You know the scene in Slackers when Jeff goes to Dave and Sam, “We have been getting screwed by the system. The system that forces us guys to like girls. Alright? We’re getting pushed into this. What if we just take the girls out of it? We can have our own system, it’s a counter-system. And then, you do things together, you swim, you row, you…boat, you eat, you stink. We can just be guys! You can have sex, you can do it, you know, many guys at a time, but it’s not gay!”? We feel like the three trips the New York Stock Exchange’s Gulfstream IV has made to San Francisco in the last six days are probably setting the stage for some sort of eerily similar Dear Diary moment involving John Thain and the male members of the NYSE Group.

Aren’t vacation homes the best? Life just gets so hard sometimes that it’s important to have a place where you can go for a little R&R, where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came (unless you’re building some sort of monstrosity that devalues the property value of their lots), where you can sleep ‘til noon and the help serves your eggs Florentine to you in bed (and then some, if they think you’ll make good on your offer for “a little extra in the Navidad stocking”), where you can lounge by the pool and get melanoma without inhaling those toxic city fumes, and where you can bask in a relatively scandal free landscape, where no one is sleeping with no one’s husband and no one is treating himself to a nice 10-Martini lunch. It’s all just so…refreshing. But, sometimes, it’s not enough to simply get away from the home wrecking vulvas of Manhattan. Sometimes people crave more, and if you’re Mayor Mikey Bloomberg, that rumbling in your stomach isn’t indigestion from this afternoon’s three chili dogs, it’s a reverberation that’s trying to stand up and say: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK ABOUT QUEENS, EXCUSE YOURSELF TO THE MEN’S ROOM, AND LET US OUT OF HERE! But whereas that’s the literal translation of the embarrassing racket coming from your lower abdomen, the more metaphorical, less scatological one is that if you’re anything like Mikey B., the Hamptons just doesn’t cut it. You need a place that’s a little more, shall we say…powdered sugar, as opposed to brown? Which is why Big B took a nice little flight to Burlington Int’l on his Mooney M20M Bravo, a few days back. Ah yes, the fresh mountain air, the lack of minorities, the adorable little hippies with their hemp necklaces, the lack of Spanish people, the adorable little hippies and their (unbreakable) Nalgenes, the lack of Asian people, the adorable little hippies and their marijuana-cigarettes, the lack of—HOLY SHIT THERE’S A BLACK GUY IN VERMONT! PLEASE SAY HE WORKS AT THE MAPLE SYRUP FACTORY, PLEASE SAY HE WORKS AT THE MAPLE SYRUP FACTORY, PLEASE SAY HE WORKS AT THE MAPLE SYRUP FACTORY…OH, THANK GOD. That got scary there for a second.

If you’re like us, you’ve never been to Puff Diddy’s “White Party” in the Hamptons; we would never deign to attend such a nouveau riche, obviously racist event. But while we have little to no respect for such a colorless soiree, we will concede the point that it probably takes a fairly involved level of planning to pull off. This year’s WP takes place on August 1 in St. Tropez (an even more déclassé venue than the H’tons). As such, we imagine that Combsie was knee-deep in details during his flight to Truckee Tahoe on the ole Piper Malibu Mirage from an undisclosed origin, less than a fortnight back. Crab cakes or puffs, Diddy or Daddy, clowns or balloon animals—we’re sure it was all discussed. But most important on the agenda? SC’s visceral and vehement opposition to one thing, and its presence at his party: sprinkles. Yes, apparently, sprinkles are to Piddy what Tupac is to Biggie: dead. “ONE SPRINKLE,” he was sure to have hissed, “and I will scratch your eyes out.” “ONE SPRINKLE,” he must’ve cackled, “and I will whip out a bullhorn and perform “Can’t Nobody Hold Me Down” a cappella until your ears start to bleed and you develop a rash." “ONE SPRINKLE,” we’re betting the house on the fact that he all of a sudden started creepily whispering, “and I will rip out your eyes, and p*** into your dead skull! You f***ed with the wrong Marine!* While this is happening, “Mo Money Mo Problems” will be playing on a PA system nearby. Stop laughing; I am serious about this. Deadly serious."

*We're feeling a little PG-13 today. Accept it. Accept it.