Bare minimum—a little bit of sun and a chilled glass of white by the pool. Jay Gatsby and the scions of industry can wait until another weekend.
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
Friday, July 14, 2006
East Egg
Heading out to East Egg this weekend… Fine, fine, everyone else calls it East Hampton but when Fitzgerald’s descriptions still ring so true, “[it was a] slender, riotous island which extends itself due east of New York… jut[ting] out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great, wet barnyard of Long Island Sound,” why not evoke the lush, lost era of the Roaring Twenties instead of the clumsy, tasteless 21st century (strip malls, fast food, Geraldo Rivera)? I’m much more likely to run into Billy Joel or Howard Stern than a Rockefeller or a deposed aristocrat but a girl can dream…
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