I can handle it.

Was thinking about this idea of female camaraderie in the wake of some events of the last 24 hours. Pondering the idea of commitment lately. Wondering what Sam and I would have looked like if we were even sluttier than we were. Maybe something like this.

[just a thought]
It usually starts with a bar, or, more specifically, the same bar. We would have beers. Smoke cigarettes. Glance to the door to see who will be joining us tonight.
We always have the same table, the same stools, largely the same conversations. We trade off buying each other two dollar cans and picking songs on the jukebox.
Maybe I like the music or maybe the attention. Maybe it's that puberty spared me ample hips and breasts and so in my day to day of jeans and t-shirts, some smoky dive bar just seems comforting when forced to own the tomboy label I was granted somewhere along the way. Maybe it's the way the bartenders all know me.
It's probably some combination of it all, but the constant was us, our stools, the same beer, our roving eyes.

It is one of those bars where the same people come every day, but when new boys fumble briefly with the front door before entering, tripping on the first stair and taking a stool, she and I will be the first to notice. We are masters at this.

Across the street from the bar there is a mini-mart, and the man who works there knows us. He knows us because at two, when the bartender boots us from our stools he has many loyal patrons that aren't ready to tuck in for the night. He knows us because we live a few blocks away. He knows us because the bartender needs some concrete reason to get the new boy over to our apartment when he's done counting out and locking the door.
Ones and fives are found and pooled, and we can usually pick up a case or so of Ranier or Oly, and by the time we get back to our place with a few buddies in tow, the bartender's phone number is glowing blue on the screen of one of our cellphones. He never lets us down.

So when they get there, it'll be two-thirty or so, and we'll get the new kid's name. It's usually something generic like John or James, one of these suburban white kids who's eager to take in the city, find the dirty underbelly of the north-end grade and revel in his own spontaneity while he's being dragged to some girls' apartment. Sometimes there's more than one. We like boys like this. We give them beer, take our dibs, the rest of the crew starts taking bets. We have it down to a science. From the exchange of names to the locking of our bedroom doors, we can seduce an unwitting boy in under a half an hour. We only ever draw it out for shits and giggles, to amuse ourselves. We amuse easily.

We collect them in lists, nickname them like playthings, dispose of them at will. We believe phone numbers aren't to be granted with actions akin to little more than trick or treating. They always ask, but I can handle it. I have a knack for letting them down softly, sometimes subtly leading them to believe that I don't do this that often, that I was drunk, that I made a mistake. I always imagine them returning to the other guys of their acquaintance extolling on the "girl he nailed", looking virile and manly to them, hiding that he had asked for a second round. Like I was one of the nice ones.
We are not the nice ones. The only relationship we're willing to be a part of is ours to each other and so together we careen through our world swilling whiskey, breaking hearts and taking names, adding them to our lists.

We covet these lists as our histories. Each name is a story, a night we might have shared drinking beers at some bar. Or rather more specifically, the same bar. Some night when we glanced to the door to see who was joining us, and saw them later in one of our beds. Saw them later on one of our lists.


Moure: le prodige

Apparently the city of Moure, Portugal was witness to a series of "uncanny" miracles when the image of Christ appeared superimposed onto a one Father Antonio Miranda. I'm not kidding.
Also, bear with me while I make a few changes. I hate css.


If I Could Find a Souvenir

Just because. Because I couldn't help myself.

[edit: 9.30]
found this on Sam's blog. Was thinking about my coming birthday, etc, this almost made me cry. On a sidenote, Doughty is playing tonight. --M

New ink and a new blog.

I got new ink this weekend. "is chicago" on my bicep. So far only one person got it. I love it. I'm not sure when I'm going to get down to P-town to get Cam to do the lace on my wrists, though.
Also, I've realized that the more time I spend with Miranda, the more our conversation becomes comprised of inside jokes. "spooky" whispered all day on Halloween got way funnier after about 5 PBRs.
Finally retired the costume, after 3 days. Halloween on a weekend is like a curse I think. Friday you love the costume, Saturday you shrug it off as you put it on again, and by Sunday night you're glad to be able to take it off. I don't think I'll be recycling the old 5th element suit again. It was damn fun to be almost completely naked for three days, though.
I don't think I have any pictures of me to post on this thing where I am NOT topless. Hmm.



I was having a thought today.

It all started a month or so ago at the 525. We were all hanging out in my room, when a few people got up to leave. When Johnny was saying his goodbyes, he waved or shook everyones hand...except for Violet, who he hugged.
After the door clicked behind him, Bry was first to comment. "See, he hugged you. That's how I can tell you probably had sex."
They had.

Many of you know of my obsession with calling boys by thier full first names, although there are a couple of exceptions and I've come to realize how telling these exceptions are. So, without further ado, here is the semi-official lexicon of the various names I call boys, if they are not called by thier full first names.

Boys I love more than life that I've never slept with
Boys in this category often get an -ie or a -y attached to thier first name, i.e. Davey, Eddie, even the controversial (because clearly, it is girlie sounding) Kylie.

Boys I slept with, no longer sleep with, but still hang out with
There are two options for boys in this category. The first is that they get called by thier last names only i.e. Huntsman or even the occasional Harrison. The other option is that I'll call them a shortened and cute-pet-namey version of thier name, i.e. Case, Dee or Bry.

Boys I almost slept with, but didn't for whatever reason, and still hang out with
Boys in this category are called by thier last names as well, but with the addition of the pre-fix, Mr. i.e. Mr. Jackson.

Boys I am currently sleeping with
Boys in this category are consistently called Baby, but in a sort of offhanded casual way so that in crowded bars and the like, it seems like we might be just really good friends.

Boys who are somewhat younger than me, but that I am just friends with
Ironically enough, boys in this category are also refered to as Baby.

Boys who I slept with once who I don't hang out with anymore
Boys in this category consistently go by some rediculous nickname that my girlfriends and I toss around like hackey sacks, i.e. Freak Out, Flaccid Pants, Sexy Rexy, or Scabies Boy.

Hope that clears up any confusion. I know it has for me.
That being said, I am dedicating my life to breaking this habit--I can't beleive how obvious I've been. I'm such a flippin' idiot.


Life is a Cabaret, My Friend

One year ago today, Jen, Sam and I had the singular most fun night of our lives. It was the night of Teatro Zinzanni's Cabaret, a cast party held at the end of every run. It started with some normal girlie fare of making fun of Sparky's new girlfriend Miho (she loves him long time), and ended with a five dollar bet involving me yelling at Huntsman from a balcony, and some unspeakable acts committed by Jen and my boss on his bathroom floor.

Props to my girls tonight, I love you guys.
Props also to Mark, I love you.

No wait, that's gross. I don't love you.


Purple Wednesday's

I am no performer.
I am an essayist.
I was really freaked out.

Purple Wednesday's is the love child of The Pete and Guy Show and Geoff's band, The Floating Lotus, and is a weekly variety show hosted by SF's favorite storyteller, Guy J. Jackson. The point you ask? Well, I was finally featured. Finally fuckers, finally, finally. And? Well, I flipped out royally.

But what was it Hunts said?

"Just because you have a talent for writing essays doesn't mean that this is to the exclusion of anything else."

Hmmm... I guess that turned out to be true. I had four sets, which in total included 7 assorted poems, Play Me, and this delightful new story that went through a frantic last minute rewrite.


In the morning, we roll over beneath our sheets to see who is laying next to us. Not always, but most mornings, it is one of our nomad girlfriends and when it is, we chose to wake her softly, watch her hand draw to her face, eyes rolling, and wipe sleep away with her fingertips.
We will say our good mornings.
And when we wake the bedspreads are thrown from our bodies, the windows and doors are opened, the empty beer cans are kicked around and moved aside searching for that half smoked pack of Camel Lights that we are sure is left over from the the night before. We can never actually find them, and so we ask the girl who slept next to us for an American Sprit Yellow or a Marb Menthol--anything before braving the streets this early, sleepy and unshowered, to retrieve another pack from the sandwich shop, as the placard on the front door of the mini mart will almost assuredly read "back in 10 minutes". Anything to fit between our first two fingers as we drape ourselves in the armchair by the window, anything to keep tidy the illusion that this morning will be unlike the others.
We will then briefly relate to each other when we work that evening, utilizing the word 'close' as if it is a position on a clock as in 'three to close'. We often work three to close.
When we are sprawled across this armchair, when we have our borrowed smoke and stolen lighter, more will drift in and recline on the bed we've just left. We will relate events we were all present to share, filling in the blanks when necessary, punctuating each tale with the occasional burst of laughter. We will remark on our new day. We will decide who will be the one to go out the front door, down the stairs, through the gate and seven doors down to the sandwich shop to replace our stolen cigarettes. Our methods in deciding this are, every morning, just short of drawing straws.
We will of course, eventually relent. We will decide who will get cigarettes, yes, but also who will get coffee, and who will the lucky one to make breakfast.
We love breakfast. Specifically, we love eggs and bagels and inn the morning, every morning, we make scrambled eggs and sesame bagels with black coffee and Camel Lights purchased down the street at the sandwich shop. We feel this makes ours a happy home; and we, seated at a table, eating together, chain-smoking and caffeinating ourselves begin again to speak of the the night before, but mostly of the other women of our acquaintance. We speak of many of them as but common bitches because clearly, they are.
We make an ordeal of naming thier flaws, peppering each new example liberally with the word 'whore', because...well, because they are such whores. And bitches.
And they are indeed bitches, and yet, I suppose we too are bitches in a certain respect, and so when we are done demeaning them, the tables slowly begin to turn on us. We, over eggs, bagels, coffee and Camel Lights begin to speak of the night before, but this time of the mistakes we might have made. We, together, seem to make a great many mistakes. It is never as easy to speak of us as it is of them, but we always come back around to the conclusion that we might want to start picking our partners sober so that we can assure rather than hope that things will remain, as we would say, 'cool'.
And yeah, usually it is, save a few exceptions, and we tend to rationalize it all and each one until every bagel is gone, leftover eggs are cold and unwanted, until the bedspeads have been righted, draped properly across the bed, until the ashtray next to the armchair by the window is emptied and readied for when night will fall and it will all begin again.
When we have worked our three-to-close, when we get off work, we will visit the mini mart but the placard will not read "back in 10 minutes", but rather the door will be wide open, and everyone in the neighborhood will be there for the same reason we are. We will buy 12 canned beers, and they will be silver and blue, and we will buy one pack of Camel Lights. This will cost us $12.75, and when we give the man a ten and three ones we will pocket the remaining quarter rather than place it in the palm of some degenerate or drug addict milling about the entrance of the store.
We buy these beers to fuel one more night, so that we may drink them and create new stories. So that we may, again, make the same mistakes we always seem to make. So that tomorrow, after saying our good mornings, we will have something to kick aside when searching for our cigarettes. So that we will have something to speak of over eggs and bagels.

Yo Son!

So, was checking out The Ill Quill, as I often do, to see wassup in the world of Mathisen. The short version is, I ended up on Bengt's blog, and saw that he had me blogrolled. How long has that been there? I had no idea, and currently feel terrible. This is the official announcement that I am, indeed, blogrolling his blog, Keyed In. Visit it at your leisure.

Also, I never told Mathisen that I made out with Bengt in front of his friends' house one time, like a long time ago. Oops. It was the tube socks that did it for me.


More Charachter Sketches

I can but imagine how you might feel
when her speech demeans you,
the way your baby soft cheek
feels when set inside her palm,
or the way your eyes appear
when welled with tears,
the way your bottom lip might quiver.
I can only say how you feel
small inside my arms,
when I know that you are lonely,
and I know that I have missed you.
Search longer your savior, for
I can but imagine how I might save you,
or how my heartbeat might sound
upon reaching your ear.

Hailing from the same stock,
the same unpaved sidewalks
and unbroken blocks
of the same North Seattle Sprawl.
We might have met amoung mutual friends,
pumping some foamy keg
of some domestic lager
in somebody's split level home.
But here,
when I have read you for so long,
you hear of my mentioning
painfully pretty,
that I too have a story.
I love you the most when
you are eager to tell me
that stories are all we have.

Also note:
Day to Days=Casey
We'll get ours.=Violet
We the Girls=Sarah

dropping soon--Daniel, Sally, Bryan, Sam, Wise, Cliff and the like.


Some Charachter Sketches; Snippets of SF Life

From across state lines and
many years bring us
three doors down,
first floor above the storefront,
all hours of the night finds us
dangling from bay windows,
drowned in canned beer
tossing smokes across the room.

Downstairs, the children remove their cares,
place them on barstools,
open their wallets, disrobe of the day.

Outside pockets empty,
one flicker shared and passed,

Tracing words on my flesh,
his stories unrelated to our repose, yet,
turned from this scriptor of
our contemporary lore,
the tales he weaves on my skin more erotic
than what he dreams will come to fruition.
He's eager to remind me of what he has, yet
I fear to tell the tale of what I've lost,
fear him hearing of what I yearn for him to replace,
my tales more cockled veiled in secrecy and
should my declinations turn accepting--
who will return the victor?

Whiskey and Lagers
When I could call you home,
you're glorious delusional.
Draped in praise,
I see you all sunshine and terra cotta,
flamingos and bicycles
beaches and where are you from and
what are you drinking?
And we remembered her all
forrest green,
damp and heavy,
valleys, canals
and moonlit skinny dip
but now she's all twisted diagonal,
one ways and parking tickets,
landlords and glass and tears.
But then, she's all painted ladies and liberty ale,
sunrise at the Cathedral,
Market and Van Ness fight fight fight and
Welcome to the Fillmore.
Because your pretty pretty
gains import when same old same old,
here to there; I've done you before.
Drives driven many times,
blindfolded switch lanes,
where import stouts turn
whiskey and lagers,
you seem more fitting,
your weight done waiting.


Breaking News: Tracking an Errant E-Mail

[will be edited as needed]

I'm suddenly realizing that I'm this close to having not talked to alot of you in an extremely long time. That being said, I'm doing fabulous. Let's breifly recap:

I moved into what was later deemed "The 525 Flophouse" on July 29. Having a Haight facing window became the closest thing I knew to god--became alot closer (!!!) with the kids in the neighborhood, and they became accustomed to me running around in my pajamas and an afro at eleven in the morning to buy smokes from O'Looney's. I shared my room with Violet, an eighteen year old from Phoenix who I have had a knack for taking under my wing since I moved here, and who, at the time did not have a place to live. My room became not only mine, but hers and her entire Irish-man following. Tee-hee.

My first morning there, I woke up and met my roomates, Sarah and Richard, both recent transplants from San Diego. It was somewhere within the first few parties, the first few late nights spent throwing beer bottles out the window and jumping on the bed that the three of us girls became...??? (you can draw your conclusions/comparisons at will).

Inseperable, we spent the month laying the groundwork for what we wanted to accomplish in this city during our time here, and although as of now I'm technically "not making it" (again...???), I've never been better. So now?

Now I don't have a place to live, but I have a burgeoning and die hard fan base that return every Tuesday night to see me read. I have more drive than ever. I have a family that would do anything for me--and if you know me, clearly the opposite is true. I'm getting new gigs, planning a tour, and am finally about to throw down on a little (read: BIG. Big enough for the whole fam') place of my own.

And You?

Dire straights... A hunger strike, the onlt sacrifices being pizza and beer. No youthful girls to entertain. Send reinforcements. We are 5 beers from empty, and only mere hours from dropping at a movie showing of hustle and flow. God help us. :)
--D Hodson

Listen up,
I have been such a mess lately. Between trying to make some dough and not cut peoples faces off, I just seem to be working hard for the pennies and loving it. I started a new job this week as a colorist in Bal Harbour. Not much pay but the exp. will get me going to where I need to go. Still also at the shore club, sug got shot here during the vmas, well same old shit there. Went to Chicago for Margarets wedding. It was gorgeous and exhausting. I hate airports mate! Radost is in Bulgaria for three weeks and I'm being at home and not going out. What's wrong with this picture? I wish you were here or me there. I can't wait for visit SF. It sounds like you are moving or homeless so what's happening?
Loads of loving from Rob
--R Scheppy

oh miranda...
i'm glad to hear youre doing so well and loving san fran. i just got back from a 10 day trip to chicago. it was fantastic. what a great city. so i'm having thoughts of moving there. i've got to check it out in the winter time to see if i can handle the cold weather. then you'll have someone to visit in chi town. i saw the fruit bats and rogue wave at the empty bottle in wicker park. the violet femmes and flogging molly played at the GUINESS street frestival for free (donations accepted). how perfect. i spent alot of time walking the city alone and thinking. it was great, and i came to a few realizations in my life...
1. i'm taking a hiatus from beauty school
2. i'm going to concentrate more on my bags and jewelry
3. concentrate on teaching
i feel good about my life right now and am surrounded by wonderful people. i think with in the next few years i'll be in chi town though...draging couple of these wonderful peeps with me...
love you miss you
come visit or i'll be out that way soon
tour where??? fl???
--L Morlock


We'll Get Ours.

We revere as golden chalice
one stretch of city street,
to be named sacred in our naivety.

Newly transplanted
we rifle through these boys
one by one
decked in their uniforms as we see them
day in and nights end,
their tennis shoes pounding the pavement of
our new home
in a queue from the foot of my bed,
through our bedrooms and back into
the streets we share.
We learn our place
through their places,
see ourselves through their nomad eyes,
each one be one.
Want one.
Have one.

Each one a sordid tempting trial,
one more,
misty morning arrives and brings the daily tranquil hush
when we all lay asleep,
hopefully not alone,
remaking ourselves to fight one more day,
remarking on our will,
we want ours.
We'll have ours.


Fawn of memory and flight,
Your tranquil acceptance of our meeting,
when care turns touch
dauntingly into present.
You grant me the lullabies I've needed,
sing me to sleep among soft sheets,
soft hands,
the softness of your witty remarks
rings remarkable and understood,
leaves me willing,
for you are able to recreate me able,
make for me a world I have feared to see,
whispered murmuring reaching newly able ear.
Included in your precious time,
somehow I am willing
to bend to your willing.
Cerulean gaze makes me forget
the err of my nature,
forget the way,
I'd like to forget you.


Because Sometimes Apologies Are Needed

The sudden shock of eyes locked
the chill of raised flesh when realizing
much more will come between us
than of us.
Sense stretched taut,
snapping shut,
time will reveal the fault in our skin to skin,
day to days,
a tactile pain I see in your gait,
crooked smile and
reserved wave.
Your absence proves
repose so futile
as if thought could undo
what we thought so fleeting.