Snatching Bodies From Cold, Dead Bodies

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

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

Cyclops. Even Gambit started imitating his look.

A Gorgeous Abortion

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

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

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

This did not become clear to me for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

Best dark material? Velvet.

Red Flagon

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

Best Scandinavian cannibal? Grendel.

A Soupcon of Sin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

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

This Merchant's Flesh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spider-Man’s the safe bet, though.

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

Bonus Question!

Best flesh? Young.

Shoelace

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

This is what happens when I pay to dance.

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

Bonus Question!

Best lace? Old.

Grampa Gal

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

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

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

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

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

Bugs in Beds and Heads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

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

Armgasm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

Best Mars? Mars Ultor.

"And Leonard Nimoy as Moundshroud"

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

But that’s probably a different story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

Best Halloween movie of all time? Yes.

Lobstruck

I don't want to eat this guy.

Lobsters! Am I right? Where was I?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Ragnarok can’t stop my talk!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spot the differences. There aren't enough.

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

Bonus Question!

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

Playing for Pizza

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus Question!

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

Maybe I should talk about lobster more.

It's Always Halloween Already

This whole phenomenon of complaining about the early promotion of Halloween has gotten to the point where businesses are actually joining in on the complaining in the copy of their own Halloween sales.

I have ordered a fair number of things online in the past. It’s the sort of thing I’ve often done in states of dubious consciousness in the small, ephemeral hours of the night when my itinerant attentions fell upon objects that seemed desirable and downright necessary at the time. One of the natural consequences of this practice is the influx of advertisements from all sorts of barely remembered online stores in my various email boxes. Recently, I’ve been receiving some that complain about the early onset of the Halloween season even as they do their part to bring it about and seek their profit from it.

For clarity's sake, that line at the top was actually part of the advertisement. Nevertheless, they make some nice stuff. I bought some gold platform shoes and three pairs of leg sleeves in hot pink from them a few years ago. Good times.

Hypocrisy is usually one of the most loathsome sins in my eyes, but the audacity with which it is committed here makes it too ludicrous to be truly execrable. What bothers me here is the pervasive idea that the autumnal season should not be dominated by a focus on Halloween. I’m inclined to believe that the opposite is true. Nothing else goes on in the fall. It’s a time of decay. Trees are withering. The weather’s growing cold. The daylight’s slowly dying. A frivolous focus like Halloween is exactly what I want. It’s a welcome distraction from the dubious portents of the season. Thanksgiving is technically the earlier celebration, but it lacks the thematic potency that enables Halloween to exert its hold over the collective consciousness in the two months that precede its arrival. Thanksgiving’s two major selling points are food and family. The latter concept is never far from the minds of those who cherish it, and it isn’t particularly desirable for those who don’t. Food just isn’t something that can generate a significant amount of enduring excitement when its arrival isn’t imminent. It can barely hold my interest over the time between the placing of an order in a restaurant and its eventual delivery. It certainly isn’t enough to occupy my mind for an entire half of a season. Halloween can hold my attention and affection forever. Whenever someone attempts to cast aspersions on my indefatigably flamboyant style by reminding me that Halloween’s over, I explain that I am still celebrating. I don’t even really dress up for the holiday anymore. Wearing the costume of another almost seems disrespectful. I wouldn’t wish to disguise myself on that venerable day. I wear the costume of Jaymes Buckman, and I always shall. That’s how I express my reverence for Halloween. Incidentally, it’s also how I express my reverence for myself. Whatever.

I should probably mention that my distaste for autumn has decreased considerably over the past six years. I officially decided to like it in 2011, and my newfound gusto for the season was strong enough to endure even in the face of my father’s surprise death on the Thanksgiving of that year. It actually can be a marvelous time of year from the right perspective, but I still cherish the looming presence of Halloween throughout. It suffuses these months with an inimitable flavour, and I’ll brook no complaints about that.

Update on 2013-09-30 06:08 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best Halloween sale? Any one that owns it.

Spaghetti Style

Alright. What is going on here? I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you, abstract personification of a theoretical reader. “Spaghetti Style”? That’s my focus. The rest of the label doesn’t exactly fit any familiar norms of elegance, but that’s Tinkyada’s prerogative.

There’s room for some linguistic chicanery in the food industry. That’s no lie. I’m accustomed to that. I understand it generally. Honesty isn’t exactly a priority, but there’s a velleity to avoid actual fraud. People don’t necessarily have to know what they’re getting, but that knowledge must be an option. That’s why you get phrases like “cheese product” on the packages of food items that can be used in situations that would ordinarily call for cheese. And let’s be clear. There are times when you want cheese, and there are times when you want cheese products. I recall times in my childhood when circumstances would delay dinner to the point where a snack seemed appropriate. I remember one of those instances from a warm summer night on which I walked to the refrigerator as my mother reminded me that supper was not exactly imminent. To this, I gave an answer of easy acceptance, happily grabbing a trio of Kraft Singles from their slick blue package.

This was not a time for cheese. I had a craving on that night, and it was one that could only be satisfied by the consumption of raw Kraft Singles. That’s the sort of scenario that benefits from a clear delineation between cheese and cheese products. My gratitude to the food industry.

But that can’t be what’s going on here. What stops these long, thin strips of pasta from qualifying as spaghetti? I could understand if there were some quibble that prevented them from calling themselves pasta, but there isn’t. That claim is made quite clearly on the label. Has the circuitous idiolect of the food industry become pervasive to the point where companies just slip into it even in situations where it isn’t actually required? I would think that additional complexity is the last thing dinner needs. I suppose that that’s just another reason for me to avoid cooking.

Update on 2013-09-23 00:29 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best cheese product? 

Are there cubed Kraft Singles? We should look into that.

Does Wales Have Cheese Mines?

“Far below the lush peat of the Welshlands, Collier’s cheese mines hide the finest cheddar of the United Kingdom. Hardy men come from all corners of the Commonwealth to tap the rich, golden veins of dairy treasure that are the pride of Wales. They dig deep into the earth for this creamy bounty, and we bring the product of their labour to you.

Powerful! Welsh cheddar.

Puissant! Welsh cheddar.

Pungent! Welsh cheddar.

Penetrative! Welsh cheddar.

Welsh cheddar. Straight from the cheese mines to you.

Also, fuck Somersetshire. Don’t believe a damned thing they say.

Welsh cheddar.”

Update on 2013-09-15 21:02 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best cheese? Cubed.

I Skipped Thursday

The new season’s first month did not have the most auspicious start for me.

August ended pretty well. I don’t think that I even noticed that it was ending. I just continued on the summer path I’d been treading for months. On the penultimate day, I went out to the beach with some friends I hadn’t seen in a while, and they later joined my guitarist and me for one final summer session of street music.

Saturday was a late night too. In the vague proximity of the dawn, I decided that I wouldn’t worry about trying to get to sleep until I actually felt tired, summarily acknowledging that I’d probably get near noon before that started to happen.

My memories of the details of the ensuing hours are slightly fuzzy, though it might be fair to mention that some of that is probably due to what my brain went through on that day. I think that I started to consider sleep around 11:00, but I got distracted and postponed it further.

I awoke in pain and confusion at some point in the evening. I’m still not totally sure about what happened. I know that there was a seizure of some sort, and the fact that a bunch of stuff from my desk was on the floor when I woke up could lead one to assume that I was sitting at the desk when the event happened. However, my clothes had been moved from my bed to my chair, and that’s something that only happens when I decide to go to bed. I’m really not sure about any of this.

These sorts of things always mess with my brain. It does something to my mood and my memory. It makes the preceding days feel less real. Between that, the cold weather that greeted me upon my rise, the actual shift in calendrical months, and the sheer contrast between the good times of the weekend’s beginning and its unfortunate end, I could not have asked for a cleaner break between seasons.

But I didn’t ask for a clean break. A clean break is exactly what I don’t want. I prefer to coast along on summer breezes until the sweet Samhain scent of of Halloween makes its presence known. I rarely know exactly what to do with the intervening time. In fairness, I have come to love autumn in recent years, but that doesn’t make this much easier. The fact that yesterday’s spontaneous stop at the dollar store revealed an entire aisle of Halloween stuff might, though.

There is a bit of symmetry in this. My last seizure was at the beginning of the summer, and it affected my left arm in a way that made it fragile enough to suffer several dislocations throughout the following months. This seizure ended the summer by doing something similarly heinous to my right arm.

I felt quite infirm for most of the week, but Thursday definitely marked a turning point of some sort. I woke up late in the evening, and my return to consciousness was greeted by leg spasms. Upon trying to walk, I found that it wasn’t worth the bother, and I decided to return to bed and try again. After a couple of hours, I awoke again to identical sensations, and these led me to call the whole day off in favour of an early start to Friday.

I’m pleased to say that this actually worked brilliantly. I got up around 4:00 in the morning and sought ways to fill my day. I realised that I hadn’t dyed my hair in a while, and though that fact was partially attributable to a pale desire to wait for greater length, I felt that this particular Friday would be my last completely free day for a while. This Monday marks the start of a particularly busy period at the restaurant where I work, and the end of that period signifies the cessation of my duties for the winter. This weekend was basically the calm before a storm that directly precedes a deeper, more profound calm.

Anyway, I stopped in the middle of writing this to go to the salon, and the results are unsurprisingly fantastic. I also tried something new with my eyebrows.

I don’t know. Maybe that’s a more auspicious start?

Update on 2013-09-09 00:31 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Biggest obstacle between summer and Halloween?

Thanksgiving.

Redundantly Flawless Victory

I was flipping through some old comic books recently when I saw this. They weren’t that old. They definitely weren’t old enough for this to make any sort of sense for me. I didn’t look at the date on the issue, but I remember when this game came out because I bought it almost immediately and let it sit in oblivion for a year before I even opened it. It was the spring of 2011.

Anyway. Before I continue, I’d like to make clear the fact that there are levels to this anomaly. Multiple levels. I don’t think that I’d be talking about it if it only had one level. I wouldn’t even get out of bed for one level. Actually, that last bit’s occasionally a bit of a problem for me, but I’ll leave that for now.

First of all, the print industry’s not exactly in an outrageous state of growth right now. Even mainstream publications need to put effort into moving forward, but niche products really seem to be struggling, and this thing fits quite comfortably into the latter category. One would assume that these guides would have to be doing particularly well to continue at this point.

But I really don’t see how that can possibly be assumed.

The offerings of this project seem to be directed towards the people who played these games in the early Nineties. These were the days before the internet could be used for everything. These were the days when people lined up and payed to play these games in arcades. Secrets couldn’t be learned by a quick trip to the web. They couldn’t even be reliably gleaned through hours of consecutive practice, for one’s time at the machine was limited by the amount of change in one’s pockets and the impatience of the rest of the people in line. Special moves, strategies, and things of that sort could be passed by word of mouth, but such information was hardly infallible.

But these are not those times.

Alright. Fine. Obviously, there are certain minute points that could theoretically lean in the thing’s favour. Perhaps some people don’t want to spend a lot of time on practice. Understandable. That can be replaced fairly effectively by five minutes on the internet.

I’d even accept the fact that there are some people for whom the internet isn’t the most natural of things. They might not know the resources the web has on offer or the ease with which they can be accessed. However, I would doubt that many of these people fit in the demographics towards which these games are marketed. They’re surely not plentiful enough to finance the continued success of these guides.

But this madness goes even deeper than that.

All of the secrets this advertisement promises? All of the special moves and finishing rituals? All of that is clearly and readily available within the game. Every single thing. The entire list of special attacks for the character you’re currently playing can be accessed directly from the pause menu. That was the first thing my friend and I did in our first match when I finally opened the game in the summer of 2012. It took 40 seconds.

Update on 2013-09-02 06:33 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

And it comes in hardcover? How can it possibly come in hardcover?

I really just don't know

Hale Snails and Vapour Trails

I’ve heard people say that current trends in recent animated films like “Turbo” and “Planes” hold morals that glorify and exacerbate the worst qualities of this generation. For some reason, I’ve been seeing fewer movies recently, but I don’t think that I would have wanted to see these ones anyway. I’m thus unable to speak to the details of these narratives, but I’m familiar enough with their structures and the arguments against them.

Essentially, the protagonist is an inexperienced misfit with vast potential who finds himself in competition against professionals of the discipline in which his talents lie. Despite his naivety and lack of training, he’s able to succeed against the professionals through sheer willpower and natural talent. A pessimistic interpretation would take this to signify an endorsement of the impatience and narcissism that supposedly typifies my generation. Incidentally, I happen to think that generational stereotypes are nonsense. I’m obviously not the best person to say this, for I am flagrantly impatient and narcissistic, but those are personal faults that cannot be ascribed to everyone who was born within two decades of me.

Anyway, I’d disagree with that interpretation for two reasons. First, it’s a narrative trope that goes back for millennia. Protagonists are generally supposed to be interesting, and the easiest way to make a protagonist interesting is to make him special in some way. Do you remember King Arthur? Do you remember when he was a scrawny kid with few prospects and fewer muscles who attained kingship by pulling a sword from a stone in which it had stubbornly stayed against the force of dozens of strong men? Do I even need to mention that many of those men were probably knights with years of leadership experience that might have been more practical in the ruling of a kingdom than divine appointment or prestigious lineage? Admittedly, the tutelage of a wizard tends to balance things out, but the point stands.

I’d also like to say that such tales don’t lead people to expect victory without effort. Anyone who carries that expectation will lose it immediately after discovering that it doesn’t hold up in practice. Maybe he’ll realise that he needs to work for what he wants, or perhaps he’ll give up after that first failure. The world has always been filled with people of both types, and it always will be. That’s not the point of the story. The point of the story is an emotional one, and it’s designed to get people to give themselves a chance. After sheer laziness, one of the biggest reasons for which people don’t try things they’d’ otherwise enjoy is intimidation. Any skill that one might try to pick up has already been perfected by multitudes of other people who’ve been practicing it since childhood. Although that’s an understandable reason to avoid something, it’s also a terrible one. I recently discovered that the guitarist for my band, who is a truly glorious musician by all accounts, only started playing in the middle of his adolescence. He knew people who were already proficient in the instrument, but he didn’t let early inferiority stop him, for he was passionate, and he knew that mastery is not always something that’s apparent at the start. It’s an obvious truth, but it’s one of which some people still need to be reminded.That’s why we have stories.

Sometimes those stories just happen to be bad.

Update on 2013-08-26 06:48 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Sword of the stone versus Excalibur. Which wins? 

The sword in the stone was really more of a ceremonial blade, while Excalibur was clearly made for battle. Excalibur wins.

Fly in the Water

I recently ran my first half marathon for no reason. It was late, I was bored, and I couldn’t see a reason to stop after I’d finished the usual four kilometres. It was a fairly good time, though there was a point at which my leg sleeve started to slip, and I feared that it would fall and force me to stop. Fortunately, it stayed up for the entire night because it loves me. I think that there’s a beautiful kind of purity to the love I share with that fluffy thing.

I also got lost around Kipling because of that maddening loop thing and the transition from Bloor to Dundas. I thought that I was continuing along Bloor, but I’d actually failed to make the switch to that street’s new path. When I realised my mistake, I ran up a tiny road by the name of Aukland and turned east on Bloor until I reached that loop again. I actually tried to consult my phone’s map at that point, but that failed miserably because traffic loops are even more incomprehensible without any representation of depth. I ran around the loop and returned to Bloor, but my divided attention must have caused me to inadvertently invert my map. I dropped my phone around that time too. Maybe that did it. In any case, I didn’t realise that I was heading west again for a fairly long time. I passed Aukland again, but there was some part of me that believed that Aukland was doing that whole Dundas thing of twisting around on itself, and that part convinced the rest of me that Aukland was indeed long and circuitous enough to intersect with Bloor twice in the space of a mile.

When I found myself among suburban lanes, I finally admitted that this was a part of Bloor I had not previously encountered. Checking my map again, I discovered its inversion and turned around there. My third encounter with the overpass wasn’t completely free from confusion, but I was able to deal with it and continue east. Things were alright after that. I stopped around Keele, drank nine cups of water, and proceeded to walk home.

Anyway, I arrived in my room to find  a fly on the inside of the cup of water that I’d left there earlier. I was thinking that it might still be alright if I could just get the fly to leave the cup, but when I tried to blow the arthropod away, it fell into the water. That destroyed any willingness I might have had to drink from that mug, and I let the water sit for a while instead. When I finally got up in the morning and poured the water out, however, the fly revealed that it was still alive and flew away.

Update on 2013-08-18 06:35 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Worst thing about amphibious flies?

They could teach the spiders . . . 

Tasty Trends

I don’t think that great taste is really a trend for anybody. Indeed, I’m fairly sure that taste is usually the only real purpose of food beyond sustenance for most people. For some, it probably even takes the top spot. There are probably a few other considerations for some individuals. I’ve heard some say that certain foods can be refreshing, but I can’t relate to that at all. What’s the point of a cool summer salad? I’m just going to throw that thing in the microwave. Food does not refresh me. Drinks do. That’s basically all they do. That’s why I haven’t even glanced at any kind of hot beverage since high school. What are they supposed to do? Are they supposed to be soothing? I don’t have time for that business.

Now, if we were talking about the emotional effects of different foods, I’d admit that some dishes have a tendency to trigger subtle responses in me, but I usually ignore those because they are wont to steal attention away from the actual taste. In my mind, concentrating on a meal’s emotional value would be like watching an old favourite movie and wallowing in the memories it brings up. That kind of thing is fine if that’s actually why you’re doing it, but otherwise it’s just a distraction.

Anyway, I doubt that people like tasty food because it’s fashionable. I don’t think that there’s some chef who’s yelling at his young apprentice to replace his fetid fare with something delicious for the stylish crowd.

“Hey! Apprentice! Put out the good stuff! The hipsters are coming!”

“But what are we going to do with all this slop we haven’t used up yet?”

“Save it for Sunday afternoon. That’s when the geriatrics come in.”

“Good call. But why do you keep calling me ‘apprentice’?”

“I don’t know. What else would I call you? Do you have a problem with it?”

“It just sounds too formal. Why don’t you call me ‘boy’? Like they did in the old days. It just sounds more classic.”

“Hm. ‘Boy, fetch the dishes!’ Actually, you’re right. That does sound better. Thanks, boy.”

“Yes, sir!”

Anyway, food isn’t really a trend. Certain aspects of cuisine may be. Gluten hate? That’ll probably pass. Greek yoghourt? That could be a fad. But I’m reasonably certain that people are still going to want to eat things that taste good long after all the quinoa has faded from sight. Even when the reign of bold white letters on bright red backgrounds has ended, there will still be a demand for edible goods that cause pleasure when they are placed in humanoid mouths. That’s not going to change. Did you think that we thought that you were going to change? Don’t worry, guys. No one suspected that you or your competitors would suddenly just start trying to make awful things. From what I understand, that’s not really a thing that people often do. Unless . . .

Wait. Is there some sort of postmodernist food conglomerate I don’t know about? I suppose that they’d probably do something like that. Great taste isn’t a trend, but bad taste could be.

Update on 2013-08-12 02:49 by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Can taste be accounted for? 

From what I have heard, it cannot.