Don’t drink Albany water.

That was my first reaction to the news that our beloved state attorney general Eric Schneiderman resigned. After four women accused him of weird sexual behavior. Slapping and spitting on his lover. And calling her his “brown slave” until she called him “Master”.  You know, the usual stuff. Weirdsville.

And here is Main Street Weirdsville: Donald Trump’s tweet predicted Schneiderman’s downfall nearly five years ago.

As you know, our beloved former governor, Elliot Spitzer also left office. After a hooker accused him of weird sexual behavior. Crazy role-playing. Wearing knee-length black socks during sex. You know, the usual…

What seemed more weird to me was that he paid $80,000 for the sex. And that Hustler magazine offered to pay the hooker $1 million to pose nude for its pages.

Then there was our beloved congressguy Anthony Weiner. He was downstream from Albany water. But swilling from the same political trough.

He and his crotch co-starred in online photo productions for young women. Weird.  Please note that Hustler did not offer him any money. Clearly this is sexual favoritism. But we will let it go.

What is it with the Democrats in this state? What is it with power and sex? Do these share the same grubby chromosome? Or perch on the same strand of DNA?

Or maybe it IS the water.  Who knows? Harvey Weinstein, did you ever drink Albany water?

All these guys are accused of weird, vulgar stuff. They perform at the other end of the spectrum where Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn made a living flirting and coo-ing.  Makes me wonder if humans invented romance as a place to flee. To flee from the weird stuff.

Yes, I hear you. “Weird” is relative. What is weird to me is normal to you. Or vice-versa. The “vice” that is linked to “squad”, that is. Whatever our sexual behavior, it is weird to somebody somewhere. Fred wonders why you don’t fall in love with a sheep like he did. “Ewe, ewe, ewe, I’m in love with…”

Which reminds me of Lyall and Betty who used to drink in my father’s saloon. No, he did not keep a ewe. Nor her a ram. He had an apartment above the taproom.

Lyall and Betty had a Saturday night routine. They would drink a while. She would purr.  He would stroke.

Gradually, the purrs turned to hisses. They would disagree a while. They would snap and carp a while. They would grow nasty. They would stomp upstairs to his apartment. There, they would fling insults at each other. Along with crockery, books and lamps. (Flea markets loved their custom. Every week new cups and saucers.)

The screeches, shouts, thuds and crashings from on high grew loud. Loud enough to hush the crew in the taproom below. We all waited for the quiet from the battlefront. The armistice. Followed by the sounds of bedsprings and wails and whimpers of ecstasy.

That was weird. I wonder these days if Lyall wore black socks. Or whether his favorite beer was bottled in Albany. Could be.

Years ago we lived next door to a retired Polish sailor. His house was twenty feet from ours. In the summer our windows were open. We were so near each other that he could hear us open a can of soup. We could hear him berate his wife.

“What did you say? WHAT – did – you – say? Not again!  You’ve told me that for twenty years.  And you were just as wrong twenty years ago as you are now, you slut!  Yes, I called a SLUT.  Because that is what you are.  A slut!  And don’t pretend you don’t know why I call you a slut.  After your behavior with Max.  You think I don’t know about such things?  You think I don’t know, slut?”

After several minutes of such we would hear his change of heart. “You know I love you, don’t you? No matter how you’ve treated me, I love you. I do.”

This was a masterful performance. He was pitch-perfect with his lines. Such timing. Such power and projection in his voice. And the winner of the Oscar for Best Performance in a Domineering Role is…

This was a little weird. Wait.  It was actually Big-Time Weird.  You see, his wife had been dead for ten years. Her performance in this was breathless. (Sorry about that.)

The sailor lived alone. He probably thought we were weird for noticing that.

These days I wonder if one of his ports of call was Albany.

From Tom…as in Morgan.

Find Tom on Facebook. You can write to Tom at tomasinmorgan@yahoo.com.