The NY Times is off again on Madoff's "modest" beach home in Montauk, Long Island, New York. "Only 3 014 square feet," they say. Not palatial.
So Madoff was not nouveau riche. He's been in the fraud business for years, not some fly-by-night dot com millionaire. Here today, gone tomorrow. Nope.
The new style gazillion square feet houses in East Hampton are obscenities. The people who write these articles haven't lived the good life in the Hampton's in the summer. It's not about the size of the bedroom or whether it has a walk-in closet. It's not about the kitchen. It's about the beach, and the pool. It's about taking your nap on the terrace, not in your too-small bedroom. Reading your book or the New York Times on the terrace with that second or third cup of coffee. Making the scene at Citarella or the farmer's market.
It's about grilling or going out to dinner with friends, lingering over lunch in town. It's about hanging out, not living the celebrity lifestyle with your plane and the nanny and the 70,000 square foot house whose furnishings I shudder to think about.
It's not about living the lah-di-dah life in Palm Beach or Newport with the priceless antiques and the uncomfortable rooms and furniture.
It's the beach, dummy. The view. The sand. The water. The privacy. It's not about impressive your so-called friends with the size of your walk-in closets.
I'd take Bernie's place in a heartbeat over the mansions of the cocaine conquistadors and all the funny money that built those big ugly monstrosities on the beach. Bigger than the Maidstone. Yuck!