When we last left our heroine Lady Gaga, she to an Island-based photographer that she was searching for property on Martha's Vineyard. She hoped to have him and his wife over for a glass of wine, she said.
I made the calculated but incorrect guess that Gaga would target the Up Island area where privacy is maximal. But soon rumors flew fast and furious that the rock diva had settled on a plot of land overlooking Cape Pogue on the northern shore of Chappaquiddick, and that carpenters, stone masons, and contractor Peter Rosbeck were hard at work on the new showplace.
(Note to the blond-wigged rock star: If you invite anyone to drive all the way across the Island, after which they board the rickety ferry and then bump down the loop-de-loop road to your digs, you’ll need to serve something besides wine, maybe protein bars and Gatorade to restore their electrolytes. And you might want to have a St. Bernard on hand with a cask of brandy.)
I phoned an old buddy—we’ll call him Joey—who himself manages various properties on Chappy to catch up on the scoop. My not-so-secret info was that Gaga’s new site bordered Meg Ryan’s seven acres.
Picture these two stars borrowing cups of sugar from one another: The outrageous and gaga Gaga and Meg, the Girl Next Door who seems so nice even I can imagine cadging that cup of sugar, driving all the way out from Oak Bluffs to do so. But au contraire, according to writer Calvin Eaves on www.spooftime.com: Meg Ryan is the Girl-Next-Door-From-Hell in their side-by-side Manhattan apartments. She complains constantly about stuff like his stereo being too loud. When her kids’ dad and her ex, Dennis Quaid, shows up, a call to the police routinely follows. Her new BF, 59-year-old rocker, John Mellencamp, chops the blocks of anyone coming within 10 feet of his sweetie. I don’t see how our girl Gaga could borrow that sugar unless she zip-lined the cup down from her house.
In any event, my pal Joey knows the whereabouts of Meg Ryan’s road. But first, because his clothes were sopping wet when he picked me up at the Chappy ferry, (he’d washed them in one of his properties but ran out of time to dry them), we had to stop at another house to toss them in the dryer.
“So the plan is,” I said to clarify matters, “before we go hunting for Lady Gaga’s house, I have to look at you naked while your clothes dry?”
“I’ll wrap a towel around myself,” he said.
Once we got rolling, we drove for, like, forever down a meandering country road.
At a certain point we saw, on our left, a new construction site, loaded with equipment and fenced with that weird orange webbing that you order from the Ugly Store. We turned onto the driveway past No Trespassing signs that neither of us could read because we’re dyslexics. “GnissapserT oN?” we conferred with each other, then continued up the hill.
It was 5:30 at night, so whatever workers had been there had decamped. There’s not much in place yet—a foundation and sub-flooring, and big steel beams over an area that realtors have taken to calling the great room. To your right are two stories of what’s laid out to be seven or eight rooms. It sounds big, but everything’s admirably compact. The important part is the view over Cape Pogue, then out to the Sound— about as commanding a sea view as anyone is ever likely to enjoy. I’d live there if I were a rock star. Heck, I’d live there if I were a struggling writer in Oak Bluffs hunkered over a drug store.
The house looks coo-coo and contemporary, which has the Gaga stamp all over it. There’s this bunker sort of thing that faces all callers mounting the driveway, a squat square of horizontal cedar planks rising from a cement wall. It could be a garage, but you could also mount a gunnery there if you’re serious about discouraging paparazzi.
Joey estimated the house requires another year to reach completion. He spent most of his time combing through a big mound of dirt for arrowheads. I think Lady Gaga can take this as a sign that Vineyarders have little interest in her outré lifestyle, and she can enjoy her retreat from the world of Kermit frog capes, eye make-up that looks spray-painted on by a South Central gang and Monster Ball World tours.
All that glitters for Island boys is an 1899 Indian head penny poking up from the sands of a Chappy beach.