Saturday, November 10, 2018
Saturday roundup
Late to this, but here's an excellent take on New Yorker festival-gate.
Mr. Rogers, practicing the kindness he preached, became a vegetarian. On that note, here's a fantastic excerpt of a review of a ferry:
The error in Bannon’s headlining The New Yorker Festival would not have been in giving him a platform to spew his hateful rhetoric, for he was as likely to convert anyone as he himself was to be shown the light in conversation with Remnick. The catastrophic error would’ve been in allowing him to divorce his ideas from the fascist practices in which they’re actualized with brutality. If he is at all relevant, it is not as a thinker, but as a (former) executive who has worked to build the Trumpist edifice of power that cages children and is dismantling mechanisms of democracy.
Mr. Rogers, practicing the kindness he preached, became a vegetarian. On that note, here's a fantastic excerpt of a review of a ferry:
Here are some people who don't suck. And more people who don't suck:This review is spot on pic.twitter.com/PwyOMVjwJC— 🙀 (@rgbrb) October 30, 2018
A year ago, a tiny blind kitten was about to be put down when this family rushed into the shelter and saved his life. YoYo has brought so much joy to their lives since then, and today they're celebrating his rescue-versary 💞 pic.twitter.com/L3v8ILMjNF— The Dodo (@dodo) November 10, 2018
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Sunday roundup
What a tragic week it was. Heartbroken for the victims of the Pittsburgh shooting. Furious about the motivation. This thread.
So, yes, as a Jew it is required that I welcome the stranger, that I protect the refugee, that I pursue justice. If you hate Jews for doing that, I’m proud to have your hatred.— Jacob Remes (@jacremes) October 27, 2018
Don't call the police on black people for existing.
FFS don't accost people for speaking a language other than English.
Cold fusion is actually a thing, if you have muons.
Saturday, October 20, 2018
My camera for two weeks
I don't love my camera. I bought it because it was indestructible (and waterproof), but the picture quality isn't great. I didn't realize that until I was disappointed with my Peru pictures, because I didn't have time to test it out in the months before the trip. Since then, I've been disappointed with my South Africa, Balkans, and Borneo pictures, and I want a better camera for my next trip.
I did a bunch of research (let me tell you how sick of online product research I am, between my kitchen appliances, mattress, and other stuff) and settled on a refurbished Panasonic Lumix. I was wary of getting a refurbished camera, but I came to realize I wasn't going to get the quality I wanted for the price I wanted with a new camera. I was determined not to make the same mistake; this time, I would test out the camera and figure out how to use it. So the first thing I did was take it around town. It did not disappoint.
I took it to North Carolina and it performed well. I took close pictures of gargoyles from far away. Yay new camera!
I went to transfer the last of the NC pictures when I got home... and the viewfinder was shot! I hadn't dropped or otherwise damaged it in any way (if I did, it was very, very sensitive to minor contact). Luckily, I'd discovered the issue in time to return it and get a new one. I ended up finding one model up new for the same price. Let's hope that one lasts!
I did a bunch of research (let me tell you how sick of online product research I am, between my kitchen appliances, mattress, and other stuff) and settled on a refurbished Panasonic Lumix. I was wary of getting a refurbished camera, but I came to realize I wasn't going to get the quality I wanted for the price I wanted with a new camera. I was determined not to make the same mistake; this time, I would test out the camera and figure out how to use it. So the first thing I did was take it around town. It did not disappoint.
 |
| The zoom was amazing! |
I went to transfer the last of the NC pictures when I got home... and the viewfinder was shot! I hadn't dropped or otherwise damaged it in any way (if I did, it was very, very sensitive to minor contact). Luckily, I'd discovered the issue in time to return it and get a new one. I ended up finding one model up new for the same price. Let's hope that one lasts!
North Carolina
The Biltmore is overpriced AF, but with the Chihuly exhibit, it was worth it.
Most of the wine was mediocre at best.
Later in the week, we tasted more wine.
And played trivia overlooking Lake Lure.
And drank more wine.
And ambled around Asheville.
And drank more wine.
And communed with landscaped nature.
The next day, we hiked around Chimney Rock.
Throwback Thursday
I know, it's not Thursday. But this really is about a Thursday-related throwback, not that that's important.
I've been thinking (and blogging) a bit about the people we've become, and where we came from, and what a long way it can seem to be. I wrote about it with regard to my kitchen but spared you when I ordered a new mattress. Here's the short version: I remember starkly how Nina's parents and mine had an epic meltdown because she spent $500 on a mattress (this must have been 20 years ago). It was the height of indulgence and financial irresponsibility! Who would do such a thing when you can get a mattress for $75?? And that is their attitude. When I decided to replace the mattress I've had for more than ten years--largely out of stewardship for my problematic back--my initial research pointed to the starting price of a decent mattress being around $700, with the average for decent being around $1,000. I found this vaguely annoying not just because that's more than I cared to spend, but because most of the people in the world can barely afford a bed of any kind. It's also an incredibly hard thing to research (the reviews are all over the place, and models change frequently, so it's hard to get a sense of what you're buying). But I promised you the short version, so enough about my mattress.
Thus far, my 'you've come a long way, baby' musings have largely come from the standpoint of how the universe I know inhabit entails spending that was unthinkable to my parents, and how I've had to adjust to the paradigm of it being okay to spend money. But on Thursday or so, I had a different, more pleasant kind of "remember when." Someone mentioned that a colleague that I'd never really talked to had spend a lot of time in Chile, and that colleague and I got to talking about Pablo Neruda. He referred to Canto General, and I dug out my copy, as well as my copy of Matilde Urrutia's memoir to loan to him. We talked about Latin American literature, mentioning Allende, Borges, Cortazar, and Dorfmann. I thought wistfully about a time when all I did was read books (rather than news, tweets, and the New Yorker). Having that conversation awakened a long-buried part of me I'd forgotten existed and that I need to make time and energy to nurture. I've been so tired, but you've got to feed your soul.
I've been thinking (and blogging) a bit about the people we've become, and where we came from, and what a long way it can seem to be. I wrote about it with regard to my kitchen but spared you when I ordered a new mattress. Here's the short version: I remember starkly how Nina's parents and mine had an epic meltdown because she spent $500 on a mattress (this must have been 20 years ago). It was the height of indulgence and financial irresponsibility! Who would do such a thing when you can get a mattress for $75?? And that is their attitude. When I decided to replace the mattress I've had for more than ten years--largely out of stewardship for my problematic back--my initial research pointed to the starting price of a decent mattress being around $700, with the average for decent being around $1,000. I found this vaguely annoying not just because that's more than I cared to spend, but because most of the people in the world can barely afford a bed of any kind. It's also an incredibly hard thing to research (the reviews are all over the place, and models change frequently, so it's hard to get a sense of what you're buying). But I promised you the short version, so enough about my mattress.
Thus far, my 'you've come a long way, baby' musings have largely come from the standpoint of how the universe I know inhabit entails spending that was unthinkable to my parents, and how I've had to adjust to the paradigm of it being okay to spend money. But on Thursday or so, I had a different, more pleasant kind of "remember when." Someone mentioned that a colleague that I'd never really talked to had spend a lot of time in Chile, and that colleague and I got to talking about Pablo Neruda. He referred to Canto General, and I dug out my copy, as well as my copy of Matilde Urrutia's memoir to loan to him. We talked about Latin American literature, mentioning Allende, Borges, Cortazar, and Dorfmann. I thought wistfully about a time when all I did was read books (rather than news, tweets, and the New Yorker). Having that conversation awakened a long-buried part of me I'd forgotten existed and that I need to make time and energy to nurture. I've been so tired, but you've got to feed your soul.
Saturday roundup
We have an epidemic of Babymen.
Things got personal for women last month.
The kids are alright, and occasionally the adults, too.
If you must bring your little monsters to breweries, don't let them trip people up.
Look at the photomicrography finalists.
Things got personal for women last month.
The kids are alright, and occasionally the adults, too.
If you must bring your little monsters to breweries, don't let them trip people up.
Look at the photomicrography finalists.
Monday, October 1, 2018
phone small talk is torture
It was, naturally, my mother who originally drove me into the habit of turning my phone off after a certain hour. It wasn’t the pure, simple boundary enforcement strategy: since you insist on calling me late even though I’ve asked you not to, I just won’t pick up. That wasn’t enough because then I’d get these annoying messages about where I was or was I in bed so early; wasn’t worth it. But as my mother got nastier and more vindictive—there was one conversation in party that riled me up just as I was going to bed and I said, fuck it, I’m just not going to take their calls after 8pm, I don’t care how many passive-aggressive messages they leave me.
My dad is not my mom, but he was also unresponsive to my multiple requests not to call late. He also riles me up, though inadvertently. And he also doesn’t understand the concept of introversion in general or my not wanting to “chat,” pretty much ever. Chatting is not what I do. I’ll catch up, by phone, with friends I haven’t talked to in a while, but daily “what’s going on and how’s the weather” is my personal definition of hell. Nor does he respond to hints or reminders that a call can’t be long; in that way he’s almost just like my mother. He’s a little better; mom couldn’t take “is it an emergency? No? Then not now.” Her response to that would be something like, “can you believe Smith called asking for money?” “Not an emergency, mom.” “But...” “BYE.”
Dad will file me up in different ways, often because I’m tired and trying to do remote tech support and he’s just not listening. Or he’s otherwise just not listening. Or he’s small-talking at 10:45pm and I’m not here for it. It’s late. My battery’s dying. I still have a sore throat. You know all that. I’m sorry but can the status of the crabapples wait until tomorrow?
My dad is not my mom, but he was also unresponsive to my multiple requests not to call late. He also riles me up, though inadvertently. And he also doesn’t understand the concept of introversion in general or my not wanting to “chat,” pretty much ever. Chatting is not what I do. I’ll catch up, by phone, with friends I haven’t talked to in a while, but daily “what’s going on and how’s the weather” is my personal definition of hell. Nor does he respond to hints or reminders that a call can’t be long; in that way he’s almost just like my mother. He’s a little better; mom couldn’t take “is it an emergency? No? Then not now.” Her response to that would be something like, “can you believe Smith called asking for money?” “Not an emergency, mom.” “But...” “BYE.”
Dad will file me up in different ways, often because I’m tired and trying to do remote tech support and he’s just not listening. Or he’s otherwise just not listening. Or he’s small-talking at 10:45pm and I’m not here for it. It’s late. My battery’s dying. I still have a sore throat. You know all that. I’m sorry but can the status of the crabapples wait until tomorrow?
Monday roundup
Google-translate from the French if you need to this interview about how we treat animals.
Have we talked about the environmental impact of eating meat?
This is some good, timely fiction.
Why it can be pointless to debate. On that note: how to argue.
How to talk about your weaknesses in a job interview.
How to write a sentence.
I can't stand her character--which means she's playing her just right--but I love Jameela Jamil.
Have we talked about the environmental impact of eating meat?
This is some good, timely fiction.
Why it can be pointless to debate. On that note: how to argue.
How to talk about your weaknesses in a job interview.
How to write a sentence.
I can't stand her character--which means she's playing her just right--but I love Jameela Jamil.
Sunday, September 23, 2018
Sunday roundup
Milbank on Israel.
Tolentino on the laws of patriarchal physics and Petri--who, when she is good, is very good--on who should be afraid. See also Monica Hesse and pretty much every smart woman writing right now.
Tolentino on the laws of patriarchal physics and Petri--who, when she is good, is very good--on who should be afraid. See also Monica Hesse and pretty much every smart woman writing right now.
You'll never guess this one neat trick to reduce your water footprint, except you will: eat less meat.
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A sanctimommy gets slammed. BTW I went to see "Pramkicker," which was pretty good.
Sunday, September 16, 2018
Code-switching
Not a word of English was spoken from when I got off the subway outside my aunt’s place to when I got back on the subway after the burial to catch my train back to DC. The service itself was in Russian; the funeral home workers addressed us in Russian from the second we walked in; and the directions to the cemetery and other instructions were in Russian as well.
I was the only person there who functioned more fully in English than Russian, but I didn’t stand out in any way and nobody would have guessed. When I got back to Manhattan, got in line at Cinnamon Snail outside Penn Station, and ordered a beastmode burger, nobody would have guessed that I’d come from another world. There was probably at least one other person in the same line and countless others in other lines that might have come from another world that morning; they didn’t necessarily show it (and maybe some of the ones who looked like they might have been immigrants, weren’t).
At the office the next day, my coworker asked me if I’d met one of the new interns, who speaks Russian. People had been directing her to him, because he once spoke Russian (passably, in his own words). It didn’t cross the minds of those people, some of whom know me well, to send her to me (he suggested it) because I code-switch so thoroughly that they can’t see me as Russian. I don’t fit the image, which is how I prefer it. But it never ceases to fascinate me how even good friends of mine (even those who are aware of my heritage) can’t get their heads around how fresh-off-the-boat I am. Code-switching can be exhausting, but it’s quite the magic trick when you pull it off.
I was the only person there who functioned more fully in English than Russian, but I didn’t stand out in any way and nobody would have guessed. When I got back to Manhattan, got in line at Cinnamon Snail outside Penn Station, and ordered a beastmode burger, nobody would have guessed that I’d come from another world. There was probably at least one other person in the same line and countless others in other lines that might have come from another world that morning; they didn’t necessarily show it (and maybe some of the ones who looked like they might have been immigrants, weren’t).
At the office the next day, my coworker asked me if I’d met one of the new interns, who speaks Russian. People had been directing her to him, because he once spoke Russian (passably, in his own words). It didn’t cross the minds of those people, some of whom know me well, to send her to me (he suggested it) because I code-switch so thoroughly that they can’t see me as Russian. I don’t fit the image, which is how I prefer it. But it never ceases to fascinate me how even good friends of mine (even those who are aware of my heritage) can’t get their heads around how fresh-off-the-boat I am. Code-switching can be exhausting, but it’s quite the magic trick when you pull it off.
A loss in the family
My cousin was in Ukraine visiting his wife’s family and ready to gtfot—he wasn’t the kind of guy who found peace in a lack of indoor plumbing—when he got the call that his brother died. He asked that his mother not be notified until he could get back, so we didn’t find out until last Saturday. Their mother, understandably, couldn’t articulate words when I called. When I got to New York on Monday night for the funeral Tuesday morning, she was holding up, propped up by a combination of family and the distraction of logistics. She lost it again the next morning once we got to the funeral home, and it was a very tearful morning for all.
My cousin and I were close when I was younger. He was a really good guy, and had overcome a lot, even though he could be his own worst enemy. His mother has always been one of my favorite people—always warm. She’s my father's cousin, but they grew up as siblings. Their fathers were brothers, and mothers, sisters. My father has said that he’s not sure he and his family would have survived the Blockade without him.
My late cousin immigrated first and then brought his family over, which may not have been the best idea. His (also late) father never adjusted as a child I found her stylish and chic. Remembering that made me think about whether I ever thought about my mother that way; I didn’t, she was more on the frumpy side. She was decent toward these relations of my father’s, more so than any others. She essentially shut out my father’s sister’s daughter, who’s only now back in our lives. My mother, ever the drama queen, would go on marathon phone calls and demonize her to everyone who would listen. So much about everything comes back to my mother—down to memories of the last time I was in my aunt’s Brighton Beach apartment, having arrived a day before I needed to only to inhale my uncle’s smoke and overhear his Russian tv, all because my mother couldn’t be bothered to check the time of the wedding we were going to. I think about the time my mother made my aunt and cousin super uncomfortable by yelling at me (apparently I’d left something uncovered and it turned into This Is Because You Don’t Care about Anybody but Yourself).
These memories of my mother being awful keep coming up at every turn. I acknowledge them—there’s no use in pretending she wasn’t awful—and come around to feeling bad for her rather than angry or bitter. Ultimately, she was a woman who succumbed to her own demons. It makes me more motivated to fight harder against my own.
My aunt called me later in the week to thank me for coming to the funeral and reiterate how dear I was to her. She’s holding up for now, learning to live with the new normal.
My cousin and I were close when I was younger. He was a really good guy, and had overcome a lot, even though he could be his own worst enemy. His mother has always been one of my favorite people—always warm. She’s my father's cousin, but they grew up as siblings. Their fathers were brothers, and mothers, sisters. My father has said that he’s not sure he and his family would have survived the Blockade without him.
My late cousin immigrated first and then brought his family over, which may not have been the best idea. His (also late) father never adjusted as a child I found her stylish and chic. Remembering that made me think about whether I ever thought about my mother that way; I didn’t, she was more on the frumpy side. She was decent toward these relations of my father’s, more so than any others. She essentially shut out my father’s sister’s daughter, who’s only now back in our lives. My mother, ever the drama queen, would go on marathon phone calls and demonize her to everyone who would listen. So much about everything comes back to my mother—down to memories of the last time I was in my aunt’s Brighton Beach apartment, having arrived a day before I needed to only to inhale my uncle’s smoke and overhear his Russian tv, all because my mother couldn’t be bothered to check the time of the wedding we were going to. I think about the time my mother made my aunt and cousin super uncomfortable by yelling at me (apparently I’d left something uncovered and it turned into This Is Because You Don’t Care about Anybody but Yourself).
These memories of my mother being awful keep coming up at every turn. I acknowledge them—there’s no use in pretending she wasn’t awful—and come around to feeling bad for her rather than angry or bitter. Ultimately, she was a woman who succumbed to her own demons. It makes me more motivated to fight harder against my own.
My aunt called me later in the week to thank me for coming to the funeral and reiterate how dear I was to her. She’s holding up for now, learning to live with the new normal.
Saturday, September 8, 2018
Quick Saturday roundup
Congratulations to Jocelyn Bell Burnell.
Get you a man who makes you video tributes.
Watch this kidney bean sprout.
Yes, I'm tired of gratuitous gratuities. I'm all for a living wage and higher, transparent prices that allow for one.
Get you a man who makes you video tributes.
And a monkey that loves you this much.She fought for her life, for our child, for recognition, for equal pay, for women’s rights. She never gives up.— Alexis Ohanian Sr. 🚀 (@alexisohanian) September 7, 2018
I had this made for @serenawilliams last night after her match with some home videos from 1 year ago this week. Help me make sure she sees it!#iloveyouserena pic.twitter.com/OV6Zo1DBxZ
Read this thread on emotional labor.This baby monkey won't let go of his rescuer ðŸ˜ðŸ’ž pic.twitter.com/xzFZvxWOxd— The Dodo (@dodo) September 7, 2018
Watch this kidney bean sprout.
Yes, I'm tired of gratuitous gratuities. I'm all for a living wage and higher, transparent prices that allow for one.
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