A few more Aquatic Action Adventure Shots, taken just moments ago from the Fictionarium: South Florida Campus’s balcony: a school of friendly dolphins! If you ask me, they’re far nicer than the ominous, leaping Blacktip Sharks of my last foray into Close Encounters of the Aquatic Kind.

ABOVE ARE SOME PICTURES I took yesterday from the balcony of the Fictionarium: South Florida Campus. In terms of the story behind these images, I feel as though I should just hyperlink back to my earlier post regarding manatees, save that this time, I did not get in the water.

Those brown shaded areas schooling not 30 to 50 feet off the shore are most certainly sharks; I believe that the sharks in question are, specifically, juvenile Blacktip sharks. Prevalent to South Florida, Blacktip sharks grow to an average of roughly five feet in length, and are known for breaching (i.e., jumping out of the water in a really insanely frightening manner) while on the hunt. Indeed, I was lucky enough to see three breaches yesterday, but wasn’t fast enough to photograph them as this photographer back in 2008.

While these sharks are generally considered to be timid, I do have a surfer friend who, a few years ago, received a “Blacktip love nibble” on the upper part of his hand while he was out on his board, resulting in about a dozen stitches.

WE HERE at the Fictionarium: South Florida Campus certainly do encounter quite a lot of wildlife’s finest – sharks, foxes, egrets, not to mention the most loathsome fauna of them all, the feral iguana. Unfortunately, seeing something and getting people to believe that you saw something are two different matters entirely. And so, yesterday, when I saw a telltale, slow-moving brown mass drifting near the shore, I called my father over to the window.

About five minutes more of this, and I was running down the beach, goggles and underwater camera in hand, as part of an attempt to capture the North Atlantic’s bovine on film. Some of the pictures aren’t fantastic, but the final image in the series will, I believe, confirm any future of my sightings of the aquatic kind – even when they’re simply just out the window.

I’ve often said that Palm Beach isn’t just any old island. It’s a place where 20 carat diamonds are termed “manageable,” where people spend an emperor’s ransom on beachfront estates and then never set foot on the beach, where, for some inexplicable reason, very few of its citizens wear socks. The island is also civilized to a fault (when somebody honks their horn at me, I’ve been known to get out of my car and discuss the situation with the other driver), and, as a rule, we do not—publicly, at least—talk about the misfortunes of our fellow islanders, no matter what country club that islander may belong to.

Thus, because it just didn’t seem polite, I’d never written about Bernie Madoff, instead leaving this task to intrepid, non-island reporters whose only ostensible sources seemed to be a shopkeeper, “chatty locals,” and a pair of pants. (Mind you, they were $2,000 pants.) But thanks to a real estate brochure given to me for Madoff’s Palm Beach home (above), I don’t have to discuss the man or his deeds. I can simply talk about his home.

Perhaps jaded by the palatial manses that dot the real estate section of the Palm Beach Daily News, what strikes me about the house itself (8,573 square feet, five bedroom, seven bathroom) is that it’s quite ordinary, like any other that one would find on the north end of the island. A large banyan tree shades the driveway, and the foyer opens to a wide cruciform passageway flanked at either side by atriums. A spiral staircase leads up to the master bedroom suite, where the large covered balcony looks onto the driveway (the master suite’s second, smaller balcony overlooks the back of the house).

The bargain-basement asking price: $7.9 million, reduced from the initial $8.49 million listing. (Apparently, Madoff’s little Ponzi scheme removed most of the potential purchasers from the market.)

Alas, despite how much I would loooove to delve into greater detail about a real estate brochure for a house I could never afford, owned by a man I’ve never wanted to write about, I’ll leave it at that. With the man himself safely behind bars, it seems as though the only Madoff we need to fear is the one attached to all of that fake Madoff accoutrement.

And so, I find myself the proud owner of a genuine piece of Madoffphernalia, the real estate brochure for 470 North Lake Way, which I’ve had framed and gift-wrapped in order to give it to the greatest Madoffphiliac of all, Peter Davis, as a belated birthday present.

When the Empire State Building was under construction, the governor wanted the top spire to be used as a zeppelin docking station, despite the fact that passengers would have to disembark a quarter of a mile above the ground, and wind shears at that height could slam the hydrogen-filled airships into any number of nearby buildings. In 1890, drug manufacturer Eugene Schieffelin thought New York should be home to all of Shakespeare’s songbirds, and so, smuggled 40 starlings from England and released them into the night sky. Today, the North American starling population numbers close to 200 million. This is to say that New York is a city historically filled with crazy ideas, though none tend to be as quixotic as those we have for our parks.

In the next few days, I’ll be posting an article I wrote with some extended thoughts on the High Line and its historical context within New York City’s park system.

Greetings from sunny South Florida, the new (perhaps temporary) home of the Fictionarium! While our day has been engaged in the pursuit of several immediate short term goals (going to the beach, buying groceries, purchasing a Vespa), I couldn’t help but notice a smidge of a dark cloud on the otherwise placid horizon – one that, for now, doesn’t even involve a hurricane.

According to the Palm Beach Daily News, our little island home may or may not be seceding from West Palm Beach! How exciting! In anticipation of any major skirmishes between the blue coats (them) and gray coats (us – but does Brooks Brothers even make gray coats?), I shall sacrifice my afternoon doses of Coppertone in order to re-work major portions of the Gettysburg Address – Worth Avenue Address? Palm Beach Country Club Address? – even though the phrase “four score and seven years ago” mostly pertains to the birth dates of our island’s citizenry.

And while we may want to channel our inner Mary Chesnuts as we anxiously await the first reports of gunfire to issue over the Breakers, we wouldn’t hold our breaths for a First or Second Battle of Royal Palm Way:

“The bottom line [...] is that secession is not a realistic option.”

Phooey! And here we were, toiling away on our “Battle Hymn of the Island Town Council.” 

In any event, we now present a shameless plug for an earlier piece on the Palm Beach Mayoral Elections. Look away, look away, look away, Manalapan!

Once upon a time, there lived a young princess named Andrea. This young princess – Princess Andrea, as she insisted her closest friends call her – very graciously offered to drive her two companions all the way from the Island of Manhattan to a magical land, far, far away, named Colorado – though neglecting to tell the aforementioned companions exactly how very far, far away Colorado was. To be sure, Colorado is very, very far, far away, if not very, very, very far, far away, with vast expanses of land – namely, Oklahoma, which is not, as Princess Andrea claimed while driving her late model Mercedes SUV, its engine light flickering for the past several thousand miles, “a straight shot” – with many hazards blocking their path, including bear tornadoes, the Super Size Me-like experiment the princess ran on her two friends, and the really sketchy Pizza Hut in Pennsylvania where the diet Cokes were, for lack of a better word, “greasy.” But I digress. To continue:

They finally arrived safe and sound in Colorado, where, for the better part of ten days, the princess and her two friends had a wonderful time, featuring far too many high altitude, low oxygen, white wine and cassis dance parties – leading to one of the friends having difficulties opening the bear-proof garbage cans around Aspen.

All was well in the Land of Aspen, until one day when the Princess and her other, slightly less sensible friend decided that they’d made it out this far, why not take the late model Mercedes SUV, its engine light still flickering, and drive all the way out to a land that was very, very, very, very, very, very, very far, far away: California.

Quite naturally, the other friend – having read similar such stories in the pursuit of his many, many useless masters’ degrees – began to fear for his life. And so, he entered the magical world of Orbitz, where he booked a one way ticket back to the Island of Manhattan.

“Oh no!” said the princess upon discovering this turn of events. “Come to California! It’ll be fun!”

“Princess,” said this friend. “I’ve read similar such stories in the pursuit of my many, many useless masters’ degrees, we’ve had a lot of good luck thus far, but I fear that should this journey continue, we’re in for a whole mess of trouble, and I’m getting while the getting’s good.”

And so, accepting her friend’s decision but sad to see him depart, Princess Andrea decided to throw the very first Martin’s Day, where they’d do whatever Martin chose – go hiking with Martin, go into town for ice cream with Martin, and have dinner at the nicest restaurant of Martin’s choosing.

Alas, it was not to be. For, on the very morning of Martin’s Day, Martin had some work to finish up. And so, the princess and her friend decided to sneak off and open up a bottle of Chardonnay. This, of course, led to another bottle of Chardonnay. And another. And another.

At around 2:00 p.m. on Martin’s Day, as he prepared to go on the hike, Martin heard the shrieking calls of, “It’s Marrrrrrrrtin’s Day!!!” ringing through the house. This was not a good sign. He found the princess’s friend in the princess’ bedroom, drunk as a skunk, the telltale bottles of Chardonnay littering the bedroom floor. But where was the princess?

A gurgling sound came from the bathroom, and Martin went to go investigate. The gurgling was, in fact, the only coherent sound the princess could make at that point. As she lay on the bathroom floor, covered in towels, her shirt slightly ripped, declared she, “It’s Mahwtins dayyyy,” raising her head slightly so that she could throw up.

“Fantastic,” said Martin.

Thus concludes the tale of the very first Martin’s Day.

THE ANCIENT ATHENIANS BELIEVED that democracy worked for less than 50,000 citizens – the number of people that could fit on a hillside and still have their voices heard. With its less than 10,000 year-round residents, our little island of Palm Beach could fit quintuple-fold into the Athenian model – mercifully doing so with not a toga in sight. And while we have nothing that could pass for a hill, or even a stump, we do have the old Paramount Theater, where all three mayoral candidates gathered to answer questions before the Palm Beach Town Council Election. The crowd, as the Palm Beach Daily News estimated, was “about 50 people” strong, this information appearing under the banner headline, “Three push for top job.”

For me at least, the race for Palm Beach’s “top job” couldn’t have come at a better time. 2008 was the year that we all became intensely aware of everything political, in part because there was just so much to enjoy – debates, op-eds, situation rooms, crossfires, even holograms, running 24/7 on at least three cable news channels, countless blogs, and – last but not least – newspapers. And I certainly wasn’t immune to this democratic hullaballoo.

By November, I’d become like a teenager hopped up on Pepsi-Cola and Skittles. But all good things must come to an end. Election night. California called. Jubilation in the streets. Next, the inauguration. More jubilation. The end of an era. The palpable anti-climax. After a two years sugar rush of utterly riveting election coverage, I was starved for any electoral fix. And so, when I arrived home two weeks ago, I began following the Palm Beach Town Council race with the kind of intensity usually reserved for US Open Finals and Monster Truck Rallies. 

Just as anywhere, all politics are local. The election at hand revolved around several island-based issues, such as developing a water source independent from West Palm Beach’s. As an entity, water is very important, but was there some water-supply revolutionary movement across the bridge that I didn’t know about? If so, what would Andrew Lloyd Webber sound like? If fears about the water-supply revolutionary movements across the bridge should prove to be founded, then the third rail of Palm Beach politics, in the words of one telephone solicitation, of “keeping our island safe in these troubled times” might be the most important issue of all.

By far, my favorite talking point was that of beach erosion. Palm Beach seems to be losing more of its eponymous beaches, so every few years and for many millions of dollars, the army corps of engineers dredges up more sand, places it on barges, and redistributes it across our shoreline. The only kink in this seemingly simple solution is that the ocean, being tempestuous in nature, tends to make rather quick work – hurricanes, mostly – of washing this very expensive sand back out to sea. We Palm Beachers tend to sound like Captain Ahab obsessing over his whale whenever we try to resolve our sand-preserving differences. Dredge more. Build less. Plant mangroves. Preserve the reefs. Abandon the island, relocate west, start the world’s most affluent ashram. Though I myself am of the relatively centrist Mangrove camp – smack-dab between the pro-Reefers and the “Dredge, Baby, Dredge” movements – I suppose that in the end, the question of beach erosion does allow those running for office to use wonderful, election-winning lingo such as “breakwaters,” “revetments,” and “groins.”

To be sure, I have no idea how the mayoral candidates differ on any of these issues, save to say that they all seem to enjoy expressing themselves through the use of extended sports metaphors. One Saturday alone, I received six very large, rather expensive-looking pamphlets, one with text and accompanying graphics about “political footballs… and the incumbent that [sic.] throws them.” – how Super Bowl appropriate! – while another, ominously sent to me by the “Friends of the Police,” decried the football-thrower’s political attacks on the Palm Beach Police Department. Naturally, Mayoral Candidate #3 described the knock-down, drag out fights between Mayoral Candidates #1 and #2 with his flyer, entering the ring with – what else? – a pair of boxing gloves on the front. The sports metaphors continued over the phone when, the day before the election, a Baseball Hall of Famer called to tell me that Mayoral Candidate #3 was already in talks about the island’s water management, and how Mayoral Candidate #1 had “struck out” and “needed to be sent to the bench.”

For those who prefer a more purist, sports-free rhetoric, columns in the Palm Beach Daily News were rich with emotional vigor, including such phrases as “We, the people of South Palm Beach,” and “In these tough economic times.” And, as though they wanted to avert another 2000 electoral disaster, I also received a handy Voter Guide, showing me not only how to vote, but whom I should vote for. By Election Day, this Voter’s Guide was the subject of a front page article in the Palm Beach Daily News, with one candidate saying that this sort of thing doesn’t happen in Palm Beach.

Even if we aren’t immune to the political mudslinging, Palm Beach is still Palm Beach, and the election has not only been local, it’s also been quite social. The island’s patricians and patricianettes had been sending me invitations to meet the candidates, the events being held at such hoity-toity locales as Mar-a-Lago, the old Merriweather-Post mansion that a man who goes by the moniker “Donald Trump” – a made up name if I’ve ever heard one – recently converted into a country club. And, when I couldn’t attend these cocktail receptions, I received notes from the candidates expressing regret that they hadn’t been able to meet me personally. These notes seemed to be hand-written, on very nice cardstock. At times like these, I like to think of Miss Emily Post smiling down from heaven.

My parents, who weren’t that worked up about the national elections, called, texted, and e-mailed me to “rock the vote,” (or “early bird special” the vote, as the case may be) my father even leaving me the keys to his car so I could drive to the polling station. And so, I drove his Jaguar convertible to the fire station on South Ocean Boulevard and voted for the first time in a local election. Several of the candidates – standing the mandated 100 feet from the polling station – were there to shake my hand. Being roughly 40 years younger than the youngest person working the registration lists, exercising my democratic rights did take quite a long time. And while I wish I could say that it had been a satisfying, over-and-done-with experience, such was not the case. With 3,471 people having cast their ballots, and with results tallied in 7 of 7 precincts, a funny thing happened. Neither Candidate #1, nor #2, nor #3 won a clear majority.

And so, the entire island headed back to the polls for a runoff. The results? The incumbent won – by just three votes – which meant that the canvassing board had to forego brunch at the Breakers, re-test the voting machines, and then re-run the ballots. Apparently, even with all its wealth and civility, Palm Beach can’t shake its part in the larger American political tradition – that of the disputed election.

A professor of Near Eastern Studies once told me that the invention of writing allowed us to enter into an unnatural dialogue with the dead and the faraway. A little reed stylus drawn across a clay tablet, and before we knew it, Puzurshulgi from Uruk could trade words (and love, and war, and religion, and advice, and goats) with Ashurshdigir of Nineveh. Imagine the possibilities! In a few short years, clay begat papyrus, which begat paper, which begat the printing press, which begat books.

At the same time, in some laboratory far removed from these goings-on, fire led to steam power, which led to electricity, which led to light bulbs, which then led to a whole entanglement of power lines and underground cables and wireless signals and calling plans and Gilligan’s Island re-runs on Nick-at-Night.

And thus, we arrive at the internet. Sheesh. Where will this lead us? Surely, we’re not through with the act of begetting. Maybe Robert Coover was right. He certainly did leave an impression on me back in 2003, when Al Gore’s “Interweb” had only just begun to creep into our households. Old habits die hard, though. For instance, I’ve hand-written most of this while sitting in seat 16A of an airplane with no working A/C. Here is a picture:

Anyway, welcome. We’ll see where this leads.