real world update, part six

I'm finally spending a quiet night at home, although I can't say I'm enjoying it. The sounds of a spring night in the city beckon me as they drift up to my hi-rise condo balcony, but I will not heed their call tonight. I'm feeling a little worn out, with perhaps a bit of a bug coming on.

I guess I've just been working too hard.

Cripes, what a laugh. Sometimes I just crack myself up.

I'm a fourth generation Barrington. I don't work. Life is for living, not working. Work is for people that are going somewhere. I'm already there.

Officially, for tax purposes I think, although I've never paid squat to any of that boring shit, I am employed by Barrington Industries International Incorporated. I have an office. Or that's what they tell me. I've never been. I'm not even sure where it is. Who really needs an office anyways nowadays, with all this wireless digital internet shit going on all around you. I suppose if one must work, I don't see why you couldn't do it from anywhere. And it seems as though that is something I see people doing in coffee shops and airport terminals.

As for me well, like I've said, I'm not into working. I'm into living.

Last week was giant annual international music festival week. Every hotel room in town was full of music industries weasels. Every cheap no-tell motel in town was full of wannabe rock stars packed in as tight as their gear in the dilapidated vans they drove for hours to get here from wherever kids grow up with dreams and guitars.

Everynight the bars were full of exotically beautiful pierced and tattooed women with both piercings and tattoos in places you'd think would be quite painful to pierce or tattoo.

Sometimes when you go fishing, you just want 'em to jump on the hook.

I'm already filthy rich, single, and insanely attractive. And before I continue with this fishing metaphor, le'me tell ya straight up do I ever have a pole. My hook was the official conference laminate name badge I wore that listed me as "President of A & R / New Artist Development, SCREWED RECORDS".

Five straight nights: "yeah, oh yeah, I loved your set. . . a little lower. . . you sounded great. . . ooh, nice twirl. . . yes, ah ah killer riffs. . . that's the spot. . . sure, baby sure. . . ah, a little less teeth. . . sign your band. . . yeah baby yeah, that's it. . . yes! Um, yeah, okay, here's my card, call my office next Monday. Talk to my secretary, Olphelia, and she'll schedule a meeting to finalize the paperwork."

My Aunt Olphelia hates when I do that.

Aunt Olphelia was a drugged up burned out hippie when she saw The Ramones play at CBGB's in the 70's. She had grown tired of Old Grandad's lectures about wasting her life and becoming a productive member of society. In part because she didn't want to hear anymore of Old Grandad's shit and in part because she was inspired by the band, she decided to start a record label. She's a Barrington, so it's not like money was a problem.

In 1977 Screwed Records was born. It's been both her passion and her profession. Over the past thirty years she's signed dozens if not hundreds of bands that nobody's never heard of. Poor Aunt Olphelia, she's got the passion for music, just not the sense or talent to recognize when it sucks.

Anyway, she has been in town for the past coupla weeks. Every year she comes to the big music festival and she gets me a badge saying that I work for her label. We hang out and drink and schmooze with the other music industry weasels who are in town.

Yesterday she flew back to New York.

Again I find myself alone in the world, run down and worn out.

Not that I care.

family history, part twelve

Or if you prefer, the wedding, part three. . .

So it came to pass that Roosevelt Barrington, my father, The Bastard, found himself climbing down a dingy elevator shaft with a cracked and dimming flashlight in Old Grandad's, his father's, office building during a freak power outage that apparently impacted the entire city of New York. He never was a very lucky bastard. Or at least he was never the lucky part.

He was climbing down to meet his soon to be bride, Catherine Adler, my mother, so that the wedding could proceed.

This was at the insistence of Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, who was drunk and hopped up on morphine. By this time in her life she had already turned to both narcotics and alcohol to help her cope with Old Grandad's assholish and philandering ways. She nervously drained the silver flask of vodka she kept in her purse as soon as the lights went out. In her altered state she was certain that the plunge into darkness signaled the end of the world was at hand and that this was God's punishment for allowing her eldest son, whom she believed to be as devout in her Christian beliefs as was she, to marry a Jew. While most by today's standards might find this shocking, or even offensive, you can not fault Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, for her beliefs. If you try you to do so I will see your ass in court and you will be writing me a big check. Just ask those bottom feeding scum sucking bastards at the National Enquirer about what happened to them in the 90's if you doubt me.

As the daughter of an influential U.S. Senator, Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, had grown up in a very conservative household. You were either saint or sinner, there was no doubt in her mind as to which side you were on. In time she grew to view and love Catherine, my mother, as a second daughter who was never as disappointing as her biological daughter, my Aunt Olphelia. She once told me she never went to bed without first praying for my mother's unsaved soul.

And besides, Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, had been married to an egocentric, arrogant, domineering, strong-willed man with delusions of grandeur for twenty some years now. She had no fear of a deity with those same characteristics. She was adamant that the wedding proceed, if for no other reason than in her own mind to spite an angry God whose personality as described in her King James Bible bore an almost frightening resemblance to her husband's.

In a rare moment when the two of them actually agreed on something, Old Grandad was equally insistent. He had been working hard to change his anti-Semitic image and was not going to let a little thing like the Great Blackout of 1965 alter his plans. He had a Thursday meeting scheduled with some prestigious East Coast bankers to secure funding for a factory expansion. There was a war brewing and business prospects were looking up. He was certain things would bode better if he could go to the banker meeting as a member of one of their twelve tribes, if only through the marriage of his son.

So Roosevelt went down into the darkness of the elevator shaft.

He slipped once about halfway down on a grease spot on the ladder. He dropped the flashlight, caught himself and cursed the God that made him, banging and bloodying his shin in the process. As the flashlight crashed on top of the elevator car and went out, Catherine screamed hysterically one more time. He let forth a string of expletives that caused both Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, and Granny Adler to blush. After another minute or two he somehow managed to make it safely down and lowered himself into the stranded elevator car where Catherine was waiting by the light of a candle.

Finally, the key players were in place and the wedding that was the pivotal moment in so many lives and the reason for my own was set to occur.

The District Court Judge who was presiding stood at the open elevator door. The assembled guests and family members lined up on either side in the lobby. With the absence of Catherine, my mother, the bride, Uncle Randolph was the most fabulously dressed person in the room. He stood next to the Judge, as did the Best Man whose name I can't recall. They acted as surrogates for the ceremony.

By now the patience of all, as well as his own time had grown short. The District Court Judge knew that with the power out the looting was already underway and he was in for a long night as New York's finest did their best to stem the tide of criminality that was in danger of engulfing The City. The District Court Judge skipped over the formalities and went straight to the "Do you take this . . . " part of the ceremony.

From below in the stranded elevator, Roosevelt, my father, The Bastard, and Catherine, my mother, shouted up their "I do's".

When the Judge said, "you may now kiss the bride", Uncle Randolph, Handy Randy, lept in his high heels and designer gown upon the Best Man and embraced him with both arms and lips. The two men tumbled to the floor in the lobby as the Best Man squirmed to get away.

Old Grandad groaned with both relief and disgust as he turned towards The Retired Colonel. Old Grandad swiped a newly opened bottle of Kentucky bourbon from The Retired Colonel's hand. He took several hearty swigs as he walked across the room holding the bottle in one hand and twirling his walking stick with the other. He fumbled with his keys for a moment then disappeared inside The Club.

As he went in, Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, loudly praised Jesus. Whether it was because her husband had left or her son was married we will never know. Old Man Adler continued to stand there with a confused look on his face, wondering if now that he was part of the family he should follow Old Grandad. The Retired Colonel gave him a slight gentleman's nod and the two men walked across the room, through the door, and into The Club.

From down below the stranded sounds of Catherine, my mother, and Roosevelt, my father, The Bastard, consumating their new union could already be heard. What else is there for a couple of newlyweds to do while stuck in an elevator?

Nine months later, in August 1966, my older brother Rupert was born.

family history, part eleven

Or if you prefer, the wedding, part two. . .

After 10 or so minutes, the heavy wooden door that marked the official entrance to The Club could be heard to unlock and slowly open as Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel returned to the oversized elevator lobby where the wedding of Roosevelt Barrington, my father, The Bastard, and Catherine Adler was to occur.

By this time those assembled in the darkness of the lobby had either run out of matches or burned the fluid in their lighters, so the room was dark save for two candles at the front near the makeshift alter. The room was cast in their eery flickering shadows.

The Retired Colonel carried a box with a eight half-burned large red candles, an old oil lantern that was almost full, a dim flashlight with a cracked lens and a ball of twine. Old Grandad carried a black walking stick with a gold plated bulldog at it's head and a brass paw on the end that he kept in his private office. He enjoyed waving it around during business meetings as a way to intimidate and make emphatic points. He also found it calming to turn and stroke it gently it during stressful moments.

The Best Man whose name I can't recall made a lame joke wondering about what sort of arcane and occult rituals the candles were used for in the privacy of The Club. He was immediately shut up and stared down by the icy glare of both Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel.

Within a few moments the candles and the lantern were lit, the knocked over furniture was picked up and folks just kinda stood milling around. Granny Adler sat on a wooden folding chair, panting and weeping with frosting in her hair and holding the broken pieces of the cake topper in her cake covered lap.

While he was in The Club, Old Grandad went to his private office and phoned his contact in the Mayor's office. Back in those days, the phones were separate circuits from the power and were thankfully still operational. His contact was the secretary to an assistant mayor. He had been banging her for years and using her both physically for his pleasures and intellectually as a mole to provide him with inside information about the dealings and schemes of city government. She told him that they received dozens of reports and that the power was out all over New York, both city and state. They were working on the problem but at present no one knew what had happened.

As Old Grandad found it difficult to believe that such a thing could happen in a great modern industrialized nation, plus he didn't really believe the secretary could be correct. She was after all a woman and he was of the generation that believed in the intellectual inferiority of women. He then phoned a contact in the police department, a Pollock Captain who provided security on the side for events at The Club when The Mayor and other important elected officials were in attendance. The Pollock Captain told him basically the same thing, New York was dark, they were working on it, and to just sit tight and wait.

Old Grandad paced about, waving and stroking his walking stick as he explained this to the group.

Granny Adler began sobbing louder and moaning, "but the wedding, but the wedding." It was then they looked around and began to wonder where was the bride?

All got quiet and looked at the closed doors. From the other side, faint cries and calls for help could barely be heard over the increasing cacophony of a now very chaotic rush hour on the street below. Catherine, my mother, the bride and her father, Old Man Adler were stuck in the elevator. Old Grandad walked across the room and began to beat on the elevator doors with his walking stick. In a minute or two Old Grandad was able to use his walking stick, along with the legs of a folding chair wielded by Roosevelt to pry open the doors. They looked cautiously over the edge and shown the dim flashlight down into the dark shaft. The elevator was stuck, nearly perfectly parked between the ninth and tenth floors. After confirming the bride and Old Man Adler were fine, the guests began to brainstorm a plan to get them out.

A half hour or so of activity passed, and concluded with the sad realization that although they could pry the doors open on the ninth and tenth floor elevator lobbies, the elevator had a second inner security door which could not be unlatched unless it was parked perfectly at floor level. This extra precaution was installed when the building was constructed at the insistence of Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, who had an acute phobia of falling from an elevator.

What to do, oh what to do?

When it looked as though all was lost and the wedding would have to be postponed, Old Man Adler called up. He had managed to remove the access hatch in the ceiling of the elevator, and with a small boost from Catherine he was able to pull and push himself through and was standing on top of the elevator car. With the dim flashlight for guidance he climbed a service ladder on the side of the elevator shaft and in a moment crawled through the open door and stood in the lobby. His crisp black tuxedo was wrinkled. The tuxedo, his face and hands were smeared with grease and grime from the elevator shaft.

Now all that was needed was Catherine, my mother, the bride. She was screaming hysterically about being left alone and in the dark of the stuck elevator car. A brilliant plan was hatched to save both the day and the wedding.

The Retired Colonel took a candle and some matches and tied them to a wooden desk chair. He then tied the rest of the twine to the chair and he carefully unwound it, lowering the whole thing down the elevator shaft. After a couple of noisy tries banging against the top of the elevator, which caused Catherine, my mother, the bride, to scream with fear that the elevator was falling, he was able to get the chair through the open access hole and lowered down into the elevator car.

Now all that remained was for Catherine to light the candle for illumination, stand on the chair, pull herself up through the access hole, climb the ladder into the lobby and marry Roosevelt, my father, The Bastard.

A lit candle popped through the opening followed by Catherine's head. She took one brief look around at the dirt and grime of the elevator shaft then ducked back inside the car. She sat on the chair, crying. She was not about to dirty her beautiful white wedding gown climbing up out of the elevator.

She could not be persuaded. Everyone, except for Granny Adler, who was still struggling to regain both her breath and composure, and her college girlfriends who were still embacing suspiciously, tried to convince her. She was simply just not going to do it.

If Mohammed would not go to the mountain, then the mountain must go to Mohammed.

And so it was that shortly after 7:30 in the evening Roosevelt Barrington, my father, The Bastard, found himself holding a dim flashlight and cautiously climbing down a dark and dingy elevator shaft.

family history, part ten

Or if you prefer, the wedding, part one. . .

The wedding of Roosevelt Barrington, my father, The Bastard, and Catherine Adler, my mother was scheduled to begin at 5:00 on Tuesday, November 9, 1965. It was a rather early start for an evening wedding, but at the time Granny Adler, my grandmother and the mother of the bride had a nasty case of pleurisy and was generally exhausted and in bed by 7:00.

Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, was still furious with Old Grandad at his refusal to allow the wedding party access to the rest of The Club on account of they were not members and many were women, but she put on her happy face and had done an excellent job overseeing the decoration of the lobby for the ceremony. The lobby looked resplendent with red poinsettias and some little white fancy European imported flowers everywhere. A sort of non-denominational alter by where the bride and groom were to stand for the ceremony was fashioned from a podium pilfered from a conference room on one of the lower floors. A cascading shower of red and white roses gracefully flowed to the floor and was the head of an aisle outlined in white roses and covered in the petals of red ones.

At 5:00 pm sharp, Roosevelt Barrington stood before that alter, his glance going nervously between his watch and the elevator doors at the other end of the room from where his bride was to appear and make her grand entrance. A college buddy whose name I can't remember stood at his side as his Best Man. The two men stood with the District Court Judge who was officiating as a consequence of a losing poker hand to Old Grandad.

Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, Old Grandad, and Aunt Olphelia were seated a few feet away along with a handful of other family members. Many did not come because the short notice of the rescheduling or they shared Grandma Milly's, God rest her soul, anger at Old Grandad for staging a wedding in an elevator lobby.

On the bride's side of the makeshift aisle in the lobby there was only one gold-digging cousin who was hoping to drunkenly score a rich husband at the reception and a couple of college girlfriends who were secretly hoping Catherine would change her mind and choose to return to her college lifestyle. No one else on my mother's side showed because they were angry at Old Grandad for his perceived anti-semitism and morally outraged that so fine a Jewish princess would be allowed by her father to marry into such a family.

The Retired Colonel milled around the side of the room, sipping bourbon from the bottle and watching cigar smoke gently drift through an open window.

Uncle Randolph, in his fabulous gown, stood a the back of the room near the elevator doors along with the Granny Adler. Her pleurisy was really bothering her and she was breathing fast and shallow as a rabbit, trying not to faint from anxiety or exhaustion.

All were staring at the elevator, waiting for the doors to open and for Catherine to appear with her father. They were to make the traditional bridal entrance and follow Granny Adler and Uncle Randolph down the makeshift aisle.

The secretarial pool break room on the third floor had become the bride's dressing room. It was empty of secretaries, as was the remainder of the building of other employees. Old Grandad gave them the afternoon off. All thought it was an act of generosity caused by Old Grandad's joy over the wedding, but in reality he just wanted the building empty so that there would be fewer people to see his son in a dress.

Catherine was down there with a handful of wedding professionals, stylists, designers, make-up artists, etc. preparing for the wedding. Her father, Old Man Adler was waiting patiently in the hallway for his daughter to emerge so that he could escort her in the elevator up to the ceremony.

At 5:07, the elevator doors had yet to open.

5:18, still no Catherine. Roosevelt was nervously sweating and Old Grandad was becoming visibly annoyed at the delay. Catherine's college girlfriends were slightly smirking with delight because they were starting to think that their last minute efforts to dissuade Catherine from marriage and run off with them to the more liberal lands of Europe were successful.

What none knew at the time was that eight floors below, Catherine had leaned over to pick up a dropped comb and had popped a seam in her corset. It was hastily being resown by hand while she was wearing it.

At 5:25 Old Grandad was beginning to get up to go into The Club to slam a scotch and to angrily call down to the third floor to inquire as to the reason for the delay. Suddenly above the dull din of the rush hour traffic drifting up from the streets below, the rumbling sound of a slow old elevator motor was heard. Here comes the bride, here comes the bride.

At 5:27 all the lights went out.

For a moment there was calm. The Retired Colonel looked through the window and could see that it was not just their current location that suddenly went dark. All the lights within his view had gone out: the building across the street, the street and traffic lights below, everything everywhere went black. It looked to him as though the power had just failed in the entire city.

The Retired Colonel had recently read an article informing him that such an event would likely be caused by the electromagnetic pulse generated by a nuclear attack. He was the first to panic. He began screaming about everyone's doom and those cocksucking commie Russian bastards. He lurched about the darkened room in an arching semi-circular pattern caused by his mostly forgetting to compensate for his shortened wooden leg. He hit a folding chair and crashed to the ground. His bourbon bottle flew from his hand and in a brief moment the room filled with the sound of breaking glass and the smell of whiskey.

Then everyone else began to panic. For the small eternity of several minutes there were screams and the banging sounds of people falling and banging into furniture in the darkness.

Old Grandad continued to just sit there, stoic and motionless like a pot on low heat on the stove. He was now truly irritated and very annoyed. He was not concerned about the threat of global thermonuclear annihilation. He knew that the Russians were just as much into turning a profit as he was. He had been dealing with them for several years through a series of third parties and shell businesses in a handful of small Eastern block nations like Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania.They shared the common belief that total mutually assured world destruction would be very very bad for business.

When he reached the boiling point he stood up and raised his voice while he raised a gold-plated Zippo from his pocket. He barked commands, "Quiet! Calm down you damn idiots! We are not doomed!"

He kicked at The Retired Colonel who lie sprawled in the flickering shadows at his feet. "Get up you crazy bastard, and go find us some flashlights or some candles from one of the supply closets in The Club. Anybody else have a lighter? I'm going to go try to figure out what the hell is going on."

With that the room quickly calmed, several people pulled lighters or matches from their pockets. In moments the room was lit with a dozen or so tiny fire lights. People slowly began to recompose themselves and survey their surroundings. All of the chairs and most of the tables had been overturned. The gold-digging cousin and the best man were found in one corner of the room in a rather compromising position. The college girlfriends of Catherine were found in another corner in a similar position. Both couples simultaneously and separately reasoned that if they were going to be vaporized by an impending nuclear holocaust they wanted to get it one one last time before they went.

And Granny Adler, why she was found on top of the wedding cake. In the darkness she tripped into the cake table, causing both her and the cake to fall to the floor. There was frosting in her hair. In her hands she held the shattered pieces of the porcelain bride and groom cake topper. In retrospect, that should have been heeded as an omen.

Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel jingled and juggled keys from their pocket as they approached a door a few feet behind the makeshift podium. Together they walked slowly into The Club, their way illuminated by Old Grandad's golden lighter. You could hear the door locking behind them, the untrusting old bastards.

family history, part nine

Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel founded the Exclusive Executive Mens' Club following the end of The Second Great War. They founded the club as a haven from the returing riff-raff who thought they were somebody now. While Old Grandad was grateful for the vast expansion of his fortunes caused by The Second Great War, he believed that the actual fighting of it was beneath the dignity of men of proper social standing. Bravery on the battlefield does nothing to compensate for poor breeding. Old Grandad wanted an escape from the returning heroes who presumed to be believe they were now his equal and erroneously believed that having medals compensated for a lack of manners. The Exclusive Executive Men's club was created to achieve this end and to further illustrate the differences between success in commerce and combat.

Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel learned that they were far from alone in this unique line of elite thought. Soon the cream of New York's society were all clamouring for membership.

The Club, as we in the family grew up referring to it, was located on the 12th floor of the Barrington Building in Midtown Manhattan, a few short blocks away from the Empire State Building. When the stock market crashed in 1929, prime real-estate in Manhattan became suddenly much more affordable. Old Grandad decided to move the corporate headquarters of Barrington Industries from suburban Detroit to New York City.

When he arrived in New York City in the spring of 1930, Old Grandad was surprised to learn that DuPont and those other filthy rich East Coast assholes were already in a fierce competition to build the World's Tallest Building. Normally Old Grandad's competitive nature would have caused him to jump right in the fray, but this time he held back. While Old Grandad was incredibly proud of his penis, as is evident by the family motto, his vanity was not so limitless as to cause him to build a giant version of it out of concrete and steel. Plus those other bastards had already hired the best architects and contractors.

He immediately began construction on a surprisingly less ambitious yet more practical project. He commissioned a building with 13 floors. This was done to both flaunt his disbelief in superstition and to exploit the belief of others who were not so enlightened. While not overtly racist, Old Grandad greatly distrusted the Mohawk Indians who did much of the high iron and steelwork in the buildings at the time. He thought them savages, and subsequently was fearful they would attempt acts of sabatoge designed to seek revenge on the white men who stole their lands. Hence the 13 floors. The Indian steelworkers were a superstitious lot, and Old Grandad's ploy worked. Not a single one ever came to the job site seeking employment. Subsequently most of the work was done by gangs of drunken Irishmen. The fact that three or four typically fell to their death each week during the eight months of construction only fueled belief in the superstition. To this day many believe the building to be haunted by the ghosts of inebriated and underpaid workers.

I grew up running around that building and I can tell you that the only drunken Irishmen I ever saw were wandering the lower office floors on St. Patrick's Day.

When The Barrington Building was completed in June 1931, the first 11 floors were dedicated to the various offices required to run a large company. There was the sales floor, the accounts payable floor, the research and development floor, and so on. The top two floors were originally designed as apartments for the family. When Old Grandad founded The Club he remodelled and redesigned the 12th floor for that purpose. He kept the 13th floor for himself as a private penthouse apartment designed to be his personal playground for discretely entertaining his many lady friends away from the prying eyes of Grandma Milly, God rest her soul.

And it was between the smoky oak panelled walls of The Club's lobby on the 12th floor of The Barrington Building that my father, Roosevelt Barrington, The Bastard, was scheduled, some might say destined, to marry Catherine Adler on a November evening in 1965.

family history, part eight

Uncle Randolph had his orders. He was to board a troop transport bound for 'nam at Andrews Air Force Base at 0600 hours on the morning of Friday, November 12, 1965.

Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, absolutely freaked out. Her darling Randolph was leaving the safety of the states for the risks and horrors of a war zone. She was furious with Old Grandad for letting it happen and putting profit over their son's protection. And oh, the gnashing and wailing of tears when she realized that Randolph would not be at the wedding of Roosevelt and Catherine.

It was going to be beautiful, it was going to be almost perfect, and it was scheduled for December 18. Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, loved Christmas and she loved weddings.

It was bad enough for Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, that the complicated issues of faith involved in the joining of Episcopal and Jewish families had yet to be resolved. The marriage was to be a civil ceremony, performed by a judge in his courtroom.

She had barely recovered from the disappointment that the vain and conceited society women from her church tea circle and Bible class would not be watching with envy from the middle church pews as she went gloriously by in her fabulous designer mother of the groom gown.

Now Uncle Randolph was going to miss it.

And after all she went through arguing and antagonizing Old Grandad to persuade him to allow Uncle Randolph's rather unique role in the first place. She would not allow those efforts to be in vain. Uncle Randolph's absence from the wedding was an affront to the family that Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, would not allow to stand.

So she prodded, poked, persuaded and provoked Old Grandad until he agreed to moving the date and location of the wedding. Calls were made and invitations were hastily remailed. Roosevelt and Catherine were set to be married prior to Uncle Randolph's departure in the lobby of the Exclusive Executive Men's Club.

The wedding was to be held in the lobby, because Old Grandad refused to violate the sanctity of his good ol' boy network and allow women into The Club. Not even for his son's wedding. What a dick.

And then of course, there was the issue of Uncle Randolph.

Uncle Randolph was very excited to learn that his older brother was going to be married. He could not wait to be part of a wedding party. Being the brother of a the groom, you might typically expect him to be a groomsman, or perhaps Best Man even. Not Handy Randy.

He insisted on being a bridesmaid.

Old Grandad was aghast, but again, Grandma Milly, God rest her soul, was insistent. Old Grandad didn't give squat about weddings in the first place, for him they were womenly affairs, and this was only a silly ceremony to seal a business deal. He caved in exchange for peace and quiet at home. He really didn't give a damn who dressed how so long as they kept it out of the papers.

Catherine, my mother, was almost as excited as Randolph at his wish to be a bridesmaid. The two had developed a close relationship during the course of her courtship with my father, The Bastard. She considered Randolph to be the sister she never had.

Catherine, my mother, always had an affinity for those types of people, you know, the homosexuals. She seemed quite empathetic to their plight. This really comes as no surprise. After all, she went to Vassar.

(A couple years back when my siblings and I finally got around to sorting through her things, we found an old shoebox buried behind a stack of sweaters in the back of her bedroom closet. The shoebox was full of old letters. Those letters confirmed what we had always suspected. Catherine, my mother, spent much of her college years dabbling in the mysterious ways of mono-gender love.)

So with little debate and much enthusiasm all agreed that Uncle Randolph was to be a bridesmaid.

"Only a bridesmaid, never a bride" he was overheard to say with glee many times when discussing the upcoming nuptials.

While no one who is remotely sane or sober would ever think him more beautiful than the bride, I have seen the photos.

In his silk bridesmaid dress Uncle Randolph looked absolutely fabulous.

real world update, part five

You need not remind me, see it every morning when I look in the mirror. I know who I am. It is a blessing that I can't help but to take for granted. Yet I must confess that from time to time it grows tiresome. There are those rare moments when life seems almost a burden. Well, okay not a burden, but at times I do feel encumbered by my name. We all have our moments when we wish we were someone else. For most people, those moments are filled with dreams of being me. As for me, well, I guess I don't go so far as to actually wish I was another. How foolish would that be? Really now, you've seen me. How could me or anyone not want to be me, with that whole single, filthy rich, and so fucking hot I've made lesbians switch teams thing that I've got going on.

Still, I feel the need for brief respite once in a while.

When I was a young child growing up in my isolated and insulated upper Manhattan world my father, The Bastard, would sometimes disappear for weeks at a time. When I asked my mother where he went she would say something about a business trip. He would inevitably come home unkempt, unshorn and dishevelled, covered with the filth and reeking with the stench of the city. He would answer my queries with rambling comments about how we should all take turns in the gutters dreaming about cars like we all spend time in the darkness dreaming about stars. He's weird like that, my father, The Bastard.

Sometimes I feel one of my turns coming on.

When that mood strikes, I forego my usual impecable grooming and immaculate fashion and just let it be for a few days. No showers, no shaving, no combing my perfect hair.

I grab a truck-stop baseball cap, convenience store sunglasses and some off the rack clothes from a second hand thrift store. I head out into the world, just to imagine and to play.

I once found it quite entertaining to go out in such a state and splatter my clothes with copious quantities of theatrical blood. I'd leave the comforts of the city and venture up the suburban freeway to some Big Box Hardware Store. I'd absently wander the warehouse aisles, filling my cart with things like shovels, rope, rolls of duct tape and industrial size trash bags or plastic tarps.

Then just for kicks, I'd push my cart up to some part-time high school kid in the cleaning supply section and ask them what product they would recommend to get blood stains out of carpet. Or I'd stop in the power tools section and ask some Bob Villa wannabe which saw works best for cutting bone.

Ah, the looks on their faces. Priceless.

I stopped doing that after 9/11. That damned day should also go down in history as the day our great nation's sense of humor died.

This evening I felt the urge to briefly escape my gilded cage and get away from me for awhile. In an attempt to alleviate my growing boredom I travelled to the suburbs in my slumming it incognito style sans the theatrical blood. I stopped at one of those mega supermarkets with parking lots full of SUVs and aisles full of soccer moms buying boxes of fruit roll-ups and frozen microwave dinners.

I filled a cart with cases of cheap canned beer, boxes of condoms, and several cans of that weird spray cheese that tastes good on a cracker.

I wandered the aisles with my cart full of a party waiting to happen, acting for all the world like a way past his prime David Lee Roth asking women without male escorts if they were looking for a good time.

I received the anticipated and highly amusing looks of disgust, fear and loathing from my fellow shoppers. One woman actually called me repulsive and disgusting. Several turned away to avoid having to pass me in the aisle. Men straightened their posture, puffed their chests and gave me menacing glares. Primate behavior baby, just like those monkeys in the jungle.

I was expecting to do this for a half hour or so and then store security would come up to throw me out. We'd have a good laugh, I'd toss them a few c-notes for their trouble and we'd all be on our happy way.

I never expected those three women on the frozen food aisle to say yes.

As they abandoned their basket of ice cream, brownie mix, and cheap chardonnay I noticed it also held a current issue of one those tabloid rags. On the cover I saw a small photo of me leaving the courthouse a week or so ago beneath hyped photos of dead Anna and that rehabed bitch Britney.

Fuck. My cover was blown. They called my bluff.

I'm a Barrington. I don't bluff. I don't need to. It ain't braggin' if it's true.

I have just returned home. Oh, what a night it's been. I had never imagined doing that with spray cheese.

my new motto

I am replacing Old Grandad's Family Motto:

"Barrington: Straighter, Stronger, and Harder Than Steel"

He had it inscribed in Latin over the family crest he paid that graphic artist, the same one who worked on the Coca-Cola campaign in the 1930's, to design for our family. Don't ask me how to say it in in Latin because it's fucking Latin and no one fucking cares. It's a dead language for Chris'sakes. The only reason Old Grandad had it inscribed in Latin in the first place was for the for his own ego-centric gravitas.

I only know the damned thing in English because it was one of Old Grandad's favorite sayings.

It always kinda creeped me out.

I always thought that old bastard was just a little too fond of his penis. Lord knows he had a devil of a time keeping the damn thing in his pants. Who's not too fond of their penis? Really now, it is a rather remarkable instrument with a life and a mind all its own. How can you not be impressed with the darned thing?

But then again, I am allegedly trying my best to move away from all that right now and "become a better person yada yada yada". Well okay, mister court ordered therapist, you prick.

My new motto:

"Smoke 'em if ya got 'em, bang 'em if ya can, and fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

Wonder how you say that in Latin?