Dashboard Mouse Guts and Postmodern Pancakes

The past few days have brought a plethora of phrases.

Dashboard Mouse Guts was one of many things sandrylene misheard on Thursday, referring to Lar's "dashboard house pets" en route to driving to Harvard Square. Yes, driving. It was bitterly cold that night. All the more so because we hadn't had much chance to adjust to classical winter temperatures yet. (I remember temperatures under 0 degrees fahrenheit being not as remarkable when I was a kid.) Even the short walk from the nearly rockstar parking spot (we got there just as all the loading zone restrictions were lifted) was harsh.

In Boston, such chilling digits are known as ICE CREAM WEATHER. At least, that was the theory thrown out by someone a few years ago, as to why someplace that's usually pretty cold and miserable out has such a variety of quality ice cream shoppes. My companions didn't buy it, and, my "second" choice, Burdick's, was an easy win.

Afterwards, Lar dropped me off and happily waved goodbye as I nonchalantly walked off with The Wombat. (As in Brodie's Wombat, stolen from that liquor store in Jersey, right before we locked ourselves out of one car, and fit some 7 of us into the other. No one wanted to wait with the locked car due to the Wombat.) She didn't notice until I mentioned it to her.

The next night, hahathor kicked off my wicked social Friday by accompanying me to the new Decordova show. Their opening receptions are free, catered, and hence mobbed. Maybe it was the weather or something causing people to improvise, but the peoplewatching was unparalled. I liked the art too. OCD abstract patterns, for the most part.

Afterwards, I met up with "Jick" and Riff at the Burren, and left with just enough time for Lar to come by to steal back The Wombat before I went to pick up Purple to go with me to the IFF volunteer thingie. More a screening than a party. I like Killing Flies was the feature documentary that included a bit about pancakes to order, including Postmodern Pancakes, which are pancakes with bits of (cooked) pancakes in batter. The shorts included Washington and, GOWANUS, BROOKLYN (the short that inspired Half Nelson), and all kinds of snarky in-jokes that possibly convinced Purple to volunteer this year. (Imagine, for a moment, what happens when a cell phone rings in a theater full of ushers. Bwa ha ha ha.)

Inevitably, I was not awake moving quickly enough to get to Vericon the next morning to see the Capture the Flag game. But I did get there in time to nosh on mephistakitten's homemade treats (although never actually saw her), at "Milk and Cookies", where I heard an improv story about a Secret Hasidic Ninja Spy Outfit. As in, both the kind of spies involved and what they wore.

Sunday was a valiant attempt to be productive. Portions of my bathroom are now arguably "clean". Maybe even "sanitary". (Despite all that, I still went to my gym to shower, because they have a hot tub and blow dryer, and aren't nearly as stingy about the thermostat as I am.) Then I wandered in on the tale end of the Red Bones art cards fundraiser.

I stuck with one of my stock doodles, Angry Bunny (lifted from some erstwhile bar in upstate New York a decade ago, even if he does resemble Big Bunny, especially if you color him in as pink), in appropriate Underbones context. Rob Logan (the artist who did all the paintings, and bones, in underbones, including the beloved "Imp Ale") would not let me leave until he could trade for some of my Bunny cards. That was, as they say, An Hoot. I took a few sheets of the pre-printed card forms home, so that I'll be loaded for Bear (or perhaps Bunny) the next time.

Dashboard Mouse Guts and Postmodern Pancakes

The past few days have brought a plethora of phrases.

Dashboard Mouse Guts was one of many things sandrylene misheard on Thursday, referring to Lar's "dashboard house pets" en route to driving to Harvard Square. Yes, driving. It was bitterly cold that night. All the more so because we hadn't had much chance to adjust to classical winter temperatures yet. (I remember temperatures under 0 degrees fahrenheit being not as remarkable when I was a kid.) Even the short walk from the nearly rockstar parking spot (we got there just as all the loading zone restrictions were lifted) was harsh.

In Boston, such chilling digits are known as ICE CREAM WEATHER. At least, that was the theory thrown out by someone a few years ago, as to why someplace that's usually pretty cold and miserable out has such a variety of quality ice cream shoppes. My companions didn't buy it, and, my "second" choice, Burdick's, was an easy win.

Afterwards, Lar dropped me off and happily waved goodbye as I nonchalantly walked off with The Wombat. (As in Brodie's Wombat, stolen from that liquor store in Jersey, right before we locked ourselves out of one car, and fit some 7 of us into the other. No one wanted to wait with the locked car due to the Wombat.) She didn't notice until I mentioned it to her.

The next night, hahathor kicked off my wicked social Friday by accompanying me to the new Decordova show. Their opening receptions are free, catered, and hence mobbed. Maybe it was the weather or something causing people to improvise, but the peoplewatching was unparalled. I liked the art too. OCD abstract patterns, for the most part.

Afterwards, I met up with "Jick" and Riff at the Burren, and left with just enough time for Lar to come by to steal back The Wombat before I went to pick up Purple to go with me to the IFF volunteer thingie. More a screening than a party. I like Killing Flies was the feature documentary that included a bit about pancakes to order, including Postmodern Pancakes, which are pancakes with bits of (cooked) pancakes in batter. The shorts included Washington and, GOWANUS, BROOKLYN (the short that inspired Half Nelson), and all kinds of snarky in-jokes that possibly convinced Purple to volunteer this year. (Imagine, for a moment, what happens when a cell phone rings in a theater full of ushers. Bwa ha ha ha.)

Inevitably, I was not awake moving quickly enough to get to Vericon the next morning to see the Capture the Flag game. But I did get there in time to nosh on mephistakitten's homemade treats (although never actually saw her), at "Milk and Cookies", where I heard an improv story about a Secret Hasidic Ninja Spy Outfit. As in, both the kind of spies involved and what they wore.

Sunday was a valiant attempt to be productive. Portions of my bathroom are now arguably "clean". Maybe even "sanitary". (Despite all that, I still went to my gym to shower, because they have a hot tub and blow dryer, and aren't nearly as stingy about the thermostat as I am.) Then I wandered in on the tale end of the Red Bones art cards fundraiser.

I stuck with one of my stock doodles, Angry Bunny (lifted from some erstwhile bar in upstate New York a decade ago, even if he does resemble Big Bunny, especially if you color him in as pink), in appropriate Underbones context. Rob Logan (the artist who did all the paintings, and bones, in underbones, including the beloved "Imp Ale") would not let me leave until he could trade for some of my Bunny cards. That was, as they say, An Hoot. I took a few sheets of the pre-printed card forms home, so that I'll be loaded for Bear (or perhaps Bunny) the next time.