So here I am, caught on the twin-horned dilemma of no storms to chase and no gigs to play. But you, my faithful readers, are longing for a word from Stormhorn.com, and I feel my responsibility toward you weighing heavily upon me. What can I offer you?
Grasshopper passion.
A few weeks ago, back in September, I took a hike at a nature park in nearby Ada, Michigan. Evidently, early fall is the season of love for grasshoppers, a time during which they become the Woodstock generation of the insect world, and in numerous places all along the trail, hoppers were locked in shocking, shameless public displays of unbridled lust.
Somehow, though, I found it hard to take offense. Probably my moral sensitivity has become dulled by Hollywood and advertising. Then again, grasshopper passion just isn’t all that passionate. By way of example, I submit the following photo of a couple locked in the throes of ecstasy. Click the image to enlarge it, though why you would want to do so is beyond me.
I took a number of shots of these two hoppers, and they all look the same. I can testify that what you see here is as heated as it gets. A minute later, neither of my subjects had moved a solitary grasshopper muscle. It’s as if having sex had turned them to stone. Having better things to do than wait for them to finish their sordid business (Him: “So…was it good for you?” Her: “Was what good for me?” Him: “I’m not sure.”), I moved on.
Taken altogether, insect porn is pretty G-rated stuff, on a par with watching Kermit the Frog eat oatmeal. Parents, no need to shield your children’s eyes. The only trauma they’re likely to experience is boredom.
