Something Positive (Gasp!)

We interrupt our usual broadcast snark to bring you a nice wrap-up in the Hamptons art world courtesy of the East Hampton Star. Day late and a dollar short to catch the opening weekend of “Winslow Homer: The Pleasures of Summer” at Guild Hall in East Hampton, (although the opening reception was a members-only affair) but this and three other interesting exhibits are open until July 25. Winslow Homer is considered the first major artist to work and draw inspiration from the Hamptons. Our personal interest: the exhibition of east end art teachers in the Boots Lamb Education Center. Nice to see living artists getting some space in the Guild.



And it's not too late to catch the opening reception of Moises Esquenazi's “Natural Boundaries,” at Gallery B in Sag Harbor. The reception will be held on June 26 from 5:30 to 7:30 p.m. That exhibit is running through July 5.

The Star calls out a bunch of other interesting receptions. Check out the full article; it's worth pencilling in a couple of these shows. Real artists doing real work! Yay!

Decorate Your Ego In Pink

Make no mistake. If you wear this shirt, you're a toolbag. You're a pink toolbag. Guest Of A Guest wrote this article about how hard it is to get your hands on this new, Zev Norotsky-inspired T-shirt that obnoxiously declares "We (graphic of people running) The Hamptons." Translation: "We Run The Hamptons." Because they? Oh I get it, because they go to clubs in the Hamptons. And that's so cool because nobody else does that. Also, who's Zev Norotsky, you ask? See: Fameball.

From this T-shirt gag, we're surmising that he's a 30-something man-child apparently stuck in high school. You know, that time in life when making declarative statements that are testament to how cool you are was marginally acceptable and generally ignored. Only he's not in high-school (at least we don't think he is). Also, this ass-kicking-worthy shirt is available only in ass-kicking-worthy pink, for an ass-kicking-worthy $48.

Unintended laughter of the entire GofaG article? The whole angle of the blog post centered on their 3-part wisdom of how to cleverly score one of these "hard-to-get" T-shirts from Zev or anyone in his non-tourage. A commenter leveled them by posting up a website where it's easily for sale to anyone with a credit card and zero understanding of how much of an asshole they're going to look like.

P.S.? I've heard enough about this Axe Lounge in one month to make me want to punch whoever goes there in the face for a lifetime.

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.

Steven Gaines Nothing From This Fight

Apparently East Hampton's largest rising problem is the fact that people own dogs, and when people own dogs, people own the dogs' need to poop, and they satiate this need by bringing those dogs to the beach.

Enter Steven Gaines. The author of Philistines at the Hedgerow apparently draws the line of wealth and privilege...at dog shit. Now a resident of East Hampton, Gaines visits a private beach every morning, I guess when he's not writing about the cult of privilege. Read about his recent fight to clean up the beaches and toughen anti-shitting laws in his America, in this article from the New York Times news service.

Gaines has written a number of best-sellers and has had his fair share of books turned into films. This recent bit of ink he's earned himself can only make me think of one thing: Tennessee Williams' essay The Catastrophe of Success, which he wrote just before the New York opening of Streetcar Named Desire. In it, he contrasts the poor, hungry, obscure Tennessee Williams to the now rich, fat, and wildly famous Tennessee Williams, and he comes to this conclusion about the role of art and the artist:

...The heart of man, his body and his brain, are forged in a white-hot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation) and that with the conflict removed, the man is a sword cutting daisies, that not privation but luxury is the wolf at the door and that the fangs of this wolf are all the little vanities and conceits and laxities that Success is heir to...

Oh Steven. Has your fire really burned down to a flicker only large enough to illuminate dog feces?

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!

Hamptons.com's Sean MFK Bruns Invents Drinking Game

And it works!

It's real simple. Just read his latest embedded article about his Memorial Day Weekend binge drinking affair. Click here. Then, every time he uses the word "fabulous," take a shot of whatever your poison is.

For bonus rounds, we're willing to bet you can open up any of Bruns' past filed works of namewhoring nonsense and play the same game. There. Now you can be just as drunk as Sean MFK was when he filed this non-story about his three-day-long pub crawl trying to cozy up against people he thinks are important to the world.

Don't say he never contributed anything of merit.

P.S. We know, in fact, how many shots it takes to complete this game, but we're not telling. All we can say is: best of luck.

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.