Thus far, I’ve ranted a lot, poked some fun, and expressed a fair deal of pointed revulsion, but I’ve avoided specific advocacy of social and political causes. A friend of mine says this is “tepid,” but he’s a sandal-wearing brown-bread chewing bicycle-zealot who’s always talking about his footprint. I tell him his footprint would be more profound if he got himself a good pair of lug-soled work boots and knocked it off with the Birkies. The thing is, I don’t want to alienate liberals or conservatives, who annoy me separately, but equally, nor do I feel the need to lecture folks too much about subjects that seem obvious to me. Finally, were I to give full service to all the stupid crap we do, collectively speaking, this blog would be a morose, suicide-inducing testament to the ultimate failure of mankind. (Just like the nominating conventions of both major political parties, but without all the jackboots, tear gas, and billy club beat-downs.)
But I digress. (Wouldn’t THAT be a good name for a blog?!)*
The news about connections between major insect pollinators, especially bees, and bee Colony Collapse Disorder, and a group of widely used pesticides called neonicotinoids is–and should be–galvanizing. If you like bees, or trees, or pretty flowers, or if you’re one of those humans who likes to, um, eat food, the studies released a few days ago should scare the heck, er hell, no, the freaking shit out of you.
Consider this your heads-up. I’ll be posting more pollinator news as time allows me to gather and learn a little more about what I’m talking about! In the meantime, here’s a link to get you started:
http://www.treehugger.com/tag/colony-collapse-disorder/
*It IS a good name–and someone is already sitting on it on all of the major blog sites. The WordPress variant contains one post, from 2007–abandoned blogs with cool names, from losers who are just sitting on ’em: hate those.
“A poet in our times is a semi-barbarian in a civilized community. He lives in the days that are past. His ideas, thoughts, feelings, associations, are all with barbarous manners, obsolete customs, and exploded superstitions. The march of his intellect is like that of a crab, backward. … The highest inspirations of poetry are resolvable into three ingredients: the rant of unregulated passion, the whining of exaggerated feeling, and the cant of factitious sentiment: and can therefore serve only to ripen a splendid lunatic like Alexander, a puling driveller like Werter, or a morbid dreamer like Wordsworth.…”
