Back down the corridors of my mind, in the darker ends, covered in dust and thorns lies a chest. A chest of guilt, of secrets and of poisons that the very passing of through the rest of my lobe sends shivers coiling down my spine. Somewhere among the clutter of these objects lay a doozie. A monolith package, covered in angry etchings of dark’d up robot masters and Offspring stickers is an anthology of memories - they aren’t all bad memories per se, but they are memories of an identity I would prefer to leave in a layer of dust on my shelf next to the Jr High till grade ten yearbooks which coincide along with it. But even left untouched it steams and rattles, broadcasting echoes that never silence. They tell me of a doesn’t-know-better youth who threw away what could have been a healthy social life style for viral video in-jokes and raggedy hair raging against the nothing. A youth I prefer to think I grew out of. A youth who liked anime.

Oh boy did that youth love anime. The hand printed t-shirts that faded after the second wash, nestling in the dust balled end of my closet will always remind me. Untouched Cowboy Bebop DVDs will always remind me. The relatives who I haven’t seen in half a half a decade whose anchor for conversation is, “Didn’t you used to like, what was it called? Japanime?” will always remind me. But it’s a skin I try to ravage off my flesh frantically like Lady Macbeth. If any cohort even so much as sort-of-likes anime I will usually distance myself and tease them, coining a phrase like, “it was pretty bad, yeah, but at least it wasn’t ANIME.” I don’t know what I’m afraid of, being associated perhaps, slipping back down more likely, but for these NERDVENTURES I wanted to explore all the aspects of dork living, and thus far I’ve either been rambling about events and occasions that already happened or that I was probably going to attend anyways. It’s time to push, do something that I not only did not plan to do but really did not want to do. I had to go back into the core of this black matter, a dense thick molasses that stains Anime North, the thing of the year for anime nerds. I remember back in the heaviest of times saying that Anime North was the best weekend of the year, having no other memorable weekend event for a basement recluse to get thrilled about. It was a place where I could ignore being the butt end of healthy social behaviour and instead relish among others who as well would like to keep their minds absent of the outside world. They were people, paper thin to boulder thick with a few all too unusually attractive girls garbed like ninjas I had never heard of sprinkled on top, celebrating this thing they devoted themselves to, or at least celebrating that they refused to devote themselves to anything else. I stuck in there, celebrating every moment of it. Any notable thing occurred would then become a year surviving anecdote. We ordered a pizza for our room ate it all and wrote “free pizza” on the box while it was in fact empty, leaving it in the lobby and gloating about it as we watched for twenty minutes from a distance to see if any poor fool would end up peering to see if there was delectable fate. I think I juiced that one for a few months on MSN. It came down to that. Changing people’s desktop wallpapers to anime porn, sitting in on screening rooms doing little behind your ear commentary thinking we were the king of comedy. It was the best of time, but man, it was the saddest of time.

So here I return, back to the Toronto Congress Center with Delan, who I can’t remember how sarcastic he was when requesting to be referred to as Young Deezy, as well as who’s article coincides with mine (though far more extensively (no seriously, Deezy, what the hell) ) driven by my dad who actually anticipated the event, remembering driving me up in the past looked forward to seeing what all the wacky nerds were dressed like this year (not as if he would actually know what they are, but a spectacle is a spectacle). Because Young Deezy has so vividly has gone over the specific events as new patron, I will open the window to you to see as a reluctant returner.

We stepped out of the car when I loudly farewelled my dad so that every nerd around could hear. I adjusted my classy cap of a hat rearin’ to start hating. Start hating the fat ones, the fursuits and the forced Japanese lingo. Mouth foaming to tear these Japanophiles a new one, I told myself that maybe I could come back seeking retribution from my Anime riddled past, but more modestly I would have to admit I mostly sought revenge. A jab for every wasted Friday night, a slit for every reference made during drama class that floated over my peers turning heads. So let’s go, come on bring it. It’s on.

We hit the mass head on. The costumed lurking towards the registration line, impromptu blockades condensing with little notice as Naruto group cosplayers readied for future Facebook pics. We floated past the line, awaiting press passes that awaited us, though it’s exact location seemingly unknown all volunteers at the information desk. Figuring out who exactly was staff was a task upon itself. There seemed to be attendees dressed like figures of authorities, military, police, robed death incarnate, hanging around entrances and exits, though it all eerily seemed to be “part of the act”. Deezy’s mood seemed to swing opaquely, like every time I turned to face him he was experiencing new shades of wonder, delight, terror and discomfort, while for the most part fiendishly taking down notes (which yeah I guess shows in his final product, the show horse). I on the other hand was still searching for which variation of spite I wanted to litter this piece with.

We met up with my pal Hannah, who would join me and Deezy in dodging cosplayers while keeping her radar active for any interesting blips. She ranted that it was impolite, or against some invisible code to photograph attendants without asking them to pose, but I couldn’t bring myself around to it, maybe because I prefer more natural captures, maybe because I don’t want a folder full of fifty cutesy peace signs.

It was when we were traveling over the bridge from one hotel to the other that something began to sink it. It wasn’t a tidal wave or rush of feelings, it was vague and almost apathetic, but most of all troubling. It came to a head when I was in the yaoi room, watching a film called “The King and the Clown”, which if it wasn’t for actually being in the yaoi room, I would have never associated the flick with two sandblasted androgyni floating down on top of each other. Seerus now, from memory I only recall a single dude on dude kiss. As for the feeling, no it wasn’t riled from the movie, in fact it was riled from something that happened but moments before. There was a vending machine in the hallway, the kind with the pansy wristed claw that couldn’t hold your soda if you asked nicely. In it was Punch-Out!!, the very game I intended on buying once the weekend was over. I got angry, I got really really angry. I knew that no matter how many dollars I would pump into the machine, even if it never equated to how much the game would cost in stores, I would never be able to claim the flat, ridgeless game case. I felt helpless, angry, disappointed and confused. And it was the only time I felt angry it the entire day, when walking into the day I had fully expected to hold that note throughout.

I had come to AN with my engine purring to stamp down my final judgement on my anime self. Slam the case shut, sealed and break free from the shadowing memories. Instead something else shined. It must have already happened, without even realizing I did it. I must have escaped anime some time ago, frantically sweating over something which was never even a problem (you know what, that makes total sense, I fucking do that all the time.) When I saw these kids, which they were, they were kids for the most part, I had at least three years on the bulk of them, I couldn’t find myself linking or digging into them. The rage or scoffing or groaning I anticipated experiencing seeing hopeful anthropomorphs and internet in-jokes on t-shirt mediums was absent completely. It started to feel my feet weren’t even standing on the ground below me, that I had become a complete spectator, outside of this bubble I came to submerge in. It wasn’t a crowd to despise or mock, just a crowd I had grown out of.

There was one last chance to rill up some feelings at the evening ending j-pop dance party. In past years it was sort of the swan song of the event, having spent what would be two full days nervously watching perdy to adequate anime girls from a distance it was the occasion to get up-closer and impersonal. It was such a big deal back in the day, one embarrassing anecdote comes to mind from the hours building up to the first encounter. One friend, who constantly spoke of the thing like some sort of Woodstock level event said that catgirls would be flashing their tits all over the place and drugs handed out upon a silver platter at the door. Which if I remember correctly, the evening ended with me and a bunch of nerds making a human pyramid, some homely girls coming back to my room to play DDR and be whined about by a roommate trying to sleep. So, did this year’s encounter spark any lights? It seemed to be a different beast altogether. For one, it was now outdoors, with an armada of ice cream trucks at the helm, I could only imagine an ice cream man locker room with an ice cream man coach prepping them for such a strange and surreal evening. There was loud Japanesey music blasting to levels that riveted the ears, but as for the dancing the most it mustered was a conga line. Sexual tension? I hope not, once again I felt like an Aztec temple there. Deezy, after telling me openly how pleased he was with the day, all day, suddenly turned grim and tugged at my sleeve to vamoose for the TTC bus.

Waiting at the bus stop by the hotel, cars cruised by, filled with norms honking in delight, though one vehicle full of rowdy dudes did shout out how retarded everyone looked. In the line in front of us was a girl, our age (I hope), dressed adorably like Link playing her ocarina quietly to herself. I told her I didn’t know the thing actually worked, as if it was only for show, which was a lie because having a Nintendo Power subscription as a kid I knew very well the thing could play. She smirked and asked me if I had any requests, though I didn’t have time to follow through as the push into the bus had us separated by two dudes that fashioned bike parts and Supersoakers into steampunk gear. Deezy and I proceeded to study for an exam that we actually had the following day, but I couldn’t get my mind to stop bumbling around ideas on how to re-break the ice with Link lass once we got off the bus. When we did arrive at Lawrence West, I picked up the conversation with her as if it had never been broken, though she told me she didn’t feel like playing much anymore and we were permanently distanced by the coming of my train and not hers.

Damn, I guess you can take the anime out of me but the loser is here to stay.