Well, I guess I succumbed to the inevitable: I'm a complete fraud. Fuck it. I'm wholly dependent on my money. I have no worth outside of it. I tire of the struggle to be otherwise as the damage done by the loss of the Woman Of Fabric is irreversible. I'm a certified cunt now and my only future is to become an even bigger one.
I can say that here (where no one can or will believe me) but in public that's a different matter. My current occupation such as it is is that of an actor. What role do I play? The one that is expected, of course. I only have one billion while some have multiples of that but I think to the general public once they hear the word "billionaire" we're all lumped in together even though those in this circle do keep score who has the most. Well, that's one game I do refuse to play. But I'm drawn into the rest of the farce.
In my youth I did nothing but spend money and pay only the most scant attention to its presence. And my father actually encouraged that as he saw that as his vengeance against having to dedicate his life to oil wildcatting and the excruciating stress that incurs. His son would never know that and that was fine with me. When I inherited the company I pretty much left it to the managers. I wanted to sell it but I never have out of a sense of guilt. Somehow I think that would make me seem ungrateful.
View from the Virgin bar
But I need some sort of fig leaf that I'm actually doing something with my life. Local boy Mark Cuban has his billions but he still goes great guns looking for deal after deal, soaking up real estate and doing that Shark show (never seen it). I've seen him couple times at the Grapevine Bar and this is not an act for him. Business really is is life. Lord, spare me that! I do not consider making money in and of itself a valid purpose for one's existence.
But I pretend it is as it's such an easy sell to my fellow morons.
I have an answer now for prying eyes as to what I do with my time. "Deals in the works," I vaguely reply. And, hey, sometimes it's true. So billionaire Branson boy brought his Virgin hotel chain to Dallas. But he does this in conjunction with local investors, one of whom is Bill Hutchinson (another billionaire, who heads the Dunhill group). Bill is not your ordinary billionaire so I can actually stand his company as opposed to the uptight corporate types I usually run into. I mean, really, you guys just want to talk about taxes and regulations? Christ, at least try finding a more interesting vice.
The hotel itself is stunning and I'm proud to be associated with it but the payoff for me is not monetary but the fact I can point to something I can sell as a worthwhile endeavor. I can probably ride this for a couple of years - but then I'll need another deal. I admit it is semi-interesting these kind of deals but the guys around me are far more enthusiastic than I am. How do I tell them I'm just killing time and providing cover for my useless life?
Love the Valley House Gallery. Ask to walk the garden!
I have found another time killer and that's exploring art. Been to some great galleries around town and it's quite an adventure. Buddy Bill may be an investor but also has an artsy side to him. That's where the real link is between us, not the personal wealth. Turns out Bill knows the guy down at Griffin Trading where I'd bought stuff in the past. Bill tells me the Griffin guy is an art expert so I've been picking that guy's brain on the art world so I can get a feel for things. I do not, however, want to be known as a "collector". That would imply I actually know what I'm doing.
It's been a fun ride but once you've made the tour through the local galleries, then what? Do I expand to the entire country (or world) in search of new pieces? Do I drop 60 million on a Van Gogh then worry about all the security I'd need to keep it in one of my houses? I don't know how far I can take this. I do admit it's very nice to have had a little direction in my life and I've been lucky with the Virgin project being so cool and also the exploration of local galleries. But I fear I'm reaching another dead end.
At the end of the day I still live in cruel and dreaded fear of this, the most vexing question of all, which hounds me night and day, lashing me onward like a 19th century slave, and bedeviled with loss for a reply: "What do you do for a living?"
Usually I HATE these things but Bill invites some funky people
So if you see me out and about hobnobbing and smiling with the big shots, please don't be taken in. See, unlike in the movies, in real life the worst thing that can happen for an actor is to be successful. Makes me feel like I'm drowning, unable to be heard. Reality is I'm not interested in the scene in which I'm appearing and am dying to be someplace else far, far away. Problem is, I don't know where that place is.
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