Sushiesque

Et moi, et moi, et moi

1. Last weekend, I cornered some gussied-up anime kids with the help of co-Bostonist Rick (and the saintly patience of Courtney and Ryan). This made for some decent photographs and a swell post; I've just been informed that my shot of one Kingdom Hearts posse made it onto Gothamist proper.

2. Ken Ueno—minimum security composer, throat-singer, current Umass Dartmouth faculty, and sometime Jon Whitney collaborator—wreaked some choice havoc at the Boston Modern Orchestra Project show last night. My review will soon appear is up on the Boston Herald's web site, of all unlikely places.

Letters & Periods

It is a natural inclination of mankind to save trouble and time. With the rapidly expanding use of abbreviations, however, particularly during World Wars I and II, it is not too certain that any amount of time is being saved, especially for readers who insist on knowing what the letters stand for. Goodness knows what the Atomic Era will bring forth!

Edward Frank Allen, Dictionary of Abbreviations and Symbols (London: Cassell, 1949), purchased from McIntyre & Moore on Wednesday evening. (They're having a 50%-off sale in preparation for their move from Davis Square to dangerously close to my apartment.)

The following are some of my favorite entries from the D. of A. & S., after my first, brief perusal:

C.T.A.U. Catholic Total Abstinence Union.
M.A.O. Master of Obstetric Art.
Ms. Massachusetts.
N.S.D.U.N.S.P.H.I. National Society to Discourage the Use of the Name Smith for Purposes of Hypothetical Illustration (an American organisation).
P.P.C.L.I. Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry.
S.D.U.K. Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.
S.M.C. Worshipful Company of Spectacle Makers.
vaud. vaudeville.
V.O.P. very oldest procurable (whisky).
V.V.O. very very old (whisky).
Xper or Xr. Christopher.

See also: Two unfortunate acronyms.

Miss Teen Wordpower

disghibelline. v. 1. According to the Oxford English Dictionary: "To distinguish, as a Guelph from a Ghibelline." 2. One of many fanciful entries at risk as the OED gets some long-overdue revisions.

Buddhistenführer. n. A title bestowed upon the Dalai Lama by the German press, along with geistlicher Anführer ("sounds like a gang lord with some spiritual inclinations").

sudorific. adj. 1. Causing perspiration. Or, as the OED puts it, "diaphoretic." 2. One of ten definitions I couldn't guess in the process of "donating" a thousand grains of rice via the addictive charity/vocabulary quiz FreeRice.com. (Thanks, Lulu!)

Photograph: 1640 Mass. Ave., Cambridge.

Hand-to-hand

Central Square's rainbow corridor hasn't slept in a week. The frequently painted-over mural in the alley at the intersection of Mass. Ave. and Pearl Street (officially Richard B. "Rico" Modica Way) has been accruing layers daily, most recent and notably the pair of Bankyesque pugilists surrounded by stenciled and hand-painted crosshatching. (The same designer is likely isn't actually responsible for the red, white, and blue tourists and office-chair spectators.)

Update: I found the Wall's mastermind on Flickr (via the Phoenix's Phlog while vapidly self-googling) and more information, all of which makes the psychedelic alley considerably less mysterious but no less pleasant to look at when carrying my grapefruit juice and organic jalapeno cheesy poofs back to the office.

(Iceman remains respectfully unmolested.)

Previously: Ou sont les bombs d'antan?

Three ghastly items about film

1. A few years ago, I photographed an unfortunate sequence of movie titles on the Somerville Theatre's owl-fortified marquee and asked, "Second-run movie theater marquee, or worst personal ad ever?"

A film blog called Focus Pull has found many more local listings for bad dates, ranging from the mildly unfortunate KNOCKED UP WAITRESS to the off-putting THE MEXICAN SNATCH JUST VISITING, and some indiscreet casual encounters: SPY KIDS BLOW CROCODILE DUNDEE IN LOS ANGELES.

2. The current issue of The Believer delivers a much-anticipated (by me, anyway) interview with/by/between Errol Morris and Werner Herzog. I was not surprised to learn that they visit incarcerated serial killers together, and it makes a lot of sense that they'd have a falling-out over grave-robbing.

WH: I was there, but you didn’t show up. And we had a date. It was something like September 10, and I said, I’m going to be there, and you will be there, and you didn’t show up.

EM: He’s unfortunately correct.

WH: And I would have dug, even though Errol wasn’t there. I was kind of scared because people open fire easily in this town.

Ou sont les bombs d'antan?

When I wasn't looking the whole mural in the rainbow-snow alley of Central Square got repainted. There are parts of it that I'll miss—Bren Bataclan's many-eyed bird-deity, certainly—but one can't blame some rather accomplished vandals for seeing the blanket pseudo-graffiti as an invitation.

And it speaks well for them that the Iceman mosaic seems to have been carefully spared (above, bottom leftish corner).

Snakes in our own back yard

Gus, delightfully staying the weekend on our couch, has shown me a video that demonstrates, by way of cruel exaggeration, the degree of memorization that we take for granted as a condition of playing Super Mario Bros. It's like an 8-bit snuff film.

And, in the course of last night's beering and stinky-cheesing, she put forth a novel proposal for safeguarding the public domain.

Show us the way to the next

Friday, 5 p.m. My genius haircutter has up and moved to South Carolina and my bangs have grown down into my eyes. So a new guy is cutting my hair.

I have brought a vintage hat with me, and informed him that my hair has to look okay with this beaded artifact and its ineffectual little veil. He takes this in stride, talks about his dislike of Hillary Clinton, and does a pretty good job of turning my pageboy back into a proper bob.

6 p.m. Sew buttons made of old Bavarian coins onto a cheap new coat from the Urban Outfitters bargain basement.

6:45 p.m. The friendliest cabbie in the world tells about his problems with Hillary Clinton and his theories about Jack Ruby and the mafia. He wishes me and my hat a lovely evening.

7 p.m. Arrive fashionably late (but several decades out of style) for beer with Bostonist people at the Cellar.

8? p.m. Abduct Rick & Courtney, whom I've just met. Rick puts on some proper neckwear.

The Gentleman's Whiskey & Chat is in full swing at Grand, a handsome new shop in Union Square that sells bric-a-brac, wooden taxidermy, and sneakers from Shanghai. Tonight it's full of bowties and whiskey.

Brayden, Katie, and Ryan all end upon in Eric Silva's photographs, which exceed mine in loveliness and clarity. I get a free Manhattan.

And I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, knitting

Subway Knitter's much-admired CharlieCard mittens—woolen accessories with a pocket for an RFID subway pass, so you can just slap the turnstile instead of fishing the card out of your wallet in your pre-caffeinated morning-commute state—have become a curious case study in the diverse demographics of the online knitting community.

Are these mittens a godsend for cold, clumsy hands, or are we knitting the Mark of the Beast onto ourselves?

If that seems like a non wtf sequitur, here's some background reading: Spychips: How Major Corporations and Government Plan to Track Your Every Move with RFID by Katherine Albrecht & Liz McIntyre (Nelson Current, 2005), later reissued with the even more strident title The Spychips Threat: Why Christians Should Resist RFID and Electronic Surveillance.

Cliffs notes: Godtube!

Via Universal Hub.

HQ774.A68 2008

Gwynne & Gabe's baby arrived on Monday. His name is Anselm Thomas, and he looks like a sleepy marshmallow. Congratulations! (Eight pounds of congratulations.)

See also: His wardrobe, on Adorablog.