Photo illustration: Ed Johnson

What makes old people cynical is listening to the exact same lies being propagated year after year—and seeing them be just as effective as they ever were. I grew up during the Vietnam War, and I never thought I’d live to see the same hollow rationales, the same shameless appeals to patriotism trotted out to justify another such fiasco.

But here they are in this campaign, looking just as fresh and lively as ever.

To be sure, they have company. Near the end of the vice presidential debate last Thursday, the lies from Paul Ryan were coming so fast and furious—Obamacare will cause 20 million people to lose their health care! 7.4 million seniors will lose theirs! It contains 21 tax increases!—that I feared he was about to morph into some kind of iconic, fabled trickster figure, the Coyote perhaps, or the Lying Choirboy Scamp. Befuddled by the sheer quantity of falsehoods, the mainstream media predictably rolled over like an obedient Labrador and started debating facial expressions, leaving any number of reasonable questions unanswered.

For instance, left unexplained, so far, is how the ever-evolving Romney-Ryan economic plan now can possibly work, even on its own terms. Originally, the plan called for a massive tax cut for the very wealthiest Americans, the “job creators,” who could be counted on to invest the extra income and, well, create jobs. Now we are told that any such cut for the wealthy will be “revenue neutral,” thanks to all the loopholes they plan to close. But if that’s so, if the rich are not going to get a real tax cut … then where is all the extra investment income going to come from?

Or how is it that no one picked up on the old switcheroo involving just why it is that we need to attack Iran before it develops a nuclear weapon? For months now, we’ve been told that the mullahs in Tehran are so crazy they are liable to launch a suicidal nuclear attack on Israel or even the United States the moment they have such weapons.

Yet last Thursday, when moderator Martha Raddatz dared to ask the question no one else in the media seems capable of putting to a candidate—“let me ask you what’s worse … another war in the Middle East, or a nuclear-armed Iran?”—Mr. Ryan merely mentioned Iran’s hatred of Israel, repeatedly emphasizing a whole other argument for war:

“[I]f they get nuclear weapons, other people in the neighborhood will pursue their nuclear weapons as well.”

Say what?

Not 10 years after the neocon excuse for going to war with Iraq pirouetted effortlessly from rooting out “weapons of mass destruction” to building a model state to inspire the Islamic world, Mr. Ryan and his party are now talking up an exponentially bigger war … to maintain the regional balance of power?

Ms. Raddatz then failed to elicit any discussion of the fearsome costs of an invasion or even an air strike against Iran, despite asking directly, “Can the two of you be absolutely clear and specific to the American people [about] how effective would a military strike be?”

Crickets! Though at least Vice President Biden did blurt out, “The last thing we need now is another war.” Nothing on this Earth was going to compel Congressman Ryan to touch an actual fact or figure—just as nothing has compelled Gov. Romney to give us any hints about what a potential invasion of Iran is likely to cost in terms of blood and treasure.

Instead, the Republican strategy is once again to take a number of recent events and anxieties and wrap them together in a grand narrative of Democratic iniquity. To this end, the right’s spin machine has been working shamelessly to exploit the assassination of our ambassador to Libya, Christopher Stevens, and three other Americans in Benghazi. They have done their level best to inflate this tragic incident into a classic non-scandal scandal, insisting that the conflicting initial reports about just what happened show that the Obama administration is somehow weak, or incompetent, or covering something up, or even anti-American.

These wild and often contradictory charges came fast and furious last Thursday from Rep. Ryan, who on at least three different occasions accused President Obama of apologizing or not standing up for “our values,” in the Middle East—thereby somehow empowering the mullahs to alter the laws of physics: “They’re spinning the centrifuges faster.” He went on to castigate Vice President Biden for failing to convince the Iraqis to let thousands of American troops remain in that wonderful country for years to come, while charging the administration with endangering the lives of thousands of American troops in Afghanistan and “los[ing] the gains we’ve gotten” there. Excusing his running mate’s own precipitous charges about Benghazi, he insisted that, “We should always stand up for peace, for democracy, for human rights.”

Standing up for peace, democracy and human rights might safely be described as a stunning policy reversal for the party that flayed Democrats who tried to do just that during the Cold War.

Much more alarming is hearing the same Big Lie of that era trotted out to justify still more endless and unwinnable wars. Ever since the end of World War II, it comes around every time we fail to bludgeon our way to victory: If only we had the will.

If only those un-American types in the Oval Office, or the Reds in the State Department, or those bums on the college campuses who don’t understand “our values” would just get out of the way. If only they would “unleash Chiang Kai-shek” from Taiwan. If only they would let Douglas MacArthur drop the “30 to 50 atomic bombs” like he wanted, to create a “cordon sanitaire” across the YaluRiver. If only they would let us invade Cuba, or stay the course in Vietnam, or in Afghanistan, no matter how corrupt and irascible the Karzai regime proves to be, or how many more young Americans are killed by the very Afghans they are trying to train, so that “we don’t lose the gains we’ve gotten” in that godforsaken rockpile. If only we can plunge into Iran!

Always and forever, it seems, there’s another mad scheme waiting—and suddenly this campaign has become about the next one, as much as it is about budget deals, or the economy. Here’s a good rule for a democracy: if we can’t discuss, fully and openly, just how a military adventure will work and what it will cost, we shouldn’t do it.

Ryan.

Fellow New Yorkers, we’ve been through a lot. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. Joe Biden explaining to Car and Driver that he has never actually washed a 1981 Trans Am shirtless in the White House driveway.  And that’s just in the last two weeks.

The last ten years? We barely know where to start.

Tuesday of course marks a momentous occasion—namely, the Jets are playing the Cowboys. “I feel more pressure on this game for whatever reason than any game I’ve ever coached, seems like,” Jets coach Rex Ryan told the New York Post. “I don’t know, it just feels different to me. . . . The significance of it. . . . I think it’s stronger than any game I’ve ever felt.” We naturally assume he’s referring to the anniversary of 9/11. That, or he’s still trying to process the return of Plaxico Burress. The significance of it.

And Mr. Ryan isn’t the only person feeling the pressure this week.  After a few days of silence, Mayor Bloomberg was unapologetic about failing to disclose the reasons behind now former Deputy Mayor Stephen Goldsmith’s resignation. The official line was that Mr. Goldsmith was leaving his position “to pursue private-sector opportunities in infrastructure finance.” (In this case, perhaps dispensing with the usual “to spend more time with his family” euphemism was actually a good idea—particularly since the Mayor’s so worried about causing them further suffering. )

And President Obama hasn’t fared much better in the court of public opinion. On Tuesday, a Wall Street Journal NBC News poll found that President’s approval ratings are the lowest they’ve been since his inauguration.  It’s a little scary to think that unemployment percentages are increasingly converging with the percentage of people who actually think the President is doing a good job.  Like, 5.8 on the Richter scale and technically-speaking-tropical-storm scary, at least.

But not as scary as the U.S. Postal Service shutting down, which it may well do if Congress doesn’t intervene to remedy a $9 billion deficit.  (No postal service? How will we get our Joe Biden-filled issue Car and Driver delivered?) At the very least, the service may end Saturday delivery, which means we won’t get our mail until… Monday.

It’ll be difficult, but we’ll survive it. We’ve certainly been through worse.

This is especially delightful in light of

1. Our last Democratic Vice President, the emissions-hating Al Gore, and

2. An Onion article entitled 'Shirtless Biden Washes Trans Am In White House Driveway.'  Which he addresses with an interview that may as well appear in The Onion:

C/D: While shirtless, have you ever washed a 1981 Pontiac Trans Am in your driveway?

JB: [Laughing] You think I’d drive a Trans Am? I have been in my bathing suit in my driveway and not only washed my Goodwood-green 1967 Corvette but also simonized it.  At least the Onion should have had me washing a Trans Am convertible. I love convertibles.

And we love Joe Biden. What does Joe Biden not love, however? Not being allowed to be Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused, basically:

JB: ...I still have my 1967 Goodwood-green Corvette, 327, 350-horse, with a rear-axle ratio that really gets up and goes. The Secret Service won’t let me drive it. I’m not allowed to drive anything. It’s the one thing I hate about this job. I’m serious.

This is surprising, given that the one thing most people would assume Joe Biden hates about his job is being the White House's Mascot-In-Chief. Also, classic sans-context Bidenism:

So I jumped on that sucker and laid rubber.  A great feeling.

Indeed it is, Mr. Vice-President. Indeed it is.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Boehner and Obama.

It would almost seem that the stars had finally aligned. After weeks of stalled talks and contentious meetings between House Republicans and Democrats that escalated into a public spat between Speaker John Boehner and President Obama, a bill finally made it through the House and into the Senate, where it was speedily approved Tuesday morning thanks to backing from Minority Leader Mitch McConnell and Majority Leader Harry Reid, just in time for the Cinderella-esque stroke-of-midnight deadline. The anthropomorphic bill from Schoolhouse Rock! had nothing on this drama.

So, the good news is that the country isn’t going to default on its debt obligations, which puts us at least one step ahead of Teresa Giudice from the Real Housewives of New Jersey. The bad news is that just as everyone was making nice and learning to compromise, Vice President Joe Biden made an offhand comment that Congress’s Tea Party Republicans “acted like terrorists” during negotiations, an ill-timed gaffe that not even the heartwarming sight of Gabrielle Giffords casting her first vote on the House floor after nearly getting assassinated in January could correct. Oh, Joe. To paraphrase The Princess Bride, you fell victim to one of the classic blunders—of which the most famous one is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” and an only slightly less well-known one is: Never go in against the Tea Party when debt is on the line.

But at least the Dems aren’t buying Twitter followers, which is more than we can say for beleaguered 2012 hopeful Newt Gingrich. After bragging to the Marietta Daily Journal that, despite abysmal poll numbers, he has “six times as many Twitter followers as all the other candidates combined,” a former staffer submitted an anonymous tip to Gawker claiming that 80% of Mr. Gingrich’s 1.3 million followers are either inactive or dummy accounts (this figure was later amended by networking firm PeekYou to a whopping 92%). File this under #YouKnowYouWon’tWinTheNominationWhen …

Also stepping in it this week: Bronx principal Frank Borzellieri, a white supremacist who, despite having published racist essays, somehow worked at a largely black and Latino Catholic school for two years before anyone noticed; Airbnb CEO Brian Chesky, who did not do a very good job of apologizing to the vacation rental company’s disgruntled clients whose apartments were trashed (it’s O.K., now you can rent swaths of Lower East Side grass for $50/hour, courtesy of N.Y.C.’s own Timeshare Backyard!); British comedian Johnnie Marbles, who got sentenced to six weeks in jail for memorably pie-ing Rupert Murdoch during July’s News Corp. hearing in Parliament; and the M.T.A., which is responsible for screwing up repairs and slowing service, according to a joint report released last weekend by state and city comptrollers Thomas DiNapoli and John Liu. (And here we thought we were just getting a complimentary sauna with our subway fare.)

So perhaps we were too hasty about the whole “stellar alignment” thing. Turns out mercury is in retrograde, and not to get all Dionne Warwick on you, but something has seemed … off the past few days. First, in the midst of an oppressive heat wave, baseball-size hail rained down on Queens (adding insult to injury for the hapless Mets). Then, a peacock escaped from the Central Park zoo and began terrorizing (read: sitting calmly on) a Fifth Avenue window ledge. Not one but two adult men made the news for wearing inappropriate full-body animal costumes (but on the upside, only one, David Wu, was a member of Congress). Mark Zuckerberg added a creepy pregnancy feature to Facebook. And just as the debt ceiling legislation went through, assuaging Wall Street’s fears about market stability, the Dow dropped 265 points. Maybe it’s just our bad fortune.

Strauss-Kahn.

The fireworks have died down (hope you enjoyed the show, Jersey … better luck next year, Brooklyn and Queens) and all that’s left of this year’s patriotic festivities are the tiny flags littering the West Side Highway, the distended abdomens of the contestants in Nathan’s annual hot dog-eating contest and the sobering knowledge that, according to a new Marist poll, nearly half of the country doesn’t know when—or from what—America declared its independence. (We blame Will Smith.)

But in some ways it’s understandable. The heat can make you do crazy things. You might forget your U.S. history, you might hack into Fox News’s Twitter feed to announce President Obama’s assassination, you might decide to take a shower on the subway using a jug of water—as one woman did this weekend, in front of the city’s ever-present flock of iPhone journalists—or you might, like Time’s Mark Halperin, call the president a colloquial name for the penis on live television. Vice President Joe Biden’s summer fever manifested itself in the creation of a Twitter account, while Thaddeus McCotter’s led him to jump out of nowhere into the G.O.P. presidential race, an announcement which the obscure, Dickensian-named congressman followed by playing electric guitar on stage in Whitmore Lake, Mich.

Of course, that kind of thing wouldn’t scare the French, some of whom are still gunning for Dominique Strauss-Kahn to run for president despite the fact that he is still being held in New York pending the resolution of serious sexual assault charges (see page 8 for the latest details). Suspicion has been cast upon the testimony of his accuser, a Guinean housekeeper at Sofitel, but the fact that he had extramarital relations with a maid and then ran naked down a public hallway does not seem to be in question. And to think, we impeached Bill Clinton!

In other distressing news, the Senate’s at an impasse on the debt ceiling, Shia LaBoeuf announced plans to direct a Marilyn Manson documentary and Glenn Beck failed to cry during his final Fox broadcast last Thursday. The pasty pundit did, however, find time to flip through a stack of legal tender, free-associating in rhyme as he went. (“Oh, can we eat some cherry pie? I cannot tell a lie!” he exclaimed upon coming across a one-dollar bill. And we wonder why 26 percent of Americans cannot identify Great Britain as our motherland.)

But if it was a sad week for U.S. history teachers it was, at least, a good one for the tech world. Google+, which hopes to soon walk in Mark Zuckerberg’s well-worn Adidas sandals as the dominant force in social networking, stopped adding users to the invitation-only beta site just hours after its launch, citing “insane demand.” (Not that they don’t still have a lot to prove. Two words: Google Buzz.) Meanwhile, Zynga, the gaming network you probably know best from ignoring the repeated pleas of your Facebook friends to relieve them of their sweet seasonal ham surplus via the Café World app, revealed an I.P.O. prospectus that reports revenue of $597 million, proving thereby that people are willing to pay for fake real estate assets that have no underlying value somewhere besides Wall Street.

But social media wasn’t good for everybody this week. Entenmann’s, the baked goods company whose products have the half-life of uranium, issued an unfortunate tweet following the acquittal of accused toddler-killer Casey Anthony. “Who’s #notguilty about eating all the tasty treats they want?!” tweeted @entenmann’s Tuesday afternoon. The company later apologized. We understand, though. It’s the heat, we’re sure. Sometimes it just really gets to you.

The Maloney event at The Sheraton is in honor of her birthday--which was, in fact, February 19--and guests will dine on a birthday cake in the shape of the U.S. Capitol. Tickets start at $500. 

A few things are worth noting here: One, the White House is doing Maloney a solid even though Maloney bowed out of hosting a fundraiser for the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee last year that was headlined by Barack Obama and Nancy Pelosi.

Secondly, it shows how seriously Maloney takes her re-election. This is a congresswoman who, in the fall, faced her most spirited opponent in years--the young attorney Reshma Saujani--and won with 81 percent of the vote. Saujani said during the campaign that she would run again in 2012, even if she lost, but she has since taken a job with Public Advocate Bill deBlasio and is said to be entertaining other possibilities instead.

Maloney's east side district is loaded with pols who would have been mentioned as possible contenders for her seat, including Council Member Dan Garodnick and Assembly Member Jonathan Bing, but the results of 2010, and today's $500 a head fundraiser, should keep many of them from challenging her.

Writes Biden:  "Kirsten is ready to move America forward, but she needs your help to win in November. Will you help her today? You can make a difference! A crucial deadline is coming up, and Kirsten needs to raise $50,000 by Friday, October 15 to make sure she can fight attack ads and get New York Democrats to the polls."

Although getting Biden to email her supporters is hardly a big ask from Gillibrand, the Obama administration has aided her to an unusual degree by edging out possible primary challengers like Steve Israel and Carolyn Maloney. Polls show Gillibrand starting to distance herself from her Republican opponent, former congressman Joe DioGuardi, and she already has a commanding fundraising advantage.

Full email below:

Dear Friend, President Obama said it best: You choose "D" to drive forward and "R" to drive backward. In 21 days, America will choose a path. We will either continue forward, growing our economy and getting it out of the ditch the GOP drove it into. Or we'll take the road back to Bush-era policies that punished the middle class, gave tax breaks to billionaires and brought our economy to its knees. The stakes are as high right now as they were two years ago when a grassroots force of millions chose to start America on that path forward. Kirsten is ready to move America forward, but she needs your help to win in November. Will you help her today? You can make a difference! A crucial deadline is coming up, and Kirsten needs to raise $50,000 by Friday, October 15 to make sure she can fight attack ads and get New York Democrats to the polls. Click here to give $5 or more to help elect Kirsten. She's the Democratic fighter New York can count on! In the short time she's been in Washington, Kirsten has fought to defend a woman's right to choose, argued for health care for all, protect unemployment benefits, and fought to cut taxes for the middle class. Kirsten stands up for New Yorkers every day in the Senate, and now she needs you to stand up for her. Thanks to you and millions of other grassroots supporters, Americans chose progress in 2008. Now's the time we have to defend and continue that progress, and I'm counting on Kirsten Gillibrand - and you - to stand with President Obama and me. Please join me in the fight. Click here to give $5 or more to help elect Kirsten Gllibrand. She's the Democratic fighter New York can count on! Kirsten is the right choice for New York - and for America's future. Please support her today. Driving forward is the only way we'll ever get anywhere. Sincerely, Vice President Joe Biden

This message was sent to dfreedlander@observer.com. To unsubscribe from the Gillibrand for Senate email list, please click here. PAID FOR BY GILLIBRAND FOR SENATE

There is really only one industry in the Hamptons: the rich and famous. They propel the local economy whether you're talking about landscaping, real estate, hardwood flooring, waiting tables or taking unauthorized photos of celebrities for profit. Mr. Agudo spent years doing the first-driving a backhoe-before he decided to try the last, full time. In 2008, he started the Web site hamptonsgrind.com. Since then he has made his living running the site (he's looking for venture capital) and selling photos of celebrities to outlets like In Touch, Life & Style and sundry foreign publications.

The Hamptons have long been an upper-class refuge, a place where they could sun and swim among their own, unharassed by the rest of us. But in recent years, the culture of celebrity spectacle has firmly taken hold here, as much as it has in Manhattan, Los Angeles and London.

"I said, you know, let me make my hobby make me some money," he explained. "You can't grow up out here and watch your town be taken over by all the millionaires without, you know, wanting a piece of it."

Mr. Agudo, 39, is a big man who favors cargo shorts and short-sleeved button-up shirts. His close-shorn hair and sun-tanned complexion give him the air of an ex-military man, but he has lived in East Hampton all his life.

The Starbucks is where he begins each day's hunt and often where he gets his first photo.

As I was standing outside waiting for him to join me, George Stephanopoulos walked up-looking every bit 35 of his 49 years-wearing khaki shorts, a faded blue polo shirt and dingy white Jack Purcells. He had two dogs in tow, one a solicitous miniature dachshund, the other a barky beast of unapparent breed (possibly a Glen of Imaal terrier). After tying up the dogs, he headed into the Starbucks. I hung back and waited to see how Mr. Agudo would play the situation. Eventually, Mr. Stephanopoulos came back out, retrieved his dogs and went on his way.

Puzzled, I headed back inside to find Mr. Agudo talking to the comedian Michael Showalter in line.

Mr. Agudo came back to the table and excitedly asked, "Did you just see what happened?"

"Stephanopoulos or the guy you were just talking to?"

"Wait, is he somebody?" Mr. Agudo asked me.

"Yeah, he's a comedian. He's on TV. His name's Michael something."

"See, because I asked him if he was anybody, and he said no. I'm gonna go say, 'Hey Mike,' and see what he says."

After a moment Mr. Agudo returned to his seat, winked and made a chk-chk noise out of the side of his mouth.

"He totally did not like that," Mr. Agudo informed me, admitting that at first he thought Mr. Showalter might have been the musician Perry Farrell.

He was feeling the day's possibilities, the notion first thing in the morning that today might be the day when you catch someone really famous-Madonna, say-doing something really boring-grocery shopping, say-and sell the shot for a tidy sum. Rubbing his hands together, he said, "Here we go. Hopefully, get a good one today. A moneymaker." He darted outside to catch a snapshot of the newscaster before he disappeared. "We'll throw him on Hamptons Grind. Celebrity dogs," he added.

It was time to head out. Mr. Agudo made a preliminary round of nearby restaurants and shops. With his camera in his backpack and his hands in his pockets, he didn't walk as much as skulk. This lurking demeanor would seem even more suspect when we later dropped by a petting zoo in search of stars with their kids.

With no luck in town, it was time to hit the road. Mr. Agudo's white Ford Escort is conspicuous among the Ferraris, Maseratis, Aston Martins and immaculate classic cars. The first stop was East Hampton Main Beach.

After a brief stroll around the concession stand there, we got into the car, made a U-turn and slid back toward town. A white convertible Beetle approached from the opposite direction.

"Look, is this Russell Simmons? Look, there's Russell. Where's he going?" Mr. Agudo said. "See, this is the shit. He'd drive right by you. But to me, I'm in the business. He's nothing, but if you get him in the shot, on the beach. I hope he's going in there with his shirt off, yeah, you never know."

We made a U-turn, and crept up on Mr. Simmons' car from behind. Then we made another U-turn, exiting the lot. "He's just at the beach. Leave him be," Mr. Agudo decided. "I made money on him a little while ago. I'm not even gonna bother the guy," he continued, easing the car to the side of the road and adjusting his side mirror to better surveil the rap mogul.

"Where's Rev. Run? That's who I want to see today," he continued, referring to Mr. Simmons brother, the Rev. Joseph Simmons, an ordained minister and member of the rap trio Run-DMC.

Little more than 100 yards down the road, I spotted a flashy convertible, a 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS ragtop, whose driver I recognized.

"There's Bon Jovi," I pointed out.

"Holy shit!" Mr. Agudo exclaimed as the rock star made a left in front of us. We made a hasty U-turn and passed Mr. Bon Jovi's gate just as he pulled into the driveway of his redoubtable house and under a well-concealed carport.

East Hampton in the summer is very much a walking and biking community (though the traffic is still a special kind of hell), and each cyclist or pedestrian we passed received a once-over from Mr. Agudo. We passed a woman jogging, and Mr. Agudo sang to himself, "Who could it be? Are you anybody famous?" We passed a couple in a pedal car. "I thought it was someone, but ..." It turned out it was no one, just a person. This is a chronic pastime out here, even for the nonprofessionals.

EVERYONE HERE IS looking to see who everyone is. More to the point, everyone is looking to see if anyone is someone. Eventually a series of questions emerges. First: Who is that person, and is he or she famous? If not, second: What is he or she doing here? Third: Am I famous? If not, fourth: What am I doing here? Fifth: Who am I? Of course, these questions are null and void if the subject is wealthy.

No doubt Mr. Agudo has felt these pangs of being a nobody in a town full, at least during the summer, of somebodies. As we drove by a particularly large oceanfront property, he pointed out, "This is some really rich guy. He tore up the dune and didn't even care. It must be nice, man. Just to move somewhere, total disregard for any laws ... Maybe I'll have that problem one day. But living out here, and seeing them, with all the cars, you want that problem. I don't want to be a snob or anything. I want to go to the next level. That's why we're doing this."

Like all paparazzi, or at least all those quoted in the press, Mr. Agudo makes a distinction between his modus operandi and those of competing photographers. He respects his subjects' privacy; they disregard it completely. This impulse toward decency-even if often not adhered to-could have its drawbacks. As Peter Howe, author of Paparazzi, once put it, "The real paparazzi are the ones who come up with these amazing creative ways of invading somebody else's privacy."

Felix Filho, a photographer with the infamous and wildly successful Los Angeles photo agency X-17, was even more forthright. "To be a pap," he told The Atlantic, "you
have to be ready to do anything, legal or illegal." At times, Mr. Agudo seems to lack such resolve.

Though he has paid hot-dog vendors and shopkeepers for tips and once rented a cherry picker to hoist him into the air for an over-the-fence shot, Mr. Agudo favors a noninvasive, cooperative approach. After all, these people are his neighbors. "I honestly think," he told me, "that if a lot of them knew that I was just a local boy trying to do right by 'em, you know, do right by myself, they might give me a little opportunity. ... You just gotta be forward and ask. If you don't, you never know.

"I'm just trying to get out of Three Mile, like Eminem," he continued, referencing both the name of the trailer park where he lived, Three Mile Harbor, and the movie 8 Mile, starring the popular white rapper. One paparazzo told me he wouldn't work a summer in the Hamptons for less than $100,000. Mr. Agudo has not yet moved into that income bracket. He told me that his best "get," a shot of Lindsay Lohan, netted him several thousand dollars. Some he sells for as little as $20. 

We headed to a local yacht club-the name of which Mr. Agudo requested go unmentioned-to "check out this guy, see if he's on tour or not."

"Who?" I inquired

"Paul McCartney."

Sir Paul, it turns out, is the ur-quarry, part of the hamptonsgrind.com origin myth. "I was doing photography like 10 years ago," he recalled. "Just landscape. From there, I bumped into a few people. Paul McCartney, when he was going out with Heather Mills. I had a landscape camera, and Heather Mills got out of the car and smacked me with her pocketbook." He had shown me the photo earlier, of the couple in a Rolls-Royce. "I'm sure ever since that day, he hasn't really been driving that around too much. He's probably got it in storage." He didn't use the photo because Ms. Mills had been so upset. "They were on their way to Splitsville, U.S.A., anyway."

We eased into the club parking lot, did the usual scan for recognizables, saw none and made a U-turn. Back on the Montauk Highway, Mr. Agudo reconsidered an earlier prohibition on stopping at a local church fair. (Earlier, he said, "I'm not gonna bother them with their families." Now, he said, "They all live here. Liev Schreiber, Naomi Watts. For them, they could walk here.")

As we parked the car, a man in a large white Chevy work truck slowed, rolled down his window and yelled to Mr. Agudo, "I just saw Gwyneth."

"Oh, shit," he responded. Back in the car.

After some scouting of the roads near the house where Gwyneth Paltrow summers with husband Chris Martin, we came to a stop at the intersection of Atlantic Avenue and Bluff Road. Mr. Agudo looked thoughtfully left then right, then left again, muttering to himself, "If I were Gwyneth ..." Right again, then left, he then proceeded straight, through the intersection. Apparently, if he were Ms. Paltrow, Mr. Agudo would head for the beach. Easing down the sand-dusted road, we came up behind a caravan of cyclists, what looked to be a few teenagers and a grown woman. Mr. Agudo craned his neck around as we pass. The woman was blond, but, as it turned out, not a famous movie star. "There's too many bikers for me today," Mr. Agudo said.

We arrived once again at the small parking lot of the beach. Two flaxen-haired girls were sitting languidly by a fruit stand. Mr. Agudo, furrowed his brow and scanned the limited horizon for a glimpse of Ms. Paltrow. She was nowhere to be seen, the closest thing being the lanky, towheaded pair behind the crate of plums.

As we look out at the ocean, a tanned teenage boy walked down the steps from the concession shack, spinning a lanyard.

"Hey, is Seinfeld down there?" the boy barked to the girls.

"Oh, shit." Mr. Agudo's ears pricked up. "Did you hear that?" He could already envision the big Jerry shot.

The girls slowly turned their sunglasses in the boy's direction.

"What?" said one.

"What?" echoed the other.

He pointed to the front of their table. "Your sign fell down there," the boy repeated.

"Oh," they answered in unison, without moving to fix it.

U-turn. Back up the road. Away from the beach.

editorial@observer.com

The last collateral damage from a Biden touchdown occurred in New York City on Thursday, August 5, when two police motorcyclists escorting Biden's motorcade had a minor accident. Prior to that incident, in November, 2009, an NYPD vehicle driving at the head of a Biden motorcade through Manhattan ran into a livery cab.

At this time, the State of New York has no plans for a Biden Emergency Alert Service.