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Last night Mr. H and I went to the Lowell Folk Festival. Folk is the city’s code for “ethnic,” so there weren’t any jugbands playing or cut outs of farmers bending over for sale. We ate delicious meats on sticks and listened to a singer who sounded just like Tom Waits. We enjoyed ourselves unironically. Anything is possible with enough beer and fried dough. We even saw a dachshaund, swaying gently to a salsa beat.

What’s in our pants today: