Moment Magnitude

Independence Day

Independence Day takes on special meaning this Fourth of July holiday weekend.

Yes, Richard Ford's luminous touching novel has the same name, and I read it last summer. I hope to dig in to his latest segment of that so-far two-book trilogy, The Lay of the Land. I am an unabashed admirer.

Never mind that same-named throw-away film however many years ago.

Yesterday, the Colombian government somehow managed to complete a covert, daredevil ploy to free fifteen hostages held by Marxist guerrilla forces, each for several years. One is Ingrid Betancourt, who once ran for president of Colombia, and who, in the middle of that campaign, was kidnapped. A few months later, three American "contractors" were likewise kidnapped, and likewise rescued yesterday. Read it here.

There is a connection.

Some ten years ago (approximately), when I was publisher for the sciences at Columbia University Press, I attended the summer meeting of the American Geophysical Union (AGU) in Boston. I was there, to first, promote our latest book, authored by Cornelia Dean, science editor for the New York Times. The book is: Against the Tide: the Battle for America's Beaches. I reference it often now that I am living in Sag Harbor and working real estate in the Hamptons.

At that meeting, in a session addressing possible hazards about transporting nuclear waste to Nevada's Yucca Mountain, I met Victoria Bruce. The AGU meetings are attended by some 85% men: Earth, ocean, and space scientists. Imagine boy scouts with big brains. I don't think I need to say much more.

I was used to - and liked - being one of the few women allowed into this club.

And then there was Vicky. Gorgeous, sexy, forthright, and asking tough questions of the big science boys - on the g-forces that would pull on the proposed containers intended to transport nuclear waste down under the mountain with known underlying fault zones (hey Vic - I can still dredge up the old science verbiage). I wondered to myself: Who the hell is this?

I learned later that she has an advanced degree in earth sciences, but was (and is) ever the pistol. We became fast friends. She wrote a provocative adventure-disaster book, No Apparent Danger: The True Story of Volcanic Disaster at Galeras and Nevado Del Ruiz (Harper Collins - as a former ex-boss from the pantheon of my ex-bosses wrote recently: "We're scratching our heads" about the resignation of Harper Collins' CEO Jane Friedman. I know I am. She's tremendous.) The book's true story setting is Colombia.

While there, Vicky allowed herself to be seduced by the Colombian culture. Not long after the publication of her book, she returned to the country, and started to film footage for what would become the documentary (that she co-produced with her partner, Karin Hayes), The Kidnapping of Ingrid Betancourt.

That film won the audience appreciation award at Slamdance, the film festival adjacent to and in the same location and time as Sundance. Later, it won the Columbia (the university) DuPont award in 2005, and was picked up by HBO to air on cable.

A few months later, Vicky and Karin made another documentary film, Held Hostage in Colombia, this time about the three American contractors who, while conducting airborne surveillance in Colombia, crashed, and were held hostage. That film aired on Public Television.

As has been exhaustively documented by the mass media in the last day, these people were held in captivity in the Colombian jungle for years.

Now they are free.

Vicky and I exchanged holy-shit-holy-fuck email messages last night.

I've been shaking my head intermittently all day today.

The eve of the Fourth of July. Where the Town of East Hampton will not have beach fireworks - lest they disturb the natural environment of the piping plovers.

Where I've run into an ex-boyfriend (from hell), done with some three years ago. And felt nothing. Except that I didn't want to be in the same particular location, and I just left.

It's all independence.

Time, rescue, maybe without fireworks.

But freedom.

Twenty-Eight on Twenty-Seven

Shame on me.

I have not kept up with my normal pace of posting.

And there is so much - precisely why I have not written in an almost unforgivable span of months.

Since March (ahem), I have so many more customers and clients. This real estate thing ramped up fast, yet I feel like such the neophyte. It's reminiscent of my first job as a college textbook field sales rep for Prentice Hall.

The material is not intellectually challenging. But there is so damned much of it. I have been packing my brain as fast as I can (short term memory lapses notwithstanding) with what they call the "inventory," that is, the few thousand homes out here in the East End of Long Island that are available for rent and or sale.

The core/corps of my friends in NYC know well what I am up to these past fourteen months or so. But my wider social network may be less informed - to which I say: If you want to rent or buy a house in The Hamptons - yep, east of the Shinnecock Canal (which separates this part of Long Island the way NYC is separated by the Hudson from the rest of the United States), then pop me a query right here, in the post-a-comment section.

At some point soon, I will go wider, just as GV-Wonder has advised.

Surfer Girl moved out here too.

CAN YOU EVEN???

NO SHE DIDN'T.

YES SHE DID, WHY YES SHE DID.

But of course, as she says, throaty and husky, "I've had dual citizenship between the city and out here for years."

Someone else out here remarked, "She's world class. She's wild." It's important to know what matters.

On her occasional forays to and from parts West, she stops, as if inserting push-pins on a map, to check in with um, various surfer-buds along the way. I suspect that back massages are involved, at the minimum.

And then, to coin my own phrase, albeit adopted wholesale by Surfer Girl, there is in our East End world, The House That Doesn't Suck. But more on that later, as I peel back the layers. Let's just say that years of watching The L Word, have opened new friendships, that also include speed boats, wake-boarding, all-night parties, spontaneous karaoke, and the last season of American Idol. Two words: Dave Cook.

And me, well. I think I may have started peri-menopause. I think I had my first hot flash in February. And it lasted two months. Which did suck. And then one of the last eggs in my body must have dropped, because I menstruated again after a six-month hiatus. What???

Well, now. The 27-year-old has been operating mostly in the text message periphery, but maybe because he's turned up a couple of times this spring, my body remembered how to be a female. Two times in as many months. That's the rate that my current headspace can handle (never mind the puns, I know what some of you are imagining - and it's all true - so there).  I asked him if he had had a birthday since we met last summer. He said he did. I told him I had one too - and that means I am still twenty-one years older than he. As before, I say: Nevermind.

On one of the last times (apres rendezvous) he rolled out on the main drag out of here, westbound. I was driving east from Southampton when I spied his car on the opposite side of the road, leaving for now. I flashed him - my headlights, that is.

Twenty-eight on Route 27.

That doesn't suck.

Bruce Willis Mac 'n Cheese

Last month I conducted business over a late lunch in a favorite neighborhood hang: Cafeteria.

Cousin T. is its unofficial mayor. Open twenty-four hours, I've been there all hours of the day and night. When I've gone there with Cousin T., it's as if we are dining in "our" family restaurant.

I ordered a side of their mac 'n cheese (my favorite), and assembled papers and documents with my client. We were talking when Simone leaned in to my left side, and asked, "Excuse me. What do you think of the mac 'n cheese?"

Without missing a beat, and without looking up, I responded, "It'll change your life."

And when I turned my head, I cam almost nose to nose with Bruce Willis.

"Okay," he said. "I'll order it."

He, and this gorgeous brunette woman sat at the table just next to us. I looked over to my client, and tried to gesticulate while mouthing the words, "That's Bruce Willis (!)."

My customer joined us and I managed to focus on the transaction at hand, mindful the whole time of the party dining just behind my right shoulder.

I looked up at the faces of the people sitting at the table across from me. They looked dumbstruck and stared agape at the table behind me.

I turned as the waiter served Mr. Willis his mac 'n cheese.

"Excuse me," I said, "You got bacon. Bacon on your mac 'n cheese."

"Yes I did." I saw a flash in his movie star eyes, the look we know from the mega roles he has headlined.

The waiter interrupted. "Oh I'm so sorry! I'll get you bacon the next time." (Such a doll.)

My client, customer, and I completed our transaction. In the back of my mind I knew I had to seize the moment. I remembered something. Something from two decades earlier.

Mr. Willis and company were paying their check. When he finished, I turned to him and said, "I have to ask you something."

He looked at me. "Okay..."

"I have to ask you about...Sam Shepard. I saw you perform in what was it...?"

"Fool for Love. It was Fool for Love."

Yes it was."

"You're one of the privileged few."

"I am?"

"Yeah. That show ran (x number ) of performances, and let's see, (another x number) of people saw that show."

"And I was..."

"And you were one of them. That show got me my agent. It changed my life."

"You were incredible. I'll never forget it. I've wondered about that performance." (This was before Moonlighting.)

He smiled, and before stood, I asked, "So. What did you think of the mac 'n cheese?"

He leaned toward my client. "It's criminal. It makes you want to do crimes. White collar."

He walked around our table and introduced us to his girlfriend (very beautiful, great smile).

"Are you buying and selling something something here?"

My client smiled at me.

"Well, yes. I represent real estate in the Hamptons."

"Do you have anything in the Caribbean?"

We laughed.

And then he looked at me with intent. "You are going to be great at this."

For what it's worth, I got my first commission check this week.

The Endless Pool of Tears

The Endless Pool of Tears.

That may not be a direct quote, but it's at least close to a line I read in Mary Edwards (I wanted to write Ellen, that must be a Catholic upbringing hangover, unwelcome) Wertsch's book, Military Brats, a book my father gave me (fraught) that I used in therapy some fifteen years ago. Among other things - but that's a whole big-ass episode in my life about which I may address or not.

But that endless pool. While my violent, controlling, rage-aholic father, who started out as military, somewhere getting scooped up into covert activity under the aegis of National Security (NSA today), wrecking havoc on my childhood - and my Irish twin brother's (although I expect he is still less likely to admit as much) prevailed upon me to become adult before experiencing my own childhood, here I fucking am.

I've been clean for a long while. It used to be that I would break down in these uncontrollable periods of tears, sobbing racks, animal howls, torrents of tears, most often thudding my head again the steering wheel of my car, after a night out with friends, one drink too many, in the back of my mind grateful that no cop car caught me, parked, and free to let loose all the pent-up pain, rage, and fear in a flood of salt water.

It happened tonight. And I let it. I was present in my pain. I allowed all those tentacles of tangled pain wrap right around the firmament of my psyche.

All I could think of was my sister, when she was maybe three or four years old. I was pushing her on a swing. We were living in Germany. I think I remember that she wanted to go higher - something about which my mother warned me - but my little sister was never very fond of me (preferring my brother), and I wanted to please her. I think. I pushed harder.

(What the fuck is that weird feeling I get in my hands when I write that, godammit?)

I pushed her higher.

And she fell. On her face, Her bottom teeth almost perforated the place right below her bottom lip. Panicked, I picked her up, I know she was crying, screaming, and hauled her back to our house. I don't remember much after that. I I'm sure my mother took her to the dispensary, where she was stitched up, injected with penicillin or tetanus or something, and that was that.

To this day, I feel culpable. There's no getting around it.

My sister is dead.

Every so often, these sharp images come at me, so fearsome. That endless pool of tears wells up to the point where I can barely see through the windshield of the car as I drive home.

These days, I am less inchoate. These days, I say "I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry..."

Not that it makes one lick of difference.

I get out of the car, eyes swollen, and I look up at the crystal clear night, the stars so clear out here in the country. I can see all the way back in time, universes ago.

I know that it's just a roll of the dice. This consciousness, this fucking self-awareness, in all its glory, in all its agonizing responsibility, drives home the intrinsic thing: There is no god.

But it's hard.   

Candy Darling

Before 2007 fades into history (history, dammit!), Liz Taylor Jr. celebrated her birthday, notwithstanding that her latest amour, a yummy, young fellow, flew up from his Caribbean-isla home, but not before he advanced two cases of Perrier Jouet and three dozen orange roses to NYC. Now that's a statement. Pedro's got my vote.

Who but Surfer Girl to upstage LT Jr., and on the latter's own anniversaire?

And so, to paraphrase, from the story delivered not from the honeyed lips of "she-who-challenges-the-Ditch-Plains-break," but from the distillation of the drunken bacchanal that ensued in honor of LT Jr.  Yep, an email, photos shared.

The birthday dinner (the birthday bash started the festivities the week before at Niki Beach), was held at Phillipe Chow's, a kind-of offshoot from the 80s-dinosaur, Mr. Chow. Surfer Girl commented that she nearly went blind from all the ice on parade (unlike my concern during this procedure), the likes of which would cost as much as her entire apartment building.

I'll bet the blingerati stared harder at our girls, as maitres d' escorted them through the dining rooms, through the kitchen, "Goodfellas" style to the private cellar, where their gussied-up table awaited.

No mention was made of actual food. Drink was. Oh, and...

"When dessert was served, I got up, clinged (?) my wine glass for everyone's attention, and announced, 'If anyone needs sugar for their coffee or tea, I got the goods.'"

At which point, Surfer Girl unzipped the front of her top and flashed all fifteen people at the table, in addition to three waiters, and two other adjacent dinner parties.

"My candy bikini top." (Recall photos, above.)

Her quickie backstory (my asides in italic, parenthetically): "A few months ago, I was getting drunk (I am shocked) in Chelsea with my best gay boyfriend (duh), when our bartender hooked me up with a bikini top made of candy. It's the same candy used to make candy bracelets, the ones that ice cream trucks display, hanging next to the ring pops."

To me, they look a confectionery version of puka shells. C'mon now, retro 70s-chic, I saw a resurgence out East last summer on (ahem) younger fellas. But back to Surfer Girl, baring her almost-all, chez Phillipe's cellar tables.

"There were three people at out table whom I had just met. I doubt they'll be forgetting me. I had to give a Tara Reid apology, the 'nip-slip,' because I had no control over my candies."

Now take a harder look at those photos.

"The waiters told me to come back very soon."

Heck, I just jealous of her tan!

The fur hat-and-jacket poses came later, reportedly four-something in the morning. Note what appears to be an empty bottle of designer vodka. Even if it is a water bottle, I'm wagering the contents were swapped out for something Russian. Da!

January First

I spent most of yesterday traveling, returning from New Mexico, after spending the holidays with Mom and Step-dad.

The trip was uneventful, despite snowy weather and a two-plus-hour layover at Chicago-O'Hare.

I have spend, oh, probably thousands of hours on airplanes and airports, but this is a first.

Once boarded upon the second flight and final leg bound for New York's La Guardia, the bursar, or head flight attendant, or whomever, came on the public announcement system with this information: A passenger, who had told the flight attendants of her "airborne peanut allergy," requested that all other passengers, if they had any food items containing peanuts, to refrain from eating them during the flight.

I raised my eyebrows, and at first, said to myself, "Only in New York." Except that we weren't in New York, yet.

Then I thought of the little white masks I have seen folks wear in Chinatown. Couldn't one with such an allergy wear one of those, instead of making such a request - to a whole planeload of people?

Okay, maybe the allergy is so bad, that this person would go into anaphylactic shock at the merest whiff of a peanut. Maybe. I'm just saying.

The words "high maintenance" fluttered across my mind.

Anyhow, once back in NYC, and back at my loft (sans automobile), I bumped into friend-neighbors, and we set off for dinner at decades-old Florent on Gansevoort Street. Half way through our meal, Ethan Hawke came in with companions. My friends commented that they see him frequently, on the street. We all live in Chelsea after all.

Later, back at my now semi-empty loft, I popped around "My Favorite Blogs," scroll down below the photo albums in the left-hand column, yep, over there (<<<).

I hadn't checked my favorites in a while, and I am so happy to say that (with the exception of one that has been dormant), they are as vibrant, witty, and as wonderful as they have ever been. Bless you, insomnia haiku. I laughed out loud many times. You rock.

I also received my first comment of 2008, on the post, Lemonade, comparing my writing to Susan Orlean (!). Except that there is no bloody way I could ever have a crush on Dick Cheney (urgh), ironic or otherwise (apologies to Ms. Orlean).

Still, that's what I call a nice start to a New Year.

Chapter Six

The year is almost finished - and I posted another chapter on Plot Participant.

Each time, I get a fleeting urge to knuckle down and finish the whole damned manuscript, but I never do.

Anyhow, go check it out, Chapter Six.

Lemonade

I am dead tired of making lemonade.

Not only lemonade, but lemon chiffon and/or meringue pie, lemon curd, lemon custard, lemon squash, lemon anything-else. I'm done with it.

This year, 2007 threw bucket-loads of lemons at me. And I am fearful and hopeful at the same time, because while the year is winding down, more shit could happen.

To wit, a fast recap (not dispassionate, not at all, not an iota):

Early in the year, the IRS audited me. Corporate for all my professional life, the first year out as an independent, and whammo. I pushed back, the claim is in appeals (abeyance, a moratorium), so I am not dwelling on it as much. The sum might amount to $4 or $5K. It's not a lot, and that's not the issue. It's the principle of the thing.

In spring, Jake passed, after more than sixteen years of cat life. Aida, his litter mate-sister passed more than a year earlier, and although I allowed him to slow down in his old age, without veterinarian intervention (I have doubted that decision often, even when I counter it with the knowledge that the vets would have injected him with needles, placing him in an intensive-care, metal cage - and that would have been worse), his little body withered away until he fell into a coma.  He breathed his last, collapsed on my bed, as I whispered the stories of his life. I miss him every day.

My younger sister, 39-years-old, was diagnosed with breast cancer, stage four. And before she had a fighting chance, her husband carbon-monoxide asphyxiated her, their innocent five-year-old daughter, and himself in a double-murder-suicide. This happened on September 7, and made the front page news for a handful of days in Portland, Oregon. All I know is that the dysfunction in my family saved me this time. I hadn't seen or really communicated with my sister in, I guess, ten years. I never met my niece. If I had, I would be writing this through a medicated haze. As it was, I self-anesthetized the first week after it happened. Did the tragedy mend other rifts in my riven family? I have no hard evidence yet. I have exchanged some conversation with my brother, who acted heroically, traveling to Portland with my father, making identifications at the coroner, collecting some of my sister's belongings from the scene.

I do know that my mother's and stepfather's hearts are broken, and the best I can do is to spend time with them, no mean feat in these cash-strapped days.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, my car was stolen. My beloved 2001 Audi S4 Avant (the bi-turbo engine, limited production, no longer available), was taken from right in front of my building in Chelsea. The police weren't positive, but I was. I checked my EZPass account. For those who do not have these indispensable windshield devices, they allow drivers to pass through toll booths without stopping. The toll is electronically recorded from the windshield device. Women have caught cheating husbands from reviewing their EZPass accounts online. I think a reference was made to such an activity on an episode of The Sopranos. The moment I checked my EZPass account, I saw that my car had been taken between four and five in the morning, to Newark, also known as "cop shop central." The car was targeted. Just last night, a Maserati, several BMW's, Volvos, Range Rovers, and an Escalade were parked on my block. I am shit-out-of-luck, and playing the GEICO paperwork-waiting game. The interim courtesy rental has been a 2008 Pontiac Grand Prix (not worth the hyperlink, trust). The very first car I owned (in high school) was a 1969 Pontiac Grand Prix. The irony is not lost.

A week after the grand theft auto, my bank called to tell me someone was using my debit card to make peculiar online purchases. The identity thief spent about $100 before we closed the account. The bank will restore the money, it's just more paperwork. The thief ordered a Tupac CD, an XBox game, VistaPrint business cards with my name and some gobbledygook data - an incomplete address, a science fiction book, some other services. Some of the goods and notifications were mailed to my NYC address (even though the address was incomplete). Bizarre. I attempted to return the merchandise, without much success, but I did notify my bank.

One company, who sent skin care products called Hydroderm, accepted the cancellation, but allowed me to keep the products. I have to say, this stuff feels much better than the Hymed line I've been sampling recently. (I doubt that any cream reduces wrinkles, but I like when a skin product feels and smells nice.)

I think I can sense an improvement coming with the new year. I will be renting my loft out for a while, it can pay for itself until I can refinance and drop the payments to a manageable level. I took an apartment in the East End. I plan on coming back into the city once a week, stay with many of my dearest and wide-ranging group of friends. Soon, I'll be driving some kind of other car - I allowed myself to muse a bit. Which make or model?

Tomorrow I travel to New Mexico, to spend the holidays with Mom, let her be Mom. We'll pass into 2008 in each other's company.

Herbie

This story makes me smile. We don't get together as often as we used to, but when we do, something happens. Of course, plenty happens to each of us when we're not together. Plenty.

Liz Taylor, Jr. (up there, wielding the pool cue) continues blithely to break hearts. Surfer Girl (into whose gob the pool cue is aimed), is terrorizing men - especially one in particular, a well-known film director (think: Harvey Keitel- and a nun...yep).

Prima Downhill hosted her once-a-month gathering for skiers and friends. There she is, lovely, next to Surfer Girl. And take that, Surfer Girl, another damned good photo of you, although I may have to call you "Busty McSurfer," given your well-defined attributes, ahem.

And Prima Downhill's friends, one of whom is in the photo next to that blond, tan guy.

That blond, tan guy wandered into the bar where Prima Downhill had gathered us.

Pow! In a shot, Cousin T. dashed up to him to flirt. I love my Chelsea-Boy second cousin. He breaks ice in a heartbeat. According to Cousin T., blond tanned guy resembles a co-worker in his company. In those handful of sentences, some three women dropped in, all over blond tan guy.

I stepped away, back to the pool table.

Cousin T. wandered over to me and asked me, "Why didn't you talk to that (blond tan) guy? He noticed you." 

"I know," I smiled. "but he has plenty of distractions right now. Didn't you see? At least two other gals all but dived right onto him."

"But you should have!"

"Nah. Not my style."

Yes, it seems that we city kids still get whiplash from folks who drop in - and stand out because they don't look like us. It's autumn in New york, glorious and crisp, our summer glows have softened into lighter shades. We're wearing layers, sweaters, readying ourselves for the inevitable cold. And in wanders a fellow who looks like he just pulled in off the Newport Beach break.

And then it got strange.

A while later, back toward the front bar, I caught the blond tan guy alone second. Perhaps one of the admiring females had gone to the bathroom. Another was pulled into conversation by another man.

I decided to go free-form. I looked right up at him.

"Have you told anyone here your name?" I didn't wait for an answer.

"No. It doesn't matter. You look like, yes, you look like a...'Herbert.' Right. "Herbert.' 'Herb' for short. Or 'Herbie,' yes, 'Herbie."

In truth, I had opened my mind, his blond tanned look, a southern California vibe, I remembered that old Disney movie, from when I was a kid (the original, for chrissakes), "Herbie." That sequence of thoughts zipped through my mind.

"Do you know me? Do you know who I am?" he asked me. He sounded somewhat incredulous.

"No. I never saw you before you walked into this bar tonight."

Another fast thought - who was this guy? Somebody famous? Somebody I should know? I answered myself: Screw it, who cares?

He squinted at me. "My name is Herbert."

(Look at that photo up there. Does that guy look like a Herbert?)

"You are full of shit." I squinted back at him. "Let me see your drivers license."

He fished out his wallet and walked over to the bar-cashier light. Sure enough: Herbert.

The quizzical looks on each of our faces were identical in disbelief. So I gave him my card, attempting to deflect what could have been a round of funny-name banter. (In my mind, I doubted that any woman would moan, sigh, or scream "Herbert!" in the throes of ecstasy. Another lightning-fast thought.) I said," Yep. Holly Hodder. I'm not a porn star."

At least one of the admiring women returned, and I backed away.

I think he told everyone else that his name is Joe. One of the gals later confided that she though he was full of himself. He's not from New York. He was just in town for business, and a John Bon Jovi concert in the deepest heart of Newark, NJ. I think his hotel was somewhere in the swamps of Jersey too - he told me later that everything in the city started at $500. Which it does.

I'm not sure he knows where the Hamptons are.

And I know all of this, because Herb and I have struck up a conversation. And it is very amusing. I recommended that he read this post, and this one too. I said I might write about his name - not an idle promise.

He did - read those posts. And here's his response, verbatim: "Make sure that you exaggerate that you met this guy Herbert that made you orgasm just by looking into his sea blue eyes."

I suspect that he may have succeeded with at least one of his NYC-gal admirers. You never know.

Certainly I would welcome such an action-reaction. Let's see what happens when I go to sleep tonight.

Herbie, The Love Bug.

A Single Girl's Caesar

Caesar salad, that is. With grilled shrimp. And a glass of white wine (I prefer French chardonnays, but I'll go with what's available).

I got it into my head that I would sample grilled shrimp Caesar salads among some of the East End restaurants - now that I am living out here 90% of the time.

Since I run - okay, drive - around a lot (the real estate biz), I often like nothing so much at the end of the day as a solo-stop into a restaurant, a stool at a bar (if there is one, either a stool or a bar), a newspaper or book, a glass of wine, and that salad.

So far, I've sampled restaurants in Bridgehampton and East Hampton. I try to keep the meal to $30, tip included. It is off-season out here, so that price point could work, hypothetically. The challenge of it is, I seldom have just one glass of wine - and the bill reflects that.

Since this idea popped into my head, I've sampled World Pie (two times) and Bobby Van's (once) in Bridgehampton, Nichols (once), and The Lodge (once) in East Hampton. I have a way to go. Good thing I like Caesars.

So far, The Lodge's salad is hands-down, the best. The dressing goes beyond the expected, piquant, salty tang of the usual Caesar (I "get" the anchovy requirement). Some would aver that when it comes to Caesars, it's all about the dressing. If that's so, then The Lodge's chef worked special magic. It had an additional lemony tang that made me want to gobble it in a pico-second. The Romaine lettuce was crisp, crunchy, and just cold enough. The dish included eight (maybe more), fat, perfectly grilled shrimp, a tinge of charring to spike the flavor. Yum. I sat at the bar (the bartender served me a lovely French white), and recollected the first time I dined in that room, back in the mid-late 1980s, off-season, when it was The Laundry. The room has lost nothing of its ambiance, even with the change of proprietorship. If I had stuck to one glass of wine, the tab would have been $30.

World Pie's iterations are serviceable, and tasty enough. The price is right. One of the quibbles I have is that the serving plate is too small. I have made a mess both times. The salad could be a bit more crunchy, and the croutons feel like an afterthought. The upside: The fellows at the bar are real pros, from service to personality. Classic guys. I wish they had a French white by the glass, but the sauvignon blanc does almost as well.

I have to give Bobby Vans another go. In truth, I was with Surfer Girl (she performed the heroic act of driving out from the city, fetching me from LaGuardia after a week-long stay with my Mom in New Mexico) in the early evening, and driving my ass all the way back to East Hampton). We popped in, sat at a proper table, gabbed nonstop, and chowed. I could have paid more attention to the food, but didn't - but I've never gone wrong at Bobby Van's. The staff is always first-rate - especially to folks they know (nod to Surfer Girl). It'll bear a re-visit. Or seven.

I like Nichols. It's an easy place to go - precious little attitude, a warm cluster of two small rooms, the feel of a rustic, old building, the outside patio in the warmer months. The bar is tiny, and often fully-occupied, so I sat at a table. The low lighting made it hard to read, but the conversation at the table next to me was entertaining enough, looping from modern psycho-analysis, to books on philosophy (Nietzsche in particular), to film (Elizabeth for chrissakes!), to HBO's new series, "Tell Me that You Love Me." The party seemed tweedy, city-intellectual, professorial, with a dollop of Woody Allen. I wish the salad had been half as interesting, although I know I will return to Nichols in spite of that dish's ordinariness.

I'm enjoying this, the foray and the forage.