tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69435192024-03-23T12:29:13.259-06:00In Palinode's Palacepalinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.comBlogger944125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-66379102696241983542011-08-21T10:27:00.000-06:002011-08-21T10:27:25.338-06:00well hello thereAre you here? Unlikely as it may sound, you've arrived here. But I've changed the locks and moved on! Update your bookmarks or feed readers or whatever else to <a href="http://www.thepalinode.com/">www.thepalinode.com</a>.<br />
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See you there.<br />
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palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-32139823891511970992011-08-18T23:26:00.001-06:002011-08-19T07:21:36.260-06:00the goings onThe goings-on go on and on. I can't stop any of it, even when I sit very, very still and watch Battlestar Galactica. Case in point: fermentation.<br />
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MAPLE VINEGAR UPDATE<br />
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I've been keeping the <a href="http://www.thepalinode.com/2011/08/palinode-around-web-for-this-week.html">maple vinegar</a> in a secret location where the cats can't get at it. The secret location is the cupboard above the dishwasher.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palinode/6057424619/" title="cupboard by palinode, on Flickr"><img alt="cupboard" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6087/6057424619_804ba3d2a0.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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If you come over, that's where the vinegar does its dark work. Just to be clear, the vinegar's inaccessibility to the cats is dependent on the height of the location, not its secrecy. It's not like the cats could benefit from knowing where it is. They don't have much follow through, if you take my meaning.<br />
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If you open the cupboard, you will spy the maturing vinegar.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palinode/6057429393/" title="bowl by palinode, on Flickr"><img alt="bowl" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6181/6057429393_6041e8e232.jpg" /></a><br />
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You'll also note the cheesecloth trailing out from under the lid. Cheesecloth is the mark of adulthood. Adults are the kind of people who know to drape a cheesecloth over a bowl of maple syrup, rum and vinegar. If you didn't see the cheesecloth in this photo, you would be within your rights to phone Vinegar Services and have them come to remove the vinegar from my care. But before you do that, check that you don't suffer from cheesecloth blindness. It's a rare condition, but very real and very tragic. Thousands of Americans are unable to see cheesecloth. Usually it results in very frustrating trips to the grocery store.<br />
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TANGLED<br />
<br />
Today the Humpty's Family Restaurant marquee read "Come Try The Tangler Burger." This is not appetizing. I picture strands of meat tangling themselves in your intestines. And I don't picture your intestines very often.<br />
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ELSEWHERE<br />
<br />
I wrote something today that has<strike> set the internet on fire</strike> been greeted with near-total indifference. But nonetheless I am very proud of my work. On the humour site InsertEyeroll.com:<br />
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<a href="http://inserteyeroll.com/2011/08/18/internet-believes-jessica-alba-would-be-even-hotter-with-a-can-opener-for-a-foot/">Internet Believes Jessica Alba Would Be Even Hotter with a Can Opener for a Foot</a><br />
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<blockquote>In a recent poll of Internet users around the world, a startling 25 per cent believe that Jessica Alba, well known for her stunning looks, would be even hotter with a can opener for a foot.<br />
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“Totally,” said Gerald Rhames, 22, who led a campaign to secure over 5,000 votes for the comely actress. “She’s got these beautiful eyes and primo kissable lips, but that doesn’t open my can of ravioli.”<br />
<br />
Mr. Rhames then banged his can of ravioli against the kitchen counter in a gesture that professed his love for Ms. Alba. Or maybe for ravioli from a can.</blockquote><br />
I think that's all for today. More updates as the situation develops.<br />
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<b>UPDATE</b>: Nothing new.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-75668658045294918632011-08-17T22:15:00.001-06:002011-08-17T22:17:43.324-06:00Palinode around the web for this week<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palinode/6054511291/" title="hairy arms and all by palinode, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6190/6054511291_f00713a92b.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="hairy arms and all"></a><br />
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Don't be buggin'. I don't even know what buggin' is, but don't be doing it. I've got bits and pieces for you to read and click on and so forth. And if you stick around to the end of the post, there's a nice photo of bananas in it for you.<br />
<br />
On <b>MamaPop.com:</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.mamapop.com/2011/08/top-5-greatest-movie-title-sequences-ever.html">Top 5 Greatest Movie Title Sequences Ever:</a><br />
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<blockquote>Most movies these days are pretty terrible. You know it, I know it, and most importantly, the movie studio knows it. They know that you’ve just thrown down precious moneys for 90-150 minutes of familiar people doing generally predictable stuff that will make you vaguely regret your life choices – or at least, the ones that led you to this darkened room full of flickering light and the sounds of popcorn being chewed by a hundred hungry mouths.<br />
<br />
In order to cover for the almost certainly not-so-great experience you’re about to have, movies generally save the best for first: a kick-ass opening followed by a truly inspired title sequence. Often title sequences are done by an entirely separate firm, with their own budget and creative direction and everything. Their mission? Create something eye-popping and pulse-stirring that generates enough goodwill and adrenaline to keep the audience in their seats until they forget they have a choice.</blockquote><br />
<a href="http://www.mamapop.com/2011/08/for-just-139-dollars-you-can-feed-a-hungry-george-lucas.html">For Just 139 Dollars You Can Feed a Hungry George Lucas:</a><br />
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<blockquote>George grew up in California and gained some renown as a filmmaker back in the 1970s. But now he wanders the grounds of Skywalker Ranch, living like an animal, foraging for nuts and berries where he can find them. The caretakers, no longer able to recognize their filth-covered employer, shoo him away from the house when he comes sniffing around the property. Perhaps he is drawn by a long-lost memory of a comfortable bed and a Barcalounger. But more likely he’s just drawn by the smell of food wafting from the kitchen.</blockquote><br />
On <b>InsertEyeroll.com:</b><br />
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<a href="http://inserteyeroll.com/2011/08/05/10-billion-dollar-nasa-study-shows-that-space-is-full-of-worthless-junk/">10 Billion Dollar NASA Study Shows That Space Is Full of Worthless Junk</a><br />
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<blockquote>CAPE CANAVERAL — After 15 years and over $10 billion in taxpayer’s money, Project Extreme Cosmic Discovery, the most extensive probe of the universe ever conducted, has demonstrated conclusively that space is completely full of junk.<br />
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“It’s unbelievable, really,” said senior NASA administrator Charles Bollerheim. “We thought for sure that something wonderful lay beyond the fragile envelope of our atmosphere. Something that would reveal the secrets of the universe and maybe answer the questions that humanity has been asking for thousands of years.<br />
<br />
“But yeah, it’s just a bunch of rocks and gas and stuff.”</blockquote><br />
And lastly, from the print world - <b><i>prairie dog</i> Magazine:</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.prairiedogmag.com/archive/?id=880">The Hickory: A tale of love, hate and adequacy </a>(Restaurant review)<br />
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<blockquote>If you dare, try reading the aggregate of opinions on the Hickory Smokehouse and Grill, where, according to Urban Spoon, you can enjoy 1.) a delightful meal in a tasteful setting, or 2.) the most horrendous experience of your short little life. Some of the missives are sent off in quick-fried bursts from a smartphone, but a few are the outcome of finely chopped, long-simmering resentment. Most dismaying are the semi-professional takedowns: reviews that appear to have been written by someone in the restaurant industry. With their reliance on jargon and a habit of using 'plate' as both noun and verb, they're easy to spot and difficult to read.<br />
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Although none of the negative reviews come out and say it, they all hint at the Hickory Smokehouse's greatest weakness: flanked by The Cottage and The Keg - and occupying the same space as the old Keg restaurant - the Hickory does almost nothing to distinguish itself from its neighbours.</blockquote><br />
Okay, folks, you did it! Here are your bananas. I used natural light from the window to really bring out their banana-ness. Then I processed the RAW file, deepened the contrast and added in a bit of blue to counteract all that banana-ness a bit. Then <a href="http://www.schmutzie.com">Schmutzie </a>ate one. Then I lost interest.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palinode/6054515899/" title="bananas by palinode, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6188/6054515899_a807f07b06.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="bananas"></a><br />
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palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-16298305707347988692011-08-15T23:48:00.002-06:002011-08-15T23:52:47.941-06:00I'm a Maple Vinegar Expert and So Can You<i>I'm ripping off that title from somewhere. I don't care. You go look somewhere else while I rip things off.</i><br />
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You cannot rightly call yourself a foodie unless you're <strike>a pretentious douche</strike> an expert on some obscure subdomain of the food kingdom. Someone out there knows how to make a fluffy pancake from pine needles and dried porcini mushrooms. Someone else can whisk a sullen puddle of egg white into a five foot replica of the World Trade Center (hold on, that's going to come back later). But I? I can make maple vinegar.<br />
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Because it's really easy if you have the recipe. Actually, if not for the presumed necessity of precision in the mixture, you'd have to be downright touched not to figure out how to do it. A couple of hints and it's off to the races, if you like the idea of racing with vinegar.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palinode/6047770075/" title="maple vinegar bowl by palinode, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6183/6047770075_442bc850bf.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="maple vinegar bowl"></a><br />
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Making your own vinegar requires only a few ingredients: something sweet, something alcoholic, and vinegar. That's it. There's some finesse in the storage, and it helps to buy a glass jar big enough to hold your mixture (who would skip such a basic step and end up turning the kitchen inside out in search of a suitable container? Hmm), but that's pretty much it. Put those ingredients together and the fermentation process will grab hold of the sugars and hustle them into an alcohol and then into an acetic acid.<br />
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The only weird thing about making vinegar is that you need vinegar. Do not think about this for too long, or the abyss of infinite regress will open up and you will fall screaming its ever-multiplying void, Vertigo-style. How was the first vinegar created? In the same way that the origin of fire is a mystery,* no one knows how the first vinegar was made.** But I hear there's an Indiana Jones movie in the works about the mystic origins of the substance.***<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palinode/6047782399/" title="maple vinegar ingredients with cat by palinode, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6062/6047782399_1d17b98858.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="maple vinegar ingredients with cat"></a><br />
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For my maple vinegar, I used the recipe in Kamozawa & Talbot's book<i> <a href="http://www.ideasinfood.com/">Ideas In Food</a></i>, which is largely devoted to the chemical and physical reactions of ingredients when you mash them together and apply heat. The recipes in their book are more like signposts than destinations, but there's nothing to say you can't rest beneath these signs for a while and enjoy the shade they offer. But don't linger too long - there are bandits on those roads, and while the signposts are metaphorical, the bandits are real. Ever had your metaphorical wallet grabbed by a real bandit? It's confusing.<br />
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Here's what I used:<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palinode/6047766505/" title="maple vinegar ingredients by palinode, on Flickr"><img alt="maple vinegar ingredients" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6194/6047766505_f374f3c3c5.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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Canada no.1 Medium Organic Maple Syrup (3 cups)<br />
Goslings Black Seal Bermuda Rum (1 1/3 cups)<br />
Bragg Organic Apple Cider Vinegar (2 1/2 cups)<br />
Water (7/8 cup)<br />
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I used Goslings because I have fond memories of the stuff from a childhood spent partly in Bermuda (not that I drank rum as a child). You'll notice that the vinegar label proclaims 'with the mother,' which is not poorly translated French or anything (it's poorly translated Hippie). The vinegar 'mother' is what makes it 'live' and spurs the fermentation process. Don't bother using a bottle of plain white vinegar, which is often just acetic acid in solution.<br />
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Combine those ingredients in a glass bowl or jar, cover with cheesecloth - which you will also see in the photo above - and then cover with a loose-fitting lid. The idea is to let the mixture breathe, because it's alive and it needs oxygen to do its disgusting biological work.<br />
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There's a cat in the picture as well, but you don't need a cat in the recipe. In fact, you want to keep the cat the hell away from your mixing site, but these are headstrong cats and there's nothing I can do about them.<br />
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This part of the process is, quite frankly, not much fun. It's expensive, inexplicably more laborious than it should be, and it's over in minutes. Plus there's a cat. It's annoying and not long enough to justify the amount of irritation derived (see: the opening monologue from <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrxlfvI17oY">Annie Hall</a></i>). I recommend you make some bread at the same time, just to muscle out your anger out on some innocent Globolink of dough.<br />
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Once all that is finished, store your proto-vinegar in a cool dark place. Test it out after four weeks. I made my batch today, so that means it should be ready on September 12, 2011, one day after the ten year anniversary of 9/11. Everyone is invited over for some commemorative maple vinegar.<br />
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*<br />
<br />
<i>*No it isn't.<br />
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**Yes they do.<br />
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***Not in the least.</i>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-48848403197450252832011-08-15T00:13:00.000-06:002011-08-15T00:13:16.896-06:00bees<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFJPVDmrK6efUVZZNDDtzUpQL9Cv6MfEyFlRtPiip6Szuen9YPvLpK6xp4Cmu-bbCE8R7IOEis_P9Il85FPNBGirKmzX6MR6UKT1GnNYxB6ysh4_MKosWuTV0EIB4KTo15wM-/s1600/burt-s-bees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFJPVDmrK6efUVZZNDDtzUpQL9Cv6MfEyFlRtPiip6Szuen9YPvLpK6xp4Cmu-bbCE8R7IOEis_P9Il85FPNBGirKmzX6MR6UKT1GnNYxB6ysh4_MKosWuTV0EIB4KTo15wM-/s200/burt-s-bees.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<i>[Sunday afternoon. A bathroom <a href="http://www.schmutzie.com/">Schmutzie </a>is showering. Palinode is at the sink. Water is splashing. Schmutzie, maybe she's humming a tune to herself, the kind of shower tune that's half memory, half improv. Palinode picks up a six ounce tube of Burts Bees cleanser.]</i><br />
<br />
Palinode: Can I try your cleanser?<br />
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Schmutzie: Sure!<br />
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Palinode: I want to use half of it.<br />
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Schmutzie: What?<br />
<br />
Palinode: I'm going to use half the tube.<br />
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Schmutzie: Uh, you want to owe me fifteen bucks?<br />
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Palinode: No, I want to squeeze half this tube into the palm of my hand and slap it on my face.<br />
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Schmutzie: No!<br />
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Palinode: Hey, I tried it.<br />
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Schmutzie: And?<br />
<br />
Palinode: It's nice.<br />
<br />
Schmutzie: Isn't it?<br />
<br />
Palinode: It's awfully expensive though. You only get, like, two uses out of one tube.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
<i>This post has been sponsored by my cat. If you read this post, you agree to send money to my cat. By reading this far into the addendum, you also agree to indemnify and hold harmless my cat against any and all liability. Cat comes "as is," with no expressed or implied warranty. My cat may send certain information to third-party sites for the purposes of targeted advertising. None of the information sent by my cat to third-party sites is personally identifiable, with the exception of your name, foot size, dental records and your opinion of Game of Thrones. My cat wants to know what you think of Game of Thrones.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Oh crap, here comes my cat. He wants to know where the money is.</i>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-61541845353504013262011-08-03T22:29:00.001-06:002011-08-03T22:30:40.745-06:00It's Only LeavesHello. I am mucking about with my new camera, a Lumix GF2 which I bought on the eve - the very eve - of BlogHer '11. There is nothing funny below this text. Just pictures of tea leaves. Unless you find tea leaves inherently hilarious (or as Louis CK would say, hi-laaaarrrr-ious), then you won't laugh at what I'm about to show you. You may smile, but if you do it'll be because you're just thinking of something else while your eyes rest on the whorls and gnarls of damp leaves. That's a coincidence, and I won't be held responsible for your life's coincidental events.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Dl2fwc7C80xu9gHui9UcId0a3ehrONgh0MbV0MRN2I9JhLrZVRi6nTLErXxIJrPjU013q_uaQ_nnFV3LUjg5og1FM5nayvF-wCMH5ctzwdCxdIxiHfM7y_swQp-oWfCRSYST/s1600/P1000020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Dl2fwc7C80xu9gHui9UcId0a3ehrONgh0MbV0MRN2I9JhLrZVRi6nTLErXxIJrPjU013q_uaQ_nnFV3LUjg5og1FM5nayvF-wCMH5ctzwdCxdIxiHfM7y_swQp-oWfCRSYST/s640/P1000020.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><br />
See? I told you. Leaves. High Mountain Oolong leaves from David's Tea, steeped at 200 degrees Fahrenheit for six minutes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Gi8rFrI6aWPZ3oV4qBD4K_r5BelEehUQREvoUcsJeZs7w50E064FiGEBXf5RtdyBm-0g9ILo4Leq1s7w8hySwDZfSgmT15jp9AHla50lZVawNuw-7kVWtUBZT7-3p2_KZw5V/s1600/P1000021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Gi8rFrI6aWPZ3oV4qBD4K_r5BelEehUQREvoUcsJeZs7w50E064FiGEBXf5RtdyBm-0g9ILo4Leq1s7w8hySwDZfSgmT15jp9AHla50lZVawNuw-7kVWtUBZT7-3p2_KZw5V/s640/P1000021.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><br />
Then I drank what the leaves released. They don't even know, they're leaves.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSydE0nx9bZYOx3LzvX8JHRukgK0cLwVaCwiAfNSWhuBnGeaosUDRv11WW0scpTnUgqQlnCjhqSr6yuiaczEXrwT3sIbjyMop4hSDoi5WfF2LhV2W0XkjsQk4CS0_ejsoPR_5/s1600/P1000024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSydE0nx9bZYOx3LzvX8JHRukgK0cLwVaCwiAfNSWhuBnGeaosUDRv11WW0scpTnUgqQlnCjhqSr6yuiaczEXrwT3sIbjyMop4hSDoi5WfF2LhV2W0XkjsQk4CS0_ejsoPR_5/s640/P1000024.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><br />
Leaves are so dumb.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWMKOyZss-DReI0qMGQsmieMdfXMWni4cGk7BcWhvor3ih35PyV4nIB9JgKvcj71Hk2VKUfsmxVuDwEEBgspzyppSo7c1wD76DKmH8A0FqDM765V9Ci2I5ySDTL57ShXARnzY/s1600/P1000025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWMKOyZss-DReI0qMGQsmieMdfXMWni4cGk7BcWhvor3ih35PyV4nIB9JgKvcj71Hk2VKUfsmxVuDwEEBgspzyppSo7c1wD76DKmH8A0FqDM765V9Ci2I5ySDTL57ShXARnzY/s640/P1000025.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><br />
OMG.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-62184776907220261842011-07-28T09:17:00.000-06:002011-07-28T09:17:20.058-06:00Katzen<i>[Evening. Darkness over the face of the land. Are there clouds? It's too dark to tell. <a href="http://www.schmutzie.com/">Schmutzie </a>and The Palinode relax on the couch, untroubled by darkness.]</i><br />
<br />
Schmutzie: My family has the strangest saying: 'Nervous as a cat.'<br />
<br />
Palinode: It makes sense.<br />
<br />
Schmutzie: But I've never heard anyone else say it. Just my family. <i>[Pause]</i> Maybe it's from the German.<br />
<br />
Palinode: I doubt it. They don't have cats in Germany.<br />
<br />
Schmutzie: <i>[accepting the premise]</i> But they have the word for cat.<br />
<br />
Palinode: Yes, but they have no idea what it means.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-64274344215234497632011-07-20T13:14:00.003-06:002011-07-20T13:19:46.121-06:00An open letter to that shot of Jägermeister on Friday night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5sBhuOhWhHX-I2F5l26QUx1OflBbe2WAebEgGtaHEurY0AaBMuxzxUeE1YFAnMek1ulbp3r9-bhujxBW7KkjlvcJHQJfRWGnhhnVkzsjeHWZOBpaVLJrBo37wkXJF4AQ0EXx/s1600/Jagermeister-Bottle-Glow_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5sBhuOhWhHX-I2F5l26QUx1OflBbe2WAebEgGtaHEurY0AaBMuxzxUeE1YFAnMek1ulbp3r9-bhujxBW7KkjlvcJHQJfRWGnhhnVkzsjeHWZOBpaVLJrBo37wkXJF4AQ0EXx/s400/Jagermeister-Bottle-Glow_1.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Like most terrible decisions, the one I made to shoot back an ounce of you after a couple of beers was made in haste. Already I'd hit that state of drunkenness in which one moment is of no more consequence than the next, as interchangeable as grains of salt on a knuckle, and just as quickly swiped up by a tongue.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until I caught sight of my reflection that I realized you were the wrong concoction for the evening. My face had that horrible glazed-ham look. My eyes were sort of swimming around in their sockets with a look of watery perplexity, as if I were trying to think my way out of some infinitely complex trap. I was overheated with alcohol, somewhere past the boiling point, and I knew that even the smallest nudge could set off some awful eruption.<br />
<br />
That was it for my first proper Friday night in ages. It wasn't even 9 o' clock.<br />
<br />
Damn you, shot of Jägermeister. I thought you were on my side. And your web site is astoundingly bad. It's all done in Flash. Really? Flash?palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-79631125838830323852011-07-17T00:21:00.000-06:002011-07-17T00:21:35.356-06:00An open letter to pajamas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywrKRLSCoXwLNabs4PK4Me_6l7z_GXfJhHXtiiabdboov2pAW98k4n-Io5x1ahBwEUeM70E821kiFraJJ1gZnA8vXKFgIShOJU_RMvCmhBXbDNWxOAqB2C0pgAnUF_-TzzcJ0/s1600/Two_piece_pajamas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywrKRLSCoXwLNabs4PK4Me_6l7z_GXfJhHXtiiabdboov2pAW98k4n-Io5x1ahBwEUeM70E821kiFraJJ1gZnA8vXKFgIShOJU_RMvCmhBXbDNWxOAqB2C0pgAnUF_-TzzcJ0/s1600/Two_piece_pajamas.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Pajamas, I don't own you. Why? Because I'm not ten years old. Back in the heady days of 1981, when I was young and pajama-clad, superheroes and cartoon characters covered my walls and the clothes in which I slept. They marched up my arms, struck poses on my chest, flew down my legs. But adults shouldn't wear you. We're not so invested in role models that we need to embroider our sleep with them. Anyway, doesn't it seem odd that we have an entire outfit dedicated to sleep? Why are we dressing up to lay in a darkened room and drool for eight hours? It seems like the one occasion where we can get away with nudity.<br />
<br />
One thing you're good for, pajamas: night time emergencies. Fires, floods, a knock on the door - that's when you shine.<i> Don't worry, I'm here and I'm all over you</i>, you say, <i>and when you're old and rocking the adult diapers, I'll be on you all day. You'll probably die in me.</i><br />
<br />
You play on our fears, pajamas. Without them we would have no need for you. I'll tell you what: when I retire, I'll give you another shot.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-68306628902037167522011-07-15T14:34:00.000-06:002011-07-15T14:34:55.038-06:00An open letter to muffinsMuffins. What’s up with you? If you were cupcakes, you’d be fantastic. If you were banana bread, I’d enjoy spending a couple of bucks on you. Instead you sit in that weird in-between space, trying to satisfy all my cravings at once and just not hitting any of them.<br />
<br />
I’m not talking to homemade muffins. Don’t ever change, homemade muffins! Stay gold and all that. I’m addressing these remarks to all the grocery store muffins out there, all the Tim Hortons and Dunkin Donuts muffins. Why do you do that thing you do in my mouth, which is dissolve like a sugar cube? And once your innards are exposed with a bite, you have only two states: mush or concrete. It makes no sense that you should be kind of damp – soaked, nearly – with unknown moistures, and then convert into a rock formation within ten minutes. Stop that weird bullshit, muffins. You’re kind of a tease.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-45869416305244353342011-07-14T22:30:00.000-06:002011-07-14T22:30:42.932-06:00A Palinode Around The WebHello, my butter chickens! I'm all over the web today. I should be represented visually by one of those lawn seeding machines that men in madras shorts and old boots push around suburban lawns on summer afternoons. Put on a shirt on, you weirdos.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTKjOLaE9QuSxPZ8qHAmU4iNFfgjWrH6kGh0NvIfkGxrdEfu3MBCWoH9IUQBOZK3Cn1-gnX28FHpU80_1T7MkoQa5pOFbM2ZuuiB0QKdy2WltSLvBZ7l61aW59YNgIeTFuaVE/s1600/7_GardenSeeder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTKjOLaE9QuSxPZ8qHAmU4iNFfgjWrH6kGh0NvIfkGxrdEfu3MBCWoH9IUQBOZK3Cn1-gnX28FHpU80_1T7MkoQa5pOFbM2ZuuiB0QKdy2WltSLvBZ7l61aW59YNgIeTFuaVE/s1600/7_GardenSeeder.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fill me with your seed, suburban retiree."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Okay, let's start with some stuff. On mamapop.com:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mamapop.com/2011/07/what-the-hell-lea-michele-chris-colfer-and-corey-monteith-are-out-of-glee.html">What The Hell? Lea Michele, Chris Colfer and Corey Monteith Are Out Of ‘Glee’?</a><br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>Isn’t Glee the story of Rachel, Finn, and Kurt? Sure, there’s Sue Sylvester and the guy with the obnoxious curly hair and the pregnant girl and the bisexual cheerleaders and some kids who sing things—but they’re not the show. </i></blockquote><blockquote><i>Or maybe they are. After all, Lea Michele’s Rachel is something of a one-note (zing! except not really, because her voice is pretty good) character who never seems to grow with the story. Her character embodies some of the writers’ worst impulses, going this way and that as the plot demands. Finn, meanwhile, is so bland that a comparison escapes me. Oh no, he’s worried about his abs. Look out, there’s a baby or something that’s not his. Hey, listen to him sing, it’s almost as good as David Cook, yay.</i></blockquote><div><br />
</div><div>And then there's prairie dog magazine, where I write my various things, scribble scribble.</div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="http://www.prairiedogmag.com/lifestyle/?c=drink!&id=851">A Tipple Manifesto, or Your Guide To Creating a Cocktail Scene in your Community</a></div><div><br />
</div><blockquote><i>How dreadful it is, then, when cocktail culture kicks us so rudely out of its bed the next morning. Regina is full of bars that serve cocktails, but if it's full-blown cocktail culture you're after, with a taste of antebellum torpor or '20s Berlin decadence, then you're going to be disappointed. Sure, you can enjoy a really nice mojito on the roof of the Rooftop Bar or a Havana cocktail at La Bodega - not to mention places like Skara or Habanos - but a place that serves cocktails is only a part of a proper cocktail scene.</i></blockquote><div><br />
</div><div><a href="http://www.prairiedogmag.com/archive/?id=844">Something Different: A New Gastropub Boldly Eschews the Tyranny of Menus</a></div><div><br />
</div><blockquote><i>Chain places don't offer great food, but they're so predictable it's like playing a recording of a meal: the same flavours and textures, note for note. Sure, it's lousy food that sort of jabs at your pleasure centers like a mugger on Vicodin, but you know it's going to be lousy. In fact, you're banking on that lousiness to get you through the lousy experience of eating that meal.</i></blockquote><blockquote><i>When McDonald's hands you a cold Big Mac - as happened to me once on the outskirts of Weyburn - it's not a disappointment or an insult. It's so shocking it's like the world just tilted off its axis.</i></blockquote><br />
<a href="http://www.prairiedogmag.com/?p=26668">Food Notes On Food</a><br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>Nothing ruins a group friendship quicker than a standing weekend brunch date. Everything starts out hunky dory, but fissures eventually begin to show. Someone never pays, someone else spends their time complaining about the choice of venue, and then there’s the person who combines those habits (“Can someone get my brunch this week? This place has the worst eggs. Buffets just suck in general. Do you have a smoke?” I’m pretty much transcribing myself from 1995). And eventually somebody sleeps with somebody else’s boyfriend/girlfriend/stuffie.</i></blockquote>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-65653950748579669562011-07-05T00:21:00.001-06:002011-07-05T00:24:15.422-06:00Daily Twitter Story: Llamas vs. Monkey vs. Facebook<i>You tweet me. I write you. It's a story.</i><br />
<br />
Today's Daily Twitter Story idea comes from @adampknave, who wanted a story on Llamas vs Monkey vs Facebook. Okay Adam. You got your wish.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5807yrtsAbUDDzRQM9NSDPGMotXBKyFQWXMuRhkGIAYJLenJJjEBLtxK7RHsByjy-tKMnla1ayMhWCYojo7Vz9s50qPZTkpxmWJ1ve-9gSiRel1AkqMwNEgLnz6EZcySXvZN/s1600/cole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5807yrtsAbUDDzRQM9NSDPGMotXBKyFQWXMuRhkGIAYJLenJJjEBLtxK7RHsByjy-tKMnla1ayMhWCYojo7Vz9s50qPZTkpxmWJ1ve-9gSiRel1AkqMwNEgLnz6EZcySXvZN/s1600/cole.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<b>"Llamas vs Monkey vs Facebook"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>It started, as most terrifying and beautiful things do, with a drinking game. The game was called 'Cole Hauser' and the rules were simple</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>1. Every time you see noted actor Cole Hauser you take a shot.</b><br />
<b>2. The game ends when the bottle runs out or Cole Hauser dies.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>There are ways of maximizing your chances at winning a round of Cole Hauser. For example, you can stake out his home or get a job on a set where Hauser is working (preferably as a PA, because you're on set frequently and it's a good way to get into the industry). You could also kill Cole Hauser, but that stops the entire game in its tracks and then you'd have to make up an entirely new game. Like 'Catherine Tate' or 'Josh Duhamel.'</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>One day, a monkey got tired of losing rounds of Cole Hauser to a cohort of hard-drinking llamas who happened to be Hollywood's go-to movie llamas. Principal shooting had begun on <i>Mr. Hamma's Llamas</i>, a flick about a Gulf War vet with severe PTSD who's ordered by a judge to operate a llama ranch. Hauser's agent had advised him to take the gig as a way of getting into the lucrative children's market. Predictably, the llamas were getting hammered and winning game after game. Not only did this anger their wrangler, it gave the monkey headaches and further wounded his self-esteem.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Then, in a fit of inspiration, the monkey reasoned that the rules didn't specify whether the participant had to see Cole Hauser himself or simply an image of Cole Hauser. First he tried to rent <i>Tigerland </i>and <i>Pitch Black</i>, but no video store would offer him a membership card. So he signed up on Facebook and selected a picture of Cole Hauser's wife Cynthia Daniel as his avatar. He had a moment of misgiving, but it revolved mostly around Cynthia Daniel's name, which doesn't sound real. Seriously, do you trust someone with a first name for a last name? Or vice versa? That's why you should cross the street when you see Fisher Stevens approaching you.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>The monkey spent months as Cynthia Daniel on Facebook, growing his network of friends, posting updates about 'her' fabulous life. Soon, the monkey knew, Cole Hauser would friend him, and then he could win round after round of Cole Hauser by simply logging on to his Facebook account. Genius? Sure, why not.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>About six months into his scheme, the monkey logged on and found what he had been waiting for all this time: a friend request from Cole Hauser. With a series of chirps and hoots and some inappropriate genital touching, the monkey clicked the Confirm button.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>A message popped up.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<i><b>Dude, we knoe what you are doing lol we told Cole all about it and he is party with us right now!!! PWND.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>- llamas</b></i><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>The message was accompanied by an image of Cole Hauser doing body shots with the llamas. The monkey howled with rage, flung some excrement around and later formed Google+. The llamas were subsequently fired and replaced with excruciatingly bad CGI alpacas.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>The moral of the story is: don't rely on social media to forge deep relationships, just like Malcolm Gladwell said.</b>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-32291953655244304302011-07-01T21:13:00.001-06:002011-07-01T21:13:33.423-06:00Daily Twitter Story: The Toblerone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJ1XHE5F9ULJjS8sphm9Ul9ijn88naHIutv_X8TZ4BOfPLQd5Jkh3a2VQjz4OnV0P1xGFwpI4oQusdfcDkllxNs5txg9X6327nlxnsAyXC4D54649Aobj0wvQaDBkeO2PQ6Mn/s1600/Toblerone-chocolate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZJ1XHE5F9ULJjS8sphm9Ul9ijn88naHIutv_X8TZ4BOfPLQd5Jkh3a2VQjz4OnV0P1xGFwpI4oQusdfcDkllxNs5txg9X6327nlxnsAyXC4D54649Aobj0wvQaDBkeO2PQ6Mn/s400/Toblerone-chocolate.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i><br />
</i><br />
<i>You tweet it. I write it. Bam! Literature</i> ex tweetio.<br />
<br />
Today's Twitter story idea comes from @snakey2010, who wants a story on "The Toblerone." I've done better than a story here - I've written a blockbuster screenplay. Wow! I know.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b>"The Toblerone"<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>INT-DAY – The Oval Office<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>GENERAL CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Sir, we’ve developed the ultimate weapon. It will annihilate the Russians, the Chinese and Rhode Island in one crushing deployment.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Thank God. Time to shut Rhode Island up once and for all. Tell me about your ultimate weapon.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>When deployed, this weapon will vaporize all life within a 100 mile radius, along with all traces of civilization. Whoever’s left will have to fight back with rocks in socks, sir. They’ll be looking forward to the Stone Age.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>What’s it called?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The weapon is code named “The Toblerone.”<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>"The Toblerone"? What for? Is it shaped like a Toblerone bar? Lots of triangles or something?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>No sir. It <i>is</i> a Toblerone bar.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>No way.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Apparently the destructive powers of the Toblerone remained unknown and untapped by its inventors.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Well I’ll be a sausage-fried son of a bitch.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>(pause)<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span> </span>Is it one of the ones that have those little crunchy bits?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Does a bear shit in the woods, sir?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Sorry, what did you say?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I said, does a bear shit in the woods, sir.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>That is a good question. A good, solid, down-to-earth question. But I don’t know the answer. Let’s get someone on that right away.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>CLAIRE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Sir –<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT (on the phone)<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Can you get Weigel in here right away? (places the headset back in the cradle) Weigel is my top man. He’ll get you the answer you need. Let’s just say he solves my ‘out there’ problems.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL (enters)<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>What can I do for you, Mr. President?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Weigel, I need you to find out whether bears shit in the woods. This is top priority, Weigel. Weigel. It’s a matter of national security.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>You can count on me, sir.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>PRESIDENT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Weigel. Weigel. Can I count on you, Weigel?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Um - you just - never mind. You know it, sir.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>EXT – NIGHT – WEIGEL’S APARTMENT BUILDING<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>INT – NIGHT – WEIGEL’S APARTMENT.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL is in bed, but he can’t sleep. A breeze lazily billows out the curtains of his bedroom window. The sound of the PRESIDENT’s voice repeating his name echoes in his head (“…Weigel. Weigel…”). WEIGEL opens his eyes, sighs.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Shit.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>He gets out of bed and wraps himself in a bathrobe. He reaches for a bottle of JD and sits down at the computer. The Wikipedia entry for Bear is already up on the screen.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL scrolls up and down the page listlessly. He knows that the information he seeks isn’t there. He sighs again and knocks back a tumbler of whiskey.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Looks like we’re going on a trip.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>INT – DAY – SCIENTIST’S OFFICE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>… It’s a matter of national security. Obviously I can’t tell you more than that, but any information you can give me would be a great help.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SCIENTIST<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>You’re not the first person to come to me with this question. (SCIENTIST gets up, selects a book from the shelf of volumes behind him) The truth is, Mr… (the SCIENTIST pauses, but WEIGEL says nothing)… my friend, that no one knows whether bears shit in the woods. In fact, they may not shit at all. Bears are not animals in the sense that you or I use the word.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>What – that doesn’t sound right.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SCIENTIST<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I know how it sounds. But that does not make it any less true.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Are you a real scientist?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SCIENTIST<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Obviously not.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>EXT – DAY – RURAL ROADSIDE<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>A car driving up a country road. The car pulls up to a farmer leaning on a fence. The driver’s side window rolls down. It’s WEIGEL!<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Hello there.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>FARMER<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Hello yourself, car man.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I just need to know if there are any bears in the woods up ahead.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>FARMER<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Bears? No, the bears all moved out back in 2002. Are you looking for Ritalin?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>What? No.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>FARMER<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Oh. ‘Cause I’ve got plenty.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I didn’t know farmers sold drugs.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>FARMER<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I’m not a farmer.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>EXT – DAY – AIRPORT <o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Establishing shot of airport. WEIGEL pulls up and gets out of his car.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>INT – DAY – TICKET COUNTER<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>ATTENDANT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I need a ticket to the nearest place where bears live.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>ATTENDANT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>One moment sir. (The attendant types something into her computer, reads the result). It says here that all the bears are in Rhode Island.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Ticket to Rhode Island, then.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>ATTENDANT<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Flights to Rhode Island have been suspended, sir. A Toblerone Bar destroyed all traces of civilization there.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>WEIGEL<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>GOD DAMNIT.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>END</b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>That's it for today, folks. If you'd like your tweet transformed into classic literature, send me a message! I can be found @palinode.</i></div>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-75577941596518660082011-07-01T06:09:00.001-06:002011-07-01T16:46:44.897-06:00Daily Twitter Story: Popsicles<i>It is time. Time for another Twitter story, even though I haven't slept and it's five in the morning. You don't want to know how I've spent the last twelve hours, but suffice it to say my stomach is an acid churn and my clothes reek of cigarette smoke. Yay for strange nights and god damn.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpbvW8qQ_jIAyxnL4wbxgyBSs9LGs5YvW2fRUA311EJQfpyPbk4NlSW-u8JxaoxZpUh1-YHeLmYtq6tZ7YTzKWCln1Znt8gvzghS1-HsLKfu9t4UV-VYa6oExg1Whv9LxcpEl/s1600/stray-dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpbvW8qQ_jIAyxnL4wbxgyBSs9LGs5YvW2fRUA311EJQfpyPbk4NlSW-u8JxaoxZpUh1-YHeLmYtq6tZ7YTzKWCln1Znt8gvzghS1-HsLKfu9t4UV-VYa6oExg1Whv9LxcpEl/s1600/stray-dog.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
Today's Twitter story comes from @lauriewrites, who shed several story topics in one tweet. I've picked popsicles, because I have this nutty idea that I can compel and entertain you with the spectre of popsicles (a spectre which is not haunting Europe, by the way).<br />
<br />
<b>"Popsicles"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Down Vernon Street we ran and ran, our feet pounding and skipping down the sidewalk, leaping over cracks and landing solidly in the center of the concrete panels. Time and time, our worlds gridded by invisible rules constantly resolving and dissolving according to whim.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"Chan!" called Bo. "We found something! It's here!"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>And there it was, as Bo had promised: a three-legged dog, blonde and stinking with nameless carrion. We crowded around it, thrilled at its novelty.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"What's its name?" someone asked.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Bo waved the question away. "Stupid, there's no name. We have to make one." And that's how Bo took us down and built us up, all in one gesture.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"He's Bernie," Steven said. Lila agreed: "He's a Bernie." Bernie seemed to like the name instantly, nosing himself into the little knot of us. We pet him despite the stink off his fur.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"He must be hungry," concluded Bo. "Chan, go get him some food. Your house is right there."</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Chan broke away from Bernie, whose eyes were rolling back and forth alarmingly. He crossed the street and entered his house. Once there he noticed the smell on his hands and jacket, the sharp putrid tang of Bernie. He smelled the palms of his hands, daring himself to smell deeper, then rubbed his hands over his face. Now he was more like that stray dog, the one with three legs and the nervous face.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"What is that smell?" Chan's mother asked. She sniffed the air tentatively, testing out the upper strata before dipping her nose down to her child's face. "Oh my god. What the hell is that?"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"It's Bernie," Chan explained. "He's a dog and he doesn't have a leg and Bo found him and I have to get him some food."<br />
</b><br />
<b>"Bernie?" his mother echoed. She went to the window and looked out. "Oh my god."</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Chan's mother raced outside. Chan went to the window and watched as his mother raced down the steps, arms flapping like a panicked bird about to take flight. We blanched. Bernie erupted from the pack, zipping through the Ehrenmachers' yard and out of sight. The Ehrenmachers made candy apples for Halloween.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Through the window Chan watched his mother point at the houses on the block. She was sending us all home. We shuffled away, tinged with guilt for a crime we didn't quite understand.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Chan's mother strode back in. "Now I have to phone all their parents," she muttered to herself. "Chan, you get in the bath right now."</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"Can I put some food out for Bernie?" Chan asked.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>His mother sighed. "Here," she said. "You can eat a popsicle. Then you can have a bath and take food out for Bernie." She drew out a popsicle from the freezer and broke it decisively on the edge of the counter. Chan took the proffered half and started chewing on the end.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"But what about Bernie?" he asked. "What kind of food does he like?"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"We're saving the second half of the popsicle for Bernie," she said. "You finish your half and clean up first."</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Chan ate his popsicle as quickly as possible, freezing his mouth several times in the process. After the bath, which took a while, he forgot to ask whether Bernie had had his popsicle. It took him nearly thirty years to remember.</b>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-80330695808270618802011-06-29T21:41:00.002-06:002011-06-29T21:44:32.676-06:00Daily Twitter Story: Bald Animals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSe-B5rii0TkYJkfqmLTYgAjsGH_oqLd2gLDy6PzoMtqHwKfwbfo7Star-ACWXiAopEOC_dmsxpQioeXGtIOJoiyPjBX94DvRW-a1l27INK8W2D7kHABnvQNJEHG9ptPvSA6DJ/s1600/bald-monkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSe-B5rii0TkYJkfqmLTYgAjsGH_oqLd2gLDy6PzoMtqHwKfwbfo7Star-ACWXiAopEOC_dmsxpQioeXGtIOJoiyPjBX94DvRW-a1l27INK8W2D7kHABnvQNJEHG9ptPvSA6DJ/s400/bald-monkey.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<i>Hello to you! This is the Daily Twitter Story. You tweet it. I make it literature. Glory ensues.</i><br />
<br />
Today's Twitter story comes from @levendis, who wants a story about "bald animals." Levendis, your tweet is my command.<br />
<br />
<b>"Bald Animals"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>In a world much like our own but set in the far future, democracy reigns supreme. All organisms, from paramecia to the floating gas giants of Deneb IV, are able to vote. Somehow the Conservatives are still in power. Because the Conservatives have been in power for 5,000 years, the Earth is a toxic hellhole, an anoxic wasteland where dirt farmers farm dirt and the naked lady saloons are empty (the naked ladies moved away) (but the Barenaked Ladies still exist, which, holy cow this world sucks).</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>In the last verdant spot on the planet, the animals gather and decide to form a guitar rock supergroup playing the hits of the '70s, '80s and 22nd century neo-prog. These animals, it should be noted, are bald, because of the radiation and bad food, except for the bald eagle, whose head is crowned with feathers and is extinct. That is to say, it has feathers on its extinct head.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>(Sorry, this requires some explanation. In the infinitely compartmentalized far future, body parts of species face extinction as creatures incresingly opt for biomechanical artiforgs and cybernetic heads. So there's a bald eagle there, but it's got a fake head. With feathers on it. Are you with me? It plays a sweet Fender Telecaster.)</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>FAREWELL CONCERT, read the fliers. COME ROCK THE PLANET'S FACE OFF. AND THEN WE'LL LEAVE AND BLOW THIS GODFORSAKEN PIECE OF CRAP THE HELL UP. Then they practice and practice: K-Forge the Bald Orangutan on drums; Gorlamo the Bald Beaver (I know, I know) on jazz flute (I know, I know) and Moog synth; Jim the Bald Human on rhythm guitar; and Mr. Jennifer the Bald Eagle on lead guitar and vocals. They learn the entire discography of Styx because they mean to rock everyone's faces off, more or less as the flier promised.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>On the night of the concert, five farmers and a gas giant alien show up. They seem to enjoy themselves. The gas giant, it turns out, is a big fan of early Yes. </b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>They play and play and drink punch all night long. The next morning, they're too tired to blow up the planet. Earth is saved!</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
Thanks to all who read today's Twitter story. Tomorrow's entry comes from @lauriewrites, who wants to hear about popsicles.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-86892966087337602342011-06-28T19:27:00.002-06:002011-06-28T19:33:22.979-06:00Daily Twitter Story: Prison Letter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNhsotlOR8R2sazl0ybDRXUw7TZmMP_z1wBpp587M1YN6WJI4sNTPbxL3sL9TgHt4pqs0OYysP2uzjrGO5Oo0Lzq6-Try7HWaYQKRcS4kv1sJk74_-pdqDmi1HGbSINC9XHQJ/s1600/cape_verde_photo_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNhsotlOR8R2sazl0ybDRXUw7TZmMP_z1wBpp587M1YN6WJI4sNTPbxL3sL9TgHt4pqs0OYysP2uzjrGO5Oo0Lzq6-Try7HWaYQKRcS4kv1sJk74_-pdqDmi1HGbSINC9XHQJ/s1600/cape_verde_photo_2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Good morningfternooning! Welcome to the daily Twitter story. Today's story idea comes from @MacPhail, who tweeted:<br />
<br />
There was a strange letter from the state prison delivered to our apt building yesterday addressed to Ms. ?. Who sent it? Why?<br />
<br />
Okay, @MacPhail, here you go.<br />
<br />
<b>"Prison Letter"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>First light, best light. Sally ?, late of the Cabo Verde opera circuit, slid her key into the mailbox and extracted a sheaf of envelopes and flyers. Not for the first time, she experienced a spasm of random jealousy over the mailman, who with one turn of his master key could unhinge the jaw of the mailbox mechanism and deposit a building's worth of mail in a few efficient strokes. Sometimes she considered sneaking up behind the mailman and braining him just as the mailboxes all swung open, then stealing his bag of mail and opening every single letter in a huge heap of torn paper and irrelevant utility bills. This thought never failed to turn her on.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>At the kitchen counter she spread the mail out in a satisfying fan. One envelope, scuffed and torn, caught her attention:</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<i><b>New Mexico State Correctional Facility</b></i><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>read the return address. She checked to make sure that the letter was addressed to her. <i>Do I know anyone from a prison?</i> she wondered. <i>Well, people aren't from prisons, they</i> go <i>to prisons. Do I know anyone who went to prison?</i> Sally cast around in her mind a bit more but couldn't think of anyone (all her friends were back in Cabo Verde).</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>She tore the envelope open with a polished thumbnail and drew it out.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<i><b>Dear Ms. ?,</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<b><i>We just wanted to tell you how grateful we all are for your music. Your box set of Cabo Verde greats, including your </i>morna <i>version of Carmen, keeps us all pumped in the weight room but left adrift on a sea of melancholy. It's like we're floating gently out from shore in a raft, with the sun warming our bodies and the salt dancing in our nostrils. As opposed to being in the weight room, which smells like sweat.</i></b><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>We would also like to know how to pronounce your last name. Do you say "question mark," or just make a questiony-sounding grunt? Fights are breaking out in the yard.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>Many of us are also wondering if you would like to pay us a visit and sing for us. Also if you could smuggle in some cocaine.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>Respectfully,</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>The D Block</b></i><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Sally turned the paper over and fetched a pen.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<i><b>Respect! Here's what I'm gonna do. I'll carve a life size sculpture of myself out of pressed cocaine and stick an mp3 player in there with my greatest hits loaded onto it. You and the rest of the boys can enjoy a nice concert, and afterwards you can chop me up into baggies and sell me in the yard. Sound good?</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>The pronunciation of my name is a mystery to me. I think I was born a typo.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>One love,</b></i><br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>Sally ?</b></i><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>With that, she planted a careful kiss over her signature and folded the paper in half. <i>Gotta get a stamp now</i>, she thought.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>"Why does nothing interesting ever happen to me?" she asked Rodney, her pet Komodo dragon that wrote all her songs. But Rodney was too busy with the accounts to answer.</b><br />
<br />
<i>If you have a daily Twitter story idea and would like to see your glorious notion translated into half-baked prose, tweet it to me @palinode.</i>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-30000871561066601692011-06-27T19:47:00.000-06:002011-06-27T19:47:56.844-06:00Daily Twitter Story: Australia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiin2gopdPkrRkqHyoe_ObDe0-gaQ-LHESUH70ZPaR8cerwDy7HhlijbuPCQEOtLQxzFDN4eI9TybE_SMaSiyOUwi-HyLKiY_7CcVWnru06JJt_lQq8iRIO1kItfDFLe9TYYDPP/s1600/australia_road_net_1943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiin2gopdPkrRkqHyoe_ObDe0-gaQ-LHESUH70ZPaR8cerwDy7HhlijbuPCQEOtLQxzFDN4eI9TybE_SMaSiyOUwi-HyLKiY_7CcVWnru06JJt_lQq8iRIO1kItfDFLe9TYYDPP/s400/australia_road_net_1943.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The other day I asked for Twitter for story subject matter. And Twitter responded. Today's story idea comes from @edenland, who said:</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>@palinode Australia.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Okay, edenland. Here's your story.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
<blockquote><b>"Australia"</b></blockquote><br />
<blockquote><b><br />
</b><b>Once upon a time Australia woke up with a severe case of indigestion. “My Alice Springs!” it groaned, falling out of a really, really big bed. “Gotta get some coffee,” muttered Australia, slipping a pair of warm Tanzanias over its Melbournes and lumbering towards the really, really gigantic kitchen.</b></blockquote><blockquote><b>“Coffee’s just going to make your stomach worse,” New Zealand called from the bed. “Can you make me a flat white?” “Shut up, New Zealand,” said Australia. “Shut up shut up shut up.” That was the start of Australia’s shitty day.</b></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div></div>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-17266877306868458152011-06-11T21:52:00.000-06:002011-06-11T21:52:46.670-06:00professional tattooing tips for the first-time customer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiogQbL0vdxrN_qORDLcxL0WqbYERiCFTrj5GIpZBziNWgvdowBojGFOzU39-GAl1TAafvJVhHZptEFdrHgP8x4vX0j_ZauCuhqNLiYF9jdcBL3h_9NzT7G9uNE8vQxLxkFIGSC/s1600/Tattoo0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiogQbL0vdxrN_qORDLcxL0WqbYERiCFTrj5GIpZBziNWgvdowBojGFOzU39-GAl1TAafvJVhHZptEFdrHgP8x4vX0j_ZauCuhqNLiYF9jdcBL3h_9NzT7G9uNE8vQxLxkFIGSC/s320/Tattoo0001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>You wake up one morning and find yourself wanting a tattoo. Maybe you think a Celtic armband will revive your sex life and improve your football throw. Or maybe all your friends have butterflies inked on their ankles, and the shame of a naked ankle is slowly corroding your self-esteem. Whatever the reason, one thing is clear: you need a tattoo.<br />
<br />
But how often have you gone for a tattoo, only to be laughed at by the tattoo artist and the assistant needler? Or worse, end up leaving with an iron-on transfer on your skin instead of a genuine tattoo? These are the risks you run if you're perceived as a newbie, or as some say, 'tattoobie'.<br />
<br />
In order to avoid these and other degrading fates at the tattoo parlour, be sure to remember these tips:<br />
<br />
<b>Get the words right.</b> It's not pronounced tah-too. It's 'tah-toe'. The needles used by the tattoist are called 'jammer-jammers'. And the woman who sits in the back room smoking cigarettes and scratching absently at her arm is called Lucy.<br />
<br />
<b>Be forceful.</b> Instead of flipping through books of tattoo art or attempting to describe what you want, walk in and demand to see 'your finest tah-toe'. Insist on the good ink. Sometimes it helps to be vaguely racist.<br />
<br />
<b>Avoid cliches.</b> There's no quicker way to out yourself as a total novice than to ask for shopworn college-student favourites like the 'full-body narwhal' or 'tiger buttock'. Go for innovative designs like the 'Rothko tongue' or the extremely complicated procedure that will produce the illusion of Willie Nelson's braids descending from your head to the tops of your shoulders - <i>even while showering</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>Insurance.</b> Even if you use each one of my tips, you may still end up with a tattoo that does not satisfy your lifestyle needs. It's often a good idea to wear someone else's skin to your appointment. If that proves a bit too complicated, send in someone else to get the tattoo, then remove their freshly inked skin.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-53089469437921103572011-06-07T01:05:00.000-06:002011-06-07T01:05:56.766-06:00Palinode elsewhere: The Riders and the ChoddyNot only should I post on my blog more often, I should update with my actual writing elsewhere. Paid writing has eventually crowded out the amount of creativity and mental space I'm willing to devote to the blog, but I miss this place. Hello blog.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Another post on Saskatchewan advertising, which as everyone knows is just burning up the twitterwebs these days. Click the link to read the entire story.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.prairiedogmag.com/?p=25002">The Roughriders. The Oath. And the Choddy. The Choddy. The Choddy.</a><br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>If you have eyes and you’ve been using them to look at televisions or billboards, then you’ve probably seen the new “Rider Oath” ad campaign from the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Featuring a series of people proclaiming their fealty to the Rider Nation, the ads seek to cast a warm light on our fondness for watching oversize men in green satin tights slam into each repeatedly until they’re fired or traded.<br />
<br />
Two ads have been produced so far, and I sense more in the pipeline. After all, there’s no reason for Steve Mazurak to stop ordering future installments of people standing in front of a camera with green and white makeup troweled on their faces; the ads are quick and cheap to produce, and participants only need to master a script that consists of two ambiguous sentence fragments and nine independent clauses, three of which are repetitions. What’s not to like about this setup?<br />
<br />
There are two things not to like about this setup.</i></blockquote>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-49859953112150613102011-06-03T13:05:00.001-06:002011-06-03T13:10:07.541-06:00the parks adO world's population, most of you are not in Saskatchewan. And why would you be? It's obnoxiously cold for half of the year and it's run by people who whose chief aspiration, before ending up in power, was selling you a nice pre-owned Honda.<br />
<br />
But there are benefits to being a Saskatchewan resident. For example, our parks are pretty awesome. In fact, the only thing better than our parks is this ad for the Save Our Parks campaign. The magic happens at the 12 second mark, when the slightly grizzled grandfatherly figure switches from dewy-eyed nostalgia to <i>blood-curdling rage.</i><br />
<br />
<object width="560" height="349"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hnyHlUFDLjA?version=3&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hnyHlUFDLjA?version=3&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="560" height="349" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Note the frantic cut away from grandpa's suddenly rage-clouded face, the edge of madness that dogs his narration, and that crooked, close-mouthed smile at the end. Why close-mouthed? To cover up his lupine fangs, of course. A full moon was probably blooming over the studio when they were shooting this thing.<br />
<br />
Remember: you can't enjoy this kind of quality homicidal rage in other provinces. Let's get really, really angry about parks policies - the Saskatchewan way.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-74781805260519501542011-05-17T15:54:00.000-06:002011-05-17T15:54:13.809-06:00the best sentences from the 18th Edition of the Canadian Press Caps and Spelling Guide, In Order6. But the duke, the primate.<br />
<br />
5. We have also changed daycare to one word from two (noun and adjective).<br />
<br />
4. They are normally lowercased when standing alone: the church's stand, a league spokesman.<br />
<br />
3. Sacred names and the proper names and nicknames of the devil are capitalized: Almighty, Redeemer, Holy Spirit, Allah, Mother of God, Vishnu, Beelzebub, Father of Lies.<br />
<br />
2. Thus CP style is archeologist, ecumenical, encyclopedia, esthetic, fetus, gynecologist, hemorrhage, medieval, paleontologist, pedagogy and pediatrician.<br />
<br />
1. And on it has gone.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-4117067913106962702011-05-09T16:37:00.000-06:002011-05-09T16:37:21.288-06:00justice<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Good day. If you have received this notice, then you have been identified in the commission of a misdemeanor or pedestrian traffic violation on our CCTV camera network. The image of the perpetrator has been matched to your identity with a very healthy 63% certainty. Considering that you were likely moving and furtive during the commission of your crime, this is pretty good.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Your crime has been identified as <u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">JAYWALKING</span></u> on <u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">08/23/2007</span></u> at <u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">THE INTERSECTION OF MCINTYRE AND 12TH STREET</span></u>. If you feel that this identification has been made in error, please visit the Department of Remissions by the end of business hours today. The Department of Remissions is open from 8:33 - 9:40 am and 2:14 - 2:17 pm every third Thursday and second Tuesday. Appointment only. Please bring birth certificate, recent utility bill, a fresh urine sample. A change of clothes is also recommended.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In order to assist in the speedy dispensation of justice, you have been selected for home self-tasing. Your self-tasing device is being delivered to you and should arrive by mail within the next 24 hours. When you receive your Disciplonic Auto-Taser MK III in the mail, please release the yellow tab on the side of the unit. A voice prompt will guide you through the process to ensure that your discplinary tasing is carried out in as comfortable, safe and convenient a manner as possible.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Please make sure that your designated auto-tasing area is free of standing water. DO NOT TASE YOURSELF IN THE BATH OR SHOWER. For your comfort, refrain from eating for one hour before adminstering the device.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In the event that you do not operate your self-tasing unit within 48 hours of receipt of unit, the device will automatically tase any moving object within the range of its sensors. The unit will then self-destruct. You will be billed for the cost of a replacement unit.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Pulling the yellow tab on the unit indicates that you agree with the terms and conditions of use of the Disciplonic AutoTaster MK III. You agree to indemnify and hold harmless the State in the event of seizures, surface burns, cardiac arrest, memory loss hydrocephaly and gout. Use of the unit is equivalent to purchase. You will be billed separately for the cost of the unit and all processing fees related to the prosecution of your offense.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Thank you and don't forget to tip your mail carrier.</div>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-27969853078965645672011-04-01T15:20:00.000-06:002011-04-01T15:20:17.208-06:00Five minute poem?Following the example of <a href="http://www.schmutzie.com/schmoetry/2011/4/1/cold-cases.html">Schmutzie </a>via a project from <a href="http://doobleh-vay.blogspot.com/2011/03/5-minute-breakfast-poems.html">Amy Turn Sharp</a>, here's a poem that took five minutes to write. I had no subject or particular place to go with this, but I decided to post the result, no matter what.<br />
<br />
“His father in law is Ingmar Bergman,” houseguest says.<br />
Spouse generalizes, pulls a thread out into a balloon,<br />
which is where we go, on a raft that feels like spoons<br />
lashed together from suppositions.<br />
Spoons gathering water, each taking on their tiny share,<br />
and down we go.<br />
Full fathom five my facebook updates,<br />
my networks going on without me<br />
like a horn that pours forth salt into the oceans,<br />
just brining up the place.<br />
What a waste.<br />
I've got places to go, copyrights to infringe,<br />
a beard to brush out before the ants come<br />
on their tiny feet.palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-76426380669229466552011-03-28T01:02:00.004-06:002011-03-28T01:05:28.958-06:00Superman vs. The Hot PocketI posted this already over at <a href="http://www.prairiedogmag.com/?p=21148">the prairie dog blog</a>, but I like spreading my intellectual property around. I had this idea that Lois Lane should be played by a microwave oven in the upcoming Superman film, because she accompany Superman around and heat up his snacks.<br />
<br />
But then Lex Luthor or Zod would pull a fast one on Supes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNY_SnDtwQIvprfUWrp4_F-Ji947YX5Y2scABEex3MNvozAjb7_zCdl_URNKnePirpPZV1412FVGxjsxMVOUzY3FL_cduZzMvSr0V_jUjxuvcegXol6GX62beoyKiDKsU4p9k6/s1600/superman0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNY_SnDtwQIvprfUWrp4_F-Ji947YX5Y2scABEex3MNvozAjb7_zCdl_URNKnePirpPZV1412FVGxjsxMVOUzY3FL_cduZzMvSr0V_jUjxuvcegXol6GX62beoyKiDKsU4p9k6/s640/superman0001.jpg" width="617" /></a></div><br />
Don't worry, Superman will prevail. Or will he?palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6943519.post-69145503018931347952011-03-26T02:56:00.000-06:002011-03-26T02:56:10.872-06:00some notes for a talk on fluid dynamics<i>From time to time, some friends of mine host an evening of drinking and talking called Chicken & Wine at a local Ethiopian restaurant. You could describe the evenings as a lecture series of mandatory informality. There are no rules or strictures, except one; speakers must choose a topic outside their area of expertise. The results are usually funny and thoughtful and sometimes quietly astounding.<br />
<br />
Well, I'd like to put Chicken & Wine's run of greatness to an end with a pre-emptive strike. This is a draft of my talk, which I'll deliver if they host any more of them. And if they let me up on stage.</i><br />
<br />
For this talk, I've been asked to discuss something outside my area of expertise.<br />
<br />
Which is why I'm going to talk about fluid dynamics.<br />
<br />
I know absolutely nothing about fluid dynamics.<br />
<br />
I don't even know, in all honesty, whether that's even a thing, or whether I've just arbitrarily plugged two words together and generated a noun phrase willy-nilly.<br />
<br />
But little lights spark briefly in my brain when I think of the phrase, as if to signify that yes, in some context, I've heard the term. My brain wants to tell me, even if only hesitantly and with the faintest of impulses, that I know something about fluid dyamics.<br />
<br />
But I don't trust my brain.<br />
<br />
I don't trust my memory.<br />
<br />
Long before studies proved that memory was sufficiently malleable to introduce false experiences into someone's mind by dint of careful suggestions or even throwaway phrases, I had a feeling that my mind was nothing more than a wave constantly riding in to shore, constantly foaming, ever on the verge of breaking.<br />
<br />
Someone would ask me what I thought of some ancient compilation of Smiths b-sides. After a prompt or two, my desire would mix with my memories of buying Smiths albums, of flipping through the cardboard sleeves in record stores with that carefully honed paddling of index and middle finger, of deciphering Morrissey's suggestive, sloppy and sometimes filthy lyrics. And then I would somehow remember that album of b-sides, with its wash of colour, its British '60s film icon on the cover, its aesthetic debt to Warhol, and the crooked and experimental songs that Marr and Morrissey had knocked off on a lazy afternoon. Perhaps before the fame, the campiness and the heroin got to them.<br />
<br />
You know the album.<br />
<br />
Or maybe you don't. Because the album I'm describing doesn't exist. It has no name. And yet it describes every Smiths record. The key lies in its namelessness, its satisfaction of categories, its position in a waveform that dips in and out of actuality.<br />
<br />
But I tell you this: that would be the greatest Smiths album ever.<br />
<br />
The easiest way to find out something about fluid dynamics is to Google it. Go on and give it a good Google. The internet, with its connected web of servers, is a memory that we believe we can trust. Data can be transposed, erased, replaced or even misinterpreted, but a datum is a datum. Random facts, dates, the names of authors – these can all be found on the internet. How many full fathoms does my father lie? Which wood is coming to Dunsinane? Google that shit. Stat. Hey, why do doctors always say 'stat'? I'm so going to Google that.*<br />
<br />
People say that our memories are failing in a google-rich environment, but what it shows us is not that our memories are fake, but that the thing we think of as memory is fake. We have injected a structure into our minds, a house for facts. The memory palace is simply the most rigorous and opulent application of our native conception of memory. But we confuse the structure for its materials, as if we looked at a house and believed it to be a hollow tree.<br />
<br />
The new metaphor for computing is no longer the box but the cloud. And it is the newest metaphor and structure for memory – vague, shifting, flowing into and out of other structures. We're packing up and moving that house, room by room, into the sky.*<br />
<br />
Fluid dynamics, by the way, is a sub-discipline of fluid mechanics that deals with fluid flow—the natural science of fluids (liquids and gases) in motion. It has several subdisciplines itself, including aerodynamics (the study of air and other gases in motion) and hydrodynamics (the study of liquids in motion).<br />
<br />
The more you know.<br />
<br />
Stat is a barked abbreviation of the Latin <i>statim</i>, which means “immediately”. Doctors like to say <i>stat </i>because they're so very busy.<br />
<br />
*<i>But this can't be right, you say. There's still plenty of stuff running around up there in our heads, and there always will be. And some of it must be true – which is to say, it must be constant. Practical experience bears that out. Red lights always mean stop, green means go, and a flashing red hand means that you shouldn't have been crossing the street in the first place.<br />
<br />
I wonder about those everyday details of our life, and to what degree we actually remember them as individuals. Red lights are not an individual phenomenon; they are objects that our entire culture holds in its mind. One day we will find ourselves in a place with strange new lights, and our minds will refuse to hold on to their colours.</i>palinodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029915232895358768noreply@blogger.com0