"Too much Snapple and vodka in the sun." The tight-faced matron muttered, but if the heckler heard, he didn't seem to care.
"You've got nothing. Nuuuuu-thing. Call your editors, boys. It's time for a rewrite."
The crowd laughed, as if in spite of itself, and then turned back hurriedly to the field.
We were at the bottom of the 7th innings of the 61st Annual East Hampton Artists vs. Writers baseball game, and this year the sun was decidedly hotter than the celebrity sightings. Alec Baldwin and Chrissy Brinkley were both, improbably, batting for the Artists, but most of the players were a straggly collection of half-familiar names and determined faces. Despite the heat they were playing hard, and the scoreline was tight. As the commentators kept telling us, this was one of the most exciting matches in the history of the oldest charity event in East Hampton.
"Hah! What are you playing at? Writers, where's your fucking white-out?"
We were huddled in a tiny patch of shade watching silver-haired men walking their models around the perimeter fence. The girls towered above their consorts and the rest of the capped and reddening crowd, all shiny hair and sunglasses and painfully angular limbs.
Behind us, the voice grew louder and more raggedy, its puns worn thin and brittle with use.
"You're all over the place. Where's your three act structure now, eh? Whaddareyou... Jeeee...zus. Your team's a... what? An ellipse. Heh heh... Bunch of pen-pushing pussys. Strike! Isn't that what you do best, eh Writers? I said, isn't striking what you pansy-asses do best..."
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