I would consider myself a scientist in the most nominal of terms. I am highly curious by nature, sometimes, as my mother used to tell me, to the point of annoyance. I can also admit to possessing a certain amount of fascination for the white lab coat and its wearer. As surprising as it may seem now, up until my senior year of high school my ideal career was that of a marine biologist. (If I recall correctly there is quite a bit of science involved in such a position.)

I did ultimately forfeit my once ideal career in science to follow the literary road on which I now travel, mostly because I couldn’t see myself enjoying life spent studying, testing and documenting in a lab, unless it were as consistently exciting and dangerous as Dustin Hoffman and Kevin Spacey made it seem in Outbreak. And while I am no doubt happier perusing challenging literature than I would be analyzing slides underneath a microscope, I do occasionally find myself spending a significant amount of time pondering questions of the scientific nature, ultimately wishing I myself knew the answers.

For example, a few nights ago thoughts of insects swarmed my mind as I attempted to fall asleep. I’ll admit that
I don’t think about bugs often, and usually whenever I do my mind travels first to the infamous scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. You know the one. The treacherous and none too disgusting critter corridor through which Indy and what’s her name must traipse, before they reach the end of the tunnel and meet Mr. I Can Rip Hearts Out Of People’s Chests With My Bare Hands. On this night, however, my mind left this all too familiar scene and begged what would come to be discovered as an unchartered question.

Why are bugs so fatefully attracted to the light?, I wondered. The inquiry seemed at first glance quite simple, and I felt confident that somewhere in my vast caverns of knowledge both useful and useless, I already possessed the answer. After all, didn’t they teach us that in 5th grade science class?

As I began to research the subject I realized quite quickly, that I never had, in fact, discussed my newfound question with a teacher or an expert. Most likely because even if I would have asked them they wouldn’t have known the answer. A bug’s adoration for the light, though made famous with the creation of the bug zapper, apparently remains a mystery to even the most advanced in the scientific community. There are a few theories, however, and for the sake of time and space, I chose to report the explanation I found most feasible, although also slightly disappointing.

According to Jim Liebherr, professor of entomology at Cornell University, insects aren’t actually attracted to our porch lights, despite all of the little moth carcasses we may find inside the globe. Over time, certain insects have learned to use the largest natural night-light (which, up until about 100 years ago was usually the moon) to navigate. Moths will fly above treetops keeping the moon in a fixed location, ultimately allowing them to determine
their own line of movement. Unfortunately for a moth that happens to find itself in a front yard with a porch light, the light sources that people create are often brighter than the moon. Thus, the insect attempts to keep the porch light at a fixed position relative to its body, but because the light source is relatively close in proximity to the insect, the insect typically begins a violent spiral leading directly to the light. So in other words, bugs aren’t smart enough to
separate porch lights, bug zappers and other artificial light from the moon, and ultimately their mistaken form of navigation sends them to their little graves in a rapid fashion. Poor bastards.

As aforementioned, this explanation isn’t exactly concrete, so feel free to accept Disney Pixar’s version of events in A Bug’s Life as more viable. I know you want to. Heck. I want to, too.