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09 July, 2014

Freedom Inc.

Phoneto by Zonk'em

Outside of Buck's Spice Shop and Darby's, two businesses I gladly choose to support, there is an interstice of green in the sidewalk. Grey, gray,...grass! There's a little (but still larger than the li'l lawn) brass plaque identifying this space as a park. Now and then, there's the sign you see here, miniscule but effective.

"Keep off the grass*" resinates this week, what with the opening of the first legal pot stores outside of Colorado. As my family waited on Sunday morning for a table at Darby's, we saw the sign and the roach** thoughtfully tucked into the park to stack on another entendre***.

We laughed, and took a few photos, inspiring other people to do the same. My kids didn't start doing drugs, I managed to hold onto my job, and breakfast--although served to Led Zeppelin live--was delicious, and in no way a freakshow. Legal pot in 2014 Washington is,...so what?

It was interesting to hear reports on NPR that actually spoke of today's opening of pot stores here in terms of "civil rights," maybe not on par with gay marriage (local reaction: we're totally used to it,...so what?), but a great day for freedom, in the words of a guy who'd been in line since 4AM (sorry, guy who showed up at 4:20) to be the first to buy legal weed,**** only to say he'd light up to "Dark Side of the Moon,"***** sorta like he has for 33% of the 1,287 bags of reefer****** he's bougth before, illegally.

Equality for people who don't fit in the archaic man-woman identities and roles is a civil rights issue, but what happened today is a consumer issue. In Americo, though, consumer freedom has increasingly stood in for and even pushed aside the more basic freedoms in the Constitution.

Today gets reported by those who worry as the Beginning of the End, gateway drug to utter debauchery and decay. Meanwhile, others spout some crap about Freedom when what they're being offered is a chance to pay premium prices plus 25% tax (that's right, Washington State imposes a 25% tax on this freedom) for something that's actually pretty easy to get outside of the official stores. The saying "Freedom isn't Free" needs to be amended, "And it's Heavily Taxed".

So, light up and celebrate if you must, but don't let the ability to go to a store and light up legally make you think you're more free, don't let THC be the opiate of the masses, and don't develop memory loss about more fundamental freedoms at stake in this changing AmeriCo. For real freedom, don't feed the stores that will compete and merge and take-over and consolidate into the same corporate creature that stalks every revenue flow; go chip a park out of the concrete.


* an archaic term for psychoactive cannabis
** an archaic term for the remains of a partially smocked grass cigarette, or "joint"
*** a French term. I only explain archaic terms, so you're on your own for this one
**** archaic term for grass*
***** archaic stoner music
****** archaic term for a joint** or maybe weed****

20 June, 2014

Swallowed

On the Road to Now-nowhere
The archaeologist hacking his way through the jungle, parting the bushes and glimpsing a Mayan pyramid in the grasp of lianas rising toward the canopy, is as easy for most people to imagine as the other archaeologist (this time wearing a pith helmet) kneeling at the base of an Egyptian pyramid in the desert.

In this part of the world, tribes built no pyramids, and the rains made ruins of their mightiest longhouses before archaeologists got to them. There are no ancient lost cities in the Northwest rainforest, at least not anything as obvious as you would see in Honduras or Peru.

What does exist are more recent cities, no less festooned in ferns or draped in vines. Entire towns that thrived into the 1940s have been swallowed by our temperate jungle. You might realize you are approaching one when you find yourself on a causeway, smaller trees in your path and a slit of sky above, as in the first photo. This path used to be a road, or if flat and not so curvey, a railroad. Rails and ties are gone, because like the towns, timber railroads flowed and ebbed; when the trees were cut, the rails were lifted and sent elsewhere to haul out another forest.



Once upon a time, this perspective would be under a railroad.
Huge swaths of western Washington were stripped of their trees. It started with the California Gold Rush, when Puget settlers found a ready market for logs and lumber, but the pace and scale really took off a generation or two later, when steam power jumped ashore in the form of donkeys (a machine used to haul logs) and iron horses. Instead of a few lumberjacks and teams of oxen (I don't see much evidence that actual donkeys played a major role in NW logging, ever), logging became an industrial affair. Men who had cut their fill in Minnesota in the 1870s moved west and by 1900 were engaged in technologically and logistically more advanced logging.



As Europe crept toward WWI, its New World sons built mills to saw the great Northwestern forests into boards and shingles. As the war erupted, they kept on cutting and eve picked up the pace. Huge mills sprang up by rivers and streams, no longer because a water wheel provided the power, but because dammed waterways made ponds capable of holding vast quantities of logs dumped from trains, sorted, and fed to the machines before being hauled back out as lumber destined for markets nationwide.


The scale of some of these operations boggles the mind, given their seemingly remote locations to modern residents of Pugetopolis. Substantial amounts of capital were sunk into towns stretched out along rail lines in places where less-traveled road pass today. Hundreds of people answered the work whistle every day in places that now boast a few trailer homes and little more, or that have been completely swallowed by resurgent (of degraded) woods.

Because of Wobbly Slavs, Commie Finns, and their other organized comrades, the mill owners built housing and infrastructure to attract and retains the hundreds of people needed to cut the trees and run the mills. They sometimes got electricity and sewage before their neigboring communities. Though the work could be brutally demanding and dangerous, workers came, and the Company was ready with houses for the family men and hotels and pool halls for the lone lumberjacks, ready to circulate the paycheck back into company coffers. There would be an office in town, but nearly always, the money ultimately flowed to Seattle or back east.

Didn't I see this in Myst?
Workers' fortunes flooded and ebbed with strikes and strike-backs. Owners went boom and bust as markets rose and fell. But ultimately, few of the early 20th Century timber towns escaped the inevitable: when forests became stumps, there was no money to be made. Companies that owned the land they'd harvested might eke out a few more bucks enticing hapless outsiders (among them, Dustbowl refugees) to buy clearcut land for farming, but the towns went down. As soon as the timber ran out, so did the companies, salvaging what they could of the machinery and rails before they pulled out.

Workers went elsewhere, voluntarily or otherwise, and the businesses that served them went under. Salmonberry settled and alders arrived, vanguards of a long distant old growth forest that may see the whole cycle repeat. Wooden buildings were burnt or demolished or just left to collapse. Mill roofs fell in, leaving only concrete shells of the buildings. Log ponds were colonized by beavers or eutrophied on their own.

And now, less than a lifetime after many of these towns heard the whine of saws and hoot of the whistle at the end of each shift, only the birds and wind make noise. Trees, vines, ferns, mosses, and untold numbers of microbes and arthropods colonize these old towns in the name of nature. Even in my limited awareness, there are dozens of these abandoned towns, sprouting timber (some of it now being harvested). The high water mark of civilization's tide is way back in the woods these days, and towns that were are swallowed.

11 June, 2014

"Won't get Fooled Again" (Oh yeah they will)

Having drunk the kool-aid, and realizing that it doesn't work, Rep. Cantor looks ill.

Oh, there were so many choices for titles to a post about House majority leader Cantor getting offed by the even nuttier right. I was pretty close to going with "Meet the New Brat, Same as the Old Brat," but I don't yet know that will prove true.

What is true is that I'm happy as ever to have fled Virginia's 7th Congressional District. Not quite a month ago, I wrote about those of us who have joined the Virginia Diaspora, citing among other factors that Eric Cantor, former Reagan Youth stalwart and petulant obstructionist extraordinaire, was being challenged from the right. Apparently, pundits wrote off the challenge, even though the tea party and Brat brigade had recently ousted Cantor's henchmen in the state GOP convention, under-cutting the now Establishment incumbent. He managed to keep that one fairly quiet, but losing by 11 points in a primary getting national attention is not something that can be ducked. 24 hours after the election, he's already conceded the power he once had.

Which would be cause for rejoicing, if there weren't a pretty solid chance that David Brat, blindered economist, weren't now a very good bet to win the 7th District's seat in Congress. I'd like to think that the Henrico suburbs that voted for Obama might shy away form a Tea Party wing-nut, but odds are they will once again vote against their own self-interest and elect the guy. I'd love to believe that Brat won by virture of Democrats voting in the GOP primary, sabotaging the Republicans by nominating a guy too far right to win in the general election, but I know enough old-minded Virginians (the ones who show up during working hours on a mid-week primary, the ones who feel threatened by the Socialist Negro) to believe that they were the ones that made the difference. They got rid of the sharp dressing guy who compromised once, and installed a more conservative, more dogmatic, more Christian man.

None of the breathless coverage today veered into the fact that Cantor is a Jew in the GOP South. And to be honest, Richmond is the rare southern city that has been fairly accepting of its Hebraic residents (one of the oldest Jewish cemeteries in the US is there, and Jeff Davis even appointed Judah Benjamin to cabinet posts), but the modern voters seem happy to go Old testament on this one, turning him out into the desert as a scapegoat. It's no longer sufficient to be for corporations and big money, the modern Republican candidate must establish his bona fides as an utterly dogmatic right-winger, never giving an inch. The emphasis on Jesus and God from the new Brat, comforting to so many Virginia Christians who imagine themselves oppressed, could have much darker echoes as the radical right gropes its way toward control of the Reichstag.

Hopefully, that dark a future is mere speculation. The bare facts, however, are bad enough. Faced with an economy in which the 0.1% reap all the benefits, and have bought Republican obstruction to anything the Democrats propose--in short, an economy guaranteed to further impoverish nearly everyone--well over 50% voted the punish the guy who they vaguely sense may have compromised somewhere along the way, replacing him with an even more strident anti-government zealot.

Will the Virginians who voted Brat in at the primary hand him a seat in Congress? Probably.

Will they one day realize that votes like that amounted to handing over their hard-earned money to oligarchs, the only ones who can afford clean water and filtered air? Probably not. They'll blame a Black man, or a Jew, or a Socialist (or a Woman, should Hillary or Elizabeth get the Democratic nod). Even if they realize that they were in fact fooled again, it will be too late.

09 June, 2014

One Seventh

Seven Slices Make a Wheel

Geez. The last two up-to-date posts were depressing, so here I am regressing to nostalgia.

Someday, I'll get around to the post about reinventing the wheel, a popular 20th Century pastime, but for now I' happy just to post a pic of a wheel. Behold yon wagon wheel. Rims of steel (maybe iron) round hub and circumferance of wood (I know not which species).

Look close, and you'll see that the 14 spokes radiate to seven sections of wood, each 51.42857 degrees of a circle. Sure, it would have been easier to go with an even half dozen 60-degree arcs, easy to mark, nothing more than a radial length required if you know the trick, calculation rendered superfluous.

But at what cost? The wheel divided by six is a wheel divided in half, prone to buckling, vulnerable to folding when you hit that rock cockeyed. Divide the wheel into sevenths, and opposite each joint is a solid stretch of strong wood grain. There is strength in oddness.

Do you see?

Maybe not. In which case, I draw to your attention the seven-sliced pie (sorry, no photo). I grew up hearing the legendary prowess of my grandmother, who could slice a pie into even sevenths. Any fool can do eigths, and sixths are pretty easy too, but the seven-sliced pie requires a keen eye. No zipping the knife all the way across; she had to know the center, the 51-point-something angle. Each cut depended on confidence in the face of chaos, each slice an expression of asymmetry that would add up to: symmetry.

The seven-slice pie was not a matter of neccesity. It was a luxury. She had a family of six. The extra slice was for the hard worker home after a long day (her, often enough, because not only granddad went to the mill), the kid who excelled, the neighbor whose kindness merited recognition. Or, he-hee, the cook whose hand made it. Number seven was the extra. They were not rich, grandma and grand-daddy, but they could still live large. 

One Time I Knew a Nazi (Who Got the Order of Killing Correct)

So, a couple of people who ambushed and killed some law enforcement officers (using the brave technique of shooting them while they ate lunch) want to call it a revolution. They draped the bodies in a "Don't Tread on Me" flag, and shouted "This is a revolution," amping up Tea Party rhetoric from the typical spittle-spewing talk to a tragically irreversible walk.

Then they killed someone in a Walmart. Then the woman killed the man, then she killed herself. As in most all murder-suicide sprees, they got the order of killings exactly opposite.

When police searched their apartments, they found swastikas and other evidence of the couples' white supremacist views.

Back in Virginia, I knew a guy who turned into a Nazi, big Nazi flag on the wall, SS memorabilia, black Ninja motorcycle (even Nazis will make some adjustments to the times). He sometimes hung out on the periphery of the punk scene, but we were not interested, and pretty much shunned him, like we did skinheads, who never developed critical mass in our city, at least not back them.

I'd grown up knowing him. We were never friends, but still, it was a shock to walk into his apartment and see a Nazi flag. I never went there again. But then again, I didn't do anything about it. I had no idea wht to do, to be honest, other than the basic shunning.

It turns out he knew what to do though. He was into guns, and one day he put the barrel of one in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Brains splattered on the Nazi flag. He got the order right.

Suicide is an unfair beast, and stalks not just the bad and the ugly, but the good and the tortured. Way too often, it compels someone in its grip to snuff out others before he shoots out his own light. But, not the Nazi I knew. It may sound cold, but for that, I am thankful.

We will never legislate away guns, and there is no way to prevent the gun-wielding gutless "revolutionary" or psycho or asshole from shooting a cop eating pizza or just about anyone else. If I had magical powers, I'm not sure I would even make guns disappear. Maybe I'd just embed in every gun-wielders mind that seed that sprouted in that Nazi's mind, "Turn this on yourself before you turn it on others."

05 June, 2014

Guts, Not Guns

Seems like they happen pretty often, these sickening slaughters. Today, it was close to home, at a college in Seattle. One already dead, and three wounded; sadly, this qualifies as a minor incident compared to some of the rampages that punctuate the American story these days. When will this stop?

There will be people saying that the way to make it stop is to regulate guns. There will be people saying that the way to make it stop is to arm everyone and allow them to carry guns anywhere. All a matter of opinion, I guess. I have my own opinion on the matter, but enough people are spouting, so let's just focus on the facts and look at what actually happened today.

Students and faculty in harm's way got a warning message, and went on lockdown minutes into the attack. The school later said this emergency procedure was in response to another college shooting, back at my home state's Virginia Tech, where some deranged asshole killed nearly 3 dozen people before it was over. Having an emergency response and students and staff trained to take cover saved lives today.

Another piece of data: the slaughter was stopped by an unarmed dorm monitor, Jon Meis, who jumped in as the murderer reloaded, doused him with pepper spray, and subdued him with nothing but his own body. No guns, just guts. 

27 May, 2014

F150 at Work

On the Columbia

For my job, I drive a state-issued Ford F150. When I find myself moonlighting, it's in my own F150. Eerie coincidence?

No. The F150 pickup truck is the most common work-horse in the US of A, so this F150-ization of my driving experience (and the attending pain in my gas-pedal leg and hip), is unique not at all.

On the Palouse

The regular work truck--a "rig" in state agency parlance--is more photogenic, being a red spot, standing out on landscapes basaltic and vegetative, in flower and winter-dead. I have a fair number of photos of the rig in its natural habitat, on two-rut roads through pastures, pulled off logging roads, and so on. Some are close, but more are far, one truck quietly punctuating immensity.

Before I wrote this, I searched various searches to find images of F150 trucks (or rigs) at work.

On the internet


And I was sorely disappointed. The F150 is the most popular working pickup in the country that invented them, and I've heard that the internet is also widely used, but the search for images of this truck at work turned up a bunch of shots of new trucks (lounging around, not working), and for some inexplicable reason: baby seats in the back seat of Ford trucks.

I don't get it, and I intend to fix it. So here and on anthrowback, I'll start posting photos of the most common American work truck at work.

20 May, 2014

LuddITe






1. Noun. Person who knowingly uses obsolete or out-dated hardware and/or software to access the internet and lesser networks.
2. Adj. Tending to opt for less than optimal or state-of-the-art information technology


The LuddITe differs from the aolzheimer's victim in having full (or self-presumed full) awareness that he or she is rejecting, foregoing, or otherwise intentionally dis-availing herself of the latest and greatest IT (an acronym variously believed by luddITes to stand for "Internet Technology," or maybe "Information Technology," or "I-world Titillation").

In the Late Human period, the LuddITe occupied an area of intense anthropological interest, a liminal state between traditional, technology-shunning hominids and the mass-adopters of mainstream tech consumers of the proto-Cyber period. As such, the LuddITe represented an incipient or low-level form of resistance to late-stage capitalism: a consumer, to be sure, but one unwilling to sacrifice cash for the newest product. Initially, the adjectivial use of the word focused on refusal to accept online prompts to update software, but in time, with the rise of sentient AI overlords, came to be viewed as a danger sign, a red flag signalling resistance to improvements devised by AI IT.

19 May, 2014

AOLzheimer's






Noun.     A condition of befuddlement with the internet and computers generally, especially among the aged (see "aoldtimers")

Actually coined by a cadre of forward-thinking programmers at the onset of popular awareness of "Alzheimer's Disease," when AOL was not a thrice-merged shadow of a memory, but instead was internet gateway for the masses (many of them searching for info on Alzheimer's).

Anyway, these guys (Yep, all guys...surprise. In fact, none of them could remember the last time a woman had been in their Command Center, unless you counted the time Randy's mom was accidentally-on-purpose put on speaker phone), these guys were sick of the popularity of what had been their domain since the DARPA days, watching it become a place any half-wit could traipse through, making comments in plain English. (Or American, your welcome.)  Especially irking was when Randy's mom or anyone else that old tried to make sense of the internet, and AOL was responsible for bringing people like that to the web; CD-ROMs with free AOL software arrived at every address in the US for 35 straight months, inevitably adding millions of people online who seemed to suffer dementia. Ergo the epithet.

But like many things these guys considered superlative, "aolzheimer's" never caught on, although they continued to use it. Each year that passed, as "AOL will never win the portal battle," became "That's so 15 minutes ago," then went wireless and left desktops behind and became an ecosystem so that it's now, literally, "What century were you born in?" Each year, the term became more resonant, yet it stayed obscure. And now, as the AOL species threatens to vanish into the fossil record, so too could punny AOL-based disappear with it.

Luckily, "aolzheimer's" was re-discovered by a friend of mine recently on a textile-buying trip to Asia Minor, when he also purchased what he thought to be a pirated version of Snowden's Greatest Hits, and got what appeared to be transcripts of some sort of geek-chat, featuring prominent use of the word "aolzheimer's." He liked it, and asked me to post it, knowing that Mojourner Truth is where all the lexicographers troll for new words, like "rebunk" or "therr".

So, neo-lexicographers and etymo-hipsters, I give you this word and its story, but don't blame me if you think it's mean. I mean, it's not like #lolzheimer's, where they make fun of the elder-demented.*

* Not to be confused with the word "lolzheimers," which is when you laugh so hard you forget what made you laugh. In the aold days, they just called that being stoned, but still, it's a legit word.**

** If you accept "legit" as a word.

17 May, 2014

Penultimate at the Procession

My favorite Procession photo of this year. Not sure why.

Before the brewery's steam whistle blows, before the first rush of forward and pulse of drums and crowds, the Procession is a different thing. The energy is still a bit pent in this penultimate moment; people are more relaxed. A lot of them show up looking like humans, and all through the staging area you see them transmogrifying into their procession species.

Herd, pack, flock, swarm, school, colony, skulk, convocation, dissimulation, smack, pod (or gam), and probably a parliament and shrewdness.* They all coaslesce. There's a check-in, and Earth, Water, Fire and Air creatures have their street to gather in, but it looks like things just sort of happen on their own. People find their groups, talk to friends, and check out the other species.

It's a good time, this Procession penultimacy. 


* You recognize most of these alredy, and if you know them all, then I salute you. In case you don't, though, here's the breakdown: skulk of fox, convocation of eagles, dissimulation of birds, smack of jellyfish, gam of whales, parliament of owls, and shrewdness of apes.
Oh, and yes, I do own James Lipton's masterpiece, An Exaltation of Larks, thanks to the thoughtfulness and generosity of my sister.

13 May, 2014

Walk Away


A few years ago, when I delved into the morass of narcissism and even more unsavory isms that comprise facebook, I half-jokingly started a group called the Virginia Diaspora, for people like me who had been born in the Old Dominion, but had subsequently fled in search of asylum, or peace, or just a change of pace and place. Few people joined, but I did re-connect with a few dozen people I'd known from the neighborhood and school. Many still lived within a half-hour SUV ride of where we'd grown up, some had migrated elsewhere in the Commonwealth or the Mid-Atlantic, and a few had flung themselves farther.

While it was interesting (sometimes) to learn what had become of people, this virtual homecoming reminded me of why I'd left, and set me to wondering how it could have gotten worse than Reagan Era Virginia, which was what had sent me running in the first place. On display: a rainbow of bigotries, a robust sense that rich white heterosexuals were sorely victimized, worship of mammon and guns (and among some, an old white man known as "God"), and intolerance. By no means all of them acted this way, but it was enough to shake my faith in progress, and eventually to turn my back on the virtual place the same way I had on the red clay of my birth-land.

Like I say, not all of the fb "friends" (never has a word been more drained of its soul than when it became synonymous with a single reflexive click) were right-wing ogres. Some had led interesting lives, had opened themselves to more than we'd been raised to accept. A small few became people I kept up with even after the fb environs grew too creepy for me to inhabit. One, I even visited a year ago, when I made my first foray back to Virginia in half a decade.


Which is when I realized (duh) that the virtual world ain't real. The avid gardener hadn't raised more than weeds in years, and was ditching country life for sprawlburbs. Having recently inherited millions, the inheritance tax had become injustice, and people were now threatening to take advantage, including me, when I let her pay for a breakfast biscuit (or, 0.00001% of said inheritance). Roughly an hour from the malaised middle class suburb where we grew up, she was in pretty much the same place, only with more liberal-ish shopping preferences, unable to see the difference between Whole Food Inc. and sustainable foodways.

Oh well.

It would have been easier to take had I not been in shock at what had happened to my old haunts during years of absence. All the farmland and forests were gone, paved over for shopping places that will fade and fall into ruin, and for road after road after road. People doing exactly as the President said in a rare moment of candor, clinging to their god and their guns. Real profits (for a few) and false prophets (for the many) twisting the message of their nominal saviour to justify greed and hatred. Again, not everybody was this way, but enough to make a lefty evolutionist like me damned nervous.

Recently, the news has been no better. A burning trainload of oil falls into the river I once canoed and from which my relatives still get their drinking water, and still the shrill calls for end to government regulation. On Easter morning, people awoke to find eggs in their yards proclaiming racist slogans, and the response was, "Kids are too young to see this," as if it would be comprehensible in a few years. My former US Congressman, Eric Cantor, not ideologically pure enough, is being challenged from the right wing, as people laugh off the concept that there could ever be a Democrat in his position.

I could rant, and I guess I just have (and probably will again), but it would not change anything. Ever since its founding as a commercial colony to benefit the few, Virginia has been driven by wealth and "conservatism." Hell, even the leaders of the revolution against the king started out and ended up being filthy rich, retaining ownership of human beings, and controlling politics in what turned out to be a very English patrician way. Generations later, having jettisoned even the pretense of Enlightenment thinking, Virginians practiced a religion that justified slavery, and backed it up with a war that was, for even the whitest of the common folk, disastrous. From Jim Crow to Massive Resistance to demonized Welfare Queens to the Tea Party, the wealthy string-pullers have mobilized the faithful pawns to protect the interests of the few at the cost of the many.

Maybe it's chickenshit of me to do so, but I choose to be in the Virginia Diaspora rather than stick around and pay taxes to a state so bent on backwardness. I walked away, again.

09 May, 2014

Perpetuating Frank


On Monday, a hero to many of us died. Billy Frank Jr. was a veteran of the fish wars, and although his contributions were many, his efforts a big part of achievements in tribal fishing rights, protection of salmon, and environmental stewardship, he was fighting an uphill battle all the way.

Up until the day he died, it turns out, when his last installment of Being Frank (his column as head of the NW Indian Fisheries Council) was posted. In his 80's, he was getting up every day and working to improve the fisheries and the environment, benefitting not just the treaty tribes, but all of us. At an age when most of us would hope to be relaxing, he kept pushing.

His will be big shoes to fill. Maybe even too much for one person, but fortunately, Uncle Billy touched the lives of multitudes. Obituaries mentioned his associations with state and federal leaders, with presidents even, and included statements from leaders and luminaries, but he also talked with everyone else. Little school-kids, fishermen, members of many tribes, even the very bureaucrats who could make his life painful. He spoke out for what he knew to be right, for his people and for the rest of us, too.

So all of us should carry on for him. That last article of his I mentioned above was about the dangers of an oil terminal where trainloads of crude could load their cargo onto tankers at Grays Harbor. In addition to his, as always, well-reasoned arguments against permitting such nonsense, let me add my little voice: the dredging and construction required for the project would likely obliterate the ancient remains of fish weirs and other sites left by ancient people who managed fisheries successfuly.

You can add your voice by visiting his post, and heeding his call to comment against this oil terminal and other projects that put our environment at risk. His voice will reverberate for generations, but it is time for us to step up and add our own.