I wrote a paper on them in the mid-1990s at UC Santa Cruz, enthused by Doc Ricketts, Gary Snyder, redwoods, the Tao (accidental discoveries), the Bolivian quena, and kind outdoor. They are, as I remember, one of the few animals with a proportionally larger brain than our own. In other words, they have a higher potential capacity for lethargy, pollution, and fart-related jokes.
I used to visit the Monterey Aquarium a few times a week as a graduate student. Walking from the wharf and old Customs House along a rocky, seal-and-kelp bay through Cannery Row-gone-chic to the suitably foggy former coastal factory that is the Aquarium.
I spent a lot of time watching the sea turtle, tuna, sunfish, hammerheads, and (temporarily housed) juvenile Great White. Most memorable was a six-year-old octopus living in a darkish corner of the aquarium. Nearly unmoving, the creature would subtly change its colors, in hypnotic striations, as our eyes locked. Or didn't. Each time it was different. I almost wanted to let the cephalopod draw me to it, incise my neck with razor sharp beak and incapacitate me in its multitude of arms and suckers.*
For these reasons, and others I would remember if had access to my old biology paper, I throw my hat in favor of escape artist numero uno**––a true cephalopod of distinction, Inky––for President of the aqua corpus.
I hope that my endorsement for the Inkster will sway a few voters. I know Bernie is great and all––he picked up a respected Senatorial supporter––but can he make his way out of a maximum security aquarium, scoot nine feet, and slither down along drainpipe to the sea? Can he handle new responsibilities of blending in within a complex coral ecosystem and sneaking up on slippery eels? I'm doubtful.
** Clearly outdoing CG-enhanced Nemo in all but the fundraising and super delegate categories.
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