Archives: June 01, 2005

Garbage in, garbage out

Wednesday, 29 June 2005 09:39 AM

My brother Anthony was helping me clean out my basement so we could move the Big Big Design office from the tiny extra room we had been crammed in to the relatively spacious finished basement. In my garage we amassed a huge pile of empty boxes, bags of styrofoam popcorn, shredded paper, non-functioning electronics, random things the cats had peed on, etc.

"Which day is trash day? I'll help you carry it all out to the curb," Anthony said.

I told him we couldn't put it all out at once. The trash men wouldn't like it.

"So what?" he said.

My heart started to pound. Of all the rules I've discovered about city life, "keep your trash men happy" is among the top ten -- possibly the top three. The very idea of falling into their disfavor caused me pain.

"Have you had a bad experience with garbage?" he asked.

I had to confess that nothing came to mind. That doesn't mean nothing has happened. Granted, it was probably in Cambridge or San Francisco, bigger cities where the sanitation workers certainly have tough dealings. I have a loose sense of having left reasonable-seeming garbage items on the curb and found them there still at the end of the day, rank and awful, rejected by even the people tasked with removing them safely from my home. I've forgotten the specific incidents but they scarred me all the same.

If you're in a Freudian frame of mind, you might attribute this terror on my part to some deep-seated neurosis, probably formed during toilet-training days. If you're into feng shui you may have some other, equally detailed explanation. Fine, whatever. The point is, I want my garbage guys to stay happy with me, or at least to continue taking my trash away promptly.

But then again, maybe Anthony was right. Maybe I was overreacting. After all, hadn't I noticed the crazy-huge piles of junk other Butler residents leave? Hadn't I shaken my head as I passed stinking mounds of trash in the mornings, only to see they had vanished by the time I returned home at the end of the day? Maybe trash collecting is an easier job in a small town like this, the trash trucks rarely filled to the brim, the sanitation professionals eager to keep the streets pristine and our houses flowing with chi.

I mentioned my worries to my sister, Kate. She too blanched at the idea of upsetting the garbage men.

"Oh no. I'm always careful to make everything easy for them. I give them a big tip at Christmas," she said.

A tip! I'd never even thought of tipping the garbage men. The mail girl, my hairstylist, the barista at the coffeeshop, sure. But how do you tip a garbage person? If I left a card with a crisp bill on top of the trash, he might throw it away. If I labelled it in big letters "TIP," some passerby could take it away.

Not knowing how to leave a tip, I didn't. A few weeks passed, with me leaving a few more carefully packaged chunks of trash each Monday night. Each Tuesday by the time I woke up, the curb was clear.

By this week I'd cleared away almost all the heap -- all that's left is a few big items like old shower doors and the decrepit vanity from my now renovated bathroom, bulky things that will need to be hauled to a dump. So all I left at the curb Monday night was a single bag of household trash.

Tuesday morning it was still there.

Tuesday evening -- still there.

Had the garbage people had enough of me? Maybe they'd felt insulted by the paltry bit of trash I'd generated. "That's all you got? Heck, that's not even worth taking."

No, it wasn't me. Everyone's trash was still at the curb -- the trash truck hadn't been out. With temperatures in the 90s it was stinky, awful. Then in late afternoon the long-awaited thunderstorm arrived, so wet and strong it seemed like three storm traveling together Every bit of hot, smelly trash soaked up the water. Now the street was lined with wet, heavy, smelly piles of cardboard and garbage. If ever there were a time for the local garbage men to hold a strike, it was last night.

Normally I hear the trash truck lumbering around Monday nights in the wee hours, but I didn't hear anything last night. All the same, the trash was magically gone this morning when I awoke. Like a swarm of little trash elves had slipped mystically through the neighborhood and whisked away all the debris.

Maybe Anthony was right all along -- there's no need to fear the garbage men. No doubt they're hard-working Joes who aren't thrown by an extra box of trash. Even so, I'm not going to take them for granted. Maybe I could paint a big "thank you" on the inside of the trash can lid.

You're always killing something just by living on the earth

Monday, 20 June 2005 10:43 PM

The newest soundtrack of my life: the self-titled album by The Ditty Bops. Enjoy all the songs via their online jukebox and check out the video for "Wishful Thinking." Makes you realize there's not enough sawing people in half, shooting arrows at apples, and knife-throwing in videos these days.

Drink of the Week: My Brilliant Moscow Mule

Friday, 17 June 2005 07:51 PM

I do love me some ginger beer, so when I discovered the Moscow Mule last year I thought I'd found my perfect summer drink. (Actually my perfect summer drink is anything with ice and alcohol, but perhaps there are many levels of perfect.) The zip of ginger beer, the kick of vodka, a hint of lime -- delightful on a hot summer evening. I'm less excited by the classic way to serve a Moscow Mule, which is in a copper mug: I don't like all the condensation on the outside, and some such mugs are hard on the mouth. But serve this drink in a regular highball or double-rocks glass and I'm happy.

Now I've found a way to improve upon this perfection: homemade ginger beer. OK, so the recipe says ginger ale, but the resulting beverage has the sharper tang one expects in ginger beer. I don't know what the technical difference is between the two -- is it the type of yeast, as in regular beer and ale? No matter. I'm calling it ginger beer.

I mixed up my first liter of ginger beer the other night. I've always got empty seltzer bottles lying around, and it didn't take long to get everything prepared and combined. I left the bottle sitting on the counter overngiht and by morning it was already tight with contained carbonation. I left it fermenting until night, upending it every few hours to ensure that the sugar was fully disolved and to watch the tiny bubbles float around. I put it in the fridge last night, in anticipation of having a Moscow Mule this evening.

But by noon my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I open the bottle slowly, then immediately reclosed it as it was clearly ready to spurt ginger beer all over the kitchen. Several open-close sequences later and I was able to get the top off -- the contained carbonation forced out the wad of shredded ginger and lemon pulp that had collected at the bottle's top, leaving only a little pulp in the bottle.

I'm delighted with the taste. Sharp as any fresh ginger, rather like the pickled stuff you get at sushi restaurants, plus a nice balance of sweetness. Perfect! Next batch I'll be mashing the ginger more finely, possibly in the food processor, but all in all it's a taste treat.

As I had work to do in the afternoon I stuck with the plain, barely alcoholic ginger beer for the first glass, but I mixed up a nice Moscow Mule moments ago. And it's already time to make another ....

MY BRILLIANT MOSCOW MULE

1/2 oz. vodka
1/2 oz. lime juice
homemade ginger beer to fill

Fill a highball glass with ice and add ingredients. Stir lightly and enjoy.

(Homemade ginger ale recipe link thanks to Lifehacker.)

'Kim Deal, how the hell are you, man? It's been 10, 11 years? Good to see you. Let's rock.'

Sunday, 12 June 2005 11:36 PM

Trains pass by the Chevy Amphitheatre near Station Square in Pittsburgh every half hour or so, and the noise drowns out the music for a minute. Performers generally have to wait between songs for a train to pass.

Last Thursday night, I didn't notice a single one. I doubt the train schedule was any different for that one night, but the Pixies were on stage and they rocked that place hard. It wasn't quite the same as seeing the Pixies at the Rat in Kenmore Square in 1988, but it was damn close.

I had expected to have a good time, but not a great time. I saw the band last fall on an earlier leg of this reunion tour, at a show at the University of Akron. That set was fine -- the band pulled out the hits and played all my favorite songs from Surfer Rosa and Come On Pilgrim, and the crowd bounced and sang and clapped and screamed itself hoarse -- but overall it didn't equal performances I'd seen back in Boston.

I figured it was the result of time and tide. The band was older, had lost some of their young energy and angst. And hell, they were playing in Akron to a bunch of kids who hadn't been born when the songs were first written, and a bunch of middle-aged fogies (like me) who could only just remember how it felt to hear those same songs for the first time. It was in a university gym so there was no drinking and no smoking, just sports banners and a bunch of nice seats and a floor full of people standing and waiting to be impressed. And they played and we liked it and we all went home.

Understand that I didn't see the Pixies perform live so very many times in the 80s -- I caught maybe a half dozen or so shows. I would have seen more if I could have, but by the time I caught onto them they'd already start to hit it big, at least in the indie/college circuit, so they didn't play that many Boston shows anymore. My memories of seeing them blend into those of seeing other bands in the same clubs. But I do remember a few moments clearly: Kim Deal smiling, always smiling, looking vaguely high and unbearably sexy, singing "Gigantic." And Black Francis (as he was called then) screaming and flailing and making faces and joking with the band, or scowling at them and the audience. Me and everyone else in the crowd singing along with "Caribou" and "I've Been Tired." Who hasn't been tired? Who doesn't want to be a singer like Lou Reed?

I loved those songs, still love them, loved that band and what I stood for to me. So, my Akron experience notwithstanding, when tickets went on sale for a Pittsburgh show, I jumped online and bought mine the first hour they were on sale.

We got to the show early enough to see the opening band -- and if you're going to see the Pixies you should plan to catch the opening band. In Akron they had a bunch of apparent heroin addict kids, skinny things in stretch jeans like I haven't seen since 1988, and those boys played guitars faster than I've ever seen any one do, totally rocking. In Pittsburgh the openers were a hard-rocking foursome with a female singer who had the style of a gospel preacher and such a voice ... they were like Soundgarden fronted by Aretha Franklin. I don't know who's on for all the shows in the tour, but indicators point to great performances all around.

And then the Pixies came on stage, and the Pittsburgh crowd went apeshit. Everyone knew the words to everything, old and young people were bouncing and singing. The band was fantastic, Frank Black screamed and sang and even smiled once. Joey Santiago made unearthly sounds emerge from his guitars. Kim Deal looked cute and sang sweetly -- she sang lead on something that Black usually sings, "Gouge Away" I think -- and David Lovering even sang lead on "La La Love You."

When they played the first notes of "Nimrod's Son" I went temporarily insane and started jumping although it was too crowded to do more than bob -- I had to grab my brother Jude's shoulder to steady myself before I went crashing into the people in front of me. By the end of the night I was hoarse, my ears rang, I was dripping sweat. The band played an encore, which I don't think they often do.

My point, which I'm basically failing to make and will just tell you, is that it was a fantastic show, the kind that could remind me why I always loved seeing them live.

Why was this show better than the Akron one? Not sure. The band had more energy, seemed to get along better, seemed to have more to give. They played the songs with the same skill but more heart. Why this would be true late in the tour and not earlier I can't explain.

In any case, they've got it together and they're fantastic. I encourage you to check your local listings, find out when they'll be out your way, and go.

Incidentally, Frank Black is apparently a little easier interview than he used to be. The reporter from the Pgh Post Gazette got a few interesting bits from him. And he recorded Black using the word "ilk" in a sentence. Not enough people go on record with "ilk" these days, so it's nice to see too.

Feline trouble

Wednesday, 08 June 2005 11:21 AM

I try not to write much about my cats, because I fear seeming like the crazy cat lady. But I'm going to make an exception today to share with you the Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure. (Link via Screenhead.)

What pleases me most about this figure is that she is clearly not at all like me:

• She has six or eight cats (there seems to be one hiding underneath her hair and another in her pocket) -- I have only two. Although they do seem to shed, eat, and poop enough for six.


• She's wearing a bathrobe and checked pajamas -- I putter around my house in worn-out yoga clothes and oversized men's shirts.


• She has nasty green flowered wallpaper and green carpeting -- I have painted walls in fun 50s-era shades and Flor carpet tiles. The carpet tiles are frequently covered with cat hair, but at least they're not hideous green.


• Some of the shelves in her bookcases are empty -- every bookshelf in my house is full to the brim, many with books stacked two levels deep and piled on top.

It's true that, as of about a month ago, I do have brightly bleached hair in almost the same shade as the Crazy Cat Lady. But I never wear headbands. They squeeze my scalp. So, clearly I'm not at immediate risk of Crazy Cat Ladydom.

Still, constant vigilance is needed. This morning I got a newsletter from Animal Friends, a terrific shelter in Pittsburgh, and was severely tempted by the photos of lonely kitties and doggies, all needing homes. I resisted -- one day at a time, easy does it, you're only as sick as your secrets.

The area of cat ownership that causes me stress is cleaning up after the little buggers. One of my cats seems to have acid reflux, because she frequently throws up shortly after eating. Fortunately, I discovered InterfaceFlor carpet tiles, which I can pick up and wash in the sink as needed. So that problem isn't too troubling.

But the incessant shedding brings me down. There's cat hair everywhere, in every nook and cranny of the house, and it just keeps coming. Now Christine has pointed me to the solution I've so needed: a Dyson vacuum. I'm drawn irresistably to the DC07 animal model, with its mini turbo tool for removing pet hair from furniture and stairs and its "approved for allergy sufferers" certification. Plus it seems to come in a kicky purple shade.

If I had that vacuum, I bet I could have five or six cats and still keep up with the shedding.

Incidentally, I suspect that someone at Stupid.com isn't a fan of cats, as they also sell the Cat-A-Pult. Note that it flings tiny plastic cats, not full-size living kitties. It looks like it might be the right size to throw the Craxy Cat Lady's brood.

UPDATE: Whoops, I need to include this in such a mega-cat post: the CityKitty Cat Potty Training Seat. In case you really liked the cat-on-the-toilet scenes in Meet the Parents.

Copyright © 2004 – 2007 Cynthia Closkey