Turf

You might like marigolds n sh**, but I like turf.  And what better weekend to talk about turf than Memorial Day weekend?  Think about it.  Little broken off hot dog pieces, dropped buns, burger nubbins: these things look terrible on bare dirt, sidewalks, asphalt; in fact, there is nothing more outrageously wrong in the discarded or lost food world than a chawed down rib that has been chucked on the sidewalk and left for the ants to gobble up.  On the other hand, discarded food looks awesome on bright green lawns.  You could put the ugliest man in the world on some nice turf and, boom, he's Burt Reynolds.  

Last fall the landlords comissioned me to rip out a weed bed in which grew a nasty vine the lady half of the landlord duo despised.  I was sent out to dispose of it, which took, when all was said and done, and everything isn't really done, about nine months.  The little bastard would show its leaf-face, and I'd spring on it like an ant on a discarded rib.  Finally, yesterday, feeling confident that I'd completely eradicated the enemy, I bought 600 lbs of suspiciously cheap and off-smelling topsoil, raked graded and seeded what will one day be some killer turf.  

Before I continue this compelling narrative, I want to remark: Look at that bright f***ing L of straw!  Light and shadow, ladies and gentlemen, light and shadow.  This afternoon I purchased a bale of straw, not knowing the difference between stray and hay, and not really caring, and went about tossing the straw over the newly seeded bed.  I cannot wait until there is some turf there.  I am going to throw all my discarded summer meats onto it and photograph it until the cows come home.