[Letter from the Editor] 
When I called Byron Rushing to tell him he was a Good Bostonian, he said, "The Weekly Dig? What did I do that's so funny now?" Have we become so notoriously cynical that no one believes our annual attempt at sincerity? I guess the answer, "I don't know, but we'll think of something," didn't help.
[Letter from the Editor]
DEAR READER,
We're right in the middle of the "dog days of summer," a phrase that is, much like the resurrection/savior myth,
[Letter from the Editor]
Appetite is a weird thing. Distinct from actual, physical hunger, the emotional compulsion to consume seems to be dependent on several shifting parameters: mood, company, one's willpower to resist the last brownie. Not only do menu descriptions, regardless of actual food quality, pique the palate (would you prefer "the chicken" or "free-range rosemary-basted coq au vin"?), but a study to be published in Psychological Science's October issue even suggests that menu typeface can influence diners. Eerie? Call it cravings of the brain.
[Letter from the Editor]
Dear Reader,
Got any change? We sure do. For one, it seems every insane Gemini I know has to have a huge birthday party, and it's taking us about four hours to get there on the Red Line. It's also mid-June and we're obsessing over ... basketball? Weird.
[Letter from the Editor]
Dear Reader,
This issue of the Dig is brought to you by the word hot.
"Hot," as in the opposite of cold (e.g., it's really fucking hot out), is derived from the Old English hat and the same Proto-Indo-European root as that of "heat," qai. The association of the word with sexuality dates back to 1500; however, "heat," referencing sexual excitement in animals (e.g., you better wear a rubber in the heat of the moment or this retro porno has me all hot and bothered), didn't make its way to colloquial usage until 1768.
[Letter from the Editor]
Ah, beer. I mean, music.
Boston and brew are nearly synonymous. Never mind Mr. Samuel Adams, who is an international superstar at this point, but Harpoon Brewery is also fast on the march. Last time I was in Brooklyn (I can last about 24 hours there), the bartender at the hipster dive I chose was going on and on about Harpoon IPA's popularity. Down the street in Williamsborg [sic], a new crop of Boston bands were starting to take hold, too. With Boston known for its baseball and beer, our bands are not so far behind.
[Letter from the Editor]
There must be something in the water, because it seems like these days, comic books and variants thereof are cropping up faster than sugary cupcake bakeries. After meandering last weekend through the "Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy" exhibit at The Costume Institute at The Metropolitan Museum of Art—imagine Thierry Mugler and Balenciaga pitched against bona-fide costumes from Iron Man and The Dark Knight—I witnessed new relationships come alive between the human body, a world of uncertainty and fantasies both dark and triumphant.
[Letter from the Editor]
Water-related activities that seem like a good idea, but in actuality, are not:
1. Sitting in the splash zone at a marine wildlife show—with your skin crackling under Californian or Floridian sun, this may seem like a refreshing treat, until you realize there's no chlorine to sanitize whale-sized excrement.
2. Sex in a hot tub—while commonly fantasized about in movies, the odds of having waterproof lube on hand when you're spontaneously jumping in with a partner (not to mention all the glamour of a public pool/pedicure washtub) are slim.
[Letter from the Editor]
Happy Mother's Day! You didn't forget, right? Oh shit! Better ride a Dutch bike home, order some organic flowers and make a reservation at a restaurant that serves a gourmet cheese plate designed by expert cheesemongers (check Department of Commerce for more), and take her to the Art Institute of Boston's first student-run expo. After that, dump her as fast as you can and woof it to the Dizzee Rascal show. Read Faraone's article to learn how to interact with the rap star.
[Letter from the Editor]
Dear Reader,
After a week of spring fever (Is senioritis contagious? Thanks, interns.), I spent some pre-season time in Ogunquit, Maine this weekend. In search of brunch, my boyfriend and I stumbled upon the Omelette Factory, a local institution celebrating their 25th year in business. Situated in the basement of Cindy's Convenience Store, one can assume both are owned by the chef extrordinaire, Cindy herself, much like Publick House Provisions featured in the Department of Commerce, which recently opened down the street from its parent restaurant.
