Broken glass

Somebody please take this shit away from me. Next week will be different.

Howdy y’all. As we roll into Super Bowl LVIII—I’ve seen every single one of ‘em—that’s how old I am. I was thinking about Super Bowl parties. For the hardcore fans of the teams in the big game—it’s always an all-day affair. For everyone else it’s a reason to get together with friends and have a good time. A true American pastime. People who don’t give one fuck about football will make a social event out of it—over-indulging throughout the day and night. They’ll shout Yay! when their chosen team scores. Why do they want that team to win? Their cousin’s husband once lived in San Francisco. They like the mascot. Their husband/wife/boss/Dad/Mom/best friend would absolutely kill them if they didn’t root for the guy from Texas Tech/Iowa State/Stanford/The Ohio State University—whatever.

I just love Christian and Brock—they’re just so cute!

Of course I’m rooting for the Chiefs—Travis and Tay all the way!

Much fun will be had by all. Here’s where my mind goes—to Monday. The let-down of Monday. The missed work of Monday. The trash of Monday.

Mondays are often brutal for even the most well-adjusted of us. Super Bowl Mondays where we had too much of everything? Fuhgeddaboudit.

I have some thoughts on trash. Indulge me. And if you’ve haven’t already—jump on that Subscribe button. If you like what I opine about here today—toss me a comment and smash that Like button. I need affirmation just like anyone does. Have a great weekend and stay safe.

---

You hear them rumbling down the street. Maybe it’s Monday. Or Wednesday in your neighborhood. The garbage men are coming. There’s something about the far away sound of trash trucks that makes me pause—to take a moment to listen—they’re still around the corner—7 or 8 houses away—I have time. Time to get the cans out to the curb. Time to get that last bag of human household detritus out of my world—and into the landfill.

Why wait until the last minute—the morning of? Many responsible citizens like to put their cans out on the curb the night before. Good for them. Make sure you’ve shredded all those bank statements! In the country neighborhood where I live, we do have weekly trash pickup. The concern is less about malevolent human scavengers and more about the 4-legged kind. You know—the cute little fuckers with the black masks around their eyes and the relentless curiosity and appetite? You head out in the morning to your appointed work or tasks only to find your lid open and half-eaten leftovers spread across the yard and neighborhood. I know—I know—I should compost more. The garden needs it. Racoons will eat damn near anything anyway—and they love to flip the lids open just to take a peek.

I once inhabited a more metropolitan landscape. Denver’s historic inside neighborhoods—the density was such that on a cool summer evening with the windows open you were treated to the parenting style—the entertainment choices—and the conflict resolution of your neighbors.

Go to your room—now!

You’re such a fucking asshole—why don’t you ever listen to meeeeeeeee?

Breaking News at 6! Chris Cuomo tells us how he was able to bench-press his own ego—and our very own Matilda visits a local non-profit that provides free E-bikes for blind seniors.

In such urban environments the recycling truck and the trash trucks sometime overlap on the same day. Sometimes they don’t. Different colored cans. Different size trucks with different graphics representing their separate—but purposeful—mission.

The cacophony of sound on trash and recycling day has a certain music to it. The short guttural Vroom of heavy diesel acceleration from one residence to the next. An ear-splitting squeal of overworked and under-lubed brakes on brake pads. Do trash trucks ever not have squealing brakes? Loud whirring and groaning of the hydraulic arm that hoists the can in the air and neatly dumps the not-so-neat contents of the bin into the larger not-so-neat mound of compressed stinky already in the truck. The quick whistle from the guy on the back to the guy in the seat. Repeat. Oh—and that glorious smell emanating from the back of the open truck. The dogs always knew when it was trash day.

But aren’t we neglecting one very important and ubiquitous sound in most American neighborhoods? Indeed we are. Wait for it. The sound of breaking glass. Ahh yes. Silver Oak—Franzia—Sutter Home—Mondavi—Kendall Jackson—Jack Daniels—Titos—Crown Royal—Smirnoff—Captain Morgan—Patron. And don’t forget Budweiser—Miller Lite—Ultra—Stella—Guiness—and the rest. Crashing together and downward into the rest of the green and brown and clear bottle brands already smashed and spilt on their way to either the recycling center or the landfill—per the choice of the homeowner disposing of their now-empty intoxicant vessels from the week’s coping.

Americans dispose of over 10 million metrics tons of glass annually. Only one third makes it into a recycling process. Glass is endlessly recyclable, according to Robert Weisenburger Lipetz, executive director of the Glass Manufacturing Industry Council (GMIC), a nonprofit trade association. Unlike many of the materials that we Americans dutifully recycle—in good conscience—glass can actually be recycled over and over. Lipetz goes on, glass has an unlimited life and can be melted and recycled to make new glass products with no loss in quality. The glass industry regularly mixes cullet—a granular material made by crushing bottles and jars usually collected from recycling programs—with sand, limestone, and other raw materials to produce the molten glass needed to manufacture new bottles and jars.

Let’s not judge all that. We Americans do the best we can. Those in charge often lie to us about everything—why should recycling be any different? So we do what we’re told—and it ends up in landfills anyway cuz China won’t buy it anymore. The global economy. One country’s trash is another country’s what—treasure?

---

My bins were once full of shame. Yes indeed they were full of the appropriate separations by type and color and often they were even rinsed. But they also contained a stinky pile of deep shame. For they held the week’s attempt at coping with life in a self-destructive—impulsive—and ever-growing manner. Seven (or more) quart bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label. Coupla twelve packs of Bud longnecks. Assorted Pinot Noirs from Central California and New Zealand Pinot Grigios and Argentine Malbecs—depending on the season of course. An occasional Belvedere dug from deep in the garage freezer. The beautiful and requisite Patron Silver bottles that I didn’t keep for flower vases. Sprinkled liberally throughout the bin was shame—folding in and around—on top of and beneath—the copious assortment of bottles.

I just knew that the sound of my bin on each trash day was louder and larger than those of my neighbors—somehow signaling to God and anyone paying attention—which was exactly no one—that I was in fact an alcoholic drinker. The tell. The sound of the crashing together and breaking of the bottles was an outward sign—cuz Lord knows I believed I was hiding it effectively in other ways.

Somebody please take this shit away from me. Next week will be different. But it’s not.

When are you going to wise up boy?
When are you going to wise up boy?

You are hiding in your mind
Working all the time
Trying to make it better than you got it
And you been spending all your time
Searching for a sign
That's never going to look the way you want it

John Mayer—If I ever get around to Living

How is it possible that I wasn’t ashamed enough to quit? How is it possible that I actually thought about what the trash guys would think of the guy inhabiting my house?

I used to frequent 5 or 6 different liquor stores in my neighborhood. I was mortified that the oblivious clerk or proprietor might judge me if I came every day and bought more. Spread the wealth. Shop local. Feed the economy.

I was so concerned about what someone might think—if they knew. People that had no impact on my life had a crushing impact on my self-esteem. Meanwhile the people that did have an impact on my life—the people I cared about and cared about me—got a steady stream of lies and coverup.

Well here I am
Walking down the street again
Like the scene of a movie
Just me and the garbage cans

Clicking my shoes on the ground
Like an aristocrat
And the power of conviction
Yeah, I always fall for that

Bob Schneider—Trash

Tomorrow will be different. Next week will be different. But it isn’t.

Until it is. I now look forward to trash day. Actually love it. Take away my tidy and soundless bin you trash warriors—you mounted regulators of detritus—you secret keepers! I await you each Monday morning with anticipation and a clear mind and conscience.