The Most Ridiculous Help Wanted Ads Pt. 2

We're chronicling some of the most corporate-inspired lines of BS to ever find its way into a job description or title. Last week we brought you the "Educator" position at Lululemon. This week's installment includes Nike's bizarre job title for its openings in Riverhead and Deer Park.

Nike Seasonal Athlete.

Athlete? Will Nike be sponsoring my long jump? Are they looking for someone to wear their shirts at the Winter Olympics?

You wish. No, the Athlete is what they call the people who stock the shelves and ring up customer purchases. Or as we used to call them: stock boys and cashiers.

Nike Athlete. A position that holds firmly to the optimistic notion that the young people we're targeting don't read past the headline.

East Hampton Star Tries to Say With a Straight Face That The Rich Are Genuinely Philanthropic

Exclaiming "In your face!" in its opening line, this East Hampton Star article wants you to know it will be every bit as obnoxious as...well...as its opening line.

The "in your face" taunt is aimed at HuffPo and CNBC, presumably because they are the Sean Penn and Tim Robbins of journalism--perennial bogeymen of the paranoid right. According to this piece, the national survey (reported on by HuffPo and CNBC, because...well their job is to report) about the lackluster charity offered up by the wealthiest 1% is wrong because East Hampton's 1% give more than the middle class in the same area. The article, entitled The Rich Really Do Give More, by Larry LaVigne III, is a clinic in how to manipulate statistics. And also how to be a douche. A douche, yes, but not a huge douche, for the article does have its caveats.

Anyone who lives out here knows exactly why and how the wealthy in East Hampton spend "8.5%" of their discretionary income on charity. SWAG. STEP AND REPEATS.

At the very least, this article brings in one expert who, at the very least, hints at this reality.
“The strong and welcomed presence of nonprofits and the causes they support may keep charity top-of-mind for residents, and at a certain level of income and lifestyle, philanthropy becomes a regular part of social life.”

Lavigne tries to downplay this very poignant remark by referring to these lavish parties as merely a stab at some free drinks.

 "But is it more than an open bar of top-shelf cocktails in exchange for a five- or even six-figure ticket?"

Yes it is more. It's a LOT more. And you know this, LaVigne. We've heard of some cases where the free gift bags handed out at charity events added to a total value of $15,000. Add that to the allure of being photographed by local and national press, and rubbing elbows with famous actors, musicians, reality TV stars, and you can clearly see why the well-heeled turn out in droves. And arm flab. 

Care for more BS?

Quote: “A lot of Alec Baldwin’s fans come out to show support when he is tied to an event, but we have soooo much diverse talent that works with Guild Hall,” [Barbara Jo Howard, director of marcomms at Guild Hall] said."

Translation: Alec Baldwin's draw represents 99% of the money raised, while every other program running there suffers from Giveashit-itis.

Put simply, if East Hampton's rich were so giving of their discretionary income, why does EVERY SINGLE charity event held in the Hamptons have to wheel some celebrity out in front like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs? Answer: Because nobody would go otherwise. It's not supernatural.

What? MORE BS?

Quote: Even though the wealthy may give a lesser percentage of their income elsewhere, the study finds that the richest Americans still contribute the vast majority of dollars to charitable causes.

Really. You know, I would have given my $10,000 to Save the Beleagered Manatees, but somehow my invitation to the Gala in East Hampton got lost in the mail. There's a reason why the rich give to charitable causes, because charitable causes ASK them to, you dolt!

Oh, East Hampton Star. You make me want to beat an angel to death with a little girl's puppy. 

Hamptons Hosts Ridiculous Hat Convention

We're not sure what this is but our friends at Guest of a Guest captured a photographic essay of people being huddled into a tent and apparently forced to wear ridiculous hats. Our only guess is that it's some sort of Hamptons hazing gone horribly wrong. You have:



Just keep smiling and don't turn around. Do Not Turn Around.











 

 

The hat made from leftover ribbons at the bridal shower.

Air Syria flight attendant flushed accidentally as plane passed over.

After his refusal to wear the baby blue fedora, his captors acquiesced and handed him the equally shameful peach blazer with a handkerchief sticking out of the pocket.

It's not a hat if they have to pin it to your hair. Or, as in this case, allow the bird to keep his talons so he can grip firmly down on the scalp. Her smile is one of controlled pain.

This group tried its best to camoflogue the little one as a white girl by squishing down what was left in their flower garden on top of a nest of lace. Oh, when rich people adopt.

Bride of Barney

You can actually SEE her wondering how ridiculous she looks.

This 4 Non-Blondes wardrobe sale came with a miniature-sized replica of the Mayor of New York City. She wouldn't stop bragging about how much of a steal it was.

She brought enough hat for the two of them, but he kept insisting.

Okay, that's actually Edith Beale, but so long as we're documenting batshit crazy....





 

Inside the Social Life Magazine Kerfuffle

After some follow-up conversations with Christopher London, Hamptonyte blog got a pretty broad picture about the nature of his issue with Social Life Magazine Editor-In-Chief Devorah Rose, who recently landed back on the pages of the NY Post after airing her dirty possibly imaginary relationship with novelist Salman Rushdie.


When the story broke, London issued a formal letter that essentially posed an ultimatum to the magazine's publisher Justin Mitchell: either Devorah goes, or I can no longer contribute to the magazine as its Society Editor. The magazine, along with the people it covers, are in hibernation until Memorial Day, so no word yet from Mitchell how he plans to deal with the friction between the two editors. In an e-mail to Hamptonyte blog, Rose declined to say anything on the record about London's letter. (Incidentally, if Rose was in journalism she'd know that "off the record" is not something you can just say, like Hocus Pocus, or Olly-Olly Oxenfree. Both parties are supposed to agree to it, but we decided to be nice).

Usually when an Editor-in-Chief (see: head honcho) is threatened with resignation from a section editor (see: NOT head honcho), the section editor gets escorted out of the building by security. We found it curious that London's letter didn't lead to an automatic shakeup at the magazine. Then we got some more information about the gist of Social Life's operations.

According to London, Rose is really just an EIC in name only. Like, really just name only, as in: doesn't have much jurisdiction or veto power over editorial content. In a sense, London boiled her responsibilities down to a marketing/PR role, whereby she wines and dines and 69s the subjects the magazine covers and then lets the writers step in. She makes decisions about the cover, and contributes her column "Royal Court," which sounds so completely obnoxious, (without having actually laid eyes on the column) we are currently on e-Bay seeking to purchase a guillotine.

For the most part, all editorial content flows to Mitchell, and everyone who works on the magazine does so as contributors. This includes London, which explains why he's not sitting on the curb at the magazine's NYC office with a box full of his personal items and a sign around his neck. London is one of the older contributors; according to him the magazine has a young staff. We're imagining something along the lines of a journalistic sweatshop. Young, disadvantaged, naive little hopefuls, working for gold stars and what's left in the bottom of a Devorah-ransacked charity-event swag bag.

London said when he was first approached by Mitchell it was a collaborative effort to pool resources and tap into London's knowledge of NYC high society, a knowledge he'd apparently gained while photographing society events for his own website. According to London, Mitchell seemed hungry to get a look into the world of NYC society, and worked overtime to develop his own contacts. Somewhere along the line, and if the NYT article is accurate that "somewhere" was an event at the MoMA, he met Devorah Rose and he had his EIC.

Most journalists will often tell you that when they get invited to attend an event, charity or otherwise, they usually hang back and observe. But according to London, Rose took no such approach to Social Life's coverage, much to the chagrin of some of the charitable organizations that invited Social Life along. London wrote to us:

"Once I started writing for the magazine, certain invitations that came to my attention were swiped by Devorah and they began to ingratiate themselves with people who knew me, including insisting on a table at their gala if they want SL Mag to cover the event. I had certain publicists ask me why they wanted a whole table. Did they not know that this was not proper protocol?"

It gets better:

"Any swag which came to the magazine was often seized by her for use with her friends. Hence most of what Devorah shows up at are nightclub events and commercial charitable vehicles for Reality TV."

Which brought London to his ultimate point: Rose is merely using her position to leverage any opportunity to become a reality TV star, even stooping, according to London, to placing key players in reality television on the cover of Social Life. In essence, the magazine gives her access, and she uses that access to further her less-than journalistic aims. Tsk, tsk, Devorah.

Over the phone, London told Hamptonyte blog that the Rushdie incident was the straw that broke the camel's back because it came off as so inauthentic. In a follow-up e-mail, he added these remarks:

"It is even more clear that Salman Rushdie was a 'mark', a man who was clearly being used to extend DR's Famegame. The fact that she tweeted the pic herself with rather suggestive language for a "do over" with the famous author and then complained he was only after one thing, is interesting...There was a quick effort to cash in on the notoriety of having had any contact with him...Wouldn't she try to persuade him of her sincere interest first before giving him up to the tabloid media? Rushdie served his purpose, the famous ladies man got her two front page appearances in the NY Post, in one week."

Let's put it this way. If London doesn't leave the magazine, and Rose stays put as EIC...this is going to make one hell of an awkward office Christmas party.

What if the South kept "concierges" in chains?

There would have likely been no Civil War! Instead of a slave trade, how nice does a concierge trade sound?

We stumbled on this advertisement for a company that specializes in consolidating the numerous ways Hamptonites can remain spoiled, weeping, drinking balls of incompetence. This particular brand of servitude goes by many different names. Concierge service. Luxury concierge. Personal concierge.

"Whether you need a rental home, reservations at the best Hamptons restaurant or a babysitting, pet-walking, dry cleaning-picking-up assistant, we've got you...We tailor our services to suit your every need, and we strive to ensure there is no limit to what we can do for you. At Open Minded Concierge, our relationship with our members is always treated with the utmost respect and extreme confidentiality."

Yassuh, we aims to please, and we please to aim, suh. Our prediction: By 2025, the American population will consist of two groups...the wealthy, and their "concierges." If we've said it once, we've said it a hundred times, the failure of the South was in its poor marketing efforts. No worries. It will rise again. And that fact pretty much blows.

Grazia plays 'pin the tail on the cliche'

So without intending to, Grazia's fashion section has highlighted one of the things that make the Hamptons such an eye-rolling place to visit between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Spotting the Walking Hamptons Cliche.' Never mind the traffic, the real indication that it's summer in the Hamptons is when you see these chicks walking around in multiples.

Grazia just hearts the daylights out of Morgan, 25, and her white blouse, cut-off jeans, and they're coocoo for Sofia's lesbian gym teacher look, pink pants and all. Morgan and Sofia are the names they were given when they got on the Jitney. What they've done is compiled quite a portfolio of women who watched too many 80s movies about the Hamptons and then did that.

If you want to meet Sofia or Morgan, you can! Just wait until this weekend, drive out to Southampton, and there will be octuplets of them. Chances are...they'll ignore you. Unless you have on a navy blue blazer, linen pants, and designer stubble.

Graduating from high-end prep school still means doing the 'Shocker'

The other day the Statue of Liberty welcomed behind its trailblazing torch the next line of America's white hope: East Hampton's Ross School graduating class of 2011.

The apple-cheeked and nightmare-free hopefuls will be going on to a palette of promising colleges in the fall, from American University, to Northwestern, to Columbia and Tulane. A testimony to how exclusive prep schools create an environment in which intellectual challenge can be fostered through peer success and influence. Rich parents don't hurt either.

But what's most disheartening heartening to see is that the hallowed ivy walls of privilege and circumstance, the thick, protective hedge of intellectual discourse and high-profile instruction, couldn't keep out "The Shocker" in the culmination of four years of hard work: the official graduating class photo.

Check out the kid in the front row sitting on the floor on the farthest left. One shocker wasn't enough. He had to do a double.

He's also my new hero.

The Blog That Keeps On Giving

We love Patrick McLaughlin, and his blog, Hamptons Chatter, which, like Patrick himself, underwent a facelift recently. Bravo!

This week's installment is one of those blog posts that give pretext for the author to go on about his social status. We're all impressed with his former Upper West Side address, just as we are impressed with his unproven taste in restaurants. But...it was nice to hear about some restaurants that deliver to your door, and Patrick supplies a nice list, even if, in the middle of a post about how lazy he is to get in his car to satiate himself, he tells his readers to get off our lazy butts and look up the phone numbers and addresses of the eateries.

Of course he did. What would a self-important, superior Patrick McLaughlin blog post be without a little Grrrrrr in it?

Why We Write

Because literature is the axe that breaks the frozen sea inside us. Because writers hold a mirror to culture and capture all that is beautiful and ugly about the celebration of human existence. Because writers lay down the gauntlet to challenge our preconceived notions of the cultural zeitgeist and body politic.

Or, you can just be Michael Braverman, lunatic at large for Hamptons Magazine, Contributor to Edible East End, and kids-party Ben Kingsley impersonator. He writes because...well...because he's on the east end and he wants to be the 1-millionth person to claim to be an authority on fine living. Visit his blog Hamptons Rich and Pour. Then immediately regret it.

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.

Decorate Your Broken Heart With Glitter

There are very few universal truths not contradicted by customs, mores, and religious teachings all over the world, but they do exist. One such Platonic truth: "The only thing that really matters is how you look."

It's a fact. And Hamptons.com's newest advice columnist Kimberly Garrett knows it! She wrote a whole article on the secret to not feeling so bad. Do you know what she does when she's a Sad Sally and wants to turn that frown upside down? She shops! Of course, she does. And so should you.

To quote Garrett: "It's hard to be in a terrible mood when you're wearing bright pink lipstick."

Trust her people, she knows. She works with celebrities all the time, and we know how happy they always look.

Here's a prescription from Dr. Kimberly Garrett, bad-mood-killer extraordinaire. (Well, to be fair, we tried to match the ailment to the outfit.)

• 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!

How To Be A Mooch (in less than 800 words)

From the self-indulged people of Guest of a Guest, comes this helpful article on how not to be self-indulged when buttering up that millionaire friend they seem to think you know.

With this current economic crisis, it's very important that you know how to use rich people to your fullest advantage. Let's face it, you're not buying that Southampton estate on the bay this summer. But your mother's cousin Tom's sister-in-law Rebecca is married to this guy who has one! Make some calls!

This goes beyond the obvious, don't-show-empty-handed advice, and moves on to tackle the even more obvious, "don't hang out all day in your room Blackberrying," and "don't show up at the dining room table refreshed after you did nothing to prepare dinner."

How about, "don't search your mind for some wealthy contacts you can use to spend a weekend lounging around pretending to be rich." No? 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.

Get Your Snob On!

Some blogs know us better than we know ourselves. They're in our heads. Earlier this week, suck-up blog Societe Perrier, which is French for "Slavery Will Return," posted this little snippet about a soon-to-open restaurant/lounge/club/nirvana/impervious-to-God's-wrath-sanctuary in East Hampton, and somehow we're already feeling the coming change to our lives because of it.

"With less than 2 weeks until Memorial Day weekend, everyone is starting to buckle down and decide how they will spend their weekends out east." We are?
"The question on my mind is what will Derek and Daniel do?" Who?
"Whether you're parking or docking, once you are inside it is the same crazy brunch you've come to know and love." Crazy brunch I've come to know and love? It's brunch, people. When I think brunch, I don't think crazy, I think, run the other way because someone's trying to get me to wear boat-shoes.

Derek and Daniel turn out to be Derek and Daniel Koch. Ahhhh. Of course! Derek and Daniel Koch, yeah I still have no clue. But they've teamed up with Michael Wainstein. You know, Michael Wainstein? Nothing? Yeah, me neither. But he climbs into the hyperbolic chamber with Societe Perrier.

"Being on the water this year, we're setting sail with an even bigger concept and bringing the yacht party ashore; whether they arrive by land or by sea, we're sure they're going to have a unique experience," says Michael Wainstein.

And that in no way sounds like a canned quote from a press release. Congrats, Societe Perrier, you've succeeded in writing a post that actually makes people hope the SS Koch Twins sail a bit too close to starboard of a band of Somali pirates.

Wall Street Banks To Employees: Have Fun, But Don't Be A Dick About It

The recession has done nothing to deter the well-heeled from kicking off their business shoes and dipping them in the sands of the Hamptons. But now from Reuters comes this warning apparently handed down from Wall Street banks to its bevy of toolbag employees licking their chops to get out east, roll up their trousers, and hit on the waitresses. Go buy your $15 million homes. But do it secretly. Use a fake name, maybe. Or, aha, the name of a rival! This will seriously keep you from our guillotine.

This is the problem with unsourced material in journalism: the "some people say" approach to sourcing. Employers have probably sent no such warning to its staff. But it's fun to think they have!

Things are much better," [ Judi Desiderio, CEO,Town & Country Real Estate] said. "People feel more secure about their jobs. They feel more secure that the world isn't going to crack wide open and suck them in."

Yes, but just to be safe from the business end of our pitchforks, wear dark sunglasses and a big hat when you walk into her office.

Throw Your Very Own Obnoxious SATC Party!; A Field Manual

Like the drunken carousing shortly after our last hangover, we never learn. "Sex and the City, Part Duh" is soon to hit theaters and brains are itching everywhere. Even cultural teabagger and all around soft-headed conservo-critic Michael Medved got this phenomenon right, calling the first Sex and the City "Woodstock for entitled princesses."

And just to make sure you're not left shopping at Payless, Hamptons.com has been kind enough to treat us all with recipes for our very own customized cocktails. Emphasis on cock. As in, put the credit card away and get some! If not, by all means fold your arms across your chest, roll your eyes, and look over the guy's shoulder who's talking to you to see if there's someone richer or more socially important for you to be talking to. These drinks not only rock, they classify you. So there you go. You don't even have to think anymore.

The Fashionista: 3/4 oz of celebrity absorption, mixed with 2 oz. of ill-placed priorities make for a heady elixir that combines the smooth taste of perceived importance with an air of exclusionary star-fucking.

The Player: 10ml. of penicillin, 10ml. of tramp stamp concealer. Stir it in with a dim notion that you're a feminist to wash away that icky feeling in the morning.

The Socialite: 1/2 oz. of false self-confidence, 3 oz. of "The Fashionista" mix, a velvet rope, a slave to stand with a wireless headset at your front door manning the velvet rope, combine repeatedly with a discriminatory guest list, et viola! Drink up, important person!

The Bombshell: 1/2 oz. imitation of a bygone era, 1/4 oz. feigned surprise when someone calls out said bygone era, 3 oz. false modesty. Stir with a long spoon. Strain away all dignity. Serve with a maraschino cherry, while fighting the urge to impress your phony A-list friends with your skill at tying the cherry stem with your tongue.

Of course, you could also just be a little more down to earth and not ask every guy you meet what he "does." Nah, what's the point in that? Carrie on, our wayward daughters.

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.

How To Pick Your Next Victim

With domestic terrorism now thwarted, European air space now back up and running, the Louisianan oil spill getting cleaned up, and the economy now completely fixed, it's time to make more important moves. Like picking a caterer for your Hamptons parties!

This listing has actually been posted on two sites. It's an open house taking place tomorrow at The Hamptons Caterer's Showcase in Southampton. You'll get to sample food, drinks, photographers, decorators, and planners.

Because choosing the right team of underlings to abuse while hobnobbing with your smart set should be taken very seriously.

Hamptons.com's Guide to Toolbaggery

Remember the good times? When you could buy a plane ticket in cash at the gate? Do you long for those halcyon days when college classmates were all white, and your alma mater had an a cappella group? Care to dust off that old Panama Jack hat and party like it's 1989?

Go to New Haven. According to this gem from Hamptons.com, there's a bar/restaurant that happens to be paired next door with a cigar lounge, and ever the two shall meet. The restaurant's called Bespoke, and the cigar bar is called The Owl Shop, which is appropriate enough, because it's where a-holes of a feather flock together.

Truthfully, the article is impeccably written and the co-authors really know their cigars and their coctails. And I guess they're doing a service. There just aren't enough toolbag indicators enough these days. Sure, there's tribal tats, and fistpumping, and fake tans, but those are just youthful indiscretions. Even the Mercedes/BMW indicator is gone, now that every 18-year-old owns one. But now you can take heart, thanks to this article, because nothing unleashes your sense of superiority than sitting back in a leather chair, crossing your legs, and sucking on a hand-wrapped Nicaraguan while listening to the pianoman "tickle the ivories."

Ambience you say? How about this: "Today The Owl Shop still attracts a refreshingly mixed crowd of New Haven regulars, visiting dignitaries, Yalies, and a remarkably full representation of the New Haven Bar. Early evenings at The Owl often see stalwart prosecutors encamped in the bay window overlooking College Street, while defense attorneys and trial lawyers congregate at the bar and trade war stories."

Kids. Don't smoke cigars. It makes you wear funny hats.