Mozzarella and The King

I got a haircut today, which only tends to happen twice a year. A big day, it was. While I was heading to my appointment, it was once again confirmed to me that there is snobbery against Somerville amongst residents from other areas of Boston. In this case, presumably, a resident of the neighborhood in which I was walking, the South End. Here is what I overheard:


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Stocky Sidekick: "Ewww! That sign says the mozzarella cheese was made in Somerville."

Tall Transvestite: "Huh?!" (obviously not one bit of interested in what her sidekick has to say)

Stocky Sidekick: "That sign says the cheese was made in Somerville. Who would want cheese made in Somerville. That is like eating cheese that was made in shit. Yuck."

Tall Transvestite: "Hi!!!!" (waving to person in tanning salon)


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Why they gotta be dissing on my Somerville?!

Now, to The King. The owners of the hair salon that I go to are presumably obsessed with Elvis. Here I have only partially documented their insane devotion...in the form of Elvis dioramas and altars in the bathroom:

Also, the courtyard of the Boston Public Library is a great place to knit. I started my Sockapalooza pal's socks there today.