Assorted oddments for the weekend, including how to unintentionally traumatise your own children; scenes of enrichment and cultural diversity; scenes from atop the Chrysler Building, 1930; a brief guide to a salty and surprisingly versatile English word; and acoustics where it counts.
All this and more.
And for those so inclined, it’s fundraising week over at my place.
If you’d like to help keep a blog afloat, and ad-free, by all means do.
Including a determined soap dispenser; Picard recapped in all its awfulness; an asteroid size ranking; Jumping Frenchmen of Maine Syndrome; and the toilet-paper-death-weapon you’ve always wanted.
In the pages of Salon, where our progressive betters ruminate, Nicole Karlis ponders the latest fashionable anxiety. Specifically, “Stories of heartache, tears, stress and dehydration that people experienced after a forced separation from their water bottles.”
Oddments for the weekend, including improbable skills; very big fireworks; the glamour of flight; the Dutch Headwind Cycling Championships; and the Takhini Hot Springs Hair Freezing Contest.
Oh, and this:
“The more leftwing you are, the more likely you are to have been diagnosed with a serious mental illness.”
Hey, I’m just reading what it says.
The Guardian’s Susanna Rustin is very much troubled by thoughts of impending catastrophe and is keen for your routine shopping – for groceries and maybe a pair of shoes – to be replaced, “painlessly,” with forms of “artistic expression and creativity.” Like dance lessons.
It would, of course, be “a reordering of society.”
“Why liberal white women pay a lot of money to learn over dinner how they’re racist.” Says the Guardian, approvingly.
It turns out that quite a few well-heeled ladies of the left are keen to be denounced over dinner as “part of the problem,” warned against having “unmonitored thoughts,” and told to “own their racism,” whether real or imagined, in what amounts to a niche, and rather perverse, status game.
If it sounds self-preoccupied and a tad neurotic, that’s because it is.
This just in:
Punctuality centres whiteness.
Indeed, it’s “systemic white supremacy.” According to a downtrodden soul at Tulane University, where tuition is a mere $60,000 a year, and where the oppressed huddle for comfort against the Cold Winds of Whiteness.
“White people ‘can’t dance’ because white-ness is a traumatized state that is disconnected from the body.”
Super-woke “cultural somatic therapist” Tada Hozumi airs his wisdom. Apparently, “white-ness is traumatization itself.”
Because of all the chairs. And the “tight pants.”
I’m starting to wonder if I’m a terrible person for encouraging and enabling this man to cheat on his wife.
It’s time for another visit to the pages of Slate, where our progressive betters mull the quandaries of modern living.
Fat academics need to be more vocal in calls for… larger desks or substitutions for tables and chairs, greater ease in access to elevators… larger bathrooms, chairs without arms, and larger auditorium seating.
Writing in the pages of Inside Higher Ed, sociology student and “self-identified fat woman” Bobbi Reidinger bemoans the hardships of the chunky would-be educator.
Assorted oddments for the weekend, including improbable health advice; pizza beyond the pale; road rage to remember; a small child containment system; and chilling scenes of paranormal activity.
In the pages of Salon, Chauncey DeVega rattles his head. Strange things fall out.
Assorted oddments for the weekend, including some notable snow clearance; what every window-seat passenger wants to see; an archive of vintage pulp magazines; an unobvious way to make popcorn; a suboptimal delivery service; and a time-saving measure that isn’t entirely successful.
All this and more.
Time, I think, for my end-of-year retrospective. Twelve months of competitive wokeness and assorted mental contortions:
In March, Dr Charlotte Riley, currently employed by the University of Southampton, unveiled her latest feminist innovation, which she titled Patriarchy Chicken, and which entails deliberately and repeatedly colliding with random male commuters. For the Sisterhood, you see. Mr Claude Boudeau thrilled us with his seemingly limitless artistic talents, namely a performance piece titled Cascade. We also witnessed the phenomenon of Brookylnite lefties in search of love via a socialist-only dating platform, with the fiercely egalitarian declaring their revolutionary ambitions to each other, along with their preferred pronouns and various mental health issues. Alas, said platform has not proved an enormous success, resulting instead in disgruntlement, mutual loathing, and demands for romantic quotas.
There’s more, lots of it.
Oddments for the weekend, including some questionable construction materials; a monster in a cupboard; a dining experience to remember; unorthodox deer retrieval; and a reminder that children are not nunchucks.
I repeat, not nunchucks.
“The ideal of social justice does not complement the ideal of education. The ideal of social justice replaces the ideal of education.”
On the creep of “social justice,” and the contortions it entails.
The organisers of the event, titled Performance Is Alive, tell us that in order to avoid being “vapid,” they curate only “the best projects based on the merits of the work.” They are, we learn, presenting “art that’s critical and progressive and transgressive.” Gathered talents will “investigate a wide range of social and political topics” while engaging in “durational performance actions” that “allow artists… to employ repetition and endurance.”
Because if there’s one thing art should be, it’s a test of one’s endurance.