Hamptons Report: I Saw Shaggy, and Tasted the Greatest Scallop of All
Tell your greeters, your door girls, and especially your security team that the world’s most relentless party crasher has somehow figured out the jitney and is now making the scene out here in the Hamptons. If you’re not familiar: Shaggy, whose real name I once knew, has a full, frizzy grey mane styled improbably like a rock singer. You’ll spot him; he looks inappropriate wherever he goes. He once crashed my birthday party—there were only 40 people invited and I still don’t know how he found out about it—and was incredulous when I asked him to leave. “But I’m already here, what’s the big deal?” is what he always used to say. At my old firm we kept his picture in the Xerox room, like restaurants do with food critics, so that interns and newbie staffers could pick him out of a crowd. As my old boss, Valerie Salembier (now the publisher of Harper’s Bazaar), once wisely told me, “Problems don’t just go away.” I say ditto with cockroaches and Shaggy. So I was riled by seeing the infamous crasher at the East End Hospice’s Summer Gala on June 28. I will support any charity with the word hospice in it. The way I see it, hospice care workers are as close to God as you can get—if you believe in God. This is a small, conservative charity. I was there because my cousin Meredith McBride (along with Christian Dior’s charming Bryn Kenny) was on the committee. So there appears Shaggy under the tent in Quogue, scarfing the free food, quaffing the free spirits, fingering the fine linens. Oh, it makes me so mad.