This Week in Housekeeping: Pam Anderson's Renaissance
Nuclear Subs, Maxwell on the Move, Wexner Buys Obama’s Vineyard, Spencer Pratt Targets Gavin Newsom, Biden Bunks in Malibu, and Justin Bieber Quietly Burning it All Down
“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Hello. Happy August.
I’m homesick after 16 days away. Headed back tomorrow.
I swear every time we leave for vacation some kind of critical event arises to interrupt peace of mind. With four kids, it’s enviable.
Just as we were settling into the ease of old Tuscany, an earthquake overseas triggered a tsunami warning back home. Meanwhile, our house transformed into free lodging for half the town’s teenagers. Once my best friend—acting as house guard—left, their friends started showing up one by one. Within a week, the Kraus boys were running a pop-up youth hostel. And a pack of teenage boys isn’t exactly ideal during the threat of a natural disaster.
The silver lining is that they’re all survivalists. Arlo taught his youngest brother (coddled as the baby of the family) how to fend for himself by making gourmet turkey sandwiches with rustic sourdough left behind by neighbors. Occasionally, I’d received photos of his creations as signs of life on the rare days he was left in the care of this ragged surf crew situation.
The trip itself felt like something out of a mid-century novel—romantic, chaotic, filled with unforgettable characters and eclectic occupations and taste. We found ourselves paired with self-made coal miners turned moguls, beauty queens, drag queens, conservative gays, a German politician campaigning for mayor, Gucci-sponsored singers with weaponized hip thrusts and roses tucked into leather belts, a young Elvis impersonator discovered at Mar-a-Lago, opera singers, artists, and actors. Scenery that restored all faith in foreign contentment.
For fourteen days we moved like blissed-out newlyweds drifting through a dream of endless wine and late-night conversation. All orchestrated by one dynamic couple. Scheduling flawless—aside from one detour. Left to our own devices, we (Mike) took a wrong turn and ended up stranded on a crumbling mountain road in Tuscany with no gas, no cell service, and no sign of life. For an hour I was convinced we were on a death route—a closed road with the sign missing. I had to stop myself from drafting farewell texts to the boys to explain that their father had killed us in Italy because he refused to ask for directions prior to the outing.
In my post-European glow, I’ll refrain from complaints about navigational peril or the famously glacial pace of Italian hospitality. But they really do move so slowly. As overworked Americans, who are we to tell them to speed things up?
I’m in London now, waiting on a cappuccino, contemplating mashed potatoes for breakfast, reading about Trump ordering nuclear subs repositioned “closer to Russia,” trying to find the energy to pull myself together for a barbecue at a friend’s flat later today.
Yesterday, I sat with a trusted source who showed me Ghislaine Maxwell’s Instagram for the first time, unlocking the mystery of who she was in the primitive days of social media. Turns out she was just like the rest of us—prone to posting sunrise photos, bragging about her dogs, and indulging friends with close-up images of seashell-encrusted heels.
Better scoop was information gleaned— regarding under-examined theories on Epstein and his early ties to Les Wexner.
Wexner, btw, is now the proud owner of Obama’s vineyard estate.
According to Elle Magazine:
“Blue Heron Farm, the former Martha’s Vineyard summer retreat of President Barack Obama and his family, has sold to Les Wexner, 87-year-old founder of L Brands, for $37 million... The estate covers about 30 acres and features a 7,000-square-foot main house with classic white clapboard and a wraparound porch, a guesthouse in traditional Cape style, a boathouse, a 150-year-old barn moved from Pennsylvania, a riding ring, tennis and basketball courts, gardens, an apple orchard, and a private stretch of waterfront on Tisbury Great Pond.”
How’s that for coincidence?
Flashback:
Summer Martha in Saint Barts 1980 / BB in France
