Snark Week: Otterly Vicious

Last year, my husband and I set off on a camping adventure in Montana. We canoed to a remote site on Cliff Lake, an expanse of water that formed atop a geologic fault. The sun shone. The water was an impossible shade of aquamarine. Eagles perched atop dead trees. It was pretty damn perfect.

That evening, after we pitched our tent, we took the canoe out for an evening paddle. Not fifty feet from our site, I spied something in the water. Something brown. Something furry. Something mammalian. It took my brain two more oar strokes to ID the animals. Otters! Three of them. Playing in the water near a large rock. I had never seen otters in the wild. Even spotting otters at the zoo had proven surprisingly challenging. Yet, here we were, gazing upon otters in their native habitat. 

I was awestruck. My husband and I aren’t the kind of people who hold hands, but had we not been at opposite ends of the canoe, we might have clutched our palms together and gazed meaningfully into each other’s eyes.

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Snark Week: Literally the Most Terrifying Creature on Earth

Imagine I was to describe a creature to you. Something truly terrifying. Something out of a nightmare that no amount of drunken elves could wash away.

It’s small enough to hide almost anywhere in your house but big enough to crawl up onto your bed at night. It drools, shits and pisses everywhere it goes. It bites (hard), kicks (less hard), and screams (really hard).

They are destructive on local and global level. The longer they live, the more destructive they become. They tear down mountains, destroy the ozone layer, ruin oceans, and eradicate much of the life on Earth. Some of them have swords.

And their only goal in life is to drain you of all your life, your wealth, your very essence – and then replace you. And it might be in your home right now. Scary, right? Like something out of a horror flick. Not one of the good ones, one of those late-night-drunk-Netflix-guilt-clicks.

Look, I’m only human, okay?

At the very least, it would be something to write your congressperson about, right? Well ladies and gentlemen, this is no horror flick, it’s real and it has a name.

Children.

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Snark Week: Every Other Creeping Thing Besides Us

You know what I have a problem with? Every creature but us. With their membranes and slotted eyeballs, they make almost no sense. I couldn’t know a speck of what a chicken knows, or how to see through the eyes of a millipede as it clatters over fallen leaves. I can write as many times as I want that I lay my loving ear against the bark of a big old cottonwood in winter and imagine a grandmother dreaming, but that’s me imagining a tree asleep.

You see a spider crawling up your leg. You think you see what a spider sees? With all eight or twelve or ten-thousand eyes, pore-hairs sticking out of its legs transferring more neural information than humans get through their retinas, do you have any sense of this animal? You flail to get the thing off, no thought but, eeeew!

I hate how they put us in our place.

Deer stare at us as if we’d smeared feces all over ourselves and we’re parading around naked. You can see it in their eyes. They are disgusted.

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Snark Week: People are Bitching about My Emotional Support Bees, and It’s Hurting My Feels

The worst thing about having emotional support bees (ESBs), really, is getting them on the plane.

Last Thursday was no exception. It was a rough day all around—trying to pack clothes around the hive without getting everything sticky, then arguing with the cab driver about putting bees in his trunk, and then the TSA dude confiscating not just my nail clippers (which I’d planned to use during the flight, since I have a middle seat and nothing else to do) but also my nunchucks.

But I’m sorry, Mr. Hairy Necked Security Guy treating me like a criminal, I have a doctor’s note that says this hive of 30,000 stinging insects is totally legit and necessary to my wellbeing, and I intend to get every one of them from O’Hare to LA whether the flight is oversold or not.

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Snark Week: Skunks Don’t Stink

Illustration of a large striped skunk and her young, by John James Audubon. Source: Morgan Library & Museum public archive

Late at night, after the campers at Puddingstone Lake RV park in Los Angeles County have gone to bed, Ted Stankowich and his graduate students set up infrared cameras and speakers around an open field. They open cans of cat food and fling chunks of it all over the grass. Then they wait.

The skunks come in droves. Some wear metal ear cuffs and RFID tags. Others are streaked with pink and purple dye, tagged in a previous run-in with the researchers. As the skunks nibble on cat food, Stankowich and his team cue up the sound of a coyote howling, or a great horned owl hooting. Then they watch to see if the skunks stand their ground, or scatter.

Stankowich studies how skunks respond to different predators, and how predators respond to them. Although skunks can easily fend off attacks at ground-level, they are much more vulnerable to predators that swoop from above, like great horned owls. The skunks seem more alarmed by the owl hoots, suggesting they know who they can and can’t tangle with, Stankowich says. His next step is to roll out more realistic models, including an owl glider that attacks from above and a robot named Obi Wan Coyote, he says.

Surprisingly little is known about skunk behavior for a simple reason: “People don’t want to get near them,” Stankowich says. Yet, “skunks are my favorite animal, and the most misunderstood.”

Among the many misconceptions Stankowich would like to clear up about skunks is that they stink. The oil skunks shoot from their anal glands does stink, he acknowledges. But skunks are so good at aiming their spray, using highly manueverable nipples, that they almost never get it on their own fur. Dr. Jerry Dragoo, head of the Dragoo Institute for the Betterment of Skunks and Skunk Reputations, concurs. Although the nipples do occasionally dribble, “the animal itself doesn’t smell worse” than any other furry mammal, he says. (Dragoo, it should be noted, has no sense of smell. He was born without one.)

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It’s Snark Week.

We here at LWON aren’t opposed to a little snark now and then. In our annual homage to SHARK WEEK, we give the gentlest creatures daggers for teeth or in some other way flip them on their funny little heads. We embrace the stinky and dis the adorable. We make stuff up without apology. We hope readers enjoy our silliness, but, if nothing else, we entertain ourselves. And, damn it, that might have to be enough.

(For last year’s snark attack, go here to start. There are links there to other years, too. We think they’re pretty funny.)

Toxic Beauty

There’s a little patch of horror growing along my weekly drive, a strange blossoming on the side of the highway. People can’t stop pulling over for it. Flowers have appeared in profusion, alpine firecrackers of penstemon and some blue-hooded species, maybe an Aconite, wolfsbane, not one I know because they are invasives seeded across a toxic cleanup site that looks like a fireworks show.

The pullout in the mountains near Telluride, Colorado, has turned hard-packed and dusty, and I’m getting used to slowing as I round the corner, idiots ahead on a winding two-lane, cars half off pavement, or pulling out at two miles per hour.

I don’t blame gawkers and picture takers, families laying down hand in hand as if fallen into the fields of heaven. I’d stop here, too, snap off some facebooks and instagrams, if the dirt weren’t sitting on half century of leached mine tailings, cancerous heavy metals in acid-broken ore, crushed, covered over, and seeded with wildflowers. I just wouldn’t.

A driver told me that living here 25 years, she’d hold her breath when passing this spot. The EPA says it’s safe, because it might be, probably is, I think? I mean, this isn’t an investigative post, but over the next couple decades is there going to be a rash of melanomas and liver cancers untraceable because the only thing people have in common is that they breathed when they drove by here?

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Searching for the First Americans in the Smithsonian

Smithsonian mural

This post originally ran January 5, 2016

In the quarter light of a few remaining bulbs in a decommissioned hall of the Smithsonian, Kirk Johnson, the museum director, pushed back drapes of clear plastic. The National Fossil Halls was being undressed for demolition, dioramas and murals half torn down, everything had to go. In his business outfit, a coat and tie and polished shoes, he showed me through shadows of skeletons and cases unbolted from the floor. It was the end of the work day, the knot of his tie loosened.

“Watch the nails,” he said as he stepped across a floor stripped down to concrete and wood. “Some are still showing through.” Continue reading