God, Grant Me the Serenity: 

The Sexism I Experienced During STEM Undergrad as Represented by the Women of Firefly

When I was a college student, Firefly had already been aired and canceled. I had a high-speed internet connection for the first time, and Netflix had recently introduced streaming video. I made quick work of catching up on a lot of media recommended to me by nerd friends and classmates, many of which I enjoyed – The X-Files, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and to some degree, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The heartiest of recommendations, however, fell very flat. Men in my classes, some tattooed with the Serenity itself, extolled the virtues of the show (mostly starting and ending with how cool it is) and threw hands in the air at how it had been canceled. Undeserved, unfair; somehow, this was an act of violence against viewers in support of a media conglomerate agenda (specific theories for what this could be were never suggested). 

I never finished Firefly, which I realize is a pat invitation for a subset of people who may read this to send me hatemail about how I shouldn’t be critiquing something I haven’t seen to completion. I don’t care, and you’re welcome to share the blame with Rite Gud podcast for giving me the idea that I can be a critical lens of one on my own corner of the internet. At any rate, it’s possible that I did finish all of Firefly, because I do think I remember seeing Serenity. It’s also possible that it was just put on a screen in a dorm room or basement while I was in attendance.

I’ve received plenty of media recommendations that I didn’t end up enjoying, and pretty much every other time this happens I shrug my shoulders and maybe move that person down in the rankings on my “Ask for New Movie Reviews” list. Over and over again, Firefly stuck in my craw. I eventually started reflexively saying that it deserved to be canceled so that we could all skip to the arm-waving and paper-tossing phase of the conversation about it, in hopes that it would expedite the process to a man dismissing me as uninteresting, thus releasing me from the conversation. A recent conversation (with people I like this time) about the show made me realize that at least one part of this disdain is due to the way Firefly succinctly revealed to me the variety of daily transgressions that its proselytizers either enacted on me or served as audience to. I stopped watching in large part because I could no longer handle viewing the faces, bodies, and stories of four women who on the surface were purported to be a diverse cast of characters, but boiled down to shadow puppets cast by Joss Whedon’s interpretive light onto the limited list of services that women are allowed by society to perform. The recommendation incensed me anew every time because the men making them were engaging in a cyclical viewing of that puppet show; watching, internalizing, then playing out a mimicry of the shapes with their hands by the fluorescent light of our shared classroom. 

Kaylee Frye: The Greasemonkey Full of Childlike Wonder

Starting with Kaylee is starting with the simplest set of coveralls to button my collegiate self into. When I walked into my first computers class, I was sixteen years old and chose my outfit based on the new lack of restrictions on my clothing – there are no fingertip-length limits on shorts in college, and therefore no rules about wearing them with rainbow knee socks. It is not an exaggeration to say that every head turned toward me when I walked through the doorway for the first time. I thought I was late, but was informed that I was not, it’s just that everyone else was earlier than me, and the class was overbooked so I would not be able to actually sit at a desk and work on a computer. The professor had brought in a personally donated loveseat at the front of the room instead, where I would sit for the rest of the semester. 

Kaylee Frye is treated in turns as a greasy, rugged, mechanic: the Heart of Serenity, the one who delights in the hum of motors to the point of what may be sexual arousal…and as a rosy-cheeked face of innocence, who pitches her voice up at the end of sentences and shares a desire for a pretty dress the moment she is given an opportunity to see one. We are led to believe that this dichotomy is unique and that it is deeply special that a woman possesses both a penchant for dirty men’s work and for frilly attire. Her interest in her work runs so deep that it’s purported to be a natural talent, gained from working with her father (naturally). Her sexuality is a joke, for no one would surely be actually attracted to a machine; for much of the show she is in a state of untouchability. It wouldn’t be proper to view your guileless garage rat as an adult with adult interests.

It is important for me to note that when I walked into that class, I was also in the beginning stages of anonymizing my accent and regulating my speech pattern. I methodically stripped out all of the “I reckon”s and “yonder”s that are peppered into Kaylee’s lines to complete the impression of a down-home country gal, wise to the workings of machines and critters but naive to the ways of people. We were both small in stature, particularly when compared to men, and we both possessed a rough-around-the-edges inability to smoothly integrate with society. This shortcoming was completely fine; any transgressions were laughed off and brushed aside by the men who chucked us gently on the chin, our soft bodies and bright eyes saying that it would be foolish to perceive us as a threat. 

Kaylee eventually pairs up with a man who in an earlier conversation calls her “the only girl in the world” – other women of the show being discarded for being too mature, married, blood-related, and/or scary. There was, actually, another girl in my classes – but she was deeply religious in the way that is visible in long denim skirts and hair never touched by scissors. I was a visible aberration; a child talented enough to walk into the classroom two years early, but bewilderingly feminine in patterned socks and short shorts below a head of dyed hair. The marveling never seemed to cease as each new wave of freshmen met me through cross-year classes and seminars. I was special, and I was unique, and I was incapable of harming anyone by virtue of being too round-faced and smiling. I was a doll on a loveseat at the front of the class.

Inara Serra: Silkily Cloaked Danger, Except When Friends Trample Boundaries

Considerable time is spent in Firefly establishing that Inara isn’t a whore, except in the ways that she is, save for the ways that she is actually strong and dangerous (not whorelike traits), although in sum she really is. Eventually, I think in my sophomore year, I started dating someone who lived two states away: an indicator that I was potentially unavailable for intimacy, but with enough space between myself, my classmates, and the interloping man that there was room for would-be suitors to decide he was not any real threat. In this way, when I said no to a drunken Facebook message or knock on my dorm room door, I was turning them down and I wasn’t; I was declining due to other engagements, except that he wasn’t there so he didn’t really matter, so neither did my stated lack of interest; except that it did, because some men didn’t want to override a “no” and would restrain themselves to only overriding the “I don’t think so”s and the “why don’t you go back to your room” and the “I don’t think your girlfriend would appreciate that”s of my speech. 

Inara is presented as, fundamentally, a space geisha except that they call them Companions in space Western land and they’re trained with swords, bows and arrows, and emotional and physical companionship techniques for ostensibly all genders (but on-screen pretty much only men). In particular, we see Inara as a rock for the captain of Serenity, from whom Inara rents her berth and endures countless jabs of varying seriousness about her chosen profession and how distasteful Mal (the captain) finds it, even though he thinks she’s really pretty and that’s why he can’t help barging into her quarters without permission. The arc of their relationship is presented to us as one of playful “disagreements” and “fights” that culminate in what is presumably a monogamous romantic/sexual relationship and Inara’s retiring of her definitely-a-fringed-wrap-not-a-kimono for a suit of crew coveralls.

I have yet to receive a fervent suggestion of watching Firefly as an act of critical review or narrative of some sort of negative behavior that can be picked apart. If we are supposed to watch Firefly and favorably project ourselves into the main character, the men recommending this show to me were finding Mal in themselves – and finding this to be a rewarding plotline and Mal’s treatment of Inara to be acceptable, likely even idealized. In this way, having Microsoft Sam read out “(my name) is a whoooooreeee” in the classroom during free lab time was in line with pulling pigtails or barging onto someone’s rented shuttle; a gentle ribbing between people destined to get along and maybe even share a bunk if the series had just been renewed. After all, we see Inara in combat; if she were truly bothered, why wouldn’t she take care of things herself?

River Tam: Incredibly Gifted, But Also Bonkers Yonkers

River is first revealed to us as cargo, her frail naked body smuggled in what appears to be an Igloo foam cooler by her brother onto Serenity without the knowledge of the rest of its occupants. She emerges, screaming, long dark hair everywhere and eventually we learn that she was a child prodigy drafted into a government facility trying to make perfect assassins, except something something the amygdala-removing surgery left her unable to control her emotions. It is unclear how this would benefit assassination plans, so the viewer must presume this was an accidental side effect, perhaps brought on by her being naturally unstable or perhaps from the tampering. More sensibly, she also knows kung fu and has psychic powers that may or may not have manifested (unexplained) prior to her time at Assassin Academy.

River is simultaneously delicate and defenseless enough to need rescuing and careful handling while on the ship, but also serves as a significant threat. As far as I can tell, every instance of threatening violence is predicated on either her Academy programming being triggered, or perceived insult to herself or her brother Simon. Despite this, little differentiation is made between “River is crazed and dangerous” and “River is deeply ill, has been a victim of sustained manipulation, and will accordingly sometimes do harm unto others as she works to heal”. 

We’ve already trodden the ground of my arrival and my time in school as a curiosity prompting classmates to ask if I was there as some sort of extended dual credit high school program, even at 8am labs, so let’s agree that part is covered. 

My mental instability was also set off largely by my environment and the ways it acted upon me. Whenever I became too inconvenient and drifted out of my Childlike Wonder or Elusive Recipient of Sexual Overtures roles, I found myself prodded into “crazy, annoying, don’t know why she’s acting like that”. It was a position that took me an embarrassingly long time to recognize, and even longer to begin tying together the threads that led me there: boyfriends who relentlessly argued with me into the wee hours of the morning before I had class, interrogating me about my friends or my schedule or the messages they read on my phone while I was in the bathroom, then painting me as impulsive and nasty when I lost my temper. (Did you know sleep deprivation has been repeatedly ruled as torture when it’s perpetuated against prisoners of war?) Classmates who engaged in still-yet-opaque patterns of acting friendly, of acting interested in a date, of acting only interested in talking if it’s about classwork, then of acting like my slide into not answering their casual messages due to total confusion was an act of aggression against them. My naivety and lack of ability to understand social cues was cute as long as it was cute, and then without warning it became a deep-set flaw of my personality. People were better off leaving me to my own devices and working with everyone else in the class, because continuing to engage with me would require care and collaboration.

Epilogue: After Graduation

Zoe Washburne: Highly Competent Warrior Woman Somehow Not in Charge

Maybe it’s arrogant to align myself with the above encapsulation of Zoe, but I really don’t care. Throughout my undergraduate experience I felt othered and less-than; some of this was surely my own brain acting against me, but a lot of it was due to the trope-informed way that other people treated me. Having terms repeated to me with a sardonic tone of voice and an eye roll, because I was never going to get them, because I didn’t have a dad who brought home spare parts from his job in IT to tinker around with in the basement with me. My dad didn’t work in an office; much like Kaylee I did learn how to do some shadetree mechanic work from him, but much like Kaylee this only meant something as long as it was directly useful to the plotline as it impacted the main character (whichever classmate was talking to me). I was moved from irritating girl-child, to ice queen inexplicably rebuffing conversation, to the ultimate discard pile of crazed woman. 

This cycle wasn’t changed immediately after graduation, but eventually in the workplace I was shuffled sideways into badass warrior, where I was allowed to remain as long as I was a badass warrior who received orders with a “yes, sir” and made the overtures of fitting in with the expectation of working tirelessly for the company while maybe also getting married, bearing children, and keeping a house while keeping a full time job,

Zoe is shown to us as relentlessly competent in combat, in planning, and in conversational barbs, but rarely is she shown to us in command. Rarely is she shown to us receiving praise that isn’t shared from one man to another – her husband relaying a review of her body before asking “have you ever been with a warrior woman?” – an attitude she plays along with, her dialogue announcing to others that she wants her husband to tear her clothes off in exaltation following an evasive maneuver. 

Zoe is powerful, as long as she can be given that power as something adjacent to sex or to comedy. It is funny that Mal famously makes bad plans and Zoe saves him and the crew, and it is sexy that Zoe is tough from carrying the weight of this work. And in that way, I spent my early twenties claiming power where I could get it. I may not have finished watching Firefly, but I could not fully escape the fate of my classmates whose notions of control and agency were drawn from it or from similar media. 

For years, I would take the compliments that men on bar dates dealt me and wrap them around myself, threading them in with the shining praise I received for my work – praise that only ever came in verbal reviews, and not in fair compensation or meaningful support in my workplace. This archetype is an improvement, right? There are four types of women, and compared to Child, Courtesan, and Crazy, that surely leaves Competent as the endgame. 

And there is the headfake of the entire show, the rock that I felt in my gut when I tried to watch it on a laptop screen but could not yet name: there are not four types of women in the world and presenting women as powerful on their own but surrounded by a pack of “friends” who constantly undercut them doesn’t make them empowered. There are not only four types of pretty much anything, but so frequently “women” is the group that we view as distillable into bottles of a specific summary vintage. There are more than four ways that I felt unfairly placed into a box by my classmates and coworkers, but most of them can be coalesced into the same four ways we are given women to relate to in Firefly. Perhaps there are only four ways that Joss Whedon can write a woman, and that a man simmered in the same pool of media will naturally use to interact with women in real life.


After the failed attempt at doing 1001 or whatever “must listen” albums (I did really enjoy listening to that Pulp record) I decided to scale way back for 2022. I always enjoy having something that I hold onto to make each year distinct, but I don’t like resolutions, so past years have been things like reading goals and “to visit” lists. This year I wanted to back off on the reading because it felt like a chore so we find ourselves working on the top 100 albums from Rolling Stones’ 500 albums of all time list. The list is made bearable by them recently redoing it with a pretty varied electorate.

Anyway, I was thinking to myself – I listen to the same music over and over a lot, and I only sit and listen to albums if they’re newly released. Maybe I will regain some attention span. Although, I don’t really agree that the album is dead, because records are coming back and all my friends and I at least give the first listen a once-through, not on shuffle.

Since there are two Neil Young albums in the list, I had to switch streaming services recently what with the whole Spotify Joe Rogan thing and I realized when I killed my Spotify Premium and tried to stream the new Mitski album that? you can’t even?? listen to an album in order for free on Spotify?

At least I finally found my wallet to set up Qubotz or whatever, that was a real incentive.

I guess I can understand ads but I just don’t understand how you can be like, “no, this album that is made to go in order is gate kept for $9/mo and it’s your fault that you’re killing the album”

Spotify probably isn’t pushing the “death of the album as a negative” line actually


well I negotiated a salary request with evidence supporting my ask like I’m supposed to (leaning in, seizing the day, girlbossing) and they summarily told me thanks for interviewing but they can’t without any attempt to negotiate with other perks

not very “labor shortage” of them

The Expanse red kibble: the wing and a prayer first version

I’m incapable of engaging with my interests at a normal level like most people, so after I finished the last available book of The Expanse I started scheming about how to make red kibble.

I don’t think I have it, but for a first version I’m glad that they at least tasted good.

Key elements I’m picking up on for this are:

  1. it’s a street food, and seems like a real comfort food for Belters. I think these goods are generally “feelings first” over nutrition, and I’m relying on all of the synthesized supplements that clearly exist to fill in the nutrient profile on this one instead of selecting ingredients for nutrition. by comparison, I think of white kibble as a more utilitarian high protein food.
  2. it’s heavily spiced, particularly with cumin
  3. it’s deep fried balls of bean paste. I initially misremembered this as “red bean paste” which will explain a decision I made
  4. in the show, it’s shown with sauce, but I don’t feel like this works for people who live exclusively in low or no gravity. it’s also indicated in the show that it has to be made, implying it can’t just be reconstituted. I’m agreeing on this one, because it’s clearly “corridor food” when Naomi buys some – made by a Belter running a street stall.
  5. since this is from the Belt, I tried to work with foods that are indicated as being obtainable, cheaply, in space. Cinnamon is out on account of needing to grow a tree, for example. herbs and small plants are okay, and hyper processed items are probably better than not.
  6. it’s served in a papery container with a spatula/flattened spoon to eat it
  7. eating one kibble at a time would make you look delicate, so they’re not huge
  8. I need to reread on this but I think the implications are that Belters are a mix of early Mars colonizers (China, Texas) and then their creole seems influenced by Spanish and maybe Arabic. Really, I just took this to mean a spicy flavor profile with maybe South and Southeast Asian influences.

All that in mind, and with the supposition that the authors are Sci Fi nerds who might be influenced by Japanese street foods, I decided to use an adzuki (red mung bean) paste base. This goes in boba tea, steamed buns, etc, and it seemed to me like it could be fried like a falafel. This is perhaps foreshadowing.

a can of Kabuto red bean paste

Now, I purchased some various cans of paste from my nearby Korean market. I only realized when I got home that there was English on a label on the back of the can, so I selected at random and this one turned out to also contain chestnut. That’s fine. We’ll refine as we go. It’s also pre sweetened and I think by the end I’ve decided I want to find an unsweetened one.

Next up, we need to heavily spice it. I split my adzuki into two halves so I could work small. I settled on, for about one cup of adzuki:
1/8 tsp garlic
1/4 tsp paprika
1/8 tsp turmeric
1/8 tsp salt
1/4 tsp cumin
1/8 tsp (light hand) hot red pepper powder
1/8 tsp yellow mustard
dab of gochujang
few grinds of black pepper

an array of spices and the adzuki
food blog style spice bowl

I still need to replace my spice grinder, so I used the fenugreek seeds by putting them in the (canola) oil and letting it heat. While that was working I mixed all of the above list into the paste. Upon tasting, I doubled everything but the salt, mustard, and gochujang and probably tripled the cumin. Then I strained the fenugreek out of the oil and put it back in the pan. The sesame seeds I was thinking of sprinkling on top after cooking but they didn’t really stick.

oil filled with adzuki bits. RIP
first run kibble, looking pretty smushy

As you can see, the first run didn’t go great. I don’t have a cooking thermometer so I heated the oil until it was lightly aromatic and uncomfortable to hold my hand over, which I generally consider medium-high for frying. Unfortunately, even though the paste held a ball shape when I scooped it with a spoon, it fell apart pretty immediately in the oil and did not hold during frying. The first round did taste good, if a bit subdued – I plan to further increase the spices next time.

The quick potential remedy I thought of was to freeze the balls and reduce the oil heat slightly so they didn’t bubble quite so violently.

freezing on some foil in the ice drawer
second round, a little more kibble-y

This maybe helped, but unfortunately I undercooked them (because the now dirty oil made them look very dark) so what you see is some kibble that were squished post cooking into more of a ball shape. I dusted them with more ground cumin when I pulled them out and, you know, the flavor isn’t bad.

What I’m going to change for next time:

  • more spice
  • get some ground coriander
  • and better, fresher paprika
  • try frying them in a smaller amount of oil. it won’t be “deep frying” but I also don’t live in quarter-g which I’m thinking would really assist with the globular nature of any paste

Considerations for later versions:

  • maybe dredging them in some rice flour. I don’t know how I feel about the availability of wheat, but I think the books discuss rice. they definitely discuss yeast, and I’m willing to believe there’s a flour analog
  • unsweetened adzuki. I think I’ll add back some sugar, but the premix is very sweet and I think it makes it hard to get the spice profile strong enough


I’ve written before about having a personal finance phase, and maybe about being from a working class background. Something I always felt growing up that way was that it didn’t really matter if you worked really hard and saved up. It was like the universe knew that right when you almost had some things lined up to change jobs, or move, or go to school, and so a tire would blow out or your car explode (this happened to a friend) or your heat would go out in the winter.

I live across the country now with a desk job that I’ve been able to keep through the panini and I still feel like this, and like it won’t end even if I do things More Correctly.

Anyway. I hit a savings goal for maybe trading in my car and now there are expensive family medical care bills! I don’t even know if all this stupid work has made me able to cover it or just made me farther away and still unable to fix anything by throwing money at it!

At least I was able to get vaccinated.


I’ve been worrying a lot lately about how fleeting my memories are getting. I have more days where I’m sure I did things but by bedtime I can’t remember what any of them are. It’s probably a shared state related to current events, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

I’ve taken to hoping this means I can shed some things I don’t want to remember anymore. Maybe I can keep the time I agreed to eat a chocolate covered jalapeño the week before Christmas if my friend, who suggested it and was moving away soon, paid for mine too. (It tasted out of season, watery green, and the only remedy the store sold for the discomfort after I downed it in one bite was lukewarm water.) Maybe I can lose the time I drove home sniffling because for the first time, someone made me feel intensely unsafe and small. Maybe if I think hard enough about redirecting the forgetting, it’ll happen.

an book: the female of the species

book cover for The Female of the Species, a novel by Mindy McGinnis, showing images with labels of a vixen (fox), cow (elephant), jill (maybe an opossum?), queen (cat), scribble I presume to be bitch (dog), and woman

I don’t feel like I’m actually at liberty to review YA or certain sorts of books on goodreads because, as much as I do enjoy the personal social aspect where I can talk with friends and acquaintances, I can feel the vibe that the greater social media has for some things. I also always wonder if an author who’s on it will see my reviews and feel bad. Sometimes I think I have coherent legitimate critique which I’m happy to put down but other times I’m just like, “this book was vaguely bad! do better!”

I know I’m still allowed to post those but I just don’t get the point. Maybe someone else would like this book just fine.

The core premise is something that I do find really appealing. One of the main characters (it cycles through I think five teenage narrators) is essentially dealing out vigilante justice after her sister was kidnapped and murdered. Howmstever, the writing has a lot of really oddly flat moments where the author a) seems to be trying to do exposition or explanation at the cost of interesting writing or plot movement and b) maybe isn’t great at getting into the heads of the characters.

Descriptions of the area and the various homes in town did feel realistic to rural, economically depressed areas. More time spent on this and on making the county an additional character might have gone a long way toward lending all of the other characters feel more alive.

love story

I guess this is just a t.swizzle blog but

I listened to the new version twice so that I could tell you this song absolutely still fuckin rips

The lyric video also made me realize how young and gangly she was at the time, the same way I have a vivid memory of seeing a photo of myself, laughing and holding a Guitar Hero controller in my parents’ house, years later and concluding that my head was too large for my body at the time. I had been a teenager and therefore perennially convinced I was a cow when the photo was taken.

Gift Guide 2020

por femme

I know what you’re thinking. This gift guide is coming very late in the season, but so will all of your packages. It’s the most wonderful time of the year to remind your gift recipients that time is a flat circle and nothing means anything anymore, so why not do it as you tell them these gifts are on the way?

For the lady who has it all, and the gift giver who has a deep wallet

A top view photograph of a small sponge, two yellow rubber gloves, and two empty glass bottles

An antique half-gallon embalming set, from bazaarbaltimore.com. Perfect for the vintage lover in your life, this set even comes with an OG set of yellow rubber gloves. Help her plan her next Stepford Wives cosplay while expanding her collection of funerary articles. Discerning customers may observe that the bottles are empty, but refilling them with your own locally sourced embalming fluids means that you can also use this kit to live a Zero Waste lifestyle. Perfect for the ‘gram alongside your bamboo toothbrush and beeswax food wraps.

For the smooth-skinned socialist who never gives you a second look

A snapshot of the AK Press website listing for a book subscription at $40 a month

A Friends of AK Press book subscription from publisher AK Press, with different pricing options available at AKPress.com. This subscription to the long-standing anarchist bookstore and press gets the recipient of your choosing all of the books published that month and you get a gift as well in the form of discounts at the site.

For the girl who is listening to The Shins in the doctor’s office

Photo of a young woman with pink curly hair and her eyes closed wearing large headphones

The Apple Airpods Max. Large enough to be placed over your head with little to no warning by a young woman who is sure to be your ticket to a fully realized life, requiring no introspection, therapy, or emotional labor. Light enough to be tucked into a messenger bag. In a variety of colors to coordinate with various shades of Manic Panic.

For a beach bunny with an hourglass figure

white background with blue object in the foreground that is purportedly a headphones case, but appears to be either booty shorts or a bra purse, like a hidden eye photo

The only present this year that can do quadruple duty as a headphones case, a purse, a pair of booty hugging track shorts, and a brassiere that lifts and separates. The Apple AirPods Max carrying case. Comes with a flattering cheek//breast//cup highlight and mesh handle//halter strap.

For the artist who knows TikTok dances

Photo of the outside of a light green rectangular case, then a photo of the open case containing individual paint cups in a variety of colors

f̵̛͉̤̫͔̜͓͓̘̠̬̩̱̪̗̖̠̼̼͇͕͕̠̓͊̌͊͛͜ȍ̶̫͖̺̳͔͔̝̼̣̗̀̈́̋͛͑͌̑́͗̿͒̊̅͌̄̕̕͝͠ͅŗ̷̙̜̖̬̱̣͕̌̆͋̇̀͋̇̽͆͛̈́̀͊̍́̐͊̾̎͂͑̾̀̅͊͐͆̚͜͜͝͝b̷͙̺̯͈͕̟̩̘͔̦͎̑̇̑̏̽̋͐̋͋̓̑̒͑̃̂͌̀͊̈́̅͌̏̽̉̒͒̒́͑͘̕͜͠͝͠ỉ̶̥͔̦̬̗̮̺̣̘̙̭̩͚̫͍̰̩̞̬̌̔̌͂̋̿̈̿͗̇̽͑̽̊͊̅̾͋̏̚͝͝͠ͅḓ̵̡̙͎̞́͑͑̏̀̀̂̆͌̋̀̕̚d̸̡̧̛͍͖͙͈͎͚̮̬͍͙̣̤̲̻̝̹͉̗̦̗̟̞̪̽̿͊̊̈́̀̽̔̔̐͒̍̔̂͂̌̈́̀̾̑̏͑̐̃̀̐͑̏̇̌͘̚͜͝ë̵̡̪̦͖͎̺̘͉͉͎̟̝͇̗̱̹̬̹̟̞̼̪̤͚͔̬͕̣͉̣̯̬́̀́̔̔̏͌͊͑̔̑̐͐͋̈́̕͘͝ǹ̷̢̨̡̖̣̻̫̠̹̗̠͂̓͗̍̽̔͘͜ͅͅͅ ̴̢̨͙̯̼̟̤͉̻͈͇͇̜̤͔̪̪̲̠̥͇̫͇̰̖̰͔͇͕́̈́́̒̑͂̾̒̈́̎̀́̀̚̕̚p̷̧̡̡̢̨̳̳͔͚͕̫̩̻̫̗̲̱͙͇̭̺̹͈̜̣͖̞͔͉͎͔̂͛͌̐̍͊̐̏̆͗̈̏̕͝ͅͅư̶̢̛͈͗͌̋̇͊̈́̉̅̀̈́͒͌͊͌̈̌̈́͑̊͗͘d̴̨̢̨̧̛͚͙̳͙̼͎̦̝̖͙̠̪̣̙͖̜͎̘͚͗͆̈́̎̑̽̌̍̐̈́̋̐͑̈́̈̉̈́̇̄̈́͊̊̍̈́̕͠͝͝ͅď̵̪͙̦̳̲̠͉̟̹̺̻̜͓̭̲̬̭͖̗̪̩̠͈͔͍̹̠͍̠́̈́͌̓̉̆̕͜ï̷̢̛͖̗͈̲̜̠̳̝̠̼̘̳̪͚̩̯͉̲̬͕̱̫̦̪̾̐̊̀̎̍̍̀̎̒͒̐̋̅̐̉͊̓́͊̈́͒̚͜͠ͅǹ̵̡̨̡̥͇̣̱̞͕̮̝̖͕̰̺͍͍̘̠̘̥̯̝̫̺̲̟̥̼̽̅̈́́̇͂́̀͋̎̐͐̓́̾̑͗͘͜͜͝ͅg̴̛͎̓̈́͑͋͂̄̄̇̊̄̅͐̀͊͆̿͐̏̋̔̿͗̄͌̇̆͒͐̕̚̚͝

Get her the forbidden pudding. Just do it. Individual gouache paint cups set available at a variety of fine drop-shipping retailers in sets of up to 56 colors. Probably should have ordered it in August though. This is 100% shipping from a Wish warehouse in China even if your Amazon retailer insists it isn’t.

For the foodie on the go

snapshot of the Moschino website featuring a bag that looks like a croissant

Perfect for outdoor dining inside a wind-blocking enclosure that fully surrounds you and your air particles but is out on the sidewalk or bike lane, Moschino has graced us with a bag that emulates the size, toast, and sheen of bread. A pastry made of leather calls to mind pepperoni rolls, but this gluten-free crossbody appeals to the “finer” Parisian tastes of racist rich people by emulating a croissant instead.

1001 albums: buenas noches from a lonely room

Hello hello, the latest randomly generated album for me is “Buenas Noches From a Lonely Room” by Dwight Yoakam.

Cover of the album which is a sort of black and white/sepia photo of the singer, with the left side being his torso up as he wears a dark shirt or jacket and a large cowboy type had, and the right side his torso down in studded pants
Cover of Buenas Noches From a Lonely Room

I was a little disappointed to find that this album contains neither Yoakam’s cover of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” nor that one song about playing solitaire too long with a deck of 51, which I can never remember the title of but sang a lot as a child. I remember my dad rolling his eyes at both, because somehow I wound up hearing Yoakam’s versions of each before I heard the originals.

The title track did still sound a little familiar and I suspect I heard it on the radio in the past. It was also very interesting to me that the song I like the most off this album, “Streets of Bakersfield” appears to be another cover.

Something that stood out to me as I reviewed the track list is that a lot of the songs hover right around three minutes long. I’ve heard of this being something common in the streaming era, particularly songs dipping under three minutes, but this album is from 1988.

Link to the 1001 albums page for this album. Another interesting thing, at least to me, is that this is the first time I searched for “1001 albums [album name/first few words] didn’t turn up the page I wanted in the first page of search results. I instead stumbled upon many other people who have worked their way through this book of albums! Wonder what it is about the SEO/people writing about this one in particular that bubbled them up. I found this writeup from someone at The Bubble enlightening and interesting. I also enjoyed A Beginner’s Guide to Licking Rocks on the same site when I noodled around.