Every week, Cindy Adams puts out her Page Six gossip column, which we all love for its general old-school Manhattan eccentricity. But this one is just...unreal. Has she lost her shit? Contained herein: dogs sniffing butts, "humanoids," and the Hamptons.
This one could really be presented context-free, but we'll do you the favor to try and interpret whatever's going on in Crazy Aunt Cindy's forever young but possibly aging head. She tries dissecting the tribal rites of the Hamptons.
Various civilizations practice inherent traditions that hark to the beginning of time. They even predate Andy Rooney.
Touche! Take it for what you will, but I take her calling Andy Rooney old as projecting.
In olden days [Ed. Heh. She remembers!] native Americans raised their hands and said, "How." In Tibet one greets another by the exchange of bits of cloth. Muslim Indonesia is fingers to the lips in prayer fashion. In Japan they bow. In Washington they put their hand out and then into your pocket. In Hawaii they offer a lei. In Turkey it's a coffee. India's welcome is "Namaste." Thailand's is "Sawadee." Brooklyn's is "Yo, man." When a Yorkie comes up to a Maltese he sniffs its butt.
Wait what? Besides the fact that the cliche'd Brooklynite stereotype of a rough-around-the-edges native New Yorker has been (sadly) extinct and sterile for years, now, how Cindy went from Thailand to Brooklyn to Dogs Sniffing Asses is beyond me. But still, excusable eccentricity. Then, this:
For humanoids there exists in our part of the world some form of unspoken East Coast tribal rite not taught in guidebooks.
She obviously talking about the Hamptons, yes, but humanoids? Someone's seen Alien Nation one too many times. It just goes on and on about the Hamptons and how crazy they are for old ladies. Finally, she just gives in and more or less comes to terms with the fact that she is a crazy old lady, and thus, coherently understands their languages and means by which they communicate, especially about things like beating traffic:
In July in the Hamptons, the weekend obsessing begins midweek. In the city. Like on a Tuesday. Picture two yentas under dryers. One will likely say: "We have a very important event in Sag Harbor Friday." Her friend might then suggest: "So drive out Thursday." She will likely be told: "Can't. We have a very important event in Manhattan Thursday." Understand, for this species all events are very important. Hamptonite types never do unimportant events. Anyone with even a time-share east of Shinnecock for just the first two weeks of August recognizes that there exists no such thing as an unimportant event.
Yenta One will then inquire: "So what time you think we should leave to beat the traffic?"
Yenta Two: "Ohhhh, y'know, it's Friday in the summer in the city." (This gives you an insight into this person's omniscient wisdom.) "You should talk to my Max. He knows back roads. Takes a little longer and he sometimes gets a bit lost like when Lily Pond Lane crosses Three Pond Stream and cuts across Fertilizer Farm to Daffodil Pollen Path, he sometimes misses the turnoff. But there's no traffic there."
And that's a wrap. Cindy, there's an awesome gig waiting for you whenever you want to take it; everyone else, especially gossip columnists and bloggers, guess what: you're gonna have to diversify. Does Ben Leventhal want to be reporting on the city's best Early Bird Specials in his old age? Will Jessica Pressler and Chris Rovzar be recapping the Golden Gossip Girls? Will AJ Daulerio be taking notes from the press box at Polo games in the Hamptons? Let's pray, no. Still, it's good to know that the Post doesn't mind keeping a little stale air in their pocket for (literal) old time's sake. That's nice of them. In a passively sadomasochistic way.