Touch You Last

For all the Lost fans out there: what the hell is in that hatch? Besides Boone.

I’ve got no new content for you; I’ll give you that up front. Don’t get all up in my grill about it because neither do you. Trust me, I’ve checked. Everyone is in vacation mode these days and no one is posting, which means I’m actually stuck doing work while I’m at work—sort or unprecedented. In lieu of new stuff, I give you a series of links that I’ve enjoyed the hell out of lately. Kevin Smith’s Blog – Dude gives an unfiltered glimpse into his day-to-day life, focusing more on the minutia (where he ate, how he had sex with his wife—and I do mean how ) than on the bigger events (movies in development, brushes with glitterati). Go Fug Yourself – If you like to see more fashion missteps then there are stairs in the world, check this out. I’m not into fashion but I am into snark, and here I can glut myself with all the snark my belly can take. MetaSpy – Allows you to spy on what people have been searching the web for. In case you haven’t guessed it, people surf for some stupid sh...

In your lifetime, can you recall a May two-four weekend where the weather wasn't absolute crap?

I have one of those faces that looks familiar whether you know me or not. Two things happen to me fairly frequently: people believe we’ve met before when we haven’t, or people say, “Do you know who you remind me of? That actor! God, what’s his name? You know—that asshole who married that tart. You’re like twins, the two of you!” Here is a brief study of actors and generally famous people I’ve been told I resemble: The kid from Milk Money This one’s totally obscure, because you haven’t seen this movie, and if you have you don’t remember it. It was this rom-com where a kid buys his dad a hooker. Heart-warming, really. I don’t even know what this damn kid’s name is, but the resemblance is freaky—more to my younger self then now, but freaky nonetheless. Edward Norton I get this one a lot. We both have that simple, side-parted, little boy’s haircut and the allergy ruined eyes. This probably isn’t the best representative picture and, in fact, m...

I wasn’t excited to have to watch this movie. Given, it was the perfect type of flick for my Wednesday movie—iconic, old, something I’d always meant to watch—but I thought it would be dull. It’s directed by Roman Polanski who, whether you know his stuff or not, you naturally consider to be more than capable at his day job. But I thought he’d take what was intended to be a horror movie and strip all the fun from it, make it about something else entirely, like social elitism or xenophobia. I was absolutely wrong. It’s a very conventional horror movie, and it’s as scary as the damn devil. Whether or not you’ve seen it, you probably know what it’s about, or at least how it all turns out: a young newly wedded woman discovers that her neighbours are Satanists and they’ve managed to impregnate her with the devil’s seed. This is why I didn’t think I’d like it very much: if the ending is what makes the movie so famous and that’s already been spoiled for you going in, then the j...

On Monday, the Lowest of the Low played Major’s Field Park, an area just east of Parliament Hill. We missed them earlier this year as a result of poor planning—mine (whenever plans of ours go awry, rest assured it’s not Sarah’s fault.) Their set was part of a series of concerts for the Tulip Festival Concert Series, which is going on this week, and they were third on the bill along with The Golden Dogs (who I don’t know), The Double Pumpers (whose name only serves to disturb me) and headliners The Joel Plaskett Emergency. It makes me lame to admit, but we got there only in time to see the Low and we took off seconds after their encore. As the stage faces east and we’re only a half dozen blocks from the venue, I could actually hear Joel Plaskett from my living room, and I’m a little sad we didn’t stick around The Low played an amazing set, perfect for the two of us anyhow because Sarah’s into the older stuff where I’m all about the new album. Set list was roughly as follows (we’re ...

It was in grade ten, when I was fifteen, that I discovered I had a weird skull. I think I always suspected, but the actual moment of confirmation came when our school’s loveliest teacher placed her lovely hands upon my head and then cried out “Oh my GOD!” Here’s the story of my prehistoric skull and why, when I go bald, it’s hair-plug city, baby. Ms. Craven was telling us about a trip she’d previously taken to the Royal Ontario Museum with another of her classes. Among many topics, the guide spoke about the development of man: how the human body—the skeleton in particular—had evolved over the years. It’s common knowledge , the guide said, that wisdom teeth have become more or less obsolete because the modern human doesn’t need the rending and tearing force that primitive man once required. Further to this, however, primitive man had a bony ridge running down the middle of his skull—called a sagittal crest—which anchored his extremely strong jaw muscles that assisted in crushing food. ...

Which early crush formed the template for all your future crushes?

I know it’s not Monday, but I’ve got two questions for you. Any suggestions for a new feature? I’ve been pretty negligent here on my non-feature days but fairly loyal otherwise. And it’s not that I can’t be bothered, but just that I haven’t been enraged, aroused, stupefied, or bored enough lately—which is not to say that I’m unhappy. I’m very happy, but what’s a guy to do: post a smiley and sign off? Long story short, having another feature would make me a little more… regular, if you will. No suggestion is too dumb. There was a Tom Jones song released about ten years ago. I don’t know the name of this song, I don’t know the name of the album, but I do know that it had a rap component. In case it’s not immediately apparent, Tom Jones + Rap = Funny Shit. Does what I’ve described sound remotely familiar to anyone? He sang it on The Arsenio Hall Show, if that helps. Hook a brother up

Let me tell you about the phenomenon of Poppy Legs. Poppy 1 McLean used to go for a lot of walks. He wasn’t an epic walker—the guy was seventy-five years old and maybe five feet tall—so he went to the mall, or to our house: trips that amounted to less than half a kilometer in total. This was typically followed by a two hour nap. One afternoon, on the short trip from his house to ours, Poppy found himself walking faster all of a sudden. Just a little quicker at first, so not too alarming, but it wasn’t something he was consciously trying to do. Then he found himself going faster still. Of their own volition, his legs were making him speed up. He started getting scared, because the farther he walked, the faster he was going. Poppy decided he had to stop himself. Maybe he was afraid he would end up sprinting through traffic or he’d eventually trip and sprawl onto his face. So he did the only thing he could: he threw himself down. On a rock. Right n...

Who would you rather be: the Man, or the Man Behind the Man?

I figure there are three tracts I can take with this one: 1. Write a legitimate review 2. Compare my observations of the movie to those of the bottle of wine I put back while watching it 3. Do a cheap recap exploiting the title of the movie As option one would be unnecessarily serious (again) and two is funnier in concept then in execution, we’re going with three. The Ugly is Mexican, a criminal, and not nearly as ugly as the name would purport. The Bad is a hired gun who finishes the job come hell or high water. The Good is squinty-eyed, ponchoed, and all thing considered, not really so good. All three are supernaturally good gunfighters. The Ugly and The Good are sort of old friends. Their long running scheme is for The Good to turn in The Ugly to the local authorities of various towns, collect the price on his head, then save him from a well-deserved hanging and split the reward. After a long successful run, The Good—for no ...

How many of the contestants on Ultimate Blogger do you find Dave more attractive than?

I’m bitter right now, and this is the worst kind of mood to blog in. You just come off as one those ranty, pissy, nothing-to-say types; it becomes a high school blog all of the sudden. At the same time, I’m feeling a bit of pressure because I haven’t posted in a long time. So, sorry in advance, but this is what you get. There’s a contest going on right now, which officially starts tomorrow. It’s called Ultimate Blogger , and it’s pretty much a Survivor-style blog competition. Twice a week, the hosts give a challenge, the winner gains immunity, and someone gets voted out by the collected contestants—and after six weeks someone is crowned the Ultimate Blogger (said person also receives a decent pile of swag). Why am I bitter? The fuckers didn’t pick me. I’m coming off as awfully entitled right now—and deservedly so—but it’s not quite as bad as it sounds. The folks at Urban Honking (the producers, if you will) said there were around three hundred applications submitted. Of those, here’s h...