I got home the night before last after dark because things are hopping down at the U of IL where I am employed, and we’ve now gone back to Central Standard Time.

Since it was dark, I got into the house not noticing the changes to the lay of my immediate land. Del brought me up to speed with all of her significant fury and righteous indignation.

“Some asshole cut down the male mulberry tree!”
“Say what?”
“That’s right! I heard this chainsaw going for hours this afternoon, and went out to investigate. Some guy was out there cutting down the mulberry.”
“The whole tree? It’s huge. Is it on our property?”
“Well, it hangs over our property. I said to him, ‘what’s going on?'”
“You don’t want to get up in the face of somebody with a running chainsaw.”
“No. You don’t. He says, ‘some guy over in the restaurant came up to me and said if you cut that tree down, the part that’s hanging over, you can have the wood.'”
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

So naturally I went back out into the dark to check it out. The urban dark – unless one’s been disempowered by an act of nature – is relative. The security lights over the car wash provide enough phosphorous light to grill hot dogs by, and we’ve done exactly that many a time. In that faux moonlight, I could see the piles of bush and the three foot diameter stump that had been amateurishly butchered. The dude was no tree surgeon. I could also see that the tree was not on my property. Well, that’s almost true. What is a tree? Does it pay attention to where it stretches? Does it care where it spreads its nuisance and blessing? Of course not! The trunk is (was) a large two section affair, one side leaning south and the other side going up almost straight with a slight northern cant. Neither section of the trunk is on our property, but the roots run under our shed and the debris falls in the way my mowing operations. The aggregate shade in the summer kept the users of the restaurants bathrooms from spying on my frying. It’s the fall now, but come spring the shade of the mulberry will be half what it once was. The tree is on a vacant lot that stands between us and that accursed restaurant. I’ve blogged about all of this before, but in villages such as ours lives intertwine. The Jerry that owns “Butcher Boy Burgers” (not kidding – that’s the name of the restaurant) once owned the “Aquarium” where once I bought double osmosis filtered water to supply my aquarium. He shuttered that business to concentrate on butchery. Jerry is a big guy, and he is by all accounts a go getter. His connection to the fate of that tree is still unknown. Perhaps Del will get to the bottom of it. Our attempt to buy the vacant lot from its acquisitive owner (who, so far as speculation goes, is not Jerry but perhaps clogs his arteries a bit more at “Butcher Boy”) failed.

We are, it seems, up against the patriarchy. (Paunchy white guys that own everything and benefit nothing.) We were not consulted. The tree belongs to whoever owns the trunk. If they kill the tree, I expect to be in the loop. A glance down reveals that I am also a member of the patriarchy. Ha!

This brings me to Z. The end of the alphabet. Also: a nickname of my old friend Zelda Leah Gatuskin, writer, artist, and humanist. She’s started her own blog and is calling it – ta da! – “The Tree.”

A quick glance at Z’s blog reveals the delight that she’s taking on politics and the patriarchy. I wish her all the best in this endeavor. She’s off to a good start. She notes the recent electoral outcome and cites ‘math’ as the victor. ‘May the odds be ever in our favor.’

Digging a bit deeper (it’s not yet a huge pile), we enjoy somewhat a rant on the bare shoulders of female pundits and journalists. We recall that Harper’s quip about the attire of the female meteorologists on The Weather Channel: “it’s going to be hot.” Z is not in favor of the bare shoulder. She suggests a reductio ad absurdum. Let Scarborough bare his pecs and ditch the tie. Whence just went his gravitas? Z does not get onto the bumpy road of cleavage, so I’ll have a go. The form fitting attire and the hints of breast material on The Weather Channel just underscore the impression that the soundtrack and the lurid pictures of data superimposed on things floating away, things being swept away, blown away confirm that this is atmospheric pornography. We’re watching as voyeurs someone else getting done. Journalistic custom prevails here as well. The men are wearing suits. Would it help if they leveled the dress code? How much skin must a man show to equal the sight of cleavage? Let men in jockstraps read the news! The town crier’s new clothes do not mitigate the rage of the changing atmosphere. That they don’t lead to true equality of the sexes – and Z is right – if this is a ‘war’ on women, it’s status quo – nor do they (will they) mask the shifting shape of disasters yet to come. What devastation will wipe that smirk from the human face?

Z’s rant on the “War on Women” can be built upon by suggesting it is also both a war on war and a war on words. “War” against drugs? “War” on poverty? “War” on terror? What other evils too large for armaments can we cook up? The feminist stance is not the same as waging a war on men, Z rightly says. She is working at a campaign against an attitude and the status quo. There is always a holy war going on somewhere. The faithful take aim at the faithless. It’s my way, or the highway. The slogan may as well be “opposites attract.” Saints owe their existence to sin and sinners. It is all irrelevant to the human condition. It is not a war if can neither be waged nor won.

Next up: let’s deconstruct “nation building.” Nah. Let’s just enjoy the discomfort of the all too human Petraeus.