By which we parse that parrot cage lining people call "Dan's Papers" for all its subtext and stupidity. Mostly stupidity.
Oh, that this blog had only started last week when Sans Papers printed one of the most hilarious corrections ever written. Seriously, it was written seemingly by accident, that's how bad it was. There almost needs to be a correction of the correction. In the Police Blotter section Dan's (aka The Worst Editor Ever) neer-do-well son David "Lion" had to correctly report on a plane crash at Montauk airport, one in which the pilot walked away unharmed, because he "confused" that plane crash with a plane crash from a year earlier, one in which the plane went on fire. Oh, and that pilot had also been involved in a head-on collision with his daughter in the car, a story David also got "confused" with this plane crash, which actually has nothing to do with either plane crash to begin with. Huh? Exactly. For a "newspaper" that covers a region where not a whole lot happens between October and half of May, you'd think they'd at least get an F-ing PLANE CRASH right. Sigh. But not really sigh, because being led through that Cretan Maze that resides in David Lion's head was hard work, but entertaining, once it was all figured out and the Minotaur just stared back at us and shrugged and said, "I don't know, dude, I just live here." Then he begged us to kill him. But we wouldn't. Oh, we wouldn't.
So many questions, we fail to ask the big question. How in the hell does one "confuse" the details of one plane crash with the details of another crash that happened a year before? Is he working from memory on these blotters, or a release from the PIO? Then I scanned through the April 23 issue's Police Blotter and realized, I think I might be right. No names. Fuzzy on the details. "A 49-year-old man was arrested in East Hampton." "...a car that was involved in a theft in Montauk." How about: "A 27-year-old woman was pulled over..." (my favorite) "Police approached the driver, who was a woman." Really? The cops were able to determine that the suspect was a woman after arresting a woman? Then he buries the lede and mentions in passing that she and another female passenger were both hauled in because they were joyriding drunk with a 5 and 7 year-old in the back seat. But David Lion reserves his best for last. "A woman with a house in Water Mill reported..." items stolen from her house. You know. Which she owns. Because she's...a homeowner and stuff. "Shelter Island: You can't burn in a barrel on Shelter Island." Kids, don't listen to him. You can burn inside a barrel just as easily as anywhere else if someone were to set you on fire.
We move on to the letters, which mark, I believe, the second week in a row we've had to hear about this insufferable whale that died on the beach. People. Beached whales are a common occurance. Half of East Hampton are wearing black arm bands over this, and a few dipshits decided to lay down in the sand in the shape of a whale, as if that was going to accomplish something. The heartbreak is palpaple. And also a little overwrought. I mean, I know this is the Hamptons, where nothing dies, at least not without naming a tree, or a park bench after it, but this death is "about a community?" Really? Can I move out of this community of yours?
Jumping to the front of the paper, though, we get to Dan (The Worst Editor Ever) Rattiner's lede story about "Beach Lane," a supposed NBC sitcom slated to air about a "funky Hamptons Newspaper." My first thought was 'don't encourage him, NBC.' But, turns out the sitcom is not based on the trials and tribulations of Dan's Papers. No, that story would be so boring it would make viewers raise their remotes and say "Man, when's C-SPAN on?" But just in case you thought you might learn about the pilot (the TV show, not that kind of pilot David Lion, get away from me) think again. Dan's going to regale you with wonderful yarns about HIS newspaper that NBC doesn't give a flying frig about. And he begins with Dan's Papers HQ in the back of a trailer behind a shed that overlooked the East Hampton post office, or something, I don't know, I fell asleep after "Matthew Broderick." Subtext alert: (Which is what Hamptonyte will call out whenever it's easier to paraphrase an article's intent) Subtext Alert: Real Headline: "How I Thought NBC Was Going to Make a TV Show About Me, But Was Wrong." Real lede: "NBC is launching a sitcom about a millionairre neer-do-well who tries to launch a newsaper in the Hamptons, which has provided ample segue for me to tell everyone what NBC clearly isn't interested in knowing. And speaking of neer-do-wells, have you met my son David Lion?"
But congratulations are in order. This week's issue is the first "South O' The Highway" segment that didn't require Dan to play his own game of Six Degrees of Dune Road in order to fill out this gossip bleh. All the items were legitimate. We think. And goddamn frightening to boot. The Millionairre Matchmaker bitch is allegedly looking to move to the Hamptons. This is the woman who invites women to come on her show for a potential romantic link with one of her clients and then proceeds to dice them up for no apparent reason, with lines like "excuse me, it says here you're a stylist? Yeah, you're a big, hot, tranny mess." Charming. Someone needs to wake her up and tell her high school's over. The cheerleaders have all wandered off to greener pastures. And the pain doesn't end there. Tinsley Mortimer, of CW's "High Society" nonfame, is looking to film the second season of that horrendous, end-of-the-empire-show out in the Hamptons, where producers are looking for more "likable friends." What? Wealthy, self-absorbed, racist, homophobic, spoiled, aimless, nasty, stuck-up people aren't likable? Well, good thing you're coming to the Hamptons, where none of that wealth and superiority complex exists.
We won't recap the Hamptons Subway Newsletter, because, well...we don't understand what the hell it is. This is a regular segment in the paper that consistently makes no sense, carries no interest, and I can't even come up with other descriptors because, well...I don't understand what the hell it is.
Moving past the profile of Jules Feiffer from a sycophantic contributor who happened to waste their money taking his class at Southampton, and also moving past The Worst Editor Ever's two moronic pieces (a nonsensical rehash of a nonsensical article about lizards/his softheaded opinion of two murder trial outcomes) we stumble unfortunately upon the sleep-depriving concernz of the neer-do-well son David Lion.
You see, he has stock invested in Goldman Sachs. And he wants the meany SEC to call off their dogs on Goldman Sachs, because, well he has stock invested in them. And...they didn't do anything wrong. Well, they didn't mean to. They're real sorry, too, so what's the SEC's prob? Like, get a life, SEC! Totally.
His biggest concern would be for the lives Goldman Sachs ruined, the foreclosures, the predatory speculators licking their chops to purchase and dissolve whole neighborhoods, scattered families, suicides, the long, arduous process by which working and middle class people need to rebuild their lives, right? Quote: "There goes my portfolio, I thought. And I was having such a fun year in the market. "
If you're concerned about his portfolio as well (and who isn't?) you shouldn't be. He's sticking with his guys at Goldman Sachs. Sure, there will be firings, and maybe even a little time in the clink for the mid-level fall guys that get framed by the C-suite during the investigation, but all in all, GS is a sure bet, and his portfolio will not go up in flames like that airplane in Montauk did. Or didn't. (We're still not sure.) No, he has no sense of corporate social responsibility, no obligation to refuse patronage of a company that designed a product to defraud people and enrich themselves. He's watching the numbers, and he has faith in Goldman Sachs. Such loyalty is missing these days. It's really a love story.
And Marie Antoinette, laughing, spreads her wings.
After that article was written The Worst Editor Ever came into the office. He looked around, forlorn. Clutching last week's edition. His eyes fell upon his son. He stormed up behind him and led him away from the computer by his ear.
"You had one job to do, one job!" he screamed at his boy as the boy wailed. "Report on a freaking plane crash by visually locating and reading a press release! One job!"
"But dad, whatevs, what's the big deals anyway, nobody died and I got that right."
And The Worst Editor Ever nudged him out the back door and told him to go play Grand Theft Auto and wait for him to come home. They would discuss this later. They would sit at the kitchen table and The Worst Editor Ever would calmly explain to him. He didn't mean to be so rough in front of the newsies in the office. But he had to understand. And besides, the story of the giant eel, invading the 4 train in the subway and poking its head out for a photo op in the back of The Golden Pear in East Hampton was really giving him a tough time nailing down. Nobody would talk. Now he had to make shit up.
And the boy rubbed his ear not-so-thoughtfully and reassured his dad with a nod. And his dad told him what he wanted to hear since the morning. "Go play with your poors, you're excused."
And the boy ran off to the back of the house where the servants were sleeping, and he woke them all up by banging a metal spoon against a lobster pot, declaring himself King of Hamptonsville. And he made his servants bear gifts to him, and he watched them dance. Oh, he watched them dance. And soon he reeled off to sleep with their image in his head. They had danced and spun and swirled and mispronounced his perfect English in such amusing ways it made him forget the icky things in life, like accurate reporting, and Wall Street accountability. Something in Esterina's dance made him feel tingly down there. Something in her eyes made him dream the dreams of all Hamptonytes. That the dream never ends. The summer winds approach. And with it come the echoes of the playground it all once was, and will be again.