Boys—I would like to introduce you to a man you should be watching, studying, stalking and taking copious notes on, for he is your lord and savior. Emulate this man and you will go far in life. Don't emulate this man and you will fail at everything you do.
Who is this beacon of light in a world cast in darkness? His name is John Ivers, he's a 42 year-old self-employed stock trader (AKA the ghost of Tim Sykes's future), and he just wants his summer share. Obviously, there are people who want to stand in the way of Ivers's happiness, namely his 25 year-old investment banker girlfriend, but when you're John Ivers, you don't let 25 year-old girlfriends who want to get in on your 20-person summer house in Amagansett tell you what to do—you tell them (her) what you're going to do.
You say, "Listen, Toots, I've been coming to the Hamptons as a single guy since before you grew breasts (John's been in 14 houses). Now, I don't have a problem continuing seeing your breasts, but in the city, k? When I come to the Hamptons I come alone. If I wake up one morning and want to sleep with one of my housemates, I do it. If I go out one night, and run into one of my ex-girlfriends, perhaps the one from three summers ago, who wears slender madras shorts and likes to watch me from a pebbled yard nearby, or the one from four years ago, who wears jeans and reminds me of what it was like to be 38, I do her. If I want to eat an $80 lobster roll by myself on the beach without anyone breathing down my neck and asking me 'Where's this going?' I do it. So there's not so much room for a girlfriend in that equation. Also, you know I'm in a band called Hot Lava, and rock stars don't have girlfriends, they have groupies! You've seen the messages they leave me on Hot Lava's Myspace page."
When you're John Ivers, 42, you wear flip-flops and Ray-Bans and a typical night would be something along the lines of:
A friend's engagement party until around 10 p.m., a party at a house in Amagansett run by a "group of girls" until midnight, a gig by the band Booga Sugar at the nightclub Stephen Talkhouse until 3 a.m. or so, and then an after-party until near sunrise back at his place.
You're not a pathetic aging frat boy who thinks nostalgically back to the nights of rohypnol cocktails and paddle slaps, 'cause you're still living the dream. You can't believe those guys you went to college with are already in their forties, having kids and letting their girlfriends come to their summer houses—losers!
One summer stay in the Rental o' Rapture will set you back about $3,200. Some skeptismos in the group might say something about it being lame for a person that age not to have (or, at the very least, rent) his own place, or remark that perhaps your day trading isn't going so well, but those people just don't get it (and were probably in DTD).
When Boys of Summer Linger Till Autumn [New York Times]