tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69435192008-07-26T05:17:09.673-06:00palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comBlogger741125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-40404927371288743552008-07-21T16:09:00.004-06:002008-07-21T16:15:19.520-06:00

In grade three or thereabouts a story was going around about the dangers of dying in your dreams. The story had two versions. The more dire version maintained that if you didn't wake up the split-second before you hit the ground/ met the bullet/ went up in flames, then you would die in real life, and your parents would find you dead in your room. This scared the crap out of my eight year old self

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-6253982724832906472008-07-17T13:37:00.003-06:002008-07-17T13:52:30.600-06:00

I’ve been thinking a bit about Bosco McGowan over the last few days. I know: which famous Bosco McGowan do you mean, Aidan? Because there are so many of them. I mean the Bosco McGowan credited with writing two episodes of Happy Days: season eight's “And The Winner Is…”, in which the Fonz campaigns to become Teacher of the Year, and season nine’s “Poobah Doo Dah,” which guest stars Frankie

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-18768682819605814982008-07-09T17:09:00.007-06:002008-07-10T00:56:40.316-06:00

Warning: Here bee Spoylers. Here also be Maundering most Endless. And thayr bee fearsome & stoopid Interpuncts. Twice now I’ve laid down cash for Wall·E, that gorgeous, polysemous, problematic cartoon about an exemplary robot learning to love in an inter-apocalyptic future, and both times I’ve come away with an entirely different opinion of the film. I feel certain that I would form yet

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-81378005714139385052008-07-06T14:47:00.005-06:002008-07-06T15:48:08.371-06:00

I spent the morning cranking out an emergency speech for my big boss, the shadowy Minister of Reading My Speeches. I don't much like working on weekends, but I can't resist the allure of the Emergency Speech: get some words into that politician STAT! Otherwise it's just an unprepared person behind a podium somewhere, thumb-twiddling and telling off-colour jokes for a horrified crowd. "This is

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-89412296066652794222008-07-02T21:24:00.007-06:002008-07-02T22:48:59.469-06:00

Spoilers, I guess. [A giant room in the heart of the Skywalker Ranch. George Lucas is meeting with director Steven Spielberg and screenwriter David Koepp.] Spielberg: So let's review what we've got in this film so far. We've got a '50s Cold War setting... Lucas: Hey, you know that warehouse of secrets from the end of the first film? Can we set a scene in this one? Spielberg: Sure. Lucas:

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-50418411058966335722008-06-25T13:58:00.005-06:002008-06-25T14:19:41.928-06:00

Thanks to Schmutzie for suggesting this scenario. Afternoon in Paris, 1922. Harriet Shaw Weaver is reading a manuscript of Ulysses. James Joyce looks on expectantly. She puts down the last page and wipes a tear from her eye. Harriet Shaw Weaver: That was wonderful, James. James Joyce: It was years of work. Harriet Shaw Weaver: This is a brilliant novel. It will tear literature open and sew

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-29211359618796442022008-06-24T11:43:00.000-06:002008-06-24T11:44:13.940-06:00

Palinode: I’ve discovered a cheap route to therapy. Schmutzie: Yes? Palinode: I’ve decided to be my own psychiatrist. Schmutzie: You can’t prescribe drugs for yourself. Palinode: I will substitute spices for pharmaceuticals. And anyway I believe in the talking cure. Schmutzie: That way you can have sessions any time you want. Palinode: Yes. I wonder how it makes me feel to be my own

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-30330719731408702402008-06-23T23:47:00.003-06:002008-06-24T00:05:04.654-06:00

Nighttime. The moon claws its way over the dome of the stars. Wretched things crawl below, being born, being dead, assembling and dissolving, in moonlight as in sun. Schmutzie and Palinode relax in bed. Schmutzie: (reading) Heh. Palinode: Oh no. Schmutzie: What? Palinode: Impetigo? Schmutzie: What? Palinode: Are you upset over having impetigo? Schmutzie: I don't. Palinode: Really? Because

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-52132554885129934192008-06-23T11:22:00.001-06:002008-06-23T11:25:18.425-06:00

How do you summarize six novels in under 350 words? Like this, apparently. Modern-day troubadour Beck once said “I ain’t gonna work for no soul-sucking jerk”. Bemoan your office-drone fate with the following fine reads. Don Quixote (1499) – The first acknowledged novel in the English language is about a dreamer who lands his dream job – literally. Having overdosed on a diet of cheap romances,

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-63657845343495061732008-06-18T22:38:00.006-06:002008-06-19T19:28:52.891-06:00

[spoilers below] "Whatever it is,* it's not happening** ninety miles from here".*** *It's plants. Plants, because they're not our friends, are emitting a neurotoxin that causes people to babble mindlessly, freeze, then commit mass suicide. The plant angle is obvious within the first thirty minutes, but the movie treats it like a tasty but fattening tub of ice cream, to be doled one stingy

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-8226142777606052502008-06-17T22:36:00.003-06:002008-06-17T22:59:02.708-06:00

As part of my new commitment to including content on my site that adds value to internet discourse, and partly because I find you attractive, here is a list of all the animal-related reasons David Banner became The Hulk on the seventies TV show. The full list of hulk rationales can be found on Kenneth Johson's highly funny Hulk Out List. Trouble with animals: Being mauled by a bear Being bit

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-31182493752308482212008-06-15T23:50:00.003-06:002008-06-15T23:56:28.372-06:00

Bed. Lights about to go out. A moment of reflection before the day ends. Schmutzie: Ugh. Palinode: I agree. Schmutzie: I really do not want to go to work tomorrow morning. Palinode: Well ... I'll be there. Schmutzie: You'll be at my work? Palinode: No, I'll be - I'll be here. Schmutzie: You're taking Monday off? Palinode: No, I'll be here in the morning. When you wake up. Schmutzie: And

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-86136864375096834312008-06-15T23:18:00.003-06:002008-06-15T23:27:51.643-06:00

The end of the day. Everything winding down, the universe spiraling into nothingness. About 11 pm. Palinode: It's getting late. Schmutzie: Kinda. Palinode: I'm going to write for half an hour and go to bed. Schmutzie: Then I'll be in bed before - Palinode: No, no no. No you won't. Schmutzie: What? Palinode: I'll race you to bed. Schmutzie: But you just said you'd be writing for half an

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-84886528590521502832008-06-10T14:18:00.002-06:002008-06-10T14:26:17.666-06:00

Yesterday I made a mistake. It was my seventh wedding anniversary, which has nothing to with my mistake, and vice versa. My mistake had to do with a cab. Every so often, when I'm tired or stressed or depressed, I lose the ability to call a cab properly. Cab-calling is a crucial part of my survival skillset; I have no car, no bicycle, and since my surgery I cannot rely on my legs to take me more

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-6356193850569601162008-06-05T16:54:00.007-06:002008-06-08T01:10:43.269-06:00

Can I confess here, in the safety of my weblog, to being a Doctor Who fan? No one at the bar besides my friend Cloudesley will engage me in this kind of discussion, although someone will drop a sentence like “I thought last week’s episode was really good/complete shit” and leave it at that. When grown-ups are drinking and hockey players are swimming around on the projection screen in the

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-13229568934176539212008-05-29T11:26:00.004-06:002008-05-29T19:23:11.937-06:00

My workplace is offering the Microsoft Home Use and Employee Purchase Programs, so I thought I’d sign on for discounted prices and ease of ordering. What I found instead – and why was I surprised? – was one of the most poorly thought-out and consumer-unfriendly websites I’ve ever dealt with. I don’t generally buy Microsoft products online, so perhaps the Employee Purchase Program is the shitbin

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-19371879954853388832008-05-28T20:53:00.002-06:002008-05-28T21:08:43.938-06:00

I could spend time talking about Will Oldham, aka Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, and how good his music is, and how his beard should win prizes (see second video for beard), but that would waste your time. So listen to these. "Ohio River Boat Song" (no beard) "I Gave You" (with beard)

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-51815649035257951662008-05-27T11:39:00.000-06:002008-05-27T12:02:56.445-06:00

Along with disclosure of details about my sex life and half-baked wheezings about American politics* I refrain from blabbing on about my dreams. This is not an objection based on form so much as content. Most of my dreams are short on action and long on layers of unconscious information, which may be the result of reading too much of the high modernists as a teenager. My dreams only really get

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-72387484717829146882008-05-21T08:43:00.003-06:002008-05-21T15:46:44.559-06:00

This is the story of how I got around to reading a book. Some time ago, I ordered Richard Price's Lush Life, Richard Morgan's Black Man (Thirteen in the States) and Ian MacDonald's Brasyl. I started on Lush Life but it felt so much like reading an episode of The Wire (for which Price wrote) that I ended up watching a bunch of episodes of The Wire, just to satisfy the urge to listen to that fine

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-87140005482537066922008-05-16T00:18:00.003-06:002008-05-16T00:46:46.992-06:00

So! Yesterday, which was May 14th, I got to thinking: what can I do to avoid writing a speech congratulating a jazz dance troupe for instilling pride of place in our citizens? The answer to that, obviously, is anything. So I took a trip to Internet and asked the residents there whether any well-known people had a May 14th birthday. And Internet obliged, with politicians, actors, artists,

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-40093106578233357752008-05-11T23:06:00.002-06:002008-05-11T23:10:00.852-06:00

I'm typing on a tiny keyboard. Not Blackberry small – not so small as to be ridiculous – but small enough that I need to retrain my fingers a bit. Just a little bit. I've trained my fingers for all the different keyboards I've had to use over the years. The French keyboards that confounded me in Europe when I tried to send emails back home. I think that's why I got so hammered that one night in

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-36265739040973178442008-05-09T11:41:00.003-06:002008-05-09T12:01:00.083-06:00

Here's a bit of what I do when I'm not writing speeches for work or writing meandering stuff of my own. In a startling departure, I write for others! Here's soemthing I wrote for prairie dog magazine recently. The shtick? Review trailers for upcoming summer blockbusters. INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL (TRAILER 1) In a move sure to thrill no fans, the first 40 seconds of

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-52194163116217527232008-05-05T13:48:00.004-06:002008-05-05T14:06:40.382-06:00

[Almost lunch. Clouds proceed across the sky. Trainyards across the nation are busy. Palinode (that's me) phones Schmutzie (that's her).] Palinode: I'm stuck in one of those agonies of indecision. Schmutzie: And? Palinode: I don't know what to eat for lunch. Schmutzie: Have something with fruit. Palinode: In that case I'll have a pie for lunch. Schmutzie: A whole pie? [pause] Schmutzie: A

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-15137681932344175292008-04-29T16:46:00.004-06:002008-04-29T16:59:37.814-06:00

I saw Diary of the Dead the other day, George Romero’s latest installment in shuffling undead horror. For most folk this kind of movie is an opportunity to watch something else, but I always look forward another one of Romero’s jaunts into the fun-filled world of shuffling, moaning dead people looking for a bite of living tissue. The best part of Romero can be the subtext, chewy as brains, in

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-36642098735325600212008-04-23T22:21:00.005-06:002008-04-28T16:59:19.257-06:00

Every so often I watch an episode of CSI: Miami. I don't know how I get to that point, from the happy state of not watching CSI: Miami to the morally compromised state of watching CSI: Miami, but I obviously get there somehow. It's strange - I could be out rescuing a family of star-nosed moles from evil carnies at one moment, and then there's a kind of warp in front of my eyes and then the

palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com