Or how to wear 8 grand north of your flip-flops and still look like you were this close to getting cast on Jersey Shore.
Innocent Parisian girl that I was, I always assumed that the phrase “Money can’t buy style” was a myth designed to comfort the financially hurting masses – but on Labor Day weekend, the Hampton ‘gurls’ schooled me good.
Saturday night, Labor Day weekend, Amangansett. (yes, that is asking for it). Dave Bromberg (one of the New York Jewish Guitarists from the 60’s, the one that used to look like a handsome Bobby Zimmerman, I mean Dylan) is finishing his set to a very loving baby-boomers crowd. We are here early for Brother Joscephus and the Love Revival Revolution Orchestra (as much of a hoot as it sounds, a straitjacket-crazy 11-piece feel-good Explosion of Love, Righteousness and New Orleans Soul, complete with flying mardi-gras beads, velvet crowns and heart-shaped sunnies poking out from lace umbrellas, one set of jolly hysteria if I ever saw one).
We are ushered into a booth early because “we won’t let you wait out here, the frat boys, that’s another story, but you come on in.” Frat Boys? In East Hampton? Whatever. Listening to the tail end of Mister Bo Jangles. Marveling at the cigarette vending-machine sign that informs prospective patrons that the display will register 25 cents for every dollar you put in – and that by the time it shows 3 bucks you will have forked over the correct retail price of $12 dollars for a dusty pack of Salems. Boy, even the vending machine thinks it’s 1969 – or 2001, I forget. Before I can dwell on any sort of sad symbolism for too long, a throng of blondish clones that has just materialized on the other side of the window catches my eye.
I venture out to smoke one of my very own cancer sticks and am faced with an army of made-up girls coming from all directions, linking arms and shrieking happily into their blackberries, all scurrying to take their spot in the now humongous line that is growing in front of the unlikely Stephen Talkhouse.