Emchap's Shit from the Internet 07/3/19 🍠
Recently, I joined a national corporate feminist coworking space with an aggressive anti-disparagement clause in its membership paperwork; my first day as a member was Monday. (My pitch for this to work was a Trello card that said in its entirety: "my house doesn't have A/C." I have very productive 1:1s.) It was absolutely the sort of experience that I wanted to go into and feel slightly smug about; surely others do not understand the inherent contradictions of commodified feminism, but I will stand firm.
Reader: I did not. Of course I didn't; the entire place is designed to appeal to irony-poisoned, affluent women in urban areas who want to both #hustle and #froseallday. It's the sort of woman who I envision as a goal now that my bodily anxieties have moved away from weight loss (#bodyneutral) to trying to get shinier hair and wear dad sneakers without lookin like a dumbass.
All the furniture is mod and velvet; the showers in the bathroom are covered in bright pink subway tile that nearly made me weep. The vanity stations outside the showers have green slipper chairs and every hair product you could want (for a variety of textures, which is legitimately a solid move), and the entire place smells like gardenias. The entire place was decorated like a Kimpton set in the extended Sophia Coppola Marie Antoinette cinematic universe. I was given a welcome tote bag with cotton thick enough that I might actually want to use it.
Obviously I loved it immediately and almost entirely without reservation (despite the fact that the cafe sells moon dust, because LA is dumb as hell); it was both approachable enough to feel welcoming and nice enough to give me that frisson of class anxiety that makes being in West Hollywood really worth it. The staff were all intimidatingly pretty early-20-somethings with strong brows and the subduedly cheerful affect of the camp counselor who you're pretty sure smokes behind the canoes at lunch.
I honestly don't even know if it actually has A/C; I didn't ask because I was too busy cooing at the terrazzo flooring out on the (large) patio.
Of course I had escaped to the coworking space for the decidedly unglam reason that my house's power had gone out, rendering me feeble in the face of 90 degree interior temperatures. And I was sweaty by the time I got there, because I'd had to hoof it over to the bus stop near my house. I could probably have used a dip in the shower (complete with Chanel-branded bath products).
It was interesting to contrast the trip with the time I'd spent at the local feminist creative (and also coworking, though their a/c is the same set of window units as mine) space. I wound up booking tickets to two events there over the weekend—a sensopathy spa where we laid on heated sculptures and burned scented offerings in a bowl on the porch while trying to make sure we didn't set the compost heap on fire, and a workshop on creating radical relationships which was run by my chorus director's friend, because the world is small—and they filled me with a community-based sense of satisfaction unlike what I got from the coworking space.
After both workshops, I walked the bike path behind the space to look at the LA River, and was delighted every time I saw a heron. I ended the walks at the local bike cafe, drinking coffee on a painted bench. It was not #girlboss in the slightest. There was no moon dust.
I'm excited to be a member at both spaces; a gal has space in her life both for identifying sexual archetypes while ducks fly by and for eating avocado toast on slipper chairs.
Shit to read
This is a heartwarming tennis story.
God this powerpoint is great if you like tech shit.
Jia Tolentino can run me over with a car.
This is a very affecting photo essay about biological siblings.
Montreal what the fuck.
I love love love this breakdown of the recent goings-on at UCB. (It is bananas to me that it isn't a non-profit entity and that its founders haven't just sold it.)
Be happy do nothing is my personal be gay do crimes of summer 2019.
My mom had this sort of "ah" noise she would make in the back of her throat when she was about to say something, and it's that noise that I associate with her more than any specific memory. Relatedly, I loved this essay.
A perfect essay about motels, which I love.
The fuck is happening in Utah.
I love Broadchurch for being a grim crime show that mines depths of emotional trauma that are not dead/raped family members for backstory, and I loved this short story.
This was a cathartic subtweet of a piece on a particular sort of irritating person.
Megan Rapinoe's girlfriend doesn't seem to totally understand soccer and it's great.
Shit to eat
Toast some bread.
While the bread is toasting, take four pieces of salami and put them in a hot cast iron pan.
I guess heat the pan, then toast some bread. You get it.
Once the salami browns, flip it over and cook it a bit more.
Once that side browns, take it out and stack it somewhere. A plate?
Drop an egg into that good meat grease.
Flip it so the top part cooks a little.
While that's happening, mash up half an avocado and spread it on one side of the bread.
Cut up some fontina, and put that on the avocado.
Then the salami.
Then add your egg. It's probably done by now.
Sprinkle on some Everything But the Bagel seasoning and a squirt of lemon.
Put some more toasted bread on top. You know, like, sandwich style. It's a sandwich.
Eat while staring into the middle distance in your living room, where it's not yet 500 degrees.
Shit to listen to
Shit to buy
A membership to your local feminist creative space.