Friday, July 29, 2005

gelotto

gelotto.jpg


I was only in Rome for a mere handful of days so it hardly gives me the authority to miss things, namely espresso and gelato. But then, who needs authority to miss things you hardly know? Or know so well from the bottom of your very heartful taste buds? Veer, veer, veer towards incoherence...

Before I went home yesterday for a delightful farce of an evening meeting potential roommates, finding one to-be-ex-roommate very very drunk and one less half bottle of scotch, I stopped off at Washington Square Park to try some gelato from the Gelotto Cart. Run by Batali's restaurant Otto Enoteca Pizzeria, the cart offers a few rather steadfast flavors, all handmade at the restaurant by Meredith Kurtzman. I opted for the canteloupe sorbetto and lo and behold, it tasted like canteloupe in icey dessert form! It was a tad melty, and thus a tad watery, though and so I finished it by the time I crossed over to the other side of the park.

I am trying to find the NYT dining section again to no avail. I want to look at the calendar again cuz I know there is some sort of gelato demonstration or something something with Laboratorio del Gelato this week. I wasn't pre-ice-cream hallucinating or anything I hope. Sigh.

Anyways, the cart's at the NW corner of the park til sevenish (say it with me, dusk, dusk, what a nice word) until the autumn (another nice word. pair the two and you have a veritable verbal cocktail. or an awful-smelling perfume).

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

skin deep

I have received no less than seven mosquito bites from this past weekend. They are all on my right arm. Yesterday, they swelled up so I had a very lumpy looking arm which bothered me when I typed. Today, I think they are beginning to bruise, or my blood vessels have spontaneously combusted, spinal-tap-drummer-style, around them. My roommate gave me some homeopathic medicine made out of diluted bee venom or something, which may have brought down the swelling. All in all, it is not a pleasant sight.

On Sunday, my mom - she gets all these crazy ideas from reading the korean newspaper, you know, like how I should be a doctor or a computer techie or an accountant - wanted to try this "all natural" remedy on me. She heard that mashed turnip was really good at clearing up skin. In no time at all, there she was, grating some turnip, and whilst I was watching a rerun of Grey's Anatomy, an episode that also featured a prominent audio spot for Interpol's "Evil" and where that lady finds out that what's her name is sleeping with that doctor, she put this cold mushy stuff on my face.

To paraphrase Ralph from the Simpsons, it felt like burning.

I ran, my face on turnip fire, to the bathroom sink to wash the stuff off. My mother was like, "you're such a baby" and then said she would try it herself when I was gone. Undeterred, she went back to the kitchen to mash and grate some more vegetables. This time, the episode almost over, she put some cucumber and honey. Mmmmm. Sounds tasty. Thankfully enough, it was very refreshing and did indeed soothe and soften the skin. Well, there you go. The skin-related saga of yours truly and with a moral too. Never put turnip on your face.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

blahblahblah

My first CD review for kevchino. I have much to improve. Who's your favorite music reviewer?

sunny days

beach.jpg


Was in the Boston area this past weekend, though we stayed mostly in the burb of Medford (I think). Anyways, times were a-rip roarin' with beaches, beers, and barbeques, again instilling in me the great self-hatred for ny living space costs. Damn you people who can have a backyard and a huge sunlit house with a dining room (a dining room!!!) and porch and grill and only pay freaking $500 a month. Damn you! I need to move to North Carolina or something and build me a castle. With a moat. And maybe a dragon. He can stay in my spare banquet hall. And rotisserie some chicken with his fire breath or something.

We did have all sorts of grilled meats this weekend. Hamburger, sausages, chicken, lamb, ribs, oh my! There was some grilled pineapple that was especially tasty, sweet and sugary as a guileless southern belle. I shall have a fruit-grilling room next to the dragon, throw him a few peaches now and again and keep him sweet-tempered.

We also went to Carson Beach on Saturday, which I found rather neat, being pretty much on the edge of Boston. You could stand at the shore and look over to your left and see the New England spires of town, sitting all proper-like. The small, picturesque beach was not crowded at all, the day was lovely, the water freezing. We played volleyball and threw the 'bee and sat out in the sun. A little girl ran after a runaway beach umbrella which maybe had planned to elope with the wind.

What with watermelon eating contests, margaritas, going on swingsets, and the ol' college beer pong tournaments (There were brackets. Very Official.), soft serve ice cream, there should be more weekends like this. And weekdays too probably. I wonder what I should name my dragon.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

the soy of cooking

Well, I traded off my Clap Your Hands Say Yeah ticket for a soyful dinner. What? you blurt out in disbelief, you sold your ticket to the hype-tastic band du jour for fake buffalo wings served on a wooden-stick-for-bone? Yes. Yes, I did. (How's that for a band name? Soy Buffalo Wings. We ROCK! and we're CHEWY! It's better than the Dostoevsky of a name like clap your hands etc etc etc.... )

While I do enjoy the raucous and circus sounds of CYHSY's album, I just wasn't in the concertizing mood so I made plans instead with some pals for dinner. We ended up going to Red Bamboo on W. 4th. The cuisine? Vegetarian Soul Food!! What does that mean? Fake meat! Awesome!!!

Perhaps their mission statement of sorts will help us out a little:
Red Bamboo focuses on creating unique and authentic vegan and vegetarian meals using the finest soy, gluten, fruit and vegetable products available. Our foods, ranging from Carribean spiced seitan to Creole soul "chicken" to Thai summer rice rolls, reflect the wisdom of diverse culinary traditions. We sincerely hope that every meal at Red Bamboo becomes a festive and memorable experience and at the same time, a meditation on what truly nourishes you.

Mmmm. Well, they did succeed in piquing our curiousity into just about everything on the menu. As a group, we had all eaten soy meat products before but didn't really know what goes into it, how it's made, how they make something fishy as opposed to chickeny. And it wasn't just "fish" either, there were codcakes and salmon on the menu. Like do they sit down at the soy lab and say, hmmm, how can we make this more salmon-like? as opposed to flounder? Are these places like super secret about their concoctions and do they have soy spies? I say concoctions, because no matter how tasty the stuff is, I can't but think these are concoctions, some sort of magical complicated scientific recipe. I think my friend DC said "alchemy" - and that's about right. Alchemy - the mysterious art of turning everyday objects into gold, or in our case.. meat.

DC is a former meat eater turned veg. and thus the menu was particularly delightful for all the meaty things he misses. Like buffalo wings and philly cheesesteaks. T (I just realized I don't know her last name. This is making me feel guilty.) ordered codfish cakes with mango something and I got creole soul chicken, mostly because it was "panko-crusted." You can't go wrong-o with Panko. I'm missing a life of fame and fortune as a composer of jingles.
Everything tasted almost like they were supposed to. The buffalo wings were a bit chewy but looked like Mcdonalds chicken nuggets on the inside (I suppose whatever they use is just as much a concoction), my chicken was tasty but I think it's hard to go wrong with anything crispily fried, the codcakes tasted fishy and smushy, and the cheesesteak tasted not so much like it's supposed to, but it did taste like meat. I was actually more weirded out by my mashed potatoes which were mixed with sweet corn, alternately too smooth and sweet.
The portions were very generous and on the whole, pretty tasty. As a whole-hearted meat-eater, I wouldn't mind going back there again and trying something else. I can say, I've never thought that much about the makeup of food.
I tried doing some research on soy meat products but only for about a few minutes. What I did find:
Henry Ford loved soybeans. He was a soy fanatic - using them in cars, making ice cream, and even wearing soybean fiber suits!
The Soy Story is a long one. Three thousand years ago... it all started in China and two thousand years ago, "The great Chinese art of meat substitution was born." My favorite sentence: "In soy milk processing, the Chinese were perhaps inspired by their nomadic, animal herding, milk guzzling northern neighbours, the Mongols." Hahahaha. Milk guzzling.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

the power’s out in the heart of man

So I've been enjoying my yoga classes and even though I'm at a superbeginner level, some of the ways of thinking seem to be proving useful for me since these past few years, I've been prone to getting really down in the eeyore dumps. Stuff like paying attention to yourself and being aware and equanimity and being in the present, blahblahblah sound like organic food but are ultimately, if actually applied, rather healthy outlooks. But keeping this up is not as easy as granola. or pie. or granola pie. (?) It takes a lot of effort. And other bad, negative, evil things see this well-intentioned attempt and go splattering themselves violently against my windshield. I'm out of control with the metaphors, but that's okay because I'm losing my mind. Splat splat.

Been feeling a bit off-kilter since Monday and having trouble assembling real sentences verbally. (like, really? totally). Yesterday, I stumbled around, got some take-out from a new place on metropolitan, hung the new shower lining (domestic excitement!), and watched W's supreme court justice nominee announcement on tv, and sometime during law & order svu, there was this weird, pungent smell in the apartment like plastic burning. Well, it turns out it was the plug and outlet for the fridge, which shorted out or I don't know what happened electronically. And then the power in my apartment proceeded to go out.

So it was kind of hot last night. And this morning. But now the off-kilterness has been transformed into other planetary beingness. Like I'm wandering around feeling like a mermaid who just got brand new legs without being consulted by some fairy godmother. Like, what the hell are these limbs? Why am I out of the water?

Monday, July 18, 2005

the district brunches twice

Whiled away this weekend in DC and besides getting caught in apocalyptic thunderstorms and crashing some weddings with owen and vince, mes amis et moi, we dined at Cafe Bonaparte and Mocha Hut where the cream of brunches rose to the surface. I enjoyed them with a Cheshire Cat of a smile.

Cafe Bonaparte is down the street from a great Argentinian (Argentine?) gelato place called Isee Icy, where the sorbettos (sorbetti?) are divine. (They're changing their name to Dolcezza though. Yawwwn.) In the poshy posh posh shoppy shop area of Georgetown, those two establishments make these three or four blocks of Wisconsin Ave perhaps my favorite spot in DC. Because Good Food Pleases Me.

Tangent: Somewhere in DC or Virginia or some 'burb, we passed a church with a sign that said "we put the O back in God" or something like that. And I, rocket scientist that I am, turn to aforementioned amis quizzically, "What's goooood?" Ohhh. Good. I like saying words like good, book, and food with oooohs. It's more fun and quizzical rocket scientist-like.

Anyways, at Bonaparte, you enter the much quoted "old world charm" of la France, with a lovely tin roof, many paned window, bar (very important), tastefully warm, bright colors throughout, and a smatter of tables upon which plates of omelettes and crêpes temporarily reside. They do brunch on the weekends, open until the wee hours of the morning on Friday and Saturday, and serve Lavazza espresso and La Colombe. LA COLOMBE!!!

We opted for savory brunch stuff because hey, it's only on two days a week. Perhaps we are all quizzical rocket science types. Anyways, that just means I'll have to have crêpes there next time. I had eggs benedict for the first time. Mmmmm. Poached eggs and bacon (ham) on a biscuit, covered with light-for-a-hollandaise sauce, perfectly done potatoes with a little somethin' somethin' on em - paprika maybe?, and a skewer of ripe fruit made me a happy janet. One friend opted for a swiss cheese omelette which had a bit too much cheese while t'other had the special, a goat cheese and spinach omelette which went perfectly with those potatoes. They also had Viennese Espressos - a café americano type drink tinged with vanilla and cinnamon topped off with whipped cream. We were surrounded by smiley people, drinking their seltzer water and brunchy mimosa type drinks, with the jazzy music wafting around, twas nice and made up for the slightly loopy server who kept on shutting the door for fear of outside air invading precious space.
The next morning, before our departure, we stopped by Mocha Hut, a local favorite of my friend (and future roomie!) who resides in Columbia Heights. With the interior a cosy purple with a nice variety of seating options - stools, comfy sofa and armchairs, regular tables and bookcase, it's bit typical-coffeehouse of place which does sandwiches and breakfast food - but they delivered the goods and with great service too. Our small round table was laden and soon unladen with belgian waffles galore, french toast, home fries with a kick, scrambled eggs perfectly seasoned, coffee, etc. The eater of french toast began to make shapes of states, namely alaska, vermont, maine, and ohio (or was it iowa? EDIT: It was definitely not Iowa. I need to study my states!) with last slice of french toast. It takes some skill to do this. I could not make any shapes with my waffle, except perhaps Kansas or Wyoming. With that, we bid the district farewell and made our way back through more apocalyptic rainstorms to nj.
As you can see, the way to my heart is through a good breakfast and a cup of coffee. The secret is out.
Oh, and sending e-mail. That's another good one. Not at the same time though. There are some rules of decency.
Mocha Hut is on 14th and Decatur with a new location on 1301 U St.
Café Bonaparte is on 1522 Wisconsin Avenue N.W.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Italia Part IV - It is the custom

gelato.jpg


It's almost been a month since my last Italy update and here we are, at Part Quattro. And if you know me, it's an amazing feat that I remember that I even went to Italy, oh that once upon a time, so forget I took so long and count your lucky pizza stelle (that's pizza stars for you ignorant folk). Snuggle up your cuddlies and listen well, for here I will discuss the more everyday sort of things. Because if I didn't, I'd just have to regale you with lots of synonyms for walking, sprinkled with a Colosseum or two.

Let's start with one of my favorites... gelato! Oh, it's divine. The first night, during our brisk night tour of Rome, I get my first taste of Italian gelato right by the Pantheon. It's a tad expensive at two euro. KM, ever the expert, a title well earned by much eating and traversing, says there is clearly only one flavor of import at this joint - FRAGOLA! (fragola rock. ahurhur.) It tastes as all fruit gelati should, like the absolute essence of whatever the fruit - this case, strawberry, in ice creamish form. Sounds so ridiculously simple, so captain obvious, but it's true and true, through and through.

Two more gelaterie of note were Giolitti and Old Bridge (more info here). Giolitti is fancier, with a dazzling display case of flavors, seats, mirrors etc. but excellent. MM gets canteloupe and one other flavor (memory like sieve) - see essence of fruit remark. I get chocolate and zabaglione which is wonderful for a bit but then is overwhelmed by the marsala or rum or whatever alcohol is in this hard to spell flavor.
Old Bridge is closet-in-the-wall near the Vatican, with locals and tourists alike lining up patiently. Here, I did my best attempt at flawless Italian ordering. The effort at the language warranted a "brava" from the gruff but smiling server and a huge portion of nocciola and cioccolato con panna, which is whipped cream that pretty much comes as a natural, and free, after-thought to any cone (pictured above).
Most Italians are happy to see any effort at speaking their language. Some common things to know of course are Grazie, Scusi, and Ciao. Un caffè is not coffee but espresso (mmmmmmm). On buses and other crowded means of transport where you must push and shove to get off at a destination, it seems you do not say 'scusi' but 'permesso'.
mcdonalds.jpg And when ordering pizza, this is foolproof: point to the variety of rectangles of goodness before you and say, "Questo." The guy will then indicate where he is about to cut and you say (and I couldn't help motioning with my hand here) "Meno" for less and "Piu" for more. And if you are too soft-spoken, a regular just might take over for you and roar out, "Due suppli!" as happened to G.
Almost as important as the gelato and pizza was a McDonalds in Trastevere near Piazza Sonnino. I don't really understand what those Italians were eating in their Happy Meals but my bladder thanks the clean toilets there. KM tells me that McDonalds is not very popular but nevertheless, this location always had people whenever we made a pitstop and there is a McDonalds straight as the crow flies across from the Pantheon. Also great, considering the unrelenting sun and copious walking, were the water fountains scattered all over the city (most look like this). The water is cold and good and always flowing.
There are various internet points scattered about as well. Common is the internet point slash laundromat (makes sense though doesn't it?). Below is the view from the one in Trastevere where KM frequented. Here, whilst the others were taking care of further travel plans, I would watch some Italian TV, some infomercials - exercising machines, dating services - and music video countdowns. La Dolce Vita indeed.
internet.jpg

Friday, July 08, 2005

Onward...

Londoners go back to work.

Slate's David Plotz sends a dispatch from London. Starbucks is open. He wonders, "Many British Muslims here belong to distinct, unassimilated communities. As an American, I find aspects of that unsettling: There are lots of women clad in burqas and lots of men with long beards and skullcaps."

British author Ian McEwan asks "How could we have forgotten that this was always going to happen?" and "...we will face again that deal we must constantly make and remake with the state - how much power must we grant Leviathan, how much freedom will we be asked to trade for our security?"


Thursday, July 07, 2005

London


All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.



September 1, 1939 - W. H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Londonist
eyewitness accounts at Guardian's Newsblog

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

berry happy mango



We did a lot of eating this Fourth of July weekend. That is not so bad. And whenever you put a bunch of berries together, it is always quite nice, quite right. It, in fact, restores a little bit of berry balance in the world and who would be cruel enough to deny you just that? Cruella Deville. Yes - but she kills puppies.

And when you also put in some pound cake, whipped cream tinged with vanilla and honey, vanilla instant pudding, and a raspberry sauce, everything is better. How handy that berries come in the color of our flag.

While we're on the topic of fruits and because I'm always on the lookout for an inelegant segue, one day I was having some trouble cutting up a mango that I got from the Korean supermarket. This is not to say it was being stubborn because it came from Han Ah Reum, but it had been so long since I had cut my own mango, that I forgot how to do it like my mom - she is the source of all my fruit-cutting expertise. I ended up performing a rather ghastly surgery on it, resulting in sad little lumps of deformed mango and then I devoured the copious mango fleshy remains still on the pit.

Well thank goodness for my MSPaint-loving friend. He provided me with this handy manual after I failed to understand what he was saying on instant messenger. I will now share his painterly wisdom:


Monday, July 04, 2005

me and you and everyone we know - aka Longest Entry Ever!



Speeeaaking of Sleater-Kinney, women beep beep boop Portland beep beep boop Kill Rock Stars beep Art boop dumdumdoo Video beep beep .... Happy Miranda July!!!!!

The "beep beep boops" are the joyous electro-chorus equivalent of what my middle school put on banners in block letters: "MAKE THE CONNECTION!" So instead of seeing the interception between say, algebra, and making snickerdoodles in home ec, I guide you from a band to a lady of many hats, which includes performance-artist-hat, and maker-of-video-for-sleater-kinney-hat, aaaaaaand maybe you've forgotten by now that I haven't updated in many many days. (Oh my poor five readers. I'm very sorry. I do apologize.)

ANYWAYS, last week I checked out the new IFC Center, née the Waverly Theater. We sat on foamish seats the purple color of the most comfortable, unthreatening Barney. I also felt like I was in a little spaceship. Cool!!! Next destination: Movie!


We saw Miranda July's Me and You and Everyone We know. For the most part, I lapped up its quirky sensibilities and carefully sunny colors, deemed it quite enjoyable and warmly funny, and sort of floated out of the theatre in a very good mood.

The movie's eclectic bunch of characters move in and out of each other's lives and we get to watch as July sort of puts the puzzle pieces together of this oddball community so that the narrative threads run parallel, interweave, meander, and sputter through the different sorts of relationships and quirks of, well, the title – me and you and everyone we know.

For the most part, July builds her characters by showing us their oddities and innocence. Sometimes this can all run on the forced, precious side, but on the whole, her hand treats her characters and their unmoored states with a gentle lightness that all results in something surprisingly affecting.

The movie, with its inevitable tangential comparisons to Sideways and Garden State, got me thinking on its varied receptions because after recognizing that I rather liked the movie quite a lot, I immediately felt an ugly little seed of guilt and then realized, oh no! Not only am I susceptible to things deemed "indie" (whatever that means... WHAT DOES IT MEAN????), I'm susceptible to its judgmental, joyless backlash!
My ridiculous train of thought kinda went like: I liked this! But it's just cuz it's my sort of movie. Because I identified with the characters? But is that any reason to like a movie? But was it any good? And then ran through all sorts of pitfalls of criticism ending up in that usually useless, boundless question, what is good art?
Armed with Netflix, a film-obsessed friend, and a crop of non-Loews-types movie theaters in NYC, this year marks the first time I realized how GOOD movies can be. I've watched more movies this year than I've ever seen and keep on running up against this sort of cul-de-sac thinking. Yet, at this point of my movie-watching - because I actually haven't seen very many things that I didn't like - I'm still wary of my critical skills and still trying to gauge how and why I react. I'm not sure how much I'm buying into other people's and filmdom's judgments, although those things inevitably get mixed into the bag.
As for Me and You..., some people will love it. Some people will be very put off by it and invoke "twee" which to me is still a new vocabulary word. I fall behind the opinion of A.O. Scott's "I like it very much, and I hope you will, too."
Ah, Merriam-Webster tell me that twee is affectedly or excessively dainty, delicate, cute, or quaint. I guess I can see that. But whatever "preciousness" "cloying" or "quirkiness" does not have to be a fault, per se, but a style. Without this aspect, this story might have utterly caved in on itself and become something quite different and flat.

July found herself a really talented cast of kids, especially six-year-old Brandon Ratcliff (his entries in the movie movie blog are awesome), and the 'twee-ness' actually applies more to the adults here. I think this might be because any preciousness of adults is a supremely private thing. The little ceremonies or habits that you have for yourself translate quite differently when taken into the public realm. It's the same reason why you don't want to hear howverymuchinlove somebody might be or how happy they are or how weird they are. So maybe we don't see you pushing a pink circle sticker on your dashboard like a reassurance button as Christine does, but maybe we do see you fixing your hair, smoothing it back, when it isn't mussed up, when you are nervous or unsure.
As adults we become almost afraid of being sincere and as kids, you don't have that cautiousness or consciousness even. Kids usually have no qualms about expressing what they want or need. This quality in adults can cause others to either pity or deem one pathetic. Adults deal with tact and Political Correctness, and most especially Thinking of What Others Think of You, which when you think about it, seems so ridiculous and unwieldy, trying to mirror back what you yourself are projecting, inevitably skewed. The art in the movie is that these struggles of wanting are reflected with kindness, with hope, so that the kids aren't the only ones given the chance to grow up.
Different views.
And don't forget grrlpower. "[The level of sexism] is so insidious that you can't even point a finger," says July. "It's like this silent ill that you think isn't affecting you, but then you realize, oh wait—I'm dealing with this every day. Everyone who deals with me is not used to me being a woman. Because of the way the system's set up, and maybe because it's built around men, it's really hard to have relationships or do anything that isn't ego driven. If you want to do anything really differently, you have to change the whole system. I think there's a lot of different ways that it could look." Grr.
Happy July. Back tomorrow.