spatch: (Default)
Write Ur Numbah Here
Red Line train. Back of the cah.
Below were several numbahs: 1, 5, and foah.
spatch: (Default)
A helpful comma

Reebok had these silly ads around South Station during the Boston Marathon weekend. This ad is still up on Summer Street near the Fort Point bridge intersection. The gist of the ad campaign was that it was okay to not run like a banshee and then pass out from heat exhaustion while you cramp up and die. And that apparently Reebok shoes are good for not cramping up and dying in. And that when you're cramping up and dying, you begin your sentences with 'and' and end them with a preposition.

The slogan picked to help us remember not to cramp up and die is "Run Easy" which, in and of itself, is an okay slogan. But this is the Age of Local Branding, so the Reebok ads in Boston had to pertain to Boston, and apparently that also includes adding the city name to the end of their spiffy slogan. Thing is, "Run Easy Boston" isn't really a proper sentence. Thankfully here some kind grammatician has actually affixed a little comma sticker to the sign and made a decent sentence out of it.

I have no idea where the heck they got a comma sticker from, though. Or from the heck where they got a comma sticker. Something about prepositions, etc.

Dubious Food

This is actually a picture of cookware in Target showing what dandy foodstuffs you can make with their dee-luxe cookware sets. Thing is, we think for some of the pictures, they just threw whatever they had into the picture for MAKE LOOK FOOD.

This, for example, appears to be an omelet with what look like garden peas -- still in the pod, mind you -- and red peppers. With two blades of grass on top, apparently. Just my morning usual, really.

Satellite Super Slide Um.

Oh, and there was also a RANDOM CARNIVAL IN MEDFORD this weekend and we happened across the tail end of it tonight. There's some rides and some dark ride/funhouse bally art, too, including, well, a disturbing fire hydrant. See? Oh boy.

Here's the entire set and how.
I missed my 9:00 appt with Doc Sarcastic today. This Tuesday-Friday work schedule thing throws me off every time, because during the work week, I honestly don't think "Monday" or "Wednesday," I think "Second day in a row I've worked" or "last day in a row I'll work." Thursday, then, usually corresponds with "Fourth day in a row I've worked" but, well, not anymore.

I completely forgot today was Thursday until it was about 10:30 and I'd given myself a no-show. And that's not such a good thing, seeing as how I remember signing a piece of paper the first time I went to the doc's office that said "Oh yeah, if I don't show up for any of my appointments without giving you 24 hours' notice, I'll owe you a gazillion dollars."

Oops. Or, should I say, goddamn.

Anyway, to make up for my dreadful mistake, I'm including under the cut two pictures of probably the most disturbing ad I've seen yet on the T. It makes the "BOF FRI FLEU" stroke victim cartoon poster look like a good idea. It "works" on any number of levels, both viscerally and metaphorically. I'm putting it under the cut just in case you may have a workplace with a weak constitution ... though honestly, since it's in plain sight every single goddamn day on the train, the ad really is work-safe, but still...

This, folks, this is America. )

Some days, I just don't know...
spatch: (Brick Peek)
Some pictures have stories behind or around them.

Test. Purge. Ventilate.
Test. Purge. Ventilate.
Bonus ref for certain Paul Harvey fans:
"Search. Rescue. Ventilate. Somebody's singed a kitten. Heh, heh, heh."

Saw this on the back of an nStar utility truck as it was parked in Downtown Crossing. I eagerly took a snapshot and then turned around to greet the very large, very Southie employees of nStar, who were very curious as to what I was doing taking pictures of their vehicle. I explained I liked the words on the picture, I liked the triangular formation, I mentioned some bullshit about composition, and I also said I didn't know what they meant, but I liked 'em all together.

Turns out these are the three steps utility workers have to take when opening a manhole cover so as to not have it explode and send the cover flipping like a giant steel DISC OF DEATH over the unwary population. Cool, eh? They were nice guys, really helpful in explanining their manhole access process, and they let me keep my camera and my nose intact, so I gotta say, I was happy.

Later on last night I was sitting in the Davis Square central park with Clem, showing her the picture on the phone so I could tell the story of the nStar workers and all that. We were approached by one of Davis' finer colorful citizens, an friendly older hippy with a Jack Russell terrier. I don't know her name, but she was friendly and when she noticed us swapping a cameraphone back and forth, wanted to see the picture too -- "I like seeing things I've never seen before!" -- and so I showed her the camera. She squinted at the picture, frowned a bit, and furrowed her brow.

"It says FUDGE," she finally concluded. Then she said "You two are made for each other. I, I can tell."

Clem and I looked at each other. I meant to say "wait, what" but instead it came out as "Er, how can you tell?"

"Because she's got dimples!"

"Uh, okay. Nice dog," a rather dimple-free Clem said, trying to change the subject. "What kind is he?"

"Brown," the lady replied. "Actually he's a Jack Russell Terrorist. He's very serious, as you can see. He likes being very serious." The dog ran around and wagged his tail and sniffed at some leaves on the ground because that is what serious dog terrorists do.

And that's just two stories that came out and around this innocuous poorly-lit picture of a triangle with three words in it.

Skull Butlers A'Plenty Man this guy is creepy Skull Butlers

Some pictures, on the other hand, defy conventional storytelling altogether.
spatch: (Beer)
Man, I hate two "they're gone" posts in a row.
I've also had a few in me tonight, but they didn't come from this place.

The Littlest Bar 1945 - 2006 The Littlest Bar 1945 - 2006 The Littlest Bar 1945 - 2006

The Littlest Bar was indeed the littlest bar you ever saw.
Its official capacity was 38, though the sign above the bar read "Legal Capacity 3000."
The pay phone was located in the restroom, whose door didn't shut all the way
because it was mostly blocked by cases of beer.
You couldn't help but talk to people at the bar. Even at my most anti-social, I could
strike up a nice conversation with a stranger over a pint of Guinness.

The Littlest was living on borrowed time.
Its fate has been sealed since mid-2005, but its execution has been stayed several times over.
It served its last pints on Saturday, September 23.
Somebody thinks a big-ass building of luxury condos would better suit this space in Boston.

That somebody is full of shit.

Fuck you, Abbey Group. Fuck you for taking away something special, wonderful and unique
only to put up cookie-cutter "luxury" bullshit in its place.
May your housing bubble burst and take you with it.

EDIT: There is hope; the hand-written note above the door reads "Build it and they will come." The owner of The Littlest may very well be on his way to opening another Littlest on Devonshire Street.


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