Beetle Queen Conquers Tokyo (Jessica Oreck, 2009)
Some insects nest, they form communities that function as a single entity working towards one shared goal. These societies (for example, ants or termites) operate on a system of pheromone exchange in order to get the job done: a lowly worker doesn't haul ass all day just for nothing, hell no. They get paid. In pheromones.
Then you get insects who don't have a nest that works for a common good, but who do enjoy living in large numbers. Cockroaches, for example, live a life of self-interest, but prefer to live in harborages: large groups hidden out of the sight of prying eyes. The harborage (and the abundant amount of pheromones released to 'invite' members to join) offers the cockroach consolation and comfort in a world that is constantly on the look-out to smoosh them.
The beetle is a little different. In the insect world, the beetle is something of the cool, laconic loner: the Clint Eastwood of arthropods. Most beetles live in neither a nest nor a harborage, they are solo creatures, and they are legion. In fact, the estimated number of around 4 million different species constitutes 25% of all life on earth. That's how many of them there are. The beetle also has the upper hand over other insects by being largely more accepted than their cousins, most of this is probably down to their shells: the shell comes in a variety of designs, often quite beautiful. Ladybirds, for example, are thoroughly accepted by society and most people would gladly let a ladybird walk over their hand.
Beetles can't hurt us, but most people would rather they weren't in the room. In fact, most people are a little disgusted by them. But where do we learn that disgust? Dr Robert Winston showed that this response to insects is acquired, it's taught to us by modelled behaviour from others, principally parents. Winston experimented on children, temporarily placing a sterilised insect in their glass of apple juice: children of four and under will have no problem with this, and continue drinking the juice, but after the age of four, kids start getting a bit sketchy about drinking buggy juice. There's no danger though. It's a learned response of disgust. Some responses are innate, such as that caused by the smell of rotten food. That's your body warning you not to eat the food, because it will make you sick. You didn't learn that, nobody taught you, your body just knows. Some responses are intentional, such as that elicited by a wasp. The wasp has those colours and that design as a poster to tell you not to mess around with it. So that's more like a communicated response. But the disgust with beetles, that's acquired, taught to us by the behaviour of others.
Imagine if no one was bothered by beetles though. No disgusted faces pulled. You wouldn't have learned to undergo a negative response when faced with one. That would be interesting. Maybe you would have even kept beetles as pets when you were a child, learned how to delicately care for something strong yet fragile. In that environment, maybe everyone would have kept a beetle as a pet. Maybe beetles could have become a huge commodity, where they changed hands for ever increasing sums of money. Maybe someone would have come over to make a poem of a film about our crazy culture that had placed an arthropod much higher in importance than other cultures. Maybe they would have looked at us closely to try to explain why we were different from other places. Maybe that would have been a good thing to happen.
Then you get insects who don't have a nest that works for a common good, but who do enjoy living in large numbers. Cockroaches, for example, live a life of self-interest, but prefer to live in harborages: large groups hidden out of the sight of prying eyes. The harborage (and the abundant amount of pheromones released to 'invite' members to join) offers the cockroach consolation and comfort in a world that is constantly on the look-out to smoosh them.
The beetle is a little different. In the insect world, the beetle is something of the cool, laconic loner: the Clint Eastwood of arthropods. Most beetles live in neither a nest nor a harborage, they are solo creatures, and they are legion. In fact, the estimated number of around 4 million different species constitutes 25% of all life on earth. That's how many of them there are. The beetle also has the upper hand over other insects by being largely more accepted than their cousins, most of this is probably down to their shells: the shell comes in a variety of designs, often quite beautiful. Ladybirds, for example, are thoroughly accepted by society and most people would gladly let a ladybird walk over their hand.
Beetles can't hurt us, but most people would rather they weren't in the room. In fact, most people are a little disgusted by them. But where do we learn that disgust? Dr Robert Winston showed that this response to insects is acquired, it's taught to us by modelled behaviour from others, principally parents. Winston experimented on children, temporarily placing a sterilised insect in their glass of apple juice: children of four and under will have no problem with this, and continue drinking the juice, but after the age of four, kids start getting a bit sketchy about drinking buggy juice. There's no danger though. It's a learned response of disgust. Some responses are innate, such as that caused by the smell of rotten food. That's your body warning you not to eat the food, because it will make you sick. You didn't learn that, nobody taught you, your body just knows. Some responses are intentional, such as that elicited by a wasp. The wasp has those colours and that design as a poster to tell you not to mess around with it. So that's more like a communicated response. But the disgust with beetles, that's acquired, taught to us by the behaviour of others.
Imagine if no one was bothered by beetles though. No disgusted faces pulled. You wouldn't have learned to undergo a negative response when faced with one. That would be interesting. Maybe you would have even kept beetles as pets when you were a child, learned how to delicately care for something strong yet fragile. In that environment, maybe everyone would have kept a beetle as a pet. Maybe beetles could have become a huge commodity, where they changed hands for ever increasing sums of money. Maybe someone would have come over to make a poem of a film about our crazy culture that had placed an arthropod much higher in importance than other cultures. Maybe they would have looked at us closely to try to explain why we were different from other places. Maybe that would have been a good thing to happen.