NOTE: I know many of you are eagerly awaiting my review of Sarah Palin's book, but, to be quite frank, it is taking forever. In the meanwhile, enjoy this little anecdotal eco-nugget...
Kermit the Frog really doesn't get enough credit for his genius. Put aside, for the moment, his lack of muscle tone or his weak will in allowing Ms. Piggy to romantically run rough-shod all over him. The man (er...frog) is an exceptional artiste, and he presciently hit on the zeitgeist of our generation:
It's not easy being green.
My recent experience at Rodman's provides a suitable object lesson for this problem. Rodman's is the aristocratic convenience/liquor store on Wisconsin, situated around the corner from my lavish sunlight-starved bungalow on Harrison. Consider it a rich man's Rite Aid. I regularly replenish their coffers with small purchases of various sundries: hummus, Grape-Nuts, Uniball pens, antacid, etc. Only a few things at a time. Poverty precludes large shopping sprees.
The all-East African staff are ordinarily very polite and charming, a breath of fresh air compared to the anti-joy bureaucrats at CVS. They actually smile at you, which is a bonus in D.C., where getting a service worker to acknowledge your existence is a victory itself. They ring you up, then wistfully bag your purchase and wish you a pleasant evening.
Or at least they used to.
"Would you like a bag, sir?" The female cashier tapped on the register, awaiting my response.
I glanced up from fiddling with my iPod Touch, puzzlement creeping across my face. I bought a few more items than usual, so the question sounded ill-placed and the answer obvious.
"Uh, of course, yeah, sure." I returned my attention to my New York Times app.
"It's five cents, sir."
My head snapped back up, mouth open in a gnat-swallowing position. The cashier pointed at a sticker on the countertop. Happy New Year. As of January 1, 2010, the District of Columbia now exacts a flat five-cent tax on all disposable bags at stores and restaurants. Of course, the sticker was written by Alexis de Tocqueville, and "asked" all D.C. residents to "help" the environment, echoing the spirit of enlightened self-interest. What an exciting opportunity in the spirit of civic volunteerism!
Eager to do my part, I enthusiastically grunted and shrugged. The cashier typed into the register, and $16.10 magically became $16.15. I swiped my debit card, grabbed my bag, and hustled out into the Arctic freeze. On the walk home, I quietly cursed the D.C. City Council.
I'm certainly no granola, but I think I have a pretty good ecological track record. I did spearhead the creation of the Green Campus, Clean Campus campaign in law school. I've always cut up those anachronistic plastic soda rings to prevent canardicide, and I drive a Ford Focus. The first two required some effort, while the third has come at a considerable sacrifice to my sex life. The plastic bag cost me a nickel. And, boy, did that piss me off.
It's really absurd that I feel this way. Perhaps the bag tax did nothing more than rouse my Inner Libertarian. I already have a serious beef with the meter maids who impose arbitrary tickets on innocent cars. It's not the five cents, I argued to myself. It's the principle! How much more can they take from me! My inner dialogue actually scared me as it progressively moved from pity party to Tea Party. A mild financial annoyance devolved into an expository lesson in personal liberty. Mankind is by nature free, I mused as I fumed at the plastic bag that held my soy milk hostage, but everywhere he is in chains. Somewhere, Rousseau spun in his grave as I trivialized the hell out of social contract theory.
After my rage subsided and reason re-surfaced, I came to three conclusions. The first was that I really needed to start working again. My private seminar on The Economic Philosophy of Plastic Bags was a serious waste of credit hours. Second, I realized that I had fallen prey to the Progressive's Dilemma. I am more than willing to skewer the leisure class for their objections to "paying their fair share" in income taxes to provide for the general welfare; yet, I remain hesitant to match a nickel to their thousands. Leaving marginal utility alone for the moment, this effectively renders me a hypocrite. If I am bound by the underlying American social contract to support the common good, then I must accept the burdens (a nickel or no bag) with the benefits (increased tax revenue and a marginally cleaner D.C.).
Finally, the stupid plastic bag tax has reminded me, yet again, that we, as a species, suck. Man may be by nature free, but he is also a selfish asshole. A quest may be noble in the abstract, but Prince Charming won't brave the fire-breathing dragon to save the Princess unless she shows a little leg. An oil baron won't shut down his refinery unless he sees profit in natural gas. An idealistic public interest lawyer won't give up his plastic bags unless he can save a nickel or two along the way.
So it falls to the carrot and the stick to save the Earth. I'd like to think of myself as an altruist, but who am I kidding? That's just human nature.
It's not easy being green.
My recent experience at Rodman's provides a suitable object lesson for this problem. Rodman's is the aristocratic convenience/liquor store on Wisconsin, situated around the corner from my lavish sunlight-starved bungalow on Harrison. Consider it a rich man's Rite Aid. I regularly replenish their coffers with small purchases of various sundries: hummus, Grape-Nuts, Uniball pens, antacid, etc. Only a few things at a time. Poverty precludes large shopping sprees.
The all-East African staff are ordinarily very polite and charming, a breath of fresh air compared to the anti-joy bureaucrats at CVS. They actually smile at you, which is a bonus in D.C., where getting a service worker to acknowledge your existence is a victory itself. They ring you up, then wistfully bag your purchase and wish you a pleasant evening.
Or at least they used to.
"Would you like a bag, sir?" The female cashier tapped on the register, awaiting my response.
I glanced up from fiddling with my iPod Touch, puzzlement creeping across my face. I bought a few more items than usual, so the question sounded ill-placed and the answer obvious.
"Uh, of course, yeah, sure." I returned my attention to my New York Times app.
"It's five cents, sir."
My head snapped back up, mouth open in a gnat-swallowing position. The cashier pointed at a sticker on the countertop. Happy New Year. As of January 1, 2010, the District of Columbia now exacts a flat five-cent tax on all disposable bags at stores and restaurants. Of course, the sticker was written by Alexis de Tocqueville, and "asked" all D.C. residents to "help" the environment, echoing the spirit of enlightened self-interest. What an exciting opportunity in the spirit of civic volunteerism!
Eager to do my part, I enthusiastically grunted and shrugged. The cashier typed into the register, and $16.10 magically became $16.15. I swiped my debit card, grabbed my bag, and hustled out into the Arctic freeze. On the walk home, I quietly cursed the D.C. City Council.
I'm certainly no granola, but I think I have a pretty good ecological track record. I did spearhead the creation of the Green Campus, Clean Campus campaign in law school. I've always cut up those anachronistic plastic soda rings to prevent canardicide, and I drive a Ford Focus. The first two required some effort, while the third has come at a considerable sacrifice to my sex life. The plastic bag cost me a nickel. And, boy, did that piss me off.
It's really absurd that I feel this way. Perhaps the bag tax did nothing more than rouse my Inner Libertarian. I already have a serious beef with the meter maids who impose arbitrary tickets on innocent cars. It's not the five cents, I argued to myself. It's the principle! How much more can they take from me! My inner dialogue actually scared me as it progressively moved from pity party to Tea Party. A mild financial annoyance devolved into an expository lesson in personal liberty. Mankind is by nature free, I mused as I fumed at the plastic bag that held my soy milk hostage, but everywhere he is in chains. Somewhere, Rousseau spun in his grave as I trivialized the hell out of social contract theory.
After my rage subsided and reason re-surfaced, I came to three conclusions. The first was that I really needed to start working again. My private seminar on The Economic Philosophy of Plastic Bags was a serious waste of credit hours. Second, I realized that I had fallen prey to the Progressive's Dilemma. I am more than willing to skewer the leisure class for their objections to "paying their fair share" in income taxes to provide for the general welfare; yet, I remain hesitant to match a nickel to their thousands. Leaving marginal utility alone for the moment, this effectively renders me a hypocrite. If I am bound by the underlying American social contract to support the common good, then I must accept the burdens (a nickel or no bag) with the benefits (increased tax revenue and a marginally cleaner D.C.).
Finally, the stupid plastic bag tax has reminded me, yet again, that we, as a species, suck. Man may be by nature free, but he is also a selfish asshole. A quest may be noble in the abstract, but Prince Charming won't brave the fire-breathing dragon to save the Princess unless she shows a little leg. An oil baron won't shut down his refinery unless he sees profit in natural gas. An idealistic public interest lawyer won't give up his plastic bags unless he can save a nickel or two along the way.
So it falls to the carrot and the stick to save the Earth. I'd like to think of myself as an altruist, but who am I kidding? That's just human nature.
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