Over the weekend we went to as many parties as we'd been to all summer. The social machine turning at an ecstatic pitch before it slows, slows down again.
At Party Number One, in an elegant garden in Sag Harbor, we were handed the strongest Martinis ever. It took us hours to walk off the effects of those Martinis, but before that, we did have a nice time with our friend Tom Healy, who read at Canio's from his excellent first book, What the Right Hand Knows.
At Party Number Two, in an elegant garden in Springs, I sweated completely through the back of my longsleeve, Oxford cloth shirt. Mark and I were sitting on a bench, and during the ceremonial remarks, the wood cracked beneath us with a sound like a gunshot.
No one else appeared to be hot.
At Party Number Three, we met friends on the beach at a place known locally as The Cut. Kids came; Phil and Monica's dog, Penelope, came. We were in shorts, swimsuits. Tiki torches burned. Wine swigged straight from the bottle. The time couldn't have been sweeter. And as the sun went down a bonfire was lit. The megamansions on Dune Road receded, and Bridgehampton looked as it might have looked at an earlier time, a little primeval, darker than night, mysterious.