2 posts tagged “trash”
On my walk to work this week I've seen this same item that the trash guys declined to pick up:
Yes, my people, that's a treadmill for dogs. A treadmill for dogs. A treadmill for dogs. A treadmill for dogs?
Or more accurately, a treadmill for the dogs of people who are too lazy to take their dogs out for a real walk.
Revolutionary? Sure, if your idea of a revolution is having your dog chew your favorite slippers, crap on your rug, and maul you while you're sleeping. Gee...I wonder why the Jog A Dog is sitting out at the curb.
Thank you to Spucko for giving voice to the existential crisis this device would surely produce in a dog accustomed to being walked in the park: "How am I supposed to take a crap on this thing?"
I read an article the other day about Mt. Fuji's trash problem. At the base of Fuji-san, as you would expect, there is a problem with the detritus of heavy tourism: wrappers and plastic bottles and lost jackets and broken umbrellas. If you dig deeper, though, as one well-intentioned clean-up crew did, you'll find a veritable trash dump. Old refrigerators, household garbage, broken TV sets, leaking car batteries.
It's a symptom of the disease of our disposable age. I know you're used to coming over here and listening to me rant about everything that's wrong with America, and let me assure you, America is very, very sick with disposabilitis, but it's not terminal. I think. Japan, however, has a much worse case. Here in America, nearly every town, no matter how small, has a thrift store or a junk store or a used appliance store. Something that hints at our once proud tradition of use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. In Japan, the very idea of used is dirty.
Take kimono. Used, vintage kimono are unwanted, despised even, by most Japanese people. On one of my weekend trips to Tokyo (to get a break from the rice paddies) I found a used kimono shop. It catered strictly to gaijin (foreigners), and of the three trips I ultimately made to the shop, I never saw a Japanese person beyond the sales clerk and the "fabric advisor." (Many people bulk buy old kimono to turn into quilts and yarn. The fabric advisor is there to advise them on what fabric type it is.) On my first trip I bought a young woman's dress kimono, which are not like the elaborate geisha kimono, but that are still beautiful, with long fluttering sleeves. The sort of thing an unmarried woman wears for a formal occasion. It was pure silk, of course, and based on the type of fabric and design, it had been woven, dyed and hand sewn sometime in the very early 20th Century. It's dusky blue with a chrysanthemum and firefly motif--breath-taking and in perfect condition. No stains, no rips, no moth holes. I paid ¥40. At the time, about $43. At the big department store Ito Yukado Marudai, I bought the necessary undergarments, which cost me ¥80. At Ito, a new polyester kimono (machine dyed, machine sewn, mass-produced) sold for more than ¥600. That's where Japanese women went to buy kimono. When I wore my vintage kimono for a graduation dinner, everyone ooh'd and ah'd over it, but of course, I could get away with it--I was gaijin. No Japanese woman would have shown up wearing an old kimono.
Not only does Japan not do used clothing, they don't do used appliances. There is actually something of a national obsession for new appliances. Most refrigerators in Japan look like those little half-size affairs you sometimes see in work lunch rooms. They are very expensive, more expensive than a new American refrigerator. My apartment came furnished, and my fridge was "too old," according to my boss. More than 10 years old, I guess. My boss had complained to the landlord about it, and they were still negotiating over when the landlord would replace the fridge.
One morning, as I walked home from the train station, (I'd come home from a party on the first train, but the buses weren't running yet), I saw a nearly new refrigerator sitting on the curb, waiting for recycling pick-up. It was much newer than mine, maybe only a year or two old, and it looked perfect. I opened it, and found that inside it was spotless, as though the owner had washed it out before putting it on the curb. It had a layer of dew on it; it had sat there all night, unmolested. I was less than a block from my apartment. I ran home, dropped off my backpack and ran back. Fridge was still there. Still shiny. Still clean. I fished a piece of cardboard out of the cardboard recycling pile--the packaging for a new refrigerator, what do you know--and dragged the fridge down the block. Then I wrestled it up to my apartment, plugged it in, and found that it was in perfect working order. The person who'd thrown it out had simply gotten a new one.
A few weeks later, my boss was at my house and he noticed the new refrigerator. He said, "Oh, no, you did not buy new cooler? Landlord should take care of."
Pleased with myself (I was still new to Japan), I told him about the miraculous new fridge. He gasped in horror. "No, no. Used appliance not good. Should not have used appliance." It took me weeks to convince him that the used fridge was fine, better than my old one, in fact, and distinctly less used. (My old fridge had been haunted by the icky odor of some previous occupant's natto.)
After that, I often browsed the trash piles, sometimes looking for treasure, but sometimes just curious to see what was "trash" in Japan. It was often things that would still have been considered serviceable in the US. It might not have been the best stuff, but it was at least as good as what your average thrift store has.
