A Very Belated First Post

As most of you have probably guessed by now, I have moved from my small, dirty and depressing apartment in upper Manhattan to even smaller, dirtier and even more depressing room in a beachfront "inn" in the Hamptons. Now normally the idea of a beachfront property in this part of the world would evoke images of Gatsby-esque luxury or at least charming rusticity. Yeah, Homey don't play that. While the properties on either side of here gleam like a pair of well-oiled butt cheeks on the beach, this place in between is definitely like, well, you get the picture. I have never been to a hostelry where I've actually had to seriously negotiate to get a roll of toilet paper. There are no towels or bedding, so I am sleeping on a bare mattress. At least I have a towel from my last place. Sand and grime cover everything. The windows are permanently open 3 1/2 inches, rain or shine, of which we've had both in large quantities this last week. You can see a picture the place above that I stole from the website. My room is in the building on the right, upstairs left and back. It should be noted that this photograph is several years old and lacks the garbage and nonworking major appliances that now litter the grounds, adding to its charm. I have to save my most effusive non-praise for the one bathroom that all the rooms share, even those in the other building twenty feet away. For the sake of those with weak stomachs, i won't go into too much detail, but I will say that I have never before had to hold my breath while taking a shower.

I call it "The Inn of Infinite Sadness" not because I'm particularly unhappy here, but rather because there is a blanket of melancholy that swathes the place. Everyone here is a bit of a character, in a Runyonesque/beach bum kind of way. I have already described the coterie of fat men that guard the decaying couches on the porch. There is also a maintenance man who appears to do no maintenance whatsoever, even by the admission of the owner. There is a hippie who sells jewelry at one of the markets around here, who has rabbits, a cat and a small dog in one room. The room below mine. To be fair, I can only smell it at night. And the day. The owner is a hoarder: the entire main building and one of the rooms in mine, is filled with assorted junk, mostly old radio parts. On his website, this is described as a "museum". I like to think I know a little something about such matters, and can safely say that if the objects displayed are in imminent danger of collapsing and causing grievous bodily harm, it is not a museum. Still, it's a better museum than the MIM...

What doesn't strong me makes me killer...