Wednesday, 29 December 2010

Blog - "The Santa Myth"

I've had something of a question bounding around my mind for a while now, likely because of the fact that Christmas one and two has just passed us by. The question is a mix of religious and mythological concepts, and the potential philosophical implications that could be raised by it are enormous.

The question is this: Which came first, Santa or Jesus?

I'm guessing by now everybody is old enough to know that Santa Claus is a myth, and also an Americanisation of the English, or more European (and thus slightly prior) Father Christmas. You have a huge list of myths that fall backwards, including the Kris Kringle, the Chris Cringle (yes, they're different), the St Nicholas and so on and so forth.

I'm certainly curious in opinions, and spending months wandering across wikipedia looking for the answer is a confusing one. You see, the weird thing is that Father Christmas has never been particularly linked in to religious matters. Santa isn't a Christian that we know of. In fact, of all the major religions, he lives a life closest to that of a Buddhist, which is confusing in so many ways. So his life isn't necessarily linked to Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ, accepting the possibility that he might have actually existed (which I don't, and never will) lived nearly two thousand and eleven years ago. Does this mean that Father Christmas is that old too? That's pretty damned old. Even Jesus died. Admittedly he was killed, but considering the pure monetary networth of Santa Claus, I would mug the bastard.

Why do I think about this shit?

Sunday, 19 December 2010

Blog - "Teenage Girl Fights"

This is a wonderful business, and yet cruel in its own right. You can spend years developing the contacts, the forward motion and the visual license to appeal, yet you never experience a rapport. You are everybody’s friend, and yet the friend of nobody in this business. Thankfully, I’ve adapted to suit the needs of the role quite happily.

Still, people in general are marvellously comical. That’s right, this is a gig drama story. Even better, this is a teenage gig drama story. Sound tasty? In many ways, indeed it is.

Today, I was reviewing a young, female interviewee. She has the cutesy thing going on, a voice to suit her style and chooses songs that are romantic, but subtle enough sexually to evade notice. Everything fits, nothing stand out. She quite obviously only started singing to satisfy her mother, who doesn’t seem to have noticed, but that’s another story. We’ll call this girl ‘singer’.

She has a female friend here that she has written songs for and about, which nicely labels said friend as the nervous type. We’ll call her ‘girlfriend’. She’s also a vegetarian, which adds to the overall arc. Here, at current, all is well.

However, then the male appendage of singer arrives, which is typically the turning point of a story. You know how these things go. It’s neither cruel nor unusual. In fact, in the teenage years, it’s downright common. We’ll call him, as you may have guessed already, ‘boyfriend’.

So, singer is dating boyfriend. Girlfriend, who is nervous and shy, has that particular glare that says ‘Get off my man, you bitch!’ You know the one. They never think that anybody notices, when everybody quite obviously does so. So, they go outside to ‘talk’. Again, you know the sort.

Singer, while singing, casts her eyes around for boyfriend and, when she can’t find him, gets pissed off and moves off of the stage to go and look for them. You know teens, they’re scared of things. Turns out she was right to though; there was blowjob action going on in the beer garden.

After that, it all kicked off and went a little crazy. Fun, you know. Drinks were thrown, food was thrown, hair was pulled and then thrown.

I miss the relaxed days when I went to these things for fun rather than for work. If that was the case though, I would miss the cash element and, more importantly, the feeling of importance.

Sunday, 5 December 2010

Blog - "Evening Chill"

Hey readers. Welcome back to Mental-Streaming.

Well, we're in December now, and Winter has hit as though a switch has been flipped. We've gone from an evening chill to frozen paths and snowed-in schools. It's the time of year where the heating goes up, the fireplaces burn and everybody cuddles up in bed with that special somebody for warmth.

Admittedly, I'm single this year, but I do have a dog that loves me.

I always have something of a sense of nostalgia when the snow begins. I recall last year, encountering Stalker Katie in my preferred nightclub and having her try so hard to follow me home. I recall the year before, spent largely with girlie four wandering from place to place and criticising the food. I recall the year before that, when girlie three was forced out of her house and I committer my life and home to a rescue that would shape the rest of my life.

While Autumn seems to be my season for losing things that I want (jobs, girlfriends, keys), winter seems to be the season where things are thrown at me, whether I want them or not. Yet, to be honest, I do love Winter.

The cold is annoying, but it doesn't bother me all that much. The heating in my bedroom is dodgy, but I can easily sleep on the living room floor. New Years is a bit annoying and all, and Christmas itself is a bit of an annoyance when it comes to my particularly small and unaffectionate family, but the real highlight for me is Christmas Two.

I hold a second Christmas, personal invite only, on the twenty-seventh. It's a big thing for me, since receiving an invite basically means that I consider you as close to me as family, or as I believe family should be. You see, my family comprises three people in the grand total simply because we've always been so detached from the others. As such, all of those families on television or in stories ring false for me, even when I'm writing them. I'm more likely to write about a truly close and loving friend who feels like family that I am to create a stable and supportive family environment.

Christmas Two is fun though. It always makes up for how much I utterly despise new year's.