We don't always allow poetry on our site (especially after the Great Rhyming Curse of 2012), but we'll make an exception for Washington state poet laureate Kathleen Flenniken. In Shell Game, a short made in four days for the 2013 International Documentary Challenge, Flenniken describes what it was like to grow up next to the Hanford Nuclear Site. Flenniken covers the history of the location -- from national pride to Superfund site -- and the conflicted feelings that arise from calling Hanford home.
If you've ever accidentally discarded a set of six-pack rings and worried about strangling a turtle, you should be afraid for your own hide instead. This Official Comedy video explains it all -- and does the impossible by making A Flock Of Seagulls sound even more menacing.
What do you call a festering schoolbus-sized glob of lard? If you answered 'fatberg,' you'd fit right in at the U.K.’s largest water company. Thames Water uses the silly term to describe a serious lump of trouble that was, until recently, lurking in the London sewer system.
The 33,000-pound 'berg came from modest beginnings: flushed wet wipes and food waste created from Brits pouring grease and fatty foods down the drain. "Fatberg creation is a vicious cycle," Thames Water media relations manager Simon Evans told Henry Grabar of Atlantic Cities. “Fat clings to wipes, wipes cling to the fat."
Neither of these substances should be in the sewer. As John Upton wrote last month, wet wipe packaging claims flushability, but wipes don't come apart in sewers like toilet paper. "You can reach into the fat and you can pull out a wet wipe and it will be sturdy," another Thames Water employee told NBC. And it's easy to let a little fish 'n' chips grease slip down the drain when you don't expect it to turn into Flubber's Revenge: Return of the Grease Menace. While this fatberg is of record-breaking, monstrous proportions, average sewer buildup takes its toll, too. Thames Water spends $1.5 million monthly blasting out smaller fatty deposits, wrongful flushes, and other blockages.
Fatberg (yes, we're on a first-name basis) managed to congeal itself until toilets started backing up. Sadly, this blob couldn't just be killed with fire extinguishers: It took a team of eight to blast the monstrosity apart with high-pressure water hoses, and repairs are expected to take six weeks.
With a scent described as “the worst wet dog you can ever think of" and a texture that “feels like wax and smells much worse,” fatberg is a cautionary tale that will ensure years of nightmares for chafed-butt children doing the dishes. Terrifying photo below the fold:
We wake up to our phones. On Twitter, respected news organizations scramble for civilian breadcrumbs from the latest scandal, retweeting and blogging without pausing to check sources. Meanwhile, on Facebook, one friend "likes" Walmart, another shares a Sandy Hook conspiracy theory, and a third sneers about climate change while Instagramming an unseasonable snowfall. Those same bright screens tuck us in late at night, screwing up our internal rhythms and sleep. Corporations, on a constant quest for growth, and our government, in an eternal war against terrorism, gather up as much of this information as they can, searching for patterns of threat and opportunity.
Still with us? Congratulations, so far you've survived the 21st century with an attention span intact. That’s no easy task nowadays: We’ve become so obsessed with chasing the moment, we’re not even living in it, media theorist Douglas Rushkoff argues in his latest book Present Shock: When Everything Happens Now. In Present Shock, Rushkoff attempts to make sense of a world brimming with information but free of context. He posits our society has experienced a fundamental shift in the way we experience time. If the last century was characterized by an infatuation with the future and the Next Big Thing (the title’s a play on Alvin Toffler’s 1970 book Future Shock), modern culture’s favorite tense is present.
And while living in the moment complicates dealing with future problems like climate change, "presentist" culture holds opportunities for environmentalists, too. We've given up on some of the ideologies of the 20th century and are beginning to grope at something new. Rushkoff points to Occupy Wall Street as the first fully presentist political movement, one that discards end goals and debates in favor of building consensus and making changes on the ground. And we’re poised to transcend being passive consumers: Technology can enable us to question corporations and find new, more sustainable models of commerce.
But how do we encourage an open, vibrant world without being driven crazy? While the knee-jerk reaction is to just unplug, Rushkoff is no luddite. He’s been writing about the internet since the early '90s and insists the solution lies in understanding our technology and making it work for, rather than against, us. We must become the programmers instead of the programmed, he argues.
I recently chatted with Rushkoff over the phone about the implications Present Shock has for green issues. (This conversation seems to have staying power across a wide range of media: Rushkoff blew Stephen Colbert’s mind back in May, and he was on Marc Maron’s podcast last week.) The man has a sharp way with words -- he describes Facebook as a modern-day Tupperware party and doesn't hesitate to give the middle finger to Walmart. Below, highlights from our conversation.
Woody Harrelson could put the crunchiest Grist staff member to shame. The Academy Award nominated actor lives off the grid in a solar-powered, organic farming community in Hawaii. He’s been a vegan for 26 years and eats a mostly raw diet. Scratch dairy or meat cravings. He just craves cooked food.
Harrelson, who calls himself a “lover of the forest,” first became involved in environmental causes back when he was playing the part of a bartender on Cheers. In '92, a bipartisan bill in Congress aimed to make millions of acres of virgin Montana wilderness available to logging companies. Harrelson joined forces with a coalition of environmentalists, including Peter Bahouth of Greenpeace, that was pressuring lawmakers and pushing to weaken the legislation. While the bill ultimately failed, it got him thinking, “Geez, even if you do stop the deforestation here or there, the timber industry just goes somewhere else. You really need to change systems.”
For Harrelson, that meant finding a replacement for paper made from wood. And so, in the late '90s, Harrelson started working with Canadian entrepreneur Jeff Golfman to figure out how to make paper without using wood. After 15 years of research and development, the company has a product made from 80 percent wheat straw waste. Today, the company, Prairie Pulp & Paper, is announcing the sale of its Step Forward Paper at Staples stores.
On a sunny Saturday afternoon, Harrelson made brief calls to the media about the announcement. I took the opportunity to ask him about everything BUT paper, but he managed to squeeze in some paper talk anyway. Golfman, Prairie Pulp & Paper's president, joined us for the call. Here's our lightly edited conversation:
I was 9 years old when the political first became personal. Swayed by stories of kids not much older than me stitching together soccer balls and sneakers, my sister, mom, and I made a pact to never wear Nike. In a sea of Air Jordans, I held my own in uncool shoes* against neoliberal arguments I could tell were bullshit years before I hit puberty.
Sixteen years later, I found myself sneaking stories about sustainable fashion into Grist. Why clothing? Why this issue, so often associated with vanity, and not another, more worthy topic? What about the local food movement? Or the multifaceted battles over renewable and dirty energy? The world is burning, and you want to write about jeans? Really?
That’s all important, but it wasn’t until I tried to write about the recent collapse of the Rana Plaza garment factory building in Bangladesh that I made the connection as to why this stuff matters so much to me. By last count, more than 1,000 people have died in Rana Plaza, making it the most deadly accident the garment industry has ever seen.
One-thousand. For comparison, the 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist fire, which spurred safety and labor laws across the U.S., killed 146. Last November, 117 people died in the Tazreen Factory fire in Bangladesh. And while they were still pulling bodies out of Rana Plaza’s rubble, another Bangladesh factory went up in flames on Thursday, killing eight.
Your favorite clothes always have stories attached. Like your best-loved jeans with the soft knees from hours of gardening or that shirt you wore on the blind date with the weirdo from the wine futures business who ended up becoming your husband.
But what about your clothing’s story before it ever held your body and softly whispered “Pinot Noir 2007” into your ear? Aside from that tiny “Made in Indonesia” tag, our clothing rarely tells us where it’s been, who made it, or how it was dreamed up.
Telling those tales is the inspiration behind the online apparel hub Of a Kind, which connects shoppers with small-time, and often sustainable, clothing makers. Working under a philosophy similar to the “know your farmer” creed of the food movement, the site aims to make “people feel like they’re investing in a person and not just buying a necklace or a bag,” says President and Cofounder Erica Cerulo.
Here’s how it works: Of a Kind works with a designer to release tiny batches of clothing or accessories that are usually made in the U.S. and often handmade. Alongside its wares, the site gives glimpses inside the designers’ studios and creative processes.
The next time your weird uncle Jim says it's arrogant to assume lil' ol' people can affect something as big as the atmosphere, try using the visual described in this video. All you need is a soccer ball, newspaper, and the patience to explain it again after your science-hating cousin inevitably kicks the planet out of your hands.
When Anslee Connell was growing up, her TV was always tuned to Nick at Nite. She was enamored with the fashion of TheMary Tyler Moore Show, I Love Lucy, and Bewitched and spent hours digging through secondhand shops and her grandmother’s closet. But the vintage finds just didn’t fit. “I’ve always been a big girl,” she says. “I remember saying, ‘One day, I’m either going to be able to wear this or I’m going to make something like this.’”
Luckily for full-figured vintage lovers in Austin, Connell not only picked the latter, she decided to make a career out of it. For the past three and a half years, she’s been designing clothing under the moniker Savannah Red. And the 27-year-old is committed to sustainability, with a sizable percentage of her materials coming from upcycled, vintage, or organic sources.
One of the few plus-sized designers working with a sustainability bent, Connell makes dresses out of old tablecloths and bedsheets and has a soft spot for reworking vintage polyester, as its colors hold much brighter than newer blends. She sums up her philosophy with a phrase she spotted on the side of an apartment building in Switzerland: “Whoever destroys the old does not deserve the new.” Making good use of existing materials and time-tested styles, rather than just chasing trends, gives her designs a timeless edge.
And the old can look damn good. “The ‘50s silhouette really comes in at the waistline and accentuates the natural curves of the female body,” she says. “Today’s styles don’t accentuate curves at all, especially for the plus-sized woman.”
On the business side, things aren’t always easy. Taxes and profit margins and reality can hit hard. And selling $200 dresses in a world brimming with $5 ware from H&M and Forever 21 will always be an uphill battle. “I’ve been running into so many ‘no’s lately,” she says. Connell works out of her garage and still babysits occasionally to make ends meet.
While this is dandy for formal events, if you’re like me, your idea of everyday luxury is a shirt with no visible holes and/or marinara stains. Renting something for daily wear seems far-fetched, obtuse. Not to mention, not-so-sustainable. If you’re so caught up in trends that you need to constantly update your wardrobe, the clothing selection’s rentability will diminish faster than your wallet and green cred.
Two sites that bridge the gap nicely are Mine for Nine for maternity rentals and thredUP for kid’s clothes. While we obviously don’t want y’all getting pregnant just so you can rent some flexi-pants and OshKosh B’goshes, it makes sense to quit buying clothing for rapidly changing bodies.