The Depression Cure

There has been a lot of media chatter recently around The Depression Cure by Stephen Ilardi -- outside of the health press it has also been featured in the Guardian, attracting the kind of social media attention most authors dream about.

It seems quite a simple premise, instead of prescription (and presumable, non-prescription) drugs and apparently consists of six steps:

• Take 1,500mg of omega-3 daily (in the form of fish oil capsules), with a multivitamin and 500mg vitamin C.
• Don't dwell on negative thoughts – instead of ruminating start an activity; even conversation counts.
•  Exercise for 90 minutes a week.
• Get 15-30 minutes of sunlight each morning in the summer. In the winter, consider using a lightbox.
• Be sociable.
• Get eight hours of sleep

The advice is I have no problem with.  So far, it all sounds like most traditional common-sense approaches.  But I am wondering is what content the rest of the book has to warrant buying it, since you can get the six steps for nothing.  Is there a wealth of case studies, testing these methods on people for whom drugs haven't worked?  As Steve Ilardi is a clinical psychologist, one would hope so.

The author also apprently blames the 21st century lifestyle for an increase in depression.  Conversely, he also encourages people to be more sociable.  I would argue that social media makes us more social, not less.  Social media connects us -- you can share with friends events you are attending, invite a wide and varied list of people to events you are organising yourself, keep up to date with bands you like.  Your circle of friends can now be truly international. 

When I was growing up, if your best friend moved to another school it may as well have been to another country.  If they moved to another country, odds were good you would never seem them again.  Not only has modern technology helped us to make friendships with people physically removed from ourselves, but it helps us to maintain friendships with people we can't necessarily see.

How's that for social interactiveness?  Sure, emails or Facebook messages or Twitter conversations might not be as good as actually seeing someone, but I would argue that they should not be discounted.  To my mind, social media can tick off at least two points on Ilardi's list -- it can give you an activity, and it is social.  Plus if you have a laptop, iPad or smart phone you can tick a third off -- and go outside with it.

Just because I am a social media junkie, and because the subject interests me, I am going to give it a go myself.  And if Vermilion would like to give me a copy of the book I will even review that -- because I'm a generous kind of guy.

The Polysyllabic Spree

There's not much to say with what's happening just lately.  Britain is unusually cold and has been blanketed in snow and ice almost constantly since December -- thawing only to deny a white Christmas before coming back.  There was a day last week where it reached -20C in some parts of the country.  Sure, it's winter, but it's not normally this cold, or for so long.  That's about as interesting is that info goes.

Instead, I'm going to write about someone else.

Nick Hornby is the author of one of my favourite books -- High Fidelity -- a novel about music and love and growing up or growing old and how they are sometimes inseperable.  I don't know if it ever won any awards, and I doubt it was ever critically acclaimed or even makes anyone's "must read" lists, but I've ranked it in my top 5 for a long time.  I also greatly enjoyed About A Boy, although the latter inspired a much worse movie adaptation.

Unfortunately, Hornby's later novels have left me cold.  How To Be Good I am fairly sure did win awards, but it did absolutely nothing for me.  Long Way Down irritated me more than anything else.  But that's just me.  I'm not saying Hornby is a bad writer, or that they were bad books, just that they did nothing for me personally.

I might be more inclined towards harsh judgements of his work if I was any kind of a writer myself, but most importantly if his non-fiction wasn't so bloody good.

I don't recall where I heard about 31 Songs, where Hornby predictably enough writes about 31 different songs -- without ever talking about his memories associated with the songs.  That, to me, was a stroke of genius -- just writing about the music and the musicians and the history, and in a way that was so engaging and accessible that I immediately wanted to track down every song mentioned and listen to them for myself and see if I could experience the same magic.

More recently I picked up a copy of The Polysyllabic Spree, in which Hornby can't resist making another music reference.  The book is a complete collection of the columns he wrote for literary magazine Believer, which in the same simple concept as 31 Songs, he simply writes about what books he has bought and read each month.  And just the same, he writes about each book with humour and wit, managing to make each one -- books I've never heard of, and authors I wouldn't have considered -- seem indispensible.  Like with 31 Songs where I had to download and play these songs, Spree makes me want to dig out a notebook and record each title, before ordering them from my local library.

You might hate Hornby's fiction, or you might hate fiction entirely -- I know people who look down their noses at the idea of reading something "made up" -- but since these aren't fiction, unless you have an overwhelming grudge against the man's style as a whole, you can't go too far wrong with them.

And in closing, I had my meeting at work I mentioned in my last post, and, yeah, I told them pretty much what was suggested in comments.  I didn't jump up and down for joy about the job, I even admitted to not "enjoying" sales, but I kept mostly quiet -- because there wasn't much to say.

Summer (and Spring & Autumn) reading

If there was one thing being out of work has given me more time for, it is reading. And for that I am grateful. In the last few months I have read a varied selection of books, such as:

Dead Until Dark and Living Dead in Dallas by Charlmaine Harris
Jamie -- I'm sorry I recommended these books to you, they weren't nearly as good reading as I thought they were originally. Rating: 2/5

Echo Park by Michael Connelly
A reasonably clever crime thriller -- the protagonist whose name I can't recall clearly wasn't very memorable, although the plot had some clever twists. Rating: 3/5

Exit Music and Black and Blue by Ian Rankin
If you are going to start reading Inspector Rebus novels, it's probably not best to start with the last one. Rebus himself is not very likeable, but this is a good thing as it shows you are an engaging with the character, and I found the descriptions of life in Scotland's cities as interesting as the plots. Rating: 4/5

Cold Deck, Hot Lead and The Commanche Kid J.T. Edson
Shamefully, I'd never read a single cowboy novel before these -- but I really enjoyed them. They were fun and lively and easy-to-read, but not so easy you got bored quickly. Their charm was that they didn't try to be anything they weren't. If you ever see any of J.T. Edson's books, they're worth picking up for taking on an aeroplane and then leaving behind when you're done. Rating: 3.5/5

Dexter in the Dark and Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay
Foolishly, I thought that the books followed closely the same plotline as the Dexter tv series -- while the first might have done, these certainly do not. It's not a bad thing, it just caught me off-guard that there are several major differences in the ongoing plots. As for the plots themselves, they cleverly juggle Dexter's own personal struggles with the serial killer storylines, but reading two was enough for me. Rating: 3.5/5

Mister Roberts by Alexei Sayle
I've read all of Alexei Sayle's books -- which isn't all that many, but still more than one or two -- and I liked this departure from his normal plotlines. He remains as fondly acerbic about British people, in this case British ex-pats living in Spain, as he is in all of his previous stories, and he manages to be serious and funny and strange all at once. One of my favourite writers, satirists and social commentators today. But I still preferred some of his other books. Rating: 4.5/5

Caves of Steel by Isaac Asimov
Another author I hadn't previously read anything by that I was compelled to put right -- and though I haven't yet finished this book (the first of his robot novels) right now it reminds me of a cross between 1984 and Blade Runner.

After I finish this Asimov novel, and maybe another, I plan to expand my reading into the works of Deepak Chopra and something in the way of Quantum Physics, if there is anything vaguely accessible.

Valentine

I wanted on Valentine's Day to link to a superb John Hegley poem about Saint Valentine, and the first Valentine's Day missive.

Unfortunately, the rotten shower of bastards that are Fileden have suspended my account for breach of their terms of service. Since I have been using the site to host various MP3 files to be used in Musical Monday posts, among other things, I expect it is that whole sharing copyrighted materials thing that's got their goat up. But it means I am now without a file hosting service and all the Musical Monday posts that had their own music no longer do.

In theory, I could type it up and post it -- but John Hegley is so much better if you can hear him. I think all poetry is better read aloud to yourself or heard read by the poet, than it is read silently on the page. John Hegley makes his pieces into performances, some become songs and others become songs with ukele in them, while others still become songs with ukele and audience participation -- especially from audience memebers wearing glasses. Anyway, MediaFire seem to offer file hosting for what I want so give this link a go.

Instead what I am going to have to do is copy out for your delectation the recipe from my tapas cookery book that I prepared for the girl. I may also include the recipe for the non-tapas dessert I made, and an explanation as to what went wrong with it. But not yet.

The girl and I agreed to keep spending to a minimum for Valentine's gifts, so I figured the best place to get her something special without spending a fortune was Etsy. That's where I found the sterling silver stud earrings pictured above. I would like to link to the seller's page so everyone (if anyone reads here) can see what amazing items they have, but I'd prefer the girl not to see it. I also decided to forego the usual tacky hallmark cards, and have one custom made from someone I admire -- again on Etsy.

I had to make her stay in the living room with the door shut, talking to the cat, while I unloaded things from the car -- because I didn't want her seeing the card, nor the dozen red roses, before I'd had a chance to prepare things. The card and earrings I hid in her bedside drawer for the morning. And if you're beginning to think it all sounds a bit one-sided, I was very pleased the girl remembered that I wanted a new notebook to take to Peru with me -- and so had bought me one as a gift. What's more she even made me breakfast in bed on the Saturday morning. Ain't she sweet? Before you get too put off by the public display of affection, I shall move swiftly on to Saturday night's dinner recipe.

Pollo a la Plancha
Grilled chicken thighs marinated with harissa, garlic and lemon

Serves 4 8 chicken thighs (skin on), boned
2 tablespoons harissa paste
2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
juice of ¹/₂ lemon
olive oil
Maldon sea salt and cracked black pepper, to taste
4 lemon wedges, to serve

Stretch out a piece of clingfilm on a large chopping board, open out 2 of the boned thighs and place them on top. Cover with another piece of clingfilm and bash each one with a meat mallet (or rolling pin) until it's roughly a third bigger than it was originally. Repeat with the remaining thighs and transfer to a large mixing bowl.
Add the harissa paste, sliced garlic, lemon juice, 12 dashes of olive oil, 2 generous pinches of salt and 1 of pepper. Mix everything together to ensure the chicken pieces are well coated. Cover the bowl with cling film and leave to marinate in the fridge for 12 hours.
When you are ready to cook, preheat your oven to 150^oC/300^oF/gas mark 2. Place your griddle plate, ridged-side up, on a high heat. When it starts to smoke, put 4 chicken thighs on top, skin-side down. Chargrill for 4 minutes each side -- thigh meat tends to be slightly pinker than breast meat, but don't let this put you off because it's incredibly succulent. If you find its too pink, cook for an extra minute, but take care not to burn it. When you are satisfied the chicken is cooked, transfer it to an ovenproof dish, cover with foil, and place in the oven to keep warm while you cook the remaining pieces. Serve with lemon wedges on the side.

My own cooking of this differed slightly. I forgot to include and garlic, and had missed originally the part about marinating it for 12 hours. I also used skinless breasts rather than thighs. I don't think it suffered for not marinating, nor for missing the garlic, but expect both would add to the overall flavour. I'd never tried harissa before, which I understand is a North African chilli paste and available in most supermarkets, if you have the patience to look for it. It has a familiar flavour perhaps not too unlike piri piri -- but the lemon and the salt in this recipe give the whole thing a very unique taste. I recommend to anyone buying this book, my copy is from the library and will be returned with some slight food splatterings -- which I think is a compliment to a good cookery book.

Now the dessert was strawberry mousse. Or supposed to be.

I think where I went wrong was with the gelatin. The only gelatin I could buy was in sheets, the recipe here calls for a tablespoon. Trying to break a sheet into pieces small enough to fill a tablespoon wasn't easy, and I guess I just didn't manage enough -- half a sheet seemed like it would be plenty, but the next morning it was still like a strawberry smoothie with a lot of sugar in. It made for an interesting breakfast for me at any rate...

I want to live my life not survive my existence

So here we are, 2009.

It's time to take stock of where I am and where I'm going, but hopefully not so much of the looking back over where I have been.

I start this new year living with an amazing and wonderful girl, in our very own (rented) house -- the first time I have lived away from home since I was a student. I've curbed my impulses to try and turn the house into a mini art gallery of my photography, with the philosophy that less is more and all that -- plus nobody wants to see you endlessly stroking your ego, in the living room.

The house has its good points and bad points, but most important is that it is our space, where we can shut the door and escape the world.

In 2008 I had a bunch of goals -- rather than resolutions, it's what all the cool kids are doing these days. I aimed to get a new job, to move out of home, to travel to Spain and learn to speak Spanish, and I think to learn to snowboard properly. I own my own board, and I can't even turn properly -- so I can carve up a storm downhill and look damn cool with it, but I am in trouble with corners, with bends. That one never happened. I tried to sell the board, and failed -- this happens every year.

I started the new year working in a book shop, and enjoying it -- I loved recommending books and authors to people, enjoyed literally running off up the stairs to find something, and lived for the occasions when someone would ask me for the poetry section. But the money was bad, there weren't enough hours, and it being only a seasonal job I hadn't learned how the novelty would wear off. Furthermore, there was nowhere to "go" with it.

When they called me one day and offered me a permanent job -- incidentally, the day of my aunt's funeral -- I turned them down. Mostly because the hours were bad. But part of me must have hoped for more. So I got that "new job" in fairly rapid order -- I went to see a recruiter, told her to find me a job, any job, went to an interview the following morning and started work right away. I was taken on for a 6 month contract, and was still working there 10 months later. I went four countless interviews for something better, and in the end didn't go any further than the other side of the office -- swapping a dull job in Purchasing for a more creative and interesting one in Marketing & PR.

I think we can safely say I beat that goal into submission.

I tried to learn Spanish, but motivation was lacking and I ended up with a Latin American Spanish course. I write this one off as a half, since I am able to order food and drink in Spanish, say "I speak/understand Spanish" very well, or a little, and the usual greetings and farewells. Needless to say I also went to Spain. The girl and I are regular customers here of the local tapas restaurant, and I long to take her to Spain.

And as mentioned at the start, I did move out of home. It took a new job, a tax rebate and a wonderful girl to help me do it -- but we did it together.

Where do we go from here? 2009 is a year of adventure. Anyone that's been here before or spoken to me for more than a couple of minutes should remember I am going to be hiking the Inca trail in Peru in June, raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support. A couple of years back, I talked to a friend about doing it and doing it for charity -- but they said why bother, just raise the money and go on your own steam. I am glad that I decided to do it for charity after all -- but that's probably because I'm an attention-seeker. I am being healthily sponsored by my company, and have in turn been generating the publicity for them. But the Inca Trail isn't a goal -- it's happening, even if I have to be carried on the back of a llama, stinking of piss. That's either the llama, or me.

But what is a goal is to get fit for it. Properly fit. The fitter I can be for it, the more fun it will be -- completing it just isn't enough for me. If I can look great in a t-shirt while I do it, even better. I've rejoined the gym, and as of time of writing I am still in pain from my personal training session yesterday. My next is Friday morning, and I fear I am going to become one of those crazy people who hits the gym before going to work in the morning.

Speaking the language would be helpful, so I may also have to get that Latin American Spanish course again -- although apparently if you speak Castilian Spanish they understand it just fine, but think you sound all posh like a news-reader.

There is also adventures to be had in Australia, since the girl returns home to apply for a new visa this year -- and I will be joining her out there for fun times, before the two of us return, shivering, to England. Again, something I already plan to do can hardly be a goal, can it? But saving the £700+ for the airfare should be. I also plan to try and wheedle my way into an upgrade, but we shall see how that works out.

I've only been in this job since October, so it's too soon to be considering getting another -- although I am only contracted until October of this year, so I might not have a choice in it.

A year without any incidences of self harm would be good, as I can't remember a year since I was in my mid-teens or younger that there hasn't been an incident or two, though in more recent years it has got a lot better -- to be able to start 2010 saying I didn't deliberately, physically hurt myself the previous year would be good, although a little sad. Perhaps a goal should be to treat myself better? No doubt having rigorous exercise regimes and goals like Peru will certainly help, not to mention the love and support of the people around me.

And in closing, ladies and jellyspoons, my goal in 09 is to be more creative. Last year saw me take up painting -- if only for the one picture. But to conceive of and create a dramatic picture on a canvas, and then to have it exhibited as part of an art show, was a real achievement -- but my creativity is seriously lacking this year. I haven't done open mike poetry in years, let alone written anything new, and that epic zombie apocalypse masterpiece isn't going to write itself. But generally, I need to be more... Actually, no -- that's it, I just need to be more.
I want to live my life, not survive my existence.

The girls I've kissed are grateful

The oldest text message I have saved on my phone is from my old university friend, Owen. I can't remember the last time I saw him, but since I haven't been back to Derby since the one time I interviewed him for a feature I was writing on Urban Exploration, it's probably close to five years.

On a random January evening in 2007 I received a message from Owen that read:

"I am halfway through 'The Game' by Neil Strauss. Feels a bit like Palahniuk. In my head he's played by you. That's a compliment."

I wasn't sure what to make of this, since I'd never heard of either Neil Strauss or The Game -- but if he said it was a compliment I resolved to take it as such. But I also resolved to find out what this book was about, and what it was about the book's character that had him imagine me in their place.

Owen was a nice guy, but he had some odd ideas sometimes. He was a Goth, which in some ways could explain a lot, but the easiest way to describe the difference between us in our friendship is by relating the difference between my idea of going out for a drink, and his. I asked him one night if he wanted to go for a drink, he did, and we arranged to meet outside the student's union around 9pm. My idea of going out for a drink that evening consisted of going to the union, having a few pints of snakebite, playing pool, and stumbling home shortly before 12.

Owen's idea of going out for a drink was he had the keys to abandoned church, two bottles of cheap, fizzy white wine, and some hardcore pornography he had found in the grounds of the church earlier that day. And so instead of a few pints and home, we explored the abandoned building by the light of his pen torch, then looked at the porn he found, before drinking the wine in total darkness, because Owen was concerned about conserving his battery life.

That was Owen. He was a Jewish, vegetarian Goth who would sometimes eat meat when he was drunk and his girlfriend wasn't around, and liked to tell tall stories. He'd read a few novels by Chuck Palahniuk that I recommended, most notably 'Survivor' (which I still think is one of the best) and so I was curious. Who wouldn't be?

I think immediately following the message I looked in my local library for the book, and found out it was a true story about the world of pick-up artists -- there was also a long wait for the book, and I didn't think it would really be my sort of thing. Although I rarely thought any more about it, I kept the message. Until one day I was in a cheap bookshop and saw a copy on sale for £1. The book was on a top shelf among books for adults on relationships and sex, and came with a parental advisory sticker.

I realised soon into reading the book why it reminded Owen of Palahniuk, as the story progresses the style does have distinct similarities -- in a way, it reminded me a bit of Fight Club in places, where the story moved away from the fighting and onto Tyler Durden's army of "Project Mayhem". What amused me to begin with in The Game was when I noticed the main character was described as a "shy, awkward writer". At least, that's how it starts. Neil Strauss went from this socially inept introvert to what the "pick up" community describes as a "master pick up artist" or MPUA.

If you're interested in reading the book, you might want to stop with this post here, as I will discuss the ending -- at least, in a roundabout sort of way.

What intrigues me now is wondering how different some of my past encounters could have been, had I read this book before. Perhaps not serious relationships -- as I think many of the pick up 'techniques' would have only a relatively short appeal -- but if you do look at dating as a game, being played with certain sets of rules, the I could certainly have played it differently and with very different results. Rather than just being played. I think back to short-lived encounters and false starts with people like Claire and Ultra the electro girl, in hindsight they were both very obviously playing a particular sort of game.

Ultra thought she was pretty smart, but it was fairly obvious to me that probably what she was used to, or at least what she wanted, was someone to take her out on dates to expensive restaurants. Claire too, bringing her mate along when we went out for a drink, inviting me to a party then changing her mind. I wonder how different things might have gone with Claire if I'd realised what was being played was a game -- and known different skills to utilise.

Neil Strauss goes from "Neil Strauss: writer" but tragically single to "Style [as he is re-christened]: voted #1 pick up artist in the world", but unlike many others in the story, he keeps his soul. He looks into the void, and sees it is empty, he sees people becoming 'robots' with meaningless lives -- and fortunately, unlike others in his story, he doesn't turn to religion. He is the detached narrator while Tyler Durden is building an army -- literally, too, since one of his proteges calls himself Tyler Durden. What eventually saves Neil and brings him back to reality is a woman.

I do wonder if the 'rules' of The Game could have been used on people on the past for my own benefit -- but it's not what I'm looking for. At the end of Fight Club the narrator realises he has to step out from Tyler Durden's shadow and Marla Singer realises her true feelings are for him, and not for Tyler. Similarly, The Game ends with Neil Strauss realising he will lose the only woman he cares about if he persists in playing this stupid game and doesn't distinguish himself from Style. Lisa likes him for who he really is.

The important thing in both stories is that neither man could have got the girl at the end without the journey. The narrator in Fight Club learns from Tyler Durden, Neil Strauss in a similar way learns the self confidence that allows him to talk to a woman like Lisa to begin with -- and not be scared off when she sometimes seems bitchy. Lisa falls for Neil and not Style, but without being Style and learning from it Neil would never have been able to start let alone continue a relationship with Lisa.

The lessons I take away from both novels are complicated. They don't say "be yourself" or even the subtly different "be true to yourself" -- because in both cases who they are at the end is not the same as the start; it would be a pointless story if they were. Ulysses does not end his Odyssey the same man as he began it, even if the 'core' is essentially the same, although the comparison ends pretty quickly there. Do these people remain true to themselves? Maybe they don't lose their souls, but either way they build and improve on themselves.

It's just a matter of trying to draw out what's important in my own life. I know I have issues I need to build on, and it can be almost frightening to me sometimes how quickly and steeply my mood can decline with almost no warning. I know that I can appear needy, clingy and ineffective at times, but I also know that I have discovered new levels of confidence in me along the way and I am not the same person I once was.
In the words of Eddie and the Hotrods, "I am sure I must be someone, now I'm gonna find out who".

Tell a tall tale

I was very cheekily forwarded an email promoting the latest chick-lit release. It was a cheeky email, since it was sent to everyone on the First Time Club mailing list without first having asked permission from the admin, and that just wasn't on. Anyway, the book sounds like the usual dull and uninteresting tripe that is aimed at people who don't like to read or have no imaginations. But what was interesting was how they are promoting it. With a PR background, the promoting of a product interests me more than the product itself a lot of the time.

To promote the book, a competition is being run to win a weekend away -- the prize going to the person who submits the best story of a lie they have told.

I submitted a true story dating back to the Christmas of 2006, when some friends and I were at a very bad Christmas disco held at a boat club in the middle of nowhere and DJ'd by the half-deaf and slightly retarded older brother of a guy we had gone to school with and didn't really like. Sounds like the recipe for a great night, doesn't it?

The main point of my story -- both here where I first told and on the entry from -- was fairly simple, At the party I had got talking to a woman who was the Mum of a girl I had gone to school with. Her daughter was now a successful lawyer, living in LA. I thought what did I do for a living? I worked in a call centre and felt like a loser.

That's more or less where the real story parts ways with the version I submitted. Like the charming British Government's reports on WMD in Iraq, I wanted to sex it up a bit. In my submitted version of the story, I decided I should have told the woman I was an artist/sculptor (I don't think she ever asked), what's more that I was flirting with this girl's Mum, and that at the end of the night I gave her my phone number on the pretence of her giving it to her daughter but knowing she'd keep it.

One story wasn't enough though. So from a different email address I submitted the story of my imaginary girlfriend -- but again it wasn't quite good enough, so I tacked onto the end of the story being offered the job, but later breaking up with my imaginary girlfriend while she was teaching English abroad.

I think I should get extra credit for not only telling (to my mind) entertaining stories about lies I told, but actually lying about it.

Interestingly, the website for the book and the competition no longer loads, so I wonder if someone got into trouble for the spamming of the link...

On the tribulations of book selling

One of the perils of working in a book shop is that almost every day I find one or more books that I really want to read, if not buy. And to remind myself, I make a note on a scrap of paper. Now my desk is littered with scraps of white paper, with cryptic references to books. Some have the full title and author, some have just a title or just an author, some have just the ISBN number. Other notes make reference to books without giving any particular details.

Immediately to hand I can find the following notes:

9780385603102 Danielewski

Seven Daughters of Eve - Sykes, Blink -- Gladwell

Conversation on the Quai Voltaire

9780276441769

Mrs Sparks -- Thames, ackroyd (I'm slightly concerned, this appears to be a note reminding me about a customer... I wonder if I was meant to find that book for her)

My success rate at helping customers is now up where I would like it to be -- generally pretty good, and helped by my constant eagerness to literally run off and find the book for them. Customers give me strange looks as they meet me bounding up the stairs, I usually laugh and apologise for being over-enthusiastic.

One particular customer enquiry continues to bug me. The customer came in enquiring after books by Tony Hawks. A middle-aged lady, I was a little surprised but figured it was probably a gift for a teenage boy. I checked the computer catalogue and told her we had one particular book in Sport. She was confused. I double-checked, but yes, no other results -- and I reassured her, Tony Hawks is a famous skateboarder. She still looked bewildered.

Several days later I happened across this book. There exists a wealth of titles by this best-selling author, all in Travel. I was thinking of Tony Hawk, or maybe that was what she had said his name was when she asked me. If I knew where she lived, I'd probably turn up on her doorstep with everything Tony Hawks has ever written.

I'm trying to think of moments of brilliance I've had, where a customer has been incredibly vague or clueless, and I knew what they wanted -- but I am coming up short. It's fairly common right now for people to come in, looking slightly unsure, and asking about Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy, as if they expect me to say I've never heard of it either. I had to tell one customer this afternoon that Daft Punk wasn't a book -- although he wasn't convinced, since it didn't have "CD" written next to it on his son's list.

Today I also pretended to a customer to have a dog. He was buying a book called something like "The bad dog diaries", and wanting to be friendly I said to him "Haha, that sounds like my dog!". It seems I am less optimistic than the days when I was inventing girlfriends...

I did have a customer who wanted my expert help on a present for her teenage daughter. I must look the helpful, enthusiastic, bookseller I am -- even if I don't think I manage to be the hot bookseller I imagined myself to be at first. Anyway, this customer said her daughter wasn't the trashy literature type, and instead enjoyed things like philosophy. It was a bit vague, but they came to the right person with me rather than some of my colleagues, because I like this sort of thing. After a few moments thought, I went and lead the customer to Jostein Gaarder's Sophie's World. Naturally, that was far too obvious a choice -- because apparently it was already her daughter's favourite book.

This threw me, although there was another of Gaarder's books on the shelf, it didn't seem quite the same. So, although the customer insisted this was fine, I upheld we weren't that busy and my colleagues could handle the tills while I tried to find something that was suitable. Three guesses what I did recommend? Kafka On The Shore. I thought a surrealist novel that references philosophy and Shintoism should at least challenge the kid if nothing else. I'll never find out what she thought of it, I expect -- but that's not really the point.

The Evil Compass

I hadn't even realised there was any outrage over The Golden Compass until the other day I was on Snopes, checking out what was new in the world of internet hoaxes and urban legends. On the site, there was examples of two separate emails currently doing the rounds -- warning parents of the dangers of the forthcoming film, based on Philip Pullman's first novel in the His Dark Materials trilogy.

In Britain, at least, the first book was called Northern Lights, but I understand overseas it was called The Golden Compass, after the altheiometer which features in all three novels. If you've not read them, you won't know what an altheiometer is, but that doesn't really matter -- it looks a bit like a golden compass, and fits in with the subsequent books being named after important objects in the plot: The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass.

I mentioned the subject of these emails was to warn parents, and in a similar way to with the Harry Potter books, it's because they are apparently anti-Christian. The books may be aimed at teens, but I'd not really thought too deeply into the messages they contained.

I was actually a little surprised that there was no claims that "His Dark Materials" was a reference to the devil, or that the books contained evil magic or heretical ideas (like parallel universes). Instead, they focus on that Philip Pullman is either an atheist or agnostic. Clearly, he must also hate freedom, want to corrupt our children and tortures small animals -- because that what atheists do.

The emails also claim that Pullman intends his books to be the antithesis of C.S. Lewis' clumsy and overtly Christian Narnia series.

I'm slightly disappointed they don't go so far as to accuse him of being satanic, nor attributing wild and hilarious quotes like the ludicrous invented J. K. Rowling quote about Jesus sucking Satan's cock.

The kind of moral outrage and religious panic that these emails embody is rare to England -- and usually reserved for immigrants, refugees, Muslims and video games, all those sorts of evils that will destroy our society and corrupt our children and possibly even steal our jobs and eat our pets. I think, for the most part, even the likes of the Daily Mail will probably be unconcerned about it -- and I'm half tempted to at least try and stir up some. Not that Pullman needs the publicity, last time I checked Northern Lights was currently the best selling paperback in the country.

But really, what this all comes down to for me is that I wholeheartedly approve of the themes behind Pullman's novels. While they are not the rabid anti-Christian rants some would have us believe, they do make a case against organised religion. Although there is no evidence to suggest Pullman has ever said as much, if they are intended as the opposite of Narnia, I couldn't be happier. If it is okay to expose children to one viewpoint, it is not only okay but important to expose them to counter-views.

I personally have described myself as both atheist and agnostic, although I lean more towards agnosticism since I don't believe one can ever know for certain and like the Nietzschean perspective that we can't ever know if God exists because by very definition the nature of God would be impossible for us to comprehend. I would not want my children growing up into young adults and adults believing in something without having questioned it, or held it up to scrutiny. I would be more upset about films with overtly religious messages wanting to brainwash our children than I would about questioning authority.

The first email describes Pullman as "a proud atheist who belongs to secular humanist societies" -- and I'm wondering why this is somehow a bad thing? I actively welcome someone who is openly agnostic or atheist -- too often people look down their noses at agnosticism as being a kind of wishy-washy inability to commit, or atheism as a lack of values. I would encourage more fiction -- or popular entertainment, or whatever you want to call it -- with counter-arguments to these ideas.

I think the last reviewer puts it best when they reason "[Pullman's] fundamental objection is to ideological tyranny" -- perhaps the kind of ideological tyranny perhaps that is outraged at a differing viewpoint?


And for anyone who has read and enjoyed the books, go here and follow the daemon link to find out what yours what be. Mine is apparently a snow leopard, which isn't bad -- I was worried at first it might be a woodlouse.

Kafka On The Shore

Kafka On The Shore by Haruki Murakami has to be hands-down the strangest book I have ever read. I love working in a book shop, I get exposed to so many different writers and ideas I probably wouldn't have considered before. Although Kafka is an international best seller, my life and this book were unlikely to ever cross paths.

That, in iself, is not altogether unlike a lot of the novel's plot. In the book, Kafka Tamura runs away from home in order to escape a curse, handed down to him by his Father. Oedipal in nature, characters in the novel draw deliberate comparisons with Greek tragedies and in this way the book follows a very similar sort of path -- certain events are inevitable, and in a way we are all just playing our parts. Running somewhat parallel to Kafka Tamura's storyline is that of an old man named Satoru Nakata. Nakata was among a group of children gathering mushrooms one day on a school trip, towards the end of World War II. A strange silver light was seen in the sky and the entire class fell into a kind of waking sleep, or hypnotic state. Nakata was the only child not to awake shortly afterwards -- and when he did finally awake many weeks later, most of his mental faculties had been lost, and replaced with the ability to talk to cats.

While Nakata is trying to solve the mystery of a lost cat, Kafka is trying to find his long-lost Mum and sister, whom both left when he was a child. It's never explained why he is so keen to find them, when the whole reason he runs away from home is to escape the curse that he is destined to sleep with them both.

The two plot lines alternate with no seeming connection between them for most of the book. At one point a character mentions that in fiction if a pistol should appear then at some point it is going to be fired -- this clearly indicates that the two plots will at some point converge, otherwise they wouldn't both be included.

Among the themes explored in the book is the relationship between reality and dreams -- there seems to be a very flexible boundary between the two, and where one ends and the other begins is never made very clear.

I openly admit that many things in the book confused me. Nakata meets a man who has adopted the persona of Johnnie Walker. Not just the name, but the entire look -- hat, boots and everything else. Johnnie Walker is killing cats, in order to make a flute with their souls -- and he incites Nakata into killing him. Johnnie Walker later appears in one particularly surreal passage involving a crow. The name Kafka means crow in Czech, and the character Kafka seems to have a dissociative identity he refers to as "the boy named Crow". The conflict between the crow and Johnnie Walker could perhaps be interpreted as Oedipul. Who or what Johnnie Walker is is never made clear, other than that he is bad. All the business about the souls of cats and flutes is again never explained. What was achieved by Nakata killing him -- at his request -- is, guess what, never explained.

As if Johnnie Walker isn't confusing enough, later in the novel a truck driver who befriends Nakata meets Colonel Sanders. Like Johnnie Walker, Colonel Sanders has only adopted that persona -- but explains that instead he is a concept. He is also quite bad tempered, and working as a pimp.

If all of this sounds confusing, it is. I did say right away it was the strangest book I've read, but it is also incredibly well written and very engaging. The classical tragedy nature of the story adds symbolism to the strange events -- you don't ask why Nakata would be left able to talk to cats, it is clear that this happens so that he may fulfil a later destiny. Everyone has their roles to play.

The surrealism is welcome, too many books go from point A to point B and tie everything up in a neat little bow.

Monday catch-up

It's been a little while since I actually updated anything properly about my life. I mean, I have shared some brief flashes of insight and talked at some length about books, films and music -- but what's actually going in my life?

Work is fine. There isn't much more to say about it than that -- I was reflecting today how I am far, far happier in this job than I was last year, in the call centre. I was looking at the calendar to see when Christmas was and when I'd probably have to work (probably any day that's not actually a national holiday) and it didn't fill me with dread and disgust. Sure, work is work -- it's a bit of a drag at times, and I get frustrated when I do something wrong, but generally it's alright. I continue to enjoy the people I work with, there is nobody I'd say I dislike which is a huge help.

I sometimes feel like I don't know enough about books and what's new out and whatever else. I certainly don't know enough about where books are in the store, particularly ones on display in the shop window! But every now and then a customer comes along that I can really help. Last week, there was an old lady in a mobility cart who wanted a poetry anthology, featuring Rudyard Kipling's poem If. I explained without a specific title to search for, I wouldn't be able to tell her what we had in stock -- but from my personal knowledge of poetry, I could guarantee we would have at least one such anthology. Unfortunately for her, the poetry was upstairs -- and she didn't seem keen on taking the lift.

Since it was quiet, I volunteered to go find her a book myself -- since I knew it would take me all of about a minute. The first book I picked up was a specific anthology of Rudyard Kipling. Good enough, sure -- but I could do better. I then found an anthology called something like Britain's best Loved poems -- a collection of popular works about Britain. It had the poem she wanted, and seemed to have an interesting variety, plus it wasn't expensive.

Other remarkable incidents have involved someone who didn't know the author or title, but wanted books about a female detective agency in Africa. I showed her exactly where to find Alexander McCall Smith's books. Another customer only vaguely knew the title of their book -- but by chance I was able to tell them they wanted He's Just Not That Into You and it would be under Popular Psychology. Today a customer started talking to my colleague with a vague enquiry about the short stories of Alexei Sayle. She said that she'd looked on Amazon and been unable to find any books. Off the top of my head, I said there are two I own personally -- The Dog Catcher and Barcelona Plates, but he's undoubtedly written more. Although I wasn't able to say without checking if he would be listed under fiction or humour.

It's times like that I can look like I know what I'm talking about. Other times, someone starts asking about a racing driver's autobiography that's in the window and I don't have a clue what they're talking about. Generally, I like the work, since I like books and I like trying to help customers (so long as they're nice to me).

I got a phone call today from a temp agency with regards to a permanent copy writer job in Essex. In Fact, it's in the same town where I worked in the call centre -- so I am willing to bet it will be for one of the companies in the two buildings where I worked. Suits me though -- so long as I'm not in the call centre, it wasn't such a horrible place to work. The only thing that makes me hesitate was the recruiter seemed to think the pay was quite poor -- I told her I wouldn't take less than £15k a year -- I'm a post-graduate, ferchrissake, with about 18 months combined experience working in the media. I should be asking for a good £10k more than that in London. Anyway, she still seemed concerned, so we shall see. It would be a good starting position, and can't pay worse than the book shop.

In other news, winter is closing in -- it's now like the middle of the night when I get home just after 5pm, and I've started needing my scarf in the mornings. This morning was one such crisp morning, and it was nice -- I don't mind the cold if I can wrap up warm. Since today is November 5, there was also a distinct lingering smell of gunpowder in the air, and the occasional split and soggy rocket lying in the gutter. I didn't bother going to any organised display this year, I wasn't that interested. I'd wanted to go to the cinema that night -- but it seems nobody else was interested in that.

Speaking of uninterested, a friend asked me last week if I wanted two tickets to see the Sex Pistols. At first I said I'd have to think about it, but then I thought I should say yes more -- and how many opportunities like this do you get? So I said yes. I'm now £80 lighter for a pair of tickets (or will be, eventually, since I'm paying him back in weekly instalments because I'm poor) and a week later no closer to finding anyone that wants to go with me. To be fair, a few people have said they would have liked to go, but can't -- Jon said he'd try (even though I don't think he was that interested) but has been unable to get time off work. A guy I know from volunteering was very keen to come -- but likewise couldn't get the night off. I even asked Laura, whom I used to work with -- she said she was broke, but seemed interested. But it turns out she's in Scotland for the rest of the week. China Blue would probably have come -- since she likes to say yes more -- but unfortunately for me, she's on holiday somewhere hot and sunny.

My first choices of invitees all turned me down flat: I met Claire at a punk gig! But she wasn't interested. Pete plays in punk bands! But says the Sex Pistols aren't really his thing. I don't get these people. I think I must have eventually asked everyone in my phone's address book. I even emailed Tony Wright from Terrorvision and Laika Dog. It's not quite as random as it sounds, he and I have exchanged emails in the past and he added me as his friend on Facebook a while back. It would be perhaps the absolutely strangest night ever if I should happen to end up going with him, but he probably thinks I'm a mentalist. That or that Brixton is a bit too far from Yorkshire for a night out.

And to close, I watched a DVD at the weekend called What The Bleep Do We Know!? that had been exhaustively recommended to me. It's about Quantum Physics, but also the nature of the universe and how we directly influence the universe and reality and pretty much how we get the reality we choose. It sucked. It was one of the biggest piles of crap I have ever seen. The arguments or points of view about how influence reality and stuff was all very interesting, I give it that -- but it tired to have some kind of storyline which was awful and occasionally would start using animations that were patronising and irritating. These two parts combined to annoy me so much that I didn't get that much out of the whole point of it. If there is a book it was based on, I might read that instead.

Hayduke Lives!

The Monkey Wrench Gang, by Edward Abbey

I've been a fan of Edward Abbey since I read Desert Solitaire in the summer of 2001, and partly based by dissertation on his perceptions of the wilderness. But while Solitaire is (largely) non-fiction, an autobiographical account of a season Abbey spent living in "the wilderness" of Arches National Park, Utah, The Monkey Wrench Gang is quite different.

The novel follows the adventures of four individuals who band together to take a stand against the establishment -- and are probably the first accounts of eco-sabotage in fiction. In 1975 when it was published it was shocking enough -- in today's political climate, the book would probably never get published. Gary Snyder once said that Hollywood had no problems showing blood, gore and mass murder but that "the gleeful destruction of private property" seemed dangerous un-American. It's no surprise that although rights to the book were bought, no film was ever made.

The prologue to The Monkey Wrench Gang opens with the "gleeful destruction" of a bridge linking Utah to Arizona, and the book then follows events leading towards the act.

Throughout the book, the unlikely misfits together undertake increasingly larger and more ambitious acts of sabotage. Starting with Abbey's own hobby of destroying billboards -- either by arson or with a chainsaw, they upgrade to sabotaging bulldozers, and on to attempting to destroy strip mining operations and later the bridges spanning White Canyon, Narrow Canyon and Dirty Devil Canyon. Their ultimate goal is one that many people -- then and now -- could agree with: the destruction of the Glen Canyon dam.

Abbey wrote at length elsewhere about the "damnation" of the Colorado river, which flooded some of the most beautiful canyons in the US and replaced them with a large, stagnant and increasingly polluted lake. The saboteurs dream of bringing down the dam, and of returning the country to the way it used to be.

Edward Abbey's books have inspired radical environmentalists, like Earth First! -- who following Abbey's anarchist influence insist they are not a group, but individuals following common goals. Similarly, there is the Earth Liberation Front who over the years have taken responsibility for defacing SUVs, destroyed construction equipment, vandalised fast food outlets, burned down apartment complexes before they were built -- and even more, even more extreme acts. The ELF are officially designated a terrorist organisation, and have been know to leave behind the tag "Hayduke Lives!" (after George Washington Hayduke, the protagonist of The Monkey Wrench Gang.

The book makes for slightly uneasy reading today -- even those who feel the text's anti-establishment rallying cry can't help but feel that what happens is perhaps a too close to terrorism. Although the "gang" have a very strict policy of not hurting anyone, in recent years we've all been witness to the actions of extreme groups of people who wish to change the world and influence people through the use of violence. Some of these people are parts of terror organisations, and some are our politicians -- sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference between them. Just the same, it is hard to wholeheartedly support the acts in the book. But it raises the question; what else can be done? What should be done?

Abbey said that sabotage and subversion should be a last resort "when political means fail", but just the same -- he considered it a valid option, and the novel opens with a statement that although the book is "fictional in form" everything in it really happened.

The novel is compelling reading even if it isn't necessarily well-written. Abbey lacked the poetry of Gary Snyder or the style of Thoreau -- but The Monkey Wrench Gang captures a moment in time, and it remains just as relevant today.