Nonfiction tales of lawn love, competitive chow

Domino still stands
When Hurricane Katrina swamped the city of New Orleans last year, the devastation that destroyed the city's Ninth Ward led many people to believe that Antoine "Fats" Domino had died in the floods that ensued. But rumors of his death were found to be greatly exaggerated. The writer of such classics as “Ain't That a Shame” and “Blueberry Hill” was found elsewhere in his broken city, very much alive.

You couldn't ask for a better metaphor for Domino's own career, or for the public's perception of the role of New Orleans in the evolution of rock and roll. Rick Coleman's new biography, "Blue Monday," (Da Capo, $27) helps right this wrong in a sparkling, informative book, said to be the first to sift through the life of the much-traveled singer-songwriter in comprehensive fashion.

Coleman's book examines Domino's vital role in the evolution of New Orleans' music. It's also a sturdy, readable examination of how the New Orleans sound fits into the American cultural landscape, showing how rock's African-American roots have been obscured. No one had to convince Elvis Presley of that fact: In 1969, Coleman reports, the singer so many call The King proclaimed that the title should really belong to Domino.     —Michael E. Ross

Mowed down
So… Hank Hill is the anti-Christ, then? To hear Ted Steinberg tell it in, “American Green:  The Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Lawn” ($25, W.W. Norton), those Americans seeking a golf-course-like blanket of grass around the house are both victims and perpetrators of a vast ecological crime. Yes, even the animated patriarch on “King of the Hill,” whose lawn is as tidy as his crew-cut.

W. W. Norton

Steinberg, a professor of history, seeks to answer, “What is driving people to water, mow, and fertilize, to sacrifice their precious evenings and weekends in the quest to enter the kingdom of lawn glory?” His conclusion is that unrealistic expectations about what a lawn should look like (if it’s green all the time, you’re doing it wrong) coupled with overzealous marketing by what he only half-jokingly calls the “lawn-industrial complex” are creating a dangerous quest for curb-appeal perfection.

The various forms of grass used in the U.S. cover an estimated 25-40 million acres, “at minimum, about the size of the state of Kentucky, though perhaps as large as Florida,” Steinberg says. But the mass colonization of Bermuda, St. Augustine, Kentucky Bluegrass and others feeds an over-reliance on potentially toxic chemicals and an unwinnable weed-killing battle for home turf that is ecologically unsustainable. Also? Riding lawn mowers can pin and kill you, and push-mowers can cut off your hands and feet.

Steinberg, who has a great subject on his hands, over-reports to a startling degree. “American Green” devotes 62 of its 292 pages to index, citations and acknowledgements. Like an underwatered lawn, the prose can be dry and patchy. Inevitably, “American Green” becomes a diatribe against lawn-lubbers, the lawn care industry and America’s grass-is-always-greener aesthetic. It’s a valid point that would have better taken root with more stories of lawn-obsessed citizens and less lecturing.    —Omar L. Gallaga

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