For, um..."Andrew".

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know where Jeremiah is tending bar these days: nowhere. But fret you not, that will all change in 3-4 weeks when the Pillager's Pub opens on 87th and Greenwood. J-Ru will be the General Manager there. I will also be there busy warming a barstool all the way from Rainier Valley.

You can friend him if you are so inclined, and he'll likely post a bulletin about the grand opening.

And dude...who are you? I've already called like...five people to try and figure out which Andrew you are.

--M

Finally fuckers, finally, finally.

[2.19.09: 1:16am]
K + L--
There has been talk of moving lately, and I was struck with an instant deep pang of memory, but the kind that feels so vivid as if I could open a door here in the Great North and walk into a Balmy California, call you guys, and drink wine into the wee hours with you in front of my open bay windows.

Wait, let's start at the beginning.

Yes, it's been so long, and don't think my absence from my blog means creative proliferation in other pursuits for me, because unless you count moving, it does not. Lakricia has seen naught but MySpace and bus-schedule-checking since I got my internet service connected last week. I checked, and I haven't modified a word document in thirteen days. Thirteen days.

Being so transitory has been hell on my poor little head--my bag got stolen (along with lisence, bank card, and most importantly, moleskine) so I keep lists of important dates and lists of things I need and lists of things I need to replace and lists of places I need to be all in my head, and as I fill it with more and more lists of things I can't accomplish everything I want to accomplish seems eo fall out of my opposite ear. Huh. And so it should come to pass that while all of this is happening--this jumble of pressures and priorities--there also happens to be oh-so-very much to say.
So I suppose it's time.

My alarm went off at quarter to eight this morning, the same one I used to set for you, Keenan, when you'd be hightailing it to work straight from my apartment, and yes, when I sleep with a partner I still sleep on the inside, away from the door, albeit now the inside is the left, not the right by my closet wall. Same bed, though. Different sheets, flannel now, it's very cold here. But they are still, of course, my favorite color of sheets: navy blue.
This morning when the alarm went off, I was laying quite naked in my navy blue sheets and I let the tattooed arm be the one to reach over to my desk and hit the snooze button. Then there was an arm about my waist. Then a hand on my nipple. Then some rustling and a pair of blue eyes staring me full in the face, pink lips speaking goodmorning.
And it's a little weird, you guys. It's so different. I don't shoot awake like a light in the morning to play hostess, to offer my shower and lock the door behind him when he goes to work--and I mean this for both romantic and platonic bedpartners alike. It's just so different, you know?
And here I am, smiling in the face of his goodmorning, and promptly going back to sleep while he showers. I do this because it's his shower too and I don't have to show him how to use it, and he has his own key so I've nothing to lock behond him.
And do you now that after he showers and dresses in the morning he gets the lunch I've packed for him from the fridge? It's true, I do that like a very good and wholesome girlfriend, and much in that vein I always whisper something sweet in his ear from the comfort of my nude recline when he comes to kiss me goodbuy.

All of this, by the way, still somehow feels very much like me. Why?

Don't you wonder what I'm whispering?

Miss you guys.
--M

p.s.--of course i was going to tell you. this morning it was "i'm gonna fuck you so hard when you get home". The moving thing we'll discuss on my blogoversary, which is on the 23rd.

RE: Who are you these days?

from: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]
sent --- 9:14:54, 01.10.09
to: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]

Miranda,

Nice post. Seems you're back to your old self, in a way anyway. I mean, hey, if you can't air his shit on the internet, how about dear old Alan's? You still haven't addressed, however, the intent and original question in all of my e-mails: when can we sit down and talk? I feel a post-November recap is in order; you're sitting on a treasure chest of new work and have shared relatively little. Don't I deserve first dibs?

But hey, yeah. I'm not gonna lie--I do want to know who this man is. He did something no one else could. I couldn't do.

And I think I tried.

Best,
Alan

from: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]
sent --- 10:54:15, 01.10.09
to: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]

A--

January 21st. One month before my Blogoversary, and the day after the inauguration. Deal? In return, I'm gonna need you to get the fuck off my case and out of my inbox for a while. You're not even real, for chrissakes.

And fine. Fine. I will give you one of three, just to seal the deal. But that's it--don't expect more in a couple weeks.

In the grand tradition of Mr. Perfect and The Sportsmaster...

He calls it The Lion King.

Happy now?
--M

Up and down the hourglass.

Alan,

I didn't even want to bother e-mailing this, as I've noticed your daily presence on my site tracker. And you know, fuck it. I'd post this anyway.

And yeah, you're wondering, everyone is wondering. Why haven't I written publicly about him? Hmm.

You know, we were just talking about that. I think it was Monday night, and I had gone out with Tobes and J-Ru and when I finally made it down to the other end of the hourglass around midnight, I threw all my shit in a pile on the floor and said "Baby, I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm a little drunk." I laid next to him all sweet smelling and freshly showered, and I ran my hands through his still wet hair and he poured me a glass of port from a bottle he had sitting on his nightstand. And this is like many nights.

I'm not saying that every night is like this, but I'm saying that it's like this. It's just going to the grocery store and drinking beers and godknows what. We do the same stuff everyone does, and we have the same arguments everyone does, and most of it isn't that noteworthy.

That's about half true.

The other half is that there is one line that he's always telling me that is constantly reverberating in my head when I sit down in front of my laptop, and it's "that's us, not anyone else." Go figure. And so it comes to pass that the quiet, contemplative and reserved songwriter has fallen in love with the loud-mouthed sex blogger, and most days, yes, I do think it is a bit foolish of me to offer him a courtesy I have previously only granted to one other person: that I don't air our shit publicly on the internet.

But really, I mean, I wouldn't really have a whole lot to say. Save...well, fuck. But that, maybe thankfully, is something I haven't found any words for yet anyway. Maybe someday. Maybe even without permission. Who knows. But for the time being, you'll have to believe me when I tell you that you'd likely rather not hear about us walking through the produce section of Red Apple deciding betweeen red or green cabbage or when he's helping me look for my misplaced tampons. Most of it just really isn't that exciting.

Yeah, there are stories I am purposefully omitting, and that's what we spoke of on Monday, if it was Monday. If you'd really like to know, there are three. Of every single story that the two of us have created together, five of them are poingnant and three of those are omitted from retelling. Three. That's really all I'm keeping from you. And no, Alan, you likely wont find out. You can, however, rest assured that whatever it is you're making up in your head right now, it's probably more illicit and exciting than the actual story. What I've omitted has nothing to do with content, but rather propriety.

You have to let me try this for a while.

--M

Goodbye, stinkbar.

It is Monday, and unlike every Monday in Seattle before it, I am off to meet World Class Bartender Extraordinaire, Jeremiah Harrison, at a bar that is not his.

Go figure.

--M

Resolute: Part 2.

I haven't picked any resolutions yet, so I decided to make a list of things I'm thankful for since I never did it at Thanksgiving. Let's go ahead and go with 5, because the Robbin's I'm currently reading is dwindling in pages and next I'll likely re-read High Fidelity. Not that you need to know what I'm currently reading.

List.

1. Wet Seal 2 for $10 wife beaters.

I can never have enough lyer tanks, and I love these. I am thankful that they are just good enough to wear and yet exceedingly cheap. When they catch a snag or reveal a new hole, they then guiltlessly meet the trash can. I mean, fuck it! They're five fucking dollars.

2. Painted Label Longnecks.

There are four left in my fridge. I am reffering to Rolling Rock, by the way. I am a terrible label peeler, and these beers leave me to more productive terrible habits while I'm drinking. Like biting my nails.

3. The snow is gone.

That one needs no explanation. The day it finally started melting, I almost started believing in god.

4. Black Flats.

Okay, duh. Of course I love every last pair of my black flats, but I never realized exactly how much until the snow melted. It is here that I might add that the pointy ones have a special place in my heart.

5. Our table at Loretta's.

New Year's Eve found us at Loretta's in South Park, which I think is my absolute favorite bar in the world. After ordering, I was nonchalantly informed that "our table" was open. Our table. I haven't had one of those since Angel's on Broadway closed, which, if you are a fellow Seattleite, you will know was a very long time ago.

In closing and in preparation for a most auspicious evening, I's like to end with a quote from the Myricks Family Themesong which I may or may not hear live tonight, setlist depending.

I give a fuck you to my father for not raising me
and I give a finger to my [brother] who was beating me
and I give props to myself for acheiving.

That is how I learned how to survive.

Goddamn I am surprised that I survived.

--M

1-101: A History, and an imagined transcription of a real conversation.

M[iranda]: "Hey."

m[ark]: "I'm so sorry, that was the slowest response ever to an ASAP message. Are we even friends anymore? Can you possibly forgive me?"

M: "Funny you should put it that way. This conversation feels extremely illicit as of late. How's Laura?"

m: "Good. Good. So there's no emergency?"

M: "No, there is. There's not. I need a favor."

m: "A big favor?"

M: "Not a big favor."

m: "Hmm. I'm intrigued."

M: "Okay...I need you to meet Chase. I mean, I need him to be okay with you. No, wait! I need him to be okay with me, and you are part of me. This is serious. You are my version of 'my parents', not that you are my dad, because that would be gross."

m: "Ha ha! Yes, revolting. Not to say I wouldn't delight in having a daughter like you, I'm just not a huge fan of throwing up in my own mouth on a regular basis."

M: "Yes. Yes of course. Not many are."

m: "So, is Ms. Moure's little 'list' catching up with her? Is that what I'm hearing? I feel like that's what I'm hearing."

M: "Mark? We're not crazy, are we? I mean, we blog and like bourbon. We both delight in midday beers and greasy food, albeit considerably less greasy as the years have gone on. Okay, yeah: we have a history, but fuck it, no? Doesn't everyone have a history? Ours is just less complicated than most. That's the only difference I see."

m: "Right. You seem spot on: of course I'm not the one who's not going to agree with you."

M: "Right. That's why we need dinner. Soon. Early next year. Seriously, pencil me in, and I promise I wont write the event into my moleskine as "Dinner With Dad".

m: "That's mildly funny. But the gag reflex..."

M: "Okay, I'll stop. Promise."

m: "Yes. This is good. On all counts. What are you thinking?"

M: "I'm thinking that if this gets out of hand, I could lose 5 of my 9 preset speed dials. I mean, people do this, right? I mean, probably a good 30% of my current friends are in the same situation as you and I, and if you add even 2 degrees of Kevin Bacon, it could reach upwards of 75-95%. That's a lot."

m: "I meant more like in destination, but yes I concur: even but two degrees of Kevin Bacon can make things pretty sexy."

M: "Right. On all counts. Your choice. Put it together. Anything. Anywhere with food and beer."

m: "Right. I'll shoot you a line."

M: "Perfect."

m: "Good talking to you, Ms. M. Be in touch."

M: "Kay. Late."

--M

Still Life With Moxie or It's a Small World Afterall

Story time.

So Amanda, who is my co-worker and sometimes-partner-in-crime, comes into work the other day with stories from visiting her hometown of Olympia.

"[So there I was] in downtown Oly at Caffe Vita, and I start talking to the barista there. He's all like, 'oh, you live in Seattle now' and stuff, and I'm like, yeah, I make coffee there too. So he asks me where I work, and when I answer Victrola, he inquires as to which one on Capitol hill I work at. So I'm like neither, I work on Beacon, and he starts freaking out! He's like, 'Omigod, my friend Ben lives on Beacon Hill, and he goes to this coffee shop all the time and used to date this black chick that works there. Do you work with her?' and I'm like, holy shit, I do work with her."

Hmm.

And in this, in this very small world that two people can have a conversation about someone they're not even quite sure they mutually know but in fact do, or sort of anyway, is it so hard to believe that everywhere is close to home? That time can't be spanned by singular event?

I just mean that, be it here in my hometown, or five years ago in Miami, there may be hands placed on hearts and hospital gowns and morphine and endless time for many things to be said, but as it should pass there should be requited I Love You's replacing fear and spanning five years and some 3000 miles.

You may take that as you will for the time being.
--M

How we operate.

I am home, finally, because it has been days since I've been home.

And I have bought many books in the last couple weeks, and am happy that there is just enough snow on the ground to warrant me lazing around and reading them. Even the Vonnegut.

I had so many stories I wanted to tell, and now I'd rather just put these days behind me instead; and the one story that I'm dying to tell is still so close, so seemingly intimate that I can't bear to put it in print quite yet. Save in the e-mail I sent earlier to L and K of KLM.

Give me some time. I'll come around.
--M