Secret entrance of note. || We are not related. || I was previously unaware of white strawberries. || This is bigger than yours. || Box of human heads stolen. || That’s close enough, pussycat. || Almost Pong, a game, of sorts. || Those Monday morning blues. || Incoming. || Incoming 2. || Not entirely ideal. || “Non-binary” baby shower. || A brief history of cardboard. || She does this better than you would. || Heardle, like Wordle, but with pop music. || Know your place, peasant. || Where pretentious grievance gets you. || The progressive retail experience, parts 417, 418, 419, and 420. || Know your place, part 2: “Men, don’t speak.” || A situation has arisen. || And finally, futuristically, the world of tomorrow.

You may wish to brace yourselves for some intersectional ruggedness, care of Patrick Kelleher, writing in Pink News:

Meet the queer hikers proving the great outdoors isn’t just for cis, straight, middle class folk.

I fear a question may have been begged there, one on which the entire article rests, but hey, let’s push on. There’s oppression to invoke and needless drama to manufacture.

On the last Queer Out Here walk, there was a welcome circle where everyone was asked to introduce themselves, state their pronouns, and tell the group what the outdoors means to them.

Because even simple fun – say, an outdoors walk – has to be organised, you see, and made “quite political,” with lots of declarations and public speaking to keep you in the moment and at one with nature. And a walk just isn’t a walk unless you can make it, like everything else, all about your identity, i.e., all about you. The organiser in question is one Ailish Breen, a being with pronouns, and who offers “queer-only spaces” to those in search of sky and scenery. If you’re “queer, trans, non-binary, genderqueer, gay, lesbian, bi, asexual, intersex, pansexual,” or any sexual-identity niche not yet recognised or invented, this is The Fun Time For You:

Our community is wonderful because of its breadth and diversity. By coming on a hike with us you’re committing to embracing everyone’s uniqueness and welcoming everybody. We don’t tolerate any form of discrimination at our events.

“Straight/cis allies” are, of course, not welcome.

Inevitably, “a lack of equality around access” is invoked, but as so often, particulars remain unmentioned or unobvious. Setting aside the advantages of suitable footwear and something waterproof, the nearest we get to crushing issues of unfairness are,

 Ailish says, “People think it’s for middle class, white, heteronormative families.”

A claim that hangs in the air with no obvious support.

I as a student did NOT want to know about my teachers’ personal lives.

From the comments following this, in which Mr Jo Brassington, a teacher of small children, considers it “so important” to parade around the classroom, looking “cute,” in painted nails and make-up: 

Update, via the comments:

Mr Brassington is, he says – or they says, because pronouns, obviously – that he’s “working to make educational spaces more emotionally honest.” And so, we’re expected to believe that “queer” teachers everywhere are somehow being suppressed and robbed of their energy unless they can start cross-dressing at work and telling small children about how screamingly fabulous they are. Such are the struggles of the modern primary-school educator.

Readers will note that the exhibitionist tendency and self-preoccupation are presented as an identity, something to be affirmed and applauded. But it’s not clear to me how one might differentiate an identity of this kind from a kink, or a mental health issue. And when you’re talking about adults having influence and authority over small children, it’s not an entirely trivial matter.

I’m not sure what this is, but I think you should try it. || At last, a self-crumpling ballpoint pen. || Attention, ladies. Alice wants to use your bathroom. || A little scrubbing. || It’s a job. || The unblocking did not go well. || The thrill of wearing women’s knickers. || Thieving large objects, a thread. || Anti-theft device of note, 1961. || Intellectual activity, 2022. || Today’s word is serendipity. (h/t, Darleen) || Well, you would, I suppose. || Dancing at 90 degrees. || Cheese trajectory. || Gamer girl. || Giving it everything. || Ready meals of note. || And how was your day, dear? || How to play the piano. || John Peel roulette. (h/t, Things) || And finally, implausibly, the kamikaze porn-star scandal that rocked Japan.

Also, I now have a Gettr account.

I have questions, dear reader. Important, probing questions. Are you unenthused by hip-hop tracks about “police brutality and racialised oppression”? Does rapping about poverty and “the woes of Black Americans as artists” not render you giddy and enthralled? Do you not delight in endless repetition of the word nigga?

I ask because we’re told, by Dr Jeremy McCool and Dr Tyrone Smith, two devotees of “critical race theory,” that a failure to gush with enthusiasm is a result of “systemic bias and inherent prejudice,” and is suppressing such innovation. It is, they say,

The silencing of intellectuals in music.

This profound and damning revelation was uncovered by means of a “notional study” in which 310 participants, young adults, half of whom “self-identified” as black and the other half as white, were invited to listen to various tracks and read selected lyrics, before being asked whether they would be likely to skip said track if heard in the car, or would instead continue listening, mesmerised and ready to be educated.

In each instance, the white participants in the experiment rejected the messaging at a higher frequency than the Black participants.

Extrapolating with gusto – one might say wildly – our scholars promptly invoke “the silencing of Black narratives and perspectives.” It turns out that if a hundred or so white people are slightly less interested in rote racial narcissism expressed via the medium of rap, this could result in “artists who typically make thought-provoking music being shunned by the industry.” It’s all terribly unfair, you see. If true.

It remains unclear whether our mighty scholars considered the quality of the music as music, i.e., beyond any supposedly radical and “thought-provoking” content, those “deeper political implications.” Nor is it clear whether lyrical monotony, generic braggadocio and crass sexual references may have played a part in boring some more than others. To say nothing of many rappers’ own reliance on cartoonish racial stereotypes. Readers are, however, invited to ponder the intellectual heft of the following extract from one of the selected tracks, Da Baby’s Rockstar: