You know when you go to a party and there is one guy running around shaking hands, posing for pictures, kissing all the ladies, and generally just making a spectacle of himself? I call that running for mayor. (Disclosure: I often used to be that annoying guy.) And when a whole event is filled with people like that, you know what that's called right? A rat f**k. (Sorry for the vulgarity, but that is what it is called, and the term so works.)
In the Hamptons during silly season, there are invariably a number of rat f**ks every Saturday, where the boldfaced names and their supplicants are begging to be seen and, hopefully, photographed. It's an endless merry-go-round of parking and walking and entering and greeting and getting a drink and leaving and walking and unparking. One of the most well-known of these rituals is the weekly Bridgehampton Polo Challenge sponsored by Mercedes-Benz.
To me, this weekly bowing at the altar of the polo gods makes no sense. First of all, it is in the middle of the afternoon, the best part of the day. It's always a really dusty affair. Dusty driveway. Dusty horses. Dusty dirt road. Dust, dust, dust. No one watches the matches—even though the horses are magnificent—I think because people are intimidated by the sport of kings, which I'm here to tell you is not really as hard as you think. Even I can play polo. If you can ride and play croquet, so can you. The trick is knowing when you have the right of way. Anyway, it is certainly more fun to watch than golf. (I hate golf, and, yes, I can play, so I am not some closet wannabe golfer.)
It had been a few years since I'd braved this scene, but when a nice publicity lady I know, Norah Lawlor, invited me, I figured, what the heck? Besides, it was nice to get away from my family and all their talk of golf, it being member-guest weekend. (Disclosure: I do, however, love a golf cart, although my Uncle David traded ours to Chuck Elmes, who coincidentally owns a polo club in Mahwah, New Jersey, in return for rights to board his dog there in winter. Don't ask. But he has promised to let us have his old one, which I 'm anxiously awaiting since we just last year built a whole garage solely to store the golf cart.)
I walked the dusty mile from my car. Despite some misleading signage that points different groups in different lanes, all guests, V.I.P.s, celebs, press, and even poor slobs who actually pay to sit in the bleachers in the hot sun (who are all these people?) partake in this lengthy stroll. Why Mercedes-Benz doesn't have some spiffy SUVs zipping around to take V.I.P.s I can't tell you. Seems a missed opportunity to me.
Anyway, you walk past the horse trailers, which is my favorite part. The horses know it is their big day, and they are all excited, hoofing the ground, snorting, acting horsey. I noticed a lady in platform wedges and a white strappy dress making very poor time, and I got my day's first chuckle. I love it when people wear high heels to outdoor events—it’s quite idiotically entertaining—so of course I was staring at her, and then I realized it was Gayle King, Oprah's BFF, soul mate—anything but her lesbian lover—whom I have met, so I said hello. Bam, not even in the door yet, and there I am running for mayor.
Once inside, I am struck by the silly fun. The fashion parade. So many people dressed in what they think is appropriate for a polo match. Some people think it is the Royal Ascot, they have showy hats and foulards. One girl had gloves. Another had her dog in the cutest preppy purse I ever saw (Target, cheap. I asked). Some people think it is a nightclub. Two Amazonian ladies have come in silk slips and diamond jewelry, but their clients, I mean boyfriends, look like they just came off a fishing boat. Everybody is constantly looking at everyone else, and talking on their phones about where they are going next. No conversation lasts more than 30 seconds, which I love.
But what I also noticed is how professionally things were run. (Strategic Group handles production.) Within steps of the entry is an iced tea stand, hosted by Gold Peak tea. This is the exact thing you want after a hot walk. I gladly slurped mine down and surveyed the sponsor booths, which are now much more elaborate and product-y than I remembered. They always made an effort to serve food, something I thought a complete waste, but Nick & Toni's used to cater it, so it was something you noticed. Well, now they have (for two years running I learned) a caterer called RCano Events and their food was plentiful and attractive, as well as professionally and knowledgeably passed. I had two hot crab cakes and a spicy shrimp that were really good (although, again, why they bother to serve hot food in the hot sun I'm still asking).
Inside the main tent, the Piper-Heidsieck bar is adorable and perfectly thought through. I have been to so many wine tasting events where this has not been the case that it warrants mentioning. The nifty red "ponies" can be drunk with a matching black straw. Cute enough, but for those people who know Champagne should not be drunk through a straw, no matter how cute, the bartenders will pour it into a glass for you. The bar also had black lacquered-ish counter-height drop tables (not rentals) and tasteful (read: more black) waste bins everywhere you needed one. So simple, really, but done just so.
Equally impressive is the Amstel Light station. Here, uniformed bartenders stood behind tall, clear, and sleek ice buckets filled with bottles. Again, they ask if you prefer to drink from the bottle or a glass. I figure, hey, even though it ain't Ascot (one reminder is that the guy on the loudspeaker repeatedly warns that guests drinking or urinating in the parking lot will be ticketed), I'll take a glass, and (surprise!) they give me a Pilsner glass, again not a standard rental. Not till I finish the beer do I realize that it is plastic, a premium, and a perfect one at that. Why can't all wine and spirits event sponsors be so nifty?
Standing to the side, not running for mayor is Cristyne (née Lategano) Nicholas, who was Rudy Giuliani's right hand when he was mayor, also enjoying her Gold Peak tea. She now runs NYC & Company, which (you probably know) is the convention and visitors bureau. Then, steps away I spy Bruce Colley, the polo playing Palm Beach bad boy who was messing around with Kerry Kennedy while she was still Kerry Cuomo. I eavesdrop while he plots pitching Cristyne on the idea of having a polo match in Central Park. Then Gayle King chats me up again, I guess no other boldfaces are available. Oh, this is so exciting.
My only question, again, is why the hell there isn't some splashy Mercedes-Benz convertible in the tent for guests to ooh and aah at. Even a golf cart with a Mercedes-Benz logo would be sweet. Alone with my thoughts on event branding, I make my way back to my convertible, now completely covered in dust.
I would love to have stayed, but it is time to be back with the family, where the member- guest gossip is that my cousin had Giuliani's son Andrew as his partner, and that apparently the mayor's progeny is a very good golfer, but my Uncle David beat them. As I eat my lobster, I wonder if this tournament news bodes well or not in terms of us ever getting that golf cart.
Posted 08.02.06
Photos: Marion Curtis/Starpix
In the Hamptons during silly season, there are invariably a number of rat f**ks every Saturday, where the boldfaced names and their supplicants are begging to be seen and, hopefully, photographed. It's an endless merry-go-round of parking and walking and entering and greeting and getting a drink and leaving and walking and unparking. One of the most well-known of these rituals is the weekly Bridgehampton Polo Challenge sponsored by Mercedes-Benz.
To me, this weekly bowing at the altar of the polo gods makes no sense. First of all, it is in the middle of the afternoon, the best part of the day. It's always a really dusty affair. Dusty driveway. Dusty horses. Dusty dirt road. Dust, dust, dust. No one watches the matches—even though the horses are magnificent—I think because people are intimidated by the sport of kings, which I'm here to tell you is not really as hard as you think. Even I can play polo. If you can ride and play croquet, so can you. The trick is knowing when you have the right of way. Anyway, it is certainly more fun to watch than golf. (I hate golf, and, yes, I can play, so I am not some closet wannabe golfer.)
It had been a few years since I'd braved this scene, but when a nice publicity lady I know, Norah Lawlor, invited me, I figured, what the heck? Besides, it was nice to get away from my family and all their talk of golf, it being member-guest weekend. (Disclosure: I do, however, love a golf cart, although my Uncle David traded ours to Chuck Elmes, who coincidentally owns a polo club in Mahwah, New Jersey, in return for rights to board his dog there in winter. Don't ask. But he has promised to let us have his old one, which I 'm anxiously awaiting since we just last year built a whole garage solely to store the golf cart.)
I walked the dusty mile from my car. Despite some misleading signage that points different groups in different lanes, all guests, V.I.P.s, celebs, press, and even poor slobs who actually pay to sit in the bleachers in the hot sun (who are all these people?) partake in this lengthy stroll. Why Mercedes-Benz doesn't have some spiffy SUVs zipping around to take V.I.P.s I can't tell you. Seems a missed opportunity to me.
Anyway, you walk past the horse trailers, which is my favorite part. The horses know it is their big day, and they are all excited, hoofing the ground, snorting, acting horsey. I noticed a lady in platform wedges and a white strappy dress making very poor time, and I got my day's first chuckle. I love it when people wear high heels to outdoor events—it’s quite idiotically entertaining—so of course I was staring at her, and then I realized it was Gayle King, Oprah's BFF, soul mate—anything but her lesbian lover—whom I have met, so I said hello. Bam, not even in the door yet, and there I am running for mayor.
Once inside, I am struck by the silly fun. The fashion parade. So many people dressed in what they think is appropriate for a polo match. Some people think it is the Royal Ascot, they have showy hats and foulards. One girl had gloves. Another had her dog in the cutest preppy purse I ever saw (Target, cheap. I asked). Some people think it is a nightclub. Two Amazonian ladies have come in silk slips and diamond jewelry, but their clients, I mean boyfriends, look like they just came off a fishing boat. Everybody is constantly looking at everyone else, and talking on their phones about where they are going next. No conversation lasts more than 30 seconds, which I love.
But what I also noticed is how professionally things were run. (Strategic Group handles production.) Within steps of the entry is an iced tea stand, hosted by Gold Peak tea. This is the exact thing you want after a hot walk. I gladly slurped mine down and surveyed the sponsor booths, which are now much more elaborate and product-y than I remembered. They always made an effort to serve food, something I thought a complete waste, but Nick & Toni's used to cater it, so it was something you noticed. Well, now they have (for two years running I learned) a caterer called RCano Events and their food was plentiful and attractive, as well as professionally and knowledgeably passed. I had two hot crab cakes and a spicy shrimp that were really good (although, again, why they bother to serve hot food in the hot sun I'm still asking).
Inside the main tent, the Piper-Heidsieck bar is adorable and perfectly thought through. I have been to so many wine tasting events where this has not been the case that it warrants mentioning. The nifty red "ponies" can be drunk with a matching black straw. Cute enough, but for those people who know Champagne should not be drunk through a straw, no matter how cute, the bartenders will pour it into a glass for you. The bar also had black lacquered-ish counter-height drop tables (not rentals) and tasteful (read: more black) waste bins everywhere you needed one. So simple, really, but done just so.
Equally impressive is the Amstel Light station. Here, uniformed bartenders stood behind tall, clear, and sleek ice buckets filled with bottles. Again, they ask if you prefer to drink from the bottle or a glass. I figure, hey, even though it ain't Ascot (one reminder is that the guy on the loudspeaker repeatedly warns that guests drinking or urinating in the parking lot will be ticketed), I'll take a glass, and (surprise!) they give me a Pilsner glass, again not a standard rental. Not till I finish the beer do I realize that it is plastic, a premium, and a perfect one at that. Why can't all wine and spirits event sponsors be so nifty?
Standing to the side, not running for mayor is Cristyne (née Lategano) Nicholas, who was Rudy Giuliani's right hand when he was mayor, also enjoying her Gold Peak tea. She now runs NYC & Company, which (you probably know) is the convention and visitors bureau. Then, steps away I spy Bruce Colley, the polo playing Palm Beach bad boy who was messing around with Kerry Kennedy while she was still Kerry Cuomo. I eavesdrop while he plots pitching Cristyne on the idea of having a polo match in Central Park. Then Gayle King chats me up again, I guess no other boldfaces are available. Oh, this is so exciting.
My only question, again, is why the hell there isn't some splashy Mercedes-Benz convertible in the tent for guests to ooh and aah at. Even a golf cart with a Mercedes-Benz logo would be sweet. Alone with my thoughts on event branding, I make my way back to my convertible, now completely covered in dust.
I would love to have stayed, but it is time to be back with the family, where the member- guest gossip is that my cousin had Giuliani's son Andrew as his partner, and that apparently the mayor's progeny is a very good golfer, but my Uncle David beat them. As I eat my lobster, I wonder if this tournament news bodes well or not in terms of us ever getting that golf cart.
Posted 08.02.06
Photos: Marion Curtis/Starpix
Plenty of signage, but nary a convertible in sight.
Cold iced tea upon arrival? Sign me up.
