The Return of Summer Fridays: The Best Seasonal Newsletter Ever Is Back
Rhetorical questions, COCAINE WINE?!, the utility of media gossip, rave giraffes, Hamptons Scamfluencers, and more? Oh yes. Your favorite newsletter's favorite newsletter is so, so motherfucking back.
Today is Friday, May 29th, 2026.
It’s the 2nd Summer Friday of the year, 14 to go until Labor Day.
New in theaters this weekend is The Backrooms, the A24-produced film starring Chiwetel Ejiofor, Renate Reinsve, and Mark Duplass, by 20-year-old director Kane Parsons .
In sports, Game 7 of the NBA Western Conference Finals, with the Spurs and Thunder going at it on Saturday night.
Finally, around the world today, the weather: New York City: 76/62, partly sunny • Athens: 81/66, chance of showers • Paris: 92/75, hot, mostly cloudy • London: 76/64, clea—
—oh, shit, wait: It’s summer again? YES IT IS (categorically speaking) SUMMER AGAIN! For the uninitiated, welcome back. New people: I’m Foster, you can read more about what this whole mess is here, but in short, here’s the deal: It’s a—wait, you know what? You tell me: What kind of Substack do you think this is?
The supposedly-literary-and-soul-penetrating-but-actually-emotionally-manipulative-and-AI-written one?
The diaristic-and-ostensibly-full-of-vulnrable-insights (but probably still AI-written) one?
The conventional-wisdom-repackaged-as-insider-info one?
The quippy supposedly need-to-know one?
The actually-useful one?
Correct answer, my sweet summer (Friday) child: No. This newsletter exists for fun, above all — what it’s for is who it’s for. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t, I’d love for you to scroll all the way to the bottom, and slam that motherfucking unsubscribe button like a perfectly set volleyball of rejection, ready to be spiked into my face (from which it will pfshh into the sand at my feet).
No, really! It’s okay if you do, and in fact, encouraged. The problem with everyone trying to make money off of everyone and everything is: Most people, while well-meaning, adhere to the law of averages where vibes, joy, rapture, resplendence, and Getting It are concerned. Luckily, there are plenty of people around here who do, in fact, get it. And to them, I say: I blame myself, but I’m back because of you. Thank you — seriously. Also, Summer Fridays Radio will return for the season, soon. I, for one, am excited.
Now, shall we?
Table Of Contents:
1. DRUGS + DRINKING: The Greatest Dinner Party Gift of the Summer
2. DEPT. OF QUERIES: Rhetorical Questions In Headlines, Answered
3. PARTY REPORT: Scenes from the Fulton Fish Market + That One Bar In Gowanus
4. CRIME TIME: Early Hamptons Blotter Season
5. RATE CHECK: The $87,257 Hamptons Hotel Room
1. The Greatest Dinner Party Gift of The Summer
Did someone say COCAINE WINE?!?!
Shocker: The single most-read issue in the history of FOSTERTALK was 2024’s “The Most Important Drug(s) of the Summer,” which, two years ago, were poppers and steroids (on account of The Straights appropriating TERROR ZONE culture and, as we learned, the critical need for people to have smaller balls). Being as it is the mere start of summer, it’s nigh impossible to predict what drugs may come once we have fully shuffled off spring’s coil, but a well-placed correspondent/HNWI scumbag writes in:
You gotta do a thing on the cocaine wine I keep hearing is going around the city. It would not surprise me if it became a hot item this summer. You can only get it from really good/high-grade dealers aka the kind everyone lies about having. I was told it is a digestif made with cocaine or cocaine leaves [they mean “coca leaves”—ed.] that you can mix with some wine or you can just drink over the rocks, and that a few sips gets you zippy, and a couple of gulps will give you a really really good time. They say it goes for $300 or $400 a bottle.
Readers, a confession: I’m actually not, myself, a fan of the blowcaine, the Peruvian permafrost, the Bolivian blanco’chichi, the Colombian cackalacka, et al. Rather than bore you with my ethical position against it — which: less about doing it, more about buying it, should be obvious to anyone who knows how it gets here — I’ll say this: Coke usually makes the most interesting people you know less interesting, and (far worse!) makes the most uninteresting people you know believe they’re interesting (as opposed to psychedelics, which make everyone more interesting) (or ketamine, which just makes everyone a 🐴).
Alas, in their heart of hearts, cokeheads know the only really fun part of doing cocaine (I HEAR) is (A) wanting more and (B) cramming with your friends into a small room or space you’re not supposed to be in and going shut the door SHUT THE DOOR SHHH SHUTTHEDOOR!! which people stop doing after you’re, like, 24?
Largely, I’m sorry to tell you, coke sucks (always has), but in 2026, in New York City, it’s also almost entirely super-stepped-on trash that can actually straight-up kill you the first time you do it! And we haven’t even gotten to the deworming agent of it all! (Seriously, look up levamisole, shit is gross; also, if you’ve ever been in a room full of people high on New York Coke, you’ll quickly come to the conclusion that clearly, those worms are good for something.)
All that said: “Cocaine wine” (a.k.a. Vin Mariani) is very much a real thing. Just not, like, here. Where it’s very illegal. And where you’d have to import it. Also, if you’ve ever worked an NYC service industry job, you know if Cocaine Fernet were out in full force we’d alllllllllll know by now, it’d be running sponsored ads in Caper, for fuck’s sake. But again, apparently, it’s real, and more than a few popes have been fans, and also, Thomas Edison was known to enjoy it. Anyway, if any of you cokie monsters get your hands on this mythological cocaine drank, I obviously need to know more about it. Please, if you drink it, leave me a voice message at least halfway down the bottle.
2. Rhetorical Questions In Headlines, Answered!
In which we clean out the FOSTERTALK notebooks for a not-really-all-that-summery feature but whatever, we’re shaking off some rust for this first one.
“Is it still cool to be Jay McInerney?” Hasn’t been for years!
“Do I Need To Watch Girls?” Not if you haven’t seen every episode of both Bluey and Deadwood, first.
“Why Are L.A.’s Restaurants So Loud?” BECAUSE ONE MUST SPEAK AT HIGHER VOLUMES IN A CITY OFT ENGAGED EN MASSE IN AUTO-PROCTOLOGY, WHICH IS NOT UNRELATED TO HOW YOU PEOPLE END UP PAYING $28 FOR AURA SMOOTHIES AND NAMING YOUR SPWAN “SPARROW” AND “UVULA” AND LETTING SPENCER PRATT RUN FOR MAYOR.
“Will gossip save digital media?” Can the sound of one ass clapping extinguish a trash fire?
“Can I Use A.I., Get Away With It, and Not Lose My Soul?” Brother, if you gotta ask!
This has been another edition of Rhetorical Questions, Answered! Sponsored by our good friends at the Center for Enjoying All Of Your “Goodbye To All That” New York Kiss-Off Essays All These Years Later Ha Ha Ha. Also, the Betteridge’s Law of Headlines Wikipedia Page: Teaching the world that the standard for yes/no questions in headlines as this, and only this. Got any rhetorical questions that need answering? Please, send ‘em right over.
3. Summer Party Report!
What are the hottest parties of the summer? Whichever ones FOSTERTALK PRESENTS: SUMMER FRIDAYS attends, of course.
Solomun @ Fulton Fish Market + Knockdown Center: The longest-running MacArthur Genius Grant snub, the only recipient of a 6500 word New Yorker profile for an electronic music artist, Solomun, played a five hour show at the relocated Fulton Fish Market in the Bronx last Saturday. There was barely any cover, and it rained nearly the entire goddamn time. And yet: Attendance likely peaked somewhere over 10,000 people. People kept pouring in! As one astute observer noted of the crowd, like gremlins, don’t feed them (drugs) after midnight, and definitely don’t get them wet, either. These people were going fucking nuts. I made it all five hours, mostly under what little cover there was, because like any meek Victorian child/New York Jew, I catch cold easily. This was followed by an after-party set at Knockdown that went 12-6AM, after which, I’m reliably told, Solomun went downstairs to Basement and danced for another goddamn hour. Had I been on drugs, maybe same, but having rawdogged both shows (read: only tequila) I tapped out at 3:42am, and I’m convinced (A) this man’s body must one day be donated to science and (B) all of these endurance longevity lifemaxxer clowns need to step their motherfucking game up. You don’t need peptides, you need five CD-Js, eight USBs, 11 hours of deep house, enough Cala Azul Repasado to set your blood on fire, and tinnitus for the next three days (sick).
OnlyFantasy Premiere Party @ Lowlands Bar: As the sacred texts say, at the end of the day, we’re all either showing pole or showing hole! And yet, the great multimedia document of the OnlyFans era has yet to emerge—until now! That’d be beloved New York narrative podcast daimyo Leon Neyfakh and comedian Gracie Canaan’s new show, OnlyFantasy. To celebrate, a party at Lowlands, in Gowanus, a bar/neighborhood I’ve only been to for podcast parties. And thank god it wasn’t nuked, because what would you hear while doing the dishes if everyone who works in elite podcasting got vaporized in the blink of an eye?!
There were also people there from plenty of other forms of media in various states ranging from “surprisingly thriving” to “wait you’ve still got a job?” to “how’s the new gig in PR/they hiring?” who I only see once a year at podcast parties. There was an open bar and free pizza, which is not why everyone in media likes Leon, but it can’t hurt! I walked in and immediately ran into the host himself, wearing a burgundy cashmere number that he looked a little warm in (it later came off). Someone woozily came up to us, double-fisting Coronas, having successfully happied his happy hour. “I hope it’s alright that I’m telling people that you invented the podcast, or, the great podcast,” they blurted to Leon, who blushed, kindly responding: “What’s the Mitch Hedberg line? ‘I don’t have a girlfriend—but I do know a woman who’d be mad at me for saying that.’” Honestly, could’ve left after that, but didn’t. Instead I stayed in the backyard while Tani and I tried to map its various geographies: n+1 alum and friends table, podcast people corner, Timespeople huddle, post-Conde scrum, Christian Lorentzen Blasting Cigs, etc. I also saw Summer Fridays Beach Reads Hall Of Famer Molly Young with Kate Riley, who wrote the novel Ruth, which is great, and also a fantastic summer read, but didn’t say hi, because I had to get out of there before I ate any pizza. What?! It’s normalized disordered eating season, people, and I’ve got a figure to maintain, lest I’m forced to put FUPAFEK behind the paywall as my next media job (and Leon has to make a podcast about that).
Perfectly Imperfect “Guide to Brooklyn” @ Ace Hotel Browait wait WAIT JUST A GODDAMN MINUTE, I just finished listening to the first episode of Leon’s podcast up there (yeah I actually engage with the things I go to media parties for unlike the rest of you shameless pizza leeches) and LOL HOLY SHIT, is it a wild time. Get this: In the first five minutes, Leon tells us that his younger sister has an OnlyFans and is interviewing his younger sister about her OnlyFans and that’s somehow only the third-most wild ass thing you’ll hear on that first episode. Folks, we have our front-runner for POD OF THE SUMMER (NARRATIVE). Seriously, OnlyFantasy, give it a listen, STRONG BUY RATING ISSUED.1
4. The East Hampton Star Crime Blotter, Graded.
Speaking of ways the rich don’t know how to spend it, it’s been far, far, far too long since we’ve visited upon America’s greatest crime blotter, that of The East Hampton Star. The season is barely in anything resembling full swing, and the assmaxxing bros of Dive Bar are already getting the boot, our moneyed benzo queens are already hard at work losing their shit, while someone else has discovered an incredible way to get a heavily discounted beachside stay. Shall we?
4.1: At 2 a.m. Saturday, a man called police to say he’d been kicked out of Dive Bar Pizza and that the bouncers had been “rude” to him. He told police he was not hurt, however, and would leave the area.
6.3: A Sag Harbor woman reported her Land Rover stolen from the parking lot of East Hampton Airport last Thursday. Police determined that she had in fact parked at the Francis S. Gabreski Airport in Westhampton Beach.
7.1: A man who told police he’d felt sorry for a couple left stranded on the side of the road at 2:30 a.m. on May 11…went home to get a gas can and then let the couple follow him to his house to spend the night. When he asked them to leave at around 11 a.m., they said their keys were locked in their car. Police were called, and the good Samaritan eventually paid to have the car towed to the municipal parking lot at Umbrella Beach.
7.7: A Deer Park woman2 called police after being refused service at Anthony’s Pancake House Sunday morning; the restaurant owner does not allow strollers inside and her dog was in a stroller. In the end, she and the dog were allowed to stay.
7.9: On May 20, a man cleaning a barbecue grate with a grinder at 6 a.m. on Bailow Lane, off East Hollow Road, was cited for violating the noise ordinance.
8.1: A Richards Drive resident called on May 20 to report that his BMW X5 had gone missing overnight, adding that his daughter had awakened him at 3 a.m. to report flashing lights and beeping in the driveway. After a brief investigation, police determined that the S.U.V. in question had been repossessed.
Fittingly, this issue’s real winner was never gonna top the transportation-related headline dominating this week’s paper, replete with the most fair deployment of its final word I’ve seen in this lifetime: “L.I.R.R. Strike Settled in Time for the Onslaught.” God help you locals.
5. Rate Check: The $87,257 Hamptons Hotel Room (?)
Speaking of (what will forever be known herein as) THE ONSLAUGHT, a Summer Fridays tipster sent over a reel of Piper Phillips, an influencer/creator type who supposedly — in looking to book accommodations for a singing-with-guitar job at Gurneys in Montauk — went viral after posting about finding the price of a room at nearby hotel Barlume Beach over July 4th weekend: $87,257.
That seemed, shall we say, expensive. Even for The Hamptons. Where, indeed, ~$1K/night can often be the running rate for Not-A-Shithole. Alas, a quick check of the Barlume website proved: Not so much. Rooms at Barlume go $765/night ($961 with fees) for July 4th weekend, Thursday - Sun. Still absurd by most measures, but not $87K-absurd. If I’m paying $87K a night for a room, it better come with something more than Montauk beachfront: gratis dead hooker removal, an ayahuasca shaman, open minibar, gratis death-by-hooker, free valet. At least.
Anyway: Already, in the comments, after someone tagged the hotel, Piper Phillips has replied: “UPDATEEE THEY DMd me it was a glitch!!❤️ updated prices are there now. but this made me lol.” But sure enough, she hasn’t changed anything about the post, because: Engagement bait! This summer, do not source any travel information from Instagram or TikTok, both of which are endless fountains of bullshit.
That’ll do it for now. Sorry to everyone who saw the first draft of this with the wrong table of contents, lol. Summer Fridays Radio will return soon. Tips, ideas for stories, music suggestions, issues that need adjudicating? You know where to put ‘em. And thank you, thank you, thank you: To everyone who has read, and continues to read. I genuinely believe I’ve got, pound-for-pound, the best mailing list on Substack. You people are brilliant, hilarious, slightly insane, and that’s without mention of the fact that you entertain or dignify *gestures widely* all this.
Anyway, it’s Friday! It’s Summer! What’re you still doing here?! Scram, get outside and get it in, it’s time to be in the sun. ‘14 Summer Fridays left. Let’s make the most of them.
See you next week. Honestly, can’t wait.
As ever,
-f.
Please enjoy the strong whiff of Long Island-oriented provincialism/snobbery, here. This is like when I used to take reservations for (what we used to call) Balcatraz and would get a particularly nasty asshole on the phone and when they gave me their phone number I’d go ohhhh 201 okay no actually I’m sorry, we don’t have anything until 11:30pm tonight. But if you’re a friend of the owner as you say, you’re certainly welcome t— by which point they’d be screaming about my area code bias, which I didn’t actually have but enjoyed incepting in their brains anyway. That rage of theirs likely came with a spike in their blood pressure, and hypertension is, of course, the silent killer. So, did I enjoy quietly helping usher them to a quicker, strokier death? No. But did I feel a sense of duty towards it? Also, no. But I’ll say this: Rudeness is really among the top three worst qualities a human can have, and I will punish you relentlessly and mercilessly for yours.