I’ve always found the breeding mechanics in the Pokemon games to be hilarious; we’re basically spending hours of video game time waiting for our Pokemon to have sex, and periodically picking up the resulting eggs.

I was twelve when my “little visitor” arrived for the first time. Its arrival was heralded by my mother as a “first taste of womanhood.” Frankly, in spite of her obvious enthusiasm, I found it a damn nuisance, nothing more. I can’t say I wasn’t prepared, though.

Winslow isn’t typically very picky with his food, so I don’t know why he’s suddenly so interested in the history of corn. Unless he had a bad experience with corn in the past. Maybe he was mugged by a particularly aggressive bag of corn when he was younger?

Given the right conditions, a single cell could mutate and then reproduce itself over and over, forming a new species, or something resembling a former colleague who was run over by a cement truck and survived, though he leaned to the right when walking. It is no wonder that this man—who spoke with a lisp, stuttered, and suffered from incurable hiccups—had trouble communicating, for aside from giving a lecture or a speech now and then, Vladimir Matzkvech’s chosen method of imparting his brilliance was to preserve his thoughts on paper. With his untimely death, (Matzkvech passed away at the age of 97), a collection of his papers are scheduled to be released this week in a book entitled To the Apogee.

It’s always hard getting back into the swing of things after the festivities of late December and early January. Winslow regularly has this issue, despite not having a steady job.