Caution: Your Lawn Is Not Your Own

I'm not big on mowing the lawn. The control exerted on the carefully-manicured lawn has always seemed to be left over from the control exerted by the Puritans on the wilds of Native America: a small performance of the European's mastery over nature. The very concept of the lawn comes from England, where the cool, wet climate is ideal for the thick, lush, low-growing grass that has made it possible for the Brits to golf. The natural state of grass in this part of the world is tall: eight, nine, ten feet tall, too tall to see over. We turned that grass, of course, and replaced it with golf course grass, lawn grass. (See Michael Pollan's fascinating writing for more on this.)

Besides, the two-stroke engines on push-mowers are notorious polluters. Why exchange more CO2 for less green? I love to work in the yard: I planted a small garden this year, and I have waged war on the invasive plants in my back yard. Buy why mow?

I discovered today, though, that the choice is not entirely mine. The local forestry division sent us a letter informing us that we had violated Ordinance 59860: "HIGH GRASS AND WEEDS IN THE FRONT AND REAR." We have five days to remove the offending greenery of be forced to pay the city to do the same.

My reaction to this was two-fold. On the one hand, I hated the thought of being a bad neighbor; though the details in the letter were sketchy, it appears that a complaint was lodged against our vegetation. By whom, we don't know. But I hustled out when I got home from work and fired up the mower.

On the other hand, though, I resented the complainer, resented Ordinance 59860: whose business is my lawn but mine? I'm a country boy; I grew up in a land without lawn ordinances. You could cut your lawn with a herd of goats and no one cared, as long as the goats didn't crap on anyone else's lawn. Or you could let it grow until it was long enough to bale.

I learned today that my lawn is a space for social performance, not merely for the tending of flora. It is not a place where I exert my own control over my environment (you may grow! you may not!); it is, instead, a place where I exert the community's control over my environment, where the community exerts its control over me.

The List Grows

Add to the list of poetry book contests I have not won Pittsburgh University Press's Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize. I have not won this prize a few times before, but I think that this time was the last. For the second time in three years, the prize was awarded to a graduate of the University of Pittsburgh's MFA program; this year's winner even lives in Pittsburgh. In the post-Foetry era, Pitt Press's lack of concern about such (perceived?) impropriety is stunning.

So I'm breaking up with them. I recommend to anyone in a similar position (save my friends with MFAs from Pitt, obviously) to do the same.

Cheers.

The Internet Has Reached Its Pinnacle

This may be the best thing ever: the Peanuts gang updating its act. Without the internet, this little gem wouldn't make it much further than the dorm floor of the dweebs that made it; in this world, though, we can all get a taste. It's like the dorm room is now big enough to fit everyone who wants in.

Imagine the Wedding Reception

Among the most memorable events of this summer's World Cup, at least to us scandal-loving Americans, was French star Zinedine Zidane's headbutt to Marco Materazzi's chest in the Italy-France match. At the time, rumors circulated that Materazzi had called Zidane's mother, an Algerian immigrant, some variation of "dirty terrorist slut." The story never held much water, but details of the event never emerged to eclipse it, either.

Now Materazzi has fessed up. We pick up the action as the two are running down the pitch; Materazzi is tugging at a wad of Zidane's jersey:

ZZ: If you want my jersey zat badlee, I will give it to you after ze game.

MM: I would rather have your sister. She's a spicy meat-a-ball-a!

ZZ: [muttering, wheels on his opponent]

MM: OOF!

Materazzi points out, and I imagine quite rightly, that similar taunts are uttered virtually every soccer match. In fact, I'm guessing that the six-year-olds that play at the Catholic school up the street from here are at least that rude to each other. But still: vive le Zidane for defending the family's honor!