So here is Christmas Eve and guard duty at Fort Lewis Christmas Eve 1944 comes to mind. I had volunteered for guard duty so that a Christian GI could go to church. And as I walked the perimeter of Ft. Lewis, I could see the houses on the other side of the fence across the road, all decked out with Christmas decorations. I can still see it in my mind's eye including the people in the houses celebrating Christmas. And I remember, vividly, that overwhelming feeling of loneliness as tears streamed from my eyes. So Christmas Eve these past 64 years has always been special to this Old Jew. And I feel blessed that God put me in the army, gave me the opportunity to serve my country and still allows my tears to stream, 64 years later after a rich and fruitful life.
After being hit on Okinawa, April 12, 1945 the Army shipped my ass to the ambulatory hospital on Saipan which was not a "cool" place to be. And I'm not talking about the weather. When everyone around you is a war casualty, it's hard to elicit any sympathy because I could barely walk up that fucking hill to the mess hall. Where else would the army put the mess hall except in the most inconvenient, pain inducing location? There were Japanese soldiers with ammo still left in the hills who didn't know or care that the U.S. had taken the island. Almost every day machine gun fire would erupt from those hills, and we'd all scramble like crazy for some kind, any kind of cover. Once hit, twice shy.
When that bullet went through my leg on Okinawa, I realized for the first time that I was not omnipotent. I had lost my cherry on Okinawa. Bullet wounds do hurt and really can kill. As one did to Sgt Boggs. What really pissed everyone off was that machine gun fire coming down from the hills would come when we were in the Coke line. You absolutely lost your place in the line when scrambling. Not being too mobile meant that I was always ended up at the end of the God damn newly formed line. While on Saipan, I would go on sick call almost daily and complain about my difficulty in navigating the walk up to the fucking mess hall hill three times a day with constant discomfort (aka pain). And for awful food to boot! Those ass hole, newly minted lieutenants in their crispy, clean stateside fresh uniforms would tell me that there was nothing wrong with my leg, and that I was just bucking for a discharge. I also was accused of trying for a Section 8 discharge for mental disorder because of my bizarre behavior concerning my leg and otherwise.
A starchy clean, schmuck of a newly arrived doctor really got annoyed with me and shouted, "Do you want me to hold your leg?" To which I replied "Yeah, for as long as it would help" where upon he went off the fucking wall and threatened to have me court martialed. He did, however, send me to another doctor, a pediatrician in civilian life. He took the time and trouble to really examine my x-rays and discovered that all the bones in my knee were shattered from the impact of the bullet going through the flesh and bone of my leg. However knowing what was wrong with me didn't make mess hall hill any less steeper or shorter. And my Jewish ass really missed those ass hole Boston Irish from my outfit, so I started making noise to leave Saipan and rejoin my outfit on that other Garden Spot, Okinawa. Back I went to rejoin my anti Semitic (and who cared) buddies again.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Great Depression/Private Equity Funds
More depression days stuff. Bear in mind that there was a resurgence in unemployment to 25% around 1936. But my genius immigrant father never seemed to miss a beat. He and my Mom were fabulous parents. We never really knew that there was a depression going on. And my needs were simple. They revolved around sports and avoiding bringing my report cards home (talk about a constant fear of impending doom). If they knew what ADD was in those days, I would still be in the third grade. I once told that to Donald Trump, about Donald Trump.
Between starting school early and skipping a grade, I graduated from high school at 16. All my friends were a few years older than me and a few years better athletically. Any street smart kid knew that if you brought the basketball, football, or baseball and bat you had to be chosen when they picked teams. My Pop understood that rule, so I always had the basketball etc., so I always got to play. Even in the worst of times my pop saw to it that I was guaranteed a slot on a team. When I showed up, all the other kids were fucked because I was the one with the ball. They had to let me play if they wanted to play at all.
Private Equity Investments
That shoe is about to fall a lot further than it has to date on further private equity fund holding valuations which will really raise hell with pension funds, endowments and foundations. I believe that the private equity funds have only begun to write down valuations of their investments which in turn will force the pension fund investors, endowments and foundations to further write down the value of their holdings in these funds, big and small. Harvard's attempt to sell their holdings in private equity funds in the secondary market at a 50% discount will, in my view, look optimistic and reaching for the stars…
Between starting school early and skipping a grade, I graduated from high school at 16. All my friends were a few years older than me and a few years better athletically. Any street smart kid knew that if you brought the basketball, football, or baseball and bat you had to be chosen when they picked teams. My Pop understood that rule, so I always had the basketball etc., so I always got to play. Even in the worst of times my pop saw to it that I was guaranteed a slot on a team. When I showed up, all the other kids were fucked because I was the one with the ball. They had to let me play if they wanted to play at all.
Private Equity Investments
That shoe is about to fall a lot further than it has to date on further private equity fund holding valuations which will really raise hell with pension funds, endowments and foundations. I believe that the private equity funds have only begun to write down valuations of their investments which in turn will force the pension fund investors, endowments and foundations to further write down the value of their holdings in these funds, big and small. Harvard's attempt to sell their holdings in private equity funds in the secondary market at a 50% discount will, in my view, look optimistic and reaching for the stars…
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Going to the World Series at Yankee Stadium in '36, '37 and '38
It cost $1.10 for bleacher seats, and we loved them and thought ourselves so lucky to be there. Buddy and I would arrive at Yankee Stadium at around 5:00 a.m. and talk baseball with everyone around us. Talk isn't quite right. We would argue our cases that our favorite ball players were the best at their positions.
They would let us into the ball park at around 11:00 a.m. and at noon out would come a marching band to entertain us. Right before the ball game started, the so called "Clown Prince of Baseball" would come out and do some stunts with a baseball in right field. He would end up at home plate with another ball player on third, and they would start to steam the ball at one another all the while closing the gap between the two. The crowd just roared with every throw.To get the day's action started, Buddy and I would get up at 4:00 a.m. to take the subway to the ball game. We would bring sandwiches my Mom had made for us the night before and at least a pound of peanuts. We weren't going to get ripped off at Yankee Stadium and pay a dime for a lousy bag of peanuts that cost around two bits a pound at the grocery store.
My Mom would give me a $2.00 to cover the whole shebang; $1.10 to get into the game, 10¢ for carfare and all the treats you could get for 80¢. Hot dogs and cokes were a dime each...although we complained loudly that a dime for a coke was a total rip off. We weren't just "making do", we were having a great time (the term "having a blast" hadn't been invented yet). This was the Great Depression, and my Mom walloped me for the one and only time when I used the 15¢ change from buying a Sunday newspaper to buy candy.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Great Depression
In the early 30's, when there were lots of abandoned construction sites we would find 2x4's and attach roller skate wheels to either end making a "skate board", the forerunner of today's store bought skate board. Or we would go into the storage space of an apartment house where they kept old unused baby carriages. We would steal one, take the axels and wheels off and attach them to our 2x4, and we had a going gussie.
Racial hatred was the order of the day with anti Semitism and hating blacks in the forefront. Father Coughlin, in Detroit was on the radio with venomous anti Semitism. The Germans had the Bund and controlled Yorktown in Manhattan. An organization called America First (who was it that famously said that "Patriotism is often the last refuge of scoundrels?) The Irish kids would come into Jewish neighborhoods for the sole purpose of beating the hell out of the Jewish kids. Walking to and from school was an exercise in courage. Not getting the shit knocked out of you was the goal.
But again, we didn't know any better. We just thought that was life. We weren't "making do", we were living life as we knew it to the fullest. One of my friends had a brother who was with the Dutch Schultz Gang. Dutch Schultz was an infamous gangster who was, I believe, murdered in a barbershop chair. My friend's brother decided that we should learn how to defend ourselves so he gave us boxing lessons. Didn't help. The Irish kids still beat the shit out of us Jews. But those lessons stood me in good stead in the Army where I ended up in a Boston Irish outfit from hard nose Scollay Square. Couldn't seem to get away from the Irish whose dedication in life seemed to be the beat the shit out of Jews. Wasn't any different in the Army but by then I was ready, able and willing to fight and never "lost one". Always, silently thanked Norman's brother who was murdered with Dutch Schultz.
Racial hatred was the order of the day with anti Semitism and hating blacks in the forefront. Father Coughlin, in Detroit was on the radio with venomous anti Semitism. The Germans had the Bund and controlled Yorktown in Manhattan. An organization called America First (who was it that famously said that "Patriotism is often the last refuge of scoundrels?) The Irish kids would come into Jewish neighborhoods for the sole purpose of beating the hell out of the Jewish kids. Walking to and from school was an exercise in courage. Not getting the shit knocked out of you was the goal.
But again, we didn't know any better. We just thought that was life. We weren't "making do", we were living life as we knew it to the fullest. One of my friends had a brother who was with the Dutch Schultz Gang. Dutch Schultz was an infamous gangster who was, I believe, murdered in a barbershop chair. My friend's brother decided that we should learn how to defend ourselves so he gave us boxing lessons. Didn't help. The Irish kids still beat the shit out of us Jews. But those lessons stood me in good stead in the Army where I ended up in a Boston Irish outfit from hard nose Scollay Square. Couldn't seem to get away from the Irish whose dedication in life seemed to be the beat the shit out of Jews. Wasn't any different in the Army but by then I was ready, able and willing to fight and never "lost one". Always, silently thanked Norman's brother who was murdered with Dutch Schultz.Monday, December 1, 2008
Yeah I Was There For The Great Depression
Yeah I was there.
I remember buying the N.Y. Daily News and The Mirror for 2¢ each. The New York Times cost a nickel. We had 4 evening papers in NY; The Sun, World Telegram, N.Y. Post and the Journal. My father's fur business went through bankruptcy. The movies cost 10¢ except on Saturdays when you got a double feature for 15¢. An allowance? How ridiculous. You got nickels, dimes and the occasional two bits by asking, most times pleading.
My parents were fabulous and almost always succumbed to my entreaties fora dime for the movies and a nickel for candy. For big occasions, the family would go downtown together from our home in the Bronx to go the Yiddish Theatre. A huge treat.
The bleachers at Yankee Stadium cost 55¢ including for double headers. I saw Babe Ruth, Lou Gerigh, Tony Lazzari, Frankie Crosetti. Baseball was a "way out" for everyone except blacks and the occasional Jew (Hank Greenberg a Jewish idol, married a Gimbel). Jews who married Shiksas were often ostracized as were the Shiksas.
But boxing was for blacks and Jews. Tennis, skiing and golf were for the wealthy. We thought that there was some "wrong" with tennis players or else why were they dressed in white. The six day bike race at the Garden was a big thrill. Going to the Garden for the rodeo was a real highlight.
We played stick ball, stoop ball, king of the hill, roller skate hockey and kick the can in the street. Pitching pennies against the stoop was "big time". Today you seldom see groups of kids playing in their neighborhoods or even in the school yards after school. We would rush home, drop off our books and meet our friends. I got my first bike when I was 12 (1935) It was a used bike, and I was so excited. Later on an Uncle bought me a new one. We were sure that he was rich beyond belief. It was a RollFast with balloon white wall tires.
The Irish dominated the Police Department and the Italians controlled the Department of Sanitation. And the Jews drove the cabs and opined incessantly. They could talk about anything for 30 minutes even if they didn't know anything about it (as I can as well). Horse and wagons would come down the streets loaded with fruits and vegetables that were being hawked by the wagoneer. A big pizza cost 50¢ and a Pepsi to go with it was either a nickel or a dime. Ice cream cones were a nickel with a double scoop a dime. A banana split with every thing but the kitchen sink and free sex cost 25¢ (huge "treat"). You bought kosher pickels by reaching into the pickel barrel and pulling the pickels out. Bakeries really made bread (rye, corn, white and pumpernickel) and bagels were truly water bagels, not baked bread and very Jewish. I carried milk home in a big bucket. My mother could buy chickens with or without the feathers.
Plucking a chicken made a hell of mess. Some stores carried live chickens and you would choose one and they were killed while you watched. It was almost as bad as sitting in the front row and watching a circumcision. Puke inducing. We would build bonfires in the street with wood left over from abandoned construction sites, steal potatoes and throw them into the fire for cooking. We called them "mickies". Walking through the five and dime (aka Woolworth's) stealing pencils and erasers that you couldn't bring home was big time. A new pencil evoked questions at home and school so we hid them and never even used them. I went to P.S. 105 and P.S. 83. The grade schools had summer sports programs and we could go to the Yankee Stadium, get seats in nose bleed country, the upper left field grandstand. Cost? A five and dime for the subway ride, coming and going. We waited outside of the player's exits after the ball game just to get a glimpse of our heros close up. Then, the counselor in charge of us would round us up and home we'd go. Television wasn't invented. Every thing that mattered was out of doors.
We played baseball on empty lots. Get out on most Saturdays and Sundays at 7:00 early enough to grab a "field to play at least 18 innings and then go and have a two bit pizza and a nickel Pepsi. When the covers would come off the baseballs we would wrap them in electrical tape and continue to use them. Like hitting and throwing a heavy rock. But we didn't care because we didn't know any better and just having the baseball was the big event....
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Radio Days
"With guys like you in the army, no wonder we're losing this fucking war!" the First Sergeant of my outfit "lovingly" said to me for no particular reason. He just looked at me and reacted. He was “Regular Army", which generally meant that he had gone into the service during the Great Depression or earlier. Those regular army guys went into the service to get a job and make a living. Pragmatism not patriotism combined with a ton of prejudice were at the core of their beings. So when I returned from radio operator school, he sent my ass to Camp Hayden out on the Olympic Peninsula near Port Angeles….knock out place. The radio shack overlooked the Straits of Juan de Fuqua and Crescent Beach. The big thrill was that I got to drive the jeep from the camp to the lookout installation.
I taught myself how to type and became a high speed radio operator. As a reward the Lieutenant wanted to promote me to Pfc and get $4 a month raise. I really pissed him off by telling him to give the $4 a month to someone who really wanted it. After all, I had been a private longer than anyone in my outfit. I didn't want to lose the distinction of being the ranking private in the barracks.
I should go back to my radio school days which were fairly brutal. The mornings started with reveille and the sergeant screaming "Drop your c..ks and grab your socks!" He was a barrel of laughs. Every fucking Saturday we went on a 15 mile forced march loaded with full gear. If you were on or near the end of the line, you always running to keep from getting your ass chewed out for falling behind. And hot? Heat in the low hundreds and that after spending the night in tar roof barracks which was like spending a night in a sauna. The camp had previously been a Japanese detention center. A truly terrible facility.
No three day passes, so I did every thing imaginable to get the hell out of there including grinding my heel into the lens of my glasses. The camp had no way to replace it, so I got a three day pass. Worked for the three days at an almond packing plant (constipated for a week). I unloaded freight cars for the Southern Pacific working at the foundry for 16 straight hours for $1.00 an hour for the first eight hours, $1.50 an hour for the second four hours and $2.00 an hour for the next four hours.
I then went back to camp with new lens and enough money to be able to shoot craps and to get plastered on my next overnight to Sacramento. I was a great craps shooter. Made money almost all the time.
I taught myself how to type and became a high speed radio operator. As a reward the Lieutenant wanted to promote me to Pfc and get $4 a month raise. I really pissed him off by telling him to give the $4 a month to someone who really wanted it. After all, I had been a private longer than anyone in my outfit. I didn't want to lose the distinction of being the ranking private in the barracks.
I should go back to my radio school days which were fairly brutal. The mornings started with reveille and the sergeant screaming "Drop your c..ks and grab your socks!" He was a barrel of laughs. Every fucking Saturday we went on a 15 mile forced march loaded with full gear. If you were on or near the end of the line, you always running to keep from getting your ass chewed out for falling behind. And hot? Heat in the low hundreds and that after spending the night in tar roof barracks which was like spending a night in a sauna. The camp had previously been a Japanese detention center. A truly terrible facility.
No three day passes, so I did every thing imaginable to get the hell out of there including grinding my heel into the lens of my glasses. The camp had no way to replace it, so I got a three day pass. Worked for the three days at an almond packing plant (constipated for a week). I unloaded freight cars for the Southern Pacific working at the foundry for 16 straight hours for $1.00 an hour for the first eight hours, $1.50 an hour for the second four hours and $2.00 an hour for the next four hours.
I then went back to camp with new lens and enough money to be able to shoot craps and to get plastered on my next overnight to Sacramento. I was a great craps shooter. Made money almost all the time.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Aphorisms and "Sayings"
Moderation is fatal (and boring)...BF
When they back the black Mariah up to the door they take
all the girls...1929 stock market crash
If you take care of your body your mind will follow...BF
Unless you can stand ingratitude never do anything
for anybody...Italian Proverb.
I wouldn't piss in his ear if his head was on fire....West Texas
When you're up to your ass in alligators you forget that the
initial objective was to clear the swamp
Paranoia improves peripheral vision...Albert Francke III
Unless you look for the unexpected you'll never
find it....5th Grade School Room Poster
This is Noah talking about the flood.... Don Evans
The worth of a sentiment lies in the sacrifices men will make for
its sake....Joseph Conrad
Words, as is well known, are the great foes of
reality....Joseph Conrad
While it is disagreeable to be frustrated the real disasters in
life begin when we get what we want...Oscar Wilde
The greed and avarice of man knows no bounds...BF
As dead as a married man's sex life...BF
It's like jackin' off in a pillow...BF
He never really hears what the other guy is saying. He just waits for the
drone of the other guy's voice to stop so that he can start talking...BF
If anyone out there has some "gems" to share, please do
via comments!
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Virginity and Army Life
Losing my virginity on the front lawn of the Capital building in Sacramento, asking to be transferred to a unit going overseas, making Corporal, my Father wanting to get a General friend of his to get me into OTC and me turning him down.
It all started with me going to the draft board and jumping up and down to get into the service. I asked to have my 4F status reviewed, which they did and stamped my papers "Not to be shipped overseas" at my insistence (ignored later on). The day I went into the service, March 30, 1943, I felt like King Kong as my folks said goodbye to me at Pennsylvania Station. This scene is still emblazoned in my mind's eye. I was on my way to Fort Dix, NJ for "indoctrination". Then after a few days, it was off to Fort Sill, Oklahoma for basic training in the field artillery.
Taking a Bronx Jew like me and slapping my ass into Oklahoma was traumatic. Lawton, Oklahoma was not quite like 42nd Street in N.Y. Being the only guy from NY, I was sure that no one else in my unit knew jack shit. I had little difficulty in pissing off a lot of people. But after being in a few fist fights and getting my head handed to me a few times, I toned that rhetoric down a lot. Passive aggressive behavior then became fun for me.
Marching to "Over Hill Over Dale" with a heavy rifle (no carbines at basic training) and a back pack that seemed to weigh 100 pounds was not like spending a day at the beach. I found that Oklahoma had absolutely nothing to recommend it. Downright ugly with downright ugly weather. Basic training was not, on any level, fun. Constant discomfort with everyone pissing and moaning and groaning over the physical stress plus something less then gourmet food became my lifestyle. Intellectual stimulation was no where to be found.
Then, I was shipped to Fort Worden and the Coast Artillery. It was on the Olympic Peninsula, very beautiful. The fort is currently a National Park. I "pulled" KP duty for my first three weeks there. My big mouth and my general fuck you attitude did me in again with the First Sargent. After three solid weeks of peeling potatoes, I saw a guy packing his duffle bag and I asked him where he was going. "To radio operator school outside of Sacramento," he said. I quickly realized that I had just discovered my exit from a lifetime of peeling spuds and washing giant pots and pans. It was my day off (2 on 1 off, the "on" days were 16 hour days). I hustled my fat ass down to headquarters and was allowed to see the company commander. He wanted to know why I wanted to go to radio operator's school. I told him the truth, that I just wanted get the hell out of my new career of "pulling" KP. I guess the truth startled him so that he said okay and told the First Sargent to draw up the papers. I was gone the next day on a beautiful train ride from Seattle, past Mt. Shasta to Sacramento and my introduction to California. Very exciting stuff.
It all started with me going to the draft board and jumping up and down to get into the service. I asked to have my 4F status reviewed, which they did and stamped my papers "Not to be shipped overseas" at my insistence (ignored later on). The day I went into the service, March 30, 1943, I felt like King Kong as my folks said goodbye to me at Pennsylvania Station. This scene is still emblazoned in my mind's eye. I was on my way to Fort Dix, NJ for "indoctrination". Then after a few days, it was off to Fort Sill, Oklahoma for basic training in the field artillery.
Taking a Bronx Jew like me and slapping my ass into Oklahoma was traumatic. Lawton, Oklahoma was not quite like 42nd Street in N.Y. Being the only guy from NY, I was sure that no one else in my unit knew jack shit. I had little difficulty in pissing off a lot of people. But after being in a few fist fights and getting my head handed to me a few times, I toned that rhetoric down a lot. Passive aggressive behavior then became fun for me.
Marching to "Over Hill Over Dale" with a heavy rifle (no carbines at basic training) and a back pack that seemed to weigh 100 pounds was not like spending a day at the beach. I found that Oklahoma had absolutely nothing to recommend it. Downright ugly with downright ugly weather. Basic training was not, on any level, fun. Constant discomfort with everyone pissing and moaning and groaning over the physical stress plus something less then gourmet food became my lifestyle. Intellectual stimulation was no where to be found.
Then, I was shipped to Fort Worden and the Coast Artillery. It was on the Olympic Peninsula, very beautiful. The fort is currently a National Park. I "pulled" KP duty for my first three weeks there. My big mouth and my general fuck you attitude did me in again with the First Sargent. After three solid weeks of peeling potatoes, I saw a guy packing his duffle bag and I asked him where he was going. "To radio operator school outside of Sacramento," he said. I quickly realized that I had just discovered my exit from a lifetime of peeling spuds and washing giant pots and pans. It was my day off (2 on 1 off, the "on" days were 16 hour days). I hustled my fat ass down to headquarters and was allowed to see the company commander. He wanted to know why I wanted to go to radio operator's school. I told him the truth, that I just wanted get the hell out of my new career of "pulling" KP. I guess the truth startled him so that he said okay and told the First Sargent to draw up the papers. I was gone the next day on a beautiful train ride from Seattle, past Mt. Shasta to Sacramento and my introduction to California. Very exciting stuff.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Farming in Mason "Fucking" City, Iowa
Farming is an art and best done by people born and raised on a farm. Not by this Jew from the Bronx, living in a small town where the people there hated me for my loud, aggressive, abrasive, belligerent voice and personality. But it was a fair trade, I didn't think a whole hell of a lot of them either.
In Mason Fucking City, Iowa the Catholics went with the Catholics, the Methodists with the Methodists, and the Jews with the Jews, etc. That was then broken down with the rich going with the rich, and the poor going with the poor. And never those lines to be crossed. As a result, you were relegated to a very small social circle. The only good thing about it was that I was able to piss everyone off but we were stuck with one another.
Sitting on a tractor going up an down rows plowing corn, milking cows, having chickens (those filthy little things), vaccinating hogs, driving a dyeing bull to Ames, going to livestock auctions where every one smelled as I did of horse shit and other farm smells, was both boring and annoying. Losing my ass was really boring, but it did keep me on edge. The only things that kept me going were my kids, my liquid protection (booze) and the growing white hot bond of anger between my wife and myself. My wife and I became so pissed off at one another that we got a ton of mileage out of the mutual anger. Additionally, I enjoyed telling the residents of that arm pit of America to suck eggs, fuck off and generally drop dead which allowed me to act like a New Yorker and enjoy myself. Between my wife making me take a shower before I could come into the house (she complained that I smelled really bad. Sadly it was true) and telling my father-in-law to stick his money up his ass, I was at least able to keep my blood boiling day and night and get some enjoyment out of life.
Ah, but the weather! Iowa is a place for weather masochists. In our first winter there, we never saw the sun from early November into February. The farmers say that "It makes for a long winter when the snow never leaves the ground"...every winter in Iowa was very long. Geez, I can't believe that I spent four tortuous long years there.
Monday, November 3, 2008
No Choice
After swallowing a full prescription of Valium and drinking a fifth of scotch, I passed out. When I woke up a few hours later, I felt like the all time loser. I couldn't even fucking kill myself successfully. So you see, I didn't go to AA because I was looking for a new social life.
October 30, 1973 was the last time I ingested any alcohol or mind altering drug. AA was an unbelievable and great life changing experience. But I've never subscribed to the AA mantra that my worst day sober was better than my best day drunk. I had some fabulous times while in the bag. Sadly I don't remember all of them. But when it takes two shaking hands to bring one scotch over ice to your mouth, you know you have a problem, and I had a big one.
I had tried AA several times, but after a few meetings I would just blow it off. You would have thought that being forced to take a cab in S.F. to find my car because I was half gone when I parked it would have been enough to convince me that booze and me weren't even kissin' cousins. A typical drive back to Portola Valley would start at Ruggiero's on Pine Street at 4:00 PM (didn't want to hit the traffic was my excuse) where I’d knocked back more than a few pops. Then it was to the garage with a quick stop at another bar. Once in the car, I’d stop on the Embarcadero to pick up a pint to nip on while on my way home. But before actually hitting the freeway, I stopped at a bar frequented by merchant seaman (I walked in with my Brook's Brother's suit and everyone looked at me like I was a bull with a bastard calf). Finally, I’d drive home to face the Formidable Princess. Now, that really wasn't like spending a day at the beach.
This time, however, I knew it was different because I concluded that I had no choice. I hit rock bottom.
October 30, 1973 was the last time I ingested any alcohol or mind altering drug. AA was an unbelievable and great life changing experience. But I've never subscribed to the AA mantra that my worst day sober was better than my best day drunk. I had some fabulous times while in the bag. Sadly I don't remember all of them. But when it takes two shaking hands to bring one scotch over ice to your mouth, you know you have a problem, and I had a big one.
I had tried AA several times, but after a few meetings I would just blow it off. You would have thought that being forced to take a cab in S.F. to find my car because I was half gone when I parked it would have been enough to convince me that booze and me weren't even kissin' cousins. A typical drive back to Portola Valley would start at Ruggiero's on Pine Street at 4:00 PM (didn't want to hit the traffic was my excuse) where I’d knocked back more than a few pops. Then it was to the garage with a quick stop at another bar. Once in the car, I’d stop on the Embarcadero to pick up a pint to nip on while on my way home. But before actually hitting the freeway, I stopped at a bar frequented by merchant seaman (I walked in with my Brook's Brother's suit and everyone looked at me like I was a bull with a bastard calf). Finally, I’d drive home to face the Formidable Princess. Now, that really wasn't like spending a day at the beach.
This time, however, I knew it was different because I concluded that I had no choice. I hit rock bottom.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
A Sea of Mud
So there I was in a fox hole, minding my own business with all hell breaking loose on the ground and in the air. But I was confident that if anyone was going to get hit, it would be someone else. When you're young, you think that you are omnipotent. Something like those poor guys in Iraq in their Humvees.
My fox hole buddy was Jerry Maloney, a New York Irishman who was tough as nails. Suddenly I felt this awful thump on my left leg. I turned to Maloney and said "Jerry, I think I'm hit." His response was that I was full of shit. I kept insisting and he lost his patience and told me to look at my leg. I did and promptly went nuts. There was a hole in my leg that looked big enough to shove a silver dollar through it. I became furious and plenty indignant screaming that I had never heard of fucking Okinawa and what the hell was I doing there in that sea of mud anyhow.
The medics came and hauled my sorry ass to a tent to wait to be carried to a hospital ship. Then those God damn airplanes started roaring overhead again. I was under the bed before you could say "there is one scared Jew." That was only one of two times in my entire life that I was truly frightened.
I was shipped off to Saipan for recovery. Saipan was an experience in itself. There were Japanese still in the hills and very so often they would fire into the compound. They never hit anyone but did manage to keep us all very nervous. Once when I was in the Coca Cola line, they started firing and everyone scrambled and jumped in the ditch in a heart beat. The Coke wasn't worth taking another bullet.
My fox hole buddy was Jerry Maloney, a New York Irishman who was tough as nails. Suddenly I felt this awful thump on my left leg. I turned to Maloney and said "Jerry, I think I'm hit." His response was that I was full of shit. I kept insisting and he lost his patience and told me to look at my leg. I did and promptly went nuts. There was a hole in my leg that looked big enough to shove a silver dollar through it. I became furious and plenty indignant screaming that I had never heard of fucking Okinawa and what the hell was I doing there in that sea of mud anyhow.
The medics came and hauled my sorry ass to a tent to wait to be carried to a hospital ship. Then those God damn airplanes started roaring overhead again. I was under the bed before you could say "there is one scared Jew." That was only one of two times in my entire life that I was truly frightened.
I was shipped off to Saipan for recovery. Saipan was an experience in itself. There were Japanese still in the hills and very so often they would fire into the compound. They never hit anyone but did manage to keep us all very nervous. Once when I was in the Coca Cola line, they started firing and everyone scrambled and jumped in the ditch in a heart beat. The Coke wasn't worth taking another bullet.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Her Idea
1959
If it was big it was bad. If it was new it was bad. And if it was my idea it was absolutely awful. Because I had worked in and out of 8 "careers" in 13 years, my first ex wife the Princess had little or no respect for my business judgment or me in general. She also suffered from NIH (The Not Invented Here illness). However, new ideas for spending money on her were never rejected.
A real estate friend of mine phoned me about 13 acres for sale in a place called Portola Valley, 10 miles outside of Palo Alto. I went out to see it without a word to the Princess. There were 10 home sites on a stunning piece of property with redwood, giant yew and copper beech trees. The sale price was $70,000. So after some negotiations I bought it for $65,000 (roughly $473,000 in today's money). The quickest way to give a Jew an ulcer is to take him up on his first offer (I started at $55,000). I then had to come up with a way to borrow the money and "sell" the Princess on buying this property.
Success with her meant that the purchase had to be her idea. Being an accomplished promoter, I organized a family picnic on the property which didn't have a real road to drive to and through. The Princess immediately fell in love with the property and asked me if it was for sale. I told that I thought so and would check on it. She then suggested that it would be a wonderful place to build a house and that I should urgently pursue its purchase not knowing that I had already bought it. I will explain in the next blog why it was one of the great buys and living experiences of all time. And, incidentally, it was 100% levered with a 90 day time fuse.
If it was big it was bad. If it was new it was bad. And if it was my idea it was absolutely awful. Because I had worked in and out of 8 "careers" in 13 years, my first ex wife the Princess had little or no respect for my business judgment or me in general. She also suffered from NIH (The Not Invented Here illness). However, new ideas for spending money on her were never rejected.
A real estate friend of mine phoned me about 13 acres for sale in a place called Portola Valley, 10 miles outside of Palo Alto. I went out to see it without a word to the Princess. There were 10 home sites on a stunning piece of property with redwood, giant yew and copper beech trees. The sale price was $70,000. So after some negotiations I bought it for $65,000 (roughly $473,000 in today's money). The quickest way to give a Jew an ulcer is to take him up on his first offer (I started at $55,000). I then had to come up with a way to borrow the money and "sell" the Princess on buying this property.
Success with her meant that the purchase had to be her idea. Being an accomplished promoter, I organized a family picnic on the property which didn't have a real road to drive to and through. The Princess immediately fell in love with the property and asked me if it was for sale. I told that I thought so and would check on it. She then suggested that it would be a wonderful place to build a house and that I should urgently pursue its purchase not knowing that I had already bought it. I will explain in the next blog why it was one of the great buys and living experiences of all time. And, incidentally, it was 100% levered with a 90 day time fuse.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Chasing Hookers
In the 70’s, before herpes and aids, N.Y. was "hooker heaven" and a "travellin' man's" paradise whatever his economic limits were. My oil and natural gas industry clients (the ultimate hooker chasing group) in N.Y. each had his particular routine. Not all chased hookers. The way to be sure of the woman's occupation was to ask "Are you a working girl"?
Set routines for my clients/friends were common place. With one of my favorite guys, we would start with a business dinner at Christ Cellar. Then we would walk up the street to a bar that was habituated by older, worn out hookers so nothing really happened except serious drinking. Then it was to Maxwell's Plum which was jam packed with amateurs interested in one night stands. But that wouldn't do, too much verbal foreplay at the bar. Bear in mind that, for me, it was boring going from one bar to the next since I wasn't drinking. Then it was to the Regency Hotel with very high priced hookers (in their late twenties early thirties).
Before any action could begin, the bar tender had to be paid off. Then the hookers would interact with the John. This was out of my league at that time. We stayed at the Waldorf Towers with its small lobby and elevator operators where every one knew my friend, his wife and kids. So it was an exercise getting the hooker into the hotel and up to the room. The remarkable thing was having a lucid business meeting at 8:00 the next morning in Peacock Alley.
Set routines for my clients/friends were common place. With one of my favorite guys, we would start with a business dinner at Christ Cellar. Then we would walk up the street to a bar that was habituated by older, worn out hookers so nothing really happened except serious drinking. Then it was to Maxwell's Plum which was jam packed with amateurs interested in one night stands. But that wouldn't do, too much verbal foreplay at the bar. Bear in mind that, for me, it was boring going from one bar to the next since I wasn't drinking. Then it was to the Regency Hotel with very high priced hookers (in their late twenties early thirties).
Before any action could begin, the bar tender had to be paid off. Then the hookers would interact with the John. This was out of my league at that time. We stayed at the Waldorf Towers with its small lobby and elevator operators where every one knew my friend, his wife and kids. So it was an exercise getting the hooker into the hotel and up to the room. The remarkable thing was having a lucid business meeting at 8:00 the next morning in Peacock Alley.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Enjoying Being "In The Hole"
Circa 1980
"F..k You!" my banker said and hung up. My banker of that moment was a man of clean living except for his drink of choice, lots of wine. He was also a man of deep faith or so he said. Wouldn't say s..t if he had a mouthful.
I had just left his office after getting into a beef with him over a combination of debts and over drafts of over $900,000 secured by nothing except my sincere conviction that I would "do a deal" and repay him. He thought that I could give him a partial payment and that I was holding out on him. He refused to understand that I was supporting an ex-wife, helping my kids get started in business and living an above average life style starting with always flying first class. I hated the back of the "bus" for starters plus the time it took to deplane.
After leaving his office, I drove to the local pharmacy to pick up a prescription and noticed they were selling lottery tickets (lottery tickets had just entered the economy). I purchased 5 tickets and called the banker from the car and said "I have great news for you, I'm working on paying off my entire loan and overdraft." All excited, he virtually shouted "Great what are you doing?" I said "I just bought five lottery tickets." "F..k You!" he said and hung up.
I ultimately paid that loan down to $90,000 and was always current on my interest payments. But the big honchos in S.F. weren't satisfied. They said that I had turned that loan into an "evergreen loan." They threatened to take me to court to collect. I, in turn, threatened to sue them for lending me the money (Lender liability it was called). So we had a standoff. They proposed that I pay $50,000, and we could say goodbye to one another. I then called my friendly banker who went berserk and screamed that it would hurt his bonus. I volunteered to make up the shortfall which didn't suit him. After deciding that I really owed the money and I that didn't want my banker screwed on my account, I repaid the bank 100 cents on the dollar plus accrued interest…well over $100,000. The banker, in gratitude for paying off the loan, then refused me a small loan saying that he didn't want my name on his books.
The Italians have a proverb: "Unless you can stand ingratitude, never do anything for anybody."
"F..k You!" my banker said and hung up. My banker of that moment was a man of clean living except for his drink of choice, lots of wine. He was also a man of deep faith or so he said. Wouldn't say s..t if he had a mouthful.
I had just left his office after getting into a beef with him over a combination of debts and over drafts of over $900,000 secured by nothing except my sincere conviction that I would "do a deal" and repay him. He thought that I could give him a partial payment and that I was holding out on him. He refused to understand that I was supporting an ex-wife, helping my kids get started in business and living an above average life style starting with always flying first class. I hated the back of the "bus" for starters plus the time it took to deplane.
After leaving his office, I drove to the local pharmacy to pick up a prescription and noticed they were selling lottery tickets (lottery tickets had just entered the economy). I purchased 5 tickets and called the banker from the car and said "I have great news for you, I'm working on paying off my entire loan and overdraft." All excited, he virtually shouted "Great what are you doing?" I said "I just bought five lottery tickets." "F..k You!" he said and hung up.
I ultimately paid that loan down to $90,000 and was always current on my interest payments. But the big honchos in S.F. weren't satisfied. They said that I had turned that loan into an "evergreen loan." They threatened to take me to court to collect. I, in turn, threatened to sue them for lending me the money (Lender liability it was called). So we had a standoff. They proposed that I pay $50,000, and we could say goodbye to one another. I then called my friendly banker who went berserk and screamed that it would hurt his bonus. I volunteered to make up the shortfall which didn't suit him. After deciding that I really owed the money and I that didn't want my banker screwed on my account, I repaid the bank 100 cents on the dollar plus accrued interest…well over $100,000. The banker, in gratitude for paying off the loan, then refused me a small loan saying that he didn't want my name on his books.
The Italians have a proverb: "Unless you can stand ingratitude, never do anything for anybody."
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Upbeat in Down Beat Times
During the Depression my wonderful, genius, tough as nails immigrant father used to say in Yiddish "In America, the money is up to your knees. You just have to know how to bend down and pick it up." And he always espoused that well known saying (he did not believe in luck) that "the harder you worked, the luckier you got."
I would add that in order to "know how to bend down" you must believe in yourself. Remember, "it doesn't make any difference how many times you get knocked down. What really counts is how many times you get back up." These are difficult times for everyone emotionally and for many, financially. Belief in ourselves and those we love will see us and America through these never seen before times. May God bless everyone, and may we all have the wind at our backs and only good roads and good weather in our lives.
I would add that in order to "know how to bend down" you must believe in yourself. Remember, "it doesn't make any difference how many times you get knocked down. What really counts is how many times you get back up." These are difficult times for everyone emotionally and for many, financially. Belief in ourselves and those we love will see us and America through these never seen before times. May God bless everyone, and may we all have the wind at our backs and only good roads and good weather in our lives.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
In the Tank to the Bank
Circa 1972
"He said that he was going to jump out the window of his 9th floor room in the Century Plaza Hotel in L.A.!" My first ex-wife's response to my poor banker's frantic phone call was "So what do you want me to do about it?" Then she hung up. My whole world was coming to an end. I was a big time stock broker in Palo Alto, CA, and the stock market was in the tank. I was drinking A LOT and in those perilous times I decided to raise money to drill for oil in Israel (a story in itself).
I was in L.A. calling on a few executives of the now gone bye, bye MCA which was loaded with big time rich Jews. I wanted to see if they would participate in my drilling adventure. It was a labor of love for me…I had become an ardent Zionist. But the MCA office was like a tomb. Most of the executives had borrowed money against their MCA stock whose price had fallen off a cliff. They were underwater, and their bankers were calling it to their attention.
After my unsuccessful visit, I went back the the hotel and stretched out for a few minutes before going to the bar. The phone rang, and my banker informed me that the bank examiner would be at the bank the next day. He asked me what was I going to do about my outsized, underwater loan. He had loaned me too much money on non transferable, investment letter stock. I said "Look Walter, I'm down here in L.A at the Century Plaza hotel. I'm busted on my ass. What the hell do you expect me to do?" He screamed that I had to do something. "Okay", I said, "I'm on the 9th floor of the Century Plaza Hotel. I'm going to lay the phone down, open the window and go out of it!" and I hung up. He panicked and called my first ex-wife who basically told him that she would look forward to hearing the news of my demise. I had a ton of life insurance as well as her hard core dislike/resentment of me.
That night at the downstairs bar and restaurant, I was overwhelmingly depressed by my impending doom. A hooker came up to me and asked if I'd like a "trick". I said,"Listen sweetheart, if Gina Lollobrigida got on top of me naked I'd probably piss". That really turned the hooker off, and she was gone in a flash. No follow up requests. I was grateful.
For the record, when my life moved back up the roller coaster, my shaky bank loans were ALWAYS repaid…although very, very slowly. Incidentally, threatening suicide is very a old school Jewish thing (and I am old). It gets everybody's attention.
"He said that he was going to jump out the window of his 9th floor room in the Century Plaza Hotel in L.A.!" My first ex-wife's response to my poor banker's frantic phone call was "So what do you want me to do about it?" Then she hung up. My whole world was coming to an end. I was a big time stock broker in Palo Alto, CA, and the stock market was in the tank. I was drinking A LOT and in those perilous times I decided to raise money to drill for oil in Israel (a story in itself).
I was in L.A. calling on a few executives of the now gone bye, bye MCA which was loaded with big time rich Jews. I wanted to see if they would participate in my drilling adventure. It was a labor of love for me…I had become an ardent Zionist. But the MCA office was like a tomb. Most of the executives had borrowed money against their MCA stock whose price had fallen off a cliff. They were underwater, and their bankers were calling it to their attention.
After my unsuccessful visit, I went back the the hotel and stretched out for a few minutes before going to the bar. The phone rang, and my banker informed me that the bank examiner would be at the bank the next day. He asked me what was I going to do about my outsized, underwater loan. He had loaned me too much money on non transferable, investment letter stock. I said "Look Walter, I'm down here in L.A at the Century Plaza hotel. I'm busted on my ass. What the hell do you expect me to do?" He screamed that I had to do something. "Okay", I said, "I'm on the 9th floor of the Century Plaza Hotel. I'm going to lay the phone down, open the window and go out of it!" and I hung up. He panicked and called my first ex-wife who basically told him that she would look forward to hearing the news of my demise. I had a ton of life insurance as well as her hard core dislike/resentment of me.
That night at the downstairs bar and restaurant, I was overwhelmingly depressed by my impending doom. A hooker came up to me and asked if I'd like a "trick". I said,"Listen sweetheart, if Gina Lollobrigida got on top of me naked I'd probably piss". That really turned the hooker off, and she was gone in a flash. No follow up requests. I was grateful.
For the record, when my life moved back up the roller coaster, my shaky bank loans were ALWAYS repaid…although very, very slowly. Incidentally, threatening suicide is very a old school Jewish thing (and I am old). It gets everybody's attention.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Pigs, Hogs, Stupidity, Few Giggles
So there I was, sitting in the hog house on a below zero night in Iowa on the ready in case one of my sows had trouble "coming in" (giving birth). The next thing this Bronx Jew knew, my hand was inside the sow helping extract baby pigs. When it was over, I was sick to my stomach and almost heaved my guts out. Lesson? You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear and making a hog farmer out of a street guy from the Bronx is damn near impossible.
And then...
There was the time I bought 100 feeder pigs from a farmer out of Missouri. By then I was certain that I knew what I was doing, and I insisted on a vaccination certificate from the farmer for a deadly virus. I did not stop to consider that the "honest Missouri farmer" might be giving me a phony certificate, which he did. The hogs by then weighed 100 plus pounds and started to die. The rendering works truck came by every day to pick up the dead hogs, and we had to vaccinate the remainder. Grabbing and holding on to 100 pound hog by a hind leg while another guy gave him the shot was some kind of a work out. The hogs eventually stopping dying, and I lost my ass.
One year I purchased a bunch of Red Duroc pigs to feed out. I fed them on an enclosed concrete slab. No exercise. When they reached 200 pounds a few of them laid down and died. I called the vet who came out to the farm, examined the dead hogs and told me that the hogs had died of heart attacks brought on by too much fat and no exercise. The pay off was when I sold the hogs to Hormel in Austin and was docked because the hogs were too fat.
And when there was wet hay or wet corn to be bought, I was the mullett (a fish that's easy to catch) with my mouth wide open ready to be reeled in. When my four year sentence was up, I happily left Iowa to the cheers of all who knew me.
And then...
There was the time I bought 100 feeder pigs from a farmer out of Missouri. By then I was certain that I knew what I was doing, and I insisted on a vaccination certificate from the farmer for a deadly virus. I did not stop to consider that the "honest Missouri farmer" might be giving me a phony certificate, which he did. The hogs by then weighed 100 plus pounds and started to die. The rendering works truck came by every day to pick up the dead hogs, and we had to vaccinate the remainder. Grabbing and holding on to 100 pound hog by a hind leg while another guy gave him the shot was some kind of a work out. The hogs eventually stopping dying, and I lost my ass.
One year I purchased a bunch of Red Duroc pigs to feed out. I fed them on an enclosed concrete slab. No exercise. When they reached 200 pounds a few of them laid down and died. I called the vet who came out to the farm, examined the dead hogs and told me that the hogs had died of heart attacks brought on by too much fat and no exercise. The pay off was when I sold the hogs to Hormel in Austin and was docked because the hogs were too fat.
And when there was wet hay or wet corn to be bought, I was the mullett (a fish that's easy to catch) with my mouth wide open ready to be reeled in. When my four year sentence was up, I happily left Iowa to the cheers of all who knew me.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Feeding Cattle, Milking Cows, Speculating in Futures, Losing My Ass
If you want living proof that farming is an art not a science look at me. Any pseudo intellectual Jew (that's me) would always try to sincerely prove that education, reading and intellect can overcome can any genetic generated ignorance. Bronx Jews, milking cows, breeding and feeding hogs and cattle plus buying hay and corn just doesn't work.
So I read everything known to men, women, dogs and children about farming. The Department of Agriculture printed a yearly volume describing procedures to doing everything and anything relating to farming short of having sex with sheep (not my thing). So I scoured years of those volumes.
The net result was that I was a walking disaster as a farmer and as a Mid Westerner. I lost my ass with everything except sheep where I had an expert counseling me. I had 84 Purebred Holstein milk cows and something was happening every day. I bought 25 Black Angus calves at the St. Paul livestock sale. I fed them out and made money. The next year I bought 50 and made money again. Ah, now I was a genius! I bought 200 white face calves for feeding. But I couldn't understand why my feed lot was the only feed lot in the neighborhood with animals in it. Prices went to hell and every day that those animals put on a pound or two, I was losing money per pound. You couldn't move them because they would lose too much weight so I couldn't sell them until they reached 1,100 pounds (from 300). Lost my ass!!!
I bought corn futures for $1.50/bushel and watched the price go to $2.50. But then Eisenhower gets elected and appoints Ezra Taft Benson as Secretary of Agriculture who says that he only believes in price supports in times of disaster and thereby causes a commodity disaster. Corn went off the limit every day, and I barely got out with my 10% margin money. I was the ultimate mullet (a fish that's easy to catch) for those "honest" Iowa farmers who unloaded wet corn (purchased to feed the feeder cattle), wet hay and falsely documented feeder pigs that grew to die on a daily basis. The rendering works loved me.
But I "got even". I had purchased yet another horse (I hate horses. They are for me big, dumb dangerous animals whose latest best friend is anyone that feeds them an apple). This horse was a big black beauty who got into the high protein hog feed. He foundered...hooves and arteries expand to where the horse is immobile and "on fire". We dug a ditch around the son of a bitch and ran a cold water hose on his hooves for a week whereupon he could move pretty well until he stumbled, and he always did. When I had my sale to get out of that awful business, I became an "honest" Iowa farmer and sold him to another schmuck farmer. My next blog will be on how breeding and feeding hogs was a disaster for me to the point where I had 200 pound Red Durocs dying of heart attacks.
So I read everything known to men, women, dogs and children about farming. The Department of Agriculture printed a yearly volume describing procedures to doing everything and anything relating to farming short of having sex with sheep (not my thing). So I scoured years of those volumes.
The net result was that I was a walking disaster as a farmer and as a Mid Westerner. I lost my ass with everything except sheep where I had an expert counseling me. I had 84 Purebred Holstein milk cows and something was happening every day. I bought 25 Black Angus calves at the St. Paul livestock sale. I fed them out and made money. The next year I bought 50 and made money again. Ah, now I was a genius! I bought 200 white face calves for feeding. But I couldn't understand why my feed lot was the only feed lot in the neighborhood with animals in it. Prices went to hell and every day that those animals put on a pound or two, I was losing money per pound. You couldn't move them because they would lose too much weight so I couldn't sell them until they reached 1,100 pounds (from 300). Lost my ass!!!
I bought corn futures for $1.50/bushel and watched the price go to $2.50. But then Eisenhower gets elected and appoints Ezra Taft Benson as Secretary of Agriculture who says that he only believes in price supports in times of disaster and thereby causes a commodity disaster. Corn went off the limit every day, and I barely got out with my 10% margin money. I was the ultimate mullet (a fish that's easy to catch) for those "honest" Iowa farmers who unloaded wet corn (purchased to feed the feeder cattle), wet hay and falsely documented feeder pigs that grew to die on a daily basis. The rendering works loved me.
But I "got even". I had purchased yet another horse (I hate horses. They are for me big, dumb dangerous animals whose latest best friend is anyone that feeds them an apple). This horse was a big black beauty who got into the high protein hog feed. He foundered...hooves and arteries expand to where the horse is immobile and "on fire". We dug a ditch around the son of a bitch and ran a cold water hose on his hooves for a week whereupon he could move pretty well until he stumbled, and he always did. When I had my sale to get out of that awful business, I became an "honest" Iowa farmer and sold him to another schmuck farmer. My next blog will be on how breeding and feeding hogs was a disaster for me to the point where I had 200 pound Red Durocs dying of heart attacks.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Horses, Hookers and Grab Ass
Horses
When I brought the white face cows back home, I knew I needed a horse so I could check up on them. That night I went to a B'nai B'rith meeting in Mason, Never Live There, City. Max, a Jewish horse dealer, was at the meeting, and I told him of my need. He then described this great horse he owned which he would sell to me for $250 (1952 dollars). I bought the horse sight unseen, and Max delivered it. Most evenings I saddled him up (a chore which I hated) and played cowboy (no cowboy hat or cowboy boots) and went out to check on those animals.
I noticed that the horse had a peculiarity. He seemed to want to join another horse on an adjoining farm whenever that other horse neighed. One day (no kidding) the cows literally got into the corn. I saddled up that damn animal and went out to get the cows back into the pasture. Once I was in the corn, the neighbor horse neighed and my horse became uncontrollable as he wanted to join that other horse. I had an unbelievably scary struggle to bring that SOB under control and get the cows back where they belonged. That night I went to another B'nai B'rith meeting and there was Max. I proposed that I would pay him another $250 if he would get that horse off of my place by 6:00 AM the following morning. Lesson? Jews, horses and cattle don't mix too well if at all.
I noticed that the horse had a peculiarity. He seemed to want to join another horse on an adjoining farm whenever that other horse neighed. One day (no kidding) the cows literally got into the corn. I saddled up that damn animal and went out to get the cows back into the pasture. Once I was in the corn, the neighbor horse neighed and my horse became uncontrollable as he wanted to join that other horse. I had an unbelievably scary struggle to bring that SOB under control and get the cows back where they belonged. That night I went to another B'nai B'rith meeting and there was Max. I proposed that I would pay him another $250 if he would get that horse off of my place by 6:00 AM the following morning. Lesson? Jews, horses and cattle don't mix too well if at all.
Hookers
In the old days, before herpes and AIDS you could if you so chose get a great hooker for a few hundred dollars. You could "fall in love" for a half hour at a time, never have to make conversation, you had no burden of proof and when it was over she was gone. No cuddling required.
Grab Ass
My first ex-wife was a freak for associating with the Stanford Faculty folks. Because of her, we had become very friendly with a Nobel Prize winner and his wife. My ex-wife and the wife of the Professor played varicose veins doubles together. We were invited to their home for dinner quite often. There were additional Stanford Faculty members at these dinners including another (would you believe it?) Nobel Prize winner.
First it was the booze, then it was the wine followed by those vomit producing after dinner drinks (the vomit came much later). Then it was pushing the furniture back and dancing. Then playing grab ass and grab a boob or two with everyone else's wife became the pleasure of the evening. Me? I couldn't care less. I was happy as a clam in mud getting and staying loaded and then taking everyone on the road's life in my hands by driving home.
My first ex-wife was a freak for associating with the Stanford Faculty folks. Because of her, we had become very friendly with a Nobel Prize winner and his wife. My ex-wife and the wife of the Professor played varicose veins doubles together. We were invited to their home for dinner quite often. There were additional Stanford Faculty members at these dinners including another (would you believe it?) Nobel Prize winner.
First it was the booze, then it was the wine followed by those vomit producing after dinner drinks (the vomit came much later). Then it was pushing the furniture back and dancing. Then playing grab ass and grab a boob or two with everyone else's wife became the pleasure of the evening. Me? I couldn't care less. I was happy as a clam in mud getting and staying loaded and then taking everyone on the road's life in my hands by driving home.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
More on Charley Pippert
Charley, who I blamed for that purebred bull staying alive while the bull's schlong died, was in my stream of consciousness on a daily basis. Naturally, blaming Charley for the bull's impotence was nonsense but being pissed off at Charley became a soul satisfying project. I really hated farming and Mason Never Live There City, Iowa plus I had very low regard for the population of River City (aka Mason etc) so why not take it out on Charley?
One day, after the bull was long gone, I had to go to see Charley. While driving in my pickup truck those forty unbelievably awful miles over gravel roads with the radio blaring I got to thinking about what I was going to say to Charley and what his response to me would be. 40 miles of this fantasy conversation where I imagined my part of the conversation and then conjuring up his responses really got me in mental motion, and I became increasingly angry with Charley. In fact I became absolutely wild with his fantasy irresponsibility.
As I pulled into the farm yard, Charley and his wife came down the farm house steps. I got out of the truck, strode around the front of it and shouted "Charley, you dirty son of a bitch!" and hit him. His wife screamed and threatened to call the sheriff but I felt that no one was going to "talk" to me that way, and he had it coming. I then got back into the pick up, drove home and had a few pops to calm down. Booze always calmed me down until it got me wired. The lesson? Beware of bulls with broken tools.
One day, after the bull was long gone, I had to go to see Charley. While driving in my pickup truck those forty unbelievably awful miles over gravel roads with the radio blaring I got to thinking about what I was going to say to Charley and what his response to me would be. 40 miles of this fantasy conversation where I imagined my part of the conversation and then conjuring up his responses really got me in mental motion, and I became increasingly angry with Charley. In fact I became absolutely wild with his fantasy irresponsibility.
As I pulled into the farm yard, Charley and his wife came down the farm house steps. I got out of the truck, strode around the front of it and shouted "Charley, you dirty son of a bitch!" and hit him. His wife screamed and threatened to call the sheriff but I felt that no one was going to "talk" to me that way, and he had it coming. I then got back into the pick up, drove home and had a few pops to calm down. Booze always calmed me down until it got me wired. The lesson? Beware of bulls with broken tools.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A Broken Tool and Urinary Tract Infection
So, I bought a set of 25 White Faced Herefords to breed, out of Jackson Hole,Wyoming. Table top backs: wonderful looking animals. I needed a bull to breed them so I bought a purebred Hereford bull from a neighbor (Lesson #1- Beware of farm neighbors/friends offering you "good deals"). I put the bull with the cows in a pasture of a farm I was managing (A Bronx Jew as a farm manager is stuff comedies are made of. One big joke). Charlie Pippert was the farmer's name. Strong as an ox he was...every week I would drive my pickup truck on those gravel, country roads to Charlie's place with the radio blaring (about 40 miles).
One week I showed up and Charlie told me that the bull wasn't doing his thing which absolutely wired me for sound. Naturally the messenger caught my fury and I brought the herd back to the home place. I then bought a purebred Black Angus bull to help the Hereford bull out. Soon after I received a phone call from the hired man who told me that the black bull was stretched out in one end of the pasture while the cows and the Hereford cows were grazing in another part of the pasture. Not natural!!!! So, I called the vet who came out, looked at the black bull and said that he had a urinary tract infection (couldn't piss) that had resulted in one eye being infected and the bull was blind in that eye. The vet said that I should take the bull down to Ames SAP.
While out on the pasture I had the vet look at the Hereford bull. The vet said that in is 15 years of experience he had never examined a bull with a broken tool and that son of a bitch was the vet's first. I went back to the farm house, called a trucker to haul the other bull to Ames. In the meantime the hired man and I went out on a tractor and literally dragged the black bull to the farm yard to await the truck. We finally got the bull to stand up. He took a few steps, stumbled into a well pit (honest) and poke his good eye out. We finally got him down to Ames (120 miles) and as we entered the gates of Iowa State A&M the bull died. The payoffs were that I had to pay the trucker for hauling a dyeing and then dead bull and the White Face Bull was sold for the lowest category price(pennies on prime beef's dollars). Incidentally, I bought the black bull from a very wealthy prominent, church going business man who I thought was my friend.
One week I showed up and Charlie told me that the bull wasn't doing his thing which absolutely wired me for sound. Naturally the messenger caught my fury and I brought the herd back to the home place. I then bought a purebred Black Angus bull to help the Hereford bull out. Soon after I received a phone call from the hired man who told me that the black bull was stretched out in one end of the pasture while the cows and the Hereford cows were grazing in another part of the pasture. Not natural!!!! So, I called the vet who came out, looked at the black bull and said that he had a urinary tract infection (couldn't piss) that had resulted in one eye being infected and the bull was blind in that eye. The vet said that I should take the bull down to Ames SAP.
While out on the pasture I had the vet look at the Hereford bull. The vet said that in is 15 years of experience he had never examined a bull with a broken tool and that son of a bitch was the vet's first. I went back to the farm house, called a trucker to haul the other bull to Ames. In the meantime the hired man and I went out on a tractor and literally dragged the black bull to the farm yard to await the truck. We finally got the bull to stand up. He took a few steps, stumbled into a well pit (honest) and poke his good eye out. We finally got him down to Ames (120 miles) and as we entered the gates of Iowa State A&M the bull died. The payoffs were that I had to pay the trucker for hauling a dyeing and then dead bull and the White Face Bull was sold for the lowest category price(pennies on prime beef's dollars). Incidentally, I bought the black bull from a very wealthy prominent, church going business man who I thought was my friend.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Beware Faculty Parties and Society Functions With Dancing
So after my first wife threw me out (she had moved from resentment to active dislike and distaste of me...a blessing in disguise) I was invited to what turned out to be my last faculty dinner, thank God. It was a regular gee whiz sit down dinner where the conversation was "scripted" to include...1) Campus real estate values 2) Politics 3) Bigotry and 4) Religion. Now that really was boring, particularly when the Stanford Provost started on the similarities of Catholic confession and psychiatry. Having spent some 23 years (on and off mostly on) going to shrinks. (My first ex-wife felt strongly that there was "something wrong with me" and my "bizarre behavior", her view of me) I resented the Provost's comparison. So I asked him if he was a Catholic. "No" he said. Then asked if he had ever been to confession. "No" he said. I then told him that it was apparent to me that he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. That capped off a pre-dinner conversation with one of the wives who had learned that three of my kids were/are Scientologists and she tried to lecture me starting with quoting a negative magazine article about Scientology. I had responded by asking her if she was one of those damn fools who believed everything she read.....I never was invited to another faculty dinner.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
The Great Depression, World Series of Thirties, A Reprise
And as he plunged past the 30th floor after going off the 59th floor roof, he said 'So far so good'.
The right field bleacher seats were, for so many of us perfect. Babe Ruth played right field and in earlier years would talk to us 'bleacherites'. Those seats were later converted to grandstand seats.
 |
| Babe Ruth handing out his candy bars. |
Talk isn't quite right. We would scream and argue vehemently, that our favorite ball players were the best at their positions. We were with real fans and all of us knew the complete statistics of our favorites.
They would let us into the ball park at around 11:00 a.m. and at noon, out would come a marching band and a Marine/Sailor/Soldier drill group to entertain us. Right before the ball game started, the so called "Clown Prince of Baseball" would come out and do some stunts with a baseball in right field. He would end up at home plate with another ball player on third and they would start to steam the ball at one another all the while closing the gap between the two. The crowd just roared with every throw.
To get the day's action started, Buddy and I would get up at 4:00 a.m. to take the bus and subway to the ball game. We would bring the sandwiches my Mom had made for us and at least a pound of peanuts. We weren't going to get fucking ripped off in the Stadium and pay a dime for a dinky bag of peanuts when you could buy a whole fucking pound in a store for around 10-15¢.
My Mom would give me $2.00 to cover the whole day with a little to spare. $1.10 to get into the game, 20¢ for the bus and subway carfare and all the treats you could get for 70¢. Hot dogs and cokes were a dime each...although we all complained loudly that a dime for a coke was a total fucking.
We weren't just "making do"; we were having a great time (the term "having a blast" hadn't been invented yet). This was the Great Depression, money was hard to come by but the Feshbach kids barely noticed. My Mom did wallop me, for the one and only time, when I used the 15¢ change from buying a Sunday newspaper to buy candy and then tried lying my way out of it.
In the early 30's, when there were lots of abandoned construction sites we would find 2x4's and attach roller skate wheels to either end making a "skate board", the forerunner of today's store bought skateboards.
We would go into the storage space of an apartment house where they kept old unused baby carriages and would steal one. Then we took the axles and wheels off, attached them to our 2x4 and had a 'Going Gussie'. Racial hatred was the order of the day with anti-Semitism and hating blacks in the forefront.
Father Coughlin, in Detroit was on the radio with venomous anti-Semitism. The Germans had the Bund and controlled Yorktown in Manhattan and there was an organization called America First. (Who was it that famously said that "Patriotism is often the last refuge of scoundrels?")
The Irish kids would come into Jewish neighborhoods for the sole purpose of beating the hell out of the Jewish kids. Walking to and from school was an exercise in courage. Not getting the shit knocked out of you was the goal.
But again, we didn't know any better. We just thought that was life. We weren't "making do", we were living life, as we knew it, to the fullest. One of my friends had a brother who was with the Dutch Schultz gang. Dutch Schultz was an infamous gangster, who was, I believe, murdered in a barbershop chair. My friend's brother decided that we should learn how to defend ourselves so he gave us boxing lessons. Didn't help. The Irish kids still beat the shit out of us Jews.
But those lessons stood me in good stead in the Army where I ended up in a Boston Irish outfit from hardnosed, Irish, fucking Scollay Square. Bigots for certain. Couldn't seem to get away from the Irish whose dedication in life, in those days, seemed to be the beat the shit out of Jews.
Wasn't any different in the Army except when overseas but by then I was ready, able and willing to fight and never "lost one". Always, silently thanked Norman's brother who was murdered with Dutch Schultz.
More depression days stuff: Bear in mind that there was a resurgence of unemployment to 25% around 1936. But my genius immigrant father never seemed to miss a beat. He and my Mom were fabulous parents. We never really knew that there was a depression going on. And our needs, as kids, were simple.
Computer games and that fucking all pervasive, 'smart phone' hadn't been invented. My needs revolved around sports and avoiding bringing my report cards home (talk about a constant fear of fucking impending doom). If they knew what ADD was in those days, I would still be in the third grade.
Between starting school early and skipping a grade, I graduated from high school at 16. All my friends were a few years older than me and a few years better athletically. Any street smart kid knew that if you brought the basketball, football or baseball and bat you were automatically in the game.
My Pop understood that rule, so even in the worst of times he allowed me to buy the equipment. I always had the basketball etc. In turn, I always got to play. A not so subtle form of blackmail. When I showed up all the other kids were fucked because if they wanted to play at all they had to let me in. I was the one with the ball. Not very fucking complicated.
'Those were the days my friend. We thought they'd never end'...Fiddler on The Roof
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