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The neighborhood turkeys have again made a complete nuisance of themselves. We never noticed before we had our driveway paved, but now we know: these birds crap everywhere.

Today I cleaned up some of the mess. I scraped up about a dozen dried-out deposits, which had chemically welded themselves to the asphalt. From my perspective at the other end of the rake, it felt like a covalent bond, meaning the asphalt molecules were sharing electrons with the dessicated turkey feces. The shit was stuck, in any case.

The flock seems to be bigger this year. I guess there aren’t enough local predators. I tried being a predator last year — I bought a wrist rocket on Ebay, with the intention of dissuading the turkeys from eating all our persimmons. But the slingshot was a cheap offshore replica, more capable of inflicting pain on me than the turkeys. On my first shot, the band snapped off and just about took an eye out. I decided that shooting from the hip would be safer, although it didn’t help my aim.

Also preventing my success was the fact that for ammunition I was using the only projectile I could find in the kitchen: dry-roasted almonds. They’re not as aerodynamic as you might expect.

I am having recurring fantasies that one of my neighbors will decide to have fresh turkey this Thanksgiving. If so they’ll have to move quickly — last year, the flock was making daily drive-bys until the day before Thanksgiving, when they disappeared for about four days. I’m not kidding. Those birds knew.

But for the next day or two, at least, a hunter would need to simply sit on our front porch. He needn’t wait long; our driveway is the turkeybahn. The birds go one way or the other a couple times a day. I’ve even seen them run laps.

I saw an eye-catching book in the secondhand bookstore the other day: how to de-junk your life, an instruction manual for reducing the clutter in one’s home.

I have clutter. My clutter has been documented before. I regularly add to my clutter. I even have an affinity for it.

According to author and self-styled storage expert Dawna Walter, one way to reduce clutter is to throw away all one’s compact disks. It’s an intriguing idea, which I’ll deconstruct because it is outrageously, staggeringly, spectacularly dumb. Let’s take a look. She writes:

Use technology to help in your conquest of space. CD writers enable you to download your CD collection to the hard drive of your computer and access your collection whenever you need it. Once you have downloaded, you can recycle your CDs or sell them through secondhand shops. This would enable you to limit the selection you have on display to your current favorites. The initial investment would more than pay for itself by freeing up space throughout your home.

I’ll start with the obvious: CD writers are not required for ripping CDs. It’s a minor point, but tends to indicate that neither Walter nor her editors have any idea what technology can do.

Nearly as obvious: what Walter suggests is illegal. The RIAA is making headlines by suing people who share music online. How does she think they’ll react to people who copy CDs and sell the originals?

Her suggestion to recycle CDs is lame. There is no reason to destroy functional CDs, except maybe when they have the AOL logo on the face. Anything that still works, that still serves a purpose, should be sold or donated; if you put in in a landfill, someone else will just make another one.

Walter doesn’t explore the idea that CDs are portable, whereas home computers generally are not. The nice thing about a CD is that it can be carried from the living room to the kitchen to the car, and played in any of those places.

The irony of all this is that there is a way technology can be used to reduce CD clutter: make MP3s of your favorite songs, and connect a computer or MP3 player to all your stereos. Or wear an iPod everywhere. Then, box up all your CDs and store them somewhere safe, so you can re-rip your favorite songs when CPUs get faster and encoding algorithms get better. I admit this approach is beyond the reach of most people, who already own CD players and who don’t own whole-house stereos with MP3 capability. But it has these advantages over Walter’s misguided idea: it’s legal, and it’s free.

Which brings us to the reason I’d found this book in the used bookstore… clearly, the original owner realized that an important step in clearing the junk out of his or her life was to dump this absurd book.

My modus operandi for handling junk mail for the past 30 months:

1. call the vendor to have my address removed from the mailing list
2. shred the documents that contain my name or address
3. send back the prepaid reply envelope with a flyer from some other junk mailer inside

The last step is my favorite. It was an idea promoted by Jon Carroll. Its goal is to make direct mail less profitable.

I believe this campaign has begun having an effect. Some of the reply envelopes I see now contain barcodes.

For example, MBNA, a major cobranded credit-card vendor and junkmailer, uses barcodes on reply envelopes. Presumably, MBNA can track who the offer was sent to just by scanning the barcode on the empty envelope. I’d like to think MBNA’s response would be to take the corresponding address off the mailing list, but I cut the barcodes off my reply envelopes anyway. I don’t need another credit card.

Today I received a credit-card offer from Capital One, a fictitious business name junkmailer. The reply envelope contained a barcode, and something I’ve never seen before in this context: a threat! It reads,TAMPERING WITH THIS ENVELOPE OR ITS CONTENTS MAY RESULT IN LEGAL ACTION

I find this fascinating. I know of no law that dictates what I’m allowed to do with something I receive in the mail. Can the sender imply a contract? “By opening this package, which we sent you without your consent, you agree to follow our rules regarding the contents.” I’m pretty sure the envelope and its contents become my property, and I can do anything I want with them… including cutting off the barcode and sending back the envelope (with an MBNA flyer inside).

In fact it’s pretty offensive, what Capital One is claiming: that they can send mail to me, but I can’t send it back.

The email came a few days ago — a co-worker from a job I scarcely remember died last month in Mexico on vacation. Heart attack. He was 46.

I found a picture, and remembered him. His name was Gordon. He and I shared a total of three conversations in the year I worked at that company, fully ten years ago. He was a nice guy, well-liked as I recall. I was young and in a hurry and didn’t make much time for socializing with co-workers, so I never got to know him. He was a decade older than me — then, it felt like a lot.

The email invited me to a memorial service. I knew immediately that I would go, even though out loud I expressed ambivalence — a reflex, I guess, a habitual re-running of the old program. I knew I’d go, but I couldn’t say why. I might see a few familiar faces. But even those familiar faces wouldn’t be too familiar; I had not kept in close contact with anyone. It seemed likely I’d join a crowd of strangers to honor the life of a man I knew nothing about.

But maybe I’d have an opportunity to connect with some of those people, to take the time to do what I was too busy to do ten years back.

I don’t know many people who have died… a high-school classmate, a few of my parents’ friends, my grandparents. That’s it. Nobody close. I don’t know what I’ll feel about death, when it finally takes someone I care about. Maybe that’s why I wanted to go to the memorial, to feel loss, even secondhand.

I found Gordon’s obituary online. It contained a sentence that hit me like a fist to the ribs: “He wanted to write a book someday.” He wanted to write a book, but instead he had a heart attack. At the service, I picked up a copy of the book outline Gordon had been writing. His friends had typed up and printed his notes as a tribute. This is as close as his book will ever get to being published.

Gordon had rheumatoid arthritis. His book was to be an autobiography of sorts, the story of his life as seen through the lens of a disease he’d survived for 35 years. The copy reads like poetry, and is all the more tragic for it. Fragments of memories, fragments of sentences, non-sequiturs. His notes were private meanderings, never intended to be read by others, but now they are all that is left. I have glimpsed into a dead man’s mind, and I feel the loss. This is what might have been.

In a section called “The Natural Years,” he wrote, “Everyone’s got a cure. Vegetarianism and head squeezing.” Under “Fusions and Fun,” he wrote, “The neck, numbness, and spontaneous fusion. None of the classic threatening signs. Another enigma.” Another section is unwritten but for its ominous title, presumably enough of a reminder that additional words were unnecessary: “The Colon Episode.”

They hint at a life I never knew, at a person I miss not because he was a friend but because he was just too young to die.

We went to the SF Green Festival over the weekend. It was as cool as ricecream. I expected a small and forgettable and haphazardly-managed event, but I was surprised — this festival was huge and completely professional. There were over 200 exhibitors and a crowd so large it was difficult to get around, shoulder-to-shoulder idealists and bright-eyed vegetarians. I heard that the organizers expected 20,000 attendees.

I insisted on visiting every booth. Who knew what earth-friendly treasures I might discover? And with Chrismas approaching, this was prime shopping time. Never mind the fact that nearly nobody on my gift list gives an unsprayed fig about saving the earth. Maybe they’d appreciate organic rat poison (booth #279) or a six-pack of WholeSoy Cultured Soy Drink (booth #409) anyway.

BTW, I tasted the WholeSoy drink. It was really good, surprisingly good. It tasted like a yoghurt smoothie, but without any undertones of bovine growth hormone, mad cow disease, salmonella, meat, or fur. The woman at the booth recited a list of six live bacterial cultures in the mix, as if she had recited the same list a thousand times already. Probably she had. She didn’t say why ingesting any of those Latin-named compounds might be a good idea. Generally I try not to consume things I can’t pronounce, especially if they were originally discovered in somebody’s Petri dish.

A company called Earthware makes biodegradable picnicware — knives and spoons and forks that look like plastic, but are made of wheat or corn. They’re compostable. Unlike plastic versions, they’re made from a renewable resource. Unlike plastic versions, these won’t be around in 1000 years, clogging up your descendants’ back yards.

Needless to say, these utensils are a lot more expensive than plastics, which are stamped out by the millions in offshore factories. That’s one of the biggest downsides to the pursuit of renewable resources and nontoxic living — it is expensive. It’s sad to think that the lifestyles optimized by economies of scale are so poisonous.

Another neat product we saw: a flooring material called Marmoleum. It is linoleum, as far as I can tell: a flax-based floor covering made entirely of natural raw materials, without chemical solvents. They say it’s antiseptic, anti-static, allergen free, and (of course) biodegradable. It looks great and feels good underfoot. I think our next bathroom remodel will start at the Marmoleum website.

Lots of organic cotton and hemp clothing vendors were in attendance. Some of the hemp vendors couldn’t help themselves — apparently it wasn’t enough to promote hemp because it grows easily without pesticides and makes high-quality food, fiber, and pulp — they had to push the NORML party line too. Personally I think the war on some drugs is wrong-headed, but still the hemp people would have an easier time selling T-shirts if they wouldn’t also sell decorative water pipes, wink wink, nudge nudge.

One of the hemp clothing vendors displayed a device I’d never seen: an aluminum cylinder, maybe four inches in diameter, disassembled into sections, each of which clearly had some functional purpose. I was mystified as to what that purpose might be. The device’s lid screwed off to reveal what looked like an iron maiden, if an aeronautical engineer had taken it upon himself to design a palm-sized torture device (while listening to, say, Iron Maiden). The underside of the lid was machined into a 3D skyline of sharp edges and teeth.

Another piece of the cylinder had a very fine mesh screen in it. A third was a reservoir of sorts, screwed below the screen.

I had to ask — “What the heck is that thing?” The sales guy had a free-spirit sort of vibe. He dressed in hemp and, as would become evident, smoked it too. “It makes (hashish),” he exclaimed enthusiastically, whispering the word “hashish” and glancing around as he said it, as if a DEA agent wouldn’t have been clubbed into unconsciousness by hairy-armpitted vegan warrior princesses at the door of the convention center.

“See,” he went on, unscrewing the lid, “you put your (stuff) in here… screw down the lid… the powder goes through the screen and collects down here! Then you can (smoke) it, or lace your (joints) with it, or cook with it, you know, make (brownies)!”

He was chatty. I wondered if this was the first time he’d demonstrated the hashish grinder that day. Maybe he’d led a tutorial before lunch.

He was just one character of many. The whole crowd was colorful, like a madras skirt in a tie-dye factory. I saw corporate CEOs in (bleached) oxford shirts. I saw Haight St. refugees with open-toe sandals, their dreadlocks tied up in African knit caps. The former smelled of expensive cologne. The latter, of BO and patchouli. Both made me queasy.

My sensitivities notwithstanding, I liked the crowd. We all shared a vision of reducing waste, developing sustainable lifetsyles, and being healthy. For the most part we had all decided not to live under the illusions painted by junkfood vendors, the makers of dangerous oversized automobiles, or the politicians who spin untruths into reassuring PR pap. It was comforting to see so many people who, as unlike me as they might have appeared, believed a lot of the same things. It made me hopeful.