The average American scraps more than four pounds of refuse every day, until death, when even without the soul — which escapes wherever bound — there is another hundred-plus pounds left of carcass at the curb.
But one man’s waste is another man’s feast, and there’s gold in them thar Hefty bags, or at least a nickel.
Trash can feed. My two guinea pigs Mo and Jetes, named after Yankee stars, constantly receive my discarded salad trimmings, browned lettuce, shaved carrots and the last grapes in the bowl that no one else will eat. By the way, Mo and Jetes are for sale right now, for a nickel a piece.
Unfortunately, garbage is considered a dirty word, except in California, where according to Woody Allen, “They don’t throw their garbage away; they make it into TV shows.”
For many, the words “recycling,” “composting,” “leftovers,” “hand-me-downs,” “used” cars and the Salvation Army leave a bad taste in the mouth.
Though being an organ donor is a generous and worthwhile decision that can be a lifesaver, more than 100,000 people in the United States are waiting for a suitable vital organ and a continuance of existence amongst family and community. For some illogical reasons, laziness or ignorance, people refuse to treat their forsaken body as a collection of valuable recyclable parts.
I once took a picture of shaved carrot skins fluffed in the middle of kale and broccoli bottoms nesting the freshly cut stems of an asparagus bunch, framed by watermelon rinds. It was colorful, vibrant and spongy with afterlife. It could’ve been an ad the The Boneyard Café, an eatery I envision for the poverty stricken gourmand, the homeless chic and the earth embracing vegetarians.
My kids won’t drink soda a day after it’s been opened. The same with chips.
They don’t like leftover chicken or lasagna and they really don’t get the concept of antiques. It almost seems as if they get joy from feeding the landfills, the earth be damned. They don’t even collect nickels.