Meet the Greenneck

By the folks at www.wickedoutdoorsy.com

The Greenneck has solar panels on his roof and a 454 big block in his Chevy. He recognizes the contradiction. He just doesn't care.

The Greenneck thinks the chainsaw is probably the finest expression of internal combustion on the face of the earth.

The Greenneck considers himself a Bernie supporter. So pugnacious, so pragmatic, such obvious disdain for hair care products. These are qualities the Greenneck can identify with.

But Bernie seems confused of late. So confused, he's calling for a windfall profits tax on big oil and the return of $2 gas. Let's be clear: The Greenneck feels the pinch of $3 gas, and he feels for his fellow Vermonters, many of whom can afford it even less than he. And he can hardly comprehend the quantity of money that's falling into Big Oils' pockets. All those zeros.

The Greenneck is not a big thinker. But if he were, he'd think that a return to $2 gas is the last thing Vermont needs. If he were, he'd think that Bernie is merely pandering to his constituents. And he's think that if Bernie could muster even a fraction of the courage he's shown in the past, he'd be calling for higher energy prices and perhaps even a tax on gasoline to encourage conservation. The Greenneck wonders if such a tax could not be offset by cuts to payroll taxes, or by a tax credit based on a carbon consumption cap.

The Greenneck doesn't drink bottled water. Bottled beer is cheaper.

The Greenneck owns a gun. He bought it two years ago for what he considers to be ethically defendable purposes: Namely, shooting defenseless animals in the head. To date, he's dispatched half a dozen pigs and two steers with the gun… and a hell of a lot of beer cans.

Shooting critters does not make the Greenneck feel good. Sometimes, it makes him profoundly sad (hey, even a Greenneck has feelings). But he does it because he chooses to eat meat and because he believes that if he's going to eat meat, he's going to know what sort of life his dinner led, and he's going to be the one to bring that life to its end. If there's any pleasure in doing it, it's the pleasure in a clean kill and the quiet confidence that comes from putting food on his family's table in the most elemental way possible.

This is not for everyone; this is not for most. But for the Greenneck, it has become strangely addicting. Not the shooting, not the gory aftermath of loosing the innards, but the knowing of a way of life and skill set that's largely lost in today's industrial farm-fed society.

There is no economic justification for raising one's own food; the industrial-farming model that is our food system makes it absurdly cheap to fill your stomach. But then, when the Greenneck raises his own food, it's more than his stomach that's getting filled.

The Greenneck won't hate you if you listen to reggae. He just won't talk to you.

The Greenneck knows that a “bike” can have pedals and weigh 20-pounds, or have a throttle and do wheelies in third gear. He holds equal affection for both expressions of the form.

Last month, when Bill McKibben came to speak at a library just down the road, the Greenneck did not go.
It's not just because the Greenneck didn't think much of McKibben's latest work, which felt a little hollow and cobbled together, even if the overall message resonated. It's not because the Greenneck couldn't spare the time; hell, the dishes were done and the boys drooling onto their pillows by the time McKibben even took the stage.
So why didn't he go? Maybe it's because there's something in Bill McKibben's style that leaves the Greenneck a little cold. It's not as if he doesn't agree with much of what the man says. But there's something a little too… the Greenneck struggles for the right word… (is it intellectual?) … about Bill McKibben. It's not the stuffiness of Gore; it's softer than that. And it's not sanctimony; McKibben's too smart to go that route. Perhaps the Greenneck is simply intimidated by McKibben; perhaps he's just jealous of the man's commercial success, which has come without selling his morals south.

Or maybe it's this. Maybe the Greenneck is weary of the same tired scene: An audience of good, virtuous, Subaru-driving, like-minded folk sitting rapt as the enviroapostle of the evening lays it on. These are good people, and the message is usually spot-on. But it's the same preacher and the same choir and the same sermon – and to the Greenneck, it feels like spinning wheels.

The Greenneck is not sure where the traction is going to come from, but he thinks about it an awful lot.

The Greenneck wishes Axel Rose would come out of hiding.

The Greenneck knows there are other Greennecks all around him. This gives him hope. But then, the Greenneck's always been an optimist.