Mikeintosh sent me a link today:

What to do if your Mom discovers your blog.

I laughed as I read it; it's pretty funny. I gather that most people, while being "totally open" or "brutally honest" on their blogs, are only that way with strangers-- to have their Mom actually READ their honesty would mortify them.

Long-time readers of this blog will know that that is patently untrue of The M Files: My mom is a regular reader-- and commenter.

Not that I go into any great detail about the seedy underside of my private life, generally involving hot gay cartoon porn or the fetishwear du jour-- but then, it's my opinion that NO blog should.

Oh right. My MOM is reading this. I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you about her.

My mom is one of my bestest friends. Firstborn sons and their mothers; it's some kind of near-mystical connection-- who am I to contravene nature?

Some of you reading this will immediately twitch and shiver at the thought of a grown man having his MOTHER as a FRIEND. "She gave you life, dude, and that's sweet and all, but you moved out, right? You've got a LIFE, right? Of your own, I mean?"

Sure I do. My own independent, pursuing my own interests, beliefs and credo life. And my mom is a part of it.

Something in North America seems to break out in a cold sweat at the thought of a man having anything to do with his mother after he moves out of the house (which better happen as soon after either age 18 or graduation from college as possible). Unless he's Italian, Texan, or paraplegic, that is.

And yeah, I totally agree that it's okay to love your mom as an adult, but hey, move the hell out of her basement if you're 35 and try and have a friend or two that isn't HER, okay?

But my mom-- she's my friend because she's interesting. This is a woman who can go to the store just to buy a loaf of bread and end up on the six o'clock news, drumming in an African drumming band chanting "Jay mon!"

That really happened, by the way.

My mom is diverse. She volunteers for the Calgary International Film Festival every year, she is a member of a book club, listens to (and goes out to clubs to hear) Jazz, and Blues. She loves foreign films (to the point of preferring them over mainstream Hollywood). She loves all kinds of food-- Indian, Thai, Mexican, Spanish...and yet can still make a good ol' down home East Coast Fish Chowder.

My friends to this day still don't know what Fish Kejerrie is, despite the fact that she made it for them out of the blue once.

She came with me to a Pagan festival in Seattle-- in fact, we drove HER car down. And she had a good time! I was terrified that the Freak Factor in my life would send her (or me) into therapy-- but yet before we left, everyone knew my mom.

People remember my mom. She makes an impression. From her willingness to actually participate in what's going on to her ability to stand on the other side of a coffee counter and politely say, "Do you think I could get a HOT cup of coffee?" and stand there until the barista has made her a new cup.

She haggles over deals at flea markets, and isn't backwards about being forward at the Customer Service counter of a department store if she thinks she hasn't received full customer care. But I think that's a UNIVERSAL mom thing. Need something returned to a store? Get your mom to do it.

She's "on the email" now, sending jokes and family photos to all and sundry. She reads my blog, and comments. She's hip enough to be aware of what it is I do, even if she doesn't get all the nuances.

She and I took a correspondence course in Interior Decorating, which may even be finished sometime soon. We watch Trading Spaces and Queer Eye together. In fact, I tape it for her in case she misses it.

She used to dote on me-- to the point where I would have to hold my arm out and say "Back off!" (To which she would reply, "YOU back off. Now come here.") Thankfully, now that I've provided her with her first grandchild, she has transferred much of her doting to him.

My mom is fun. Social. Groovy. Humourous. Adventurous. Versatile. Clever. Charismatic. Spend an hour at her place and come out refreshed and relaxed. Spend an hour with her and be energized and invigorated. (Spend FOUR hours with her...and try to keep up.)

Here's to you, Mom. Geez, you're some pretty, eh?

Brain Juice.

Call it whatever you want: Creativity, Drive, Ambition, Willpower... whatever that evanescent mental "umph" is that makes us GO, it's fueled by Brain Juice.

Brain Juice, or "umph," is produced by a gland in the brain that governs such things. It doesn't matter which gland or what science calls it. From this gland stems all our creativity and desire to produce our works, from art to song to the written word, films, television or snappy ad slogan.

Umph, kids.

And, like any other muscle or working part in the body, this gland can get tired. It can get overworked. It can get flabby from under-use. It can also suffer stress dysfunction-- impotence or random, premature production of Umph, resulting in flashes of inspiration or creativity at inappropriate times, when there's no place for it to go.

We have to treat the Umph gland with respect. It needs to be nurtured, worked out, and handled with care. We can't expect it to pull a week of fourteen-hour days in a row and still provide us with any Umph. Have you ever tried creating something on low Umph levels? It ain't pretty.

Art becomes derivative, flat. Writing becomes stale. Songs become lackluster. Oh sure, the TECHNICAL expertise that we learn through our experiences is still there, but it doesn't sparkle.

Here's some tips on how to keep the Umph flowing:

1) Don't demand from the gland! Don't expect it to produce a steady stream of Umph 24/7. It can't. It's as mortal as the rest of you-- and chances are if you're not in good physical shape, neither is your Umph producer.

2) Artificial stimulants are not a good long-term solution. Caffeine, for example, is a great Umph juicer-- but don't expect it to work every time. There could also be unexpected side-effects-- the jump in Umph you experience today could burn you out for three days afterwards.

3) Be kind, recline. Sometimes the best thing to do for the gland is to take a break. Get away from your routine and rest, or take a walk or some other relaxing activity.

4) Like attracts like. Go in search of inspiration of like-minded projects that parallel yours in some way. Sometimes, seeing what's out there in your field can wake the gland up with a reveille of excitement and renewed commitment, just because of what someone else was able to do with a similar idea.

5) You're at your best without the stress. Remove distractions-- excessive noise, too many sources of sensual stimuli, excess clutter-- create a space and time that are just for you. Treat your gland to a rejuvenating, ritual routine for it to produce Umph in. It will soon recognize the routine and start outputting Umph in a much more controlled, regular fashion.

Today, I got away from the computer and bundled the family up and went to Starbucks/Chapters and hung out for a bit, reading Christmas decoration magazines. So I got a bit of three of the above: I went out, I had caffeine (note that it was part and parcel of the whole experience and not an end in itself), and I looked at stimulus in pretty things.

And lo, by the time I got back, I had a brain FULL of Umph. And I certainly wasn't about to let it go to waste-- welcome to today's blog.

Umph. The lifeblood of my people.

This really says it all.

In case you're wondering, refer to my MACINTOSH IS GAY entry.

The Entertainment Industry has rules, like any other organization. And if you want to succeed, you have to follow them.

Oh, oh, I can hear some of you now: "But you have to BREAK the rules to truly succeed. All the best success stories come from people who broke the mold."

And you'd be right. Because Timothy Albee is one of those people, and is breaking the mold right now, even as we speak.

Timothy Albee is the auteur of a 22-minute completely-CGI movie entitled "Kaze: Ghost Warrior," and is getting set to rock the world of animation.

"One person, two computers, six months... twenty-two minutes."

That's how the opening paragraph of Albee's story reads. And a fascinating story it is, too: many movie studios were very interested in his pitch while he shopped the script for Kaze. But they all came down to one point: He wouldn't be taken seriously because his projected budget was too low.

And why was it too low? Because Albee knew that the project could be done far more easily, quickly and cheaply than the Industry believed it could be, based on the technology at his disposal.

But the Industry didn't want to hear that-- because it was different. He was breaking the rules, and that just wouldn't do, oh no.

So Timothy Albee decided to prove a point. He would do his film HIMSELF, alone, in a cabin in Alaska with no running water, with two consumer-grade computers and software that's available to almost any Joe Average.

And from what I can see on his website, he's doing a bang-up job.

I saw Final Fantasy (a totally-cgi movie) in the theatre; it was a neat film. Major release. And here is a guy, plonking away on his home computer, doing a film that looks to be just as good if not better-- despite its only being 22 minutes in length.

After seeing the trailer, I was fully behind this project-- this talent-- to the point that I pre-ordered the DVD. I want to support this guy. I want to help Timothy Albee make a point to the Industry: Talent Will Out. Albee HAS the talent. He HAS the will, the drive, the ambition. All he needs is people like you and I to help him start the revolution.

Surf on over and, if you like what you see, why not join the revolution?

The olfactory sense, or sense of smell for the unedjimicated, is a subtle sense that may have a greater impact on one's reactions than one is aware of.

This website quotes thusly: "The olfactory system, which senses and processes odors, is one of the oldest and most vital parts of the brain. For most animals, it is the primary mode of communication and influences many important functions, including reproduction and taste."

It is also, for this human animal, the primary mode in deciding where to shop.

I went to Market Mall, here in Calgary, the other day. It's a fairly upscale mall with many fashion stores and hip body shoppes and retro kiosks. It's even undergoing renovations and having a new wing added, so you know it's doing well.

And I found myself doing some seriouso shopping there, for four hours. Normally I'm an in-and-out guy, want it-find it-buy it-GONE, but since Mrs. M and I were shopping for new "nice" gear for her cousin's wedding, and her whole family was in tow, it became less "shopping for clothes" and more "outing to the mall."

The best thing for me to do in these situations is to tell Mrs. M I'll meet her at a prearranged time and place, and go off on my own. Mrs. M shops like a moth; fluttering from place to place with no rhyme or reason, sometimes back to a place she's been before, and it exhausts me; I'm more linear, even when I'm window shopping: Up one hall, down the next, shop on the right, cross to the left, evenly perusing the mall one annex at a time.

Now I've set the stage for you. In my four-hour sojourn, I realized that the overriding factor in deciding my enjoyment of a store, and whether I would shop there, was decided almost entirely by my sense of smell.

I began at the Bay. Big chain store, decent prices, with some upscale fashion couture. But the very first thing about it is the assault on one's nose from the Fragrance District at the mall entrance. Givenchy, L'Oreal, Hugo Boss, Lancome-- my sweet nasal GODS, it's too much. And when all melded together leaves me with no greater impression than the elderly trying desperately to cover up the scent of mortal decay. It's just...funereally floral.

And, to an extent, this colors the entire store. Perfumey. Powdery. Decrepitude covered up by a dusty floral shawl, secreted away in an old attic. These are the impressions my nose filter sends to my brain. So I vacated as soon as possible.

Zellers is equally assaulting, but not in that cover-up-lie kind of way. It's all rubber, plastic, factory; a sharp tang of the newly-assembled; but because of this lends a kind of tawdry air to the place. It's Zellers, after all; cheap, mass-produced, right off the line. You And A Thousand Others Like You. That's the impression there.

Then we move up to Toys R Us: A similar factory-produced smell, but it's cut with the sugar-candy and chalk smell of an elementary school classroom, and the sticky-fingered apple and alphagetti smell of children. These are memory-smells from my own childhood, leaving me open to possibility and excited by the idea that, as an adult, I can buy anything I want here. Mix School with Playground and Toy Factory and you've got it.

The Gap is one of my favorites. See, this is a place that long ago understood the Olfactory Connection. They DELIBERATELY spray their "feature fragrance" in the air every so often so that each Gap smells the same, subtly influencing their customers. And I, for one, respond VERY WELL to their scents. When I walk into a Gap, I feel at ease immediately, but also invigorated; sharp citrus mellowed with an earthy, pine or woody scent. I'm most at home there. And I feel in control; like I know what I want, and why I'm there.

Crabtree and Evelyn USED to be a favorite shop; it had a definite English scent to it, Lavender, Sandalwood and Lilac; potpourri al fresco. But now it's become too much a ladies' store, too perfumey.

The Body Shoppe assaults my nose with too much information, but in a good way; I'm curious about, and enjoy most of, their selection of aromas. And they have the sense to provide coffee beans to 'clear the palate' with between sniffs. Smart.

I realized that smell is everything to me. It's the FIRST, and the LAST, impression I have of a place. I walk into a mall, and I can tell you right away if I even want to be there. Marlborough Mall is a nasal abomination of old cigarette smoke, sweat and unfavorable grease; Chinook Mall is a newly-minted facade of decadent delights that hint that you can't afford them but should be checked out anyway.

Chapters stores always smell like books and coffee, and if they could bottle THAT and sell it I would scent my house with it! I would like to spend my whole day there, just sitting on a couch and SMELLING. It's wonderful.

So the next time you're out shopping, take a moment to listen to your what your nose is telling you. Consciously understanding what it is that you smell may help to enhance your shopping experience-- or convince you to find a better place to shop.

I think I need to grow a thicker skin.

Every so often, I'll say something on The M Files that offends SOMEone. And normally, I don't mind that-- the idea of taking an extreme, hard-nosed position (even if you're not 100% hardcore about the subject matter yourself) is to promote discussion; and I think I've succeeded in doing that.

But now and then, someone will email me saying they're hurt by what I say. And this consternates me, because I go out of my way on The M Files to make it general, and never to target an individual or use the blog as an "attack forum."

Yes, a couple of times I've received inflammatory comments that I have responded to with equal-to-or-greater-than heat, but my policy on those now is to cut them off before they escalate, or rather degenerate, into tawdry oh-yeah-no-YOU-are's.

But yesterday's blog set off a friend of mine; he was hurt by what I said and made it out that I was attacking his boyfriend.

I explained to him that, although I was responding to a public post on his blog, that I was not, in fact, referring to his boyfriend but to certain behaviours in general.

...I'm sure you can see how one's paramour cannot divorce the behaviour from the individual. I can't say I blame him for drawing that conclusion, defensive as he was about it.

And then I got the guilts. How could I have been so mean? Why did I have to go off and blow my top like that? Oh, woe, that I should have thought harder before I wrote...

...and then a couple of hours later, I pulled the What The Fuck handbrake as hard as I could.

Yeah, what I wrote hurt a guy's feelings. And maybe I could have avoided that had I written my blog entry differently, better, more specific or less. Somehow.

But that's all the responsibility I'm prepared to take.

I realized that, within a certain margin, I can't take responsibility for how my writing affects others. Note that I did not say won't. I said can't.

If I attack someone specific, yeah, that is TOTALLY my responsibility. But can I be responsible for how everyone interprets what I say?

Before the Liberals out there tell me I'm responsible for everyone's feelings because hey, I wrote something ABOUT feelings-- let me tell you NO.

It's a fair assessment that someone could be hurt if I'm writing about something their boyfriend wrote. It's really hard to un-blur that line-- so I apologized to them. NOT for what I said, but that they felt the way they did about it. And that's it, finito. I am willing to go that far, but no more.

And at first I was really upset that I hurt people, hurt ANYONE, with my words. Hey, sure, be ANGRY, be RILED UP by what I said, but don't be HURT.

Until I realized that, no matter HOW CLEVER I am with what I write, no matter HOW MUCH TIME I spend writing it, I cannot control how it will affect people.

Repeat after me, Inner Self: I Cannot Control How My Writing Affects People.

You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to post a link to the blog entry that sparked this. Screw anonymity. After all, I'm writing about how the entry made me feel, right?

The entry is entitled "Thief" and you can read it for yourself. Here.

Some may call me crazy for how I reacted to this piece, but therein lies my point: You never know how ANYONE is going to react to something. This is a public blog, as is the "Thief" entry. Public forum, public opinion-- and hey, this one set me off.

The WRITER didn't set me off. The things he's writing about did. For me, there's a very real difference.

A few entries back I wrote about people cleaning their goddamn houses. And it caused this big mishmash. And you know what? I found out later that an idiot friend of mine actually TOLD the owner of a messy house to read my blog because it was about his house specifically. Which prompted rage.

Am I responsible for that? Hell no. But, the guy DID have a messy house-- and I had been there recently, so yes, the blog could very well have been about him.

Only it wasn't. HE made it about him-- probably with a little help from my idiot friend's injudicious and incorrect comment that it in fact WAS about him-- and boom. Can open, worms everywhere.

I see that there's a line between what I CAN accept responsibility for, and what I CAN'T. And the line I'm going to have to take is that if I don't have INTENT behind my words that is harmful, then I'm sorry, but I can't be responsible for your feelings as you read this. I can feel sorry that you felt that way about what you read, but that's as far as it goes.

Do I need a thicker skin? Or do I just need to remember to focus on what I'm trying to say? I believe it's probably a little bit of both.

I read this guy's blog the other day. It was an entry detailing his past life at the tender age of twelve, and it was entitled "Thief."

The entry dealt with his childhood phase of stealing, from his dad's wallet and then escalating into shoplifting from a store...then more than one, then more, until finally he got caught.

How did he get caught? He was sloppy because it had all become so easy for him that he just didn't care anymore.

One of the examples of a "job" he pulled had him sitting near the scene of the crime, bald-faced lying to an authority figure, cool as a cucumber.

I came away from reading this entry trembling and wide-eyed.

It freaked me out, Agents. Not because a twelve-year-old was shoplifting. Not because he was lying to an authority figure. But because, as I read his blog, I realized it was EASY FOR HIM TO DO.

No, I'm not going to point you to this blog. And I'm not going to name names here; this was a long time ago and identity is beside the point.

The point to all this is that I can't wrap my mind around the kind of personality it takes to be able to do that. Steal, buck the system, break the rules, whatever-- and have no guilt, no remorse, not even a reddening of the face or a pricking of the thumbs about it.

I was one of those kids who always got caught when he even THOUGHT about breaking the rules. I would get The Guilts even considering taking a caramel from the bulk section of the grocery store. Hell, I had a buddy who was a major geek who could do it and not feel any guilt or remorse-- and he was daring ME. This geek who had no friends was daring ME and I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Why? I believe it's because I'm poisoned by empathy for other people. The very same thing that keeps me from losing my mind when I don't get good service, that keeps me from belligerently demanding what I paid for in hotels or shopping malls, that refreshes my Canadian "I'm-Sorry" supply. Empathy.

I can't NOT put myself in the other person's shoes. I can't NOT consider their feelings. Even if they are, by and large, evil. There's always a little germ of hey-but-what-if-YOU-were-them? Regardless of whether or not they're deserving.

And when I read about this guy, who could shoplift with impunity when he was a kid, and who now is a really good gambler-- does the high roller table in Vegas without breaking a sweat, whereas I would wet my pants after the first hand-- I feel...well, alienated. As though I were, in fact, an alien.

The people who seem to succeed in the world are the people who can shut off whatever valve it is that empathy comes from. Because, to succeed, at some point you have to bull past people's feelings to get the job done.

I can do that a little bit at a time. But I'm not BLITHE about it; I have to work UP to it. And there are people walking around on this planet for whom it doesn't take a second thought. And as someone who has empathy with other people, that really does freak me out.

How many people out there are truly able to not care about the people around them? And I don't mean "care" in a Precious Moments kind of way, I mean "care" as in "aware of the current of emotion around them." I guess probably many, which means I'm definitely in the minority.

Regardless, it still freaks me out. That people can be looking at you while behind their eyes they are lying. Lying about who and what they are, unable or not caring to perceive other people as feeling people; sitting on the streetcorner holding stolen goods and telling The Man "No, I didn't see anything."

I just can't wrap my mind around it. I just can't go there. I read people, I watch them, and I actually SEARCH for commonality between us. It's how I empathize with individuals and groups. Find common ground, build on that. Social Dynamics 101. And to think there are people that would use that to take advantage, and worse yet, be ABLE to with no qualms whatsoever...

...I'm just too freaked out by it all.

Tonight I went to my local Chapters store to hear a reading and get a book signed by Diana Gabaldon (Gabble-DOAN), the author of the Outlander series of books.

For those of you who are unaware (and you're probably all single men), the Outlander books are a hard-to-genrify series about an English woman, a doctor, in 1945 England who goes back in time to 1745 Scotland via some ancient Scottish standing stones.

It's part historical fiction, part romance, part mystery, part adventure-- Gabaldon herself admits that her publisher just didn't know what niche to put it in. They finally chose Romance, because as her publisher told her: "A bestseller in Science Fiction is 50 000 copies. A bestselling Romance is 500 000 copies."

I found out about the series, as I'll wager most men did, from my wife. It was one of the hot books going around the office Mrs. M used to work at, and when meeting her former co-workers for lunch one day was asked if she'd read it. It was hyped to her in a very woman-affirming join-the-club way, and so she borrowed the first book from her friend and read it.

Then I read it, just to see what all the hype (which Mrs. M had by then joined in spreading) was about.

At first blush, yes, they do seem to be romance fiction. A fiery red-headed doctor, ahead of her time and dissatisfied with her tame husband, reflecting on the war and its effects; yatta yatta yatta, woops, some druids and then eep, falling through a magic stone to be found by an evil English army captain and rescued by a saucy, strapping giant of a Scottish red-headed hero-type.

In spite of myself, I was hooked. "Bodice-rippers" never did it for me-- but this one had enough of other flavours added to the mix that I was able to overlook the sometimes "Mary-Sue" approach Gabaldon took with her heroine.

And, as I continued to read the other books in the series (there are currently four, plus one Companion book), I was drawn further and further in. Plots! Politics! Historical figures! Gay English Lords! And... spanking?

Hot DAMN.

So Mrs M. and I hied ourselves off to hear Ms. Gabaldon read and answer some Q&A. She speaks like someone who's been a university professor and an author: Sometimes it took her ten minutes to come to the answer of a simple question, but at the same time gave a wealth of interesting anecdotal information to back it up.

She has a playful, organically disorganized feel to her speech, which helped me to understand how she could write such convoluted plots and still keep track of who did what in what book-- that's simply how her brain works.

Oh yes-- be aware that a mystery she presents in one book might not be solved until the next book, or the book after THAT. The series is one great epic, you see. But don't let that deter you-- each book does stand alone, it's just that each one is full of hooks.

When it came to our turn to get our book signed, I was happy to tell Ms. Gabaldon that she was a terrible woman; she wrote compelling characters that I found intriguing and ultimately frustrating; and how terrible that I still would want to read them. I also informed her that her books were good both for reading, and for throwing across the room in frustration. And finally, I thanked her for taking time out from the series to devote an entire book to my favorite character, Lord John Grey-- Lord John and the Private Matter.

To the men out there, let me assure you that although her books may have what could be considered "girly bits," they're a fun read and worth looking into. And if there are in fact women on this planet who have not read the "Harry Potter of the Romance Fiction aisle," I urge you to pick one up and enjoy.

Me, Ms. Gabaldon, and Mrs. M.

The Agent M Theory states that at any given time, a human being can only have TWO out of the following three virtues:

1) Time.
2) Money.
3) Creativity.

Those that have all three are the people we call SUCCESSES or CELEBRITIES or basically the People We Wish We Could Be Like, Dammit.

But those people are rare, given the population. No, most of us must slog about under the constraints of my Two Out of Three theory.

Today, I have Time and Money but no creativity. In fact, was only through the merest lamentation of circumstances to myself that I was even able to focus enough brain-juice to write this blog entry.

My general state of affairs, and the general default for every Canadian artist of any stripe, is having Time and Creativity but no Money. And this is lamentable because it takes money to make that Time and Creativity into Something Worthwhile.

When I was a teen and my group of friends were all gung-ho on making our own comic book, we had all the time in the world and the zany caffeinated creativity we could handle. But, of course, to actually MAKE a comic book takes money, which we did not have.

At this point you could say: "Yeah, but Agent M, there are ways to GET money. Get out there and find them." Yup. And then I would lose the commodity of TIME. And, as with any small endeavor you want to grow, you need to spend TIME and MONEY to get it off the ground-- at which point, you have precious little energy left for your CREATIVITY.

I find that, when I'm on vacation, I have creativity and money-- but no time to actually do anything about it, because I'm on vacation away from my computer and other resources. In effect, you might say I'm BANKING creativity-- as though it were produced by a gland which has a finite daily supply, and being away from my normal outlet causes the creativity fluids to back up. Similar to blueballs, only in this case, I guess we'd call it blueBRAIN.

The only way to combat the Two Out of Three rule seems to be either experience. (I'm not throwing in the astronomical Grand Conjunction of the Planets, since that's pretty rare.) With enough missed opportunites under your belt, you can-- if you're serious about it-- begin to create situations where, tenuously at first, you can maintain a modicum of all three virtues at the same time.

And let me tell you, that's a heady brew. It's what George Lucas must have felt when he did Episode I and II. (I never said that all three virtues produced GOOD things. Just that things can be DONE unhindered with them.) Imagine the ability to have an idea, see what you want to do with it, and run with it-- with no fetters.

It's what every creative person strives for; that harmony, that balance, that ability to PRODUCE. To create, and bring forth, the fruit of their imagination.

So: Given the Two Out of Three Theory, I posit that the only sure way to combat this debilitation to creation is to be experienced about it. Therefore, I suggest all creative people hurl themselves against wall after wall, never ceasing, until the damn thing breaks. Until you make it through to the other side. And once you're there, never look back.

Because that...that will be a fine day indeed.

Japanese Girl Bands are taking over the world!

Well, MY world, anyway. I'm noticing them more and more-- and how I love their kicky, almost-genre-parodying sound.

Shonen Knife was my first exposure, with their cover of The Carpenter's On Top of the World. It was just so cool to hear that piece of 70's Americana done to a hip, girly-but-accented sound. Kind of punk but...sweet, at the same time.

Then came Puffy Amiyumi, the singers of the Teen Titans cartoon theme. Cartoony! Fun-- and yes, so very cute Girl From Japan Next Door.

And I'm hooked. Can't get the song out of my head. Just ask my friends. It sticks in THEIR heads, too.

And then I saw Kill Bill, the latest Tarantino flick, this past weekend. And in one scene, set in a Japanese high-class restaurant/dance lounge (in Japan, no less!) there was another girl band with a Japanese interpretation of 1950's swingin' rockabilly-- The 5.6.7.8's.

MAN. What is WITH these Japanese girls? WOW, I'm saying WOW. I don't pretend to know everything about the bands-- but I'm definitely seeing a trend in my music preferences here. I like their looks. I like their sounds. I like how I feel when I hear them. I feel-- well, perky. Rock-out, dance like a bunny PERKY. I'm pogo'ing to the beat, even now. Woo Hoo, as our 50's ladies would say.

I'm not making any sweeping claims like "Classic!" or "ground-breaking" or anything of that nature. But I am saying this: FUN. Undeniable, unsullied FUN. And I can't help but feel that they're all having fun too. At least, they sure make ME feel welcome.

Dance, monkey, Dance! While cartoon animals with big eyes shimmy and shake around you to a multicolored beat, and you focus on the boom anime babes that make you think the RIGHT thing.

Is it a phenomenon? Sure feels that way to me; like the Tsunami that Japan coined the term for, they are washing over my shores and drowning me in their poprock candy love. And Agents, I'm not even trying to tread WATER.

Because when the world needs heroes on patrol-- Puffy AmiYumi.
Who's on top of the world, looking down on creation?-- Shonen Knife.
Who's rockin' the Garage Stomp? -- The 5.6.7.8's.

You go, girls.

AnimeM

Dictionary.com defines "gossip" as:

1. Rumor or talk of a personal, sensational, or intimate nature.
2. A person who habitually spreads intimate or private rumors or facts.
3. Trivial, chatty talk or writing.
4. A close friend or companion.
5. Chiefly British. A godparent.

Well, I'm not British, so I don't have to worry about Number 5. But lately, I have been worried about just when "concern for one's friends" becomes "gossip."

There's been banter-- including but not limited to me personally-- going around lately about the situations that mutual acquaintances have got themselves into. "Oh, that crazy kid," we say. "I've got advice on how to fix that situation."

Yeah, it starts out that way. It's a shared experience, the community's comment on current events that relate to everyone present. It's human. It's natural.

But at what point does it become damaging?

Eventually, all well-meaning discussion of other people becomes gossip. Hell, according to the definition above, it's gossip to begin with. But I'm not one of those people who believes one should never gossip EVER; to me, it's a natural extension of the human group-interactive experience. People love to talk about people.

But lately I've noticed that, suddenly, the talk seems damaging. I'm talking about a friend-- maybe a friend EVERYONE is frustrated with? -- and suddenly the "discussion" becomes a trash-fest. A rant. Like some kind of verbal Mob Rule. And that makes me...uncomfortable, to say the least.

Worst is when I realize that these words are coming out of MY mouth. Sure, I complain and get frustrated with my friends sometimes. But never is it my intention to actually TRASH any of them. And when I realize that comedic, Pressure-Cooker Ranty Michael has become Scathing Murderous Destruction Michael, that I've in fact gone TOO FAR, I feel terrible.

How could I have let it happen? How did chatty gossip become trashy gossip? Some would argue that they're the same thing, varying only by degrees of intensity. And I can't really refute that-- which leads to me being MORE uncomfortable about it.

Because I could never stop doing it. I'm one of those people who finds out EVERYTHING eventually. It just happens. And sometimes, I need to work out how I feel about it. And to DO that, I need another human being to "ping" off of. Usually it's Mrs. M, that steadfast maven of Putting Up With Me. She lets me go off about my frustrations, my what-the-f's, my did-you-notices, and my for-the-love-of-GODs.

Sometimes, though, she has no context for what or who I'm speaking about-- and that's when I have to go outside the safe haven of home to talk to another friend. And at that point, I'm taking the risk of Word Getting Around -- word that was spoken in an unguarded moment. And I can't control how Friend X is going to interpret what I'm saying. Will they think Friend Y is a goof and tell everyone? Because, if I need to talk about what friends have told ME, it's a sure bet that Friend X is going to need to talk about things at some point, too.

You see how it all begins. But where does it stop?

Unfortunately, it's like a sexually transmitted disease. The only sure way to avoid it is to abstain. But my contention is that it simply is not humanly possible to abstain. So how does one minimize potential contagion generated by a momentary lapse in judgement?

Gossip is damaging. Gossip is hurtful. Chatting taken too far becomes gossip.

So where, Agents, is the line? Draw it for me.