Tag Archives: The Matrix

The Blue Pill

Unless The Matrix starts with the scene with Neo evading Agent Smith, ducking behind cubicles and office furniture, desperately following Morpheus’ orders, the movie doesn’t feel real to me.

The first time I saw The Matrix I was in a car with a bunch of friends of a friend, at a rundown drive-in parking lot somewhere on the outskirts of Calgary, 1999. We got lost, arrived late. Caught the movie beginning at what reminds in my mind as that pivotal scene.

I have since seen The Matrix two more times (maybe three), and in its entirety.

Neo has an apartment? Look at those people standing there in the hallway! Trinity first speaks to him at some aboveground underground latex night club? Really.


Each time since 1999, Calgary, everything before Neo in the Office is a new movie, a different Matrix from The Matrix as I know it. I am aware that this Matrix is the real Matrix (The Matrix as it has always been, if there is in fact to be a Matrix film), but I can’t convince myself that that is so, memory and sensation in this case overriding fact.

Never mind the red pill.


2009. A transcontinental flight from Canada to Vietnam. Malaysian Airlines in flight movie.

The Watchmen.

It is the case that sometimes (and likely much more often than you think) countries will edit foreign films for domestic consumption. They revise the material, edit for content, blur things out, cut scenes containing, for instance, sex and/or violence (or interpreted as such…and let’s face it, hardly anyone makes cuts when it comes to violence).

Enter Dr. Manhattan.

Have you seen the film? Read the graphic novel? Then you’d know: the good doctor is naked, full frontal, a lot of the time.

Except where I was, fifty thousand feet in the air somewhere between Toronto and Ho Chi Minh City. From the hips down – way down – down past his cobalt thigh and down to his cerulean knees, there was a mass of pixels, pixels, pixels overlapping each other like crude geometric barnacles. They (the proverbial they) blurred it, and took extra just to be sure.

I found out about that extra later when I saw the North American (adult rated) release of the movie.

Imagine my disappointment; picture my surprise, however underwhelmed it was destined to be and inevitably so.


  1. My aunt’s house. A bootleg copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

Hello again, Keanu.

Whomever got to this movie before me had a grand ‘ol time with the edits they employed. Bootlegging it, apparently, was not enough to satisfy.

All sex, all whiffs of it were cut from the movie’s 128 minute runtime, as was most of its violence (again not all, I saw much blood, a few stabs and, I believe, a beheading, if not the acts that lead up to them or even followed).

The final cut made no sense or rather, it made the kind of sense you’d sense in mediocre dreams and poorly-constructed nightmares. Dialogue cut mid-sentence, absurd time jumps from one scene to another, characters that simply appeared and/or vanished without explanation. Or reason.

The whole movie was 20 minutes long, if that. And it was the first time I’d ever seen or heard of a movie called Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

It took me years before I saw the full, unadulterated movie.

And yet. Both versions remain valid, the one being so far removed from the other that they are different things entirely, things quite impossible to compare, one way or the other. No need to vouch or even speak of quality or control here.

Too much has changed. Not enough remains the same.

Hello again, Keanu.

And again, but not really.





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Filed under Characters, Childhood, Movies, Places, Politics, Pop Culture, THE PAST


I was over at a friend’s place a few nights ago, and he said that he had read the classics but not Jane Austen because her books are “all about marriage or something.”

As a Jane Austen fan and something of a reader of myself, I was slightly offended but not utterly surprised.

We often belittle the Things we only possess and are only really inclined to possess a passing familiarity with.

Here are some authors and books – CLASSICS – which I have not read:


Charles Dickens

Yeah.  Never got around to anything of the Dickens.  But I can surmise.  Urchins, cobbling, buggies and blacking factories, a magician…?

And a stacked audience.

You should see what this man can do with the Statue of Liberty!

If I were to write an autobiographical novel, I’d call it Siegfried & Roy.[1]  It would, naturally, draw on my childhood experiences of big cats and the men who love them.

Here's a secret: the Tiger is me!

Sexy Sandwich!


White Fang

Jack London.  Right.  I actually watched a Canadian TV show back in the 90s called White Fang, which starred an unhyphenated husky instead of a wolf-dog.  Kind of like Memoirs of a Geisha, which had Chinese people playing Japanese people, all of it and everyone caught up in a lavish production.

Memoirs of a Geisha is not by a geisha just like White Fang is not by a wolf or a dog.  But canines at least – and in any form, so far as I know – cannot write.

I’ve never read Memoirs of a Geisha either, and neither has Jack London.

It’s safe to say that we both never will.


Plato’s The Republic

I “read” this only in the sense that I had a first year university lecturer who summarized The Republic from her wonderfully meticulous and wondrously vapid notes, verbatim. It was a weekly, three-hour long class in the dead of winter and my only real accomplishment during the whole Thing – the whole ordeal – was that I lost all my vitamin D that semester.

These were the days before the easy wisdom of Wikipedia, you see.  I guess I could “wiki” Plato right now and impress the shit out of all of you (unless, of course, you all “wiki” it too and then we’ll all be standing, exposed, in a pool of our own inadequacies).  But simple ease has never been much of a contender to absolute laziness.

I just don't need to know how deep the rabbit hole goes, you know?

WHOA! Just take blue pill.

So…yeah.  According to Plato, this – everything this – is, um, The Matrix.


Walden (or Life in the Woods)

What I know of Walden, I’ve managed to piece together from fractured coffee shop conversations, The Simpsons and a snippet or two from CSI (who knew?). Not to mention my own prejudices, which can be shockingly astute.

Yes.  They are.

So, ok.  Deep breath.


He sits on pumpkins and thinks that that is just neat.

If  you're doing Walden, would you also have to read Walden while you're doing it? Or would that be too much?

"March 15th. I wish I brought a TV. Oh God, how I miss TV!"

I think this is really a book that is about having your cake and eating it too, even if you have to bake it yourself (and not entirely from scratch).

Although I have not read Walden, I have read A Walk in the Woods (1998), in which Bill Bryson writes that “Henry David Thoreau thought nature was splendid, splendid indeed, so long as he could stroll to town for cakes and barley wine, but when he experienced real wilderness, on a visit to Katahdin in 1846, he was unnerved to the core.”

Sounds apt.  Exactly apt.



What is with wolves and literature?  How about something kicky and new?  Steppennarwhal!  Steppenmanatee!! Steppenhippopotamus!!!  I’d be all about that.  Totally.

Anyway, the internet tells me that Steppenwolf is this:

 A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life.

It is also this:

I like to dream, yes, yes

Right between the sound machine

On a cloud of sound I drift in the night

Any place it goes is right

Goes far, flies near

To the stars away from here

Perhaps I should read Steppenwolf while listening to Steppenwolf.  Maybe they’ll sync up.


Moby Dick

This is a kind of a cheat because I am always continually trying to read Moby Dick. The intent is always there, nice and solid, but the execution is always sloppy at best.

"Who had had his fill of K-OS' Crabbuckit!  Except that was not true, Crabbuckit is 'coo.  They should teach it each day at the skools!

"There once was a man from Nantucket" is not, incidentally, the way this book starts. But it should be.

10 months later and, like, 280 pages in, and it turns out it’s about a whale.

And revenge.  Or something.

Sweet revenge.



Bryson, Bill. (1998).  A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail. Broadway Books.


[1] (The Cindy Phan Story!)


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