Draining my fangs

Everybody in my world knew that regular work was just another word for being robbed and dying of boredom.

-Sarah Waters, Fingersmith

Miss me?
There are two main reason that I haven't been writing lately. One has been Christmas, the other has been work. I've decided to embrace the entire concept of the blog as a place to vent some spleen, as I have precious little other places to do it.

Having read through the Gospels a couple of times, I haven't found a single reference to people having to buy anything or go into the black hole of credit card debt - I'm pretty sure that lending at interest is frowned at in the Bible, but that's another matter - let alone having to tolerate behavior to which the only sane response is at best a thunderous "fuck you" in order to celebrate Jesus' birthday. What really irritates me is the invoking of the necessity of staying calm and not over-reacting "because it's Christmas". Apparently Christmas is supposed to engender rational self-control, but good manners not so much. I'm not sure where this holiday went wrong, but I doubt that making me want to smash things with a claw hammer was quite what Jesus intended, if he did in fact intend us to celebrate his birth at all.

The other thing that's been getting me down is work. Now, for the sake of discretion, I can't actually name it, but we'll just call it Humanity's Complaint Department, or (HCD) for short. When, over a couple of beers, I was describing to a friend what actually happens at the HCD, he aptly pointed out that it sounded like all the worst parts of retail - with none of the benefits. For those of my readers who've worked with me at BeastCity, imagine - if you dare - a clientele that consisted solely of irritated Ken Finklemans and angry Bernards. With none of the in between customers who had a genuine love for the product, or simple hadn't been raised by wolves. In fact, there isn't even the respite of Ken Finkleman in mild mood or a sweet-tempered Bernard - who, to do him justice, was charming when he was in a good mood - because they're like that all the time.

What adds injury to insult is the written hyperbole. When every single letter you read is written in the colour of aggrieved self-righteousness, bemoaning the fact that the writer once believed that Canada was a country of Law, Order and Moral Virtue - that now that that veil has been brutally torn away from their eyes they will be forevermore living in a shattered back alley of broken dreams, giving unhappy defeated hand jobs to the cruel and powerful. The above is only a slight exaggeration of the type of rhetoric a great deal of our clients enjoy using. The spelling has been somewhat improved. Their opponents are little better, using the weaselly language of deceit, evasion and denial of moral responsibility so well that it makes this twenty-six year old slacker blush. After working at the Beast, I really though that my opinion of general humanity could not run any lower. Like all optimists are, I've been proven wrong. In short, I'm suffering from an extreme case of compassion fatigue.

Of course, because all good things come in threes, on top of irritation and moral dismay the other reaction my job provokes in me is boredom. A high degree of boredom. It is incredibly repetitive, dull and the only reason why they don't get a chimp or a computer to do it is because of the inertia that is natural to all bureaucracies and because it is wrong to hurt animals. Despite everything, I will go to my grave a happy man knowing that I made a difference in the life of some chimp somewhere.

So why not just leave? I am, of course. I recently received the wonderful news that S. College has approved me for entering their Library Technician program. The program starts in May, lasts a year and will at the end of it give me a job that is commonly reserved for grown ups. For those of you who are wondering what a library technician does, the simplest way I can explain it is that I will basically be a librarian. Basically.

Let me close be saying that everything is not as bad that I'm making it out to seem. I've got a lot of good friends who keep me sane, I've been introduced to the music of Shearwater and Okkervil River, and at least the job pays fairly well. Of course, there's also this:



Ride free little guy, ride free.