and I was all, nuh uh.

Ah, OKCupid. You are where my social skills go to die. It is impossible for me to put forth any kind of real impression of myself in that medium. Typing up self summaries and trying to be witty toward someone I’ve never met is just too damn hard. I really don’t expect to meet anyone through it, but gosh darn it do I still love that site. It’s just this great parade of personalities and faces, all of them at least partially facetious. So why not embrace this mass peacocking? I changed my profile from one attempting to showcase my personality to a monstrosity of egotism and delusion. This is what I settled on:

My self-summary:

You want a self-summary? Look at that face. Dreamy as shit right? You’re flipping out, ‘Oh my god he’s so cute. Oh my god I can’t believe I’m looking at him.’ I know, I’m well aware. Using words to describe any of that brilliant piece of y-chromosome is insane. Read the rest of this bitch and I’ll blow your minds. Play this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrMOxASAmP0

What I’m doing with my life:

Other than being the best at everything? Whatever I want. I’m just flat out unreal. Anytime I need money I just walk into the bank and they open the safe to make it rain bills.

I’m really good at:

Did you not read the part where I said everything? What more do you want from me? Just looking at my face you creamed yourself, I know I did.

The first thing people usually notice about me:

My divinely beautiful face, my straight up deezed body, the charisma that pours out of every orifice, sometimes all people are able to see is the crowd of ladies blocking their view of me.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food:

If I were to go into my favourites your mind would be so fucking destroyed that you wouldn’t be able to consume any other media. My favourite movies? You mean cinema? You plebeian fucks. I’m a genius at this shit, neo-surrealism? Hell yes mother fucker. French nouveau? You bitches betta’ believe. I could school all of you and you’d just be weeping at your past pathetic love of The Dark Knight. Yeah, I called you out. Come at me bro.

The six things I could never do without:

Myself. That’s it. I run this.

I spend a lot of time thinking about:

How much of a fucking demon I am on the court. I’m a dunk surgeon, half court? Full court? I don’t give a fuck.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit:

I’m actually really insecure and sensitive.

You should message me if:

You’ve emerged from the orgasm induced coma that my profile put you in.

Post-Script: Worst part is, I’ve got a ton of messages from this profile.

This little ditty is Girl on the Beach by Hidden Mistress. The hippest 80s band since leather was a universal material. Written by Connor Doyle, Charles Hutchings, and myself.

Hey girl.
Your hair’s looking good.
Surfs up.
Malls.
John Hughes.

See the girl on the beach and I want her hair
But I’m over here and she’s all the way over there
Platinum blonde, two piece on, she’s a commie bombshell
Ronald Reagan, is not laggin’, lets help build the wall

I see you lyin’ there
Gettin’ sand in your hair
Sippin’ on colada
Like you really really wanna…woooo!

Did ya hear the news?
Its your platform shoes
Wanna take you home
Girl c’c’c’c’c’cmon

Pick the west its the best
Why don’t we close them off,
Build the wall, let them fall lets just go to the mall.
(Shop, shop forever)

Where’d you get your hair done!?
Nowhere left to run!

Don’t make me count to
One
Two
Three
HUH!

See the girl on the beach and I want her hair
But I’m over here and she’s all the way over there
Platinum blonde, two piece on, she’s a commie bombshell
Ronald Reagan, is not laggin’, lets help build the wall
(laggin’ lets help build the wall)
(hucha chucha la da daaaa)
Shop, shop forever and ever girl

My Uncle on my Father’s side was a musician, a moderately successful one. He played guitar and sang for the band Studebaker Hawk, who were a one hit wonder in the 70s for the song Rainbows, Pots of Gold, and Moonbeams. Gotta love 70s song titles.

I had heard this song once or twice growing up until my family lost our only copy, my Father’s side of the family is tumultuous to say the least. After Steve (my Uncle) died when I was around 6 the song was essentially lost forever, as far as my family was concerned.

When I was around 13 I showed my Father that I could download music off the internet, awesome stuff like Anti-Flag and Greenday. He instantly wanted me to look for the song, to no avail. Every year or so since then I’ve googled it, again to no avail. But recently, it was there. I found the long lost song.

I feel I need to put into context what this meant to me. Steve was a sort of imaginary role model for me. I was always told that he was this brilliant guitarist who dedicated his life to it, and I could hardly even remember the only song we had. When he died I was given his last guitar, and that’s the reason I started playing. It’s still the only guitar I ever use. I’ve had opportunities to buy a new one, perhaps a better one, but I’ll have none of that. This guitar has always been the symbol of my families musical history, and of a man that I try and live up to. The guitar is beaten to shit, one of the pick-ups hardly works and it has cigarette burns all over the place, I love this thing to death. Now, 7 years after picking it up, I find the song.

It started playing and I lost it. Tears streaming down my face, this is the song from my childhood. The song I thought I would NEVER hear again. But that’s not the end of it, the comments, unlike typical Youtube fare, were incredible. Things like “Another lost Canadian Treasure….can’t believe how much talent came out of the music scene from this country in the 70’s.”

and

“One of the BEST songs ever written…..soooo many good memories.”

This was the most amazing thing I’d ever found. I went on a googling spree, I found a forum of people talking about playing with Steve. Saying that he was a brilliant guitarist and that if it weren’t for his vices he would have really gone far with it. I can’t believe what an amazing find this is, it’s almost poetic.

Thank you internet, this is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever done for me.

Perhaps I should rephrase, don’t ride the subway high without music. When you actually start paying attention to the things and people around you it goes from “I’m blasting through time and space in a rocket car!” to “Oh my god everyone wants to kill me.”

One night I was catching the last Westbound Bloor subway car after coming back from a friend’s. We had, of course, taken part in certain shamanic sacraments. I had foolishly not brought my headphones.

“No big deal” I thought, “It’s like 5 stops.” WRONG. BIG FREAKING DEAL.

I’m sitting on the bench with a few odd late night stragglers populating the platform. When It walks up to me. It was a massive block of a man, dressed in a mix matched neon windbreaker and torn snow pants… In July. It drags its feet over and locks eyes with me.

“Can you help me?” Grumbles the pillar of my worst nightmares.

“I ughh, oh my, I don’t, cough cough, I can’t umm.” My brain shut off, what does this thing want with me?! I can’t even help myself at this moment and Neon Ogre presumably wants my soul. (Or potentially a troll toll)

“Can you help me?” This time It pulls up its sleeve to reveal a hospital bracelet.

“I AM FUCKED” My brain screams. This is the end for me. Neon Ogre is going to rip my skin from my body and wear it as a costume. Parading through the streets until It is inevitably taken down in a hail of gunfire.

I manage a few more incoherent terrified squeaks before the subway car arrives. OH THANK GOD. I run on the subway car, unfortunately it’s the same one It gets on. Sitting in the back I watch It walk up to a group of four people. Four, phew, maybe they can slow It when It eventually snaps and I’ll be spared. I’ll hide under the chair until the person in front of me is killed and I can use his severed partially eaten leg to bludgeon It to death. Okay, I can do this.

“Can you help me?” It grunts and thrusts forward an opaque, tied plastic bag. Oh god, oh god, if that is filled with body parts I am going to FLIP OUT. One of the unwitting victims takes the bag and opens it for It. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.

It opens the bag, and begins eating its lunch.

My word, I am high.

I apologize dear readers I am going to have to drop a bomb on you, I work at McDonald’s and it isn’t always the most flattering workplace. I know, common perception is that burger flipping is akin to practicing medicine, aeronautical engineering, or playing in The Beatles. Alas, It isn’t all sunshine and groupies. One of the most grueling aspects of this highly esteemed position is the dress code.

I am a beard man, I love having a beard. I can do fun designs, I can comb it, and most of all I have a social responsibility to grow one. Sadly, not all men can grow beards (#poor souls), and they need to live vicariously through me. So naturally I was devastated when I learned that McDonald’s employees are not allowed to have any facial hair that extends beyond the ridges of their mouth. I am forced to look like a twelve year old.

I will not stand for this I cried! I will take down this corporation from the inside, starting with a mustache. So I grew that bad boy out for about a week. Big. Mistake.

How I thought I looked:

So dame, what’ll it be? Ketchup packets, or no ketchup packets?

How I actually looked:

Ughh, you want a girl toy don’t you. I made it an extra special happy meal.

During one shift at the height of this foolish endeavor I walked through lobby on a garbage run. One teenage boy says to his friend “Oh man it’s him! Look!” The other turns and they both start laughing. I’m walking away thinking “Why were they laughing at me?” Then it hits me. I’m THAT guy. The guy with the stupid fucking mustache that everyone points at. That was it for me, I’ll never grow a mustache no matter how noble the intentions may be.

Alternate creepy mustache lines:

“Do you want me to put her in the high chair for you?”

“No charge, the special sauce is on me.”

“Mmmm, my fingers are so salty…”

“Unnff I’m all greased up.”

“I’ll give her the ‘under 3 toy’.”

I have only once, in all my years, punched someone in the face.

I had gone to school with this guy since I was 4 years old. The entire time he had been nothing but a bag of dicks. Faux-‘macho’, inconsiderate, and childish in every way. Just imagine the worst frozen at prepubescence in your face jerk off and add Bill O’Reilly to it. For the purposes of anonymity his name will be Erectile Dysfunction. Here he is proving to the world that he definitely isn’t gay, he swears.

The person behind the camera is, I assume, pointing out how awesome Motor Cross was in 1997. Gnarly air ED!

In Grade 11 my impressionable young self had finally had enough. I was standing in the hall of our high school speaking with a friend of mine. When Erectile Dysfunction drags his ape knuckles over and yells “Cut your fucking hair”.

Expository Digression: I had long hair.

Enough. Is. Fucking. Enough.

I wound back and punched him square in the jaw. Which, as a scrawny white kid with the look and build of Jesus, did less than nothing. ED grabbed me by the throat and knocked me into the display case I was standing in front of shattering the glass. The shards cut my hand to the point that I bled a pretty large puddle on the floor.

ED flips the fuck out. “I’m going to be expelled! I’ve been in trouble too many times, you have to cover for me!”

“Oh really Erectile Dysfunction?”

All of the marbles were mine. I could in one move wipe ED from my life. I could change his future forever and completely destroy him. Oh Erectile Dysfunction, you play a dangerous game with me.

A teacher promptly noticed and I went to the office to explain what happened.

“What did Erectile do this time?”

“Uh, nothing. He was knocked back into me and I fell into the glass.”

“Are you sure? ED can be a real limp dick at times.”

“Yeah, nothing happened.”

I saved his fucking life, and he NEVER spoke to me again.

“Nothing in your education or experience can prepare you for this film” The tag line in the trailer says it all. Holy Mountain is a surrealist masterpiece. For me to try and express what this film is even about in words is incredibly difficult. The Trailer.

Music: All of the music in the film is composed by Alejandro Jodorowsky himself. The best way I can describe it is the sound of Soviet Russia. I love to put this soundtrack on and walk through Walmart seeing all the sadness. You poor socialists, don’t worry the party will fall! The sound of Jesus Christ exploring a city of depravity. But it isn’t always so somber! At times it’s celebration of bizarre revelry. I’ve listened to this soundtrack many times over, and I always get such enjoyment out of it. This film may not be universally enjoyable, but I certainly think the score is.

Plot: Now this is a hard section to tackle. If I was forced to describe the plot, which I am, I would say it is this; A man who is an allegory for Jesus Christ, as well as the fool tarot card, becomes disenchanted with society and seeks riches. He finds the Alchemist, a man capable of turning any object into gold. After being felled by the Alchemist the fool becomes his pupil along with seven other disciples who represent different planets within the solar system. Through various meditations and rituals the group refines their egos to the point that they are capable of climbing the Holy Mountain and attaining enlightenment.

Visual Style: This is one of my favourite aspects of the film. The visuals are so strikingly beautiful, and at times disgusting. The colours and set pieces are unlike any other film I’ve ever seen. He uses intense imagery of war. Psychedelic set pieces. Brilliantly unique costume design. Religious symbolism that would make Michelangelo reel. What is this? I don’t even. What is happening!?! I could look at screenshots from this all day.

Narrative Style: This film is very frequently stream of consciousness. That’s not to say it isn’t linear at times. You can definitely follow the character progression even when, which is very likely, you don’t understand what the scene means. I love this style because there are two ways to watch it. You can intensely focus on every scene and break it down into it’s very intense symbolism or just sit back and have crazy things happen in front of you. I would love to do a detailed analysis of the symbolism as I’ve figured it out, but that would take days and I’m not even sure you guys will read this.

Download Link: http://thepiratebay.se/torrent/4151559/The_Holy_Mountain_%5BUncut%5DDVDRip%5BSiRiUs%5D

In conclusion, I love this movie. I’ve seen it over a dozen times and it never fails to amaze me. Holy Mountain isn’t for everybody, not even close, but you will certainly have an opinion of it. This is my favourite film of all time, and I think, with good reason.

“Holy Mountain is a film outside of the tradition of criticism and review.”

I spend a lot of time coming up with elaborate messages to young ladies on the dating site Ok Cupid. It started out as a way to be a bit unique and creative, maybe get my sense of humour across. It almost universally failed. I now use it as an outlet to mess with people and see if I can top my last one. This segment is a showcase of some of my better messages followed by, in extreme cases, their replies.

In this inaugural episode I am messaging a girl who’s profile was filled with faux feats of badassery including, but not limited to, bear fighting and chainsaw juggling.

Oh great you say, another desperate man sending me a message devoid of substance in an effort to validate his sexuality by forcing his deep seeded insecurities on me in the form of ‘sup girl’. Wrong. I am dictating this through my assistant Emanuel Godard. Tell me more of her beauty Emanuel. Ah, fighting bears you say! She must join me on my dangerous game preserve. Emanuel, why are you still typing. Are you writing this? Good, she mustn’t know of my intentions. Let’s go again. I am the most elegant of gentlemen. I own estates in countries all over the world and am considered the God Emperor of a tribe in Papa New Guinea and have a private line to the pope. Give me my phone Emanuel Ol’ Bene needs to hear of this one. Busy signal! Curses. The phone probably just fell off the hook. He’s not blowing me off, preposterous! Regardless, he’ll meet her at the next Vatican ball. Back to the message. I have a leather bound library in the himalayas manned by an army of orientals, quick as a whip they are! Included in its cow skin walls are tomes as rare as cuneiform love letters from Hammurabi! It is the greatest library ever assembled! So help me Emanuel if you say Library of Alexandria one more time you’ll be the next game we hunt. So fair maiden I await your ensuing endless love letters and your attempts to woo me.
All the best,
Arch Duke God Emperor Shane Hankardton Cooley IV
Well Emanuel, she’s as good as mine. Now get me a scotch, Gossip Girl is on.

I am all for leaving the frailties of our organic monkey bodies behind, but there are somethings that bother me. When I see a morbidly obese woman with a carton of smokes and a double gulp wiz by me on a motor scooter labeled ‘Winner’, I can’t help but die a little inside. But let’s put this into context. This woman has a destroyed blubbery husk of a body. Be it by genetic defect or pure gluttony she is biologically useless. If she were dropped in the savannah she wouldn’t last thirty seconds. That’s the amazing part! Our civilization has advanced to the point that physical prowess is unnecessary! A toothless, obese, amputee, drug addict can survive in this world despite their severe impediments. It isn’t survival of the fittest anymore, and that’s kind of beautiful. So why does this shamble of the human form disgust me so?

Halloween 1999, I was dressed as the badass Chip Hazard from the recent blockbuster Small Soldiers. A sweet haul was had. My Mother had gone out for the night and left my Brother and I with a baby sitter, our tenant Tammy. Though I was young I could see through the guise, I knew Tammy for what she was. A demon.

A slight digression is necessary. My family is a juice family. Some families drink pop, others milk, my family juice. Thus my household, and by extension my childhood, was under pop prohibition. Those precious few trips to McDonald’s and Halloween were my only opportunities for that sweet carbonated beverage.

Jake and I had poured out our candy and were counting the spoils. If I recall correctly it was a 22 Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup year, quite the feat. Amidst the revelry Tammy stalks in. The tall, curly haired, ominous troll lets slip her tyrannical decry from the festering gash across her face that she calls a mouth.

“I can’t deal with you guys tonight, no candy until tomorrow!”

No. Candy. On. Halloween. Truly the foulest of demons was she.

But lo! My Brother and I were truly saints among children. We heeded her heinous request. No candy for us. She slithered out of the room leaving a trail of broken dreams and vodka martinis.

“Well Jake, at least we can have the pop!” I had Orange Crush, which at the time was the God of my tiny parched throat. Four or so sips into that delicious elixir the barbarian harpy storms in.

“I SAID NO CANDY! POP IS LOADED WITH SUGAR!! GIVE ME THOSE!”

She rips the very souls from our corporeal forms. Rather, the cans from our hands and proceeds to dump them down the sink. And with that action she destroyed my favourite night of the year. Halloween 1999 would go down in history as one of the worst of my life.

Orange Crush, we should have partaken of each other’s bodies. Fused in the beautiful mingling of spirits. Your refined carbohydrates digesting in my stomach with wild abandon. Our love was torn asunder, ended prematurely. Wherefore art thou Orange Crush?