get your face adjusted
UNIVERSALLY QUANTIFIED CONDITIONALS
Mealworms don’t know they are called that. If they knew—if they somehow had it explained to them or caught a glimpse of their container—they would be like lol what. What does this mean.
(Mealworm thoughts, even when interrogative, do not have question marks.)
I imagine the mealworm thoughts: Is it like the baking recipes where the butter is “cut in” until it “resembles coarse meal,” because we do not resemble that. Does it mean we are a meal lol that’s crazy. Us, a meal! A meal for whom.
Moles, if they were to visit an arcade and see that game, would be like what the FUCK.
Back to the worms because they interest me more and I often think about the horror of the mealworms learning about the “meal” part of their name. How would they find out? The easiest thing to postulate is what I said above, that mealworms can read. You know, Occam’s Razor: mealworms can read. Or, if that sounds ridiculous to you, maybe scientists learn to communicate with mealworms and they explain, in mealworm language, that mealworms are called “mealworms” because, well, we consider you food, for our pets and even for us sometimes. Then I think: that is kind of fucked up, that after this marvelous technological breakthrough that allowed us to communicate with mealworms, we immediately jumped to a weird colonialist mindset where we tell them what they are named. HI NICE TO MEET YOU! WE CALL YOU THIS. Why would we burden mealworms with that bummer knowledge anyway. I probably would try to refrain from mentioning it, personally. We can find other things to talk about, me and the worms.
I would ask mealworms about their sex lives, though! From Wikipedia:
The mealworm beetle breeds prolifically. Males insert sperm packets with their aedeagus.
Looking up “aedeagus” also helped me learn that some male insects provide snacks while they fuck. Wikipedia again:
A spermatophylax is a gelatinous bolus which some male insects eject during copulation with females through their aedeagi together with spermatophores, and which functions as a nutritive supplement for the female.
Chefs: Today I made for you a gelatinous bolus, ejected during copulation through my aedeagi, with spermatophore dust and a cilantro aioli.
HONESTLY, “MARIANA TRENCH” SOUNDS LIKE A FEMINIST PERFORMANCE ARTIST FROM THE 1970s
The other day I watched a David Attenborough documentary about the Mariana Trench. Unfortunately this just had a David Attenborough voiceover and not David Attenborough on screen being delighted by animals.The footage was mostly Japanese science people deploying a submersible thing to go look in the Mariana Trench for new kinds of fish, probably because they are interested in new kinds of fish but also maybe because they were looking for new kinds of ocean snacks. I mean that in the nicest possible way because I greatly admire Japan’s respect for turning every possible food into a beautifully packaged snack. Joke was on Japan either way, though (whether science-oriented or snack-minded), because it turns out there was not much stuff at all in the Mariana Trench. Like one weird white fish and a bunch of huge white shrimp.
So you can give this watery documentary a miss because the visuals (murky water, shrimpy things) weren’t great and the soundtrack was even worse. Very intrusive, very high in the mix, instrumental music that I can only describe as dollar-store “Steve Reich”? Like maybe in the bargain bin you found his, uh, masterpiece called Dissimilar Trains? Or perhaps you prefer the seminal Music For One Dozen And Another Half-Dozen Musicians?
COLD LIKE THE DESERT AT NIGHT
Aaron came home for spring break and we all flew to Phoenix together for some different air. The city made me strangely uncomfortable and the vibes were off somehow (sorry Phoenicians); even the relatively okay parts feel sketchy. And I have used CTA buses to get all over Chicago for 30+ years, so I understand sketchy. However, our rental house was cute (pool, hot tub, and orange tree out back) and we hiked South Mountain, Dixie Mountain, so many mountains. There were ground squirrels and lizards and other animals I do not have at home. During the week I had one excellent iced Americano, two very good tacos, a whole six-pack of NA Corona, and one terrible burger. (Into every beautiful desert day a little rain a sad dry burger must fall.)
NOW
Here at home it is empty-nest once again, at least until May, and I am coming up on two years without alcohol, which I still can’t talk about without feeling stupid. When I do not want to say things in real life I often say them here, but for this I cannot, so hmmm what to do. Regress all the way to my 90s-something self and play the Psychocandy* album on repeat, I guess.
*(100% perfect album, no notes, I will never back down from this, the first time I heard it I was stunned into perfect stillness until it was time to flip the tape over, my teenage brain could barely handle the majesty of methamphetamine fuzz distortion fog hey let’s go listen to it right now.)
—mimi smartypants would like to trip you up.