20 June 2019
20:57
I had a visit from the Migrants' Rights people this evening. Barely had time to change into work clothes (lots of weeding to do by lanternlight) before the big iron bell rang at the end of the lane. I walked down and as soon as I saw headlights I expected trouble. Only two kinds of people park at the end of your farm lane with their headlights glaring in your face: the Migrants and the state cops. Even the Skagit County sheriff is polite enough to leave just his parking lights on. But the Migrants folks and the staties want to blind you. That's generally their philosophy, I think. If they can keep you in the dark they can keep you bamboozled. So when I finally reached the gate I was good and angry.
They had a new-ish fuel cell car, a Toyota Urban sedan with a vinyl 'MRA' decal on the hood and a glittering bouquet of King County inspection stickers in the window – up from the city, apparently. As I walked up all three doors opened and I wished I'd brought the shotgun. Just for looks, I promise.
"Mr. Allan?" asked an officious-sounding silhouette behind the glaring headlights.
"Sorry, he's not available. I'm his expert system," I deadpanned. This was received with a snort of disdain.
"Mr. Allan, our office is in receipt of a complaint regarding your operation. You are aware, sir, of Skagit County Ordnance 2016-0401, entitled 'Dairy Labor Fairness Provision,' that states–"
I cut the voice off before it could go any farther. "I'm not a large livestock operation, and I fall below the threshold of commercial dairying. Half the animals you're about to cite as milkers are in fact rams. Therefore I'm not obliged to hire milkhands. Now, will you turn off your headlights and talk to me like a person, or do I bring the sheriff into this?" I reached into my pocket and pulled out my old-fashioned phone, flipped it open and hit the power button.
A man murmured something, and the silhouette reached in and killed the headlights. I closed the phone and pocketed it. The summer sky still held plenty of light, and without the car's high-beams searing my retinas I could see three people: a white woman, a man who might have been South Asian, and a short, stooped fellow with Mexican features. He glared at me while the woman spoke.
"Mr. Allan, we at the Migrants' Rights Authority take complaints very seriously, and when Mr. Santesteban came to us we were understandably concerned."
"Concerned for what? My property rights?" I was really furious.
"Not that, Mr. Allan, but—"
"You're fucking-a right not that. Why is it legal for you to tell me –nearly force me– to hire a total stranger sight unseen, but it's illegal for me to install a permanent greenhouse so I can keep greens growing over the winter?"
"Mr. Allan, we're not the zoning authority," said the South Asian. He looked like a Pakistani but his accent was pure Decatur, Georgia.
"No, you're a quango."
The woman winced. "We prefer the term 'local government advisory agency', Mr. Allan."
My turn for a derisive snort. "You're a quasi-non-governmental agency, one of about a million spawned in the last ten years to try to handle targets that move too fast for regular government to get a bead on. You're a bunch of well-meaning people who get some ideas about authority from the commissioners or the County executive, and you proceed to ram your agenda down the community's collective throat. Well, let me tell you something: bureaucracy got us into this, lady. And more bureaucracy ain't gettin' us out."
"Hey, pal, what about me?" It was the Hispanic man. "Don't I get a say in this? I'm an American citizen, goddammit!"
"Sorry. It's not my problem." And I have a ten-year-old daughter to watch out for, in a country rapidly going into a tailspin. I didn't say that part.
The woman pursed her lips. "It may be your problem soon, Mr. Allan. MRA is petitioning Skagit County to amend the Dairy Labor ordinance to include vegetable growers...." She must have seen the look on my face, because she stopped and shook her head. "Very well." They got into the Urban, which whirred to life and backed out of the lane, gravel grunching under the tires. The complainant in the back flipped me the bird as they disappeared into the dusk.
I sincerely hope someone in the MRA reads this. Because what I said is true: like Moore's Law in reverse, bureaucracies are being created to deal with problems created by the previous generation of bureaucracy – like some kind of governmental Mandelbrot set, nosediving from partially effective to actively disruptive and dangerous. It's a negative feedback system, and we either need to break it or get around it somehow.
Somehow....
GA
Edited to add: I grew up reading Heinlein in the 1970s and 80s – The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, Farnham's Freehold. They seemed romantic then, but I tell you: this shit sucks. Trying to do an end run around The Man is a real strain.
