(Long Island, NY) An East Islip woman has her credit cards stolen from her purse while she was in a Bay Shore park. That theft has turned into a massive case of retail fraud bringing the police in on a case potentially worth more than forty thousand dollars. The Islip woman probably never expected to lose her cards in such a place. The card thief was most likely counting on that.

Why, some will ask, didn’t the woman cancel her credit cards? Why did the case escalate into a five-figure spending spree? It’s simple; the victim didn’t know she had been robbed. Her credit card companies had to alert her to the outrageous sums that were being spent in her name. Imagine being the one to take THAT call.

The way credit card thieves work is based on the amount of time they believe they have before the cards are reported stolen. Most thieves go right to work once they get their hands on a card. Time is very short, and they know it. The usual method of operation is to go from store to store, buying as much loot as they can without attracting too much suspicion. Those who deal in stolen credit cards know that after a certain dollar amount, the card issuer may be contacted to verify a large-dollar purchase.

Usually, purchases are made for between $175 and $400, depending on the store. Once the thieves run a card to the max, they can then get down to the business of selling, returning or otherwise disposing of the merchandise for cash. Sometimes the merchandise is put up for auction on Ebay, other times it is sold to a ‘fence’ or returned to the store for cash.

Fenced merchandise usually can’t be recovered unless the storehouse is raided by the police before the items hit the market. Ebay items are also hard to trace as being stolen unless the auctioneer is caught red-handed dealing in stolen goods. It is very difficult to catch up with what was bought with your credit cards.

What isn’t so difficult is controlling your cards to help prevent this type of situation. The best protection a consumer has is the phrase “See ID” written in place of a signature on the back of the credit card. Card thieves hate this practice because they know they cannot use a card with a different name. If the thieves are lucky enough to get your ID along with the cards this may help them out a bit, but requiring the ID still makes a thief’s day harder.

Another way to protect yourself is to purchase any identity theft insurance your card company may offer. Some feel this is an unnecessary expense; usually that feeling lasts only until the credit cards are stolen. Fixing the barn door once the cows have come home isn’t the best solution—if you can afford the expense, identity theft insurance is well worth the cost.

The case of the East Islip woman’s stolen credit cards has not been closed as of this writing. It serves as a reminder to all of us to better protect our cards, be more watchful and know that there are plenty of opportunists out there ready to take advantage of a chance to grab something that isn’t theirs. Even in a public park.

(Long Island, NY) Did you know that at least one ancient civilization mixed chocolate with hot pepper? That the Swiss consume the most chocolate per person in the entire world? Did you know you can buy a TEN POUND Toblerone chocolate bar? I found all this out after I tried to STOP eating the stuff. Why did I torture myself with details of all this lovely chocolate?

Reverse Psychology. Or rather, a failed experiment in reverse psychology. I wanted to cut saturated fat and excess sugar out of my diet, and I figured a good place to start would be steak and chocolate. By getting rid of these two big portions of my regular food intake, I figured I could lower my cholesterol, lose a bit of weight and feel healthier than I have in years.

Notice that I didn’t throw in any details about steak in my opening avalanche of trivia. I figured everybody already knew that sirloin is the most popular cut of beef, that tenderloin is the most tender (hence the name?) and that if you see “loin” or “round” in a steak name, that cut is one of the leanest.

I ditched the trivia because giving up steak is tougher (sorry) than giving up chocolate. If I talked about steak for the entire length of this screed, I’d be eating it again just as soon as I stopped typing. Chocolate, I can use some willpower on.

I used to be very into chocolate, like a junkie. I had to have some at my desk, I had to put it in my coffee (it’s called a MOCHA, kids. This is not an illness.) and when they made chocolate peppermint-flavored caffeinated mints, I was READY to over-do it. My friends probably wish I had given up chocolate a long time ago, if only to get down to a more reasonable caffeine level.

I’m a writer. I NEED caffeine. So sue me.

Back to chocolate trivia. I read up on it a LOT once I quit eating it. I thought maybe I could make myself sick of thinking about it. After all, chocolate is what some people call a psychoactive food. There is a compound in chocolate called theobroma cacao, which can give you a feeling of well being in sufficient doses. After learning this, I reminded myself that I am a FOOD lover, not a dope fiend. But it would explain why some people (I mean myself here) find it so difficult to break free of the grip of this sweet sugary stuff.

Chocolate also has that stuff that is in turkey that makes you sleepy after thanksgiving. My personal theory now is that the combination of the two substances makes it a powerful dessert capable of making you pleasantly sleepy and dopey. Like you had a beer. But not any old beer, a CHOCOLATE beer.

Ok, this is going a bit too far. I can’t even shake my desire for chocolate long enough to write about how I shouldn’t be eating it. George Bush should declare the stuff a drug and go to war on it. It’s more pernicious than that demon rum they railed against during Prohibition; more insidious than marijuana. It’s EVERYWHERE, and I want to eat ALL of it. Still, I’ve vowed to give it up and I mean to exercise my willpower. I must not give in to the urges I feel. I can be strong. I can DO IT! I don’t need a program, I don’t need self hypnosis, I just need to keep my hands in my pockets every time I pass a vending machine and keep chanting to myself. “Not gonna do it, not gonna do it.”

Having said all that, I’m off for a steak sandwich. A man can only take so much.

(Long Island, NY) I woke up this morning, hurriedly stuffed some peanut butter in my mouth, and got right in to a can of ice-cold Starbucks iced coffee. It disappeared in about two seconds. Damn those evil Starbucks people, they gave me yet another EMPTY CAN! Well, it had been full two seconds ago. I can’t quite understand how it disappeared so quickly, but a lady friend once observed my daily ritual and wrinkled her nose in mild disgust.

“Don’t you savor…ANYTHING?”

Well, of course I do, dear girl. But first thing in the morning, the desperate journalist is not interested in savoring ANYTHING except the sudden jolt of caffeine, the widening eyes, the hyper-alertness of the dedicated coffee-slammer.

There are times when I force myself to go cold turkey, because I get myself so far gone that I must drink the evil brew round the clock to stave off the shakes. It’s the old, old story. One Double-shot leads to two, which leads to three, and before you know it, you’re jittery and upset whether you’ve had your coffee or not. It makes you an evil human being, the kind that grows fangs and claws in rush hour traffic. You roll down your windows, snarling and spitting at anyone driving even one mile per hour below the speed limit. Don’t they UNDERSTAND? The rest of us are REALLY IN A HURRY!

In a hurry to go to the bathroom, that is. After all, the side effects to being a 12-hour-a-day java junkie is an endless run back and forth. Horrible. Cold turkey MUST happen when you can’t even count how many times you must leave the room to go to the used coffee department.

The other day, while musing about being such a caffeine-head, I spotted a news story about Rupert Everett’s crusade against a Starbucks going up in his neck of the woods. Everett was upset because there were already plenty of pushers, er, coffee shops in the area, and the presence of Starbucks represented an over saturation, plus the encroachment of corporate nonsense into the otherwise independent business culture of the area.

I sympathize with this notion, as we all know what happens when the cookie-cutter businesses start muscling in where the mom-and-pops and indies are now. Bad things happen. Mom and pop can’t compete any more, they fold up and go home. Suddenly those home made goodies you loved so well are gone, replaced by some kind of mass-produced starchy dough with a sprinking of chocolate-flavored tar on top. The relaxed chats over a single cup? Gone. That cute, gossipy young lady with the green hair working her way thru college? Out of a job. She’ll have to go down the road to Starbucks and be one of five cute gossipy young things with green hair, instead of being the cool anomaly she was at the mom-n-pop. Good bye, individualism, good bye home-baked treats, good-bye quirky acoustic music open mic nite.

Everett wants his quaint old mom-n-pop café, and I agree. There is nothing at all in the world like home made cookies, tarts, pastry of any kind. It doesn’t matter what the COFFEE tastes like, after all, for junkies like me it’s gone in 60 seconds anyway.

For me, the REAL evil of Starbucks is how easy they make it to get hooked. Those convenient cans of iced coffee, perfect for when you are in too much of a hurry to wait in line for somebody to make your double-tall-extra-shot-skim-milk-gorilla-biscuit-a-la-mode-honey-encrusted-iced-goldfrapp-a-chino. The mom-n-pop outfit wants you to come in, get comfy, and stay a while. Make yourself at home, relax, and SAVOR something. Those of us hooked on that other place have no time for relaxation, we need our fix and we don’t even care if we can taste it.

I hope Rupert Everett wins his crusade, as the world needs more mom-n-pop businesses to thrive and survive. As for my neighborhood, I’m afraid it’s far too late. Starbucks is right across the street, and the whole block would set themselves on fire if the place ever closed up shop. We’d just lay down in the road and howl for an 18-wheeler to come and run us all over. We’re doomed, hooked for life, and there’s nothing anybody can do to save us. If Rupert Everett’s neighborhood gets one, he’ll be doomed like all the rest, and he knows it. That’s why he wants to stop the addiction before it starts. Save the indie coffee house, where people can sit down and savor.

I don’t know where any of this was really going, and I’m not sure I’ll care until I get another cup of coffee. I think it had something to do with Starbucks being the biggest drug pusher in the whole world, but I know that it’s nobody’s fault but our own. We keep buying the stuff, all of us bleary-eyed early morning zombies, shuffling down to the place where the gulping is easy. We could all just make the damn black sludge at home, but it’s too much trouble, all that measuring, water pouring, filter changing, coffee pot cleaning…we just… keep…going…to…Starbucks. It’s easy. It’s fun. It’s at least 25 bucks a week, a hundred a month, 1200 dollars a year all poured down my throat as quickly as I can get the stuff in me for the rush, the buzz, the reason to live.

It’s too late for me, but there’s still time for Rupert.

(Long Island, NY) It used to be a problem “somewhere else.” For many years now, Air National Guard units are called upon to help battle wildfires across the nation, using a combination of “smoke eater” crews on the ground and airborne crews who drop fire retardant on the blazes. The amount of burned acreage is enormous, causing environmental problems, health issues for asthma and emphysema sufferers, and big insurance headaches for those with homes in the path of the fires.

Many states struggle with summer fires. California, Montana, Colorado, Arizona and several other states find themselves fighting a combination of man-made fire problems, blazes started by lightning strikes and other phenomena.

Now, Long Island is experiencing its own little version of the environmental nightmare that other states deal with year after year. A recent blaze which started in Deer Park brought power outages and a suspension of the Long Island Railroad service in some sections. Dry brush, a lack of rain and low humidity combined to make conditions fire-friendly. At the time of this writing, no estimate has been made as to damages or acreage burned.

Conservationists on Long Island will remind us that more than seven million acres were destroyed by wildfires in America last year. While the Deer Park fire is certainly not as massive as the wildfires in California or Montana, the concerns for those living in the area are exactly the same. How big will the blaze get? Should we evacuate? What could happen to our homes? And most importantly, could another fire break out?

In 1995, Long Island saw its driest summer in seven decades. Two fires in August burned more than five thousand acres, and in the wake of the disaster many Long Islanders voiced concern about the potential for future fires. Nobody wants a duplicate of the 1995 disaster. Interest in wildfires has grown considerably-one New York fire fighting academy saw a jump in enrollment from about 100 people to over six hundred for a course that includes a how-to on battling wildfires.

This year’s conditions aren’t nearly as awful as those that contributed to the ’95 disaster, but that won’t make the 900 Long Island Power Authority customers who lost power thanks to the Deer Park blaze any less concerned.

With all this concern, what can the average person do to make things any better? The short answer is ‘not much,’ but also ‘quite a lot.’ In the ‘not much’ department, the dry hot weather that makes conditions ripe for a sudden fire are quite out of our control; in the “quite a lot” category, being mindful of the dryness can go a long way towards preventing a wildfire. Lit cigarettes, fireworks, poorly extinguished campfires and other sources of sparks or open flame are very much in the control of you and me. The old cliché is really true-only YOU can prevent forest fires, and there are plenty of instances where fire investigators have discovered human causes for the burns in Montana, California and elsewhere. We have NOT developed past the point of being able to abandon the cliché just yet.

There are other causes for fire that aren’t as obvious as the abandoned campfire. Under the right conditions, sparks from a passing railroad car can ignite grassland growing by the side of the tracks. A lightning strike can ignite dry timber. This is where readiness training for local firefighters comes in. Sometimes, getting on top of a problem quickly and efficiently is the only way to prevent disaster. Much depends on the weather—if there is sufficient moisture, dry timber isn’t as much of an issue, grassy areas aren’t as prone to the dryness that can contribute to an out-of-control blaze.

When it comes to fire prevention, the human factor shouldn’t be discounted, even in wetter weather. Guaranteed, those living near the fire zones in Montana, California, and Colorado have a much higher awareness of what can cause and aggravate a wildfire. The key to keeping Long Island as fire-free as possible is to bring that heightened awareness to LI. Support of local fire departments, conservation groups, and ecological concerns are part of that awareness. Educating out-of-state visitors about the local dangers through appropriate publicity campaigns, activism, and even warning signs in outdoor areas can go a long way towards preventing a wildfire. It worked for decades thanks to a little cartoon character called Smokey Bear. These days, a bit more may be required, but the central message is the same; it is up to us to prevent future disasters like the burn of 1995.

(Long Island, NY) In 2004, a conversation between former Suffolk lawmaker Wayne Prospect, former executive Stephen Baranello and an undercover detective posing as a contractor was recorded for posterity. Prospect wasn’t aware of the recording, so he let fly with acceptance of alleged bribes in exchange for giving Baranello favorable treatment with country contracts.

The whole problem with the situation—aside from the fact that if Prospect is guilty, he’s the worst sort of thieving lawmaker—is that bribery amounts aren’t standardized.

I’ve harped on this before. Bribes, like marijuana, are still illegal in most places across the U.S. with the possible exception of Chicago. There, it seems, the practice is all but decriminalized. Of course, the same goes for pot. Chicago is one of the most tolerant cities in America when it comes to the sticky green stuff.

If American lawmakers could only standardize the amount of bribe money they want for specific services, it would go a long way towards not only legalizing the act of bribery, but also creating a national regulatory board to insure that all who pay the bribes are given fair an equitable treatment.

Why force this centuries-old practice underground any longer? We need to be able to buy justice, reforms, and governmental attention for special interests; otherwise nothing will ever get DONE in this country. If a hard working, taxpaying citizen can’t pay his way out of a manslaughter charge or an embezzlement conviction, what has America got left?

Of course, there are flaws in the plan that will need to be ironed out over time. If and when a national regulatory commission on bribes is established, do we allow THEM to accept bribes? On the surface, this would seem to be a bad idea. Perhaps the board could be given a salary high enough to prevent bribes from being a temptation.

How do we determine a fair and equitable rate of payment to our lawmakers, dogcatchers, immigration officials and police officers? Should bribes be set depending on the amount of actual labor involved? Or should we fix prices based on the services rendered? Paying your way out of a revoked license for DUI should probably be at least as expensive as, say, the payoff to continue dumping toxic chemicals into Long Island Sound.

Yes, folks, we’re going to need to do some serious thinking about this if a legalized bribe board is ever going to come to pass. The first thing needed is to create a think-tank in order to study the issue. Next, lawmakers will need to be convinced to put the matter to a referendum. Finally, the board itself will need to be created, staffed and certified. The damn thing could take ten long years, but it will be worth it.

Of course, the whole shebang could be up and running in twelve months if we bribe the right people. Should we really let pot smokers off the hook while the dirty lawmakers get all the convictions? If pot people can get over, then bribe-takers should get their day in court.

(Long Island, NY) Andy Warhol is a New York legend. His offices alone created a decent-sized stir among journalists who couldn’t get over his “silver era” Factory art studio/office/filmmaker’s paradise. Later on, when he was hobnobbing with the likes of Lee Radziwill and Truman Capote, Warhol was the owner of a summer house at Montauk. This was the location where director Ulli Lommel shot the film Cocaine Cowboys. Warhol had a few minutes onscreen as himself. Jack Palance was also featured in the movie, which featured Warhol’s Montauk house as one of the main locations.

Warhol’s Long Island connection may not have made art history, but the Montauk scenery figures prominently in photos of Warhol during this period, along such luminaries as Dick Cavett, Mick Jagger, John Lennon, and Jackie Onassis.

Long Island luminaries aside, Andy Warhol seems to be undergoing a renaissance these days. Recently in print; a whole slew of books including the massive Andy Warhol’s Giant Size. Andy Warhol Screen Tests and Andy Warhol’s World are all new and crammed full of amazing photos, quotes and commentary by those who best knew the artist and his work.

Photographs of Warhol are filled with mystery; one gets the impression the man is not from this planet. One of the most revealing photos of Warhol is featured in Giant Size, a self-portrait that is completely out of focus except for his face. Warhol’s eyes are closed as if he doesn’t really want to be in the picture at all, and he looks all at once at peace, yet totally uncomfortable. In short, a portrait of the inner Andy Warhol, except caught on film and not canvas.

The new line of book releases about Warhol are not merely the latest attempt to cash in on the Warhol legacy, though it may be viewed by some as such. Instead, these new titles have unleashed a treasure trove of information about the man. The books don’t reveal new information-most of the story is already public. Bob Colacello’s Holy Terror, and Victor Bockris’s Warhol together probably paint a complete picture, along with Warhol’s own Popism-The Warhol Sixties. What the new titles do offer is a fresh visual record of what went on behind closed doors at the Factory, out in the New York nightlife, even at home or in places Warhol could be found—including his Montauk summer home. Many of the titles now in print show the famous visits by the Jaggers, by Truman Capote and other names.

In this still-new century, Warhol the artist could be in danger of being eclipsed by Warhol, the legend. His photography-some of which has never been shown at an art gallery or other venue-is just as fascinating as the paintings. After his death his estate auction brought six-figure bids for Warhol’s collection of cookie jars—not antiques, not gold plated or made by some rare process—just ordinary cookie jars that happened to be owned by one of the most famous people in the world.

When Andy Warhol died in 1987, the seemingly endless stream of famous names stopped coming to his compound in Montauk. Many acres were donated to a non-profit conservancy, and today the Long Island branch of Andy Warhol the legend is up for sale. It is not cheap, and has a long history some potential buyers might not fully appreciate. Warhol is, after all, a New York legend first, and a world famous celebrity second. There are many who believe that without New York, there would be no Andy Warhol. The two definitely did influence one another.

(Long Island, NY) I thought that for once, I would have nothing to complain about. The Easter holiday headlines were filled with good, cheerful news stories. Kids showing off their award-winning artwork, a multi-million dollar facelift proposal for downtown Hempstead, a family goes on reality TV to lose weight; tons of shiny happy reporting.

Then I saw a headline that got the old cynic in me working overtime. It was the heartwarming tale of a drunken moron who not only got behind the wheel of a car while intoxicated; he also managed to slam right into a police car.

The first reaction I had was a desire to punch the guy’s lights out just for being such a moron. Then I wished I could have been the cop who had his car wrecked by the town idiot.

“Allegedly”, my editor keeps screaming, “ALLEGEDLY!” OK. Can we take the law into our own hands now and put the guy on display in the town square for being an alleged dork?

Since I can’t take the law into my own hands (my editor tells me not even to joke about such things), I began designing a recognition contest for knuckleheads such as these. I call it The Brain Donor Awards, and the (allegedly) drunken dimwit gets the very first of what I assume to be many such awards.

A Brain Donor trophy would probably look like an empty cranium set in bronze, on top a big pile of beer cans and a broken down TV set. If I were truly ambitious about setting this thing up properly, I could find at least one recipient a month, maybe one per week. If I allow crummy LIE drivers to earn a trophy I could hand out one per day.

But let’s not get too carried away.

I was really hoping that the Easter weekend would bring nothing but lighthearted news fare. Isn’t it the nature of pessimists to be always pleasantly surprised while the optimists always get the letdown? Not THIS weekend. What a bummer. The drunk driver story was only the beginning. A West Islip news story about a cat-killing neighbor sent me into a fit of morose brooding about the human race; if morons like these can go on breathing with impunity, is there any future left for the sane people? According to a police report, the bad neighbor would steal the cats, take them to an animal shelter and have them put to sleep. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I thought it was a page from a Stephen King short story.

Unfortunately there is no cutesy award I can hand out to mark THIS guy’s brand of stupid. I sincerely hope they give him the maximum sentence, if he’s found guilty. Of course, if he’s NOT guilty (we have to give benefit of the doubt, I’m told-it’s supposed to be good journalism.) then I hope whoever DID commit the crimes has a bank safe or a grand piano fall on his head.

I suppose there are people out there who would say that’s going a bit too far. Maybe so. Still, news stories like this lead me to believe that the zombies really have taken over, and it’s up to the few remaining live people to try and make some sense out of the world. I go back to my original idea for the award; there has to be some kind of public recognition for the zombies in our lives, doesn’t there?

Something we can point to like the Academy Awards, which everybody knows is the stamp of approval saying it’s all right to say you enjoyed a dingbat Hollywood fluff movie. Before you start screaming at me for THAT one, remember that every movie made in Hollywood goes before endless “focus groups” to see how “the audience liked it”. Whole plot elements often get changed based on those focus groups. If we had one for dingbats like the drunk drivers and cat killers of the world, maybe we’d be better off, but the movies that are shaped by this process generally suck. You’d never catch Bergman or Truffaut asking a focus group whether the ending of THEIR movies are OK.

But I rant and rave here, and get far from my original point, which was to identify the buffoons and dimwits of this world with their own special prize.

It’s a concept I’ll have to give up, it would cost a fortune to have a trophy done up every time some dingbat tries to convince us that the human race really won’t make it very far. I suppose I’ll have to settle for venting my spleen here, but what about the rest of you? It may not keep me up very long at night, but I do lie awake sometimes wondering what the rest of Long Island is thinking about when they read the bad news stories. Just one bit of friendly advice when reading about the knuckleheads of the world; don’t take the law into your own hands no matter how tempting it is; it’s dangerous, illegal, and usually ends in tears. Besides, you can always sue.

My editor will probably hint that I shouldn’t encourage people to cast frivolous lawsuits. I say if you sue someone for being an idiot, that sure as hell ain’t frivolous in the case of any allegedly drunk drivers slamming into police cars.

(Long Island, NY) Nassau County democrats are coming out against BB guns, paintball guns and other “toy” firearms. A couple of democrat legislators have proposed a law banning the sale of these items to anyone under 18 years old. The concept is admirable—prevent blindness, reduce crime and make the county safer for squirrels everywhere.

Too bad there are already laws on the books that can regulate the misuse of these items. The move is yet another step in the hyper legislation activities of bored politicos. Today, if there is an accident, a criminal act, or a rotten apple in the bunch, we don’t fix the problem; we add another law to the staggering pile of legislation already on the books.

And, of course, those who come out against actually fixing the problem, enforcing existing laws properly or otherwise addressing the issue are labeled as “pro-crime” or “pro-eyeball mutilation” by the lawmakers’ publicists.

What is the real problem here? Pellet guns, paintball guns and other ‘fake firearms’ are dangerous to the health and safety of those having the mock-weapons pointed at them. It’s true-these items are dangerous ‘toys.’

Using the same logic, we should have these lawmakers legislating a ban on drivers under 18. What’s that, you say? There is already a de facto prohibition against this by way of the learner’s permit and drivers licensing process? No matter, kids—we need a LAW against those kids driving. Specifically, we need new laws banning underage drivers, fining those who sell cars to underage drivers and a law requiring car dealerships to keep the cars behind the counter. Teenagers have incredible access to these deadly machines, which can do far more than put an eye out. Shouldn’t we be fining the parents who provide access to automobiles to minors?

Folks, it’s true that paintball guns, pellet guns and their BB firing counterparts are more than unsuitable for kids under a certain age. By the same token, why are we selling guns to our kids in the first place? Do we really need to be giving war toys to children? One of the charges that can be leveled against someone accused of war crimes is using children as soldiers. Should we not be taking this to heart with regards to ‘toy’ guns? Do we really our kids running around the yard pretending to murder one another like common criminals? For shame.

It’s true that for many of us, the idea of giving a child a firearm replica as a “toy” is repellent. There are those of us who believe that a tool should be respected. Nobody gives out kiddie versions of circular saws or jackhammers as birthday gifts or holiday presents. The same respect for these tools should be extended to firearms, which are equally capable of bringing food to the table or causing a lifetime of agony and suffering. The same goes for a band saw, a scalpel, or a disc sander. What we should be teaching our kids about firearms is respect for the force they represent.

Instead of throwing yet another law at the problem, why not an awareness campaign aimed at increasing the understanding of what these items represent? Why not invest in a program to educate and inform the kids who might be tempted to use these things? If we can invest millions of dollars in the same concept with a different target (drug use), why not do the same for firearms?

Of course, that would make too much sense, and the headlines wouldn’t be quite as sensational. I’d like to see the Nassau County legislators come up with a retort to THAT one, but they never will. Such is to be expected in this day and age. See you at the ballot box, kids.

(Long Island, NY) A recent AAA survey of gas stations has Long Islanders paying around fifteen cents shy of three dollars per gallon. This, by all that is sane, should make Long Islanders take to the streets with protest signs, burning Exxon in effigy and create a three-day kegger to celebrate the new fad of simply…not…driving.

Of course, it will NEVER happen.

The simplest thing to do to combat high gas prices is to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that we are, as the old movie Network so aptly put it, “mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.” A mass boycott of privately purchased gasoline would certainly be a fine thing to see. Mass transit could be THE way to go, if the American public would simply park their precious cars and say phooey on three bucks a gallon.

And while that is happening, we’ll discover a cure for everything, end all wars, and invent a hot dog that’s actually good for you.

Pardon my rampant cynicism here, but as Long Islanders continue to shell out like suckers for fossil fuel, we’re making our own problems. Me? I parked the car for the whole weekend and either walked or took public transport where I needed to go. I saved myself at least half a tank.

Of course, I am the exception. Certainly. One look at the LI Expressway can tell you that we are never ever going to start walking everywhere. Too bad. Fitness levels would rise, waistlines would shrink, and we could all spend a fortune buying fab new clothes instead of dumping that money into the tank. How would you like to buy a new top or a pair of snazzy jeans once or twice a week instead of filling up?

Now you’re getting the picture.

You are actually depriving your wardrobe by driving your car. How unfashionable it is to drive when you should be buying clothes and accessories!

Think of it—you get rid of your car, plus expensive liability or full coverage insurance. This could free up an incredible amount of cash per month—all of which you can use to improve your closets. Those designer shoes you’ve had your eye on since forever? Now within your financial grasp, and all you had to do was ride the LI rails or take a bus.

And let’s not even DISCUSS the amount of money it takes to repair and maintain a vehicle. Who needs it? Spend your money on YOU, not that idiot car. You could easily buy a brand new computer AND a laptop every single year for the cost of the upkeep of a vehicle. Ho ho, OPEC would certainly go as grey as a ghost if they thought for a second that people would rather spend their hard-earned dollars on fun and fashion rather than motor oil, transmission fluid and brake pads.

The Middle East’s stranglehold on American economics via high gas prices would suddenly melt away. Iran and Iraq would probably go into the textile business (because that’s where everybody is suddenly spending all their old oil money) and learn how to sew designer clothes. They might even start talking to each other again. By the time its all over, an American boycott of cars could bring the final, lasting peace to the mid-east after all. You can’t load a gun when you’re too busy trying to stick a piece of thread through the eye one of those damned needles. One hand has to hold it steady while the other puts the thread in. You need somebody to hold the bloody flashlight for you in the first place, so these countries had better get on speaking terms and quick.

Oh, wait, that is never going to happen. People would rather kill each other over oil, ethnic background, or who’s going to Hell and who isn’t, than figure out how to live together long enough to get some real work done.

Still, I can dream, can’t I? It all starts with you. Sink your dough into your closet instead of your car; you’ll be happier and skinnier, too. The peace in the Middle East thing? Well, we have to give up all the cars first. If we do our part, chances are those OPEC countries will get very interested in helping us spend our new-found fortunes in ways that have nothing to do with oil production.

That’s the dream, anyway.

(Long Island, NY) It never fails. Just as soon as the good weather kicks in, suddenly there are a million and one things that need doing that have nothing in common with the great outdoors. “Spring Cleaning!” is the battle-cry of wives, girlfriends and significant others. “Who wants to stay inside?” is the whimper of protest from the other side. Spring has always made me even more impatient than I already am. I can’t wait to get outside, I can’t wait to feel the sun on my face, and are we done cleaning yet?

No matter. This year, I am ready.

In JANUARY, I threw a season’s worth of junk away. Old magazines. Bill receipts from 1999. My old Y2K backup discs. Remember Y2K? That was the big computer epidemic that was supposed to destroy the world, snarl your bank accounts, and give pets a permanent frown on New Year’s eve at the turn of the century. I finally threw all that stuff out. I washed the windows in February. Shivering, freezing, wet and soapy, I stood there reminding myself that I wouldn’t get trapped indoors this year just as I was getting spring fever. I was all prepared, I was psyched. You could say overexcited. It’s how I am-a hyperactive ball of energy who really ought to switch to decaf.

As soon as the urge hit me I would be grabbing the tent, the backpack, the Frisbee, any and everything you can imagine that gets associated with temperatures above fifty. It could happen at any time, with no warning-the right spring breeze across my face, or just the right color sunset could set me off. And this time, no girlfriends, fiancés, best-buddies–not even Mom– would keep me inside cleaning this year when I should be outside, naked, painted blue and frolicking among the foliage.

Ok, maybe NOT naked.

I had my plan, I was READY. It was going to be beautiful. I might even take up surfing. I had a million ideas. Then the mail came.

“Dear Sir, blah blah blah, we regret to inform you that your apartment building has been purchased by another company that does not intend to continue renting to residential tenants. Your lease cannot be renewed. We regret blah, blah, blah.”

My home was being converted to god knows what, and right before I could enjoy my first attack of spring fever. I was being force to MOVE. This was the worst. All my best laid plans, now up in the smoke-or more accurately, the dust—of a forced relocation.

I wanted to rebel. An eviction sit-in. A protest. How dare they sell my apartment from under me without so much as a warning? Of course, local governments are doing the rough equivalent of this with practical impunity to homeowners under the guise of eminent domain. How did I, lowly Joe Renter, expect to get by unscathed? It was bound to happen eventually, right? Oohhh, I was soooooo very very very very angry. Yes. Four ‘verys’ is a LOT of angry.

Whatever.

Maybe I should write them back and tell the landlord he can have my apartment when he pries it from my cold, dead fingers. Maybe I should just sell everything I own and go live in Southern California on a beach with a beard, a surfboard, and a nice sun-induced skin condition. Instead, I decided for once in my life to splurge on a move, hire some movers instead of doing it myself. Maybe I can pay a friend or colleague to supervise the move, leaving me free to find a bit of frolic. It will be costly—probably more than a poor writer can afford. But isn’t my sanity worth it? I got a bit of my vigor back, and started flipping through the phone book looking for a decent moving company that could box everything up for me, deliver and unpack and not require me to sell my soul to the devil, or Corporate America. I do hear that Corporate America is paying better than the devil these days, but I don’t have time to work my way up the ladder. If I could become a soulless drone in say, three weeks, MAYBE. Who am I kidding, I don’t have the patience for that nonsense. Keep your ties, folks, maybe one day you’ll learn that there are more beautiful things in life than quarterly earnings reports, profit/loss statements and productivity charts.

Just as I was getting ready to call a friend of mine to bribe into overseeing my stuff while I hiked off into the sunset, the phone rang. My landlord was on the other line with wonderful news—the building sale fell through, and all leases would be available for another year. It was the kind of thing that always happens to me—I get very worked up and upset over some pothole on life’s highway, and scurry in six directions at once to try and fix the problem, then lo and behold, it all sorts itself out. I got pissed off, over-excited and worried for nothing. When will I ever learn to count to ten?

Maybe as I’m lacing up my hiking shoes this season. I’ll deal with learning how to be patient after I’ve gotten some of my planned spring fever activities in: some bird-watching, fishing and golf.