I’ve never been a big fan of insects. There were batches of Christmas cookies and sweets consumed by fruit flies in my youth. The first place my wife and I rented in Derwood had armies of ants dining in the kitchen regularly. There was the summer when I could not seem to go far without being bitten by a wasp, and every mayfly I encountered thereafter I automatically assumed was going to stick me with poison. All of those bugs can be forgiven.
Except roaches. I really hate roaches. There is no logical explanation why I should automatically hate them, though I have been cultured to believe they bring disease and a horseman or two of the apocalypse. I could care less about centipedes and spiders. But roaches creep me out.
A couple of weeks ago I purchased eighty sheets of cardboard from Utrecht so that I could begin constructing a bus stop for an exhibition in November. Within the first 72 hours I knocked off three roaches. Mind you, I am not saying that Utrecht cardboard is teaming with roaches. I’ve only killed six so far.
And they have not been the big friendly palmetto bugs that smoke outside my apartment and carry on through all hours of the night shooting craps. These are smaller, but just as ugly. So far they are no match for my shoe, but I don’t think they’ve found the Grapenuts in the cupboard yet.