Pass It On

We're not feeling particularly full of critique today, friends. We may not even be feeling especially angry, a state of affairs which is often cause for worry around the house. Illness of a purely emotional character often follows our brief -- if rare -- flashes of internal peace.

Perhaps there's an easy vernal explanation, as one supposes that one does feels somewhat full of Spring, sumer is icumen in and all that. The impulse to get outside was so strong and the birds so goddamn chirpy that, after a goodlie daye in the librarie, we gladly took up spade and prosecuted some serious redistribution of wealth.

Wealth in this case is another name for our compost pile, our garden's pride and joy, our contribution to a healthy environment, the means by which many a caprese salad will be produced in coming months, a proud steaming pile of rotten crap that is rivalled only by our finished dissertation. If you're not composting, you too are a lazy steaming pile of rotten crap, and the earth hates you. Nothing could be easier, and you should start today.

But composting is so fucking easy, in fact, that you'll need something to read while you wait for your veggies, coffee grounds, and egg shells slowly to transmogrify into clean-smelling earth. Therefore, while you're waiting, here's part deux of Mike Davis' History of the Car Bomb.