Wednesday, August 06, 2014

#ScrewPiketty

It's become politically correct these days for the ruling establishment to rail incessantly against the unconscionable rise in income inequality that's apparently rending society apart. De Blasio calls it a Tale of Two Cities, although it's never quite clear which city his gentrified Park Slope brownstone resides in. Professor Piketty takes 700 dreary pages but eventually arrives at the same, albeit less pithily-titled, conclusion. Even the President is onboard, so long as those rich folks can hang on to their fortunes long to write a few checks for the mid-terms. 
 
Best then for all of them to avoid the Hamptons. Out here the only bigger insult than being denied your application to add a helicopter landing pad behind the tennis court is to be labeled, gasp, part of the 1%. The lowly 1% isn't going to get your application at the Sebonack Golf Club on the fast track. The mere 1% doesn't get you past the gardener's shed in East Hampton. Those poor 1%-ers better hope they don't need a blood transfusion, because the Southampton hospital only stocks Blue+. If you're not in the 0.0001% you might as well head to the Jersey Shore. Heck if they could add more zeros to the zip code out here they would, just so it would be bigger than everyone else's.
 

The glitterati is out in force at Moby's, the hottest must-be-seen-at spot this summer. Or it was hot, until it showed up on the blog equivalent of the Post's gossip pages.



This season is all about the pop-up. Which is basically what you get when a hot New York chef tries out a newfangled concept in a temporary space in the Hamptons over the summer. Nothing validates an idea in New York like a bunch of rich people lining up. Anyway, in this case it's the Cronut King Dominique Ansel debuting his nouveau sundae-in-a-can concept.


Shades of Roy Lichtenstein here. Since this is the Hamptons, someone can add it to their private collection.


Only in the Hamptons do you pay $15 bucks for ice cream in a can. Cheapest meal all weekend.


Nowhere in America does every blade of grass get such lavish attention. Weeds are for poor people, or perhaps poor people are weeds. Oh never mind, the Aston Martin is waiting.


Shuko Beach is another one of those pop-ups, this time reimagining an old 1960s highway diner as a Japanese tapas concept. It's good, but for the price of half a tapa you could buy everything on the menu at the old diner. In fact, you could probably buy the old diner.



Finale Nightclub is another ritzy transplant from Manhattan. A pattern is emerging here: take something that's already expensive in Manhattan, move it 2.5 hours east, quadruple the price, then sit back and by the end of summer you'll have the down payment on those four beachfront acres in Amagansett you've had your eye on.
 


Thank goodness there are still a few spots where one can procure a hangover cure that isn't infused with truffle oil or flecked with gold leaf.


Despite all the glamor, there's still a laid back beach vibe that even the veneer of aloofness can't completely hide. Step off the designer-clad Main Street and head down a secluded laneway and chances are there's an completely deserted beach at the other end. Being the only one rejected from the country club does have its perks.



Yes, it's as cold as it looks.



Back at Moby's, where it seems half the incoming intern class of Goldman Sachs is perfecting their douchery by double-fisting Bud Light Platinums in matching J.Crew pastel shorts and Gucci loafers.
 



When surrounded by the swarm of WASPs sometimes a change of scene is required. The legendary Stephen Talkhouse is a grungy live music venue in Amagansett. Turns out it's reggae night, which guarantees no one from Too Big to Fail land is going to be here.




Must be botox o'clock, because the beach is empty even on a cracker of a day.



Apparently it's bad form to be seen on, shock horror, a public beach.