I accidentally killed a cricket early this morning – didn't have my contacts in yet, and was convinced it was a cockroach. Granted, it did hop insteady of scurry when I approached it, but that's small beans compared to the time I thought Grammy was a burglar and was trying to nab my Air Jordans. Grammy healed up nicely, though this cricket immediately went to Cricket Heaven (or Cricket Purgatory, depending on your entomotheological viewpoints).

I did, coincidentally, see another cricket around the house later that day, and let that one free to roam as it pleased – though admittedly this would count as penance through the multi-directional eyes of an insect, so I'm doing what I feel is the next best thing – singing the cricket's praises on the Loud Bassoon.

Sure, we all know the deal about how you can tell the temperature by counting cricket chirps (yes, it's done by rubbing their legs together … nothing revelatory about that, we all sailed through the third grade with flying colors), but did you know they're considered to be good luck in Estonia?

Actually, that was completely made up since I needed to finish that sentence somehow, but in all seriousness I believe they are good luck omens in China, or over in one of "those" countries. Countless children's bedtime stories have similarly sung the praises of the lowly cricket, haven't they? And if there hadn't been Buddy Holly & the Crickets, there would have been no Beatles, hence no Wings, Denny Laine, or Bootleg Beatles.

Review by AAA