Leggy Blonde
Whenever I tell people that I never want to visit the Hamptons they ask me “Why?” as if I’d just told them I’m getting a vasectomy tomorrow. I don’t want to go to the Hamptons precisely because of “art” openings like this one hosted by a photographer whose claim to fame is knowing Madonna and being kick-ass at Equestrian. They throw the kind of parties I’d like to see the Joker crash. But it makes an interesting theater for social experiment when you subject them to authority. Remove three bottles of wine from a party and suddenly it’s Dog Day Afternoon: People chanting at the police, pools to get-up bail money, whispers of the old colonial “blue laws” enacted by the Dutch a century and a half ago. I can’t think of a group of people I have less in common with save maybe the Janjaweed.
And in the middle of all of it stands “leggy blonde” destined to remarry an Elliman real estate executive. She’s one of these women I see on the MET rooftop always on the arm of a man who looks like Joe Biden but 42. I see her and it’s the only time I use the word “o-face” half-seriously, as in “needs one.”