SATURDAY, 29 JULY, 2000, BOSTON

I have a funny little dream. A whim. Call it a “caprice” if you’re that sort. I want all my IIF’s across the globe to join hands and see if we can create a new contiguous band about the world. An equator of IIF’s, as it were. And then I want every IIF to offer me their sofa for a few days, okay? (Yes, this means you.) Hello from Boston! Never thought I’d make it. Between Ewab, the Evil Witch of Anti-Boston, and all the crummy drivers in Connecticut that added extra hours onto my trip (on my bleedin’ birthday no less!), I am surprised to be here at all. Lees™ and Kev® have surpassed even a sofa and have turned what seemed to be an ordinary couch in a well-appointed kitsch household into a Mighty Morphin’ Futon. Add to that a childhood-era knitted afghan and a wandering Whitey Bulger and they have inadvertently catapulted themselves right onto the ‘A’ list where they are joined by Mlle. Badjuju, the Gentleman Caller, the Sepulchritude gang, Miss Anne and all the other indispensible people in my life whom I originally met via the internet or other local online services. So WiReD am I. You’re next, Pinch. I’ve never really seen Chicago short of driving through it or hangin’ out at O'Hare. Gotta spare sofa and a grandmother’s afghan? I come bearing Tastykakes. Anyway, yesterday (stop me before I link again!) I mentioned that Mz. Lisa and her affable houseboy were the internet’s hippest couple, which perhaps wasn’t fair pressure to put on them, seeing that as of yesterday, they didn’t really exist at all. But they have lived up to my accusation and surpassed it, having arranged for an evening at a little nightclub in Hahhvahhd Squeeah with a couple of fantash bands, “Jumprope” and “The Boy Joys”, the latter being a brilliant Bee-Gee’s tribute band. How Deep Is My Love? Sooo deep. I like Tremont Ale. I think I rather like Boston in general. Dumb not to have come here earlier. I particularly like the local “dialect.” I was happy as an ADD child on Ritalin last night riding the T listening to the conductor announce the next tube stop. Train Dude: “Next stop, Jackson Squeeah. Döhwahz’ll open ooanya lift.” Marquis: “Tee hee hee! He said ‘Squeeah’. Tee hee hee!” Lees™: “Yes. That’s right. He did.” Trik and I have a bet. She is a native Bostonian whom I know from New Orleans. She wagers that, when sufficiently drunk or tired, Lees will accidentally slip into the flat Boston accent. I wagered she wouldn’t. Well last night she was drunk, then later, tired, and I haven’t heard any “Jackson Squeeah” slip out involuntarily yet. I win. Nyah. Kay. Apparently someone’s having a “yahhd sale” down the street. “Great accents are gonna be there. Good kitsch.” Ohhh, Lees. I’m so theeah.