Goodbye 2007, Hello NYCD2008.

Damn you guys, it's so good this year.

If you would like a copy of Fight, Love, Rock, Anthem: NYCD2008, please respond to this e-mail/message/bulletin.

If you live far away, that being from San Francisco, please include your mailing address.

Last minute track changes make this years ETA between the 10th and the 15th. Be patient. It's worth it.

Happy New Year.

p.s.--This applies to almost everyone reading this. Including the 20 y/o who's story I love. Thanks for reading.


"Lights, please?"

That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.


Days Off=New Piece

Chase lent me a book that the entire world has read, and yet somehow I never had. Then I read it Thursday night. Then I wrote a piece yesterday and today.

I just talked to Lisa who said I owed excerpts, so enjoy. Here's [roughly, meaning I have taken some stuff out that would have to be in context] how it concludes.

I just want you to remember that it's not about regret, and it's not about having lived through some hard-knock-woe-is-me-bullshit. This here is real, and important, and more than that, it is good. Remember the day before we all got evicted and we sat on the fire escape just daring the sun to set on our perfection? That is how it should always feel--because regardless of the outcome, this is what we have built, and we built it this way on purpose because we can, indeed, climb higher than most. Ours is not to be left unhappy with the decisions we were free to make, but rather to gather all of our consequences togoether under one header, set it to a youthful soundtrack, and offer a hearty cheers to everything we have now.
Mostly Miranda, I don't want you to forget that interlaced with every last fucking tear is years that you will miss. I need you never to forget that history and poinancy are two different things, that this, right now, feels fantastic.
Miranda, remember that it was good. It really was.



Revenge Is a Beer Best Served Cold: Part 3

I think we need to talk. Again. But before we do, go ahead. Go right ahead. Click on that link real quick and revisit a topic I'm pretty fucking sure we've already goddamn covered.

Okay. Ready? Here we go.

An Open Letter to the Boy I Fucked a Couple Nights Ago
by: Moxie Moure

"First off, I'm sorry. You know, it's funny. I've written these before, these silly little Open Letters, but this one...goddamn. I mean, Jebus, haven't we done this before?

"I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with the facts.

"Should I live in some small-ass town in California, I would want to spend a weekend in the city too. I understand, and I like many storytellers love the idea of returning home with stories. The best storytellers know that we have to make stories--they don't just happen. Most people understand this, but it's more of an understated feeling. Yes I get it, but this isn't about what I do and do not get--this is about what you clearly do not understand. Yes, I know that you are limited by your years and that is why I'm am taking the time I could be spending asleep to explain this to you. Please listen carefully, because I swear by all that is good and holy that I may very well never take the time to explain this again. I'm not upset that you tried to make your story, but rather how you chose to conclude it.

"You may have heard before the idea that sex is a contract. This is usually invoked when one is trying to explain to another why it is unethical to be so callous about such an important act. I'm not saying that I ascribe to this school of thought, but let's entertain the idea, just for a minute, that this is true. Given this assumption and the one that human beings, as we will, have all kinds of sex, we must then also assume that there must be an infinite amount of contracts that could be infered from this act. Hmm. I don't claim to be some kind of expert, or 'sexpert' if you will, and I refuse to relate all of my experience to a cliche as simplistic as circumnavigating a city block. What I will say is that I know what I'm fucking talking about, and I am absolutely positive when I say that you broke the fucking rules.

"So here we are, and you're likely still wondering if I'm even speaking to you. Well, I am, and I'm telling you that if there was any infered contract associated with our meeting and fucking and me locking the door behind you, it's that I essentially don't give a fuck what you think, who you are, or what you will eventually tell your friends about me, but am perfectly happy with you using me as some kind of turning point or life-changing experience or even as some even just slightly consequential anecdotal one-night-stand. Don't get me wrong, I hope you get your story; I mean, I got mine--I got to go to work the next day and expound on the baby-faced Jew I fucked the night before. If our assumed contract would have remained fair it would have been left at that, but you weren't satisfied by your few minutes of hormonal freedom in exchange for leaving me the fuck alone--you had to fucking push it.

"So here's my advice to you, and it is three parted.

1. I've said this before, but I will repeat it for you now: girls like me do not grant further communication for actions akin to little more than trick-or-treating. I mean, why would I? Do you think we have some amazing connection or something?

2. In the future, keep your internet stalking just that--stalking. Good for you, kiddo, we're all proud of you for finding my MySpace profile. Next time, just forward a link to all your friends so they can see the girl you fucked. Peruse the pictures, read the comments, and see if you can pick out which of my 'friends' I've slept with too. Messaging your one night stand who did not tell you her last name a few hours after leaving her apartment is on the no-no list--trust me when I say this. It's juvenile, which brings me to...

3. If you can't figure out which fork to use, don't eat at the grown-ups table. Until you can navigate all of this stuff succesfully, stick to fucking twenty year old girls that match your twenty year old self.

"Don't think that all of this would come without a concession from me--I mean, I am sorry. I really am. I should have known better, and you have no idea how much it freaks me out that even in knowing this, I still decided I just had to have it. Don't think you're the only illicit boy that has graced my plate as of late, because there are many. Some I am regretful of tasting, and some I still wonder what that first bite would be like. Much like the moment when you offered me your lap at the bar, I am caught wondering of other boys how that first forbidden electric pang might feel, how my skin might quiver under a hand that should be no where near me.

"But Illicit, forbidden, and any other boys aside, the internet is not real. Let me repeat that: the internet is not real. That being said, be glad I didn't use your full name, because I know it, l and I have never ever let some little boy I fucked tell me what I can and cannot write on my blog, and I don't intend on starting now. You see, sometimes you enter into a contract with sex that you're unaware of--things that could be contracted, pregnency, emotional turmoil--and yes, I realize getting written about on the internet is one of those you may have not thought of previously and so you might feel a bit blindsided now.

"This is the part where I pretend to care.

"But hey, we had fun, and I hate to end this with a threat, but don't ever believe that I would feel even the slightest pangs of guilt about editing this post at a later date and including every single one of your given names. What does that mean? That means that before you ever again try to tell me what I can and cannot do, think about the look that your Mother's face might wear upon Googling you and finding about about her perfect little Jewish Prince's sexual escapades in San Francisco with a twenty-seven year old black sex blogger. Sit on that for a minute.

"I know, I know. Now you're thinking: 'Who the hell does this bitch think she is?' The truth is that doesn't really matter who I think I am. You think I'm wrong? Think again. You meet a girl, she invites you out, and then fucks you in a matter of hours. I think we can all agree that if questions are to be directed, it's about high time for you to ask yourself who the hell you made yourself believe I could be.

"Here's a hint: I'm not her.


[p.s. to RCU/Hunts/Mark/Mark William/Huntsman--Please for the love of god listen to this if you have not alredy. We'll always have Rockapulco.]

[p.p.s. to Lisa--Yes, now we are clear. All of those people are the same person. Yes, he is even the balcony guy.]

[p.p.p.s. to Aaron--This is now the third time I've used this title for a post. I can never thank you enough.]


A New Hope: Part 2

The truth? I'm drunk.

Also, I just had sex.

It wasn't that good, and true to form, it was of the cradle robbing variety.

Oops, another 20 y/o under my belt.

To my credit, I met him at a bar, so I thought he was at least 21.

Okay, fine. I didn't meet him at a bar, I took him to a bar. Fine, fuckers, I guess my strike is over.


[more later. seriously.]


RE: The Scariest Post I've Ever Read.

So I was reading one of Mark's posts after posting myself tonight, and I was interested, and happy, and giggling at times.

Unfortunately, I got most of the way through and was unable to finish reading it. Why? Because I read this line.
Go ahead, read it slow. Then read it again. Then get a glass of water or open a beer or something. Then come back and read it again.

Who you are is the price you paid to get what you used to want.

No, I'm not here to explore the validity of your life or mine...well not really. But ponder this:
Did you hear the inference of distaste for things you once wanted upon first reading? Can't you hear that? I can hear, in that fucking line, this kind of unwavering conviction that 'what you used to want' is intrinsically invalid--which leaves who you are now sub-par, at best.

That, I suppose is how cautionary tales and parables operate though--I mean, the idea is to start with an assumption, then elaborate on that assumption until your reader believes the conclusion you are drawing from it is true (yes, I'm aware there's a term for this, but I refuse to use it for two reasons: 1. It's one of those words or phrases like "juxtapose" or "quixotic" or "Murphy's Law" that has a very, very specific meaning--far too specific for general conversation--and yet means something so readily understood that even the average human can manage to say it at least a couple times a day. This is maddening, by the way. 2. Aren't there other types of logic? I mean, I could be a fan of Barker-ian logic, which would of course refer to taking something as far as you can without going over, or Nelson-ian logic, which would be something about elevating something readily available to the public to a level that can be appreciated by academia. Seriously though, prizes to anyone who can name both of thier first names*).

I have two points here.

1. I, like many, don't neccesarily believe in fate, although I am oft quite tickled by coincidence and enjoy making the impossible possible. In this vein, I don't really like to be told what to fear, thus making cautionary tales and moralistic stories, for me, an exercise in bullshit management.

2. I am beginning to wonder if that's what people will say about me--merely that I've been gracious enough to tell you all what I've done so you don't make the same mistakes. For the record, it's not supposed to be like that--think more like the perfect meeting of your favorite bar and your Senior Yearbook pressed in a book. Comfortable, fun, boundless. Un-fucking-believable ("Remember that time Nancy did so much coke we had to throw her out of the car in front of the ER at Harborview? Have a good summer! KIT!"). Awesome. Inspiring. Sad.


Fuck, whatever. Just anything but cautionary.

But I can't help it. Even after all of this ranting about how something I don't believe in can't possibly hold something over me, I'm still thinking the same thing I was when I first glanced at it.

Was it worth it?

*Bob, Sean.


"Oh, yes. Hello there."

I know, I know. I haven't done this in a while.

Let's do this old-school.

1. 46,342. That was my final word count. I did not win.

2. What did I learn from NaNoWriMo? Hmm...maybe that my head is ful of things I can't quantify anymore. I think I've spent so much time looking for an ending to all of this that I've forgotten why some of these stories are so important. Revisiting why they are important has proved quite trying.

3. January 1st is but a month away, and I'm already thinking about February 2nd.

4. Ahhh...Love. For almost three years now on this blog, I've been trying to figure out the meaning and quality and visage of Love. What have I learned? well, it's definitely not February yet, but I'll give you a little hint.
Those that I loved the most taught me the least about the quality of Love.
Those that I loved the least taught me the most about the importance of Love.
Those I thought I could love very much taught me the least about the physicalities of Love.

And finally...

Those I never knew I could ever love taught me the most about my capacity for Love.

5. Love is like tape, you know? It's like this thing that binds us together even though we aren't neccesarily sticky. It's the sticky stuff, you dig? On that note, here's a gift for someone I never thought I could love. Thank you for all of your gifts.


[more context later]