A week in Oz

It’s funny how a spit of sand off the coast of Long Island can mean the world to me.

Fire Island is the adult manifestation of my childhood fantasies: the soft sandy beaches (optimal for sand mega-castle-building), the high tides (perfect for tummy-surfing), the sunken forest with its intricate foliage and maze of small paths that lead to no where. It seems like the perfect real-life location for a Little Red Riding Hood re-enactment Disney movie. Except the creatures lurking in the bushes are not wolves (the locals bestowed the name Meat Rack on the woods as euphemism for the type of sports one can play there), so the film would naturally be R-rated.

And fairy tale creatures abound on the island. Bambi-like Deer prance around on the beach, on the suspended roller coaster walkways that connected the island and even in our own back yard; they occasionally rummaged through our trash in search of a hearty meal, unaware that the boys have a passion for southern cooking with its abundant use of oil and butter; hence our leftovers were single-handedly responsible for increased cholesterol levels among the native deer population. And of course, there were drag queens: the urban-dwelling embodiment of either comic-strip Super-heroines with their flawless wig-like hairdos, silhouette outfits and imposing bosoms, not to mention “super” skills…Or, the female nemesis in Disney movies (have you ever noticed how evil women in film – animated or not – are universally depicted in smoky-eye make-up, fabulous frocks, oozing sex appeal and spurting lines in either a British accent or a Park Avenue inflection? As if implying that being evil is tantamount to being sexy, rich, fashionable and intellectually stimulating).

So I imagine as a child, this would have been my playground de preference. I always liked playing dress-up using mommy’s heals and pearls as props and I also loved playing doctor. It appears that playing Dress-up & Doctor are the favorite past-time activities on the island. Evidently, I am no longer a child. Luckily, the island is also a materialization of my wildest adolescent wet dreams: young men with sculpted tanned bodies and chiseled jaws frolicking semi/fully naked with/around other young men with sculpted tanned bodies and chiseled jaws. The island, with its strategically placed hot tubs and hot pools in every other house provided a splendid backdrop for all sorts of hedonistic activities. I suppose that is what Herodotus envisioned as his Utopian society. Or maybe I am just projecting my nymph-loaded fantasies on poor Herodotus. If I had visited the island @ age 15, with all those raging teenage hormones in my system, I would have had a heart attack from the sexual/sensory stimulation. Luckily I’m 24 and much more apt at acting non-chalant and/or concealing my woody.

And lastly, I came to the pleasant realization over the week that all my friends are alcoholics. When you’re being served a Bloody Mary with breakfast at the ungodly hour of 9am, you know its time for those AA meetings. Of course, weekend drunken house pool parties during the day, drunken naked house pool parties at night, evening High Teas, Low Teas, culminating in the overnight Beach Party made Sobriety jump out the window and kill herself.

Of course, no vacation would be complete without The Diva (read: Madonna), who was omnipresent throughout the trip, thanks to Queen B’s iPod dock station, which made certain we were honored with Madge’s company in our cabin every minute of the day. We ate, drank, drank, drank, drank, slept and woke-up to her voice. Isla Bonita is forever associated in my mind with hangovers.