Enter SAGOPOLIS- A Coney Island Of The Mind

It's official - Friday is the new Saturday in The Hamptons as caravans arrive with expectations beyond realization come Thursday afternoon winding their way along the LIE in search of Exit 70 and Eastport/Manorville Road. Likely none of them have ever set foot in Eastport or any of the other minor villages that dot the south shore west of Westhampton Beach. Never mind that they have the same Atlantic Ocean lapping their shore line and the same quahog and mulluscs burrowing in their bays. They are not The Hamptons.

Neither were The Hamptons the hamptons when I was a youth attending Southampton parochial schools and its public junior high. The phenomenom of The Hamptons as a regional brand and social state of mind came into focus towards the end of my teens in the late Seventies as the hippies faded into a final tequila sunrise lost to the back beat of something heady called disco. Enter the wanton Eighties - when late Sunday afternoon tea dances at The Attic and The Swamp ruled traffic flow for miles along the Montauk Highway. These were free spirited times of chest bare bronzed boys on amyl nitrates singing 'It's Raining Men, Hallelujah'. Lobster salad at Loaves and Fishes was still vaguely affordable at $28 a pound and Sag Harbor was that little village with the reputation of having more local bars than locals.

There were a few artists and writers who had managed to grab a listing salt box on John Street from the old whaling line and neighbors remembered having a cup of coffee with John Steinbeck at The Paradise in the days when you ordered your eggs over easy from George. There were vacant parking spaces on Main Street and for a time you could go hear Rickie Lee Jones and Tina Turner perform at Bay Street when it was a dance club. Hilde's served the most delicious scrambled eggs and that giant blue gas ball that sat in the back parking lot reminded us all that we were the sons and daughters of the working class - a blue collar community on the rise.

Fast forward to Summer 2011 -- where July is the new August and a $22 hamburger seems reasonable after waiting 40 minutes for a table in the baking sun to be served by surly waitstaff who appear to have no idea why you would want a fork and napkin. It's the summer of the Farmer's Market circuit, the grass-fed organic air breathing feet-never-touched-the-ground I-don't-eat-meat-sort at the hamburger joint trying to place an order. It's the summer of endless sunshine and paddle-board mania as the minions discover standing on the water is all it is cracked up to be. It's not even the 20th of July and already the Tomato Lady is in full harvest, corn is chest high in the fields and the blue fish have begun to move out of the bays in search of cooler, less motor-ridden waters.

It's forage at your own risk come Saturday morning for the foolish among us who forgot to pick up a quart of milk or the avocado and limes for the fluke ceviche tonight. For the village is not ours three days out of seven when the streets clog to capacity and the produce sections run bare at the IGA and farm stand on Scuttlehole. Little East Hampton we, so on trend to be edged out of our own shops and restaurants while our kids learn the value of a $100 tip from the big spender on table 9, eyeing the Ferrari parked outside.