Why Bother Writing for the Paper when Your Column Gets Bumped?

While sorting through a myriad of useless personal belonging during what will hopefully be one of the last moves I encounter for a long while, I happened across a crumpled restaurant menu on which I had scrawled a list, nearly 10 years ago, titled "Kate's exciting new life plan."

The list entailed writing numerous and enormously successful screenplays, living a fabulous bi-coastal lifestyle, traveling the world with a tall, dark and mysterious lover named Adolpho, and "reincarnating as a hot 28 year old" around the age of 43, at which point I would change my name, marry my best friend from college, and live on a mountain, with groceries delivered by helicopter.

Needless to say, since then, my plans have changed. I have established myself as "crazy Kate" who lives in Montauk, and there is no way or one I'd rather be. Adolpho is out of the picture.

I'm thinking of the list today because my best friend from college has been calling round the clock with the oh-so-familiar lectures about how I need a reality check. (Nag, nag.) I have a voicemail that hasn't been checked and I know exactly what it is going to say.

I am never going to get ahead living in a place where the price of real estate is so unrealistic, he says. People are not supposed to "enjoy" their jobs, he says, they are supposed to loathe them for 40 years and look forward to their government pensions. Further, I cannot wait tables for extra cash "forever," and if I do, I will "not be marriage material."

While I tend to agree with him on a few of these points, I staunchly refute his solution: that I relocate to a strange and more affordable city to satisfy his version of a white-picket-fence lifestyle.

First and foremost, I am through with moving. I have moved four times within the past year alone and I have absolutely had it. Every time I move I wind up opening an ex-boyfriend box or sitting on the floor reading out-of-print Sassy magazines for far too long, my knees can't take it anymore, and I loathe the sight of cardboard and packing tape.

Secondly, I enjoy living where I live. Despite the fact that it's raining, we didn't have much of a spring, the economy is seasonal, the class divide is resounding and my chances of becoming a rock star are slim to none, I staunchly refuse to give up on my peculiar Peter Pan lifestyle. I have become something of a staunch character since moving here, and it suits me just fine.

That being said, I staunchly refuse to live in a place where my dog must be on a leash at all times and can only play in a "park" about half the size of my backyard. My dog needs lots of space. My dog needs to swim in the ocean. My dog needs to come into work with me and curl up under my desk.

I also refuse to live in a place where I don't know everybody. I have worked long and hard in weaving the tapestry of my social life here, and I've no intentions of uprooting myself and establishing a new one. With a few clear exceptions, I like everyone. I like the congenial atmosphere. I like the Cheers bars, and I like the places where I work.

I like the role-playing that is the restaurant business. After one of the longest winters of my life, I am delighted to say that I am happily waiting tables, at a charming restaurant in Sagaponack. For the past few weeks I have been wafting around the dining room, chatting with all sorts of interesting people, and doubling my income, which is fine by me. So when you're fed up with the chic... come visit Kate. I can promise you the steaks are worth it.

It makes me feel incredibly useful to deliver food. I am providing a much-needed service. I do not care that the economy is not where it was in years past and that the only people who are making $1,000 a night are working somewhere else. My job is cozy, and I get by. There is a piano. By the end of the season, I may try to remember how to play. I don't want for much, and appreciate what I have. This is not Flint, Mich., after all.

So I'm sorry to say, my dears, my friends in cheaper cities and family who don't understand, that I am firmly planted where I am, without a single regret. I am more optimistic than I've ever been, about "the season." May we all avoid traffic, make money, and have plenty of time for mischief.

Since moving to the new place I've been slacking on a few things, like window treatments and such - but slowly, I am piecing my world together. Tomorrow, the cable guy is finally coming by to set up my DVR box and Internet. If it ever stops raining, I may plant some flowers. If it doesn't, I'll just have to go outside and dance.

This is just a gentle reminder that this summer is going to be good - how could it not be? Never forget, that there are few things in life more glorious than dancing and laughing in a warm summer rain.

Happy Fuckin' Cinco de Mayo

I need to pause on this dreary Cinco de Mayo and speak my mind about this unfortunate Hideaway situation, and how supremely frustrating local government or government in general can be. Zoning is meant to protect and preserve, I get that. But when officials can turn a blind eye towards violations left and right and in turn squelch the hopes, dreams, and financial stability of one well-meaning family, it bothers me to no end.

After over $40,000 of wintertime renovations, the Reichart family expected to reopen their beloved restaurant at the back end of the Diamond Cove Marina in compliance with town and county laws in time to make some of that money back during what we all know is a very short season, last weekend.

For anyone who has ever been there, you know the restaurant has been outfitted and ready to go. The beautifully tiled bar has been waiting for customers all winter. The spacious, shiny new kitchen is any professional chef's wet dream, and if you ask him, Skip will take you on a tour of the ample storage space -- cold lockers in the basement that were once used to store chum, shark bait, and fish, back when a fishing business actually existed.

You see, even if the Marina is in your family name, there ain't no easy way to make a living off the water in any capacity anymore... a matter that has been a part of the public consciousness since Billy Joel came out with "Downeastern Alexa" in 1989. The fact that the Alexa is/was not actually a fishing vessel but more of a yacht is besides the point. As an 8-year at the butt end of a long line of crusty sea-captains, I certainly enjoyed the shout out.

The point is that the Reichart family has not been able to sustain a living off the marina business for years, not for lack of trying, despite generations of work, and that alone should justify a "change of use."

"Change of use" is a big phrase in the world of zoning, it basically translates to "not on your fucking life" or "piss up a rope" in real human speak. In a completely logical world, where the ends justifies the means and the simplest answer is most often right, the family should be able to use Freida's awesome Mexican cooking skills and pre-existing kitchen, refrigeration units, and deck to provide a welcome service to the people of Montauk -- reasonably priced, finger-lickin good authentic Mexican food (and tequila) without a Hamptons label on it. This is no invention dreamed up by the people who brought you Nick and Toni's. It is the blood sweat and tears of a truly hospitable person who happened to grow up in Mexico.

But I digress. "Change of use" has been a big problem for East Hampton's Zoning Board of Appeals, and the well meaning planners who have reviewed the property have been, as I've said before, concerned with "preserving the character of Montauk."
The restaurant has been zoned as "take out," kind of like Dureyea's, which to my understanding is another wonderful restaurant that makes up the character of Montauk -- and is also completely illegal.

It may be hard to wrap your head around why the hideaway is not allowed real cutlery or plates, although it seems not to be a problem for any neighboring restaurants. You see, mountains of paper plates amount to environmental consciousness in the town's eyes, because a septic system that would accommodate a dishwasher would be a strain on the environment and the adjacent Marina.

What about the other seven restaurants abutting that same body of water? They are, I would assume, "grandfathered in," which means that while the town acknowledges that what they are doing is a detriment to the environment, that's ok with them. Those restaurants have been messing with the harbor water for years, and should be allowed to continue to do so.

A lot of the problem has to do with conflicting bodies of bureaucracy. The county says you need an awning over the deck to operate, the town says they'll shut you down if anyone sits under the awning. The SLA wants drinks dropped off by a server, the town says self-serve only.

This is the part of the whole sleazy situation that I am least apt to understand, here, or anywhere else where EHT has put down its big smelly foot...snowflake aka Cherrystone's, The Gig Shack... What is the big fuckin deal with allowing table service? We're in the middle of a recession for Chrissake, and that's how many jobs you're eliminating?! I'm not talking about myself, on a personal level, although I do like to do that a lot. I've already found myself another gig, at yet another "street name tavern." But does anyone ever think, about how many people would be gainfully employed if you just got off your high horse and allowed women in aprons to deliver food to tables?

Zoning issues aside, the part of all this that makes my heart sink the most is that some booger-face called the town to complain the second the Hideaway opened last weekend, crying "table service!" and imploring that they be shut down. Did they not notice the enclosed deck that just went up at Westlake -- a restaurant that I adore, mind you, but come on people! If you're gonna be a prick be a prick all the way! And while the Surf Lodge continues to dump toxic waste into the pond, and hummers line up along industrial road, what zoning official gave the OK for the Stink House Tavern to bulldoze sand into a swimming pool and build a bar on top?

The point is, none of this bothers me persay -- if I had it my way, any asshole would be allowed to build a bar in their sandbox wherever they damn well felt like it. What bothers me is that it's Cinco de Mayo and this should be a happy day for the Hideaway. Instead, anyone brave enough to venture out can at best enjoy a margarita and sopas while standing in the rain, on the left side of the deck, whilst elsewhere, New York City investors grow fat at our expense, and the band plays on...

I would like a fish and a bicycle, please.

So far, so good. I have been back in town for just over three days. My new bedroom is a lovely shade of sage green. I still need a lock on my door, a dish rack, some ashtrays, an ironing board, my desk chair, and a shizload of air freshener. I have fantasies about beds of lavender just outside my doorstep, but since this is another week when I have to decide between gas and food, and finagle creative ways to keep up my alcohol intake, the gardening will have to wait. At least, I tell myself, there is a yard – a rather large yard that will need to be mowed at some point in the foreseeable future.

Every new apartment has a certain funk about it. When I burst through the door on Friday, I got smacked in the face with this heavy, vanilla musk that was meant to cover the smell of decaying former hotel room. It took me a full day to locate the culprit, one of those awful oil-infused incense stick air fresheners that the former occupant’s girlfriend must have encouraged him to leave to mask the smell. Febreeze, fresh paint, lavender, and sage should take care of the problem. And getting rid of the moldy rug in the bedroom should help. Also, it might be a good idea to avoid opening the cabinet under the kitchen sink.

All in all, it’s not such a bad space. (This is Montauk. I’ve dealt with worse.) Wouldn’t you rather live in a tiny little hovel with a big yard than a palace with no space to play outside?

Anyway, it is times like these when I get to thinking I want a boyfriend, even though I know full well that Montauk is no place to look for one. Broke as I am, it would be so nice to have someone take me out to dinner. I’m hungry, damn it. And I could use a drink.

I could also use someone to help me replace that doorknob, and to lift up the furniture when I change the carpet. And of course, someone to take care of the lawn while I’m puttering around planting vegetables.

Boyfriends are great for a few other things, like keeping your feet warm at night, and drinking next to you so you don’t look like a complete looser who shows up at the bar alone.

Sometimes, they’re even good for conversation – I’ve never had one like that, but this is what I’ve heard, from some of my cosmopolitan friends who live in Brooklyn. They have boyfriend stores, in the city, where you can go shopping and try on a different one every day of the week, trade them in when you get tired, and all the while your cocktails are paid for. Marvelous.

I snap back into reality when I realize that I’ve had boyfriends before, and while the lawn would occasionally get mowed the doorknobs never did get fixed and my credit cards got maxed out faster than my boyfriends ran out of cash.

I see these girls, who never pay rent, and spend their money on clothes and pedicures – but that’s in East Hampton. Out here, with my own two feet planted on the ground, there will be no meal ticket for my superficial ass in the foreseeable future. This is the price we pay for freedom.

The Bitch is Back!

Now that I have a follower on this brain fart of a blog, It occurs to me that it may be high time to quit whining about my ex and my sad pathetic winter. Henceforth, I am all sunshine and daisies. I will no longer be a Montauk Exile as of this weekend because I refuse to be exiled from Montauk. I am the type of girl who will break your window if you steal my shit, or spend my New Year's staggering through the streets screaming "I'll challenge you to a dual with pistols" if you have crossed me in love. I belong in Montauk, just like the rest of you freaks. I have a repugnant sort of charm about me.

Hello follower. Thanks for following.

At any rate, this weekend was a blessedly happy one in Montauk and elsewhere -- I don't know about anyone else but my mood correllates pretty directly to the weather, and the weather this weekend had me absolutely convinced that we are all going to be just fine and make tons of money this summer doing what it is we do best -- catering to the needs of other people for just long enough to get enough money to go out and party, and doing it all again until we are wretchedly sick and unhappy and think every tourist should be shot on sight.

But they shouldn't be shot on sight, because they are the reason we survive. Let us never forget that. These people are our bread and butter. So when I heard chatter at Robert Moses on Saturday about "taking a ride out to Montauk soon," I was absolutely delighted about the prospect of stimulating our little economy. I want people to come out here and spend their money, so that you and yours can survive. And I swear to God, I am going to be sooo hospitable to them this year. Really.

Montauk doesn't always attract the kind of truly sickening people as East Hampton -- this is a family vacation spot, after all. Let us all hope and pray that since upIsland families might not be able to afford their annual trips to Aruba this year, they will spend their hard-earned, working class dollars in our cozy hamlet this summer. Let us rejoice at the prospect of pedestrians meandering aimlessly through our streets, and of multiple orders of chicken fingers at our restaurants! I'll take what I can get in the midst of a recession.

Do not, under any circumstances, tell any of these people that the lighthouse is "a short walk from town." They are spending their money here, and we need it. Be nice.

I am not suggesting by any means that we go so far as to welcome the Surf Lodge, but even still, I heard a rumor that they're going broke and might actually be hiring local bands as a result. We could have fun listening to local bands. I say we all get in our kayaks and float around the pond in the periphery with our own booze to hear the shows for free, like people do in the cove outside of Jones' Beach.

Maybe when it's 40 degrees and raining next week, I'll be pouty again, but for the time being, I'm riding a wave of optimism. Let's hope it continues into a profitable summer for all, and that the bad economy weeds out the weak. I'm all about taking back the town this year, and painting it all sorts of bright and pretty colors while I'm at it.

1 more week...

April cannot end soon enough, although even as it draws towards a close and it seems that everything is falling into place, there's the nagging uncertainty... what if this is a mistake? What if I move back into town and shatter over something stupid, cry when I see him, or even worse, get drunk and expose my vulnerability once again? 

Did I really think I could stay away? Against the better advice of most of my friends, this is what I want. I want to move back to town. And it looks as if I've found a place, although I won't believe it until I'm there. Anything could happen, in the world of rentals. 

I daydream about starting over, decorating my walls for hopefully the last time in a while, maybe planting a few flowers and discovering a new route to walk the dog. This time around I will be free, to listen to Bob Dylan as much as I want, to run off and take pictures in the rain without being reprimanded when I get home, but also so cautious, afraid that people who have hurt me will find me and try to destroy my peace. Afraid most of all that I will long for a past I know I'm better off without.

When I moved to Montauk the first time, I had the advantage of no one knowing who I am. This time around, everyone knows, or thinks they know, about me. I'm not saying that anyone cares, and that may be the key. I've always needed a thicker skin, so this might be a good time to grow one. 

I picked up my first hitchhikers of the season today, after sharing a few pieces of fried chicken with the dog and reading the papers at the lighthouse. One of those adorable Russian couples -- they always seem so young, good looking, and so in love, do they not? They were all sorts of obsessed with Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and were so disappointed to hear "the house" was in East Hampton. (Or maybe Wainscott? I don't remember.)

Still, I dropped them off at the Plaza Diner-- I ate there once, before I moved here. They never seem to be open. They were so happy, for the tour and the ride. 

I loved the idea of that movie... I'd decided I wanted to move to Montauk to be a tortured romantic outcast long before it came out, but now, the idea of erasing parts of my mind has become so appealing. As if I could just cut out my heart and throw it into that ocean, and that would be the end of it.

But, alas. They say the Pacific has no memory. Not so here. 

The internet, It's a compulsive itch, something to do to maintain the boredom, to procrastinate over doing something that matters -- as if any of us ever have anything to do that matters. I can feel my brain turning to swiss cheese. Check facebook, check gmail, check phone. It's strange to think there might be anyone out there listening. The internet is like a modern day message in a bottle.

Except once you throw that message out, it boomerangs back to you with comments attached. And you read them because you're compulsive and not quite ready to set aside the war over what, exacatly? Maybe that's why you can't let it go. You never quite understood what it was really about, anyway.

I am so close to coming back now, but for the week, I have a place to stay, cozy and full of contradictions. It is nice, not to be able to watch television, one of my crutches. The internet is still here but I want to go out, and honestly, if it were a tiny bit warmer, I would be outside, every chance I got.

In the meantime I am curled in a corner, sort of like a fort, in an old old house with wood-paneled walls and nautical pictures, with a funny hundred-year-old smell and three dogs, curled around each other and my feet. In the corner, there are some shingles, whitewashed and waterlogged, because this room is connected to the porch. I love the idea of a loft. The only thing I love more than a loft is being underneath it.

I went to The Dock, three days in a row, because I am absolutely going out of my mind and need to get out. When I get towards the stretch, I aim towards East Hampton, and somehow wind up turning around every time, because I want to eat, but I also want to wear this worn and dirty sweatshirt, even though deep down it could remind me of him.

The point is, I don't want to get dressed up to go out, I just want something warm -- the warmth associated with three pints of Bass Ale and a bartender who knows your name. When I show up there alone, I feel like I've been silly all this time, to think I never belonged. I start to think it would be ok for me to be, wherever the frick it is I am.