Emchap’s Shit from the Internet 8/1/18 🍠
This weekend, thanks to a persistent development employee, I went to go see Our Very Own Carlin McCullough at the Geffen Playhouse. I was not particularly expecting to enjoy it, but I went because the ticket was free with the season tickets that I purchased, and I had no plans, and why not.
The show was fantastic; I resented how much it made me cry about youth tennis and potential and people who love you but also do not in any way listen to you.
Given that I also cried at the last thing I saw at the Geffen (Significant Other, which I enjoyed incredibly and also perhaps do not entirely recommend if a friend has just gotten engaged and you are single), I look forward to a teary next year of theatre. #culture
It was fun reading through the Playbill for the production. The Geffen, like most theatres, lists its donors in the program. In Atlanta this was fun because I could scout out names of comedians or school friends or art community members that I knew; in LA I get to see which legitimately famous actors donate in the $200-$500 range for a place that just hired a new artistic director.
I was excited to see more theater, more accessibly, when I moved down here; I look forward to making that happen in the coming year.
Shit to read
Migrant workers in Hong Kong have formed communities based on pop star fandom.
I enjoyed making fun of that money diary as much as the next girl (a lot), but it absolutely is part of a long history of exploitative editorial practices in women's online outlets, which I think this piece addresses well (and I say this as someone with an xoJane byline to her name, because I was young).
Absurdist SatC body horror with a kernel of insight on homosocial emotional labor underlying the performance of heterosexuality.
I love Bridget Jones' Diary, a film I first saw well into adulthood, and I love the idea of a series called The 90s are Old.
The teens are at it again (where "it" is creating their own platforms to discuss politics).
This deep dive on the Yacht Rock Revue, a band from my hometown, is absolutely worth your time.
Men who text without response explain themselves.
Wealthy widow wearing caftans is 100% my ideal aesthetic.
Literal crane wife literal crane wife literal crane wife.
This article made me want to go to Tokyo and eat.
The underboob sweat struggle is REAL.
The biggest benefit of my time in New York was learning to pull apart what social signaling mechanisms just meant that someone had rich parents, which came to mind as I was reading this week's Ask A Fuckup.
Shit to eat
Having not planned for dinner, spend an embarrassing amount of money ordering Mexican takeout.
The guacamole salad will come with chips, which you will not eat with the salad. Store them by leaving them in the little brown paper bag they came in, on the counter.
(You live alone, it's fine.)
The next morning, heat up a non-stick pan and spray some cooking oil in it. (This is entirely for caloric reasons, and you will be mad about it every time. Use butter otherwise.)
Grab four of the chips (counted, see above) and smash them up. Into the pan, for a minute or two.
On top, crack an egg (or two, if you're living your truest life).
Dump in some Pace picante sauce.
Stir everything around with a spatula.
If it's a weekend, add some cheddar.
Once the eggs have set, swoop everything onto a plate and eat at your desk. Take longer than is perhaps strictly necessary, because you can sort of justify 15 minutes of this + Slack checking as work, and the people who are in Slack won't really need things from you and the people in your email definitely will.
When done, grab some seltzer and get cracking.
Shit to watch
Jeff Goldblum is so charming.
Shit to buy
I'm really enjoying owning air plants.
I very much want this jumpsuit in red.
Same with this dress; I am in an unexpected Red Mood, it seems.