Say what, Mr. Green Liberal?! |

Say what, Mr. Green Liberal?!

John Seelmeyer is a sly devil, with a finely honed sense of the absurd. Else why would the editor of The Union have run the greenest bit of blarney to appear on this page so far this year on the eve of St. Patrick?

I refer, of course, to the column penned by Brian Vincent which appeared in The Union last Saturday.

I don’t usually respond to the work of other columnists, but Brian’s is so outrageous I can’t resist pointing out the sheer silliness it contained.

Mr. Vincent apparently believes he is prescient. He writes, “Nevada County is quintessential California. We eschew conflict.”

Just who is “we”? Brian obviously has us confused with Marin or Santa Cruz or Berkeley or Santa Monica or some of the other People’s Republics that fester on the state of California like boils on Job.

He goes on: “We don’t like our chi to be upset, We prefer Pilates to politics, drum circles to debates.”

I suspect that most residents of Nevada County rarely give a second thought to their “chi.” In fact, if I said “chi!” to most of the folks I know, they’d respond, “Geshundheit.” I’d be willing to bet that a lot more Nevada Countians hold valid hunting licenses than have ever participated in a drum circle. As for Pilates, maybe we do prefer them if the Board of Supervisors is an example.

Brian bemoans the plight of the California spotted owl, Pacific fisher and wolverine.

The spotted owl is not endangered, never was. So how did it become the icon of the goofy greens? For now, their primary thrust is anti-logging. As far as they are concerned, all of wooded California is a sacred grove. So they looked around for a critter that lives in old-growth trees. Aha, spotted owls. Of course, the owls also live in second-growth trees, new-growth trees, on top of phone poles and atop “Stop NH 2020” signs.

I made the acquaintance of a Pacific fisher once. It lived under the old boathouse at Sardine Lake. When I would take my limit of trout to the fish-cleaning trough, it would pop out and sit there, staring at me, soliciting trout guts.

As for wolverines, you can have ’em. There is no meaner, more vicious, destructive, or fouler-smelling creature on Earth. They have been known to kill and eat mountain lions. That’s the only point I can find in their favor.

It’s pretty plain who Mr. Vincent’s hobgoblins are: “big timber, mining, ranching, real estate, development, profits.” In short, private property, industry and capitalism in general.

He refers to the rancher and farmers of the Klamath Basin, whose livelihoods were taken from them when they were denied water in favor of supposedly threatened sucker fish which, it turned out, weren’t threatened at all. The work of lifetimes was almost destroyed. Families were driven from their land. And Brian calls them, “a few belligerent individuals.”

Nowhere in Brian’s column will you find a good word for people. We are the problem. We must get out of the way of all the furred, finned and feathered creatures, no matter what the cost.

Brian wrote: “It is important to remember that national forests are owned by the citizens of the United States. Residents of New York City, Tampa and Spokane have an equal stake in how their public lands are managed.” That’s what he wrote because he didn’t have the guts to write what he really believes. So I’ll do it for him: It is important to remember that national forests are owned by the citizens of the world. Residents of Norway, Tashkent and Sierra Leone have an equal stake in how our public lands are managed.

The Green Machine, for which Brian is a mouthpiece, is an international movement. It is Marxism re-heated. Its goal is to destroy capitalism, and its opening wedge is environmentalism.

That’s why I, like Brian, am not interested in compromises. I make no apologies for my positions on the greens, which is, stated briefly, “take no prisoners.”

Finally, he wrote, “Environmentalists are drive by a complex array of psychological factors, not the least of which is our need to be liked.”

That was the only genuinely funny line in the whole mess.

W.H. Brooke, who lives in Nevada City, writes a monthly column.

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