Once I was summering in Binghamton with the painter Frank Moore and there was a lovely French lass there, sitting on the dock, her toes trailing in the water of the lake, eating dates. She was discussing the joys of being right there in Bing*hampt*on, as she said in her accent, and it was then I realized: Binghamton and the other equally depressed bergs of depressed greater New York State are the only Hamptons that truly matter for those who wish to arrive on the next spiritual plane with their souls intact and clean.

(Source: alexbalk)