Dena Taylor’s Musings

Lucifer’s Colonoscopy Clinic

Haunted Honey Buckets

Andrew Speaker’s House of Gloom and TB Doom

Haunted House of Pancakes

Neverland Ranch

Hell O’Kitty’s Litter Box of Horrors

January 1988

MOM: How’s school goin’?

ME: Oh fine. Books, homework, same ole.

MOM: Well! Saw a great movie–oh boy was it good!

ME: Really? Which one did you see?

MOM: Ummm, you know. “Hanoi News”?

ME: What?

MOM: I think it’s, um, “Hanoi News”?

ME: Nuh-uh. There’s no way it’s “Hanoi News.”

MOM: Well, it’s that one with Robin Williams.

ME: You do not mean “Good Morning, Vietnam”?!

MOM: Yeah, the one with Robin Williams. He’s soooo good in it.

ME: Yeeaaah, I heard that.

Uh-oh.

Oooooh, that’s not good.

Fucking Odwalla.

Oh God.

Hold it. Hold it! HOLD IT!

You can make it. Just a few more blocks.

Oh man…

Hold it. Hold it! HOLD IT!

Shit.

C’mon cars. Gotta cross. Gotta cross! GOTTA CROSS!

Okay. To the Stop sign…the driveway…the mailbox…

Oh sweet Jesus…

Hold it. Hold it! HOLD IT!

Thank God! There’s the house. Just calmly cut through the yard…and unlock the door…and RUUUUUUUUNNNNNN!

[27 seconds later]

No more micronutrient fruit drinks before you run.

That was too damn close.

Walking along the sidewalk of the outlet mall in Could-be-anywhere, USA, I’m startled by the assembly of crickets dead and alive. Some having been smashed under the soles of new Sketchers or worse, Thom McAn boots (does anyone wear Thom McAn boots anymore?). Some attempting to hop, painfully so, barely making it to the wall. Some ghostly carcasses being ravaged by visiting ants (from as far as South America—the shopping here is that good.) And then all the rest, slowly dying, adhered to the uppermost limestone bricks that make up the walls of Nike’s factory store, the Gap’s factory store, Levi’s and the rest. (And does anyone really shop at Bass? If so, why?).

They hang out up there just because of their attraction to the light. But we go to great lengths for light, too. We move to Florida–oy. We travel to Hawaii–ah. The Caribbean—ya mon. Mexico’s beaches—mas cerveza por favor! We gladly damage our skin to look more dark for proof of being in more light. It’s just that most of us don’t get stepped on and/or die while we’re doing it.

The poor cricket. It doesn’t seem to go out with a heady high. Or does it? The lifespan, I’m told, is just a few days. Maybe they’re power packed days—lots of performances, fungi, hopathons. And then the dizzying light for their final act. Maybe it causes a euphoric sensation and they die happily. But then again, I know they’re not like us. They don’t have feelings. They’re not like, “Ooooh, guess Bob didn’t make it after all, looks like one of his legs over there.”

“Well, it happens,” says another. “Remember Sherman? Halfway to the bulb when he lost his footing and fell into the path of double stroller.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. You warm enough? Hey–could you guys move down a little? Carolanne wants to sit next to the oooohhh that’s warm. That feels greeaatttt. Yes. Come to the light, Carolann. Come to the light…”

I wish they would at least pick a place with more culture to kick the bucket, like the library or an old-town art gallery. Although, a nearby restaurant called “Snuffer’s” seems unquestionably apt. But to give up your life at Old Navy or Office Max where there isn’t even anything good to eat just seems sad. Maybe if they could sneak into a Linens N Things they could find some 500 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets to expire on. Or a goose down pillow. (If you’re reading this guys…steer clear of the kitchen appliances—DANGER!)

I like crickets. They’ve got nothing to hide. They just come out in the open, hop around and sing stuff–unlike their evil cousins the cowardly, dirty, I’m-only-coming-out-when-it’s-dark-and-you’re-sleeping cockroaches. You don’t see crickets under your toaster eating crumbs in the middle of the night. You don’t see crickets scampering away knowing they’ve done something terribly wrong like the foodjacking cockroach. When’s the last time you saw a cockroach make it into a Disney production? People like to say cockroaches are to be revered for their survival abilities. Well, they don’t do so well in the midst of a rolled up Coldwater Creek catalogue. Take it from me.

No, the cricket is a far less threatening insect with a spring in its step and musical ability. And for that I pay them homage. Farewell my little friends. Farewell.

ME: Why d’ya got to get on my ass like that with your big stupid truck? Gawd. Go around me, already. GO AROUND ME! Jesus. For fuck’s sake. Fine. I’m just going to slow down a little and force you to go around me. And – hi! – it’s raining! Totally dangerous to be tailgating people in this kind of weather. I mean, what if there was an accident and I had to hit the breaks? Your big fat monster grill would be shoved right up my anal cavity, that’s what. Nice. Why you gotta drive like that, anyway? Ohhh, now you decide to go around me. What took you so long, jackhole? (I give him the finger as he passes but under the dashboard just in case he considers shooting me.)

HIM: My balls itch.