Fun with hydrophobic sand. // A hashtag devoted to animals’ genitals. // The Doctor meets Pan’s People. // Come play with us, children. // I denounce the cultural appropriation. // Cat purr noise generator. // Eight frying pan bottoms and one moon of Jupiter. // An interactive map of jazz collaborations. // Jog. // 12-year-old trips in gallery, causes $1.5 million in damage. // This is one of these. // Chasing storms. // 3D printing with molten glass. // Apollo guidance computer simulator. // Artisanal globe-making. // Foldable paper microscope. // It’s a flask, it’s a compass, it’s a flashlight. // “I’m calling in Veronica.” // Mom, there are bears in the pool again. // Cruise with Shatner. The cheapest bunks are only $975. // And finally, a bike horn rendition of Mambo No. 5. 

Picture the scene.

Last weekend, I camped with my family at a barn-raising party on the western foot of the Quantock hills, in Somerset. On Saturday I crept out of the tent at 5am, when the faintest skein of red cloud netted the sky. Below me, mist filled the valley floor. I slipped through the sagging fence at the top of the field and found myself in a steep, broad coomb, covered in bracken. I climbed for a while, as quietly as I could, until a frightful wail shattered my thoughts. I crouched and listened. I could see nothing on the dark hillside. It came again, from about 50 metres to my right, half-shriek, half-bleat, a wild, wrenching, desolate cry, a cry that the Earth might make in mourning for itself.

Yes, dear reader, we’re visiting the pages of the Guardian. Specifically, the latest transmission from the strange, anguished mind of Mr George Monbiot:  

Walking without a map, I reached the valley floor too soon and found myself on the main road. In some places there were no verges and I had to press myself into the hedge as cars passed. But on such early walks, almost regardless of where you are, there are rewards.

Wait for it.

Just as I was about to turn off the road, on to the track that would take me back to the barn, I found a squirrel hit by a car that must have just passed me, dead but still twitching. It was a male, one of this year’s brood but fully grown. Blood seeped from a wound to the head. I picked it up by its hind feet, and though I had played no part in its death, I was immediately gripped by a sensation so discrete, so distinct from all else we feel, that I believe it requires its own label: hunter’s pride.

Gasp ye at the dark, animal side of a Guardian columnist:

It’s the raw, feral thrill I have experienced only on the occasions when I have picked up a fresh dead animal I intend to eat. It feels to me like the opening of a hidden door, a rent in the mind through which you can glimpse a ghost psyche: vestigial emotional faculties that once helped us to survive.

Ah, the savage romance. Of roadkill. 

I showed the squirrel to the small tribe of children that had formed in the campsite, girls and boys between the ages of three and nine, and asked them if they’d like to watch me prepare it.

Creepy man waves dead, twitching squirrel at bewildered children.

The 50s post-war man could read Fleming’s Bond books and dream not only of adventure and villains in far-off lands, but of an exciting lifestyle of fast cars, beautiful women, finely tailored clothes, and exotic gourmet meals from around the world. Sadly these meals were missing from the cinematic adaptations.

What Bond eats in the novels. 

Christina Hoff Sommers on the fantasies and evasions of hashtag feminism: 

Someone needs to tell [campus feminists] that most of [their] statistics are specious and that… they are among the most liberated and privileged — and safest — people on earth. Because their professors would not tell them, that someone turned out to be me; for this I was furnished with a police escort on more than one occasion… Too often, today’s gender activists are not fighting injustice, but fighting phantom epidemics and nursing petty grievances. Two leading feminist hashtags of 2015 are #FreeTheNipples and #LovetheLines. The former is a campaign to desexualise women’s breasts; the latter promotes stretch-mark acceptance. If the imprisoned women of Iran and Afghanistan were free to tweet, what would they say about these struggles?

Ah, but in terms of “oppression” and “patriarchal assumptions” – according to feminist scholarship – the average American campus is indistinguishable from Uganda and Somalia. What, you didn’t know?

John Leo shares a list of things that are apparently racist, including hoop skirts, raised eyebrows and Christmas dinner: 

Writer Ron Rosenbaum said in Slate that racism accounts for the popularity of white-meat turkey over more flavourful dark meat. “White meat turkey has no taste,” he explained. “Despite its superior taste, dark meat has dark undertones for some. Dark meat seems to summon up ancient fears of contamination and miscegenation as opposed to the supposed superior purity of white meat.”

And Peter Fricke notes a progressive approach to shoplifting: 

Everett Mitchell, a former assistant district attorney, suggested that communities of colour may prefer that police refrain from enforcing laws against theft from large retail chains because responding to such crimes leads to an increased police presence in neighbourhoods where shoplifting is prevalent.

Apparently Mr Mitchell prefers “restorative justice” and “community service” for non-violent offenders under the age of 25. Though one wonders how justice of any kind is to be achieved if criminals with brown skin mustn’t be apprehended.

Feel free to share your own links and snippets in the comments. It’s what these posts are for. 

Endless bi-directional spiral made with model trains. // Inhale your booze among fellow booze inhalers. Or stay home and inhale, whatever. // The wearable multi-tool you’ve always wanted. // “The convenience and flexibility of a car, the freedom of the open sky.” (h/t, Dr W) // Ferro-fluidic alarm clock of note. // “Aircraft carrier, hairdryer, digital clock.” (h/t, Franklin) // Trek fan does Borg maths. // Big lady shark. // How speakers make sound. // His spinning top tricks are better than yours. // Concerned tweet of note. (h/t, dicentra) // “Comrade Coninternov flew to Mars and vanquished all the capitalists on the planet!” // A history of light bulbs. (h/t, drb) // Designer lollipops. // Attention all toilet users. // And, er, why parents rarely want their children to be artists, part 14.