Friday, July 13, 2012


They landed. The plane came down at Atlantic City International Airport, a state of the art place, but ever so slightly more discreet, especially for those seeking the shadows. Papa's glad to get back. He's arranged for a mega-suite at The Ritz Carlton Hotel, west of Broad Street. Cases of the finest vodkas are being delivered as we speak. And the 'Natashas' will be quite pleased to see the high style assortment sent over from the best boutiques and salons along Rittenhouse Row.

Although Mr. Usipov is able to communicate telepathically, he wishes to acquire a certain proficiency with the English language and the hotel will supply him with a personal concierge conversant in Russian, Ukrainian and Old Slavonic, not to mention accomplished handlers for Vladimir and Olga, his supremely aristocratic, blue ribbon, magnificent Borzois.

Look, you must be patient. He is a very private individual and I do not wish to wind up a preserved specimen in a triple Nebuchadnezzar of top shelf vodka...

So allow me to retreat a bit. Permit me to observe. 

Come back tomorrow evening. God willing, I'll tell you more...

Oh, and the 'old bones'?  Well, let's just say he's making memories with the 'Natashas.'


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