What's in a name?

You will need some background for this one.

1. The two very most prettiest boys I have ever seen in real life were both named James.

2. A fellow blogger, someone I do not know but have read for some time (that sounds familiar...) is also named James.

3. Do read the Neighbor posts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 if you have not already.

4. So the past few days, I've been on what Erica and I deemed "SF Vaca 2007", in which we take the weekend off, and do lots of fun stuff. Fun stuff has included Fabric shopping in the mission, wine, barbeque, stuffed mushrooms @ 834, manis, pedis, and massages. Also, we met our new BFF Dawn, who I'm sure you will hear more about soon.

5. The night we met Dawn, we ended up at Thieves for last call--and who was there to buy us a round? Oh, yeah. The Neighbor. That turns into me being wasted, and showing up at his house at three in the morning declaring myself the Black Katie Holmes and calling my cat Suri.

And then? Then I did what independefemmes worldwide hate doing--I asked him to stay over because I didn't want to be alone. Hear me out--I was wasted--and I miss Shaun to the point where it hurts to much to bear most of the time. He of course agreed, and then, he kissed me, and then I lost control, and then I did something that would make Mark William Huntsman so fucking proud.

"Hey Drew, can I ask you a question?" This question was of course posed mid-naked-sexiness.

"Yeah, what?"

"What's your middle name?"


"What do you mean guess?"

"I mean guess."


"Why Jonothan?"

"I don't know...Andrew Jonothan...it seems to make sense."

"But I'm not an Andrew. I'm just a Drew."

"Oh. Okay, just Drew. Then it's James."



"Miranda...how did you know that?"


p.s--I got stood up tonight for the first time ever. Let's agin tell ths story in the great tradition of Jeremaiah Harrison, much like I explained it to Pant and Kristen after hearing back from them from the APB-I just got stood up-Team Tenderloin-Who's going out tonight?-sent to 15 people text message.

"So there I was, fresh from a massage and a mani-pedi, in my PJ's at a gay bar on Polk drinking a Bloody Mary. We start talking to this guy Zane, and next thing you know, it turns out he's straight and is asking for my phone number(s) and inquiring as to whether or not he can take me to dinner tonight. I agree to the date, yes, but not dinner. Drinks only, and in a couple hours so I have time to make costume decisions and clean my apartment a bit. So we're texting, and were about to meet at Thieves within the hour, and next thing you know, BAM! Apparently, there was 'an emergency' and he would not be joining me this evening. That is why, my friends, I do not date."


On Willpower and My Inability To Have It.

It's not that I don't know what's good for me, it's that...

Damnit, I really try not to use elipses. Ever since meeting a fellow blogger who abused them profusely, I have a rather strong distaste for them. I mean, who uses a nine period elipse?

Anyway, I've decided that any willpower I might have has been time after time thwarted by...

Drew's Lips
by: Moxie Moure

The Top One
The top one is handsome and sculpted in this way that is feminine enough to remind one of the top lip of an Olsen twin, but masculine enough to be assertive when he is speaking of his overly-assenine restaraunt captain or when reminiscing about an ex-girlfriend. It stretches perfectly across his even teeth when he smiles and has the tendancy to rest perfectly on...

The Bottom One
The bottom one is thick and full and pouty and pink and is most perfectly enjoyed by my teeth bearing gently on either side.

Whatever. Another day, another relapse.

Much like The Other Nick The Writer once did, the thought of The Neighbor still in my bed was the one thing getting me through my early morning Saturday meeting. Of course, once 9:30 rolled around, the store was opening and I wouldn't have to return until four, I was absolutely ready to get back home and climb in bed with this strikingly pretty and tall and baby-faced boy. A boy that I might add, I had done virtually nothing with the night before save a goodnight kiss and some spooning in the great tradition of Moto and I.

I took off my jacket, climbed back into bed, and immediately his arm was around me. We slept like this until noon or so, when he squeezed me and I felt those perfect, perfect lips on the nape of my neck.

And then I did what seemed most appropriate at the time.




You know this movie, I know this movie, Everybody know's this movie.

I was thinking about it today.

I was thinking about the idea that all of many of our lives, we have been looking for our gods in the heavens and on mountaintops and all of these places way-up-high that we can't reach--when in actuality, they are grounded right here on this earth, deeper than one has yet sought.

My point?

My point is that I am forgetting what I oft try to remind myself when I leave San Francisco--that I am missing things that are right fucking here.

Wednesday I was supposed to hang out with Sarah, but instead I holed myself up in my apartment eating pizza and crying over some boy who would indeed contact me if he saw so fit. Do I want to refer to Shaun this way? Not particularly, but fuck. Poor Sarah. Poor Mindy and Erica and even the fucking downstairs neighbor who all can't quite figure out why I don't leave my house a lot lately. Mostly, it stems down to poor fucking pitiful stupid and hanging-on-to-the-last-threads-of-memory me that is the one bearing all the grunt of this. Me who can't go through an entire Monday withought crying over movie night and still can't bear to go back to our favorite Sushi place, Ryoko's.

If he wanted to see me, he'd find a way to call me. He'd find me. He'd stop by Mary's or my work, wherever he is. Call me callous when I say this but I have to believe this now; I'm sick of crying.

If he wanted to, he'd do everything we have been doing.

And so the tally reaches four--four best friends gone in less than a year.

Damn, that might be a new record for me.

November fourth isn't that far away. Anyone else want to leave? Try me, just fucking try me--because the one thing I can guarantee you is that I wont fight for you like I did for Shaun. Don't believe me?

Ask the other three.


"I'm in bed, I can't sleep; wish you were here."

When I got home tonight, I had a message from Mary expressing this sentiment. In my time I have said this exact thing to so many people that were at the time so far away. I wish I was there often.

Yesterday I got off work, came home and did a little photoshopping, and then went and got a tattoo.

The tattoo parlor in SF is but three doors down from my other job, so afterwards I stopped in to chat with my other boss and have a couple beers.

"A calculator?"
"Yeah," I said, "it's the result of a staff contest. I told my staff that if we made bonus, I'd let them all pick a design, and I'd pick one out of a hat. We made bonus, and I picked a calculator."
"And the numbers on the screen?" My arm is covered in words and numbers.
"415--the area code here. 834--my building number. It's important. I've never lived by myself before, save a week at a time or so."
"But a calculator. I mean, are you really happy with it?"




Because I like the idea that things are quantifiable, and because I'm beginning to understand that things in real life most often only are in hindsight. Maybe because I still adore starting sentances with prepositions even though Mrs. Tisdale, my first grade teacher, warned me against this.

What I mean is that numbers always do the same thing, and I like this. I like the entire idea of this. I like knowing that the same motivations in math will always garner the same outcome granted you approach it correctly.


Before I lived here, I left The Circus in Seattle and came for a weeklong visit; that is when I met Shaun.
And we drank scotch and wine, and he took me to his spacious studio in The Tenderloin, and I was briefly entranced.
It felt kind of like me, my apartments, a life I might have--wanted to have. I saw myself with my own green walls with my own place in The Loin that could be like so many of the city dwelling beautiful shitholes in which I had lived before, but this time, should I acquire it, it would be just mine.

Now I have it, and now he is gone, and I'm beginning to think I might never see him ever again. Why? Maybe because I'm a Pessimist. Or a Nihilist. Or a Masochist. But maybe I'm right--there's that preposition thing again.

The point is that I'm desperate to have him again even in the brevity of his absence, and I'm acting out in ways I just can't quite quantify. Fuck.

Since the fire, the young man in 402 and I have been going about our between-floor-traipsing quite swimmingly. There are nightly nightcaps, and there is venting about work, and there are always a few stories of our oddly similar histories.
Last night there was all of this happening while lounging in his bed downstairs, and then when I did what I have been doing as of late--that being retire to my own apartment alone--and then there is the every nightly and much expected "Goodnight" text. Then there is my similar text back. Then some time later, there is my cellphone again beeping and glowing, and there he is telling me that I can crash downstairs if I should so wish. And then, there is my heady and positively pregnant reply.


What I fail to say is that I myself am lonely, and that he is beautiful and baby faced much like my dear friend Shaun, and that all of our late nights sans-sex and heavy with beers and movies and lots and lots of laughing might just be my way of replacing something I never quite knew that I would miss so much that it physically hurt. I failed to ever mention that I am now pretty sure that in my drunken post-fire state, I suggested we not be intimate purely out of my own fear that Shaun just might be gone for good, and that though I say I fear virtually nothing, I fear this. I fear him gone, and I fear Drew gone if he is gone, and I fear having no one to watch stupid television with on nights when I can't bear being in public and am dying for a platonic companion.

"Yeah." He said. That's it. Just yeah.

My reply?

"K. I'll be down in five."

And then I let him fuck me in a manner that I've felt before--there is a way that boys touch you when they are grasping at straws and they are only finding you.

My only hope is that I can approach this correctly, that I can find him again.

Both of them.

I called Mary in the morning to tell her the whole thing.
Damn, I wish she was here.


Top Five. Remember? From the last post?

1. So my building caught on fire two days ago. When the alarms started going off, I was like "Oh, whatever. Let me change my pants and grab a sweatshirt." By the time I opened my front door, there was a fucking WALL OF SMOKE. I mean, I couldn't go down my hallway. Anyway, so there I am in my Van's and Team Tenderloin hoodie stuck on my fire escape, on the phone with Erica talking about how the ladder wont release. So I go up one floor, trying to get through someone elses apartment, and next thing you know, the window next to me opens. "Hi, my name is Mike, and I'm here to save you." He and his friends work for me now.

2. So Drew came over at like 2, and I was like: "Oh my god!! The fire!!" And we traded stories for the better part of an hour and a half or so. Then he left. Then I went downstairs and knocked on his door, which opened shortly, and some bullshit started spilling out of my mouth about priorities, and friendship and loyalty and does this all make sense? Then he kissed me, and I pushed him away, turned and ran.

My apartment building caught on fire today.
I went out my front door and the whole hallway was filled with smoke so I slammed my door, opened my window, and ran down the fire escape with my laptop.
I forgot my cat.
I'm the worst mother.
But when I get to the bottom, I can't release the ladder, and then next thing you know, Erica is calling me again.
"I found one of your neighbors outside, and he's coming to get you!!!"
So then there is a window opening, and I'm climbing through it, and then there is a staircase and there is fresh air and there is safety.

And there, in my arms still, is my laptop.

4. I finished this essay a while ago about bassists, airplanes, Alex, and how much I love my apartment. Unfortunately, The intro is the best part. But here it is.
I am bent over awkwardly, hunched, my denim skirt short enough that my knees are left bare and exposed on the linoleum. I’m elbow deep in it, my nostrils flared wide to accept this thick clinical smell, every muscle in my back alternating between tense and slack with my efforts. I love this shit, love how I am left for some time static and entranced via this act, how exertion and routine combine into this autonomic mind-numbing action and fuck, fuck, fuck; now my fucking phone is ringing.
I reach for a nearby towel and swab my arms from bicep to fingertip to answer, briefly noticing my pruned and wrinkly hands before accepting the call.
“Hello?” I sound snappy.
“Hey. It’s me.” It is Johnny, and he sounds stoned. “What’ca doin’?”
I am examining the large red ovals left on my knee caps from kneeling on a hard floor from my perch on the sofa.. I am trying to decide how to answer.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re cleaning,” he says, “you’re always cleaning.”
“I love my apartment, and I like my shit clean.”
“So what?” Sometimes I wonder if the sex is worth his constant judgement.
“So what are you doing?”
He’s always getting on my case about this. I answer semi-tentatively.
“Cleaning my bathtub.”

5. SHAUN IS FUCKING MISSING. I have no other way to describe the phenomena of his lack of phone calls despite the many I have made, the deleting of his myspace page, and that I can't find him at his Mom's huse in Portland or his apartment here in SF. Maybe he just hates me.

Shaun, if you are reading this just call this number: 415.370.0825. Then just say one word if you're okay:



Roxie & Moxie

Got this bulletin from my sister Roxie today.

Receive a Free “Safer Sex” Kit by replying to my Survey!

As the founder of AFEIA, I am conducting a survey aimed at African American Women from the ages of 18 to 35.

TELL ME YOUR STORY!!!! I am particularly interested in the concepts of sex, and sexuality. Please answer the following questions:

1. I want to know about your earliest concepts of sex and sexuality.
2. Where did they come from (immediate and extended family, peers, partners, and media), explain.
3. Based on how your discovered sex and sexuality as a youth, how relevant is it to you today.

Please also attach your first name, or a fiction name, your age, sexual orientation and race.

Thank you for your time. Understanding the roles these sources play in the sexuality education of Black young women will help me implement programs that are helpful for young adults contending with multiple views of sex and sexuality.

Please know that all information obtained may be used in research and stories may be used in educational pieces. NO self identifying info will ever be used by AFEIA.

To receive your free "Safer Sex" Kit. Contact me at afeia_health@hotmail.com.

(c) 2007 AFEIA All Rights Reserved.

If you're female, black, and between the ages of 18 and 35, do Rox a soild and shoot her a line.

Oh, and my building caught on fire yesterday.
Tommorow? Expect stories. These ones to be exact:
1. The kid from Michigan who saved my life who lives in 302.
2. Drew's late night visit from 402.
3. The Tuesday letter I sent this week which has been read.
4. Why 503 is the best unit in the building (and also happens t be mine).
5. Shaun, and exploring the fact that if he is okay, I'm going to beat him within an inch of his life for making me worry fucking sick about his pretty little ass.