas, and changed the music landscape with a sound and attitude that still resonates.

            My dad’s generation had The Beatles, Elton John, Chicago. The guys I play hockey with laud anything Rush, Led Zeplin, AC/DC, perhaps straying into the cheeseburger rock paradise of Jimmy Buffett. My generation likened teen angst to screamo ballads and frantic guitar strumming: Green Day, Foo Fighters, Paramore. 

            And on and on it goes, bygone eras where the music brought together droves of people and has lasted throughout our lives on Spotify playlists, blasting around campfires on JBL speakers the neighborhood over. 

            But not the music of today, it feels like. Why does it seem like today’s music lacks such defining bands and songs?

            Where have all the Rock Gods gone?

            That’s where it started for me this week. While at a friend’s house, I found an old instrument stashed away in a box in his basement. It wasn’t an old electric guitar, or the hard-shell case of an abandoned marching band instrument unused since graduation day. What I found was a miniaturized plastic guitar, shaped like a Fender Stratocaster, with six rectangular, rainbow-colored buttons assorted down the neck, one occupying each of the farthest frets. A large switch, maybe three inches long, clicked up and down, spring-loaded back into position where the strings would normally be strummed. 

            This was the controller of the game Guitar Hero and was instrument to some of the greatest Rock Gods that ever played.

            Oh, I can see the grin of skepticism on all your faces. Don’t worry, I used to laugh at them, too. Why would anyone put all their efforts into fake learning “Sweet Home Alabama?” or “Thunder”? If they were so good at the game, why didn’t they just learn a real instrument?

            And yet, everyone stopped to watch these Rock Gods play. The superhighway of colored rectangles flashed on the screen at breakneck speed, and these Rock Gods kept in rhythm with every chord progression, every solo riff, and we all watched in wonder while all the hits were played—Black Sabbath, Mötley Crüe, DragonForce. We couldn’t help ourselves. 

            We watched because music isn’t concerned about what is real or earned (like an actual guitar versus as a two-foot-long plastic one), it was all about being involved.

            It’s the same reason we love the Rock Gods that we do. They make us feel alive with their music, with their swagger, and we channel that into our lives. There’s nothing like seeing a live band perform the shit out of the songs they’ve made. Even cover bands qualify. The same goes for players of Guitar Hero and Rock Band who hit 100% accuracy after a session of “Through the Fire Flames” and “The Pretender”.

            “Hey, remember Guitar Hero?” I asked my friend after dusting off the old controller.

            “Yeah, I don’t play anymore,” he said.

            “No one does. We should play it, though.”

            So we did, pretending we were the same Rock Gods that hadn’t aged a day past 16-years-old. And the joy of playing those old tracks came flooding back, all from a guitar-shaped piece of plastic and six colorful buttons.

            “Music is anything but math,” Andrew Bird, perhaps on the greatest musicians of the last decade, once said.

            I believe that goes for why we love the music we do, even if it comes from the Guitar Hero catalogue, or from the auto-tuning synth-lords of this generation. 

            We all pay tribute to our own Rock Gods because they move us. They make our lives meaningful, perhaps in a way that only music ever could.

            And as long as there is music, even if we don’t like it, there will always be its Rock Gods.

            That’s what I thought about driving home from playing an hour of Guitar Hero. I turned off my Apple Music playlist in the car, switched to a non-static FM station, and listened to something from today.

            And immediately shut it off after a minute.

            I tried. These aren’t my Rock Gods; but I know now that they are somebody’s.

            Even those who listen to Jack Harlow.

***

I’M HALLUCINATING, YOU’RE HALLUCINATING…

            Here’s a thought to unsettle you for the rest of your life: everything you perceive, from sunshine beaming in through the window, to the sounds of people bustling around you, to the smell of the coffee steaming from the mug at your desk…all of it is made up in the mind as a glorious, biochemical hallucination.

            Yes, this is the Matrix.

            So, would you like the Red or Blue pill?

            I’m joking, of course, but the premise of being plugged into our senses strikes closer to home when it comes to understanding consciousness than previously thought.

            In Anil Seth’s TED Talk, he explains that what we perceive the world to be is really the body’s sensory system finely tuned over millions of years of evolution to calculate an accurate depiction of reality. We see color and shadow because it helps us identify contrast or danger (brightly colored berries, insects, reptiles usually signaled ‘danger’ in primitive man); we distinguish noises from loud to silent as we’re able to understand if danger is approaching. It became useful, through our evolution, to identify the world around us. Most humans interpret sensory signals in the same ways: grass is green, the sky is blue, a splash of water feels wet, etc, etc.

            But within the finer points of our sensory organs, we are making approximations based on our own experiences and personal abilities to understand what is real around us. Even though we understand that grass is green (well, maybe not in your neighbor’s yard), the eye cannot actually “see” anything; rather, it is a bodily organ that translates wavelength frequencies to the mind, and the occipital lobe “determines” what is being seen.

            And in some cases, the mind can be wrong about what it sees.

            Take this famous optical illusion shown below:

Edward H. Adelson

            The darkness of the checkered boxes outside of the pillar’s shadow seem to be darker in the checkered Box A than the checkered Box B, but this is only our mind’s approximation of what seems to be correct in terms of what we know of light and shadow. In reality, the two boxes are the same color:

            So, who is to say our senses are to be totally trusted?

            As Anil Seth says in his TED Talk: “Reality is the hallucination we all agree on.”

            It’s a wonderful notion, isn’t it? To think this is why animals see things differently, like how dogs can only perceive different color spectra. We all see things in our own way…so long as we all agree that Jack Harlow is just ok.

            I’m kidding. I have nothing against that guy, I just like his name as a punchline.

            All of this and more is covered in the Anil Seth’s TED Talk below. It’s a cathartic 20-minutes and worth the watch:

***

  1. “Hang Around” by Echosmith
  2. “Symphony” by Imagine Dragons
  3. “Weak Teeth” by gglum

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #36

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

LONELY ON THE FOURTH OF JULY

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

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

Please enjoy:

**

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

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

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

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

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

            Ugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Terry???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            …well, that’s not entirely true. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            You sit down, not knowing what to do.

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

            That’s when it hits you:

            Maybe not this year.

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

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

            Bang.

            Boom.

            Red, white, and blue in the windowpanes.

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

            How pretty, you think.

            Kind of like how SHE used to be…

***

SO, I CURRENTLY HAVE COVID…

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

            If there’s one line, it means negative.

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

            **Stadium cheers**

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

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

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

I can happily report it was a much needed vacation!

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

OOO! THAT NEW BIOSHOCK INFINITE LOOK…

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

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

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

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

            Dysfunctional. Hey, that’s a better word!

            We’ll go with Dysfunctional.

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

            **Shivers**

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

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

            Nah.

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

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

***

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

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #35

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

IS IT MAD OR MADNESS?

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

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

            And also: just a ton of fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

            I think the answer here is no.

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

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

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

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

            And we, the audience, understand the difference.

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

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

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

            “Cool. What’s next?”

***

THE BEST TIMELINE OF ROBERTHYMAWRITES.COM

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

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

            This universe has gone sour.

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

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

            And on and on and on it goes…

            Yeah, doesn’t sound half bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #34

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

MOONLIGHTING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

DATES AND DETAILS #3

The Online Irish Goodbye

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

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

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

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

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

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

These scenarios make sense to drop someone.

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

            POOF!

            Un-Matched.

            So, why is this happening?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            EVEN THE LIE IS MORE CONSIDERATE THAN JUST DISAPPEARING!

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

            So, Erin, let me just say this:

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

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

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

            Robert

***

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

***

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

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