Twins List

May 25, 2006
This. Is. Perfect.

I am sitting in Georgetown at All City across the table from Miranda. Yes, Miranda, in the flesh, not on the phone, and we are sitting and typing and emailing and updating and chatting and laughing and this is perfect. Now if we could only find that big ass house that stretches from Seattle to Shoreline to San Francisco to Florida, Lauren, Miranda, Samantha, and Jen can begin our true reign of “Sex all over this Country.” PS- that house would be called the Louisiana Purchase.

This is the list that explains why…
Banana Meister (Sam) and Tasty Dish (Miranda) are Twinz

- Red Balloons and Is Chicago , Is Not Chicago
- Apt. 103
- Black Label
- Favorite Bar
- Ordained
- Starbucks Employees (Ex!)
- Fake Words Songs
- Lush Perfume
- Slept with people with each others' birthdays (Matt, Rex)
- Slept with brothers (Strakal, Mizrahi)
- Slept with a brother (Harrisons)
- Random red things on keychains
- Basement
- Older Man Un's
- Live(d) in Seattle with Drivers Licences
- Naked Halloween Costumes
- Pussy Palace
- SATC characters with our names
- Slept in Bike Josh's bed
- Dress as traitor Ninja/Pirate
- Favorite Band
- 80 Babys
- Went to private highschool
- Shared Partners: Jen, Elise, Alicia, Matt, Rice, Jeff
- Did Scorpio Snakes (Jeff, Josh)
- Did bartenders @ The Duck
- Danced onstage @ The Blue Moon
- Back in the day Bauhaus
- Both call Emily "Ed Muey"
- Ate 12 egg omelettes (open 2 close)
- 8816 #204 is 17th residence
- Both took the same 358 home from Un's Houses (on 12.23.04)
- Both slept with #17 while on vacation
- Shared a cat (Juno)
- Had one black, one black and white cat
- Got tattooed in Zoe's livingroom
- Both slept in 2 bedrooms at the 95th & Linden House
- Hate Monty Python
- Gradeschool Postmasters
- Listgames

[This list started a year and a half ago and is ongoing. Welcome to Sam and Miranda's world.]


I'm back. [FINALLY]

Oh my god, it's so good to be home.
Although, I miss all of you there more than I can say especially those I didn't have a chance to see.

On a side note, don't miss my party, Saturday June 3rd @ Mighty. For more info, go to Team Tenderloin.com, duh.

Also, my site tracker is so fucking fun. You wouldn't believe who wants a peek of ol' Milkshake Moure lately.

I salvaged my essay. It's going to be fine. I owe someone a huge debt for chilling the fuck out.

Davey's coming in June. So what does that mean? HOT HOT HOT SEX 17 TIMES A DAY. Okay, not really. But I'm sure I will be found traipsing around SF with a pretty little tattooed boy hanging off my arm like a veritable accessory for a few days. That and we will get very drunk with Mathisen, no doubt.


Kay, gotta go eat, change into my PJ's, and maybe watch a movie with Boy Wonder as opposed to riding around in a limo w/ QC.

I HAVE TO GET A GOOD NIGHTS SLEEP TONIGHT--must recover, must recover.


[people that need to know that I love them today: Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, Pete, Pete, Pete, John and Johnathan. These are all real people.]


"I hugged that bitch!"

[title supplied by Samantha Oldfield]

Ahh. Seattle. This place is so freakin' dope, you know? Here's a list of stuff I did last night.

1. Drove straight from the airport to the Duck Island Alehouse with Sam.
2. Drank tall cans of Colt 45.
3. Met up with Lauren, Smitty, and of courese, Jen.
4. Got Teriyaki on University way and Hunts came. Then left.
5. Went to Jules Maes in Georgetown to see Ian Strakal, Alexis Woody Lopez, and the impromtu appearance by Theresa LeFevre.
6. Went to the shell station and bought some Rockstar 21 to take to "The Lake" [our spot at Greenlake, not to be confused with hidden beach].
7. Saw Jeremaiah [known in many essays as "The Bartender"], Nico, and Austin.
8. Once again had to defend myself about why the fuck I ever dated John [Gillanders], and why the fuck I ever thought it was a good idea to fuck Johnathan [JD/Jake].
9. Speaking of defending myself, I was all like: "Jeremaiah, how's Shannon? Is she still not talking to me?" and he was like: "Uh, no. No dude, I think you guys are still in a fight."
10. Checked my e-mail to find three surprises: 1) my new favorite essay might be ruined. 2) My friend Laura Janisse from College in Portland is living in LA. and, 3) I have to work on vacation. This post is my way of procrastinating.



Fiction Writer+Court Stenographer=Milkshake

It has been brought to my attention [by Mindy] that when writing a novel, your best girlfriend will probably get pissed if you create a character based on her combined with a girl you both hate. Okay--I'M SORRY--but when it's all done, and you read it and it subsequently makes you cry with it's subtle blend of poignancy and sarcasm, you'll know that it was worth it. I'm telling you, THE CAKE [title] ESSAY IS AMAZING. Already. And it's not even done. By amazing I mean that I am in love with it, and am reminded of the hard-fast-yet-still-on-going-and-only-slightly-waning love affair that I have had with The Curse of Great Beauty. Tits.
On a side note--note how easily I can say I'm in love with an essay. And actually mean it.

I wanted to take this time to remind everyone what inspired Cake: A birthday wish list, a fragment of one of Davey's posts, and my subsequent response. I can't believe it's been so long--but this story finally found it's own ending. Finally, fuckers. Finally, finally.

Also, my birthday is tomorrow. Here is my wishlist, as commented on RCU's blog.

Wish list:
1. Hold Samantha in my arms. For reals, not while asleep.
2. Anderson will never come back from Hawaii to make fun of my relationship with my wife.
3. That saturday wil herald a new era of wellbeing for all, but especially me. Like in SK's 2010.
4. Cake.

Wish list recap:

1. Hold Samantha in my arms. For reals, not while asleep.
I woke up on the morning of the 30th, hungover and dissalusioned. I bought a plane ticket. I leave tomarrow. I will be holding Samantha in my arms by 6pm on Tuesday the first.
2. Anderson will never come back from Hawaii to make fun of my relationship with my wife.
Well, I definitely get at least another week away from him, as I'll be in Seattle, and I doubt he'll ever try me again on that front. He's way to scared.
3. That saturday will herald a new era of wellbeing for all, but especially me. Like in SK's 2010.
I will be well very soon, as I am very, very sick. So, when I get better, it will technically be a new era of wellbeing. Specifically for me.
4. Cake.
Found a box in a cab yesterday containing exactly three slices of cake. It also happened to be the cab drivers birthday. We ate the cake (YES!).

11.21.05--[David Joseph Hodson]
As one want, or cause for longing is filled, the next one emerges, until we come to the bottom. the bottom is the trickiest, as it, at least in my messy world, is truly a longing to reconnect with yourself, or the God within you (which is almost heritic to talk about now days, but I'm being literal with the phrase "we are children of God" and "we are made in God's image". Add it up. as children, we carry it with us, as truly we are not apart), and once that occurs, there is nothing left to long for. the rest is just details, the small stuff. at least that's the theory i'm rocking. And really, this whole explanation is so not necessary. I'm just getting tired of people throwing rocks at my glass house when they don't even glimpse the true floorplan, let alone walk through it. that and i think people see my poetry as a lot more surface than it is. Yeah, i'm superficial at times, but hell... there is always another level.

Wu Tang is for the children.

and finally...

miranda moure said...
You are consistent, once more, (don't give me the repetative lecture...) in reading my mind. I was just posting about this [Good On Paper]--this idea of longing, what should be valid about which are the things that at the end of days are requited or no.

It's our glass houses, our floorplans, our gods, our cake. It's our real cake, our metaphorical cake, it's the vanilla and chocolate and yellow cakes that we have or have not or eat them or discard them. And what the fuck? where is all this goddamned cake and what the fuck does it look like? And why am I constantly longing after the preservative-filled-pre-packaged-twinkie-type cakes offn this world, and why am I satisfied with eating only this one crappy variety?

I want Tiramiseau. I want German Chocolate. I may not even have to eat it, but one day goddamnit I'll at least recognize it.

May cake help us all.

from Cake:
Rule #12: When Karma kicks your ass you must make amends, so I called Jonathan later that night.

“Was I really terrible? I mean to you and John. Was I really bad?”
“Oh, Miranda, are we still on this? Look, I miss you and I’d like to catch up, you know? We don’t have to talk about this anymore.” He had tried to assure me before I left that everything was cool. John was cool with it. Friendly. Casual.
I am crying now and I am desperately trying to explain the rules. The consequences. That everything must come back around. That I hoped better for him. Hoped I had been worth it, that the Cake was that good.
“What’s going on?” I have never told Jonathan much about San Francisco, and now he’s confused.
“I miss you. I’m having a really hard day. It’s like Cake, you know? Our rules, our floor plans. Apparently our glass houses. Our Cake.”
It is loud on his end of the line, there are people in the background, someone laughing, someone else talking. The buzz of the crowd is making the connection sound fuzzy, but I can still barely make out that someone in the background is asking him who he is on the line with. He replies to them that it is Miranda. That is me, and I am crying because I have lost my Cake. All of it.
“What are you fucking talking about? Cake? Are you sure you shouldn’t be talking to Sam about this? This seems like a Sam issue.”
He is right. This is a Samantha issue, but I can’t call Sam, because I need to keep looking for my Cake and she will tell me that I don’t deserve it. She would be right.



Revenge Is a Beer Best Served Cold

Oh, kittens. Do I have a story for you.

Yesterday I worked a twelve hour day and then cruised up to North Beach with Erica for drinks with Mathisen. Then I got an hour and a half of sleep before my ten hour day today because NICHOLAS MATHISEN WAS FUCKING ME SIX WAYS FROM SUNDAY UNTIL SOMETIME EARLY THIS MORNING. No, I mean really. I mean I only got to stop at home this morning for about two and a half minutes before meeting Erica to walk to work and even now I can literally still smell him on me. I had the longest day, and it was soooo worth it. I am gonna rock the hardest cleanly when I finally go home.
The point? Well, there are many. Time for a list, kiddos.

1. As most of you know, Mathisen is a writer. Amazingly enough, so am I. I generally don't write about other writers as a courtesy, but I need to today [and in the new piece, "Muses"] to prove a point. On a side note, I have known Mathisen for a year now, our official anniversary being sometime last week. Other than my roomates at The Flat LeStat and Bike Josh (Chokey McChokerson) he was my second friend in SF to Boy Wonder.

2. You may not know that I have a site tracker. Hahahaha. A SITE TRACKER. If you visit my blog, I know your ISP address, how many times a day you visit my blog, the last website you came from, and what words you actually Googled to arrive at my blog, which means I can tell if you were looking specifically for it, or stumbled upon it. Basically, I am watching you. All the time. I get tons of unique hits a day and I know where you live. ["Spooky." Who said that?]

3. Mathisen's penis is bigger than yours. As far as I know, this applies to everyone currently reading this unless [memory serving, I may not even be right about this one] you are six-feet-nine-inches tall. On a side note, both the people mentioned in the last sentance are writers. Speaking of writers [and people I've slept with], I finally heard from Clifford Wayne Anderson, and he's doing just fine. He hasn't dropped off the face of the earth with Guy as I feared.

4. When my friends and family get really bored, they sit around and Google me. All the time. One time, they found a link to someone's MySpace page that I used to call at all hours of the day or night at varied and intermittent intervals so they could take a cab over to my apartment and fuck me and you know what it said on there? All this stuff about me! Even though it actually made me look quite flattering while he simultaneously demeaned himself, I was still hella pissed. HELLA PISSED. Pissed to the point where I called him out of the blue six months after that last time I saw him to make him change it. On a side note, WELCOME TO SARCASMVILLE. Clearly this never happened. I would rather spend my time doing more important things like drink beer or stare at a wall, especially when, and of course this is completely hypothetical, one might have to find something like this on the 12TH PAGE OF GOOGLE RESULTS. I know. I checked.

5. Roll call: Hodson, Mathisen, Oldfield, Huntsman--I know all y'all feel me. The rest of you? You probably feel me too; save one. One of you. Let me explain something: I, Milkshake Moure, does not give a shit what you think about me. I am ashamed of many things, i.e.: my country, my biological mother, etc; but absent from this list is the way I choose to live my life. I love every neurosis, every un/warranted emotion, every good and bad decision, every part of everything that I have done including every last one of the 68 people who have been fortunate enough to have sex with me. Yes, that number is exact; I keep a list. But besides all of those people and even everyone who is not one of those people, there is merely a point when you have to just get over yourself. You think me callous? Fine. I'll take it. You don't wanna take it? then don't fuck writers, specifically me.

Trying to drag myself out of Mathisen's bed this morning was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, but was made a lot easier knowing that I've said my apologies to him for everything that I cannot that Davey would like me to say [if you don't get this, check my archives]. What was our conversation like this morning? Well, I'm glad you asked.

"Mathisen. Mathisen."
"Yeah. Huh."
"'Kay, I gotta go to work, but I gotta ask you a question."
"Yeah. Sup."
"Can I use you as a guinney pig?"
"What? I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."
"I'm gonna post about all the high voltage sex we had last night. And this morning."
"'Kay. Wait, I don't get it."
"Don't get what? We talked about this, I have a point to prove."
"No, I mean, I don't get why you're asking. Just fucking do it. Do what ever you want Miranda."
"'Kay. You gonna reciprocate?"
"Maybe. You know, maybe I will."
"Yes, Miranda. Yes you are."

[props to my little bro, Aaron Gerking (a.k.a. Bud) for supplying the title to this post.]



The Best Friends Club

In third grade, my girlfriends and I started a club called, originally enough, The Best Friends Club. This club was comprised of every girl in Mrs. Alsdorf's class--Lauren Kehl (President and co-fopunder), Me (Vice President and co-founder), Lauren Rogers, Alicia Wright, Sarah Lukhang (who I went to highschool with and never talked to), Rachel Lipsky (I think), Rachel Schwartz (dude, I think the Rachel's were in our club, but I totally can't remember...), and...um, OH! Dude, Jessica Folks. Oh, I think I'm totally forgetting someone...

Okay, the point is that I fucking hated almost every single one of those bitches. Not really because they were mean, or dumb, or what have you--but they just weren't my steeze. We barely even talked in middle school (for more info on me in middle school, see my April archives).

The point is that we started that club for the most fucked up reason of all time--because Lauren Kehl thought I would turn out to be a lesbian if I kept hanging out with a bunch of boys like Fritz Schoughlin, Jono Green, Mike Waggoner, Brian Chaffin, Reed Laughlin, and of course, Willie Braden.

Well, I turned out to be no more or less of a lesbian than Lauren, but I'm dammed sure that it wasn't me who jumped through a plate glass window high on speed and got called "Windows 95" all year. Oh, and I don't have a kid. I am such a dirty rumor spreader--but whatever. Meg told me this like...ten years ago, and it's still in the top 50 funniest stories I've ever heard list.


p.s.--Hey Will.


"Yes. Like the band, and the confection."

Have taken a break from Muses to re-write Cake.

Here's some rough-draft new material.

We hop in the cab, and in the back there is a small brown box, similar to the sort one might find Chinese takeout in but wide and squat. We alert the cab driver, ask if it’s his.
“It’s not mine. Open it! What’s inside?” We assume the previous fare must have left it on accident. Melinda carefully opens the box, and as the lid is breeched and she sees the contents, her mouth drops open and her eyes grow wide. Now I too am wondering what’s inside.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god.” Melinda can barely control herself.
“What is it?” I’m frantic at this point. The cabdriver as well is beside himself. Once she has calmed down a bit, she turns the box toward me so that I can see the contents. She can only produce one word to describe it.
She’s right. There is cake, and it looks incredible. Three thick and moist dark chocolate slices, dusted with powdered sugar and fragrant of cardamom and cayenne. My mouth is watering. We ask the cab driver if we can eat it; we have to have it.
“Hell yes we can eat it. It’s not like anyone’s coming back for it. Plus, it’s my birthday, and I haven’t had any cake yet.”
My mouth is already full as he’s finishing his sentence, and I freeze, mid chew, still holding the rest of my slice. Melinda takes a bite before handing the cab driver his, as conveniently, there is enough cake for all of us.
“It’s your birthday?” I’m stunned.
“Yup. October 29th, 1968.”
“It’s my birthday too. This is awesome; now we can have cake together.”
I have known many people with the same birthday as me, but this was the first time I have had a favorable experience with one of them on our mutual day of celebration. When our stop is looming, Melinda and I dig through our wallets with chocolate covered fingers pooling enough one dollar bills to tip the driver exorbitantly. We are still smiling when I get out of the cab, still finishing our decadent slices of randomly encountered cake. We stop for a smoke in front of the bar before entering. I can see Quinn is already inside.
“Quinn’s already here.”
“Yeah, I saw.” There is no use pretending to Melinda that I don’t have feelings for him. I don’t even try anymore.
“Miranda, I didn’t know you guys were so…you know. Like together. I thought you guys were just having sex.” She sounds almost sad, and I begin to wonder why.
“Well, I mean, we’re not really together…yet. We haven’t had the rules talk yet, you know?” I am referring to an entirely different set of rules now, the ones that men and women ascribe to their partnerships thus defining the parameters of their relationship, like long ago with John, even longer ago with Matthew. With Quinn I feel like that chat is looming, and I am oddly excited.
“Miranda, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” I am trying to keep things cool, but as I’m watching her lick the remaining gooey chocholate from her fingertips, I already know what she is about to tell me. She’s done nothing wrong, she was following the rules—but nonetheless she has tried some of my Cake, and I fear that some of its remnants are remaining on more than her fingertips. I never said Quinn was off limits because I was trying to keep it cool, but now it is my birthday and I am realizing as I finish my cake and I’m trying to keep the tears from spilling over my lashes that it is Matthew’s birthday as well, and this has been a long time coming, and that if he knew how I felt right now that it would be the best birthday gift he had ever received.



Milkshake+Bobby Fischer=[pink hearts and the like]

It has been brought to my attention by one of my gang members that it appears on my blog as if Davey is my boyfriend/lover/special friend etc.

Just wanted to say, YOU'RE ALL RIGHT.

Even though he lives across the country, I would just like to point out that Little Bobby and I have hot hot hot sex like, 17 times a day, and have a love that spans all time.

This is our blue period, Davey.

[p.s.--D, I sent you a present.]

[edit (same day): Davey got his present. Check it out.]


Guest Bloggers: Jill Bauer, Ron Almgren

Jill Bauer: For New Year's, a date with a DVD

Five, four, three, two ... Happy New Year?

Everything about New Year's Eve says two. Table for two, two clinking champagne flutes, two people finding each other in a crowded room for that midnight kiss. "Table for two? Right this way."
Early on, I learned an important lesson about New Year's Eve: It's the wrong night to be with the Wrong One.
But I didn't know any of this back in 1976, when I was a precocious and curious 13-year-old embarking on what would turn out to be a long dating future.
Sylvia, my grandmother's neighbor, a small, aggressive, bleach-blonde, had a proposition for my grandmother: "Would one of your pretty little grand- daughters like to go out on New Year's Eve with my handsome grandson who will be visiting from Israel?"
Sylvia and her husband, Abe, had New Year's Eve plans and wanted to be sure their grandson was spoken for.
I accepted the set-up with cheerful anticipation. Especially after speaking to Sylvia's grandson over the phone a couple of days before the big night.
"He has a nice, deep voice," I told my mom while prancing around our blue-green flower patterned kitchen floor. "I can't wait to meet him. What a great way to celebrate New Year's Eve," I cheered.
But before the Big Night, we agreed to meet in the lobby of our grandmothers' building.
I arrived in the lobby around noon the day before New Year's Eve and waited for Mr. Deep Voice. And there he was. Tall, thin and, well, not exactly what I'd envisioned. He had a mustard-colored sweater draped over his forearm and insisted on showing me his newly shined black shoes – the ones he was planning to wear in the Israeli army (a big turnoff for me). How, I wondered, would I ever get out of this? How could I break a date with Sylvia's grandson?
Instead, I came face to face with Grandma Sylvia and tried my darnedest to get out of it.
"Really, I'd like to go out with your grandson tomorrow night," I told her. "But ... ." And then all I can remember is Sylvia cornering me in her bedroom closet and sticking her toothy grin way too close to my face, telling me I will absolutely go out with her grandson.
"He has no place else to go," Sylvia said. "I'm counting on you."
Fast-forward 15 years to New Year's Eve 1991. I'm out with another guy. A guy I'm really into, a guy who's tall and handsome and funny. And suddenly he mentions that we'll be spending the next day with his family, including his grandmother, Sylvia.
No, I think, cringing. It can't possibly be. It was.
So on New Year's, Sylvia corners me. But this time I ask for her forgiveness. It is, after all, a new year.
"Absolutely not," Sylvia barks, after my sincere plea. "I will never forget, and I will never forgive."
Well, I do hope that Sylvia has forgiven me by now. But either way, I owe her a debt of gratitude for teaching me my very first important New Year's Eve lesson: It's a bad night for a blind date.
But beyond that, I have learned the greatest lesson of all: One is definitely not the loneliest number. Sure, the animal kingdom didn't board Noah's Ark one-by-one but still, there is something to be said for being with the one you love, or at least the one you like very much.
So this year, barring any last-minute twists of fate, I'm planning to stay home. And I'm actually looking forward to it. I know that nothing about this night says, "Great, perfect time to read Joan Didion's book on loss." Nothing about New Year's Eve tells us to order a pizza and settle in with our copy of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Nothing about this night – the fireworks displays, the honking horns at midnight, our next-door neighbor's woofers – says gray sweats, worn T-shirt, thick, comfy socks. Nothing says, "Table for one."
But this year I'm writing my own rules. This year I'm planning to enjoy the pleasure of my own company. And if I get lonely, I can always give Sylvia a call. Who knows? Maybe she's got an eligible grandson.

Jill Bauer is a Miami freelance writer [and Miranda Moure's Mom].

Things That Taste Better Than Bacon
by: Ron Almgren

Virgin Tears



New and Improved "Better Bacon" (patent pending)

Dodo Marsala


[Milkshake would like to thank Ronny and Mama for making my blog interesting today. "A Date With a DVD", Jill Bauer for Dallas Morning News, "Things That Taste Better Than Bacon", Ron Almgren for my G-Mail inbox. I would also like to point out that Grandma Sylvia is my old landlord Diane's mom. I never had the opportunity to meet her myself, but if she was anything like Diane, she was completely awesome with a side of Jewish-Hard-Core. --M]


A New Hope: ORL-SFO

A gift from a friend:

--david hodson
More options May 10(1 day ago)

For you M, maybe you'll get it. It's backwards, in that way I'm
backwards. Anyway.

A Wartime Heritage;
I could encrypt the truth and
spin words round beautiful

but the plain-text is I'm losing hope

and can't find a confidant

within spitting distance.

[I love you. And maybe one day I will be able to say that to alot of people. This will make more sense when I finish the piece I'm writing for you. --M]


Ready To Die

Davey is a poet. I’ve always been intrigued by that myself, as the composition of poetry is only a game I play at, something to pass the time until more words find themselves stringing together in my head in some sort of suitable fashion. It was when I still lived in Florida that we realized our mutual obsession with crafting language, our own and those of others; realized that in our heads all of these words suit the same purpose. Neither Davey or I are the type to sit still; we have to keep moving, see more, move, travel, search. Search for something we will know we have found when we’ve found it and write it down whether we succeed or fail. We, together wait for the day when all of our airline miles and nomad pursuits have purpose, because we will have found a God that will be devised by our pens. Found that pocket where truth and knowledge are one in the same. I think about this often and smile.

[note to DH--Dude, I'm almost glad I'm doing this. It's kind of neat--and look how awesome we sound! Like, I could write that we're Brilliant, and poof--it's true. Weird, yeah?
note to NM--I already feel terrible even writing about you. If you really wanna hear all the you-realted stuff, I'll e-mail it to you when it's done. I say that I fear nothing--that's clearly not true. I'm truly frightened to post this piece in it's entirety.]



Milkshake the Cripple

So my knee is getting slowly better. Slowly.

That being said, I'm going to delay my visit to Seattle by five days or so--that way I'll totally be able to walk, and I won't miss this fashion show thing I'm supposed to work at.

Sorry for the inconvenience, Seattleites. I'll be in town on the 24th or so. Oh, and if anyone wants to go to Vancouver for a few days, let me know, 'cause Lauren and I are SO down.

That being said, if anyone up there is bored on the 10th, head down to Elliot Bay Books where the folks responsible forPost Secret (both a Bloggie Award winning blog, and now a book subtitled "A Story of Courage, Understanding and Compassion as Told Through Secrets") will be having a reading/signing @ 6:00pm.
Trust. You want to go to this.

Oh, and if anyone has not seen Lauren's new site--do yourself a favor--it's freakin' AWESOME. There's always a link to it in my sidebar, but just to make it easier on you--Wonder?ly Designs. You guys know of my obsession with my first initial--where the hell do you think I got my monogrammed belt?


"Or, you can just bet them to have sex with you, 'cause that's clever too."

"You can't just go throwing dares around, it's not like were playing a game here."
Lloyd (Charlie Hunnam) from Undeclared 112, "Truth or Dare"

Was just thinking about all different kinds of contractual sex.

There is somewhere in this continuum between truth or dare and prostitution that I oft find myself in--promises, passes, history, obligation, responsibility--either spoken or implied, I oft seem to accumulate what I have deemed: The Active Backburner.

Now, The Active Backburner is so much different than a normal one--while a traditional backburner you've never made a move on (but rather are saving that for later) an active backburner you have, but have never slept with, and there is, above all interaction, the implied reality that one day, we'll totally do it.

Neither types of backburners are to be confused with The Re-Run, unless of course you are thinking of The Beer Run--this is someone you've slept with before, but not in a LONG time, but right before the sex-statute-of-limitations runs out (this is where it becomes equated to buying beer, specifically before 2:00), you have sex again. Just in case. Just in case you want to re-run that later. It's like renewing a library book.

Point being, what is the validity in all of this contractual sex?

I'm stopping right now, as I've just realized I'm sounding less like Miranda Hobbs and more like Carrie Bradshaw.
Help me Sam Jones!

[p.s.--Today is my mom's birthday. She's so much cooler than you that it hurts. Just so you know.]


Things I Wonder If God Can Do

by: Milkshake Moure

1. Make a mix CD so good that even he couldn't turn it off.
2. Tell a joke so funny that even he couldn't stop laughing.
3. Windex a sliding glass door so clean that even he doesn't realize it's there later when he's all drunk and trying to go out on the deck for a smoke.


[On a side note: Ron called me this [afternoon] and was all like: "I think I may have told you something last night that I never meant to say and that NEVER NEEDS REPEATING." Now, because of the events of the last, oh, five minutes or so, I'm thinking I did the exact same thing. So basically I'm saying to Ron: I wont tell if you wont tell.]

[edit: 5.11--I had to add this.
Bensinger333 said...
What about:
4. Can God cut you so bad, that even he wishes he hadn't cut you so bad?
May 11, 2006 5:38 AM]

[edit: 5.12--I really had to add this.
I'm going to pass on this one, but I do thank you for taking the time to submit.
Best, John Warner
p.s.--they wouldn't know a hilarious list if they saw one. Okay, also, that's not true. --M]


David Hodson, will you marry me?

“Hey. It’s me.”
It’s Davey. He’s calling me from Orlando. He draws out the ‘hey’ a bit as if he means ‘hey, it’s been a while’ or ‘hey; bet you didn’t think it would be me calling on a Saturday afternoon over there in California’. I found out shortly it was more like a ‘hey; I’m drunk’.
“Dude. There was La Fin Du Monde. A few of them. You know? It’s like, I only thought I was having a few beers and now it’s only 7:30 and I’m verging on drunk. Damn, it’s hot here.”
“Okay. I’m pretty wasted. I guess you know that. Guess you know that’s why I’m calling.”
Davey is known for having mastered the art of the drunken dial. Usually this is reserved for when bars are already closed, but sometimes, even a Saturday afternoon will see folks up and down the west coast finding Davey’s number flashing on the LCD screens of their cellphones or misspelled text messages bearing little or no punctuation that reveal him as the sender. Davey once called me drunk from his shower in Manhattan, and professed to also be drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette at the same time. He’s an incredible multi tasker.
“It’s Saturday. You going out tonight?”
“Want to. But I’m stuck all the way up here, and I’m drunk, and I can’t ride my motorcycle and I can’t get downtown. Miranda, whatever you do, don’t let me ride my motorcycle.”
“Okay. Don’t ride your motorcycle.”
“Ha ha, funny. I’m serious, you can’t, can’t, can’t let me ride my motorcycle, okay? Seriously. Seriously.”
Generally when he calls he makes some sort of request like this that I can’t possibly fulfill. Another common one is ‘come here right now’ as if I can somehow instantly transport myself 3000 miles away. Most days, I wish I could. I miss Florida, and it's hard when you're young and distance is measured in dollars instead of hours. Dollars none of us have as often as we'd like.

[Now that the unflattering part is out of the way, it can only get better. This is hard. You better love me for this. --M]

[edit: 5/6--I love this. had to add it. Sam said...
Hey, when you write that story about Davey, you should include that time when I called you (at Hunts/RCU's house [Mark]) to ask if Davey could sleep in your bed because we were both wasted and he needed a place to crash... and Davey was in the shower on the phone while I was in the bathroom on the phone with you. Ahh, multitasking drunken Davey. Not quite as good as sober, not going to get hypothermia in a bathtub full of cold water because he ran through the entire hot water heater tank's hot water, Davey, but quite funny. --May 05, 2006 6:59 AM]


What I Did On My Summer Vacation and Why Augusten Burroughs Is Dead To Me by: Milkshake Moure

Heralded writer Augusten Burroghs, is so dead to me. Why you ask? Am I jealous of his talent? His fame? His buckets of cash? No. You see, it goes much deeper than that.
Apparently, as I saw on the Today Show this morning, he has a new book out called I Am Unworthy of My Fame and Not Near As Cool As Milkshake (okay, it’s not called that) and he’s embarking on a media tour to promote it, hence the interview with Ann Curry. Now, we are all jealous of James Frye who had the brilliant idea to make a bunch of stuff up, say it was true, and take his big fat checks straight to the bank. Unfortunately for the rest of the world, this only works once, or rather, only works once if Oprah gets her way, which she will because she’s like God, Jesus and the Fonz all rolled into one.
The point is, now every “memoirist” in the world is under constant scrutiny—interviews are always centered on the question ‘what exactly is true and not true in this work?’
Now as you may know, I have a carefully crafted response to this question should I ever be lucky enough to have someone ask it of me on the Today Show or otherwise. Unfortunately, Augusten Burroughs stole it from me on the Today Show this morning. Now, I’m very flattered, yes, because clearly that means he’s reading my blog, because no one but me is clever enough to come up with it themselves, duh. I mean, come on, I’m Milkshake Moure for chrissakes! I mean, I understand why he may want to steal my line, but to actually take it, dude, that’s just low.
What was it he said this morning in response to Ann Curry’s predictable line of questioning?

“I’m a writer, not a stenographer.”

Then for the rest of my summer vacation I went swimming and rode my bike and Julie’s friend Lisa’s friend Cathy got a Nintendo that we played a lot and also we drank Kool-Aid. Then Mary didn’t let Augusten Burroughs come to her birthday party because he is smelly but I went and I gave her a t-shirt and we ate cake.
The end.


[p.s.—I’ll get you Augusten Burroughs!]