If you see something, say something

I fear I am a bad citizen. A man up the lake committed a crime which I have failed to report.

In clear violation of the Smugleye-On-Lake Zoning Code,  without seeking official sanction, he maliciously slew, dismembered, and burned a tree whose greatest diameter was greater than six inches.  (My eyeball estimate was about 6 1/4 inches, maybe even 6 5/16.)

The removal of trees, six inches (6”) or larger in diameter, may not be removed within thirty-five feet (35’) of the ordinary high water mark unless such tree is dead, diseased, or has significant storm damage. Such removal shall not be accomplished until application for a tree removal permit is filed with the city and approved by the Zoning Administrator and the Chairman of the Board of Adjustment. If either officer fails to approve the application, the application is denied. An application may appeal to the Board of Adjustment from the denial of a tree removal permit. There is a fee for a tree removal permit. Removal of trees six inches or larger, for visual reasons, is not allowed. Absent special and unusual circumstances, the approval of a tree removal permit shall include a condition requiring the planting and maintenance of a replacement tree.

The culprit confessed to me and arrogantly pointed out the grisly stump. His excuse was laughable; it was (a) ugly, and (b)  barred access to his dock. It was also a stunted Chinese elm, and if you ask me that makes him guilty of a racially motivated hate crime, too. Nevertheless I could not summon the will to call 911.

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Ere he shall lose an eye for such a trifle... For doing deeds of nature! I'm ashamed. The law is such an ass.   George Chapman, England,1654, Revenge for Honour:

Mid-Winter Symphony; Minor Chords

1. The disasters continue.  The 15-year-old Sunbeam quit this morning. An emergency trip to WalMart for replacement. Naah. ...  Head for Starbucks? Likewise,  and besides, there isn't one in a hundred miles (another good reason to live here) . ...  Go without coffee? Unthinkable. ... Dump a handful of grounds in a two-quart pan and let 'er boil? Bingo.

 2. Someone is stealing firewood in New Hampshire.  (Live Cold or Steal). A propane dealer in Nebraska is advising customers to burn wood. My Senator Grassley has written a courageous letter to the FTC, requesting public servants there to be on watch for propane price-gouging and other immoralities.

3. The Great of Room of the quarters here at Camp Jiggleview, of which In am Commandant,  is 76 degrees courtesy of a slow  oaken fire, boiling Folgers, and a little watery January sunshine beaming in through the big south window.

4. Today and early tomorrow won't be too bad, then comes a howling three-day-dirge -- the highest temperature to be zero  and the low 19 below. Winds will turn a small Kia into a viable box kite.

5.  During the coming week the average daily high advances one more degree, to 27, and the average low from 7 to 8. For the remainder of my mortal days I shall  defecate on statistics.

The Renaissance Libertarian Shivers

It is a little chillier than I like here in the Commandant's Quarters this morning, too cold for comfortable showering.

That happens from time to time in wicked cold weather when I don't take proper care of my wood burner. It runs far less efficiently when it wants its ashes hauled, and that chore is overdue.

The ordinary solution is technology.  A lazy twist of the propane dial quickly brings things up to a toasty 77 or so. That's exactly what occurred about 5 a.m., despite yesterday's news that propane had spiked to a painful $3 per gallon. Making my regular morning news scan about 5:05 a.m, I learned that the going price is suddenly  $5. I madly twisted the dial the other way, killing the main flame and the pilot.

I turned on some electricity  (expensive, but cheaper than propane at the going Adam Smith-determined price),  stirred the coals, and put on a hat. As I type, the mercury is 70 and rising. Propane sellers weep.

I've modified the daily tactical plan. First light will find a clean firebox and a  hearth full of special emergency high-output cellulose -- thinner splits of oak and even a piece or two of old cedar fence post. Take that propane hustlers.

An hour later the Command Thermodynamic Production and  Control Center will be ready for normal fueling with big billets of hard wood. I shal then resume the grace of normal life, a breakfast of organic,  free-range eggs shirred with hummingbird tongues and Benedictine in preparation for rigorous fencing practice to a background of Vivaldi.

So it's no real problem, just a flurry of inconvenience. That's offset by a timely object lesson in the extreme ludditarian and free-market positions I've been ranting about lately.

(a) The cure for $5 propane is $5 propane. The more people who turn off the valve, the quicker the cure works. (b) Implementing (a) requires an alternative. In this case it is wood and, to a small extent, grid watts. Beyond that, there is the Knipco heater. Further yet (power failure?) the old Kerosun still works and doesn't need electricity.

So I'm several steps away from spending my days in bed, huddled under a blanket, whining about the evil forces of capitalism making me miserable, dreaming of going on network teevee, telling the world of my misery which, of course, ain't my fault no how.


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Footnote 1: If I did decide to tell it to the cameras, I could blame Obama. Or Goldwater. But I suppose Bush would get me the most nods of statist agreement, and a guy can't go wrong reaching for a high Neilson rating.

Footnote 2:  I hope I'm not alarming my family. If worse comes to worst, there's enough gas in the tank to make it to mid-March, at least, when the sun shines warmer and the Invisible Hand tells the propane industry: too much. That gas was sold to me some 13 months ago at c.$1.25 per gallon.

Footnote 3: Betcha my state and local regulators secretly love it. A 300-gallon propane fill at $5 would render unto them $105 in sales tax. Do that enough times and you can build all sorts of neat new bicycle trails and sincere people to adminster them.

The Renaissance Man Knows

Just teasing -- getting ready for one or more really tiresome  screeds.

With a free math application (newspeak "app" -- oldspeak: "program")  on every magic telephone, why would a guy burden himself by memorizing multiplication tables?



And with advanced technology like this:















Why the heck should anyone bother with learning to tie a tautline hitch?

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