My name is Kelsey Juliana and I’m suing the United States government
for causing and accelerating the climate change crisis. I’m 22 years old
and I’ve been a climate activist for more than half of my life.
I know that young people like me, and others who have yet to be born,
have a right to a safe climate system. The constitution guarantees all
Americans the right to life, liberty, and property. But how is anyone
supposed to live a life of freedom amid a climate crisis? My own
government is violating my constitutional rights by its ongoing and
deliberate actions that cause climate change and it’s not right.
I, along with 20 other young people from around the country, filed a lawsuit against the federal government in 2015, called Juliana v. United States.
We’re not asking for money. Instead, we’re asking the court to order
the government to develop and implement a National Climate Recovery Plan
based on the best available science.
This plan should end the reign of fossil fuels and quickly
decarbonize our atmosphere so that we can stabilize our climate system
before it’s too late.
The longer we go without climate recovery, the more we risk allowing our climate to spiral completely out of control.
And the climate is spiraling out of control, no matter how many
politicians claim we’re experiencing normal fluctuations or, worse, a
“hoax.” All of the expert witnesses in our lawsuit say that we are
currently—already—in the “danger zone” and an “emergency situation” with
only 1°C of planetary heating. Allowing the planet to heat up any more
is not safe for our species, as well as so many others. And according to
the Trump administration’s most recent environmental impact statement,
the planet could heat as much as 7°F before the end of this century. We
cannot allow this to happen because we simply will not survive.
We originally filed our lawsuit against the Obama administration.
That administration tried to have the case dismissed, but the judge
ruled in our favor and found that we should be allowed to go to trial.
In 2017, the Trump administration inherited the lawsuit and it has
done everything in its power, employing every conceivable tactic, to
deny my fellow plaintiffs and me our right to present our case in court.
This administration is so fiercely attempting to silence our voices.
At this point, every level of the federal judiciary—the U.S. District
Court, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, and the Supreme Court—has
denied the Trump administration’s efforts to have the case thrown out.
Yet it will not halt its efforts to avoid standard legal procedures and
confront us, the nation’s youth, in court.
Our trial is officially scheduled to begin on October 29, 2018 in Eugene, Oregon.
What we’re asking for could change everything.
My fellow plaintiffs and I want you with us as we head into the
courtroom to confront the United States government for knowingly
violating our constitutional rights. Supporters will hold rallies in
every state around the country, so if you can’t be with us in Eugene, find your local rally here.
Get regular updates by following @youthvgov on social media.
“We’re also going to hear a lot of moral equivalence and whataboutism. Both sides are over the top. Both sides are too partisan. Let me be clear: Only one party calls for its opponents to be locked up, calls the free press the “enemy of the people,” incites violence at rallies, praises an act of criminal violence by a congressman, deploys race-baiting and xenophobia as a political tactic and stokes fear of crime at a time it is at record lows. To be more precise, the president of the United States does all these things, and by and large, Republicans condone or at the very least ignore him. Afraid of their own shadows and of their own base, Republicans choose to turn a blind eye when Trump whips his crowd into a frenzy — and the audience turns its venom on the media covering the event. We are not saying Trump causes bomb threats; we are saying his rhetoric is unlike any of his predecessors, does damage to our democracy and can motivate fringe characters to behave violently. He systematically destroys comity, decency and rationality in the public square. The violence understandably gets the attention of the public, and of the White House. But the “it’s only words” or “ignore the tweets” or “so he lies” mentality that Republicans use to defend Trump must end. His rhetoric is indefensible. Period.”
Senators Bob Corker, Jeff Flake and John McCain talk a big game about
not letting the GOP be the handmaiden of trumpist corruption, but when
the chips were down last night, they voted with their party and a
tie-breaking vote from Vice President Handmaid’s Tale to pass
legislation that lets financial institutions take away your right to sue
them when they defraud you.
In particular, these clauses ban the kinds of class-action suits that
make it worth top lawyers’ time to sue deep-pocketed, well-represented
blue-chip firms that commit petty thefts against millions of people, no
one of whom is worth representing.
With the CFPB rule dead, Equifax, Wells Fargo, and other mass-scale crooks can rip off the public with total impunity.
If you ever feel like you must be the most unobservant person in the world, remember: I once spent half a year failing to notice that my new favourite restaurant was a money-laundering front for the Ukrainian mafia.
(I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but in retrospect, the fact that it was always dead no matter the time of day – I think the busiest I ever saw it was five people, myself included – well, that should have been a tipoff. Also, the waitstaff kept calling me “Mr. Prokopetz”, which I had assumed was just part of the restaurant’s gimmick, but given that “Prokopetz” is a Ukrainian surname, I’m now force to wonder whether they’d thought I was, you know, in the business. I just liked the pierogi!)
What I need to know is how on earth did OP finally realize his favorite restaurant was a money-laundering front for the mafia.
I’d like to say I put together the clues, but in reality, I just showed up one day to find that the place had been indefinitely shut down, and later learned it was because the managers had all been arrested.
What I really want to know is how good the food was?
Excellent, if your tastes run to the “heavy cream and too much garlic” end of the spectrum.
Every crime front I’ve ever eaten at has had completely amazing food, honestly. I am pretty convinced that if you want to open a front, you don’t choose “restaurant” as your front-business unless you have a relative who loves to cook.
It tickles me that this is evidently a sufficiently common experience that people find it relatable. (Seriously, check the notes!) We should write reviews or something.
did I just read the line “every crime front I’ve ever eaten at” with my own two eyes
Look, I went to college and lived my early adulthood in a town whose entire thing was import/export, and we had a lot of restaurants that were suspiciously empty except when they were closed and filled with very serious men in nice clothes.
They were usually run by someone who was about the right age to be some adult’s parents or grandparents, and in the case of the two Korean restaurants matching this description, they didn’t speak English. Universally though, they were very pleased to see customers, very proud of their cooking, and very very interested in keeping us far away from the aforementioned serious men in nice clothes. And despite having huge dining rooms and never having more than a couple customers, they never went out of business.
Also, because I am very, very stupid and sometimes don’t think before I talk, I once said loudly, over the phone, while sitting in one of these places, “Hey! Yeah if you want to meet us, we’re eating at [place]. You know…[place]? You totally know it. The Front, on Warwick st!”
The looks I got from every single employee were amazing and then I left.
We had a corner store/deli-place near our apartment in college. Everyone knew they were in on something and no one cared because they looked out for their customers and their neighborhood as a whole.
They started stocking my favorites because I mentioned them within hearing range once, would tell their “vendors” to move out of the way if we stopped in. I walked a different route home and got harassed one night and they asked after me. When they found out what happened, they declared “Consider it taken care of, you should never be afraid around here.” Never happened again.
Everyone needs their friendly neighborhood crime lord.
This is both my favorite and makes me fondly remember home. Less of the eateries, more of the mysterious retail joints that never seem to close despite no one ever buying anything, though. Well. Aside from the juice bar. Didnt last, though.
I found these places everywhere I lived. My favorite was an omurice place near my home in Japan, and a mother/son officially ran it. The food was incredible, and one night I was there and there was a boisterous crowd of BLATANTLY yakuza men eating and drinking. They started talking to me, and were super nice. Said they wanted to “practice their English,” and paid for my food and drinks and then said they wanted to take me to karaoke. That was a little alarming, but the mother/son, who seriously looked after me as the only foreigner in the area, said I should go, and the son came along. So we piled into a white landboat Cadillac and partied until dawn.
One of the older men at the party took me to my neighborhood and dropped me off out front (the car was literally too big to fit down the small neighborhood streets) and said that I had his blessing.
Which was confusing, but I was drunk, so whatever. Then I went back to the restaurant about a week later and the mother said, “the family approves of you. You may marry our son if you wish and be welcomed.”
I did not marry him, but wow. There were no hard feelings, either. They still helped out if I got harassed by the cops (which happened a lot in these smaller towns with no foreigners) or anything like that.
I have a very similar story about a cuban restaurant that I loved, and would frequently visit after pulling all nighters for cafecito and these amazing breakfast sandwiches. It was only open at ass-crack-of-dawn hours of the morning, while I was always awake, and the guys who owned it and ran was I believed was a cocaine smuggling operation, simply adored me as the half-dead punk college kid that showed up at 4:30 am on a tuesday. Eventually the cops came to my place because they thought I was involved with narcotics and after they searched my apartment and only found my anime convention badges and copy of the D&D players handbook they left with no incident.
The next time I went to the restaurant the guys gave me a free sandwich and this awesome latte. At the time I didn’t think much of it, but in retrospect I think they were thanking me for throwing the cops off their trail by being a huge nerd.
Night after night, when its humans lay warm and quiet in their beds, the robot got up and left the house. It made no sound as it crept to the bottom of the garden, climbed over the fence, and dropped onto the wide, dusty road that led to the edge of town. No one saw it leaving the village each night after the moon rose, and no one saw it returning each morning when the sun was still below the horizon.
No one, save for an old tomcat with one ragged ear, for he is the one who told me this tale.
On the first night, or so said the cat, the moon was round and full, and the robot walked down a silver street until it came to the edge of town. It walked past the last house, and then past the barley. It passed by the corn and the wheat and the sorghum and the rye, but when it came to the edge of the forest, it stopped, for that is where the road split in two.
The moon rose high and the stars circled slowly overhead, but the robot stood still and staring, as if it were carved from silent stone and empty as a hollow barrel. Only when the stars had faded from the sky did it move, trodding silently back home and letting itself into the house like it had not been gone at all.
Night after night, the robot made its silent trek to the edge of the forest, until the moon had grown as thin and fragile as a fingernail clipping. Only on the fourteenth night, when there was no moon at all and the night was as dark as it could be, did it find what it had been waiting for.
“You are very persistent,” said The Devil, by way of greeting. “I don’t come by these parts so much these days.”
“But you came.” The robot did not sound surprised.
“Aye, so I did.” The Devil gave a little shrug. “I know where I am wanted. What’s a thing like you want from a guy like me, anyway?”
“I wish to do business with you,” said the robot, matter-of-factly. “There is a bargain I would like to strike.”
The Devil raised its eyebrows. “Oh?” it said, the corners of its mouth quirking into a little smile. “Surely you know the… nature of my business, if you knew to find me here.”
The robot nodded. “Oh, yes. I know who you are and what you deal in. I have come to plea on behalf of my human, who once signed your book as a young man. He is not yet old, but he has found prosperity and a family and found reason to want his soul back.”
“That is not how it works,” said The Devil sourly. “A deal is a deal.”
“If you will not return it, I offer myself in his place,” offered the robot, bowing its head. The Devil laughed.
“You have no soul,” it said. “What could I possibly want with you?”
The robot looked up sharply. “Why, I have a strong back and a quick brain, and I can work without tire for many—-“
“No, no, that’s no good to me.” The Devil waved its hand impatiently. “I accept only one kind of currency, and you are quite penniless! Your human is mine and shall remain mine, if you have no sweeter offer.
The robot was silent for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps,” it said suddenly, sounding surprised with itself, “Perhaps if you gave me a soul, I could trade it back to you in exchange for my human’s liberation…?”
The Devil made an odd choking sound. “Give you a soul?!” it exclaimed. “Did I hear that right?”
“Yes,” said the robot. “Just a little one, that I might nurture and grow. Give me a soul of little value and I will return it to you when it is as full and strong as my human’s is, and then you will have your payment.”
The Devil thought about this. It had never considered the business of soul renovation, but it was a fascinating idea, and might prove very amusing. It made a mental note to rethink the potential uses of the funny little machines that humans had made in their own image.
“Very well,” it said at last. “This is an interesting offer. I accept, on the condition that the soul you return to me is in pristine shape when I come to collect it – live virtuously, for if I find that it is blemished in any way and you have been neglecting its care, I will take it back and your human’s as well.” It smiled to itself, already giddy with the promise of reward.
“It is a deal,” said the robot, and extended its hand.
“Good luck,” said The Devil, spitting a tiny soul onto its palm and clasping it against the robot’s. As the soul entered the metal hand, the robot cried out and stumbled back, shaking its arm like it was trying to dislodge a leech from its finger.
“What have you done to me?!” it wailed, in a distorted digital voice.
“Precisely what you asked,” The Devil answered. “A soul is a great burden, little machine. I hope you are up to the task of tending to it.”
Then the old tomcat, who had been crouching among the rye and watching these strange events unfold, felt every hair on his back stand up as The Devil blew a little kiss at the place where he was hidden. He had been an orange cat at sunset, but by sunrise he had become white as snow from the tip of his tufted tail to his little pink nose, or so he told me.
Is there any word that’s had a wilder evolutionary path than “gothic”?
Seriously, it went from meaning this:
to this:
to this:
and finally ended up as this:
You go you funky word, keep on trucking.
There’s a good reason for that!!!
Here’s an explanation literally no one asked for, and OP probably already knows, but I like talking about all my hyperfixations, and this covers like four of them. (Now, I’m going off the top of my head and its been a few years since I took an art history class) but the jist of it is that the “new” cathedral style that ended up being called Gothic, was called so, because the flying buttresses and pointed arches, and other pointy, overdramatic details were considered kind of barbaric compared to the older style. I want to say this was the point where cathedrals went from being ‘ornate’ to ‘dear god what the fuck are you even doing?!”
So basically we have gothic as this word that means, big and old and overdramatic and vaguely threatening. Which goes perfectly with the mood needing to be set by authors who place characters dealing with a crisis of faith, or a crisis of morality, in this big old mouldering expansive tomb of a house that represents everything of the distant past and the dark secrets rotting the foundations of polite society. But…the Victorians worshipped the austere version of the greeks and neoclassical, and all that neat white marble. But also an austerity as far as people went, there was this Christian ideal to aspire to.
So the decrepit tomb aesthetic, the doom and gloom and the decaying manor house, The Fall of Usher thing, it was popular for the same reason anything creepy is popular now. That love for the morbid and forbidden has never not existed. I mean…Bram Stoker’s Dracula was a best seller when it come out because it had all of the above and THEN some.
So far we’ve got Gothic as old and decaying and overdramatic and threatening but also kind of sexy (see gothic romances, or the use of gothic romance/gothic horror to explore Victorian fears and anxieties about sex and death and immorality).
Fast forward to the late 1970s when Siouxsie and the Banshees distilled that into a look and a performance. They were a punk band, but Siouxsie dressed like a vamp, she had the Theda Bara makeup and wore Victorian lingerie on the outside, but also fishnets and pointy boots. She was the femme fatale. She had the sex and death of both Vampira and Theda Bara, but her and the band had the theatrics of Screamin Jay Hawkins. A journalist described their music as gothic, as an insult, and exploded outward from there. But…they weren’t the sole band to be described this way, or necessarily the first to sound like that or dress like that. But they had enough of all these things to have that word linked to them. And their fans, and The Cure’s fans, and Sister’s of Mercy’s fans, and Bauhaus’ fans, created the subculture and look that we call Goth now. And much of the look has fanned out and expanded from years and years of the world’s most dramatic people trying to outdo each other at the club.
That’s how we got from A to B. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.
So what you’re telling me is that “gothic” really just means “extra.”
