The New Urban Litteratti

Was doing some Urban Dictionary browsing yesterday with Sarah "I love vaginas" Ehrlich.

Some highlights.

1. Hawaiian Punch
2. Boner Factory
3. Noah
4. Sizzling Kantarek
5. and finally one that Nicholas' roomate will appreciate, Miranda Castillo

Thank you and good night.

[p.s.--also, check out Oui, Merci if you haven't already. It's tight.]


Got My Crunk On


1. The veneral DJ Cams was in the store yesterday regaling us with both his high voltage music and hotness. There was also sake, wine, champagne, and other assorted alchohol.
2. Mr. Brian Bennett had the after party in honor of Cari's last day. It was tight.
3. Was all hot off a different Brian, but kept getting cock-blocked by Andy and Shaun who we're all like: "Omigod! I love you Miranda! Omigod! Omigod!"
4. Bigfoot. Beer. Sasquatch. Brian Bennet totally kissed me on the neck. Bad Brian, bad Brian.
5. Beer. Shaun's house. Nice.
6. Some guy who's girlfriend was in the other room kept hitting on me. What the fuck? Don't get it. She's right there. Right there.
7. Cafe Mason. Ate a sandwich.
8. 4:30 AM. Have lost my phone. Back to Cafe Mason.
9. Back home. It's 5.
10. Somehow, on the most rockass of Bone Sabbaths, I managed to kiss three boys, end up with one in my bed, and sleep with none. Go figure.

Now, I will go get my crunk on, which means smoking a menthol and eating an Atomic Fireball with a mouthful of strawberry Pop-Rocks and Dr. Pepper. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.
[p.s.--while hopping up and down.]


Toni Braxton and Sir Mix-a-Lot

My dear milkshake,
I cry reading these words. Has our passionate love gone so far astray that I lose out not to one person, nor two, but an entire three? These tears, these tears. Soon I'll be on a transcontinental flight across this mighty country, but can you unbreak my heart? Say you'll love me again? undo this hurt you caused when you walked out the door and walked outta my life? uncry these tears I cried so many nights? Take back that sad word good-bye, bring back the joy to my life, don't leave me here with these tears, come and kiss this pain away, I can't forget the day you left, time is so unkind, and life is so cruel without you here beside me....
(Who else you know gonna flip Toni Braxton lyrics on yah, huh? Tell me that. Tell me. Say my name. That's right. Mother Fuckin Little Bobby Fischer. Gangster to the core. Just cause I listen to Sarah McLaugchlin doesn't mean I'm not HARDCORE.)

--David Hodson

And, given recent posts from recent other bloggers, I've decided to tell this story.

One time when I was sixteen, I got attacked by a drunken PCP fiend schizophrenic at Dick's on Broadway. I got called "Pong" for a year because Jason said I got "...ping-ponged off the counter by that guy!" Hmm.

Oh well. Let's just turn around the other way and go and eat at Dick's. Woot.
Getting very very excited. Thanks to Davey for convincing me.


Milkshake Moure, Cool Slut Oldfield, Jenny-Bean Gerking and introducing...

London Morlock.

This is the reason I'm most excited for this trip [don't get pissed Bobby, I know that I'll get you all to myself on the night of the fifth. yay!].

Seriously; The four of us are the four of us.
I never thought it would happen quite like this. Tiiight.

On a side note, I'm designing a template for Jenny-Bean's new blog, and here are a few themes I'm contemplating:

1. The last supper feat. Kanye West as Jesus.
2. Puppies and Kitties with pink and purple hearts and stuff.
3. A cheap Ann Geddies knockoff except with me in a bucket wearing bunny ears. This one, again, would be pink.
4. That one picture of Nate grinding on me and Jenny while drunk with "Oui, Merci" in gothic letters over it.
5. A MySpace sucks theme with pictures of that Tom kid getting crucified.
6. The last supper feat. Lil Kim as Jesus (much like the first one, but this one is pink).
7. A "let's get plastered" theme with tiled pics of Oly, PBR, and Old Style. This one is perfect because Jenny doesn't drink beer.
8. A Captain Morgan's theme and when you get there there's a repeating audio that says: "Arrrr! Welcome to my blog, matey!"
9. A "my black ass" theme with lots of pics taken of my ass in short skirts while drunk with Jen's face photo shopped onto them. This one is also pink.
10. An artfully created representation of my dear little Jenny-Bean combining my favorite pictures of her in a color scheme I know she'll like. like pink.

[p.s.--this is so weird. also, it happened to me, too.]


Be advised, bitches.

An e-mail bearing this title was sent out yesterday. Man, you guys kill me and crack me up and make me miss you all at the same time.

Davey finally convinced me: I'm rollin' through for 4 days over Labor day weekend [2-5]. I'll be busy, but save a slot for me if you're in and around Seattle then.
Kisses kittens,

The responses in the order I received them:

"This bitch considers himself duly advised."
--Mark Huntsman

"Good!!! Be sure to bounce on my 3644 Cheaterberry lane!!!! INDEED!!!"
--Crystal Wren

--Lauren Morlock

"OMFG. I'm so there. I will write it on my damn calendar right now. XO."
--Meg Van Huygen

"Woo!!!! I can't fucking wait to see you. And yes, I would ADORE a Miranda designed template."
--Jennifer Gerking

"...just in time for the biggest party in seattle...dbb downhill X. 1000 - 2000 people, bands, bikes, kegs, all right here in georgetown (and the after-after part is at my house).Nevermind. Sam can't read. See you in SEPTEMBER. Not August."
--Samantha Oldfield

"It happens. See you in September"
--David Hodson

And for this trip, these are the things I promise:

1. No fighting.
2. No getting cars towed.
3. No sleeping with people I have no business sleeping with.
4. No fighting. With anyone.
4a. Even if they deserve it.

Can't wait to see you guys.



Okay fine, Davey. I'll come.

So Everyone, Milkshake will be headin' round Seattle way Sep 2-5.
Don't worry, This time I'll bring my 305 and my 415 phone. No problems this time, promise.

And Davey and I are gonna be rockin' some hot-ass car: like an Echo or an Accent. Tight. I hope it's silver [*fingers crossed*]. This time, lets not get it towed.

Saturday, September 02 - OAKLAND CA(OAK) to SEATTLE TACOMA WA(SEA)
Flight 1216 M
Depart OAKLAND CA(OAK) at 6:40PM and
Arrive in SEATTLE TACOMA WA(SEA) at 8:35PM

Tuesday, September 05 - SEATTLE TACOMA WA(SEA) to OAKLAND CA(OAK)
Flight 2864 M
Depart SEATTLE TACOMA WA(SEA) at 9:40PM and
Arrive in OAKLAND CA(OAK) at 11:45PM



Because sometimes it's okay for the Grey Album to make you cry.

So Little Bobby Fischer wants to go to Bumbershoot.
I mean, it could be really really awesome—do you know Bumbershoot is where we met? Picture me, sitting with a group of 18-20 year old stoners, and a little shifty eyed gangsta strolls through with a 40oz in a paper bag and a backpack full of reinforcements. That’s my Davey.

Skip to me doing laundry one day in Miami, and my phone rings and drags me away from highlighting my favorite book and personal bible. It was--*clearing throat*--Milo.
“Hey baby. How are you?”
“Hey baby. Good, you know. Laundry. Book. Same old same old. You?”
“Hangin’ out at the pad. Me an’ ---- an’ ----- an’ Davey.”
“Nice. Tell the boys hi for me. How’s Olympia?”
“Sucks without you. I miss you baby.”
“Well, Miami’s beautiful today, and there is laundry and The White Boy Shuffle, but unfortunately not you. I miss you too.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that book. Davey’s always talking about it, it’s like…his favorite book.”
“Put Davey on the phone.”
“But baby I…”
Put Davey on the phone.

Skip to me going to my favorite bar one night in Seattle, and there he is, strolling across the parking lot to the lawnmower store. My Little Bobby Fischer. That was only a few weeks before he went to Manhattan.
And when he did go to Manhattan, he left all of his books in Samantha’s care, and I read every one, and I dreamt of California, and I, like Davey, spent the long winter trying to figure out the meaning of love. And sex. And Airplanes.

Now Cake.

And so was spurned “For Davey”, and now I’ve been slowly adding to that piece, and now some 30,000 words into it, I am approached with the possibility of it coming full circle.

And I'm having a hard time explaining why I can't go, and Davey thinks it's going to be okay, and I know that it wouldn't. I can remember some two years ago now, me helping my wife paint her bedroom and stepping out back for a smoke on the back deck, and her phone ringing, and me answering it as I always do. And then I remember some fucked up promise I made that rendered it punishable should I so much as even talk to people like Davey; and now here I am, breaking all the rules. And it's not that people don't know, it's that they've never seen it. Never seen Davey and I as Davey and I...and now? Now I'm still stuck in the cycle of a promise I'd thought would only change my life for a couple of months. Months? Yeah right. We're going on 25 of those now, and I still tear up every time I hear Monty's song and think about how "it smells like bubblemint all up in my purse" or even about turning the knob on a shithole apartment in Oly and having the opportunity to tell Britt to brace herself, because we're going to Doughty tonight. Fuck.
But Davey? Yeah, fuck propriety. I fought for that one. But I think there might be consequences.

Davey says it'll be cool--like, they're not even going and stuff. Oh really?

--Davey to Britt

Stich. Sew. Patch. Please--because if you don't, I will always be left with this lingering feeling that at least some of it is somehow my fault. I should have never had the audacity to want to spend some time with Davey on my 24th birthday. That's right: My birthday.


[p.s.--Props today go to Todd Boxerstien, because sex lines and Play-Doh and Video Faith are all we have left to bridge the long I-5 corridor.]


Cherry Poppin' Mama's

"And lo, Lower Haight proved not enough action for young Miranda, and so at Erica's request she traipsed down yonder to Rye and was lucky to behold young Australian Lads. But fear not my friends! You had better freakin' believe that this young lass did not leave the bar without hot Australian in tow, oh no. And so, in time, it was revealed that said young man had in fact never previously partaken in such pleasures of the flesh, and was not, in fact even 21 years old."


[p.s.--19. double oops.]


Milkshake Moure’s Big Book Of Baby Names

Names have always seemed a bit mutable to me, I first changed my name at eleven or so. To what? To Miranda Michael Terese Myers. Why? Because my friend Monica had recently changed hers to Monica Nelson Brown, and I thought having a boy’s middle name was cute. I dropped Michael sometime in high school and at 15 or so changed my last name to Moore. Then at 17 to More. Then at 18 to Moure. So here I am, m moure, some fifteen years after first deciding my given name wasn’t for me.

What’s in a name, anyway?

Now as the story line has come to a close and I’m facing the huge task of renaming 75% of the characters, I’ve come to a bit of an impass. What the fuck am I gonna call all these people?
Some are easy—they don’t want their names changed. But everyone else? Jesus Christ.

So here’s a preliminary list. It’ll be like a fun game! Try and guess who everyone is. It’ll be fun, and if you have any suggestions, drop me a line. If you want your name changed and want to pick your own, go right ahead. The Peters (Who are combined into the same person) picked “Peter Foster”, although I might veto this for “Peter James”. Note: I will not let you pick something ridiculous. You can’t pick (as others have tried to) something like “Pete Diggler” or “Q the Automator”, and don’t even ask: I refuse to call you “Dick Matters”. This isn’t a fucking porno; it’s barely even about sex. Seriously. Seriously.

Peter James/Foster
Milo Green (this one is so thinly veiled it boggles the mind)
Alistair Fallon
Jackson Doughtrie (hint: initials)
Jack McArthur (this one’s pretty easy after the last one)
Britt Nelson
Jarrod Miranda (Yeah, uh…)
Daisy Rain (laughably close)
Adrianne Ramiro

Sam and Jen looked at me in horror when I asked them if they wanted their names changed, so clearly, they don’t. Hunts, Shaun? Do you? And Mathisen, are you going by Richard or Nicholas? Davey, you don’t have a choice. I will call you nothing but David Hodson. Maybe David Fischer, but that’s as far as I’m willing to compromise.

I’m fucked if Jeremiah wants his changed.

Or Clifford.


So here’s how a passage might sound:

The door to my apartment has been unlocked for eight months, so when I have completed the climb to the third floor I merely have to turn the knob, albeit quietly, to enter my tiny San Franciscan home. Quiet is a must. David will still be asleep. He is visiting me from Florida.
“Hey. It’s me.”
It’s David, and apparently I have woken him.
“Were you gone? Whoa, what happened?” Now he is looking me up and down and realizing I am wearing the same thing I was last night. The gears are beginning to turn in his head, he is putting two and two and both of us and the events of last night together; now he is smirking at me.
“Right, well, you passed out, and Richard and I didn’t want to wake you. We went over to his house.” He isn’t buying my feigned innocence, not accepting the careful smile I’m trying to wear across my face. He knows, as I know that when 3 AM finds the three of us playing quarters on my floor with whiskey, that something has to give. Something has to happen. I gave, it happened, I didn’t look back. Now, judging by the look on David’s face, I think I might be sorry.
“Didn’t want to wake me?”
“Yeah, you know. Beers and all. Maker’s Mark. Late nights yield loud mouths. You catch me, yeah?” He is not catching me.
“Dude, I was passed out…and oh my god. Apparently rightly so.” His hand has reached his forehead, his thumb and forefinger are now vigorously pinching his furrowed brow, his chin is dipped to his chest as he sits up in my messy bed.
“Yeah. I’m pretty wrecked myself.” I toss my handbag in the corner and take a seat next to David. I put my hand on his leg and squeeze his thigh through my comforter. He puts his hand atop mine, meets my eyes.
“Coffee?” He asks this almost desperately.
“Yeah. I’ll go get some.”

I return again to my unlocked door, heavier two paper cups balanced atop each other, and when I breach the threshold David is fumbling with a small child-proofed bottle of ibuprofen. I set our coffee on my nightstand and David gladly surrenders the bottle into my outstretched hand. I’m only half way to the kitchen when he starts with me again.
“I was thinking last night, about Britt. Thinking about writing a piece about her?”
He says this as a question; he is more so seeking my approval than voicing a thought. We don’t often talk about Britt because we loved them so much, and yet it still rings funny how the end of days will oft leave you allying yourself with someone you never would have thought possible. I’d like to think that Milo and Britt couldn’t possibly have what Davey and I do, but I am having trouble with the lid on the little bottle of pills. Damn childproofing.
“Britt. Hmm. She’s quite the muse for you.” I am washing a pint glass, rinsing the soap off. I have no clean dishes.
“Well, I love her.”
“And you can’t have her.”
“Yeah, you know, that always makes it better. It’s like, we had this fantastic thing that I fucked all up, and now I can’t have her, but I love her. I still write about her--you’re right in a way, but she’s more than ‘quite the muse’, she is the perfect muse. Perfect.”
“Hmm.” I’m twisting the ice cube tray. Breaking the cubes loose and putting a few in the bottom of the still warm glass.
“Do you still write about Milo?”
“No.” I open the faucet and fill the pint to the brim, and I am lying. I still do all the time. Milo is the reference point I use for so much of what I say both on paper or otherwise.
“But Milo was your muse?”
“Kind of.”
“Did you ever write about him while you two were together?”
I am reminded of the automatic doors, the rush of humidity, the clinking of something, the maze like parking garage…I hand David the ice water and shake four tablets into his palm. I remember my half hazard parking job, the slamming of desk drawers, pencils and paintbrushes falling to the floor under my shaky hands seeking a pen.
“Just once, just one morning back from the airport in Miami. I dropped him off and came home, jotted some notes in a notebook. About quarters and risks. Milo was a big risk I took. It all seemed fitting at the time. Now too, I s’pose.”
“Now too?” David tips his head back, dumps all four pills in his mouth and sips long from the glass.
“Yeah, well now, I mean—fuck. Now you’re here, and we have coffee, and I’m just back from Richard’s house and I’ve been in San Francisco a year now and all I want to do is find that notebook. Finish the story. I think I get it now.”
“And this?” He sets his glass on my nightstand.
“And this what?”
“And this. Will you write this all down? This story we’re making. Right now.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Maybe I will.”
I notice that David’s glass is half full.

[In re-writing, it became very clear that this piece didn’t work as a telephone conversation. The drunk-dial portion of this essay will be entered into “For Davey”, combined with the essay described in this passage, and renamed "Common Cents". Props today go to Mindy Buhl for accepting that she simply must take on part of Daisy's character to go with the altered chronology in "Cake". SOLID. Also, there are actually four rules to the Sam-Miranda club, the first one being: "don't ever talk about the Sam-Miranda club".]


"Traction, Business, Hipster, Fag."

Last night was Soooooo Fun.

1. The Lovely Miss Emily Ann sang an ol' Hank Williams tune @ Great American Music Hall last night. That little thing is probably still high from it. She's so freakin' amazing.
2. Shaun was freaking out about his ex, so we made a pit stop at Thieves for a little text messaging. We drank whiskey and met a guy from Australia.
3. Back to GAMH, then met Meredith out front coming from a party in Hayes Valley. Oh yeah, did I note that Shaun and Mere are wasted at this point?
4. Hemlock had a freakin' cover last night, so we cruised to the closet that is R Bar. Shaun told me to grab him a Maker's neat, and then got pissed when it wasn't cut. Exactly.
5. Stopped by home, called Pant. he was all like: "High Tide!".
6. Had to stop by GAMH again on the way to High Tide to give Emily Ann a poster I had ripped off the wall in the bathroom. On the way there, ran into Ron waiting for the light to change. Sweet.
7. High Tide. Home of degenerates and broken hearted hipsters. Met Ryan, in town from Clemson.
8. Bought a shitload of beer and went to Ryan's hotel room. Said something completely innapropriate about Moto on the way out. Oops.
9. Carl's Jr. Then finally home at 4:00. Thank god.
10. Got up at 9. Put on clothes. Regretfully went to work.

[p.s.--From now on, you can only speak out loud if you sing it like a Daft Punk song. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.]


On Lust and Paper

When the shades are drawn,
we find our Stories slumped, heaped into
a mess of artful archives,
a thought reduced to
chicken-scratched college ruled
typed and collated copy,
spiral bound,
four thousand one hundred and
sixteen words are
shaped into a shapely image.
Like one long bite
dipped from a many layered Cake,
a soft-skinned
clipped and curled
groomed and manicured hand
is placed across a round belly,
an errant leg juts across a lap
and the Cabbie notes the two in the back
just before the lean,
a lean hand brought to a cheek,
grasping at straws and
waiting for the morning and
hoping the fog will not roll over Telegraph Hill;
that in the day we can be clear,
that in four or five blocks time
we will have something left to tell
for Sunday afternoon will hear switchboards click
and Satellites turn toward
bitmapped binary voices when
phone lines and Faith are all we are left
to bridge two coasts.

[“Muses” is done. Well, you know. Done for now. Special thanks to Hunstman&Hodson who I will be utilizing again very soon--let me run it by a couple of the San Franciscans before I resend. But be ready.]


Back In Black Part II: The Vagina Monologues

I guess I'm just not done talking about vaginas today.

I was thinking about how powerful my/the collective vagina is, and I decided to celebrate it/them a bit this afternoon. How you ask? Well, by finally accomplishing that which I have been growing out my pubes for all of this time (read: FOUR WEEKS).

It's funny where people (read: me) who are not known for they're modesty find it. What I mean is that I just couldn't bring myself to post a pic of this here, but you can definitely be assured, pic or no, that what pubes I have left are now artfully crafted into the AC/DC lightning bolt.

For a teaser, check out my header.
For the real thing, drop me a line and I'll e-mail you a pic.

My vagina is so freakin' beautiful.

“My keys, my car, my vagina, my business.”

You probably got the email yesterday.

Just in case you didn’t, I saw the absolute funniest Open Letter ever on McSweeneys.net. Seriously. The funniest one I’ve ever seen. Some excerpts:

“Delightfully, I have not only a love for the scientific method but also a demonstrable paranormal skill! I have the ability to control men's minds with my vagina.”

“Volunteers should be male, heterosexual, and unknown to me, and should have at least $5 on their person. Each volunteer will be assigned to a group: ‘vagina’ or ‘no vagina’.”

“I predict that volunteers in visual proximity of my vagina will be at least 50 percent more likely to comply than those separated from my vagina by a leaden barrier.”

Even funnier was the quality and variety of responses I received from people. In the order I received them:

"Yes! That is so fucking great!"
--Jennifer Gerking

"Perfect. And it's a damn good thing she's a meat eater, dontcha' think? Maybe that's the next test: Veggie Burgers. Sushi wouldn't count. They'd call that "guilt by association"...Thanks for the spammosity, M."
--Mark Effinger

"Yeah, just finished reading that. So funny because it's so true."
--Nicholas Mathisen

"Dude I love you so much for making my day better. And it is now my #1 all-time open letter, displacing An Open Letter To My Husband's Ex-Wife's Fake Breasts. Give me the goods, BCT."
--Mark Huntsman

"Whoa...that sounds just like your vagina."
--Peter Counts

"Omigod! Yes! You know how much I love vaginas!"
--Sarah Ehrlich

But don't we all love vaginas? I mean really?

Finishing up "Muses" right now. It's absolutely beautiful. I love it. Nay--I am in love with it.
Starting on "Comrades" today--and I'd like to thank Shaun Dunn and this magnificent open letter for the premise...nay, the device to finally tell this story. On that note, I finally understand what's been goin' on in the past few months, and would like to apologize to a number of you out there--namely my male friends. I'm sorry for shoving what I assumed to be your lack of control down all of your throats lately. I thought it was your fault--come to find out, it's just my vagina.


The Breakfast Club

So there is a Starbucks across the street from my work and there is a boy who works there and that boys’ name is Andrew.

Andrew is HOT. I mean like ridiculously and absolutely picture perfect black hair and cryin’ in a closet HOT. I kinda had a crush on him…and then I found out that he’s only 20 years old. No. That wont work at all. That’s way not right.
But oh well, right? He’s still awesome, and we’ve been known to share many a smoke ‘round Union Street way.

It doesn’t really matter anyway—I shouldn’t be…dating [what was I supposed to say?] boys like that anyway. I don’t like being all, you know: “matchie-matchie” with boys. There should never be a time where a boy rolls over to me in bed and says “Omigod, I have a skeleton tattooed on my lower back too! Do you listen to The Decemberists?”

No. That won’t work at all. That’s way not right.

I’m looking for my Steve. OH! Even better pop culture metaphor—my Emilio Estevez. There you go—I want my pretty troubled jock that swoops this tattooed freak off her feet and plants her squarely in his Camaro. Sweet.

On that note, I have indeed entered into the most fulfilling relationship I’ve been in lately. That’s right everyone, Emma and I are doing splendidly. Just in case there are any troubled jocks reading this, I’ll tell you what’s inside her. FYI: Emma is my new handbag.

Two tampons.
A toothbrush.
Four Kimono Special condoms.
A contact case with an uppercase ‘M’ written on the top of each lid.
A bottle of Motrin® IB with four tablets left in it.
A Vicodin that was not prescribed to me.
A half used bottle of BiorĂ©® Shine Control Moisturizing Lotion (it balances and controls).
A black pen.
A spiral notebook bearing a sticker Nicholas gave me.
Contact solution.
My Bvlgari glasses (in matching black embossed leather case).
A $25 gift card to Barnes and Noble.
A Kinko’s© card with $3.14 left on it.
My ID (from the Sunshine State).
One of my clients’ phone numbers written on a square yellow Post-It™ and folded in half.
A digital camera.
19 bobby pins.

There is no black eyeliner.


4th of July, 10 on the 2, 5x5.

Time for a list, kiddos. This time, let's do it with pictures.

1. Fourth of July spent on Erica and Miguel's roof with Shaun Dunn in tow.

2. Peter Counts went to Seattle. Here he is nipple bumping throught the window of my favorite bar, The Duck Island Alehouse. Fellow nipple bumper: Peter Smith.

3. My wives with Peter. Jesus, I totally miss them. Told Nicholas about the three-way-calling-intervention I recieved from them last week. He laughed at me. He also said I've been way to agro on my blog lately. I'll try and tone it down.

4. Then Mindy went up there too. Counts took her to Carrie Park, and was all: "You might recognize this view from Miranda's left arm." and Mindy was all like: "Omigod! Miranda's arm!"

5. Everyone sent hugs and kisses home with Counts for me. Just so you know, I got them all. On a side note, it took several minutes to dole them all out.


[p.s.--This is the funniest thing I have ever seen in the Urban Dictionary.
1. 10 things i hate about you
The best movie ever created. Modern (ok well not so modern. 90's) Recreation of Shakespeare's "The Taming of the Shrew".
as in: "I watch 10 things i hate about you at least twice a week."]


Bone Sabbath Eve

"And lo, the young maid did pronounce: 'tonight is a night for debauchery!'  And so it was, and the 'Loin was full of the laughter of the beautiful ones.  Fear not young lads!  There are after parties to be had, for Counts is in Seattle, and Punk Rock and canned beer will be enjoyed past the hour of 2:00 am, and it shall be good."

It's Friday kiddos.



Davey Calls Miranda Part Two: Mom Get's Mad At Boy and His Dog and The Random Girl He's On the Phone With


"Sup. Yo. What's shakin' in San Fran?"

"Not a whole lot. Hmm...well, got denied hard last week, my best girlfriend here started stripping, Pete left town, and me and Shaun are inseperable as of late. That's about it. Oh; work is good and the girls say hi."

"What girls?"

"Sam and Jen, duh. Are you drunk?"

"Yes. Yes I am. It's all about the Sangria, you know? Sangria."

"Right. Poolside?"

"I wish. So check this..."

"Check what?"

"Tattoos. We gotta get tattoos. Me, you and Sammilu."

"Nice work wordsmith, you just wrote a poem."

"Yeah, you know. I'm hot like that. It's like, you gotta remove the hater shades and let the freestyle flow. You catchin' this?"

"You're drunk."

"And you're metahating."

"Technically I'm not metahating."

"True. So tattoos? Yeah? We golden on this one? Oh, and also, I'm gonna need you in Seattle for this."

"What? I'm not going to Seattle. Not yet. I got shit to do, man."

"Oh...dude...hold on."


"[To mom.] Yeah, it's MIranda. [Pause.] Miranda. [Pause.] Yes I'll be in bed soon. Promise. [Pause.] Yes mother, this boy and his dog are deeply sorry. Deeply. And we will keep it down. Promise. Seriously. [Pause.] Seriously.

"Your Mom?"

"Yeah. What a complete hater. She's totally hatin' on this awesome coast-to-coast drunken dial. Haters. Forget them."

"Now who's metahating?"



Unity. Camaraderie. Fraternity. (Sorority.)

Have been speaking about the idea of reminders lately.

Meaning? Oh. Right.

Last night at Café Royale I was explaining a series of recent mid-week drunken events that left me:
1. Looking like an idiot.
2. Feeling marginalized.
3. Marginalizing others, and
4. Saying things out rightly that most people would not.

The point? Please—PLEASE hear this one.

When I was sixteen and a freshman in college, I was, after a summer spent as a nomad-couch-and-bed-surfing-burrito-rolling-pot-head, living back at my [biological] mothers’ house. For the first time since I had known her, she had friends. Seriously—she was going out with them during the day instead of going to doctors appointments and sitting in front of the TV. Most of the time, she would completely ignore me, and so I was happy. Very happy.
One day she finally admitted to me that in fact she was not spending time with her new found friends, but rather my father that I had never met. She ordered me to meet him, so I did, and didn’t really like him all that much.
“Yeah, Clarence, here’s the thing,” this is me at sixteen talking with my father, “You just aren’t that cool. You really don’t have any redeeming qualities that would make me even want to get to know you let alone forgive you. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m amazing. And talented. Oh, and also—I’m a genius. Did mom tell you that?”
“But I’m your dad.” I laughed at this.
“No. No you’re not. You’re my father.”
What a dick.
Point being, one day I called my mother from school, and a freakin’ man answers my phone. A little background--Men are not allowed to answer my mothers’ phone. She may answer it, my sister may answer it—even my niece and I may answer it—but by NO MEANS DOES ANY MAN EVER ANSWER MY MOTHERS’ PHONE. That includes my brother, Scott.
I don’t even need to explain to all y’all who it was, but the response I received from asking who in the holy hell was answering my goddamned phone did not go over so well.
“Young lady, don’t you ever speak to me like that. This is your father. Clarence. I hope you don’t speak to your mother that way.”
My last words ever to my father?

A week later my father replaced me at my house. He moved in, I was kicked out, I told my mother he didn’t love her, and just like I had predicted he overdosed on crack a few years later.

I promise, there’s a point. Bear with me.

So then I’m 21, living in Miami, braving my first South Florida summer, and one day my phone rings. It’s a Seattle city commissioner explaining to me that my father had died. Died. And the last thing I had ever said to him was “Fuck You.”

The point:
Please don’t ever miss an opportunity to tell someone how you feel. Propriety doesn’t mean dick when life is so fucking short. My father wasn’t quite sixty when he died—that means many of us may only have the chance to live the time we already have had one more time. Can you imagine how you’d act if half your life was already over? What would you do differently, even if you’re only 25? 29? 31? You could be, like some of my favorite people in this world, still only 23—and then? What could happen tomorrow that could prevent you from telling someone, rules and propriety aside, that you love them? That maybe you could have something awesome—even if it’s limited? That yeah, you do know how dumb this sounds…but I really like you. Do it now. Everyday. Before it’s too late. Fuck it.

My regrets? Not that I told my father “Fuck You”—Oh hell no. I’m just glad I got to say it before he died.

I haven’t spoken to my biological mother since I was nineteen.

That means I never got to say:
“I fucking told you so.”

Remind someone how much you care about them today.

[p.s.--If you google "i am a jelly doughnut", which is the title of my blog, I'm the 10th response. However, if you google "Please show me how to live" or "Generals gathering thier masses", I'm number one. Try it. Props today to Mike Doughty and Ozzy Ozbourne.]