Life, 1922-08-17 · page 12 of 36
Life — August 17, 1922 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a satirical poem mocking American summer resort culture. Parker's refrain—"I hate Summer Resorts; They ruin my vacation"—frames ironic complaints about resort experiences. The poem ridicules the pretensions and tedium of these destinations: overcrowded beaches, shallow socializing, stale gossip about infidelities, and manufactured "scenery" (postcards of places like Lovers' Leap). Parker mocks both the resorts themselves and the guests who gather there, describing inane conversations about children's ailments and the performative claims of seeing rare wildlife. The satire targets the false promise that these commercial establishments offer genuine relaxation or connection to nature. Instead, Parker presents resorts as sites of social posturing, gossip, and boredom—places that ironically spoil the very vacation they promise.
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HATE Summer Resorts; They ruin my vacation. There is the Seaside Hotel. ‘The booklets say that it is right on the water, And they aren't much over quarter-of-a-mile out of the way. You are never at a loss for something to do; You can go down by the waves And watch the gentleman in sneakers Trying out his Little Admiral water-wings, Or you can sit on the porch And listen to the lady in the next rocker Explain that this is the first Summer she has ever been to a place Where the rates were less than fifteen dollars a day. There is always lots of excitement down on the beach,— Group photographs are constantly being taken, And posses are being formed to find the person or persons Who took the garters out of bathhouse number 38 And if you play your cards right, You may be able to find a dead horseshoe crab. The more highly-strung guests take you aside and tell you How much the water means to them, And how they wish they could stay there beside it for ever and ever,— Good here! A@ there is the place where you can get Back to Nature, Or even farther. The house was built When electric lights were regarded as Edison's Folly, And the surface of plumbing had only been scratched, And the proprietor hasn’t got around to making any changes. You can tell the tennis court by the net; Otherwise you would think it was an old-fashioned rock garden Planted with all the flowers mentioned in Shakespeare's works, And if you want to play golf, You will find a course three counties to the left. The guests are like one big family,— Just like that. You sit at the table with a lady from Montclair Who gives talks on the trouble that Junior has had with his tonsils. Everyone says how restful it all is, And how it seems as if the city must be a thousand miles away,— It’s an under-estimate. LIFE Hymn of Hate Dorothy Parker ‘HERE is the Synthetic Newport; Luke-warm Dog! The life is pretty fairly speedy; Many of the young married set inhale right out in public, Silver frequently changes hands after the bridge games, And you'd almost think the cocktails were made «i the real stuff— That goes for the whole works. Extra-mural affection is generally indulged in; If you sit down next to your own husband, It’s all over the country club that you are insanely jealous of him. The revelers have their intellectual side, too; There is scarcely one of them that hasn't read “The Sheik.” They are the first to concede that they are hitting things up. They say that there won't be a thing left of them If they keep up the pace all Summer,— Stay with ’em, boys! ND then there is the Mountain Resort; The Home of American Scenery. You can go yodling up Old Baldy— Five hundred feet above sea level— Or you can collect postcard views of Lovers’ Leap, To pass around among your friends on Winter evenings. You can't conscientiously call it a Summer Until you get a good, clear day When you can figure out Washington's profile in the peaks,— . You can see a better one on a two-cent stamp Even when it’s raining. The gossip on the porch keeps you right on the edge of your seat; One transient tells how he is pretty sure he saw a trout jump, And hardly has the uproar died down . Before someone else claims to have found some genuine maidenhair fern. The guests are seldom without a kind word for the landscape, And they have nothing but praise to offer the air,— It’s all theirs. I hate Summer Resorts; They ruin my vacation. comicbooks.com