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.

Best if used by...

Recently I was having a chat with a couple of my officemates about when was the right time to chuck things of out of the fridge or the pantry. One of them had brought in a bag full of some granola bars to share with the office because the date stamp on the foil package was beyond the present date and she was afraid that they had gone off. Egad! I have never heard of an expired granola bar. Aren't they precisely the kind of food you should keep in your car or emergency kits for earthquakes, fires and floods precisely because they do not expire? I think this whole expiration date thing is the creation of lawyers and marketers.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't think that some foods and medicines have a shelf life. I do. When milk in my fridge gets sour and lumpy or the bread is sprouting legs, I toss it, usually. (unless , of course, I can manag to coax one last bit of French toast out of it).
Pardon me! When did corporations decide that my senses weren't good enough to figure out that the colony growing in my fridge was no longer good for me? I understand that their lawyers are trying to protect them from fools who gladly consume their months old fridge colonies, but there has to be a limit. Of course I understand that it is a useful tool to aid people, but now it seems that to me that people have surrendered their sense to the date stamp! I don't agree that you should keep that leftover chicken in the fridge for weeks. However, one can make reasonable judgements . My officemate admitted to pouring out milk simply because it was a day past due. Of course the milk folks love that because they get to sell you another litre of milk.
Ka-ching!
I can't abide by this excess! Not in a world of hunger and want. Waste is excess. Excess is selfish! My two office mates, along with a good chunk of America are being duped! Man! that corporate propaganda got kick!

The Tomato Holocaust

It is officially the end of tomatomania.This is all that remains of my beautiful tomato plants. They are all shriveled and barren. A few of the dried up stalks have several little hard nubbins which will never come into their full potential as luscious tomatoes. At least I did enjoy that one little harvest.

I admit that I left them alone unattneded in the merciless heat of August as I cavorted my way in, around, under the Indian Ocean. I left the sprinkler on. I asked a friend to stop by. It was just not enough. The attention I lavished upon them at the start of my planting and in the midst of harvesting gradually faded and now all that remains are these pathetic stragglers--hanging on for dear life. They know they are destined for the compost heap.

I have already recycled a few of the pots. Now I am trying to grow a pineapple bush/tree/plant/whatever. We shall see how it fares. It seems to be sprouting a few roots. I am pushing the limits of my pale green thumb.

©2007.

all rights reserved

Let Grass Grow

Gardeners Gone Wild or the Wisdom of King Solomon?

One of the peculiar things about Los Angeles, is that it is not the slow the creep of sunlight that rousts one from peaceful slumber, rather, it is a ceaseless buzz of lawn mowers, edge-trimmers and grass-blowers. Any resident lucky enough to own or rent a patch of grass seems to be engaged in a constant battle against it. And in this war they have enlisted their foot soldiers-- eager gardeners who show up on every block at the crack of dawn to trim and snip and cut lawns already well trimmed and groomed. I ask you, what do these people have against grass?

I love the smell of fresh cut grass, but these over trimmed LA lawns remind me of a some of the overdone plastic people roaming the streets. It just ain't natural. And the lawn offensive can sometime illustrate just how divided life is in this balkanised city.

This little patch of green straddles a space between my neighbor's and my place. My landlord is a bit more lax about his gardening and so, by neighborhood standard, our patch of yard is a jungle. So here is this tiny swatch of grass, stuck in a liminal space--neither here nor there--in between. In the war on grass, no territory is safe. Neutrality is weakness. Sides must be taken, lines must be drawn. Divisions must be made clear!

Did the soldier of garden who wrought this abomination even take a moment to ponder the aesthetic consequences, or call on King Solomon for guidance? Alas, it is clear he yielded to the purr of his gas-powered mower and the call of the next lawn waiting to be stripped of its green!

©2007. all rights reserved

Teething Trouble

I've been going to the same dentist for years but haven't had a regular hygienist. I would get cleaned by anyone and everyone. It was never pleasant but I was easy. I thought that is what cleanings should feel like--until I fell into Marsha's chair. It was hygiene heaven. She made my mouth marvel. She was gentle and careful and thorough. She made great suggestions. It was my first time with her and I felt cheated for all these years that I had been missing out on that level of care. When I booked my return visit, I made a special request for Marsha! I was finally excited for a cleaning in nearly 18 years of dental visits.
Wanting to be sure that I would be treated to Marsha's ministrations, I called my dentist's office the day before my cleaning to confirm my time with Marsha. I was looking forward to my teeth spa. I was not prepared for the news. Masha was gone. Retired. She'd taken her gentle hands and generous smile and left. What I felt was beyond disappointment. My teeth felt grief and a deep loss of a fleeting but profound love! I had to fight my selfishness. After all, Marsha was an older lady who had suffered from some serious medical problems. She left to take it easier. But here I was, thinking about myself,crushed and devastated!
Reluctantly, practically, I had to agree to be seen by their temp. Who's ever heard of such a thing. This should have been a red flag! What's wrong with this woman that she can't find full time anywhere?
I found out once I was reclined, mouth agape under the bright lights. "Oh Marsha" was all I could moan silently. If I had one shot at the fountain of youth, I would have gladly baptised Marsha to bring her back to full youth and health.
I didn't trust this girl--and that's what she was. Barely in her twenties and scrawny. Didn't look life her life experience would fill a bucket. That lack of experience showed up as she proceeded to attack my plaque! Stab, stab, jab, jab. She acted as if she were in a heavy weight bout with a boxer and not engaged in the delicate business of caring for my teeth. I thought for a minute she thought my gums were a voodoo doll and she was getting revenge on a nameless enemy.
By the end of the ordeal, I could hardly speak. She did a good job but the ends did not justify the means. I am due for another cleaning soon but I refuse to be back in her chair. I didn't complain that day, but if I have to face her the next time, you can bet I will have a thing or two to say.
©2007. all rights reserved

It's for the birds

A few days ago, my husband called me very excitedly, whispering into the telephone. At first I thought something was wrong with him and I almost hung up and dialled 911.
Here is what he was whispering about. He was witness to the moment when a baby bird that had been incubated and hatched on the rafter above our deck, became fully fledged.
For weeks we had been watching two birds, each one taking turns to care for the other or sit on the egg. One would bring a grasshopper for the other, or bring an additional twig to shore up the nest. Life in it's simple form right in the middle of a busy city.
We were honored that these birds chose our deck, peeling paint and all, to bring their chick into the world. We hope that they felt safe and welcome here. We hope they will come back.
This is the moment just before they flew off into the wilds of the city. I am pleased to report they have already returned to visit.

©2007. all rights reserved

Tomatomania

This is my first crop of tomatoes. Beautiful, aren't they? A few varieties of heirlooms and hyrids. Lemon Boys, Japanese Trifle Black, Black Brandywine, Encanted, San Marzano and a few others. The Lemon Boys are actually quite lemony. They are, as Martha Stewart would say, "a good thing." And rather delicious. Here they are in their full glory.

I planted them toward the end of April after having stocked up at a $3 seedling sale. It was a great deal I thought--$18 for six plus five free ones. What I didn't calculate however were the other costs. As I didn't have a proper garden I had to buy pots and potting soil and organic plant food, and the tomato stakes. So rightly we are looking here at nearly $100 worth of tomatoes. Not that I am quibbling about the money, mind you, but I reckon these plants better maximise their yield and give over bushels and bushels.

I am rather surprised that they have done so well considering I have never felt particularly blessed with a green thumb. In fact I have been nursing a low thumb esteem as my mother is rather the master gardener and my middle sister seems to have followed in her footsteps.
I have killed quite a few cactus in my time. But this tomato crop has boosted my confidence a bit in the garden department.

In truth, this is my second successful harvest. The first one was nearly 30 years ago, when as as little girl, I threw some left-over corn kernels in the ground. I was delighted at the results. They grew and flourished. I don't remember if I ate the corn or not. I only remember that shortly after they had broken through the earth, my mother had our garden-boy/yard helper, Errol, transplant them into her green house filled with anthurium. Sadly, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in June of 1976, on my sister's birthday, Errol met a sad end in the water reservoir where only the brave boys swam. Even the best swimmer in the village could not save him. It would be years before we recovered from the shock, and many more before I set foot at the site.

It's been many summers since and now again. My tomatoes are in full fruit and so I delight in the wonder of the ability to grow things, to be a steward for some living thing and to enjoy the literal fruits of my labour.

©2007. all rights reserved