They first appeared curbside last fall, barrel-chested and shiny blue, looking almost prideful – brutish, even – next to their puny trashcan brethren. They yawned at our rigid plastics Nos. 1-7 and dined on our corrugated cardboards with nary a burp. They defied us to find enough recyclable rubbish to fill their 90 gallons of gauntlet-throwing glory and scoffed at our provincial ways: no more sorting newspapers from milk cartons from glass jars. Ah, single-stream recycling carts. It's been almost a year. You may be a little less shiny, you may don more tags than Fresh Prince’s West Philly, but you’ve conquered our curbs like a king.
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