the suppositoreum

- a dark place where one goes to insert suppositions and other soft bits.

Monday, November 25, 2013


I used to live in Gastown. My apartment was on the fourth floor. Outside my window, in a magnificent tree, a crow sat in her nest high above. There she stayed for weeks; day and night, rain and shine, waiting for her chicks to hatch. Everyday the male, perched in the tree across the street, stood guard. Her protector. Far enough away to give her the freedom to nurture on her own, but always at the ready to save from harm. Every so often, he flew over to check on her, and feed her. It was beautiful and touching, natural and instinctive.

That's how it should be between a man and a woman, too, but... you know... without the worms and all the gross regurgitating.

Sunday, November 24, 2013


So. Speaking of pies. I prefer fruit pies to meat pies. I can't think of any vegetable pies. I guess quiche is a pie. It's not vegetable though. It's egg. An egg pie. What are eggs? They're not a vegetable. Not fruit. They're not really meat. Kind of a grey area. It's food, but doesn't really fit in anywhere. Kind of like when you were the new kid in school. You know...

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


What a downer.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

in lieu of flowers

My pet worm died today. It will be dug up on Saturday. Light snacks and cocktails.

Monday, April 13, 2009


There is an implied social contract in which the meeting of its terms and conditions falls to the choices we make. Although we share the burden of free will, the responsibility of choice is uniquely our own; resulting consequences having to be met. Difficult choices will always have to be made, but making the right choice is not difficult when the underlying principle is respect for others. The consequence is dignity for ourselves.

Friday, March 27, 2009


That's all I need: another bitch in the car telling me which way to go.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

of wrinkles and ear hair

I never used to be this old.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Merry Christmas

That's right! Christmas. Not Happy Holidays. Not Season's Greetings. Merry Christmas. It's my time of year. You have yours, and I have mine, and it's Christmas. Mine has Jap oranges, chocolates, baby Jesus, donkeys, and a manger. Yours has whatever. I don't begrudge yours, please let me have mine. Whether you're a Jew, a Muslim, or a ferret, I really don't care, I'm going to wish you a Merry Christmas. Are you really offended? Really? Why would you care? Don't be a complete asshole. Take the plug out and give yourself an egg-nog enema.

It's a time of peace and goodwill for Christ's sake.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

time's revocation of death encounters rejection

I was thinking about my screenwriting career so far, and it dawned on me; I don't have a will.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008


John August was instrumental in developing, or helping to develop, Scrippets. It's a neat little bit of code that allows you to enter an excerpt from a script that will result in a properly formatted scene.

Here is a scene I wrote that was a finalist in the Rouge Wave's August Short Scene Competition:


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

being original has already been done

Lately, I've noticed an awful lot of writers using the exact same words I do.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

masturbation means never having to say you're sorry

Openly acknowledging one’s foibles can be somewhat liberating. So, through this uncharacteristic dalliance with candor, I’ll admit it; mosquitoes, upon capture, dead or alive, are unmercifully dismembered. There, I said it. Pluck, pluck, pluckity-pluck. Wings, legs, proboscides, and heads methodically detached from bodies. Neither proud nor ashamed, it’s just something I do, unselfishly, for the greater good. You're welcome.

Writing, on the other hand, is a purely selfish endeavor. A self-gratifying indulgence that does not require a tissue.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

fuck it

The Olympic Games are all about excellence. Athletes who train for and compete in the Games have demonstrated their penchant for it. They have what it takes. Their desire and commitment for excellence is, curiously, what makes them excel. The same can be said of writers. Talent is assigned at birth, but it's only the cultivation of it, the desire and the commitment, that produces excellence. A healthy awareness of one's talent is half the battle and a foundation upon which legitimate targets can be set. Those who seriously pursue excellence don't indulge in delusion nor engage the intangible. They are focused only on the prize and what it takes to achieve it.

Regardless of how much 'it' you have, the pursuit of excellence should be paramount. Anything less is just ordinary.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

When Dope was Dope

The din of prepubescent exuberance pealed through the neighborhood signaling to all that the prisoners had been released. No more classes. No more homework. No more Mr. Gemmel. We were indeed truly free.

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

for sale

Brass brads (and washers), a three hole punch, two reams of 20 lb. paper, two packs of index cards, Final Draft (trial version), and a slew of suggested reading material: Egri, Field, McKee, Seger, Snyder, etc.

Friday, October 12, 2007

when is a hummer not a hummer?

This morning, it was announced that former U.S. Vice-President Al Gore is this year's recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. Awarded for his tireless effort in raising our awareness of global climate change. He argues the planet's warming trend is caused by trapped greenhouse gasses, primarily CO2.

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

special affects

What you say and do, no matter how inconsequential, can, at times, carry much weight; not only for you, but for those around you, and, in some way, even the universe. No matter what you call it there is no denying the physics of ripples.

Think about it the next time you throw your stone into the pond.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

clams rockefeller

Jane Espenson has, on a couple of occasions, written about and offered examples of clams. She tells us these are jokes or lines that at first hearing were fresh and funny, but when used repeatedly only serve to display subsequent users' laziness and lack of originality.

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

dramatic tension

I've been a screenwriter for a few weeks now. It's not going well. I mean, I spent a fortune on brass brads (and washers), a three hole punch, two reams of 20 lb. paper, two packs of index cards, Final Draft (okay, it's the free trial, but I will buy it if this pans out), and a slew of suggested reading material: Egri, Field, McKee, Seger, Snyder, et al. With all that, you'd think I'd have sold something by now.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

pitch and yawn

The other day I debuted my premise at Starbucks. I think maybe too many rules and an overabundance of dos and don'ts really stifle one's creativity.

Double shots all around.

Friday, September 7, 2007

write what you know

That's what they say. You should also write everyday. There you have it; missions accomplished.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

craig's list

  • 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.
Now that's conservative.

the inciting incident

I'm self employed. I build web based software. I hate my job. Well, maybe not hate. I've made millions of dollars (did I say millions? I meant hundreds) and it has provided a lifestyle worthy of mention by Robin Leach (did I say Robin Leach? I meant it's made me a leach) but it's just so frivolous and meaningless, and pointless and frivolous, and boring and meaningless and well, you know what I mean I'm sure. I had hoped my contribution would be much greater.

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.

The Suppositoreum ©2007