Thursday, March 9, 2006

There’s a new question in town, propagated by twenty- and thirtysomethings wielding clipboards, and it goes like this: “Do you have a minute for the environment?” No one knows when precisely passive-aggressive social movements began–I’d look into it myself, if saving whales didn’t consume so much time–but we’re apparently headed for the day when Streetwise vendors will stop you and ask, “Do you have a second for systemic poverty? Just curious.”

My current answer for the environmentalists goes, “Not today, thanks.” It’s terse, yes, but it helps build the illusion that I’m busy and have errands to run, errands carefully designed to trample Mother Nature beneath the cloven hooves of industry. I can see you have that accusatory gleam in your eye, and you’re right, you know. This is a throwaway explanation. I’m hiding something.

The truth is simple. Not only do I lack a minute for the environment–I prefer spending the minute organizing the coupons in my glove compartment before tossing them out the window–I also enjoy devoting the other 1439 minutes to avid pollution. It started innocently enough. I’d toss a candy wrapper onto someone’s lawn, forget to leave out the recycling bin, let my car idle.

But then things took a sinister twist. Now I turn on the sprinklers, along with all the faucets I can find, during thunderstorms. Newspapers are separated by section and left in parks all over town. Magazine subscription cards are set on fire and tossed into forest preserves. You know how some bleeding hearts cut up six-pack rings, for fear of ensnaring wildlife? I will actually go and find six birds or fish or chipmunks and stuff them into their new plastic habitat.