This past weekend, an aquaintance was in town for work, so I played tour guide and we headed out to the Drift. Typical stereotypical Hamptons bullshit - which is turning into the usual for me. However, Saturday was different. Instead of being immersed in a high school reunion, and drinking myself stupid, I was showing this friend my side of the Hamptons. Coming from Brooklyn, it was certainly different than what he was used to (and, me, in a way) - and I felt like I was seeing this crazy, nutty island through new eyes. People made their jokes - I guess seeing a guy with full sleeves, a pompadour and a tight white tee was as hilarious to them as it was for him to see all the "Chads" in their popped collars.
When the bar closed, and the sun was coming up over the ocean, we ran into the ocean and swam, letting the sandy, salty water attempt to wash the booze and grime from us. Standing there, in the water, still completely loaded, I saw just how gorgeous it really is out here. When you strip it all down (both literally and figuratively) it's breathtakingly beautiful. If everyone who is out here, local or not, can just see the beauty and simplicity of the beach, and the community, without pretension or competition, i'm confident it will remain a peaceful, relaxing town. Then again, I think it's too late for that.
7.14.2008
7.01.2008
the story of the hurricane
Maybe there is a reason there are High School reunions every ten, twenty, thirty years ... and then they taper off as everyone moves on with their "real" lives. Don't get me wrong, I adore my childhood friends - they have seen me as the kid who fearlessly rode her sled over the cement at the sump, they have seen me as the wild child at beach parties drunk on stolen gin, and they are the people I really have some of my fondest memories with. However, when is the fact that you spent the first 18 years of your life with people not enough?
I like to think of myself as the elusive, mysterious one. The one who got out of town and never came back. Obviously, that's not happening. I'm stuck here until the end of the summer (if not longer the way things are looking). When I was away, other than a short "hi" message on myspace, or a meetup at a holiday or funeral, I had no contact with most of the people I now see on a daily basis. And, honestly, that was okay. You can love people and not see them - you can love people and not talk to them. (Hey, check out my most recent ex! Zing!) It just was, as we found ourselves, we found and created our own lives. Mine was made up of sweet southern dive bars, cheap beer, and loud music. Theirs was made of all the things our lives were like in High School.
It's nice to come home, to feel a part of something. This will always be home, and we will always have our childhoods to cling to. Besides from a select few (I think I can count two, maybe three) there's nothing left. There's nothing to base a real, grownup friendship with. Sure, we go out drinking together, and they hook me up at their bars, and we share cabs home. It's great. But at this point, I feel like the vacations over, and again, it's time for me to leave this sweet/horrible place and move somewhere I can be me - not the person I was growing up. I'm different now, i'm more bitter, less crazy, more cynical, less hilarious. That's okay, that's growing up. I'm just sorry if I dissapointed anyone when I came back a bitter, jaded, tattooed wanna be redneck.
I like to think of myself as the elusive, mysterious one. The one who got out of town and never came back. Obviously, that's not happening. I'm stuck here until the end of the summer (if not longer the way things are looking). When I was away, other than a short "hi" message on myspace, or a meetup at a holiday or funeral, I had no contact with most of the people I now see on a daily basis. And, honestly, that was okay. You can love people and not see them - you can love people and not talk to them. (Hey, check out my most recent ex! Zing!) It just was, as we found ourselves, we found and created our own lives. Mine was made up of sweet southern dive bars, cheap beer, and loud music. Theirs was made of all the things our lives were like in High School.
It's nice to come home, to feel a part of something. This will always be home, and we will always have our childhoods to cling to. Besides from a select few (I think I can count two, maybe three) there's nothing left. There's nothing to base a real, grownup friendship with. Sure, we go out drinking together, and they hook me up at their bars, and we share cabs home. It's great. But at this point, I feel like the vacations over, and again, it's time for me to leave this sweet/horrible place and move somewhere I can be me - not the person I was growing up. I'm different now, i'm more bitter, less crazy, more cynical, less hilarious. That's okay, that's growing up. I'm just sorry if I dissapointed anyone when I came back a bitter, jaded, tattooed wanna be redneck.
6.25.2008
Love in the Time of the Interwebnets
I wonder, how hard is it to keep up on a blog? Apparently, for me, hard to remember I have this blog - with all the new internet time wasters (facebook, myspace, twitter) that seemingly have taken over my life. I now know exactly what my friends all over the country are doing at any given second - giving me another reason to not pick up the phone and call them, or god forbid, write an actual letter. What is happening to us?
Just tonight I had my very own "he's just not that into you" moment - all via text message. Luckily, with only one date under the belt (and, damn, it was a good date, too!) it's not a huge loss, and much better to get a short little text than an awkward telephone call - or none at all. It was really making me think. In between beating myself up over not being psychic enough to realize there wouldn't be a second date, and stressing that I somehow did something wrong, I realized - maybe dating isn't hard. Maybe it's the massive amounts of technological support we have that makes us, dare I say, dating retarded?
You meet someone. You go home and check to see if they're on MySpace or Facebook. 90% of the time they are. You find out what they're about. Where they went to school, what they listen to, what kind of movies they watch, books they read ... Then you do the ever wonderful Google search. You find out they won the Science Fair their junior year of high school. What ever happened to going into first dates blind and having to feign interest in hearing about a science fair project? MySpace is your first date!
As I have mentioned in the past, I am recently back in the dating game after a long hiatus of being off the market. The last time I was actively dating, i'd call and hang up. Yes, it was (almost) that long ago. Or, if we're talking about my rock star days, i'd be the one getting the hangups from nervous Brooklyn hipsters. I've realized that I can date here on Long Island - it has to be outside my comfort zone- and maybe it won't be horrible. Going on my past track record, I seem to have had the most success with artistically tattooed, sensitive boys. And if by success I mean doomed long-term relationships, then yes. Out here on Long Island, i'm lucky to find someone who knows who Joey Ramone was, let alone who Mike Ness is.
Coming home, I dated (if you can call it that) local townie boy (who, by the way, i managed to get some post-Boardy Barn cocktails with Sunday night, but that's a whole other can of worms). Completely not "my type". Completely small town - we knew every embarrassing story about each other even before he copped a feel during Juno. Needless to say, completely doomed. In trying to branch out, I met a seemingly nice guy at a bar recently, and agreed to go on a date. I got over my punkrock ideals very quickly, and happily accepted the fact he was a police officer - a NYPD officer none the less. Hey, it's Long Island. Cop or Construction? Investments or Mortgages? Due to this guy's age (a whopping 12 years on me, but I swear you wouldn't know), there was no Myspace/Facebook checkups, and due to his name, all I got when I googled him was the Zapruder film. Complete strike out. Even adding to the blind date-ness was when I realized that I wouldn't be able to pick out this guy from a crowd, thanks to spending the earlier part of the night pounding shots at the Drift.
A nice date to a baseball game (Yankees, one redeeming point) turned into many drinks (thanks, rain delay) and many long phone conversations and text messages. I found myself actually being interested in this person! I liked hearing about his "collars" and he liked hearing about my dogs! He insisted i'd one day love U2! I promised him he'd love marrow bones and veal cheeks! We had nothing in common, except for our Irish heritage (which, crazily, i've embraced like mad since I got back up here). Suddenly, with no warning - goodbye! Zip. Done. The typical blow-off. Maybe I shouldn't have called U2 the most overrated band in history. Maybe I should have told him my favorite food was McNuggets. If I was more sensitive, i'd probably be a bit more upset about this. I'd probably tear up. I'd probably go get a pint of Ben and Jerry's. But, no, friends, I had the glorious, glorious text message. The saving grace.
If I had been able to e-stalk him, i'd probably have found out details about him that would have most likely convinced me to not go on that first date. (I really don't need to mention U2 again, do I?) I'd have found out he graduated college when I was in fifth grade. I'd have found out he's in the midst of a divorce. I'd have found out he lives too far away, and i'd have realized it would have never worked. But, hey, at least I got that text message. Maybe technology isn't all that bad. Maybe it does make us socially awkward and like stealth spies, but it also seems to help us from the inevitable, awkward collapse. Or telephone call. Or, best case scenario: text message blow off.
So, what are my plans for this weekend? I'm goin' fishin'. For guys. First thing I ask them? "What's your Myspace?"
Download: Gym Class Heroes - New Friend Request
Just tonight I had my very own "he's just not that into you" moment - all via text message. Luckily, with only one date under the belt (and, damn, it was a good date, too!) it's not a huge loss, and much better to get a short little text than an awkward telephone call - or none at all. It was really making me think. In between beating myself up over not being psychic enough to realize there wouldn't be a second date, and stressing that I somehow did something wrong, I realized - maybe dating isn't hard. Maybe it's the massive amounts of technological support we have that makes us, dare I say, dating retarded?
You meet someone. You go home and check to see if they're on MySpace or Facebook. 90% of the time they are. You find out what they're about. Where they went to school, what they listen to, what kind of movies they watch, books they read ... Then you do the ever wonderful Google search. You find out they won the Science Fair their junior year of high school. What ever happened to going into first dates blind and having to feign interest in hearing about a science fair project? MySpace is your first date!
As I have mentioned in the past, I am recently back in the dating game after a long hiatus of being off the market. The last time I was actively dating, i'd call and hang up. Yes, it was (almost) that long ago. Or, if we're talking about my rock star days, i'd be the one getting the hangups from nervous Brooklyn hipsters. I've realized that I can date here on Long Island - it has to be outside my comfort zone- and maybe it won't be horrible. Going on my past track record, I seem to have had the most success with artistically tattooed, sensitive boys. And if by success I mean doomed long-term relationships, then yes. Out here on Long Island, i'm lucky to find someone who knows who Joey Ramone was, let alone who Mike Ness is.
Coming home, I dated (if you can call it that) local townie boy (who, by the way, i managed to get some post-Boardy Barn cocktails with Sunday night, but that's a whole other can of worms). Completely not "my type". Completely small town - we knew every embarrassing story about each other even before he copped a feel during Juno. Needless to say, completely doomed. In trying to branch out, I met a seemingly nice guy at a bar recently, and agreed to go on a date. I got over my punkrock ideals very quickly, and happily accepted the fact he was a police officer - a NYPD officer none the less. Hey, it's Long Island. Cop or Construction? Investments or Mortgages? Due to this guy's age (a whopping 12 years on me, but I swear you wouldn't know), there was no Myspace/Facebook checkups, and due to his name, all I got when I googled him was the Zapruder film. Complete strike out. Even adding to the blind date-ness was when I realized that I wouldn't be able to pick out this guy from a crowd, thanks to spending the earlier part of the night pounding shots at the Drift.
A nice date to a baseball game (Yankees, one redeeming point) turned into many drinks (thanks, rain delay) and many long phone conversations and text messages. I found myself actually being interested in this person! I liked hearing about his "collars" and he liked hearing about my dogs! He insisted i'd one day love U2! I promised him he'd love marrow bones and veal cheeks! We had nothing in common, except for our Irish heritage (which, crazily, i've embraced like mad since I got back up here). Suddenly, with no warning - goodbye! Zip. Done. The typical blow-off. Maybe I shouldn't have called U2 the most overrated band in history. Maybe I should have told him my favorite food was McNuggets. If I was more sensitive, i'd probably be a bit more upset about this. I'd probably tear up. I'd probably go get a pint of Ben and Jerry's. But, no, friends, I had the glorious, glorious text message. The saving grace.
If I had been able to e-stalk him, i'd probably have found out details about him that would have most likely convinced me to not go on that first date. (I really don't need to mention U2 again, do I?) I'd have found out he graduated college when I was in fifth grade. I'd have found out he's in the midst of a divorce. I'd have found out he lives too far away, and i'd have realized it would have never worked. But, hey, at least I got that text message. Maybe technology isn't all that bad. Maybe it does make us socially awkward and like stealth spies, but it also seems to help us from the inevitable, awkward collapse. Or telephone call. Or, best case scenario: text message blow off.
So, what are my plans for this weekend? I'm goin' fishin'. For guys. First thing I ask them? "What's your Myspace?"
Download: Gym Class Heroes - New Friend Request
6.08.2008
what are we running from?
Long Island is in the midst of a heat wave. Tendrils of hair have been stuck to the back of my neck with sweat, and I woke this morning grimy from the bars last night and sticky from the heat. I should be accustomed to the heat by now - having spent the better part of the past fivish years in the South. Back there, back then, it seems like just a dusty photograph of a life that belonged to someone else. The only relief I had from the heat back in good ol' Dixie was a front porch and tinkling glass of sweet tea. Or, more likely in my case, a margarita.
Last night was a night filled with old friends in a familiar place with familiar songs and familiar drinks. It was comfort in a crowded oceanfront bar. The teetotalers version of a security blanket. At one point in the night, I scanned the faces of the people I was with and remembered us as a motley crew of elementary school kids on the playground. How many people get to do that? It was as if nothing had changed between any of us - we were still the kids who rode bikes to the bay, set up lemonade stands, and took dance classes together. One friend was celebrating her upcoming wedding, another her recent divorce. We danced our asses off, accepted cans of beer thrown at us by the bartenders (yet, more childhood friends) and laughed at long-forgotten teachers and neighborhood legends.
My first job was a counter girl at an old fashioned McDonalds looking place. My older sister had worked there for several years, so once I turned 13, I was a shoo-in. The only other person my age who worked there was a younger brother of one of my sister's friends. Rewind to several years ago, my last summer out here, and there may have been what one considered a fling with this sibling. Last night, as I pushed my way through the crowd, I ran into this old friend. It seems a lot has changed - he is now a parent (but single!) - but nothing much has changed as well. He's still got a killer smile. He's still got great charm (maybe that's how he ended up with a kid). In fact, I heard one of the sweetest things I have heard in a while from him last night. Mind you, this was early in the night, before the endges of memory started to blur. "Every Memorial Day I think of you, I think that this might be the summer I finally get to see you again. Every time I go out, I always look around for you, because I always knew one day you'd be back." And me? Well, i've got tentative plans for one night this upcoming week.
So, really, after a night like last night, it does appear you can, indeed, go home again. Marriages, moves and children may come, but when it comes down to it, we still are those little kids and this is still, and always will be, home.
"this is our town, this is who we're meant to be. this is our town, where our roots have grown so deep. this is our town, this is where we're meant to be. this is our town, we'll keep coming back because this is our town"
Download: We The Kings - This Is Our Town
Last night was a night filled with old friends in a familiar place with familiar songs and familiar drinks. It was comfort in a crowded oceanfront bar. The teetotalers version of a security blanket. At one point in the night, I scanned the faces of the people I was with and remembered us as a motley crew of elementary school kids on the playground. How many people get to do that? It was as if nothing had changed between any of us - we were still the kids who rode bikes to the bay, set up lemonade stands, and took dance classes together. One friend was celebrating her upcoming wedding, another her recent divorce. We danced our asses off, accepted cans of beer thrown at us by the bartenders (yet, more childhood friends) and laughed at long-forgotten teachers and neighborhood legends.
My first job was a counter girl at an old fashioned McDonalds looking place. My older sister had worked there for several years, so once I turned 13, I was a shoo-in. The only other person my age who worked there was a younger brother of one of my sister's friends. Rewind to several years ago, my last summer out here, and there may have been what one considered a fling with this sibling. Last night, as I pushed my way through the crowd, I ran into this old friend. It seems a lot has changed - he is now a parent (but single!) - but nothing much has changed as well. He's still got a killer smile. He's still got great charm (maybe that's how he ended up with a kid). In fact, I heard one of the sweetest things I have heard in a while from him last night. Mind you, this was early in the night, before the endges of memory started to blur. "Every Memorial Day I think of you, I think that this might be the summer I finally get to see you again. Every time I go out, I always look around for you, because I always knew one day you'd be back." And me? Well, i've got tentative plans for one night this upcoming week.
So, really, after a night like last night, it does appear you can, indeed, go home again. Marriages, moves and children may come, but when it comes down to it, we still are those little kids and this is still, and always will be, home.
"this is our town, this is who we're meant to be. this is our town, where our roots have grown so deep. this is our town, this is where we're meant to be. this is our town, we'll keep coming back because this is our town"
Download: We The Kings - This Is Our Town
6.04.2008
wallet-raped in margaritaville ...
Last night, a good friend (possibly one of the few people out here that I can consider both a friend and good) and I had a chick date. We did what probably millions of broads did over the past few days - drinks, then the Sex and the City movie. Don't start.
Regardless, we hit one of our old stomping grounds, a place actually I worked in the summer of '02 (or was it 2001?). we figured we'd get a bite and some drinks and catch the movie. It was nice to sit on a patio, munch on some guacamole and pound some margaritas. The guacamole wasn't anything great, and either were the margaritas. However, drinks are drinks, and the company was great.
Well, after we waited what seemed like HOURS for our check ... it came. The check totalled over $100 for 2 pitchers of margaritas and some guacamole. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. I mean, shit, for a great margarita (im talkin' cointreau, herradura silver, fresh squeezed lime -the whole deal) i'd probably be fine with paying close to $20 for it. The margaritas in question were the McDonalds of margaritas.
Welcome to the Hamptons, motherfuckers.
Regardless, we hit one of our old stomping grounds, a place actually I worked in the summer of '02 (or was it 2001?). we figured we'd get a bite and some drinks and catch the movie. It was nice to sit on a patio, munch on some guacamole and pound some margaritas. The guacamole wasn't anything great, and either were the margaritas. However, drinks are drinks, and the company was great.
Well, after we waited what seemed like HOURS for our check ... it came. The check totalled over $100 for 2 pitchers of margaritas and some guacamole. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. I mean, shit, for a great margarita (im talkin' cointreau, herradura silver, fresh squeezed lime -the whole deal) i'd probably be fine with paying close to $20 for it. The margaritas in question were the McDonalds of margaritas.
Welcome to the Hamptons, motherfuckers.
6.01.2008
the ride, it ain't free
Again, it was a Friday so cocktailed, the rest of my weekend was a mess. I have/had the best intentions. The promises to myself I had made were broken, I made the best effort to keep my shit together, and, of course, it was broken. One big hot tranny mess.
This crazy Island is not for me. It's not mine, and I sometimes wonder if it ever was. Girls like me don't stay out here, girls like me don't like the boys out here, and girls like me get shitfaced to hide the disdain for this place, and the places I waste my time in. That's why girls like me don't belong here. I like to just think of myself as a hurricane, passing through, leaving carnage in my wake. However, am I leaving the town a wreck, or leaving myself a wreck?
Having been in 2 serious, committed, live-in relationships for the past 4 years, dating is strange to me, talking to guys is strange, and getting picked up in bars (or attempts at such) are even more strange. I found myself on Friday rolling my eyes, but accepting bought drinks and the conversations that came with them. Guys that aren't from here seem to think they are god's gift to women, no matter how socially awkward, neurotic or uh, busted they are. They try to impress you with their wealth, their status, their share in a Dune Road house with their fraternity brother. After several of these conversations, where I wasn't impressed, awestruck, or bit by cupid, I was d-o-n-e with these stupid boys. Of course, I wasn't done with their free drinks, so I started to have fun with it. My first thing was to start telling these guys blatent lies, beginning with my name. Next, it was what I do for a living - I was everything from a marine biologist to a jewelry designer. Then, it was where I lived - anywhere but here. But, and to quote Avail - here is where i've gotta be.
As always, lyrics and songs play a huge part in my life. I'm an ex-music industry drone. From day one I showed up here, Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" played in constant repeat in my head. I believe it all stems from possibly one of the greatest lines from a song ever - "it's a town full of losers/and i'm pulling out of here to win". Yeah, thats nice. It is a town full of losers. But wait, i'm here. I go to the deli, I go to the bars, I get my mail here - I am a loser. I am the townie loser drunk I never wanted to be. Oh shit!
Well, lets find another lyric. Ah, here's one: "waste your summer prayin' in vain/for a savior to rise from these streets". Lord, if that's not true, then what else is? I'm not much of the praying type. Hell, i'd love a savior to rise from these streets, pick me up in his chevrolet chariot, and get me the hell out of here. And, perhaps secretly, i'm hoping and waiting for that. And, perhaps even more so, I secretly hoped that local townie boy would be that. It would just finally be a happy ending to the shit that'd been my life for the past years. I'm sure you've seen it in a movie at leat 5 times - you travel all over the place and you come to your hometown, and finally put your roots down. Hell, I never said I had good judgement. I just said a happy ending would be nice.
Oh, Bruce! Why you gotta do this to me, son? Yet another lyric: "i know you're lonely/for words that i ain't spoken/but tonight we'll be free/all the promises will be broken" - and yes, yes, yes. The promises were broken. The promises to myself, that I wouldn't care about someone I shouldnt even know in the first place, the promises of "no shots", the promises of going home early, the promises about not letting this stupid guy i don't even like get the best of me. Agh! Needless to say, every single promise was broken, and I got the embarassing ride home at 7AM to prove so.
Now i'm beating myself up, and I shouldn't. I'm not all that bad, I'm just letting this town win. And hell naw, not going to happen. Not for me. Not here. Not now. "You ain't a beauty/but hey, you're alright". Thanks, Bruce. I know you've got my back. I know you've got my number. I know Long Island isn't the Jersey Shore, but shit, it's close enough, right? So, Bruce, when you pull up to get me, i'll be there. Because, really, it IS a town full of losers, and i'm TOTALLY pullin' out of here to win.
Download: Bruce Springsteen - Thunder Road
This crazy Island is not for me. It's not mine, and I sometimes wonder if it ever was. Girls like me don't stay out here, girls like me don't like the boys out here, and girls like me get shitfaced to hide the disdain for this place, and the places I waste my time in. That's why girls like me don't belong here. I like to just think of myself as a hurricane, passing through, leaving carnage in my wake. However, am I leaving the town a wreck, or leaving myself a wreck?
Having been in 2 serious, committed, live-in relationships for the past 4 years, dating is strange to me, talking to guys is strange, and getting picked up in bars (or attempts at such) are even more strange. I found myself on Friday rolling my eyes, but accepting bought drinks and the conversations that came with them. Guys that aren't from here seem to think they are god's gift to women, no matter how socially awkward, neurotic or uh, busted they are. They try to impress you with their wealth, their status, their share in a Dune Road house with their fraternity brother. After several of these conversations, where I wasn't impressed, awestruck, or bit by cupid, I was d-o-n-e with these stupid boys. Of course, I wasn't done with their free drinks, so I started to have fun with it. My first thing was to start telling these guys blatent lies, beginning with my name. Next, it was what I do for a living - I was everything from a marine biologist to a jewelry designer. Then, it was where I lived - anywhere but here. But, and to quote Avail - here is where i've gotta be.
As always, lyrics and songs play a huge part in my life. I'm an ex-music industry drone. From day one I showed up here, Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" played in constant repeat in my head. I believe it all stems from possibly one of the greatest lines from a song ever - "it's a town full of losers/and i'm pulling out of here to win". Yeah, thats nice. It is a town full of losers. But wait, i'm here. I go to the deli, I go to the bars, I get my mail here - I am a loser. I am the townie loser drunk I never wanted to be. Oh shit!
Well, lets find another lyric. Ah, here's one: "waste your summer prayin' in vain/for a savior to rise from these streets". Lord, if that's not true, then what else is? I'm not much of the praying type. Hell, i'd love a savior to rise from these streets, pick me up in his chevrolet chariot, and get me the hell out of here. And, perhaps secretly, i'm hoping and waiting for that. And, perhaps even more so, I secretly hoped that local townie boy would be that. It would just finally be a happy ending to the shit that'd been my life for the past years. I'm sure you've seen it in a movie at leat 5 times - you travel all over the place and you come to your hometown, and finally put your roots down. Hell, I never said I had good judgement. I just said a happy ending would be nice.
Oh, Bruce! Why you gotta do this to me, son? Yet another lyric: "i know you're lonely/for words that i ain't spoken/but tonight we'll be free/all the promises will be broken" - and yes, yes, yes. The promises were broken. The promises to myself, that I wouldn't care about someone I shouldnt even know in the first place, the promises of "no shots", the promises of going home early, the promises about not letting this stupid guy i don't even like get the best of me. Agh! Needless to say, every single promise was broken, and I got the embarassing ride home at 7AM to prove so.
Now i'm beating myself up, and I shouldn't. I'm not all that bad, I'm just letting this town win. And hell naw, not going to happen. Not for me. Not here. Not now. "You ain't a beauty/but hey, you're alright". Thanks, Bruce. I know you've got my back. I know you've got my number. I know Long Island isn't the Jersey Shore, but shit, it's close enough, right? So, Bruce, when you pull up to get me, i'll be there. Because, really, it IS a town full of losers, and i'm TOTALLY pullin' out of here to win.
Download: Bruce Springsteen - Thunder Road
5.26.2008
this is the kind of stuff blogs were made for
Let's see what's right with this picture: Nice local cop not giving two shits about the crazy woman he's arresting and putting into his car. I'm sure when he gets done with working his overtime hours this weekend, he'll head to Murph's and laugh with his friends about how he was in Newsday. They'll all do some shots of Jaeger, and chuckle about the summer beginning, and how we all have to suck it up because they'll be gone in 3 months.
Now, why is this uh ... interesting (to say the least!) woman so irate? She has an art gallery and got arrested for selling alcohol without a liquor license.
Not such a big deal, you're thinking. Well, it's not. At all. However, and having been arrested out here, and also knowing police officers out here - i'm siding with the cops on this one. I know, I know, i'm supposed to be all Ice Cube. However, when faced with the hilarious reality of the situation, I have no other choice then to applaud the East Hampton Police Department on this one. For nothing more than the following quotes this hellbitch apparently said:
"I told them, 'I served liquor before you were born,'" Vered recalled Sunday night. "I told them they were not invited and I asked them to leave."She told them that if they wanted to talk to her, they would have to send the police chief."
Lovely, right? Oh, wait - it gets better.
"It's absolutely ridiculous," she said. "They're sabotaging the life of our small business. Everybody does parties and gives Champagne. It's East Hampton!"
God help us.
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