"You Just Go and Put Coconut Milk on Your Cereal with Keith Richards"

My distaste for these stems from the fact that they can be used for anything without any legitimate humour,

but that can also make them irresistible at times.

I think that I was seventeen. I was on the receiving end of one of those conversations in which an authority figure derisively enumerates various real and imagined errors that are held to be characteristic of the other individual’s apparent flaws. I can credit my mother with one thing, though. In this instance, even the imagined errors seemed quite characteristic of me. It wasn’t a terribly bitter discussion. It really just seemed to be a whimsical iteration of a familiar theme. This may explain its especial accuracy.

She described several scenarios in an effort to illustrate why my affinity for uncanny action could pose potential problems. I don’t remember many of them, but they were the usual mix of memorable occurrences and reasonably credible fabrications. I remember the last one, though. I stopped her on the spot to thank her for the wondrous idea. Coconut milk on cereal. Yes.

I didn’t really understand the inclusion of Keith Richards in the hypothetical situation, but I didn’t really bother to seek logic in any part of it. The entire concept was too appealing.
I immediately put it on my list.

I had a list at the time. It was a page in my notebook. I carried around a notebook at the time. I don’t really have either of these anymore.

For some reason, this story recently came up in a bar conversation on the eve of a friend’s departure. I hadn’t actually given the idea consideration in some time. I’ve had other things on my mind. I’ll readily admit that they weren’t important things, but they were there. They take up space. Alright? My mind is one great distraction. You understand. That’s life. The world. The craze.

Instantly, the idea was met with raucous enthusiasm, and plans were made to ingest the mysterious mixture on the following day. I love Keith Richards, but I can’t afford to wait for him.

What happened on the following day?

The mixture was ingested, baby.

Let me just say that the stuff is fantastic. It did not disappoint. I used Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops with a sprinkling of Rice Krispies, and my companion inadvertently incorporated a variety of Corn Pops that contained an infusion of cinnamon. Satisfaction was found. 

Update on Monday, August 27, 2012 at 01:24AM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best milk? Chocolate.

Where Have All the Good Times Gone? Oh. There They Are . . .

So. Time seems to speed up as I get older. Obviously. The speed is the obvious part. I’m hoping that I’m not getting older in any obvious way. For one thing, I already sound like an old man sometimes. People generally don’t seem to notice because I’m basically adorable, but there’s probably a portrait of me in some attic that looks like Mickey Rooney. If I actually start to look like that, no one’s even going to pretend to listen.

I’m thinking that this whole phenomenon of temporal acceleration occurs because I tend to live in the past. It’s not my primary residence or anything. I’ve made a good house for myself in the realm of dreams. Reality could almost qualify to be a second home, but it’s probably just a job. It’s the workplace. It’s not even the main one. I wander into the office for a few hours in the week, but I generally just work where I live.

In any case, I seem to fill a consistent percentage of the past with myself. Some of my time must accompany me. At the earlier stages of life, my past wasn’t very big. Therefore, I didn’t have to dedicate much of my essence and time to it. Now it has become quite large, and its growth doesn’t slow with age. Accordingly, I must give more of myself over to it in order to fill that same percentage. The expenditure of time keeps up with these proportions, leaving less for contemporary use. That’s why my time seems to be moving faster. I have less of it to experience in the present.

Update on Monday, August 20, 2012 at 01:15AM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best way to save time? Don't borrow it. The mortgage will kill you.

Despite All the Amputations

Loss of ability is probably my biggest fear. Amputation is obviously the most definitive type in my mind; it also entails an aesthetic trouble. I’ll admit that the whole thing with the ragged empty sleeve can look quite stylish in an errant sort of way, but I doubt that it’s worth the trouble, and it’s not a fashion that lends itself readily to formal affairs. In fairness, I’m not either. The fact that death seems relatively simple actually makes some aspects of life easier. Death is still an instinctual concern. When they’re faced with a dangerous situation, most people think, “Will this kill me?” Lesser forms of disfigurement are indeed fearful prospects, but those concepts are slightly too intricate to have any real bearing in conditions with the potential for immediate peril. Thus death is the only question. If mortal dread doesn’t occupy any prominent section of the mind, all of  those circumstances become easy propositions. Death is the worst outcome, but it’s not a frightening one. The frightening ones are forgotten in the middle.

Anyway.

I have this fear, but I’m also slightly annoyed by the fact that it means that I’ll probably never get to use a mechanical arm. The necessity horrifies me, but the mechanics intrigue me. I would think that they’d be too primitive to prevent suicide if I ever became intimately involved in scenarios that actually required them, but they could provide some interest for a while. It shouldn’t be too hard to build one that attaches at the shoulder, should it? Then we could just have additional arms. It would be as though we had extra people to carry our bags, but we’d be free of all of those nasty trust issues that prevent me from letting an actual person hold my bag.

Update on Sunday, August 12, 2012 at 04:05AM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best cyborg? Cyborg.

Chicken Tracts

Slurp the syrup.

Waffle fries and sodomy. Both are valid ways to spend an evening. They probably go quite well together too. I wouldn’t really know. I don’t believe that I am currently at a point of my life in which I can really appreciate fast food or homosexual congress; accordingly, I indulge in neither. However, I am cognisant of the way in which appeals to auxiliary passions can influence political apathy. Apathy is one thing in which I do occasionally indulge. If I had to vote, my support would probably be won by some trifling aesthetic consideration. Obama's the David Lee Roth of politics. He'd get my vote for that reason, but I can’t generally bring myself to have any significant opinions on the minuscule divergences people display over the real issues. That’s why I don’t vote. It would be bad for the system. But I know how the little things can get people to choose sides when they just don’t care about the actual situations. I just don’t want people to stand against gay rights because they like chicken. You can have both! Gay friends and waffle fries! No one really cares. I don’t think that you’re ever going to find a company that only involves thoroughly agreeable people. I don’t think that you’re ever going to find five reasonably populated square miles that only involve thoroughly agreeable people. You can grow your own food if you wish, but I don’t know where you’re going to get waffle plants. Waffle plants and fry vines. Those are especially scarce. I suppose that potatoes would suffice in a tight spot, though.

But that might not even work. You probably disagree with some of your own philosophies. I know that I do. If I based my dietary choices around the moral purity of the chef, I’d never eat anything I made. It hasn’t really been a problem yet, though. I don’t cook. I know that Toucan Sam isn’t exactly a model for archaeological protocol, but he doesn’t have time for legality or professional ethics when he’s diving to the bottom of Mayan temples for the treasure he seeks. And I can’t blame him! That treasure is one of the best breakfast cereals of all time, and I shall doubtlessly enjoy it till my dying day.  

My grandmother is Jewish, but she still likes Wagner. Well. She likes “Das Rheingold”. I don’t think that she’d care to go to lunch with the man, but I’m sure that she might reconsider if he offered to pay for the waffle fries.

Update on Monday, August 6, 2012 at 03:58AM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Worst syrup? Cough. It tastes awful, and it doesn't work. Maybe it does. I don't care. I'm not taking it. I don't need your molecular machines to fight a cough. Offer your viscous product to someone less delusional. I can take what comes. That's right. I take triumphalism to a cellular level.

He's Batman!

One of my favourite things about Batman is the way in which his power transcends his fiction. Ultimately, he’s just a human like any other action hero, but the types of stunts and abilities they share just seem more believable with him. When it’s Jason Statham or Tom Cruise in some ridiculous physical feat, one just excuses the implausibility of the action for the sake of the movie. That’s fine. That’s common. That’s standard. I just really like the fact that no one seems to have to do that with Batman. In the absence of superhuman powers that explain everything away, people generally know that most of the characters in such films wouldn’t really be able to do those sorts of things. No one really argues with that. They do with Batman, though. When someone asks for an explanation of some random protagonist’s acrobatics, suspension of disbelief will be recommended. When one asks for an explanation of Batman’s uncanny prowess, the explanation will be identical to the one that any Gotham citizen would give: “He’s Batman.”

I should say that I’m not suggesting that humans can’t do incredible things. Humans can do incredible things. That’s why they get to hang out with tigers. Guns weren’t an evolutionary development.

“Oh. Batman just leapt 10 feet straight into the air from a standing position? That makes sense. He’s Batman.” “But that’s physically impossible.” “Not for Batman. He trained to be the best at everything.” “But the guy who’s the best at that can’t-” “He’s just that good. He’s Batman.”

Update on Sunday, July 29, 2012 at 03:09PM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best flying rodent? Squirrel.