I love you like the jubilant eyes of the wonderful, mysterious octopi,
you help me in life through and through (like the protective mother of a cockatoo).
You make me happy, as happy as an iguanadon, and I love it that I get to call you Mom.

I did some writing yesterday and today; here is some of it:

What was she talking on about? Oh, her kid. He should try to pay attention, but it was loud in the bar and he kept staring at her mouth to try to gauge what she was saying, which just distracted him.
She had a great mouth. Her lips were full and lush, and she bit them when she was thinking, which was starting to drive him crazy. He liked women who bit, too.

“Where in Europe is she going?” He took a sip of his drink. The bartender had given him a healthy pour, he’d better watch himself if he was going to be good for anything later on tonight.

He sure as hell hoped there’d be something later on tonight, he didn’t want to waste his time if he wasn’t going to get laid.

He coulda done that with Katharine. What made him think she was a good idea? Her ass was flat, and she had the worst taste in music. Fucking Ben Harper, wimpy hippie crap.

“All over,” she said, her hands spread in a broad gesture. “She’s not sure, she speaks a little bit of Spanish, so she was going to go to Spain for sure, and then she might just wander.”

“It sounds fun. The closest I’ve come to Spain is ‘Spanish Bombs.’”

“London Calling is the best record The Clash ever did.” She said that without a bit of hesitation, not like when she was quizzing him about why he was talking to her. Interesting.

“No way,” he said, putting his drink down. “Give ‘Em Enough Rope.” He grinned when her eyes widened in shock.’

“Are you kidding me? Sure, it’s a great record, but it’s nothing compared London Calling. Hello, ‘Guns of Brixton?’ ‘Lost In The Supermarket?’ Train In Vain?’” The last title was said in an outraged shriek that made him laugh.

“Okay, fair enough. I might give you that. So—what do you say, The Jam or the The Clash?”

She snorted. “The Jam, of course.”

“Okay, first test passed.” He thought for a minute. “Your first show?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you really want me to admit it? That’d just show how old I am.”

“Try me.”

“Okay. When I was 16, I snuck into Echo and the Bunnymen’s first American show.”

“Good taste back then.” I bet she’ll taste good now, too, he thought.

“So what about you? What was your first show?” She raised her glass to her mouth and waited for his answer, as though challenging him. Nobody challenged him. Especially about music. He liked it. Sort of.

“Uh—”

“Lemme guess. Pearl Jam?”

“Worse.”

“Oh, geez.” Her voice rose higher. “Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

“Go lower.”

Her eyes got even wider. “Worse than the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Good thing you already bought me a drink.” She took a sip, and set the glass down.

“Smash Mouth.”

She blinked, then flung her head back and laughed. “I’m amazed you’d admit that.”

He shrugged, although he wished he felt as nonchalant inside. “Why not? I was—let’s see, I must have been about 16 too. My older brother was going, and said there’d be some girls there.”

“Did you meet any?”

He glanced at her. “No, actually. The opening band was one of those screechy art-rock bands, they were a noisier wanna be Talking Heads, and I was hooked. I went backstage and met them.”

“How was that?” She planted her chin on her hands. “Was it all you’d hoped for?”

“Sort of.” He narrowed his eyes, remembering. “The lead singer was totally fucked up, he was so drunk he could barely stand, but the other band members, especially the guitarist, was really nice. Especially to a kid. They could’ve been all kinds of snotty.”

“Although they were opening for Smash Mouth . . .” she let her voice trail off.

“Yeah. There was that.” That night was the first time he’d felt like maybe there would be more to his life than being the not-as-good younger brother of a high school football hero. Finally he knew more than Patrick. Patrick, who’d blown out his knee his senior year and was living in Braintree in Massachusetts. Selling fucking cars. With a wife he hated, and two kids he adored.

That’s enough of reminiscing, Liam, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t allow himself to reveal too much to her—to any woman. Not to mention any man.

Liking being a loner didn’t mean he had to like being alone, at least for certain activities.

He let his eyes drift over her while she took a sip from her scotch and soda.

I’m talking from my heart over at the Riskies. Warning, there’s whining.

Last weekend, my uncle (and Frequent Commenter) Jon and his lovely daughter came to visit. She goes to college in the Washington area, so she missed the big snowstorm. If she were an adult with concerns about shoveling out cars, driveways, getting to work, freezing pipes, etc., she woulda been thrilled; as it was, I think she was mildly bummed to miss the mayhem.

We had a blast. We ate like fiends, laughed, talked, walked, shopped and shared. It was so nice to hang out with family.

Today I booked time to go visit the Picky Vegetarian in the lovely city of Portland, OR. I haven’t been in four years.

Still no writing. I keep posting about it, hoping to shame myself into action, but so far–nothing. Tomorrow is a VERY RARE snow day for my son, so I am working ahead right now so I’m not on the computer all day tomorrow while he’s home. HE doesn’t mind being on video games all day, but I mind him doing so, so I gotta be free for him during some of the day.

Writing. Maybe. Sometime?

Talking boobs over at the Riskies today.

So, yeah. Anyhoo.

So I have opened the Dreaded Synopsis (no longer titled the Stupid Synopsis, now it’s hateful and dreaded), and have worked through Act 1, as my sharp-eyed bud Liz Maverick said I had written. I need to pump up my hero to make him less immediately hateful, but I thought about that this morning after school drop-off, and I think I have a way to make him more likeable without removing his alphaness.

Which is to say it’s nowhere near done, but at least I am trying.

Wah.

I am embarrassed that it is taking me so darn long to edit the stupid synopsis (SS, for short), so I’m not going to post until I can say I’ve actually worked on it, at least.

Meanwhile, amuse yourself in the comments, if you like, by suggesting things I might like to do LESS than write a synopsis. I’ll start:

–Watch a Tom Cruise movie
–eat lima beans
–watch hockey on a small TV
–wear high heels
–read Ayn Rand
–memorize Robert Frost poems

Honestly, sometimes I can’t believe I can even come up with a topic on Fridays. I’m talking Regency anachronisms and such over at the Riskies today.

With these shoes:

And I haven’t been able to wear them, because we had a freak snowstorm this morning. Might be able to tomorrow, but they require stockings or trouser socks, and it’s going to be wicked cold.

Yes, they were spendy, but I think they’re gonna be worth it. Yay!

If I were really crass, I’d make some sort of Asian flu joke, but I’m not really crass. Heh.

But anyhoo, last night I watched a totally hammy rom-com called Needing You starring Andy Lau, my new favorite Asian actor. You know, I like me some Tony Leung and all, but Lau and Takeshi Kaneshiro–well, geez, heart be still a second. I have even gone so far as to find Andy Lau on YouTube (he’s a pop singer, too). Sad. So, so sad.

At least he’s made some good films. But I bet I’m gonna watch some more of the cheeseball ones he’s made just to see him again. Pa.Thet.Ic.