family history, part seven

Continuing the story of Handy Randy, my Uncle Randolph Barrington II:

In the fall of 1963, after his unexpected outing in the closet by Old Grandad, my Uncle Randolph found himself in a place as close to paradise as he ever imagined: basic training for the United States Army.

Old Grandad may have been a master of business, but at times he knew jack squat about human nature. His plan to make a real man out of Uncle Randolph by enlisting him in the military was successful only if you feel that The Village People represent the epitome of masculinity and manly virtue.

This was not the outcome that Old Grandad envisioned, but his large ego prevented him from ever seeing he was wrong and he was a large enough narcissist to be mostly oblivious to the impact of his decisions on other people. Some say that I take after him that way, but I think those people are assholes.

Once Uncle Randolph shipped off to boot camp Old Grandad considered the job successfully completed. He spent many nights congratulating himself with toasts of fine brandy and cuban cigars, telling any who would listen how he reformed and saved his son from a sinful life of rump ranging and butt piracy.

As for me, I can barely imagine a more hellish place, but boot camp was just the ticket for young Uncle Randolph. He had spent his short 18 years largely behind the ivy walls of exclusive boarding schools. He thrived on the routine. He loved being told what to do and when to do it. He thrived on the structure. He loved the exclusive company of his gender. It was the only way of life he knew.

The wonderful difference about boot camp was that he was no longer surrounded by mere boys. He was surrounded by men. He was surrounded by young, strong, virile men, with firm tight bodies whose muscles rippled under golden tanned skin glistening with beads of sweat in the afternoon sun. He lived with them, he slept in a bunk next to them. He showered with them.

Uncle Randolph could not contain himself. Being a Barrington he never had to, subsequently he did not now how to do so anyway, so it wouldn't have mattered if he had tried. It wasn't long before rumors were flying around the base faster than Handy Randy's nimble fingers in the barracks after lights out. These rumors eventually reached the ears of the Retired Colonel.

The Retired Colonel was probably about the closest thing to a friend Old Grandad ever had. He saw Old Grandad's pride in his heir and at his success at saving him from the sins of Sodom. Aside from staking his own reputation on the line by bending and breaking regulations to sneak Uncle Randolph in as an officer, he did not want to see Old Grandad disappointed or see the great name of a friend drug through the mud of the press.

The one-legged Retired Colonel spoke with a two-legged General who he once knew as a young Captain under his command. The Retired Colonel lost his one leg saving the two legs and ass of the young Captain as the Gerry bombs were falling during the Blitz.

You'd be amazed at how fast rumors on a military base cease and become silent if two or three gossipy soldiers suddenly find themselves hiding from sniper fire in the rice paddies on the front lines of a smouldering and expanding war in South-east Asia.

After basic training, Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel got Uncle Randolph stationed in a small windowless office deep in the bowels of the Pentagon where only the cleaning people remember to go and sometimes they even forget. He was assigned as the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the chief officer in charge of procuring non-medical health and grooming supplies for soliders in the field. He shuffled papers which directed the Army to purchase and ship things like soap, combs, deodorant, shampoo, toothbrushes, and yes condoms to the various hot spots around the globe. Old Grandad wanted him close enough to keep him safe yet far enough away not to have to deal with him. This job fit the bill.

You can imagine the fun Uncle Randolph had working at the Pentagon. Really now, the whole military is just so gay. It's just so obvious: with their sharply pressed uniforms, their obsession with detail, their emphasis on the fitness of the male form, all those shiny ribbons and medals, polished guns spurting rounds of hot lead, and oh, how they love to march in parades!

All was going well until mid October 1965. One night, when leaving a brothel in a drunken heroin fueled stupor the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the chief officer in charge of procuring non-medical health and grooming supplies for South-east Asia was run over by a rickshaw. His head was crushed like a grape. As he was also the child of a powerful and influential family (that is apparently how you get the job) he was officially listed as "Killed In Action" and was awarded a post-humous Purple Heart.

Being the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the chief officers in charge of procuring non-medical health and grooming supplies requires a fairly specific and limited skill set. When the Army went about searching for a replacement to their recent casualty of war Uncle Randolph's number came up. During the first week of November 1965 he heard the news.

Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel could have easily intervened and had Uncle Randolph's orders changed, but Old Grandad was in the process of negotiating a deal with Bell Helicopter to provide the bolts and metal fasteners used in the manufacture AH-1G Cobra helicopters to support the war effort. He viewed having a son going overseas to help fight those commie cocksuckers as a patriotic chip to help him at the bargaining table. He was right and he got the contract.

And Uncle Randolph had his orders. He would be in Saigon by the end of the month.

therapy notes, part three

Sunday night, the last night of my self-imposed isolation hidden away from public eyes. Thank you Oscar, Scorsese and his ilk insured that the last of those camera-hugging bottom feeding whores left my habitat for the more fertile feeding ground of sunny California.

On Thursday the Hot Receptionist greeted and treated me again with nonchalance and the coyly flirtatious mannerisms that have become a trademark of our official meetings while I wait to meet with my court ordered therapist, the prick. And damn it all if I can't help but wonder why. I mean, her post-coital response is not what I expected. Lord knows I've been down this road a few times before. I'm a Barrington, single, filthy rich and insanely attractive. I know she's impressed, how could she not be? I rocked her freakin' world.

Where's the anxious idolation, the nervous wondering if I'm the knight in shining armor coming to save her from the mundane realities of her existence? Really now, she knows who I am. She has nothing and I have everything to offer.

Not that I am.

Oh well, it matters little to me anyway.

About halfway through Thursday's session, my court ordered therapist, the prick, finally went there. I knew he would. I'm almost surprised it took him this long. How could he not? My court ordered therapist, the prick, finally asked me the question. Yes, that question. You know, the most famous question associated with this whole therapy bullshit that's not technically phrased in the form of a question although you know it is one.

Tell me about your mother.

I went ballilstic.

My response went roughly as follows:

I was like, "Look man, don't go getting all dead repressed homo-faggot, not that there's anything wrong with that, Austrian cocaine fiend on my ass."

He sat there blankly, so I ranted on, "Sure, a cigar is just a cigar, unless you wish it was some other guy's dick you're sucking. Is that what you wish mister head shrinker? I'll bet it is. I see the dirty yet suspiciously always empy ashtray on your desk and can smell the remnants of cheap tobacco in this office."

He still sat there with a blank look as he slowly set down his pen and notepad. There was a moment of awkward silence. I continued, "Just 'cause his mom was his number one MILF don't go thinkin' that's got shit to do with me."

Again, nothing but an empty look in questioning eyes followed by an awkward silence. He said something in that therapeutic and prodding gentle condescending tone that all those bastards are trained to use about "making progress" as he picked up his pen.

"Fuck you, man. Fuck you."

I got up and stormed out of his office and onto the street. I muttered something to The Hot Receptionist about seeing her again Tuesday as I flew past. I avoided the temptation of punching that mosquita with the camera on the curb as I went by. It's just to risky now to give the camera-hugging whore the satisfaction of having his ass kicked by a Barrington with legal issues. It's just so cliche. My father, The Bastard, already has that down to an art form, so there's no point in it anyway.

So that was Thursday. In a few hours it will be Monday morning. A new week.

Here I am. Where the fuck are you?

real world update, part four

Alright, alright, alright. I'll admit to my lameness. It's Friday night and I'm sitting alone in my hi-rise downtown condo, on my balcony overlooking the city. The festive sounds of the weekend streets drift upwards on a gentle springlike breeze. I made the prudent decision to stay out of sight for the past few days. We Barrington's have never sought the limelight or the glare of those camera hugging paparazzi whores. Yet still it seeks us from time to time. It can't be helped. I'm single, I'm filthy rich, I'm insanely attractive. How could you not want to follow me around with a camera? It's just that given my current situation I'm not in the fucking mood to see my face looking back at me from the cover of some ass-wipe tabloid when I go to the corner store to buy a pack of smokes. So I'm just chilling, and waiting.

I'm waiting for those camera hugging whores to get bored hanging out watching nothing happen with me. They'll move on. They always do. You see, I've learned that those bastards in the pop culture media that nip like a pack of wild rabid dogs have a short attention span. Just hole up and wait the bitches out. It's only a matter of time until some other gazelle from the celebrity herd shows weakness. Just be patient and wait for them to move on. True enough, with the ongoing Anna circus and the recent complete meltdown of that skank Britney, my little life is rapidly becoming a lot less interesting to the soccer moms and trailer trash who buy that shit and keep those assholes employed. By Monday, they will all be gone and I can resume my normal life.

Normal life? Yeah right. If only. I'm still fucking stuck here.

Earlier tonight I called the manager at that yuppie hole I frequent and asked him to send me some dinner. Like the past few nights, I requested that the hot New Waitress with the small diamond stud in her nose and the rockabilly tattoos deliver it to me. Man, has she ever been earning some exceptional tips. Talk about customer service with a smile. . .

Thirty minutes later there's a knock on my door. I open the door with a polite grin and half a woody's worth of anticipation only to see Diego standing there holding the styrafoam take-out box. He sees the disappointment on my face. As he's handing me the box he pulls a large hand rolled fatty from the pocket of his knock-off hip-hop designer label hoodie. From past experience I recognize that it's the high quality shit imported by the cartel that controls the region his home village is in.

Alright man, come on in.

As I spark it up he tells me that the Hot Waitress got off early to go see her boyfriend's band play some dive club gig. He tells me that he was just getting off work when I called. He says he volunteered to deliver my dinner. Guess he's still angling for me to give him a fish.

I offer him a beer and we spend the next half hour toking and talking. He reaches in his pocket a second time and pulls out some photos of his two kids that he says he just got in the mail from his wife in Guatamala. He says he misses his family and can't wait until he's saved enough to pay the coyote that's offered to bring them up.

The poor bastard, he has yet to learn that family is frequently a curse that only drags you down.

real world update, part three

Cripes man, it's just been one of those days.

I am sitting at my Italian dinette set looking out the window of my high-rise condo at the lights of downtown. The State Capitol plays prominently in the view.

I do my best to enjoy a light dinner of take-out tapas and wash them down with a triple Grey Goose on the rocks. Tonight it takes a little extra Goose. I need to remind that damn illegal "chef" at the yuppie hole I frequent that cilantro is an herb for seasoning and not like some fucking leaf of iceberg lettuce he shredded to top a value menu super burrito at his last place of employment.

Ah, I need to cut the guy some slack. Diego seems like a decent fellow. He tells me he wires half his less than minimum wage salary to his wife and kids back in some small Guatamalan village. He tells me he's saving as much as he can from the other half to bring them up. He tell's me he's about halfway there.

I could pull out my wallet and hand him enough cash to do it tomorrow. But I don't. I'm a firm believer in that "give a man to fish, teach a man to fish" philosophy. It's not my fault I was born with an ocean's worth of fish.

When you're born an alpha male you learn when your young there's always some other lowly chimp sneaking around trying to surprise you and knock you down by banging empty gasoline cans. When you are single, filthy rich and insanely attractive those monkeys frequently take the form of celebrity "journalists" and bottom-feeding paparazzi camera-hugging whores.

My father, The Bastard, was not without his moments of paranoia. I guess I inherited that trait. My court ordered therapist, the prick, reminded me of that in today's session.

My father, The Bastard, taught me it was prudent to get to know and get on good terms with those who prepare and serve your meals in the establishments you frequent. He taught me to tip them very generously. Not because I'm like some medieval king and fear being poisoned, but for a much more practical reason. Do you have any idea how many compromising celebrity photographs and embarrassing stories were obtained by media hacks who talk their way in through the back kitchen door? Those poor schleps in the kitchen control access to the back door. It's in your advantage to get them on your side. Christ man, I thought that skank Britney and her whore pal Paris would have figured that out by now. But then again, their path to fame was not their intellect.

So I scratch Diego's back just enough to keep him watching mine.

Anyway, it's been a tough day. I just didn't feel like going out tonight. I called up the manager at that yuppie hole I where I hang out on my slow days. I asked him to have Diego prepare me a light dinner and have that new hot waitress with the small diamond stud in her nose and the rockabilly tattoos deliver it to me. Let me just say she earned an exceedingly generous tip and leave it at that.

Now I'm alone eating cold food and drinking colder vodka.

Every now and then the notoriety of my name rises up and the goatfucking media whores leap from the shadows and try to beat it back down. Today was one of those days.

I guess the vultures are getting tired of sucking the marrow from Anna's bones and are now circling the skies looking for their next meal. Her sudden demise provided enough of a distraction to allow my return to the states to be relatively discrete. But it could not prevent some future wannabe CNN anchor local TV reporter from seeing me leave the courthouse last week. I'm single, I'm filthy rich, I'm insanely attractive. I knew it was just a matter of time. They followed me around today like a pack of rabid hungry puppies.

They followed me up to the doorstep of my court ordered therapist, the prick. His office building's crack rent-a-cop security force kept them out. I walked into the building away from them, and into his office, right up to her, The Hot Receptionist.

We exchanged pleasantries and small talk, like we have done many times before, only this time I did not imagine but remembered the bounty that lies beneath her off the rack department store business blouse. She politely thanked me for the drinks and dinner, and nothing more was said. I sat for an hour smirking at the court ordered therapist, the prick, as he sat in the chair I last saw the Hot Receptionist leaning over, skirt up hose down. He pried and prattled on about my family and my alleged issues. When I left, she again thanked me for dinner and said she'd see me again when I came in for my Thursday appointment. That was that.

The media whores were still waiting out front so I snuck out through a side door and quickly walked the few blocks back to my condo.

That was that? How curious. She acted as though the climax of our encounter last week, and I assure you it was a climax both intensely physical and in terms of the events of the evening, never happened. What's her game?

family history, part six

It is a known fact that Old Grandad and Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, had sex at least three times during their marriage. Whether or not they made the sign of the humpbacked beast on more than those three occasions is still an open debate in my family.

Aside from the pre-nuptial conception that resulted in the birth of my father, The Bastard, there were two other known successful copulations. My grandparents unholy couplings also created my uncle Randolph II, and surprisingly to all at the time, my aunt Olphelia.

Old Grandad never bonded, connected, or even cared for Roosevelt. He never even bothered to try. There is only one known photo of Old Grandad with his eldest as a child. It was a Christmas photo, they are in front of a large well-lit tree. Roosevelt was an infant in Grandma Milly's, God rest her soul, arms. Old Grandad was standing behind them, looking disinterested and away from the camera.

Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, used to tell me that it was all because of the name. She once told me something interesting during a rare lucid break in the alcohol and narcotic cloud that enshrouded her. She told me that Old Grandad was devoured inside with jealousy and envy because his eldest son was named by and for another man. In his arrogant eyes, Roosevelt was not his child, but an illegitimate one, a real example of imagined cuckoldry. To Old Grandad, Roosevelt was also a living reminder of a failure, of the consequences of a foolish moment when he lost a game of chance and wits to "that crippled gimp bastard".

He not at all secretly wished for another son and he never played another hand of poker. In September 1945 his prayers were answered when Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, gave birth to another child. Randolph II was meant to be all that poor Roosevelt, my father The Bastard, could not be. Shakespeare was wrong about that name thing, at least as far as Old Grandad was concerned. To Old Grandad, Roosevelt was a tremendous disappointment before the ink on his birth certificate had dried.

But Randolph, yes! Randolph the Second! Oh blessed child Randolph II!

Old Grandad had his namesake, his legacy and true heir to his kingdom. It was onto Randolph II's broad shoulders and strong back that the responsibilities of managing the Barrington empire were destined to eventually fall.

Too bad it didn't work out that way.

Despite Old Grandad's best efforts, Randolph II lacked both common sense and an instinct for business. He was nothing like Old Grandad. He was thoughtful, caring and kind. He would rather share than compete. He loved flowers and stories about fairies. When Randolph II was 17, he was home on a break from one of those fancy private boarding schools where filthy rich people send their children. Old Grandad discovered him in Grandma Milly's, God rest her soul, walk-in closet. He was prancing around in a sequined designer gown singing the "Miss America" theme song along with his reflection in a mirror.

Turns out, Randolph II is as queer as a three-dollar bill. He didn't want to be the King of an empire. He wanted to be its Queen.

Also turns out, Old Grandad was the only one who was surprised by this unexpected outing in the closet.

Old Grandad mistakenly thought that Randolph II earned the nickname "Handy Randy" as a way to mock his inept incompetence with hardware, tools and the other implements associated with the family business.

In reality, the nickname was not one of mockery, but one of honor and tribute. Randolph II had been enrolled in expensive and private all male boarding schools since the age of 10. Over the course of all those long nights surrounded by many other equally confused young men, he had become incredibly skilled and highly sought for his talent at manually manipulating, um, um, certain features of the male anatomy.

Old Grandad freaked out.

He was still bound and determined to mold Handy Randy into a real man. Old Grandad immediately pulled his son from "all that East Coast intellectual faggotry". He decided that if Randolph II was to become a real man he needed to be surrounded by real men. He called his friend, the Retired Colonel, who called some not retired Colonels. Seven months later, on his 18th birthday, Handy Randy was inducted into the United States Army as a Second Lieutenant.

Nobody asked, nobody told.

There was no reason to ask, as it was blatantly obvious to all. There was no reason to tell, because Old Grandad made sure that all of new Lt. Barrington's superior officers knew well the fate of that poor young Congressman who once crossed him with another type of outing.

real world update, part two

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

I knew I'd regret last Tuesday's shenanigans.

The Hot Receptionist called me twice today. I have neither seen nor spoken to her since dropping her off at her apartment. I just wasn't in the mood to deal with any repercussions from our romping so I faked an illness to get out of Thursday's appointment. The terms of my probation allow me to miss my sessions with the court ordered therapist, the prick, for valid medical reasons provided I have written documentation from a doctor verifying my illness.

I pay my doctor in cash at three times the going rate so he pretty much writes whatever I tell him to write. And afterall, it is cold and flu season. I have to make the sessions up, so ultimately I am only prolonging the tedious agony, but what the fuck. I have always had kind of a "why do today what you can put off until next week" attitude, so I really don't mind all that much.

The first time she called I did not recognize the number on my caller ID so I did not answer. She left no message and it remained a mystery, until she called again, moments ago. This time she left a message. She said something about "hoping I'm feeling better", "had a wonderful time" and something about "looking forward to seeing me again on Tuesday."

Damn, damn, double damn. I never considered that she had access to my private number through my file at the office.

I don't need this right now.

family history, part five

My parents, Roosevelt Barrington and Catherine Adler got married on November 9, 1965 in a relatively small (ridiculously so for a Barrington) private ceremony. It was a Tuesday, which was strange, because really now, who get's married on a Tuesday? The reason for this will be made plain as this story advances. They also eschewed the traditional church service. Again, the reason will be clear when this tale has reached its conclusion. The wedding was held at the Exclusive Executive Men's Club in the heart of Manhattan's most high-rent district. My grandfather was one of the founding members.

The Club was created in 1946 by Old Grandad and a retired Army Colonel who lost a leg in a Gerry bombing raid during the Blitz. The Retired Colonel had a wooden prosthesis which for some reason was about three inches too short. I don't know why he never replaced it with one of the proper length. Perhaps it was because he was too drunk to notice or care, as was frequently the case by the time I met him as a child visiting The Club with Old Grandad. I seem to remember asking him about it once. He spoke with a thick southern drawl, made all the more incomprehensible by the huge quantities of Kentucky bourbon he drank straight from the bottle. I think he said something sorrowful about having to shoot his dog. Anyway, by the time the bottle was about half gone he'd forget to compensate for the shortness of his wooden leg. I remember being a young boy and watching with amusement as the Old Colonel staggered in circles, wildly waving a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand while drunkenly ranting about "those kraut bastards".

While not entirely pre-arranged, the wedding had been long sought and heavily lobbied for by my grandfather. Through varying combinations of badgering, bribing, and bullying my grandfather convinced the prospective bride and groom that they were madly in love and persuaded both families into believing that the marriage was in their best interest.

As Old Grandad's war efforts were still classified, nobody knew of his contribution to win the war for our side. Thanks to an inquisitive and outspoken freshman Congressman in 1946, Old Grandad's business dealings with the Nazis had been common knowledge and public record for almost twenty years. The Congressmen was later indicted on a variety of charges, including corruption, embezzlement, bestiality, and pedophilia. He was booted from Congress and died in a federal prison. You didn't fuck with Old Grandad back then.

But the damage had been done, and Old Grandad had spent the decades following the war battling the perception that he was an anti-semitic Nazi sympathizer. While personally, he didn't give a rat's ass what people thought, he felt as though this notion was hindering his business dealings with many of the older established East Coast financial institutions.

He reasoned that the best way to prove to the world that he accepted and supported Yahweh's chosen people would be to make them family. So he went out looking for the daughter of the richest Jew he could find. His plan was to marry her off to his eldest son Roosevelt.

The daughter he found was Catherine Adler, the eldest daughter of Arthur Adler, the founder of Adler Almalgamated Aluminum Products. The Adlers were new money. Old Man Adler amassed a fortune manufacturing aluminum plane parts for the military during the war. After the war he branched out and AAAP become the largest manufacturer of aluminum Little League bats on the planet. Damn if baseball wasn't one of that old man's greatest passions.

His daughter Catherine fit the bill perfectly.

Family lore has it that Old Grandad offered Old Man Adler the opportunity to be the first circumcised member of The Club if the two men could get their eldest children bonded in matrimony. Family lore goes on to explain that Old Grandad was quick to point out the potential financial benefits of a marriage between a family who manufactured aluminum parts for things and a family who made bolts and other metal fasteners to hold those parts together.

Subsequently calls were made, and on a rainy night in September 1963, Roosevelt Barrington had his first date with Catherine Adler.

therapy notes, part two

I guess it's time I started to address The Bastard and my issues surrounding him. That's what my court ordered therapist, the prick, told me again this afternoon. Of course I don't agree with him. I seldom do, but then again he is my court ordered therapist, the prick. Subsequently he reports to the judge on my "monthly progress" from our sessions.

My court ordered therapist, the prick, holds my fate in his hands. I need to play the game. If I don't play the game, he'll tell the judge I'm not playing along. The judge has told me in no uncertain terms that he'll make sure I have adequate time to sit and think about my behavior if I don't work and play well with others, and yes, it will go on my permanent record. This whole situation makes me feel like, like a fucking little kid again, in a world where the grown-ups have all the power.

Mostly I just sit in these sessions and smile and nod and play along and quietly fantasize about banging his receptionist. Man, is she ever a looker. I am quite certain my court ordered therapist, the prick, spends most of my sessions fantasizing about doing the same thing.

How do I know he shares my fantasies? Well for starters, she's fucking hot. He may be balding, squatty, poorly dressed, reek of cheap cologne and cheaper cigars, but he's still a man.

And well, I've learned a thing or two about human nature. I've had to. I may have been born single, filthy rich, and insanely attractive, but you don't stay that way unless you're smarter than all the idiots in this ruthless world trying to scam a piece of your pie.

My father, The Bastard, despite his best efforts to follow in his own father's meglomaniacal philandering footsteps, managed to teach me a thing or two. Somehow a couple of moments of almost half-way decent parenting makes his faults and failure as a father seem all the more tragic.

"Eyes don't lie."

"People lie with what they say. How they say it never lies."

Damn that court ordered therapist, the prick. He's putting my father's voice inside my head.

The prick wants her, I know he does. I can see it in the way his eyes leap to her chair behind the reception desk when he first opens the door and steps out of his office. I can hear it in the subtly salacious way he speaks her name when he talks to her.

The difference between him and me is that he doesn't have a fucking prayer. As for me, well. . .

There is another little piece of advice my father, The Bastard, once shared with me. I find it very handy in many life situations:

"Arrive early. Chat up the receptionist."

He initially meant it as business advice. It was a way to better know your opponent while negotiating a deal. The receptionist knows her Boss. She knows her Boss's likes and dislikes. She knows her Boss's schedule. The receptionist knows her Boss's secrets. In business as well as life, knowledge is power.

He also used it as a way to score some extra tail. He still does, The Bastard.

Let's just say that's one of the ways I too am following in my father's footsteps. I always arrive 10 - 15 minutes early to my appointments with my court ordered therapist, the prick. I chat up the receptionist. I talk to her like she is a person. I talk to her like I care. Yeah right, like I care.

She's tells me she's 29, but they always say they're 29. I'm fairly certain she's off by a couple of years. She's a single mother with a seven-year old daughter. Her ex-husband is a maintenance man at a local apartment complex. Of course he's behind on the child support. They got divorced about four years ago after she found out he was maintaining slightly more than the resident's apartments. What a stupid fool to let such a hot piece slip through his fingers. Ah, I guess it's true what they say, "no matter how fine she is, somebody somewhere is sick of her shit."

After the divorce she had to drop out of college, she was a sociology major, and took this full-time job to support herself and her kid. She plans on going back and finishing someday. She likes her job okay, but isn't really fond of the prick. She sees the way he sometimes leers at her.

I know I shouldn't have done it. I realize that I am potentially acting against my own best interest. I may have just unduely complicated my life. That just made the temptation all the greater. I have a long history of doing the wrong things for the wrong reasons.

But I am my father's, The Bastard, son.

From chatting her up I learned that her daughter spends Tuesday nights at Grandma's apartment so that she can get a night of respite. She most always goes to happy hour with some of the other girls from her pilates class.

I "accidentally" bumped into her while she was hanging out at the bar at a trendy Tex-Mex restaurant. I hung out for a while, flashing my platinum cards and buying rounds of 'ritas for her and her friends. I offered her dinner and we went to some cheezy local joint that's barely a step above Chili's or Carraba's or one of those other painful franchises that pollute suburban freeway frontage roads.

After that, a couple more drinks in a corner booth of a yuppie martini bar. Ah, alcohol, the great "no" inhibitor.

From there it was short work to talk her into sneaking into the office and doing it on the chair my court ordered therapist, the prick, sits in while he subdivides and analyzes my life.

real world update, part one

You might find this confusing if you haven't read this first.

Sunday night in my virtual prison. I say prison only because I am again stuck here, in this city.

I should probably say that I'm fortunate because the only bars I see in this prison bring me unlimited quantities of mojitos and an endless parade of attractive aspiring yuppie chicks with variations of Jennifer Aniston hairstyles and those sexy little tattoos on the small of their backs that serve as well, targets.

But then again, that's my birthright, it comes with the name. So I'm fortunate only in the sense that fortune favors me. By definition fortune always favors the rich and attractive. I can't help who I am.

Unfortunately at present I can do little to change my situation.

And that's the problem. I am not accustomed to having limitations of any kind put on my freedom.

One night a week or so ago I'm out thoroughly enjoying the nightlife in a happening Belize disco and two days later a U.S. Marshall is knocking on my door, warrant in hand. He tells me that the judge back in Texas is requesting an audience with world's richest, most attractive and most eligible bachelor. He tells me that as judges aren't prone to travel, I'll have to go back with him to see the judge. He is smirking with that righteous grin I've seen countless times before on the face of a law enforcement official who is entirely too pleased with himself as he thinks of how nicely bagging a Barrington is going to look on his resume. He's got two thuggish looking semi-machine gun toting members of the local police with him. Damn that police chief. This is the exact situation I had been bribing him weekly to prevent. The sum'va bitch sold me out. Apparently the stick of upsetting the U.S. government is far stronger than the carrot of my regular generous donations to the local policeman's pension fund.

It could have been worse. The police chief's 18 year old daughter left my apartment an hour before they arrived. And she has one of those sexy little targets, er, tattoos on the small of her back.

So back I came. I had to fly coach for Chis'sakes.

My father called earlier today. He always calls a day or two after my court appearances. Nowadays it's the only time we speak to each other. We trade small talk while he awkwardly fishes for me to thank him for providing the legal resources to keep my perfect tight white ass out of jail yet again. I never give The Bastard the satisfaction.

My court ordered therapist, the prick, tells me that in order for me to "heal" I need to find "forgiveness" and all that other liberal psycho-babel bullshit. I guess I'm just not there yet. Maybe I take after my grandfather and I'm just not a forgiving person. It's been what, twenty plus years and I still get angry when I think about how he treated mom during the divorce and how she ended up afterwards because of it.

And maybe I also see him in me.

And maybe that's what scares me.

family history, part four

It's kinda weird, you know, my coming back just in time for this whole fucking circus. Ah poor Anna, you delicate flower. What a waste. Did I know her? Of course I did. We spent most of the 90's spinning in similar circles with the social elite. We were drawn together as kindred spirits. We we both young, amazingly attractive, fabulously wealthy and ridiculously self-absorbed. Did I do her? Nah, but it wasn't for lack of opportunity. I could have, Lord knows now in retrospect I probably should have, as it seems like most everyone else did. It would have been, ya know, just too plain easy.

Like I still am today, back then I was single, filthy rich, and insanely attractive. It would have been like shooting proverbial fish in a barrel. There was no "thrill of the chase". With my taut muscular physique oozing with masculinity, my perfect hair, and her obvious daddy issues and all. . . it just didn't feel right. I will speak no more of it and share no further detail lest I inadvertently speak ill of the dead. That is a privilege reserved for family and a line I will not cross.

Daddy issues. . .

Take a good look in any strip club in this county and you'll see a room full of girls whose daddy didn't love them. Or maybe loved them too much in the wrong kinda way. Ah hell, it almost makes me wanna bust out cryin'. Except my daddy didn't love me either, and I was cursed by the genetics of my gender to be born without breasts for potential surrogate fathers to gawk at or an ass made for grinding against a brass pole, or other um, poles.

Daddy issues. . . my father. . . where to begin?

I guess in order to fully explain my father I need to go back a little deeper into the family history and tell you a little more about his parents, my grandparents, Randolph and Millicent Barrington. Old Grandad and Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, got married on December 7, 1941. Yes, that's right, December 7, 1941. So I guess you can say for me that day lives in infamy a little more for me than it might for you.

It was the social event of the season. It's not everyday that a multi-millionaire marries the dermatologically challenged daughter of an influential US Senator. With the time difference between New York and Hawaii the wedding was long over before the day's more well-known incident began.

And well, they just had to get married. Unbeknownst to all except Old Grandad and Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, Grandma Milly was already about two months pregnant. They were already pushing the explanation to the limits of credulity come the end of the next summer.

My father, Roosevelt Barrington, was born on July 24, 1942. To avoid the taint of scandal that would have arisen in anyone who took the time to do the math, and believe me people did in those days, Old Grandad bribed the doctor. The doctor falsified his medical report and put in his records that labor was accidentally induced early due to the trauma of Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, slipping on a damp floor in the kitchen after spilling a glass of lemonade.

As for my father's first name, well Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, always told people that it was in honor of a great president whose wonderful and inspiring leadership was safely guiding our nation through a difficult time. But that's not the real story.

Ask anyone who knew him, a few are still alive, and they will tell you, Randolph Barrington was not a gambling man. No, Old Grandad was not. He was not a thrill seeker and did not enjoy the risks associated with gambling. He disliked leaving things to luck or chance. Nonetheless, he played poker every Tuesday night at his exclusive members-only club with all the other robber-barons, power-brokers, and politicians of the day. He viewed it as one of the demands of successful business. He knew that more wheeling and dealing took place on those nights in the plush leather chairs over crystal glasses of fine single malts than occurred on Wall Street on any given day.

On a Tuesday night in April 1942, FDR ventured out of Washington to seek counsel and camaraderie from men outside his inner circle of war advisers and the congressional hacks who constantly hounded him. Around 10:30 that night, Old Grandad found himself dealing five card stud with The President of The United States.

Now you see, Old Grandad and his peers at his private club were already among the most rich and powerful men in the world. To them, money was as ever present and taken for granted as the cigar smoke filled air they breathed. To make things more interesting, the men frequently bet less quantifiable, yet more valuable things. For example, Old Grandad first strayed from his vows to Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, following a winning night. He won the services of the teen-age daughter of a police commissioner who couldn't bluff worth shit.

On this particular April night, while playing poker with The President of The United States, Old Grandad bet the name of his unborn child. He went to his grave without revealing what FDR countered in return, although in his later years he could sometimes be heard mumbling under his breath something that sounded very similar to "Chief Justice Barrington".

Old Grandad had a lousy two pair but was as steely-eyed as a snake. FDR drew a full house, jacks over nines, the lucky bastard.

Subsequently, a few months later, Roosevelt Barrington was born.

welcome back

Remember me, I'm Colt Barrington. And I'm back. I can't say I'm happy about it. The judge wasn't all that happy to see me again either. But what the fuck. . .

I've been away. Far away. Some creative lawyering and legal briefing by my family's highly compensated shyster convinced the judge and the assistant D.A. to return my passport. I made a sizeable donation to the local children's hospital through a shell non-profit my father set up in the 1970's to help resolve family legal problems. Business is business, same now as then and same here as everywhere else. The wheels of government sometimes need a good greasing and nothing lubricates as well as cash. My donation helped to persuade the judge to let me fulfill a portion of my community service hours outside of his jurisdiction.

So I got the hell out. Out of town, out of state, and out of the fucking country.

I spent the last year and half travelling around Central America. Did you know there is a rare genetic disorder down there that causes children to be born without thumbs? "Los ninos sin pulgares" is what they call it. It's tragic really, the poor kids can't open jars.

Officially I was fulfilling the community service hours of my probation. I spent my days primarily opening bottles of Coke and teaching English to those poor disabaled kids in this special school where none of the doors have knobs.

Unofficially I spent my nights in the local bars and brothels doing lines of coke, sampling the local flavor, if you get my meaning, and banging the occassional European tourist. Apparently they really love that "Motorcycle Diaries" movie over there. It's spawned this weird wave of twentysomethings who really dig Che and spend their breaks from university travelling in his path.

All was going well until some asshole paparazzi photogropher recognized me as I was doing a tequila shot from between the breasts of the equivalent of the local homecoming queen. Damn those bastards at the Enquirer. And damn Lindsey Lohan for taking a vacation. It's not like she ever fucking works anyway, I mean really I've seen "Mean Girls". Why does she need a God-damned vacation? She brought those camera hugging whores with her, the bitch.

Needless to say, those photos eventually worked their way back to that hillbilly assistant D.A. and the redneck fucking judge here, deep in the heart of Texas. Neither were pleased with what they saw. The jealous bastards, I heard the envy in their voice when they were condemning my behavior and rambling on about "not gonna let you make a mockery blah blah de fucking blah" in court last week.

So here I am, right back where I was 18 or so months ago, looking at an additional 36 to 72 months of probation, tacked on to compensate for my perceived shenanigans. I'm stuck in the same town where I initially came back to to find her, and then so desperately wanted to flee to escape my memories of her.

My court ordered therapist, the prick, wasn't all that happy to see me again either. At his "recommendation" I have resumed this journal as way to help me work through my "issues".

While I was away I my access to this blog lapsed. Luckily my old college roommate and longtime friend Polymer was able to help me get this thing started up again.

Where do I go from here? Apparently nowhere. I can't leave the fucking county.

Ah, it could have been worse. In another example of greasing the government wheel I covertly made a significant donation to that bastard judge's re-election campaign through a series of discrete third parties. That kept me from having to wear one of those fucking electronic ankle monitors.

So here I am, right back where it all began.

Sigh.