mi espacio es tu espacio

As a general rule I'm not into that whole online social thing. I think the whole scene is populated by losers and liars who post fake photos of themselves in order to mask their insecurities and inabilities to interact with real humans in real time.

However. . .

Recently the girlfriend of one of my friends sent me an email inviting me to join MySpace.

You may recall that bastard assistant district attorney confiscated my passport as a condition of my probation. I can no longer really travel in the physical world. "So," I reasoned, "why not spend some time in the virtual one?"

Ah, what the fuck. . . I signed up.

Join me, it might be fun.



Check me out!

about me, part two

Continuing from where I left off:

My memories of this town. . .

I first came here in the mid 1980's to attend The University. Yeah, I know, my family could have bought my way into almost any college on the planet. I know this because they tried but I wasn't interested.

I wasn't interested in other schools because an angel had already told me where I was going to college. Ah, sweet heavenly Farrah. Like The Great One (and every other heterosexual male of my generation), I too spent many hours holding up her poster with one hand.

When I learned that she had attended The University my mind was made up. My hormone addled adolescent brain reasoned that since Texas was such a big place surely there were countless others as hot as Farrah just waiting to be plucked like ripe grapes from a vine. Due to my fabulous good looks and insane wealth I had no doubt they would all want to bang me.

Boy, was I ever right.

Those were some crazy times. Ecstacy and all it's variants while technically illegal, existed in that gray area just on the other side of the law. They were all readily for sale in the parking lot of every club in town. Well okay, maybe not every club, only by the ones where the cool and the hip mingled with the hyper-sexed and the androgenous. I was three out of four. If you need a fucking clue let me just say nobody mistook me for a member of one of those lame-ass British techno-pop bands.

The Renaissance Market across from campus had not yet been officially sanctioned by the city and had not yet earned so distinguished a name. It was just a place where the homeless panhandled and the hippies peddled beaded jewelry, "tobacco pipes" and other trinkets to stoners, students, and tourists. When the sun set it became one of the best open air drug markets in the city.

It had drive-thru service for Chris'sakes. And drive-thru I did, many times. Pull up, roll down the window. Some homeless looking guy would approach and you would hand him a twenty in exchange for a small vial of blow or grass or small squares of paper. You could purchase powerful hallicinogens with the convenience of not having to get out of the car. Part of the rush was never knowing what you were getting: good shit, crap, something dangerous, or possibly deadly. The whole Russian Roulettish aspect just added to the thrill of our invincible young lives.

They were my carefree days of coeds and cocaine. It seems as though both were always readily available for my consumption.

Part of me wishes I could go back.

Part of me looks back with this weird mix of pride and embarrassment at my behavior in those days. The embarrassment waxes as my pride wanes.

Maybe this therapy crap is starting to have an impact.

Ah, who am I kidding. Tonight I'll probably wander from my downtown loft condo into the yuppie bars of the Warehouse District where the affluent and attractive mix, mingle and mate while hopped up on mojitos and low carb light beer.

I won't go home alone. I just won't. I'm not bragging. It's just how it is in my world. It's how it's always been in my world. I'm a Barrington.

therapy notes, part one

In last Thursday's therapy session the court ordered therapist said something about me being narcissistic.

I was like, "narci. . . what the fuck?"

He also said something about me needing to "learn to be able to recognize my limitations blah blah blah" so I'll admit to looking up the word before I typed it. I never could spell worth crap. Happy now, shrink?

I told him, "narciwhatever, dude. I'm coming to see you because the damn judge and the wormy A.D.A. said I have a problem with alcohol and I got popped with slightly more than a bit of grass in my trunk. But I've never touched the harder stuff man. I saw what it did to Grandma Milly and I can't stand fucking needles."

It's true. My Grandmother, Millicent Barrington, God rest her soul, was a junkie for the last twenty some years of her life. She died a junkie. In her last year or two she was little more than the walking dead.

Back in the mid 1960's she started taking morphine. Her personal physician prescribed it to treat the chronic pain she experienced after she bruised her shin in a gardening accident. Nobody in the family believed it was for physical pain. Emotional maybe, but physical? Everyone knew that she needed to escape the reality that her husband Grandpa Barrington was such a raging asshole. Hell man, you'd need an escape also if you were trapped living with that man.

Old granddad didn't care. He paid the doctor in cash. With grandma all hopped up and riding the white horse there was nobody to interfere with his chronic philandering.

The shrink bastard paused and gave me a puzzled look. "Colt," he said in that annoying compassionate and concerned caring tone that doctors and teachers use, "I'm not talking about narcotics. I'm talking about being nar-cis-sis-tic, which is something else entirely."

He said it just like that, condescendingly drawing out every syllable in the word. I just glared at him.

He then rambled on for like an eternity about some old Greek dude who was so impressed with how hot he was he stared at his own reflection in a pool of water until he died.

I told the shrink bastard, er, I'm sorry, therapist (who told me I needed to work on having a more positive attitude), "That old Greek guy was a fucking pussy and a total loser. I'm nothing like that guy. I don't need to look at myself to know how hot I am. I just know it. I don't need no fucking mirror to tell my that I'm incredibly attractive and one hot sexy beast of a man."

The therapist said something about having a long way to go.

about me, part one

I thank the Good Doctor Polymer Noyz for his kind words of encouragement and advice on beginning this online journey in self discovery, exploration, and personal growth.

Although that last bit about "journey in self discovery blah blah blah" and all that crap weren't Polymer's words. He's not into that sort of stupid new-age sounding garbage either.

They were the words of my therapist. Stupid court ordered therapist, the prick. Stupid court ordered therapy. If I miss a session the judge said something about revoking my probation which my lawyer tells me would be very bad.

Just who the fuck does that judge think he is anyway? I mean really now, what gives him the right?

My family's highly compensated team of lawyers are still arguing the merits of their so-called warrant which that asshole Assistant District Attorney claims gave the cops the right to open the trunk. Okay, so I may have been a little drunk. Okay, so maybe I was a lot drunk, too drunk to realize the girls were underage. But those girls were drinking in the same bar I was in, so that's just not my fault. And they certainly were neither looking nor acting like high-school seniors.

As far as the contents of my trunk, well, it had been a tough week. I was tightly wound. I needed to unwind. Really now, is a half-pound of grass, a few grams of cocaine, and a handful of pharmaceutical grade Ecstacy really that big of deal? Damn puritanical just say fucking no bastards. Don't believe what that asshole Assistant District Attorney said in the papers. None of that stuff was for intended for distribution. Like I said, it had been a tough week. I really needed to unwind.

Oh well, I guess it could be worse.

Such is the bed I must lie in. At least I'm not sleeping in a bunk getting three squares day constantly being afraid of being traded for cigarettes or dropping the soap in the shower.

In lieu of The Big House I find myself stuck in Texas, sentenced to twice weekly therapy sessions, because brother, let me tell you, I'm told I'm quite the mess. Additionally I've got to go do community service whenever one of the family lawyers call me and reminds me it's tomorrow. Which is like every other Saturday or something hanging out with juveniles who are also on probation. Yeah right, like I'm supposed to be some sort of role model.

The last time one of the lawyers called he reminded me that I'm damn lucky to have their representation and to not be in jail. He then tried to reassure me by stating that the next 36 to 72 months will go by much faster than I think. The bastard. That's the kind of shit my family is paying out the ass for?

Fuck man, I can't leave the damn county without advance written permission from an Assistant District Attorney. His bad comb over and I swear it's dyed mustache combo nicely fits with his complete lack of anything resembling humor. If I did want to leave where the fuck would I go? The paranoid son of a bitch made me surrender my passport as one of the terms of my probation. At my sentencing hearing he actually called me a "flight risk" because of my nearly unlimited financial resources. Flight risk? I'll show him flight risk. Hell, I was flying higher than the moon thanks to some fine grain pure Columbian at the damn hearing. Fuck him.

On the positive side (damn therapy, maybe it's starting to work already), I can pretty much do whatever damn well I please so long as I don't leave the county or miss a therapy session or community service gig. It's like being under house arrest in a house that's way bigger than that bitch Martha Stewart's.

There are many much more worse fates than being sentenced to spend the next 36 to 72 months in a city cool enough to be a location for The Real World.

And besides, I love this town. Or I love my memories of this town. I've got the next 36 to 72 months to figure out which is which.

family history, part two

If you have not already done so, you are strongly encouraged to first read part one.

More about my grandfather, Randolph Barrington, the mean ass sorry old dead bastard. . .

He took over Barrington Bolt and Fastener following my great grandfather's untimely demise in the spring of 1927. It was still a relatively small family owned business then. He was only sixteen and more than just a little freaked out. But he was crafty as a ferret with a shrewd sense of business, and an almost uncanny ability to sniff out opportunity. In 1928 he was able to con his way into a meeting with Henry Ford by posing as an orphaned teen raising money to pay the tax bill of the local Catholic orphanage. He left that day with an exclusive contract to provide the nuts, bolts, screws, and rivets that held together Ford automobiles.

He was instantly a millionaire. Later that year he took the company public and his fortunes exponentially expanded.

Until that Black Day in October 1929.

Little is known about how my grandfather kept the company running during the early dark years of the Great Depression. It is known that on two different ocassions union organizers who worked in his factory disappeared suddenly in the middle of the night. Investigations by local law enforcement failed to turn up any leads in both cases.

It is also known that around this time my grandfather began making generous donations to political campaigns.

Feeling the pinch of the Great Depression, Randolph Barrington traveled to Europe in the Fall of 1931 in order to seek new markets for Barrington Bolt and Fastener products. One night he found himself in a Berlin cabaret sharing a table with a non-descript yet still somehow rather odd looking man with a really bad haircut and an Oliver Hardy mustache. During the intermission of a drag show they discussed their selfish egomaniacal dreams of doing great things to change the world while marveling at the feature entertainer's highly skilled and delicately nuanced impersonation of Marlene Dietrich.

So yes, the rumours, innuendo and allegations you read on the internet are true.

(Minus that whole Space Alien Mars Atlantis Connection. And a descendant of Adam Weishaupt? Damn, you college kids must be freakin' high. All I can say is that I hope those dudes email me because I'd love to score some of whatever it is that they are smoking.)

Here and now for the first time I finally have the balls to confess to the world family secrets that others have thus far failed to honestly disclose. Randolph Barrington, my grandfather, made a fortune dealing with the Nazis.

So what. It was sixty plus freakin' years ago. If you have a problem with it, then cry me a fucking river, build a goddamned bridge, and get the fuck over it.

Nothing personal man, so don't freak. It was business, just business. And business was good. Very good.

When the Second Great War began my grandfather saw another great business opportunity.

He built a second factory.

While the first factory continued to quietly manufacture nuts, bolts, screws, rivets, washers, and wingnuts that were shipped with quiet discretion and fraudlent documents through third parties and third world nations to his German meglomaniac friend, the new second factory was busy churning out the same products to support the War Effort at Home.

Now herein lies the beauty of my grandfather's master plan, and I think coincidentally if not accidentally his great contribution to the postwar world and the future of mankind. . .

This great contribution to humanity was due in part to the fact that my grandfather, the late great Randolph Barrington, was a tight assed stingy motherfucker. He was apathetic as the day is long and didn't give a rat's ass who won the damn thing so long as he made money on the deal. In later years he was actually overheard saying that he had no complaints about the Nazi's labor policies and I think he secretly admired the efficiency of their operations.

He was also astute enough to figure out the long-term impact on his bottom line and his bottom under either a totalitarian fascist or a democratic capitalistic regime.

It don't take a degree in calculus to do that math.

Getting back to my grandfather's seemingly accidental brilliant master plan. . .

He sold the regular stuff to our guys at a reasonable wartime mark-up. Good high quality and higher priced nuts and bolts went into building the Great American War Machine.

He sold the fucking Nazis crap. He used inferior materials and inferior manufacturing processes. He cut almost as many corners in the manufacturing process as he did on labor. And he charged the fucking Nazis more for it!

As shocking as you may find this to believe, he did this all with the full knowledge and complicity of the government of the United States of America.

He was nearly indicted by Federal Grand Juries and almost charged with Treason and Aiding and Abetting The Enemy in a Time of War at least three times. He contributed generously to the re-election campaigns of a half dozen or so key U.S. Senators during this time period. For some reason or other those charges never quite materialized. "Lack of evidence" was the most substantial explanation given.

We in the family never knew why Old Granddad was allowed to continue to do business with an enemy during wartime. It never made sense. . . until a Federal lawsuit filed under a Freedom of Information Act request by Time magazine in the 1970's forced the Pentagon and the FBI to declassify and release literally thousands of pages of documents. On many pages the only word that is not blacked out is the word "Barrington".

In those thousands of pages was a recently declassified WWII era intelligence report from a for some reason still classified U.S. Army Staff Sargent. It discussed in great detail the impact of my grandfather's Nazi business dealings on The Allied War Effort. What it said was astounding.

The report actually credited my grandfather as much as General Patton with Rommel's defeat. Apparently the bolts and other metal fasteners Randolph Barrington sold to the Nazis were of such poor quality that they lead to a significantly greater degree of mechanical equipment failure all around. This was particularly true in the harsh environments of the African deserts.

Hmmm. . .

Randolph Barrington. Greedy Arrogant Selfish Bastard. Great Accidental American Patriot.

Maybe I'll go have that inscribed on his grave.

family history, part one - old grandad

Hi. My name is Colt Barrington. Yes, that's right, Barrington. As in The Barringtons. With a capital "The".

As in The Barringtons of Barrington Industries International Incorporated, B3I for short (or BIII on the NYSE). Unless your some sort of mental case or social deviant you know the name. It's a legend in American corporate culture, like Ford or Morgan or that new school young geeky bastard Gates.

I am the grandson of Randolph Barrington. Yes him. The Randolph Barrington they made that movie about. It would have gotten a whole lot more publicity if that son of a bitch Scorsese and that shallow pretty boy bitch DiCaprio hadn't have made that stupid fucking movie about that other rich bastard. Fuck them.

Ah, who am I kidding, the movie wasn't all that great. I told that worthless toady of a director it was a mistake to cast Robert Downey Jr. in between rehab gigs, but did he listen? No. Look for it soon at your local video store.

So anyway, Randolph Barrington was my grandfather. He was a sorry rotten mean old bastard and a poor excuse for a human being. Because I'm family I can say this. If you or anyone else says anything similar, I know people who will come to your home while you sleep and cut your balls off. I mean it. So don't.

But he was stinking filthy rich. Old school rich, like a Kennedy but without wasting time on that political nonsense. He used to joke that he had more money than God because he threw a better party when my dad was born than God did when His Son was born. Except I don't think he was joking. So I guess it's also safe to say that my grandfather was not a religious man.

He was also not a political man. My grandfather didn't give squat about politics. He viewed politics the same way he viewed all interactions and relationships involving other people. It was strictly business, nothing more, nothing less. Just business, and it wasn't business unless there was something in it for him.

My grandfather's politics were the politics of business, the politics of profit. And his business began as Barrington Bolt and Fastener. My grandfather manufactured steel bolts, screws, nuts and other metal fastening devices.

His father, my great grandfather Rupert Barrington, ran a small hardware business in what would eventually become suburban Detroit. Following a year plus long steel workers strike around 1909, my great grandfather had difficulty getting the finished materials: nuts, bolts, nails, etc. for his hardware store. So he decided to start making them.

When my grandfather was sixteen he took over the family business following my great grandfather's untimely death in what was officially listed as an industrial accident. Quite unofficially, particularly for insurance and legal puposes, family legend describes the event as losing a drunken bet. Apparently no matter how great your boots are you cannot run across a large cauldron of molten steel even if you go very fast. All my great-grandmother, God rest her soul, had to bury was the charred top of a grey fedora.

Every year from the time I was that age until Old Grandad finally lost his ability to speak following the stroke he had in '87 almost all I heard at family gatherings was some berating belittling bellowing comment comparing his great life to my presumably worthless one:

"Wha'da'ya mean college? Look at me! I didn't need no fancy book learning!"

or "Wha'da'ya mean you don't have a job? When I was your age I was running an international corporation!"

or even "Whatsa matter you pussy, you some sorta faggot? You should be out there bangin'! By the time I was your age I had courted and bedded the daughters of seven world leaders!"

I told the old bastard I did number nine the night before. Old Grandad was so competitive he got completely worked up at the thought of being beaten by one of his descendents. It caused him to have his big stroke. He never spoke another word.

I lied.

Oh well. I felt a little bad but at least I succeeded where my parents had failed in finally shutting him up.