"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 Sunday, October 20, 2013 at 04:19PM 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 Monday, October 14, 2013 at 12:11AM 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 Monday, October 7, 2013 at 02:29AM 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 Monday, September 30, 2013 at 02:06AM 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 Sunday, September 22, 2013 at 08:27PM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best cheese product? 

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