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Monday, Dec. 30, 2002 - 10:18 a.m.

Weekend in The Hamptons

(Using obnoxious, nose-in-the-air voice of Thurston Howell): Ah, yes, Casey and I just came back from our weekend in The Hamptons.

It wasn't all champagne and roses; in fact, it was more Bud in a can and cold cuts in the barn. But it was better that way. We went out on the island (that's Long Island) with Casey's dad, Carol and Tessa to visit her father's cousin Liz and her husband Bob. I guess that makes Liz Casey's first cousin once removed. Something like that.

Bob, near 70, and Liz, about 60, live in a converted barn out in Southampton, one of the more middle-class communities in The Hamptons, relatively speaking. Their home sits north of Route 27, the dividing line, Liz explained, between the Old Money and New Money of Southampton; "south of the highway" is where all the fresh, new sprawl is located. But that's not them. They're down-to-Earth former teachers who escape the maddening summer crowds by retreating to their upstate Saratoga home. Bob, a former art history professor, has decorated the home with all kinds of interesting and intriguing antiques � a collection of scissors on one window; various shapes, sizes and colors of medicine bottles on another; wooden signs proclaiming "Pigs For Sale" or "Johnston Hardware" hanging from the rafters; a turn-of-the-century 46-star flag hanging on one wall; an 1847 29-star flag in the downstairs bathroom ... The house was a museum in itself.

Back in the early 80s, they bought the property (I think) and had the two barns disassembled and moved upstate to be converted into a liveable home; once refurbished, the pieces were brought back down and built into a spacious four-bedroom, three--and-a-half bath home with a swimming pool. Upstairs consists of a stairway along the wall in the living room, climbing up to a bathroom and bedroom � that Jim and Carol took � on the front side of the house. A catwalk then crosses the open space of the living room to the quarters Casey and I took. Ours included a toilet and sink. The master bedroom is downstairs in the back, through the study and den; Tessa slept in a bedroom a few steps down off the house from the bottom of the stairway.

We left early on Saturday from Cliffside Park, where the landlord and his handyman friend (two guys who manage to drag a half-hour toilet replacement job into two days) finished fixing our new leaky toilet. But because they were in the bathroom, Casey, Tessa and I could not shower. So we squished into the back of the BMW for the two-hour trip to Southampton without using Dial. When we got there, we ate first, then cleansed our bodies. I drew the fun shower: The downstairs bathroom is a large room with big windows and a sliding door leading out to the deck and the pool (perfect for summer when nature calls while in the pool ��simply hop on into the bathroom, with its wooden and tile floors; no need to towel off). The bathtub is a large round basin with clear plastic curtains covering the back half, protecting the wall. It is large enough that, with the water directed downward, there is no risk of getting the bathroom all wet. So I bathed in a shower open to the large windows and pool. With trees obscuring the neighbors' yard and no fear of anyone walking out poolside, there was no need to worry about anyone peeking in on me. I did startle myself the first time I stepped out far enough to catch full view of myself in the mirror on the back of the door.

While Jim stayed behind to recover from his 24-hour bug, Bob and Liz took the rest of us on a tour of the bigger homes in Southampton, including Roy Lichtenstein's (we could really only see the studio through the gates). Gazing at all the estates (usually through the gates or the winter-bare trees and shrubs that, in the busy summer season, would obscure most of the grounds) I felt an Old Sport inThe Great Gatsby. Only I was in the back of a Ford minivan, not a 30s touring car. And although Bob looks a little like an older Burt Lancaster (albeit with a New Hampshire accent), he's not a young Robert Redford.

After our drive through the land of the New Rich, we went east to East Hampton to walk along Newtown and Main streets and pop in and out of stores ranging from local boutiques to branches of Fifth Avenue anchors. My favorite stop was a local deli which served freshly made cinnamon-sugar doughnuts that rivaled (in a different way, certainly) fresh, hot Krispy Kremes.

I meandered along the sidewalks of East Hampton with my camera ready and the constant thought in my head that I have become something I've always dreaded: a paparazzo. With my Minolta around my neck (though with my wide-angle on for those more standard tourist shots) and my zoom lens in my pocket, I was prepared to snap away at any "celebs" ��with the full intention of selling any worthwhile prints to my own magazine for publication. What? It's not in my job description, and considering that they pay something like $500-$1000 for the everyday celebrity sighting photos that run each week, I think they can spare a $500 bonus for me. I knew that the timing and the weather were both in my favor and against it. It being a cold, holiday weekend, there were likely to be few ��if any ��stars out among the rest of us. But, I also had the advantage of there being few of "the rest of us," which might bring the celebrities out of their estates, what with the thought of not being recognized or bothered as much as a weekend in July would bring. After all, most of the people you're going to find in The Hamptons on the last weekend of the year are going to be the locals � like Bob and Liz.

So after two hours of shopping and sale-hunting, Liz, Casey, Tessa and I stood along Newtown St. waiting for Bob to bring the van around from the parking lot out back. Carol came out of a store several dozen feet away and started walking toward us. I spotted a bulldog on a leash and pointed it out to Casey and Tessa: "Look, a bulldog! That Carol's about to walk into!" Carol gave her a pat and continued toward us. But she was mouthing something we couldn't come close to discerning with the distance and pointing to the side, holding her finger in front of her face so that anyone behind her couldn't see. "Yes, we see the bulldog, Carol," Casey said, just loud enough for the three of us near her to hear. Carol continued her pantomime until she was close enough to say, "THAT'S HOWARD STERN!!" We all looked up.

"Where!?" I asked.

"With the bulldog. His girlfriend just went into that store that he was sitting in front of."

We all headed that way, just as Bob drove around, but Liz explained the urgency. Howard went into the store, dog in tow, and sat down near the front, talking on his cell phone. I quickly switched to my zoom lens and snapped away. Casey and Tessa went inside. I tried shooting through the window, but a footstool near the front obscured the dog. Carol went inside with the idea of moving the footstool, but just as she did, a little girl came up front and sat down on another stool. I did the best I could, even getting Carol into one frame when she came over to pet the dog, talking to it: "Oh, you're so cute! What's your name?"

"Her name's Bianca," Howard said, pleasantly.

"And how old are you," Carol continued ��still talking to the dog.

"She's nine months," replied Howard, who was wearing a long winter coat and blue-tinted shades and had his long hair tied up into a knit cap.

I decided I would walk in and see if I could do anything inside (not realizing until later, back at the barn, that I probably could've just asked to take a picture of him and/or his dog, and he would've had no idea it might possibly end up in a magazine), but just then, his girlfriend came back to the front and said, "I saw some things I liked, but I don't feel like trying anything on." So there I stood in the doorway, holding the door for Howard Stern, Bianca and his girlfriend. "Thank you," he said as he passed me and I continued holding it as Carol, Casey and Tessa walked out. On the steps, another couple was coming into the store when the woman saw Bianca. "Oh, how cute!" she said and she stooped to pet her. Howard stopped and let the woman ogle his dog while her boyfriend, standing behind her, looked up and realized who Howard was, then shot a glance at me that said, "Hey! That's Howard Stern!"

The shock jock and pals then crossed the street (I snapped one picture of them walking away, but the fading light wasn't so good) just as Bob pulled up. As we drove away, we saw them approaching their car parked along the curb and Howard opened the tailgate to lift Bianca in for the drive home.

That night we ate at a restaurant called Almond and, lucky for me, there were not almonds in every dish. I had steak and french fries. Back at the barn, we had dessert before bed.

Yesterday, Carol played the sick one and stayed back at the house while Bob, Jim, Casey, Tessa and I went for a walk on the beach and then picked up Liz for an afternoon among the stores of Southampton. If East Hampton is the eastern Long Island equivalent of Fifth Avenue, Southampton is Chelsea or the Village or one of the other just-a-step-down-but-barely-noticable other tiers of retail. It has a Saks Fifth Avenue and some other high-end stores, but also Hildreth's, the oldest department store in America. I managed to make it through the weekend without spending any money, though I could have if I tried. But I didn't really need a $100 leather-bound photo album or journal. But I could've had one if I wanted.

After shopping, we went back to the barn, woke up Carol, munched on some lunch and said our farewells. We were on the road and through the city traffic while listening to the Dolphins-Patriots game on the radio and back in our Cliffside apartment a little after 5 p.m.

And before I forget again, I'll throw in an account of a dream I had the other night. I dreamt I asked Casey's dad if I could marry her and � all of a sudden � her dad is now Kurtwood Smith, in his That '70s Show character. So Red then grills me until I say something that pleases him and he's more than happy to have me marry his daughter, but on one condition: I have to read his favorite book. The Hobbit. Forgive me, those of you who love the Lord of the Rings and, from what I have heard, even the worst of the books, the prequel, but I hate The Hobbit. I had to read it in grade school for some class, and I couldn't get through it. Then last year, I tried again, thinking I'd read it before I saw LOTR, but just ... couldn't ... do ... it. I may have made it 50 pages in this time. And I still haven't seen LOTR.

But that's OK. I now spend weekends in The Hamptons. Or, I will when Casey and I take Liz and Bob up on their strong urging to visit them on our own.

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