Earth Day? We need a Mirth Day

(633 words)

Too many people gaze into the morning mirror and catalog too many perceived imperfections. They see the turkey neck, eyelids that droop or that heroic schnoz momentous enough to be detected and tracked by Google Earth.

Some eventually seek cosmetic solutions.

But there’s no surgery for my most glaring facial flaw.

My face conveys no mirth.

It has no playfulness. No subsurface joy that looks eager to emerge. My expression does nothing to tickle yours.

I’m am not alone.

Gaze today into the faces of nearly everyone you pass at work or on some busy sidewalk. Our faces have become masks. No one makes eye contact. No one has the giddy kernels of a budding smile tugging at their lips.

We’re all shadows with shadows.

It’s perfectly understandable. I don’t know which is more surprising: that anyone follows the news or that anyone who follows the news is ever brave enough to step outside.

Indeed, Earth is in the sad midst of a mirth dearth

I came to this realization when watching the recent “SNL 40” special a few months ago.

Of all the very funny people on that happy show, I saw two faces that really stood out as most imbuing the joyful mirth we’re all missing.

They were the faces Gilda Radner and Dana Carvey. Both have faces of such utter mirth and joy it’s impossible to imagine either of them being serious or depressed.

It was especially that way with Radner, whose mirthful face made Santa look like a sourpuss.

Maybe my rapturous feelings for Radner are colored by poignant recollection of her 1989 book, “It’s Always Something.” Val and I remember thoroughly enjoying an audio version of it during a long vacation drive. I remember Radner sharing about how much fun life can be and how you can wring merry mirth out of even the most difficult situations.

And she wrote about it when she was dying of ovarian cancer at age 42!

Talk about indomitable mirth.

She was married to Gene Wilder at the time. Can you imagine if life were at all fair and she would have lived and these two magnificent humorists had conceived a child?

I have to believe the child would have been a spiky-haired cartoon.

Here’s a suggestion if you’re having a bad day: Try to imagine the faces Gilda would make in the throes of childbirth. It’s hilarious.

Carvey, too, for that matter. In fact, Dana Carvey pregnant would be one of the funniest things in history.

It could still happen. My fingers are crossed.

What disappoints me is I believe I have an enormous reservoir of inner mirth practically squiring out my ears. I’m always thinking light-hearted thoughts about things like unicorns, rainbows and stupid fart jokes.

It’s just you’d never know it from looking at me. I’ve been told my face looks like it’s always busy calculating how to reset the Doomsday Clock another minute or two nearer our mutually assured mass destruction.

Sad, but true.

Mine is the kind of stoic face that looks like it belongs in a police line-up which, incidentally, is a bucket-list ambition of mine.

It’s crisscrossed with jagged evidence of surgeries resulting from old tree-climbing accidents, youth hockey games and an Athens, Ohio, bar fight that nearly cost me a sizable chunk of ear cartilage. 

Beneath all that, there is tremendous mirth. I revel in life. You’d just never know it by looking at me.

Maybe you’re that way, too.

Maybe the problem isn’t the size of our noses, our receding hairlines or all our chipped and crooked teeth.

Maybe the problem is all in our eyes.

We are unable to envision what’s buried beneath all the scar tissue.

Related . . .

Taking my BRF (Bitchy Resting Face) out for a stroll

Honked off over Egyptian nose jobs

Why do Olympic gymnasts rarely smile?

My facial procedure and aversion to big ass needles

Chewin' on Earth Day and warm worm poo

(691 words)

My wife couldn’t believe the contempt I was expressing for my audience. “You mean you’re just going to tell them the same stories you tell them every year?”

That’s right.

“What if someone complains?

If someone complains, well, they can just eat shit.

Or boogers, although I promise to bring enough shit for everyone.

Yes, it’s that’s time of year again. I’m bringing all my warm worm poo to Baggaley Elementary School to celebrate Earth Day with the second graders!

So I wasn’t exaggerating about the potential dietary supplements.

A second grade boy will eat boogers, worm poo or worms themselves and what doesn’t kill him will only make him more gross to the girls in his class. That’s the whole point.

This will be the sixth year I’ve been doing elementary school Earth Day talks (I’ll actually be there Thursday afternoon) about worm composting or vermiculture. Worms play a key role in our environment and are essential in reducing household food waste that would otherwise end up being trucked to the distant crowded landfills.

I’ve been doing it ever since Josie was in kindergarten. I did it for her three years and naturally began doing it when Lucy started attending the same school that for all of us holds so many precious memories.

That my daughters get to see me in a position of authority where their teachers call me “Mr. Rodell” (rather than the girls’s usual “Mr. Stinky”) and are admonished to pay attention to me bolsters my status as a father deserving of respect.

That I use that time to tell worm fart jokes, stick my tongue out at hecklers and pretend to eat poo is something I just can’t help.

I admit to being a bit rattled by Val’s criticism. I wondered for a moment if maybe she was right. This will be the third time Lucy and many of her classmates have seen my worm schtick. Maybe it’s getting old.

Then I realized no one ever complains when they hear Bruce Springsteen once again sing “Born to Run.” There’s always a place for proven crowd-pleasers.

So I’m comfortable in my belief I’ll leave the second graders laughing and wiping snot on their sleeves understanding, of course, that’s just what most second graders instinctively do.

And — who knows? — maybe between now and Thursday I’ll come up with another show-stopper like last year.

See, I thought it would be funny if during my talk I deftly switched the bag of authentic worm poo with one that was full of tiny Hershey chocolate drops.

Then I said: “Once it is carefully separated from the worms, the poo makes some of the best plant and vegetable fertilizer on earth. It’s very nutritious. And — watch this — it’s delicious.”

Then I took a heaping handful of the chocolate chips — and be very careful if you try this at home — and dumped them all down my gullet.

It was maybe the greatest reaction to a prank I’ve ever witnessed.

The uniform screams were loud enough to scatter the birds from trees throughout the county. Distant dogs began to howl. Car alarms began to sound. Anyone with a nearby pacemaker had to lay down.

That wasn’t even the best part.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the pretty young teachers clutch her stomach with both hands and double over in a retching fit. She looked like she was going to be sick.

I hastened to say — easy — it was all a joke. It was chocolate. Don’t ever eat worm poo. I saw the color begin returning to her face.

So I intend to be just as funny, just as compelling, as any man with a bin full of worms and waste can ever be.

Oh, if only I could have been that with-it when I was the precocious age of my charming little audience! Maybe I’d be something more impressive than the local worm farmer.

No matter. On Thursday I’m returning to the second grade and this time I’ll really have my shit together.

And by that I mean I’ll have the worms separated from theirs.

Related . . .

Taking my worms to elementary school (’13)

Frank Burns eats worms

For Earth Day, a recycled post (’11)

My one-man neighborhood trash crusade

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

For Earth Day, a recycled post

I’m philosophically opposed to re-running old blog posts -- and I really need to get over that -- but I find it perfectly acceptable to do so on Earth Day when I can pass it off as recycling.

So here’s the same Earth Day blog post I’ve run the past two years.

But first, Tweet of the Week (8days2amish)! "It is said Mother Nature abhors a vacuum. That must explain why earth is so dirt-y.”

Happy Earth Day!

I’d planned on spending Earth Day scattering dense trash on pristine lands and in deep lakes where the environmental obscenities will likely linger for centuries.

Some future explorer would find them in some distant age. She may shake her head at my carelessness and exclaim, “Wow, someone with a really nasty slice used to roam these lands. We’re miles from the nearest golf course!”

It is my Earth Day custom to bang Titleists deep in the western Pennsylvania forests. I lose about four or five golf balls every single time I tee it up. I putt good, my iron play is strong, but I can’t hit a straight drive to save my life.

Most people don’t consider lost golf balls trash. I do. I can’t sleep the night before I golf knowing there’s nothing I can do to prevent defacing Mother Earth with my dimpled, non-biodegradable spheres.

Maybe I take things too seriously.

Like the saving the planet. I take it very seriously.

I aim to reduce, reuse and recycle everything. I vowed last year I would never step over another piece of trash. Now I carry a recyclable plastic bag with me on my walks and usually have enough cups, wrappers and papers to get about half a bag full.

I could accumulate more if I wobbled along in a drunken sort of weave into the bushes and gutters, but that would take too long and would reduce the happy time I spend in the bar developing a true drunken weave the old-fashioned way

Still, I know I could do more. I’ve read that the average American discards 28 pounds of trash each week into our bulging landfills. Our family is way below that, but not near the average household in Oslo, Norway, where they produce just four pounds of weekly trash.

Four pounds! What, is Oslo populated entirely by Keebler elves?

Still, even they are pikers compared to the world’s best recyclers. For every single pound of trash you and I produce, this trash-devouring little superhero is capable of recycling it into an equivalent amount of something useful and nutritious.

Behold, the red wiggler worm!

I did a story about the practice of vermiculture four years ago and immediately became enthralled with the ambi-sexterous red wiggler worms. The tiny slimies simply fascinate. It takes a trained eye and, I’d guess, an atomic level microscope, but every worm is a hermaphrodite generously bestowed with organs of both sexes.

The condition is not enough to make me want to tune in to worm porn night on the Animal Planet, but I’ll never again look at another worm and believe it must endure a boring or lonely existence.

As it was explained to me, “These worms simply live to eat and reproduce. Basically, the worm is just a mouth, anus and a microscopic little brain.”

I asked, given these base characteristics, how the red wiggler worm differed from your typical radio talk show host.

“Well, the worm actually contributes some good to society. About 45 percent of all our waste stream comes from food and paper products, both of which are compostable materials. Worms can convert these common waste products into nutrient-rich soil fertilizer to energize your gardens.”

I was sold. I got a little bin, a softball sized ball of 1,000 little wigglers and soon our family started putting apple cores, banana peels, lettuce scraps, tea bags, potato peels, etc. into the bin along with showers of shredded newspapers. The warm worm poo makes great fertilizer.

So now when strangers ask what I do for a living, I always answer “I’m a worm farmer.”

And it’s true. Sure, I do a lot of writing, but there’s rarely even a penny of commerce involved in the exercise. I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand until I realized that even 8 year olds know enough to charge a quarter for a glass of lemonade.

Worm farming is a productive pursuit that reduces vile pollution. Some critics would argue blogging is the exact opposite.

So instead of golfing on this Earth Day, I’m putting on my worm farmer bib overalls and am heading to Baggeley Elementary School to teach my daughter’s second grade class about the joys of vermiculture or worm farming.

I’ve done it the past couple of years and it’s always a joy to see the kids fussing over the bin full of worms as they frolick amidst all the rich worm poo.

But it’s not all fun and games. I don’t let the kids get too out of hand.

It might upset the worms.

And, take my word for it,  no one wants to see a hermaphroditic red wiggler get all excited in front of a classroom full of second graders.

For Earth Day, a recycled post

Earth Day 2010 is shaping up to be exactly the same as Earth Days 2008 and 2009: I'm heading to my kid's school to talk to the students about my work as a worm farmer.

So to celebrate Earth Day, I'm posting the exact same thing I posted last year.

If you've already read it, I urge you to turn off your lights, go outside pick up some trash, recycle it, and revel in this great big beautiful world.



I’d planned on spending Earth Day scattering dense trash on pristine lands and in deep lakes where the environmental obscenities will likely linger for centuries.

Some future explorer would find them in some distant age. She may shake her head at my carelessness and exclaim, “Wow, someone with a really nasty slice used to roam these lands. We’re miles from the nearest golf course!”

It is my Earth Day custom to bang Titleists deep in the western Pennsylvania forests. I lose about four or five golf balls every single time I tee it up. I putt good, my iron play is strong, but I can’t hit a straight drive to save my life.

Most people don’t consider lost golf balls trash. I do. I can’t sleep the night before I golf knowing there’s nothing I can do to prevent defacing Mother Earth with my dimpled, non-biodegradable spheres.

Maybe I take things too seriously.

Like the saving the planet. I take it very seriously.

I aim to reduce, reuse and recycle everything. I vowed last year I would never step over another piece of trash. Now I carry a recyclable plastic bag with me on my walks and usually have enough cups, wrappers and papers to get about half a bag full.

I could accumulate more if I wobbled along in a drunken sort of weave into the bushes and gutters, but that would take too long and would reduce the happy time I spend in the bar developing a true drunken weave the old-fashioned way

Still, I know I could do more. I’ve read that the average American discards 28 pounds of trash each week into our bulging landfills. Our family is way below that, but not near the average household in Oslo, Norway, where they produce just four pounds of weekly trash.

Four pounds! What, is Oslo populated entirely by Keebler elves?

Still, even they are pikers compared to the world’s best recyclers. For every single pound of trash you and I produce, this trash-devouring little superhero is capable of recycling it into an equivalent amount of something useful and nutritious.

Behold, the red wiggler worm!

I did a story about the practice of vermiculture four years ago and immediately became enthralled with the ambi-sexterous red wiggler worms. The tiny slimies simply fascinate. It takes a trained eye and, I’d guess, an atomic level microscope, but every worm is a hermaphrodite generously bestowed with organs of both sexes.

The condition is not enough to make me want to tune in to worm porn night on the Animal Planet, but I’ll never again look at another worm and believe it must endure a boring or lonely existence.

As it was explained to me, “These worms simply live to eat and reproduce. Basically, the worm is just a mouth, anus and a microscopic little brain.”

I asked, given these base characteristics, how do red wiggler worms differ from the typical radio talk show host.

“Well, the worm actually contributes some good to society. About 45 percent of all our waste stream comes from food and paper products, both of which are compostable materials. Worms can convert these common waste products into nutrient-rich soil fertilizer to energize your gardens.”

I was sold. I got a little bin, a softball sized ball of 1,000 little wigglers and soon our family started putting apple cores, banana peels, lettuce scraps, tea bags, potato peels, etc. into the bin along with showers of shredded newspapers. The warm worm poo makes great fertilizer.

So now when strangers ask what I do for a living, I always answer “I’m a worm farmer.”

And it’s true. Sure, I do a lot of writing, but there’s rarely even a penny of commerce involved in the exercise. I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand until I realized that even 8 year olds know enough to charge a quarter for a glass of lemonade.

Worm farming is a productive pursuit that reduces vile pollution. Some critics would argue blogging is the exact opposite.

So instead of golfing on this Earth Day, I’m putting on my worm farmer bib overalls and am heading to Baggeley Elementary School to teach my daughter’s second grade class about the joys of vermiculture or worm farming.

I’ve done it the past couple of years and it’s always a joy to see the kids fussing over the bin full of worms as they frolick amidst all the rich worm poo.

But it’s not all fun and games. I don’t let the kids get too out of hand.

It might upset the worms.

And, take my word for it, no one wants to see a hermaphroditic red wiggler get all excited in front of a classroom full of second graders.

Saving the world with global worming

I’d planned on spending Earth Day scattering dense trash on pristine lands and in deep lakes where the environmental obscenities will likely linger for centuries.

Some future explorer would find them in some distant age. She may shake her head at my carelessness and exclaim, “Wow, someone with a really nasty slice used to roam these lands. We’re miles from the nearest golf course!”

It is my Earth Day custom to bang Titleists deep in the western Pennsylvania forests. I lose about four or five golf balls every single time I tee it up. I putt good, my iron play is strong, but I can’t hit a straight drive to save my life.

Most people don’t consider lost golf balls trash. I do. I can’t sleep the night before I golf knowing there’s nothing I can do to prevent defacing Mother Earth with my dimpled, non-biodegradable spheres.

Maybe I take things too seriously.

Like the saving the planet. I take it very seriously.

I aim to reduce, reuse and recycle everything. I vowed last year I would never step over another piece of trash. Now I carry a recyclable plastic bag with me on my walks and usually have enough cups, wrappers and papers to get about half a bag full.

I could accumulate more if I wobbled along in a drunken sort of weave into the bushes and gutters, but that would take too long and would reduce the happy time I spend in the bar developing a true drunken weave the old-fashioned way

Still, I know I could do more. I’ve read that the average American discards 28 pounds of trash each week into our bulging landfills. Our family is way below that, but not near the average household in Oslo, Norway, where they produce just four pounds of weekly trash.

Four pounds! What, is Oslo populated entirely by Keebler elves?

Still, even they are pikers compared to the world’s best recyclers. For every single pound of trash you and I produce, this trash-devouring little superhero is capable of recycling it into an equivalent amount of something useful and nutritious.

Behold, the red wiggler worm!

I did a story about the practice of vermiculture four years ago and immediately became enthralled with the ambi-sexterous red wiggler worms. The tiny slimies simply fascinate. It takes a trained eye and, I’d guess, an atomic level microscope, but every worm is a hermaphrodite generously bestowed with organs of both sexes.

The condition is not enough to make me want to tune in to worm porn night on the Animal Planet, but I’ll never again look at another worm and believe it must endure a boring or lonely existence.

As it was explained to me, “These worms simply live to eat and reproduce. Basically, the worm is just a mouth, anus and a microscopic little brain.”

I asked, given these base characteristics, how do red wiggler worms differ from the typical radio talk show host.

“Well, the worm actually contributes some good to society. About 45 percent of all our waste stream comes from food and paper products, both of which are compostable materials. Worms can convert these common waste products into nutrient-rich soil fertilizer to energize your gardens.”

I was sold. I got a little bin, a softball sized ball of 1,000 little wigglers and soon our family started putting apple cores, banana peels, lettuce scraps, tea bags, potato peels, etc. into the bin along with showers of shredded newspapers. The warm worm poo makes great fertilizer.

So now when strangers ask what I do for a living, I always answer “I’m a worm farmer.”

And it’s true. Sure, I do a lot of writing, but there’s rarely even a penny of commerce involved in the exercise. I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand until I realized that even 8 year olds know enough to charge a quarter for a glass of lemonade.

Worm farming is a productive pursuit that reduces vile pollution. Some critics would argue blogging is the exact opposite.

So instead of golfing on this Earth Day, I’m putting on my worm farmer bib overalls and am heading to Baggeley Elementary School to teach my daughter’s second grade class about the joys of vermiculture or worm farming.

I’ve done it the past couple of years and it’s always a joy to see the kids fussing over the bin full of worms as they frolick amidst all the rich worm poo.

But it’s not all fun and games. I don’t let the kids get too out of hand.

It might upset the worms.

And, take my word for it, no one wants to see a hermaphroditic red wiggler get all excited in front of a classroom full of second graders.