Toxic Fumes

Mercy, Mercy Me (Human Ecology)

2007-09-01T04:24:00.000-07:00

by Scott McNutt

Sometimes when I am gulping beer, sitting opposite Hellbender publisher Rikki Hall and other ecologically inclined persons, I wonder, Are they going to whip out daggers and stab me to death?
Because I am ruining the environment. It is a steamy morning in July as I type these words on an electricity-eating computer. As I type, the atmosphere-heating, air-polluting clothes dryer is running, and I relish the air blowing from the equally power-hungry central-air unit cooling our woefully energy-inefficient house. Ceiling fans and box fans clatter and whir (I said the house was energy inefficient, right?), while drifting from downstairs comes the murmur of one of our many TV sets. Although lost in the sea of competing sounds, also droning from downstairs is the power-sucking dishwasher, probably not nearly as full of dishes as it could be. Lights have been left on unnecessarily in every room. The kitchen garbage cans (yes, we have kitchen garbage cans, plural; we excel at nothing so much as garbage production) hold many beer cans and a couple of Styrofoam to-go containers from last night’s dinner of non-free-range chicken wings.
So, as I ponder all of the ways my unsustainable way of life hurts the environment, I cannot help but wonder, Are you, the reader, going to ram me with your gas-miserly Prius next time you see me?
Actually, only by extension am I wondering about whether you will kill me for not caring about the environment, because what I am really wondering is how I came to not care about the environment. Because I used to care.
When I was growing up, in perhaps the most environmentally incorrect city in the world, Oak Ridge, Tenn. (Motto: “Don’t Mind the Two-Headed Salamanders”), we actually did environmental-type things. The first Earth Day, April 22, 1970, my elementary school class celebrated with each student planting a sapling. They probably all died from the mercury in the soil, but we were trying.
The next year, we saved money to help the bald eagles, our national symbol, that were endangered because DDT in the environment was softening their eggshells, causing them to break prematurely. For our efforts we received a letter from a grateful Department of the Interior thanking us and a certificate proclaiming we had saved two bald eagles from extinction. After that, it was recycling drives. Then, city-wide neighborhood clean-ups. Our communities were turning each of us into tiny, earnest Rachel Carsons.
Filling airwaves and our heads in those days were ecologically and socially conscious songs like “Mercy, Mercy Me” (The Ecology), “Indian Reservation” (The Lament of the Cherokee Reservation Indian), “War” (What Is It Good for?), “In the Year 2525” (Exordium and Terminus) and “Yummy, Yummy, Yummy” (I Got Love in My Tummy). Ok, the last one not so much, but it was filling my head.
They may have been naïve, they may have been silly -- heck, most of them were bad -- but they felt sincere to us.
And there was the heartbroken American Indian wandering all over the nation, right in front of our eyes on the TV set, always getting trash thrown on his feet and weeping over what had been done to his ancestral land. The part was done by a guy billing himself as Iron Eyes Cody, which was good enough for us. Of course, his real name was Espera DeCorti, and he was born of Sicilian immigrants in Kaplan, La. But we did not know that then; and we would not have cared if we had! When Iron Eyes cried, we all shed a rusty little tear.
And we conserved energy in my household. Winters we shivered, summers we broiled. In summer, we had one big window-unit air conditioner that, when turned on, simply rattled ineffectually at the heat, because we only turned it on when it was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. That was the house rule, and, of course, my father decided when the rule was invoked.
I challenged Dad on it one year, and he allowed me to go break an egg on the front walk. Not only did the egg not fry, but when I finally gave up, it had cemented itself to the pavement, and I sweated myself to saturation trying to clean it.
Then, staggering under the weight of defeat and soggy shorts, I trudged back into our broiler oven of a house. The kicker: While I was out there melting into the walk, dad had turned on the air conditioner.
I digress. The point is, there were many elements influencing my generation to care for the environment and conserve resources. Then it just…stopped.
It seemed like one day I was surrounded by adults devoted to preserving the environment and conserving resources and teaching me to do the same. The next, they were worrying about where they would get their next gallon of gas. Still young, I did not understand, but it was around then many of us lost the will to care. Maybe it was the ludicrous sight of Jimmy Carter putting on a sweater and turning down the thermostat on national TV that so disheartened us. At any rate, I was old enough to recognize a lost cause when I saw one. Although through my 20s and 30s, I made half-hearted environmental efforts, I never really recovered a passion for conservation.
And today, I fear my environmentally indifferent household is not unlike many households of middle-aged families. So, on this July afternoon when the atmosphere outdoors is like a sweat-soaked sock slapping you in the face, I wonder, how had it come to this? How did I, from such heady childhood beginnings, dwindle to such contemptible indifference as I crest the comfortable beer belly of my middle age and totter down to the sunken haunches of my dodderdom?
I didn’t have an answer as I was typing this. So I went downstairs to see what was on TV as I pondered more.
And my question was answered. Right in front of my eyes on the TV were garishly dressed figures writhing across brightly lit stages, emitting thunderous, murkily indecipherable music.
And filling my head were these thoughts: “Oh yeah. I am part of the generation that, as children, planted groves of saplings, and, as adults, cut them down for new subdivisions. I am part of the generation that saved the bald eagles but now encroaches on their habitats with our sprawl. I am part of the generation that started recycling paper in the 70s, but doubled paper product consumption in the years since. I am part of a generation whose response to the gas shortages of the 70s was to build bigger, less energy-efficient vehicles in the 90s.”
And finally, filling my head as I gazed dumbly at the TV set was, “I’m part of the generation that -- seriously -- thinks using enough energy to heat Norway for a week to send a bunch of environmentally unconscious pop stars to far-flung corners of the globe to sing cringingly unlistenable songs for a concert laughably titled ‘Live Earth’ is an energy-efficient response to global warming.”
I am of a generation that accepts symbol as substance. I do not know why we are like this; I only know “Live Earth” reminded me that I am part of that group. Like saying so many Hail Marys to absolve spiritual pollution, we purchase a few units of Green Power to erase the dirty stain of our gigantic carbon footprint. Or we hold an enormously wasteful concert to raise other people’s awareness of environmental issues. We never acknowledge we must change the way we live to keep living.
Well, I am acknowledging it. My lifestyle is unsustainable. I went wrong somewhere, and I’m too weak to change. We really tried to make a difference back then, but it is too late now. I know there are some, like Rikki and the others who produce this newspaper, who are not as hopelessly addicted to comfort as am I. So if you environmentally minded souls see me, please, have mercy. Do not kill me. Just give me a foot to the ass and save the planet for yourselves, despite me. The kicker? Tell me “Live Earth” made you do it.

Antlions, tiger beetles and waterbears, oh my!

2007-07-01T17:40:00.000-07:00

Toxic Fumes vs. Six Legs and a Buzz

By Scott McNutt and Rikki Hall

Today’s question is: Do insects suck? Today’s answer is: Of course they do! They suck and bite and sting. In Biblical times, whenever God wanted to plague somebody, insects were always in the mix, afflicting and tormenting and scourging and smiting and generally being unpleasant. In fact, you could say the existence of insects is proof that there is a God – a wrathful God who pleasures in the torment of countless souls who have suffered stinging, itching, poisoning, anaphylactic shock, limb loss, coma and death courtesy of an insect
Because Hellbender Press makes a point of celebrating these marauding mites, it is appropriate to bring the question directly to that most outspoken champion of buzzy bugaboos: Hellbender Press editor and publisher, Rikki Hall. He is here to give us a gnat’s-eye view of the insect issue.

Scott: So, Rikki, tell us: Why the hell are there insects?

Rikki: Because shrimp got tired of saltwater and wanted to feel fresh. Because fish that wanted to feel fresh needed food. Because flies and flowers conspired to fruit the fields and forests and feed fowl and fool them into fateful freeway forays. Flying. Because someone, something had to populate the air, and it was insects who first flew.

Scott: Fine, I’ll grant you evolution of all things terrestrial and all that double-talk scientific jargon. Even insects that are pests, I guess I could say I don’t actively dislike. For instance, I don’t mind garden-variety ants out in the outdoors. I sort of admire their orderliness, organization and determination. But why must the ants come marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah, into our kitchen? I don’t want to kill them, but it’s as if they are spoiling for all-out war. Why have they turned me into a serial ant killer?

Rikki: Spilled cereal? They may come in looking for food, but often it is thirst that drives them indoors. If it does not rain for a while, a small drop of water in your sink can be a treasure for a thirsty ant colony. Why would you want to deprive them of a simple drink of water? Anyway, if they are marching one by one, they have found something they like.
For some reason I don’t have much trouble with ants in my house. It’s probably the spiders that keep them away.

Scott: Waitaminute! You let spiders in your house? Geez, they aren’t even creepy-crawlers. They are more like springy-dashers, and they’re poisonous to boot. Do you have a death wish?

Reckless Rikki: Few spiders are poisonous, and most are sedentary and well behaved. The springy, dashy spiders get escorted outside. The rest of them build webs, stay there, and keep ants and mosquitoes at bay. Fun bugs like long-horned beetles plow right through the webs and stay for a nice visit.

Scaredy Scott: Ack! “Stay for a nice visit?” Don’t you get it? They’re invading our space! They’re space invaders! We don’t want the vermin to visit. We want hermetically sealed homes free of bugs.

Foolish Xenophile: Who you calling “we,” white man?

Pterophobe: Kind of snide to your own kind, ain’t you? What are you, some kind of Bug Whisperer? I suppose you’re happy when carpenter bees invade your home. I bet you think it’s natural, them chewing on industrially processed and chemically treated porch planks.

Bug Whisperer: Carpenter bees do not eat wood, they just excavate holes, so your vile chemicals don’t have the impact you might wish. Carpenter ants, sawflies, wood-boring beetles, termites, those are another matter. You might want call someone about those, but carpenter bees are pretty harmless. The ones that hover around protecting the turf are males without stingers. Their holes are shallow, and they avoid load-bearing wood because it is harder to dig in. They are just trying to raise a family! Do you have problems with creatures being fruitful and multiplying? Perhaps multiplying was as far as you got in math?

Multiplication-table challenged whitey: I got no problem with useful creatures multiplying, so I’m not worried a bee hugger like you will spawn. Speaking of useless creatures, why do camel crickets insist on leaping at and scaring the beegeezees out of me? I always figured they were harmless, but that kind of behavior does not seem to promote long life. To me those bounding beasties are just ingredients for squashed casserole.

Divisive Bee hugger: They probably leap because you scared the bejesus out of them, either by turning on a light or rumbling their world with the footfalls of a giant. To be honest, I don’t like camel crickets and their cave cricket cousins. They bite, and the only thing uglier than a camel cricket is a squished camel cricket. They won’t hold still so you can capture them and throw them outside, and they often travel in gangs. Did you know they live underground? In karst areas, and much of East Tennessee is karst, the underground world is an endless series of dark crevices in which they can congregate and conspire. Fortunately, they are so stupid the Sun will burn out before they devise a plan to take over the sunlit world.
Spend your good money trying to eradicate them if you wish. There will always be more, and the Orkin man has to feed his young.

Orkin Enabler: All right then, why must lice infest? Never having had them, I won’t begrudge them their brief, misbegotten existence, but why do they have to come in droves? It seems like they might be less noticeable and thus have a better chance for survival if just a few got on a host. You know if, say, Fonzie Louse said to Ritchie Louse, “Aaaaaay! Cunningham! Hop on the bike! Not you, Malph. Two’s company, you’re annoying. C’mon, Cunningham, we’re going to pick up a couple of sweet, young lice I know and go infest Arnold.”

Potsyhead: I think you answered your own question. Isn’t the next step in your scenario a bunch of baby lice? Maybe not Ritchie, but certainly the Fonzie Louse goes all the way. I think that’s how it really happens: one pregnant louse gets on your head, next thing you know, you’re infested.
Once I was backpacking on Mt. Rogers and a louse landed on my neck. I felt it land and plucked it off, and there was this pallid, tiny crab-thing with wings! It grossed even me out. I didn’t know what it was, but there are wild horses there, so I figured it was a horse louse. When I got home and looked in my books, and found plenty of pictures of lice, but none with wings. There was no mention of them having wings at all, even on the Internet. Lice and wings are like nostalgic sitcoms and sex.

Sexless nostalgiac: Fine, what about mosquitoes? What are mosquitoes good for? Clearly, mosquitoes and similar pesty creatures are useful for visiting God’s wrath on His Peoples. They carry malaria and West Nile virus and a host of other deadly contagions, plus their bites itch like…well, like a mosquito bite.
Mosquitoes may be useful for torture and death, but utility is not always good, is it, Commandant von KreepenKrawlen? Why shouldn’t we round them all up and destroy them, the same as we should HMO CEOs, Donald Rumsfeld, carnivorous zombies and any other vicious, unconscienced vampires?

Commandant von KreepenKrawlen: One good way to destroy all mosquitoes would be to destroy all blood-bearing creatures. That would leave more room for the non-blood-sucking insects. Almost all insects do not suck human blood, yet you wish to condemn the lot of them because one variety among thousands has managed to find a way to turn the most meager of blood meals into offspring, and this causes you a brief itch? Your sense of fair play disgusts me, you selfish endotherm.
Furthermore, it is viruses that actually cause the diseases you blame on mosquitoes. If none of your fellow human beings had malaria-infected blood, the chain would be just as broken as if there were no mosquitoes, possibly more so, because malaria could potentially find alternate vectors in the absence of mosquitoes. Your wrath would seem better targeted toward viruses than insects.
As to your more serious question about rounding up and destroying those who parasitize our wealth, God warned us that wealth corrodes our souls. You can accept Rumsfeld’s resignation, but as long as there are trillions to spend on bombs and planes and guns and pilots and engineers, there will be more Rumsfelds. As long as arteries clog, there will be HMO CEOs. You might as well try killing all the mosquitoes.

Selfish endotherm: So basically, your argument is a) most insects don’t suck blood; don’t condemn the many for sins of the few, b) Mosquitoes do suck blood and cause humans grief, but what is our grief compared to their reproductive needs? and c) they also carry malaria, but malaria is malaria’s fault, and we should wipe out malaria by wiping out all humans who carry malaria? Does that about sum it up? ‘Cause those are some whack priorities you got there, O Lord of the Fleas.
But since you at least concede that wiping out parasites would be a good thing, let’s move on to ticks. According to Wikipedia, “hard ticks can transmit human diseases such as relapsing fever, Lyme disease, Rocky Mountain spotted fever, tularemia, equine encephalitis, Colorado tick fever, and several forms of ehrlichiosis.” It also says there are, like, 50 kajagoogillion species and families of these mini-Mafiosi. Spreaders of diseases I can’t pronounce give me the creeping willies. So how, O Lord of the Fleas, do you defend these villainous vermin’s continued existence?

Lord of the Fleas: First of all, ticks are not insects. They have eight legs, one body segment and vastly different mouth parts and anus parts, dork. Duh. In any case, it sounds like ticks would be a great alternate vector for malaria, should misfortune befall mosquitoes. I do not advocate wiping out any humans. I’m just pointing out the folly of tampering with the balance of things, you short-sighted meddler.

Short-sighted meddler: So your position seems to be that ticks serving as disease vectors is actually a useful function when one considers creation in all its total glory, plus, technically, they are arachnids, not insects. You are a piece of work, Mr. Pestmaster General. But fine, I will grant you that defense. Only you can not use it for our next contestant: the humble flea.
These insignificant creatures are responsible for probably the greatest single incidence of loss of human life in recorded history, the Black Death, with a worldwide death toll estimated at 75 million people. As spreaders of the virus, fleas are like tiny Osama bin Ladens. Only multiplied three-quarters of a billion times. Plus, their bites itch like hell. How do you defend these wee woe-bearers, Mr. Pestmaster General?

Pestmaster General: Funny you should mention bin Laden. There is another pest who has brought irrational wrath upon millions of people who have almost nothing in common with him. There are dead and maimed children in Iraq and Afghanistan as innocent as the moths that burn up in the bug zappers and chemical sprays you put out for mosquitoes. Maybe the real problem here is that you can’t tell the difference between controlling a threat and destroying it. Have you ever heard the old saying about preventions and cures, bug barbarian? I’m sure the pest-control industry is as grateful that you panic at the wiggle of an antenna as the war profiteers are glad for Osama’s magical ability to elude the greatest military the planet has ever known.

Bug barbarian: Why not just admit that you hate your own kind, you Homo-Sapienphobic katydid kisser? Throw in your lot with the lowest things on Earth, you worm-spined parasite-loving leech!

Worm-spined parasite-loving leech: Ha, ha! Leeches are not insects, either, you fleshy, hairless freak.

Fleshy, hairless freak: Stop doing that! That’s not the point, you unnatural nature-loving bug-buggerer.

Unnatural nature-loving bug-buggerer: The point is, your brain is too big for your bug-sized mind, you sack of gelatin poured into a cheap pink suit.

Sack of gelatin poured into a cheap pink suit: Oh yeah, well, someday when you are innocently making your way through some darkened beehive and get jumped by a bunch of ugly-bugly sting-bringers, don’t come crawling to us humans for help, you pupae-incubating, vermin-fellating lice magnet.

Pupae-incubating, vermin-fellating lice magnet: There is no point in seeking help from the helpless and hypersensitive. Hey, what just landed on your shoulder?

Helpless and hypersensitive: Ahhhhh! Get it off me! Get it off me!

Rikki: No problem. (whack!)

Scott: Ow.