Giant Clams and Elephants

Island Elephants

Memorial Day has come and gone and the tourist season is officially begun. Every year, at this time, I try to put forth some gentle reminders for both tourists and locals.

Tourists:
* Top speed on Shelter Island is 40mph, unless you're a local man in a truck, then it's 65mph. On the surface, that seems a bit unfair. It is unfair below the surface as well, but it's an elephant in the living room, more accurately an elephant on the Island, that we just don't talk about.
* Many of you bring your bikes to ride and that is very nice. And if there's a gaggle of you (seven or more) riding in a group, you may take up a lane on the road and none of the cars will try to go around you. If you're biking in a smaller group, like three, you'd better ride single file and stay way over on the right or risk being hit by one of the aforementioned elephants.
* Courtesy is the key to the Island. Locals may fight and feud, but cutting someone off in traffic, or cutting in any line, or failing to yell to them that they left their coke on top of their car before they get into it, is just not done. So when you're in a food store and a local worker is behind you with his sandwich, bag of cheetos and a drink, and you have a cart full of groceries, let him go ahead of you. He has a 30 minute lunch and is probably going to bolt his sandwich down in the truck, so give the working people a break. And remember, don't make any comments about how the workmen smell. Sweat is the scent of honest work. Not to mention, you will so regret having made a snide comment if you see that same worker fixing your deck later that day. Any worker will tell you that rudeness seems to increase the time or cost needed to complete a task. On the surface, that seems a bit unfair. It is unfair below the surface as well, but it's another elephant on the Island.
* To the visiting women. We know you're here to feel free and have a wonderful time. However, there is a weight and age limit to belly shirts, thongs, sleeveless tanks, short shorts and going braless. If you're over 18 or over 110 pounds, you're over the limit. I myself, was only qualified to wear short shorts for one day in third grade, and then only for a half hour.

Locals:
* Attention MIT's (Men in Trucks); please don't paint those little symbols of bikes, tiny cars and jogging tourists with the big "X"'s through them on the side of your truck this year. It scares people. Please just keep score by carving a notch in your dashboard this year and an accounting will be done after Labor Day, at someone's end of summer barbecue.
* Ladies; please refrain from beating tourists who are taking too long at the Deli counter in IGA with the baguettes . It's childish and unbecoming. If you jam them in the back of the ankles with the cart like I do, they hobble away in pain, which effectively takes them out of line and you can claim the whole thing was an accident. Also, why waste those lovely baguettes?
* We all love shells. Last week I wrote about the loss of shells on the Island beaches, after the article came out - it occurred to me that a big part of the problem is probably tourist women stealing our shells! We either have to invent, or find, a shell scanner that all cars exiting the Island will have to go through. We can erect them by the ferries. As the car passes through, the scanner will outline the contraband shells being smuggled off Island and we can stop them in their tracks and do a conch crackdown. We have plenty of dogs on the Island and they can be trained to be shell sniffin' canines. If dogs can smell drugs through plastic wrap, foil and coffee grounds, then smelling seaweed stuck on a shell at a hundred paces should be easy. This will put an end to the "taking home a pretty shell as a souvenier" mentality! No more freebies, they can buy a T-shirt at the pharmacy like any normal tourist. The Town Board can institute a Brine Fine for those shell smugglers! Of course, locals can take shells off Island whenever they wish. On the surface, that may seem a bit unfair. But it is very fair below the surface where the shells originate. And it does not qualify as an elephant on the Island that we won't talk about, because elephants don't live underwater. That's where the giant clams that eat tourist legs live, but we don't talk about them either.

Driving

Driving Me Crazy

You get very "islandized" living on an island. You think differently about the off-island world...

There are many different reasons for going off-island. Some people go shopping, some go to see relatives, some even work off-island and have to make the trip back and forth every day. When off-island, for whatever reason, it's important to remember that the ways of the off-island people are not the same as Islanders.

When off-island:
1. Do not assume you can park anywhere close to your destination. If you go to BJ's or some other big store, you may have to park across an entire parking lot. Take a pen and sketch a map on your palm of where your car is.
2. If you have parked in some obscure corner of a big parking lot, don't assume you will remember where you parked when you emerge from the store, you probably won't, that's why you should have made a map on your hand like I told you.
3. Don't bother asking off-islanders if they saw where you parked your car. Only Islander's know each other's cars and pay attention to where you parked, or should not have parked, your car.
4. Don't talk to off-islanders in a grocery store. They don't know what's available at the local farm stands to supplement what you're buying in the store, nor do they care. Very few off-islanders can carry on a conversation about squashes and cooking techniques, for more than two minutes. Off-islanders have Podcasts News broadcasts, which they download on their computers. Islanders have Peapodcast News, which is standing in the produce isle in IGA and either listening in, or participating in every conversation. After 20 minutes, you'll be completely caught up on everything going on on-Island.
5. You can drive faster than 40mph off-island. Please remember that. Off-islanders have this thing that you have to go zooming along on their big fancy highways, I've often hit 50mph myself. They can't stop and smell the roses, because you can't even see them at those blazing speeds.
6. There are traffic lights off-island. Since no one can take turns off-island, the government has had to step in and hang up boxes to tell you when it's your turn to go. The yellow light seems to be open to interpretation, but I notice that women think it means Stop and men think it means Speed Up!.
7. All the food we see advertised on television is obtainable off-island. If you buy some, put it in a big black plastic bag and don't open it until you get home and close your shades. If the ferry workers smell french fries, you'll feel so guilty, you'll have to hand them over. If your neighbors see you bringing bags of fast food into your house, they'll think of a reason to visit and you'll end up cutting your Big Mac into halves or quarters. Lesson here; if you can't bring enough for everybody, have the decency to hide what you have.
8. Resist asking off-island cashiers to hurry up, or you'll miss your boat. They'll always look at you like you already have...
9. If you're single, avoid dating off-islanders. Unless they're very wealthy and marriage minded, it's never worth the ferry tickets. One of the reasons that Islanders divorce and marry other Islanders is the natural drive in human nature to conserve ferry tickets unless you have at least three reasons to go off-island.
10. Many off-islanders don't even know where Shelter Island is, always remember the Shelter Island rules. If off-islanders ask where we are, don't tell them. If they ask for directions, misguide them. Confirm all rumors that the government conducts germ warfare tests on Shelter Island. Tell them that one way ferry tickets cost $50. Tell them the ferries are very safe, we only lost a few hundreds people last year from ferries overturning and sinking.

The off-island world is strange, their customs different, but still, we can avoid contamination through diligence, misguidance, blatant and non-blatant lies, treachery and flame-throwers.

She Shells Sea Shells and More

To Shell With It

While sitting in my car and overlooking the beach last winter, I remember thinking how peaceful and pleasant it is to walk the beach at dusk in the summer. Especially at the end of a not-too-hot day, with just nominal wind so the waves lap slowly and lazily up and down the beach. The way a thin layer of water foams and swirls around your feet and pulls back, sinking your feet deeper into the sand. There's something about that experience that makes ordinary shells and stones look somehow special and compels us to pick up a few new ones everytime we walk the beach. I still have a perfect spherical white pebble I found while walking Wades Beach in high school. It looks like a big pearl. It's just a stone, but it's one of my favorite little treasures.

I began to think, always a dangerous activity, about how Shelter Island recycles everything - and long before it was in style. Then I began to think about all the jars of shells and pebbles I have as decorations around the house. And I began to think of all the houses on the Island with jars of shells and pebbles. There's probably enough sand, pebbles and shells in jars all over the Island to build a whole new beach! Maybe it's time for us to recycle some of these shells and pebbles back onto the beach instead of putting them in the back of the closet while we get a new jar of shells this year. I have noticed, over time, that the beach seems to have fewer and fewer nice shells to take home. At first I thought I was imagining it, but now I'm thinking it's because we've all been slowly clearing the beaches of the pretty shells and pebbles and leaving the broken shells and ugly pebbles, cause there doesn't seem to be any shortage of them. So this year, I think I'll recycle, or reshell, the beaches I love with things I have borrowed from them over the years.

Jean: "Ahhhh, Sally, how nice. The beach looks better already. How many jars is that, six?"
Me: "Seven. I don't know which shells came from which beaches though, I may have mixed the Wades Beach shells with the Louis' Beach shells or the Shell Beach shells. But I don't think it matters, do you?"
Jean: "No, I don't think it matters as long as they're from local beaches, but what about this batch you left over here?"
Me: "Those are shells from Tamalpais Beach in California, I had four jars from there. I thought it would be nice, as long as I was in a reshelling mood, to add a few exotics...."
Jean: "I think the reshelling idea is great, but I think you should only reshell local shells, to maintain shell consistency, you know, Shelter Island has standards. Lots of areas limit your paint color choices when you paint your house and such, I'm just not sure that you should..... WAIT! What's that over there? Why is the sand pink and purple? And why is it glittering?"
Me; "Glitter? What glitter? It's the sun playing tricks with your eyes."
Jean: "I don't believe it. Where did you get pink and purple sand filled with glitter?"
Me: "The Honolulu Hilton gift shop. It was a tourist trap, but the shells were so pretty in the colored sand, I just had to buy a few jars. I think the sparkles give the beige sand a little zip."
Jean: "What about the shells? None of these shells are local! The spiny conch shells look awful here, and the little shark jaws have got to go - you'll scare people."
Me: "I thought it would be nice for the kids to find unusual things on the beach."
Jean: "No mother wants her toddler to reappear at the beach blanket with shark jars."
Me: "I see your point."
Jean: "Okay, let's just pick up the little jaws and spiny shells that kids can step on. You had such a good idea, and as always, you just have to go over the top. Why are you looking down? What else have you done to our pristine beaches? 'fess up!"
Me: "Well, the glitter looks so pretty mixed into the sand, and I just thought..."
Jean: "I saw empty plastic bags labeled, "Sequins", in your car, tell me you didn't...."
Me: "No, no, there's no sequins here."
Jean: "Thank God."
Me: "I spread them all over Wades Beach yesterday. The sand looks gorgeous now, you should see it before you judge me."
Jean: "Get in your car! And wait there while I find a piece of driftwood to beat you to death with."

The Shelter Island Tonite Show!

Shelter Island Tonite!

After seventeen years, Jay Leno is down to his last few weeks as host of The Tonight Show. For his first ten years as host, I was still saying, "I'm watching Johnny Carson." Johnny was such a consistent presence in my life from childhood up, that I felt a real loss when he announced his retirement and then disappeared off the radar altogether. Now, when I've finally gotten used to Jay and memorized all his staple routines ( I love Monday Night Headlines), he's leaving me too. Conan O'Brien takes over soon. Conan is okay for someone who thinks his staring contests with guests are funny, but I always switch to Craig Ferguson on The Late Late Show after Letterman, he's very original and spontaneous. I'm okay with Letterman, but only watch if he has a guest I want to see. So I guess when Jay leaves, I'll have to train myself to watch Letterman, it won't be easy, but these things happen in life. You just never know when your TV viewing will hit a speed bump and disrupt your insomnia. Of course, if Shelter Island, which has its own channel, had a late night show, I'd have a real choice again.

Announcer: "Shelter Island Tonite! with your host, Bill McGill. Tonight's guests are; Sarah Schmopit, Winner of the 2009 Seashell Yard Design, and Harry Bicker, with fascinating tales of a Shelter Island Taxi driver, and lastly, we have a demonstration of the new routine from the Shelter Island Lion's Club Power Mower Racing Team."

Bill: "If you've never seen our Power Mower Racing Team, folks, it's a real treat. Using synchronized mowing, they mow a design in the huge lawns on Shelter Island, the homeowner just has to host a barbeque. The accuracy and amount of detail in the design is directly dependent on whether they mow before or after the Barbeque. Before the barbeque, you can get a replica of something elaborate, like Washington Crossing the Delaware, after the barbeque, you might get "Budweiser" spelled in big letters across the lawn. Crop circles have nothin' on our boys and their John Deere's!

Bill: "Before we call out Ms Schmopit, we have a few announcements; low tide will be at 5:54AM. If you're new to clamming, get out there by 6:30AM to get in a good two hours. If you're old to clamming, stay in your own clambeds. We only have one cop on at that hour and if he has to come down and break up another clam rake duel, he'll permanently confiscate the rakes of the involved parties.
We have a 10mph breeze expected from the southeast bringing warm weather. It'll be a perfect day to put up a little canvas, but if you feel the need for speed, call your friend with an outboard.
Remember to bring your own bags and egg cartons to the farm stands. If you're trading, use the Island's pound for pound exchange rate. You can pick up a pound of zucchini if you leave a pound of shellfish. Two beers counts as a pound and also one ferry ticket counts as a pound for exchange purposes. If you observe an off-islander abusing our honor system, get their license number and call this show. We will publically humiliate them at no charge and their car will be clammed by the next islander who sees them. That's right off-islanders, I said clammed, not keyed. It's illegal to use your car key to scratch someone's car, however nowhere in New York State or Federal law is there any law regulating the use of mollusks.
And now, let's welcome Sarah Schmopit! Tell us Ms Schmopit, where did you get the inspiration to replicate the Eiffel Tower in sea shells in your front yard?"

Sarah: "Call me Sarah, Bill. I got the inspiration from seeing a picture of this thing in Paris, which as you know, is quite off-island."

Bill: "Ah yes, the off-island influences, they are all around us all the time. It's hard sometimes to choose which information we want from the off-island world."

Sarah: "Well, my husband and I built this replica, six feet tall you know, and we improved on the original design."

Bill: "You improved the engineering design of the Eiffel Tower? That's impressive! What did you do exactly?"

Sarah: "Well, our tower features four built in bird houses and green and red, port and starboard, lights on the top. Just think, if the original tower in Paris had port and starboard lights, how much easier it would be for pilots to steer the airplanes to the right of the tower. I guess the French, drinking all that wine, never thought of that..."

Bill: "Well, it just proves the point that there's not much in the off-island world that we can't improve on here."

Laid off - What Now????

Can't you wait till 5pm???

"AP - Wed Apr 15, 8:20 pm ET
MADISON, Wis. – A nurse was called out of surgery so a manager could tell her she was being laid off. ...The Madison-based health care provider announced Wednesday that it planned to "immediately" lay off 90 employees. Dean Health spokesman Paul Pitas said the incident happened at Dean's West Clinic in Madison on Wednesday or Thursday. Pitas declined to name the employees involved or what type of surgery the nurse was attending when she was called away."

I've heard of getting laid off on short notice, but this really takes the cake. The employers should at least let you finish your shift before laying you off. Geez, what if that happened here?

Patty: "Look at the ferry guys, Mary, they just took out money, now they're coming back this way again. Wait a minute, they're handing money over to people, what's going on?"
Ferry Worker: "We just got a call, we've all been laid off effective immediately. We're giving everybody their money back before we leave."
Patty: "Whaddaya mean leave? You can't go in the middle of the trip! You gotta get us docked and off the boat!"
Ferry Worker: "The heck we do! We're being picked up now. You people will be fine, the tide is coming in, you'll run around on the Sag Harbor beach."
Patty: "I don't wanna run aground in Sag Harbor, I wanna run aground at Bridgehampton Commons! Wait ! Come back here!
Mary: "Forget it, they're all going over the side on a rope ladder. That clamboat is picking them up. Everybody's getting out of their cars, lets see what we can figure out together."
Passenger 1: "We're drifting sideways, can't we straighten the boat out somehow?"
Patty: "You can go up in the wheelhouse and try to drive, but it's like trying to steer a giant soapdish."
Mary: "Well, we're moving fast enough. I can see people on the beach starting to stand up and look at us. HEY! On the beach! Get your kids out of the water!"
Patty: "Some of the men are running into the water, what are they going to do? Swim out to us? They should just stay where they are, we'll be there in a minute. Unless, of course... they're going to try to board us."
Passenger 2: "That's it! Those Sag Harborians have wanted their ferry for years, they're going to try to board us and take our ship!"
Passenger 1: "Not without a fight! Attention everyone! Prepare to repel boarders!"
Patty: "Search your cars for whatever can be used for a weapon!"
Passenger 1: "Here they come! I count six men, but that's probably just the first wave. Cast off the rope ladder!
Mary: "Patty! What are you doing? I have to return that toaster to Target."
Patty: "It's no longer a toaster, it has been re-purposed, it is now a defensive weapon! Watch this! Hey! Saggie! Smile!"
Mary: "Bullseye! Way to go Patty, you knocked him out!"
Patty: "Go get the kids carseats! They'll never take us alive!"

Local Papers May 8th edition:
Islanders Repel Saggies!
An attempt was made by the residents of Sag Harbor earlier this week, to commandeer a Shelter Island ferry. Islanders, in a valiant attempt to save their vessel, put up a noble fight until their ship ran aground and they were overwhelmed by the superior numbers on the beach. Choosing to destroy the vessel rather that have it and all it's technology fall into the hands of an envious neighbor, the Islanders set the boat ablaze. Sag Harborains saw the smoke from all points of town, and thinking it was just a hell of a bonfire, hundreds arrived with marshmellows and beer. Several Saggies, obviously under the influence, claimed they were attacked with toasters, child seats and other objects as they attempted to board and assist in what appeared to be an out of control ferry. These two tribes have lived together in peace for generations, separated only by a thin strip of water. We can only hope that the peace of the south fork will be restored and the Islanders will give up their obvious attempt to create a new landing zone on the Sag Harbor beach. We will print updates as we receive them.

Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg

A Lake By Any Other Name...


By David Goguen on April 22, 2009
"Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. It may look like the result of someone falling asleep on their keyboard, but it's actually the name of a lake near the town of Webster in central Massachusetts, and it's got a local chamber of commerce scrambling to fix not-so-glaring spelling errors on highway signs.
The Worcester Telegram & Gazette reports that the signs are mistakenly spelled "with an 'o' where a 'u' should be, at letter 20, and an 'h' instead of an 'n' at letter 38." So, the correction will actually lower the lake's Scrabble word value from 134 points to 131. The U.S. Board on Geographic Names says that the lake's name is a Nipmuck Indian word that translates loosely to "You fish on your side, I fish on my side, nobody fishes in the middle."

I know what you're thinking, yes I checked and I can't find any phonetic pronunciation for this lake. It's a local secret, but any east coast resident understands the need to keep Indian pronunciation secret. One of the privileges of living in former Indian territory is that only the locals know how to properly pronounce the local Indian names. One of my guilty pleasures is waiting for a visitor to try to pronounce local Indian names correctly. Naturally they fail miserably and then I can laugh with an imperious attitude and enjoy a fleeting sense of superiority that says, "Ha! you fool! How could you even think you could complete with my brilliant intellect? Just listen to your pathetic attempts to pronounce Mashomack."

But what really piqued my interest in this article was who was the person who noticed the misspelling? I mean, just how slow were they driving to notice this mistake? I gave it a lot of thought, because it vexed me. I think I figured it out. I believe, the misspelling was caught by an Middle School English teacher who has car pooled by that sign every work day for roughly two years. How did I arrive at this? Only an English school teacher would notice this. Only an English school teacher who had to know the correct spelling would notice it. Only a Middle School English teacher would have the duty to make students learn local spellings like this one. It appears the sign is next to a highway and on a curve, so doing between 40 to 55 mph, the observer would only have a few seconds to see the sign. The driver could only glance at it, so it had to be observed by a passenger who had the time to look closely. Figuring the passenger looked closely for a few seconds at each passing, they could only have proof read a few letters at a time. Therefore, they proof read it in sections. A 45 letter word seen daily for a few seconds, minus the number of times she was a passenger on the days it wasn't her turn to drive, plus the angle of the sun in the early morning, minus holidays and weekends, factoring in the occasional grafitti defacements, plus the price of tea in China, it all adds up - a Middle School English teacher carpooling over a two year period was the only person who would have noticed the mispelling and its a good thing he or she did. It's just this kind of chaos in the world that keeps me up all night.

Many years ago, my ex pronounced Ronkonkoma, "Ronk-a-nonk-a-noma" to peals of laughter from my entire family. To this day, we mispronounce that way because we're part of a that secret joke club that all families have that perpetuate running gags in the family.

I was in San Rafael, CA and heard a woman in a department store telling the clerk she was shopping for her vacation in New York, she was going to "Pa-cho-go-gee" a.k.a. Patchogue. I laughed and corrected her because that was my right as a native Long Islander.

Of course, living in California for my married years and married to a native Californian, I often struggled with the pronunciation of all the spanish named towns, which seem to be most of the towns in that state. Not many Indian names that I recall, but lotsa spanish names. Being a native New Yorker and seeing all these names ending in vowels, I naturally pronounced them Italian style. My ex and his entire family found my pronunciations hysterically funny, which shows how juvenile and sophomoric a sense of humor they possessed. Of course someone who's never been exposed to these names would mispronounce them, and why is that funny? I had hoped that years of being exposed to my superior sense of decorum and class would help them, but one can only do so much.

The Hundredaires Club

Hundredaire Matchmaker's Club

I love watching the Millionaire Matchmaker's Club. It amazes me that even a multimillionaire can be a schmo or a total jerk. I don't know why I tend to think sometimes that money automatically improves manners or morals. A rich moron is just a moron with a staff - there's a frightening thought.

I think there should be a matchmaker's club for the average guy, the Hundredaire's Club I'll call it. Same as the Millionaire's Club, just scaled way down....

Joe: "I think I meet all your criteria, Sally, I got two hundred bucks in the bank, my rent is paid up, no cut-off notices, and I got one paid of dark trousers and one shirt that fits without the buttons pulling to wear on a date. Also, I got a boat."
Sally: "That's terrific! You qualify. Tell me more about the boat."
Joe: "It's a Boston Whaler, about five years old....new poles...cooler....new anchor....she can pick out new boat cushions...."
Sally: "I know I can get you a nice Island girl, Joe. Tell me what you're looking for."
Joe: "Natural blonde, big blue eyes, pretty face, about 5'5", 110-115 pounds, big rack, not over 22."
Sally: "Joe, look at this piece of furniture, have you ever seen one of these before?"
Joe: "I think maybe, in a catalog. Sure is big and shiny."
Sally: "We call it a full length mirror, Joe. Stand in front of it."
Joe: "Okay, now what?"
Sally: "Do you see a well muscled, six foot tall man of 25 with a full head of hair, flat stomach and a full set of shiny white teeth?"
Joe: "Not exactly, but very close."
Sally: "Very close? Any chance you see a 40-ish man with grey thinning hair, jowls, a paunch, and smoker's teeth?"
Joe: "Nope, that's not what I see. Where'd you get this trick mirror anyway?"
Sally: "Don't feel bad, Joe, every man sees himself as 25 no matter how old he gets. But we must be realistic. The women you want, the petite natural blondes with the big racks, they're all registered with the Millionaires Club, not with the Hundredaires Club. I try to match nice average people with each other. Think for a minute, besides looks, what else do you really want in a woman?"
Joe: "A good cook would be nice, especially if she makes good lasagna."
Sally: "Now you're talking, Joe! I got eighteen women in my registry that love to cook Italian. What else?"
Joe: "Well, a girl that likes to work on a boat would be great. A sports fan would be a big plus."
Sally: "You're singing my tune, Joe. You want a baseball or football fanatic?"
Joe: "You got some baseball girls?"
Sally: "Do I have baseball girls? Joe, I'm lousy with 'em. What do you need? Mets fan? Yankees? Red Sox?"
Joe; "Gimme a Yankees girl!"
Sally: "Yankees fan, that cooks Italian, loves to work on boats...... let's see... I got three potentials for you, and one is a natural blonde, plus she's Polish like you."
Joe: "Uff da! I'm in love already, who's the lucky girl?"
Sally: "She lives in Mattituck. Will you commute for love, Joe?"
Joe: "Geez, I dunno, those long distance relationships never seem to work out."
Sally: "The other two are Island gals, one is a dyed blonde the other is a brunette."
Joe: "Lemme think a minute... so to get a real blonde I got to use up ferry tickets...."
Sally: "Life is full of tough choices, Joe, to use our ferry tickets, or not to use our ferry tickets, that is always the question. The dyed blonde has a better figure than the brunette, but the brunette owns a house."
Joe: "Stop! My head is spinning! Real blonde versus ferry tickets, good figure versus a house....I never thought I'd have so many choices."
Sally: "I told you, Joe. I can't get you a 10 unless you're a 10, but a 7 with moonlight in a martini, equals a 10. The dyed blonde used to work in a strip club in her youth."
Joe: "I'll take the dyed blonde! Why should I hold her past against her? Everybody's got a past right? So she went a little wrong..."
Sally: "That's right, Joe, and when a woman goes wrong, a man goes right after her."

Eliot Spitzer, What a Disgrace!

Now Being Served: Client No. 9

I genuinely pity Eliot Spitzer. He attended Harvard and Princeton, married well, had three lovely daughters, worked his way up to governorship of New York State. At 48 years old, if he did a good job in New York, he might have been chosen as VP on the Democratic ticket in 2012, and from there, maybe the Presidency. Yes, it was all going so well. But power corrupts. I could almost nominate him for a Darwin Award for being phenomenally stupid. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. Okay, maybe a little higher, but he essentially ended his life. He lost his job, position, and will probably and deservedly be disbarred. His wife, I'm betting, will divorce him as more revelations surface about how long he used professional services. And his teenaged daughters, who have now seen their mother weep bitter tears, won't ever feel the same about him. And you can bet that as adult women, they will have major trust issues with men. Spitzer probably thinks he's the only victim here.

Silda, such a trained political wife, stood neatly dressed behind him, as he carved her heart out with a spoon. I hope she cleans him out. She deserves the best possible life. God Bless her.

It's a good thing Spitzer wasn't a Shelter Island man. Most of the gals on the Island would not have stood quietly behind their cheating husband while he announced how penitent he was. I've taken an informal survey and I'd like to advise any men in Shelter Island politics not to expect their wives to stand behind them in their moment of betrayal, as they have different ideas for atonement. An Island woman would have beaten him to death with one of the folding chairs from the front row.

Now, with horror, Silda and the rest of the country get to watch the call girl rake in the profits with centerfolds, TV interviews and movies of the week.

When did shame go out of style? As a parent, I made certain my children understood that there are behaviors that are shameful for which you should feel guilty and remorseful. Society uses guilt and shame to curb aberrant behavior, but apparently that ban is lifted if you make a lot of money doing it, or if it involves someone famous.

"Hi Mary, you busy tonight?"

"Hi Sally, no, what's up?"

"I'm short for the rent money, I thought I could service some guys at the bar."

"Sally! That's horrible! You're kidding right?"

"No, no, you don't understand. The guy at the bar I'm targeting is in the Suffolk County Legislature. He'll pay me not to publish the pictures. I'm bringing whipped cream and a chicken - the kinky stuff really brings in the bucks."

"What pictures?"

"The ones you'll be taking."

"That's prostitution and blackmail!"

"No, no, it's a public service. We're exposing a County official for the two-timing, lying cheat that he is."

"Wait, that's still wrong. I can't be part of that."

"Yea, but we'll get about $5,000 from him for the pictures and the newspapers will give us even more."

"But if we sell the pictures to him, we can't double cross him and sell them to the newspapers. He's a County Legislator, he's a powerful guy."

"Please, he'll resign ten minutes after the pictures come out. No threat there. I think I should get my hair done for the TV interviews. They pay like $50,000 each. You and Don can get the new boat."

"$50,000? Boy that's tempting. But I'll be selling out my integrity. Everyone will be talking about me."

"Well that's the nice thing about owning a boat, you can't hear people talking about you over the roar of the engine and the clinking ice in your glass."

"Hang on, Don just woke up. Let me put him on the phone with you."

"Okay."

5 minutes later....

"Hi, so what did Don say? It's a bad idea right?"

"Nope. He said he's going upstairs to get the better camera for you to bring. He wants a double outboard."

Getting Ahead in Life

The Importance of Getting Ahead in Life

Apr 2, 2008 LONDON (Reuters) - Children playing on a Scottish beach discovered a woman's severed head in a plastic bag, police said on Tuesday.

* * *

Any Beach, Shelter Island - two single moms sitting on towels among other single moms, and kids swarming all around.

Mom 1: "My kids love the beach. They love making treasure maps and digging for treasure."

Mom 2: "I know what you mean. My kids are always making castles and digging up weird stuff. I think half of my baking tools and pans are scattered all over this beach."

Mom 1: "Mine too. Somewhere on this beach is my best spring loaded cake pan. It made the best castle foundation, you know. I lost my spring pan, but last year the kids found me a really nice blue silicone ladle with a matching baking sheet. Obviously part of a set."

Mom 2: "Somebody's missing that."

Mom 1: "I know. I always worry somebody will be over for a visit and recognize something in my kitchen that was theirs."

Mom 2: "That's every Mom on Shelter Island."

Mom 1: "Look at the kids, they're all congregating. Somebody found something."

Mom 2: "Don't get up, they'll drag it over here in a minute. Last week my kids found a conch filled with beach glass and hermit crabs. We had to take it home and put it in the sink so the hermit crabs could have water."

Mom 1: "They can't live in fresh water."

Mom 2: "The kids don't know that. If I told them that, then I'd have to bring home a bucket of salt water along with everything else. The hermit crabs lived a few hours and by then the kids had lost all interest in them. I rinsed off the beach glass and shells and put them in yet another jar somewhere in the house."

Mom 1: "I think I have five jars of 'beach treasures' in my house. Off-Island people always think we're nuts. We got jars of sand with glass and parts of crabs and shells and whatever else was on the beach that day."

Mom 2: "Your kids are putting something in your car."

Mom 1: "It's the big find of the day, I'm sure."

Mom 2: "Here they come. Get the sandwiches out."

Kid 1: "I saw it first. I said it's real, but Jacob thinks it's plastic. It's real isn't it Mom?"

Mom 1: "Eat your sandwich with your back to the wind, honey, so the sand doesn't blow on it. I'm sure it's real. We'll rinse it off at home and put it in the living room."

Kid 2: "It's not real. But maybe you could make a lamp with it. My aunt made a lamp with a plastic pumpkin."

Mom 2: "Okay, give me your Juicy Juice boxes. Let's keep the trash under control. You guys can have another hour, then we're going home."

Kid 1: "What if we find more of it?"

Mom 1: "Well, if it's icky, don't touch it."

Kid 1: "But if it's not icky, we can take it home too?"

Mom 1: "Yea, sure."

Mom 2: "Gotta monitor that 'ick' factor. My kids tried to bring home a dead chipmunk they found on the beach once."

Mom 1: "Eeeeew. (calls to her child) It's not a dead squirrel or something, the thing in the car?"

Kid 1: "No Ma, not a squirrel. You wanna see it?"

Mom 1: "Yea. You better bring it here."

Kid 1 brings the package.

Mom 2: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!"

Mom 1: "Call 911! Put that down now!"

Mom 2: "Oh my gawd...is it someone we know?"

Mom 1: "Just call 911. KIDS! Get in the car, NOW!"

Kid 1: "But you said we could look for more of the lady if it wasn't too icky. You said we could stay another hour."

Have Fun - But Don't Go Crazy!

Waking Up

Sat. Mar. 29, 11:18 AM ET Muncie, Ind. - William M. Bowen woke up after a night of drinking with friends and realized he was inside a commercial trash collection truck full of waste. The driver had just emptied a commercial trash bin into his truck and was about to activate its compactor when he heard Bowen screaming.

"He looked up and this gentleman was standing out the top of our truck," said Larry Green, market safety supervisor for Rumpke Waste Disposal Company. Green said the only thing Bowen said to the driver was that he was cold.

* * *

It's clearly Spring. I see little dirt piles everywhere indicating that the worms are turning. I see ants in the house. I hear birds chirping in the morning. In a short time the Island will be green.

I've also noticed that summer people are starting to trickle in already. As a public service to our summer residents who come here to relax and enjoy themselves, I thought I might review a few indicators that you have overdone the whole "What the Hell, I'm on Vacation" theme.

If you wake up after an evening of reveling and find yourself face up on the golf course with a tee in your mouth and a golf ball on the tee, and someone is about to tee off from your head, you had too much fun the night before.

If you find yourself tied to the railing on the ferry with a multitude of ferry tickets taped to you because you passed out on the deck and have been riding the ferry all night, you've been having too much fun. But at least you know you were polite to the ferrymen because they tie the rude people to the outside of the railing.

If you wake up to find yourself floating on the raft behind The Dory wearing only your underwear and Christmas tree lights, you've had too much fun and probably made the cover of The Reporter.

If you wake up to find ten fire fighters 30 feet below you, looking up and shouting, "Don't move! You're caught on the windmill! Wait for the cherry picker!" you've had too much fun.

If you wake up to find yourself in a huge nest made of rough sticks and you see egg yolk on your pants and a very large bird is looking at you as if it's deciding which of your eyes to pluck out, you've had way too much fun and hopefully you have a cell phone handy.

If you wake up to find yourself on a playground and you are surrounded by angry mothers who are looking at you trying to decide which of your eyes to pluck out, you've had way too much fun and a cell phone won't help you. However, if you can summon any of your sprinting skills from high school, this would be a good time to engage them.

If you wake up to find yourself in the girl's locker room dressed in a cheerleader outfit, and you are neither a girl nor a cheerleader, you've had way too much fun and you also have evil friends.

If you wake up to find yourself with one arm around a huge coffeepot and several half asleep workmen surrounding you with a look of "Give me coffee or I'll kill you" look in their eyes, you have breached the Holy Coffee Grail at Pat and Steve's. Step away from the coffee pot and don't make any sudden moves. Any amount of fun had the night before will be canceled out by the beating you are about to receive if the coffee doesn't flow.

If you wake up to find yourself in the cabin of a beautiful boat, and you come up on deck to a sunny morning with no land in sight, just the sparkling water surrounding you, and no one else is on the boat and you don't own a boat, not only did you have too much fun, but somewhere there is a group of stranded people. Go back in the cabin and look for the ship to shore radio and a bottle of tequila. Hit the mayday button, take the tequila up on deck and get hammered because you're going away for a long time. On Shelter Island, the rule is one year in jail for every ten feet of boat. If you're on a 25-footer, that's two and a half years.

Have fun, but not too much fun!

TV's Onion Skin Ads - I HATE THEM!

Night of the Hurdling Curdling Death Tuesday, April 6 at 8 p.m.

It started about ten years ago. TNT began placing its logo in the lower right hand corner of the TV. A sheer, onionskin logo. I remember being annoyed when I first saw it. It distracted me from the program. But I let it slide, figuring that Ted Turner needed to label things that are his, the same way Trump has to label everything that belongs to him.

Soon thereafter, other networks decided to put onionskin logos in the corner too. We all got used to it and trained our eyes not to notice them.

Then some network got the idea to announce the title of the program you were watching on onionskins in the left lower corner. "You are watching 'Night of the Living Dead' on the Sci-Fi Channel." I figured that was to benefit people who fell into one or more of three categories - 1) People who were distracted for a moment and then had completely lost track of what show they were watching 2) People who were walking behind the couch while someone else channel surfed and the show title would prompt them to say, "Wait, I wanna watch that." 3) People who had fallen asleep in front of the TV and upon awaking would need to immediately know what program they were missing.

The next phase of the onionskin pop-up labeling was to advertise what the next show would be. Prior to this, the onionskin labels were just identifying the channel and the show. Now they were advertising the next show before I was through watching the current one. It wasn't enough that I had to mute through eight minutes of commercials every six minutes, now they were cheating by adding thin strips of advertising for "Flavor of Love" right over a crying kid's face at the height of a dramatic scene.

Then, another advertising executive thought, well, hell, why just advertise the next show? Let's advertise upcoming shows! I have a clear memory of watching a Christmas special on USA, and while the chorus was singing, there was a strip ad for "Race with the Devil at 8 p.m. next Tuesday". I really don't want to see ads for satanic movies in the middle of "O Come All Ye Faithful". It just proves that the strip ads appear according to a time schedule without regard to how incongruent they may be to the program they are defacing.

Recently, I have seen ads for programs that are on at the same time as the one I'm watching. "Now Showing: Gomez vs. Alverez on HBO Boxing." This confuses me. Do they want me to stay with the show I'm watching or turn to another one on a different channel - is it better than what I'm watching now? Do they want me to turn back to this channel for the next show on this channel, or should I stay with the other channel?

Apparently people are not paying enough attention to the onionskin ads, so now they have to animate them.

Case in point. This past weekend I was watching a 1940s movie with Barbara Stanwyck and John Payne. She's very short. He was holding her by the shoulders, her eyes were smoldering in that film noir way and he began to lean in for the big kiss, when a small airplane shot out from her ear and circled the screen, heading towards the bottom left corner where the image of King Kong on the Empire State Building had appeared. The plane zoomed in and he batted it away as another plane came from behind her head, as she was now kissing John Payne, and flew towards King Kong with little machine guns flares shooting at him all the way. The strip ad told me King Kong was showing on that channel at 9 p.m., obviously something I needed to know at exactly that moment.

If TV execs are trying to get us to watch more of their programming, they need to throttle back on these ever increasing pop-up ads. I barely watch TNT, USA or BET anymore because they load their programs with so much pop-up advertising. It really ruins your ability to get lost in the story, which is why you turned it on in the first place.

Polygamy - the Game the Whole Family Can Play!

Polygamy, the Game the Whole Family Can Play!

The Old Testament is full of polygamy, but it worked back then because so many women died during childbirth, so having a backup wife made sense. I believe that's the reason Mormons thrived on the American Frontier, where one in four women died during childbirth. Having a backup wife, or two, could literally make the difference in survival. Islam allows a man four wives, as long as he can support each wife equally, which creates a self-leveling system. I recall reading that Brigham Young, the leader of the Mormon church in the west, had 73 wives, the youngest being 13 years old, whom he married when he was in his seventies. That's not a survival marriage, that's legal rape.

As the events unfold in Texas, all I can think is that it's a great system for a man. You get to acquire new sex partners throughout your life - with the church's blessing - and none of your wives are allowed to complain. If I were a man and there was a religion that encouraged women to be silent and compliant and I could have as many as I wanted, I'd sign up so damn fast...

The men made all the rules and they make all the decisions. The women aren't allowed to wear makeup or cut their hair, and they all have to wear prairie dresses. They are taught that if they disobey it will cost them their immortal souls. Wow! I've got to hand it to Jeffs. He has managed to acquire complete control over hundreds of people who think he talks to God. Amazing.

Clearly, a woman has to be born into this cult. I don't think any of us with a brain could check it at the gate before joining them.

* * *

Penny, age 30, who joined the cult a year ago: George, are you gonna mow the lawn today?

George, age 48: Not today, sweetcakes, I've got to get Lucy pregnant. God's commandments come first.

Penny: Not Lucy, she's your daughter, remember? I think you're supposed to plow Jennifer today. But how long can that take? You can still get the lawn done.

George: Have one of the boys do it.

Penny: Can't, they're at the Temple studying "Polygamy 101: Don't Bother With Names, Call Them All Sweetcakes."

George: Well, you do it then and stop bothering me. I command you to mow the lawn and forbid you to bring it up again.

Penny: Okay, then you'll need to order someone else to make dinner for 37 kids.

George: Oh, were you on for dinner tonight?

Penny: Not anymore. I'll be doing something I can't mention.

George: 37? Are we up to 37 kids now? How did that happen?

Penny: Well, I could give you a clue. But instead, how about you just count your total kids once a week. You know how many chickens you have, right?

George: 142.

Penny: I'm not sure where it's written in the Bible, but I bet a man is supposed to keep track of his children at least as well as his livestock. Something like, "Counteth not thy children before they hatch."

George: I know being the leader of this family looks like fun and games to you, but I work hard for all 21 wives, you know.

Penny: Twenty wives, you said you married me to replace Constance.

George: Constance? Where did Constance go?

Penny: She cheated on you with Bill. She's his 17th wife now.

George: Well, that makes us even. I stole Susan and Patrice from him.

Penny: Constance left her seven kids.

George: Left me with seven kids? I'll have her shunned for that!

Penny: They're your kids too, George. Aren't they?

George: Who knows? I'm so busy trying to keep everybody pregnant, if one slips by me, how am I gonna know?

Penny: On the outside, they'd say, "It's tough out here for a pimp."

Marriage Advice from Kids

Marriage: The Good, The Bad, The Compromises

I found this charming collection of advice from kids about marriage and I had to share it as we enter bridal season; forewarned is forearmed.

The question: What do you think about getting married?

You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
- Alan, age 10 (spoken like a true man's man)

No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with.
- Kristen, age 10

You can tell if two people are married if they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
- Derrick, age 8

What do my Mom and Dad have in common? Um, both don't want any more kids.
- Lori, age 8

Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
- Lynnette, age 8 (isn't she a treasure)

On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
- Martin, age 10 (great strategy kid, truth is over rated)

If your date is going bad, I would run home and play dead. The next day I would call the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
- Craig, age 9 (what happened to "hop on the bus" Gus?)

When is it okay to kiss someone? Oh that's easy, when they're rich.
- Pam, age 7 (a girl after my own heart)

The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It's the right thing to do.
- Howard, age 8 (so, Republican are BORN, not made after all)

It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys have to get married because they need someone to clean up after them.
- Anita, age 9 (from the mouths of babes)

The important thing to do if you got married is to tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a dump truck.
- Ricky, age 10

The kids aren't so far off the mark. If you're getting married for the first time this spring, here are some things they don't tell you in the bridal magazines.

"The Romance Stops Here" should be stamped on the back of the marriage license. Men engage romantic gestures for only three purposes in life 1) to get you in the sack 2) to get out of trouble 3) on Valentine's Day, but only if you remind them and only because they have to, but otherwise they view Valentine's Day as a costly nuisance.

Whatever household chores they were able to perform pre-nuptials, they lose the ability to perform post-nuptials. Before marriage, men were able to live independently. They could cook, clean, do laundry and even remember to take out the garbage. Within six months of marriage, they lose the ability to do any of these things. The wedding band constricts their finger and cuts off blood flow to the part of the brain that knew how to do chores. They become eight-year-old boys again. Suddenly they can't do anything but watch TV. It happened to all my friends' husbands too. Suddenly, we, the liberated women of the 70s, were doing all the work our un-liberated mothers of the 50s did, plus we got to work full-time jobs. Just once, it would have been nice to come home to a dinner already made - take out doesn't count - but in 18 years, it never happened to me. I don't know of any women, unless married to a chef, who ever came home to a homemade dinner.

Fence mending - it's all on you. Prior to marriage, there is a chance he'll accept 10 maybe 20% of the blame for something he did. After marriage, HA! Once married, it's either your fault, or we don't discuss it. And regardless of whose fault anything is, it is you, the wife, who must be the first one to make the peace. All fence mending is done by you, period. Men can't admit they are wrong, or apologize because it burns a hole in their tongue. Otherwise, I'm sure they'd be happy to admit error for that prenuptial 10% of the time.

Lastly, your handbag. Once for your personal items, it must now carry his wallet, sunglasses, reading glasses, important papers, cigarettes and lighter, keys, garage remote and cell phone. Don't believe me? Look at a single woman's purse and then look at a married woman's purse. I rest my case.

Farewell to Murray, My Tuxedo Cat

Last week Shelter Island lost a dear, most precious friend: Murray, our 15-year-old, 17-pound tuxedo cat. He was a beautifully marked black and white tuxedo cat with a white mask and green eyes outlined in what looked like black eyeliner. At a visit last year, the vet proclaimed him "officially the nicest cat on Shelter Island." That's because Murray lay there like a lump while he was poked and prodded. He never protested. He was always too cool.

The late Murray

They say that losing a pet is like losing a child. I hesitate to make that analogy because nothing compares to losing a child, and yet, the elements of loss and pain are all there, just in a weaker concentration.

Murray and his sister Missy were rescued from a woman who was going to have them put to sleep at age six because her new baby was allergic to cats. My brother took them. They had never been outside. For some reason, the previous owner had them de-clawed front AND back! Why the back claws? They couldn't even scratch their ears!

With us, clawless as they were, they ran free. They caught, but couldn't even hold butterflies. And they spent hours sharpening their toes on the corners of the couch. I tried many times to tell Murray this was a pointless activity, but he never listened and stubbornly tried to sharpen those phantom claws. Murray took up permanent residence on my son's bed. I know the electric blanket had nothing to do with it. Murray spent hours with his big head in my son's lap, being petted and loved. They were best friends.

We will miss the way he sat on catnip. We never quite understood this particular method of absorption. He'd eat some then sit on the pile. Maybe it's a cat thing or maybe he was guarding his kill? He was always slow moving, but on catnip, he ran like a gazelle. Crashed into furniture, but still, like a gazelle would crash into furniture.

A few years ago, a gray kitten was added to the group. She attacked Murray, all eight ounces of her, and she'd dig her claws into his fur and hang on like a lion cub trying to bring down an adult water buffalo. Murray would walk all over the house wearing this kitten. It was hilarious. He'd lie down and she'd attack from all angles. He never lost his temper. And until the end, Two Socks, as she came to be known, could still attack him and sit on his head without protest. I think it was a May-December thing they had going on. There's no other reason for a mature cat to share his catnip.

He was playful up to the last few days. Then, his great little cat heart just gave out. The vet gave us a very nice coffin-shaped strong cardboard box for him. We wrapped him in a towel and had a proper Irish wake. The body was displayed in the box on the dresser. My son put in Murray's favorite toy - a penlight. Murray loved to chase the little spotlight on the floor. My brother put in one of his deerskin slippers. Murray loved to put his front paws inside the slippers and sleep. He looked like he was sledding. I'm not sure why my brother only put in the one slipper - what could he do with the other one? I found a rosary with a St. Francis medal (patron saint of animals) and we looped it around him. We wept, we laughed, we toasted him with Ovaltine. We inscribed his name and a Celtic cross on the top of the box with a personal note from all of us.

He was a good cat all in all. Never drank or smoked. Never killed a mouse. Was good to his sister, unless Pounce treats were involved. He never threw up in the house. Could have done a little better covering things with litter, but let's not speak ill of the dead.

Farewell my dearest pretty boy, Murray.

Beer Can Coffin!

Illinois Man Orders Custom Beer Can Coffin

Bill Bramanti will love Pabst Blue Ribbon eternally, and he's got the custom-made beer can casket to prove it.

"I actually fit, because I got in here," said Bramanti of South Chicago Heights. The 67-year-old Glenwood village administrator doesn't plan on needing it anytime soon, though. He threw a party Saturday for friends and filled his silver coffin - designed in Pabst's colors of red, white and blue - with ice and his favorite brew.

"Why put such a great novelty piece up on a shelf in storage when you could use it only the way Bill Bramanti would use it?" said Bramanti's daughter, Cathy Bramanti.

* * *

At the gates of Heaven:

"Louie, just go get St. Peter."

"But he's in a meeting with, you know, Mr. Big."

"Louie, go to the door and tell him a guy was just delivered in a beer can."

"Geez. How short is he, Gabe?"

"The can is big, never mind, just go tell St. Peter."

One hour later:

"Gabe, St. Peter said just use your best judgment and handle it. He's trying to influence President Bush to take the billions he wants to use to build missile sites in Europe and use the money instead to rebuild New Orleans. He said he'd back your decision."

"He can't get Bush to do anything right. You'd think he'd stop trying by now."

"So what are we gonna do about this guy in the can, Gabe?"

"Well, first, ah, we gotta get him out! He's in a big can Louie. Walk around it and see if it's a pop top or if we need a can opener."

Five minutes later:

"Okay, Gabe. I walked around the entire thing. Who knew they now sell beer in giant cans? When I was there, the biggest thing we could get was a keg."

"A keg is still the biggest container, Louie. I just got word that this guy had this beer can coffin custom made."

"Cool. Can we put it in our Coffin Hall of Fame?"

"Definitely. Go find Mario. Tell him to bring a propane torch. We gotta get this guy out."

Two hours later:

"It's okay Mr. Bramanti, come out. I'm Gabriel and this is Louis. We're covering the front gate for St. Peter."

"Wow! I wasn't sure where I'd end up really."

"Well, it wasn't the best idea to be buried in a giant beer can. The guys in Hell would kill for a cold beer. You almost got kidnapped on the way, and if they had opened this can and found you instead of beer, oh man, I don't even want to think about it."

"Well, I'm glad you guys got me. Listen, is there beer here in Heaven?"

"Yes, but you can't get drunk. All the beer tastes like Earth's but there's no alcohol content."

"How come?"

"Because alcohol does strange things to people's minds, like giving them the idea to be buried in giant beer cans. Any more questions, Bramanti?"

"Nope, I'm good."

Ax as a Communication Tool

Wait Honey, Let Me Ax You Something...

While driving to work this morning, some radio host was giving advice on how women can get men to listen to them. They advocated three rules: 1) Sit beside the man, not in front of him. Eye contact can be intimidating for men. They are more likely to open up if sitting beside you. 2) No distractions. Try to talk to him without radio, TV, or any other distractions. The reason is that men can't multitask well. 3) Get to the point. When women build up to something, his mind wanders until he thinks you're getting to the point.

I think all three of these suggestions are excellent, especially the third one about getting to the point. I find that more women over-explain things to men. But the men don't care. They want to know what you want, when you want it. I recall wanting my ex to paint a room for me. I tacked the color I selected to the wall with a note giving the deadline. I also made a note of the consequences. First, no cooking. Seond, no marital privileges. Third, I would take his fly-fishing equipment hostage. The room was painted the color I wanted on time without any nagging. I learned a valuable lesson. Don't nag. They don't hear it. Threaten to take away their toys instead.

There are some other suggestions I have for communicating with men.

Lasagna - Learn to make an excellent lasagna. Feed him a big garlicky piece and he will listen to anything you say. Remember that the second piece usually puts them to sleep, so if you need to ask for money, wait until you've got him in that pasta stupor, you know, when he's pasta all caring...

Gift card to Lowe's or Home Depot - If you need him to take you somewhere and he doesn't want to go, get a Lowe's or Home Depot gift card and sale catalog. Explain to him that after he takes you to your appointment or event, he can go to Home Depot on the way home and stay as long as he likes to look at all the lawn tractors, and barbecue equipment and new tools. I have never met a heterosexual man who can resist this. Tool shopping for them is like shoe shopping for us. There's always room for a new tool.

Sleep deprivation - I have a friend who liked to wait until she had her hubby alone on their boat to let him have it about some issue she had. She was getting nowhere, and he was putting in early rather than listen to her. I suggested she reverse course and make those day cruises a love-fest and not mention anything unpleasant. Just sail away on a sparkling sea. When you get home, I told her, let him catch you crying softly on the edge of the bed. He's had a great day and he's tired from the salt air. He'll agree to anything to stop the crying so he can get some sleep. And he did...she said it worked like a charm. every time.

My mother has been known to remove car batteries and hide them in the kitchen when she absolutely had to talk to one of my brothers. Very effective, it worked every time. My grandmother wanted a refrigerator. She still had an icebox when I was in grade school. One day, she took an ax to the icebox, threw the ax in the middle of the living room floor where my grandfather was watching TV and announced, "Ervin, NOW I need a refrigerator." I recall we all held our breath, certain he was going to kill her. But there must be something about a woman wielding an ax that melts a man's heart. He quietly rose from his La-Z-Boy and got in the car. The next day Gram had her first refrigerator. It was 1965.

So remember, when you want your fella to listen to you, reduce his distractions, use lasagna if needed, and if all else fails, use an ax.

Memorial Day Clams

Memorable Clams

Most Islanders had a nice, fun Memorial Day. I had a terrible day. I was alone and clamless. Usually on Memorial Day, I have the first two pecks of clams (four pecks in a bushel) in the refrigerator, waiting for consumption. But not this day. My brother, whose Native American name is Mollusko, failed to wade waist-deep in the cold water and bring forth clams. He was full of lame excuses: the water was too cold, he was tired from a long workweek, it wasn't like I was paying him, why don't I get my own clams, and on and on.

Nothing changed the fact that the house didn't reek of steamed clams like it should have on Memorial Day. There were no steamers waiting for their little butter baths, no clam dishes, no new clamshells in the driveway attracting the first shiny green horseflies of the season. Actually, I'm just disappointed, not mad. I can't be angry with Mollusko the Clam Hunter. I know that soon, clams will appear.

There's so much more to catching clams than people know. It's not like you stand in the water with a clam rake and they jump into the basket. It takes planning, strategy, patience. One must wade softly and carry a big rake.

We know that clams herd together for protection. Seldom do you find a single, lonesome clam - a rogue. It's just too hard to live alone as a clam, to find food, to watch for predators swimming overhead (since they have no eyes), to avoid starfish who pry you open and eat you. No, it's just too dangerous for a rogue clam.

Mollusko finds them in beds, hiding just under the silt, trying to avoid detection by his big experienced feet that have genetic clam-detecting devices in every toe. Once he finds the edge of a clam bed, he triangulates its location from above the water so he can find it over and over, until the clams become aware of him and start to migrate. Mollusko slowly rakes off the clams at the back of the pack first. Like a herd of running gazelle, it's the old and sick animals that lag behind. The same is true of clams - it's the old and lame that live on the edge of the bed. Mollusko is helping the natural selection process when he scoops them up in the rake basket. By eating the old and lame first, we allow the younger, healthier clams to mate and reproduce through the summer before we go after them in September.

I steam the first load of clams first, and strain and save the clam broth to cook pasta in later. You can dip the clams in melted butter or cocktail sauce, and eat them with any side dish at all. My Aunt Olive once ate so many steamers, she had to lie on the couch for two days until her stomach ceased rising and falling with the tide.

The second meal we usually make is a clam fettuccini. I cook the pasta in the saved clam broth for flavor, and add chopped clam bits to a white sauce. Add any green side dish and the meal is complete.

The third meal I make (which is very rare because there's usually no clams left at this point) is clam fritters. Using a standard pancake batter, I add clam bits and deep-fry the clam pancake in bacon grease. Only bacon grease will do, as it has that smoky flavor and tiny bits of bacon for added texture. This is how my grandmother made them and this is the only way I make them. It should be noted that my grandmother's clam fritter recipe has been officially condemned by the American Heart Society since 1970. My Aunt Ruth Krsnak of Sayville eats the fritters with maple syrup on them. She's the only person we know who eats fritters with syrup. We don't know why she eats them with syrup, it's just something the family accepts, like the fact that my mother thinks garlic is not necessary for cooking Italian dishes. Personally, when I cook Italian, I start with garlic and build from there. My mother has had the same clove of garlic in her cabinet since I was in high school. I think she thinks when she opens that particular kitchen cabinet when she's cooking spaghetti, fumes from that old, dried-up garlic clove waft out of the cabinet and into the sauce, and that anything more than garlic fumes will be too much and overwhelm the sauce. Well, that's what happens, I guess, when Irish people try to cook Italian.

The weather is warming now. Soon, Mollusko will wade and invade the local clam beds like Godzilla through Tokyo. I have cocktail sauce and tiny fondue forks ready for battle.

Shelter Island Summer Reminders

Just a few notes to start off the summer on Shelter Island.

Early Morning Commuter Traffic. Watch out for it. It happens all over the Island when the drivers of two work trucks, traveling in opposite directions, stop in the road to converse. They stay there talking until each truck has three beeping cars behind it.

Dare Devil Entertainment. Coming out of Fedi's, balancing two or more cups of piping hot coffee and danishes and dodging cars to get to your car parked on the opposite side of the road.

Morning News. Have breakfast at the Pharmacy or Pat & Steve's to get all the up-to-the-minute news.

Sound Bite. No time to stop for a full news report? Drive slowly past Crissy Gross the Crossing Guard with your window down, and yell on approach, "Crissy, what's the latest?" She'll give you three updates by the time you roll past her.

School Rules. Please remember that the school stubbornly insists you take home the same child you dropped off. You can't trade to upgrade in the parking lot. I know, I've tried.

No Ganging Up On Treaders. When you see someone treading for clams, you cannot call friends and organize an attack strategy to get the bag as the treader exits the water. Shelter Island is very strict about this. If you want to steal freshly tread clams, you have to do it yourself, mano a mano. I generally approach the treader as they're coming out of the water and say, "I think your car is on fire! I'll hold your bag, you go check the car. I'll wait right here." They hand me the bag and run to their vehicle. By the time they realize their car is fine, I'm home, melting butter.

Car Notification Program. As I've said before, men on the Island know you by your car. When you get a new or different car, in addition to a NYS registration, inspection and all that other stuff, you have to tape a big note to your driver's side door for 15 days, announcing your new vehicle.

Cyclist Crunch Limit. All Islanders are limited to running over three cyclists per tourist season. More than three requires a special permit from the Board.

Honor the Honor System. Most of the little farm stands on the Island have a coffee can for you to leave payment. If you're a tourist, don't screw this up. Whether you're a local or tourist, if you can't put $5 in a coffee can for fresh veggies or flowers, get the hell off the Island.

No Pointing. One complaint tourists have, and they are right, is that the Island does not provide enough public restrooms. So, when you see a tourist heading into the woods from the roadside, no staring, pointing or laughing, please.

MapQuest. When a tourist asks for help as they stand next to their car with an open map of the Island, resist the urge to get them lost on purpose, or tell them that the last boat is at 6 p.m. and that they'd better get in line now.

Island Selective Hearing. There are official periods of time when all Islanders are deaf. At the annual tree lighting in the village square, despite the variety of keys being sung, you will only hear one. Remember that school concerts are good for the kids, and no matter what you hear, it's Mozart.

Mooning. Mooning tourists is limited to the last boats that leave the docks on summer nights. Underwater mooning, so popular last year, must be reduced. Mooning snorkeling tourists, when we all know things look bigger under water, is mean. They think they're being chased by a giant soft shell clam.

Sycophant Classes. They'll be held this summer for those who need to polish their kissing-up skills in order to gain access to a boat. What will be covered? How to identify someone who has a boat. How to help them realize how much better their boating experience will be with you on board. Beer selection. Making club sandwiches. Dealing with people who have identified you as a mooch, and ways to throw them overboard.

Port-a-Potty Memories

PA crews rescue nude man stuck in portable potty, AP Fri Jun. 6, 6:24 PM ET

Rescue crews had to cut apart a portable toilet to rescue a man who got stuck naked inside the potty. Authorities say the 31-year-old man used his cell phone to call 911 on Sunday from inside a portable toilet. Police say the man had been drinking and had taken off his clothes. Somehow, he immersed himself in the holding tank. Deputy fire commissioner Chris Miller told WPMT-TV, "I've been on the job in one form or fashion for 21 years, and this is the first port-a-potty rescue I've ever had."

We have port-a-potties all over Shelter Island, anywhere there is construction, which seems to be everywhere these days. And I think everyone has had a memorable port-a-potty experience at least once.

You're at an event, or a visitor on Shelter Island, and you've got to go, and the only place to go is in the dreaded port-a-potty. As you try to open the door without touching anything - or letting anything touch you - you are met with that unmistakable smell of industrial strength, anti-microbial, mysterious blue water and raw sewage. As you step in, the port-a-potty shifts. It doesn't matter if you're thin or fat, it shifts and you immediately think, "Oh gawd, don't let this thing tip over..." You make your way to the seat. You would've put down a paper liner, but they're all gone, or for some reason, the whole tear-off pad of liners has been thrown in the tank. So you sit on your hands, because you can wash them later.

You can hear people talking about you outside because everyone seems to forget you can hear just fine in a port-a-potty - matter of fact, the sound reception is often enhanced. Someone ought to do a study of the acoustics inside modern marvels.

"Is she STILL in there?"

"Geez, how long does it take?"

"You think she got lost in there?"

I was at a Renaissance Faire once, with two friends. We were having such a nice time until I heard this from inside the blue box:

"Her ice cream cone is really dripping. I'm gonna finish for her, she's taking too long."

"Are you holding her purse?"

"Look inside and see if she has any tissues."

"Oh, wow, look at this. The condoms I understand, but handcuffs?"

"Handcuffs? Her?"

Inside the blue box of humiliation I called out, "Get out of my purse! The handcuffs are for a play, I'm dropping them off tonight. The condoms are my friend's, she's with her mother and she didn't want her mother to know she has a boyfriend."

Outside the blue box of humiliation, they heard, "Mmmmlllllooommmuuummmtaumblah!"

I finally exited the box. The six people in line, all of whom knew what was in my handbag, looked at me suspiciously as I tried to step out with dignity. But I tell you now, there's no believable explanation you can offer for the combination of condoms and handcuffs in the same location.

Graduation Day!

Graduation Day!

Graduation Day is June 28th on Shelter Island. There will be wild celebrations, excessive drinking and lewd conduct - and that's just the parents. Who knows what the kids will do...

For the graduates, I have this advice:

1. There are many ways to serve your country. Don't put profit ahead of patriotism. Support your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.

2. Don't worry, your parents will get smarter as you get older.

3. People can always handle the truth better than a lie. And a lie always gets found out, and usually at the worst possible moment.

4. Pay your own way, pick up your own things and don't make excuses - your enemies don't believe them, and your friends don't need them.

5. Pack your own chute. I saw an interview of a sky diver years ago. The interviewer asked him why he wasn't afraid to jump out of airplanes, and he responded simply, "I pack my own chute." I thought that was a great axiom for many things in life. When it is important, when you are the one most affected by the decision, pack your own chute. Take responsibility for what needs to be done, and personally see that it is done right. If your parachute doesn't open, you're the only one who pays the price.

6. God exists. And things do have a way of balancing out. Have a little faith.

For the parents I have this advice:

1. Luggage is an appropriate graduation gift. But pre-packed with a plane ticket attached is going too far.

2. Shredding the birth certificate will not help. Even though they move out, they never really move on. They'll always call for money.

3. You MUST wait for the child to move out so you can do a proper cleaning and de-fumigation of the room. If you're in a hurry, try to do a controlled burnout - it worked for the Romans when they cleared lepers out of a dwelling, so it could work for funky teenage rooms.

4. Before you can have a small bonfire and burn posters, old sneakers, raggy clothes, video games and other teenage items, you have to obtain a special permit from the town, a $35, "Parental Mental Health Reclamation Permit."

5. Hide the vacation brochures and the "101 Ways to Blow Your Kids' Inheritance" handbook until after the little darlings leave.

6. Don't get carried away with your first post-graduation food shop. It is a bit of a shock not to have to buy Tostinos, Mystic Pizza, tortilla chips and guacamole, the four teenage food groups. It takes a period of adjustment to realize you can spend your money on what YOU like to eat, and not make do with what you had to buy for them. Personally, I'm looking forward to buying fruit instead of single-serving frozen pizzas that taste like cardboard.

7. Music: Crank up the oldies station and glue the dial in place. Not only will you get to hear your music again, the sound of it will drive the kids out of the house even faster.

8. Books: Soon you will be able to read books again because you are not constantly cleaning. A wiped table stays nice all day because there is no one there to leave cereal bowls, glasses, scattered papers, keys and other little messy tidbits. You will have time to read things longer than a Reader's Digest article!

9. Money in your pocket - your money in your pocket! It will be a strange sensation at first, looking in your wallet and seeing $10s and $20s in there. And it'll be even stranger later the same day, when the bills are still there - and again the next day! It's wild, but so welcome!