"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.

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