Millennial in the Field

Perhaps the most mortifying character among the largely inane dramatis personae of Ridley Scott’s Prometheus was this bewhiskered, cephalically and facially tattooed geologist, who’d the edgy choler of an embittered teenager in the mid-’90s, navigational ineptitude of a toddler separated from its parent at a shopping mall, and a fauxhawk.

He’s still as discomfiting as flatulation at a public function, but less unrealistic than he was a decade ago because entomologist Brendan Morris exists, and he’s christened a Nicaraguan treehopper after Lady Gaga.

Quoth the overfed entomophile:

If there is going to be a Lady Gaga bug, it’s going to be a treehopper, because they have these crazy horns and a wacky fashion sense about them

Flamboyance wasn’t phenomenal before 1960 1975 1994 2005.

I love outrageous forms and colours. It blows my mind that a group that is roughly 40 million years old has so much diversity of form — diversity, I would argue, that we don’t see in any other family of insects.

Why? Wouldn’t one expect more diversity from a family of such enduring lineage?

‘The frontoclypeus, which is like the face, was shaped totally different.

A legitimate, literate scientist versed in his field’s lexicon might observe that this insect’s frontoclypeus is homologous to a face, and shaped differently.

I’ll assume that his co-author Christopher H. Dietrich authored their article concerning this species, the abstract of which conforms to their field’s clinical (if inelegant) jargon.

Which is the more characteristically Millennial trait: effusion or incompetence?

Designer Hellhole

Annusya discovered the above abomination as advertised by Home Depot. Just as we anatomize eximious and execrable interiors alike weekly courtesy of dedicated scanners such as JPEGFantasy and Manila Automat, I couldn’t help but likewise scrutinize this stabile calamity’s every ill-conceived element:

  • That tetragonal, post-’60s motif besmirching the floor and wall alike breathes a rancid nostalgia that gormless, suburban millennials agonize to imagine; to their boomer parents or grandparents, it’s a hideously effective reminder that they’ll soon be dead.
  • What appears to be vinyl or aluminum siding flanking the washbasin is almost innovative in its inanity. Who needs quality wainscot when you’re reimagining the wheel as a scissured brick?
  • Not quite clashing, the gray of the mirror’s frame and sink’s cabinet subtly yet powerfully enhances this collective unsightliness.
  • Who wants to see a lovely print whenever they approach their throne when they can settle for two ugly, grayscale photos of sere skeins evocative of the worthless falderol accumulated by someone’s senile great-grandfather?
  • Like all furnishings composed of perennially contemptible wickerwork, that wastebin belongs in another, or perhaps a fireplace. In a household occupied by a human family hailing from planet Earth, it couldn’t contain more than a few hours’ refuse.
  • Its design ought never have maculated an interior after 1975, but that suspended lamp really does befit postwar pastiche of this hideosity.

Prior generations — even Boomers and Xers largely devoted to indiscriminate rejection of tradition — usually possessed and exercized a measure of discernment so to omit irredeemably horrible artifacts of prior popularity whenever resurrecting others. On those rare occasions when Millennials actually retrospect — or worse, essay to revive the past in maladroit mimicry — they exhibit all the acumen and authenticity of a stupid and sheltered child.