Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I guess we're a bunch of troglodytes here at Hamptonyte, because we didn't know he's sort of a big deal. He moved out to the Hamptons with the rest of the crew: DeKooning, Pollack, et al. And now he's dead. Which, in the art world, means he's finally starting to make money.
In either event, the 16-foot legs, which are nothing more than a naked pair of out-of-scale mannequin legs, is perched up alongside the "temporary home" (whatever that means) of two art dealers: Janet Lehr and (the very pretentiously one-named) Vered. Together, they run the Vered Gallery out of an old Baptist church in the village.
So the neighbors are predictably pissed. We say predictably because, after all, this is a nation that doesn't know how to handle a woman and her naughty bits. What if school children see it? Or the elderly? Now they're trying to sweep the leg, by claiming it violates some building code about structures maintaining a certain height. Basically they're trying to nail Al Capone for tax evasion. It's sort of like when Mayor Giuliani lost all his hair because an artist painted the virgin Mary with elephant dung. He couldn't execute the artist, so he went after the funding at the Brooklyn Museum.
Hey, credit the WSJ for finally putting to bed the proper spelling of "whack" in "whack job!" As in:
"I heard this guy is a whack job," says Charles McCarron, who owns the house next door to the one with the big legs outside. "This is not Greenwich Village."
Monday, November 22, 2010
One doesn't need to spend an incredible amount of time in the Hamptons to realize that everybody out here seems to spend half their life creating their own legends, and the other half convincing others it's true. Here's a test. Drive out to East Hampton. Throw a stick. Whomever it hits, approach. Ask them who they are or what they do. Gauranteed they will tell you they're an "artist" or a "writer" or a "something to the stars." Just check out this article in Hamptons.com, the essentially useless online publication that still tries to pretend real hard that the Hamptons are still teeming with self-importance after Labor Day.
This item takes the cake, though. Meet Hy Abady. Yeah we're not sure how to pronounce that either. Although according to him, we should already know who he is. A former NYC ad man from the 60s and 70s who bounced around from agency to agency, he finally amassed enough upper-middle class wealth to purchase a home on Further Lane in East Hampton, back when houses on Further Lane were called "duck blinds." Once he got there, he went right to the task of pretending he was more important to the world than he was. Crashing parties, oozing his way into peoples' confidences, and in some cases, sleazily eavesdropping from the cozy cushion of a bar stool, he started submitting a column for the East Hampton Star every week. Now he's taken those articles, threw in a few more that never made it to print, and has put together a slim volume of his work he's calling "Are You Gonna Eat That?: How I Scored Billy Joel's Pizza Crust." (It's called something else, but this title is a little more apt.)
The "book" is published by Antinuous Press, and if you've never heard of this imprint, it's because you're straight. The house publishes "art books" and the like, which amount to a catalogue of nothing more than male gay erotica. Just peep the home page's photo montage. With your hands over your eyes. Squinting through your fingers.
Props have to go out to the East Hampton Star reviewer of this nonsense for keeping a straight face and managing to insert a little objective integrity in the review. But the fact that he even got a review for this gives our friend one more card in the house of cards people of his ilk build for themselves in the Hamptons. A perfectly phony life. A life made possible because he met the right people, schmoozed at the right parties, and exagerrated his own importance whenever those people he schmoozed gave him a platform to do so.
Too harsh? Ask yourself: if I wrote this book of gossip about the town I lived in and pitched it to a publishing house, but didn't know anybody who worked there, would it get published? If I didn't contribute to the East Hampton Star would it have gotten reviewed there? If I found a small, obscure publishing house to actually take my book, would I be modest about it? Or would I pretend it was the headlining title at Simon & Schuster?
If you answered no to most of those questions, you're not doing it right, according to the culture of the Hamptons, because Abady is just one of a whole score of folks out there who have drafted up this fake playbook. And by playbook we mean plop yourself down at the bar at the Maidstone Arms, obsessively scan the crowd for celebrities and then eavesdrop on their private conversations so you can write an article about it as though you know them personally.
Particularly galling is the fact that Abady's celebrity-addled brain distinguishes people in categories like "famous" "faux-famous," and "nobodies," considering the smoke and mirrors people like him create to rise themselves above the dreaded "nobody" category. He's perfectly alright with "faux-famous." This is why writing...name-dropping celebrity writing in particular...is often so poorly done. The writer is too soft-headed to realize that all people are interesting.
So look through the Matrix. What you'll see is a guy who worked for an ad agency and made enough money to buy himself geographic proximity to celebrities. The ad agency was run by another guy with connections in the local newspapers of the Hamptons. Because of this, the first guy, for years, uses his proximity to celebrities to publish his dim-witted celebrity musings in the East Hampton Star. Then he takes these musings and, through his gay contacts, places them with an obscure gay erotica publishing house. The book then gets reviewed by the very newspaper that published his column, which he didn't earn in the first place. Call it "incestuous legitimacy." In fact, that's a new Hamptonyte category from now on.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Wow, the economy sucks so bad that nobody wants to get sucked so bad? According to this article in Business Insider, who took its cue from the Daily News, the swinger "industry" (industry? Really?) is taking a beating in this economic climate, as attendance is way down and membership to exclusive swinger clubs is getting a little too prohibitive.
Especially in East Hampton, where, according to the article, swinger clubs are still charging about $300 for you to get your freak on with a whole crew of sweaty people. Memberships further west including New York City cost about $150.
Damn zone pricing. Still. We can't just skip the cable bill? Or cut up a credit card?
Friday, November 12, 2010
Alright, enough. Always Be Closing is a nod to a great movie, but an otherwise completely douchey thing to say in any other context. Leave this to Alec Baldwin's dickhead character; don't put it in an ad you're presumably trying to reach out to strangers with. You know what it takes to respond to this Craigslisting? It takes brass balls to respond to this Craigslisting.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
First up: This ad, which posted on Craigslist on October 27 for a "PR (public relations) Intern." What got our attention first? The word "whining." Kids...whenever a potential boss says he/she doesn't want "whining," RUN. Run far away. Because whining probably means you can't tell him about any obstacle that prevented you from performing your job. This could mean anything from a broken-down subway car, to accidental amputation. Ie: "stop whining about your arm getting chopped off, you totally have another one. Get back to work!"
"We would prefer to have someone from the Brooklyn area (Williamsburg/Greenpoint) as we don't want to have to deal with anyone whining about the incredible journey it was for them to travel from Manhattan to Brooklyn, late arrivals, etc. If you can handle the commute and don't think you need a passport to get here feel free to apply."
As if this isn't douchey enough, peep the other warnings to steer clear from this agency:
"This is not a job for someone who is going into PR for the parties, free gifts, chance to be on a reality show or to gawk at celebrities. If you're capable and a good representative of our team we'll bring you along to events, tapings etc. but don't expect it solely because you work with the agency."
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
According to Reuters, Real Estate Pimps Kandinksy Escape LLC is suing a senior executive at Lazard Ltd. for allegedly pulling a two-day dine & dash on the house they rented out to him.
French citizen, Matthieu Pigasse (pronounced "Pig-Ass," we're pretty unsure) is accused of leaving the Southampton premises (without paying a deposit or security) only two days into a three-week agreement to rent the place . The way it went down is, apparently, Pimp Kandinsky pimped out the property to lesser pimps Prudential Douglas Elliman, who then turned the keys over to Pigasse without asking for a dime. Sure, they figured he was good for it; he's Lazard's Vice Chairman for Europe for God's sake.
But such is the state of the way we live now: even the rich have to crash on couches and keep moving to the next opportunity.
Apparently Pigasse left the house because he claimed the house didn't look like it did in the pictures. Duh! Of course it didn't, they're real estate pictures! My house looked like a doll house with a football field in the back yard until I pulled up to it and thought I'd reached the set of the Addams Family.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
By the way, the costumes that you don't want to be wearing this year include... LADY GA GA, ANYBODY FROM "AVATAR", STEPHEN SLATER OF JET BLUE FAME OR A CHILEAN MINER! All of these are hackneyed and overdone. Think of something original... be more like my dog Boo. Superdog! Im so shocked she's never bitten me!
Please if I see you there... No Lady Ga-Ga or anyone from the JOISEY SHORE!
Friday, October 29, 2010
After blowing off the Daughters of the American Revolution, or Mothers Without Jobs, or whatever that organization was that Altschuler stood up like prom night, he and incumbent Congressman Tim Bishop finally had their debate. The venue was the Southampton Community Center in Hampton Bays. Bishop had home-field advantage. Big Time. And Altschuler's attempt to condescendingly frame Bishops platform blew up in his face. Big Time.
"If you want to continue the policies of the Obama and Pelosi administration -- if you want Obamacare, cap and trade, car check and further bailouts then you should vote for Tim Bishop." The loud applause and cheers of many in the room indicated that they planned to do that.
There's a reason why, when Rudy Giuliani ran for mayor, he didn't shout:
Friday, October 22, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
As an alumnus of Southampton College, the degree hanging on my wall is beginning to have less and less meaning with each passing day of this political season. Have you seen this? It's a political ad approved by Tim Bishop in which he accuses his Republican opponent, Randy Altschuler of outsourcing American jobs to other countries around the world.
The ad comes replete with grainy video footage of Altschuler speaking to what appears to be local businessmen about his company (Office Tiger) and its ability to save them money by shipping back-office support positions to other regions of the world, such as India, and the Philippines.
Then he pulls out a quote Altschuler gave the Financial News in 2003. "In India you get a much higher standard of person doing...work than in America," the full-screen reads. What a scumbag, right? Saying Indian workers are better than us? And now he wants us to vote for him!?
Only. The ellipsis troubled me. You know, the "dot, dot, dot" after the word "doing?" That couldn't have been a pause on Altschuler's part. And if it was, what journalist would have inserted the pause? Something was fishy. So I did about five seconds of research through my local library and I found the article in question, from the March 23, 2003 edition of Financial News.
Here's what Altschuler said in the article. "In India you get a much higher standard of person doing assistant work."
That was it. The Bishop ad cuts the qualifying term "assistant" and then adds what their Cap N' Crunch invisible ink detector apparently picked up on the page hiding "than in America."
Or, more likely, Altschuler never said "than in America." And he was talking about assistant work, not ALL work. This also followed that quote from Financial News:
"Altschuler says banking staff in Western financial centres need not be concerned about losing their jobs. Instead they should be pleased that the roles remaining in the West will be of higher calibre. He says: "People in New York and London will be working in higher-end areas. There will be more need for people with higher education-employees are going to have to get smart."
I know Tim Bishop was the provost of a failed college and all, but come on. Tim. A quotation is word-for-word. That's why it's in quotes. And next time you're going to lie to us about something your opponent didn't say: do yourself a huge favor and don't bother providing the citation.
In other news...Randy Altschuler is a huge outsourcing douche. Don't vote for him.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
For some of you who may remember J-school. Here's the organizational checklist for these recurring pieces.
Insert self-conscious opening lines about the unapologetic display of Hamptons wealth?...Check
Justify your reason for being there by citing editorial assignment?...Check
Transition to the "if-you-can't-beat-em'-join-em'" tone?...Check
Depart from your original position to suddenly embrace the Hamptons and lament the trials and tribulations the wealthy must endure?...Check
Mention you'll be back next year?... Absolutely
Eat a bag-a-dicks?...Please do
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Real Housewives of New York City star Kelly Bensimon was out on someone's front lawn in Amagansett this past week. Eating their grass and sputtering out nouns? No. She was selling her soul, (see also: her clothes) for charity. If you happened to make it to her big fur yard sale, you too can dress like so last year.
The proceeds of cleaning out her closet to make room for this coming year's unnecessarily absorbidant shopping spree went to benefit Island Harvest, a non-profit organization that helps feed hungry Long Islanders.
Wonderful. Insightful. Caring. Philanthropic. Kelly...how does this act of generosity fit, philosphically speaking, into your world-view?
Added Bensimon: "I can't even do a yard sale without my hair being done."
Sigh. Something tells me she can quote Plato's Republic and make it sound stupid.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
According to this article, she'd been prodding her assistant to call the party throwers and come up with all sorts of excuses not to host the thing. Our best guess is that her final excuse, the deal-sealer, was something like: "tell them I'm out of the planet. No, tell them I have bees in my closet. No, tell them my deck chairs rioted last night."
Anyhoo, the brave, the very noble, the very AIDS-educated scientist and world policy-maker Sonja Morgan (a Real Housewives co-star) stepped up to the hosting podium. And then fell down drunk while demonstrating her identity with Africans by doing the running man. But the brass balls award must go back to Singer. After rattling off all her reasons why she couldn't be there to host the event, she found out Sonja was hosting, and called the organizers to book a ticket as a guest! Wow.
We know three things. We know Ramona Singer's condemned soul is going to be everywhere proclaiming her innocence. We know the organizers of this Colors of Hope should feel deep shame for even asking a Real Housewife to host anything. We know children in Africa are shaking their heads and burying their faces into their hands.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Buy our product so you can cyberstalk and rubberneck the Lindsay Lohan train wreck and still sleep the deep, quiet slumber of a person not worried about viruses. I need to go wash. Check out this press release. Not even her dad would do this. We think.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
In the interest of full disclosure (and to effectively inform this blog post) it should be noted that I am a graduate of the Stony Brook Southampton MFA program in Creative Writing and have hands-on experience dealing with some of the aforementioned named "faculty," dating back to when Frank McCourt and Peter Matthiesson were part of the program. McCourt has since died. Matthiesson is 83 and sick of talking to people. (probably.)
Here's a survival guide for all you aspiring writers and MFA candidates currently primping, tweazing, hair-gelling, and printing out fresh pages of your latest novel "just in case."
- print out fresh pages of your latest novel/chapbook/play "just in case." There is no just in case. They don't care. Not really. Now, if you have a wine spritzer balanced on a tray, they care. Really.
- tell anyone, under any circumstances, that your book is a "slice of life."
- ask for their help with anything specific. In the 50+ years combined of experience in publishing and literati, they haven't met a single writer, agent, editor, publisher, or proofreader that they can introduce you to. This doesn't sound possible, but you might as well believe it, because if the truth is otherwise, they ain't sharing.
- tell any of the male writers that you adore his work. This is especially true if you're a doe-eyed, apple-cheeked female MFA student. They will open up the world to you, but first...a drink at the bar?
- invite any of them to an open mic or student reading. They don't care. Not really. Better you live inside the cocoon of your delusions than endure the heartbreak of the inevitable blow-off. (Note: some will do it more harshly than others. See: Rosenblatt.)
- ask long-winded and semi-autobiographical questions during the Q & A period. Not only do they not care, your fellow audience members don't care either. You can ask Whitehead how he maintained proper emotional distance while writing "Sag Harbor" without telling him your cousin's best friend's girlfriend at the time was an 8th-grade classmate of his.
- ask "what advice would you give an aspiring writer?" during a Q & A. This is a complete masturbatory allie-oop question that will only be met with witty, sarcastic, faux-existential, jerk-off answers, and will at worst provide a writer with a golden opportunity to share how their genius was discovered. (An example? Sherman Alexie answered the question by saying the only thing a writer needs is money for postage stamps.)
- tell any of them about your literary aspirations. They're going to say "that's ambitious of you," and you're going to take it for what it is: rank condescension.
- believe that by running copies for Melissa Banks, or picking up Roger Rosenblatt's laundry, or dropping off Elizabeth Strout at the airport is going to get you published. It's going to get you to a gas station to refill your tank.
- believe that shoving a manuscript in a writer's gut is going to get you published. It's going to get you kept in the dark about where the after-reading-party is going down.
- embrace your own arrogance. Of course your writing is much more revolutionary and game-changing than theirs, and you'll get your chance to prove it. Don't grovel. Don't falsely stroke their egos because you feel it's the nice thing to do.
- ask broad and abstract questions during any Q& A period. "How do you write female characters so well?" is a good one. Also, "do you write every day?" And, "describe your process. Do you hand write, and then type it out?"
- drink heavily and try to hook up with a fellow conference attendee. I'm putting out personal bonus points if you can peel Melissa Banks' panties, but that's as far as it goes with faculty-student co-mingling.
- hide your envy. There is nothing more embarrassing and eye-rolling than an MFA student popping off at a reading or after-party about how much more talented he is than X, who everyone is surrounding at the moment. For the record: "popping off" includes shaking one's head, rolling one's eyes, looking bored while clapping, leaving the room when X is about to entertain everyone with a story, or verbally shredding X's latest tome while out of earshot of X. We know where it's coming from. We all feel the sting of watching a writer that isn't you sign autographs, take pictures, and control the floor of a room. Keep it to yourself. Scream inside your car. Write it in a journal entry. It's fuel for your ambitions, not to burn off and look like a jealous fool while doing it.
- recognize your inherent right to barroom pugilism. Or, to add as a "don't": don't take shit from anyone. There's a good chance, particularly if you're a male writer, that another male writer is going to say something that is so enraging, so caustic and dismissive that you're going to feel like the unpublished writer is getting picked on by the published one. It's more a case of a published writer getting so stroked for so long, he feels he's above an ass-whooping. If this happens to you, don't hesitate. Punch him right in his fucking face.
- recognize, of course, when a writer isn't picking a fight; he's just having a little fun with you. In this instance, probably a good idea not to punch him in his face.
Godspeed, you young and hopeful scribes! E-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org with any updates or embedded reports from the conference.
"But now, there is a reason to go: the Simon Spurr Fall 2010 Men’s Preview and In-Store Trunk Show, hosted by designer Simon Spurr at Blue & Cream, 60 On The Circle, East Hampton, New York. The event will take place on Saturday, July 17th, 6-8PM with complimentary cocktails by Svedka."
Go there, if for no other reason than to see Francesco in the flesh. His life "can best be characterized by an intricate mosaic of various languages, cultures, educational backgrounds, and work experiences of nearly 25 years."
He sounds really interesting, and I'm sure he'd love to share his story with you. And by share, we mean tell you all about his blog. Click on his name above to read more about this fascinating Hamptons rubbernecker. Then yawn. And punch a puppy.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
We're still waiting for Hamptons.com to print a typo correction for this article from a real estate advisor who actually suggests charging your neighbor a fee to cut across your property to get to the beach, or threaten litigation if he doesn't.
The article is entitled "Why Would I Give A Neighbor Permission To Walk Across My Property? They spelled "Wouldn't" wrong.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
According to the lawsuit, sometimes they got paid and sometimes they didn't. Sometimes they got their tips taken away and sometimes they got their tips distributed upward to managers. Also, they weren't paid for extra time worked in their shifts. Basically, Trata East was operating like a household full of children. Sometimes they got their allowance, and sometimes they had to be locked in the freezer and threatened that if they ever went to the authorities they'd make their passports disappear and claim they were here illegally. Ah, memories of home.
Check out the article. Then pick someplace else to eat your souvlaki. And feel free to e-mail us at email@example.com with some of your waiter/waitress/bartending nightmares. We'd love to hear it.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
We interrupt our usual broadcast snark to bring you a nice wrap-up in the Hamptons art world courtesy of the East Hampton Star. Day late and a dollar short to catch the opening weekend of “Winslow Homer: The Pleasures of Summer” at Guild Hall in East Hampton, (although the opening reception was a members-only affair) but this and three other interesting exhibits are open until July 25. Winslow Homer is considered the first major artist to work and draw inspiration from the Hamptons. Our personal interest: the exhibition of east end art teachers in the Boots Lamb Education Center. Nice to see living artists getting some space in the Guild.
And it's not too late to catch the opening reception of Moises Esquenazi's “Natural Boundaries,” at Gallery B in Sag Harbor. The reception will be held on June 26 from 5:30 to 7:30 p.m. That exhibit is running through July 5.
The Star calls out a bunch of other interesting receptions. Check out the full article; it's worth pencilling in a couple of these shows. Real artists doing real work! Yay!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
By which we parse that parrot cage lining people call "Dan's Papers" (but is really Brown Publishing's Papers, or Jimmy Finkelstein's News Communications Papers) for all its subtext and stupidity. Mostly stupidity.
Dan doesn't know it, but this week he touched on what may become the new "summer of" theme on the east end. Sure, there's the "summer of the shark," and the "summer of the child abductions." This week Dan lent his voice to the journalistic echo chamber of what is becoming the "summer of the dog."
From Steven Gaines' crusade to clean up dog crap, to dog owners protesting tougher restrictions on when and where they can allow their adorable little members of the family to terrorize people--make no mistake: Dogs are taking over the Hamptons.
From the front lines Dan reports on two dog incidents rattling around in court this month. Well, "reports" is a generous term. What he does is more like eavesdrops midway through a private conversation, dumps out of the conversation when he thinks he's spotted Alec Baldwin, and then tunes back in to hear the out-of-context conclusion. Then he makes that his lede story. So it's sort of reporting. You just have to take away objectivity and fact-finding. Subtract what he might have learned had he gone to J-school, and then multiply his opinions. Then add rumor, but be responsible and attribute whomever started the rumor. There's also grammar. You know what, never mind, it's the lede story because it is (this is like explaining God).
The article tells the harrowing experience suffered by a lawyer and his wife. Allegedly some bimbo was jogging on the beach when her dog trotted up and summarily mauled the two. The bimbo kept right on jogging.
"Sorreeeeeeeee," she yelled, "but I did forget his chew toy, so it's not really his fauuuuuult," as she jogged off into the fabulous cocktail parties of her near future. The two bloody stumps dragged themselves up the beach like at Normandy and latched onto her bumper just before she tore off. She doesn't know, but she has just entered The Nightmare. And her little dog too, whose brains they intend to feast on. At least that's how Dan was told the story and he actually says he "hopes" the person who told him "got it right." Ahh journalism.
The other case was of a woman who walks her dog and thinks about going near the Piping Plover sanctuary. The teenage cops who run East Hampton village sent out numerous warnings not to even think about going near the Piping Plover sanctuary. But she did think about it. And she got ticketed. Now she's fighting it. She'll take it to the U.S. Supreme Court if necessary. She has the time, trust us.
Sharon Feirreiraeiouandsometimesy weighed in with "A Night of Amazing Star-F-ing," a comprehensive look at how many people are bribing guests to RSVP with the promise of meeting a celebrity. Which begs the question: have we really become that cynical? Even among the wealthy? We can't pony up to attend a party that helps prevent young gay and lesbian kids from committing suicide, or provides relief for children with HIV/AIDS or cancer--we can't turn out for drinks and dancing to keep a museum running or help the environment without the promise of bumping elbows on the dance floor with some actor, reality TV star, or washed-up supermodel? Are we that insecure in our causes that we don't think people will show unless you tell them they can create their own awkward, celebrity-to-foaming-fan moment? Sorry, but if you need to shake hands with Joy Behar and tell her how funny you think she is in order to feel your cancer relief check was money well spent, then hell awaits you.
Seriously, if I had the $50,000 for a "Platinum Table" at the Ross School benefit, I would shell it out, walk up to Christie Brinkley, and say "you have no idea how many tissues I burned through watching you in Billy Joel's Uptown Girl video." Her expression would be worth the price of admission.
Moving on, Susan Galardi was unavailable to work much this week. She finally snapped and decided that instead of Piping Plover sanctuaries, we need "Human Resting Areas." (Pssst: they're called cemeteries, Susan!) You might see her resting at the beach, but do not approach her. She'll attack you. And if birds come flying by, she'll attack them. And if your dog comes along, she'll eat it. We think she might be kidding, but just in case--be on the lookout for bat-shit. She might be nearby.
In the "We've Got A Huge Set Of Balls" section, Dan actually put together an event where he presented a "Donkey Award" to the book reviewer him and a few other mooks thinks is contributing to the "pathetically low level to which book reviews have sunk."
A group of book reviewers, book publishers, and prominent authors (who, Dan? Bwahahahaha) assembled on the lawn of Dan's Papers..."
The "award" went to Janet Maslin of the New York Times. Runner up went to Nellie McKay, Stanley Fish, and Walter Kirn. The inscription on the plaque (presented in front of a rapt audience of no one) reads: For the Best Abuse of Space For the Least Deserving Book" (subtext alert: books, that is, not written by members of this stupid committee.)
If David Lion is still searching for something to plug the leaking oil pipe in the Gulf (and we think he is) he need look no further than his own father's balls. We're speechless. Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted that Dan's Papers would have the gall to call out a reviewer when the very review included in this same issue is nothing short of sycophantic payola. How many reviews have we been subjected to that were poorly written, misunderstood, and in violation of every conflict of interest known to journalism? Why some of these editors would even stand in a photo with one of the poorest writers ever to be published, let alone sit on a jury panel to judge the writing of others, is beyond comprehension.
Speaking of sycophantic. Speaking of payola. Dan's team coverage of Bay Street theatre's season-opening play "Dissonance" carried over into the photo pages. Joy Behar, Terrence McNally, Eli Wallach and a bunch of other people who accidentally got in the picture was there. Then Real House-nut Ramona Singer was in attendance at the "Take-A-Black-Kid-To-The-Hamptons" Benefit, along with her husband Mario (he has to be cheating on her). "Janice" from the Sopranos was there. She got mad and shot everybody. The end.
Meanwhile South O' The Highway, Joe Biden tipped the scales of balding white-haired men window shopping in Southampton, and Frazier's brother Niles bought a house in Amagansett with his husband Brian Hargrove. (Yo, that actor is gay? Who knew?) Ralph Lauren is still playing monopoly, this time buying hotels, Alex McCord and her slave Simon celebrated their 10th Anniversary in Wainscott, Real House-whore Sonja Morgan got tossed in the clink, and Christie Brinkley smacked her daughter around like Don Corleone in the Godfather when Alexa Ray checked herself in a hospital for whatever the hell could possibly ail her. "You can act like a man!" Christie yelled, smacking both sides of her face. Then she got back to her tell-all book on Peter Cook's sexual proclivities while making sure the gag order on Cook's side of the story remains in tact. Also Brooke Shields is on a hit-list from PETA because she's heading over to Denmark to go kill animals, skin them alive, and sew their fur together for a coat--apparently her "little girl's dream." Models don't just model clothes. They model behavior. They do.
And in David Lion's ode to 20-Something boredom, he observed a woman in East Hampton getting a parking ticket by the snot-nosed little fucks that are sure to get their comeuppance for doing the Devil's laundry. You see, he sides with the little fucks. Sure, they have nothing better to do, they can't get real jobs, oh no, that would require a little effort on their part, so they take these patronage jobs walking around with chalk and making sure that nobody does anything serious, like stay in their parking spot 15 minutes longer than they paid for. Can I say little fucks once more for good measure? Sure I can.
So there's David chortling at the outrage this rich old woman is exhibiting at her ticket. She's circling the blocks in East Hampton, and for all we know she's still circling the blocks into eternity looking for someone who gives a crap about her ticket. Because David sure don't. No, he's too busy enjoying her little hissy fit while the little fucks walk off with their little chalk sticks, feeling the power of the world in the palm of their hands. Feeling God's power. David imagines the woman telling them "Don't you know who I am?" "Don't you know how important I am?" He watches her pace and pout and piss herself over this ticket, and he laughs. He laughs the comforting laugh of someone living in the land of Notaticket. He watches the woman and laughs so long, he loses track of time. And when he gets back to his car, he sees a smear of white chalk on his tire.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
- Victim of child labor? Versace floral-print stretch satin dress: only $1,775!
- Orphaned by bunker buster in Iraq? Emilio Pucci printed cotton-jersey minidress: $540
- Unemployed with mouths to feed? Tucker printed silk-satin minidress: $210
So you see, it fits all budgets. So cheer up. And remember...if you look good...you'll get into heaven. But if you're ugly and you don't shop, well, just keep your depressed, ugly self away from all of us wearing the bright pink lipstick!
Monday, June 14, 2010
It's real simple. Just read his latest embedded article about his Memorial Day Weekend binge drinking affair. Click here. Then, every time he uses the word "fabulous," take a shot of whatever your poison is.
For bonus rounds, we're willing to bet you can open up any of Bruns' past filed works of namewhoring nonsense and play the same game. There. Now you can be just as drunk as Sean MFK was when he filed this non-story about his three-day-long pub crawl trying to cozy up against people he thinks are important to the world.
Don't say he never contributed anything of merit.
P.S. We know, in fact, how many shots it takes to complete this game, but we're not telling. All we can say is: best of luck.
Friday, June 11, 2010
By which we parse that parrot cage lining people call "Dan's Papers" (but is really Brown Publishing's Papers, or Jimmy Finkelstein's News Communications Papers) for all its subtext and stupidity. Mostly stupidity.
Like Lucy stuffing chocolates into her mouth as they come out on the conveyor belt, we can't keep up with all the possibilities of how to recap Dan’s Papers before another one rolls out.
By now Dan has probably made it a habit of wandering the streets of the Hamptons looking for unmanned tables of food to swipe from, but this week was different. Well, Main Street was different, and after Dan read from his Memoir "Nobody Cares, Again" he stepped down from his soapbox and discovered boutique and ritzy stores all over East Hampton just giving food away. They probably put it out for him. He's been known to stray and run off into the woods, chasing celebrities up trees, but nobody had heard from him since last week's terrible debacle at the Potatohampton MiniFAIL. So, local businesses put out food in case he got hungry. And he did. He got very hungry. And nostalgic. Remembering when the Hamptons was...(fill in the blank). Which made us all wonder, when was the Hamptons ever what Dan remembers it to be? It seems since time indefinite the Hamptons was a place for privileged, accomplished, renowned, and uppity New Yorkers to get away from people and ride horses, or plant corn. They brought poors with them, sure, and perhaps the poors gave it that "blue collar" feel, but simply judging by the age of the mansions and estates to be found out here, it seems pretty clear...all these boutique and ritzy couture shops and high-end clothing stores now invading Main Street are just the offspring of some pretty well-heeled forebears. Dan would be better to take that "remember when" schtick to Williamsburg, Brooklyn or Hell's Kitchen.
Or Twitter and Facebook, which Dan's next big article informs us of his inability to maintain, even when his imaginary invites from Madonna and David Letterman are piling up in his social media inboxes. He needs to hire someone less important than himself to sort through all the ways people are clamoring to talk to him.
Which is opposite of David Lion's 20 Something woes. Nobody wants to talk to him. They just don't have the heart to tell him. So they're blaming it on the cell service provider and so far he's buying it. He keeps trying to make plans with his buddies and they just keep cutting out. Making that khhhh...khhhhh noise, hoping he doesn't pick up on their breathing. He bangs his cell phone on the hood of his car. "Hello? Hello?" Nothing. Just that ceaseless khhhh noise. "Hello?"
Meanwhile, South O' the Highway, Sarah Jessica Parker is still from the Hamptons. Calvin Klein is buying houses like he's playing Monopoly and someone needs to tell him he can't collect money from people who happen to stroll by his properties. Tennis stars from all over visited the very poor and deprived Ross School to speak to some underprivileged, tennis playing kids. Russell Simmons threw a party. Bryan Greenberg of "How to Make it in America" went to one, and consequently started a bare-knuckle, no-holds-barred catfight outside of the Axe Lounge. (though Dan doesn't make mention of this little inconvenient truth). Also, blah blah blah, Howard Stern, Jerry Seinfeld, Phony Countess Housewives, and Alec Baldwin. Always Alec Baldwin. Forever and ever. Love Dan.
Walking, talking Bratz Doll Gina Glickman took on the tough assignment of inserting herself into nightclubs all across the east end and was lucky enough to score an exclusive interview with Real Housewives of New York City's Alex McCord and her slave Simon Van Kempen, which was a genuine stroke of luck because we all know Alex and Simon hate press coverage. Her and her slave were celebrating their 10th anniversary together when Gina's head flapped open and shut like a muppet as she ran for them. Alex told her she'd gone through a transformation, which is good, while Simon sat beside her and wondered if his 10th anniversary present was actually going to be that Alex finally takes on his last name like she promised. It was the year 2000. They were sitting at an outdoor tiki bar in St. Barth's. They were just sitting through a long moment of uncomfortable silence after Simon brought up the name change. "Tell you what," she said. "If we're still together in 10 years, we'll take a ride down to the DMV." He clapped and went shopping with her.
Now 10 years has gone by and still he's heard nothing. He's afraid to ask. He's afraid to get what he already knows is the answer. "Listen, Simon, I know what I promised. It was the year 2000, we all thought were going to die." And that was true. So what could Simon do about it, really? Still...(he dropped his head down in shame) Gina didn't notice. Her back was turned so the photographer could get her in the shot with Alex.
But the parties Gina didn't make it to, Dan was sure to cover anyway, and get lots of photos of celebrities holding up glass dildos at the Drama Desk Awards. Also, he was sure to capture the sleazy, smarmy, slimy, oozing, creepy (please comment with more adjectives) Coerte Felske, an "author" who managed to camera-bomb The Real Housewives to promote his sleazy, smarmy, slimy, oozing, creepy..."book" he's been carrying around. So far it's paid off in dividends because he managed to sneak into Engel & Volker's "Toast to Fake-Famery 2010 Gala" in Southampton. Without any irony, he actually turned up with two models on either side of him. The whole thing was sleazy, smarmy, slimy, oozing, creepy...
"Hello? Hello?" David Lion kept calling into his cell phone as he passed the gates of the party. He was heading back to the office to complete his police blotter. Someone actually paid to have lab tests done on his pool water and found gallons of urine in the water. (We think this didn't happen.) Also a watch caused a truck to break down. (We think this also didn't happen). A Hummer flipped upside down and crashed into trees, a fight broke out in Montauk (no shit?), cops handed out 7 tickets on Shelter Island, a land mass with a population of...7. Also, guidos got pinched in the largest guido sting ever recorded in human history at Neptunes, a young man somewhere in Southampton got high, and the dead Chinese kayaker who was found dead on the beach in Amagansett is still dead. Tune in next week (er, this week) for when David Lion has more dead bodies wash up on shore, and then oddly makes ZERO mention of his pet peeve...the arrest of Sonja Morgan (Real Housewives of New York City) for DWI.
Perhaps he hadn't heard the news. Perhaps nobody has told him yet. "Hello? Hello?" he yells into his cell phone.