The Hamptons—Playground for the rich, weekend share fuck-fest for spoiled brats and hunting ground for money-sucking vampires like my ex-wife. Bitter or just honest? What was once a picturesque little hamlet dotted with roadside farm stands and true character, is now a commercialized, expensive, Hollywood facade. The charming salt-worn cottages propped up along route 27 are homes (or second homes) to some of the most phony, shallow, greedy, egotistical people you can shake a Fendi handbag at. The notion of getting away from the big city and relaxing in a "simple country setting" is bullshit, because like a wad of dog shit stuck in the crack of your sneaker, all that's nasty about the city gets dragged right out there. And sometimes a piece of it sticks. I feel bad for the locals who actually live there. Not the ones who "stuck" because they think it's fabulous to have a year-round Hamptons address. I mean the true locals who were there before the plague came. Like the old man who get shoved out of the way by the bitch with daddy's credit card at Schivonis market. Or the poor mexican woman with the sad eyes behind the counter at the Golden Pear who has to politely humor the waspy douchebag with the cardigan tied around his neck by finding him a bagel that's not "squished". Those are the people I would stand shoulder to shoulder with, pitchforks in hand, if they ever chose to revolt against these yuppy fucks. Drive them right back into there duplex apartments and park view condos...just say the word.
Now you may wonder, for a guy that despises this place so much, how come he knows so much about it. Well because two weekends a month I have to drive into that shithole and rescue my 7 year old daughter from the clutches of the fore-mentioned vampire. You see after my ex-wife drained me of all she could, she made the next logical move any money hungry whore would...she moved to the one place that gave her the best odds of landing the next big paycheck. And land it she did, in a big way. I feel bad for the poor slob, but he made the bargain. She takes his money and he gets to go society fuck his shallow circle of self-congratulatory friends with an actual girl on his arm. Think "Housewives of Orange County" (a show that invokes my gag-reflex). But that's exactly what it is, with a small Lands End wardrobe change. Nerdy, small, insipid men married to wahsed up, worn, one-time-nice-looking woman in a relationship of blatant convenience. And the only thing worse is seeing a room full of these people pretending to be friends while they are in actuality peacocking it up, trying to outdo one another. "Oh I just sold that property to Moss" "you didn't know he just made partner" "My father wants me to garage his Ferrari, can you imagine the nerve". They deserve each other, these selfish people.
But wading into this cesspool is a necessity. Every time I start the car and think about the long drive out there, I can't help but feel like I'm in a Tarantino film. Like I have to fire up my unreliable clunker and race into this town of zombies, rescue the innocent and try to get out without running out of gas or getting bit by one of these mindless drones.
There's a feeling I get when I pass 7 Eleven just before the westbound ramp to the LIE. Like I can finally breath. Like it's okay to wind the windows down because the smell is gone. Hearing the tires humming on the LIE as I head up-island*, knowing my daughter is safe in the backseat and on her way to a weekend of normalcy is the best feeling in the world.
Multi-million dollar homes. Bottomless trust funds. Money everywhere, but you know the only thing that's really worth anything out there in that vapid wasteland is my daughter.
*a term referring to anywhere west of the Hamptons. Yes, these pompous fucks actually use this term.