HarborFrost 2012: We did it wrong

In the spirit of reducing our snark by at least 20% I decided to participate in HarborFrost 2012, held last Saturday in Sag Harbor. For the uninitiated, Sag Harbor, though considered the "Hamptons, has managed to blend its Hamptons Bourgie-ness with its shipping and whaling roots--so much so that it's my favorite section of the east end.

Sure, I can still get a cup of coffee for under a buck, but I can also sit on a bench and check out hot rich girls that would never give me the time of day. It's a perfect storm of literary romance, hard drinking, and women that make you dream of one day hitting it big.

HarborFrost is in its second year in Sag Harbor, and actually a great idea for generating revenue and adding some color to the long, gray winter. Restaurants get a chance to test their food before the big season swings around, artists and musicians get to fine-tune their acts and showcase their work at ease, and the kids are happy to take part in anything that will distract them from killing themselves because there's nothing else to do on the east end in the winter.

There was a whole itinerary of things to do and see at HarborFrost, but naturally I missed all of them, except the afternoon highlight: The Frosty Plunge. It was on my bucket list anyway, so I figured why not: I love Sag Harbor, I'll get there early, check out the sights, grab a cup of joe, and then head down to the Long Wharf, strip off my clothes and jump into a broiling sea of ice water.

I had some company: three nephews, age 21, 19, and 10, and my niece, age 11. We got there just in the nick of time--3:30 p.m.-- sort of missed the countdown bullhorn and dove into the water, sans coffee, sans sightseeing, sans food-sampling, and sans warmth. Also sans soup, because by the time we got dressed at the dock, the complimentary soup had all been doled out to the Occupy the Hamptons people. (More on them in another blog).

Now freezing cold and shivering, we all agreed to hop back in our cars and head home. So, all told, I was at HarborFrost for roughly...mmm...25 minutes. I heard there were fireworks later that night. Would have been nice to see that. Yeah, HarborFrost 2012. We did it wrong.

Meet The Guy You Never Want To Be

So Vanity Fair has this F-Marry-Kill sort of Q & A going with "party planner to the stars" Colin Cowie. Who? Exactly. Which begs the follow-up question, can some bold, brave party planner out there step up and call themselves "party planners to the average people?" Because it sure seems like every party planner bills themselves as a planner to the stars. They can't all be planners to the stars can they? I mean, at that point, couldn't gas stations just say they're "unleaded suppliers to the stars?"

Anyhoo, the Q & A. Yikes. This guy is as metro-sexual as they come. Not only does he list designer sun-screen and an extra large towel as "essential" items to bring to the beach, he even calls out the brand of towel one should bring. Hermes.

Want highlights? He was actually asked what his "after-sun ritual was," and he actually had one. Curious? "Tons of any moisturizer, but I like Origins Ginger Souffle Whipped Body Cream."

He also has to wear Oliver Peoples sunglasses and wears a Brazilian cut bathing suit, so avoid Main Beach in East Hampton until he dies. Just being helpful.

Summer cocktail? "Cucumber Chill. A Vodka martini with muddled cucumber, lime, simple syrup, and elderflower."

Just cry mercy and I'll stop.

Favorite stationary? (yes, they truly asked him this, and, again, he truly had an answer.) "For the handwritten note, Ellen Weldon's over-scaled cards on thick paper stock with fabulous envelope liners."

Who inspires him? Nelson Mandela. Which makes sense. They have a lot in common. Cowie drives a black Mercedes CLK convertible, and Nelson Mandela...is black, so there.

Favorite Hamptons attire? "One loud element, like a fun printed trouser and a cotton t-shirt from Thom Sweeney."

OK, I hear you all climbing out onto your ledges, so I'll just throw in the kicker.

Song of the summer: "Too soon to tell. I'll know once I have been to St. Tropez, Capri, Sardinia, and Mykonos by mid-August.

Why don't you just ask Nelson Mandela, Colin? Yuck. Kids: dream of bigger things to become.

Brown Publishing's Papers: The June 11 Recap

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.

Sonofabitch.

Brown Publishing's Papers: The June 4 Recap

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.
Nothing.

Brown Publishing's Papers: The May 28 Recap

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

This week Dan was out on Ocean Road in Bridgehampton. He was stretching out along with literally dozens of other runners getting ready to start the 4,000th Annual Potatohampton 5K Mini-thon. Yeah, the 4,000th. It predates the Greek games.

As he was stretching he heard it in the distance. He didn't believe it, but others heard it too. It was the song that intros the entrance of Darth Vader. They were coming. They were here. It was Memorial Day weekend and the fancy cars were cruising down the Montauk Highway stuffed with pretty boys and girls and Prada handbags, and cocktail shakers, and hope, and crazy, faraway daydreams, and painted toenails, and pretty thoughts, and a slave in the trunk to watch the kids while all the pretty boys and girls dance their pretty dances, and shoot their pretty insults at the wait staff, and give pretty answers to all the reporters and photographers trailing after them to capture all the pretty. And it reminded Dan, to call his photog. Because, after all, these people can't be ignored.

But there was no time. Tens of people were lining up to cheer on the runners. The gun went off. Accidentally. Some ran. Some stayed frozen in their places, as though they'd forgotten how to run. But this wasn't going to be like last year, when the pace car designed to guide the runners through the course took a wrong turn and everybody ran straight off a cliff and fell into the bay, no. This was more organized than that.

Except it wasn't. Apparently the digital clock didn't start until a minute into the race, which meant that runners crossing the finish line filled with glee that they'd set a new record had to be told they didn't. They weren't special. They were their usual dull, slow, non-record-setting selves. They wept on the side of the road.

Also, the winner of the women's class was Alexandra Jennings, 29. But really she wasn't. Really she finished second. The winner was Barbara Gubbins, who was accidentally mistaken for a man. After a genetics test revealed Gubbins to be a woman, she was award first place in the Minithon. But last place in life. Also, the cheating, lying, posing Alexandra Jennings (who is now second place, or, the first loser) kept running. She ran past the finish line, across the monument in Bridgehampton, down the Montauk Highway, pumping her fists in victory. She ran and ran, and nobody has told her yet. Nobody has caught up to her to do so. She made the decision that she'd never stop. She'd keep running. And tell everyone she encountered that she'd won first place in the Potatohampton Minithon, and nobody...nobody, could take that away from her. Dan watched the flash of her track shoes disappear around the corner, but there was nothing he could do. At least, he thought, the folding chairs arrived on time. And at least the digital clock counted in seconds, and not years. So that was good, he thought. Then he actually wrote: "Thinking about things profoundly like this every once in a while is good for the soul in my opinion."

Yes, Dan. In fact, it is your profound thoughts that keep us all alive. We're forever grateful. Now get back to organizing next year's Potatohampton MiniFAIL. We can hardly wait.

Just up the street, Susan Galardi was sitting down to write a profile of Madonna without any cooperation, input, or knowledge from...Madonna. The profile was scathing. By which we mean, Galardi didn't intend for it to be scathing, but it is. From this piece we learn that Madonna is a high-maintenance, pouty, horse-snobby, reclusive, fly-by-helicopter, piece of egotistical work. And this was supposed to be a sycophantic, welcome-to-the-neighborhood article? The last sentence really pops in its unintended hilarity. We like to protect our local celebrities.

Unlike Gina Glickman, who likes to stalk our local celebrities and then tell everyone where they were spotted. Also, her friend's lame Led Zeppelin cover-band was playing at Stephen Talk House, so she gave them a fair amount of ink, while waiting to get that all-important invite to something better. We'd like to further recap Glickman's "Whispers," but, well, she whispers, and we couldn't hear it.

Sitting behind Glickman was Sharon Feieriesen. Of the too-many-vowels Feieriesens. She put together a wrap of all the charity benefits being held in the Hamptons this summer. Well, not all the benefits, that would be lunacy. Because every party that's held in the Hamptons is dedicated to some charity or another, how else will they bribe pretty people to show up? Duh. So there's the Annual "Soup Cans for the Ugly" Benefit, the "Summer Without Bad Hair" Benefit, the "Bring Your Dog Everywhere You Can Possibly Go" Benefit, and the "Mad for Meds" Benefit, all which got completely ignored by Feirereideseien. But in development: the "Getting Actual Meaning From a Novel" benefit, whose honoree will be Rebecca Schiller.

Schiller's review of "I'm Ten Years Late To The Chick-Lit Dance" by Diane Meier did not go well. A novel about renovation, forbidden love, personal growth, and the rediscovery of identity, and what did Schiller pull from it? Totally bitchin' decorating tips! Yay, book reviews.

Dan sent his photogs to both New York City and the Hamptons to cover people drinking wine. The highlight was the Einstein Spirit of Achievement Awards. You know, "spirit of achievement" as opposed to "actual achievement." But hey...everybody looked fabulous, and that's all that ever counts.

And there there's David Lion. Who spent the whole week wandering around trying to eavesdrop on conversations for his "20-something" column. He just couldn't come up with one. Then someone suggested they put Jimmy Buffet on the cover of the Montauk Pioneer this week. Someone climbed a tree and got a photo of him eating lunch. Perfect for the cover! And since Dan had already decided on his Monty-Python's-Flying-Circus cover, replete with a large breasted woman with hairy arms in a shower cap flying up from the ocean, while a dog swoops down like deus ex machina to save her from beach balls, this cover would actually be about something. But no. It couldn't be countenanced. The people of Montauk would revolt. They'd take to the streets. Putting a celebrity on the cover! That's crazy-talk! Because, as David explains, people from Montauk, though just as famewhorey and caught up in celebrity as the rest of us, like to pretend they're not, so to see a mega-star like Buffet on the cover would undermine the very tone of Montauk. That's the conversation he had privately with his staff. Then he took that conversation and wrote a "20-something" column about his intention to use that conversation for his "20-something" column.

Which allowed him to concentrate on the body count in this week's Police Blotter. Two, in total, which is probably the highest body count of any Police Blotter to ever appear there. One body washed ashore from Connecticut, and a youngster was killed during a high-speed motorcycle chase from Southampton police. We'd have something funny to say, but there's nothing funny about a 19-year-old girl going off of her fiance's bike while the stupid fiance is trying to outrun the cops because he had something as minor as a suspended license. It's terrible, and the fiance is in deep trouble. But for the rest of the blotter, we learned that people shouldn't own dogs. Because the dogs fight, and then the owners fight. Because everyone involved is unhinged. Dog owners are unhinged, that's what David Lion is saying in this blotter. Also, rich old women get to lay claim to every bench in America. This rule was not honored last week, and the rich old woman went ballistic. However...video please, or it didn't happen. Also, a woman's car was kicked. She can't prove it, but she called the cops anyway. Ah, tax dollars. And another woman in Hampton Bays tried to run off with a cart full of groceries. So basically, women were crazy last week. We'll see how crazy women act this week before we declare an epidemic.

Then of course, Dan got to his Letters. Ah the letters. And they keep pouring in from the Tea Party movement, some of whom aren't sure which convention they should walk into: the Democrats or Republicans. Like little kids trying to ascertain the male/female graphic on the doors of the public restroom, some think Dan is a dopey Democrat, some think he's a dopey Republican. He's only confessing to the dopey part. Then David took a lashing for saying he was half Irish/half Jewish, because for some people Jewish is only a religious identity. David said, And there's Isreal. So, yeah. There's David sticking up for his right to say he's Jewish, and there's Dan sticking up for his right to be a lightning rod for political kooks. There's Gina Glickman rolling her eyes at the staff and waiting for TMZ to call her for a job. Blowing her bangs away from her face.

And there's Alexandra Jennings. Poor Alexandra, running off into the distant sunset of what-could-have been. She's at a job interview in Manhattan, clutching her recently updated resume. In gleaming black ink, like a beacon of achievement, there it states: 1st Place Potatohampton Minithon. And no one has told her yet. And maybe never will. Maybe she'll move up the corporate ranks of that job. Become a manager, a director, straight on to the C-suite, CMO, CFO, eventually CEO. Still running that race, in her mind. Eventually running for President of the United States. Running on the ticket of her success. And then...the truth will come out. Dan will write an article about how he knew her when, and suddenly a storm of controversy will sweep her out of the race. Alexandra Jennings. The liar candidate who lied. The lying candidate who didn't win the Potatohampton Minithon, as was thoroughly documented in the book Unclean To Command: Why Alexandra Jennings Should Never Run For Anything by Babara Gubbins. The Tea Party's first legitimate candidate, undone by Dan. And from then on, the Potatohampton Minithon will be watched. Oh, it'll be watched like a hawk.

From Bikinis to Puppies; Now That's Evolution!

The Memorial Day Weekend Hamptons coverage is trickling in (or should was say oozing?) and we've uncovered some real gems to recap.

Starting with this kiss-ass article covering the Hamptons magazine party. It was held at the publisher's house in Southampton, where the guest of honor was Mariska Hargitay, the Law & Order SVU actress whom graced this issue's cover. (A Pez dispenser to anyone who can e-mail me and tell me if Hamptons is a real magazine, or just a glossy catalog of advertisements with a celebrity on the cover to lure the fabulosity crowd to this guy's house in the summertime.)

From there, the party moved to the Axe Lounge at Dune, where Kelly Killoren Bensimon ushered past a groupie-whore fistfight in the bushes to grace everyone with her toothy presence. Well, first she recorded this creepy-but-important-only-to-Kelly-PSA announcement in the middle of her living room about "systematic bullying." Apparently it's never okay. Neither is 4-on-1 action. That's never okay. Unless it's in the sack. Then it's never not okay. Otherwise, it's never okay. Just, generally defending oneself against attacks, or screeching "go to sleep, you're crazy..." that's never okay. If you see someone being the victim of systematic bullying? Let the bully know...that's not okay. It never is. The more you know.

Okay? Okay, so she stepped over two bitches clawing each other's eyes out to get at a Twilight actor who's probably gay to begin with, and she walked right into the Axe Lounge, and probably had a good time, because she was around a lot of people she thinks are important. Good for her. Making sure you're always at parties packed with self-important mooks? That's almost always okay.

What's not okay is this quote, after she actually became the 1-millionth famous-for-nothing nitwit to show up at a party with a dog in her arms (seriously, when is this stupid trend ever going to fade away?) From Gather.com: "This just shows how things are changing for me, I used to pose in bikinis, and now I pose with puppies." Wow. That's transformation! You know, change has a way of making us both happy and sad. It's okay, yet it's never okay.

You know what's also not okay is Kelly's Real Housewives cast mate Sonja...um...Sonja. Her. The blond chick who's new to the show. Yeah, she got arrested for DWI in Southampton, which should come as a surprise to no one. Apparently she refused to take a breathalyzer, but failed a field test, (which, if you've ever experienced a field test, you gotta be pretty blind stinking drunk to fail). Not taking the breathalyzer is usually automatic suspension of license, but she may have skirted more serious charges. She can cough up the license for a year, no biggie. We're sure some cabana slave will chauffeur her around whenever she needs to be somewhere. So...well played Sonja. Well played. Getting jail time or community service is never okay. Cooperation with authorities is never okay.

Sidebar: The egg on our face for blasting Southampton cops who arrested a crowd of people at Neptunes. Our implication was that they don't target the rich. Our apologies. You have made our day with the pinching of Red Sonja.

Another successful Memorial Day Weekend. Tune in next week when we rattle the bell jar once more and watch the pretty snowflakes trickle down all over again.

Brown Publishing's Papers: The May 21 Recap

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.

This week Dan got lost in the Metropolitan Museum. He wandered around the hallowed halls of the museum trying to the remember the name of an artist a gracious girl had gone out of her way to give him.

Well, really, he creepily slithered up to her and made a subtly racist pass.

"You look like a hot little Oriental, tell me. What's your favorite painting in this here museum? I mean besides the artwork and weaponry of the heathen Chinee?" he asked. She rolled her eyes and told him. Then he asked her where it was. She told him. Then he asked what floor. She told him. Then he asked what room. She told him. Then he asked the dimensions of the room. She told him. Then he asked the cieling height. She told him. Then he asked where in the room it hung. She told him. Then he asked how to get there. She shot him.

Turns out, after much searching while he held in the blood of his bullet wound (he seriously went back downstairs to find her and asked her to write it down, and then went back upstairs) he stood in front of the all-too ellusive painting. His reaction? Meh.

He decided to stalk through the museum, find the girl once again, and actually tell her how underwhelmed he was by it. And the angels in heaven cried out: "Run, you poor volunteer at the Met, run like the wind!" And she did, because he couldn't find her. But he'd be back. Oh, he'd be back to tell her what he thought. And when he does, you can rest assured of her reaction. "Huh?" She'll say. Then she'll shoot him.

But back in Bridgehampton all sorts of things were going on not in the Hamptons. Barbara Walters was recovering from surgery, Alec Baldwin was boring swaths of graduates at NYU, Gwyneth Paltrow was consulting a raging drug addict about happy marriages, another novel came out about the Hamptons and shockingly it covers the wealth of the area, and Dan's due to read from his Meh-moir as soon as they find him wandering out from behind the Temple of Dendur.

He kept trying to reach his son's cell phone, but David Lion had his devil horn fingers pumping in the air and was too busy rocking it out to hair bands in Montauk. "What!" he yelled to his friend beside him. "My bone is singing?! Oh, hell yeah! Woo!"

For David Lion it was all the calm before the storm. Before the droves came like locusts and descended upon the Hamptons. It was a time to reflect. Get a few things done. Like empty out the bay with a hand pump. He was devising a new strategy to deal with the oil leak in the Gulf. He just couldn't understand why, when he sucked the bay through one end of the hose, and dumped it back into the bay on the other end, why oh why, didn't the bay drain already?

He gave up. And fell into the slumber of a king. He let his poors fill out the police blotter. They filled it with jokes. Incidents they'd seen at the supermarket. David slumbered. "andamememememe..." while his cell phone rang and rang.

Finally outside the Metropolitan Museum, lonely, tired and disoriented Dan closed his phone. That painting sucked, he thought. She sent me up there on purpose so she could do her Oriental hoo-doo and switch around the museum on me so I can't find my places to write. It's all a big joke to those slanty-eyed people, he huffed. Then he kicked a Central Park carriage horse in the ribs. The horse neighed in pain.

"Aw, knock it off," Dan gruffed. "You like the hustle and bustle of the city, you little bitch!"

Brown Publishing's Papers: The May 14 Recap

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.

"Put your little hand in mine/There ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb...

OK campers! Rise and shine, and don't forget your booties, cuz' it's coooolld out there today! It's cold out there every day, what is this Miami Beach?"

This week Dan was short-staffed. David Lion kept running around the newsroom waving a No. 2 pencil in the air, swearing that he'd snapped it in half the night before. And now, having written the same exact Police Blotter as the May 7 issue, he was convinced he was having the same day over and over. Ned Ryerson, an old acquaintance from high school, Needlenose Ned, Ned the Head, kept running up to him on Main St. in East Hampton.

"Don't tell me you don't remember him, dad, cause he sure as heckfire remembers you!" Lion said.

But Dan knew the boy must be reeling from the effects of living beneath telephone lines his whole life. 'Imagine life without telephone poles' Dan thought. Gnom, gnom, gnom... Then he went back to Googling himself to find out what sort of nasty things were being said about him and his bankrupt newspaper. "I'm not gonna live by their rules any more..." he heard Lion mutter to himself before he headed out of the office. 'The boy's unhinged,' he thought. No matter.

The Southampton Press reports inaccurately and their commenters are all doo-doo heads, Dan wrote in his splash article "Eavesdropping." It was a re-post of all the hatred and celebration the commenters at 27East.com were unleashing upon news of the coming demise of Brown Publishing's Papers. But they would have no such satisfaction today. No sir. Brown Publishing's Papers is celebrating their 50th and nobody is going to crash that party. They're here to stay! The office rejoiced. Dan rejoiced. David Lion kidnapped a groundhog and drove off a cliff. Edward R. Murrow rattled his chains and moaned. The flames tickled his elbows.

But there was work to be done. Blond sock-puppet and News12 famehound Gina Glickman had to schlep all the way out to Tribeca for a story on the film festival. Unlike the glorified YouTube channel known as the Hamptons Film Festival, this one's real. And full of celebrities! So Glickman simply had to be there. And had to insert herself into the writing as much as possible without making people wonder if she was even there. It's a technique that crosses over to her "hit" series on News12 Long Island, "Stalker In The Hamptons," or whatever. Most viewers who watch that show, or read her columns think the important part is what the celebrities are saying, or what they're in attendance for. Perhaps even what they're promoting. Nuh-uh. No way. What's important is that we all know Gina Glickman actually, really spoke to these people! In person! She even stood next to them! And danced at their parties! Maybe even one will ask her on a date! Oh Gina, don't you know that your columns are the destroyer of worlds?

Anyway, back at the top of the cliff, David Lion clawed his way up the steep incline and sniffled. He coughed. Then he hurried back to the newsroom to write about his snifflecough and see if it appeared again in Brown Publishing's Papers. It did! Why is this happening?! he screamed. Then he figured since there's no tomorrow, he might as well write a column telling fat and ugly people to suck it up and lose weight or quit their bitching and leave the Hamptons for good. That also appeared in the newspaper. He covered his ears. He couldn't stop that polka that kept playing in his head. Strike up the music/the band has begun/the Pennsylvania Polka...

Dan strode past his son and shook his head. Then he sat down to answer a cease and desist letter from the State of New Jersey. "Stop claiming Jon Bon Jovi," the letter stated. Never. He'd never relent. He'd never give up Jon Bon Jovi. He's from East Hampton and I don't care what anyone says, he wrote back. Then he counted Madonna's bushes and put that in his South O' the Highway column. Marcia Gay Harden is going to act again! And in a show about the Hamptons! She hasn't done that since Pollack. Also, Sarah Jessica Parker is treating Sex and the City 2 like it's a matter of national security, shooting fake scenes, and threatening cast and crew members with things she has no legal authority to enforce, and kidnapping everyone's moms until the movie comes out, because when this movie comes out everyone needs to be mutually shocked and mystified by its complex and enigmatic ending. "There's simply too much at stake. If people get any sort of sneak peak at this vapid apologia for self-aggrandisement and entitlement, grandma will simply have to die," she said. Also, Joy Behar ate. Alec Baldwin did Alec Baldwin stuff. Steven Spielberg needed to take media blackout tips from Sarah Jessica Parker, and Christie Brinkley totally didn't slide into the operator's chair for a quick face-change when her daughter went under the knife to stop looking like her father. Come on, you know she did. All in all, the column was its usual success at linking people who call the Hamptons their 4th home.

Then Dan tossed out New Jersey's playa-hatin' letter, only to reveal beneath it more hate-mail from Patchogue. "Damn, son," he yelled, "all these places are gettin' all up in ma grill, like furreals, son, don't be drinkin' that hatorade, Patchogue, I love my homies in the gitto, don't be skerred." Patchogue wants Brown Publishing's Papers to know that they're not friends. Well, they won't be friends until Dan takes back all the mean things he's said about Patchogue. Like completely ignoring their press releases because Alec Baldwin wasn't going to be there. And for saying Patchogue is stabby and likes to stab immigrants, so they're immigrant stabby. So Dan apologized, with his fingers crossed behind his back. Good thing Pete Lutz wrote in to Dan while high on blood thinners to brighten Dan's day! Yay, Pete's back. And he's laying in a hospital bed with a "tempter" wiggling her hips in front of him, but the fat, ugly nurses keep coming in to take his tempter and he wants out! Also Times Square has a bomber, the fishing industry is oily, he needs all sorts of work done on his house and no poors to do it, the earth is always turning, stewardesses aren't RN's anymore and can't get any guys but fat ones, and they only speak one language, and the damn rich people are moaning about sex offenders when they should be getting them jobs. Ahhhh! he yelled.

"Ahhhh!" David Lion yelled back. He was still covering his ears.

"Can you all keep it down!" TJ Clemente screamed. He was trying to finish his article on ticks. There's just so many ticks in the Hamptons. This is true. And there's just so much Lymes Disease. Everyone has it. It's like a rite of passage now. We don't have Lymes Disease, and when we get pulled over by cops in East Hampton they know we're not from there. Oh, there's just too much Lymes Disease everywhere you go in the Hamptons.

So there was Dan, answering his mail. There was TJ pulling a Lymesy tick off his arm. And there was Gina Glickman, twirling her hair with the end of her pencil. It's what pencils are made for. She rested her chin on her hand and stared dreamy-eyed into the photo of Puff Daddy. Why won't he return my calls? she wondered. Didn't he get the joke when I pinned that doll with the severed head under his windshield wiper? I thought it was funny. He did too, I'm sure. He's just busy planning his white party. Hmmm. What should I wear to his white party?

And then there was Pete Lutz. Poor, forgotten Pete Lutz. The patterns on the ceiling above him were conspiring to strangle him with his IV tubes. He knew it. Plus, the jello had long since stopped asking permission from the carrots for everything it did. And his sheets are being lazy again. The whole world is gone to hell, he thought. It's like you can't even be a giraffe anymore.

School Budget Recap

Thanks to 30 people who had cars last night, Sag Harbor school teachers don't have to move back in with mom and dad, Southampton residents are fine with budget surpluses, some serious poaching going on at East Hampton schools, and whenever a Westhampton Beach athlete gets a serious rug-burn, think of 4 douchebags. Last night's budget wrap below:

All of the east end's school budgets passed last night, some margins closer than others.

Sag Harbor: 1,051 to 1021. Just 30 votes decided a budget proposal that everyone involved was so scared of failing, they were talking the crazy talk of salary freezes and newbie layoffs. No word yet on whether this close shave will cause a civil war-like divide amongst the community. Until then, enjoy your 6.7% increase, Sag Harboranianites(?)

Tuckahoe: 212-193. It took only 19 extra votes to pass this 16.5 million dollar budget. There would have been blood running in the streets, but then everyone realized that no one knows where the hell Tuckahoe School District is, or who attends it. Phew!

Southampton: 595-499. Hamptonyte Blog posted an e-mail conversation with BOE member Dr. Laura McMahon about her lone dissent of this budget proposal, and although the 96-vote margin is pretty wide, obviously 499 people who turned out think a budget surplus three years in a row should have protected them from further increases in the tax levy. It didn't. Now how to tell Johnny his trip to Europe this summer is on hold? Hmmmm.

Bridgehampton: 216-61. A landslide. But then again, how could it not be? This year's proposal called for a nearly $62,000 reduction in its operating costs. So that's a good thing, right? Residents are currently on the lookout for these 61 voters for purposes of forced sterilization.

Sagaponack: 25-2. Sagaponack is not a real school district. We're convinced.

Hampton Bays: 1,078-945. A 43.8 million dollar budget, all said.

Westhampton Beach: 584-298. But its $49 million budget passing is not the real story. The real story is how much of that $49 million is earmarked for lawsuits when its ill-advised artificial turf athletic field starts dishing out turf-rash not experienced since pornstars stopped getting shagged on orange carpeting. The proposal to carpet an earth that grows completely real grass was passed by a slim margin of 4 votes. Remember them, linebackers of the future! You may want to knock on their doors.

And in other news...

Southampton School District announced that it had suspended two administrators, Principal Adam Fine, and Assistant Principal Maria Mondini for reasons undisclosed. Of course, everyone assumed they were up to something kinky of the janitor's closet variety. Turns out, Southampton was just pissed. Pissed that they got poached by East Hampton High School, which is where they will begin their new jobs.

"East Hampton School Board member John Ryan said the hiring process was kept quiet so as to not put Mr. Fine or Ms. Mondini’s jobs in jeopardy."

Bang-up job, guys.

UPDATE: Just got e-mail confirmation from a Southampton Board of Ed member, that the suspensions of Fine and Mondini are to be served WITH pay, so...yeah, that was a pointless suspension.

Sans Papers: The May 7 Recap

By which we parse that parrot cage lining people call "Dan's Papers" for all its subtext and stupidity. Mostly stupidity.

Dan has concernz. He's worried about this new generation. He's worried they don't have the vim and vigor of the previous generations; the propensity for civil unrest. The need to defy authority. The yearning to hand over hundreds of their parents' money to local authorities and make their one phone call for bail money.

He wants this back, and he's asking you, the reader, to ready for blood. It's the most important demonstration of civil disobedience since the Alabama bus boycotts. Nothing short of our American freedoms hangs in the balance. You probably guessed it: it's a protest against strict fishing laws, which are destroying the lives of literally dozens of the east end's baymen. It's all going down in late June. Local police have already strapped on the riot gear. The baymen are calling for an army of 20 volunteers, and it'll only cost you a very pedestrian $325! That's nothing. That's a Versace handbag, people, think about it! Oh, and you'll get to be on the internet for sure, and you might even get your rebellious mug on the TV news! So it's totally worth it. Hamptonyte Blog would love nothing more than to hear from someone who goes down to this protest and captures the first footage of The Worst Editor Ever being hauled off in a paddy wagon.

This week's "Ripped From the Archives" article is actually an archaeological dig into when Dan first started printing actual horseshit as news. We wish we were kidding, but it's a continuation of a series about a woman who tries to swim from Montauk to Manhattan. This might actually be a true story. At first we weren't sure if it was a fabrication, but then we saw this actual image of the dramatic event captured by a Dan's staffer back in 1965. See that guy in the boat was tying to rescue the woman. She's desperately reaching out to grab hold of his oar, but to no avail. It's really a very sad story. She was so enthusiastic about this swim. She was just 42 years of age.

While The Worst Editor Ever tossed in his bed and rang sweat from his beard thinking about the Bonackers and those scallywags that tries to steal thee treasure, by regulatin' their pillage and not lettin' them leave off with the spoils of war, arrrgggh, David Lion was down the hall pressing his ears to make the pounding in his dreams stop as well.

"Arrrgh, those rapscallions down there in the Gulf of Mexico are destroyin' the treasures of the sea, arrrrgh," he said. "We shoulds make em' walk the plank and send em' down to the depths of Davey Jones's locker, arrrrgh."

Then he awoke with a start. His father's voice echoed in his head, but his room was empty. No massive boulders he'd planned on floating down to the Gulf to aid in stoppering that big oil-hole in the sea-floor. No Navy torpedoes armed and ready at his disposal. He pulled his damp sheets from his body and went to the typing box that glows at night to work on an article for his daddy's paper. He typed "Twentysomething..." across the top of the document. Then he highlighted it and put it in Wingdings. Haha. Funny, he giggled. Then he put it in Helvetica. Haha. That's a funny word, he said. Then he put it in bubble letters. He could always draw the little heart to dot the "i" once it's printed. What was important is that he talk about the oil spill. Nobody was talking about it, that was the problem. Only ABC, NBC, CBS, CW11, CNN, FoxNews, MSNBC, News12, NY1, The New York Times, The NY Post, The Daily News, Time Magazine, Businessweek, and The Wall Street Journal were reporting on it. And Telemundo. Haha. That's a funny word, he thought.

So he needed to raise awareness, and provide perfectly sane solutions to this crisis. Solutions even he could execute on behalf of a grateful nation. "What can I do?" he wrote. How about this: 1. With his multiple boats, he would send over huge boulders and drop them over the hole in the ground. And if that didn't work, he'd 2. Send the U.S. Navy's fleet of submarines (yes, he has the authority to do so) to fire torpedoes around the hole in the hopes that the explosions collapse the edges of the geyser and plugs up the flow of oil. Or, 3. Shed his feety pajamas, activate his Wonder Twin powers, and take the form of a large block of ice that will freeze the oil into coagulated lumps that can be easily fished out of the Gulf with crab nets.

When Dan awoke, he found his son passed out at the computer, his head rested on the keyboard. He looked over at the screen. It read: I would fire torpedoes at the edge of the hole and projfsdkfjskdfjlksdjvkbhjirjtgrioghidsvhjcbdlkajedrkjg'dfkjsa;ldkfh;lrkjtgfidjgvdkljdkfdfdfs, all the way across the screen. "He's gettin' so good at writing," Dan said, lifting his boy up from his chair and taking him back to his room.

He needed to get on the computer next to work on South O' the Highway. A Madonna song was playing on the radio the other day and people needed to know that. And they needed to know that Madonna has a house in Bridgehampton. Also, they needed to know that Billy Joel's daughter, a "Hamptons gal" no longer has the uglies. And that Alec Baldwin is hosting SNL, and he's from Amagansett. And people needed to know that the most famous Countess, LuAnn de Lesseps did what all countesses do, she released a disco track entitled "Money Can't Buy You Class...But It Can Buy You A Great Piece of Ass." They needed to know all of this. Because the Hamptons feels so lost not knowing where its prodigal children are at all times.

Even though many of them have returned! They returned to bear witness to Eli Wallach and Annie Jackson's dedication of the second stage at Bay Street. Sure, everybody was there. Eli, and Annie (Miss Jackson if ya nasty), and his Eli's 30 children. There was the unique, the very trendsetting, Lauren Bacall, who arrived actually holding a little dog at all times. Who would ever think to carry their dog around to Hamptons functions? She's such a firebrand. And of course there were some who escaped the glitz and glamour of Lauren Bacall and her little dog too, and went to the only slightly less sexy Longhouse Reserve Season Opening, or the Demato Gallery in Sag Harbor. And for good measure, Dan's stalker Barry Gordin went into New York City to photograph actual celebrities. Overall, it was a busy week for all those weary Hamptons partiers. So weary, in fact, they couldn't even make the trip to the Hamptons.

So weary was The Worst Editor Ever, that he couldn't be bothered with the nuances of the Tea Party movement when he wrote his column about them last week, and now suffers the consequences of the hate mail. The mail booed. It hissed. It called him biased. (Psst, hey teabaggers! He has to actually report on real news in order to show bias. Shhh) But there was praise to be had! Even if it did come from a woman who decided to include in her P.S. that she got hopped up on Ambien one night and passed out months later. Or at least that seems to be the chronology; the whole letter reads as though she'd just taken more. So there was Dan, reading his one letter of praise, and trying to black out the bad thoughts of angry tea partiers descending upon his office.

And then there was David Lion, at work on his wrap-up of all the private arrests that took place. A woman in Eastport who ran over her husband, an 18-year-old kid hauled in for possession of drug paraphernalia. Then for good measure he channelled his father's energy and drafted a fabricated report of dropped blood pressure in visitors to Shelter Island. Ahh, Shelter Island, he thought. Where raccoons get sent to heaven. Where there's such a thing as kink worms who can burrow beneath the sea bed and put a kink in the oil shaft. Where the rabbits know their place. You see, he'd struck and killed a rabbit in Montauk, and it felt like he was punting a football. The rabbit soared majestically through the air and landed unceremoniously on the side of the road somewhere. It was the second time he'd done it, and he needed to be stopped. But how could a superhero with the U.S. Navy at his command stop himself? He can't. It can't be done. He had to drive on.

The only thing he could think to do...was shoot at it with torpedoes, in the hopes that the explosions woke the rabbit up from his deathsleep. Haha. Deathsleep, he thought. That's a funny word.

This Weak in Medi-uh

We never thought it possible to have two media recaps, and we probably won't, going forward, but something must be done to stop Hamptons.com's party suck-up Sean MFK Bruns from filing his columns.

All the Hamptons a stage, and Bruns is merely a lighting-guy-who-wants-to-make-it-with-the-lead-role in it! From Design House in Southampton hosting a pathetic attempt at some invitation only "salon," to his unforgettable night of glitz and glamour above a car dealership on Old Riverhead Road, he feels insanely super about the coming summer. "Places everybody, places!" he actually wrote. We'll get right on that, Sean.

Unforgettable quote? and by unforgettable, I mean puke. "Last year other clubs were getting 'celebrities' like John Gosselin and Mike Lohan. Dune wouldn't even let those guys through the door," said a conveniently anonymous "club goer" about the second season of Dune's sad existence.

Um...yes they will. Though the anonymous club goer doesn't think so. In fact the anonymous club goer thinks all other clubs suck, except Dune. Thank God Sean Bruns found this anonymous club goer who happened to be moseying on down Jobs Lane in Southampton looking for someone in the press to get the word out that Dune is the one and only for him. Dune is the Hamptons. Dune invented night clubs! And puppies.

Towards the end of the article, there's some accidental reporting going on: updates on what's happening with some of the existing night spaces left abandoned like Bernie Madoff's whore, on the side of Sunrise Highway, eye-liner streaked down the face awash in tears.

Some of the details are yet to be worked out in those spaces, only weeks away from Memorial Day as of print time. But don't worry. Entitlement is a hardy fig. And we're sure that whatever happens to 75 Main in Southampton, or The Pink Elephant...the space will surely blossom into producing ripe, healthy toolbags like what attended Annona that seductive April evening. Above the car dealership.

And Sean MFK Bruns' tears will go from sadness, to elation. And then quickly back to sadness.

Sans Papers: The April 23 Recap

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.