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.