Laundry Day


Noon On Tuesday

A remnant from WWII, a warning against tsunamis, San Francisco's weekly emergency test serves as a kind of marker, as in: what was I doing last Tuesday at noon?


Here's the thing--
It has come to my attention that this window thing has nothing to do with actual speed. I mean, how much fucking faster am I supposed to be?

Really, let's think about this.

Almost a year ago, I had some really great sex. I mean really. But what did I do? I choked. I cried. I did all manner of things up to and including waking up in my ex's bed in Hayes Valley. Fuck. Anyway, cut to last umm...let's say September. A casual hi. The let down of knowing I had waited to long---but then?

Switchboards click and MySpace messages are sent and girls are trading "Oh my god"s from LoHo to The Loin. And? And I did what I always do Pinky--the thought of surrendering to an actual umm...you know (relationprison) rendered me fucking catatonic. Completely unable to dial numbers on a cellular phone. And? Oh right, I've already told this part.

Remember when I was dating that loser and I paid one of my ex's (not the aforementioned Hayes Valley variety one) new girlfriend to grind all over him? Yeah. That one. Not the loser, the girl. And who gained the spoils of my procrastination? That fucking girl. The worst part is, I really like her. Fuck.

Here's the thing--Really, the point is coming up any minute.
I thought that maybe it was just my own stupid bullshit and my own head-case hang-ups that left me all like "Omigod, I don't know what to do, I'm freakin' messed up, blah blah" etc. and so forth. But is it?

Five Days.

Am I really supposed to be faster than five days?

And so, again, in thier dissolution, Miranda tried her best. She was quick and valiant, and would not settle for that fucking window closing before she had said her two cents, put in her time, fought her fight.
Who the fuck gets a new girlfriend in FIVE DAYS?

The problem, my friends, is not me--it is not that I'm messed up, or I can't handle whatever--it's all of these well hung pretty serial monogomous boys that don't actually know what's good for them.
Am I saying I'm good for them? Hell no.

But I can gay-ran-fucking-tee you I am better than her in bed.

So earlier today at noon when sirens blared city wide and slight San Franciscan gazes turn to the sky and check thier watches--I looked out the window from my seat on my couch in my beautiful Tendernob abode and I thought about what I had done this week.

I tried.

And furthermore, I am so fucking awesome.
[p.s. to Angelica: Ask Mindy to forward you the bulletin that opened this particular window right before it slammed shut five days later. I've heard it's awesome and brutal. I've had enough of this particular back story/circle, but somebody should get a chuckle out of it, no?]

[p.p.s. to all SF'ers: Why hasn't anyone made a booty chart? I mean--Led Zeppelin On a Stick, you guys. We seriously need a booty chart.]


I'm so frikken' bored!

Seriously, I'm bored.

Why? I have no idea.

I just bored. Everything is boring. I do the same thing every day--

Get up, drink coffee. Get ready. Go to work, go on break, get off (my shift, haha). Go home. Clean my house. I may or may not drink beer with my friends. Groom myself. Do laundry. Go to sleep.

Or some other order of that. Whatever. It doesn't really matter.

Some recent highlights of my days--

1. Buying an electric toothbrush.
2. Getting a new Netflix.
3. Seeing Mindy and going to the same bar we always go to.
4. Getting an e-mail from my sister.
5. Realizing I don't work today.

Wow. Now that's excitement.

Didn't we used to be different? Where did it go--all of our ridiculousness and spontenaity, our unorthodoxically fierce partying, our fucking youth. Goddamn it. I mean, it's my fucking day off--I should be sitting outside some uber-glamorous coffee shop with miss-matched couches and vegan muffins with one of my beautiful fellow ex-goth girlfriends talking about sex, chain smoking, and trying to figure out where and with whom we will drink tonight. What have I done so far today? Called my bank. Pulled a credit report. Paid my electric bill. Did my dishes.
I still have to go to the grocery store and--surprise, surprise--do my fucking laundry.

Fuck all of this shit--I need something to jar me out of all of this. Mindy's idea?

"Let's go to New York for New Years. Pablo will be there."

She has a point.


Window Man Rears His Ugly Head

Ahh, Window Man.

Have you guys heard this story? Oh...get comfortable, this is a good one.

So many Halloween ago (two), I was at a pretty sweet mid-week North Seattle costume party with Peter Smith, Kylie Minogue, Gavin and Mike Duggan. And then, a casual friend of mine who showed up, the anti-hygenic Seth, and introduced me to his friend Audio, a.k.a. The Illustrious Window Man.
Of course, he didn't yet have this name, but here's how he got it.
Audio had recently broke up with his girlfriend, and the night ended with Kyle, Gav, him and I on my deck, me having donned Sam's huge red sweater, and Audio's hand down my pants. His ex-girlfriend, however, prevented me from sealing the deal, as he was dead set on getting back together with her.
Within a few days, they were done for good, and I got word via cell phone to get to The Duck immediately should I still have any interest in nailing a 6'4'' cyclist. Unfortunately, I was at a dive bar across town with a 6'9" writer, and had to take a raincheck. The next time I saw Audio, he informed me that I had "missed my window"--he and the ex had gotten back together.

Now, I did nail Window Man a couple of days after Thanksgiving that year the night of my boyfriend's show at the Rendezvous, and continued sleeping with him until he moved home to San Francisco. Then I picked up where I left off when I got here. Then he choked me and I stopped returning his calls.

Point being, This is not just one window, this is a proverbial window that I keep missing because I'm fucking the wrong person (no offense, Mark). And it happens over and over and over, and I never see it a fit time to stop. Just stop. Here's another story.

I was once in Venice at an American Jazz bar and was introduced to a Belgian beer called Hoegaarden. I sought it out back in the states, and only found it at one crappy bar next to my favorite diner, that I had heard showed South Park on Wednesday night. I picked it a prime spot to start my 21-run and ever since has it been my favorite bar, The Duck. It was there when W.M. told me he was moving to San Francisco. It was there I had my going away party when I moved here myself. When I got here and got a job, my cafe served Hoegaarden, and my most loyal customer Charlie drank several pints a day. His son Steve told me his friends were having a party the following weekend, and when this info was confirmed by Krissy, I decided to go. It was at Quinn's house, and here's where all of those windows start to open and shut and swing out and back, and I kept missing all of them. The first time he made me mad, I fucked Cliff. Then dated Cliff. Then broke up with Cliff and fucked Quinn again for a while, and in the midst of this, Sean showed up for a while to tell me he couldn't live without me. Then there was Caras, who never got a call from me for the sole reason that I was messed up in the head from a winter full of boys that were wrong for me, dammit, dammit. Then Sean got paint on me at a party in the Mission and Nicholas was there to pick up the pieces. And then?
Then suddenly in the span of a week, I hear of three people I had huge crushes on that had finally confessed to liking me back; but as they continued to point out, "that was like a year ago." So what did I do? Fucked a Catholic kid, a virgin, and a handful of Clift kids--and all of these windows kept closing.
Sean stopped returning my calls, Caras started dating some cute punk rock girl, Mindy dated Pete Doolittle, and I? I fucked way to many of my friends on two trips to Seattle, picked up some idiot with the same birthday as me, dated a loser with tourettes, and kept waking up to the same-old, same-old lonely boys in my bed. No offense, Nicholas.

Okay, seriously...the point?

The point is that it is winter, and I hate it, and Mary is moving to Portland, Mindy is in the O.C., and Samantha left and still hasn't said a word. And then there is the insult to this injury--

Pablo moved to New York.

I missed my window.


When I die.

Today, I took out a very sizeable life insurance policy on myself, the beneficiary being Peter Counts.

But really--what is he really gonna do with $250,000 if I should, Zeppelin forbid, actually die?

Well, here is my official 'just in case'. People who know me know that in the event of my untimely death, this is to be followed to the letter. First...

My Stuff.
I own very few things that really need dividing up, but here goes.
Peter Counts: Please take care of all my furniture, notebooks, archives, paintings, photos and posters. This includes anything else that could be construed to fit in this category.
Peter Smith: Please take my yearbooks and my camera.
Ed Wilhelme: Take my M collection, and name one of your children with a name starting with the letter M. That kid thing is optional by the way. Kind of. Also, please enjoy my key to the city.
Mindy Buhl: Take all of my clothing and outerwear. Please distribute my panties to boys I have slept with and keep my list forever and ever. Give the pink ones to Nicholas.
Nicholas Mathisen: Take my laptop. Also, call Mindy and get my panties.
Samantha Oldfield: Please take every original copy of NYCD.
Jennifer Gerking: Please enjoy all of my shoes. You're the only one I know who can even kind of fit into them.
Lauren Morlock: You have a very special job. You are in charge of...

My Funeral
I want no part of a traditional funeral. When I die, please follow these steps. If you get confused on your part, call Lauren for further instructions. Don't worry, if this sounds expensive, don't worry. Peter Counts will totally pay for this---he just got $250,000.

1. First, cremate me. Actually Lauren, you don't have to take care of this part at all. Peter Counts wil do that part.

2. Divide my remains into 10 stainless steel jars, each emblazened with the letter M in black. A capital M.

3. Each jar, in the hands of ten different people, will be taken to my favorite places in the world where they will hold them in thier palms, snap a photo in front of some landmark, and then leave it there. No scattering, please. It's messy and toxic. Just leave it there, and walk away. Or in the event of some kind of "Homeland Security Bomb Scare" concerning just leaving it there, just throw it in a garbage can or something. Who cares.

3a. Oh, yeah. Please take them to these places:

I. Alexanderplatz, Berlin, Germany.
II. Espanola Way, Miami Beach, Florida.
III. Sears Tower, Chicago, Illinois.
IV. The Pantheon, Rome, Italy.
V. Crater Lake, Gifford-Pinchot National Forest, Washington.
VI. Leicester Square, London, England [please let Lauren do this personally].
VII. The Morrison Bridge, Portland, Oregon.
VIII. Grace Cathedral, San Francisco, California.
IX. Robson Street, Vancouver B.C., Canada.
X. Carrie Park, Seattle, Washington.

3b. Seriously, If I'm dead then Pete will have a lot of money. You can totally do this.

4. Give all these photos to Lauren, who will carefully frame them.

5. Display these photos at an opening coinciding with the release party for all of my collected and previously unpublished work, and get some awesome young writers to come and perform. Please don't put in the crappy stuff though, save it for later for when people are desperate and will read anything. Like TuPac. Oh, and have Mark Hunstman edit it and fix all my grammer and bad spelling. Don't let him take out all of the run on sentaces and some of the ill-fitting puctuation, though.

5b. Seriously, this should be a big fucking party. Get every number out of my phone and everyone you can possibly think of that I've known and fly them all somewhere fun for this bitch. Please. Party--I mean a real REAL party.

5c. Get a cool band to play too, and please god don't charge anyone. Oh, and don't serve crappy beer. Get kegs of Oktoberfest or some awesome summer brew and have waiters passing out cans of Black Label and packs of Camel Lights.

5d. If I die of lung cancer, don't give out Camel Lights. Even I think that's probably in bad taste.

6. Give all the proceeds of my book to somewhere cool--like Pratt Fine Arts Center in Seattle or Arts Center Miami. Whatever, just let Lauren chose. Or just keep it. I really don't give a shit.

7. At this party, please play these five songs:

5. White Lexus, Mike Doughty.
4. Goin Up the Country, Canned Heat.
3. Into the Open, Velvet Teen
2. Held Down, De La Soul.
1. For What It's Worth, Buffalo Springfield.

That is all.

Thanks, guys.