you can't fire me, I quit!

just a day late

Hi!

Thanks for opening this email / reading this post.

me, blaming all of my character flaws on my star sign

Still here, still sending links:

• John Mulaney was invited to give a keynote at the DreamForce Conference and just straight roasted the audience for 40 minutes - something that I wish happened to those nerds on a weekly basis.

• Speaking of roasts, Consumer Reports released their “first take” on the Tesla Cybertruck, and they are not fans!

• Taylor Lorenz has a new Substack, where she is writing about very important internet stuff, like the SnoopyWeekly Twitter account’s endorsement of Donald Trump.

• As corporations around the country chug along, working hard to make the earth uninhabitable as soon as possible, we all need to be reminded that this planet is the only one we have. This fantastic read from The New Republic debunks the notion that there are “climate havens,” a morally dubious concept in the first place, and takes new learnings from the unexpected destruction of Hurricane Helene.

• The recent US Jobs Report crushed expectations about a weak economy, but the humans I know in real life are much less optimistic. Too many brilliant friends are out of work, so I couldn’t help but share this really nice piece from the Platonic Love Substack with some seriously substantial advice (we’re talking TEMPLATES) on finding a new gig.

Tunes to start the week with:

Today I’m bringing you some fresh beeps and boops. Caribou’s new project, Honey, is a broad dance album, and a lively and bright addition to his catalogue. The title track has some juicy drops and Caribou’s signature synths - good stuff!

And in the “new to me” category is Sara Landry - an industrial techno girly making hard beats that have a unique feminine quality that you’re not normally going to see in the genre. It’s the kind of stuff they play at that vampire rave in Blade.

And a new poem, cause why the hell not?

Lincoln Center, early October

We went to see their sinewed legs,
lithe in arabesque. The Balanchine-style of tiny heads
and raven hair, far more elegant than the floppy 
Petipa girls who were around before the Russians invaded New York

The perfect hummingbird feet of the corps 
lulls us into a stupor, interrupted by the jumping boys
of the third act (embarrassingly my favorite part).
The prima bows in a big breath, scooping armfuls
of applause on her third curtain call. 

There is a little girl sitting in front of us and I wonder,
How do little girls know to want this these days?

xx