My night is beginning to resemble a “choose your own adventure” book:
If you decide to force-quit the application BBEdit, turn to page 9.
If you decide to sit there and wait while the Spinning Beachball of Death twirls around for all eternity, turn to page 10…
You: a gorgeous Canon EF 50mm f/1.2 L USM.
Me: I stared at you while you sat in the display case.
I know you noticed me too, with your big glass eye. You’ve been used. I could tell. The minor scars on your skin told me that you’ve lived through a lot. But I can love you. Oh yes, I can take care of you. We can do beautiful things together.
Wait for me?
One of the benefits I get from my enormous city tax bill is garbage removal and recycling. My city provides recycling bins and rolling plastic trash cans, which we green citizens dutifully place on the curb once per week.
One of my recycling bins1 is smashed and cracked to the point of uselessness. For the past several weeks, I’ve been putting it out on the curb, empty and upside down, in the hopes of indicating to the Guy Who Drives The Big Noisy Neon Green Truck Down My Street At 6:00am that I’d like them to recycle that bin. And each time, it just gets left there with the other bins.
Last week I tried throwing it into the trash can. The Guy Who Drives The *Other* Big Noisy Neon Green Truck Down My Street At 7:00am took it out of the trash can and left it on the curb with my other recycling bins.
Thwarted again.
So this week, I put a sign on the broken bin, saying “BROKEN - PLEASE REPLACE” in large, friendly letters. Again, the bin was left on the curb. But at least they took the sign off and recycled that.
Luckily my city has a dedicated phone line for Trash Issues, staffed by helpful and knowledgeable civil servants who are trained to answer all your disposal-related questions, such as “are pizza boxes recyclable?”, and “if I chop the body up, do I still need to put it in a plastic bag inside the can?”.
I called the number, and explained my bizarre situation. The nice lady on the other end put me on hold for a few moments, and then returned with her answer. “You have to put the broken bin inside of one of the other recycling bins if you want it recycled.”
On reflection, I guess that makes perfect sense.
My friend Scott documents his drinking of a noxious Budweiser Chelada, via fine camerawork by his 9-year-old daughter. Hilarity.
If you’re on the Twitter, he’s @sclevy.
I wasted my 2000th tweet this morning with a throwaway line about a clip show. But I got a few nice replies, and this one in particular made my day:
“Moby-esque cool”? That’s just pure awesome. Undeserved, but still awesome.
