An introduction to why I hate big corporations

Well, when I use this card to pay for lunch, at least the server
will know what brand of toothbrush I'll be using afterward.
(Yes, I intentionally covered the number. Sorry.)

A couple months ago, following advice from my dentist, I bought an electric toothbrush from Oral-B. It works great, and my teeth have never felt better (no product endorsement intended). But because I'm a penny-pinching bastard (just like corporations), I wasted no time in taking advantage of the rebate offer.

Based on past experience, I expected to mail in the required information, and, a few weeks later, receive a check. It didn't work that way this time. Instead, I got a debit card loaded with the rebate amount — and this was no ordinary debit card. It had Oral-B's logo displayed prominently on the front.

Advertising ploy? Of course. Great way for me to pretend that I'm the guru of all things toothbrush at Procter & Gamble? Absolutely.

But there's another reason they sent me a card instead of a check this time (even though the latter seems like it would be much easier for them). Checks are simple. You get them in the mail, head over to the bank, and deposit them in their full amount. That's the last time you have to think about them. Your money is safe — and it's yours, for good. The payer can't take it back.

Religion is the problem

Religion is how this guy knows that
you're wrong. Why do you think he's
so happy? (Photo: Gage Skidmore)

On Facebook, there's a profile section called "religious views." I'm never quite sure how to answer that one.

I hate religion. I would almost rather (though not quite) be called agnostic than religious, based solely on the connotations those two terms carry. Agnosticism, flawed as it may be, at least leaves room for exploration and skepticism about matters of faith.

Dictionary.com (my first stop when wrestling with theological questions, of course) defines "religion," in part, as "a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe…usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs."

"A moral code governing the conduct of human affairs" — that part stands out to me like a giant red flag. Religion means rules. It often means conformity, despite what your own intellect tells you. It can mean reducing incredibly complex issues to mindless, black-and-white dichotomies. It sometimes means that questions, doubts, and dialogue are discouraged. Occasionally, it means that other human beings are patronized or even ostracized simply because they don't have the same views we do. It gives license for one group to feign moral righteousness over another.

Don't get me wrong — I'm not saying that religion needs to be a term that causes us to recoil. I'm saying that we've made it that way. I'm saying that it's become a mechanism by which we can conveniently place God into a box and thus rationalize our own folly. There's a great quote that beautifully paints this reality (I don't know who said it, but I want to be clear that it wasn't me): "You can safely assume you've created God in your own image when he hates or judges all the same people you do."

That, in a nutshell, is what religion has become.

The politics of manufactured outrage

The best way to command the attention of others is to piss them off. The best way to get them to comply with your objective is to keep them pissed off. I see this strategy applied all the time — among individuals of influence, among special-interest groups, among religious figures and organizations, and among the mainstream media.

It's a shrewd, if sometimes reprehensible tactic. Instigating anger certainly isn't the only way to get people to listen, but it is one of the best ways to keep a captive audience. Anger is a negative emotion, and negative emotions sustain themselves in two ways: by clouding your sense of intellect and reason; and by driving you, against your better judgment, to further subject yourself to whatever is fueling that emotion in the first place. If you have an irrational fear of germs, you'll go to extreme, obsessive lengths to stay clean. Eventually, that negative emotion, in a sense, controls you.

This came to mind during the recent flap over the (later reversed) decision of the Susan G. Komen foundation to discontinue funding Planned Parenthood for breast cancer screenings. From the outset, I was a bit perplexed as to why it was such a big news story. The rationale for the decision seemed fairly straightforward and, at least on the surface, benign: Planned Parenthood is under investigation by congressional Republicans, and Komen's new guidelines prohibited the funding of an organization under scrutiny by U.S. authorities. Whether or not Planned Parenthood should be under investigation is another matter; the breast cancer charity was simply enforcing its funding criteria. Did such a move really merit such widespread public outrage?

Worth noting, though, is the socially volatile procedure with which Planned Parenthood is most often associated. Abortion is a debate that involves extreme emotions, regardless of one's perspective on the issue; and if Planned Parenthood has been inherently linked to it, then any controversy over Planned Parenthood becomes a controversy over abortion. It no longer matters that abortion actually constitutes a tiny 3 percent of the organization's services; or that the funding in question had nothing to do with abortion; or that there was never any proof that the Komen decision was politically motivated. The story was framed in such a way to make people angry. The media used that anger to sell their headlines. Other groups sustained and kindled that anger to keep people paying attention and ultimately get Komen to reverse course. In any case, this debate was ruled by emotion, not intellect or reason. It's an example of what I call "manufactured outrage."

Special-interest groups and the media aren't the only ones who practice it, either. Individuals do, too. Mark Driscoll — the controversial Seattle pastor whose own apparent insecurities over his masculinity, sexuality, and relevance seem to be the root of a lot of his outrageous remarks — is an expert at it. Does he really believe that yoga is demonic? It doesn't matter. The guy isn't an idiot. He knows that such comments will draw ire, meaning that people will pay attention, and he'll stay in the headlines. Once Driscoll stops making provocative remarks, he becomes forgettable. That's why his Facebook page periodically (and reliably) contains posts like this one.

Fox News political commentator Bill O'Reilly, Driscoll's colleague in the rage manufacturing industry, has a style very different from the Mars Hill pastor, but one that achieves the same effect. Driscoll plays the cool, collected dude who calmly stands on stage and says something he knows will draw ridicule and disdain. O'Reilly plays the loud, obnoxious, incensed bully who interrupts his guests and patronizes them with finger-pointing and dismissive sarcasm. His reaction to the recent Proposition 8 ruling is a classic example. "You can't do that!" he seethed, smoke billowing from his ears as he referred to the recent court ruling that it's unconstitutional to deny same-sex couples the right to marry. "That's tyranny!!!" Translation? "I am mad as shit about this, and dammit, you need to be, too!!!"

Speaking of gay rights, Washington on Monday will become the seventh state to establish marriage equality (and only the fourth to do so legislatively, following Vermont, New Hampshire, and New York). It's a foregone conclusion that opponents will try to instigate outrage here in the Evergreen State in their misguided efforts to repeal this historic law. (Oh, I'm sorry; they already have.) These groups certainly don't have reason on their side; their only recourse, therefore, is to try to preempt civil discourse with base emotion.

Anger and other negative emotions exert powerful influence and motivation. But when they supersede an informed, intellectual, rational debate on issues of great importance, everyone loses. And individuals or special interests who use them as a substitute for such debate implicitly concede that they can't achieve their objective any other way.

If it rots, it ain't trash

Yes, I actually took a picture of my compost.
Yes, I am insane.

For my birthday, my manager at work got me three boxes of compostable bags to supplement the supply I already have at home. She knows me well. Over the past several years, composting has become my newest obsession in the realm of conservation and environmentalism.

What about recycling, you ask? Recycling is like the desktop computer in the era of the iPhone — still relevant and still very important, but not the latest and greatest invention, and certainly not a panacea. I use a desktop computer at work, but if I'm on the road and need to quickly find directions to a place, it won't offer much help. Similarly, recycling helps reduce waste, but it alone can't salvage a lot of the trash we produce.

The irony about the aforementioned analogy is that composting really isn't an "invention" at all — it's a natural process that occurs when organic matter combines with air and water to decompose into fertilizer and soil enhancement. It's not as though this is a man-made solution on which some rich guy holds a patent. Anyone can compost by creating the proper conditions, which aren't found in a conventional landfill.

Which begs the question: Why haven't our cities and towns been offering compost programs all along?

Actually, the city of Seattle does, and households are required by ordinance to participate, which is what stoked my interest in the first place. As far as I'm concerned, it's a no-brainer for any municipality. Through its composting initiative, Seattle alone diverts tens of thousands of tons of solid waste away from the landfill each year. This organic material is then recycled to help with gardening, farming, and landscaping. It lowers the costs of waste management, and the compost itself helps the ground better absorb rainwater, reducing storm runoff. Yes, decomposing material does stink — but I'd rather have a composting facility in my backyard than a toxic landfill.

What if every city in the United States offered a composting program? What if every town did? Again, considering these demonstrated benefits, why aren't they already? Why do we continue to throw compostable material into the garbage, and consequently, into the landfill? Nationwide, how many millions of tons of waste is that?

When I first started composting, I was surprised to learn just how many items qualify. As an avid coffee drinker, I was looking for a sustainable way to dispose of my spent grounds and filters. But coffee is pretty obvious. How about food-soiled paper plates? Or paper towels? Or napkins? Or pizza boxes? Or egg cartons? Along with fruits, vegetables, and other types of food scraps (including bones), these can all go in the composting bin. So can yard waste, like grass clippings, leaves, or decaying plants and flowers. All of this material can be responsibly returned to the earth instead of the landfill.

In that spirit, I now keep a small bin in my kitchen that's lined with a compostable bag (even though it looks and functions just like a regular trash bag). When the bag is full, I simply tie it and place it in the curbside food and yard waste receptacle. Once a week, the municipal service comes by and collects it. Simple, sustainable, and cost-effective. I don't know why this isn't standard protocol everywhere.

But you certainly needn't live in a community that offers a public composting service to do it yourself right in your own backyard. It's easy, cheap, and requires no special equipment. I don't have a backyard, but if I did, I would almost certainly try this. Yes, I'm that fanatical.

Regardless, in an era of environmental degradation, every piece of waste that we can keep out of our landfills is a step in the right direction. It's even better when we can actually turn that waste into something that benefits the planet and our quality of life. That's why every bag of compost that I deposit — along, of course, with my standard recyclable material — makes me feel just slightly better about myself.