I talked to my pal Ghnugh from Mars the other day. Sheeeet. He says the food in Mongolia is terrible, and really, I’m not too shocked by this meaningful revaluation. Perhaps I am dead on the inside. In other news, I broke into the innermost vault at the Royal Bank of Canada to find all they store in there is bananas with seeds. Go figure right?

Etcetera. Etcetera. That was before I realised that I’m missing the point. These bloggers take themselves just as seriously as I do. I spend almost as much time as they do scraping together the little details of my life into something legitimately readable. For me its more an attempt to take stock of how sardonic my take on the world is before I start turning into a bleary angry mole person. That and if I ever want to write my best seller which I will totally post on the internet because that is the only publicity… man… I need all the practise I can get. (Whoops, my bad, taking a shot at the ‘Author Bloggers’ again). Here I am working on stopping my hate fest and I just can’t do it.

The problem is I am a totally schizophrenic blogger. Some days I want to be the ‘oh woe is me, this is my internet outlet, hear me whine’ writer then the next I’ve decided to be the ‘professional purpose driven, look I even have a mission statement’ reporter. Between those two comes the ‘hate filled everyone if stupid but me’ blog which usually has a perky review the next day. So, basically Empty Cage is a big huge steaming poo most of the time because I have no focus whatsoever.

Of course then I sit around thinking “Well, Jesus, I should just pick one and build me a niche” (preferably by violently clawing competition out of the niche and cuddling my blogger’s bottom in there). But then, I would need several other blogs to accommodate all of my mood swings, and really, I don’t update this (or my defunct livejournal) enough to legitimately need another blog. We happily return to square one.

I think my writer’s “voice” is best suited to a critical blog. My reviews and rants tend to be more interesting then when I try to make an interesting case for reading about my day, but even that is perilous because then you need to both have something to write about, as well as be in a constant state of either rage, disdain or both. And while this is usually the case for me I wouldn’t want to enragggggge any customers because I one day decided to mention how much I lovey-wuv my life. And by customers I mean readers, and by lovey-wuv I mean don’t hate.

At least I haven’t sold out and started paid-blogging yet. I can keep my goatee and indie scarf a few more months yet. Maaaaaaan. (More being mean to real bloggers — wheeee!) But maybe I should I could do with writing a comedic piece on some randomly selected keywords. Shit, maybe I need to stop.

What does all this circle talking mean? Mostly that we should be watching for me trying on different blogging hats for the next few weeks/months/years until people actually read my blog. Righto.

If nothing else I am reminded that Scott Adams (creator of Dilbert) is not only probably insane, but that I agree with him enough that I am also probably insane. I definately laughed out loud and would reccomend this book to anyone looking for a good laugh. At times he tries to get serious, which throw the pacing off a little bit, but I guess it may be a bit soul destroying to be ‘all funny all the time’

Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mouth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye’ve spawned to replace yourself. Choose life.

The first book of the summer seventy five is Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting. A book about drug culture in Edinburgh.

Trainspotting was an obvious first choice for me, though I have yet to decide if I liked it or not. Maybe when I’m not marathoning I’ll take the time to read it again. I’ve been told time and time again that I will love the movie that is based off this book because it’s ‘weird’ and, well, if nothing else it is that written exclusively in the Scottish vernacular it became very endearing very quickly. It is conversational and confessional in nature and so reading it is more like being privvy to a conversation than reading a book.

It can, however, be a bit rocky to read. It certainly adds to the effect of the novel. You generally feel as disoriented as the junkie who you happen to be following, written in quick vignettes. You’ll occasionally be at a loss for who you happen to be following in the malestrom of Scots. I half wish I could ask an actual Scot who has read the novel if it is more comprehensible. The novel is endlessly impactful, constantly punching a huge windhole where you thought you might have had guts at one point.

Do I recommend it? Well, I think its a patient read, one that you need to want to read. If you’re willing to hack through the slang, drugs, sex, and cursing there is something undeniably unbreakable about the book. You read it and realise that depravity is in the eye of the beholder. The message is there should you care enough to dig it out.

For me there is of course the added appeal of it being set in Edinburgh, where I lived a few months. You recognize place names and just wish you were back there.

Whether you chose to read it or not you cannot deny the attachment of the novel to the indulging of your wicked side.