The Hamptons are where the elite use the art of the fundraiser
The Hamptons hills are alive with the sound of fund-raisers.
Mitt Romney, Donald, Eric Adams, RFK Jr., Kathy Hochul, John Fetterman from pennypoor Pennsylvania, Hillary back when hubby was back on his back. Also pardon the expression Rep. George Santos. Probably even Thomas Jefferson. Only DeSantis chickened because his wife’s ballgown was at the cleaners. Every pol worth his weight in promises makes a crash dash East.
Addled Joe Biden accidentally ended up in New Hampton, Iowa. It’s known for corn and pork and probably included Hunter who’s so keen financially that he’d call England’s monarch Ka-ching Charles.
The area’s lone turndown? Kamala. Nobody wanted her because they don’t know what kind of work she’s out of. Listen, Hamptonites have priorities. Four people who own a studio share negotiated a Let’s Stamp Out Adam Schiff garage sale.
The Hamptons fund-raise everything. Anything. A benefit for educating tics. A pledge to help hookers needing johns. A cook-out for residents in Somalia who have no TV. An old lady with a new itch. Like its Bow Wow Meow Ball auction included Madonna’s 1992 “Sex” book, which describes how to do it without ending up in Mount Sinai. Paper-trained guests got front tables.
Cost overdone
I was in Bridgehampton for years. Forget it. You have to make a down payment on the LIE. No more. Enough. Bumper to bumper. The thing’s more crowded than our Southern border. Ronald Reagan’s still on it trying to make a left. The only way for a Manhattanite to reach Amagansett is to walk.
That spit of land hanging out East began in the 1600s as just a potato field. Then folk so rich that they had prescription windows but couldn’t spell Rockaway discovered it. Thus began the housing hustle and the “mine is bigger than yours” drumbeat. Next, the dread word “houseguest.” Many stayed longer than crabgrass. Each with special needs. No down pillows — only rubber. No coffee — only Postum. No basketball court — only tennis. No coming alone — I’ll bring my girlfriend and her sister.
Sharing, not caring
Bit by bit it changed. Southampton mansions became rental shares. Six bodies in a kitchen. None cleaning up. Rolls-Royces osmosed into bicycles. Elegant shops selling $600 blouses began hustling T-shirts. Fine dining? Today burgers and beer. For a party the main dish is Dairy Queen.
Oceanfront property? Oh, please.
Bridget LeRoy’s grandpa Mervyn produced “Wizard of Oz,” her father ran Tavern on the Green. Their famous recipes now accompany shellfish in Montauk. And where’s Montauk? Ten minutes farther than Poland.
Hamp hoopla
The whole area’s a maybe rehearsal for X-rated films. Females stay there 24/7. Menfolk arrive weekends. Drop in on Westhampton, Quogue, Amagansett. What a guy might also drop are his pants.
Minus Lamborghinis or Porsches, on specific Lexington Avenue spots stand scraggly souls clutching stuffed bags — awaiting the wheezing bus that unloads them at Bridgehampton’s ice cream store. One, visiting in Water Mill, also had rented a poodle for August “because he looks so good on the lawn.” Come September and a city flat that doesn’t take dogs — lotsa luck.
Meanwhile, not to louse up my possibilities . . . listen: Seinfeld, Spielberg, Gwyneth, Beyoncé, Alec Baldwin, Anderson Cooper, Brooke Shields, Kelly Ripa, Neil Patrick Harris — if anybody has a spare room, even a blow-up rubber mattress — I’m available for Labor Day weekend.
