I know, I know. I've said it before. Richard Gere and I don't really get along. I don't get him. His appeal makes minimal sense. I have learned to accept his sex-symbol status as one of the great mysteries of the world.
I would, however, buy his renovated farmhouse in the Hamptons had I an extra $8.8 million kicking around.
It's borderline residential perfection. See the entire slideshow here. And drool a little.
If I come into a massive fortune in the next little while and then suddenly disappear, you can assume I'm sitting on that porch, scribbling away at a novel. Maybe sipping tea. If it's after this coming Sunday,* that tea might be coffee. If I'm not there, I'm hanging out in the artist's studio, creating something amazing and top-secret.
*I'm assuming it will be. Or else I'll be indoors. New York isn't the tropics. The porch will have to wait until I'm warm.
To those who've scoffed at my dreams of farmhouse living, I hope you're happy living in your sterile characterless condos.
The rest of you are welcome to crash at my new place. I'll make you omelets for breakfast.
(The only deal-breaker would be a lack of laundry room. I'm assuming there is one, but it's not listed. My dream house has laundry. Non-negotiable.)