Sheets to the Wind by Iris Smyles

Part of the appeal of going out in your early 20s is that you never kneow where you’ll end up. You start at a bar, maybe, arrange yourself in line of the wind, and put your sails up.
When I was 18 and had just moved to New York City, I’d go to “exclusive parties” in SoHo where I knew no one and would say, “I’m on the list,” though I was never on any list. Walking up to the crowd pressing in at the Bridgehampton polo grounds ticket desk Saturday, a small part of me felt I’d arrived.
On the eve of the summer solstice, called Midsummer, the veils between ours and the spirit world are thinnest, according to Shakespeare, who took pagan lore for granted when he set humans and faeries loose in an enchanted forest in his comedy “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
My favorite part of “Jaws” is when Quint is introduced. The small town of Amity, which looks a lot like Montauk/Amagansett, is imperiled. A great white shark who’s been stalking its shores during bathing hours has eaten a small boy, so the townspeople have gathered.
Last night I dreamt I went to Tick Hall again. It seemed to me I stood under a bright sky in the Montauk Playhouse parking lot waiting for shuttle van service, for parking at the house was barred to me, I’d been told in an email.
Sunday found me lying on my parents' couch UpIsland, watching reruns of "Diff'rent Strokes," while noting Mr. Drummond's glaring eligibility — a fact lost on me when the later episodes originally aired in 1984. I was 6 — and how I'm now old enough to marry Mr. Drummond and become stepmother to Arnold, Willis, and Kimberly.
The Bardo is the subject of Laurie Anderson’s new exhibition at Guild Hall, and also what it feels like driving from one Hamptons party to another.
Any writer will tell you the real story lies in what you leave out. It’s the same with parties. Memorial Day weekend is about where you don’t go.