"Freedom ever, EVERMORE!"

Later today, the Hennepin County Board will consider amending the county's smoke-free ordinance:

The amended ordinance would go into effect Dec. 31 and make Hennepin's smoking restrictions more similar to ordinances in Ramsey and Olmstead counties. Bars and private clubs with liquor sales that are more than 50 percent of their total net sales may apply for an exemption to the ordinance. The amendment will sunset all exemptions on July 31, 2007.

Hennepin staff estimate that approximately 75 bars and private clubs could potentially qualify for the proposed amendment. Ramsey County has issued about 180 exemptions to its smoke-free ordinance.

If the ordinance is amended, at least some local bar owners may be spared the horror of The Moffit, as submitted by John from Stillwater:

I've been following the trolling of the American Lung Association's Bob Moffit on various websites. It seems he never makes any logical arguments to support the necessity of a smoking ban. When it comes to the right of people to choose the activities they want to pursue on private property, Bob just says "Nevermore."

The Moffitt

Once upon a midnight dreary, a bar owner sat weak and weary,
Burdened by many a troublesome sign of things in store,
While she nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at her tavern door.
`'Tis some customer,' she muttered, `tapping at my tavern door -
Only one, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly she remembers busy times of past Decembers,
Long before when dying embers wrought their ash inside her door;
Bravely she did fight her sorrow, she had work to do tomorrow
Helping bars to gone to borrow -- take the risk they had before --
For the rare and radiant freedom that this land had meant before --
Nameless, she feared, evermore.

And the sudden, sad and certain closing of each smoke-free tavern
Chilled her - filled her with fantastic anger never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of her heart, she stood repeating
`'Tis some customer entreating entrance at my tavern door -
Some late customer entreating entrance at my tavern door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently her soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said she, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so few customers come rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my tavern door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here she opened wide the door; -
Cigarette butts, nothing more.

Back into the tavern turning, all her soul within her burning,
Soon again she heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said she, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my anger still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis annoying nothing more!'

Open here she flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped the saintly Moffitt like a sacramental whore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched infront her tavern door -
Perched upon a case of Lennie's slid in front her tavern door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this rather odd bird beguiling her sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
'Though thy title be impressive, she said, 'your manner's quite oppressive --
Ghastly, grim, self-righteous, self-absorbent, bureaucratic boar --
Your presence is confusing, not amusing. Leave by going through the door!'
Quoth the Moffit, 'Nevermore.'

And the Moffitt, sitting lonely on the Lennie's, spoke only,
That one word, as if his brain in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a statistic did he stutter -
Till she scarcely more than muttered 'Other fiends have flown before -
Tomorrow you will leave me, as petty tyrants flew before.'
Quoth the Moffitt, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by open arrogance so spoken,
'Doubtless,' said she, 'what he utters is his only stock and store,
Bought by some soulless master uncaring of disaster
Heaped fast and followed faster 'till all taverns close the door --
'Till all choice is gone forever, forever closed the door,
To open never, nevermore.'

Then, she thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by those that for others would decide what smells should fill the air.
'Whore' she cried so that's your mission, make me choose abject submission
Abandon my dreams for those you deem are worthy more --
Abandon my dreams for the "perfection" only you adore?'
Quoth the Moffitt, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that word our sign of parting, man and fiend!' she shrieked upstarting -
'Get thee back into the darkness and depart from freedom's shore!
Leave no black post as a token of the lies thy lips hath spoken!
My resolution is unbroken! - quit the beer infront my door!
Take thy nose from out my business, and take thy ass out through the door!'
Quoth the Moffitt, 'Nevermore.'

And the Moffitt, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
Not just on the Lennie's but in front of every free man's door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
Of new plans and ways of scheming to take the freedom we adore --
Let us not grant him our whimper, but let him hear our roar --
"Freedom ever, EVERMORE!"

A Strict Constructionist

On Sunday, I noted an article in the WSJ by Eric Felton on the proper Martini mix. Today, a letter on the same article appeared in the Journal:

Eric Felten's essay on the dry martini is itself near-perfect ("Don't Forget the Vermouth," Leisure & Arts, Pursuits, Dec. 10). His allusion to constitutional jurisprudence is faulty, however, since neither in law nor martinis can we know the subjective "original intent" of the Founding Fathers. As to martinis, the intent may have been to ease man's passage through this vale of tears or, less admirably, to employ the tactic of "candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker."

What counts in mixology is the "original understanding" of the martini's essence by those who first consumed it. The essence remains unaltered but allows proportions to evolve as circumstances change. Mr. Felten's "near-perfect martini" is the same in principle as the "original-understanding martini" and therefore its legitimate descendant. Such latter-day travesties as the chocolate martini and the raspberry martini, on the other hand, are the work of activist bartenders.

Mr. Felten lapses into heresy only once. He prefers the olive to the lemon peel because the former is a "snack." Dropping a snack into a classic drink is like garnishing filet mignon with ketchup. The correct response when offered an olive is, "When I want a salad, I'll ask for it."

-Robert H. Bork
The Hudson Institute
Washington

When it comes to the vegetables or fruit in classic cocktails, I whole-heartedly concur with the sentiments of the esteemed Mr. Bork. I used to work with a gentleman who would always order his gin and tonics "N.F.L." No f***ing lime.

It's 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses

Almost on the Range has a great mug shot of Duluth Mayor Herb Bergson after his arrest on charges of driving while intoxicated (DWI) on Friday. Apparently his honor had a little problem keeping his car on the road near Spooner, Wisconsin. From the Duluth News Tribune:

Bergson was southbound on U.S. Highway 53 on his way to a Great Lakes environmental conference in Chicago when his vehicle struck a bridge abutment, left the road and hit a guard rail in the median.

The incident was reported at 6:25 p.m. just north of Washburn County Highway H, Karen Snearly, police communications operator for the Wisconsin State Patrol, said Saturday.

UPDATE---More from Almost on the Range:

Our mayor blew about a .16 on the roadside breathalyzer, pleaded with passersby not to call the cops, and tried to refuse medical attention. This man is an embarrassment to each and every citizen of Duluth.

A .16 at 6:30pm? He must have been hitting it hard, right? Not according to Herb's story:

The mayor declined to say how much he had drunk and refused to say where. He told DeStefano he'd had only two drinks -- a beer and a drink with vodka, according to the trooper's report.

A drink with vodka? One of JB's holiday bracers perhaps?

Truth Well Told

I just heard a song called "A Reason For It All" by Allision Krause and Union Station during lunch and was blown away by it's beauty.

It was written by the band's multi-instrumentalist (no, I will not make a Mitch Berg joke here!) Ron Block.

I've seen hard times and I've been told
There isn't any wonder that I fall
Why do we suffer, crossing off the years
There must be a reason for it all

I've trusted in You, Jesus, to save me from my sin
Heaven is the place I call my home
But I keep on getting caught up in this world I'm living in
And Your voice it sometimes fades before I know

Hurtin' brings my heart to You, crying with my need
Depending on Your love to carry me
The love that shed His blood for all the world to see
This must be the reason for it all

Hurtin' brings my heart to You, a fortress in the storm
When what I wrap my heart around is gone
I give my heart so easily to the ruler of this world
When the one who loves me most will give me all

In all the things that cause me pain You give me eyes to see
I do believe but help my unbelief
I've seen hard times and I've been told
There is a reason for it all

Queen of De Nile

This morning, I had the opportunity to catch Mary Mapes and John Hinderaker square off on the Hot Talk with Scott Hennen show on Fargo's WDAY. It was riveting and revealing radio as Mapes and Hinderaker exchanged blows over the largely discredited Bush National Guard story and the forged documents that got Mapes canned from CBS. John has provided a brief synopsis of the show here:

Wow, that was quite an experience. Ms. Mapes is a real piece of work. If you wanted to sue on behalf of all the people she slandered in the course of a half-hour, you'd have to start a class action. She sticks doggedly to her belief that it is "quite possible that Bill Burkett is finally telling the truth." Setting new standards in journalism: let's run with it, it's quite possibly true!

In this case, of course, the story didn't even meet that standard.

He's right in that Mapes is indeed a real piece of something. For someone who had recently been humiliated and disgraced in front of a national audience, she came across as incredibly arrogant and condescending. Here's a recap of her main talking points:

1. Unlike John and other conservative bloggers who are "radical right wing extremists" and "Republican operatives", she doesn't have a partisan bone in her body. She's merely a humble and noble reporter in a quest for the Holy Grail of the "truth."

2. No one has ever been able to prove that the documents are not real.

3. Anyone involved in the story who is a Democrat or who hates Bush is telling the truth. Anyone involved in the story who has an remote connection to the Republican Party or has the slightest amount of respect and admiration for Bush is lying.

4. Because John has not read her book "Truth and Duty," he has no right to comment on the story. (John pointed out the he wasn't appearing on the show to discuss her book, but rather the report that CBS aired last year. It didn't stop her from going back to this well again and again.)

5. Because Power Line was wrong about the Terry Schiavo memos, they were also wrong about the National Guard documents.

An easy way to discern when one side is losing an argument is when they attempt to change the subject. It couldn't have been more than FIVE MINUTES into the show before Mapes was grasping for the Schiavo memo straw. Rather than trying to defend her case for the validity of the TANG docs and story, she was trying to switch the focus to the Schiavo memos which had nothing to do with why she and John were appearing on the radio together.

Of course the manner in which Power Line dealt with the Schiavo memo story and the way that Mapes has dealt with the TANG story are almost polar opposites. Once it became apparent that the Schiavo memo was not a Democratic dirty trick, the Power Lines boys accepted the facts as they were and moved on. Mapes meanwhile, continues to stubbornly cling to evidence and a storyline long ago rejected by reasonable, clear-thinking people. Perhaps Mapes would be better served if her next book were a novel. She seems to have a quite a rich fantasy life.

Et Tu, T-Paw?

It's bad enough to have a hockey no-nothing like Hugh Hewitt making use of an injury suffered while playing puck to mock you, but when one of your hockey playing brethren climbs on board the bashing bandwagon, it's downright despicable. Listen as Governor Pawlenty plants the dagger in my back in front of a national audience on last Friday's Hugh Hewitt Show:

Betrayed

Since the Governor is a hockey player, I'm sure he is familiar with the concept of payback. It may not be today. It may not be tomorrow. But someday, the opportunity will present itself. I've got your number T-Paw.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

Back in the day when I was a subscriber to the Minneapolis Star Tribune, I would occasionally take a "cruise" through the Sunday paper here at Fraters Libertas, making note of the outrageous editorials, sloppy writing, and examples of the not so subtle bias that could be found in nearly every section of the Strib. Now that I am no longer taking the Strib, my Sundays are much more relaxing and my newspaper reading experience is much more enjoyable.

To give you an idea why, let's take an excursion through the Weekend Edition of the Wall Street Journal.

We start with an article that looks at the single malt scotch industry and some of the unique problems it faces with supply and demand. It could have been called, Drink all you want, we'll make more but it might take ten or twelve years:

The appeal of single malts is based on a singular proposition. Each spirit comes from a particular distillery and has been aged, generally for 10 years or more, a period that is usually specified on the bottle. But at a time when clothing retailers can adjust to changing fashions by ordering new designs from Asian manufacturers in a matter of weeks, scotch makers have been handcuffed by their glacial production processes and the very traditions that sells their product.

Scotch makers, meanwhile, have historically been limited to just a few varieties, mostly based on the age of the whiskey -- and rushing out new products when your manufacturing process takes a decade or more presents some challenges. For one thing, it is impossible for distilleries to decide how much of what should be put into casks in any given year, because they can't predict what people will want to drink 10 years down the line. And while the producers of blended scotches can alter their products by introducing whiskeys from any number of distilleries, single malts have generally been locked in from the start.

The scotch theme continues with the story of a son who travels to Scotland to share Scotch With My Father:

Some fathers and sons go fishing together. My dad's love of Scotch whisky has rubbed off on me, and on the rare occasions when we're together -- he lives in Kolkata, India, and I'm in Washington -- we sip single malts together. What better way to pay homage to our mutual interest, we figured, than to drive around Scotland for a few days, visiting distilleries and sipping scotch.

Now that's what I call bonding.

Most single malts are diluted with distilled water after being tapped from the cask to reduce their alcohol content to 40% or 43% from, say, 60%. Taking a sip of cask-strength whiskey can literally take your breath away. Our guide at Glenfarclas explained how her husband had once tried transferring whiskey from the cask by taking a suck. "Never again," she said. "He went to bed on Friday and woke up on Sunday, insisting it was Saturday."

Sounds like a typical weekend for Atomizer. Speaking of A-dog, our next story is on a matter near and dear to his heart (and liver): the Martini. The author of this piece advises that the key to a mixing a mouthwatering Martini is to not be afraid to get wet:
A Martini made with dry gin and dry vermouth proved to be a far more sophisticated cocktail than its sweet predecessor. "The ultimate class bifurcation based on drink," Paul Fussell wrote in his sly and malicious little book, "Class," is "the difference between dry and sweet." But somewhere along the way, "dry" came to mean a Martini's relative absence of vermouth. Even so, the social cachet attached to "dryness" persisted, and decades of striving have produced today's dry Martini standard: in effect, a straight shot of gin or vodka. Which is odd, because there's nothing particular swanky about a glass of plain gin -- in Orwell's "Nineteen Eighty-Four," everyone gulps his synthetic gin straight.

If that's not enough of an apostasy for worshippers of the Church of Atomizer, what follows is positively heretical:

A couple of the less expensive brands gave me what I paid for. Beefeater and Gordon's were just a little too raw for the naked exposure of a Martini. But more expensive didn't always mean better. I much preferred the broad-shouldered, everyday Bombay gin to its pricier sibling, the watery Sapphire.

Please Atomizer, don't hurt him. The scribbler goes on to make a good point that the "proper" ratio all depends on the gin you're quaffing:

There's no such thing as the perfect Martini, so, as the bartender in a New Yorker cartoon once said, a near-perfect Martini will have to do. For me, it starts with Hendrick's, a gin that one could describe as bursting with flavor if the tastes weren't so beautifully rounded and seamlessly integrated. Hendrick's is self-assured enough to stand up to Vya, a delicious dry vermouth made by the Central Valley's Quady winery. Because Vya is itself no slouch in the robust-flavor department, I found that it was best to mix Hendrick's to Vya in a fairly modern ratio of 8 to 1.

My second-favorite gin was Plymouth, a venerable English brand recently revived by some savvy entrepreneurs. Plymouth has an elegant balance of the traditional gin flavorings, and a light, airy quality that matches up perfectly with Noilly Prat's delicate vermouth. Unlike the Hendrick's and Vya, Plymouth and Noilly Prat were around in the Martini's formative years. Put them together in a 1930s ratio -- four parts gin to one part vermouth -- and you have the classic in its classic proportions. Add a couple of dashes of orange bitters, and you have what I call the "Original Intent Martini."

Both fine selections, particularly the Hendricks:

Hendrick's is an iconoclastically produced small batch gin distilled in Ayrshire, Scotland. Our unusual distillation process combined with our oddly delicious set of infusions yields a one-of-a-kind gin that is passionately loved by a tiny yet growing handful of individuals all over the world. No other gin tastes like it because no other gin is made like it.

Next up is a book review on the dreaded "S" word:

For at least half a century, academics, aesthetes and all-purpose agonizers have looked at our ever-sprawling cities with disdain and even horror. The spectacle of rings and rings of humankind nested in single-family homes has inspired in them all sorts of revulsion and, relatedly, a whole discipline of blame: Suburban sprawl has been faulted for exacerbating racial tension, contributing to energy shortages, worsening pollution and heating up the globe -- even expanding waistlines.

Largely missing from this debate has been a sound and reasoned history of this pattern of living.

With Robert Bruegmann's "Sprawl : A Compact History" we now have one. What a pleasure it is: well-written, accessible and eager to challenge the current cant about sprawl.

No, Mr. Bruegmann says, don't go blaming the Federal Highway Administration for sprawl or the executives at General Motors and Exxon or racist developers fleeing urban environments. Don't even blame Karl Rove. You really don't need to blame anyone. Mr. Bruegmann notes that contemporary sprawl -- best defined by places like Los Angeles, Phoenix and Houston -- is nothing new. It represents "merely the latest chapter in a long and curious history."

What propels that curious history is something often overlooked by the makers of grand theories -- the particular choices of individual human beings. Mr. Bruegmann places the urge to sprawl squarely where it belongs: on people's logical desire to escape the high costs, crime, pollution, congestion and lack of privacy that accompanies life in dense cities.

Individual choice and logical desires? How positively un-American.

We close with a sad but inspiring story from the world of sport:

You've probably never heard of Tim Breslin. He played forward for the Chicago Wolves, a minor-league hockey team. A year ago, he was diagnosed with a rare cancer. In eleven weeks, at the age of 37, he was dead.

A community grew up around him -- guys who played with him as kids, guys who played with him later, guys who knew guys who played with him, along with wives and girlfriends and coaches and Zamboni drivers, an ever-widening circle of people who love a peculiar game. Some knew Mr. Breslin; some didn't. When he died, this extended hockey family rushed to the aid of his immediate family. It was more inspiring than anything you'll ever see on "SportsCenter."

He'd been complaining of stomach pains for days when his wife took him to the hospital on Thanksgiving last year. Doctors found cancer of the appendix. He underwent surgery and was scheduled for chemotherapy. A few days before his first treatment, Mr. Breslin showed up at Johnny's IceHouse, where the Blackhawk alums were playing their weekly pickup game. They thought he'd watch and then head to the rink bar, the Stanley Club, for a soda. But Mr. Breslin played. Then he ordered a Bud Light.

That's a hockey player.

Along with Cliff Koroll, a former Blackhawk player and president of the alumni club, Mr. Nardella started planning a benefit game between ex-Wolves and Hawks that would benefit Mr. Breslin's children. It wasn't the best time to plug hockey. Many fans were soured by the cancellation of the NHL season. The Wolves and Hawks were more accustomed to competing for fans than cooperating. But there was something about Mr. Breslin -- and the sport he loved -- that made it easy.

Hockey players are an unusual breed. They slam each other into walls, then line up and shake hands. They play until they are fat and old and their equipment smells so bad that they have to stow it in the garage. Whether they are in Moscow or Minneapolis, Stockholm or Saskatoon, they know that if they can find a rink, they can find a friend.

That's one of the many reasons why it's the greatest game in the world.

By the way, all the stories that I've mentioned here were not only from one edition of the Weekend Wall Street Journal, they were from ONE SECTION (called "Pursuits") of said newspaper. These days when people ask me if I miss not getting the Star Tribune I can't help but laugh. Yeah, many a Sunday when I curled up with my Weekend WSJ I'm wishing I had that Sunday Strib instead.

Something Clumsy This Way Comes

Tim e-mails about concerns for his safety based on rumors of an approaching storm:

I was reading Hugh's blog this morning, and when I got to the end of yesterday's post titled "The Alito Attack Machine", there I saw the three scariest words any Coloradan can read: Off to Colorado.

Do you have any inside dope as to how long we here in Colorado need to stay out of the mountains? I was hoping to do some skiing this weekend, but the last thing I need is to have some wine-tastin', Dockers-wearin', Kathy-comic-strip-readin', man-bra-needin', hockey-know-nothin', snowmobile-challenged, Hugh Hewitt to careen his snowmobile into my chair lift, collapse a tower and cause it all to come crashing down. No thanks, I'll just stay in my basement playing hockey on the PS2 all weekend, I guess.

Maybe I can get our governor to stop him at the border. Who says border enforcement isn't a front-burner issue?

Unfortunately Tim, it's too late to seal the borders at this point. For you see...

***We interrupt this post for an important public service message for Coloradans***

Attention citizens of the Rocky Mountain State. The following is a public service announcement from the Department of Emergency Preparedness:

Ralphie has landed.

This is not a drill. Repeat this is not a drill.

Once again, Ralphie has landed.

Please do not panic. Calmly make your way to the nearest shelter and remain there until the all clear sounds. Do not leave your shelter under any circumstances and whatever you do stay away from the snowmobile trails. And woods. And highways. And shopping malls.

If you spot Hugh Hewitt, do not approach him. He is accident prone and extremely uncoordinated. Do not feed him orange snack foods and do not ask him any questions about technology, hockey, wine, or music. The consequences could be disastrous. Notify authorities immediately.

The National Guard has been mobilized and they will be available to assist in the evacuation and rebuilding efforts. Authorities estimate that the danger should be gone within the next twenty-four hours. Until then, keep your heads down and pray that Halo Hugh does not pass through your neighborhood. Courage.

Come For The Show, Stay For The Shooting

Now playing at Block E, the "entertainment" district in downtown Minneapolis, "The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight." There was a shootout at the Block E underground parking garage, involving five suspects, two cars, and up to ten shots fired. Oh yeah, some crack was reportedly found in one of the cars too. Fortunately, the shooters weren't crack marksmen and no one was hurt.

As Rambix and the Red Star has noted, there has been little media coverage of this latest example of the breakdown of law and order in the City of Lakes excepting this video at KSTP.com. Nothing from the Strib. Nothing from the Pioneer Press.

Which means that they don't want you to know how much the security situation has deteriorated or they don't consider multiple gunshots being exchanged at a major entertainment destination in the heart of Minneapolis to be a newsworthy occurrence. Neither choice is particularly comforting.

Separated At Birth?

Lefty dem Mark Warner...

And actor Richard Kiel?

Shoe. Other Foot.

From Hugh Hewitt's interview with hit-reporter Stephen Henderson regarding his piece on Samuel Alito:

SH: Well, but what I said on television, first of all, you're taking quotes grossly out of context there.

HH: There's no context. It's a factual assertion, Steven.

Delicious.

Via Perfesser Brainbinge.

As Thick As A Whale Omelette

I usually don't explain the titles to my posts. If you all can't make the effort to be as culturally aware as I am, I ain't going to make the effort to awareitize you. However, due to the sheer volume of emails regarding the title to yesterday's post on Christmas tree erecting (stop that giggling, you kids...I'm looking in your direction, JB!) I feel an explanation is in order.

The title came from an episode of The Simpsons. It's a cartoon that has been running on Fox for almost 16 years now. I'm sure some of you have heard of it. In this particular episode, Homer (he's the dad) is building a barbecue pit in his backyard.

To help illustrate the hilarity that I was trying to recreate, let's join The Simpsons Archive's description of a scene from that episode, already in progress:

(W)ith the concrete foundation for the barbecue pit done, Homer brushes off his hands. He then takes over the construction job from Lisa (Homer's daughter), who's the one who had been working. Homer picks up the box to admire what the finished product should look like. Then the bottom of the box opens and the contents drop into the wet cement. Homer quickly removes the stuff and puts it on top of a wheelbarrow full of bricks. The wheelbarrow tips over, spilling everything in the cement. Homer curses Lisa, then sets out to build the whole thing before the cement dries. He finds the instructions, but the English side is covered with cement, so he looks at the French side and can't figure that out either. And so, Homer frantically cements together whatever he happens to grab.

Later, Homer marvels at one perfectly built barbecue pit. He puts down the box and sees his pile of parts. "Why doesn't mine look like that?!" he hollers. He picks up a crowbar and starts beating on the junk pile in a fit of rage.

Next comes one of the funniest lines ever uttered by a balding, overweight, yellow cartoon character in the history of balding, overweight, yellow cartoon characters. Just before he attacks the pile of stupidity that was supposed to be his barbecue pit with an umbrella, Homer screams:

Why?! Why must life be so hard? Why must I fail at every attempt at masonry?

Every time I hear it, I bust out laughing...and that's what I thought all you people would do when I placed it atop my latest literary masterpiece. It seems I've misjudged you folks since all it has seemed to accomplish is to clog my email box with puzzled queries about my perceived misunderstanding of the word "masonry".

Perhaps I should have replaced the word "masonry" with "tree erecting"...but I felt that would have detracted from the line's potency.

Perhaps I should have used Homer's line "Why doesn't mine look like that?!" as my title...but I felt there was too much ambiguity in that quote when it was removed from context.

No, I think the problem is that you people need to spend a little less time reading blogs and a little more time watching television. Nevertheless, I'm terribly compunctuous to have caused you all such pericumbobulation. It shall never happen again...not even interfrastically.