"Jews for Jihad!!!"

Right now, I am drinking a 40oz of Ranier with Red Bull with the word "HOMO" written on one side and a giant cock on the other.

True story.

I've been too busy to explain. That being said, I will likely continue to be for some time.

Ha ha ha ha.

1. 2. 3. 4.



"Everyone knows only black people are Jelly Doughnuts."

I was just going through my gMail account which I do every month or couple of months just to check and see if anyone is writing me who doesn't have my other e-mail address. Hunts, who is usually quite astute and upstanding, sent this to my satteliteseattleite address a month or so ago, and I just found it. The e-mail was titled: "Oh shit, you may have to start a 2nd blog". You'll see why.

I love this, Hunts, BTW.

Obama Hopes To Go Where JFK Went Before

Barack Obama wants to hold a keynote speech on transatlantic relations in front of Berlin's Brandenburg Gate. But don't call him a "European."

By Gregor Peter Schmitz

July 9, 2008 | Barack Obama wants to hold a keynote speech on transatlantic relations in front of Berlin's Brandenburg Gate during his visit later this month. Spiegel Online has learned that he plans to outline a new foreign policy that consults partners more, but also makes clear demands on Europe.

The possibility has not been ruled out that the speech could instead be given in Paris or London -- the other planned stops on Obama's short Europe trip. But Obama's team likes the location of Berlin and the Brandenburg Gate. "The setting would be great," the advisor said. "The memory of John F. Kennedy's famous Berlin speech is still alive. Berlin is a bridge between East and West, and the German-American relationship is very strong," said the advisor.

Read the whole thing here, and see how it went down here.

A quote from his speech:

"While the 20th century taught us that we share a common destiny, the 21st has revealed a world more intertwined with Jelly Doughnuts than ever before. Yes, we can, together, put a Cake in every cakesaver."

Okay fine. It went a little differently. But that's pretty much the jist.
[jourinalism rules]

Let this be the year when hope fails you.

"Fyuck 'em all and watch 'em Fyall!!"
--Crystal @ Uncle Mo's

"You just snugged me for the twice time tonight!!"
--Amanda @ home




This morning I layed around in Ben's apartment playing with Archie the Poodle and shooting the shit about our old crew.

I had forgotten how many buddies we have in common because technically, this is the first time Ben and I have lived in the same city. First time. In the four years I've known him. True story.

This went on for some time, you know, like: How's Al? Have you seen him? I haven't seen Tommie in six months. Did you hear what he did at Gav and Toby's house? Yeah totally. Have you met Jenna? What's Gav like behind the bar? Really? JD? Jesus, I haven't even thought of that guy in a while. You mean Metro Kyle? Wait, Spokane Mike lives in SF? When's the last time you saw Audio? Wait, which Gabe? Hatter or the Rev? He's still with Amy? Wow.

You get it.

But then it degenerated into shit like "Remember that time Jeremiah accused you of stealing his toothbrush?" and then we get to the point where I no longer know how to navigate the conversation.

I've spoken of the Harrison debaucle before, and I'm still opposed to choosing sides. Yeah, I've heard them both and they both make sense, and they're brothers for chrissakes. If I liked one of them, why wouldn't I like them both? I mean, they have similar senses of humor, similar demeanor, and probably the biggest thing they have in common is that they're both my friends. And they don't speak to each other.

In my inaugural days of hearing the full extent of thier falling out, I thought maybe it was reconcilable, but maybe it's not. In the mean time I fear it's a self fullfilling prophecy that one or the other of them will finally draw the line with me--and it will likely be because I've managed to put my foot in my mouth once again, offended one of them by bringing the other into the conversation or talking myself into a corner where I have to admit I've been hanging out with the other. It's happened before, and I don't doubt that when it happens again and again it will be increasingly explosive.

It's hard being on the outside of it all, but I guess I can use it as a good reminder on how and how not to navigate being on the inside; meaning I can't let people get me on the defense when I'm much more apt to defend.

Take that as you will.

[p.s.--on the upside, i'm clearly no longer paralyzed with indecision. i chose. whether i chose wisely or not remains to be seen. xo--M]


On a scale of 1 to gay.

This will be quick tonight.

I have been here less than a week, and a routine is already forming in my head.

Monday mornings, Gavin's at the Buckaroo. Nights will find J-ru at the Duck.
Tuesday night, Gav's at the Buck and J-ru's at the Duck.
Wednesday's only J-ru's night.
Thursdays Lauren is at Loretta's.
Fridays Ben is at The Green Room.
Saturday's child has [not too] far to go, 'cause Lauren's at The Bar.
And Sunday's are Jackie's nights.

Rob texted me today, and it was so weird because I was like "I'm in Seattle on my way to go see Lauren at work" (Thursdays=Loretta's) and he was like "OMG! Kisses to both of you!" and I realized that it has been so long since the three of us all called SoBe our little fake plastic home, and I miss those days when we all had semi-regular hair and relatively few tattoos.

I was 21 when I met those two in Miami, and now we're...

Older. Maybe wiser.

Some days I think wiser.


Tuesday afternoon is never ending.

As I unpack, it feels like this stuff is multiplying. I swear to god, there's more shit here than when I started.

I was putting a rod in my closet today, and before I finally found a way to secure it, it fell down. Twice. With all of my shirts on it. Hmm. Deja vu.

Not that I really want to talk about the wall right now. Maybe tomorrow.

Lauren came over today. We spent a lazy afternoon hour drinking coffee and chain smoking ciggarettes. The sun came out for us, for that hour, and it felt much like the tuesday afternoons we'd spend by my pool in Miami drinking Bloody Mary's and working on our tans.

Tomorrow, I'll go over to studio and by a falafel from her. She's working on the truck tomorrow morning. And then, then will be the time when I have to make some sense of all of this--because it will have officially been a week since the papers didn't come.



Monday's child has learned to tie his bootlace.


Today I learned that I am dissapointed in dissapointment. This means that the worst part of being let down is, for me, the part where you have to admit that you've been let down.

We moved into the studio @ 5501 Airport Way S #1 today. My shit is in piles all over at both my house and studio. Fuck. That means that tomorrow will be a long day indeed.

The weirdest part? That I'm at home alone at my house now. Amanda's at Studio, Crystal's at J's, and I dipped out of Wood's house faster than I can blink.

I'm a bit conflicted, and can't find a way to figure the best direction to go until I clear my head. I feel catatonic until then. Just call me Paralyzed With Indecision. Go ahead. Call me that.



Sunday morning, creeping like a nun.


Ask me about it when it sinks in.

Oh, but here's a little tidbit--best coming home ever. When I finally pulled in front of my house 19 hours after leaving SF, Crystal and Amanda were sitting out on the porch waiting for me.

Also in attendance was The Child, whom I made park my truck while I showered and napped in the front lawn in my underwear on my blanket.

More later when the rest hits me. For now, I gotta put some clothes on and meet Wood and DBBP at The Bar.



Saturday: Wonder how you manage to make ends meet.


I am still enamored with the capacity you have to still be my friend.

Thank you, and I'll see you tonight. If you see this before you leave Spokane, say hi to your Mom for me. Yes, it's true--I don't know if you remember, but I've met her once.

She is a Mom amoung Moms. Coming from me, that means a lot.



Friday night arrives with[out] a suitcase.

Keenan and Lisa--

You guys wont know that I've written this until tomorrow, but it is now 7:27, and we have dinner in an hour. Fuck. My apartment is still a disaster, and I don't have the will to even get in the shower let alone clean it. I'm exhausted, so I'm sure that you, Keenen, are too right now. Damn, for all the shit I don't have, my back sure feels like I have a shitload.

I'm about to get in the shower and walk down the hill for the last time and meet you guys at the base of Mason. And eat some fried chicken. Sweet.

You know, I wanted this letter to sound amazing--like some sort of all encompassing brief tome of the history of KLM--and then I realized that we're not done.

I will say, however, that you guys are right now, pretty much the only reason I'm really sad to be leaving. The rest will hit me in a few days time.

So--let's not say goodbuys, K? Let's say, as Rob in Miami once told me, "see you later", and since we're having dinner here shortly, I will, indeed, see you later.

I love you guys.

And thank you. For everything.



Thursday night, your stockings needed mending.


I have been packing, yes. And I have been sorting, and I have found some things.

In a box on a shelf in my bedroom, I found a very old notebook--one that I used when Sam and I lived on 88th and Nesbitt. Inside the notebook was not only our old quote log, but in the very back was ten or fifteen phone numbers all written on individual slips of paper taped into the back with scotch tape. One of them was yours. The original one, in your handwriting.

I was transported back to my see-through grey polo and light grey cotton drawsting skirt, and the balcony, and me barefoot, and you very tall, and then to your maroon Subaru that you took me in back to my light blue '79 Volvo GT that was parked down on Elliot in front of my boss's house. I don't know if you remember--and honestly, I thought this was an invention of my memory before I saw it again with my own eyes--but that morning when we traded middle names and phone numbers I remember thinking how odd it was that you trusted me enough to write your phone number on the back of the carbon copy of one of your checks--account number and all.

Now, of course, it seems utterly ridiculous that you wouldn't trust me with your account number, but at the time it was less than twelve hours of our meeting, and on this September 26th, it will have been four years since that day.

That day, that day after Cabaret at The Circus, barring the bet I won by meeting you the one thing on my mind was the amazing night I had spent with my two best girlfriends, Sam and Jen. It's odd to think that what is left is you and I, because that morning, even with the middle names and account numbers and phone numbers, I never thought I would see you again.

Damn, see how they run.

I'm glad I did see you again.

And I love you. Dearly.

Kisses to Laura.


Wednesday morning, papers didn't come.

Crystal and Amanda,

I'm in the home stretch. My bed is in my livingroom, in the exact same place I put it when I first moved in to this apartment. Two days later after some unpacking, I retired it to the closet where it has sat until now.

I moved into this apartment October the third, 2006. You do the math. That's how long I've slept in a closet. A closet. When I moved my mattress and boxspring out, you wouldn't believe what I found underneath--empty condom wrappers, pens, pencils, about 20 bobby pins, hair ties, an old t-shirt, three or four socks, and a ton of dust and dust bunnies. A year and a half of dust bunnies. Gross.

Today was the first day that I haven't felt like I was going to throw up for most of the day. I fended off the nerves with tons of coffee, no food, and probably eight or nine Bourbon & Branches that I've been sipping on since about two or three. Going through all of this stuff makes me want to cry--and everytime I find another sentimental item I have to stop and cradle it for a moment, and all of the stories that I hope to write fill my head and I can't think straight or see my way out of it.

Today I packed up a picture of you Amanda, sitting in front of the computer at The Circus with your head turned around to face the camera and a sign of the face of the eMac that reads "NO SMILING" in big black letters. In the same box I put the red earmuffs that you got me for New Years/Christmas '04. Then I listened to Visqueen's Vaxxine, and any flutter that I may have had about this move momentarily went away.

Yes, it's true. I'm totally terrified, and I'm exhausted because all I can hear when I'm asleep at night is screaming, and I have nightmares of wrecking my moving van and accidently knocking huge holes in the wall that I have to patch and fix before I leave. And on top of that I hate myself right now for how little I've accomplished. Goddamnit.

But I love you guys, and I'm so thankful for all of your quiet persistence because what I really need right now is exactly what you two gave to me--someone to fight for me. Thanks, because I don't know how much fight I have in me right now.

Sunday morning, creeping like a nun.


"Reading the bible, changing the clitterbox."


"Hey. It's me. I can't sleep."

"Oh fuck. Oh, god, no, fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck Miranda, it's four in the goddamn morning."

"It's just before three. Quit exagerating."

"What could you possibly want right now. I've been calling, texting for days, both of your numbers. No answer. What the hell, we were supposed to catch up on like the...you know. days ago. Fuck Miranda, I have to work in the morning."

"You have to work right now. Seriously. Alan, it wasn't just you. I've barely spoken to anyone. Just Crystal and Amanda. Mark called to talk about the proposal..."

"Oh, yeah. Tell him congratulations from me."

"Yes. To them, yes. From you. And Jeremiah Harrison called yesterday. I saw Keenan last friday. Keenan and Lisa are the only people I've hung out with since I've been home."

"That's it?"

"I texted Wood. He called me the next day. Maybe the day after that. The text said, I have news. And I can't sleep. And I remember this, you know? And I'm worried what this will degenerate to by Thursday, The last two times I did this, I suddenly realized I loved some boy or another three days before I left, and both times, they were next to me in bed the morning of my departure. Once in my bed, once in his. And the one when it was his? Fuck, this is what I fear the most--because I got out of his bed, told him I loved him, then flew from Miami to Seattle and at some point pushing twenty hours later I was in another boy's bed in Olympia telling him I loved him. And both were true."

"Wait. Wait, wait. Back up."

"No, hold on. I'm saying...I'm saying that I remember that next morning. The Olympia morning. Vividly. I remember waking, and with my eyes still closed taking a deep breath through my nostrils, and then parting my eyes, and the room was bright, and his sheets were navy blue like mine are now, and it took me a good ten seconds to realize where I was. His arm was around me, over the bedspread, and I realized that it had been over two months since it had been there before, and then it all hit me. It hit me that this--this morning, when I was awake and he was still breathing softly behind me, was the best it was going to be. And I'm not looking forward to Sunday morning. I was 23 then, I had half as many tattoos and I was so very in love. And worse than..."

"Wait. what the fuck is on Sunday?"

"No wait. Worse than that will be Sunday. Because Sunday will be exactly the same, except I will likely wake up alone. And worse than knowing that the present moment is the absolute pinnacle of the two of whoever is realizing that it's already passed and you missed it. And then I'll just be there. And I mean, I already know it. All of it. I know what's in store for me but I can't..."

"Wait. Seriously. Shut the fuck up for a minute."


"You're leaving."



"That's what Jeremiah said, and I was just like 'I know, right?' like I didn't know. And yeah, I don't really know why, I guess. I just, you know, big change. And I miss them. My fucking girlfriends. My boys. Even Kyle. And I want everything to sit still for long enough for words to make sense again without this--these stupid little devices I use when I can't figure out how to combine a couple of story lines eloquently enough to just tell a fucking story."

"Seattle? You're going to Seattle. How long this time?"

"Indefinitely. Some kind of near future forever. I have a year lease on my writing studio that I'm sharing with Amanda down the street from my house. Maybe a year. Maybe less. Probably not more."

"Your voice is shaky."

"I'm terrified."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home. Well, my home for five more days, anyway. All of my pictures are off of the walls and in boxes. There's stuff all over and nothing is where it goes except for my shoes and my bed. It's so fucking sad to see these three-and-a-half years spread all over my floor and to see every little photo and memento fit neatly into one manila envelope."

"Oh, come on. Don't be scared."



"I am scared. Come over."

"By come over, do you mean doggy?"

"Oh, just shut the fuck up and get in a cab. Don't let me be alone. Not tonight. Not 'till I leave."

"Kay. Ten minutes. But Miranda?"


"You know what you're doing, right? I mean, you're setting your own trap, making your own bed. You know what's next, right? I mean, you just laid it all out. For me. You're repeating yourself and you know it."



"Just get in a fucking cab."



My Home Phone Does Not Have Caller ID


"There you are. You haven't been answering your cell. For weeks."

"Shit. Alan, I'm sorry, it's just..."

"Naw, don't. Don't even. You've gone and come back and left and are back again--and have been for days--and I get nada?"

"Shit. Shit, shit. Okay, no. I know, it's just, you know. There's all this stuff, you know? Seattle stuff. SF stuff. Bullshit, actually. Some good, some bad. All hard. No pun intended. Look, I'm glad you called."

"I bet you are. I'm recording this."

"Recording? Can't we just talk? Like people. Like...maybe I just need some advice."

"I'm still recording. I read your blog--about the most recent trip. I have questions. Did you see Mark?"

"Huntsman? Yeah. Of course. We had lunch before he left for Sante Fe, talked about you know--stuff. And about Dear Fat Kid."

"His novel?"


"Tell me about Dear Fat Kid. Not the story, I mean, you've mentioned that. Tell me about how you're feeling now, having fnished it."

"I feel like I love it, and I feel like I'm terrible. I have no direction. I've spent too much time in California worried about everyone else, and every time I think I've stopped, I'm suddenly forced to realize who I've become in the wake of one of my friends. In the wake of my own indiscretion because of them. I'm tired of it. I need a plan."

"I spoke to Mark. He mentioned the two of you, at Cafe Septieme, shooting the shit and all, and of your adamence that you needed a plan. Do you have one yet?"

"Wait. You spoke to Mark? My Mark? What the fuck Alan, can't you just stick to your own local obscure writers? I mean, what the fuck. He's two states away! What interest do you have?"

"You said he was brilliant. I trust you. And I want in. That's me--what about you?"

"About me what? Alan, what the fuck. How did you even hook up with Hunts?"

"What about what you want?"

"You're ignoring my question."

"Damn straight I am, I fucking asked first. Miranda, what do you want?"

"Okay. Jesus. Be a little harsher, why don't you? I'm never fucking you again. What is it? No--really. What is wrong with my vagina? I swear to god--everytime I fuck some boy or another he goes fucking nuts on me. Every. God. Damn. Time. I'm tired of it! What do I want? I want one fucking week to feel static enough to get some good shit on paper. Something I'm proud of and whole and compelling. I want stories to pour out of me all night long like they used to, not to have to extrapolate plot and wit from a series of post-its and torn notebook pages months after the fact. I want to sell more pieces. I want boys to know all of the different Mirandas that there are. I want..."

"To finish your novel."

"Yes. And for it to resonate. To be as charming and compelling as I can be in person. For one to be able to hear me on the page. For many pages. I want it to feel lovely to read. But I'm sure Hunts already mentioned that."

"Yes. He did. He spoke of the Art Show chapter, and how he had spoken to you about it as well."

"Yes. Yes. And I want...maybe I want to perform again. I don't know, but I need a change. A big one. I'm sick of settling, I'm sick of accepting. I want to demand, for reals. I want to actually demand and not just say I am. I want people to support me. To question me. To want to know how all that Cake has tasted. I want Cake. The litteral, the proverbial, the whole fucking-frosting-covered-oh-so-sickly-sweet-gamut. I want it now."

"Watch out, Veruca."

"Fuck that. I want to watch for nothing. I'm sick of being scared. I'm tired of being scared of the future, of my bank account, of keys in my lock. Of people bigger than me, of people smaller than me. I'm sick of being scared that I and my talents and my abilities aren't good enough, because aren't they good enough for something?"

"Or someone?"

"Funny you should ask that today. Over a year ago, I was interviewed in front of my work for a short film project by the author of a book called Laid or Loved. Now, I haven't watched the video in ages, but she asked me a question something like "Which would you rather have, love, or sex?"

"What was your answer?"

"I said I wanted to be fucked by the people I want to fuck me, and I want love from the people I want to love me."

"That's pretty telling."

"Whatever. The point is, I was walking into work today, and this woman grabs my arm and is like "Omigod, do you work here? Aren't you Miranda? Do you remember me? I'm Dr. Jen!" and she wants another interview. Then she gave me a copy of her book and a t-shirt that she had brought to Market Street today just in case she ran into me. True story."


"And what? I'm fucking memorable, goddamnit. And it's not just because of my unique tattoos or my glasses. I was wearing long sleeves today. She was fucking looking for me because of five sentances I said a year-and-a-half ago. Five sentances."


"And no. I'm not the siren Big Alexis speaks of, nor am I the savior Little Alexis speaks of, but I'm something. I'm something more akin to the charmer Other Nick the Writer speaks of. But I'm definitely fucking memorable. And that--THAT is my favorite Miranda. Of all of them. I want her on the page. Right next to slutty Miranda."


"Listen, are you still recording?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Good. Play that all back to me later. I want to remember this."

"Is that part of the plan? To remember that you said all of this?"

"It is now."




"I gotta go. I have planning to do."

"Yeah. You know, I think I might need one of those too. A plan."

"Kay. Just don't bother me with it."

"Excuse me? Who's harsh now?"

"Did you not just hear a word that I said?"

"Maybe not. Maybe we're both glad this is recorded."

"Tomorrow. Call me. Text me."

"Kay. 'Till then."





[There you go. Like I said, true story. --M]