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If you need to get your love on, grab a hold of my looove handles...
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2004-03-24 4:03 PM
Sweet -- they just played a song about love handles on the Internet radio station I'm listening to. "More of me to love, with my looove handles!" What's even better about this Internet radio setup is that I know who sings what -- I hate when DJs don't tell you who just performed that song. This ditty was by Keller Williams.
I'm feeling back on track now that I've got a short story working. I was a bit burnt out from the past three months of novel-revising, at about a novel a month pace. So it's good to be writing something brand-spanking new.
This story is going to force me to do some research, on a diverse range of topics, from painting on canvas to driving a taxi to downtown Raleigh/the bad sections of Raleigh, to the recent history of Haiti and immigration laws and all sorts of other nifty stuff. I want to learn more about the situation in Haiti, for one, so writing a story about it forces me to do so.
I'm looking forward to doing some reading tonight -- I feel like I've been staring at a monitor for three months straight, and my eyes -- which used to be an adorable baby blue, remember -- are now red, veiny, and watery. My peepers need some rest.
So... I'll go read a book and work on my looove handles. Later!
Oh, and I almost forgot -- Jason has posted some great photos from his and Janet's wedding a week and a half ago. Elizabeth has a nice photo there, though I'm not sure she'll like the one of her and me on his comments pages... She always gets caught off-guard by the camera flash. I guess I shouldn't have been goosing her at the time. My bad.
"RadioIo," Acoustic version
Carter Beats the Devil, Glen David Gold
"Shit," Claudia muttered, pulling off her shirt and scrubbing at her paint-spattered hands with it. Red and light blue and black paint smeared together on her dark brown skin, leaving a swirling of paint on the back of her right hand. She stopped for a moment to stare at it.
The black paint shot through the reds and blues like the bars of a jail cell near the top of her hand, while blending together into a brownish mass at the bottom of the smudge. The shape reminded her of something she'd seen late the other night while she was at work. Something glimpsed from the corner of her eye as her speeding taxi zipped past a streetlight off Bloodworth Street. A blurred arm, or maybe even the sleeve of a jacket disappearing down a side street.
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