The Environmeddlers brings the world of environmental protest from monkey wrenching to the digital age. In this high-spirited adventure, Clovis, a reformed Sierra Club organizer, teams up with an animal rights grandmother, an unrepentant defender of raw wilderness and a Taoist computer geek to make a difference in an uncaring world where industrial growth, pollution, and habitat destruction continue unchecked.
Following a twisting path across the landscapes of the West, the tiny band encounters high-tech surveillance, an unexpected member of the security establishment, the overwhelming forces of Nature, and ultimately, their own individual passions and ideals.
"We need a new story, something that’ll capture the attention of people all over the country, people tired of the lies and petty drivel on TeeVee, tired of corrupt politicians, tired of dead end jobs and piles of bills for more and more things with less and less meaning.” -- The One-Eyed Cowboy
The writer’s lot is not an easy one these days. With all the exotic distractions available to impressionable youth, the art of reading is declining, taking with it the art of writing.
Nevertheless, those of us who can't help ourselves keep scribbling on in the darkness. We hold in our minds the old-fashioned ideal of a human mind out there somewhere, peering out of its protective skull through eyes looking down at a book, firmly held in the gentle hands of an inquisitive reader.
No matter, I suppose, that the “book” may now be in electronic form, with pages formed from glowing phosphors rather than dead trees. Better for the environment roundabout, one could argue, though those whose roundabout encompasses strip mines and manufacturing effluent might argue the point.
But then, what is “progress” without pollution to give it grit and flavor? And to give environmentalists something to organize and rant about.
Over the years, I've collected these thoughts and ideas in my wanderings about this poor abused and blighted planet. These impressions were captured over the past forty years or so, pinned to the rapidly diminishing cells of my memory, carefully positioned and firmly affixed into the pages of this small volume. Think of this as a shadowbox containing the preserved butterflies of my mind.