Hulu Rant

One of the most prominent websites in my life is Hulu.  Every time a season of The Bachelor is airing, Hulu breaks into my top ten most-visited sites.

Hulu is a great service, but lately I think they’re starting to take themselves a little too seriously.  They’ve got this paid version called Hulu Plus, and they push this on you every time you watch a show.  Frankly, if I wanted to pay to watch TV I probably wouldn’t be on Hulu in the first place.

And then there’s the ads.  You can now “create your own ad experience”, which is a totally sick concept.  Hulu wanting to make sure the ads they play are relevant to me is like asking somebody which way, exactly, they want to be screwed.  I don’t want to watch your ads and please don’t patronize me by asking for my feedback like you actually give a shit about me.

You also get to suggest how you’d like to have your pile of insidious shit served: all up front, in an extended two minute segment, or in normal bite-sized chunks of horseshit throughout the show.  I know, this decision is a difficult one, but don’t worry—Hulu gives you time to decide.  You can sit there for 15 or 20 seconds staring at the two radio buttons thinking about how you just want to watch the goddamn tv show and Hulu will sit there quietly and await your decision.  Finally, they’ll assume you want the poop fed to you in manageable bits, and serve you up your first spoonful.

From there it’s just like watching TV.  Your show streams in quite nicely, you can expand it to fullscreen, and every now and then there’s a commercial break.  It’s at the end of the show that Hulu really pisses me off.

The show’s over, the credits and catchy/emotional music is rolling, and you’re getting ready to do some dishes, and on comes another ad.

HOW FUCKING STUPID DO YOU THINK I AM?  DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I’M GOING TO SIT THERE LIKE A NEWBORN CHILD AND WATCH ANOTHER FUCKING COMMERCIAL AS IF THERE MIGHT BE SOMETHING GOOD ON THE OTHER SIDE?

I’m no rocket scientist, but I know when my show’s good and done and I don’t need another commercial crammed down my throat right now.  But there’s no pause, stop, or mute.  The only way out is to close down your browser window, which they know is entirely possible but they’re betting that the average American is so fucking stupid and lazy that they’ll sit there and watch one last, final commercial because it just feels so damn natural.

Well fuck you Hulu, I will “x” out your window with no reservations, and I will never, ever, let you know if an ad is relevant to me or not.  But please continue to air The Bachelor because it’s coming up again in June and I can’t wait to see how 25 single guys respond to Ashley H’s weird hand gestures.

Don't Be Stupid

It seems corporations aren’t sugar-coating it anymore.  They’ve decided they’ve spent enough time beating around the bush, dropping subtle hints and trying to mold consumer behaviour through evocative imagery and carefully crafted marketing campaigns.  It’s time to just come right out and say it.  “Ask and you shall receive” is the new motto maybe.  My dear readers, allow me to present the latest ad campaign from Diesel:

           

It’s simple really.  Stupid people will buy more clothes, and stupid people will pay $260 for a pair of jeans.  If everybody were stupid, business would be booming.  But how to make people want to be stupid?  Diesel can’t honestly expect people to just follow directions without some motivation - they need a reason to be stupid.

Brilliant!  Simply associate stupid with a more appealing adjective, like “fearless”.  Everybody wants to be fearless, daring, and brave - especially when their lives consist of monotonous, safe, routine activities - they’d like nothing more than the opportunity to prove how fearless they are, to distinguish themselves from all the other drones.  Diesel makes it as easy as a new pair of jeans!

But simply promoting stupid would only be going half-way.  To make people truly embrace stupidity, smart must be taken down a notch or two.

Yeah! Screw the Lion!  Take a picture of your vagina! Jeans!

So Diesel has created a smear campaign against smart.  There are some strong emotions surrounding smartness - jealousy, insecurity, fear, resentment.  The “Be Stupid” campaign riles up everybody who’s never liked the smart kids in class.  By showing how lame it is to be smart, Diesel can make stupid people feel better about being stupid.  Let's laugh at those silly smart people with all their brains and ideas, and let's be proud of being stupid!  So proud that we'll show the whole world by buying a $260 pair of jeans.

To me, stupid is buying a $40 t-shirt, or a $60 knit ski mask.

Stupid is wanting to be stupid.

The Gabriel Effect of Correspondence

Isn’t it nice to receive an email from a friend?  Especially somebody you haven’t seen in awhile, or who’s living in another part of the world?  Yes, well, perhaps at first, but next thing you know you may find yourself resenting the note and even its sender, all thanks to a strange psychological phenomenon that today I’m defining and coining as my own - the Gabriel effect of correspondence.

Anecdotal Example

While living in Barcelona, I taught English classes to a lovely family, who we’ll call the Orozcos.  They had two fantastic children who I very much looked forward to seeing each week, and when summer came and we had our last class, I was very sad to say goodbye.  Our farewell was made easier by the shared conviction that we would stay in touch (an innocent idea, and one worthy of its own study).  We exchanged email addresses, and in the months following my departure, a small series of emails.

I really enjoyed receiving emails from the Orozco family - first from Sra. Orozco, and then from the children as well.  When one of these messages came rolling in, I would read it, smile to myself, maybe read it again, then, wishing to respond in kind - but not immediately disposed to such activity - move on with my day.  Planted in my mind, the requisite response began to stew.  At first, I’d simply imagine writing back soon, when I’d be more “in the mood”.  Inevitably, however, the day would end, the next one would come and go, and I would still be sans response.  Waiting as I was for the perfect opportunity to present itself, before I knew it, a week would have passed.

During this week, not a day would go by that I didn’t think about the email.  With each successive day of these thoughts, unaccompanied as they were by decisive action, the task at hand grew greater.  Each day that the Orozcos sat waiting for my response, I thought, must be compensated by an increasingly stellar email.  Whereas at first a simple reply would suffice, after two weeks my response had to be at least five paragraphs in length, funny, heartfelt, interesting, emotionally revealing, with individual shout-outs to each Orozco, plus attached photos of my new apartment, latest painting, and some traditional American cuisine.  As my expectations for the quality of my response grew, I saw the amount of effort required to respond increase as well.  A standard 10-minute time slot was no longer sufficient - responding to the Orozcos now required a full hour of prime creative time and space, an opportunity that did not present itself readily.  The wait went on.

Before long, I was trapped in a feedback loop that spiralled dangerously out of control.  Each day I would see the email in my account, cringe at the amount of time it had gone without response, and wish I’d replied immediately.  How easy it would have been to have written just what came to my mind in that moment of first impression!  How quickly I could have tapped out a sincere response!  How much better would my life now be!  Instead I began to resent the email, its constant presence in my life, and the Orozcos themselves.  The grand response plagued my every waking moment with its grandeur, its perfect mix of English, Spanish, and Catalan, its sultry blend of poetry and prose; oh how Sra. Orozco would call the children and her husband to her side, “un email del Gabriel!”, she would say, how they would come running, eyes lit up with excitement, how they would laugh heartily and smile at each other through the comedy, and tear up during the emotional revelations, nodding slowly as my words touched their very souls.  I feared that I was not man enough to create such a response - it had taken on a life of its own, transcended my own capability, and doomed me to continued guilt and paralysis of inaction.  This is the Gabriel effect of correspondence.

Technical Details

In a positive feedback loop, A produces more of B, which in turn produces more of A.

A. Time (Response delay)

B. Expectation

As time passes without a response, the expected quality of said response increases.  As expectation grows, the effort required to produce a response increases, producing a longer delay.  Examples of this effect can be found in emails, letters, voicemail, facebook messages, wall posts, and even text messages.  The only sure strategy for mitigating the effect is to respond immediately to all correspondence.

Summary

Correspondence carries the expectation of a response.  This is an unwritten rule of society, and one that can cause great consternation. By clarifying this phenomenon, my goal is to increase awareness of the powerful effect even the simplest note can have on a fragile psyche, and help others like myself safely navigate social contracts and long-distance friendships.

In defense of noses

Ever seen somebody scratch their nose?  Was it calm, casual, or mild?  Or was it vigorous, aggressive, and perhaps even violent?  I’ve seen many of the latter, particularly when the scratcher doesn’t know he or she is being watched.  Perhaps the nose’s soft, pliable character lends itself to more manhandling, and perhaps the itch that afflicts one’s nose is more potent than others, but I’ve seen some scratching that makes me cringe.

First off, at least two fingers are used in conjunction, sometimes even the entire palm.  Secondly, instead of a particular point being targeted and scratched, the entire nose is mashed and moved, often in a circular motion, in a desperate attempt to alleviate the itch.  The word frantic comes to mind - as if the itch were a life-threatening condition that must be emphatically eradicated.  Vigorous rotations of the snout are accompanied by sharp inhales and exhales.  The entire upper body tenses, eyes close, and the pace of the attack picks up to a frightening crescendo.  Finally, presumably as the itch subsides, the rotations slow, the shoulders relax, the eyes open, and the scratcher exhales gratefully.

I feel poorly for little noses around the world that fall victim to these attacks - and I can’t say I’m innocent - but maybe we can all go a little easier on our noses.  Just use one finger, get to the source of the itch, and scratch with precision.  Your nose will no doubt be happier.

Naked Time

There’s a special moment in every morning, somewhere after the shower has been shut off and before the snap of elastic signals the secure arrival of underwear around your waist, when we are naked and alone.  Largely overlooked as insignificant, and almost always hurried, this is a moment that deserves reflection.

I'm a curtains-open kind of a guy - not one to close my blinds unless absolutely necessary.  I'm trusting, too.  What are the chances that there's some creeper out there stalking me with binoculars through my exposed windows?  But just in case there is, when it comes time to drop towel and put on clothes after a shower, certain precautions must be taken.

There’s usually some corner of the bedroom that’s up to the task - somehow positioned so as to prevent prying eyes from spotting your private parts.  I can picture this place in most all of my homes, and the surrounding morning routine in that particular slice of my life.

My childhood bedroom was a converted garage, and the windows were high enough to preclude any breach of privacy.  These were free times - I could drop my towel casually, take my time selecting underwear, and get dressed slowly.

My dorm room at UC Davis always had the specter of a returning roommate, so I would change in the shower stall.

My first apartment in West Davis had a large window onto the walkway, but my room extended deeply to either side, so I changed in the corner just in front of the dresser, where the angle was acute enough to block any wandering eyes.  

My room in Barcelona had a window looking only onto the elevator shaft - again, a non-issue.  

Senior year I lived in a townhouse-style apartment.  My room had a very large sliding glass door onto a tiny little balcony, and there was no position that could be completely secure.  Home alone, I would use the large hallway above my stairs; not alone, the time of day would determine my routine.  With no immediate neighbors, daytime views into the depths of my room could only be achieved, in theory, by a most dedicated viewer in an apartment 200 yards away.  Or from a church, which I disregarded.  At night, however, my window a showcase for the goings-on of a lighted interior, I sometimes closed the blinds.  But sometimes I did not.  Sometimes I merely recognized the heightened danger, and made a cautious and rapid change: un-tucking my folded towel, leaving it draped skirt-like from my waist, bent half-way, I could safely release the towel, step carefully into my boxer briefs, and in one quick motion, pull the underwear vigorously upwards, dropping the towel as I straightened, and offering, if at all, a most fleeting glimpse of my behind.  

My first San Francisco bedroom faced an adjacent apartment building a mere stone’s throw away, and opened to a large window filling the entire Western exposure.  Across the yard was a young Chinese family, with a little girl who would often sit and watch us from her window.  This caused me to be more sensitive than ever to my changing habits.  Fortunately, I was blessed with a large closet perpendicular to the window, with a pair of hinged sliding doors that protruded a foot and a half when open.  Generally regarded as a pain in the ass, in the early morning light, as I prepared for work, these doors afforded welcome protection for the eyes of an innocent little girl.  I merely had to snuggle in against my hanging shirts to execute the towel drop and boxer application in complete privacy.

My current bedroom has perhaps the greatest window space to floor space ratio of all, and to execute a private change I’ve been forced into the very front corner of my room just behind the closed door, a narrow haven where  I must remain mostly erect and flattened against the closed door, else my behind protrude into the line of sight from across the street.

Motivated by the winter cold more than my modesty, I’ve begun to change in the bathroom before even exiting the bath.  Not only do I avoid the issue of privacy, I take advantage of the steamy warmth of the bathroom.  The only issue here is the difficulty in achieving complete dryness - with so much steam in the air, extra care must be taken with the towel before undergarments can be safely applied. Like it's predecessors, my current routine is dictated by necessity, and, until now, established and practiced in mindless fashion.

It occurs to me that, since I learned to dress myself, this is the one moment in life when I am naked with myself.  What a shame it seems to hurry through this moment or pass it cramped in a small bathroom.  This space between wet naked person and fully clothed member of society is charged with vulnerability, vanity, and freedom.  I wonder if there is not some greater human value in this small moment - a slender thread connecting us to a primal past free from garments that so effectively define us, tenuously clinging to our modern, accelerated selves.

One day, an in-suite bath, ample acreage, and radiant floor heating will combine to provide me with a most agreeable post-shower experience, and cultivate a stronger connection with my natural naked self.  In the meantime, perhaps another rug for my bedroom floor, a set of heavy curtains, and the occasional nighttime use of my electric heater will suffice.

The Point of No Return

There comes a point in every burrito eating experience where one’s immediate gastronomical future hangs in the balance - the Point of No Return.

To understand this phenomenon, you must be a lover of Mexican food, and intimately familiar with at least a few “bomb-ass burrito spots”.  Or just Chipotle.  You must also be something less than a complete monster or yoked bro that easily consumes an entire super burrito without a moment’s notice.  You should also be something more than a teeny-tiny little person who would never consider eating an entire Chipotle burrito at once.

The burrito experience is, to me, delightful.  I love feeling the warm weight of a good burrito in my hands.  I enjoy peeling back the foil and taking that first bite.  I especially like quality cheese in my burrito - coupled with the right amount of salsa, beans, rice, and grilled chicken breast, there’s nothing like it.  I rarely start a burrito without a good appetite, and the hand-held, compact nature of a burrito lends itself to rapid consumption.  “Inhaling” is often an apt descriptor for me eating a burrito.  I’m chugging along, really enjoying myself, taking careful bites, rotating the burrito as I peel back the foil, when all of a sudden I reach the point of no return.

The point of no return is located approximately 75% of the way through the burrito, and I almost inevitably stop here, however briefly, to reflect.  The remaining burrito is incredibly appealing - the tortilla is soft and still warm, the bits of chicken, surrounded by delicious layers of cheese and rice are offering themselves to me freely.  But I know that, deep down, I’m full.  I don’t need to eat the rest to feel satisfied.  I could just put it down, walk away, and avoid the food coma caused by eating an entire burrito in one sitting.  I deliberate.

As is, the remaining burrito could be conceivably re-wrapped in its foil and stowed in the refrigerator; later that night, I could open the burrito and have a delicious and rewarding little snack.  On the other hand, why not just eat the damn thing right now?  It’ll taste good, it’ll be over in a few bites, and I’ll be done with it.  But have just one more bite I cannot, for the remaining burrito, minus one good-sized bite, would be a paltry and disappointing snack to unwrap later tonight.  It would merely tease my taste buds with memories of the glorious full-bodied burrito, and leave me lusting for more.  And so I waver on the precipice, two choices very clear in my mind.




If I do manage to wrap up the burrito and walk away, I feel an incredible sense of self-satisfaction.  I feel that I’ve proved myself as a powerful and balanced individual - one who can look temptation in the eye and walk onwards.  If I do not, and decide to devour the final bites, I delight in my rebellion; I revel in my gluttony, and I eat with the strength of an ape - thoroughly enjoying the short-term gratification of indulgence.  Today, I wrapped it up.

The Female Sports Fan

Female sports fans.  We all love ‘em, right?  Girls think they’re super cool because they’re smart and know about sports, and guys find them more attractive and appealing to hang out with because they can take them to bars to watch the game.  Right?  Wrong.

Call me old fashioned, but I like a girl who finds baseball incredibly boring and stupid, because that’s what women really think and anyone that tells you otherwise is probably lying.  Watching sports is a man’s game.  We drink beer and shout at the TV and high-five eachother after a great play.  We endure the suffering of close losses and feel the incredible elation of come-from-behind wins.  We are life-long, die-hard, born-and-raised fans.  We know when the next game is on, time our lunch break so we can catch the second half, and talk shit to our friends who have opposing allegiances.

Recently I’ve become more aware of the female sports fan, and I don’t like what I see.  The San Francisco Giants just completed an incredible run to be crowned World Champions for the first time since moving West from New York in 1954.  I’ve jumped on the bandwagon, with no existing baseball team to drop or overlook; I picked up the Giants and found myself legitimately enjoying baseball games for the first time in my life.  I’m a Giants fan, but I’m just getting started.  At Civic Center, as Brian Wilson closed out game 5, I watched my friend Matt, a lifelong Giants fan, gnaw the brim of his ballcap and rock back and forth on his feet, suffering through the final moments and finally erupting into utter euphoria, passionately kissing his girlfriend, and screaming and yelling like a crazy person in celebration.  I was acutely aware of how far apart the two of us, as Giants fans, were.  Without having experienced the ups and downs of the past 20 years of Giants baseball, or even the disappointment of last season’s near miss at making the playoffs, I smiled, cheered, feeling good, but rather reserved.  My strongest emotions were brought on by seeing all the deserving Giants fans finally taste the sweetness of a championship.

Back to the women.  Leading up to the World Series, I found Giants fans coming out of the woodwork, and alot more girls than I would've imagined.  They suddenly owned Giants caps and Posey jerseys, and expressed their undying love for Brian Wilson.  When the series was over and the parade had rolled through, I saw status updates like “We did it!!”. Please.  

If you were a real Giants fan, your status would probably be blank, as you’re too overwhelmed to even put into words how great you feel, or read something like this:

"To every media person and semi-fan in the bay area who said defense and pitching couldn’t win a championship, go jump off a bridge.  But not the Golden Gate Bridge.  We’ve got a parade to plan.

P.S. - Thank you Giants, for the single greatest moment of my life.  Edgar Renteria for Governor."

Just because you can name the two most important players on the team, or understand the difference between a save and a win, does not make you a Giants fan.  And attempts to prove yourself a sportsfan smell like efforts to get some extra attention.

No offense to my friends in San Francisco or the lovely ladies in this photo. I've enjoyed seeing the excitement this Giants team has ignited, and all the folks showing their support. But girls, it's ok not to like sports. Trust me: you won't lose any fans.

Update: I offended some friends with these words, and I'm sorry. There are certainly plenty of die-hard lady sports fans; likewise, girls and guys alike have jumped on this Giants bandwagon. And there's nothing wrong with it! It's not my job to police the dedication of fans. I briefly removed the post, but decided to leave it here because I wrote it and for some reason I enjoyed writing it. Please express yourself in the comments below.

Ordering Chinese Food - an adventure in conversation

Ordering Chinese food today was an absolute trip.  I called the House of Nan King, spoke with a lovely young woman who took my order very diligently, repeated it back to me, and said she’d enter it into the computer and call me back with the total.  I received a call back shortly thereafter, but there was a different house of Nan King employee on the phone - an older woman whose English was a few grades below that of my first caller.  

“Yeah hi Scott?” (I’d given Scott’s name, as he was headed to pick up the chinese food)
“Well, sure.. go ahead”
She started with a disclaimer -
“Yeah girl you just spoke with new, she doesn’t really know how to do it”
“Oh that’s ok”
“So what you want, how many people eating?” (I realized I’d be building my entire order from scratch again)
“There are 7 of us”
“Ok and what you want, beef? chicken? poark?”
“Well I thought we’d get a little bit of everything”
“Ok yeah so you want potsticker appetizer?”
“Yes, two orders please”
“Ok and you like sesame chicken?” (I had ordered sesame chicken - obviously she had my previous order right in front of her) 
"Yes Please"
“There seven of you?  I do two big orders - enough for seven”
One of us is allergic to sesame, so I really only wanted the one -
“You know I think just the one order of sesame chicken is enough”
“Ok and you want one more chicken?”
“Yes the chicken with chinese greens, please”
“Yeah ok chicken mixed veggie” ( a different menu item)
“You know I like the look of those chinese greens”
“Ok yeah baby boc choi greens, I can do that, you want *something unintelligable*”
“That’s fine”
“Ok what else?”
“An order of the sizzling scallops please"
“OK you want *some uninteligible scallop dish*”
“Well I see here ‘sizzling scallops’ - can we have that?”
“Yeah that only come with three pieces of scallop whole dish”
“Well what’s your most popular scallop dish?”
“Most popular? Well that probably be *some unintelligible scallop dish*”
“Ok well I’m just concerned about sesame - I see here one scallop dish has sesame” (menu item: ‘Crispy scallops w/sesame vege’)
“OK you want sesame? yeah I can do that for you”
“No! No, no sesame”

From the other end of the room, somebody laughs and chimes in with “No and den!”

“Oh no sesame.  Ok no problem.  What else, you want a brocoli beef?”

I just started laughing.  Really hard but silently and looking up to the ceiling as she repeated “You wanna brocoli beef?”
“Yes please,” I tried to compose myself “Yes please that sounds great”
She sort of chuckled on the other end, recounted my order, I asked for rice:
“Ok rice for seven people”
Knowing there’s almost always extra rice, I said “You know we don’t actually eat alot of rice, so probably rice for 5 people would be enough”
“Oh ok, rice for five”
“And an order of chicken chow mein”
“Ok chicken chow mein.  Ok thank you!”
“And can I pay by credit card over the phone?”
She had already hung up.

I sort of came down from the call, got up to share some details and have a laugh with the rest of the team, sat down at my desk again and my phone rang.

“Hello?”
*Noise of a restaurant*
“Hello?”
*More restaurant noise*
“Hello preez?”
I hung up.

“Unbelievable.  Now they’re calling me from their pants”  A minute later, the phone rang again.

“Hello?”
“Hi this is house of Nan King”
“Hi there”
“Yeah what time you want to pick up?”
“Well we’re eating at 12:30, so we’d like to pick it up at 12:15”
“OK 12:15 very good”
“And can I pay over the phone with a credit card?”
“Noooooo, no not over the phone”
“Ok, no problem”

I got up and walked over to Scott, gave him the credit card and said they’d be expecting him at 12:15.  Scott put the card in his wallet and I sat back down at my desk.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my phone getting another call.

“Hello”
“Hi this is house of Nan King” (It was the new girl)
“Oh hello”
“I’m calling so you can pay with credit card for your order”
“Oh.  Ummm ok just a moment please”
I walked over to Scott, tapped him on the shoulder because he was on the phone, whispered that now we can pay over the phone, and he handed over the card.

I gave her the info, the order was processed, and Scott left a half hour later to pick up our $93.46 order of chinese food.

It turned out to be delicious, especially the potstickers, and we enjoyed our first eat-in lunch at the new office.  We had about 2 full boxes of rice leftover.

Now Offering: The Certification of Grammatical Integrity

Walking through the financial district the other day, I see this great two-part poster bracketing a light post. It advertises San Francisco State University, and "The SF State of Mind". I'm so delighted by the way it utilizes the diptych format with a clever word play. Sustain ability. Yes! I want to sustain ability! That's what good education is all about. Sustain the abilities of America! Grow the next crop of young people, maximize their talents, let them explore themselves and refine their special gifts! Sustain the ability of our great nation. God what a poster. I take a few more steps, and I see the next one.

Creat. Ivity. And I'm crushed. Out the window go the mad props I'd just thrown to SF State, gone is the little head-shaking smile of approval, the feeling of a deep intellectual connection with the creators of this poster, borne on the wings of a mutual respect and love of the English language and it's strange little words. I'm left shaking my head in frustration, grasping at rapidly evaporating feelings of respect and admiration. The first poster pair is now worthless. The clever play on words may have been nothing more than a fortunate accident.

There should be rules against this sort of thing. It's akin to crediting slop in pool, or numbers you're not shooting at in darts. If poster number one makes a play on words, the next pair in the series must make the same play on words. Conversely, if poster two doesn't make a play on words (creat.ivity), poster one doesn't get to.

I hereby volunteer myself to the task of reviewing public signage. If any organization so wishes to receive the Gabriel Roberts stamp of approval, thereby certifying the grammatical integrity of their latest campaign, all they have to do is ask.

Do you Believe in Magic?

Magic isn't just something for fools, mystics, or toddlers. Magic is real to the most conservative, closed-minded individuals. They believe whole-heartedly in the magic of waste management.

In today's society, privileged folks like myself don't have to deal with unwanted matter - there are always three colored bins within a few paces waiting to accept food scraps, dead pens, and empty coffee cups. It's quite easy to stay neat and tidy, to re-organize, and to clean up after a team lunch. Now the powers that be have graciously provided us with three clearly defined categories for our refuse: garbage, recycling, and if you live in San Franciscso, compost. But people don't need to be told what is recyclable, or "compostable".

They already know what compost is! It's amazing! It's the answer to our feelings of guilt and regret tied to all the waste we produce. We're helping the environment by throwing things in the green bin! Frisco really opened a can of worms with this image:

I'd like to point out the milk carton, the paper plate, and the coffee cup. Now, certainly, these items are all compostable - most paper products are - but these images are far too indicative of lunch, and what's left over after lunch. It's just too good to be true, this compost idea, and people have really run with it. Clear-plastic lunch boxes, plastic bags, forks, knives, and more. I want to scream the following:

"Just because there's a guacamole smear on the plastic container that held your baja fresh burrito, does not mean it's compostable!"

Of course, we all should have seen this sort of thing coming. What will take this molded plastic form smudged with guac and turn it into soil? Magic, of course. Magical custodians, magical garbage trucks, magical trash-sorting robots, and magical plastic-eating worms.

And we've all witnessed the power of these magical custodians, or at least the homage payed to their power:

And if isn't a paid serviceman or woman, it's your roommate or your mom - whoever makes your heaping, overflowing pile of garbage in the kitchen and transforms it into a clean, plastic bag-lined receptacle.... as if by magic.