34th annual East End festival returns Oct. 2–12 with premieres, Screenwriters Lab, SummerDocs and outdoor… Read More →
The Breakers hosted Palm Beach’s social and philanthropic elite as the Old Bags Luncheon™ auction… Read More →
See what’s trending this week—what’s opening, what’s closing, who’s showing, who’s making sparks. Food Scene… Read More →
Pop star’s lawyers say bodycam video would be a privacy nightmare Attorneys for pop star… Read More →
From Lady Gaga to Liza Minnelli (and not on the same stage this time), March… Read More →
Snow-capped mountains, mid-century modern design, Rat Pack lore and desert sunshine — why Palm Springs… Read More →
From stand-up comedy and live music to gallery openings, author talks and Oscar-night watch parties… Read More →
Long before Instagram summers and $100,000 rentals, the couple slipped away to a modest Sagaponack… Read More →
A $32 million estate at 200 Rose Hill Road swaps cedar shingles for concrete and… Read More →
After four weeks of testimony, prosecutors say the once–celebrated luxury real-estate siblings followed the same… Read More →
Hamptons Diary: Ty Wenzel Goes From Outsider to ‘Local’ Crankster
In the Hamptons, the word “local” is not just about where you live; it’s a title earned and checked by being born here. The rest of us? Pseudo-locals. To become one of those — according to the unwritten rules — you need to have lived here for at least 20 years to claim that title.
I bought a house in East Hampton in 1999, and moved here full-time in 2001. I thought that made me a local. It did not.
Like many who moved to the East End after 9/11, my family joined that wave. It was quite similar to the COVID-19 migration, which brought in new residents and summer visitors in recent years. Crises, whether a terrorist attack or a pandemic, seem to push people to seek safety in this iconic, Instagrammable place.
I was about to punch an old woman in the face. What has the Hamptons done to me?
Two Sides of Locals
When I first arrived, I noticed two sides to the locals. During season, they acted like the curmudgeons of the East End, complaining about bad parking, overflowing trash cans, and the constant flow of tourists. However, when the summer crowd left, those same individuals transformed into self-proclaimed “community angels,” discussing Hamptons’ charm with pride.
I quickly observed a sense of territorial entitlement among them. Complaints flew: too many people in town, too much traffic, and heaven forbid someone walked too slowly in a crosswalk while on their phone.
But then, one day, I found myself caught up in the same complaints I had once watched from afar: the grumbling, the impatience, the anger.
That Day In Amagansett
It happened during the summer of 2022. I was waiting in a notoriously long line at Brent’s in Amagansett, picking up fried chicken for a house full of summer guests — guests who vanished come September. Tired, hungry, and already annoyed by the endless lines, I just wanted to get my food and go.
That’s when it happened. An older woman tapped me on the shoulder and accused me of cutting the line.
“I’ve been in line like everyone else,” I replied, puzzled.
“You cut the line!” she insisted.
“Back off,” I shot back, feeling the frustration rise. “I’ve been here for 15 minutes, just like everyone else.”
But she kept going, demanding I go to the back of the line. Her voice got louder, and I could feel my anger increasing.
That’s when I lost it. “Say one more word to me, and you’ll regret it,” I warned, clenching my fist.
Her reply? Yelling even louder. “Get to the back of the line!”
I had heard enough. In an instant, I stepped right up to her, face to face. “You better hope I don’t see you outside of Brent’s, you TOURIST,” I warned, nearly losing my temper. “Because I will bash your face in.”
The woman went silent. I walked out.
Becoming What You Criticize
In that moment, I realized something: I had become one of them. The seasonal locals I had once viewed with disdain—the ones consumed by frustration each summer — had claimed me. I had crossed over into that bitter, impatient territory.
As I headed to Maidstone Deli for fried chicken (their version is great), I had an epiphany. I didn’t want to be that person. I didn’t want the stress of summer crowds and long lines to turn me into a bitter local.
Turning It Around
So, I made a vow: no more anger. I won’t let the chaos of the season steal my peace. No more wanting to punch old people in the face (heck, I’m old!). I wouldn’t allow impatience or frustration to control my mood. I wouldn’t become a bitter local — I would hold onto the reason I moved here in the first place: to enjoy the beauty, community, and calm.
Sometimes, it takes a moment of madness to remind you of what truly matters.
