Truth

The Mutant Mouse Chronicles: Jenna Fischer Raises $6,100.00 For Joplin on Ebay Auction

The Mutant Mouse Chronicles: Jenna Fischer Raises $6,100.00 For Joplin on Ebay Auction

Bring in the Circus Animals!

I stopped writing posts about daily life as a zoning officer when an obsessive and intense citizen had an altercation with his neighbor and couldn't "wait to read what you are going write about this."  I don't think he would have liked my telling of the story.  I thought I saw a lawyer peeking out from under his skirt.

But time has passed and many interesting stories have crossed my desk in the past 6 months that deserve telling- though none are quite as fascinating as the exotic animal pet story.  Let me explain:

It was late Spring 2008 and I was sitting at my desk, doing the usual tasks- trying to decide where to file papers without having to retrieve the actual property files.  If paperwork was water, I would have drowned 2 years ago.

The phone rang.  "Hello, zoning office, how may I help you?", said me, the zoning officer.

The woman's voice was young and slightly nasal, with a hint of Long Isand, "Excuse me, I was wonderingggg.  Do I need a permit to keep a lion in my home?"

A moment of silence passed.  "Did you mean a LION lion, an African lion, of Born Free and Daktari?"  I asked, not quite believing what I had just heard.

"Yes," she replied, "A real lion, like in the zoo. I called the Game Commission and they told me that I could have one, as long as there isn't a local law against it."

I told her I would have to research our ordinances.  In the past 125 years, our town fathers would have grappled with this issue, right?  I imagined a Town meeting from yesteryear.  Our forefathers were gathered around the grand oak table, discussing side yard setbacks, easements, building coverage, and use definitions when Jay Smith, Senior Councilman spoke.  "What if someone wants to own a lion, tiger or bear?"  "Oh my." replied another. Everyone laughed.

After much research, I did find an ordinance from 1934 that outlawed pot-bellied pigs. I called the long island lady back.  " We have no ordinance that prohibits you from owning an African lion.  But don't even think about owning a pig."

I then discussed the lion phone call with our town manager.  We decided we had better recommend a new local law that prohibited ownership of exotic animals.  We didn't want people walking their tigers down Market Street.  Bad for business, we thought.

The town council jumped right on it, sending our proposed law  (lifted from another community) to their workshop committee. A year passed. I forgot about lions, tigers, and bears. Finally, the ordinance bolted out of the committee (one year is fast for government). It was all ready to be advertised for a public hearing and vote. Then the press showed up.

It started out simple enough. A reporter called and asked a few questions. He explained it was more of a feature story than a news story. It would probably run on a Saturday or Monday edition, page 13 and all that. But his editors had a different idea.  They wanted more.

The story was published on the front page of the Sunday paper.  Top story. They even included a cute quiz. There were 4 pictures: a back bear, a timber rattlesnake, an African lion, and a pot-bellied pig.  The quiz question was: Which one of these animals is not allowed in the Borough?

But the article went further than quizzes and humorous quotes. A spokesman for the Game Commission stated that, if there wasnt a local law prohibiting lions and other exotic animals, the Commission's permit fee is $5.00.  That's right, for 5 bucks you can get a permit in Pennsylvania to own a lion, tiger, or bear.

The article also highlighted a section of the proposed law that would limit domestic pet ownership to a maximum of three (3) animals.  That riled up the town's many pet owners and a few showed up at the next meeting to complain.  One person stood up and asked, "if my cat has 5 kittens, do I have to flush 3 of them down the toilet to comply with your law?"  The ordinance was tabled and referred back to committee.

A few months later, I received an office visit from a very nice businessman. As we shook hands, he said, "Hi, I own the pet shop in the next town and I would like to move my business to your Borough."

I would like to report a shiester

He walked into my office unannounced last Wednesday morning. I was deep in thought, trying to decide whether to write a compliance letter, enforcement notice, or read the newspaper. I swiveled in my chair to face him.

"I would like to report a shiester," he said as he sat down in one of two new chairs.  I smiled.

"How do you know this person is a shiester?" I asked.  The man sitting before me was Italian, with graying, ringlet hair, olive-skinned face, and a classic fireplug physique. I estimated his age at about 70 years old.  He was not Jewish.

"First of all, he was handing out his business card at McDonald's and normal people don't do that,"  he declared, slightly puffing out of his chest, "I never should have taken his card!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name, " I said as I opened my notebook to a fresh, clean page.

He extended his hand and we shook hands firmly- a solid handshake.  "My name is Tony Carmino."  

"I'm Rick Fisher, very nice to meet you."  We smiled at each other for a brief moment, then returned to the topic of conversation, the shiester.

"What kind of man doesn't have an address on his business cards or invoices?  A shiester, that's who!"  Mr. Carmino's blood pressure immediately jumped up to unknown heights.   

"Why don't you tell me what happened and we will go forward from there," I replied.

"I felt sorry for this guy. Maybe he needs the money, I don't know.  I'm such a sucker!   So I hire him to service my furnace.  He shows up a few days later. He doesn't have any tools!  He is borrowing my hammer! He is borrowing my screwdriver!  Then he has to clean the chimney and he asks me, 'You got anything I can clean this chimney with?' and I find an old curtain rod. Now he's scraping my chimney with a curtain rod! What kind of man cleans a chimney with a curtain rod?"

"A shiester?" I try to hide my smile.  Who gave the shiester a curtain rod to clean his own chimney? A sucker.  I am guessing this contractor was very inexpensive.  

"Now take a look at this!"  Mr. Carmino hands me an invoice. At the very top is the company name: Joe Forenzi Plumbing & Heating.  The invoice is for $240.00. Attached is an estimate for $460.00 for additional work.  No curtain rod discount! Also not Jewish!

"Did you have this other work done too?" I ask, hoping that the answer is no.

"What was I supposed to do, Mr. Fisher?  He told me my furnace was very dangerous and I didn't want my house to blow up, so yes, I hired him  again.  And Again he shows up with no tools.  He borrows my tools again, he finds more things wrong with my furnace and then he gives me THIS!"   The new estimate is for $2200.00.  The furnace, she gonna blow Captain. She can't take much more.

"Hmm, these are pretty serious problems , Mr. Carmino.  Is your furnace in this poor a  condition?"  I am now curious about the furnace. It needs everything from a new boiler to  a chimney sleeve.  This is a very detailed, very knowledgeable list. Whoever wrote it understood exactly how a furnace works.  Yet, the man who wrote it is a shiester with no tools. "Did you get a second opinion?" I ask.

"Why should I? My furnace is fine. He broke my flue.  He cleaned my chimney with my curtain rod.  So I pay the 220.  I pay a hundred on the 440.  Then I tell him  I'm not paying  no more. Now this shiester,  he is calling me demanding more money and writing letters and threatening me with a collection agency.  Mr. Fisher, what kind of man doesn't put his address on his invoices?" Mr. Carmino face was contorted, very red.  I am saying a small prayer. Dear God, do not take this man while he is sitting in my office.  Please Lord, don't let the shiester kill him.

"Let me check with our clerk and see if he has a contractor's permit, " I say with a smile. I pat his shoulder as I walk past.  I want to convey to him that I share his disbelief.  I just may be disbelieving something different.  I check with the clerk and there is no record of a contractor's permit on file.   

"I think I will give this man a call.  There is not much I can do to help you concerning the money he claims you owe him.  You could make a complaint with the Attorney General's office and the Better Business Bureau," I tell Mr. Carmino.  I am now on top of the situation.  I am in the zone.  

"Mr. Fisher, anything you can do would be wonderful.  This man is a shiester and everyone should know about him,"  Mr. Carmino replied.  Now some real progress was being made.

"OK Sir, I need your full name and address," I said as I took pen in hand.

"Tony Carmino, 9924  GreenKnight Boulevard,"  He said with a contented smile.

"Greenknight Boulevard? " I replied, slightly aghast.  "Isn't that in GreenKnight Borough?"

"Yes, I live in GreenKnight Borough." He replied matter-of-fact

"But Mr. Carmino, this is Slateville.  I don't have any jurisdiction in Greenknight.  They have their own zoning officer!"  I lean back in my chair, shaking my head.  "Why are you making this complaint in Slateville?" 

"Because I talked to the officer in GreenKnight and he told me he couldn't help me.  He suggested I talk to you,"  said Mr. Carmino, " and I want everyone to know about this shiester so they don't make the same mistake I did."

I made copies of the shiester's invoices, and used a push-pin to stick them on the office wall, right where everyone could see them. This pleased Mr. Carmino very much. I printed out complaint information from the Attorney General's website and gave it to Mr. Carmino. I cheerfully escorted Mr. Carmino out of my office,  wishing him luck and success with his shiester problem. 

Then I returned to my office, removed the Mr. Forenzi's invoices from my wall, and tossed them in the trash can.  

No shiester is going to use my push-pin to attach his invoices to my wall! 

Does Your Community's Zoning Ordinance Do Enough to Prevent This?

from the Sunday New York Times...

A Landlord's Revenge Divides Neighbors

By THEO EMERY

Published: March 21, 2009

ALEXANDRIA, Va. — In the Old Town historic district here, tourists and shoppers stroll brick sidewalks along King Street and peer into a wide range of boutiques — rug shops, antiques dealers, a cheese shop, even a comic book store.

Brendan Hoffman for The New York Times

Michael Zarlenga: landlord and proud ruffler of feathers.

Enlarge This Image

Brendan Hoffman for The New York Times

Visitors who make their way inside the store will find much racy merchandise. (That’s only a mannequin at the top of the stairs.)

Old Town’s latest offering, though, has been stopping visitors in their tracks since it opened in January. It is called Le Tache, a “couples boutique,” more commonly known as a sex ... read the article

A Dying Wind at Rock Hill Camp

On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God

and my country

and to obey the Scout Law;

To help other people at all times;

To keep myself physically strong,

mentally awake, and morally straight.

-Scout Oath (or Promise)

The entrance to the 450-Acre campground is partially hidden on the crest of a hill along State Route 739 in Dingmans Township, County of Pike, Pennsylvania. We first arrived here in 2006, hired by a New York developer to conduct soils testing for a proposed 180 lot subdivision. After unlocking the main gate, we drove in on an old gravel lane- muddied in the low spots, eroded on the steeper slopes, crowded by branches, large boulders, and overwhelming silence.

We journeyed for almost a mile before we reached the camp buildings. A few were boarded up, but many were wide open to the summer wanderer, the squatter, the young lovers, the boisterous teenagers, and profit scavengers.

Here was an invitation to all trespassers: Explore here to ease your boredom of life. We have abandoned this camp. Kick down the doors, smash the windows, our oath has no residual force. Be irreverent, immorally crooked, enjoy the pleasure of your contempt. We have left this community behind. It is hidden and unclean. We have too many camps and too few scouts. We must turn a hard ground into a revenue stream. Let it fall, let it flow.

Remnants of childhood memories lay scattered around the buildings, like trash, like Rome in ruins. We drove on, passing by outhouses, sleeping sheds, and empty fields of baseball and rifles. The dirt and gravel lane ended on top of a small plateau. From here, we looked out over a most
beautiful majesty. We had found the lake.

On the subdivision maps, wetland biologists identify it as a "Glacial Bog". Upon these waters young boys once fished, swam, camped, and watched innumerable falling stars trace fine lines in reflection across dark waters.

Inside the dilapidated guard tower, lifeguards wrote their names in permanent ink- as if that alone would guarantee serenity forever. But land can die as youth fades. When there are no more scouts sent to explore, the campgrounds will decay, they will die.

Then the vultures descend and pick clean more than just the bones of man's construction, but all Nature that stands pristine before the rotting cabins. The Scouts have gone away and the woodlands are lost without them.

The woodlands are lost.

We hear the land's lament with every test hole we dig, with every gallon of water we pour. We know the sound of bulldozers, we are intimate with macadam roads, we nod approval at fence-wrapped detention basins, we follow trucks of concrete and block, we listen to rock and roll radios of the house-framers, we chuckle at the slick-talk of the macabre Realtors. The economy wants all of this- banker's greed, builder's profit, home owner's dream, built on the foundation of a natural destruction. All roads lead to the glacial bog.

This is Rock Hill Boy Scout Campground, where the laughter of a thousand young Jersey boys dance in the prescinded wind. Their child-ghosts sit around campfire stones, telling old tales of honor, reverence, respect, and community. Their voices are carried high on burning embers of our own youthful memories.

This is Rock Hill Estates and we are the vultures descended.

The-Zoning-Complaint-Spin-Game

Every day in the office is different. You walk in with a clear agenda. Driving to work, you organize and prioritize the work that needs doing today. You outline your daily goals. By the time you sit at your desk, java in the mug next to the phone, your day is prepared. You have laid your mental spreadsheet out before you. You sip your coffee. You're ready.

Then the phone rings.

You begin to spin ever-so slowly, nothing to be worried about, you've been in this spin before. You can handle it. It's only Mrs. Gigliotti from 4th street.
"What can I do for you today, Mrs. Gigliotti?" you ask. You grab a pencil and a notepad.
"Everyone calls me Mrs. G", she replies.
"Yes, Mrs. Gigliotti, how may I be of service today?" A small smile creeps onto your face.

Her first complaint is about a small inflatable swimming pool in her neighbors yard. Shouldn't they need a fence? Someone told Mrs. G if the water level is deeper than 20 inches, a fence is required. You wonder who that someone is. You look at the weather channel temperature on your desktop. It is 30 degrees outside. You imagine happy little 3rd graders ice skating on the surface of the little pool.

Her second complaint is about a rear-yard fence on 5th street. It is leaning into the alley. She is afraid it will fall over onto children playing in the alley. You try to calculate the chance of this happening: height of fence x degree of lean/condition of posts x width of alley/percent chance children present in the alley/ percent chance of specific hour in a day when fence would fall= percent chance fence will land on the head of a small child. You realize you forgot to include wind speed.

You promise to investigate her complaints as soon as time allows. The phone call has now struck the 25 minute mark. The spin quickens and you think you can feel it now. You return to the first paragraph of your letter.

The Town secretary steps into your office. "There is a someone here to see you." Could it be the same someone? Of course not. This is a different someone. This is the doggie-poo man. He sits down across from you, a young man, possibly in his early thirties, well-groomed, immaculately dressed. He looks like a concierge or a tie salesman.

"I really don't want to complain, but my neighbor is not cleaning up after their 6 dogs. Now the snow is melting and the dog dirt has liquefied and is running under my fence into my yard." he tells you. He also tells you that he owns two dogs of his own. He also tells you he has made a complaint to the police department. He then hands you an envelope stuffed with photographs. He has pictures. Pictures of brown liquid running under a fence and down a walkway. This is his backyard. This is the brown dog-poopy water. This is your head spinning faster and faster.

Mr. doggie-poo is very upset. He is mad as hell and not going to take it any more. Your mind wanders as he describes the minutiae of life with an uncaring neighbor. You are in front of the judge. "Your Honor, I would now like to call to the stand Dr. Chow, an expert in canine DNA testing."

You bring the meeting to a conclusion, walking the complainant to the front door. You promise to write a letter, as soon as you are finished with a few higher priorities: forcing a slumlord to provide heat for his tenants; issuing a Notice of Violation to the tattoo parlor that opened for business without any permits; and also, there is this fence in the alley behind 5th street that may fall over at any second, crushing Mrs. Thompson's entire 3rd grade class.

You are now spinning quite nicely, reflecting sunlight at every turn. You decide to leave the office and head for the streets and alleys. You see violations at every turn- house alterations, unlicensed cars in back yards, little illegal swimming pools everywhere, and every fence is about to fall over into the alley. Spin! Spin! Spin!

You return to the office. The phone rings. It is your darling wife. "Honey", she says, "can we get a dog?"