I am staying at an uber-fancy inn on Main Street in Southampton. Only problem: I have to get dressed to go downstairs for my morning coffee. (I guess that is what bed & breakfast means?). I dont know if any of you have had the pleasure of my company before I have had my morning coffee... Mary Horgan has, she stayed with me in Provincetown. In any case, I wouldnt wish myself on my worst enemy in that state. So I go downstairs, and three guys are sitting at a well-appointed, Martha Stewart-inspired breakfast table, talking about ... a business associate: He HATES me ... But worse, they took the feckin communal coffee pot! I had to hold myself back from violence. The Hamptons is where I grew up. Where I went to high school. Where my dad decided to move because all the writers had bought houses on the same street in Sagaponack and there was a local pub where they could hang out in peace. This is where mother died from drink. I dont recognize anything anymore. It is pouring down rain on the slanted roof of my room. At least I dont have the urge to go look at what theyve done to our house. Or to go to the cemetery where both my parents are buried. Feck you people who ruined the Hamptons. I dont like you.
Posted on: Wed, 16 Jul 2014 13:32:55 +0000
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