I don’t even know what to say about this:
Male, pale and stale university professors are to be given “reverse mentors” to teach them about unconscious bias, under a new Government funded scheme.
Under the project, white men in senior academic posts will be assigned a junior female colleague from an ethnic minority as a mentor.
It’s kind of funny in a very creepy sort of way. The article suggests this will be uncomfortable for the pale, stale men but imagine the discomfort of the poor female mentors.
I need a new series titled “Utter Blethering Ridiculousness” on this blog.
This is the kind of thing I detest:
Democrats delivered groundbreaking victories for a transgender woman in Vermont, a Muslim woman in Minnesota and an African-American woman in Connecticut.
It’s 2018. It’s time to stop treating political candidates like rare bugs we are collecting whose only role is to be a new specimen for the collection. I couldn’t care less about their labels. All I need to know is what they are for. What are they proposing to do for the people?
This entomological strategy already backfired with Hillary who tried to get people to forget things they found relevant about her because she was a woman.
I read a whole article about the transgender candidate in Vermont. I also read two articles about the Muslim candidate in Minnesota. None of the pieces mentioned a single issue these candidates are for. Each gushed on and on about their usefulness as tokens.
“Mommy, what is this in the picture?”
“It’s a train.”
“No, Mommy! This isn’t a train. It doesn’t have a stack, see?”
So, folks, help me solve a mystery that’s been haunting me for years. Look at this bed:
I go to the store to admire this beautiful blanket. Or what do you call it, duvet? It looks great. But here’s my question. How do you wash it? It’s obviously not meant to go in a duvet cover. But then how do you get it clean? Do you stuck it in the washer once a week?
The beautiful gray thing with flounces is not detachable, I checked. And all of the display beds have this type of duvet, so I’m guessing it’s used a lot.
But it’s not a total waste because I did find a good article on VS Naipaul, one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century who died recently:
I returned again and again to his work because I felt his version of my places — India and Pakistan — harsh as it was, restored a kind of autonomy. At a time when post-colonial studies was feeding us a great deal of comforting babble, Mr. Naipaul’s writing helped us take ownership of our past.
Here are some quotes from different articles in today’s NYTIMES:
“For 4,000 years, the Jewish people were seen as the world’s moral compass.”
“Welcome to the Resistance, Omarosa.”
“We are merging with robots. That’s a good thing. What does it mean to live in this kind of emerging world? It is to live in a world marked more by possibility, fluidity, change and negotiability than by outdated images of fixed natures and capacities. This is a world of remarkable personal and social possibility. Sharing and group solidarity are now easier than ever before, and the communal mapping of new electronic trails is enabling multiple once-hidden demographics to command social, commercial and political respect.”
These are random articles on a random day. The amount of sheer ridiculousness is staggering.
N observes me convince Klara put back a bag of jelly beans she grabbed at the store.
“It’s really great how you do this!” he enthuses. “Don’t you wish you could use these skills somewhere else? Like at work? To promote your career?”
“No!” I bellow.”Nope. Nopesie. NOOO! The only person who is entitled to my boundless patience, constant nurturing, and an engaged, inventive responsiveness is this little human being who was extracted from inside me. Everybody else can go jump off a cliff.”
“But isn’t it sad that you develop all these great new skills and they don’t go anywhere else?” he insists.
I’m honestly the least nurturing person I know, so I don’t find it sad. I find it wonderful. Unless a person was surgically extracted from inside me, I don’t nurture. Even discussing the possibility makes me seethe.