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living room, they described, in what I could not be sure was a put-on or entrepreneurial brainstorm, a brand extension in which they would market a line of Google bras with the Os as convenient cups. In fact, the name Google, they said, was invented out of the belief that men would focus on a word with two Os in it. Since that trip, and through his travails, I have often been invited to his house to participate in the conversations that take place there. In sweatshirt, draw-string pants, palm beach slippers, and half glasses, Jeffrey Epstein—+that Epstein, most recently embroiled in charges involved under age girls and Alan Dershowitz and Prince Andrew—spends most of his day at his dining room table in the in front of a laptop and beside a row of reading glasses (there are a lot of them in case, apparently, he misplaces a pair, but being quite meticulous he never does) conducting what must surely be the world’s most extraordinary colloquial. These meetings, and this lifestyle, have somehow stayed private or secret—or apart—not out of any formal or stated restrictions, but because, in some sense, it would be very hard to explain just what you’re doing there with a brazen sex offender in a guffaw-inducing home flaunting all moderation. And yet, defying disgrace, and tolerating his tone deafness—or mocking attitude toward the zeitgeist—so many come. Gladly. Willingly. Feeling that his invitation is quite an extraordinary privilege. HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_024230