Okay. One more time. NO WIRE HANGERS!

The small apartment building I call home recently had its recycling privileges reinstated, after a three-year hiatus. I’m not familiar with specific criteria governing this disciplinary exclusion; but if there were rules to be broken, we broke them. And by “we,” I mean the occupants of the apartments surrounding mine.

I’m sure they all have names.

Back in the days of the old blue receptacles, my neighbors exhibited an astonishing lack of recycling acumen. It was breathtaking. I’m no zealous eco-warrior, but I do know that pizza boxes are not recyclable in the City of Austin. Neither are extension cords, paint cans, shards of mirror, milk cartons, light bulbs, packing peanuts, or dead animals. And, except for that last one, every one of these items appeared in the small, recycling bin that lived near our dumpster, just off the alley that links 45th to 44th.  Cans, bottles and appropriate plastic food containers were also in there, but they were almost always filthy. An empty tin can encrusted with rotting food is not a recyclable item. It’s trash. Just put it in the trash.

I once saw a clear, plastic cake box in there ... the sort of box in which one might find a birthday cake. Or, in this case, half a birthday cake.

The stupefying ignorance implicit in these actions became a regular source of personal frustration and, in spite of my efforts to avoid it, anger. I would walk to the bin with my acceptable, rinsed recyclables only to be rewarded with the sight of someone’s broken dishes or someone’s dead batteries, or someone’s old telephone. This happened with disturbing frequency. And, with the bin full of trash, I was forced to put my recyclables in the dumpster … while imagining the idiot who just tried to recycle cake judging me from behind his mini-blinds.

These transgressions drove me to do things I ordinarily would not do.  I downloaded and printed the DO NOT RECYCLE list from the City of Austin recycling webpage, and taped it near the mailboxes. When this failed to reduce the flow of garden hose, frying pans and wire hangers, I actually taped the list to one of the ubiquitous pizza boxes in the bin. This didn’t work either. I stopped short of going door-to-door to distribute the list. This would have been easy -- there are only twelve units -- but I didn’t want to be that guy. I’m not that guy. I HATE THAT GUY.

FLASHBACK: Austin in the Nineties. I was living in a house on a street in a neighborhood that required the recycling bin to be schlepped to the curb one day a week. One week, on the morning of that day, I awoke to the sound of the recycling truck ingesting glass bottles somewhere down the block. In a flurry of bleary action, I managed to deposit our meticulously organized bin curbside just as the truck was pulling up. I quickly walked away, barely looking back. Hours later I discovered an angry yellow sticker affixed to the bin. This sticker was primarily comprised of a list of possible recycling transgressions, with LATE TO CURB checked purposefully, with a well-blunted Sharpie. 

Staring at this sticker, I savored the dizzying Orwellian irony of chopping down a tree to print a sticker to scold someone for being LATE TO CURB with a recycling bin. Then, I recalled a fleeting glance at the scornful, judgmental frown of the recyclable materials collector who was walking up to the curb as I was walking away. Yeah. That guy. Sticker guy. I HATE THAT GUY.

So, what really bugged me about the recycling failures of my fellow apartment dwellers (apparently now beyond the jurisdiction of angry yellow stickers) was not the real or perceived harm to the planet, or even what might have been a stubborn refusal to go along with the program. (Don’t want to recycle? Fine. Don’t. I’ve got my own problems.) What I objected to was the repetitive demonstration of arrogant, blissful stupidity. I mean, really? I can’t imagine needing to be told not to recycle empty motor oil cans. I’m pretty sure I can rely on logic and common sense and everything I’ve learned up to this point as a functioning, sentient being on this particular planet. But for someone requiring more, there’s a website for that.

This bad recycling behavior continued up to the announcement of the new Single Stream System. The old bins were to be replaced with large, lidded cans, and all recyclables could be tossed in impunity. Willy-nilly. Indiscriminately. Chaotically. Surely this system would fit right in with our questionable practices, and the sheer size of the can would accommodate any number of sins. I was downright ecstatic. If we couldn’t fix the problem, we could at least camouflage it.

But, we did not get our new can. Everyone else on the block did, but we didn’t. One by one, the old receptacles were collected, and the new cans distributed. But not at my house. We were ignored. I never asked, but I always assumed this was punishment for past indiscretions. For abusing the privilege. For failing to grasp the most rudimentary tenets of the most rudimentary of programs. In fact, the city didn’t even pick up the old bin. It stayed right where it had always been …  they just stopped collecting from it. Now it was just an old blue box …  dead to them. Like Fredo.

Undeterred, my fellow residents continued depositing recyclable and non-recyclable items in it and on it and finally around it – week after week. Zombie-like. Eventually, the pile of refuse obscured the bin.

I could have cleaned it up, but I’m not that guy, either.

I went to Vegas for a week and when I returned, the mountain of misdirected rubbish was gone. I don’t know if the city cleaned it up, or the apartment manager or one of my neighbors. But it was gone, and we still had no single stream can. We were apparently off the recycling grid. For at least three years we were not required to save the planet.

And then, a few months ago we got our can … or someone else’s can was commandeered. Either way, the building is recycling again. And since there’s plenty of room for my stuff, I refuse to even ponder the unholy detritus my neighbors may be tossing in there with my bottles, cans and assorted paper products.

Okay. We can just assume the pizza boxes.

ELECTRONIC REVERIE

My first computer was a Mac SE. That was 1989. It was a workplace device, so it wasn't really mine. I used it to design brochures and annual reports … full color, viewed on a black and white monitor. There was no internet, but the eventual addition of After Dark gave me flying toasters to stare at. A primitive version of King's Quest provided the heady option of playing on company time. I became so addicted to King's Quest that a bartender called the office at 8:15 one night to see if I was okay. 

Back then, this device unexpectedly thrust me into what felt like the future. I was ripped from the fraternal domain of t-squares and rubber cement and callously shoved into a world of diskettes (ask your parents) and software manuals (which I never read) and shifting, elusive terminology that still makes me feel like the dog ate my homework. But, for a few short years, I also felt like a member of an exclusive club. I knew things. (Things I absolutely could not explain, so don't even ask.) Eventually, an offhanded conversation with a cab driver about sans-serif fonts helped me realize that I was just another primate tethered to a computer. And ... everyone had a computer. And so did their kids. And those kids could explain things.

Thanks to an accommodating client, I now have a Mac Pro that looks like Robocop's carry-on, a flat screen monitor with millions of colors (actually, there are only three colors) and a wireless modem the size of a personal pan pizza box that throws off enough blinking light to illuminate my apartment. There is also a telephone attached that serenades me with a dial tone when I lift the receiver. It's that dial tone that keeps me from flying off into the future again.

SUNDAY, NEAR THE PARK.

I currently walk with the aid a cane. This may or may not be a temporary condition. I think it is, but since I have yet to consult a physician concerning the offending joint -- a knee vehemently rejecting the notion of conveyance -- I couldn’t say. The condition is tolerable when I avoid walking, and the pain dissipates exponentially with disuse. This luxury is elusive, however, as I must periodically use public transportation to make the ten mile trip from my apartment to the location of a part time job. I did this a few days ago, which was also Veterans Day. This is not a story about Veterans Day, however. Not really.

When I reached the halfway point of my commute, a bus stop between downtown Austin and Zilker Park, I found the bench clogged with amiable drunk folk of the homeless variety. One of them was strumming a guitar. Standing off to the side was a small, silent, nearly invisible man I have seen around that neighborhood for years, notable at this point because he uses a cane when walking -- which I was also doing. At the risk of appearing unkind, I will admit to viewing them all as interlopers. That bus stop is almost always devoid of pesky humans, until I arrive for a thirty-minute wait. I generally use the time to ruminate and untangle the knotted thoughts inside my head.

Guitar Guy started playing and singing. He played well enough, but should never sing. People who accuse Bob Dylan of being a bad singer should listen to this guy and reassess the concept. When he finished his song, he held up his right hand and said, "It's almost back. Them two fingers is coming back. When them two fingers quit working, my guitar-playing career is over." Then, he sang the song again, alternating strained and loud with nasal and plaintive. I still had twenty minutes to wait, if the bus was on time. This particular bus is always on time. This particular morning, it would be late.

After completing his ditty, which had something to do with Babylon, Guitar Guy looked over at me. "Sir? You ain't got a beer at home I could buy, do ya?" I told him I lived five miles away and I had no beer. "That's a shame. My DTs is kicking in. Do ya’ think Schlotzky’s would sell me a beer before noon?” I reluctantly continued relaying bad news until a fiftyish man with a ponytail and guitar case stopped to admire Guitar Guy’s guitar. Suddenly, my sketchy knowledge of Sunday beer law was irrelevant.

The two men fell into a guitar conversation. The pony-tailed man pulled out a pitch pipe and tuned Guitar Guy's guitar. Then, he inspected Guitar Guy's guitar, the way R. Lee Ermey inspects an M16. He started explaining how guitars are made, like a man who knows everything and assumes he's addressing a man who knows nothing. I had no reason to doubt the veracity of the information, but I stopped listening anyway. Finally, he said, "Well. A Mitchell is a Mitchell," and handed the instrument back. Then, he opened his case, pulled out a Martin with a dull, flat finish that reminded me of a terracotta wall. He started strumming and babbling and offered a lengthy, unsolicited dissertation concerning the hole in Willie Nelson's guitar … including dimension, age and causality. 

The bus was even later. The man with the ponytail finally put his guitar back in its case and very nearly walked away, until a previously mute fellow sitting next to Guitar Guy said, "Hope it don't rain." The man stopped in his tracks, put his guitar case down and began explaining how weather works. It seems there was a front, and what happens when a cold front collides with ...

The bus arrived. I climbed aboard, followed by the doe-eyed half-ghost with the cane. I sat down near the front of the bus and rested both hands on the wooden handle of my cane. A young man seated next to me asked if I was a veteran.

“I do not have that distinction,” I replied. My internal calendar flickered dark amusement, but I did not show it. That would have been disrespectful. 

TRAILERS FOR SALE OR RENT

The mobile home park on Barton Springs Road I attempted to describe here and here is gone. In its place is a mound of dirt surrounded by green mesh fencing. There is also a sign announcing the “amenities-rich” condos that will eventually replace that mound of dirt. I encountered this depressing site Sunday morning on my way to work.

To be honest, I am ambivalent. My knee does not necessarily jerk in any specific direction in the face of progress or gentrification. I suppose it all depends on the circumstance, or my perceived connection to the blight, the landmark or the treasure being replaced … as well as the nature of the replacement.

My connection to the former Manor Mobile RV Park was specious. I simply liked the look of the place. A spirit of individuality was palpable. While walking past, I could imagine a rogue’s gallery of eccentric, lovable ne'er-do-wells living an ephemeral version of the Life of Riley … or Good Neighbor Sam. I’m certain the reality was less romantic. I ponder the inevitable exodus.  When an RV park is closed, those evicted can’t simply leave. They must, as the song says, pick up their beds and walk. Or, at least, drive. Either way, I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. Cursory Googling suggests the axe fell because of escalating property taxes. I have no reason to doubt this, and no inclination to dig further.

I had a second, more personal connection to this humble community. In the fifties and early sixties I lived in a mobile home. (Now, you must confess something that makes your eye twitch.) I was quite young, and frayed memory has long since morphed into a shifting landscape of childhood reverie and numbing minutia. In my mind, the experience exists in a single place and time. It’s all connected by highways and holidays and time served. Listening to Dylan’s Desolation Row often takes me there, even though my family was unhappily ensconced in a jittery apartment in Houston by the time I first heard that song. Anyway … the sight of the Manor Mobile RV Park performed a similar function. It was a standing invitation to remember something as bland as pavement and as glorious as unfettered youth.

I hope the residents of the new condos are respectful of any ghosts who might choose to stay behind.

KEEP MOVING. NOTHING TO SEE HERE.

The only thing I hate more than being late is waiting. This is an unfortunate combination for anyone who uses public transportation, because in order to prevent the first, one must often endure the second. I suppose the opposite is also true, but being late is never an option I accept gracefully, so I’ve rarely tested the theory.

I’m jealous of anyone who can wait patiently. Unfortunately, what works for many does not work for me. Sitting at a bus stop while reading a book is not conducive to my natural state of internal combustion. Listening to my iPod and staring into space while contemplating the universe occasionally helps pass the time, but I lose interest easily, and as a rule … I just end up pacing and waiting. There is no muttering. I don’t mutter. Not yet, anyway.

In a particularly pensive or nostalgic mood, I might look around for a trigger to engage the process that sometimes leads to the creation of one of these webological entries. Sometimes this pays off. Sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, I generally get what I really want … the illusion of accelerated time.

Yesterday morning, I arrived even earlier than usual at the bus stop that represents the halfway point between home and work. I had about forty minutes to kill, so I walked to the next stop, and this took me past a blinking EMS vehicle, which was parked with little regard for geometric conformity near the entrance to a coffee shop. My destination was in front of the quaint mobile home encampment where I am occasionally distracted by the antics of an amiable white cat while waiting for the bus to arrive. Unfortunately, the cat was not present. Several spaces near the entrance to this modest community of kitschy aluminum had been vacated, and I sincerely hope the cat belongs to one of the units that moved on. I refuse to entertain a more calamitous explanation.

I was thinking about how much this facility reminded me of the 1950s, when a distant train whistle audibly validated this observation. Okay. Here we go. These squat, metallic Quonsets could just as easily represent some ancient Bradbury colony on Mars. And, if I were to clamber over the painted fence behind those distant Airstreams, I just might be reunited with the foreboding woods of my feverish, childhood dreams. I took note of the sky, as dead as gunmetal, and the temperature of the air – which hovered somewhere between the bracing chill of a walk-in cooler and the glacial stare of an unhappy spouse. There was gold here, if I could mine it. There were rocks to upturn, and snowballs to kick downhill.

There were …

Nah. It just wasn’t happening. My imagination was denied all transport. I had obviously left the letters of transit in my other pants. I was still halfway between Hyde Park and Westlake and my muse was still at home, sleeping like a headless zombie.   

The sound of a door slamming alerted me to the departure of the ambulance. Dousing its frenetic light show, the vehicle pulled away from the curb and drove slowly past me. After a lethargic u-turn, the unit proceeded toward downtown Austin with no hint of increased velocity. Obviously, this had been some sort of a coffee emergency. Meanwhile, the train whistle continued doing its part, but I was resigned to waiting for my bus.

Someone was approaching. I saw a figure several blocks away, walking north by northwest up Barton Springs. One is likely to encounter an inordinate number of homeless citizens on this stretch of road. There is a 351-acre park nearby, and heavily wooded hills all around, as well as elevated train tracks and a veritable network of inviting ditches. So, if you stand for very long on this street, you will probably encounter someone who will more than likely ask for money. As a rule, I don’t mind, but this particular Sunday morning, I was feeling the pangs of my own temporary impecunity, and was not in the mood to explain this to a total stranger. And, as it turned out, I didn’t have to. As the man got closer, I saw the logo on his shirt. It was the same as the Mexican restaurant right down the block, and he was obviously on his way to work. We exchanged pleasantries, as civilized strangers sometimes do, and he walked to the rear of the restaurant, where he probably began unpacking produce, washing lettuce and breaking down boxes. I did that job for several years, and I often miss the shared misery and free coffee.

Before my mind could return to the stupefying preview of death we like to call waiting, I saw another figure approaching from the opposite direction. Even from a distance, I could see that, instead of a logo, his grey sweatshirt displayed a great deal of dirt and moisture. The man wore an equally soiled red ball cap and carried an overstuffed backpack. Okay. This guy was homeless. He was coming from the park and he was going to ask me for money and the minute I told him I had none, he would dismiss me with a look of judgment and disdain amplified by its own maddening predictability. 

Why should I have to apologize for having no money? Leave me alone. I’m just trying to get to work.

I turned away and feigned interest in my phone. I planned to hold this pose until the gentleman had walked by. Hopefully, he wouldn’t stop. I had no money. None. Not one penny. I couldn’t help him. It wouldn’t even be a lie. 

And then, in my peripheral vision, I saw him in the middle of the street. He was crossing over, a half-block or so from where I stood. There was nothing over there except a bike shop, but for some reason he had decided to continue his journey on that side of the street. Sonofabitch. He was crossing the street to avoid me.

As the bus approached, I made a mental note to examine my obviously troubling visage in the bathroom mirror of the coffee shop I always visit on my way to work.

What? Okay. Fine. I had coffee money.

SKEWED VIEWS ON YEAR-END VIEWING

 I think Bill Clinton was still president the last time I ventured forth on New Year's Eve, so the TV marathon tradition that accompanies this holiday is important to me. This year there are 63 of them, depending on your level of service, and most can be ignored. I say this with little or no compunction because – when considering the crap to noncrap ratio -- I firmly believe Theodore Sturgeon’s famous pronouncement was an understatement.

My personal favorite is still the SyFy Twilight Zone marathon. This happens every year, and might be the one thing SyFy has retained from the original Science Fiction Network. I enjoy it for many reasons. I have a list:

1. Someone has observed that tradition is anything that happened to a baby boomer twice. When I hear this, I wince and applaud simultaneously, which is not attractive. Try it. Anyway, I watched The Twilight Zone when I was a kid. In fact, this show helped define the topography of my brain. The black and white imagery of the original broadcasts are burned into my cerebral cortex as indelibly as the opening scene of A Hard Day's Night and the final shot of The Seventh Seal.  
2. The Twilight Zone scripts represent the best televised work of Charles Beaumont, Richard Matheson, Ray Bradbury and Rod Serling. These are among the best half-hour teleplays ever written -- clever, incisive and, in a few cases, subversive.
3. Considering the age, intellect and temperament of many SyFy viewers, this tradition can be puzzlement (OMG! Why are they running these old shows AGAIN?) And, for me, that delightful side effect is the cherry on this sundae.

To be avoided at all costs: The Sopranos marathon on A&E. I would never watch The Sopranos on A&E. This is a sanitized, truncated and laughable mockery of the real thing. You want to watch The Sopranos? Rent it, stream it or borrow it. Or, continue allowing the quirky predilections of network censors to define your limitations. Your choice.

This weekend also presents a good opportunity to catch up on two notable AMC programs. The Walking Dead and Hell on Wheels. If you haven’t seen these shows, you will know before the end of one episode if your particular cup of tea is represented. If not, move along. But try to avoid watching feature films on AMC. (See previous paragraph.)

The idea of a New Year's Eve Law and Order marathon is mind-boggling. I have always enjoyed the Law and Order franchise, but they already have a marathon. It's called basic cable.

As for the majority of this annual televised wasteland, I have nothing to offer. Apparently, someone with considerable influence has declared that not very good and good enough are the same thing. Happy New Year.

TIME-TRIPPING ON BURNET ROAD

Yesterday, I found myself standing in front of the Exxon Tiger Mart I visited every Thursday morning for more years than I can accurately tabulate. Back then, this store was my first opportunity, on the short walk to what was then my job, to take a critical look at the latest edition of the weekly FREE TAKE ONE publication whose garish and abundant ad content I either created, processed or shepherded – also for more years than I can accurately tabulate. (A rough estimate would be fourteen.)

Those mornings were filled with trepidation and jitters – even before I added coffee. To people in the business, my plight might have been called lamentable. Even without the benefit of a proper press check, I was uncomfortably responsible for the visual integrity and typographical accuracy of the final product, printed in the dead of night in another part of the state. This responsibility, I quickly learned, included any mistakes made by myself or the artists and production people working with me, and any technical blowback generated by digital gremlins, and, most astonishingly, any misunderstandings created by the stunning ignorance of the management and the sales team with whom I collaborated all those years. With and without them, I’ve spent more than thirty years designing ads, and I understand that client naiveté can be overlooked and even corrected. But when the people in charge and the people in charge of selling don’t really understand the product, the job description of the production manager shifts from “managing production” to “choreographing ignorance.”  It was that vast and formidable ignorance, along with increasingly inept management -- and a flat-earth approach to the burgeoning digital revolution -- that ultimately killed the paper and cast me into financial purgatory.

That’s right. It’s all about me.

I entered the store yesterday morning to purchase a Nutrigrain bar. Not much had changed since my last visit. Clif Bars had been added to the selection, but, alas, not the elusive Maple Nut variety. More refrigerated shelf-space had been claimed by bottled water, as well as water in bottles and bottles filled with water. Paying for my peanut-buttery snack, I noticed that the cigarettes were now behind Plexiglas. Under the circumstances, the display resembled an exhibit from a bygone era.

On my way out, I veered down memory lane, and took a quick look at the collection of free publications by the door. This is where I once got a first look at my now-defunct paper and the weekly journey into relief or retribution would begin. Looking down, I expected to see The Greensheet and several automobile publications, I did not expect to see a familiar masthead that once represented a steady paycheck and contributed mightily to my first heart attack. But there it was. The stoic, pseudo-Lakota and the strip of patriotic ribbon. The Franklin Gothic Bold, expanded and further tortured with Typestyler gradation. Gagggh. I was certain I had slipped through a time warp. Holy crap. Am I late for work?

Yeah. About three years.

Euphoria clashed with steel-talon panic before quickly subsiding. It didn’t take long to spot the addition of an upstart QR code, as well as the name of a nearby town. A small town. A charming hamlet where, apparently, the Internet had not killed the printed classified ad and a daily newspaper had not sewn up all the display inches. You know. Mayberry. This was their little piece of the franchise, not mine. Mine was still dead. I picked up a copy of the familiar publication, and was suddenly and inescapably pot-committed to complete the morning ritual. (Pot-committed is not a drug term. But, you knew that.)

Paper in hand, it was time to head next door to Denny’s for cursory, furtive page inspection. Except … Denny’s is gone. Where once was Denny’s is now a bank. So, I walked to the recently truncated shopping mall behind the Tiger Mart and sat on a bench in front of The Guitar Center to study the ad-filled pages. There were 32 of them. A healthy paper, by today’s standards. Our largest paper was 72 pages. We hung at 60 for a short time, before slowly and steadily dwindling to our final 12-page edition. (Four of those pages actually given away.)

I had two reactions to this familiar visual experience. I thought, look at all this work. Hey!  I could use some of this work. And, I thought, look at this crap. I never want to do this crap again. I would rather be a barista or a Wal-Mart greeter … or the guy who picks up roadkill. I actually felt (and some damaged part of me savored) an old, toxic panic that once haunted my dreams. It was the panic that came every Tuesday afternoon when the sales staff began filling the top drawer of a filing cabinet in an adjoining room with the hastily-scribbled layouts and incoherent ad copy I had been waiting for since the previous Friday. Every time that drawer slammed (BLAM!) several minutes -- or several hours -- were added to my workday. (BLAM!) Tuesday could be a ten-hour day. (BLAM!) Or, it could be an eighteen-hour day. (BLAM!) It all depended on the whims of the client and the sales staff and their subsequent indulgence by an owner/manager, who enjoyed telling the production department they were nothing more than overhead. (BLAM!)

(BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!) 

All I sought during those late nights was clarity. Clarity and closure -- and an understanding that, under deadline, time is a dwindling commodity which only moves in one direction. We rarely celebrated cohesion. The goals of any sales staff and the goals of any production department are, by nature, discordant. So, compromise is often the only salvation. But, bless them, these folks generally held their ground like petulant children ... or Republican legislators. And, I'm glad I was finally able to bid them adieu.

I put the paper in the trash and walked to the nearest bus stop, noticing one thing that had not changed. After leafing through those inky pages, I really wanted to wash my hands.