The Diary of Ryan O’Neal

By Mark Ramsey | 2007/02/06

6:00 AM – Woke with hangover. Which is odd because haven’t had a drink in three days. Then again, I haven’t been awake in three days.

5:15 AM – Traveled back in time to try and undo today’s events. Can’t seem to get back earlier than 5:15. Damn!

ryan.jpg6:45 AM – Memorize phone number for 9-1-1. My astrologer told me I’d be needing it today. What was that damn 9-1-1 number?!

7:00 AM – Farrah stops by to celebrate big Six-Oh, and I’m obviously putting “celebrate” in quotes. We’re going to share a coffee and discuss the whereabouts of our teeth.

8:15 AM – Farrah and I determine the sexual tension is palpable. Or maybe it’s just the tension that’s palpable. In any case, into bed we go. Not for sex. We’re both tired. It’s been a long two and a half hour day.

11:00 PM – Farrah has been awake and crazy for several hours – okay, several decades – now. She’s washing dishes in the kitchen with latex gloves. I ask her where she got latex gloves. She says in Griffin’s nightstand, under his stuffed animals. I explain that’s where he keeps his condoms – we don’t have latex gloves. She mutters something about ribbed latex being good for baked-on grease. I shrug and reach for a bottle of whisky from under the stairs, inside the lamp, over the porch, and behind the toilet plunger.

11:15 PM – Griffin wakes up. I realize he’s been living in my house in Malibu since he left the treatment program after the treatment program after the other treatment program. “I’m not running a halfway house!” I tell him. “Go tell it to Barbra Streisand in ‘What’s Up Doc,’ he yells back at me.

11:20 PM – Griffin’s girlfriend wakes up. I realize not only that he has a girlfriend but she’s pregnant and has been pregnant for eighteen months. “How come you’re pregnant for eighteen months?” I ask her. “Are you disrespecting my girlfriend?” Griffin yells, quite unhinged.

11:45 PM – Griffin is out of control, swinging a fireplace poker. And I don’t own a fireplace. “Farrah is washing dishes with my rubbers!” he kept yelling. “What the hell do you need rubbers for, your girlfriend’s already pregnant,” I yelled back. “She is?” he asked.

12 Midnight – I’ve had enough. Farrah has the vacuum cleaner in pieces in the entry hall. She says she’s trying to build a “space robot from scratch.” Griffin is still waving that poker – he says he’s trying to surrender to the Confederacy but there’s no confederacy in Malibu – we don’t even have Republicans. So I aim to settle this family squabble the way all families should settle disputes: With a gun.

12:15 am – Okay, I’m shooting at the bannister and I hit it! And a bannister is much easier to hit than my son because he keeps moving like a jackrabbit and the damn bannister at least stands still. Farrah says “five points if you hit Griffin between the eyes,” and I say “no woman who washes dishes with rubbers and builds space robots out of vacuum cleaners should be stingy with points at a time like this.”

12:20 am – Somebody clocked Griffin’s girlfriend in the head. And I know she’s pregnant and stuff but she really needs to get out of the damn way and let me shoot my only son. My house, my rules! Farrah is trying to put her latex gloves over my gun barrel and I try to explain that this is not the kind of protection that rubbers were designed to provide, but it’s no use.

12:45 am – Evidently Griffin’s girlfriend called 9-1-1. How did she get the number!!!??

1:00 am – The cops are in the house and lock me in handcuffs. They are taking me to Malibu Jail – the only jail where the bars serve after hours.

What a night! I can’t wait to repeat it tomorrow!


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