I walked through the blowing snow (because, believe it or not, it beats dusting, scraping, and shivering in the car several times) to The Bug Jar (219 Monroe Ave.) to catch the show. When I got there, from Hinkley was already playing. If you read other critics, or talk to local rock band members around town, you’ve likely experienced the universally glowing reviews of Hinkley. In my mind, they’re one of a few bands that I have weak memories of strongly enjoying, but when I’m actually at a show, I find their musical intelligence to be overwhelming and I kick myself for not going to every Hinkley show. Perhaps it was the [literal] cold weather, but I thought they sounded [metaphorically] extra warm. I describe their sound as deceptively mellow, complex rock-and-roll. I find there isn’t much more point than saying, “I think they’re worth seeing for this reason”, and avoid the “sounds-like-these-three-bands” cliché [and remember, kids, the trendy way to pronounce is "clitch" as "clee-SHAY" is totally cliché].

Next up was the new-to-me band The Corrections. I threw the word “warm” in the adjectives in my notes, down from “extra warm” for Hinkley, so I guess it was all about average kinetic energy after all. I also described them as bouncy, alt-country rock. I’m easily swayed, and visiting their website, I decided to add “acoustic pop-rock” as well. Any of those descriptions will do. Their musicmanship was also top-notch — and their lead singer was a charismatic smiler, sending a message of welcoming familiarity to the audience. Their musical style led me to compare them to early Barenaked Ladies, 1980’s Elvis Costello, and a bit of Tears for Fears, even though cliché dictates the last band be obscure. Alas, I may have tainted you alls opinions, but I believe in your ability to ignore me.

Finishing up was Burning Daylight and I was getting tired and still had an hour of walking ahead of me, so I left after just a few songs. I can’t help but give them lukewarm monikers like “solid acoustic-driven bar-rock” because I just don’t hear the complexity. It’s good, accessible, and it rocks, but I’m seldom surprised. Like Hinkley, I have weak memories of enjoying them. However, in this case, it’s indistinguishable from strong memories of somewhat enjoying them. Lots of people love them, so don’t take my word for it, and don’t sweat it that I’m not a big fan.

Ali and Christina each made a dish for the “Ramen-Off” at Monty’s Krown (875 Monroe Ave.) I tagged along although I didn’t make anything — but, heck, a tasting and a couple beers was just a few bucks. All the dishes were surprisingly creative, although most were based on substituting ramen noodles for other kinds of pasta. Nonetheless, the Thai-peanut dish that Jeff brought was the crowd favorite among the 14 entries. Judges, however, chose Ali’s “Lucky Sombreros”: baked spicy ramen wafers topped with chicken, guacamole, and sour cream (not that Ali’s weren’t popular: her dish was the first to be emptied). So congratulations, Ali and Jeff! We’ll look forward to next year’s competition.

Christina and I headed to the Dryden Theater at George Eastman House (900 East Ave.) to see Martin Scorsese’s The King of Comedy. Jim Healy gave the introduction and said he had seen this film probably the most number of times of any film he’s seen (and I fully believe he has seen a great number of films). The gist is that Rupert Pupkin played by Robert De Niro plays a stand-up comic who attempts to get the fame he thinks he deserves by kidnapping a TV host Jerry Langford played by Jerry Lewis.

The beauty of the film is in its portrayal of Pupkin as the fanboy inside me (and presumably most people) that just goes too far. For the sake of filmmaking and the story, Pupkin’s fantasies intermingle with reality — disastrously. For instance, he has a fantasy of having dinner with Langford where the star begs him to take over the talk show — despite that Langford actually does not see any refined talent in Pupkin, and far from the degree that Pupkin’s fantasy lays out.

When I set my mind adrift and daydream of an encounter with some famous person — be it a consistent legend like Randy Newman or a cute-girl-du-jour like Kate Micucci — some event happens where I get to meet them by chance, and for some reason they are interested in me or thankful for something … basically, what Pupkin does. Only in his world, this is the way things actually happen: these absurd, unlikely, coincidences are believed to play out because the fantasy person does not have a real existence. In other words, I realize that famous-person-in-fantasy has, in real life, their own existence that simply does not include me whereas Pupkin does not have such a realization. He fully believes that fame makes the real person disappear — that the celebrity is no longer real, or that celebrity can completely obscure that reality.

The movie asks, in part, how do you handle a person like Pupkin? How do you handle someone who has disposed of your value as a human being? I believe it is the same haunting psychology that leads to stalking, rape, genocide, and any human-on-human atrocity: if you can convince yourself that another person is not a human being (or that they are simply a thing) then your mind is freed to do anything to them without remorse. And if you are on the receiving end of such behavior, all you can do is either change your mind so they are no longer human and you can do what you want with them, or save your own humanity, do what you can to educate them, and wait for them to realize that you are a valuable person too.