Galvin crop

When I first read the story about Ashland installing state-of-the-art trash cans on busy street corners across the city — receptacles that came with solar panels, refuse compactors, scenic exteriors and a per unit price tag of $4,783 — my first instinct, and perhaps yours, was to check the date the story was published.

To my surprise, and perhaps yours, it was not April 1.

My second instinct was to give myself a dope-slap and mumble, “Self … it’s Ashland.”

Perhaps you did as well.

Now, I have nothing against ridding high-traffic areas of unsightly items that nefarious types failed to properly rid themselves of. (Still trying to get a handle on ending sentences with prepositions.)

And, certainly, there’s nothing wrong with employing aesthetic improvements — although why a visitor to the city would enjoy the scenery as pictured on a trash can, as opposed to just, well, looking around at the scenery, I can’t hazard a guess.

But for $4,783 a pop, what a city spokeswoman called a “transformative upgrade to our waste and recycling infrastructure” needs to do more than collect trash.

Maybe it could borrow a page from Taco Bell’s playbook and pleasantly thank you for using it properly, offer a reminder that what you’re about to throw out is recyclable, or scold you for missing the target completely.

“Hey you, you there,” it could say. “Don’t you know I am a transformative upgrade that combines ‘functionality with artistic beauty, offering solutions to common urban challenges’? … Give me your coffee cups, your cold fries, your used facial tissues. … You could like this place, and willingly place your waste in it.”

Just spitballing here.

On the other hand, if a city wants to spend 60 grand of its lodging tax revenue on 11 garbage cans, who am I to trash them?

Besides, as I said, considering the solar-power-compactored, photo-covered, urban-challenge-solving transformative upgrades was but my second instinct when I read about their existence.

I was, and perhaps you were, primarily interested whether the story itself was an April Fool’s Day prank.

Alas, ’twas not to be. Which is why I, and perhaps you, found ourselves with a lugubrious look. I’ve always enjoyed a well-thought-out prank story; just something right on the edge of believability that momentarily stops the reader in their tracks long enough to consider the possibility.

You know, something like a one-time governmental decision to establish a March 32nd to stabilize the universal world calendar. Or a scientific expedition to the bottom of Crater Lake to find the entrance to the tunnel that leads to the UFO base beneath Cave Junction.

Or, if you really want to strain the limits of credulity, imagine a huckster trying to hock Bibles that include the texts of historically important documents such as the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence and the lyrics to “God Bless the U.S.A.”

Okay, so some stories are even too outlandish for hourly discussion on your preferred fake news outlets.

The point is, Bigfoot has been seen more frequently than a believable April Fool’s gotcha. These days, what was once a tinfoil-hat-worthy conspiracy theory is now considered an alternative fact. It’s come to the point where you don’t dare risk spewing some trumped-up snake oil into the universe for fear that someone, perhaps millions of someones, will swallow it faster than true believers can chug a bottle of Dr. Sylvester Andral Kilmer’s Swamp Root tonic.

So, Ashland’s trash cans — despite all desires to the contrary — are as real as the tunnel beneath Crater Lake. Maybe even more so.

Oh well. There’s always next March 32nd.