The Joy Of Recycling - Plastics Here, Waste There, A Woman's Delight Until Obsession Addled Her

'I can't wait for Thursdays', Amy Parsons said to her neighbor. 'It's so satisfying'. 

There is a bell curve for everything - intelligence, abstemiousness, prurience, lawn cutting, and social graces; and so it is with recycling.  At one end of the curve, at one asymptote are those who could care less, who toss whatever trash they have in hands into the nearest bin.  

At the other end are women like Amy who parse carefully before allocating, for whom proper recycling is a Holy Grail, something that not only must be done right but feels good. 

There was something pleasurable about sizing up what she was about to throw away, sussing out the possibilities - airports now have separate recycle bins for plastic, glass, and paper next to ones for trash and food waste - and making the proper choice.  

Psychologists would put her in a mildly obsessive category, for recycling robots do the job of weeding wheat from chaff, the odd hot dog bun from the water bottle.  It's OK to make a mistake now and again, even to be cavalier once in a while, to give a 'Fuck it!' and toss whatever into whichever, but not for Amy. Punctiliousness was not an occasional matter. 

And so it was that she was often found rooting through the garbage bags in her kitchen.  Her husband did not take recycling, the environment, global warming, or climate change seriously, never paid attention to her instructions as to what went where, and tossed chicken bones, tin cans, paper napkins, and cat hair in the trash willy-nilly.  

'How many times have I told you?', Amy said to her husband who nodded, mumbled sorry, and retained nothing.  He didn't give a flying you know what about recycling. 

So on Thursdays, her trash bins in the alley were shipshape, not one item out of place, all in apple pie order.  She had sorted and sifted every kitchen garbage bag, gone through every wastepaper basket, and even rummaged through the bathroom trash to make sure there was nothing errant there. 

The sound of the recycle truck perked her ears up, and she rushed into the back yard to wait for it to come.  She watched as the garbagemen loaded the blue bin onto the hoist, listened to the familiar whine of the pulleys, winches, and gears, and waited for the thump of the trash dumped into the vault, and watched as it was compacted into a solid mass. 

 

She always breathed deeply after the truck left.  The air was cleaner thanks to her abstemiousness and environmental conscience.  Old-fashioned garbage heaps were things of the past, and the city was now both more livable and healthy. 

All well and good except that Amy didn't limit her fastidiousness to recycling.  Over the years she had become more and more meticulous - no specks in the sink, no wrinkles in the bedspread, no papers out of order on her desk, doormat aligned perfectly, bathmats changed at the first sign of use, dishtowels always ironed and neatly arranged, the utensil drawer perfectly ordered. 

The forks were all aligned, tines up, cuddling each other, ready for use.  Serving spoons were kept in cubicles separate from serving forks.  Potholders were tossed once they had a stove burn...The list was endless.

She had a maid come in once a week, but Mrs. Lopez complained that there was nothing for her to do and that she hated to take Amy's money for make-work mopping and dusting. 

When her husband caught her at her desk, moving pens, paper clips, coasters, and the computer mouse back and forth looking for just the right place for them, he knew that she had gone around the bend.  What had been a carefree, devil-may-care girl up for anything, was now unable to decide how to adjust the binder clips.  'Amy, don't you think you should lighten up a little?'. 

Of course, like most women, she objected to criticism and quickly came up with a retort, and again, like most women sought to turn the criticism on the one making it.  'You're a fine one to talk', she said, 'cavalier about the recycling, tossing forks and knives in drawers wherever, leaving hair in the sink...!'

And so it was that poor Amy went further and further around the bend until she was paralyzed with indecision, maniacally obsessive about the trash, apocalyptic on Thursday trash day, and definitely impossible to live with. 

This all started with COVID, her husband thought.  She had been a fiend about six-foot distancing, masks, disinfecting, quarantine, and calling out others for their disregard for received health wisdom.  She in fact had become a vigilante who prowled the streets of University Park, shouted a j'accuse finger at miscreants, enlisted children to act as first line overseers, broke up groups of three, kept mail isolated for three days, and had all groceries delivered. 

She wasn't the only one, of course, and there was something to be said for a negative zeitgeist.  The government was scaring the bejeezus out of ordinary citizens warning that COVID was The Big One and in so doing turned normally easy-going neighbors into Stasi informants, rats, and Ton Ton Macoute thugs. Those like his wife who already had an obsessive disability, were especially prone to government fear tactics. 

She panicked when the vaccination hotlines were always busy, and at 8:59:59 held her finger over the last digital button, pressed at 9:00 only to get a busy signal and fretting and disconsolate got out the Lysol and scrub brush and had another go at the countertops. 

The first iterations of COVID faded but new viral variants popped up, and the panic started all over again.  This variant is far worse than the previous one, the Biden Administration claimed as Doctor Fauci became the most powerful man in Washington - an Idi Amin, Pol Pot, and Josef Stalin who brooked no opposition as he closed everything down, sowing panic and disarray. 

For a woman like Amy, already addled and confused, this was like being shut up in Bedlam, bound and tethered, straitjacketed and harnessed, surrounded by screaming madwomen. 

This period too faded and ended, but the damage had been done.  Yet the progressive warnings about racism, misogyny, climate disaster, civil unrest, war, and nuclear destruction kept her mania alive.  It was a permanent corrosive, an unsettling promise of doom that made Amy even more unhinged. 

'It's Thursday', she said to her husband, now used to her St. Vitus' dance but none the less concerned about it.  He was worried about her and certain he couldn't put up with another week of her nonsense. Crazy or not, he wanted out. 

'You need to get out more', he said to her, needing a moment's peace; and surprisingly she heeded his advice.  The No Kings rallies were just what the doctor ordered - a mass, universal, solidarity of obsessive women.  There was no point to the protests, nothing like those of the Sixties where ending the war in Vietnam or the passage of a civil rights bill were in the sights of those on the National Mall.  These were simply jamborees of Trump-haters who could find no other outlet for their febrile, mad, hysteria. 

Amy was once again a happy woman, and so was her husband who, released from the penitentiary of her making, took a young lover.  Lisa from Accounting was exactly what the doctor ordered.

The only thing good and positive about the No Kings rallies was that it took Amy's mind off narrower obsessions.  Trump hating, conflating all the problems of the world in one place and giving voice to thousands of frustrated, hysterical women was just the thing.  Amy was happy and so was her husband.  Fuck the trash was the meme of the household, replaced by 'I hate him', but that at least was progress.

The Gullible, The Credulous, And The Naive - The Happy Jamboree Of Protest

Images of the No Kings protests have been better than cartoons.  No Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Or The Big Bad Wolf could possibly match the hilarious show of balloons, placards, and festoons.

There is no point to the protests.  They aren’t anything like the anti-war protests or demands for civil rights legislation of the Sixties.  They are not suffragettes marching for the vote or for repeal of Prohibition.  They are not out to challenge redistricting, government waste and fraud, the building of data centers, AI invasion, or job-ending robotics. 

They are happy jamborees.  As Thomas Sowell put it:

Activism is a way for useless people to feel important, even if the consequences of their activism are counterproductive for those they claim to be helping and damaging to the society as a whole

 

Brenda Potter had a sinecure at a small Southern college - a white woman committed to the black cause, tireless promoter of feminism and the rights of the underserved, more hesitant but still supportive of gay rights, and a campus icon. She was on the good side of every issue - the environment, civil rights, immigration, wealth distribution, and peace.  

Donald Trump stuck in her craw, and she was never reluctant to speak her mind about his devilish influence.  'There's Dr. Potter', young coeds would say to each other as they saw her walking across campus. 

Every Friday she arranged protests on Jefferson Street - or rather a white Southern version of sit-ins, old people sitting on folding chairs holding hand-written signs and waving to passersby.  Brenda arranged sweet tea and and cucumber sandwiches for them, and on hot days pitchers of lemonade. 

The attendance was sparse, far from what it had been at the first No Kings rally that Brenda had arranged.  That was quite an affair, and she and her associates thought it was the start of something really big, a nationwide groundswell of protest that would end with the resignation of the President.  It was a marvelous event - balloons, festoons, and hundreds of ordinary citizens of the town locked arm in arm in protest. 

Sadly there were no black people in attendance.  They had other fish to fry, scullery jobs, hunting down absent husbands, visits to Ardmore, the state penitentiary where their men were incarcerated, grandchildren to watch.

Brenda understood but was still disappointed.  Solidarity in this small Mississippi town meant black and white.  The chances of regime change would be far better with a few black faces in the crowd. 

Nevertheless the rally was a great success.  People came away flushed with pride, well-being, and enthusiasm.  They had done something!

'Let's do this again!' said Harriet Mills who owned the flower shop on Main and who placed a big NO TRUMP sign in her store window on protest days, left her granddaughter in charge of the flowers while she was protesting, and business was good on those activist days. 

Brenda was not the only No Kings protest enthusiast.  Thousands of older Americans took to the streets from Poughkeepsie to Santa Barbara, feeling the old Freedom Ride juices flowing and the sense of Sixties destiny. There was jubilation in the air. 

When a reporter from the Biloxi Dispatch asked Brenda what the purpose of the No Kings rally was, she was for a moment flustered.  No one had ever asked her that question because it did not need to be asked.  'We are united in protest against Donald Trump', she said assuming that was enough; but the young reporter wasn't satisfied and asked for more details.  What, exactly, did Brenda hope to accomplish?

Again, she hesitated, composing her thoughts and tamping down her frustration.  What a vaporous question she thought, but managed the usual litany - black people, ICE, asylees, Wall Street, cronyism, women, saying it all in a cadence she had picked up from Pastor Henry of her church, The Seventh Baptist Church of Aberdeen, a true orator, and master of rhythm, beat, and tempo. 

The reporter took a few notes, thanked Brenda for her time, and went over to an old woman knitting next to a 'Democracy Matters' sign propped up by her privet hedge.  The woman had nothing to say except that she had been wheeled there by her granddaughter and told to cheer when the balloons were let off into the sky. 

The protest rallies on the National Mall in Washington were no different, only bigger.  They were happy jamborees, thousands of likeminded people all gathered together for camaraderie and mutual support.  

There was nothing like an abortion rally to quell any doubts about conception, fetus viability, or morality.  Women were as happy as can be chanting for Abortion Now, Abortion Forever - ironically reminiscent of segregationist George Wallace who stood on the steps of the University of Alabama in the Sixties and shouted to a crowd, 'Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever!'

The same was true for climate change, peace, or capitalism.  'Occupy Wall Street' was a popular movement a few years back and like No Kings had rallies and protests from coast to coast; and like No Kings had no particular agenda except that the concentration of wealth in the hands of a few New York bankers was tantamount to treason and that the whole shebang should come tumbling down. 

Brenda had kept her Occupy Wall Street placards and the friendship bracelet a young woman had given her at the Washington abortion rally - these issues were not dead, just dormant, and would soon emerge once again in a halcyon year of liberation. 

Marfa Phillips put a big red cross on every Friday of the month on her kitchen calendar so that she wouldn't forget to protest.  She was getting forgetful these days - yesterday she almost burned the pot roast and the day before kept her granddaughter waiting at her pre-school until the principal called her. 

It wasn't long before she forgot exactly what she was headed out to Jefferson Street for, but looked forward to seeing Millie Higgins and Blanche Overton and nibbling Brenda's lovely cucumber sandwiches (she trimmed the crusts so perfectly and didn't overdo it on the chutney.)

So the trio - Marfa, Millie, and Blanche - were a metaphor for the protests.  They had no clue what they were for or about, but were just happy to have something different to do on Friday afternoons. 

A small piece on the protests appeared in the Style section of the Biloxi Dispatch 

Friday was Lake Forest's big day.  Washington DC-style No Kings protests came to this small Mississippi town, and the atmosphere was jubilant.  'We are proud of our heritage', said organizer and prime mover of the event, Brenda Potter who went on to list her grievances. 'We are here to show Donald Trump that 'the people care'.  The cucumber-and-chutney sandwiches were apparently a big hit. 

Brenda cut it out, reprinted it and distributed it to all those who protested.  'See', she said. 'We did make a difference.' 

Water Sports - San Francisco Gay Men Try To Teach Safe Sex To Africans, The Straightest Men On The Planet

Louis Bennett of Noe Valley, San Francisco had been devastated by the deaths of so many of his friends from AIDS.  'Our comeuppance', he said.  'Too many holes in bathhouse walls, too many street corner to-dos, too many...' Enough, already! The damage had been done, remedial action taken, and it was time to give back to the community. 

Bennett had become known as Mr. Clean, advocate that he was for safe sex - things like fisting, water sports, and his favorite, 'planing' an acrobatic, muscular exercise which involved trussing, hooping, and greasing. The walls of his small office in the Mission were covered with Venice Beach men, all glistening muscles and skimpy Speedos.  He and his friends cruised the streets of the Castro not for pickups but for evangelism.  

'Save Your Life' was the headline, and Bennett worked the back corners of the neighborhood at all hours, breaking up grossly inappropriate, dangerous sex, risking his life especially on Castro Street in the dead of night when the Tough Boys roamed the streets. 

He rounded up volunteers to keep Bay-to-Breakers and the Folsom Street Fair clean, but had little success.  Both, especially the parade from bay to ocean, 100 percent flouncy gay, more colorful and  exuberant than Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but also the S&M extravaganza below Van Ness, were such fun romps that no one was listening to some gay boy preachers.

 

In any case, when the US State Department and its international development agency began to invest millions in AIDS prevention in Africa, its major contractor, the Academy for Social Education, contacted Bennett and asked if he and his group of activists might be interested in working in Africa, teaching black men the ins and outs of safe sex.  The San Francisco crew were pioneers in the field and their efforts would be welcomed in Africa. 

The Academy bid and won a major contract to work in West Africa, a hotbed for HIV infection, and Vice President William Shaver, a formerly closeted gay man who once out felt it only right and proper that he should do something for his community.  

Shaver had known Bennett in the good old days before the specter of viral infection, and in fact was a frequent visitor to Bennett's cat house on Valencia.  They would take in a Giants game, eat sushi, then head out for the clubs.  It was a wild, ecstatic time.  Bill's double life ended when he got careless and his wife found him in the attic - she thought it was raccoons - with his lover, and his new life as activist began. 

Now Africa is not only one of the straightest places on earth but one where serial, multiple, frequent sexual encounters are not only common but part of every man's day.  It takes two to tango, of course, and African women are as eager for a frequent roll in the hay as men.  Sex is going on in bedrooms, in the fields, on riverbanks, in brothels, in train compartments, in bus station restrooms, everywhere.  The idea of protection is anathema, condoms rejected out of hand, and abstinence is only for nuns. 

So, when the first group of gay men from San Francisco, ready to teach their African brothers the techniques of safe sex, made their way to the Hotel Independence and prepared for the first night out on the town, they had no way of knowing what to expect.  It was a little intimidating to be around all these big, black African men and to be honest, rather exciting; but as far as broaching the subject, they could only rely on their home experience.  

The USAID office's Health Division was responsible for the visit, and pulled out all the stops to arrange for a town meeting to be held in a neighborhood community center where they had distributed food. It was a kind of soup kitchen affair - to get fed you had to hear about Jesus - and in this case a buffet and beer was offered after Bennett and his associates finished their exposition.  

From the moment these gay boys sashayed up on stage - as flamingly, outrageously flamboyant as anyone from the Castro could be - they were hooted, jeered, and laughed at.  The whole assembly got up and danced the Can-Can in the aisles, stripping off their shirts, wagging their booty, and whooping and hollering with delight.  

The USAID handlers had all they could do to quiet the assembly down, but by this time they all had crowded to the buffet table and were already chowing down. 

The next evening was out of the movie The Birdcage where the drag queen, who has promised his lover to tone things down a bit when the lover's son and fiancée come to Miami to visit.  The drag queen, Albert, carefully dressed in conservative business suit and tie, sits properly before Armand and the young man, his shocking pink socks daringly showing.  When Armand points them out, Albert looks down and say, 'One does want a bit of color'; and so it was with Bennett and his crew, all conservatively dressed, proper, and professional with only bits of the Castro showing. 

When the subdued crowd saw the first images on the flip chart - water sports, men pissing on each other and getting off on it all - the bellowing, howling, and jumping in the aisles began as before, this time even more animated and wild.  Even the whiff of boiled meat and greens did nothing to quell the enthusiasm. 

'Where are the gay men?' asked Bennett of his USAID handler. 'Perhaps if they were on stage with us'. 

'They're pretty hard to find', he was told, and in fact social scientists had done recent surveys in Lagos and Accra to investigate this surprising demographic anomaly.  It was a commonly held scientific opinion that all societies had a predictably constant three percent gay population

'We can't find any', said team leader Axel Fanning, 'and we really tried.' 

Axel had sent out a team of American, African-looking gay men to cruise the neighborhoods, but without luck.  In fact they were met with more homophobia, crass and crude remarks, and outright hostility than they had ever encountered at home. 'My homeboys weren't up for it', said one researcher.  Researchers at Harvard laughed at the methodology, and dismissed the null findings; but that's all the USAID manager had to offer. 

So the Castro gay boys had to go out there once more with their pamphlets, flip charts, and good will, but it seemed that any sex other than banging women from all angles was unheard of, laughable and ridiculous. 

Getting African men to stop their Lotharian behavior was like keeping fat women away from the cheesecake.  It was not possible. 

AIDS prevention in Africa never worked, and only the introduction of anti-retroviral drugs slowed the infection and reduced to acceptable levels. Curing it, or keeping the virus in abeyance was Africa's only hope. 

'Meet any cute guys over there?', Bill asked Bennett upon his return; but of course that little perk never happened.  The best they could do was enjoy each other's company, but that was so old hat, particularly since they were all looking for some foreign adventure. 

The project was cancelled, the money returned, and the gay boys went back to San Francisco.  It was USAID all over again, and another prime example why the shuttering of its doors was a good thing. The whole episode was in the news, and photos accompanying the story - water sport flip charts and Africans dancing in the aisles - made USAID even more ridiculous than ever.  

USAID planners and programmers never had much sense in the first place, but 'Water Sports Go African' was the jewel in the crown.