My memory can't recall a weekend in golf where so many big names missed the cut. At the FBR, it was arguably the 3 biggest favorites: Phil Mickelson, Anthony Kim and J.B. Holmes. On the other side of the planet, three-time Dubai Desert Classic winner Ernie Els missed the cut by one.So what is one to do on a Saturday when the Dubai coverage has been over for six hours and you can't quite get excited by a Kenny Perry/Scott Piercy duel? You collect your bottles, your cans and your three-year old son and make an overdue trip to the local recycling center.
First lesson -- Saturday afternoon is apparently peak recycling time in Los Angeles, the window of time when all the city's most terrifying vagrants decide to cash in on a week's worth of pilfering. The line is ten-deep already. Right as we get there a woman arrives pushing her own wheelchair, the entire thing obscured by six giant white plastic bags filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes. At the bottom of each bag I see a mix of all the various liquids pooling, no doubt the creepiest swill ever concocted. A bus pulls up and a man hops off with a couple sacks over his shoulder and jumps in line behind her.
These guys are all pros obviously -- their cans, plastics and glass pre-sorted. And there's a buzz in the air. This is what it's all about, of course. Like cowboys bringing home the herd. People pass the time talking about (what else?) other recycling centers:
"You been to the one over on National?"
"No. Any good?"
"The best."
"What do you get for glass over there?"
"10 cents."
"10 cents -- that's nothing. I once saw a machine that was giving 15!"
And so it goes. For thirty minutes we wait, during which I have plenty of time to examine the contents of my bags. Our family's stash goes back to early November, and exists only because my wife can't sleep with the thought that if we just let the garbage man take them away with the rest of the recycling each week, that we're essentially throwing away money. So instead they congeal in the corner of my office.
Ninety percent are Dr. Pepper cans, my drink of choice. Then there's a smattering of Hansens Mandarin Lime soda, some random two liters from kids' birthday parties and, of course, some plastic Tigerade containers. The guy in front of me hands me a glass orange juice bottle that he doesn't want: "I don't have much glass," he explains. "Thank you!" I say sincerely, and place it on top of my three empty bottles of wine. As a sign of how little beer I drink, I notice my one empty Corona bottle at the bottom of a bag literally has mold growing inside it.
I know we're getting close to the front of the line when I feel my shoes start sticking to the stained pavement. Finally we arrive at the front. My son excitedly helps me pour our loot into three big plastic trash cans and we push them toward the almighty scale. The worker punches the various weights into a handheld calculator, then turns to the register where he tallies it all up. "Here we go..." I say. It's like cashing out at a Vegas casino except for the overwhelming smell of garbage. The worker tears off the receipt and hands me the thin yellow piece of paper, with our total at the bottom.
$3.74.
Three dollars and seventy-four frickin' cents? Are you kidding me?! I really thought we were looking at $20. $15 easy. Maybe on some larger scale, this is what Phil, Ernie, Anthony and J.B. are feeling. Disappointment, confusion, a tinge of anger. Oh well. Thursday's a new tournament. And today's the Super Bowl. Time to pop open my bi-annual Corona and hope to find that place that pays fifteen cents for glass.
