Falling in Love

She fixes her makeup, adjusts a hair fallen out of place. A moment of personal inocense in the red glare of an amsterdam street.

Some of these are true.


A girl behind glass. She thinks she’s alone.

She fixes her makeup, adjusts a hair fallen out of place. A moment of personal innocence in the red glare of an amsterdam street.

She looks up to catch me watching. Eyes meet. She reddens, not from the red light of her street and profession, but simple blush, caught with the mask askew.

I smile at her, and she returns the favor, and we are two people in a street, not hooker and john.

I feel my heart beat as I walk away. Her face locked forever in my mind.


She tells a story in her thick scottish accent. Something about a dish I think we’d call hash back home. But it doesn’t mattter what she’s saying.

She cooks, waits tables on this small private train. As she tells me her story, she brushes hair from her forehead, wipes sweat from her brow. Her blouse is sleeveless, and her arm pits are lightly fuzzed with soft, soft golden hair.

I remember her voice as she said It’s nice. The glow of her pale scottish skin. The soft, tawny gold of her hair.

I wish I could remember her name.


She wants to make a left turn in front of me, and I slow, beckon her to go. She looks at me, across the impossible gulf, two wind shields and a few yards, and smiles. She smiles not like one driver thanking another, but like sunshine, like an invitation. I wave to her as she turns, and she leans my way, and blows me a kiss.

I watch her honda in my rear-view mirror. I want to make a U-turn, but I do not.


She dances next to me at a concert. We’re at the stage, the music ear-splittingly, blisteringly loud. We’re not together, yet dancing, leaping, cheering, we’re in each other’s space.

She’s smoking, and at one point my windmilling arm meets her lighted smoke.

The pain is nothing – in the drunken, sweat-slick frenzy, I barely feel it. But she sees, and kisses my arm, and shares her beer with me, and we dance the next few songs.

The show ends, and we hug, and we kiss, and then she is gone, her date confused and asking her some question my abused ears cannot hear.

I taste her sweat on my lips as I walk away.


A bar in a gray and average hotel in a gray and average city. She runs the bar, and stocks the most amazing collection of caribbean rums I’ve ever seen.

I order, and she fills my glass, and we talk about rum, and she tells me her dream of a sailboat; she’ll write a book some day. Just the two of us there, no one else.

Her hair is short; she’s tall. My senses tell me she’s a lesbian, but when we talk she looks into my eyes, and my heart and groin say, maybe not, or maybe not tonight.

I drink too much rum, just to be near her, and promise to come back and see her again; but my flight plans are changed.

I hope today she’s on that sailboat, writing that book. And some day, in some sunny port, I’ll run into her and we’ll share her latest discovery, and I’ll ask her if my heart once again told me lies.


Her dress is green. Velvet. She speaks in a soft southern accent; I’m not good enough to know where she’s from.

A bar far beyond my price range, in a city where thinking about a drink costs you twice what actually getting it would cost back home.

I order the most expensive brandy they have. I’ve no idea why. But it seems a night for such things. I sip my drink, and as I watch her bare shoulders and the fit of her dress on her hips, I’d pay twice.

I want to hear her say my name.


We talk about her tattoo design, as she waits for the artist to finish piece. Some strange primitive pattern. It doesn’t make sense to me on paper, but she slips her shirt down off her shoulder to show me where it will go, and I want to taste that shoulder.

Later, when the artist places the design, it makes sense; a shoulder so perfect, a design that fits. It looks like it belongs there, and more than ever as the needle bites into flesh and the droplets of blood ooze through the ink, I want to taste that shoulder.

Evidently, I’m a fucking spaniard.

Evidently, I’m a spaniard. Fredlet, stop posting shit like this so I can stop doing these stupid quizzes.


Your Inner European is Spanish!

Energetic and lively.

You bring the party with you!

Fredlet, stop posting shit like this so I can stop doing these stupid quizzes.

MTBlogroll

After pointing Buck Daruma to ways to do blogrolls, I decided to test-drive MTBlogroll.

After pointing Buck Daruma to ways to do blogrolls, I decided to test-drive MTBlogroll.

This is a MovableType plugin by Arvind Satyanarayanthat will manage a blogroll locally in your MovableType mySQL database, instead of keeping it on someone else’s web site like BlogRolling.

The advantage is clear; faster, since it’s local, and you don’t depend on an external site to be up. It also have a number of features I like, one of which is that it can import my existing blogrolls. And of course, i have much more control over it.

It was easy to install and easy to configure, though the docs are minimalist at best and the template changes caused me some confusion.

There are a few downsides though — the main one being that it evidently can’t do ‘recently updated’. Now, for a roll of static links, that’s fine. Particularly for things like non-blog links. I don’t care when they’re updated. But for things like my Daily Reads list, I depend on that (so it’s annoying when blogs don’t ping the right sites to make this work).

In short I’d say that this works really well aside from that feature; I’ll be switching my Daily Reads back to blogrolling, but I may put my static non-blog links into my local roll since I don’t often update that.

For sites I host, it’s up and ready and working, all you need is a template hack and to load in your blogroll; mail me and I’ll show you how or do it for you.

WoW, WDW!

So I’m gonna be in beautiful Orlando, Florida sampling the exotic delights of Disney the latter half of this week, flying home Monday the 9th of May.

So I’m gonna be in beautiful Orlando, Florida sampling the exotic delights of Disney the latter half of this week, flying home Monday the 9th of May.

I’d like to say this will be a booze-and-narcotics driven adventure, a sort of Fear and Loathing vs The Mouse deal, but no, this is family. Kids. Grandparents. The Full Catastrophe.

I should have some blog entries from the trip, I’m takin’ my laptop with me.

But you know, if I have any Florida-local readers who want to, um, get lost in the park with me, you know where to find me. I may also be open to post-park social invitations. Book early, and offer much.

Everything up until the killing, will be a gas.

Sin City “She smells like angels ought to smell…. The perfect woman.

“She smells like angels ought to smell. … The perfect woman. The goddess. Goldie.”

     -Marv, Sin City

Well, we’re on the theme of comics, so we might as well talk about Sin City.

Read more “Everything up until the killing, will be a gas.”