Posts tagged ‘recycling’

May 7, 2008

Some Interesting Things

Here’s a comprehensive answer to a question I asked many a post ago: what happens if you routinely screw up your recycling?

When loads of plastic are dumped on a recycling facility’s floor, the sorting fun begins. Workers often start by picking through the piles in search of obviously discordant items-kiddie play sets, lawn furniture, clothing mannequins. They also scan for plastic mounds that are drenched in nonrecyclable trash, such as food slurries or medical waste.

Taylor Clark attempts to dispel the myth of the obnoxiously condescending vegetarian by penning an obnoxiously condescending article:

Those of us who want to avoid the social nightmare have to hide our vegetarianism like an Oxycontin addiction, because admit it, omnivores: You know nothing about us. Do we eat fish? Will we panic if confronted with a hamburger? Are we dying of malnutrition? You have no clue.

In all seriousness, I think vegetarianism is admirable (although PETA, which runs ads that objectify women in order to promote its agenda of giving humanity to animals, can suck it). But I’ve never understood my vegetarian friends’ complaints of the difficulty of finding anything to eat. I’m not even remotely a vegetarian, and I’d estimate that 90% of my diet is cheese, bread and sugar.

I am nothing if not a lover of routine – in fact, my behavior is so habitual that it borders on insane. Like many writers, I find that I am unable to be creative at all if I don’t build being creative into a fairly rigid routine. According to this article, the important thing is to change up your habits:

. . . it seems antithetical to talk about habits in the same context as creativity and innovation. But brain researchers have discovered that when we consciously develop new habits, we create parallel synaptic paths, and even entirely new brain cells, that can jump our trains of thought onto new, innovative tracks.

Not long ago, I leafed through a book (can’t remember the title) that was basically a longer version of the above article. The book’s author advised that, to free up creative thinking and combat brain atrophy (and possibly Alzheimer’s), you should constantly be trying to surprise your own brain by doing something jolting – walking a different way to work, writing with the wrong hand, using the opposite hand to do different tasks, performing daily activities in a different order than usual, and so forth. Hmm. Maybe I should build breaking my routine into my routine.

Lindsay Beyerstein responds to Thomas Friedman on subprime mortgages:

Earlier generations weren’t more virtuous because they had less debt. Their dollars bought more. They were more likely to have steady jobs with benefits, including employer-subsidized incentives to save . . . Americans have always valued hard work–and nothing has changed. In the USA, the average worker clocks more hours than anywhere else in the industrialized world.

A very brief history of illegal immigration:

Chinese exclusion invented something like the concept and business of modern illegal immigration.

(Related, sometimes a picture is worth a thousand misspelled words.)

And finally, this is way cooler than missed connections: if you live in New York, this guy might draw you…especially if you hang out much at the Taco Bell on 14th.  (via Kottke)

July 25, 2007

David’s Absences, Baby Carriages, and Recycling Are All Perplexing Things

I just ducked out to buy a Diet Coke from the newsstand across the way. When I got there, there was no one in the newsstand, but standing in front of it was a woman with a poof of blond curls around her vacant face. She was eating an ice-cream cone and had a ring of soft-serve around her mouth. She had the look of the innocently stupid.

‘David’s gone, but it’s okay,’ she informed me.

I selected my soda and looked around for the newsstand guy.

‘That’s a dollar seventy-five,’ she said. ‘You can just give it to me.’

‘I usually pay a dollar fifty,’ I said, suspiciously. People are always trying to put one over on you in the big city.

‘Dollar fifty, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll just give it to David. I’m a friend of his.’

There was another woman behind her, holding a pack of gum, who actually also had a poof of blond curls and an absent expression.

‘I’ll just wait for David, thank you,’ said this second woman to the first, giving me a Look.

‘Are you sure?’ I said, to the first woman.

‘Yes. It’s fine. I know David, you see,’ she said, and the second woman tutted.

I wasn’t sure which woman to offend.

I am not overly fond of children, and I have even less experience with them than I do affection for them. In addition, I have the upper body strength of a malnourished kitten, so given all that, it’s strange that I am inevitably selected from crowds of strangers when a mother with a baby carriage needs help carrying it up or down a flight of subway stairs. The first time this happened, I was excruciatingly hungover and in a hurry to boot, but I didn’t know how to say no (especially in front of a ton of people), so I did it.

Not too long ago, a grandmother collared me outside the Bedford L station to help tote her baby carriage down into the subway. I did not notice until we had started down the stairs that (a) the “baby” was at least two years old and heavy as crap, and (b) the grandmother was obviously insane. We started down the stairs, and I was not strong enough to manage it. My back was killing me and my arms were shaking, as I blindly picked my way backwards down the very steep flight of steps. Then, the kid woke up and started screaming bloody murder and rocking the carriage back and forth. I sat my end down.

‘You should take her out and make her walk it,’ I said to the grandmother.

‘Oh, I was hoping not to wake her up,’ she said.

‘Well, she seems to be awake now anyway,’ I observed, as the kid nearly vomited with rage.

Then, a train arrived, and a giant crowd of attractive young people swarmed up the stairs. The grandmother, attempting to figure something out, quickly scooted the carriage around, so that it completely blocked the stairwell, and started fussing with the kid’s various straps and buckles. The kid kicked the caterwauling up by half. I was embarrassed and confused, so I just took off. From now on, I’m ignoring all mothers. If people want to breed in this crazy city, that’s their problem.

So, I wrote something a long time ago about how I feared I’d made a sorting mistake with my recycling. Well, we recently received a handy chart from the recycling people explaining (with helpful pictures) what can be recycled and in which bins. Turns out, I haven’t so much been recycling as elaborately throwing things away in multiple bags, arbitrarily grouped together by appearance. Turns out, you can’t recycle anything!

Things I learned from this chart:

Plastic bags and plastic wrap do not count as plastic. Plastic deli containers do not count as plastic. Paper deli containers do not count as paper. Foil deli containers do not count as metals. You cannot recycle take-out cartons, nor can you recycle yogurt containers. Napkins, paper towels and tissues do not count as paper. Paper plates and paper cups do not count as paper, either, and their plastic lids (or caps) do not count as plastic. And you can’t recycle light bulbs.

‘Well, really. Who would try and recycle a light bulb?’ asked my roommate, when I pointed this out to her.

Oh, I don’t know. Some blithering idiot, no doubt.

Side note on this: we also have recycling bins in the break room here where I write, but now that I’m informed enough to know that nothing I bring my lunch in is actually recyclable, I put it all in the regular trash. Which gets me a ton of dirty looks from people who (erroneously, yet righteously) throw their identical lunch waste into the recycle bins. The recycle bins here are overflowing with non-recyclable deli containers. The planet is doomed.

March 6, 2007

I Fucked Up the Recycling (and Everything Else)

I had some free time this morning, and decided to take advantage of that unusual occurrence by taking out the trash. In this household, we recycle, which means we’re supposed to sort, and I thought I remembered my roommate explaining that you really just have to separate out the cardboard. I didn’t want to risk dampening my enthusiasm for the chore by going out in the cold to check the picture-keys on the trash bins, so I just went with that memory. Obviously, I was wrong – it’s meant to be glass, metal and plastic in one bin, and mixed paper and cardboard in the other. I had all the paper in with the metal and plastic, but I just left it like that. I didn’t want to pick through the trash bags again. What happens if you do that? Does the recycling plant explode? Do Recycling Enforcement Agents deduce from your old mail who you are, and come knock on your door to lecture and/or fine you, because recycling just won’t work if everyone is too lazy and squeamish to sort properly? Does Al Gore cry?

I feel simultaneously righteous about making the effort, and guilty about not really making much of an effort. This caps a week of good intentions and poor follow-through. Here are some other lessons I learned from things I screwed up this week:

  • When one wants to gently and kindly turn a fellow down for a second date, because said fellow (although basically a nice enough guy) has a serious, long-term girlfriend, but sees no problem in pursuing other women behind her back, the best way to do this is not to say (and I quote): ‘It’s nothing against you; I just have a really fun and easy social life, and I don’t want to infect myself with your bad karma.’ Saying this will not result in a good, firm hug and no bad feelings on either side. Saying this will make things worse.
  • Actors improve with age. Not in their chosen vocation, but by a reduction in their overall obnoxiousness as people. Knowing this, one should not leave a job where one works in comfortable surroundings with many old, jaded, mellow and failed actors to go work in extremely confined and chaotic surroundings with many young, peppy, hopeful and eager-to-impress actors. If one makes this move, one will be entirely unable to control one’s temper.
  • When one grows weary of endlessly trying to find a satisfying answer to the constantly posed question, ‘So, why exactly did you decide to move to New York?’ one should not shriek in exasperation, ‘Because New York fucking begged me to come, okay?’ For some reason, other New Yorkers find this answer more abrasive than amusing.
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