What Does Bronson Want?

He got his way. Bronson Pinchot went to court to get his triangle back and he prevailed. According to Judge Kameen, the gazebo is indeed a structure, and as such, violates the terms of the indenture of 1941 that made over the triangle in the middle of Harford village to the local Historical Society.

Had the defense insisted on a jury, the historical society might have been able to appeal to common sense and historical tradition (not to say, emotion) to repudiate Mr. Pinchot's dependence on litigation to enforce his will on a small town. But the judge stood firm on the law and the documents.

Has Mr. Pinchot really won anything, besides the 6,300 square feet of grass and assorted utility poles that mars the view of his grand house? At last count, he had exactly one friend in the village of some 300. He calls himself a "Harfordite," which makes him unique, because nobody else has ever used that term.

My Bite of the Apple

So I got one of these ...

The new MacBook (aluminum), my first Mac. Stunning little bugger. If the price was competitive with Windows boxes, these things would take over the world. Slick -- the only word for it. Leopard (OS X 10.5.5) is rock solid and smooth as the glass display.

Macs, of course, have some of the same problems with software that Windows systems do: applications don't always work as advertised, some are faster than others. I've loaded OpenOffice 3.0 (the real Mac version), which also just came out. Debating about Adobe CS4. Firefox is okay on it, but Safari is faster.

I'm very impressed. Now, if I could find something that I really need it for ... Maybe I'll write a novel.

Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms
Like windy citherns, hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began.

          --- Wallace Stevens

The wordle ...