Few, if any, will miss that huge pile of stone and turrets named Dragon’s Head [“The Dragon Could Soon Fall,” December 18] and better suited as a launching site for a boar hunting party in the forests of the Grand Massif rather than a seaside “cottage” on the East End. But who can forget Barry and Renee Trupin’s additions to Southampton lore?
Does anyone remember that sit-down party for 60 in the heat of August, hosted by the Trupins, who insisted that the ladies wear velvet gowns and that the waiters, in wigs, sport the uniform of “the era,” vaguely thought to be some time after the Crusades? And who remembers that touch of Las Vegas authenticity: the bear chained in a corner of the dining hall? And then the air conditioning broke down. The bear went ape. The guests went bonkers. The waiters ditched their wigs.
And another glorious party was added to such highlights of Southampton social events as the gang rape at one old house, which provided material for gossip through many sessions under the Elizabeth Arden driers, before the days of Kenneth blow-dries.
Ah, those were the days when there was some flair, some audacity, some imagination to the social demeanor of the Old and the New Southampton Guard. But then, as now, how desperately the newcomers strived to keep up with the antics of the Old Guard.
What do we have today as a tribute to eternal bad taste? It pales by comparison. We have nothing but those empty McMansions (with “For Sale” signs on the front lawn, in lieu of privet). These giant tributes to recent bad taste now spoil our charming and unpretentious village streets (not to mention our Rosko neighborhood), doomed to remain for years as unsold eyesores, which we owe in equal parts to the greedy spec builders and to the imperious appointees of Mayor Mark Epley.
But, come to think of it, bonkers bears and gang rapes have a shorter life in the memory of our village, and perhaps a lesser impact on our village residents, who weren’t gang raped at a party, but were had in Village Hall.