Tip #1 - If you are happy to queue, eat at Bad Saint,
a 24-seat Filipino restaurant with no reservations needed. It was named as the second best new restaurant
in the USA by Bon Appetit magazine in 2016 and lines can begin as early
Hey guys, my name is Catherine. This is my portrait of Tyler Joseph “10.5 Pilots”. It’s made entirely of TOP lyrics written in ballpoint pen.
As a winning piece of the Congressional Art Competition, it is currently hanging in the United States Capitol building and will be for the next year.
Please please if you would maybe spread it around, I would love for him to know his face is hanging in the US Capitol. Thank you!!
Adrien Agreste rarely sings, but when he does, has a lovely, almost transcendent signing voice.
Chat Noir? Does not.
He sings constantly when he’s on patrol, but his voice is horrific. Where Adrien’s voice is soft, angelic, Chat Noir yowls and shrieks with the most dramatic choreography he can invent. There are clips on the Ladyblog of him butchering “One Day More” from Les Mis while parkouring dramatically across the Paris Capitol Building, including climbing the flagpole to stand atop it during Enjolras’ part, then swinging all the way down for Javert. All of Paris knows that Chat Noir is a terrible singer, but they appreciate his enthusiasm–except Ladybug, of course, who seriously wishes he would stop for just ten goddamn minutes, is that too much to ask?
Until one night, when the two of them are resting on top of the Eiffel Tower, and Ladybug absentmindedly begins to sing to herself. It’s not anything big, just something stupid and pop-y–just a silly little ditty by some pop singer that she hasn’t been able to get out of her head–when suddenly she hears Chat join in with a perfect, lilting harmony. A harmony that is nowhere in the original song, and that he is clearly making up on the spot. And it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard.
She’s too shocked to do anything but finish the song, listening to him float his way through a completely original countermelody that sends heat to her cheeks in a way that doesn’t happen around anyone but Adrien. The song finishes, and they spend the rest of their time together in silence, staring out across Paris.
The next morning, Marinette can’t get the song out of her head. She keeps finding herself humming it whenever she’s not paying attention, and ends up just the littlest bit disappointed every time she realizes that Chat isn’t there to sing his part.
Until, when class is being dismissed for lunch, she starts humming it again, and hears another voice join in as she and Adrien are walking out the door.
“The District” is a Washington D.C. based timelapse project I decided to take on since I’ve lived in the area my entire life and I think it has beauty and architecture that needs to be seen.
While shooting “The District” of course I ran into a few issues. Weather is typically the most important aspect of any timelapse project but parking and tourists were the biggest speed bumps while filming from April-August. Most major cities have high rise / skyscrapers but D.C. is very limited to the height of buildings which makes you think more and get more creative with your shots. You do have to map every little shot so you can execute it properly. Most shots in “The District” were shot 2-4 separate times due to weather or bad research on my end.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the meeting between Trump and Obama at the White House, and here’s the thing.
Obama used to be a law professor. This is key.
Law school is so, so different from college.
In college, everyone expects there to be a “syllabus day,” kind of a grace period where they can show up and get the lay of the land, figure out the bare minimum that they can get away with, the TA gives everyone their office hours, there’s an introductory lecture, and everybody leaves a few minutes early to go take a nap or something. You do the bullshit assignments, you say something in class now and then to get your participation check mark, and figure out how badly you can do on the final and still pass.
But see, in law school, all the methodologies you’ve spent the last 17 years operating under go out the window. Day one of law school is you being thrown into the deep end of the pool—you’ve had a homework assignment for two weeks now, and it’s to read the first 200 pages of your casebook. And now it’s you and the teacher (who is usually as smug as Alex Trebek) gauging and assessing what you managed to absorb while you skimmed through all those pages of reading so you could hurry up and get to the other 150 pages of reading for your next period class, in front of 50 people who are all smarter than you. And if you fuck up, or you didn’t do the reading, you are at the mercies of not just the professor, but the silent satisfied judgment of your peers.
Law school is hard, and it will make you feel stupid and tongue-tied and like you don’t know anything and can’t form an argument—because you don’t, and you can’t. Everybody there has had a 4.0 since birth. Everybody there was the smartest kid in their class, and you’re all rabidly competing for a sliver of a chance at something down the road. It’s petty, and savage, fiercely entrenched in a culture of formalities and ceremony, and exactly like Washington DC.
Yesterday when I was driving home, the NPR reporter talking about the Oval Office meeting mentioned that Trump had thought it was going to be a “getting to know you” type meeting, but that he was surprised when Obama stretched their talk out to 90 minutes before sending him along to the Capitol building where he met with congressional leaders for more lengthy meetings and stuff he didn’t want to do.
And he hasn’t even gotten to the actual job yet.
So think about that as we go into this.
Trump walked into the Oval Office like a two-pump-chump freshman thinking it was syllabus day, and what he got was the first day of law school, and he hadn’t done the reading like everyone else had, and Professor Obama decided to put him in the hot seat.
This was Obama’s chance for the most perfect revenge that would never be picked up on as revenge at all. He was gracious, polite—everything he needed to be for a peaceful transition and a good review from the press. And that would continue when the doors were closed, because that’s the key. Not a Come to Jesus meeting, oh no. If Obama were smart—and he is very smart—he would have treated Trump like an equal, and brought the discussion to a level that assumes far more of Trump than anyone has so far. Assumes that he’s an adult who’s been paying attention. Statistics, esoteric minutiae about the executive branch procedure, economic growth numbers, labor figures, domestic policies, countries Trump has never even heard of, shit that would never in a million years have been in Trump’s campaign soundbites or digestible summaries.
No way to escape. No aides to remember any of it for him. Just the two of them.
Because that’s what would strike a precise chill into Trump. The thundering realization that he’s woefully unprepared for the hard, boring, thankless reality of this, and Obama’s version of a smooth transition won’t and shouldn’t include remedial civics.
That’s what I saw when they shook hands and Trump stared at the floor instead of looking back into Obama’s face. He’s just figured out how little he knows about any of this.
And that should give you a small glow of satisfaction, because after those meetings, Trump definitely has the 1L Terror Shits. In January, the night sweats and insomnia will show up, but for these first few weeks—nothing but diarrhea and self-doubt.