The green bin at the Queen Anne mansion near Golden Gate Park is full of plastic, styrofoam and half-rotten lunch, put there, presumably, by the painters. Will they ever finish?  Scaffolding swaddled in green netting has surrounded the house since September. Nine months now. Tar shingles, leaded paint chips, beer cans, and McDonald’s wrappers litter the garden running next to the house.  The camellias are coated in filth, enduring a perpetual dusk.  It’s a wonder they’re alive.

The back patio is a montecito of crap, a tomb of the unused and unusable.  Twenty (at least) plastic chairs plus tables.  A medicine cabinet and bureau.  Propane space heaters and canisters.  Paint cans.  Spattered tarps.  Hundred-gallon plastic barrels bought 2 years ago to catch rainwater, never installed, probably because there was too much stuff in the way. I peak over the mountain, see a few things alive.  I suppose I could rappel over it.

Here’s the rant.  You saw it coming.

Propane heaters for your little patio. File under crap so egregious it’s awesome.  How romantic to sit outside under the stars, well, the stars taken on hearsay.  You and your honey who keeps asking why are we sitting outside?  Do you smell a leak?  The candles keep getting blown out, and your lighter won’t stay lit, though you burned your thumb trying. You grab your glasses of Chardonnay and go watch videos on YouTube.

Put the 100-gallon rain collectors in the file, It Seemed like a Good Idea Then.  Ditto the Darth Vader-ish compost bin.  Half my clients have or had one.  Only one uses it.

I wonder if it’s recyclable.

Why can’t these idiots figure out what a green bin is for?


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