Author: Nic Olson

I am a victim of identity theft. Ten million Americans a year are victims of identity theft, I am (technically not at all) one of those ten million. Someone created a Facebook account under my name, and based on the incorrect birthday, interests of 14 year old girls, and a few other reasons, I can assure you that it wasn’t me. I can also assure you that it bothers me none. Since the creation of Facebook, the threats of identity theft have been many. Many people, too lazy to communicate in old fashioned methods such as email, postcards, landline telephones or telekinesis have threatened to thieve my identity and create a profile of lusty smut under my name. I never thought I would be that guy until today. I have been violated.

I hope that I never become a victim of ‘real identity theft’ in my life, for the sole reason that if my identity is based on something that can be created online, stolen from my banking information or fabricated with a SIN number, then I don’t want an identity at all.

The good part, at this point in my life, is that I feel like I don’t have an identity that can be stolen. Nothing in the bank account. No real debt. Not even any knowledge of anything financial. No real identifiable human identity. Even if someone wanted to make me a fake email or social networking profile, or LavaLife profile, like we used to do when I was in grade 7, they would probably have just as good of an idea as I as to my identity and what I identify with.

Identity theft is a serious matter, and if you feel like you have been victimized, please contact Phonebusters, for the good of the nation. Phonebusters and I have actually worked together in the past, and although I am still skeptical of their methods, I would recommend that you contact them if someone ever makes you a fake Facebook account.

Fraud.
Recognize it.
Report it.
Stop it.

The world’s best bagel, as voted by me.

Real words coming soon.

Today: Happy Birthday Mom and Jerms.

Tomorrow: Happy 4th Birthday Balls of Rice.

Last night a friend and I went to see This Will Destroy You. They are an instrumental, ambient, rock, thrash, Texan band, or something like that. It is music anyone can appreciate, for several reasons, or just because of its power and universality. I had a hard time standing still. At the show, I couldn’t stand still. My friend to my right, stood unwaveringly, feet planted, eyes forward, even during the 30 minute soundcheck after TWDY played. My posture has always been poor, even since I was a child. My posture is bad, and I can’t stand still. Sounds like more than just physical ailments. Sounds like my brain.

I couldn’t focus either. Some overnight flu hit me, and I felt the after effects later on in the day. I tried my best to stare directly at the red lit curtains behind the band, letting the motions of the drummers arms and the guitarists beard hypnotize me into a real instrumental experience, but all I could do was regurgitate French phrases I have been preparing for my exams this week, or get distracted by the pain in my lower back, or the obnoxious shouts of the obscure masked individuals standing next to me. I just wanted to listen to the music, but my semi-conscious brain only poured out asinine anecdotes or quotes from the past week. My posture is bad, I can’t stand still, I can’t focus on something good right in front of me. More than just physical.

I am still in French classes. Exams this week. I haven’t written an exam for almost 4 years and the whole process frightens me. I can semi-focus on the paper in front of me, or the words being spoken to me, or the dialogue I am a part of, but I can’t get ahold of the feeling of needed commitment to the cause. Thirty two plus weeks is a long time to sit in a classroom to get a slight handle on a language that I will in all likelihood rarely use. Commitment issues. More than just physical.

Things are well, however. The weather is well. I can purchase something and get an exchange in a different language. I am not poor, nor rich. My few friends in the city are leaving for different places. Fall invites freer thinking, a winter full of hockey and a year that went by fast.

This will destroy you.

Here in Saint Henri, things are a bit simpler. Abandoned buildings burn, four fire trucks show up. This is place is perfect.

This week in Montreal it is the Rogers Cup. Women’s Professional Tennis at its finest, minus most of the best and most interesting players. Nonetheless, the city has tennis is on the mind, and greasy golden brown legs are more plentiful than the Weyburn KFC buffet.

Tennis. The awe-filled hush of 12 000 people when they comprehend something bigger than themselves, and how quickly that is besmirched when a person shouts out inanities during important moments of silence. Like while the ball is tossed and in midair for the serve. Or between first and second serves. Simply because they aren’t human enough to understand the perfect moment of silence and collective awe that just preceded them. I watched a few marvellous matches, took a handful of less than marvellous photos and loved it.

Throughout each match I had somewhat of a difficult time focusing, whether it was because of unruly fans who lacked tennis etiquette, my weak core which causes a sore back because of sitting hunched over for hours, my contacts drying out, and my general wandering mind trying to come up with witting phrasing for this outlet.  I am mentally more of a child than my beard lets on; dreading school like it was something bad, lacking the ability to converse properly, playing in a new kind of playground. A French only playground.

I have a friend bicycling across the nation in its entirety. Between my two days of tennis, I spent a day of bicycling with him, up mountains, down mountains, in the time warp/money vacuum that is Old Port and back to the Eastview of Montreal. We biked for literal kilometres, just slightly less than the 7000km he will have finished once his whole trip is done. He is doing things that I wish I could be doing, and I’m doing things that others wish they could be doing. And all the while I still become impatient with the general public, with my decisions as of late, and my plans. If I could just tour with a few pairs of greasy golden brown legs, making millions in a week for slapping balls around, then I’d be set. Then maybe I’d be more patient. But probably not.

I taught my computer how to understand and speak English. With a few uncomplicated clicks of the ‘track pad’ my Macintosh speaks just like Mr. Macintosh on the movie ‘Blank Check’, but I haven’t yet bought a mansion or installed a water slide in said mansion. Yet.

Say, ‘Open iTunes’ and he will open iTunes.
Say, ‘Close Window’ and he does just that.
Say, ‘Blog’ and he opens Balls of Rice.
Say, ‘Tell me a joke’ and he does, but he’s always too stubborn to finish it.  We are still working on our communication skills.

A friend told me of this feature, so I thought I should unleash this electronic book to its fullest potential. The potential of a human being. No sass-back. No attitude. No emotions. No legs. The ultimate human being in computer form. I have stared into his eyes more than anyone since the November he arrived in my hands. I was playing music through iTunes and I forgot to turn off Mr. Mac’s ears. Somewhere around the lyric, ‘All fallen leaves should curse their branches,’ Mr. Mac was sure to tell me that he had, ‘No fax numbers listed for Hoover Chan.’ And somewhere near the lyric, ‘I will derail desperation train,’ he insisted that ‘There does not seem to be an AIM handle for Matt Goud.’ What a genius invention!

Over the past week I’ve had the opportunity/blessing/curse/cancer of being able to carry around a Blackberry for the ultimate convenience of texting people without having to come home to use wireless internet. I was admittedly somewhat worried that this one week free trial would cause me to rely on such practicality, and become addicted to brick breaker, but neither was the case. The mere sight of it upsets me. I am still a troglodyte. But I can talk to my computer, and it listens. I am a space-age troglodyte.

And now I watch Rogers Cup on the CBC website, with Blackberry ads all over the place, telling me to use BBM to have ‘A place to be open and honest with my closest friends’ and to ‘Love what I do’. Those are none of the words I would use for my past week of cell phone hell.

Technology is far from inevitable, but it is also far from being far. I might as well pluck out my eyes and live through faith that all the sounds I hear are not artificially created by speakers of some artificially created machine. I would assume that Peter Burwash and/or Michael Scott were sitting on my kitchen table telling me stories about tennis and offices. That would be the way to live. Blind faith in something totally inconceivable.

Now if I could just get my Mac to talk to my Blackberry, go on a few dates and create one of the fruitiest unions since Peanut Butter and Jelly became ‘Goober‘.

Roommates Sam and Derek. The video was made on my computer. That is why they are so good.