That's how it should be between a man and a woman, too, but... you know... without the worms and all the gross regurgitating.
- a dark place where one goes to insert suppositions and other soft bits.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Everybody's like, "Hey. Kid. You don't fit in. Okay."
And you're like, "Yeah I do."
And the one kid says, "No you don't."
Then the other kid says, "Yeah! So shut up, or I'll make mince meat outta ya."
And you're all, "That's pie filling, right?"
And he's like, "What?"
Then you're all, "Mince meat. It's pie filling."
And he's all, "So?"
And you're like, "Yeah, it can be fruit or meat. But not egg. Egg is different."
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
It's a time of peace and goodwill for Christ's sake.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Here is a scene I wrote that was a finalist in the Rouge Wave's August Short Scene Competition:
EXT. CUBAN COUNTRYSIDE - 1937
Young entrepreneurs, CHE(9) and FIDEL(11), sit at a roadside table from which they sell pineapple slices.
Music plays from a small radio on the ground beside them. Across the road, in a grassy field, A COUPLE dances the Argentine Tango.
Down the road, in the distance, RUBEN ZALDIVAR(36) approaches carrying a suitcase in each hand. He wears a suit and tie.
Upon his arrival, he unburdens himself and pulls a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe his face, neck, and brow.
The August sun is hot.
Where did you come from?
Banes. Three hundred miles behind.
Where you going?
Havana. Four hundred miles beyond.
Why are you walking?
The destination is much sweeter if a man suffers his journey.
But the aftertaste is bitter. No?
A pig riding a motorcycle speeds past on a wave of dust. Ruben Zaldivar pulls his wallet from an inside breast pocket. A photograph of Shirley Temple falls to the ground as he presents a credit card to the boys.
We don't take American Express.
The motorcycle returns to stop in front of the trio. Ruben Zaldivar, suitcases in hand, climbs on the back. The photograph flutters as the pig and man speed off.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Writing, on the other hand, is a purely selfish endeavor. A self-gratifying indulgence that does not require a tissue.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Regardless of how much 'it' you have, the pursuit of excellence should be paramount. Anything less is just ordinary.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
I broke the world record as I pedaled home that day. How could I not have? My tank was full of highly explosive and lethal super-duper rocket fuel made from a mixture of 2 free tickets to Playland (courtesy of the school board), a stellar report card (recommending a pass from grade 6 to 7), and a massive dollop of anticipation (I was to start my paper route the next day). By the way, that rocket fuel, I'm pretty sure, was the very same super-duper concoction that sent Neil Armstrong to the moon almost two years to the day later; although I suspect he used a different recipe.
Anyway, the night before, the newspaper's district manager, Mr Gibson, phoned to say that Phillip Major was moving, and his paper route would be available, and if I was still interested I could have it but would have to start in two days. Oh my! So soon? One had to be twelve years old in order to deliver papers. I was only eleven but my mother, reluctantly complicit in the deception, gave her blessing. After all, I would be twelve soon enough, it was for a good cause, and I had already sub'd for Brian Simonson on occasion without scrutiny nor incident. In the newspaper delivery business the most sought after routes were those consisting of a large number of papers over a few blocks. Phillip Major's route was not one of these. Route 11 was, in fact, the complete opposite. Route 11 by all accounts was the worst in the district. Fifty papers over seven blocks. Simonson's route, by contrast, was ninety papers over three blocks. Route 11 sucked. But, I'd do it.
It was the Summer Of Love. As I carried the headlines door to door, sweet scents of weed and patchouli wafted unrestrained through doors and windows. The songs of the day were the anthems of the generation. Flower power was fueling a revolution. Martin had a dream and Bobby spoke of hope. Fathers and sons and brothers were soon to return. The medium was the message and I was the messenger.
Route 11's fifty papers were a heavy load. That was then. I'm not so sure it would be any lighter today.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
Evidence that the planet is actually warming is pretty well documented, however whether we are solely to blame is hypothetical conjecture at best (at least right now). Hindsight may well prove that we are indeed alone in our guilt. Regardless, all the usual suspects have been rounded up, and the parade of potential culprits is pretty colorful: the Chinese and their factories, Latin Americans and their forestry practice, Air Canada's planes, cows and their flatulence, Americans' insatiable love of gas guzzling SUVs to list only a few.
Al and his army are relentless in their mission. And it may be working. When Arnold turned 55 Maria gave him a hummer, but he complained that she didn't like the big one. Apparently it was too wide and she felt ridiculous. Arnold finally relinquished his guilty pleasure, but only after viewing An Inconvenient Truth.
And they say Republicans aren't getting the message. Maybe they are, but just don't like having it rammed down their throats.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Think about it the next time you throw your stone into the pond.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
I watched 30 Rock for the first time last week. It really is very good. Tina Fey is brilliant. However, I was disappointed when Tracy Morgan's character delivered a line about the Interweb.
They should have dug deeper.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
- I am not gay.
- I never have been gay.
- I don't do these kinds of things.
- I do, however, wipe my ass with toilet paper I pick up from the floor of public restrooms.
The other day my wife and I bumped into Michael Bublé (we live in the same building). We had a nice chat about the Canucks, Tony Bennet, Oprah, his new CD, and how our building's elevators are so slow. I actually hadn't noticed, but he brought it up.
Anyway, after he got off, I thought about our little three-way for a second or two. I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
Someday you'll understand that.