I’ve decided that my self-care in these dour times will be to spend time off of Twitter on the weekend and think about food. I’ve started losing my taste for processed foods—I literally just had a Cherry Tootsie Pop, a sweetie I pursued with mindlessness in college, and I feel my teeth screaming—and I want to make more food in general. In that vein, I made myself a microwave mug strawberry cobbler yesterday morning, and, despite the nuking, I thrilled to the fact that I was actually working butter into flour. (Unfortunately, I have to warn for a Romani slur in the blog’s logline.)
If you take nothing else away from today’s missive, please take 5 Calls, a website that lists who you should call, what you should call them about, and provides scripts, especially for messier issues that lack direct actionable items in Congress.
Roxane Gay has pulled a book from an imprint of Simon & Schuster’s to protest Milo Yiannopoulous’ book deal—a choice she recognizes as a rare privilege and deeply important.
The fight against the DAPL isn’t over yet. (And, oh, I got a Twitter ad the other day trying to convince me that it was perfectly safe—which begs the question, if it’s so safe, why isn’t it near Bismarck?)
D.C. Pride is in June, and this year, it will be the site of an LBGTQ protest against Trump. So get your logistics together and go! (I want constant protests in DC, to be perfectly honest.)
Voice of reason Emily Ellsworth helps you decide whether or not you need to worry about a specific piece of legislation. Remember, they want us confused and overwhelmed, so stuff like this is invaluable. In that same vein, Mother Jones extolls you to rely on actual journalism over social media to separate the wheat from the chaff.
A leaked tape reveals that GOP representatives are panicking over the impossible turnaround on repealing Obamacare with any hope of a replacement and completely cognizant that defunding Planned Parenthood is going to generate a huge backlash. My suggestion: grow a spine, speak up, and don’t do that.
Neil Cicierega’s mashup work makes me both believe in God and believe that God is dead. If you’re of a certain age—say, Cicierega’s and mine—let Mouth Moods activate the centers of your brain related to nostalgia and absurdity.
After hearing Benjamin Clementine’s haunting vocals on Gorillaz’ “Hallelujah Money”, I sought out his album At Least For Now. He’s an amazing, immense, and deeply unique talent; the closest analogue I can think of is Nina Simone. The melancholy seeps to the bone, even on sharper songs like “Adios,” and “I Won’t Complain” is a gorgeous cry that occasionally feints towards a snarl. It’s, in fact, too melancholy for me to stomach these days, but it’s truly beautiful.