Letters to the Editor: 06.05.97

Condescending Review

Sag Harbor

June 2, 1997

To The Editor,

Your theater person, Patsy Southgate, does a grave injustice to The Star, the Bay Street Theatre, and to all us local yokels who do read her comments in your illustrious newspaper.

What show is she talking about in her review of "Make Someone Happy"? Yes, she does appreciate the blessed out program cover, the magical set by Tony Walton, the glamorous lighting, the sound design, and etc., etc.

But, in the end, she's looking "for the story that was not told," that Ms. Comden and Mr. Green "have chosen to withhold no doubt with a good reason." C'mon, Ms. Southgate, there's no mystery here, no secret personal story clues withheld. The fact is, who cares?

Not only was I not "drained" but totally entertained, totally absorbed, and loved every exciting minute of "Make Someone Happy" (and so did all my friends). What a delightful, beautifully staged, wonderfully performed, exuberant evening full of joyous life.

I hope not one single person is turned off by your condescending review. What a pity. What a loss. The Bay Street Theatre has come up with a real winner.

Sincerely,

GEORGE JUSTIN

Cultural Tapestry

Amagansett

June 1, 1997

Dear Mrs. Rattray:

I must take strong exception to the negative assertions about "status" and "symbols" offered by Pauline Goliard in her recent column on the peoples of and visitors to the lovely Town of East Hampton ("Frantically Relaxing," Star, May 29). Ms. Goliard seems to suggest that there is a powerful, ego-driven image consciousness in our community that rules nearly every aspect of our lives, from the location of our homes right down to the cars we drive and the telephone exchanges we are dealt by forces and services beyond our control! Nonsense!

We needn't think of these quirky aspects of our apparent snobbery as something to be held up for scorn, but rather, essential differences among us and about us that should be treasured, for, indeed, they enrich the cultural tapestry in our community in a way that does make us superior, not only to each other, but superior to other communities - not only on Long Island, but around the country.

I am, for example, equally comfortable dialing a "329" number - to order a pizza or a hard-to-get tractor part - as I am dialing a "324" number - for restaurant reservations, market information, or simply to reach a well-placed acquaintance just to say "Hey." There is nothing special about "324." And never did that fact become clearer to me when, while following Martha Stewart's helpful advice for planting tubers in light soil, I realized that Martha herself and her neighbor, Harry Macklowe, both have "324" numbers! And look at them! Battling bubs in a bar room brawl from "329" couldn't put on a better slugfest, catsup-stained T-shirts and all. And we're talkin' S.O.H. here, Ms. Goliard! S.O.H., N.O.H. It's A.T.S. to me! ("all the same" for you classified-pumping pinheads at the real estate boutiques).

I myself live E.O.E.H., W.O.M., S.O.S., W.T.B., W.T.F.M. (east of East Hampton, west of Montauk, south of Springs, walk to bus, walk to Farmers Market . . .) That is in the "267," baby, and proud to be there! The "Quiet Hampton." The "Unpretentious Hampton" . . . the Hampton for smart people. The one with unspoiled charm and quaint, unhurried shopping - like the Coach Factory cash machine . . . Joan & David's . . . and speaking of the Farmers Market, I was thinking of Ms. Goliard's unkind reference to Land Rovers as I stood in line for an hour waiting for scallion cream cheese and a hard spanking from the unhappy hostesses on the other side of the counter. What, I wondered, is so wrong about well-heeled white women from New York wanting to drive Land Rovers? Who cares? If they preferred to drive Camrys or Sidekicks or Grand Ams or Mercedes S-Classes, what does it matter? The truth is, the world - and our nation - have been through some horrifying natural disasters in recent months - and a Land Rover couldn't hurt! (I remember how moved I was during a May sun shower on Further Lane to see so many women in Land Rovers selflessly pushing Lexuses and Infinities that had skidded off the road onto soft shoulders, pushing them back to terra firma - without even asking for money! That is not about "status," Ms. Goliard, that is about humanity, alive and well in East Hampton.

During the crisis, I myself used my essential cell phone to dial "911." Even "911" is special here (not better, per se, just special). A recorded voice guided me through helpful East Hampton emergency instructions: "For a police emergency, press 1 now . . . for shopping assistance, press 2 . . . for poolside sunburn treatment, press 3 . . . for sold-out shows at East Hampton Cinema, press 4 . . . for benefits and openings, press 5 . . . to repeat this announcement in French . . ."

Life in East Hampton is not about "status" and "image" any more than it is about money or prestige. My own vehicle is a restored 1960 Bentley, a regal black/garnet two-tone. Did I acquire this car because it "looks good"? Attaches some "specialness" to me? Hardly. The fact is, the car possesses an enormous backseat area with fold-down teak tray tables - practical as can be for hauling around squealing weekend guests, and for spontaneous picnics when the tables outside of Brent's are filled up.

And speaking of tables, why the snide remark about "braised Thumper" at Nick and Toni's? Honey, if you ate there every weekend (as I do), you know that braised rabbit is not always the special. At times, the rabbit is toasted in the wood oven, at other times pounded and sauteed in a light butter, and sometimes even served al dente, with fava beans, over a bed of couscous. But never is the rabbit served with its head still on (as the whole striped bass might be). Is there any reason to ridicule the fancy folk who long for a visible table? Or to pooh-pooh the dour gang who file into "Snordon's" (Gordon's) before darkness sets in (where the fine staff are trained to wake you gently before each course is served)? Of course not! We must celebrate our differences, and our specialness - for all of it makes us the wonderful community that we are: "locals," "visitors," men, women . . . even realtors.

Speaking of visitors, I was sitting with a loud group of celebrants at my usual table in the front room of Nick and Toni's one summer's eve a season or two ago; suddenly, quite late, four large men in black suits with dark sunglasses and cell phones marched in and "took positions" around the restaurant: front, back, barside, coat area . . . and a few moments later (presumably when the "coast was clear") in walked a festive foursome: the distinguished Senator Al D'Amato, his jewelry-dripping girlfriend, our fine Gov. George Pataki, and Mrs. Pataki. And they all sat down, right next to us! One of my dining companions (snob!) muttered "Duh-mato" under his breath (at which moment I whacked him backside the head). Glancing over toward the restaurant owner - a somewhat liberal Jew, I am certain - his face betrayed a sort of controlled horror at the scene. But in truth, it was fun! Here was a roomful of colliding "images" and "symbols" and "egos," all laughing and staring, drinking, and eating rabbits - pure magic!

And then a feeling of darkness fell over me. I noticed that the Senator had ordered a bottle of Italian wine for the table. (Perhaps to wash down their large order of fried calamari . . . or zucchini chips . . . it's a bit fuzzy.) As the then proprietor of the now-defunct Bridgehampton Winery, I was (and remain) fiercely loyal to locally grown and bottled beverages. And this moment of extreme insensitivity (ignorance?) on the part of our senatorial representative was intolerable to me. I immediately summoned to our table the restaurant's sommelier and instructed him to present a bottle of Long Island chardonnay to George, Al, and the ladies - a gift from an anonymous patron (me go for the "status" thing?? Indeed not!). We watched gleefully as they consumed the bottle without pause, or complaint . . . the Senator pressing his argument to George for a centralized construction industry, and consideration of the death penalty for people living N.O.H. At least that is what I think he was saying.

But in the end, it wasn't about the Governor, or the Senator, or the commotion their "status" caused in the restaurant. It wasn't about Don Johnson, apparently swooning from martinis and Cohibas on the front porch, while trying to convince a gum-chewing waif that a ride in his recreational vehicle would be fun! It wasn't about the "324," the tables up front, the right car, or the right wine, or "S.O.H." (vocation, vocation, vocation. . .) In the end, it's really just about one thing, isn't it? Being. Here. And all the colliding colors that fly over the territory. Oops, gotta go. Bentley to be detailed before rabbit fund-raiser at Guild Hall tonight. Love your scarf!

LYLE GREENFIELD

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