"Zoo-do"

Today I attended a free composting class offered by the city of Los Angeles in lovely Griffith Park. I went with high hopes about my future in composting. I had my heart set on buying a fancy backyard composter, which the city subsidizes. Instead I settled for a simple Rubbermaid(tm) container with holes drilled in the lid and sides. Here begins my adventure in vermicomposting. A bit gross--worm poop and all, but as my landlord gets a bit picky about what I do in the back yard, I shall have to secret my clandestine garbage eaters under the sink.
I also came away with some free compost, which, they proudly say, contains "Zoo-do" courtesy of the unhappy elephants in the nearby LA Zoo! I can't wait to transplant my olive and mulberry trees--maybe the pachyderm poop will plump the harvest. Who knew what the city sanitation department could do?
However, the big takeaway for the day was yet another reminder of why I so dislike attending workshops and seminars with the general public. People aren't all terribly sharp. There are people(like bloggers I suppose) who like to hear themselves talk. People, there is such a thing as a stupid question! It's that question about the thing the instructor just addressed, but which you missed since you were too busy on the cell phone, or because you were chatting to your seat mate, or because you showed up thirty minutes late. I suppose I should give people credit for coming to get free "zoo-do" compost and and appearing to want to do something good for their little patch of planet!

N.O.W.?

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has offspring on her mind, so every month she has to think about NOW or, no ovulation wasted. Unless you are a sweaty teen aged couple writhing in the back of a pimped-up SUV on Mulholland Drive, getting pregnant is a bloody lot of hard work. By the time you get to a certain age, the age at which you should have enough sense to not be writhing in the back of an SUV, you'll wish you had been a teen aged fool with shiny, teen aged fresh eggs. When recreation turns into procreation, it's all business and face it, only one person has to really enjoy it!
I think going the clinical route may not be a bad idea. I like the clean, shiny futuristic feel of it all. Extract, inject, insert, implant. Tidy. Neat. Efficient. Practical. Not at all like that goal-oriented intercourse which probably feels just like it sounds. Yuck! Sure, you can try to put lipstick on that pig with some smooth jazz and candlelight, but it just ain't the back of that steamed up SUV on Mulholland.

Sir Penis

The other night I saw Ian McKellen's penis. His business--hanging-- right there, where men's businesses tend to hang. Well, not quite really, because not all men hang it all out on the stage in the middle of a peformance of King Lear. But there it was. I knew it was coming as I'd heard him on a radio interview a few days prior discussing how he'd modified the scene when on tour in some less tolerant country than our beloved America.
But even as prepared as I was, and given that it was probably natural that the crazy old king would have stripped down to the all together, I just didn't really want to see that old man in the all together there, under the bright lights with so many other people there, watching, being shocked themselves. And there he was, a crazy old king, struggling to rip off his clothes, like madmen tend to do on skidrow, half in and half out, stuck. But it felt a bit all too real. I wasn't sure where Lear ended and McKellen began. Good acting, I suppose.
There was a collective gasp which, as much as I'd like to say was for the nudity, was more likely a reaction to the, ehem, size of the thing. Rather large it was, and mind you, I am being entirely British in my restraint here!
The presentation of the large member certainly perked things up momentarily in a production clocking in at a torturous 3.5 hours. I could barely keep my eyelids up and my ears were making chop suey of ye Olde English, accents and all. Producers really ought to rethink the wisdom of staging such productions in darkened theatres at week's end after 7pm. In the sopoforic dimness, a stage penis can only do so much.