Hot!

It is as hot as Hades today in New York City! This record-shattering scorcher made my finely crafted suit feel as though it were made of burlap and sewing needles. Actually, I don't think today shattered any records, but it may as well have. I'm relieved to be in my apartment which, as I write this, is having its air gradually conditioned to resemble a meat locker.

It's very sad about the bombings in Sharm el Sheikh. Foxy and I were planning to visit the Red Sea arcadia during the second half of our honeymoon, but I'm not sure that's still a good idea. It might actually be safer, though, due to heightened security - Egyptian style. I'm told they're both expert and brutal in their dealing with these types of situations. Also, if we alter our plans, then we're sort of stepping into the psychological snare that these psychopathic malcontents have set.

We'll see what happens.

I'm leaving on Thursday for the Isle of Wight, off the south coast of England in the Channel. I've never been there, and I confess to knowing absolutely nothing about it. It is intended solely as a getaway so that my parents and I can spend some time together in a relaxed environment. London is very nervous at the moment, and I'm feeling smothered here in New York. I need to decompress like an Englishman: with lots of good beer and a parasol. Well, maybe not a parasol.

Cheers!

Halt!

Today, on the front page of our city's most infamous rag, the New York Post, the headline read, "HALT! Cops ordered to search subway bags." Accompanying the banner was a rather unfortunate photograph of a brown-skinned, probably South Asian young man having his black rucksack searched by a New York City police officer.

Two thoughts arose in my mind when I saw this: Either this gentleman was the only passenger having his bag searched within range of the camera's lens, or the Post chose to publish this picture only.

Being the sleaze engine that the Post is, I'll wager that a disreputable editor for this toilet roll carefully chose the image that he thought would resonate most with its reactionary readership. A photograph of somebody's grandmother having her handbag rifled through would not have stirred the desired emotions in its patrons.

Incidents of hate-crimes in the city usually jump after any well-publicized act of terrorism, regardless of where it occurred. That's why I believe it's irresponsible to subtly sow seeds like the one carelessly flung out into the ether today by the Post.

In a sad twist, the Indian Sikh community will shoulder the brunt of the hostilities of a fanatical few. They are the most visible of immigrants in America, and are often mistaken by roving vigilantes for Al Qaeda operatives. Last fall, the owner of one of Manhattan's most famous bars dragged a Sikh out of a taxi and commenced brutalizing him right in the middle of the street. All the while letting loose a barrage of slurs pertaining to Muslims. Figure that one out.

This is what happens when utter dolts begin racially and ethnically profiling members of our community, at the subtle and continuous prompting of media outlets.

The Post should take care not to incite or feed animosity as loosely as they did today.

Dancing With the Devil

I am dismayed to report that the Floating Nuptial Roadshow will not be pitching its magnificent tent in Cairo, as Foxy and I had not only hoped for, but actually anticipated. We were informed by the female Elders in Foxy's clan that, if held in Egypt, the wedding would be an utter bore and a complete disaster. There was nary a dissenting voice in this resolution, and my ears are still ringing with their conviction.

Egypt, boring?

Let me explain: On Monday, at the ladies' daily teatime telephone conference, presided over by Foxy's mother, the idea was roundtabled, and it was concluded that conservative Egyptian sensibilities would preclude them from any kind of dancing at the wedding. You see, when Arab women dance at these events, it tends to be less like its high-impact, aerobic Western counterpart, and more like something meant to showcase the beauty and sensuality of the female form.

From what I'm told, traditional Arabic dance, when done by wives and mothers, would be looked upon as promiscuous and immoral in Egypt. So it was agreed: no dancing, no wedding.

By the way, anybody who has any insight into this may feel free to comment. I'm sure that there are a variety of points of view on this matter.

I'm going to delve into the latest Harry Potter installment for now. Hopefully, his latest madcap adventure will take my mind off the disappointment. Truthfully though, Harry's been a bit of a wet towel in the last few books. But that's a matter for another post.

Egypt, anyone?

Foxy Cleopatra and I have been up to our eyeballs in various minutiae that need to be sorted out for the wedding in September. Lately, she's vacillates between yelling and crying, while I have stuck mainly to just yelling. It's more stressful than you can imagine, unless you've been run through this emotional and fiscal gauntlet yourself.

It does not appear that everything will be done in time for the wedding, for which we accept full responsibility. Foxy and I failed to properly arrange our priorities from the beginning. That aside, it seems that every time one of us so much as sneezes, another thousand dollars is added to the bottom-line cost for the affair. It's really gotten out of hand. We may now be forced to abort the pancake breakfast, raffle, and Fantastical Zoological Garden we planned for the cocktail hour. (The gentleman who runs the Albino Liger exhibit will be crushed by the news, as interest in all things liger just isn't where it used to be.)

As a hasty and exasperated solution to this fiasco, Foxy and I are visiting the idea of moving the gala to Cairo, Egypt. We have contacted the Oberoi Mena House, located in the shadows of the Pyramids, and they have promised us twice the opulence at half the price. And if the Encylcopaedia Britannica is anything to go by, Cairo is much more interesting than West Orange, New Jersey.

Here's the catch: Not a lot of our friends and family will be able or even willing to attend. It's either too expensive, or their minds are too narrow for a camel to pass through. More than a few Americans are afraid of all things Arabic at the moment. Many of our invitees, after having the concept informally proposed to them, informed us of their sincere concern that they will become the object of an insidious terror plot the moment they set foot on Egyptian soil. Wagging a finger and declaring, to their faces, how ridiculous they are has not had the soothing effect we'd hoped for.

So a lot of people wouldn't be there to partake in the blessed good time being had in the backyard of the Cheops residence. Who cares, right? Foxy does. Like most young American women I know, she dreams of having a big, elegant, and perfectly-executed wedding where she can play Princess-For-a-Day. Or for five hours at least.

So that's what we've been attempting to give her. But if you take a step back and look at the enormous hassle and appalling cost, it starts to appear a bit silly. Even to Foxy.

So we find ourselves in quite a quandry.

Security Blanket

As a result of last week's bombings in the London Underground, New York City Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly has stepped-up security in Manhattan, with special attention being paid to the Subway system. He has promised that there will be at least one NYPD officer - uniformed or plainclothes - on every train operating in what is the world's largest rapid transit system. There are roughly 6500 individual subway cars in the MTA's fleet, operating on a little over 650 miles of mainline track- so it's an enterprising and costly undertaking.

Today was the first day that I really noticed the elevated NYPD presence. On the ride home from Grand Central Station to the Wall Street station, there was a uniformed officer in our car. At the Wall Street station, there was a group of four or five officers standing on the platform, looking rather serious. Finally, as I emerged from the station, I noticed a new group of officers on Broadway making their presence very much known: having a pleasant time with each other, helping tourists, and smiling at passers-by.

It's actually really nice to see so many officers in uniform patrolling the city. In the early 1990's, there was hardly any police presence to speak of in New York, which Mayor Rudolph Giuliani quickly remedied. He did this by not only swelling the NYPD's ranks exponentially, but by ordering that they put themselves out in plain sight, in a coordinated and efficient manner.

The only problem I see is that, prior to the bombings in London, the number of officers on the street and in the subways appeared to be at its usual level. In a few weeks, the presence will surely begin regressing back to the norm. So I'm not really sure what all this actually accomplishes at the end of the day.

It's just a fast-acting tonic for our strained and ailing psyches. But it's a good one, and Ray Kelly knows it well.

Fulton Fish Market

On the Lower East Side of Manhattan, on a small stretch of South Street just next to Pier 17, and in the long shadow of the elevated FDR Drive, resides the singular Fulton Fish Market.

For 170 years this stinking citadel has stood guard over the venerable and timeworn South Street Seaport, devastating many an unsuspecting olfactory, and driving away all but the most determined visitors. Year round, surly men with iron hooks and Wellington boots yell in unintelligible fishmonger patter, while wholesale buyers for restaurants and supermarkets huddle around frosty bins and boxes, picking the best of each catch.

On summer days, the stench is absolutely intolerable, and the pavement around the market continually slicked with water and putrefying fish offal.

And we love it - because it's there, it's always been there, and it's memorable. It's something you take away with you as a visitor to New York, or something you comment on with a smile as you pass if you're a resident. It's a glimpse into the city's past; the epicenter of an antiquated culture and process that goes back to the very foundations of the island.

I once bobbed up at a raucous happy hour at a fisherman's pub down by the market. What's remarkable is that the happy hour started at 6 o'clock in the morning, just when the nighttime fishing crews come ashore, cold and looking for something to improve their circulation. Don't ask me how we wound up in that particular spot at that time of the morning - I wouldn't be able to recall.

The market has it's own tales to tell, with its own regular characters. It has gone through political upheavals, booms and depressions, urban exodus and influx, and has even defended itself against the likes of the New York Mafia. City Council, drooling over the potential revenue to be had from the real estate upon which it sits, has tried frequently over the last hundred years to close it's doors. And for a hundred years it has been unsuccessful. The market has grown up with Manhattan, and many believed it would die with it.

On Monday, however, this New York institution is closing up shop in Manhattan and moving to a new, 21st-century facility in the Hunts Point section of the Bronx. Hunts Point is infamous for its drugs and gangs, but especially for the notable accomplishments of its vast and rampant prostitution enterprise. I can only assume that the city transacted this move at rock-bottom prices.

We'll be sad to see it go, and sincerly hope that the developer who bought the spot will build within the spirit of the historic district.

London, UK

My deepest sympathies go out to the people of the United Kingdom, and especially to the citizens of London.

There is not a lot that can be said that hasn't been said already today.

It's atrocious, and appalling, and I know exactly how it feels to live through it. Even the most trivial elements of that morning in New York City four years ago are etched in the most vivid detail in my memory. And life goes on.

My parents reside in London, and love the United Kingdom as they do their own country. This morning's events have gutted them in the most profound way, as I'm certain it has all residents, both native and adoptive.

I received a warm call from my mother this afternoon. She wanted to share with me her observations about the British people in the wake of the day's terror: It's extraordinary how, no matter what happens, the British people always just keep their chin up. They have carried themselves through the day with the most perfect dignity.

What more needs to be said.

The Decline of Civilization

Every new television season in America brings with it a new reality show. Every year I am absolutely flabbergasted by the increasing stupidity of what producers have green-lighted. And I always ask myself - and everyone around me, now that I think of it - the same exasperated question: How much worse can it get?

And so I really am morbidly curious about what twisted scenario Hollywood will dream up next. How, next season, are they going to top this year's smash hit I Want to Be a Hilton.

I just sat transfixed for an hour by this circus, where ten or so contestants are stripped of all dignity as they jockey to become hotel heiress Kathy Hilton's protégé. It has all the elements of success that were fine-tuned in Donald Trump's The Apprentice: The dregs of humanity, a task, a reward, and finally someone - or two - is ejected.

Kathy Hilton's catchphrase is not, however, You're fired, it's a painfully awkward Sorry, you're not on the list. The list alluding, of course, to the sort of list you might not be on if you're a nobody trying to get into an event attended by somebodies.

It's really kind of nauseating, yet I couldn't look away. How much worse can it get?

Here are some ideas:

I Want to Be an Actuary
Homeless, Like Me
The Bachelor: Prison Edition
Apprentice to an Undertaker

Are you reading, Hollywood? We'll watch anything, I promise.

Gone Crabbin'

So far, the weather has been perfect! It's hot and sunny, and there's a nice breeze that's been blowing off the ocean in perfectly-timed intervals. I'm getting as red as a lobster and, coincidentally, tonight I shall be eating a lobster. Interesting.

Foxy and I are planning a seafood festival with our friends tonight which, in addition to lobster, will include blue-claw crab, shrimp, and scallops. Blue-claw crabs are frequently referred to as Maryland blue-claw crabs and have - you guessed it - blue claws. They are ubiquitous in this part of the country in the summer, and can be caught just about anywhere where there is salt water.

When I was younger, it was quite a big deal for us to go crabbing. We would trek over to the wetlands in the bay, or take out a small fishing boat, and begin our hunting expedition. This can be done using the most rudimentary of equipment, and usually yields enough for an entire family to eat, in a relatively short amount of time.

The crabbing line itself is just a simple piece of wire - coat-hangar guage - bent into a triangular shape, with a fishing weight attached to it. A string is tied to the metal wire so that it can be maneuvered into the water, into an unsuspecting crab's lair. The bait, which is skewered on the wire, can be almost anything. Crabs are not discriminating in what they'll sink their pincers into. However, bits of an oily fish, such as mackerel, work best.

The line must be lowered gingerly, with the utmost care and skill, into the dark water. Too quickly and you'll scare the crabs away. Too slowly, and you'll bore yourself to death. A perfect balance must be struck. It is really key that the triangular meat-hook contraption go all the way to the bottom to rest; it must not dangle midway between the surface and the bottom. Crabs walk along the bottom, and can't swim upwards with any kind of control - I don't think.

Then the waiting begins. At this point, older and more seasoned crabbers usually begin drinking beer; usually Budweiser, and usually from a can. I don't know why, that's just how I remember it.

The line will begin vibrating and dancing when some poor, naive crab has commenced nibbling on whatever crabby treat you've delivered to the bottom. Then it'll begin moving away as the crab tries to abscond with the aforementioned treat.

It is at this point that the trickiest phase is initiated. Remember how carefully the line was lowered into the water? Well, now it must be pulled up with even more care, and even more skill. If you pull it up to quickly, the crab will become aware of his own unexpected elevation and let go without another thought. If you pull up too slowly, again, you risk boring yourself to tears or death.

As the triangular meat-hook contraption approaches the surface of the water, the crab's silhouette becomes visible. It is at this point that a member of your all-star crabbing team deftly scoops the mark from underneath with a net, ripping him from his watery world. The crab is then put into a bucket with the other crabs. There is always water in this bucket. Real crabbers don't torture crabs to death by drying them out, nor do they cook dead crabs.

Here's how they are cooked, which is peculiar to the New Jersey-Maryland region:

They are steamed in an enormous pot, sometimes measuring about 2.5 feet or more in height if you have a large quantity. As they steam slowly, beer is generously poured over them. I'm told this is for anesthetic purposes. They are then made dirty, as it is called, by having can upon can of Old Bay seasoning dumped upon them.

Note: I don't always eat them this way, I just enthusiastically recommend it.

Each crab takes quite a while to break apart properly and eat, but the reward is substantial. So if you're ever in the area, have some crabs, and get them dirty.

Terrorist Plot Thwarted in Arizona!

In the last month, two helicopters have fallen out of the sky and into the murky waters surrounding Manhattan. Yesterday, a light plane did the same. It appears that a miniature Bermuda Triangle has begun to align itself around the lower half of the island. I think this warrants a scientific investigation immediately.

Again, be careful if you're visiting.

In the BBC today: Al-Jazeera shelves US border film

Al-Jazeera, the Arabic language media outlet, had been planning to film a report "about economic and security issues" along the US-Mexico border. However, the kibosh was put on the project by the Minutemen Civil Defense Corps, a gang of anti-immigration hillbillies who have appointed themselves to patrol the Arizona-Mexico border.

This group opposes immigration into America in general, but especially from our neighbor to the south. Apparently Mexicans come here to steal dishwashing and other jobs from hard-working Americans who, frankly, wouldn't take the jobs if they were available. Which they are. What the Minutemen do is patrol the borders with rifles (just in case) and call in "reports" of infiltration to the actual US Border Patrol - just like the WWII-era Civil Defense Corps, but with a flaming red neck.

Similar groups are rearing their ugly, five-gallon-hat-wearing heads along nearly all the other border states as well. From what I've seen, the standard-issue uniform appears to be a medley of flannel and denim, flamboyant cowboy boots (is there any other kind?), and a cowboy hat. They are basically uber-patriotic, racist organizations who, if unchecked soon, will eventually begin executing Mexicans at the border.

The Minutemen publicly resolved to confront any al-Jazeera journalists who made their way to the US-Mexico border. They even had the audacity to file a formal complaint with the Department of Homeland Security (you know, the red alert!, orange alert! guys). But what's really scary is that they have local popular support, and their cause has even been furthered by a US Congressman:

"It is insane policy to allow al-Jazeera to film Arizona's unsecured border with Mexico and then broadcast it to the very people who perpetrated 9/11," said Trent Franks, a Republican Congressman for Arizona.

How is it that a Congressman can say such a thing! It's absolutely ludicrous.

In the end, though, the group succeeded in staving off an imminent attack from the dangerous journalists and cameramen from al-Jazeera. And we're all safer for it. Just take a look at this little gem:

"The world's most prolific terrorism television network has cancelled its recon operation at the Arizona/Mexico border," the group said in a statement.

Most prolific? Recon? Nonsense.

In other news, Sandra Day O'Conner has retired from United States Supreme Court. Americans can now finally get what they really want: to overturn Roe v. Wade. Sandra Day O'Conner was the swing-vote on the issue, and a breath of fresh air on a lot of other issues. God help us all.

This weekend I'm going to Avalon, New Jersey for the long 4th of July holiday weekend. Avalon is in the far southern tip of New Jersey, quite near to Delaware, and has some lovely beaches and other beachy stuff. I'm not looking forward to the unavoidable five hours of snarled traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, but I am looking forward to cooking like a french fry in the sun.