This time of year always has me thinking about the coming fall.  I thought I’d try something new today and repost a blog from this time last year.  You might say, “Oh Tony, you’re just being lazy,” and you might be right.  But as I walked my dog last night and heard the insects in stereo, and felt the cooled off night air after a thunderstorm, I remembered this post.  Now you can remember it with me.  Enjoy!

 

CHORUS OF CRICKETS, CICADAS, AND KATYDIDS

Come August, the crickets and cicadas weave a blanket of sweet chirrups over every day.  To me, it’s a song of coming harvest, autumn, and eventually winter death.  To them, they’re just trying to get laid.  And who could blame them?  In a few short weeks they have to mature and propagate the species.

Never mind all that.  I know you’d like to continue this fascinating discussion of bug sex, but we have more important things on the table.  Such as?  Right, such as…

Such as important questions.  Pressing questions that need answering lest we all plummet deep into raging seas of digestive fluids. Yeah.  That important.  So pay attention.  First question:

What are you going to be for Halloween?  I’m gonna go extremely “out there” this year and dress as a successful writer.  Insanity!

Okay, next question.  If you could choose to drink only one type of beverage (besides water) for the rest of your life, what would it be?  You probably think I’d say coffee or beer, right?  Wrong.  I choose arsenic-laced wine, because if I can only have one type of beverage for the rest of my life, I don’t want to live.

One more.  What do you want your family to do with your body after you die?  At first thought being buried or cremated sounds fine.  Then the idea of being shot into space or buried at sea sounds romantic.  But no.  How about being stuffed and mounted?  Or fed to wild dogs?  Meh.  When I die, I’d like all my body parts re-purposed.  My organs can be donated.  Make lampshades out of my skin.  Necklaces from my teeth and nails.  Meat pies from my fat and muscle.  And of course you already know I’d like my skull mounted in a writer’s office, like I have Sunshine.  Either that or plant me under a pumpkin patch.