mennonno sapiens - one giant leap for mankind

Moving Daze, the Aftermath

Mike Mennonno — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 18:09:00 GMT

Well, with the incredible help of three of the hunkiest (and humpiest) guys I know, I managed the move yesterday. It was hotter than the hinges of hell, of course, and the traffic was abominable, but my boys stuck with me (even after I nearly electrocuted one of them) and I spent the first night in seven long years in my very own place.

With all the kids moving into the building, my Merchant Mariner welcomed me to my new "dorm." Since I was told by the rental agent that this end of the Fenway was a little less dormy these days, I was not thrilled, but my Mariner was. And I have to admit there was a lot of totty out on the streets of the ol' Fenway yesterday.

"You're clever," he said.

"Well, if the mountain won't come to Mohammed..." I told him.

Yes, a lot of friendly (obviously not yet Bostonized) fresh-faced, sweaty boys. And (correspondingly?) a lot of stink-eyed girls. Ladies, what is up with the look?  Is bitch the new black? Seriously. Guys, especially when they're doing real sweaty guy things, like hauling furniture and moving heavy boxes -- we hold the door for one another, hold the elevator, shout encouragements and cheer each other on. It's like this whole comrades-in-arms thing kicks in. It's super cute.

Girls apparently just get super bitchy.

The boys were definitely doing all the work yesterday. And they looked hot doing it.   My boys most especially.

So here's what you get for $1265 a month in the Fenway...

the view through the kitchen to the nook

the view from the nook to the kitchen

living room and nook

There's also a good-sized foyer and three large closet spaces. But the reason I took the place is the view:

Ah, Ramler Park. How I love thee.

I'll leave you with a little ditty from the Squirrel Nut Zippers that's too appropriate...

Fight the Right by Fighting for Right

Mike Mennonno — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 16:55:00 GMT

Moving Daze

Mike Mennonno — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 12:40:00 GMT

I want to apologize up front to Boston today: I'm part of the clusterfuck. But then, on Moving Day in Boston, who isn't, right?

Yep, it's Moving Day again -- can you believe it? -- and already things are crazy out there. Lock your doors, stay inside if you can.

I have friends who live in college towns who understand Moving Day, but only to an extent. Multiply by fifty, and you start to get the picture.

_____________________________________

Today, my fellow Bostonians,
we are all douchebags.
_____________________________________

Moving is all about logistics, laying plans, organizing boxes, coordinating schedules, and then at the last minute saying "fuck it!" and just throwing as much shit in the back of the station wagon as will fit, and sorting it out over the next three months.

I always get my books sorted first. And I have to admit it's starting to feel like some sort of slightly creepy fetish, books themselves are becoming fringey curios (thank the gods my porn collection is entirely on disc or I'd need an eighteen-wheeler). I find it harder to part with my books than with friends or lovers. The latter are, in fact, merely necessities when it comes time to move the books.

I don't think of myself as materialistic really, but compared to most people I know I guess I sort of am. I mean, Jake had his La-Z-Boys and bedroom set, and his jersey Shore wardrobe (what's with the straight boy shoe fetish?), but it took him all of twenty minutes to pack up and move house.

Books by the foot.

My hunky sailorboy, Drew, moved house last year, and had, like, three things, and one was a Chia Pet. He'll help me move, but still refuses to help me move any books. He wants me to burn them all. Gives new meaning to Kindle, eh? Thank goodness I have another hunky friend who's a school teacher who understands why burning books is a no-no. It pays to have to hunks around from all walks of life, let me tell you.

Logistics.

There are lots of ways that moving in Boston is more complicated than in other places. Parking, for one. I had a friend who was moving last week call me up begging me to just come sit in his car for an hour with the blinkers on so he wouldn't get a ticket while he loaded up the last of his stuff. You'd think that Boston could just throw a "Snow Emergency" for move-in day, but there's gold in them thar double-parked U-Hauls.

The Wonder Twins are making things a little harder than they need to be on the homefront, too. Yesterday afternoon, I was trying to clear out my stuff from the rapidly Asianizing kitchen (it is incredible how much stuff you can stuff in other stuff), when they came home. Every time I cleared an inch of shelf space she was barking at him to fill it with something. I mean, like, right then and there.

Similarly, I came out this morning to find the new roommate's stuff piled on top of my stuff -- the stuff she was moving in on top of the stuff I was moving out. What kind of physics are they teaching the kids at MIT these days? I had tried to confine myself to a corner of the living room, and there were other corners available, so I don't know if there's some funky quantum shit going on... hey, where's my cat?

Just kiddin.

I don't get the keys until noon, so that's when the clock starts. I managed to get everything sorted by early this morning, and after disassembling my bed-frame, I ran over to Dunkin to grab a sandwich and a Boston Cream donut, which I planned to make love to in the garden.

That Dunkin Donuts across from Berklee is just what I'm talking about. You go in there, you order, and they give you a number. Then you wade into this mob at the end of the counter, everybody waiting for their orders. Does the girl behind the counter call out the order numbers? No, of course not. That would be maddeningly simple. Instead, in an indecipherable accent of some sort -- I'm thinking Indian -- she calls out the contents of the bag.

Heaven help you if you space it, and someone else snatches your order thinking it's theirs. Which happens, people. You know, you've been there for twenty minutes watching her like a hawk, trying to figure out when your order will be up, and some sod who just waltzed in, who maybe ordered the same sandwich, gets grabby, and you're looking at another twenty minutes before maybe, if you're on your toes, you'll end up with his.

This makes getting breakfast almost as stressful as it was in the Ancestral Environment. But, you know, we evolved on from that for a reason, people. We have numbers for a reason.

But just watching this poor woman trying to get 'er done this morning -- if we were back in the AE, she'd have been eaten by a lion by the time she got my order up.

I was watching her like a hawk, let me tell you. Somebody spent years designing the system at fast food dumps to be as ridiculously efficient as possible, but it all comes down to human evolution in the end, dunnit? She had two orders up and ready to go -- and one was mine (I figured this out through a complicated algorithm I invented that I won't go into here), but instead of slipping them in the baggie and calling out the numbers, she let them sit there as she started another order.

Never mind lions, bitch was lucky she didn't get her head bitten off by one of us.

Finally she gets them in a baggie, turns to the Dunkin lynch mob and blurts out something nobody understands -- but it ain't a number, that's for sure -- and then about twenty people go grabbing for it. They don't care what it is by now, they just want something to eat and to get on with their lives.

It almost came to fisticuffs, but I got my effin sausage sandwich. I didn't evolve for nothin.

I don't know, it makes you long for the days of natural selection. But I have to admit, it's the perfect start to Moving Day.

Late Night Blues

Mike Mennonno — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 03:40:00 GMT

Carlton Blues, that is.

Mark Austin and Jarrad Waite

Chris Judd

more Chris Judd

Kade Simpson

Lachlan Henderson

Shaun Hampson

Aaron Joseph

Levi Casboult

Joe Anderson of the Blues and Michael Osborne of the Hawks

Mercy. I could go on and on and on, but it's after midnight, and I'd never get to bed.

Patience

Mike Mennonno — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 00:57:00 GMT

I hadn't seen him all summer. And then tonight, in the garden, I looked up, and there he was. Can you spot him?

He sat there taking it all in, the quiet of dusk. I wondered how he could just sit there, unperturbed on that branch in the old willow when surely there were countless voles, mice, and other morsels ripe for the plucking in the underbrush. But then I realized, of course they know he's here. The atmosphere is positively charged with his presence. "Bright power," as Robinson Jeffers wrote, "dark peace."

Everyone but us knows he's here.

After about twenty minutes, he lifted a talon. Poised, as if...

And he perched like that for another half hour.

I never saw him dive -- the decision, the fast falling in slow motion, and the sudden, perfect death -- like a divine flash. Swift and silent as fate. The hawk bears no grudge (unlike the grackles and crows that sometimes gang up on him). These are intersecting geometries, nothing more. He's no agent of justice or retribution.

Just fate. Waiting patiently for its moment.

The Pity Party

Mike Mennonno — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 13:43:00 GMT

When Ken Mehlman, architect of the GOP's 2004 anti-gay get-out-the-vote strategy, announced to the world that he was gay, the histrionics from both extremes of the political spectrum was predictable, as was the big yawn in the yawning middle.

But the extremes are instructional in their way, and the reaction of the extreme right GOP, which is more extreme by far than the extreme left Dems (who, in moving to the right, have become downright centrist) can tell us everything we need to know about the M.O. of the Gay Old, er, Grand Old Party.

Mehlman's Republican brethren are defending him against the evil, intolerant, means girls on the gay left, who they fear "may even try to follow him around, possibly even accosting him in public. They will not give him the space to deal with this in private and in his own way." Poor, poor Ken. What did he ever do to deserve this imaginary pillorying?

But isn't it funny how fast the issue here became "conservative gays: victims of left-wing 'homosexual agenda'"? Brilliant. I mean, how is it that the GOP, with its experts at scapegoating for political gain (they invented the "wedge issue"), always ends up crying "victim!" in the end?

GOP? GOPP -- Grand Old Pity Party -- is more like it.

I guess it's just part and parcel of their political creed of having their cake and eating it too.

__________________________________________________________

Newsflash, bitches: if you go out gay-bashing
and come back with your eyes scratched out,
you've got nobody but yourself to blame.
_________________________________________________________

Most gay people find themselves politically on the left not out of some mysterious radical “homosexual agenda”, but because the right has shamelessly exploited homosexuality as a wedge issue -- of course that radicalizes the opposition. That's the point. That gay-bashing has been a strategy on the right isn't even up for debate. It’s an acknowledged fact on both sides of the political spectrum. It’s something Mehlman himself acknowledges (he fingers fellow-queen Karl Rove for it, though).

Truth is, most gay people I know aren't all that political. They just want equal rights and protections under the law and to get on with their lives, period. It's simple. We're just like anyone else. We pay our taxes, we want to be treated the same as other citizens, without having to cower in the closet or bow and scrape for it.

The political right is what is keeping us from achieving this, and the right is keeping us from it not because they "hate" us (for the most part) but for political gain (which means they are exploiting those who do hate us for votes). You don’t have to be political to be appalled by and opposed to that M.O.

For those concerned for Mehlman's privacy and safety, nobody’s going to follow Mehlman around and disturb the delicate process of his private coming out (complete with chichi coming-out party). Mehlman is not that big a deal to liberals. He’s just another Republisexual, a private gay who knows a good wedge issue when he sees it.

SPAM Goes Meta

Mike Mennonno — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 12:19:00 GMT

I just got a fascinating spam in my junk box, with the subject line: "SCAM VICTIMS COMPENSATIONS".

Apparently now that the Nigerian scam has run its course, they've come up with a Nigerian Scam Victims Scam.

Oof, my head hurts.

But don't worry -- it's not those mean old Nigerian scammers running the show anymore, it's the UN, who "was alarmed so much by the world in the meetings on the lose of funds by various individuals to the scams artists", that they decided to give victims $100,000 each!

Booyah!

It's not a lot, considering the millions I lost to the Nigerians -- DAMN YOU, NIGERIANS! -- but still it's something. Recognition of a sort. So, where do I sign up?

The Union Bank Plc in Nigeria.

Gotta love it.

Glory

Mike Mennonno — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 10:32:00 GMT

I haven't posted any pics of the garden here for awhile, which may have left the impression I'm not there more or less every day (you can always find up-to-date pics in my flickr stream).

Aside from rain days, you can find me (and this summer several Friends of the Blog have stopped by to say "hi") in the garden, "pottering about" as my friend Thom (the "T" is hard, the "H" silent) says, most late afternoons, early evenings...

It's been a glorious summer.

Where You At?

Mike Mennonno — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 16:36:00 GMT

So, last night I went on yet another of Marlin's Midnight GardenTours.

Marlin is this kid I keep running into on my evening perambulations in the neighborhood. I'm not exactly a night owl, but most evenings of late have been so magical, I find myself out on the stoop enjoying them into the wee hours.

Marlin describes himself as "a little bit French, a little bit African, and a little bit Native American*." His peerless cocoa skin is perfectly complemented by his hazelly-green eyes. Built like a brick shit-house, lean, rippled -- "pantherlike" pops to mind -- but it's definitely the eyes that have it. I haven't been this taken by a set of peepers since I don't know when.

Marlin's give his slightly animal features a devilish cast as he prowls the Fenway on his bicycle. We first met (remember the "handshake of the nineties"?) at the beginning of the summer one fine twilight, and have been carrying on whenever we happen to run into each other in the 'hood. We exchanged numbers several times but planning our liaisons seemed to drain the charge from them. Much better to leave it up to the stars, who obviously know what they're doing.

It seemed obvious to me, at least. I mean, who wants to spend endless hours texting back and forth trying to arrange a meeting for sometime you don't know if you'll even be in the mood for it or not? And then you have to spend endless hours texting back and forth disingenuously rescheduling.

Marlin and I didn't do a whole lot of talking, and that was part of the charm. I have plenty of people to talk to. Talking is all most people are good for. So when you find yourself a Marlin, why waste your breath nattering on about God knows what? A mouth like that -- those generous lips, that take-charge tongue -- is not made for talking.

Nor are those animal hands -- that can read the flesh like a book -- made for texting, pecking those tiny buttons like a pigeon on breadcrumbs, but a couple of weeks ago the texts started coming.

I was a little surprised, I have to admit. And, frankly, chagrined. And not least because I have an ancient Star Trek-era flip-phone it takes me ten minutes to type in a tiny text on. It's also, like, twenty cents a text! And folks with unlimited texting lo-o-o-o-ove to text and text and text. They can do it all day. And then when you stop answering, you get one of these "???" texts. It's still twenty cents, bitches. I have to pay for that.

The first time we hooked up we exchanged numbers and he sent me a picture of himself to my phone afterward. I didn't even know you could do such a thing with a phone. I sure as hell can't with mine. And if I could, Lord only knows how much that would cost me. You better make it a money shot.

So then he texts to ask if I got his pic. I'm like, whuhh? He's like, dude, you need to go to Metro PCS, and started quoted me service plans. I'm thinking: does he work for them, or what?**

It wouldn't be a bad "guerrilla marketing" scheme, come to think of it. "Metro PCS: Hook up and... hook up."

Anyway, it's been gnawing at me ever since. Especially since my Virgin plan is not any cheaper than Metro PCS's cheapest plan when you factor in the constant top-ups for the texts.

So my question for Friends of the Blog is "where you at?" with your cell phone plan? And what do you recommend for a cheap old bastard who needs a serious upgrade if he's gonna be hooking up with text-crazy twentysomethings?
___________________________________________
*You know that type that has his lineage down to 1/18th Chippewa -- I always thought it was funny and a little poignant. I used to work with a crusty Irish broad who never failed to mention the fraction of "indian blood" she was convinced she had in her. She may or may not, for all I know, but again, I find it somehow poignant that she cleaves to that bit of tragic nobility we associate with "indian blood".

**And no, I don't either -- this is not a paid advertisement, I swear.

The King and the Fool

Mike Mennonno — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 19:09:00 GMT

If you want to see how Fox makes the news, look at any news site or turn your TV to any news channel today, and you'll see Glenn Beck and his band of merry idiots marching on Washington with their hand--painted signs and making a mockery of Dr. Martin Luther King's world-historic speech.

Don't get me wrong. It's entirely appropriate that the occasion of that famous speech be hijacked and the memory of its real and stirring moral call to arms made a mockery of by Beck & Co., who claim to have chosen the place and time without knowing its significance. I believe them. I mean, of course they didn't know. Why on earth would they? But they have merrily capitalized on it as an afterthought, haven't they?

That's how mockery works.

So why is it appropriate, you ask? Because not only have we all but abandoned the moral mission King mapped out in his "I Have a Dream" speech 47 years ago today, but we have allowed people like Beck to hijack the agenda. We could pretend to be the nation MLK dreamed of almost fifty years ago today on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, but then along comes Beck.

We should all be ashamed that we can't look away.

Beck has been compared, and, indeed has compared himself to Howard Beale of Network. But in the movie, Beale raged against his bosses at the network (especially when he discovered it would be bought by a Saudi Arabian conglomerate -- hmmmm?) -- Beck wouldn't dream of criticizing his keepers. With his book clubs and online courses, he's more Fox's noxious answer to Oprah.

No, Beck is no Howard Beale. He's having his moment now, but when his ratings start to slip we can only hope Fox will do to him what UBS did to Beale.

Now, that'd be news.

Today's Totty

Mike Mennonno — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 02:03:00 GMT

From the Youth Olympic Games in Singapore...

Alois Knable of Austria

China's Qiu Bo

Wei Siang Ooi of Malaysia

Mehran Sheikhi of Iran, top, and Aldar Balzhinmaev of Russia, bottom

Nestor Abad of Spain

Cristopher Pavon of Honduras

Damien Hooper of Australia

Oleksandr Bondar of the Ukraine

Maximillian Schneider of the USA

Uh-Oh! BP's Going Crazy With the Dispersant AGAIN!

Mike Mennonno — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 22:11:00 GMT

Here.

An Epic Joni Mitchell Liverwurst Sandwich

Mike Mennonno — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 13:54:00 GMT

It must have been a sleepy Sunday morning a couple of weeks ago when I thought, mmm, I'd like to hear some Joni Mitchell. I don't know about you, but this mood comes on about as frequently as the "mmm, I feel like a big ol' liverwurst sandwich!" Nothing against wurst or Mitchell -- I enjoy both in extreme moderation -- I'm just saying it doesn't come on that often.

At least that's what I used to think. Before I turned 41. Since that fateful Sunday morning I have been caught in an epic Joni Mitchell liverwurst sandwich, playing 5 songs over and over (when they're not on my headphones they're in my head) -- "A Case of You", "Help Me", "Big Yellow Taxi", "You Turn Me On I'm A Radio", and (my current fave of the five) "Free Man in Paris" -- all worthy classics from the Rhino High Five compilation. But still. Enough.

I tried to break the cycle with the dishy Sufjan Stevens' Delighted People EP (a small step, granted), but I couldn't find a hook to help me out.

I do have a tendency to get trapped in song spirals -- sometimes for months at a time. Last year right around this time it was Patty Griffin. Is it an end of summer fling with female folk singers? Is it hormonal? Has anyone else experienced this? Is there a name for it? Is this Manopause?

Help me! I think I'm fallin--- oof!

I Can Has Revenge?

Mike Mennonno — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 22:09:00 GMT

The Cat in Bin Lady has been caught!

I say they toss her in a bin with a clowder of feral cats and see how she likes it.

The Wild Reeds

Mike Mennonno — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 17:40:00 GMT

Les roseaux sauvages.

The Boston Courant reports that the famous Fenway reeds, hated and beloved, are "likely here to stay".

An article in this week's edition says: "The city's Parks and Rec Department anticipates being denied a request to mow a larger area of the invasive phragmites, commonly known as reeds, which residents and city officials cite as a public safety issue."

This is the latest in a long battle to Esplanadize that bend of the Muddy River, a move that some claim would eliminate unwanted elements from the area.

According to the paper:

While the reeds remain, gardeners at the nearby Victory Gardens continue to experience vandalism in their gardens and discover drug paraphernalia in their crops and tool storage areas.

..."When the reeds finally disappear," [Fenway Garden Society President Tim Horn told the paper], "we'll be in much better shape as far as crime goes."

While I'm philosophical about Esplanadization -- it could be lovely if done right and well-maintained -- I'm not so sure there's any reason to believe that mowing the reeds will halt the nightly wild rumpus in the Victory Gardens, which are, themselves, almost impossible to patrol.

Eradication of the Phragmites may, in fact, have the opposite of the desired effect, driving the wild rumpus further into the dark heart of the Victory Gardens, and wreaking even more havoc amongst the cabbages.

But it doesn't look like we'll know for sure any time soon.

Cowboys and Idiots

Mike Mennonno — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 16:42:00 GMT

Here.

Hot Licks

Mike Mennonno — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 20:07:00 GMT

I ran into friend and fellow gardener Rick Malkasian a couple days ago coming down the garden path on his way to his ukulele class. He told me he was on youtube playing some hot licks, and I said I would try to help him go viral.

So please click this link several times a day, and send it to your coworkers, friends and frenemies, and help Rick become the next big viral video star!

(OK, so he's no Jake Shimabukuro yet -- yet! -- and he has no chance in the world of ever catching this kid, but, come on, he's way better than keyboard cat.)

Savage Loved

Mike Mennonno — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 16:01:00 GMT

Friend of the Blog Matt from Denver tipped me off that Dan Savage had responded personally in a post on Slog to a comment I left on another post on Slog about one group's youtube antics boycotting their local Target.

A little back-story here. One of my pet peeves is people conflating "queer" with "gay", and the video pushed that button by demanding that Target take back a contribution to an anti-gay politician and give it to "queer youth" instead. In my comment I was trying to point out that many self-identified "queer youth" are actually anti-"gay" themselves.

I had actually wanted to blog about the issue a couple of weeks ago when I read a ltte in the Weekly Dig from one very outspoken local queer youth by the name of Jason Lydon...

I am really excited that Cara Bayles did this article ("Radiqueers,"News to Us, 6.9.10), but one of the pieces that is missing is an analysis of white supremacy culture and the role it plays in both mainstream and, unfortunately, some radical queer politics.
The dismantling of white institutions and white structures of power is vitalto any real queer movement for liberation. Here in Boston, we see white supremacy in white gay men and white lesbians gentrifying certain neighborhoods in Boston, pricing out low-income people and people of color. Queers in Dorchester, South Boston, Back Bay and Jamaica Plain have an important role in challenging the ways gentrification happens.We should not be creating "safer" spaces for ourselves by taking the homes of other people. Pricing people out of the city is part of white supremacy culture. Take a look at more resources here: cwsworkshop.org/resources/WhitePrivilege.html.

... which I found totally toxic (and not a very nuanced -- which is to say true -- picture of what's happening in Boston).

I kept putting off writing about it because to do so would mean publicly revealing that I still occasionally read the Weekly Dig, and there are personal reasons I wanted to avoid that admission.

Anyway, in Savage style Dan went right for the jugular. The title of the post: "The 'Queer Youth' That You Know Are Total Morons."

Although I'm not a big name-caller, I couldn't have said it better myself.

Lotta Dumb Animals, and Other Thoughts on a Walk

Mike Mennonno — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 12:02:00 GMT

I went on an epic stroll with my friend Thom last night. He's moving to Portland, Maine next weekend, so we met for a bon voyage beer. Since he's a North Ender and I'm an East- (soon to be West-) Fenser, we decided to meet in the middle, on the storied steps of the Boston Public Library in Copley Square.

(I had mixed motives for meeting him there. I had wanted to get to the postcard exhibition before the library closed at five, but a trip to the gym and an epic nap put the kibosh on that.)

As I made my way down a busy Newbury Street, Thom texted to tell me he was "sitting next to the Artist, under Titian," and I knew just where to find him. When I arrived, I noticed the Artist has started to flake. She got a coat of bronzer a couple of years ago to cover over her weathered green pallor (which I personally preferred)...

I suspect someone's been picking at her. People don't like their art too pretty these days.

The weather lately has been not to be believed, so a stroll was definitely in order. I wanted to walk along the Esplanade and take Thom to the Wish Fulfilling Bench that looks out over the gondola rank, so that he could take care of any last-minute wishes before moving on to the next exciting chapter of his life.

I'm not sure why the quotes are there -- I hope it's not for cruel ironic effect -- but it does give the impression that outcomes are not guaranteed. Still, I'm a big fan of the "Clap if You Want Tinkerbell to Live" Principle -- the mind is powerfully susceptible to suggestion, and I did not let on to Thom that I had any doubts about the wish-fulfilling powers of the bench. Especially since all you have to do, apparently, is sit there. You don't even have to toss a coin into a fountain, or anything. It's almost too good to be true, innit?

We ambled on from there, to the Lotta Fountain. A hidden little gem along the Esplanade, it was built in the late 1930s in memory of entertainer and philanthropist Lotta Crabtree, founder of the Lotta Dumb Animal Fund, according to a provision in her will to erect a drinking fountain in Boston for “men, horses, birds, and dogs.”

As you can see, it's now a bit off-the-beaten path and neglected. The dog on the plinth (modeled after sculptor Katherine Lane Weems') is missing part of its ear, and the cat-faced spout at the base is missing half its face! Talk about a dumb animal!

Weems is most certainly spinning in her grave, never mind Lotta. She had carved out quite a niche as an animal sculptor. She was responsible for the facade of the Harvard University Biological Lab, with its panoply of animals, and the two ponderous Rhinos on the front steps, and the dolphins at the New England Aquarium, too.

You can donate to the campaign to refurbish the Lotta Fountain, so that future generations of men and women, birds, and dogs (and maybe even horses -- who knows what the future will bring?) can drink from it, here.

I hadn't been on the Esplanade in a while -- it used to be on my ride home. I had almost forgotten how nice it is to share a summer stroll along the Charles with a friend.

Speaking of summer strolls, I noticed on my walk the other morning that the South End Knitters have replaced the thingamabobs on the whatsits at the West Newton Street entrance to the South End Corridor Park...

A busy little city, Boston is.

Dan the Man

Mike Mennonno — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 21:19:00 GMT

About a week ago I won my first ebay auction! After an intense bidding war, I got this photo...

... for 99¢.

It arrived in the mail today, and I have to say I'm about as tickled as the color of the card it came lovingly tucked inside.

The photo was printed in September of '79, and I think it perfectly evokes the age. And every element of it piques my imagination -- the lack of any indication of where precisely it was taken -- was it New York City or Saint Paul, Minnesota? It arrived thirty years later from the latter, but who knows? -- coupled with the nearly, but not quite anonymous name on the hoodie. There's the hint of a young, handsome face with its fledgling sideburns --- but just a hint.

And of course there's the hot pants.

What is the story here?

If it were a polaroid it would be more Warholian, but infinitely less intriguing. Most Friends of the Blog remember the days before digital, web- and cell phone-cameras came along, when, unless you had your own lab or knew someone who did, you had to be discreet in what you shot.

Not that we would consider this racy today (which is yet another of its charms), but it could be considered, in certain climes, somewhat compromising, don't you think? There is the hint of illicitness, but it's not sordid or ashamed, really. It's a bit naughty. And slightly... demure, you might say, in a '70s sort of way.

Whatever the story is -- and it is a nearly endless source of fantasy fodder for me -- this 99¢ photo: priceless.