The Mountain Should Crumble To the Sea

I’m worried.

This afternoon, weather forced the closing of the family stores 35 miles from Zuccotti Park. Yesterday, the protest’s generators were seized by the fire department. Today, wet snows cracked branches of the tall trees we live under. Pete went outside to look up at the spot where a large branch had fallen from, heard another crack and beat a hasty retreat. Where he had been standing, a tiny avalanche fell and a cascade of branches followed. Fortunately, I was on the phone with the police at the time so no one was surprised when I babbled about what was dangling from the electrical lines and blocking the street.

Not enough power to warm; too much for the FDNY.

I saw that generator on Thursday. It looked so small and inoffensive. I guess anything that smells like hope or biodiesel is a threat to someone.

If the protesters can hang on for one more day, better weather will come. One more day.

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Why Not Wyoming

Man oh Manischewitz, I couldn’t wait for this work week to end. On Wednesday, I had an episode I still don’t understand in which sudden, severe neck muscle cramps caused me blinding, debilitating pain that resulted in my walking around all day with my head facing to the left. Poor Impulsives, you have not lived until you’ve descended stairs perpendicular to the direction you can see. To his credit, Pete observed this without passing coffee through his nose. Today, as I was saddling up the bicycle to ride home, undergraduates of the unnamed university flooded the avenue, squawking and racing toward their exciting, regrettable futures. It’s a big weekend in the tiny city. Traffic clogged the surrounding roads. I got out just in time.

Siobhan: Three idiots tried to make a living the old-fashioned way: by breaking into her house and kidnapping the old lady on the Columbia Sportswear commercials.
Tata: That’s going to look funny on their tax returns.
Siobhan: And their arrest records. They got as far as tying her in Boy Scout knots before the cops showed up.
Tata: So an alarm sounded, security worked and the police saved the day?
Siobhan: Yup.
Tata: Well, paint me red and call me Josephine. That never happens!

The 87-year-old [Gert] Boyle was approached at her West Linn home last November by a man offering a gift basket who pulled a gun. Boyle was able to trigger a silent alarm, bringing police.

Boyle didn’t appear at Thursday’s sentencing but released a statement through her attorney, saying the three defendants “caused me to suffer indignity, violence and indescribable fear.” She added that her life was forever changed by the incident.

Presiding Judge Robert Herndon told Caballero that the plot was “a completely lame-brained scheme.” He described Boyle as an Oregon[sic] and American icon.

“It couldn’t have been worse if you tried to kidnap Santa Claus,” Herndon said.

It’s April 15th and for some reason that escapes me the tax deadline softened from a firm Friday to mushy next Monday. So since we’re firmly entrenched in financial FantasyLand, let’s picture a kidnapper’s visit to the accountant.

Bernstein: Mr. “Smith”, what kind of work do you do?
Smith: I’m in acquisitions.
Bernstein: Unh huh. You’re self-employed?
Smith: I think of myself as workplace-flexible.
Bernstein: How much did you make last year?
Smith: $350,000 in small, non-sequential, unmarked bills, not at all dyed red.
Bernstein: Sure. Did you pay your quarterly taxes?
Smith: No, I kind of acquired that all at once.
Bernstein: I see. Any work-related expenses?
Smith: Rope, duct tape, rubber gloves, monogrammed crow bars.
Bernstein: Education? Take any work-related classes?
Smith: I’m a proud 2010 graduate of the county’s locksmithing school.
Bernstein: Really? Me, too. For the off-season. Are you going to write a check?
Smith: Have you been watching C-SPAN? Bankers are CRAZY. Here, have a stack of cash.
Bernstein: Good thing I’m wearing lifts. Sign here, here and here, Mr. “Smith.”
Smith: X, x, x.
Bernstein: Well, have a good year and recommend me to the grand jury, will you?

Tax amnesty has real potential.