I will try and sing like Secada while shrieking like a cicada.

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     While living in Baltimore several years back, I was introduced to Magicicada Septendecim. Like my children, the  Magicicada Septendecim will sleep for years before awakening to make a lot of noise. A LOT of noise. My children are better known as Trey, Jackson and Gracie. The  Magicicada Septendecim are better known as the 17 year Cicada. They all make a lot of noise. A LOT of noise.
     I could go all scientific here, but I won’t. The North Eastern U.S. is overtaken by these tree bugs every 17 years. They come out of the ground or wherever and shriek incessantly for weeks. My kids do basically the same thing. They lie dormant in their dark cavernous bedrooms for what seems like years only to emerge and shriek incessantly for food or money. 
       John Secada is another creature. Not to be confused with the shrieking of the Cicada or my teenage children, Secada had a hit single in 1992 with “Just Another Day”. It was a catchy tune. I was extremely disappointed in 2009 when he didn’t emerge from a 17 year hiatus to entertain us with another hit. 
     After reading this, many people will Google “Cicadas” and “John Secada” to see if I am feeding them a bunch of crap. Oh, they will Google. I won’t Google any of it. I don’t really care enough to find out why the Cicadas or John Secada remain dormant for years at a time. I am sure that  there is a scientific reason for both. Maybe there is some form of metamorphosis that takes place. You know, maybe John Secada is actually Ariana Grande. Think about it... Secada‘s Big hit was released in 1992. That means that he probably recorded it in 1991. Add 17 years and you get 2008. Hmm...Ariana Grande’s career began in...You guessed it...2008. I did Google that. Thank you, Wikipedia. Coincidence? With that last name? Makes you wonder.
     What does a Cuban One-Hit Wonder, Ariana Grande, my kids, and a shrieking tree bug have in common? Absolutely nothing. I’m losing my mind. 
     I have a spray bottle filled with a mixture of bleach and water by my side. I am out of Cigars. The smell of dog urine rises to meet my nostrils. Lucy licks my foot. Cage the Elephant’s song “Trouble” plays in my headphones. There is a trash bag in the corner of the porch filled with dog turds and used pee pads. I do not deserve to wear the Superman t-shirt that covers my torso. 
      You will Google a Cuban Singer, a tree bug, Ariana Grande, and now Cage the Elephant. You know you will. 
     Truth is this. I hear “Trouble” in my head as I lie dormant in this apartment for what has already seemed like 17 years. I can’t imagine “Just Another Day” in this place. I know that when I emerge, I will try and sing like Secada while shrieking like a Cicada as I cling to tree in my new yard Over Yonder.

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