The way I see it, politics is like a broken thermostat: all hot air, all the time, no matter how sweltering it is, and don’t even get me started on the humidity.

Bottom line: I don’t believe anyone who says they got the answers to society’s ills because society’s ills mutate faster than the flu, and no amount of Purell is gonna protect you from that juicy sneeze. So I don’t make my decisions based on what some whining loudmouth with an ax to grind says. I go by my guts, when I got enough of ’em. I guess that makes me independent.

You want to talk “public policy,” then talk to my mother, because she’s got policies enough to sink any peacetime economy. The “No Shoes in the Living Room” policy. The “No Un-showered Friends in My House” policy. The “Get Up and Get Your Own Freakin’ Drink” policy.

Put all these policies together and you got yourself a platform. The “WOULD IT KILL YOU TO SHOW A LITTLE COMMON COURTESY?” platform—which, if you ask me, oughta be how we run the country.

What happened on the boat—excuse me, I mean “ship”—had nothing to do with making a political statement, and if I had known I was gonna be thrust onto the national stage like a piñata in headlights, I woulda stayed home.

It all started, as so many things seem to start, with Old Man Crawley . . .

“You will take this invitation to your parents and get an immediate RSVP,” Mr. Crawley said. He handed me an envelope, but when I tried to take it from him, he wouldn’t let go. It stuck tightly between his fingers, kinda the way money usually does.

“Your parents’ answer,” Mr. Crawley said, “shall be ‘yes.’”

I tugged harder on the invitation until I finally pulled it out of his vise-grip claw. “If their answer has to be yes,” I said, “then it’s not an invitation, is it?”

Mr. Crawley’s response was a scowl that made the wrinkles on his face become deeper, which I didn’t even think was possible. Old Man Crawley is kinda like a living legend in Brooklyn, although I use the word “living” loosely. He’s the reclusive owner of Crawley’s Lobster House and lives above the restaurant with fourteen dogs. Fifteen if you include the guide dog. That’s not for him, it’s for his granddaughter, Lexie. Trust me, Old Man Crawley doesn’t need a guide dog; he has perfect vision. He’s got eyes in the back of his head, and maybe in some other people’s heads, too, because I swear he can see everything.