Hullo.

I’m working on a lil’ sumpin’ sumpin’ — actually, a big sumpin’ sumpin’ — and I’d like your feedback. Heck, I’d love it. So, if you have a sec: post which of the past entries (or moving forward) stick out for you, and why.

“Julie, I can’t explain it; I just love pudding cups. Especially butterscotch. Growing up, I was allowed one a week. I bought some the other day and they tasted chalky. But when I was a kid they were like home cookin’!”

“Hey, Julie. The one with the girl watching her father mow the lawn. When he goes down into the ditch it reminded me of last summer, when my son, only turned 10, insisted that he start taking on chores. I let him do them all, paid him a few bucks, but do you think I could turn my back for one second without wondering if he’d chop off a toe?”

“Morning, Julie. I miss The Young Lover. That’s all. I’ve always wondered what happened to them? Do you still see them?”

I do hope you’ll join in the fun!

White male, mid 50s, with long grey hair pulled into tight ponytail, bundled in winter coat and scarf, sitting near the door, leaned forward, hands stuffed in pockets, floral-patterned eyeglass case weighting the pages.

Souls on Fire, Elie Wiesel (Simon & Schuster)

Near the beginning:

The heavens were in an uproar. The angels were dancing. Red with anger, outraged, Satan demanded an audience with God. Brought before him, he protested, invoking laws and precedents, history and reason. Look at man’s impudence, he said, how dare he take things in his own hands? Does the world deserve redemption?

He hadn’t seen her in weeks. She was glad he called. He scanned her bookshelf while she waited for the kettle to boil, waited for him to take the first step. He pulled the spine forward and looked at the cover, held it up. She nodded, smiled, even though he hadn’t returned the others, maybe sold them, she couldn’t know.

White woman, mid 30s, with long blonde hair twirled into a loose braid slung over her shoulder. She teeters on approach of each stop, again when leaving. The people beside her toss impatient glances, the sleeves of her puffy white jacket wheezing against their backs and elbows. They adjust and adjust some more. She stares forward, book held to her nose, confident with her balance.

The Bourne Ultimatum, Robert Ludlum (Bantam Books)

Page 137:

He stood by the window peering inside, his face at the edge of the glass. The huge, overweight master sergeant was sitting in a large leather armchair, his feet on an ottoman, watching television.

She’s fallen into habit, eating cereal for dinner. Yesterday, it was Shreddies, the corner of a bone dry square choking her momentarily, her composure solid enough that she managed to get the bowl to the coffee table without spilling. Am I really prioritizing the carpet? she thought. And she wishes she’d stop wasting last consciousness on the ratio of milk to cereal but if she knows this one thing, she knows that she can’t eat them soggy.

White male, early 30s, with generic black and blue baseball cap pulled down low of his slick short hair. He’s adopted his winter weather beard, about a week beyond purposefully shaggy, en route to bushy, whether he trims or tidies completely up in the air.

Shelf Monkey, Corey Redekop (ECW Press)

About page 161:

It was like someone edited ten seconds of a film, Page’s slap was so quick, jump-cutting from Aubrey’s retort to Aubrey lying on the floor, the crack! of her palm off his face a sonic explosion that echoed through the store. Page pointed a finger at him, then at me. I flinched in anticipation of another attack, fearfully squeezing a drop of urine into my shorts.

He’d had four G&Ts, not enough that he wouldn’t be able to defend his friend, but enough that he feared he wouldn’t land a punch leaving him in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by a mob of patrons who didn’t appreciate their skinny jeans and zipped up hoodies, their bold-faced denial of tonight’s Women Only dance not quite the “sure thing” they’d hoped for.

Anyone remember Tony & Joe’s The Freeze? It was on my Goofy Greats album. Hands down, my favourite album growing up. Oh, then again, I was terribly connected to ABBA’s Voulez Vous. And let’s not forget The Xanadu soundtrack. Pirate Movie, anyone?

But I digress.

1, 2, 3…FREEZE!

I’ve been staring at a computer for quite some time now, writing, working, playing. And these eyes of mine could use a break. I’ll be back on Monday with something fresh and tasty to satisfy.

Until then, what was your favourite album/8 track/cassette/cd/mp3 growing up? Seriously, I want to know.

Fleetwood Mac? Bruce Springsteen? Salt ‘n’ Peppa? The Backstreet Boys? Miles Davis? Fresh Prince? Janet Jackson? The Police? Wayne Newton? The Osmonds? Pearl Jam?