My friend Dave alerted me to The Prestige, a new movie that is currently in post production. Go ahead and take a look at the trailer here (Quicktime) or here (YouTube), but I should warn you. It’s good. Damn good. It’s drooling-at-the-mouth, waves of ecstacy, indecent levels of pleasure goodness.

Why am I so excited about this movie?

Simple. Nolan has taken everything I love about movies, wrapped it in an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny bikini, given it breast implants, dipped it in hot fudge, and burnt it onto celluloid. Not convinced?

Lemma 1: Any movie directed by the man [Christopher Nolan] who directed Memento will kick ass.

Proof: Memento is a thriller about a man [Guy Pierce] who, suffering from short term memory lost, attempts to hunt down his wife’s killer. The catch? He can’t hold on to a new memory after five minutes time, and so he has to enlist the help of several cryptic tattoos, a mess of handwritten notes, a trusty Polaroid camera, and a handful of suspicious characters. Oh, and did I mention this movie runs scene by scene backwards? It’s a movie that leaves you breathless until the credits and has been my all time favourite flick for the past half decade.

Lemma 2: Any movie containing elements from Batman Begins will kick ass.

Proof: Batman Begins was directed by Christopher Nolan. Use Lemma 1.
Proof 2: Any movie containing ninjas together with Michael Caine [Cider House Rules] will kick ass. Batman Begins contains ninjas and Michael Caine. Therefore Batman Begins kicks ass. (For you people who are actually concerned about the correctedness of my work, you should remember that ass kicking is indeed a transitive operator, otherwise the proof wouldn’t work).

Lemma 3: Any movie that combines the hotness of Scarlett Johansson with the fragility of Lost in Translation will kick ass.

Proof: Lost in Translation continues to be my second all time favourite movie. It’s such a romantic and sensible story of two strangers meeting in a foreign country. It’s about the sadness of isolation and the comforts of relationships. It’s a subtle masterpiece with feelings of romantic tension permeating every one of its frames. Oh, and any movie with the hotness of Scarlett is almost guarunteed to kick ass.

transitivity of ass kicking

Therefore Batman Begins kicks ass. For you people who are actually concerned about the correctedness of my work, you should remember that ass kicking is indeed a transitive operator, otherwise the proof wouldn’t work.

Lemma 4: Any movie that contains elements from The Lord of the Rings will kick ass.

Proof: The Lord of the Rings will always remain as one of the crowning achievements of cinema. It’s a nine hour epic drool-fest that contains some of the most fantastic action sequences ever seen. The trilogy underlines what a true cinematic experience should be like: a rousing and emotional rollercoaster complimented by terrific acting, seizure inducing battles, and an unparalleled story. Another one of my favourites

Lemma 5: Any movie about rival magicians battling it out will kick ass.

Proof: None needed. The inherit ass kicking nature of any story involving rival magicians is a fundamental axiom of human nature. This lemma is an immediate corollary of our fascination with magic.

Theorem 1: The Prestige will, undoubtedly, kick major ass.

Proof: The Prestige stars Hugh Jackman [X-Men], Christian Bale [Batman Begins], Scarlett Johansson [Lost in Translation], Michael Caine [Batman Begins], Andy Serkis [Lord of the Rings], and is directed by Christopher Nolan [Memento, Batman Begins].

Furthermore, it is about rival magicians battling it out. Sadly, no ninjas were included in the production of this movie. Nevertheless, along with Lemmas 1-5, this completes the proof of Theorem 1.

And yes. If this movie bombs, I will indeed hurl myself off the nearest cliff.

Remember the Star Wars Kid? Remember ‘All Your Bases Are Belong To Us’? Remember that cute – slightly creepy – dancing baby that shook its booty accompanied by the ‘Hooked on a Feeling’ tune?

Ooga Chaka , Ooga Ooga Ooga Chaka, Ooga Chaka. So cute. So wrong.

Anyways, these infamous examples of internet phenomenon are about to be joined by the words of an 82 year old Republican Senator from Alaska.

Oops. Did that make any sense? I guess not. The quote is credited to Senator Ted Stevens, a Chairman of the (US) Senate Commerce Committee — one of net neutrality’s chief opponents. Now before I get the chance to tear this poor 82 year old Senator apart (have I no sense of decency?), I guess I should explain what net neutrality means.

The aims of net neutrality are simple: web applications, services, and content should all be given the same treatment insofar as speed and quality of service. It’s usually taken for granted, but it’s not always the case. An internet provider can perhaps choose to provide speedy, convenient access to a company for which they share a promotional deal, and instead limit or block access to a rival’s website. Does that sound fair to you?

internet = tubes

“And if you don’t understand those tubes can be filled and if they are filled, when you put your message in, it gets in line and its going to be delayed by anyone that puts into that tube enormous amounts of material, enormous amounts of material.”

Senator Ted Stevens

Supporters of net neutrality include the big high tech companies like Google, Amazon, and Yahoo, but also includes individual support by many high profile men and women, such as the very pretty, very charming, and I must say, very vivacious Alyssa Milano.

And the bad boys? The opposition of net neutrality primarily comes from the corporate heavy hitters: broadband companies like AT&T and Verizon Communications. To them, a legislation on net neutrality would impose unnecessary restrictions on the internet. It is, after all, their service they’re offering to the public. They should be allowed to set the rules, right?

You stew on that. But I’ll take whatever Alyssa’s having, thank you very much.

Okay, let’s get back to Senator Stevens. On June 28, the US Senate Commerce Committee narrowly rejected a bill that would have enforced net neutrality (to quite a sizable degree). During the proceedings, Senator Stevens, gave an interesting 11 minute speech on how the internet really works. Well, according to him.

Look. I get it. He’s old. Give him a break. Back off, sister.

But see, it doesn’t work like that. Whether the Senator is an eager young man in his 20s or a graying senior citizen in his 80s, is it too much to ask for him to display some degree of competence towards an issue for which he’s suppose to decide on? Let me be honest here, dispose of any eloquence I may possess, and suffer the wrath of all you geezers:

Senator Stevens is a moron. Morons should not be deciding the future legislation of the internet.

Right, okay. But (un)fortunately for Stevens, his ignorance seems to have taken the internet by storm. You can see mock slide shows of Stevens’ speech, fashionable t-shirts, and even a bass thumpin’ techno remix. In fact, Stevens’ related parodies are cropping up faster than Myspace homepages, created by pubescent and hormonally challenged boys. Okay, bad example.

Give it a week. I’m betting that somewhere, in this vast mess of tubes we call the internet, someone’s going to make a video of a very familiar Senator, buck naked, and dancing to that rhythmic chanting we all know oh-so-well.

Ooga Chaka , Ooga Ooga Ooga Chaka, Ooga Chaka, Ooga Chaka…

This is officially the second post after my memorable – albeit lengthy – story marking the launch of Phil’s Proof. But don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, ‘Shit. It was all hot and heavy last night, but now he’s gonna get all serious.’

And ‘course, I’m all, ‘Honey. It was good for me too. But we need to talk about our relationship. Where do you think this is all going? Where do you see us in two years? Don’t you think it’s going a bit fast?’

Then you’ll be all, ‘Nuh uh. Wasn’t too fast for you last night, was it? Well you can just screw yourself, Phil, cause I don’t need none of this’, and then you’ll scoop your silk blouse and short skirt off the floor, grab the dangly earrings by the table, jam your right foot into your left sneaker, and vamoose.

Then it’ll be all repressed memories again.

I’m sorry, I lost myself. Ah yes. Typically, I’m expected to give a long spiel about the days I suffered making this site possible; the dates with various supermodels I gave up with an excuse of having to work on the coding; the sleepless nights and overcaffeinated effects; as well as what Emo band I was rockin’ out to while I completed this colossal undertaking. Well, actually, it’s more like what Aria by Puccini I was currently headbanging to at the time. Please. Don’t laugh.

My point is, this is exactly what I’m not going to do.

At least not until I find a more subtle way to sneak this information to you. So in the next few weeks, you can expect me to write all the cruddy details of how I made this fantastic page, but I’ll be sure to slip it discreetly between interesting blurbs.

And one of these days, I’m going to have to write up a colophon with all the gory details of how Phil’s Proof came to be, especially for all you freaks readers who want to know exactly what brand of tea I was drinking while coding the layout, how many Photoshop layers I used during production, or why certain of the items you may find laying about are close to my heart.

‘I’ll be good, baby. I promise.’

I’m in my pad. It’s the quintessential bachelor pad: spacious for one and with a modern, contemporary look. Photography adorns the walls – pictures from back home, Ottawa, to various, more exotic locales like Paris [where I had spent a week during a quiet summer], to Norway [where I had gone earlier that year with some friends]. The décor is white – almost minimalist – but with the occasional splash of colour that says, ‘Hey, I’m still young at heart.’

she knows

She looks down, as if realizing this for the first time and makes an ill attempt to straighten her shirt and smooth her hair. For all her beauty, she’s a bit of a mess at the moment – distressed and emotional. She knows it. I know it. And she knows that I know it.

Classical music is softly playing in the background. It’s Recuerdos de l’Alhambra, played by Sharon Isbin – something sentimental and melancholic, but with a gentle hint of playful romanticism – reflective of my current mood.

I hear my doorbell ring. Odd, was I expecting a guest?

Now I’m in the hallway, but I take a quick peek in the mirror. Looking good. I’m not all that different, but I’ve outgrown the young adult look and have the demeanour of a gentleman who’s a tad more worldly than your typical fellow, but certainly still ‘with it’. I’m wearing a chic black suit – Hugo Boss – over a mauve button down dress shirt, casually opened at the collar. Not extravagant, mind you, but with an unquestionable projection of assurance, intelligence, and financial stability.

No, no, no, no! What am I, thirty? Okay. I’m wearing a neat pair of jeans, a fresh white buttoned down shirt from The Gap, and a black Alfred Sung blazer. Perfect. Casual enough so people don’t mistake me for another corporate mannequin, but just flash enough so that I’m noticed. Yes, yes. That’ll do; an outfit that flirts, rather than assaults. Oh dear. The doorbell.

I open the door, and there is Audrey.

Our eyes meet, and we stand there, both lost in another dimension. She looks as beautiful as ever with her long auburn hair swept to one side, and with a few strands artfully framing her piercing green eyes. Something’s different though. Something’s changed. I notice her eyes are so dreadfully sad. Pleading to me.

And without warning, she throws herself into my arms and I can feel her warm breath on my neck. I can smell her sweet perfume – Davidof’s Cool Water, a gift I had given her one day out of the blue. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she confides in me, ‘I missed you too much.’

I hold her tighter. So tight she began to feel faint, but she doesn’t let go. No, this moment, this very moment was too precious to her. ‘I know it’s pathetic,’ she explains, fighting back tears, ‘I know we were together only a few days ago, but I don’t care.’

We had met at the local café, you see. It was one of those ostentatious cafés with the comfortable arm chairs, the small round tables, and where the conversation is always light and pleasant. It’s one of those places where one can order an expensive cup of Kenyan coffee prepared however one desires, and where a plate of biscotti comes complimentary with every order.

The coffee would be bitter enough to savour the beans and topped with a touch of foam. Now, I’ve always been a bit wary of the foam in coffee, so there’s only enough to make the cup aesthetically pleasing, but not enough to overwhelm the aforementioned bitterness. Complicated, yes. But the cute waitress and I are on a first name basis (hers being Jenny and mine being, well, mine) so she would know immediately that I favour bitter Kenyan beans with a touch of foam. I’m a regular, you see.

How nice it is to be considered a regular.

Oh, where was I? I seem to have lost myself. Ah yes, we had met one day in this café. She: a young eager philosophy graduate and I: a young mathematician had somehow woven ourselves into a delightful debate on the various merits of the classical philosophers: René Descartes, John Locke, David Hume, Emmanuel Kant, and so on. We complimented each other well and revelled in the fascinating conversation which in these days is such a rarity.

Now back to the present: As she stands desolately on my doorstep, I notice what a stark contrast we make. She: mournful, red-eyed, unbuttoned and wrinkled shirt. Me: smart, suave, and collected. She looks down, as if realizing this for the first time and makes an ill attempt to straighten her shirt and smooth her hair. For all her beauty, she’s a bit of a mess at the moment – distressed and emotional. She knows it. I know it. And she knows that I know it.

Nevertheless, I coolly take her hand and guide her in. Ah, what marvellous hands she has. Small, slender, and what seems to be a perfect fit for mine. I guide her to the dinner table and ask her if she would like to join me for dinner.

‘Nothing extravagant,’ I remark casually, ‘but I had some time to prepare a little something: du foie gras avec de la chanterelle – a superb duck liver plate served with a modest creamy sauce seasoned with mushrooms.’ As I hold out the chair for her, I coolly add, ‘I’m sure that you will adore it’. I like it. Forceful and insistent, but with all attention to manners.

I pour her a glass of red wine and delightfully regale to her how my particular selection of grapes will compliment the meal perfectly. While I pour myself a glass, she brings the glass to her lips, but stops, realizing that a toast was in order. Unruffled, I raise my glass in the air and boldly say, ‘To possibilities!’

Our glasses touch softly.

The meal is delicious but humble, and we savour the conversation more than the food. As I stand up, she touches my arm and asks, ‘Shall I help you put away the dishes?’ clearly concerned that I had done so much for her while she had done nothing to deserve such royal treatment.

I shake my head and smile ruefully. ‘That can wait,’ I say, ‘tonight, you’re my honoured guest. Tonight, everything will be perfect’.

Fast forward, and now we’re on the couch. Vivaldi is playing in the background and the light is suitably dim. Not so dark for her to think I was hiding something, but soft enough to set the mood. I sit away from her and sip my wine quietly. It’s clear that she wants me to break the silence. To make the first move. But I continue to sit there, unmoving. Confident but restraint.

She looks wistfully at me and shakes her head sadly, wondering why it had taken her so long to have found the true love of her life. Why she had to suffer through the Neanderthal-like treatment of so many men: Jimmy, Chris, Paul, …. None of her past affairs had remotely prepared her for this charming gentleman before her – not Jimmy, stock broker Jimmy, who had mastered the cuisine of fine microwavable dinners, or Paul, Paul with the long blonde hair, Paul who understood that sneakers were not to be worn with a suit. No, this man before her was different. And it killed her.

‘From the moment I first met you,’ she said fervently, ‘I realized that I would never be good enough for you. Though our love burns with the passion of a Tristan and Isolde, I knew it would never be meant to be.’

Stop. Way too melodramatic. It needs to be more realistic. More subtle and from the heart. Okay, take it again from, ‘From the moment I first met you, I realized that I would never be good enough for you…’

‘But I let myself hope. I wondered every day whether we could ever make it work…’. Her lip trembles and she begins crying. ‘Could we ever…? Could you ever…? Could you love someone like…?’ She can’t bear to finish.

I put my arm around her and reach in my jacket for my handkerchief, which I use to dab softly at her eyes. ‘Now, now,’ I murmur while stroking her hair. She leans forward and I can now feel her heartbeat. It quickens. Tilting her head upwards, her eyes glistening with tears, she silently pleads to me. Slowly, deliberately, I lean forwards to kiss her…but nothing happens.

It’s dark. Very dark. Except for the faint glow of the monitor before me, I can’t see a damn thing. I reach forwards and grope for the small table lamp. My hands knock something and I curse, feeling wetness on my fingertips. Ah yes, there it is. The gentle click of a switch and the light blinds me. Still groggy, I examine the now illuminated mess. On my left, there’s a blue mug with fresh coffee I have just clumsily split. Not a big deal, it’s already a bit of a mess here. As my eyes adjust to the light, I notice that ‘mess’ is a bit of an understatement. On my right, there’s a watch, two heavy medallions, some Polaroids, and a few scattered documents. More papers filled with unintelligible scribbles are strewn before me, as well as an innocuous-looking folder. Damn.

I sigh, at last realizing that I’ve just been plunged back into the descript pit known as reality. Welcome to Phil’s Proof.