"You are home."

List, bitches.

1. Flew into SEA on the 22nd. After Mary picked me up, we got to Lauren's around nine.
2. Arrived at The Duck by 10:30.
3. Who stopped by? Gavin, Kyle, Jackson, Crystal, Lindsey, Ronnie, and god only remembers who else.
4. Somehow we decided to go to El Chupacabre for last call. Skinny Mike was there playing pool and Ben and Jeremiah Harrison were in rare form pounding pitchers of Oly.
5. Went to Beth's. Here's a pic of Mary there:

6. Wen't to the Harrison's. Then we drank a lot of beer.
7. This is where it gets foggy...
8. There was something about laying on the floor, me getting pushed into a bush, running out of ciggarettes, Jeremaiah throwing a tantrum, and me ending up in Ben Harrison's bed after ten straight hours of drinking, wrestling in the front yard, and general debauchery.
9. On a side note: Best. Pillowtalk. Ever. True story. Also, I have now had sex in every (three) bedroom in that house. What can I say, Seattle's a small place.
10. In the morning, I had to track down Mary and Crystal. Crystal was at her house with Mary's car...and Mary? I didn't hear from her for a while, but we found her later on at Shannon's.
11. Went to Julia's on Broadway w/ Kyle and Crystal. Had bloody mary's and crabcakes. Apparently my sister's best friend saw me standing on the corner, and called her later like: "is your sister in town?"
12. Back to The Duck. Gave Jeremiah a toothbrush. Long story.
13. Went to Peter Smith, Aaron, and Jess's house.
14. Met Woody at Lottie's for a few beers.
15. Went to...drumroll please...DICK'S ON BROADWAY. My order? Two cheesburgers and a small fry. Sweet.
16. Found out about "The Chopper" and proceeded to completely creep myself out.
17. In the morning, I had the #1 best girl breakfast of all time. Girls in tow? Alexis, Amanda Mae, Crystal, Mary and I. Sweet. My order? A bloody mary and some fries.
18. Off to Mama's and Rendezvous with Lauren and Skillet. Dope. Lauren's gonna come down and shave an M into the back of my head.
19. Drove to Portland.
20. Met Adam. Mary and I made him come over 'cause we were scared of The Chopper.
21. Dropped Mary off in Lake Oswego and did laundry. Took Marly for a walk.
22. Went to the Delta and some little bar by Mary's house, I sucked at pool.
23. Watched some awesome chick-flick-teen-movies.
24. Ate sushi.
25. Flew home.

That's right--HOME

I heart San Francisco.



Why so contemplative? Let's rethink.

I worked at the cafe today. It was very, very slow. I made three drinks. I poured two beers. Opened two more. Served four glasses of wine. I made fifteen dollars in three hours aside from my salary. Cake.

The point is that I had a lot of time to think.

As I told Nick last week, there are many boys. There are complicated boys. To this complicated boy rule, there are two exceptions, and one is out of town. The other? Well, it's time I talk about that one.

Last October, I found myself at my new place, vehemently optimistic, and very, very frightened of my good fortune. Yes, I know, there are better things to fear (like bees), but you'll have to bear with me and understand that I've already discussed that part of my life. That part that was October when everything was so new new new and for some reason so very fucking scary.

And so it was that my birthday came and it was, as they all seem to be, so very fucking crazy; and so it was that it was made crazier by the addition of my best friend, Samantha Oldfield.
Yes, she was in town. And yes, that is the last time I've seen her.

And now? Now we have new tattoos. New "best friends", whatever the fuck that means anymore.
What I mean is that Monday is Mary's birthday, and I will spend it in my and Sam's hometown, and Mary will sit in Sam's stool at The Duck and then I will introduce her to everyone as my best friend and as not to complicate things, I will leave out the part when Sam left me--dropped me and left Mary to pick up the pieces of all of our mutual trainwreck bullshit and all of our all over the country traipsing and everything we've left behind in Maui and Seattle and Miami and Portland and Los Angeles and everywhere we were seperately before we were "Mares and Mirans".

My niece, who's name is Alexis and who is amazing, had a best friend named Amanda Mae. One day, Amanda Mae slept with Lexi's ex-boyfriend, and they didn't speak for a very long time. Last week, I get a bulletin from Lexi proclaiming "Amanda Mae and I are tight again!!!!!!" and I fear mentioning to her: "Oh really? for how long?"

Yes, yes I know. I did this too. Amanda, Miranda, Mary, Samantha Carrie Erica Charlotte Crystal Meredith Jennifer Angelica Radost and we are all the same. Time for the story.

Last October, after Ian and Samantha fought so very fucking vehemently, there was, as there always is, the day after my birthday. And on this auspicious day, there was to be heard via my open window and the way sound is ambiently carried through my courtyard, the musical stylings of some horrible bassist playing Manson and Green Day breaching my windowsill. This is not an uncommon occurance, and since that day I have been known to scream "GET A METRONOME!" from my open window in a matter that makes it seem as if I myself can play the bass better than he. Here's how Sam and I sounded that morning.

"Dude, are you fucking kidding me? For the love of god, don't rush the intro to Longview. Get a fucking metronome for chrissakes."
"Yeah, dude. I mean, Miranda? Does that guy play all the time? 'Cause I mean, maybe you're apartment's not really worth it."
"Yeah. I'm considering that. Oh lord, now he's butchering Beautiful People. Oh god, no. No, no, no."
"Yeah, I liked the bad Green Day better. At least that reminded me of good music."
"Nicely put. One day--one day I'll find the courtyard bassist, and he will know a fury previously unseen in the Tendernob as I furiously point out that Plateau is not meant to be played on a bass."

The point of this story?

I have been, unbeknownst to me until last night, sleeping with the courtyard bassist. That's right, it's him. The young little thing from 402 who I've been naked with on a handfull of occasions out of convenience and my reluctance to leave my block as of late. Tall, lanky Drew who's bass is propped against his television in his mirror-image of mine apartment one floor down and one door over; Drew who like me, lacks the support of a traditional family and is so so fucking desperate to find some kind of link here in San Francisco. Some kind of support that wont fucking leave this time for some town up north, some outlying city, some boy, some other fucking girl.

Today, I was dying to tell Samantha this.

But then Mary called.

I told her instead. What was her reply?

"Damn, I had such a crush on that kid when I lived there. You're my fucking hero--I always wanted to hit that. Dude--he's that kid that you can hear playing bass in the courtyard?"


p.s.--Happy birthday, Moto.


Sent yesterday. Today, I am contemplative.

Have to make a trip up north this Sunday.

You know, for some reason I thought that it would be different, that I would have some news about what I could inspire in people blah, blah, blah...

You have a twin in Seattle, his name is Kyle Eberle, and he's one of my best friends. He's also an anathema in my circle of friends and family for a series of dissapearing acts and sums of money owed from over the years.

He's doing really well now--manages a restaraunt in the Market, is engaged to his longtime girlfriend, and I have reservations at his restaraunt for Mary's birthday.

What I'm going to say to my little brother upon my arrival? I have no idea.
And that's without mentioning seeing Kyle.


Your Evil Influence

You are a bad, bad influence! Even just reading your blog emits lascivious energy. I actually went home with a guy from a bar that I spoke to all of 10 minutes, he walked me home, I said he could stay, but no sex and then BAM! Sex! I have never, ever gone home with a stranger and I have never slept with someone I met in a bar. Must.Stop.Drinking.
You know I don't really blame you but I knew you would get a kick out of it. Actually, the entire evening was bizarre and utterly random all the way down to a cab ride. Funny thing is I was going to ask you if you wanted to go out last night. You, Slutty-Slutty Bang Bang, would have SAVED me from sluttiness. I have no idea if that is ironic or not. I'll let you be the judge.

That. Is. Fantastic.
You are so right, I do get a kick out of that. Now guess what I did? Two nights ago at about midnight, I'm about to got to bed, and my phone rings. No, it's not Nicholas Mathisen, but rather Nicholas D*****s--another "Nick the Writer" that I had a brief fling with some months ago, ending with me stating, very clearly I thought, that: "We cannot have sex anymore." Period. Anyway, so he said he was in the nieghborhood, and comes over bearing a six pack. About an hour into it, and totally fucking randomly I might add, he leans in to kiss me. True story.
So I'm like, "Nick, listen. Umm...I have alot of boys on my plate right now. Complicated boys. And I don't really feel like complicating things more right now."
His reply?
"Miranda. Please. Just complicate it."
Now this hearkens back to the original reason I had to stop sleeping with him--Boys like him, as a rule, CANNOT FUCKING TALK TO ME LIKE THAT. I get to tell them what to do. Period.
Boys like what you ask? Boys that are a few years my junior, and an inch shorter than me. And have red hair. And pretty much anyone except Mathisen who's somehow aloud to say things like: "a Milkshake sounds good right now." Save select instances, it just cannot happen. Not if I'm sleeping with you.
Anyway, so a boy in my bed I did have that night--as Nick stayed over--but "Bam! Sex!"?
Ironic? Yes, I'm pretty sure; at least the combination of those two stories seems to be.
Funny? Yeah that too. Ironically.

The actual entire night is somewhat more funny as I went to Amber to meet a guy I actually like and we have been meaning to hook up but schedules kept getting in the way. You met him at Amber, good-looking black guy. Well, he emails me and says "Amber tonight?"
Since for once I am not wearing overalls (I rarely if ever wear them but the 2 times I have seen him, fucking ugly overalls), I say "Sure! What time?"
"Oh, that's too late. I need to be home by 10:30 tops. But I may stop in for a quickie." "Oh, well. I am not into quickies. ; )" His smiley face, not mine. But he says he will be there anyway.
Well, I decide "what the fuck" and hang out at work until late and take a long cab ride to Amber. Cab ride might have been the best part of the whole evening. Driver was Palestinian and we had a GREAT conversation regarding Mid East politics and the finer points of Judaism and Islam. I really didn't want the ride to send.
Swing into Amber at 10:00, no Boy. So I take a seat on the same couch where we sat and in truly nerdy fashion, in a completely packed bar teaming with humanity, I READ THE NEWSPAPER! Talk about looking like a loser. But at least I am NOT wearing overalls. Two guys sit down, one next to me on the little sofa, the other across, and they begin talking about the new Harry Potter movie. I ask how it was. He says "Great! Best one so far."
Now I am a little surprised as the critics haven't thought to much of it and it was the least interesting of the books to me. So we launch into this HUGE conversation about the series. Talk about truly nerdy, just paint an "L" on my forehead. That's when I spot that evil guy I pointed out to you before. Thank God, I was deep in conversation and there were too many people standing in front of me to be seen. One thing leads to another and they're all "Let's go to Amnesia!" By now it is 11:30 and still no BOY. What the fuck? I beg off, it's a school night (that came back to bite me because for the rest of the night they kept thinking I was a teacher), etc., etc.
"Aw, c'mon! It's on your way home anyway." Hmm, he has a point. We all pile into a cab with a 4th in tow and what do you know? Same cab driver! Only now I have 3 drunk boys w/ me so no philosophical conversation. Not that the drunk Irish guy didn't try.
Anyhoo, much more happens (running out of steam writing), and bounce on to Dalva and Delirium. Now I am fairly drunk and I am standing watching the dancers and a cute boy walks over and asks why I am smiling and I make some stupid comment like these kids have no idea how to dance to this music (old school). So he asks me to dance and proceed to make a COMPLETE ass out of my self because I am too drunk to dance well. That's when I decide "That's it! Time to go home!" He offers to walk me since it's late (2:00 fucking o'clock! I said I had to be home 10:30 tops!) and I say OK but you're not staying. And well, you know the rest.
Oh! And what time did the Boy arrive at Amber? 10 minutes after I left.

Now isn't that ironic. Ten minutes after she left? Nuts.
On a side note, I LOVE Harry Potter--books, movies, the whole gamut.
I'm having the "L" tattooed on my forehead later on today.

Mary's Birthday: The Countdown Begins

Confirmation Number

Confirmation Date: 07/13/07
Received: MIRANDA

Passenger Name Ticket# Account Number
MYRICKS/MIRANDA 526-2322714772-4 00000294978073

Date Flight Routing Details
Sun Jul 22 234 Depart OAKLAND CA (OAK) at 7:10 PM
Arrive in SEATTLE TACOMA WA (SEA) at 9:00 PM

Confirmation Number

Confirmation Date: 07/13/07
Received: MIRANDA

Passenger Name Ticket# Account Number
MYRICKS/MIRANDA 526-2322715639-3 00000294978073

Date Flight Routing Details
Fri Jul 27 714 Depart PORTLAND OR (PDX) at 8:20 AM
Arrive in OAKLAND CA (OAK) at 10:05 AM

And from M. William Huntsman and myself:

On 7/11/07, Moxie wrote:
Moxie has left a new comment on your post " damnit, marion! stop peeking.":

Just dropping a line to ask if you were down to cruise down R Kelly Blvd. sometime between the 22nd and the 224th for some Catfish? Coffee or beers would also suffice, I 'spose.
Granted, this is only a ploy so I can hopefully hang out with Etlinger again.

oh shit! i left my phone on bainbridge on the 4th and still haven't checked all the messages from the days it was missing. but we were supposed to talk, damn. hi: you're here 22nd - 24th of this month; okay, yes, that's actually one of v. few weekends that i'm neither booked solid nor gone. we must go to ezelle's and get us some chicken, then park our shit on r.kelly blvd. and let the magic come to us. receptive, so. are you working today? i want to call you from my desk and have you pretend to be a client, even though i'm the writer and clients never call me. m.

I work today, till 5--call me there. It'll be great. When they ask who's calling for me, say "M. William Huntsman".



Okay, that's it.


I'll admit, I have no idea who you are. I don't even know where Mt. Laurel NJ is, lt alone who might live there or is using an off-site server to link here from my profile several times a day.

Please, for the love of god, this is driving me nuts.

Who are you? I'd like to know. No judgment, just pizza.


Irony, thy name is Moto.

I love, and I think Allanis Morrisette would agree, scenarios which people deem ironic that are not technically ironic.

Why? I don't really know--it just cracks me up. In the long long ago, back when the fourth best TV show ever was on the air, News Radio, there was an episode that illustrated this.
Much like many pop-culture heads understand Pam from The Office to be now, there was once a hot receptionist who graced the tube named Beth. In one episode Beth made the remark:

"This one time, I called in sick and went shopping in the rain...but then I actually got sick! Isn't that ironic?"
No. Technically, it's not, which was immediately pointed out by a co-worker. Her retort?
"Oh. So irony is like...when it rains on your wedding day."

Hilarious yes, but no. No, no, no.

I had a brief chat with Moto after work today, who recently crashed his motorcycle. As it was, he crashed it avoiding a cabbie who was but a few feet from hitting him.

"The irony is," he's explaining to me, "that now that I crashed my motorcycle and banged up my knee, I have to actually take cabs everywhere. Fucking cabbies."

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but this seems to fall more into the hilarious category rather than the technically ironic. I mean, irony is like...okay. Say you're taking a history class, and you completely bomb the final exam which should consist of 75% of your mark. Then say you were late for your last day of class and hopped in a cab rather than risking the bus, and on the way your cabbie hits your history teacher on his motorcycle who's carrying all of your finals in his briefcase. Then say your teacher falls into a coma resulting in the entire class' tests never being averaged into your final grades, thus leaving you with an A in the class.

That is ironic.


Because people are not rewarded for not studying or being late; infact, the combination of the two creating a fortunate scenario is the exact opposite of what you would think would happen.
It is, however, not at all funny.
Moto being completely screwed by a cabbie then having to take cabs everywhere?
But not ironic.

See the distinction?

Also what I would consider within the technical definitions of irony is that I wrote this a year ago now, and have still not come to grips with what is static, tactile, distanced, loved, lost, missed, sought, dialed, ridden and written.
Please note that I had hoped to by writing it.


MIA-SFO e-mail and late night PDX-SFO text messaging.

What's up Coco puff?

I miss you, when can I come to SF and visit you? It's most definetly time for me to finally come and see you. I am thinking some time during the last two weeks of August. What are your plans like then?


You and anyone you know are most welcome any fucking time. August sounds awesome. Make sure at least Radost is in tow.
Love you miss you.
p.s.--I'm drunk

Mary Star: I love you

Moxie Moure: Luv you

MS: Wasted and thinking of you

MM: Suck my dick

MS: I wish

MM: Just let cocksie do it

MS: Love you

MM: Luv u

MS: No you more

MM: No u

MS: No you

MM: Just fly here real quick

MS: Just come here

MM: Kay

p.s.--Just a quick question: when you sleep with your neighbor, are you supposed to be concerned about running into him in the hallway?


Yes, it is.

It's Tuesday, so I should be posting a letter today.

I don't want to.

Here's some far more important stuff I've been thinking about.

Nicholas Mathisen was over the other night. Wait, first off, I've noticed some returning newbies on my site tracker so I'll give you some background.

Nicholas Mathisen, like me, is a transplant Seattleite who, for the time being, finds himself in San Francisco working for the man and garnering stories from this that tend to crack me up.
Anyway, in my inaugural days in SF, I was given his phone number from a mutual Seattleite friend, and now we've known each other for a couple of years.
The revelation? That in two years, I never realized this:

I replaced Mark with him.

No really, I mean think about it.

I replace one "naked genius wordsmith" for another, and both of them I use to either save me from or rationalize all of this semi-bullshit-single-to-a-fault-slutting-it-up-all-over-town stuff that I do.

So which is it?

Don't know.

But I asked Mathisen the other night. His response?

"I'd rather be your savior from it."

"Sure. Why?"

"Because it doesn't sound bad."

Okay. Let's go with that.