field notes SF – ramen, etc.

this much-requested food diary is the final post in the Bay Area “field notes” series. yum.

devoured: appropriately-named “Best Day of My Life” (BDOML) açai bowl c/o Bare Bowls. Friend’s response to snap story: “Is that weed?” (No, but it could have been.)
reunited withvictoria, cradling a massive “welcome” bouquet in her arms. Ecstatic tears ensued.
surrounded by: so much athleisure I might as well have been swimming in lycra.

tried: hint® @ Facebook HQ micro-kitchen #146; raspberry sorbet @ Sweet Stop; demolishing evil robots/frying bacon @ Oculus; surprisingly savory cajun tofu burgers @ Full Circle.
metwill (more tears) + ashu (“surprised to see us?”) + poz, head of intern videography.
basked: atop MPK 20, in Facebook’s High Line-esque rooftop garden.

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field notes SF – flower power

this post is part of the Bay Area “field notes” series.

Have you ever walked into a place and immediately realized what was missing from your life? San Francisco’s Asian Art Museum is that place for me. It brings D.C.’s Freer & Sackler galleries to their knees, its collection is second-to-none, its commitment to education is infectious, its Far Leaves tea canisters are scintillatingly aromatic.

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On latte art

A woman who thinks she’s seen it all is once more surprised by the sheer audacity of men, this time at a coffee shop.

July 30, 1:45 P.M.

SILVER SPRING, M.D. — “Nowhere is safe!” coffee-lover and Maryland resident, Cindy Liu, exclaimed, as she furiously stumbled out of Peet’s Coffee & Tea off East-West Highway. Her dim-sum escapade with her best friend and self-proclaimed therapist, Brian Le, had turned into traumatic disaster following a whole new kind of “dick pic”–this time, via latte art.

“I couldn’t believe what was happening,” Le scoffed, sipping cold brew. “Cindy just wanted to be #basic and drink an iced chai, not be harassed with foamed milk.”

According to Liu, the two had spotted a “cute” bear design on a ready-poured latte at the café. After they complimented the Peet’s barista’s handiwork, the barista (who shall remain anonymous until his employment is terminated) proceeded to pull out his iPhone. He thumbed to a photo of, unmistakably, latte art in the shape of a penis, complete with testicles. “I usually do better art, like this one,” the barista smirked. Liu recoiled in alarm, eyes flashing “what the fuck?” at Le. Le, fully aware that the barista intended to make a move on Liu, quickly followed her out of the café.

“She was hysterical,” Le recalls. “She was like, ‘oh, my GOD, I literally thought it was a swan before I realized he was hitting on me, not with a dick pic, but pretending he’s all better and artsy with his latte art dick!'”

Fellow scorned women from all over the globe, friends, and relatives began sending their condolences. “Wait what in the literal fuck / Whyyyyy / Ew how did you respond / That’s so gross,” typed Sukriti Ghosh. “Omg wtf / that’s some creepy shit / find a shell / and live in it / only leaving to hunt for bigger shells,” advised Kevin Chau. “SHIELD YOUR EYES EVERYONE BECAUSE UNSOLICITED DICK PICS COMIN’ AT YOU FROM MORE THAN JUST YOUR DM’S,” screamed Emelia Suljic. “This is very aggressive,” remarked Remy van Dobben de Bruyn. “I can’t believe it / it’s a new low / And I thought there were no more lows left to go,” rhymed Serina Chang, before sagaciously adding, “Nothing ever prompts an unsolicited dick.” “Wait that’s SO CREEPY, he just pulled out his phone and showed you a pic of a dick?!??! W T F! Eeeeeeekkk!!” squealed Victoria Wang. “I wonder what he was thinking — like is there any universe in which someone responds positively to that?” said a friend, who asked to remain anonymous. “Nobody has the right to treat my daughter like that,” Liu’s father grumbled. “She cannot even go to the coffee shop now!” her mother exclaimed. “🤮🤮🤮🤢🤢🤢😡😡😡🙄🙄🙄,” her brother, Calvin, texted. “这简直是太过分了!” her grandmother shrieked.

The latest insult follows on the heels of an entire history of womankind questioning, protesting, indicting, and burning the incompetence of men. For Liu, that history is all-too-recent, given another harassment encounter two weeks ago, when a Whole Foods employee unsolicitedly asked her, “How are you, sweetheart? Need help finding anything?” and responded to her silence with, “How’s it going? Shopping today?” As if persistent wage gaps, ceilings of all kinds, normalized objectification, occupational segregation, tokenism, gender bias, and rape were not enough, avoiding coffee shops and the inability to choose cheese in peace now also encompass the female experience in a patriarchal world.

Liu has notified Peet’s Customer Service, and expects to speak with a district leader for a “high priority” case in the next few days. “I’m grateful that Amber, the customer service representative, was attentive, understanding, and patient, and took my complaint seriously,” Liu said. “At least there’s one Peet’s employee who knows how to do her job.”

The barista declined to comment, but his friend, Fragile Masculinity, said, “Dude, it’s just those fuckin’ feminists again. I don’t see what’s so bad about what he did. It’s not his fault he’s so insecure about the size of his own dick that he had to overcompensate by making a latte dick with extra foam, then using it to hit on random women.”

Women everywhere contributed additional reporting to this article. We would like to thank Anonymous Barista for reminding us that the only thing he should be pouring from now on is male tears.

field notes SF – sfmoma x munch

this post is part of the Bay Area “field notes” series.

“The color shrieked.”

I was twelve when I fell in love with Edvard Munch’s autobiographical The Scream (1893). Utterly unprepared, I flipped through a generic “Best Artists of the 20th Century” book and recoiled in repugnance at the iconic face that howled back at me.

The Scream is tucked away in Oslo’s National Gallery, but its two cousins hang side-by-side at SFMOMA’s special exhibit: Anxiety (1894) and Despair (1893-4). I hadn’t realized (before setting off the alarm trying to get a good look at the two #freeme) that Scream is actually one-third of a triptych. Throughout the exhibit, I kept returning to these three: every next painting is The Scream repurposed, Anxiety reimagined, or the subject of Despair recast in a different hue of melancholy.

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field notes SF – overheard on the Caltrain

this is the first post in the Bay Area installment of the travel series “field notes”. hope you enjoy!

overheard: “I heard Berkeley Hillel is, like, so much stronger than Stanford Hillel. I’m not sure why, I mean, I’ve been to both campuses and they both have solid Jewish communities…” – a gregarious young Jewish woman
sidebar: Whatever else it may be, Stanford is an overwhelming sensory paradise: the rows of palm trees that echo the countless arched pathways; the seemingly endless occasions for photo ops (including one where we witnessed a freshly-minted bride grab her groom’s asscrack, with Rodin’s sculptures eyeing them in the background); the colorful nods to Art Deco; expansive space to breathe, utterly antithesis to Columbia’s austere geometry; the omnipresent sun etching every crevice in gold, from the Quad to the Arboretum.

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On German lakes

we interrupt your regularly scheduled Prokofiev program notes with something that must be said.

[POI: a conversation where two people ask each other if there’s “any other unfinished business,” and the answer is, “of course,” but nobody dares utter it.]

dear _____,

One of my favorite memories with you is sitting on the edge of Lake Constance (Bodensee in German), close enough to the pewter-colored water to poke the swans squawking on the surface. You likely don’t remember it. A Cavalier King Charles spaniel bounced by. “It’s so regal,” you exclaimed, your voice hushed. “So English,” I agreed.

Things were untainted then, on that bench by the lake. I hadn’t yet loved you. You probably loved me, but you didn’t know it yet. You simply kept asking that I quiz you from your German notebook. Laid out maps for me in the morning before you left for class on the kitchen table, in case I got lost (I didn’t, thanks to your ever-meticulous instructions). Met me by the train station. Still slept on a board the third night because you insisted I have your mattress. When I think of the way you were kind to me those four days, in my ears I hear your voice: calm, assured, and steady, like marble.

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On Prokofiev’s Toccata

this post is part of the hackneyed devices series that chronicles my fall 2017 solo Prokofiev tour. enjoy!

Playing with form–or, in the case of the Toccata, perverting it altogether–assumes great importance in this piece. The toccatas (from Italian tocare, meaning literally “to touch”) of Bach’s and Scarlatti’s time were strictly studies of keyboard technique, pieces that could only be played on keyboard instruments. Bach’s infamous organ Toccata and Fugue in d minor, for example, also epitomizes the original purpose of toccatas as improvisatory, cadenza-esque pieces, something to whip out as the equivalent of an encore. Though unmistakably showy and technique-driven, toccatas symbolized a freedom at the keyboard not afforded to other forms.

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