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Squid #162
(published January 15, 2004)
Notes from the Giant Squid: You Know What They Say About The Size Of A Squid's Color Display, Don't You? I Don't Either.

Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
In a chromatophoric display, who would win . . . architeuthis dux or architeuthis princeps?



In the firstmost place, Jim, I wish to clarify that this is not a matter regarding which I feel the undue sensitivities. It is, in fact, not a sensitive matter in the least. I am much and varied in my comfort in speaking with the regards of this matter, of chromatic display and hierarchical judgement there-of.

For example, you are doubtlessly universal in your pinkness— or browness or whathave you— and additionally, your penis is very small. I am quite assured that this is not a matter bothersome to you. Small and incapable of maintaining tumescence.

I would similarly wish, at this time, to indicate that this is not about Dismal, fearful and wretched tamagent she be. But, as she is a just sampling of her princepstic ilk, she will be used as the exempli primer of such in this discussion, just as I shall, being a fair representative of Architeuthis dux, in all her sordid and assorted beauty.

But first, it would seem to behoove us to engage in a degree of the critical analysis, the defining of the terminologies necessary and good for such discourse as ours to proceed forward. There are a quadumverate of basis upon which one might judge the value and quality of chromatic display: the patterning, the luminosity, the tints, and the index of refraction. We shall treat each below, in order and separate, and then bind them at the end, finally demonstrating the duxic superiority in such matters.

(Did I too mention that this causes me no sensitivities or concerns in the leastmostest of ways? I am turgid with self-assurance!)

Patterning: In patterning, there are two matters: First is for the aesthetic, and second is for the appearing to be that which you are not. Noting the multi-hued bright lights stippling her hide, it is hard to deny the aesthetic charms (even superiority) of my dearest and woefully-not-departed Dismal— but, of course, as it is much difficult to deny the aesthetic charms of the late-night light-race of the stopping and cruising lights of the manchimp autovelocitators scurrying about the byways of this Motown far below my Rennaissance perch, it is also much difficult to claim that there is any inkling of the blending in or camouflage about such a display. On the converse, despite my general lack of the sparkles, the spangles, the stripes or the stars— let alone the blue diamonds or purpled horsing shoes— I am much adept at appearing to be the volcanic rock, the drift of benthic ooze, the floating and limpid concatenation of discarded montgolfier silk, and even more varied and fantastical forms mundane. It would appear that where I had failed aesthetically, I had succeeded camoflogically, and thus beat out my fair and distant maiden (nota bene the irony in term just preceding! maiden? Dismal? Piss-shaw upon that notion!.) But, ignore not that there is a narrow shade of difference betwixt the simple camouflage of form, and the greater deception in revelation of self, and that the camoufler (to disguise) is no great distance from the camouflet (to snub.) In this matters, Dismal is the victor, tentacles down.

As such, I admit my defeat in this aspect. When it comes to the deception and the snubbening, Dismal, she has most certainly taken the lead. I gracefully accept having been beaten by the fairs and squares.


Luminosity: I can recall Dismal quite clearly, hovering just above the deep and glowering magma-flowed deep sea rent. She verily shimmered upon the night of the deep, undulant and forlorn, beautiful and scorning. I would estimate she glowed, in alternating come-hither pinks and go-thither oranges, at no less than 1500 lumens— she was, in many ways, not unlike your terrible and fiery sky-ball, of which the poets sing horrified praise. I myself am well known to frequently glow at a mellow 412 lumens. As a fair judge in these matters (or, in the least, the most qualified judge currently available), I would assign my luminous performance a 7.5 of 10, noting my tasteful restraint in luminosity. For Dismal, I assign a 7.1. For the case of ease in latter calculation and tabulation, I shall round this about to their wholest numbers. As such:Luminosity:

Simultaneous Discrete Tints: As was mentioned above, Dismal the Pretty Little Princeps was clearly capable of at least two like-timed, discrete tints— but, of course, all of squidkind can manage such, even if only in those moments of shifting from one tint to the next. No, Dismal, she was much elevated beyond this, and was far from limited from the simple instantaneous flash from the green of humor to the flush of arousal to the blanch of even to the deepest blue rage, but could be all of these at once, a dervish whirled yet static of form, swept up and about with the colors of envy and spite and hilarity and scorn, of judgement and hunger and want and despair and revenge, sweet revenge— she had the vengeance of a schoolgirl, the soft supple melancholy of a blushing bride. It is without a doubt that on at least one given ill-fated meeting, I saw no fewer than 8 colors upon her hide.

As for myself, I occasional evince three and one-half colors at a time. At that particular memorable meeting, I think I mustered not even one.


Index of Refraction: The index of refraction is the ratio betwixt the speed of the light photons traveling through a vacuum (the mythical state of non-being and nothingness much akin to that famed Japanese musical trio, the Nirvana) and the speed of the enlightened photons traveling through the material in question. Exempli gratis: the vacuum itself has an index of refraction of 1 (that is the speed of light divided by itself.) According to my measurements, the index of refraction possessed of a zinnia-cut diamond is in the neighboring hood of 2.417 (the speed of light in the Nirvana, 300 million metres per tiny-hand-tick, divided by that of the light trapped within the diamond, 124.12 million meters per the tiny-hand-tick.) The deepest blackest construction paper my lab assistant, Rob, might acquire, velvety and wonderful in the nocturnishly blue light of my tank, has an index of refraction of ERR (which is to say the speed of light divided by the Zero, fearful Nonesuch.) Much thanks to Rob for aiding in these calculations by utilizing his hand-held calculating device, which though not waterproofed nor ruggedized for several hundred atmospheres, is nonetheless much of the helpful in these matters.

The old aphorism is true: All that glitters is possessed of a high index of refraction. And I note well, with sighing hearts, the glittering surface of Dismal.

In the matter of glitter of my own corpus, I defer to that great sage and bard, Wyclef of Jean, who notes "Any thing may happen, you cannot stop the shinning; you are looking upon my watch, but it is my mind which is the diamond." There is no shame in glitterlessness. There are tiny little fishes which are of the glitter, as is Maria Drew Carey. None wish to be either of these.

Index of Refraction:

Final Tabulation:

I reign victories, yet stand alone.


Recent wisdom has been brought to my attention, the poeticals of deutschlander heavy metal musical combo The Bethlehems. While to most species the ingestion of Mercury, Plumbus and Arsenic brings only suffering, dementia and death, in you gentle gruntchimps such transgression does inspire a sort of mused brilliance and almost preternatural seeing-beyond. I quote their 1998 work "Sardonischer Untergang Im Zeichen Irrigioser Darbietung" (Yesterday I Still Killed of Myself Today) in its entirety:

Even now where I adjoin the wick
Architeuthis princeps finds herself
On a Quest after the religious Satan
for a naive sin in a desolate accommodation

And when the child with the bloody mouth
Was denied the last kiss
It wasn't an answer to the last one

Fountain go to your Brother...
Then not a collar comes there of
Is he still red from the ice melting?

Why does the young copy have to like
the anomalies of a machine heart?

by now there are strange shadows
that move where once lonely foot steps
performed the dance that cried for heaven

Why does the young copy have to like the anomalies of a machine heart?

Again, would if I could, Sigh.

It is to want, dear Jim of the Limpid Penis and Uniform Skintone. It is to want. Let not your colors fade for any female.

I Remain in Solitude,
Your Giant Squid

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