Stolen title is stolen. My brother uses that quote every year in his MSN name or his Facebook status, but I must echo the sentiment. It’s been a long day, week, month and year.

My Christmas will be a sedate one. I’ll wake up late on Christmas Eve and stay in bed until noon. I’ll probably read some H.P. Lovecraft and watch anime until it’s time to break my fast. I’ll mill about this house, tidy my room, and chat with my family.

I won’t listen to a single Christmas song, or if I do, it’ll blare out of a tinny speaker in a restaurant, or in the mall, before dinner, as I go overboard, buying last-minute additions to gifts. I’ll walk through the shops alone and smirk at people who left it all to the last minute. I’ll buy a gift card or two and leave the mall feeling victorious.

In the evening I’ll visit with my friend Jenny and we will eat. I plan to have just a bit too much to drink. I’ll wonder about my friends, and hope that they won’t be lonely. It’s awful to feel lonely on Christmas.

I’ll wrap my siblings’ gifts, wondering how my sister always wraps her gifts so neatly. Mine will have far too much tape on them, and will probably stick to the floor beneath the Christmas tree.

I will eat far too much at dinner, and I will eat far too much dessert when I return home.

I’ll probably watch the Nightmare Before Christmas and get a little bit teary-eyed during “Sally’s Song”.

I will go to bed and wonder what’s left to be done. There is nothing, but I’ll feel as if I have forgotten something. Every year, I go to bed on Christmas and feel this way. I have forgotten something important, something that I haven’t done, or haven’t got, and it will make me wonder.

“Let me sleep, it’s Christmas time.”

I will awaken on Christmas morning, and I’ll have forgot what I’ve forgotten.

It’s been over 3 months since my last blog post. It’s been really easy to make excuses to not write, the most convenient being that I’ve felt like I have nothing original to contribute. I work at a pretty pointless job and I feel utterly disconnected from things that matter. Being a call centre monkey makes me feel like my opinions, whether they be incisive, outlandish or something else entirely, don’t matter at all.

I have let myself become defined by my job.

Supposing that the weight of one’s opinions is defined solely on the character of the person expressing them is rather illogical. There is such a thing as authority, of course. Opinions on what needs to be done about climate change, for example, mean more coming from an environmental scientist than from a douchebag American Republican senator (here’s looking at you, Inhofe). Credibility must be earned.

But there’s always more to it than that, isn’t there? Sometimes an utterance can simply have the ring of truth. I think that, given my own belief about how little I matter, I began to doubt the validity of my own observations. That is a fear that many writers can relate to, I think. But instead of just writing through it, I dismissed my writing as trivial.

And it is trivial. To everyone else. To me it’s vital.

The one thing that everyone can be a truly credible source about is one’s own worldview. My observations can to you be completely meaningless, but it’s the only thing that, as long as I’m honest, I can put into words and feel like I can create that ring of truth.

So, that being said, some brief observations, to basically recap the past few months:

- Comcast is a fucking terrible company with a bullshit business model and utter disdain for its customers. It’s proof-positive that no corporation should ever have too much control over any industry. The Comcast-NBC merger seems to me a pretty effective attempt to hold on to an outdated and irresponsible business model. I am of the opinion that media should be as accessible as possible, and should not only be for the eyes and ears of people who can dish out over $2000 a year on cable services. Comcast has taken the opposite approach, and I hope they sink for it.

- In spite of the above observations, knowing full well that Comcast lacks any real kind of customer care, the Comcast customers I deal with regularly are by-and-large the most entitled and ignorant bunch of knuckle-dragging twits I have ever had the displeasure of being yelled at by. There is a game to be played to get what you want, folks, and some of you have caught on, but ranting and wailing about how much your cable/internet/phone service sucks (no matter how true) isn’t going to get you anywhere. Think about how capitalism works, choose your words carefully, and you’ll get what you want. Gnashing your teeth, beating your chest and cursing us is going to get you terminal holds and generally ineffectual customer service. Yes, I understand you’re frustrated, but no, I don’t really care. I take more calls in a day than anyone else on my campaign. I don’t have to energy to care. I want to fix your problem, pacify you, and move on to the next poor sucker who got overcharged.

- Reading for fun is so fucking awesome. I totally forgot that for a while. Writing for fun is equally if not more awesome. Books clubs are utterly pretentious, yes, but also completely rad. Cheers to the written word.

- I have not been forced to hear any Christmas music this year. I don’t miss it at all. You can take whatever Proustian nostalgia “Silver Bells” or “Winter Wonderland” awakens in you and festively shove it up your ass. The only Sleigh Bells I want to hear this year are an art-noise outfit from New York. I will, however, humbly accept any gifts and have already reveled in my Christmas baking.

Man, that felt good.

The Players.

Honest people beware, you have just entered the Liar Game.

This manga slapped me upside the head while I was reading my boards. Someone was raving about it, calling it the new Death Note. That made me curious, although being compared to Death Note is at best a mixed blessing. Its over-the-top 30 Xanatos Pileups and a Harajuku gothic veneer made Death Note a good read once through, but it’s not something I’ll ever come back to. Some of the revelations and leaps in logic made me roll my eyes, and the second half of the manga was definitely a lot weaker than the first.

Liar Game, though, makes the back-and-forth mind games not just the best part of its story, but the entire premise.

The story revolves around Nao Kanzaki, a stupidly honest girl, naive to the core, who winds up with more than she bargained for when she opens a mysterious package with a note attached:

Congratulations! You are one of the 1 in 100,000 people who have been entered in the amazing LIAR GAME TOURNAMENT!
Along with the postcard there are 100 million yen in notes. That’s the beginning of the Liar Game. When the game ends, in 30 days, you will have to return your 100 million. If your opponent steals them, he can keep them as a prize, and you will have a debt of 100 million…

Naturally, Nao thinks it’s all a joke at first, but soon she sees how incredibly screwed she actually is. Upon realizing this, she begs for the help of a notorious con man named Shinichi Akiyama. Little does she know that Akiyama has his own plans for the Liar Game…

I read all 83 available chapters of the manga in one sitting. It’s beyond engrossing. Each round of the Liar Game introduces us to a new game and a new set of characters, and every round the stakes are higher. And, as a reader, each game gets better. The games are logic puzzles, and the manga is deeply steeped in game theory. A knowledge of social dynamics and zero-sum games is key to winning the games (and to truly enjoy the manga) and the real joy is to be able to figure out how people are manipulating the games to suit their own ends. And the characters, unlike Death Note, are actually likeable. Nao’s desire for honesty and fair play becomes a pivotal plot point, and everyone has the own reasons to keep on playing. This manga is pure crack. Go read it!

Apologies for the late blog, it’s been a hectic week.

These kids are so screwed.

Mecha manga and anime have never been my cup of tea. I’ve had some brief flashes of interest in Gundam Wing and Genesis of Aquarion, but I tired of them rather quickly. Deconstructions of the mecha genre, however, have always been of great interest to me. Neon Genesis Evangelion, in spite of its flaws, is one of my favourite anime series ever, and RahXephon is up there, too. It was with these in mind that I started reading Bokurano. Hoo boy. While its purpose is similar to Eva and RahXephon, Bokurano’s method of deconstruction is quite different.

Explaining the series, unfortunately, gives a lot of the major plot revelations away, but I’ll try to be as spoiler-free as possible. Not explaining it enough forces one to insist that it’s better than it sounds, so here goes: During a special summer science camp, fifteen children who are playing on the beach discover a cave and go in to investigate. They happen upon a hidden room full of computers and other odd contraptions. While they explore, a strange man appears behind them and asks them a simple question: “Do you want to play a game?”

Most of them agree, not knowing the exact nature of the game, and press their hands against a device to sign a contract. No contract, no game.

The children have unwittingly become pilots of a giant robot, and the each have to take a turn at the wheel to do battle and save the world. But piloting the robot comes at a terrible price…

The manga does an amazing job at analyzing and integrating each child into the mix as they take their turns to pilot the robot. Some of the children have pretty typical anime wangst backstories, and some of them have…more complicated issues. Either way, the manga is effective and hard to stop reading one you start. Highly recommended. Go read it!

Oh, yeah, it’s been adapted into anime format, but I hear that it’s heavily censored and Bowdlerized, so I’m not touching it. It does, however, have one of the greatest opening themes I have ever heard:

Mmmm. J-poppy.

Warning: This is a nigh-incoherent, self-absorbed rant (what else is new?). Proceed at your own risk.

I’m not particularly sure where writing fits into my life.

I came to a conclusion walking home tonight from a pleasant evening that ran the gamut of the seven deadly sins, with heavy emphasis on sloth and gluttony: writing to me, is much like a bowel movement, causing discomfort when obstructed and relief when it has passed.

Pardon the graphic imagery, but it serves its purpose. Relief is not pleasure. I’m not sure that the pleasure comes from the act of writing itself, only the release, the feeling of pressure released, of a noose cut from the gallows.

The rest is pride. That’s where the real pleasure comes from. The accolade, or the disgust, or the confusion or anger. The incitement is where the pleasure lies. The acknowledgement of others. The audience. You.

That’s why I think blogging gets to be too much for me. It’s all relief and no release. A tonic to cure the symptoms. That’s not to say I won’t continue. The reason I set up the “blog schedule” is to continue to provide myself relief in hopes that one day I’ll write something that will cause a continent or two to shift. To finally satisfy my pride.

I restarted this particularly blog entry four times. Four. Each time I felt as if I was writing absolutely nothing. I complained about my lack of acceptance, my attempt to find a place in this world. All bullshit. I know what niche I fill and how decorative and inconsequential it is. I don’t need to write about it. My frustration about it has run its course, and thus a new topic needed to be addressed. I defaulted, of course, to the one thing all writers write about: writing. I’ve never had writer’s block like that before, not with the blog. My problem with the blog was never my lack of things to say, only my lack of urge to utter. This seems initially contradictory to my vain and preening nature, but consider that I often think that I’m far too good for the blogosphere, or just too good for anything in general, and my sloth becomes a bit easier to understand.

I’m something of a fraud, you see.

I honestly believe that I’m meant to write. The more I do write, the more I know that it’s true. But the problem comes from my sense of entitlement. That I should be immediately good, immediately accepted and praised and fretted about and railed against oh yes please do tell me I’m so fucking good and so fucking bad.

I don’t deserve to skip a step, but I often think I ought to be allowed to and therein lies yet another one of my fundamental problems.

And thus, from the chaos of this clusterfuck of self-examination, a goal is set. To find the worth in the work. To appreciate the craft of writing and derive pleasure from its making. Not to mentally elevate so that it’s “good enough” for me, but for me to understand what the act is and become defined by it. I think I may have tasted it from time to time, but the time has come:

I’m going to find out what it’s like to be a writer. For real this time.

Creaturesque by Throw Me the Statue.

I’ll admit it right now, I’m easily swayed by indie pop. I loves me a catchy hook, a jangly guitar, good-but-not-great vocals delivering lyrics that are far too depressing for the major key synth melody. It’s a tried-and-true formula that keeps me coming back, although rarely if ever to the same artists. Exceptions exist, naturally (The New Pornographers and of Montreal come to mind immediately), but generally I’ll be enamoured with these bands for all of two full album listens and then drop them outright. The problem, I think, is that so many of these bands try to get by on gimmick or charm alone and forget that whole song writing thing (I’m looking at you, Black Kids. “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance” was quite the tease). Even fun music can have gravitas, but so few bands manage to hit those highs, whether it be musically, lyrically or both.

Not so with Creaturesque. The second album by Scott Reitherman’s band Throw Me the Statue is a wholly affecting album. All of the tricks are there (the synths, the retro guitar) but the songs never devolve into pastiche and always manage to sound complete. They have a heft to them, and yet the whole album breezes by rather gracefully. “Tag” and “Snowshoes” especially embody this. Both songs clock in under 3 minutes, but managed to stun me as I bopped along to the beat.

Try it out if you like Belle & Sebastian or the New Pornos (check out “Dizzy From the Fall” for the Murdoch- and Newman-isms).

And for those keeping track, my play count on this album is already at 12 after only a few days having it on my comp. Take that as you will.

You Should Be Watching This:

Airmaster

Yes, an anime. I’m really late to the game on this one, but I had to point it out for obvious reasons. The series follows Maki, a muscular, 6-foot-tall high school gymnast who becomes too large to compete in her age group. Addicted to the thrill of competition, she turns to street fighting to try to get her emotional high back. Adapted from a seinen manga (roughly equivalent to a long-running graphic novel rather than a no-end-in-sight serialized comic), the series excels because of its audacity. It knocks off pretty much every fighting anime that came before it, and manages to balance its ridiculous fan-service with moments of epic badassedness. The art style is beyond retro, and the mascot-esque Renge is possibly the most horrifying character in existence (even though she was supposed to be the cute one), but the animation is solid, the fights are well-choreographed, and the characters are fun to watch. 27 episodes long. Check it.

I think for the rest of this summer I’m gonna try for a consistent blogging schedule: three times a week minimum Monday, Wednesday and Friday, with each day devoted to a specific subject:

Monday: You Should(n’t) Be _____ing This. Reviews and recommendations from the various media I consume.

Wednesday: Personal blog/poetry.

Friday: Bitching about politics/gay rights/et cetera.

I believe this to be a workable plan and will start tonight for my first post tomorrow. I’ve been listening to new music like crazy so I have a lot stockpiled to rant and or rave about. The only thing I’ve been consistent with in terms of blogging is my utter inability to keep my promises and keep up the pace, but I think a more topical approach will keep me on the ball.

Wish me luck.

I honestly think their strategy is to bait her into the “meltdown” that Graham claimed would be the only thing keeping her from SCOTUS. This strategy: 1. is going to alienate latino and latina voters, 2. isn’t going to work and 3. is generally insane. I think they told Jeffery Sessions to play the racism card to greatly increase the amount of frustrating hypocrisy getting thrown around so Sotomayor would simply get up and walk out due to pure frustration. Sotomayor, wisely, is gritting her teeth and shutting them down one by one, making the Republican senators look like bigots in the process.

It’s still shocking, though, to see how unabashedly condescending and outright racist the proceedings have been thus far. Kinda sucks for Sotomayor that her record is sitting there, hardly remarked upon. Oh well, once she’s in, Americans can hope for a fer realzies leftist activist judge for the next nomination.

Sainthood is a dubious honour. From my understanding of the term, sainthood is achieved by being called to holy service for a god or gods, and performing miracles. I thought of this when, during the training class at my new job, one of my co-workers from a previous call centre job came in, as a MANAGER, and began addressing the class. This man, intelligent in his own right but difficult to take seriously, had achieved a form of call centre sainthood. His canonization comes in the form of three call centre miracles:

1. Staying at his previous call centre for several YEARS before switching over, somehow avoiding being laid off in that time.

2. Maintaining a blog for his tenure at both call centres without getting fired for it.

3. Rising in the ranks of his new call centre to manager status, effectively breaking his multiple year run on the phones as a customer service agent.

That this process, in my mind, elevates this dude over the typical call centre worker is a testament to both my warped imagination and the incredibly limited expectations for call centre positions.

That I’m putting myself through more call centre drudgery is a testament to both my masochism and the state of the job market in this town.

I was about to call it a “god-forsaken” town, but truly the call centre gods have smiled upon the Niagara region. People of almost any qualifications will be considered for employment at these places. A true miracle for the under- and over-qualified alike. Although, from a perspective of long-term employment and actual career fulfillment, these gods are at best idols and at worst trickster demons, luring the lazy, confused and desperate educated masses back into their waiting arms over and over again to keep us from escaping “Just-over-minimum-wage” limbo.

Solid exit strategies are a must. It seems that I’m one of few in my training class who has one. Terrifying, that perhaps call centre canonization is the best some of these people have to hope for. It’s not the worst thing ever, of course, but who dreams of one day landing somewhere squarely in the middle? Why be a martyr to the gods of call centredom, even if they do throw you the occasional bone of inbound customer service?

$13000 in debt and counting.

My 100% happy post. These cats are playing in Hamilton soon and I must be there.