This book is dedicated with love to the memory of Adrienne Berenbaum (May 19, 1918 – December 29, 1999). She was a smart, kind, funny lady who loved science, books, and, above all else, her family. We all miss her very much.

ALSO BY MAY BERENBAUM

Ninety-Nine Gnats, Nits, and Nibblers

Ninety-Nine More Maggots, Mites, and Munchers

Bugs in the System

Years ago, one of my colleagues taped to his door a cartoon, I think from the New Yorker, that made an indelible impression on me (well, perhaps not totally indelible—I either never noticed or didn't bother to remember the name of the cartoonist). The cartoon showed an audience of well-dressed people, obviously at the theater or some similar entertainment, laughing uproariously—all except for a single couple, in the middle of the center row. The man sat, grim-faced and staring, while his wife, with an annoyed expression, admonished him—”For heaven's sake, Stanley, can't you forget for one minute that you're a serious scientist?”

Or words to that effect. The cartoon made an impression because it captures so well the image of the scientist in the public mind. As far as most people are concerned, scientists are the people to whom the rest of the world turns to solve the most intractable problems —disease, hunger, pollution, careening asteroids about to collide with the planet, and the like. And I think it's true that most people who pursue careers in science are motivated by a desire to provide solutions to intractable problems. But the pursuit of these solutions is anything but grim—it's by turns maddeningly frustrating, excruciatingly dull, unspeakably terrify-

ing, and, at wonderful times, utterly exhilarating. I expect it's a lot like many other professions, particularly those with a problem-solving component. While the overall objectives or ultimate goals may be deadly serious, the everyday details generally aren't. Sometimes the everyday details are downright funny (if, on occasion, only in retrospect).

Most scientists don't enter their chosen profession in the hopes of fortune, and few are motivated by a desire for fame. Fortune favors very few and those who really earn vast sums are in a tiny minority. As for fame, even the most famous scientists are generally known only to a handful of people. The exceptional ones, the household names, are few and very far between. Ask anyone to name the first famous scientist who comes to mind and you'll probably hear “Albert Einstein,” despite the fact that he's been dead for years. If pressed, most people couldn't even tell you precisely what he was famous for, other than unruly hair and a German accent. Who has to pause to dredge up the name of a famous actor, sports figure, or business magnate who is still breathing?

Why, then, do people become scientists? I can't speak for everyone, but I know why I did. I am a scientist because there is no other activity I can engage in that I find more satisfying. I write these essays in part to share with fellow scientists the joys and frustrations of the business and, as well, in part to show people who aren't scientists just how enjoyable the whole process can be. If these essays don't shatter stereotypes, I hope that at the very least they cause them to crack a little bit.

As enthusiastic as I am about this project, and the overall goal, I have to confess that I didn't come up with the idea in the first place. In 1991, I was invited by Dr. Lowell “Skip” Nault, then

president of the Entomological Society of America, to write a “humor column” for the journal American Entomologist, a publication of the society that is distributed to all 7,000+ members as a consequence of paying dues. I'm not really sure how Dr. Nault decided on me for this task, but I do know, when he wanted a plenary speaker for the 1991 annual meeting who would inject some humor into the gathering, that he asked me only after Gary Larson, of cartoon fame, turned him down. I was a little hesitant at first, among other things because I wasn't exactly certain that what I considered humorous would strike other entomologists the same way. After nine years, though, I feel more confident that there are some things that are more or less universally funny.

This book, then, consists mainly of columns I wrote for the American Entomologist between 1991 and 1999, along with a few additional essays written expressly for this project on topics that are less specifically of relevance to entomologists. The essays written for the American Entomologist have been adapted for this book by expeditious purging of unnecessary jargon and entomological inside jokes. All of the essays fall into four major categories, corresponding to the sections in the book. The first section, “How entomologists see insects,” consists of essays about the insects themselves; it was, in most cases, the amazing details of the lives of these incredible creatures that got most of us entomologists interested in the field in the first place. The second section, “How the world sees insects” deals with the prejudices of the public at large toward insects—on occasion a source of great amusement, although more frequently a cause of great consternation, to entomologists. The amusement arises at least in part because, despite their avowed dislike for insects, people have found some remarkable ways to incorporate insects and their images into

their daily routine. The concern arises from the tendency of people to believe the worst about insects, no matter how outlandish or dangerous those beliefs may be. The third section, “How entomologists see themselves, ” contains essays on how difficult it can be to explain entomology as a career choice to the world at large—a reflection of how difficult it is to explain the scientific enterprise in general to people whose last experience with scientific research was a mandatory one-semester general education class in college (which they hated). Finally, the fourth section, “How an entomologist sees science,” has to do with the business of science irrespective of discipline—these essays address the commonalities of the conduct of science despite attempts within the scientific community to differentiate and classify scientists according to discipline, age, gender, research organisms, experimental approaches or whatever.

So, of entomologists, the general public, and the scientific community, I don't really know who will end up reading this book. Whoever you are, please enjoy these essays—they're written to be enjoyed. But before you proceed, here's a word of warning. In these essays, you'll encounter scientific names. For reasons I'm not entirely clear on, these seem to alarm people, even some biologists, unnecessarily. These names, which are written in Latin and consist of two parts, the genus followed by the species, are used not to impress people with dazzling displays of arcane knowledge; I don't know that I've ever won anyone's heart or stopped a fight or brought the world one step closer to peace and tranquility by reeling off a scientific name at a critical juncture. They're used simply because they're really very useful. For one thing, they're universal; no matter what it may be called in French, German, Italian, Tagalog, or Swahili, each species has only one scientific, or

Latin, name everywhere in the world. Entomologists find them particularly useful because there are many species that just aren't common enough to have names in French, German, Italian, Tagalog, or Swahili. If they bother you, you can gloss over them the way that I used to gloss over all of the names I couldn't pronounce in the Russian novels I read in college.

Coincidentally, one novelist of Russian extraction, Vladimir Nabokov, of “Lolita” fame, happened to be very good at scientific names; he personally bestowed scientific names on several species of gossamer-winged butterflies before he began his literary career in earnest. Nabokov's range of talents reinforces the main idea here—that scientists are more than guys in white lab coats holding Erlenmeyer flasks. Not to give anything away, but you won't find another reference to Erlenmeyer flasks in the rest of the book; I hope you find what is mentioned a lot more interesting.

There are many, many people to whom I owe thanks and without whom this book would not exist. First of all, I should thank the 7,000 or so members of the Entomological Society of America (forgive me if I don't list all of your names); many regularly read the Buzzwords columns I write for the American Entomologist and have taken the time to let me know how much they enjoyed them, thereby encouraging me to go ahead with this project. I also have to thank the many people who made a point of pointing out the things they'd come across that struck them as funny—many of the ideas for these essays came from letters, cards, e-mail messages, phone calls, or even old-fashioned face-to-face conversations with colleagues. I've tried to give credit where credit is due, but if I've inadvertently left out your name I apologize. And I thank the many authors of articles who shared reprints and photocopies with me that I couldn't otherwise locate. (I'm still looking for the full text of that article by Yuswadi in the 1950 Siriraj Hospital Gazette, though.)

Thanks are due, too, to the many entomologists who enthusiastically contacted me whenever I made an error; I really do appreciate these efforts and have tried mightily to expunge

typographical errors, outdated information, and other carelessness from this book. I must assert emphatically, however, that if errors remain, they are certainly not the fault of the Entomological Society of America—they are all my own and I'm not proud of them. I hope you'll contact me without delay if you find some in this book. Although it's embarrassing to get caught in an error, I believe it 's a far greater mistake to knowingly leave an error uncorrected—if you find one, I'll do my best to fix it. I also owe the Entomological Society of America thanks for granting me permission to reprint many of the essays with a minimum of fuss.

I also have to thank Stephen Mautner and the staff at Joseph Henry Press for taking a chance on Buzzwords. Steve's enthusiasm for the project never flagged, even when mine slipped a little, and he also displayed remarkable tolerance for my poor grasp of the concept of “deadline.” Ann Merchant spared no effort in promoting the book and even managed to convince me that being an entomologist was pretty cool. I hope their faith in this book proves to be justified.

Closer to home, I have students, staff, and faculty here in the Department of Entomology at the University of Illinois to thank for generously sharing their expertise with me, and for not even blinking when I sought clarification on subjects that can only be considered a bit odd (colleague Susan Fahrbach, for example, provided me with references to help me understand the phenomenon of reflexive penile erections during paradoxical sleep without so much as a by-your-leave). Several undergraduate assistants were utterly indispensable to me, providing cheerful service searching for and retrieving bits of information from places on campus that entomologists don't usually go. Jodie Ellis was particularly noteworthy in this regard and never hesitated to search

the four corners of the enormous UIUC library to hunt down sources, even, for example, when I sent her to locate the decidedly unentomological Spalding Official Baseball Guide of 1900. I thank Pete Ficarello too. I must also thank Dr. Arthur Zangerl, with whom I have worked closely for close to 20 years, for too many things to enumerate; in particular, his willingness to apply his statistical expertise to unusual forms of data has been greatly appreciated.

It's perhaps understandable that my colleagues in the department were so willing to help—after all, they've known me for some time and knew about my penchant for writing on nontraditional themes. But I owe a great debt to my colleagues here at UIUC in other departments, who proved to be outstanding sources of obscure information (e.g., how bees buzz in Hindi) and who never failed to offer that information freely and enthusiastically. The library personnel deserve a special sincere and heartfelt thanks for their extraordinary effort on my behalf—piecing together incomplete references, answering questions about where to find things, and demonstrating extraordinary tolerance for my tendency to overlook due dates.

Even closer to home are the people at home—this book wouldn't exist without the support and encouragement of my family. My parents, Morris and Adrienne Berenbaum, have always taken great pride in my accomplishments, such as they have been. They were both trained as scientists and they made sure by their words and actions that science was as much a part of my daily life as breakfast cereal. Thanks to their efforts, it never occurred to me that science was boring and in many ways I owe my career to their example; they will always inspire me. My sister Diane and my brother Alan have always been willing to share with me their

memories of our childhood together and as well to share with me their diverse and interesting experiences as grownups. They keep me ever mindful of the world beyond entomology and help keep me in touch with forms of culture other than microbial. And, of course, I thank Richard Leskosky for sharing his life with me. His influence permeates this book; he read these essays long before I would have dared show them to anyone else and helped to make them presentable to others. That he always knows the right words to say, whether they're the words I need to fix an awkward title or finish off an endless essay, or to shake off despair and see the humor in things, is not so much a reflection of his training in linguistics and English literature as it is a reflection of his incredible intellect and his generous, good nature.

And I thank my daughter Hannah, for continuing to bring happiness into my life in exponential fashion. Over the years, she has developed not only a fairly sophisticated knowledge of insects (for a nine-year-old at least), but also a remarkable sense of humor. She cracked her first joke at the amazingly precocious age of two, and the jokes, wry remarks, and witty insights keep getting better. And turnabout is fair play. Making her smile isn't always easy—she has never been an easy audience, particularly for ponderous parental attempts at humor—but hearing her laughter is a joy beyond comparison.