Touch You Last

I’ve watched nearly a dozen movies since my last Wednesday review, and nearly all of them were worth talking about, but I never got around to writing about any. Some I vetoed because they didn’t grab me, but in other cases I just didn’t feel there was anything to say that hadn’t already been said. Schindler’s List , for example—what can I add to tomes that have already been compiled about that one? Plus, as Isha put it, “critiquing Schindler’s List is like critiquing the Holocaust.” So let’s leave that one alone and talk about Singin’ in the Rain instead. Entertainment Weekly named it the tenth best movie of all time. So did the American Film Institute . IMDB users (a group rife with fanboys and gonads for certain, but not the worst judges of film merit in the world) ranked it 63rd in their Top Movies of all Time list. Does it deserve these accolades? Um, sure. Which is not to disparage it, but just to say that I’m probably not the best judge. While I like modern musicals , this o...

Lot of dead air here, lately, but I think I’m back for good. Our modem shit the bed early last week, and any precious time I did have with net access was spent either on work (the paying kind) or Armada-related things. The website is ninety percent there, and I’ll let you know when we’re officially open for business. In the meantime, our info is still available here . If you’ve told all those attractive strangers like I asked, I suggest you move on to the ugly ones. And, to discuss: What is your greatest physical accomplishment? Could be riding a bull, squeezing out a kid, running a marathon, or perfecting the one-inch punch. Gimme.

Dammit, am I ever stir-crazy today. Not just today, in truth I’ve had this feeling for something like four days now. Whatever I’m doing, I have this constant feeling that I’d really like to be doing something else. And it’s not just at work that this happens (although it does happen at work); I’m reading a book, or screwing around on the computer, or watching a movie, and I have this nagging feeling that there’s something else I meant to be doing, something I was looking forward to all day. What could that be? Fucked if I know. This thing isn’t debilitating, I’m not sopping with sweat over it—it’s just there. In the end, I blame my compromised immune system. There’s nothing dramatically new with Aunt Flo just yet. We’re still waiting for her to wake up, and it seems like that could happen any day now. On Monday, the family met with her neurologist who says her cognitive ability looks intact, and he also feels that she has a good chance of regaining some lost mobility through rehabilita...

It's Sarah once again... We're 96 hours past the stroke and my Aunt is still stable. She's effectively off the respirator and she is coming out of the drug-induced coma. The hospital staff think that she'll be awake within the next 24 hours. Once she is, we will be better able to determine how bad it is and what the next steps are. We are very hopeful, though. She is doing well, all things considered. It will likely be a long, hard road ahead, but she's a tough lady. She can do it. As for the family, we're holding up pretty well too. We will be at the hospital all weekend, so we won't be updating again for a while. I promise that we'll update once we're back. Thanks, everyone, for all your support. You guys are keepers!

It's Sarah here... We didn't imagine a call from Sally (who just had a baby and whose birthday is today), telling us that something was really wrong with my Aunt Flo. And that the hospital said that family should get to Kingston ASAP. We hadn't foreseen a panicked drive through pea soup fog to KGH, meeting my parents at Emergency. We didn't predict sitting in the OR waiting room while she underwent emergency neurosurgery for over 4 hours. We couldn't have predicted waiting outside the ICU until 3:30 a.m. to catch a glimpse of my 47-year old aunt hooked up to a ventilator while in a drug-induced coma. We never imagined asking Uncle Serge to call Aunt Pat while on March Break with the family, having to tell her that they'd have to come back first thing in the morning. We never wanted to entertain thoughts about 'making the call' about the life of someone we love. The neurosurgeon (one of the top in Eastern Ontario) couldn't identify what was wrong; we...

It’s overcast now, drizzling, but twenty minutes later the sun will cut through the clouds like a laser and it will suddenly be twenty degrees. I’ll head down the alley behind my house, on the way to Royal Oak ’s patio, but I’ll be stopped by the smells of barbeque. Backing onto the alley is a fire station and the guys there are grilling burgers. “Hey pal, we could use a hand here—there’s way too much food,” they’ll say. “And I hope you’re good for at least six Moosehead,” they’ll add, “we have to finish that before the chief gets back.” I sit, eat, and listen to stories of burning buildings and saved lives. I’ve watched Backdraft seventy-two times so I impress them with my familiarity with all things fire related . They tell me I could be a firefighter, that I look the part. They describe me as "burly," "barrel-chested," and "hirsute"--although I’m not sure what the last one has to do with anything. I say goodbye, give them my addres...

Dear writers, readers, and supporters of upstart, impudent literary endeavours in general, In the Spring of 2006, we’re releasing a new, free literary journal called Armada. It will feature new and original prose, poetry, sketches, and photography, perhaps provided by you. The journal will be published in .pdf format, which is easy to carry and easier to share. Appearance and quality will be top shelf. If you’re a reader, we fancy your business. Once launched, we ask that you share a copy of our little startup with friends, family, casual acquaintances, and attractive strangers of all types, if you think they might be interested. We don’t want to make money, we want to be read. If you’re a writer or an artist, we want your work and we covet your genius. Submission details follow: We’re looking for fiction of all types—long, short, literary, or genre—provided that it’s good. Novels in progress are great, so long as they’re self-contained. Theatrical works are also acceptable assuming th...

This was supposed to be the movie that restored my faith in Mel Brooks. I’d only ever known him as maker of unfunny films. Spaceballs, Robin Hood: Men in Tights, Dracula: Dead and Loving it —all just terrible. (Don’t get your back up over Spaceballs . If you still think it’s a funny movie then you haven’t seen it as an adult. Or you’re Bill Pullman.) Young Frankenstein is a satire not just of the original Frankenstein movie, but of the plethora of classic Frankenstein movies that followed: Bride of, Son of, Ghost of, Proctologist of, Posse of, etc. Gene Wilder plays Frederick Frankenstein, grandson of the megalomaniacal creator of the original creature. His plans to pursue legitimate, moral avenues of science go awry when he inherits his grandfather’s castle, and more importantly, Victor’s secret library. In short order he has built and brought to life a monster of his own (played by Peter Boyle), which he can neither contain nor control. There’s more to it ...

What movie, that you finally saw after months or years of meaning to getting around to, were you most disappointed in?

After watching The Amazing Race last night, I was reminded of something I’d buried deep within my subconscious: I hate hippies. I really do. All of them: from Jerry Garcia to that waiter at your favourite vegan restaurant. It’s not nice of me, I know, but it’s a fact. The Amazing Race is back to form, and while I haven’t figured out which teams I’m rooting for yet, I sure as hell know that I don’t want the filthy hippies to win. I’m told that BJ and Tyler are fun and that they make a good team. This information comes from Sarah, who watched minus the crimson veil of rage I was wearing. I tried to like them, I did, but then in their profile they were shown perched on the edge of some structure, playing what must have been a ukulele, and swinging their dirty, bare feet over the edge, and that was it. The dirty feet. My blood pressure: skyrocketing. My fists: swinging in the air at nothing. In the interest of full disclosure, this prejudice can be traced back to my third year o...