Where In The Heck Is The Hussy? Season 2. Part 372

Oops, she's done it again.

Are you sick of it yet?

Here There Where?

I'm getting tired too.


Well, I would have driven anywhere (not quite to Bend, Oregon- where she lives) to see her.




Because she's my blood, even though she has straight blond hair.




Because she has the sweetest voice.




And the sweetest eyes.





And since we're on the topic of eyes.




He's related to me too. Can't you see the resemblance? Our abilities to eat french fries lie deep in the gene pool.




But he is definitely my brother's son. Definitely.




He gets his brains from him.



It just wasn't enough time, though, to get to know them more. And I regret that 20 hours of daylight hours didn't seem to fill in the 363 days I go without seeing them. And I am sad.

But we had things to do and people to see and about 2,000 other people to get nearly nude with and swim in a wave pool of urine at this place. But 3 boys turning 6 get their way. And my germiphobia had its way with me. I haven't been able to scrub it all off. Two days too many.

But then we had to get home so I could get on one of these things:





With her. The beautiful lady on the left.




We were going to surprise this guy. Who happens to be her brother. Who happens to have written this book. Which is about a night out on the town in N.Y.C. Which is the place he lives. Which is the place where they grew up. Which is where we went to celebrate with him.



The party was at this place. Which is where she was born. And the walls, despite being freshly painted, have the stories of famous people dripping from them. They are adorned with Paris Review art. Medora said they were missing the book shelves, which once stacked George's identity tightly together.

She had stories of the place...water balloons off the roof, watching naked women jump out of cakes from the top of the spiral staircase, hiding under tables with feet like lion paws, learning how to play piano in this corner, sitting on the window seats watching tankers float by on the East River, playing on the rock patio at the end of the culdesac.

But the night wasn't about her or about her father. It was about Taylor, who wrote a book and maneuvered around his guests, signing books, with the ease handed down to him from his father. It appeared meant to be.

Me? I chatted with James Lipton. Me and him. He had stories of puppet shows in the apartment when Medora and Taylor were young. He considers them his own children because he didn't have any of his own and as I listened I had a hard time not staring at the large gap of skin between his upper lip and his mustache. And I couldn't help but wonder if he paid someone for his grooming or whether that was something he accomplished on his own. I mainly had a hard time focusing on any other feature because that was what my eye looked straight at. The dood is short. And he has a humpback and he shuffles around like a character out of a Disney movie. But he's famous. And he's talked to the likes of Brad, and Angie, and Johnny Depp and now me. He didn't ask me any questions though. And I regret that I didn't have a chance to tell him that I'm a traveling Hussy.



I regret, too, that I never had a chance to meet George. I was told he made everyone feel appreciated and special. This is the room where he typed away his legacy. His shrine was taken down but I could see him sitting there. He was genetically engineered for greatness. I am hoping that that kind of expectation rubbed off on me, just by being in the space.


In a moment before boarding the plane, when I had a chance to sit (feels like a month ago) I noticed a series of poems written on rattan mats.

I particularly loved this one and as it's approaching August I thought it fitting:

August

a slice of light shifted places
with a sliver of darkness
clouds unwrapped a storm
in the unwalled meadows of air.





I fear a storm within me brewing.