This post is for Renee [but you guys can read it, too].

Oh, fuck. Okay, so I've had an eventful few days. Don't believe me? Here's pic containing some of the evidence of this.

Yes, there have been beers, and there has been stuff, and the last five points I um...pointed out (no, I don't need a lecture, chatches) need to be more fully explained. List, bitches. The long version.

1. Fuck, man. The whole "Open Letter" thing has been decidedly crazy. On a side note, I'd like to thank all my new readers for visiting and linking and commenting and the like.
One new reader specifically begs to be highlighted. I'd like to officially introduce The Psychiatrist, a fellow blogger whom I hope you will hear more about. Damn, I love other bloggers. It makes me feel a bit less insane to know other people have a simlilar obsession with something so intrinsically dorky. From some e-mails traded between us as of late:

Thanks for your comments, and yeah, the girl might just be a bit loca, but she's oh-so-cute and nice it fucking kills me. She's got to get her shit together though. Maybe it's lay low and see what she thinks rather than turn up the heat on her. Anyway, I'm, uh, sure you're not crazy at all. You just happen to like The Dark Crystal; my uncle did the sound for that movie back in the day. But I digress.
Other things - white boys like me can have nice asses and good jeans, I do. But for that matter, I'm only half, so wadda do.
Otherwise, neighborwise, I think there's a bit too much fucking going on for it not to crash and burn. Or perhaps that's over with? Eh?
Query: After a break up, how long does it usually take a girl who's been f'd over by a jerky boyfriend of 3.5 years to finally get her act together and open up again, but this time, to a regular nice dude and not some jerk?
What sort of jelly filling flavor are you, by the way? Cherry? Creme? Som'in' else?

Over and out from the Haight.

and my response:

1. My so called friends say I look like a mix between Regina King and Rosario Dawson. Whatever. They both have way bigger boobs than me.
2. Actually, I don't like the Dark Crystal at all. I LOVE IT. It's my all-time favorite movie. On a side note, I'm actually not that crazy. I think. I might just be in denial.
3. Oh yes, I agree--the downstairs neighbor is a prime example: 6'5", funny, smart, nice ass, nice jeans. Unfortunately, He's just a wee bit my junior, and I'm afraid we must now keep it on the platonic tip.
4. Yes, yes, yes. Pretty much over--trying to get one last good story out of it and then it must invariably commence to crash and burn. On the upside--I think I did pretty good this time. Kinda got out of my box a little, no pun intended.
5. That's a tough one...some come out of them quickly and immediately see their freedom as a new lease. I generally fall into this category. Some dwell on the past for far too long comparing every bad attribute of thier current partner to the previous one leaving them unable to trust and increasingly resentful and hostile. It's kind of a crap shoot. Good luck.
6. Filling, hmm. Maybe snails and puppy dog tails. Maybe sweetness and light. Maybe both--you should find out for yourself. Molotov's some night?

2. I uploaded that pic of Mere and I onto my MySpace page, and it was promptly deleted by "MySpace Administrators" for showing nudity. Dude, they're fucking mannequins. Seriously.

3. Sunday night found The TSG drinking beers at my apartment, and found me, after so much careful counseling from my girlfriends, censoring myself to a certain extent. There was beer, yes, and then there were t-shirts and jeans scattered about, and then there was just the two of us, in my bed, face to face and somewhat...well, kind of uncomfortable. Things were not going smoothly, and there was some rythym lost and some shaky hands and some kind of brief carelessness.
"Dude, are you okay?" This is me asking The TSG if he's okay.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." This is him lying and saying that he's fine.
"Seriously, just calm down for a minute. This isn't supposed to be so hard. I mean, this is supposed to be fun."

Damned if it wasn't amazingly so after that.

4. The enigma/phenomena that is RCU and everything surrounding us meeting is actually a much spoken of subject here in San Francisco. One of the most vivid images that I've ever commited to paper was written about him, something like [excuse me while I paraphrase]: "...in my naked state of recline I glance to see him snorting a line from the cover of a paperback volume of erotica." This line is so decadent and luxe that it kills me every time. Just to read it. Just to remember that it actually happened.
RCU, like so many others, has long ago passed what I like to call [but did not name] The Friend Line. Much like the Neighbor recently and so many countless others, these are the people who I ended up loving to much for sex to be a resonsible thing for us to share. He is one of the many I ended up liking far too much to fuck. Below the Friend line, there are many-a-fuckable bachelor, yes, but above it are some of the best boys I have had the pleasure of knowing. Shaun too is a perfect example.

5. The text message? Oh dude, it was quite the message. Let me tell you all a little story.

"So there I was, fresh from seeing Dawn and at The TSG's apartment for the first time, and I am drunk both from alchohol and the lingering fright I have associated with him. Yes, I said that fairly correctly, for it is not him per se that I fear, but rather that I will never escape having to reinvent myself to make someone want to stick around. By this I mean that I fear that the me who is really me will never be the right kind of me to ever be part of an us. I have only ever found one sure-fire solution to this problem: Timelines.
"Basically, there was me naked, and there was me contemplating all of this, and there was me resenting that once again I have become what Samantha and I long ago deemed it my fate to be: A Straight Man's Casual Sex Trial-Size Sample.
"What the hell is that? Oh, let me briefly explain. Much like one who collects V Cards, A Straight Man's Casual Sex Trial-Size Sample like myself collects boys in transition--boys who have just broken up with thier girfriends, boys who are looking to get out of thier norm, boys who extoll that they "don't really do this that often".
"I'm can't stand being someone else's plaything, and specifically not to someone who should be mine, and I hate having to clip my tounge for reasons that may or may not come to fruition. And so, there I was saying the same thing I always do.

"I don't really think we should do this anymore."

Also, as a brief afterthought to Open Letter--
I went out with Grace tonight, and when her boyfriend showed up, he was wearing his own version of the perverbial bad pair of jeans. This infamous article of clothing is something Grace likes to call "The Tiny Tee." Hahaha. Tiny Tee. In about 20 hours, I'll elaborate more on this t-shirt and on the people I ran into at the Hemlock. Get ready for "The Carnie and the Crying Guy".

Gold. I'm giving you gold here.
There's more, yes. Oh, what did the text message say?


"You better start bloggin' away, bitch"

I know, I know. I said full recap yesterday, but this is turning into a full-on story.

Highlights will include oldies but goodies like Fractional Boyfriends and The Lower Haight Connection as well as new headcase bullshit like "The Friend Line". I'm giving you gold, here.

And yes chatch, he totally read it. And yes, I definitely choose cocktails.

Oh, and here's a pic for shits and giggles:

Title supplied by Lisa via my voicemail.



You're welcome.

I'd like to take this opportunity to tell all of you how very, very pleased I am that you loved "Open Letter". I never thought it would be the most talked about and linked to post I ever wrote on this li'l blog. It's funny, you know? I feel like I've said way more exlplosive things on here like "Revenge Is a Beer Best Served Cold" or "The Five Stages" or something.

Anyway, it's list time. This one's mildly assorted, and consists of 5.

1. Got many many many comments on "Open Letter", some in person, some on the phone, up to and including this one on my blog:
Holy shit I loved this one. You are not alone in your crazy but sane thoughts. My latest crush literally was telling me a week ago that somehow I should feel good about the fact that were weren't hooking up. I think I felt I understood her, I mean I couldn't put a finger on why I wasn't trying to get in her pants (oddly enough) but after reading your blog, I get it. I think I do. Gracias, senorita bloggista. --Joey
Get ready to hear from/about him, and know him as "The Psychiatrist".

2. Here's a pic of Meredith and I.

3. "Open Letter" spurned much debate culminating in many-a-text from The TSG, to whom it is written. In accordance with the original plan laid out in said letter, I told him he could come over last night. It went pretty great, actually, and I really considered...well, reconsidering.

Wait a minute. I'm totally leaving something out.

Damnit, I'm not quite sure why I feel like censoring myself right now, but for the time being, just trust me that there was one paticularly poignant moment that I can't quite put words to yet.

4. I talked to Mark "RCU" William today.
"Ahhh, BCT," he remarked, "there you are." Yes, here I am. And here I am telling him all about The TSG in response to him congratulating me on another stellar post. And I am telling him that yes, second chances are indeed being granted.

5. Tonight, while on the phone with Mary, I recieved the #1 most ridiculous text message I have ever recieved. It was from The TSG.

This is a list in brief form.
Full recap tomorrow.

I need to sleep on this one.


I know it's not Thursday, but thanks, Amanda Mae.

For What It's Worth--Buffalo Springfield.

Terese. And Moxie. And Danger.

Cavalier Eternal--Against Me!


"Good luck and u will be fine"


Yes. Most memorably on New Years day, 2004.

My little Suri, yes.

Alt Country counts, right?

That's a very loaded question.

Bees, that Shaun is gone for good, that my birthday will be terrible, that I will never be able to settle down.




Yes, that I am alone in my apartment on a Saturday hiding from a boy. Fuck.


I am positive of it.

Very. Nice. Jeans.


Yes and it is so awesome that it's everyones favorite t-shirt.

To go home to Miami and get a fucking tan.

Berlin. Maybe London.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.



An Open Letter To the Boy I Went Out With Last Night Whom I Let Buy Me Dinner Even Though I Have Never Previously Allowed That To Happen

"So, first off, thanks for dinner, and furthermore I'm glad you liked Farmer Brown because it's one of my favorite restaurants. That being said, I was dead serious when I said that I absolutely and without fear of consequence HATE YOUR JEANS. They're terrible, and it oft feels as if you wouldn't know a pair of premium denim if they bit you on your fine as hell rear-end. Oh, yeah. If I haven't mentioned it before, you have the nicest ass I've ever seen in real life on a white boy.

"Asses aside, this denim thing is s serious problem. 'But they're just jeans,' I can hear you thinking, 'why is it such a big deal?' It's a big deal because it's indicative of a whole host of deal breakers that I am now quite sure that we are headed to meet.

"The thing is that I tend to put men in a box, and if you can't meet the requirements, I get disinterested quickly. You absolutely have to make me laugh, and be smart. You generally won't even make it into my bed withought these two things. Then? Well, then after phone numbers are exchanged, and we begin to meet again and again, there are a whole host of other attributes that I will seek in you and most likely drop you if I do not find them. Basically, you must have all of my favorite qualities of the rest of my friends in order for me to find you redeeming.

"Again, I know what you're thinking; that no one person can do all of these things--can be stupid with me like my girfriends, can give the best hugs like my old time guy friends, that has dreams as big as I do myself; but you have to understand that essentially, I don't really care what you think. Why? Because I'm sure that regardless of whatever you may attest to you are most likely right this second putting me in a similar box of comparing me to your ex girfriends and wondering where this can lead if it turns out we're intrinsically dissimilar. It's okay, I understand, but I'm going to need you to understand this: I won't relent or settle until I find what I'm looking for.

"I'm not saying you're definitely not it, I'm just saying that you most likely aren't. Go ahead. Scream it; be like 'what the fucking hell! No guy can party as hard as Mary and be as stable as Erica and watch stupid movies with you on a weekly basis ike Shaun all the while wearing nice jeans!' Fine, maybe you're right.

"Sorry, I couldn't keep that whole 'maybe you're right' thing going for even a couple more sentances because I love to be the one to say 'I told you so'. The unfortunate scenario that has come to pass is that you're actually wrong: I know a guy just like that--but he too has a whole host of rigors that I have put him through and held him against (no pun intended) and although he didn't pass per se, well, let's just say that his colors still flew a little farther than your own.

"Irregardless of other boys and other times and other pairs of exquisite denim, I would like to take this opportunity to say my second favorite phrase right behind 'I told you so', and it's: so how does it feel? I refer of course to the feeling you must have right now that I had yesterday morning: you now like me more than I like you. Why have the tables turned? Because headcase bullshit aside I am awesome. You're just kind of a headcase.

"Listen, you'll be fine, I promise. Within a few days time, I'll most likely do or say something so stupid and jarring to you that you are left feeling as if you have the upper hand, that you can distance yourself from me without guilt or recourse and later go back to your boys and explain how crazy I was all the while proudly touting that at least you got laid. Don't worry, I'm cool with it. I'll fuck you a few more times, purposefully fuck it all up, and then quietly retire to the boy with the nice jeans.

"It might make you feel better to know that I'm actually not fucking him anymore anyway. Why? Well, because he has been privy to his own set of my rationalizations in which his deal-breaking faults are mostly centered around how much I actually like him, and how I can never seem to get past the idea that sex can do nothing but cheapen a beautiful friendship. I oft wonder if I'll ever have both; but don't worry about that, it's not your problem, nor your fault.

"Take care, okay? And if you're ever wondering what could have been, just remember that if history and routine are any indication, then you can take comfort in the fact that I never liked you enough not to fuck you."

Best Regards,



Here's a quick list of things I am scared of.

1. Nathan.

That's pretty much it.

Recap tomorrow.


The End of the Rainbow

With great power comes great responsibility, yes, but think about it--isn't it easier to be the one bearing the responsibility than the one begging for redemption?

Is it just me?

Fine. So be it, but hear me out:

Say you are somewhat jaded, always wayward, and an absolute confirmed explorative in many ways even exceeding those for which you are often pegged. Let's say that for these reasons you are deemed disloyal by many even though you have more than proven otherwise. Say you have a commitment-phobia that isn't intrinsically based on the actual idea of commitment but rather in some deep seated fear of being out of control.

Let's say that person is me. And fuck it, let's say it's Mary too.

And let's begin to wrap our heads around the idea that people like this are constantly seeking the solace of some sort of quasi-unattainable and singular idea of a partner or a comrade or a companion that can match us on every level--intensity and strength and decibels and sex sex SEX and every little crazy part of us that makes us us. We dream of the day that we can find this without compromising our day to day and without watering down our brashness that we covet to a fault. We do this because should we find it via all of our fucked up morality and incomparable distaste for the norm--well then kiddos, we would thus prove ourselves valid.
It only takes one fucking boy to love us for us to make all of you nay-saying fuckers wrong.


The other side of this coin is that when commitment or even some sort of 'understanding' looms, we are wary and picky and flighty--we are quick to poke holes in perfection and eager to ruin if only just to re-gain the top rung. We oft do this quickly--after a couple weeks, a couple mettings, the next morning. We are not near as quick to dole out phone numbers as we are to remove our Cosabella's and Hanky-Panky's*.

This is why when a baby faced boy actually returns to our apartment we are somewhat uncomfortable before the second beer or so, and we are searching his face for that thing that makes us, rather than he, okay. Then the pretty and baby faced boy with the big bright eyes tells a story that is largely inconsequential, but ends on a note that comes completely out of left field, but gives us the ability to retain this ultimate hope.

"...yeah, and I guess that's when I got really into studying tantric sex."

I'm sorry, can you repeat that?

"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't expect it from a guy like me, but the classes were really informative."

Whoa. Wait, back up. And you like me? I mean, that's a huge responsibility. You're now putting yourself in the position of The Great White Hope--you have the power to either prove all of us right, or more specifically me very, very wrong. How can you do this to me? You have the power to put me at your beck and call, to make we waive any morays I might have to harbor you. Believe me when I say this: I want this to make me okay.
Fuck. Fuck. I can already feel myself completely losing it, I can fell the tears prematurely welling underneth my lids for a premature end that caps a time that hasn't even yet begun. FUCK.

"Here, let me show you."


Ah, hell. Allright.

It feels amazing.
And this feels terrible.

*These are both brand-names that refer to underwear, by the way.


"One pair black on black Converse. Check."

Labor Day weekend is now way, way over, thank god. I am now four years off that fateful Bumbershoot when all my worlds collided upon each other and I started crying and didn't stop for three or four months. A lot has happened in the last week or so, only vaugely peppered by this one twisted memory. Let us begin.

1. Much like the Friday of labor day weekend '03 (August 29th), I fell into bed with a very, very forbidden boy a few years my junior. I know, I said I would stop. I'm serious this time though--no more stockinged-feet-between-floor-padding-about-red-wine-in-hand-that-leads-to-sex-escapades. No more. I am so serial right now.

2. Have you ever heard my and Crystal's Ninja story? We saw a ninja on a motorcycle last time I was in Seattle. I'll be intermittently noting things that you need to become a Ninja throughout this list.

3. I had three days off last week, so I rearranged and painted my apartment. Here's a pic:

It's so cute right now. Well, not right now because...

4. "One bandana. BLACK. Check. One pair Aviator sunglasses. Highly reflective lenses. Check"

5. ...because Mary came to town Friday night. We took a couple photos and sent them to Crystal and then went to Thieves, just like old times. When her and Brad left for Daly City, Drew came over for a bit. Had a beer. Then he went home. Alone. True story. You proud?

6. My apartment was still cute after that evening, but the following night really fucked it up good.

7. "One beenie. BLACK. Check."

8. After work, Erica came over bearing flowers and a bottle of wine. We cruised up to Molotov's to meet Mary, who promptly informed us that we should go to Amber.

9. At Amber, we met some boys, as per usual. It was in this fashion that was so reminiscent of meeting Mark, when all of the first repercussions of 8.29.03 were just beginning to dissapate, and I looked down from my boss' balcony and saw something I had to have. When I saw Nathan last night, long before I knew his name, I immediately knew. I had to have it.

10. "One pair very tight Levi's dungarees. BLACK. Check."

11. There were beers, and there was a full cab, and there was an afterparty. There was Nathan, right there in my apartment, and then there he was right next to me on my couch. Then, my favorite line of all time was spilling from my lips: "I'm going to kiss you now."

12. Mary then noted to Nathan's friend Mike: "Omigod! Miranda's making out!"

13. "One pullover hoodie. BLACK. Check. One samurai sword with holster. Check."

14. In the morning, Nathan and I woke and drank coffee and chatted about Seattle while Mary, Erica and Mike still slept. He slipped me his 206 number before I got in the shower.

15. When I got out of the shower, I found this note on my door:

16. On my way to work, I had this ridiculous shit-eating grin on my face much like that I have not worn in very long. I was also exhausted and severely hungover. My apartment officially declared a national disaster, I had to leave this note on my door before I left:

17. I did as the first note instructed when I got home. "I'm so glad you called" he said. I'm so glad I got it. Mmm. Cake.

18. "One gigantic motorcycle. BLACK AND CHROME. Check."

19. I went over to Erica's, and the three of us (the triple threat: E, Mares and Mirans) layed around and ate Thai food and watched Entourage, which is the dumbest show I've ever seen in my life. They had been in bed all day. That's when I got the first text.

20. Seattleite to Seattleite text messaging followed hailing from SoMa and the Tenderloin and bouncing off satellites and making my cellphone beep and twitter.
N--Sorry to leave so quickly this morning, I get restless and need to move when I first wake up. I'll just be relaxing here tonight if you want to come over.
M--Still at Erica's in my PJ's. Mary's headed down to Daly City in a few, apologies to your buddy Mike.
N--No worries. I'll be up till one or two. You can come over any time before then.
M--Ugh. Finally home. Can't make it farther than my bed--later this week?
N--Sure thing sleepy head. I'll call you tomorrow. :)

Now, I think I'll go dress up like a ninja and go ride my motorcycle.

Happy Post-Labor Day.