An Open Letter to Cape Cod Vacationers
To Whom This May Concern:
I recently sent my boyfriend a text message from a bar in Falmouth, MA called Liam McGuire’s. This watering hole, when last I checked, wasn’t a terrible place. But apparently in the months since I have last been to a bar on Cape Cod (and yes, it had actually been months) they have become overrun with a particular breed of people fitting this description: middle age or older, wearing polo shirts, pink seersucker pants with $285 belts with teeny tiny sperm whales all over them and deck/boat shoes of some kind. They are usually accompanied by tacky, heavily bejeweled overtan ladies who drink Cape Codders in excess and sing along with ridiculous faux Irish performers who inevitably disgrace their roots by playing Jimmy Buffet songs not-so-late in the evening while completely sober. They exude opulence and throw money around to try to get over how terrifyingly boring their lives are.
What did the text message say, you ask? I’ll leave that to your imagination.
Frankly, the evening and experience made me want to drive to Boston immediately and accompany said boyfriend to the most distinctly non-Cape Cod bar we could find. ( The People’s Republik or The B-Side in Cambridge? The Model Cafe or Our House in Allston/Brighton? I’m open to suggestions. ) I could wear my new Chuck Taylors and get as indie/punk as I can manage, and we would listen to rock and roll music while drinking PBRs and talking about Marxist theory and the finer points of the Family Guy. Maybe—and I mean maybe—at that point I would have the stain of being in that bar washed off of me.
So please, if you fit the description mentioned above and are considering making the trek to the Cape this coming week/weekend, take the extra time and go to the Hamptons instead. I hear there are more celebrity sightings there, and in truth, I have to live here now and it’s best if you and I do not try to coexist.