Wow! I didn't know that Frank. You sir, are a fountain of information on the life and times of the dumpmonkeys.
I would have guessed, not being a trust fund kiddie myself, that one would have gotten control of it at least by the time they are 30. If I was 39 and still beholden to mommy I think I would shoot myself.
Thanks Frank!
There was a primitive about three years ago, from Harvard, who had something against the Bostonian Drunkard, and checked out things. What he found, he kindly shared with the world.
The Bostonian Drunkard's trust fund emanated from his maternal grandfather, the "Raven" primitive's father, who had been a big attorney in Boston circa 1940-1980--some prime inner-Boston real-estate there--but fearful that his shallow grandson would blow it away too quickly, there were some, uh, rather onerous conditions placed on it.
No one seems to know what those conditions are; I had speculated the funds would be dispersed to his grubby hands when the Bostonian Drunkard got married last year, but I was wrong.
It
appears that the "Raven" primitive and her younger brother (also an attorney) are trustees of the fund, and it isn't wholly the Bostonian Drunkard's until mama kicks off. (The "Raven" primitive is 65 years old, and one sincerely wishes her many more decades of life, like four or five more.)
The Bostonian Drunkard's father, divorced from his mother, has
some dough, but not nearly as much.
And so it plays out as if a farce on Broadway, a middle-aged flabby flaccid boryborymous loser having to beg for money from either parent. But it's the Bostonian Drunkard's own damn fault; if he weren't so conceited, so shallow, so grubby, so gaseous, so wilfully ignorant, his grandfather might have trusted him more.
It's got to suck when one's own grandfather doesn't trust one.