Medical Miracles

In the middle of the last week, I realised that there were two things that I had to do at the beginning of February. One was attending a visiting friend's concert, and the other was visiting the dentist's office. I decided to get the latter out of the way first.

I'm not fond of visiting the dentist. There isn't a lot of pain, but they always think that I'm on drugs, and it's not for the usual reasons. But I went. I dealt with it. I did it in service of enjoying my friend's show with a clear head.

Actually, I should talk about that show for a moment. The band's called Tropical Dripps, and the friend who started it was Hot Apollo's first bassist. We parted amicably when he realised that he had to be the leader of his own band, and he's been making a success of that plan since. You can check them out at tropicaldripps.bandcamp.com. You really should. 

Anyway, after I'd finished the day's business at the dentist's office, they sent me on my way with a record, which I promptly forgot to remove from my bag.

My next lapse of memory came on the following day when I left for the Dripps show at a local sushi house without my identification. This can be partially attributed to the fact that I generally don't think of the need for such things at a restaurant, but apparently some places have age limits at night. I don't know, man. I'm no restaurateur. I don't even spend much time at the places.

I get there around midnight. After a casual discussion with the doorman about the necessity of identification, I begin to leave. As I stand by the door, my fingers sift through the contents of my bag in vain hope for some form of salvation. That's when I realise that I still have the record from my dental appointment. It has no picture, but it has my birth date and a variant of my name. At this point in the night, that's enough for the doorman. 

When I got in, I discovered that I'd missed my friend's set, but I got to see the guy for the first time in ages, and I found some enjoyment in the performances of the other bands. 

In the end, I was gratified to note that my reluctant visit to the dentist, which I'd scheduled mainly to heighten my enjoyment of the weekend, was actually crucial to enacting my weekend plans at all.

Update on Monday, February 3, 2014 at 01:01AM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best tooth? Sweet.

Cosmic Regalia

Why are astronauts always wearing full space gear in their photographs? That stuff can’t be comfortable. Right? But every astronaut in the history of NASA always has the same outfit with the same pose against the same backdrop. The last two parts make the most sense, but I can’t imagine that everyone wants to wear that orange monstrosity when circumstances don’t dictate it. Oh, I’m sure that some people enjoy the pomp and tradition. That’s fine. But there must be many who don’t want to have to deal with the whole apparatus in circumstances that don’t actually necessitate it. They wear those things for months at a time. I can’t believe that they want to take up such burdens when they’re on Earth. Two or three probably just want to wear pyjamas to the shoot. What’s wrong with that? They sacrifice all sorts of worldly comforts while they’re out and about in the frigid void. I can’t honestly fathom the imposition of an extra inconvenience for a meagre bit of publicity.

“But Jaymes!” you say. “You wander around in ridiculous outfits all the time! Surely that can be inconvenient!”

But that is my comfort, and that’s my choice. It’s not done out of solemn duty to external tradition. I only expect the same freedom for the servitors of extraterrestrial exploration.

Update on Monday, January 27, 2014 at 12:26AM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Rocket Robin Hood versus Sherlock Holmes of the 22nd century? When all else is equal, the guy with the jetpack is going to win. Robot Watson, who may more properly be called "Robotson", could probably even things up somewhat, but that would give Robin implicit permission to call in his Merry Men. That would be a massacre.

Resistance Training

I’ve been trying. I honestly have. I think that I’ve managed to increase my tolerance to the cold by 10 degrees. At least. That’s not much. I’m well aware. What can one say? I’m a creature of heat. I can’t easily abide the frosty winds. But the season seems incapable of meeting me in the middle.

We were having some good days. I’m on the verge of love for the zero temperature. Unless I’m already cold, that kind of thing seems quite balmy in the absence of wind. After the montoh's frigid start, I forced myself to hope that things had levelled off. Wouldn’t that have been fantastic? Indeed. Indeed it would have been. But that doesn’t appear to be the case. Instead, I’m getting all of this randomness. As though it felt some incorrigible desire to reinforce the popular antipathy for Mondays, the cold has been making a point of giving its worst directly after the weekend. As I post this, things shall surely be progressing towards their weekly nadir.

But do you know the worst part?

It’s forcing me to wear a hat.

Update on Sunday, January 19, 2014 at 09:19PM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Coldest part? Fingertips. 

Keep On Rocking in the New Year

Well, Hot Apollo's fresh from our first show of the year, which was also the debut of our new drummer, Aldo Camarena. It was truly fabulous to get back out there with full love and electricity. We'll be doing more of that quite soon. 

Update on Sunday, January 12, 2014 at 10:22PM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best drummer? Totally.

Furry Little Tramps

I’ve come to notice that raccoons, the vagrants of the trees, are still rather active in this weather. They are called the vagrants of the trees, aren’t they? I’m sure that people have referred to them like that before. It’s just striking me now because their spirits at this time of year seem to be significantly higher than those of the regular kind of vagrant. This is despite the similarities in their dietary habits and living conditions.

“But Jaymes!” some might say. To that I say, “Jaymes!” I say this because I really just love hearing my own name. But some others might continue.

“But Jaymes, the raccoon revels in these temperatures due to its natural fur coating, which protects it from the elements that are so inimical to those who would walk the world upon two legs.”

Well, I often wear enough fur to cover three quarters of a raccoon at least, yet I’m frequently cold. I even throw on feathers. Admittedly, all of this is synthetic. Still, the average homeless man is quite adept in the use of layers, and it is not too uncommon to see a vagrant whose outfit exceeds the thickness of a raccoon’s integument. Perhaps I have a right to be surprised at the ineffectiveness of this strategy in raising the wearer’s comfort levels to those of the legendary raccoon. Admittedly, I gave up on warmth ages ago. I dress for aesthetics because I don’t believe that attempts to dress practically will actually do anything to affect my perception of the temperature. Surprise might not be appropriate.

Raccoons also seem to react with far greater glee to a discarded sandwich than a vagrant would. Conversely, raccoons don’t seem to receive small change with the same relish that homeless men display. On this, I think that I must take the side of the raccoons. The market value of a discarded sandwich is probably equal to the sum of several quarters.  

Update on Sunday, January 5, 2014 at 10:25PM by Jaymes Buckman

Bonus Question!

Best rodent? Squirrel.