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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #32

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

Hey, Now I’m Perfect!

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

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

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

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

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

            *And so ends the sarcastic commentary*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Seriously, what a dumb idea that was, Ayn.

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

***

NAIL CLIPPERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Robert, any thoughts?”

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

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

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

            CLIP. CLIP. CLIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            I was agape with shock.

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

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

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

            I washed my hands and rejoined the meeting.

***

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

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #30

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

ROBERT HYMA, FORMER SEVENTH GRADE PIRATE

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

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

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

**

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

            Maybe some context:

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

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

            He was cool—everything I wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            And then I became Jack Sparrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “What does SAVE-EE mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Mr. Hyma?” called the nurse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

            The doctor looked to my father, who shrugged.

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

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

            “Scurvy?” repeated the doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Cough please,” said the doctor.

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

            “Cough again,” said the doctor.

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

            “One more time,” said the doctor.

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

            “What was that?” asked the doctor.

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

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

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

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

            “Hi,” I said normally, deflated.

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

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

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

            Except, I didn’t know that.

            I just wanted to be cool.

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

***

PPF MUSIC

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

***

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

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #29

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

BUILT UPON KLEENEX BOXES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            A Post-Script:

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

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

***

DATES AND DETAILS #2

            The Kind of Texter Who…

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

**

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

            “I’m the Kind of Texter Who…”

            Most answers follow this formula:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Except, it doesn’t work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Is that impressive?

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

***

OH, AND A NEW LOOK!

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

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

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

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

***

NEW PLAYLISTS SECTION

            One last item.

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

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

***

***

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

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| Weekly Post-Eds |

Weekly Post-Ed #27

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

MAGICALLY MISCHIEVOUS

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

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

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

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

OR

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

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

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

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

            A Leprechaun always does. And makes a huge mess.

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

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

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

            That’s right: the kids.

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

            “I hate leprechauns!” proclaims a little girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Plus, the green cupcakes were pretty good this year.

***

A SPIDEY’S WAY HOME

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

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

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

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

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

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

            And now the tale can be told anew.

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

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

***

***

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

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Weekly Post-Ed #26

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A HERITAGE CLASSIC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Jeez, there’s always next year.

***

SOFT STONE

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

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

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

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

            Baffled, I asked, “What evil?”

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

            “The soft stone?”

            “Right, the soft stone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Yes,” I said.

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

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

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

            “Oh yes, a soft stone.”

            “I’ll take one,” I said.

            “Oh, she’s all sold out.”

            “Just my luck.”

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

            “I know. A soft stone.”

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

            Whatever it was.

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

***

***

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

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Weekly Post-Ed #25

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

TO (NOT) REVIEW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Art is meant to be experienced.

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

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

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

***

ANYWAY, SO ABOUT THE BATMAN…

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            One step at a time, Guardian.

            Well done, Bungie! 

***

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

***

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

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Weekly Post-Ed #14

by Robert Hyma
written by Robert Hyma

A New Classy and Subclassy Look

            Really brief:

            The website underwent another overhaul, this time in the guise of Phantasy Star Online 2. To calculate how many hours were poured into the original PSO on the Gamecube would be to take back entire months of my life. Each trip to the Forest, Caves, and Mines in search of rare, red little boxes was the thrill of my teenage years (outside of puberty; another red, little box in its own right).

            And with the release of Phantasy Star Online 2: New Genesis, it was time to overhaul the site in the look of the famous RPG (you know, since I happened to have a finished logo sitting around). Feel free to check out the art for the site I made below!

***

E3 in a Nutshell

Mario + Rabbids: Sparks of Hope

            This game is the ultimate strategy, adorable, funny, X-COM inspired take on the genre, bundle of joy you’ll ever find. The first game, Mario+Rabbids: Kingdom Battle was one of the few games I played to 100% completion (including the Donkey Kong DLC) and there was no better high than watching the reveal trailer at Ubisoft’s event back in 2017.

            Games like this mean there is something good in the world.

Oh, Elden Ring

            Jeff Keighley has been teasing something big on Twitter for so long (years, actually) that everyone thought he was bluffing. The host of The Game Awards put on his own pre-E3 kickoff event and promised something big. Ears perculated and his event had the usual array of already-announced games coinciding with some smaller devs getting the spotlight, which was nice. Then, during the finale of his Summer Games Fest presentation, there was a different tone. 

            Like a prospector attempting to remain cool over the chunks of gold in his sifting pan, Jeff Keighley couldn’t contain himself.

            “So, without further ado,” Jeff said, as though he were about to announce world peace had truly been achieved, “please, sit back and enjoy, this truly spectacular world premiere. It is finally time!”

            And then revealed the first gameplay reveal of Elden Ring, a Souls-esque world created by George R.R. Martin (the world-famous Game of Thrones author) and Hidetaka Miyazaki, the creator of the Dark Souls series. It was lush, glorious, and original in a way that many look-alike Souls games just can’t compete with. It was a celebration of a game long thought to be delayed forever or silently cancelled or killed.

            The game is real and coming out January of next year.

            Oh, Elden Ring! We are not worthy.

A Rundown of Not Much Everything Else

            Xbox and Bethesda had their first join press conference.

            It came and it went.

            There was Halo: Infinite. And it looks very much like an Xbox 360 Halo game.

            Neat.

            Square Enix revealed a single-player Guardians of the Galaxy game, proving that the Marvel checkbook has a few more checks left in it.

            There’s also a free expansion to the Avengers game launched last year. The Black Panther expansion is free, enticing an audience that abandoned a game long ago to come back for another try. It looks expansive, which is great news for anyone who bought into the original game.

            A big surprise of the show was an announcement of a new Final Fantasy game entitled Strangers of Paradise, Final Fantasy Origins. It’s from the team behind Nioh and is described as a gory take on the franchise, which feels like an interesting direction try. The story is stuck in localization hell, meaning references to “Defeating the chaos” probably mean more in Japan than it does translated into English for this E3.

Nintendo Saves E3

            And the conference seemed to be over. Nintendo’s show was Tuesday and there was wide-spread skepticism if Nintendo (a company that often sees the dreams of its fans and says, “No, no, no, you’ll like this better…”) could fill the void left by a lack of anything to get excited about.

            The answer was yes and the games were announced in plenty.

            Kazuya from Tekken is in Super Smash Bros. Ultimate (huge!). Mario Golf is on the horizon. A new WarioWare game is coming soon. A new Metroid 2D-game (Metroid Dread) was announced and launches in October. A new Mario Party entry is on its way. And the final announcement was the first gameplay trailer for Breath of the Wild 2.

            And there were smiles on everyone’s lips because we knew, even if it wasn’t the strongest suite of games announced, that Nintendo saved the conference.

            Like it or not, this is the power of Nintendo; they can make dreams come true. They may not be your dreams, but there is always a feeling that somebody’s dreams are coming true. This feeling was missing from the rest of the conference.

            Microsoft, another company that has the power to make dreams come true, often acts like a political candidate that has forgotten what it means to act like a person. A spokesperson often stands on a platform, smiles, and delivers talking points that are fact-checked and meant to please, but it always comes across as hollow and devoid of humanity. Right now, they are a company so entrenched in numbers and attempting to ‘appear’ like they’ve got the goods, that they have the games that people want, but there isn’t anything in their catalogue that gets everyone excited beyond the next Halo title–and even that beloved franchise is suffering from a lack of care and leadership.

            Like it or not, what Nintendo has that no one else can touch (save Sony on a good day) are characters and franchises that people love. Power, hardware, graphical prowess—these mean nothing unless there are great games with lovable characters at the heart of it all.

            This isn’t something that can be taught, I think. And, as far as the conference is concerned, something that can be learned, either.

***

In Conclusion

            I’m excited for games for the final half of the year. This wasn’t the strongest conference, and we’re likely seeing the results of a hindered workflow with Covid restrictions. If that caused a lack of games to appear, then that’s understandable. And maybe there are projects on the backburner that are waiting to see the light of the day at the next conference (likely The Game Awards in December), the ones that need a little more wrench time. If so, great!

            I think that was the case for Nintendo for the longest time and look at what they presented this past week. All of their games were announced for the second half of the year, meaning there are some much bigger announcements in the works.

            Which means the conference did as it was supposed to do: draw upon the hopes and dreams of consumers eagerly awaiting that next dream that might come true.

            Dream on.

***

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

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