Recently, I was picking up litter. I'm no saint; it was a nice day, I had nothing better going on, and you can meet neat people while picking up trash. One fellow stopped to inform me that "The Gummint" pays people $80,000 a year to pick up litter. I gotta get me one of these jobs. I'll do it part time for 40K. Now, he assured me that he picks up his own litter, but he wouldn't pick up somebody else's for free. I'm sure that, somewhere, Ayn Rand is smiling despite the searing heat. But I don't think she had this fellow in mind when she wrote Atlas Shrugged.

This guy made a good point, however. His belief seems to be widely held. Thus, I will refute. First, The Gummint doesn't pay anybody to pick up litter. Once upon a time, cities had the guys with the push brooms and those trash cans on wheels, but those days are gone. Long gone. In modern times, we're supposed to seek out the appropriate trash receptacles, and deposit our litter in the prescribed manner. It's tough, but life is hard. The nice city employees then come along and empty these receptacles. It's much more efficient. But this whole, efficient process breaks down when you or I act irresponsibly and drop our trash wherever we durn well please. It really is our responsibility to pick up after ourselves. In theory, we learn it as children. If not, then learn it here.

Now, on the issue of picking up other people's litter, I ask: At what point did it become acceptable to allow trash on the sidewalk? Give me the date, I will go back in time, and I will change whatever momentous event caused this to happen. And no, you cannot blame this one on George Bush. It happened sometime before. Strike back. Be brave. Bend over, pick it up, and throw it away. There.

I just got back from the Junction, and I've got beer on my mind. Specifically, beer cans. In bags. On the ground. This sends the following messages: First, that this is a place where people sit out drinking beer. You can decide if that makes it a good place to be. Second, it says that someone can take the time to kill off a tall boy, without reasonable fear of being interrupted by the authorities. So, there's a vacuum of security and order in this place. Third, it says that the residents (that's us) care so little about this park that this trash can sit out until high noon. So no one cares. And not caring is the killer of Main Street.

Whenever there's litter and we don't pick it up, we make a secret, nod-and-wink agreement with the litterers. We say: You can abuse me just this little bit. I'll allow it. I'll just act like every thing is normal. I'll keep staring ahead. Because abuse never escalates, right? Just stay cool, and act like nothing's happening. Secret treaties. They never go badly, right?

Wrong. Throw it away. There.

John Hume
Design Chair