Happy Father’s Day!
Great. Now that I’ve gotten that boiled stadium dog out of the way, I can move on to the American gourmet Kobe-style Wagyu filet of my week:
What do you say to a gang of unsupervised young adults “playing” on the beach — flicking lit matches at any idiot stupid enough to wander buy?
Their words, not mine.
“Where are your parents?” I wondered — cowering nearby safely within careful earshot — ensconced inside a match-free, Colombo/TMZ, slightly creepy spy zone.
I imagined their parents spending the day sucking the life out of some poor realtor’s sweltering Saturday. Then I imagined the marigold-hued sport jacket-wearing realtor was none other than yours truly:
Husband: Any chance you could crank up the A/C back here?
Wife: And my window is locked shut.
Husband: You know we’re just looking today, right?
Me: Oh, sure. No problem. We’ve seen seven rentals and nine for sale, so I kinda figured that one out myself.
Wife: Besides not getting a table at (insert any local restaurant here) Saturday night — are there any downsides to living in The Hamptons in the summer?
Me: No. As long as you don’t count: Deer, Deer ticks, Dog Ticks, Texas Lone Star Ticks, Lyme Disease, Babesiosis, Ehrlichiosis, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, Chiggers, Raccoons, Rabies, Giardia Lamblia, Foxes, Bats, Godzilla-sized Turkeys, Muskrats, Possums, Rats, Chipmunks, Rabbits, Field Mice…
Wife: Field Mice? What is this, a Disney movie?
Me: Hantavirus. You contract it by exposure to their droppings.
Me: [Turning my head towards the back seat while driving for dramatic emphasis] Cardiovascular shock. Takes about three weeks. Not a great way to go.
Husband: Well, I believe we have taken up enough of your time for one day…kids at the beach…getting late…my wife can’t stop hurling in her Birkin Bag…
Yep. That’s how it would go down. Lucky for The Hampton real estate market — I’m a writer. The only deals I close involve word counts and buying discount inkjet cartridges and paper online.
You do research. You open your eyes to what’s invariably ugly. And take a close, hard look.
Or allow me. It’s my pleasure!
You may also be wondering why it is that I am so hypersensitive to the seemingly worthless details of the world around us.
OMG! I just got a viral video of Justin Bieber walking into a plate glass door. Again. You’ll please excuse me. Duty calls. I must forward this sinfully delicious bonbon to everyone I’ve ever met. It helps numb the pain of whatever it was I was writing about earlier. LOL!!!
Speaking of blank slates and black holes…
Are you familiar with the insurance ads featuring “Flo” – the woman in white? Is it me or has Flo put on a few as of late? Wait. Nope. It’s me. I’ve put on a few as of late.
Note to self: “Do not wear white Dacron pantsuit ever again.”
The sets of these ads are hypnotically vacant. Filled with confused, wannabe consumers, wandering about looking four-minutes out of invasive periodontal work. Struck. And in no rush to get un-struck.
Like Newtown Lane. Right now.
And considering what the actress, Stephanie Courtney — who has been inhabiting the character of Flo since 2008 must be pulling in, residuals alone — Flo/Stephanie is destined to show up out here very soon.
I witnessed one sighting recently. Two women in their mid-second or third brow lifts standing under a tree — each holding a very pretty bag. From a very pretty store. That towered only steps from the tree:
Woman #1 Isn’t that the actress…
Woman #2 Where is my car key?
Woman #1 from those…white commercials…
Woman #2 Robert will (BLEEP) kill me if I lose another key.
Woman #1 Insurance…I think. Or Target™. Or maybe milk.
Woman # 2 You know they’re nothing but an obelisk of tempered glass and something called a “diode” — You lose it? Boom! $2,500! That’s it. I’m dead — Wait! Found it!
Woman #1 Think her name is “Flo.” Here she comes!
Woman #2 [Turning politely to some squirrel-eyed stranger just happening to be shuffling past.] Hi Flo. Nice to meet you. [Then abruptly back to Woman #1] Listen I have go. I’m picking Bobby up from a surfing lesson at four.
And they both walk away. Sans the faux Flo.
PETER HAMILTON TRAVIS is fumbling through his Mac “keychains” Yet, I am not holding a single key. No chains are involved. And now I’m supposed to select the “SAVE” button? Not worth the gut-wrenching terror involved. What is worth it? Wrapping your arms around your father this weekend. And wishing him a Happy Father’s Day. To someone who never once put you in a washing machine — just for kicks.