For Davey: Part 3

Air Itinerary
Sep 12
Depart Oakland (OAK) at 6:50 AM
Arrive in Kansas City (MCI) at 12:10 PM
Change planes in Kansas City (MCI) departing at 12:40 PM
Arrive in Orlando (MCO) at 4:25 PM
Internet Special
1 Security Fee is the government-imposed September 11th Security Fee.
Billing Information
Credit Card Holder Name:
Miranda Myricks
Billing Address:
891 Post #307
San Francisco, CA 94109
Confirmation Number: 5IKHB6
Passenger Type:
Passenger Name(s):
David Hodson
Form of Payment:
MasterCard: XXXXXXXXXXXX0019

[you can always fly standby on an earlier flight the day before. No one flys the day before, haha. --M]


I am so fucking sick.

So maybe sometimes in the wake of several beers and the like, you make the very unfortunate decision, based mostly on convenience, to send a text message. And sometimes the repercussions of that text message are still in your bed at four in the morning. And sometimes you ask those repercussions to leave at four in the morning.


Oh! But sometimes Hunts calls mid convenience-driven-dillema on extacy and proceeds to crack me the fuck up.

[Oh, and if you get a chance, call Shaun Dunn and have him explain to you what "making sex" is.]


"Quick! Call me Consuelo and make out with me!"


1. Tunnel Top. Bobby was there, amazingly enough. Me and Counts met up with Nicholas "Cassiola" Mathisen, Don Juan, and Matt The Ladies Man.

2. They took me to this frat bar in North Beach I haven't been to for forever. Some Irish guy hit on me.

3. There was this girl that The Ladies Man was hitting on who was dumb as dirt. I forgot what it said, but Cass and I wrote some nasty note on the back of my business card and slipped in in her bag.

4. Nearing bar time, She asked if we wanted to "keep the party going". I explained to her that I was unfortunately retiring to a private party of two, to which she replied, "Cool. So you wanna get some beers?" No. No, you stupid bitch, no.

5. Feminists don't change light bulbs.

6. Cass is clever as hell.

7. Oh, jokes. I get those.

8. Patrick still hasn't proposed. Any day now.

9. So a guy walks up to a cafe, and out front there's sign that reads:
then, right under that, it said;
He's super stoked, so he goes in, and the place is packed with guys, but he muscles up to the front of the line and yells out to the cashier.
"Hey!" he says, "are you the one giving out $10.00 handjobs?"
"Yeah." she says.
"Great," he says, "then wash your fucking hands and make me a cheese sandwich."

10. I hate it when the alarm goes off.



88 Lines Part 3: Did You Make The Cut?

88 Lines About 44 Men
by: Miranda Moure

Jason was a Christian boy
with silver teeth and not a dime,
Viktor was a swedish kid
who seemed to study all the time,
Dylan was a sound guy
for a super famous band,
Joseph, my ex boyfriend's brother,
had a way with his hands.

Matthew was an Emo boy,
was always playing the guitar,
Christopher was English and
he liked to hang out at the bar.
Dimitri was a Russian and
his accent made me like him more,
Richie was a boy I loved
who wound up showing me the door.

Jeremiah had a bar,
knew everything about good beer,
Rex skied, was super hot;
I sometimes wish that he was here,
Austin hailed from Texas state;
he's a pescatarian
Jon left me for Japan;
my panties in his carry-on.

Gabriel had issues and
he wrapped me up in his whole game,
Rice, a tattooed punk rock kid and
punk rockers gave him his name,
Dustin was a drummer
with an afro and a crappy car,
Isaac was the boy I saw
for days and finally got it all.

Mark was a writer with
a penchant for snorting cocaine,
Eric puked right off my deck
who thought that I was really vain,
Noah was my girlfriend's cousin--
he wanted a girlfriend and
Duncan was her dad's best friend;
stayed with his wife in the end.

Josh rode a bicycle and
he said exactly what he thought,
Jeffery was a greaser that
my best friend had already caught.
Shaun was a pretty boy that
I met down here in the Bay,
Scott gave me scabies
and I never came back round his way.

Nuh-uh--not Scott.

Theodore was in a band
with a bunch of cool kids that I've known,
Woody's called the Eight-Toed Sloth,
he looks just like Johnny Ramone,
Jonathan was was short and sweet
but in the end he did come through,
Nicholas was the only boy
I've never loved but wanted to.

Daniel, he was fun and loud
but he was always biting me,
Colin was an Irish guy
that I picked up at a party,
Bryan was a crazy frantic
Mexican I'd never date,
William looked like Luke Wilson;
two doors down in Lower Haight.

Vincent was from Amsterdam;
makes porno's and he skateboards,
Casey has a twin down south
and likes his pen and not a sword,
Quinn was a filmmaker
and he liked quirky eyewear,
Clifford's poetry was great;
I loved him more than I could bear.
Lucas was a strange one;
I had thought that he was gay,
Caras was a wholesome kid
who might still like me to this day,
Aaron was a snowboarder;
shaggy hair and beer in hand and
Moto, he was visiting
and everything went as I planned.
James was a smart kid
without a girlfriend at the time,
Damon was an accident
that ended up being just fine!
Brodeur, the comedian!
He's surely not the quietest, and
David was a Virgin
who I aptly chose to end this list.

88 Lines about 44 [real] Men [in chronological order with duplicate names and boring ones cut out].

[who's gonna help me record this?]

88 Lines Part 2: List

Alternative Titles for the Classic Song 88 Lines About 44 Women
by: Miranda Moure

Chicks I Boned

The Number of Women I've Slept With Is Divisible By Both 4 and 11

My Therapist Advised I Should Write This Song Purely For the Subsequent Catharsism

All of the Women Described Thus Are Beautiful, But Upon Meeting Them One Should Note These Interesting Attributes About Their Characters As Per Listed; Except For That Bitch Bobbie-Sox: I Hate You, Your Band Sucks, and I'm Glad Your Cat Died That One Time

Bitches Be Crazy

Oops, I Did It Again



88 Lines Part 1: iPoet

While cruising my iTunes making a CD for work tomorrow, I came up with either the greatest or the lamest idea of all time. Point being, I took a bunch of my favorite lines from my favorite songs, tried to put them in some sort of readable order, and subsequently made a CD following the order of each line/song.

I am procrastinating on some stuff. Clearly.

The CD? Oh. Well, it goes:

88 Lines About 44 Women--The Nails
Reinventing Axle Rose--Against Me!
White Lexus--Mike Doughty
That's What I Like About You--Kinks
Tangerine--Led Zeppelin
Tainted Love--Soft Cell
Close To Me--The Cure
When I'm 64--The Beatles
Need It Just a Little--Fruit Bats
Nobody But You--Kinks
I Am Trying To Break Your Heart--Wilco
Jennifer--Stephen Malkmus
Satellite--Aimee Mann
Regulators--Warren G

The iPoem? Oh, yeah. It goes:

Seattle is another girl who left her mark upon the map
and doesn't care how many people are counted at the door;
please show me how to live,
tell me all the things that I want to hear
in a reflection of a dream when
I toss and turn, I can't sleep at night;
I wish I stayed asleep today.
Losing my head, many years from now,
when I need it just a little when the needle's in the red,
imagine me and you and you and me,
assassin down the avenue
joining our forces and singing along
so we can call it a day.
Nate Dog and Warren G gotta regulate.

[Okay, for real though. This is a fucking fantastic procrastination device. On what? Well, if I do shit like this, then I will never have to come to grips with the fact that I might just truly be the worst person ever. I mean--just fucking look at me--my shit, my time--my fucking best friend is dancing at Hustler today. Oh, you don't like strip clubs? Yeah, I don't care. Why don't you just fucking do what I say and sit there prettily while I pay the new girlfriend of some guy I was screwing all winter to grind on your crotch because I'm feeling a bit vindictive. Hope that's cool. Wait a minute--no I don't. Know why? Because I make the worst girlfriend ever, and that sucks because I was going to try and do better this time, and what do I really get by having her draped all over some boy I'm fucking? Not a whole lot. So then I make it worse--still feeling a bit vindictive, I sleep with a friend of his; my ex, that is, not the new one who I now hate and have no idea how to break it off with. Oops.
Yeah, I don't really know, but it seemed so fitting. Seemed like a story I wasn't willing to sacrifice for any kind of common sense or morals or whatever. Now it just seems like contrary to the stories Nathalia has told me about how my ex treats his hot and sweet new stripper girlfriend, despite even me running into her propped up on the counter of the bathroom of the Hustler biting her nails and talking on her cellphone, even then when I wonder why her face is red and flushed and I try to smile and Nathalia's begging me to just fucking say something to her--maybe it is me that is the cruel one in the whole situation. I'm pretty sure of it, in fact. If I said something? Well, then I would have to admit, out loud, that he's mean, and I don't like him, and then? THEN MY TITLE ESSAY IS RUINED. The story doesn't work with him as an asshole--and so in my head until this is all finished, HE CAN'T BE AN ASSHOLE. No, he can't be an asshole. That is supposed to be me.
And that was called a rant. --M]

Jumped on the bandwagon.

"Providers, a subgroup of the Guardians, take it upon themselves to arrange for the health and welfare of those in their care, as well as being quite sociable. Wherever they go, Providers take up the role of social contributor, happily giving their time and energy to make sure that the needs of others are met, that traditions are supported and developed, and that social functions are a success. Providers are extremely sensitive to the feelings of others, which makes them perhaps the most sympathetic of all the types, but which also leaves them rather self-conscious, that is, highly sensitive to what others think of them. Because of this Providers can be crushed by personal criticism, and will work most effectively when given ample appreciation both for themselves personally and for the service they give to others. This is not to say that Providers are afraid to express their own emotional reactions. They are quick to like and dislike—and don’t mind saying so—tending to put on a pedestal whatever or whoever they admire, and to come down hard on those people and issues they don’t care for. You share your type with 10% of the population.
As a romantic partner, you work hard to nuture and protect your relationships. You go to great lengths to maintain harmony and are motivated to resolve conflicts. You have a very clear idea of what is important to you and do best when your partner shares those same values. You want your partner to be loving, commited, and willing to support your frequently overwelming feelings and reactions. You feel most appreciated when your partner is kind, considerate, and helpful, and compliments you often on your hard work in their behalf."

[Oh. Now I get it.]


Whoa there.

I can finally breathe.

Not so crazy busy now.

312 and 206 expect calls within 24 hours. Sorry for the neglect.

Seriously. Seriously.

[more later]


Goodbye, Pho Kien Giang

Okay. Maybe you live in another city, or maybe you just don't like Vietnamese food, or maybe you just live in North Beach. Whatever. My point is thus:

I Loved Pho Kien Giang. And for those of you who have not eaten there, it just so happens to be my favorite Vietnamese place of all time. And also, it is now officially closed. Closed. FOREVER.

So I have two questions for you all--
#1. Where else am I supposed to eat four times a week? Chinese? Pizza? Mexican? I'm sorry--but it just doesn't compare. I will miss the Tuesday nights filled with American Idol and BBQ Pork and Rice noodles and the Friday evenings of Vegetable Rolls and Rare Steak Pho. Seriously. Seriously.

#2. How am I supposed to relate to my "illustrious" neighborhood now?

I LOVED MY NEIGHBORHOOD. I always have--whatever neighborhood that was--if it had some sort of routine that I enjoyed. What I mean is that the Pho place was part of my routine--and now I am worried about where it will leave me as a Tenderloinite. Do I still love The 'Loin? Of course. Will, it change for me? Well...definitely.

So here I am:

1. Seeking my Cake.
2. Finding it in the form of [pseudo] monogamy (oops).
3. Trying to find a new Vietnamese place.
4. Loving all of my jobs.
5. Writing amazingly.
6. Feeling incredible.
7. Felling obstacles.
8. Reading everything Davey sends to me.
9. Loving him more and more everyday.
10. Loving everyone I know more and more everyday.
11. Relating ever closer to my co-workers.
12. Realizing I shouldn't be dating anyone.
13. Feeling I should focus on my deep-seated friendships for a while.
14. Feeling I should relate all of this to the person I'm dating.
15. Experiencing a lot of crappy Vietnamese food in the hunt for excellent Vietnamese food.

That being said:

We ARE the Kids

When "it all" really meant
all of it that we should ever know;
when times were such
to warrant alliance and comrades and
when foreign language meant only that
we don't get what
we don't have.

all of our time,
once seemingly endless
is dashed upon our reckless ideal, where
Someone, when all of us
are seeking the same thought,
will for once be struck again with a vision of what was:
those Navy Flannel Sheets,
those canned beers in packs of
twelve of us,
and I am left to find some semblance and
symbol that will jar us from
the distance we find now,
in trying so fucking hard
to forget what we had.

[We are those kids.
We want to place our heads on
lofty pillows far more fair:
but history will catch to every dream,
every wish we had for our perfect
pre-text urban bohemian modern idea of right:
and now what becomes of what we honed
when our Gods are caught in our own mis-matched and
mis-cultured, mis-interpreted prediction?
We are meant for this,
we refuse to rebuild it.]


[I love you. All. Seriously. Seriously.]


Top Eight

Hopefully there are some of you out there who have no idea what Top Eight means, and hopefully it's not because you're already too fully immersed in the Top Sixteen lifestyle. Yes kids, I speak of the unholy MySpace.

Like, okay. Here's a comment left by one kid I went to middle school with to another kid I went to middle school with.
Tim is in my top 8 because he put me on his softball team. You are not in my top 8 because:
a) You did not get HBO at your new apartMENt
b) You hated on "Entourage"
c) You made me walk ridiculously far on Saturday night after we "split" a cab ride.

I'm not even commenting about that.

In the last six months, I've known three couples that got together in a manner involving the top eight. ex: "Omigod, and then, today, I totally chacked his MySpace, and he totally put me in his Top Eight. Omigod. Omigod. We're hella in love."

Of course, there have also been several instances of the opposite happening. ex: "Dude, so we kinda got in this little fight last night, and then I checked his MySpace today, and he took me out of his Top Eight. What? It's so fucking over."

The point? Well, that I swear to god, if I put this blog on my MySpace profile, I'd have twice as many readers. And I hate that. And I hate the idea that the fucking internet is supposed to be nearly a tool to tell you how many friends you have, and which four, or eight, or sixteen are most important to you.

But mostly, I hate the word MySpace. Specifically when it is used as a verb.
My Top Eight?

1. Chainsmoking and drinking Guinness and writing in the middle of the night.
2. Taking a nap under an open window.
3. Skinny dipping.
4. Getting off an airplane.
5. Wearing PJ's with my girlfriends.
6. Drinking a draft Oly sitting on my stool @ the Duck.
7. Walking through Chinatown in the very early morning.
8. Finishing an essay.

[p.s.--Omigod, MySpace me later so we can meet up, K? CAMS at Element tonight, everyone's fucking going. Oh, and just to be frank: A HO DID GET OUT OF ALI'S DAD'S CAR IN 10TH GRADE IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE 'CAINE. Seriously. We all saw it.]


I am so awesome.

I bought a new pair of Vans last week, and the box just so happened to still be lying on my living room floor. It says: "Vans, since 1966".

Wow. So I'm thinking, like...wow. That's forty years of high voltage tennis shoe making. And then I'm like: "Whoa. That means next year is 2007."
What does 2007 mean? It means ten years since high school. That makes me old. Oh well.

Now, if my high school career had been a little more...um, traditional, then that would mean that next year would be my ten year highschool reunion. Yeah, I don't get one of those--nor did I get prom, respect, or a senior year--but I was thinking about the top ten things I would like to say to people at my ten year high school reunion if I was going to go to one or have one.

So I bring you:

Top Ten Things I Would Like To Say To People At My Ten Year High School Reunion If I Was Going To Have One Of Those
By: Milkshake Moure

10. "Yeah, I don't really remember it that way. I'm pretty sure that I was and still am cooler than you."
9. "Thanks. Wanna try them on? Yeah, they're Bvlgari. Umm...that's pronounced like a U. How did you manage to graduate from college, again?"
8. "Whoa, I never thought you would get so fat. Hey, what's it like to be almost thirty?"
7. "Oh my god, you guys got married? I fuck rockstars, but that's cool, too."
6. "You live in Puyallup? Oh, Wow. Yeah, I live in the city that invented Levi's. That's so ironic because I litteraly own jeans at least twice as hot as your little trophy wife. Yeah, technically that's not irony, but good luck with Pasha or whatever."
5. "Hey, look how well my Vuitton wallet goes with my hot foreign lover. Did you hear that thing he does with his R's? He does that in my mouth."
4. "That's so funny! That reminds me of this one time I was in Berlin. Will you excuse me? It's just that I seem to have realized that I still don't like you."
3. "Yeah, I do look great, don't I? The constant partying, orgasming and extremely high intelligence seems to do that. Oh, and I drink a lot of water, too."
2. "Remember that time a ho got out of your Dad's car? Damn, your Dad totally fucked that ho."
1. "Wow, since high school? Well, I traveled all over the world, moved all over the country, painted murals, made t-shirts, performed poetry, followed bands, owned rare Volvos, met a bunch of famous rappers, built a family and wrote a novel. Oh, yeah, I also fucked your Dad. And your Wife. Sorry about that."