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!

Fourth of July

4th of July vs. the 12th of Never

Last week I received a flyer that was sent to all Shelter Island residents announcing that the 4th of July will be celebrated on the 12th of July with fireworks at Crescent Beach. Why? What else does the town have scheduled on the 4th of July? Everybody's off. Nothing's open. And why? Because it's the fucking 4th of July!!! Everybody's off and everything is closed so we can celebrate the 4th ON THE FOURTH! There's no point in celebrating it on the fifth, the sixth, or the twelfth. By then the moment has passed, the energy has dissipated, the burgers are cold and the beer is flat. When it's over, it's over.

The 4th of July is sacred to Americans. It is a day of thoughtful reflection, picnics, barbecues, boating and listening to John Philip Sousa at full blast. I have every intention of playing my patriotic music at a high volume. The 4th is a day of trying to guess whether the chicken is cooked through, a day of realizing there is no such thing as "enough beer," a day of wrangling crying babies and obnoxious children, of resurrecting old family fights and starting new ones.

Everyone I know has a family story that happened on the 4th of July. I have a friend who accidentally lit his sister-in-law's potpourri on fire while lighting a match in her bathroom. Panicking and not knowing what to do, he threw the burning popourri out the bathroom window, leaving the poor woman to wonder why her bathroom smelled of burnt sage, and where the hell her potpourri was.

One year, my mother and aunt put six cases of beer in my Uncle Bill's trunk for him to bring to the barbecue. My other uncles yelled at them for putting that much beer in the trunk of the family's Head Alcoholic. Uncle Bill eventually showed up. He made a spectacular entrance as he drove through the fence and between the horseshoe pits, where a game was in progress. He had five cases of beer left and a lot of cans. And this was the real beer - Ballantine, the heroin of beer. All the men drank it while smoking filter-less Lucky Strike cigarettes. The combination created the worst breath I ever smelled, prompting my Uncle Walter to say to my father, "Listen, Whitey, just 'cause your breath smells like ape-shit, that don't mean you're Tarzan." Which became a popular family saying to denote someone who thinks too much of himself.

Then there was Aunt Eleanor, related by marriage, who was not the brightest crayon in the box. On one 4th of July, which we were to spend on the family clam boat, Eleanor had her hair done for the outing. Eleanor had been on the boat before and any woman who has been boating at least once knows that there is no hairdo in existence that the wind and the spray can't pull apart in five minutes or less. She spent the whole trip trying to maintain her hairdo in the hot, smelly cabin, and complaining. This was the same boat trip during which my Uncle Walter stood on top of the cabin to dive off, and was stopped by my Aunt Carol who yelled, "Wally! Don't jump in with the new watch I just got you!" He responded, "Okay, honey." Then, as the family watched, he took off the watch, put it in the pocket of his shorts and jumped in the water. He never lived it down. The family tormented him about that watch for years, because that's how families bond. It's not just the lovey-dovey crap, it's what these people have on you that keeps you all together.

Celebrating the 4th on the 12th dilutes its importance. The birth of the nation we hold so dear IS important enough to stop what we're doing and celebrate. Let's not let corporate-convenience tie it to a Monday or Friday just to create a three-day weekend. That's okay sometimes, but not this time. People died, then and now, to protect and defend this country. It IS important enough to stop and celebrate what freedoms we have left.

Thong Injury!

"Woman sues Victoria's Secret claiming thong injury"

Fri. Jun. 20, 2008 AP: A woman who says she was hurt by her thong panties when a metal clip flew off and hit her in the eye has sued Victoria's Secret, saying in a TV interview on Thursday that the injury caused her "excruciating pain.'"

In a secret room in the basement of the Shelter Island Police Department, Officer John Smith conducts an interview:

"Now Ms. Flynn, we've talked to you about this before. Shelter Island is upgrading its image. Property taxes are skyrocketing to force the middle class people to sell out, and we are moving towards a population of millionaires and the people who serve them. People like you have to stop embarrassing the Island or leave. Now, where did you get this thong?"

"I bought it online. I thought I'd get myself something sexy for my birthday last year. I put it on, and then it disappeared."

"What do you mean, 'disappeared?'"

"I don't know. I put it on and it was gone until last week. I bent over to pick something up and - boing! The thong reappeared and a metal clip shot out and tried to kill me."

"First, you're going to drop the lawsuit against Victoria's Secret. And next, you're going to sign this statement agreeing never to purchase a thong again. We've added a few other limits for you, as well."

"Wow, this is a long list."

"It may appear long to you, Ms. Flynn, but the town board has approved it."

"Let's see, no tank tops, nothing sleeveless, no shorts, no sheer clothing, no thongs, no two-piece bathing suits, no belly shirts, no spandex clothing at all. Oh, c'mon, all my clothes will be boring now!"

"Not necessarily. We've eased the restrictions for you on sequins and sparkly things. You have a sequin limit for evening attire so you don't catch too much light and interfere with planes landing at Kleniwicus International."

"Do the other women on the Island have to abide by all this?"

"Well, you're our test case, but we're going to implement a program whereby the closer you are to your correct height and weight ratio, the more clothing options you will be allowed."

"I'm height/weight proportionate..."

"For an Orca, yes, but we are using a human scale for people."

"Geez, I didn't know you guys would be this strict. So, can I wear my top with the sequined regatta on it?"

"Only during the day. You're limited to one ship on your chest at night."

"My bright yellow pants?"

"Someone should have taken those away from you a long time ago. No bright yellow pants over size 12 will be worn on Shelter Island."

"If I dress by these guidelines, people will think I'm slipping into good taste. My image of being one of Shelter Island's sparkly gals will be lost."

"Don't worry about that. You are one of Shelter Island's official characters. We have all learned to tolerate your big mouth, like Roseanne Barr or Lisa Lampenelli."

"But I'm not like them, they're loud and annoying."

"If the thong fits..."

"What about the men on Shelter Island? Lots of them should have limits on their appearance."

"What are you talking about? All the men on Shelter Island are handsome and fit. Each and every one of us deserves a Miss November."

"The Miss Novembers of the world are dating corporate executives, not the regular Joes on Shelter Island."

"True. That's what I hate about beautiful women. They think their beauty entitles them to everything. They'll marry the ugliest men just for money. Look at Donald Trump - beautiful women line up to marry him. His current wife wouldn't have looked at him twice if he didn't have any money."

"And he wouldn't have looked at her once if she didn't look like that. So he's just as shallow as she is."

"I think your logic is flawed."

"My logic is perfect. You, like every other man, think you rate a Miss November, regardless of how you look or what you can offer."

"Just sign the form, Ms. Flynn."

"And if I refuse?"

"You'll lose your sequin privileges."

"Damn, you got me between a sparkle and a rhinestone."

GO! CHRISTIE BRINKLEY! GO!

The Hamptons people are trying to be so cool, not talking about the Christie Brinkley and Peter Cook divorce in public, but, trust me -- it's the most talked about "we don't talk about it topic" I've ever heard.

I applaud Christie for opening the proceedings to the public, since her stupid ex-husband wouldn't settle in private. He deserves every minute of humiliation he gets. Peter Cook is officially a member of the More For Me Club.

The More For Me Club is a club I made up for men who, no matter how much they have, just have to have a little more. Like Eliot Spitzer; he was on track for the Democratic Presidential nomination in two terms, but because he needed more, he pushed it and lost it all.

Peter Cook, poor Peter. Stuck living in the Hamptons. Stuck with fantastic business connections for his real estate business. Stuck in a marriage to a beautiful millionaire supermodel. What man could put up with that? No wonder he needed more.

In this case, he needed a local teenage girl. And what a smart choice that was. It's not like a shallow teenager would brag to her friends that she was beating out a supermodel for her husband's attentions. And she'd never mention how they're "doing it" in the supermodel's own bedroom in her Hamptons homes.... nah, what could go wrong there? No, you can trust a 17-year-old to be discreet and low-key. And shoveling money at her will take care of any verbal slip-ups she may make.

Yes, Peter was wise. Not unlike Spitzer, charging his trysts on a very traceable credit card. Men are so clever with their little indiscretions. And for Peter to start shaking his head "no" when he spotted the teenage girl's stepfather spilling the beans to Christie at a high school - that wasn't the least little bit incriminating.

You see, it's not that Peter doesn't love Christie, and her money, and the lifestyle she created for them. It's just that he needed more. You'd think Christie would understand that.

Most men would join the More For Me Club if they could. The more money and/or power they have, the greater the chance of them joining the More For Me Club. More For Me men sort of know each other, I think, and cover for each other in those high circles. Without question, other More For Me men knew that Peter was getting his "more on."

And I'm betting that, in time, we will discover that this was not Peter's first excursion into the More Zone. A man like Peter is doomed. If Christie, her beauty and her money weren't enough, nothing ever will be. I know why he's crying in court now. His remorse for what he's lost is genuine. Not only has he lost his last victim and all the trimmings, but now that she's flushed him out in public, how will he set up his next victim? Christie has really interfered with his ability to have more. If he does get another rich woman, she'll watch him like a hawk. He'll have to take his trysts out of state and hope for the best. I can only hope he takes a page from Spitzer's book, and remembers to pay in small, unmarked bills.

LIPA

It's official, LIPA has purchased land on Shelter Island to create a substation. I presume they will station enough trucks and equipment on Shelter Island to dispatch trucks to the North and South Forks for service, this way they can close their substations in Cutchogue (I think) and in Sag Harbor. But I have a feeling that this is one of those ideas that is perfect on paper, like communism, but does not work in reality.

LIPA Worker #1, "It's 2:30 in the freakin' morning, whaddaya mean we gotta call the ferry and get this rig on a boat to Jamesport ?"

LIPA Worker #2, "We're the substation, man, we gotta respond."

LIPA Worker #1, "Did the supervisor fail to notice there's a gale out there? You know how that boat's going to rock? If we don't flip over, we'll be too seasick to drive!"

LIPA Worker #2, "That's the job, man, that's why the Union's going to try to get us hazard pay."

LIPA Worker #1, "You know the ferry guys are getting sick of these night calls too."

LIPA Worker #2, "Hey man, they are well paid to crank up those boats."

LIPA Worker #1, "And what about the locals? Does the Super know what a pain they are now that they think they have us trapped?"

LIPA Worker #2, "You got that right."

LIPA Worker #1, "They show up, and if we're not here they tape notes to the door to come to their house to fix everything! I had a lady leave me a note to come test her house and tell her the maximum wattage her house can absorb."

LIPA Worker #1, "No way!"

LIPA Worker #2, "Way! Ask Roy. He just moved here and he gets calls all the time either asking to have something fixed or they question him about their bill. People tape payments to his door so he can take their payments into the office for them."

LIPA Worker #1, "What the hell is going on with them?"

LIPA Worker #2, "It's the weird mentality they have here. If we choose to live and work among them, we must share and help solve their problems. And if our kids go to school here, then they own us. We'll be absorbed into the tribe, our LIPA trucks will become their LIPA trucks. We'll have to be in their parades and use our cherry pickers to get kites out of trees."

LIPA Worker #1, "And if we don't cooperate? If we stay aloof and refuse to integrate?"

LIPA Worker #2, "Picture tires slashed, imagine no ferry on call in the middle of the night, hundreds of little cables splicing into our mains, siphoning off electricity. I'm telling you, if we expect to work here and some of us live here, we're going to at least have to make them think that we want to be one of them. No choice, man, they have us surrounded."

LIPA Worker #1, "Maybe I should turn in a report to the Supervisor about these people."

LIPA Worker #2, "Roy already tried. They made a joke about him being afraid of the "Island Pod People." Basically told him he was imagining things. He even told him about the Island guy who left his LIPA bill with a bushel of clams on his porch for payment."

LIPA Worker #1, "Clams?"

LIPA Worker #2, "Clams, bluefish, seafood is currency here."

LIPA Worker #1, "So what did Roy do with the clams?"

LIPA Worker #2, "What do you think we were all eating Sunday?"

LIPA Worker #1, "The guy's clams?"

LIPA Worker #2, "Yup, we ate his entire LIPA payment and Roy sent in a check for the guy's account."

LIPA Worker #1, "Uh oh, Roy's becoming one of them."

LIPA Worker #2, "Yeah, they got Roy. Just a matter of time before they get us all."

Conch Shells, Comedy and Bernie Mac

Bernie Mac, an edgy and very funny comedian (in my opinion) was invited to speak at an Obama luncheon recently. Since he is a comedian, he spoke as a comedian and not some celebrity pseudo political pundit. One woman, according to the report I read, objected to a joke he did on menopause and this caused Obama to chastise him publicly, right there at the luncheon. If I were Bernie Mac, that would be the last effort I made on Obama's behalf.

When did we all lose our sense of humor? When did it become acceptable for one person's taste to trump the majority? I bet most of the people at that luncheon had a great time and laughed at Bernie's jokes. But he gets chided like a school because one, or even a few, people objected to his brand of humor? I say, F - 'em if they can't take a joke.

I have heard many complaints over the years about Dan Rattiner's phony articles that he plants in Dan's Papers. People get fooled and they get mad and sometimes call the paper to complain. But any East Ender knows, you can't call yourself a real East Ender until you've been punked by Dan's Papers at least once. I've been punked but good on more than one occasion. Once, I even called the paper to see if there was a way I could help the poor woman whose plight was the featured phony article. Dan got me good and I laughed at myself. Dan, like any mature adult, expects that you can handle a joke. He relies on the fact that your fragile ego will not crumble under the weight of a story about a secret old subway line that runs to the Hamptons. If he, or anyone who writes comedy, capitulated to the protest of every moron who didn't get the joke, the paper would be all events pictures with no text.

Without question I've written material that someone, somewhere, didn't like. Humor is completely subjective. Like Bill Cosby says, "The minute you start writing material to please other people, you're lost as a comic." I've always remembered that quote because it keeps me true to myself and my wackadoodle view of the world of Shelter Island that so many of my Island friends love. But the only reason they're laughing, is because they are way over in the wackadoodle zone themselves.

Case in point: I was off loading some items at the Goody Pile at our local dump and met a friend whose friend had just left her a peck of clams and conchs in her kitchen. "What am I supposed to do with the conchs? He said cook them and eat them."

"Sure, they're scungili. They're just big snails. Steam them, pull them out, chop them into small pieces, sauté in butter, garlic and wine, and add to spaghetti sauce, they taste great." I said.

"You can eat them?" she asked incredulously.

"Or you can give them to friends who eat them," I said, wanting to give her a viable Island option.

"Come and get 'em."

So, I left a pile of boys clothes at the Goody Pile and got a pail of scungili. I made a nice sauce and brought her a sample so she could test it. We split the pretty conch shells. Conchs for clothes, a perfect Island trade. These things do not happen in Ohio where snails are just snails and not dinner.

And how do conchs connect to comedy? Both can be loved or hated, both can get you into hot water, and both go better with wine.

Alzheimer's Walk

Memory Walks and Speaks too

Two roads diverged in a wood. Mother took the one less traveled by, and we haven't seen her since.

There's an Alzheimer's organization that is sponsoring "Memory Walks" nationwide to benefit their organization. I'm not so sure a bunch of mostly middle-aged people going on a memory walk to benefit Alzheimer's is such a good idea. Most of us will have forgotten our purpose for movement in five steps.

"Why am I in the hall closet? What the hell was I looking for? All right, let me think, I was in the garage getting - I forget - and then I heard the phone. So I went into the kitchen to answer the phone. Didn't get there fast enough and they didn't leave a message. Checked the call back number, didn't recognize the number, so I didn't call them back. Then I saw the cable bill on the counter. I opened the bill and decided to write a check, but my handbag was in the car, so decided to pay online. Why am I looking in the closet? Okay, so I went to the computer and went online. Before I decided to pay my cable bill, I read my e-mails. Got an email from my sister Sandy, who is coming to visit next weekend. Right, now I'm on the trail. I decided to check the status of the extra bedroom, so I got up and went to the room - and I decided to change the linen, but air the bed for a few days before I put on fresh linen, so I stripped the bed. I took the linen to the washing machine in the garage and got it started with some other items to be washed. I noticed a lot of towels in the laundry. So I could be looking in this closet to check how many clean towels I have left, or maybe I'm looking for fresh linen for my sister. It has to be one of those two, or both, reasons that I'm here. Yup. I'm looking for towels or linen. That was easy. Who says my memory's shot?"

Shelter Island hosts an annual 5K run, but I really think we should trade that in and sponsor Alzheimer's Memory Walks. It's much safer for the participants. If they drift away mentally, there's only so far they can go before hitting water. This prevents people from suddenly becoming aware of the fact that they have not only drifted off the trail, but are now in a town they don't recognize. Our police could easily do a perimeter check at the end of the day and herd the stragglers to the ferries.

The Memory Walk on Shelter Island:

"Isn't this a gorgeous island, Joan? So perfect for the Memory Walk. I'm so glad you're with me, we can pace each other."

"Hold on, Mary, my cell is ringing. I gotta take this call, it might be Ted, he said he might call. I'm gonna stop by this tree. I'll catch up with you."

"Okay, I'll be on the path. It's marked pretty well. Don't take too long."

"Hi Ted. Which boots - the hiking or the work boots? On the back patio, I had to hose off the dog poop, remember? Well, that's where I left them. No, I'm just going to walk while we talk. I don't want to get too far behind Mary. Maybe I moved them into the garage then, I can't remember. This is exactly why I prefer you to manage your own possessions. If you can't find something, you hound me and get mad at me for not knowing exactly where all your stuff is at all times. I have my own stuff to keep track of, plus the kids' stuff. Next time, hose the dog crap off your own boots and you'll know what you did with them. Well, if they aren't on the patio or in the garage then I don't know where they are. You'll have to look for them yourself. Check with Vinnie first, he wears the same size shoe as you now and maybe he grabbed your boots. I don't know! I just suggested you check. Where the hell am I? No, I'm talking to myself. I was walking on this trail for the Memory Walk, and there were people all around, but now I don't see anyone. I don't know, I'm on a path in the big creepy woods. Ted, I just told you - I'm in the woods, there's no streets or signs anywhere. Okay, I'll try backtracking. I see a sign, Mashomack Preserve."

Excerpt from the Shelter Island local paper: "The Alzheimer's Memory Walk was a big success! Over 6,000 walkers! Only 16% of the walkers got lost off the trail. All 960 people lost in Mashomack were found by sundown. We look forward to an even bigger event next year!"

Halfway to Christmas

July 25 marked the halfway point between the beginning of the year and Christmas. All the shopping channels had Christmas in July shows, on one hand, I hate it when stores, or shopping channels, blend or overlap holidays, on the other hand, I appreciate the heads up. Six months till Christmas translates to 12 paychecks before Christmas...and that's a frightening thought.

July 25th - the halfway mark. I see the school supply commercials are running. Men on Shelter Island now think it's okay for them to start getting ready for deer season. They've been thinking about it since spring, but you can't talk about deer hunting in the spring when all the little spotted fawns are leaping about, no, you must wait until at least July 25. There's enough time now to slowly introduce the idea of the necessity of a new rifle or new equipment to your wife. Slowly acclimate her to the idea of letting you keep a collection of doe urine in her refrigerator. Put out little blocks of salt lick on the table next to the pepper just to keep a subtle reminder going that soon slabs of venison will grace the table.

School age kids hate the summer halfway mark because the end of July means the beginning of August. August, that long, hot, sultry month with no holidays is all that stands between the joy of summer and the horror of September. September is especially horrible for school kids on Shelter Island, because instead of the prospect of meeting new kids, like in a big school, there's only the prospect of meeting older and more pimply versions of the same kids from last year. I always hated that about SI High - same kids, different year. Being a teen on Shelter Island is to deal with a level of boredom that the Geneva Convention deemed "cruel and unusual punishment." August was all we had, our last weeks with the summer kids, to create memorable adventures that we could embellish through the long months of school to come.

Women love the halfway mark because it means: A) We can give up trying to set aside time for the summer projects we wanted to start in June. B) We can now revel in planning Thanksgiving, Christmas and holiday projects (also never to be started) for the coming months. The catalogs will be here soon. My Christmas season begins with the arrival of the Neiman Marcus Christmas Catalog in August. Gently turning each page, I sigh and crave the latest $500 Herend figure, or $50 Macadamia Coffee Orange liqueur cake, or the the Borghese Metro Makeup Kit that can be mine for $100 with the purchase of $300 of cosmetics. I love the smell of the fresh ink on the paper. I love the smooth pages. It's not just a catalog, it's my friend. My friend who has come to announce the holidays are coming.

With the catalogs, I start reading up on easy to do crafts. I won't end up doing any of them, but that's not the point. It's knowing that I can if I want to. Like an alcoholic who has to keep a small bottle of wine in the house just so he can give it a dirty look from time to time, I need my holiday catalogs and craft magazines around me like a soft security blanket. They comfort me in times of exposure to people who actually get things done. If I have enough catalogs, I can build a fort under the dining room table to hide in when the people who actually get things done come by. They'll never find me in my fort, and if they do, they'll leave me alone because they'll think I'm crazy. Crazy can be a good thing from time to time.

The halfway mark has passed. Whatever you planned to accomplish this summer, you better get on the stick. Whatever you plan to plan, get out your paper and pencil and start making those wonderful lists. Oh, if only lists counted as tasks, imagine all that we'd accomplish! July 25 puts us on notice to do, to plan, to plan to do, or to do the plan. I think that about clears it up.

Shark Week

Shark Week is on the Discovery Channel. It's been on for two weeks now and I think they're just going to turn it into Shark Month. Many other channels have followed suit and are running their own versions of Shark Week: "How To Know If A Shark Is About To Strike Week;" "Colors That Attract Sharks;" "How To Know That A Shark Is Really Dead Without Sticking Your Hand In It's Mouth To Check For Reflexive Bite Week;" "Foods That Make You Smell Like Sautéed Seal To Sharks."

The "sharks are our friends" experts are running shark specials like: "Sharks: The Misunderstood Killing Machines;" "Sharks Only Bite Humans Because They Think We're Seals;" "The Innocent Shark; They Won't Even Eat You While Dressed in Chain Mail and Smeared With Fish Guts."

The "sharks are our misunderstood friends" experts swim among chum, swirling with sharks, and the sharks ignore them. They insist on catching sharks and shoving a chain mailed arm in their mouths to prove that they are "actually shy" creatures. They act mystified as to how these innocent fish can be so villianized-surely it's something the humans are doing to provoke them, like being in the water.

On the other hand, there's the "Sharks innocent? Are you outta your mind?" group, of which I am one. There are countless eyewitness reports from half eaten people reporting sharks as the aggressors. The story of the USS Indianapolis alone should end the debate. Most recently, is the excellent book, Albatross, that tells the story of how a family of sharks swirled under and around a group's life raft, waiting for any opportunity to pounce. One member, who had gone crazy from drinking sea water, hung his legs over the side and was immediately pulled in and eaten inches from the raft. Somehow, I don't think wearing chain mail would have saved him. I don't think those were the shy sharks. They must have lost their boat among the "We don't care who you are, we're eating you" sharks.

I have two theories as to why the sharks don't eat the experts, but they eat anyone else in the water. Theory One: Since the experts are swimming under the water with the sharks, the fish may regard them as other fish and simply view them as competition for the food that's in the water. But what about all the attacks on divers? Well, that does present a problem, but I handle it like the real experts and simply ignore it because it runs akimbo to my theory. Theory Two: Sharks really are smarter than we know. We all know they can smell blood and sense vibrations in the next hemisphere. I say they send little shark messages in those vibrations, like; "If you get this message and are anywhere on the Atlantic Eastern Seaboard, there's a new leaky raft with six dinners near Montauk." Or, "Boat wreck off Kittery, three warm dinners, seven cold ones." Or, "Two hot lunches, already sautéed in white wine off of Shelter Island."

Of the two theories, I think Number Two is correct. If they can't get to the food, they courteously tell the other sharks where the groceries are. I was sharing this theory with a friend who said, "But there's no sharks around Shelter Island," All of the record breaking Great White Sharks have been caught just off our neighbor, Montauk, and the Island is surrounded by a channel that is 98 feet deep. Nah, no sharks in these waters. Besides, who wants to wear a chain mail suit over a bikini-it could really chafe.

BBQ Grill : Cave Men vs. Modern Man

I get such a kick listening to men discuss and debate how to barbecue - charcoal, propane or wood, controlling hot spots, "seasoning" the grill, the best barbecue tools to use, how women just never get grilling right. Listening to the secret barbecue sauce recipes alone is hysterical. "And I add a pinch of gun powder, gives a real smokin' chokin' flavor and just a pinch won't hurt nobody."

Scientists now agree that our ancient ancestors probably had the same level of intelligence and problem solving ability that we have now, they just didn't have the same technology. I don't think there's much difference between the early man on Shelter Island and the modern Shelter Island man today.

Mugette: "Bumba, are we still going to Umba's for dinner?"

Bumba: "Yup, Jumba. Umba's got a new stone pit we have to break in."

Mugette: "Well, whatever you're hunting today, try to kill something casual for me to wear, I can't wear this doeskin again."

Bumba: "What's wrong with it? I just killed that for you last moon."

Mugette: "Right, last moon, and I've worn it to at least seven group dinners, I can only accessorize a skin so many times honey, then I just need something new."

Bumba: "Fine, I'll see what runs by."

Mugette: "And stop by the beach and pick me up a bag of scallop shells, try to match the pattern's a little better this time."

Bumba: "Your brother brought you two bags of clam shells already, what's wrong with them?"

Mugette: "Please, he only gave them to me because his mate rejected them. Nobody wears clam now. And she only wears conchs, be happy that I am not asking for conchs."

Later that night around the new stone pit at the Umba place:

Jumba: "I been marinating this baby boar in dill and brine for three days, this meat's gonna fall off the bone."

Bumba: "Only three days? I always do a dry rub of rosemary and corn pollen on my pig or deer, and then I wrap it in seaweed, then long grass and sink it in the brine for five days. Best marinade ever."

Logbog: "Only five days? I stuff mine with onion grass and dill, rub honey all over the meat, then a seaweed wrap, tie it in a bag and bury it for seven days. I stopped using brine marinade, the sodium in the meat is off the chart, man. A Cro-Magnon reaches our age, he's gotta take care of himself. Any time you get over 30 seasons is a gift, you know. You get older and slower, takes longer to recover from being gored, the aches and pains get worse and we have to wait another 30 or 40,000 years before the Egyptians show up and invent beer. Meanwhile, all we got for pain relief is nutmeg and the priests have locked that up for religious ceremonies. It's hard out here for a caveman."

Mugette: "Is that meat ready you guys? We got hungry kids here!"

Bumba: "It's coming. You can't rush this, Mugette."

Mugette: "Fine, Loofa and I are taking a few skins and the kids down to Foofi's and getting some McSquirrelettes."

Bumba: "You're not spending my skins at Foofi's, this meat will be ready soon enough."

Muggette: "Okay, you come in this car and entertain six hungry kids."

I'm tellin' ya, Island men haven't changed in thousands of years.

Movin' & Groovin'

There's lots of moving going on all over Shelter Island and in many of the resort/vacation areas across the US. This always happens around this time of year - the snowbirds are starting to mentally plan their move to Florida, Arizona and places all along the Southern Sun Belt. I think nearly a third of our Island residents spend the cold months in Florida. I identify them by the pink flamingos they usually have, on key chains, tee shirts, sunglasses and flip flops.

But it seems that no matter how well you plot, plan and pray, moves never go smoothly. It seems like no matter how hard you try, the most important little things keep escaping you. I have a little zipper pocket in my purse for tiny important things, and when I put tiny important things in there, they still disappear. I think they slip through that tiny fracture in the space-time continuum where socks and earrings go. Somewhere in a parallel universe there is a woman who looks just like me, except her eyebrows are perfect because she has my best tweezers.

Then there is the great debate: professional movers or U-Haul. I've used professional movers three times, and each experience was excellent, all in all. I sat back and they systematically cleared each room to the walls.

We choose U-Haul only when we can't afford the pros or need to control everything because we don't trust professionals. No matter how I try to organize everything, I still end up with "surprise boxes."

"Well, what's in that box? See if the coffee pot is in there."

"No coffee pot. Socks, Gone With the Wind DVD, picture of the Dalai Lama and a bottle of aspirin."

"Okay, try that box over there."

"Alright! My old matchbox collection! I haven't seen this in three moves! Where did you have it?"

"I dunno. I haven't seen it in three moves, either. I didn't know we still had it. I thought I left it in the goodie pile the last time we were here."

"Well, honey, the moving gods returned it to me. Maybe they'll give back the Roy Rogers tea set you've had since you were five.

"What about the coffee pot?"

"We'll buy a new one. It's the only way to make sure the first one will come back to us."

"That's true. If you lose something, the fastest way to find it is to buy a replacement, wait 24 hours, and then the original item shows up. It never fails."

"Can we have Mayflower movers next time?"

"No, they cost too much. Plus all your stuff gets mixed up and it takes months to find things."

"As opposed to the system we're using now?"

"Organized chaos. It's a mess, but at least we only have each other to blame."