Emchap's Shit from the Internet 09/23/20 š
My team had its weekly team meeting today after the Breonna Taylor verdict came down, while everyone was already pretty grim due to the RBG death, and one of my favorite coworkers (who is right at the intersection of āsuper smart and niceā and āwill acknowledge that our industry is a goofy money laundering scheme for rich peopleā) was very open about how pointless everything feels. Itās just emails. If we donāt answer the emailsā¦ well, some people will be annoyed, probably, but thatās about it.
I think about that energy every time I have to read some breathless thing where a tech CEO has reblogged another tech CEOās talking about how Google has renamed the concept of goals yet again or someone who shares a funder with someone else accidentally reinvents a much more expensive version of a bus. I like my job. I want to do it well. And at the same time it feels fundamentally pointless this year. We send emails.
I remember reading a while back about the concept that depressed people are, in studies, more likely to accurately evaluate the likely outcomes of a situation than people who arenāt depressed, and I think about it a lot. I am Professionally Sad (tm, sponsored by Wellbutrin, shoutout to the ābutes) and have recently been struggling very much with how I feel now how I did before I was medicated, because this time itās just a realistic evaluation of a horrible situation as opposed to my brain trying to eat itself from within.
The world is falling apart in a very real way and I waffle between feeling like Iām overthinking it and having conversations with the Jewish side of the family where we contemplate whether itās time to sell our shit and bounce. (And then of course feel guilty and that turns back in on itself and itās just a 30-year-long ouroboros of unhappiness.)
I donāt have a pin to put on this. I grind my teeth every time I read anything about bringing my whole self to anything anymore because to do that feels like a fundamental refusal to acknowledge the world is what it is.
Shit to read
I loved this Lyz Lenz piece about how legally-mediated coparenting arrangements are a much sweeter deal than a significant portion of straight marriages.
Is Martha Stewart still keeping her employees trapped at her house?
Chuck Wendigās twitter presence wears on me a little bit but I do feel like this piece very accurately captures This Present Moment.
This interview of Allie Brosh is tremendous. And prompted me to re-read this old post on depression. The fish are dead.
A big olā ehhhhhh to even former cops but I do think this article about police-forced gentrification of a corner in Atlanta that Iāve driven by a significant number of times was valuable.
Man fuck basically everyone involved in this story. I hope sheās able to burn that fuckās gallery down.
This interview with Demi Adejuyigbe was really interesting.
Shit to eat
Google āfish en papilloteā for an idle twenty minutes rather than doing work.
With the knowledge youāve acquired from several blogs, go forth.
Preheat the oven to 425.
Wash and chop the ends off some baby asparagus and chop a lemon into slices. Grab your favorite spice mix and some olive oil and butter. Get some fish fillets from the wherever you have fish fillets.
On a big-ish sheet of parchment paper or aluminum foil, toss some olive oil.
Asparagus on top, followed by salt and your seasonings. I went with Mural of Flavor because how can you not.
Couple of slices of lemon on top of that.
Fish fillet on top of that. This is food Jenga.
Pat of butter on top of that.
You can then either fold into a real packet with crimping on three edges, or you can basically make a parchment burrito by wrapping fully around the little packet and then folding in just the short ends. Do whatever.
Make them until you run out of fish or parchment or both.
Place them on a baking sheet or two, and toss those suckers in for 15 minutes.
Enjoy.
Shit to watch
An excellent music video for Open Mike Eagle involving Paul F. Tompkins for which I am the direct target audience.
Shit to buy
Fuck, man. Groceries?