Welcome. Let's talk extreme thrifting.
The economy of alley finds, porch pickups and "first come, first served"
Hello and welcome to the first edition of Curb Alert, a newsletter about thrifting adventures in late-stage capitalism.
A few months after I moved to Milwaukee last year, I joined my neighborhood Buy Nothing group on Facebook, a virtual trading post with the sole purpose of keeping stuff out of the landfill.
Mind you, I'm a seasoned Craigslister, thrifter and dumpster diver, but nothing prepared me for the wonders of this Buy Nothing group.
At 7,300 members and growing, it's probably one of the largest and most active in the country. The reach of the group extends outside my geographic neighborhood to the whole south side and beyond. It is not part of the official Buy Nothing Project network, adding some anarchist charm. The rules, they are few. But like all subcultures, we have a code. Be kind, be smart. Nobody has to prove their worth. Don’t waste people’s time. If you’re too busy to coordinate pickups and drop-offs, set out your stuff as “first come, first served” on the porch/curb/alley/wherever. Hot items with high interest may go to a raffle using a random number generator.
Besides the obvious like live animals and illicit substances, nothing is off limits. Earlier this year somebody was giving away a foot-long tapeworm preserved in rubbing alcohol. It is apparently “pretty rare” to see a solid tapeworm, the OP wrote, “and maybe a science teacher is in the group?”
There was a picture of said tapeworm in the bottom of a glass bottle, unspooled like a pile of rice noodles. (Don’t worry, you can keep paging down. I didn’t include the tapeworm in my screenshot.)
People went wild. Of course someone wanted a piece of veterinary medical waste! I’m not easily grossed out, and I have very few boundaries when it comes to thrifting, but even I was shocked. I loved it. These are my people, I thought.
Most of the stuff given away on Buy Nothing is not so weird or obscure. Bed frames and other furniture, piles of clothes, food (from fresh-baked lasagnas to expired spices), beer, wine and liquor, plants, knickknacks, toys, medicine cabinet “clean-outs,” cat food that someone’s cat was too fussy to eat, antiques, concert tickets, cardboard boxes, kitchen appliances, reusable bottles, candles, dirt, perfume, gardening tools, etc. Some of the stuff really is garbage. Some is brand new or surprisingly valuable. Nearly all of it is rehomed quickly, often in less than an hour.
In the 10 months or so since I joined the group, I’ve given away and received hundreds of items. I’ve become full-on obsessed. I take breaks, but typically I’m going out for Buy Nothing pick-ups and drop-offs at least once per day. I have a shelf by the front door where I stack all the crap I want to give away.
Most of my wardrobe is from Buy Nothing. Our kitchen, my office, the bathroom, the kids’ room — they’re all filled with stuff from someone’s curb, alley or porch. My 4-year-old twins will tell me to put a toy they don’t like anymore on Buy Nothing, or beg me not to if it’s a treasure they want to keep.
I spend a lot of time thinking about thrifting and the sharing economy — the real sharing economy, not Uber and Airbnb — and how it feels like the only way forward environmentally and financially in this era of climate crisis, inequality and social disconnection.
I also recognize that this is about ~stuff~. Am I a Buy Nothing girl in a material world? Yes. Am I material girl in a Buy Nothing world? Also yes. (Madonna knows what’s up.)
The cutesy narrative around the Buy Nothing Project is that it’s a neighborly practice of sharing, like, sourdough starters and “gently used” clothes. That’s all true, but I hope we also dig into the complexity of this sharing/gifting economy. It is a response to the “living crisis.” Buy Nothing, freecycle and similar groups are how many people get stuff they need or want that they otherwise couldn’t afford, or get stuff to resell (frowned on, yet a hustle I respect). The sharing economy isn’t always a utopia of equality and generosity, either. It’s hard to win the “first come, first served” lottery when you don’t have a car to get there fastest.
I’ve also been thinking how community fits into all of this. As a newcomer in my city, I have few local friends and so I’ve sought community among the members of the Buy Nothing group. Slowly, I’m making connections.
When our $449 double stroller (one of the few pieces of baby gear we bought new) was stolen out of our driveway, another member gave me her old one as a replacement. One time, I traded plants with a woman who also gave me a hug. A guy brought me a bottle of his homemade hot sauce as thanks for a stereo. I gave an industrial hot dog roller (long story) to a woman who throws parties for her 17 grandkids and caters meals out of her home — and a few days after the hot dog roller exchange, I drove to her house and bought $30 worth of empanadas. They were delicious, and I never would have found her if not for Buy Nothing.
But people can be assholes. There are misunderstandings, arguments and no shows — the ultimate sign of disrespect in Buy Nothing is to not pick up something up as promised, an infraction that some members consider grounds for immediate blocking. I haven’t blocked anyone yet. One person who no-showed for an item later redeemed herself and now I buy eggs from her chickens.
As Anne Helen Petersen wrote recently in her essential newsletter Culture Study, “community-building is periodically no fun at all. It’s un-optimizable. You can’t put it in your resume. You can’t buy it, or hack it, or fast-track it. But its value is beyond measure.”
I’m starting this newsletter to explore all of these ideas and maybe find some kindred spirits, but mostly just to document all the crap I get and give away. Because it’s fun. It’s a hobby. It’s how I live. It’s how I see the world.
So I’ll be back here once or twice a week with Curb Alerts. Stay tuned.