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.
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.
posted by dr noyz @ 10:48 AM
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