MIGRATION PATTERN OF THE PRETTY BIRDS AND AT LEAST ONE, SEMI-ENTITLED UGLY DUCKLING

I’m not sure many folk would still feel safe and warm on a winter’s day in LA, but when the leaves get brown and the sky turns gray, the high-tailing it out of town to warmer climes like Los Angeles, Miami, Todos Santos, Rincon and Santa Teresa is, as we all know, as real as the price of gas.

Aging, dying, wrinkles, hair loss, irrelevance, public speaking, a root canal procedure, $80,000 college tuition fees … the stuff that haunts many dreams … ain’t nothing compared to the question plaguing many Hamptonites like me this time of year: where shall I winter?

You ever sit in your toasty high rise in Manhattan in February and watch a construction site across the way and marvel at the workers in their hard hats, wearing what looks like only a hooded sweatshirt, carrying planks across scaffolding, their every breath a cloud of condensation, and wonder how the hell did these people get so tough? Those are the urban equivalents of Hamptonites who stick around this desolate spit in the winter. After having tried it myself … once … last winter … and having lasted only until Mid-January, I can say it’s rough, and only the hearty stock of body, mind and spirit need apply.

The shark fin gray that permeates the sky retreats to a 3:30 pm darkness. The cold joins hands with an ocean breeze that makes you want to howl like a loon at the thought that this place could ever be a summer paradise. Half of the restaurants and shops are shut down, leaves dance along the sidewalks of Main Street like ecstatic ghosts, and the fact that you can now see your neighbors’ homes, otherwise shrouded by dense foliage, provides no succor against the feeling of stark, savage aloneness.

I know, I know, I know … many of you dear readers love the winters out here, and I can’t wait to read the novel you

by Joe Caccamo

wrote, the walking sticks you carved, the sweaters you knitted, the AI robot you manufactured come May when you emerge from your basement, but allow me to caveat that I’m a single male with limited basement hobbies, and without a Swedish super model girlfriend or realistic equivalent to provide a full spectrum of warmth, I just can’t do this place in the cold. Again, I tried.

Last November, I had romantic visions of gaining enlightenment through isolation here, and getting welcoming nods from the local toughs bellied up to the bar at the Springs Tavern. By mid-January, I found myself in oneway conversation with the deer in my brittle front yard who looked upon me with gazes of equanimity that would make the Buddha himself moisten with pride. I felt on the verge of madness. I wussed out. I flew back to Santa Monica in late January where I woke up the next day greeted by a glorious sun that seemed to mock me for even considering anyplace else. Of course, the day after that, the marine layer came in and didn’t leave until September. (Hence, the new sobriquet for LA … “Seattle South.”) And then I encountered the Los Angeles people … in their Aviator Nation sweat-outfits and Nick Fouquet hats parading as designer spiritualists, and the hatelove (mostly hate) began again in earnest. F*%$ LA.

So, where’s a Bottom-Of-The-ThreePercenter, semi-bougie-ass dude to go? Where can he be warm and live the Endless Summer?

These are the options as I see them: Miami: I just threw up a $70 piece of toro sashimi from Nobu in my mouth. If I wanted to live in warm, expensive New Jersey, I’d just go to Manasquan and run a heat lamp while doing yoga in my neon spandex, and give my bank routing instructions to the Nigerian prince who has temporarily lost access to his wealth. No.

DelRay Beach: Afterall, everyone says, ‘oh, I love DelRay.’ It does have a surf break. It has restaurants and nightlife. It’s just far enough away from Miami. Oh, right … it’s as expensive as Miami (which is more expensive than NYC). No.

Palm Beach aka Republican National Headquarters. I own no white pants, I manage no hedge funds, I don’t think slavery was a good thing, the only Pulitzer Prize I’d ever want is the literature kind, not the blonde named Whitney dressed in Lily Pulitzer head to toe. Um, No.

Rincon: Awesome, Hawaii in the ‘70s meets Ditch Plains in 2023, except there’s no way I would get any real work done. A wonderful place to visit for a week or two, but for the entire winter? No.

Santa Teresa. Same as above. No.

Aspen: Not warm, but a great place to demonstrate my fabulous wealth amongst other fabulously wealthy douchebags in their Kemosabe hats exceptin’ that I have no fabulous wealth and I can’t stand douchebags and I look terrible in hats, so … No. Mexico City: it’s the new kale which was the new broccolini which was the new brussels sprouts which was the new truffle French fries … so hot right now. Great art scene, great people, affordable, warm weather … except again, impractical because I have a job … that requires me to be in the United States. Sadly, No.

Lisbon: it’s the new Mexico City which was the new kale, which was the new brussels sprouts … just see above. No.

Tulum: it’s the rotted brussels sprouts smelling up your fridge. It’s as yesterday as 24 hours ago, a sad cliche of man buns, pelvis-first walkers and walking Sanskrit dictionaries. No.

Duh, New York City: While it puts a kabosh on the concept of the Endless Summer, it’s got decent culture and opportunity for “social engagement” for a single man, and it’s close enough to Amagansett to enjoy the occasional bucolic winter weekend … But I swore I was done with New York City and its noise and filth and FOMO-frenetic assault on my sensitive central nervous system … And it’s goddamn expensive and it’s too much drinking and staying up until 3 am for no-good reason, and the screeching noise of subways and schlepping and schlepping and schlepping bags, bags, bags, and I feel like the oldest human being south of 14th Street, and I wanted a healthy lifestyle, a perma-tan, fresh green juice, a lower golf handicap, to stay in paddling shape, to not layer, to not have my shoulders hunched up against my neck bracing against a cold that used to reliably go away by May 1 but is now anyone’s guess. NYC … maybe, ugh. It’s fall and that’s where my head’s at … a big fat maybe. The water here is still warm as we complain about the latest heat wave, but Football is back (and so is the Sunday crowd at Best Pizza), the sun is noticeably setting lower in the sky, my irrigation man just emailed me to set an appointment to winterize the system, and so the specter of winter and the decision I have to make owns my frontal lobe like Djokovic owned Nadal.

Or perhaps I should just get myself a rescue pup and stay put here in Amagansett. I’ll name him Stephen, in honor of the Talkhouse, and in further honor of my brother’s late, great Husky companion, Steve the Dog. Brisk morning walks on the beach, warm nights in front of the fire place on my hands and knees rubbing spraying Folex carpet stain remover into pee stains on my expensive, customized sisal rug … Hmmmm, another maybe. Ugh. Be Here Now. Namaste.