— tapioca world tour

I walked for hours tonight. In heels. Got blisters. Didn’t care. It was a lovely night.
I’ve taken to walking alone at night, and I quite like the routine. Used to do it in high school — I used to run at night — just to clear my head…and to impress my high school boyfriend, then a track star, now a gay go-go dancer, but that’s an entirely different story. Tonight there was a smoke stack over Harvard that looked like a sea horse, and there was a puddle that looked exactly like a donkey. Old tires and new flowers intermingled on the edge of private gardens. See, there’s a little country even in this city.

Been having some sentimental moments lately, though I won’t go into detail, except to recount tonight’s editorial while babysitting: the dad wanted to know if I’d be (true to my own fashion) picking up and leaving Boston again soon. I told him no, I signed a contract at work, I’ll be here for a while yet. “Good,” 8-year-old I. said in her overly articulate way. “I don’t want you to move away. I like you. I want you to keep being our babysitter.”

I really think self-worth has everything to do with what children think of you — or at least it should.

I’m going off to NYC tomorrow. It’ll be my first opera at the Met (Tasca), and while that’s quite exciting, I’m more looking forward to Saratoga next weekend with The Funny Ladies and a bunch of New York horses.

Yknow, I really have to stop being such an asshole and start writing back to my friends. I honestly don’t know how I still have any friends, since I never ever stay in touch with them. Man, I’m such a jerk.

The best line Hugh McGowan ever wrote, aside from “Sattled and spurred by regrets, my horse kicked her heels and she left” was: “So again I turn to this — another poet’s absolution — as if I could write it down and make it go away.”

My favorite thing about living in Somerville is having a bathtub.

My favorite thing about writing online is you don’t have to make any sense or maintain consistency, and you can be as selfish and confessional and bleak and uninspiring as you want, and people will still read you anyway. It’s a new kind of autobiography, a renewed communication based less on human interaction and more on emotional bonding with complete strangers and their individual experiences. I would write a thesis on this idea, but (ha ha!) I am no longer a student. And so it’s all for you.

I made a quick tribute video for J.’s dad’s retirement. It took all night, and it’s not a very good segment, but I was tired and achey and up til 4am. Part of the late bedtime was due to a Burren field trip with Ry to watch Hugh McGowan sing, but that was requisite. I love going there and I can’t explain why. The people are all so weird and neat, that’s why, and the bartenders don’t care if I just drink seltzer. Every year I spend in Boston is so interesting and different. That’s a great thing.

Maisha’s story, inspired by Johnny Damon, best Red Sox ever, and Simon, her best friend, and Ryan, my best friend:

Once upon a time there was an eight year boy, and his older brother’s name was RyanMatthewDamon . There father’s name was JonyMichael Damon.They were very rich family and they lived in a manchin in Calaforneu.And of cours the eight year old little boy’s name was SimonMikeDamon. There mom’s name was JobyJesseDamon.Simon’s and Ryan’s birthday is coming up on July16. there doeing great in school.So their parents said that they could do something besides their party. But we want to go to Florada,but there parents say that they can’t go to Florada. What you can do is have a big big party.But but we really want to go to Florada. But there parents said no.

Maisha has come and gone. The fiesty 9-year-old spent her weekend here buying new clothes (via me), sitting patiently during the anti-torture talk JH gave, modeling UUSC’s new “Peace is not vintage” t-shirts, and then running wild through the miles of antiques at the Brimfield Fair with lemonade and hot dogs and french fries and ice cream in hand. Ah, kids. Gotta love them and the money they make you spend. Maisha gets away with everything because she looks like a mini Kenyan runway model but acts like a military dictator. I’ve got all my chips in her corner, and she’s got all her chips in mine:

“Bonnie,” she said as she was leaving with her dad, “I want you to be my mom.”
“No you don’t,” I said. “Your mom’s the coolest person ever. I know because she helped raise me.”
“No,” Maisha said. “You’re cooler. I think you should be my mom.”

Maisha’s adopted, and my conception of family has absolutely nothing to do with blood, which explains why her brother is my beneficiary. In her mind, it’s quite possible that, pending a few signatures and court appearances, I could be her mom. The fact that I’m ranked higher than her incredibly cool mother made me feel proud, even for a moment. And then I slumped into J.’s truck and announced I will not be having children for a long, long time. I will only have

technological problems:
After completing my third hour battling the evils of Netgear Wireless Communication via technical support in India, I have finally fixed our wireless problem. Charming! My head aches and it’s time to go to bed. This means, however, I now have a proper use for the two large street signs I purchased at the fair — one “STOP” and one “SPEED LIMIT 45″ — both of which I am converting to computer desk space…because I’m cheap and hip, or hip and cheap, or just plain cheap. Or just plain don’t care. I’ve eaten more fried food today than I hope to eat for the rest of the year. Don’t do it, dude. Fried chicken and fries and chocolate cake = no good in excess! Here’s to a healthy 2005…

Actually, I love board meetings at my office. Various eccentric board members three times a year come for weekend meetings and spend their breaks in my cubicle talking about documentary production and chaos/complexity theory, and my new boss takes me for walks around Kendall where we speak in wafting soliloquies on the topic of gardens and boxing and hybrid technology while everyone else gets locked in conference rooms, contemplating budgets and strategic plans.

I’ve begun to become distinctly aware of the shocking uniqueness of my own life: I love my job. I love my coworkers, my pals, my film crew (many overlaps exist within those categories). I love 9-year-old Maisha, who will visit me this weekend for a night of potlucks and anti-CIA-endorsed-torture lectures at churches and a day of antique furniture shopping.

And speaking of capitalism,

skin product shopping is fun with male friends. As is spinach ravioli. As is assembling bedframes. I would write in detail about all my recent adventures, but what fun would that be? The unspoken is most significant.

Last night, after the 48 award screening, I tried to return E.’s car and go to bed, but due to extenuating circumstances, ended up at Skygo’s bar with M & M and S & S, respectively, until 2a. Skygo’s is a dive bar which I avoided while N. was in town, although I don’t know why. It’s small and dingy and has a jukebox and extra-fizzy ginger ale. Even when you’re not drinking, what’s not to love?

S. sat gracefully for a while

as did I

while M. bebopped around the room.

Then the bar owner’s son got all weepy when U2 came on and he made me dance with him to “Haven’t found what I’m lookin for”.

After sitting around a bit,
M & S were eventually persuaded to dance. The evening ended with all of us on our feet, rockin out to the BeeGees in the corner. It was like a trippy episode of All In The Family, quite possibly my favorite show ever. This was after I got to play Maggie May on the jukebox, quite possibly the greatest song Rod Stewart ever made, particularly the mandolin solo at the end. The only person in the world who agrees with me is Joe, and I wish he’d have been there to defend my love for the tune, as present company wasn’t feelin the love and I had to sing along alone.

“Maggie, I wish I’d never seen your face.
I’ll get on back home one of these days…”

This is one of the nights I will remember when I think back on my 26th year.