RE: Who are you these days?

from: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]
sent --- 9:14:54, 01.10.09
to: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]


Nice post. Seems you're back to your old self, in a way anyway. I mean, hey, if you can't air his shit on the internet, how about dear old Alan's? You still haven't addressed, however, the intent and original question in all of my e-mails: when can we sit down and talk? I feel a post-November recap is in order; you're sitting on a treasure chest of new work and have shared relatively little. Don't I deserve first dibs?

But hey, yeah. I'm not gonna lie--I do want to know who this man is. He did something no one else could. I couldn't do.

And I think I tried.


from: ["m moure" m@mmoure.com]
sent --- 10:54:15, 01.10.09
to: ["Alan Stevenson" astevenson@sbcglobal.net]


January 21st. One month before my Blogoversary, and the day after the inauguration. Deal? In return, I'm gonna need you to get the fuck off my case and out of my inbox for a while. You're not even real, for chrissakes.

And fine. Fine. I will give you one of three, just to seal the deal. But that's it--don't expect more in a couple weeks.

In the grand tradition of Mr. Perfect and The Sportsmaster...

He calls it The Lion King.

Happy now?


Up and down the hourglass.


I didn't even want to bother e-mailing this, as I've noticed your daily presence on my site tracker. And you know, fuck it. I'd post this anyway.

And yeah, you're wondering, everyone is wondering. Why haven't I written publicly about him? Hmm.

You know, we were just talking about that. I think it was Monday night, and I had gone out with Tobes and J-Ru and when I finally made it down to the other end of the hourglass around midnight, I threw all my shit in a pile on the floor and said "Baby, I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm a little drunk." I laid next to him all sweet smelling and freshly showered, and I ran my hands through his still wet hair and he poured me a glass of port from a bottle he had sitting on his nightstand. And this is like many nights.

I'm not saying that every night is like this, but I'm saying that it's like this. It's just going to the grocery store and drinking beers and godknows what. We do the same stuff everyone does, and we have the same arguments everyone does, and most of it isn't that noteworthy.

That's about half true.

The other half is that there is one line that he's always telling me that is constantly reverberating in my head when I sit down in front of my laptop, and it's "that's us, not anyone else." Go figure. And so it comes to pass that the quiet, contemplative and reserved songwriter has fallen in love with the loud-mouthed sex blogger, and most days, yes, I do think it is a bit foolish of me to offer him a courtesy I have previously only granted to one other person: that I don't air our shit publicly on the internet.

But really, I mean, I wouldn't really have a whole lot to say. Save...well, fuck. But that, maybe thankfully, is something I haven't found any words for yet anyway. Maybe someday. Maybe even without permission. Who knows. But for the time being, you'll have to believe me when I tell you that you'd likely rather not hear about us walking through the produce section of Red Apple deciding betweeen red or green cabbage or when he's helping me look for my misplaced tampons. Most of it just really isn't that exciting.

Yeah, there are stories I am purposefully omitting, and that's what we spoke of on Monday, if it was Monday. If you'd really like to know, there are three. Of every single story that the two of us have created together, five of them are poingnant and three of those are omitted from retelling. Three. That's really all I'm keeping from you. And no, Alan, you likely wont find out. You can, however, rest assured that whatever it is you're making up in your head right now, it's probably more illicit and exciting than the actual story. What I've omitted has nothing to do with content, but rather propriety.

You have to let me try this for a while.



Goodbye, stinkbar.

It is Monday, and unlike every Monday in Seattle before it, I am off to meet World Class Bartender Extraordinaire, Jeremiah Harrison, at a bar that is not his.

Go figure.



Resolute: Part 2.

I haven't picked any resolutions yet, so I decided to make a list of things I'm thankful for since I never did it at Thanksgiving. Let's go ahead and go with 5, because the Robbin's I'm currently reading is dwindling in pages and next I'll likely re-read High Fidelity. Not that you need to know what I'm currently reading.


1. Wet Seal 2 for $10 wife beaters.

I can never have enough lyer tanks, and I love these. I am thankful that they are just good enough to wear and yet exceedingly cheap. When they catch a snag or reveal a new hole, they then guiltlessly meet the trash can. I mean, fuck it! They're five fucking dollars.

2. Painted Label Longnecks.

There are four left in my fridge. I am reffering to Rolling Rock, by the way. I am a terrible label peeler, and these beers leave me to more productive terrible habits while I'm drinking. Like biting my nails.

3. The snow is gone.

That one needs no explanation. The day it finally started melting, I almost started believing in god.

4. Black Flats.

Okay, duh. Of course I love every last pair of my black flats, but I never realized exactly how much until the snow melted. It is here that I might add that the pointy ones have a special place in my heart.

5. Our table at Loretta's.

New Year's Eve found us at Loretta's in South Park, which I think is my absolute favorite bar in the world. After ordering, I was nonchalantly informed that "our table" was open. Our table. I haven't had one of those since Angel's on Broadway closed, which, if you are a fellow Seattleite, you will know was a very long time ago.

In closing and in preparation for a most auspicious evening, I's like to end with a quote from the Myricks Family Themesong which I may or may not hear live tonight, setlist depending.

I give a fuck you to my father for not raising me
and I give a finger to my [brother] who was beating me
and I give props to myself for acheiving.

That is how I learned how to survive.

Goddamn I am surprised that I survived.