Bicycles attached to happy cars traveling east on 27…
Jimmy Buffet singing “Cheeseburger in Paradise” on a car radio…
Incredibly fresh sweet corn from that little farm stand on Sag Main just south of Loaves and Fishes…
Margaritas…
Letters that start with these bone-chilling words: “The Committee to Prevent the Senseless Slaughter of Piping Plovers requests the pleasure of your company”…
The jockeying to get a reservation at Nick & Toni’s, which, despite anything you may have read in this newspaper a few weeks ago, is a great restaurant with wonderful service and exceptional food. I’ve been eating at Nick & Toni’s for the last 20 years and every dish I have ever had has been delicious…
The feeling on Memorial Day that you have been invited to a two-month-long party as your reward for living through another lousy winter…
Traffic jams around Exit 31 of the LIE that last for a weekend…
Orange traffic cones wherever you drive…
Margaritas…
Riding alone in a convertible at night on the stretch between Amagansett and Montauk with the radio up as loud as it goes and Eric Clapton singing, “Before you accuse me, take look at yourself”…
Little kids coming out of the surf so teeth-chattering cold that you want to hug the warmth back into them…
Hedge fund guys hopping off their own planes with a jaunty/arrogant strut. They have so, so much—why don’t they look happy? …
The summer dinner party where the hostess says, “We both voted for Obama and we must admit we’re a little bit disappointed.” At the same time the host is thinking to himself, “A little bit disappointed? That socialist son-of-a-bitch is wrecking the country.” Mercifully, someone changes the subject…
Cut-off jeans and T-shirts with dumb inscriptions…
The Bataan death march walk between Main Beach and Georgica Beach late on a hot Sunday afternoon…
Ice-cold beer, beefsteak tomatoes, just-picked sweet corn whose amazing taste explodes in your mouth, clams, lobsters, steak marinating in soy, garlic and ginger, fresh-cut flowers…
Bike riders testing your driving skills and nerves on Further Lane…
LIPA wimping out on the first real hot summer night…
Dumb drunks who should know better aiming two-ton cars at innocent people. We need more Saturday night inspection roadblocks on 27. We need police cutting drunk drivers’ licenses into little pieces right before their eyes…
Three-charity, two-party nights where the same 50 people jump from party to party. A conversation starts at one party and finishes two parties later. It doesn’t matter, nobody’s listening…
Undressing at night and finding a half-dozen cocktail toothpicks and God knows how many cocktail napkins in your blazer pocket…
Stretching out on a big soft chair in your backyard and finally finishing a book you started at the end of last summer…
Enjoying a party on a moon-lit beach while keeping a close eye on the little kids as they watch the marshmallow they’re holding on the end of a branch going into a raging bonfire and magically turning from a white little pillow into a brown caramelized treat…
Margaritas…
Runners clogging up the roadway with their “I’m healthy and you’re not” eyes…
Adorable 6-year-old kids (with profit-making skills genetically bred into them) selling lemonade on Lily Pond Lane at outrageously high prices…
A late-night lightning storm that produces a magnificent light show; LIPA blows again…
Hurricanes that never materialize. Then one that comes too close…
Margaritas…
Taking a warm outdoor shower with someone you like a lot after a whole day where the most strenuous thing you did was to spread suntan lotion on each other’s shoulders…
Sipping a drink and taking in a beautiful sunset…
Feeling your tennis shirt starting to stick to your body while you warm up to play one early morning in August and wondering if the temperature is going to break 100…
Margaritas…
Bluefish, nutty as fruitcakes, following their prey right into shore, right to their doom. Overhead, gulls fly in lazy circles, taking it all in…
Grown men hiding behind their sunglasses as they sneak lascivious looks at their children’s teenage nannies…
Starring in your own romantic movie as you hold hands and watch a full moon turn the ocean into a shimmering silver carpet…
The East Hampton bees (smarter than the average bee) that stalk your cookouts and terrorize your kids all summer long…
Basting your children with suntan lotion with the same care you give your Thanksgiving turkey…
Lost sunglasses, flippers, goggles, youth, bathing suits, nose clips, romance, boogie boards that you never seem to find again…
Spinning around town in the Kafka-like “land of no left turns,” searching for a parking space that doesn’t exist. You’re always under the watchful eyes of the traffic Gestapo (sweet-faced young kids in brown uniforms who have the dream job of enforcing the law on their elders)…
Falling into a 20-something hot new place, feeling age-challenged and realizing for the first time in your life you don’t belong…
The Artists and Writers Annual Softball Game, where for a few hours the players can live out their childhood dream of being Mickey Mantle…
The Sunday night Land Rover/Mercedes/BMW parade on 27…
Biting into the last hamburger you can possibly eat on the Monday night of Labor Day weekend and realizing that the potato trucks have started to roll and it’s all regretfully over…
Bicycles attached to sad cars traveling west on 27.
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