BoomerGirl.com

Philadelphia — You gotta love a plant that comes in oddball varieties like Pistachio Nightmare, Kiwi Herman and Brooklyn Horror.

It's kooky coleus, the old Victorian favorite that three years ago became Amanda Davies' latest obsession in the garden. But this time, the fixation was different - and instructive.

Davies' Schwenksville, Pa., garden had always been about flowers - how many, what colors and kinds. But gardeners pinch coleus to prevent blooming; the plants poop out after flowering.

"With coleus," Davies says, "came the realization that color could come from foliage. That, for me, was revolutionary. You do get some flowers, but that isn't the point."

And while we're talking revolution, yesterday's coleus was a bit of a snore. Today's is a total exhibitionist.

It's all dancing pinks and shouting greens on the one hand, translucent golds and meditative maroons on the other. You'll find raunchy reds and redolent browns, creamy whites to make you sigh, and leaves so splattered with color you'll think Jackson Pollock had opened a vein right into the pot.

Ray Rogers grows 120 kinds of coleus at Atlock Flower Farm in Somerset, N.J., and to visit him there is to understand the power of this plant. It's so unpredictable, so spontaneous, it's almost irresistible to novices and collectors alike.

Coleus is officially known as "Solenostemon scutellarioides," but Rogers has a better name. "An unpedigreed mongrel," he says with obvious delight.

He's allowed. He's King Coleus at the moment, author of a new book called "Coleus: Rainbow Foliage for Containers and Gardens" (Timber Press, $29.95). After all that work, and despite his penchant for serial crushes on iris, then daffodils and who knows what else, Rogers is "still stuck on these mongrels."

He has a million favorites, all revving up for spring inside five of the farm's seven hoop houses. He leads the way through the narrow aisles of one after another, pointing to baskets of coleus overhead, tiny seedlings on the sides, larger plants in the middle.

It's a horticultural Rorschach of shapes, patterns and colors. And Rogers knows every plant.

They're introduced like friends at a party. First comes Camouflage, a dark khaki coleus that you agree is a standout. Then he's touting Inky Fingers, which really does look like ink-stained digits, and Velvet Mocha, which is positively smoldering.

We pass a deep maroon and chartreuse Pineapple Queen with barely a glance because Rogers is already explaining "the infamous `Tilt-a-Whirl.' It looks like mud in the spring, but it turns orange and twisty and gorgeous in fall," he says.

So he sells it in fall.

"A fascinating, living paint box," Rogers calls these funny plants, which - just as we might question our own relatives' planet of origin - are members of a surprising family: mint, because of the flower structure.

Once ubiquitous in the parlors and carpetlike flower beds of Victorian and vintage American estates, coleus' popularity plunged thereafter. It was up in the `20s, down in the `30s, reborn with suburbia in the `40s and `50s, and on and on in the way that plant fads go.

So here we are. Coleus is back again, with hundreds of new varieties and jolly names and fans like Davies, who got to know coleus three years ago and now builds beds and containers around it.

"I've been pretty restrained about buying," she says, "but this year, it's gonna get ugly."

Stephen Maciejewski of Philadelphia, just off a fourth-place overall finish at the Flower Show, is a coleophile, too. "With my social worker background," he explains, "I like Coleus Schizophrenia, Bipolar by Golly, Religious Radish ...

"If you have OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder), this is a real problem," Maciejewski adds, "because you want to have one of these, one of those. What kind of crazed garden will you have?"

Actually, in all its varieties, coleus is very well-behaved.

Some mass and mound nicely, like a giant mushroom cap. Others creep elegantly along the ground, hang well in baskets or spill gracefully out of pots. Still others are easily trained as topiaries or tucked neatly under a big-leaf hosta, as Davies does.

Although the lighter-colored coleus need mostly shade, many others grow fine in part or full sun, including a trio of plant series called Florida City, Solar and Sun.

"The more light most get, the better they do," Rogers says.

There are about 1,000 kinds of coleus, with a great deal of hybridizing going on. Some, over time, have picked up more than one name. Combine all this with the fact that coleus mutate or "sport" frequently, and identifying plants becomes an amusing - if confusing - game.

The same coleus can look different in sun and shade, and spring and fall. "With a lot of coleus, if you think this is what it'll look like all season, you're wrong," Rogers says.

Even parts of a single coleus can look wildly different. "The same plant can look like five different ones, all in one pot," says Rogers, citing the aptly named `Careless Love,' which is notoriously promiscuous.

One rooted cutting of `Careless Love' can produce a genetic free-for-all of a plant: one part green, one part red, one yellow, the rest a mishmash.

"Coleus," Rogers says, "is a little bit nutty."

Coleus like almost any soil. They hate "wet feet." They can live indoors or outdoors, but no matter how much you pamper them, they pretty much self-destruct in three years.

But this is the beauty of coleus. You can take cuttings and put them in water. After about three days in full sun, they'll start rooting. When they're an inch long, stick them in potting soil.

Amanda Davies has done 17 cuttings so far and is about to do more. "You can take a medium-sized coleus and get 10 baby plants that you can roll into your garden next year," she says.

A favorite is The Flume, which is fiery pink, burgundy and green with saberlike leaves. Davies keeps it about 12 inches high, letting it crawl up underneath a Sum and Substance hosta.

"It looks phenomenal," she says.

Black Lace, another favorite, has feathery leaves of deep purple and pale green. It's a brooding presence in Davies' containers, with maybe a sweet-potato vine and other annuals around it.

Coleus leaves range from less than an inch (`Thumbelina') to 18 inches (`Kong'), and unless you want your plant to shoot up, go to seed and call it quits, you have to pinch the center several times a season to keep flower buds from forming. Just like pinching basil.

Coleus is pretty tough, but it can get mealy bugs.

Good companion plants: cannas, begonias and fuchsias, with color depending on your coleus.

Coleus are sold just about everywhere now, but Ott's Exotic Plants in Schwenksville has a large collection of unusual ones.

"Let me put it this way," says Carol Ott. "My husband is really into coleus, and everywhere he goes, if he sees one he doesn't have, he has to have it."

Last year, she planted a 30-inch terra-cotta pot with a tripod of pink mandevilla vine alongside a `Kong' coleus with chartreuse Creeping Jenny hanging over the side.

"It was really bright and colorful," Ott says.

Some Web sites worth looking at: www.rosydawngardens.com and www.coleusfinder.com.