For me, time spent in the Hamptons remains a Zen-like exercise in coping with unpredictability. Unless you’re traveling with your own set of wheels, you rarely have any say in where you go, what you do, or when you do it. You start to feel like those chubby, clueless toddlers strapped in rear facing car seats, happily oblivious, along for the ride. People with cars have the control, but are burdened with responsibility. Everyone else is enviably carefree, but consequently at their mercy.

There’s two different ways to handle this scenario. One is the aforementioned ‘toddler approach,’ which we’ll discuss today. This involves utter passivity. You go wherever your share house is going because it’s easy, it’s non-confrontational, and there are people to take care of you once you’re obliterated on Patron. The other approach, which we’ll explore later this week, involves trying to take your Hamptons destiny into your own hands. Breaking off from the herds to accomplish some sort of side mission, whether it be meeting up with other friends, attending an alternate party, or frequenting a different club. If you have a car with a GPS system, this is easy. If you don’t, this ‘mission approach’ involves attempting to brainwash your ride to align with your plans, attempting to brainwash anyone with a car to align with your plans, or taking a very expensive taxi to your plans, which you share with six other people you don’t know.

With that intro, I let myself get ‘toddler style’ dragged this weekend to East Hampton’s Grey Goose Manor, where your liver comes to die. On the plus side, they serve a dinner with remarkably tasty steak so guests don’t suffer from alcohol poisoning immediately. On the down side, there’s still enough easy-to-chug vodka to get all of East Hampton hospitalized, jailed with a DUI or both.

Further proving that the Hamptons is essentially adult summer camp, the grub was served buffet style and eating took place in the ‘chic’ version of what for all practical purposes was a dining hall (granted, with complimentary Vitamin Water and martinis as opposed to a soda machine, yet still campy in feel).

Very pink beverages where passed around by circulating cocktail waitresses, which I couldn’t consume since to me, they tasted like cotton candy. This lead me to one of the three bars to ask, “I’d like a non-pink beverage. Preferably, non-sweet. Hell, just give me a vodka-water.” The Grey Goose bar representative was extremely accommodating.

The party filled up until the entire manor was instructed to leave for Lily Pond at the same time, which the valets just loved.

The festivities continued in the parking lot for forty minutes while we created a mega traffic jam on a one-way-only dirt road and men battled one another for the attention of the frenzied parking attendants.

The best part of the night by far was when a promoter loaded ten models into the back on an Enterprise van – no, not a van with seats. I mean like an empty mid-size van used to move furniture. The ladies were helped into the stainless steel cargo hold while I tried to snap pictures. The promoter in charge violently stopped me, going as far as to physically block my camera with his hands and scream obscenities at me. So I guess he doesn’t want people to know that he treats his female entourage like cattle. I’m sad I don’t have the visual, because if that transport scenario doesn’t epitomize the Hamptons, I don’t know what does.

Just when you think you’ve seen all the weirdness NYC has to offer, you stumble across a party like this.

Dressed like a normal person and expecting another uneventful clubbing night out, I unsuspectingly found myself at the Kostume Kult and Disorient’s annual Black and Light ball at Comix, an experience which can only be described as “jaw dropping.” Different artistic projects took place throughout the party which ranged from a mock Vogue-style photo shoot to performance art involving laptops and wall projections, and body painting with spay cans. Then you had your rave areas in the large back room and downstairs.

The Kostume Kult goes to Burning Man every year, so the party doubled as a fundraiser for their camp. I have an endlessly fascination with Burning Man and suggest that anyone unaware of the tradition read about it here. Amongst the black lit carnival, I felt like the freak as I sipped an amaretto in a plain black dress among

-People with neon afro wigs larger than the circumference of my closet

-Naked couples wearing only body paint, sheathes, and nipple covers (my favorite were the orange leopards with gold tassels on their boobs)

-Dresses that left one breast exposed

-Transparent skirts that left vaginas exposed

-Colorful fake eyelashes long enough to be a fire hazard on the dance floor

-Enough glitter to fill an Olympic size pool

-More colors of pleather than I knew existed

I’d need to drop some acid in order to even come up with a costume as unique and creative as these folks did. I didn’t end up doing much partying as the visual fun of this circus kept me continually aghast. My friend and I spent so much time admiring the kult’s ensembles and postulating which couples had the craziest sex that we even forgot to drink! Imagine!

A video of what it’s all about here,

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

Going out too much can make you feel crazy. No locale however, can compete on the crazy scale with The Box, Manhattan’s whacky version of a Freak Show, Cabaret, and Dinner Theater rolled tightly into one notoriously high-priced package. All the glittery songs, stripping, contortionists, and acts of defilement start at $2,000 minimum just to sit at a table, further bottle minimums apply after that.

Last year at this time, The Box was a-booming. Since then, the below-the-radar theater that seemed untouchable has suffered through typical New York club angst (license issues, cop raids, busts). I personally hadn’t been there since their celebrity studded scandal in August (patrons on the night of the shutdown included Cameron Diaz and Jay-Z). It took a trip to Chrystie Street this weekend to fully remember what a jungle that place really is. My initial description from last year:

The Box is different. It’s not a club. It’s a black box stage, but with very extravagant French décor; red plush leather seats, a golden balcony, heavy crimson curtains that encircle tables for privacy, and my favorite touch, Babar wallpaper. People don’t come here to dance like angry gorillas like they do at Pink Elephant. People come to sit, chill out, enjoy the ambiance, champagne and to watch the show.

The Box puts on a new show every week hosted by the infamous MC – a bleach blonde transvestite with red lips, devil horns, long nails and a spandex suit which he inevitably ends up stripping out of to reveal his intricate body art and the phrase “Made in America” tattooed across his stomach. The MC always sings, always addresses the crowd as “motherfuckas” and usually begins the night by stripping some victimized guy from the audience on stage and having topless girls spray him with champagne. This is followed by a series of variety numbers that range from strip teases, singers belting ballads, erotica and comedy sketches. Think Cabaret style: Germany, World War II. The show lasts about half an hour, there’s one at around 1 am and another around 2:30 – although there’s no set schedule.

What I learned this time around is that it’s one thing to enjoy a full evening at The Box, arriving at 12 or 1 AM, settling in, eating your popcorn, focusing on the show, talking politely amongst your table. It’s quite another to show up at 3 AM when you’re already drunk and seeing stars…because if you’re already seeing stars, once you get in The Box, you’ll be seeing comets doing the can-can. The ambiance is just that dazzling. It’s literally like taking a side trip to the circus on your way home; A foolproof way to extricate yourself from any sense of reality, which is perhaps why workaholic New Yorkers love it so. Cause sure, we’re in Manhattan, but for some reason swirling around The Box late night you feel like you could be anywhere, any time zone, any country. Most conversations you have with people don’t even make sense.

Example:

Person 1: Popcorn.
Person 2: John’s gotta get on stage. We’re getting John on stage.
Person 3: Is that a girl or a guy?
Person 1: I dunno. I think they have a tail.
Person 2: Popcorn?
Person 3: Wait, a tail in the back or the front?
Person 2: Are they really twins?
Person 1: (mouth full) This popcorn feels like ale.
Person 2: Taste. You mean, tastes.
Person 3: What do you think it’s like to get whipped like that every night?
Person 2: Ashley does have John pretty whipped.
Person 1: Holly shit, is John on stage?
Person 3: No, that’s just someone who looks like John wearing a hazmat suit.
Person 2: Oh.
Person 1: Where did you say you were from again?

fade out

And the later you go, the more risqué the show. Around the time sex toys are in every act and you’re thinking, ‘wow, I never knew a rubber ducky could be used for that,’ you know it’s time to leave. Luckily, my girlfriend yanked me out of there just before the lights came up. Thank goodness, because these atrocities, while deliriously fabulous at night are definitely frightening by day.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

A Man Hole and Stolen Shoes…

On our last day in the jungles of Brazil, we were scheduled to attend a traditional ‘white party,’ hosted not at the marina, but at someone’s private home on the other side of the lakes outside the condominium. Since my friend the Argentine wanted to triple check that the party’s host (we’ll call him X) was okay with putting three foreigners he’d never met on his uber-exclusive list, we went to visit the house pre-lunch to schmooze and offer him gifts of Moet and Johnny Walker Blue Label (pre-purchased at Duty Free for this exact purpose).

Trucks of lighting equipment, toilets, and speakers surrounded the house which was already abuzz with pre-party activities. My roommate and I soaked up the sun by the lake and in mere moments one of X’s many employees came over to us with a bottle champagne and two flutes on a tray, eager to pour. We simultaneously screamed, “NO!” and waved our arms in rejection as if he were approaching us with a machine gun. Unintentionally, we almost scared him over the deck into the lake. We were still so hung-over from the night before and it wasn’t even 1 PM. Cocktails were not happening. We tried to apologize and eventually, the poor waiter slumped away confused.

X the host had no problem allowing three New Yorkers to join his party and hurriedly tried to make friends with us – an unforgettable interaction since he spoke zero English. The much larger issue was the weather. Unexpectedly, a light, tropical rain was spattering the pool and electrical equipment, which party-workers in the dozens were quickly transporting up a massive hill to X’s wrap around porch.

Would the party be cancelled?

NO – of course not, because things like that just don’t happen in Brazil. The festivities, which we supposed to start at eight, were delayed until around midnight. No big deal since that’s what time Brazilians eat dinner anyway. And by the time we arrived at eleven thirty, the entrance was already a mess.

Partygoers were herded in and out of metal gates and then separated into individual lines for men and women (creepy, because at time it felt more like being admitted to prison). IDs were handed through an elegant iron gate to two men in suits and shown to a woman with a binder, who individually checked everyone’s name and ID number. I leave you to imagine how long this process took…so long, in fact, that partiers already inside would sneak drinks over the walls and through the gates to their friends standing in line. Considerate.

Keeping things interesting was this large manhole amidst the entrance. It plunged seven feet deep and I saw at least one man disappear inside before being hauled out by his friends.

The Argentine explained to me that construction jobs in Brazil often go unfinished, and that workers had probably exposed the hole to fix some pipes and then just forgotten about it. We all made mental notes to avoid the man hole when leaving and drunk.

Inside, the party took place between the pool and the lake, beautiful and somehow more relaxing than the massive rave-filled tent parties we’d been to before.

All our worry about the host X not wanting Americans on his list proved to be unnecessary. We not only entered seamlessly, but X fell head-over-heels in love with my roommate. I’d see them zooming through the party, my roommate’s hand always tightly incased in his, X’s body guard always a few steps behind them.

“He’s decided I’m his girlfriend for the night,” my roommate explained helplessly. “We can’t talk, but he really wants to communicate with me. He’s been acting out stories.”

Acting out stories?

I was about to say, “Excuse me?” when X scurried up, took both my roommates hands and began this over-the-top pantomime that somewhat resembled charades. Between him pointing to himself, enacting a sobbing motion, then pointing to a woman across the room, then tracing a heart in the air, we disjointedly learned the story of his ex-girlfriend. The performance was cut short since X saw another one of his guests and jolted my roommate away until they were both swallowed by the crowd.

Since I’d been wearing heels for a week straight and knew this party would be taking place on damp grass (not conducive for stilettos) I’d brought flat sandals in my bag. Half way through the night, I changed and left my high heels behind the Jacuzzi near one of the bartenders. Security encircled the entire area so I figured my abandoned shoes in the grass would be fine.

I spent the majority of my evening conversing with a gorgeous Brazilian (the first man I’d met on the trip who spoke English) who, naturally, was a professional water-skier (what else would a gorgeous guy be in Brazil?). You’d think that because we spent most of our evening on the boardwalk away from the party that we wouldn’t be wasted. WRONG. Because you don’t need to go to the bar to get drinks in Brazil. Clearly they hire men with trays of vodka and Brazilian Redbull strapped to their chest to encircle the party at all times. So we probably consumed five drinks each without ever once having to move. Dangerous.

When we rejoined the party madness at five in the morning, my American guy friend bounced up to me and announced, “Dude, I’m not leaving tomorrow. There’s no way,” and bounced away again. (We were all scheduled on a mid-morning flight.) “Great,” I thought. Typical last night chaos.

Since my best girlfriend had been abducted and the boys had lost all sense of reason or responsibility, the water-skier took pity on me and offered to drive me home. Despite the fact that I’d checked on my shoes twice, when I came to recoup them at the end of the night they were gone.

?!!?!?!?!?!?

Thus ensued a pantomime story in the overly dramatic style I’d learned from our host in which I attempted to relay to the nearby security guard what had happened. Of course that failed miserably, so I went to the other side of the party and retrieved the water-skier, figuring he’d be nice enough to translate. Kindly, he snuck into the behind the bar with me and had a lengthy chat with security. He then turned to me:

“He said a bald man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt came and took your shoes five minutes ago.”

Me: “Someone who works here?”

“No, just some guy at the party.”

“And that’s the best description he can give us?” I surveyed the crowd: everyone was wearing white and 60% of the men had shaved heads.

Utterly perplexed I asked, “Why would a man want my gold platform heels?”

The water-skier shrugged, “Probably really drunk.”

Me: “So the security guard witnessed all this but didn’t stop him?”

“Maybe he thought he was your boyfriend.”

I shook my head trying to ingest the absurdity of the entire situation. “My shoes!” I muttered helplessly.

The water-skier just smiled, took my hand, and began leading me to the car, “Welcome to Brazil.”

Crazy.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com