In the seventies, some 25% of all the onshore oil and gas produced in the U.S. was produced within 180 miles of Midland, Texas, the capital of hard drink, hard living old fashioned wildcatters. Entrepreneurs to the end. Traveling with any of them was an experience.
Mike was the ultimate hard living oil man. He started his business life as a salesman with a tire company and evolved into a drilling contractor/producer in the oil business. He lived a lot longer (into his seventies) than I had predicted. He made, lost and remade a fortune. Mike and I spoke a few weeks before he died, and he told me he was happy. "I've lived one hell of a life", said Mike.
I traveled in the U.S. of A in the 70's and early 80's, mostly in Mike's "burner" (aka private jet) after he made his first fortune. Mike's wife at that time, Edith, was a classic. Great looking gal but one who had too many face lifts...her face seemed frozen in time. Edith was a terrific drinking companion for Mike with an appetite for booze that seemed unquenchable.
One afternoon, I was "assigned" to baby sit her in the United Airlines lounge in L.A. while Mike was making a phone call. She already had some drinks before we took the cab to the airport. Her taste was simple...chilled vodka (didn't smell, or so she thought). She sipped the vodka through a sterling straw she had made by Tiffany. Mike showed up saying "I'm thirsty". Edith had put away at least five drinks before he arrived. He then inhaled three or four while Edith kept pace with him until our flight was called. On the ride from L.A. to S.F. (50 minutes) both Edith and Mike inhaled, I repeat, inhaled, at least four drinks each. That night at dinner they had after dinner drinks, by the gulps, without eating dinner. They got into a roaring, drunken argument, and we had to go back to the Mark.
The next day Mike and I made a corporate presentation at a North Beach Restaurant in San Francisco. But before the presentation, Mike had at least two Bloody Mary's and then had a couple of belts of booze plus wine at lunch. I was pissing my brains out after consuming what felt like gallons of Perrier water. Mike stayed at the restaurant with two of my friends. They ordered a "six pack of stingers on the rocks", waiting for the next drink was too tough for them. When I returned to the hotel, Edith phoned my room and asked me where Mike was. I told her and she pleaded with me to go get him as she thought she might be drawing her last breaths. So I did, feeling like an idiot. My two friends and Mike were roaring drunk, and I took Mike back to the hotel.
That evening, we were going out for dinner with some investment friends of mine. Edith came down to the lobby lounge looking regal (she was tall) in a white dress. She announced that she felt like hell and only by drinking two glasses of milk and bourbon was she able to join us. I knew that I was in for a very long night.
There was a great looking hooker sitting by herself, sipping wine and I went over and asked her if she was a "working" girl to which she proudly said "yes". She became my companion for the evening (she saved Mike's life with the Heimlich treatment later in the evening). The hooker was a school teacher moonlighting as a hooker but only giving blow jobs. She was okay, I enjoyed it. More on travel with Mike and Edith in my next blog.....
Monday, November 16, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Veteran's Day Musings
Today I was remembering being in Leyte, Philippines to practice landings. We had to go over the side of the ship into a landing craft which was a really scary procedure. It was one of the very few times in the service that I was truly frightened. (When you're 20 you mostly think that you are fucking invulnerable and will live forever.). We climbed up and down on Jacob's Ladders which were rope. As you climbed, they slammed ever so little against the slightly rolling ship. Every so often some poor son of a bitch would slip, fall and drown with his back pack, rifle and shoes that weighed a ton. Yeah, it was plenty scary, but God takes care of drunks and fools so I was okay.
The other time that I was scared out of my mind was when I was flat on my back in a hospital tent after being hit waiting to be transported to a hospital ship. The Japanese planes flying back overhead were plenty fucking unnerving. Enough to make a grown man piss in his pants from fear. But my pants had been cut from me so I was okay. Nothing to do for those few seconds (which seemed like a life time) but be bone chilling scared...
There were more scary experiences. I was in a hospital/recovery facility on Saipan and had been assigned to a desk job in a tent/office. The Japanese hadn't been totally cleaned out and there were some still holed up in the hills. Every so often they would come out of their caves and attack some American troops. Those bullets from the hills would come into the camp. Everyone scattered and I was under the desk. I had learned by then that bullets could raise hell with me. And every so often, waiting on the Coca Cola line, those bullets would start raining down on us and we would "fly" into the ditches. We all knew by then, after being hit once, that we could get hit again. Getting back to our units was the prime drive. Very few thought of going home and getting out.
The other time that I was scared out of my mind was when I was flat on my back in a hospital tent after being hit waiting to be transported to a hospital ship. The Japanese planes flying back overhead were plenty fucking unnerving. Enough to make a grown man piss in his pants from fear. But my pants had been cut from me so I was okay. Nothing to do for those few seconds (which seemed like a life time) but be bone chilling scared...
There were more scary experiences. I was in a hospital/recovery facility on Saipan and had been assigned to a desk job in a tent/office. The Japanese hadn't been totally cleaned out and there were some still holed up in the hills. Every so often they would come out of their caves and attack some American troops. Those bullets from the hills would come into the camp. Everyone scattered and I was under the desk. I had learned by then that bullets could raise hell with me. And every so often, waiting on the Coca Cola line, those bullets would start raining down on us and we would "fly" into the ditches. We all knew by then, after being hit once, that we could get hit again. Getting back to our units was the prime drive. Very few thought of going home and getting out.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, Mayor of Vatican City, President of The Institute For Religious Works (aka Vatican Bank) and The Jew From The Bronx
"Bernie did you see those Swiss guards when you checked into the Vatican? And you know my secretary Mauvi don't you? Well Mauvi and those Swiss guards get paid. Don't bring me deals that don't bring me income."
And so down the tubes went a proposal that I made to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, the President of the Vatican Bank and Mayor of Vatican City. I had developed a personal relationship with the Bishop over a 10 year time span and he had agreed to see me regarding an oil and gas royalty deal. The deal was dependent on successful wildcat drilling to generate income. Turned out that the guy in charge of the drilling couldn't find his ass with either hand much less oil or gas with drilling equipment. He didn't find even a mouthful of oil or gas. The author Philip Wylie once said that "the problem with common sense is that it ain't so common".
But the Bishop proved that he did have some common sense (aka street smarts), and he turned down the deal which turned out to be a bad bet on a bad concept. But I stayed in touch with the Bishop. He was a terriffic guy. He loved playing golf and I would send him, from time to time, golf books and boxes of golf balls. He would "try" to convert me. He was "for decades, one of the highest ranking American prelates to the Vatican serving Popes John XXX III, Paul VI and John Paul II." But at the end of the day, he was in many ways a simple learned priest, from Cicero, Illinois without a financial background. The Bishop also lacked the deep seated cynical trait that is so crucial to being a successful money manager.
Sadly, he became embroiled in two scandals where one principal, a banker named Calvi, was found hanging beneath a bridge in London. Calvi had been a friend of the Bishop and was convicted of fruad. That association cost the Vatican Bank over $200 million. Previously the Bishop was involved with a shadowy character named Sidona, with Mafia connections, who died in prison in Milan after drinking a cup of coffee laced with poison. That friendship cost the Vatican tens of millions or so it is said.
At one point the Italian government indicted the Bishop, but he confined himself to Vatican City for a few years until the indictment was dropped. The Bishop was, for me a marvelous man who added significantly to the richness of my life, and I cried when I learned of his death from Mauvi, his secretary. It was rumored that he was "banging" Mauvi who was not my cup of tea. And no, in twenty years, I never did do a deal with him which had absolutely nothing to do with my affection for the Bishop.
And so down the tubes went a proposal that I made to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, the President of the Vatican Bank and Mayor of Vatican City. I had developed a personal relationship with the Bishop over a 10 year time span and he had agreed to see me regarding an oil and gas royalty deal. The deal was dependent on successful wildcat drilling to generate income. Turned out that the guy in charge of the drilling couldn't find his ass with either hand much less oil or gas with drilling equipment. He didn't find even a mouthful of oil or gas. The author Philip Wylie once said that "the problem with common sense is that it ain't so common".
But the Bishop proved that he did have some common sense (aka street smarts), and he turned down the deal which turned out to be a bad bet on a bad concept. But I stayed in touch with the Bishop. He was a terriffic guy. He loved playing golf and I would send him, from time to time, golf books and boxes of golf balls. He would "try" to convert me. He was "for decades, one of the highest ranking American prelates to the Vatican serving Popes John XXX III, Paul VI and John Paul II." But at the end of the day, he was in many ways a simple learned priest, from Cicero, Illinois without a financial background. The Bishop also lacked the deep seated cynical trait that is so crucial to being a successful money manager.
Sadly, he became embroiled in two scandals where one principal, a banker named Calvi, was found hanging beneath a bridge in London. Calvi had been a friend of the Bishop and was convicted of fruad. That association cost the Vatican Bank over $200 million. Previously the Bishop was involved with a shadowy character named Sidona, with Mafia connections, who died in prison in Milan after drinking a cup of coffee laced with poison. That friendship cost the Vatican tens of millions or so it is said.
At one point the Italian government indicted the Bishop, but he confined himself to Vatican City for a few years until the indictment was dropped. The Bishop was, for me a marvelous man who added significantly to the richness of my life, and I cried when I learned of his death from Mauvi, his secretary. It was rumored that he was "banging" Mauvi who was not my cup of tea. And no, in twenty years, I never did do a deal with him which had absolutely nothing to do with my affection for the Bishop.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Living For The Experience and Making No Money With The Bishop And The Vatican Bank
In 1970-1971, I helped found a venture capital group. As it turned out, the enterprise was disaster in spite of my partners being very successful in the venture capital arena. Not only was our basic concept terrible but the business plan really sucked. But the notion took me down a great lifetime experience road with the Vatican Bank (aka The Institute for Religious Works), Archbishop Paul Marcinckus and even The Knights of Columbus. I will be forever grateful to the Bishop for adding to the richness of my life (and I never "sold" him one deal).
One of my partners knew a guy (Lloyd Hand) who had been Chief of Protocol for President Johnson, so he knew everybody and his uncle. We paid him $10,000 ($56,000 today) plus travel expenses which added another $3,000 ($17,000 today) to introduce us to the Bishop who ran the Vatican Bank. The Bishop, we were told, ran the bank and was Mayor of Vatican City as a result of saving the Pope's life in the Philippines when the Pope was attacked by a nut with a knife. More on the Bishop and the Knights of Columbus in a later blog. That trip was, at the end of the day, a wild, booze driven, insane trip. Travel for me back then was a way to get away from a wife who disliked me (though I didn't recognize it at the time), really drink big time and walk around feeling like shit every day.
At that time, one of my kids was on the Mishmar David Kibbutz in Israel. So I thought I would "stop by" and see him before I went to Rome for my business. I thought Rome and Tel Aviv were "kissin' cousins", close by one another. That was a major misconception...almost 5 hours of drinking in the air. So I spent a night at the kibbutz which was memorable but hardly like staying at the Carlyle in N.Y. But this was but a few years after the 67 war and idealism and sacrifice were the mode in Israel. So it was impressive, if uncomfortable.
I went to Rome and the Vatican the following day to meet with the Bishop. The night before the meeting, we went for a horse and buggy ride to get acquainted with Rome. Expensive and a piss poor way to see Rome. Very boring. The next day we went to see the Bishop who was from Cicero. He had been an "advance man" for Pope Paul VI. The Bishop's hands were like ham hocks and he was as tough as nails. Smoked Pall Mall cigarettes like there was no tomorrow. But, at that point I was smoking 4 1/2 packs of Lucky Strikes (no filters) every day with yellow fingers. So the Bishop and I looked like two chimneys and that was right up my alley.
My partner who insisted on doing the major part of the presentation was a very nice, smart guy whose voice never seemed to stop "droning". Your eyes would glaze over as he droned on and on. He could put a sore ass in vinegar to sleep. The Bishop managed to stay awake and while he was not a financial man, he knew a dumb deal when he saw one and turned us down, out of hand. But it was for me, through the booze driven, cigarette haze and yellowed fingers, a fabulous experience and the beginning of a wonderful long term personal relationship with Bishop Marcinkcus...a great person guy in spite of his fruitless efforts to convert me. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. My trip back to SF was out of sight with unreal booze laden memories. More on that later.
One of my partners knew a guy (Lloyd Hand) who had been Chief of Protocol for President Johnson, so he knew everybody and his uncle. We paid him $10,000 ($56,000 today) plus travel expenses which added another $3,000 ($17,000 today) to introduce us to the Bishop who ran the Vatican Bank. The Bishop, we were told, ran the bank and was Mayor of Vatican City as a result of saving the Pope's life in the Philippines when the Pope was attacked by a nut with a knife. More on the Bishop and the Knights of Columbus in a later blog. That trip was, at the end of the day, a wild, booze driven, insane trip. Travel for me back then was a way to get away from a wife who disliked me (though I didn't recognize it at the time), really drink big time and walk around feeling like shit every day.
At that time, one of my kids was on the Mishmar David Kibbutz in Israel. So I thought I would "stop by" and see him before I went to Rome for my business. I thought Rome and Tel Aviv were "kissin' cousins", close by one another. That was a major misconception...almost 5 hours of drinking in the air. So I spent a night at the kibbutz which was memorable but hardly like staying at the Carlyle in N.Y. But this was but a few years after the 67 war and idealism and sacrifice were the mode in Israel. So it was impressive, if uncomfortable.
I went to Rome and the Vatican the following day to meet with the Bishop. The night before the meeting, we went for a horse and buggy ride to get acquainted with Rome. Expensive and a piss poor way to see Rome. Very boring. The next day we went to see the Bishop who was from Cicero. He had been an "advance man" for Pope Paul VI. The Bishop's hands were like ham hocks and he was as tough as nails. Smoked Pall Mall cigarettes like there was no tomorrow. But, at that point I was smoking 4 1/2 packs of Lucky Strikes (no filters) every day with yellow fingers. So the Bishop and I looked like two chimneys and that was right up my alley.
My partner who insisted on doing the major part of the presentation was a very nice, smart guy whose voice never seemed to stop "droning". Your eyes would glaze over as he droned on and on. He could put a sore ass in vinegar to sleep. The Bishop managed to stay awake and while he was not a financial man, he knew a dumb deal when he saw one and turned us down, out of hand. But it was for me, through the booze driven, cigarette haze and yellowed fingers, a fabulous experience and the beginning of a wonderful long term personal relationship with Bishop Marcinkcus...a great person guy in spite of his fruitless efforts to convert me. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. My trip back to SF was out of sight with unreal booze laden memories. More on that later.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Easter 1945
Well this upcoming Easter Sunday marks 64 years (1945) since I was hit on Okinawa. Actually the first U.S. troops landed on April 1, 1945 which was a beautiful Easter Sunday. (My group landed on April 4.) I can still see, in my mind's eye, the flashes of the cannons of the battle ships as the guns were fired incessantly. The roar was unbelievable, and it was also unbelievable that all hell was being unleashed on an Easter Sunday in a place that no one had ever heard of, Okinawa.
But feelings of camaraderie and awe as we spoke of "our turn" will never be replaced. Jews, Catholics, Gays (Yeah we had Gays in our outfit and absolutely no one gave a fiddler's fuck), Straights, Blacks, Whites, Episcopalians...we were all one. It stayed that way for the remainder of the war. I never thought that I would look at those days nostalgicly, but I do in the twilight of my years.
As Joe Gruss would say, "Goodbye, good luck, so long."
But feelings of camaraderie and awe as we spoke of "our turn" will never be replaced. Jews, Catholics, Gays (Yeah we had Gays in our outfit and absolutely no one gave a fiddler's fuck), Straights, Blacks, Whites, Episcopalians...we were all one. It stayed that way for the remainder of the war. I never thought that I would look at those days nostalgicly, but I do in the twilight of my years.
As Joe Gruss would say, "Goodbye, good luck, so long."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Ole Orange Hair
Me and Donald Trump aren't even kissin' cousins, and I would be stunned if Ole Orange Hair would even remember me. I am certain that he saves his memory for people he can still use or sue, or preferentially, in thinking about himself.Some years ago a friend at G.E. Pension Fund decided that it would be a good idea that The Genius and I should meet. So I put my fat lower case jewish ass on a airplane and flew to New York for lunch with the self proclaimed genius. Flying to N.Y. for lunch was something I did with some regularity which highlights what was a major stupidity problem of mine. So we met in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel for lunch. His Royal Highness, my G.E. friend, and me, The Ultimate Jet Setting Lower Case jewish Dummy.
In those days, Trump "controlled" the Plaza and there was a regular parade to our luncheon table of his acolytes genuflecting for Trump who was in hog heaven. Trying to have a conversation in between Trump's pontifications to his worshipers was impossible. By the time lunch ended, I was the ultimate in frustration having been treated rudely and with zero respect after what I considered to be a major league effort to get to The Big Apple (I was no longer drinking and getting blasted on airplanes). After lunch, I got back to my hotel and called Trump's office. I told his assistant that I wanted to see Trump immediately. His assistant told me that his calendar was too full for me which almost pushed me out the 10th story window. I pointed out that I had taken a serious trip to see him and that he absolutely owed me the courtesy of 20 minutes of his time. She phoned me back and told me to get my ass over to his office and he would see me.
The "conversation" could have been on Saturday Night Live. What an arrogant, self consumed guy he was/is? He told me that once a person spoke the first five words of a sentence he, Trump, knew what the other person had to say and that he, Trump, didn't have to listen any further. After a few more minutes of this bizarre "conversation", I told Trump that "if they knew about ADD when he was in the third grade that he would still be in the third grade and that his mind had the staying power of a moth on a hot light bulb". But history does says that Trump is a bright guy if a boor as well. I never had the desire to ever see him again though I did spot him again in a NYC restaurant a few years ago. He was standing under a bright light fixture which made his hair shine ORANGE.
P.S. Without GE Pension Fund and the education and financing they provided, Trump would have been another very smart failed RE operator who earlier had needed his Daddy to bail him out. Brains and all... But those are two other Trump stories left for another day.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Dead Dick
It ain't easy staying motivated when your 85 and even masturbating doesn't work any more (my dick really did die before the rest of me). Not even looking at great looking women with "strong" fit bodies or even thinking about Bill Clinton style sex (which I endorse and loved) doesn't do anything for me anymore. Reminds me of that bad old gag "How do you stop a woman from giving head? Marry her!"
But I do stay motivated to stay alive and functioning through a fitness regime, devouring newspapers and books, trying to do deals, and remembering with laughs and fondness the experiences of my rich and unusual life (the Ice Princess would and did call me and my life's attitude "bizarre"). If you take care of your body your mind will follow. My four year stint working as a farmer, a Bronx lower case jew, slopping hogs was an absolute non starter. A real fucking, living, breathing nightmare that time has turned into a four year sequence of improbable but very funny stories. Like buying a bull with a "broken tool", selling hogs in Chicago and Austin, Mn. Thinking, in error, I could get fucked less in Chicago than at the Swift packing plant in Mason City, buying diseased Missouri feeder pigs, buying wet corn and even wetter, moldy hay. It was in Iowa where I really became acquainted with "If you can't fuck your friends, who can you fuck? Your enemies won't let you."
But at the end of the day, all of those experiences have helped to keep me laughing and always optimistic. I used to think that "It can't get any worse" but it did. And then the super pessimist, the Ice Princess would literally scream at me "You're such a Pollyana. Why should things get any better?" I would respond with, "Because I am going to make them better." And I did!!! So even today, at 85, I just recently got a testosterone shot to increase my energy level and perhaps even bring my dick back from the dead. I am still trying to live as though I'm 40. If that "thing" ever snaps to attention again with or without Viagra or testosterone you will will see pigs fly .
Monday, February 23, 2009
From "The Way to the Top"
This quote is an excerpt from Donald Trumps book, "The Way To The Top" is from a top GE executive who managed some $180 billion when asked as to who was his strongest and most influential investor in his life.
"...But probably the most influential investor I've known — certainly the most eccentric — is a guy whose advice and counsel I seek out every day. His name is Bernie Feshbach, and to me he's been the lost and found of Wall Street. Bernie was a World War II Purple Heart award winner selling used cars, selling women's dresses, and working as a stockbroker. He's very well traveled and very well known throughout financial circles; he always wears his bow tie and his designer suits; and he knows all the maitre d's and concierges at the best restaurants and hotels all over the world. But more important, he knows where all the hidden closets are on Wall Street and where all the bodies are buried.
Bernie's about to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of his fortieth birthday later on this year and as such has experienced more market cycles than anyone I know. Every deal I ever did with him or recommended by him was a success. But Bernie's real value to me can't be measured by the deals we did or didn't do. It's my having the ability to pick his brain. Bernie's never been shy in voicing his opinions to me or of me, and his thoughts are incredibly valuable. Everyone needs a truly independent sounding board, preferably one that knows what he's talking about and without a personal stake in the outcome. Every business leader needs to find a Bernie Feshbach..." who was wounded at Okinawa. He grew up in the Bronx and after the war tried his hand at pig-farming, oil wild-catting,
"...But probably the most influential investor I've known — certainly the most eccentric — is a guy whose advice and counsel I seek out every day. His name is Bernie Feshbach, and to me he's been the lost and found of Wall Street. Bernie was a World War II Purple Heart award winner selling used cars, selling women's dresses, and working as a stockbroker. He's very well traveled and very well known throughout financial circles; he always wears his bow tie and his designer suits; and he knows all the maitre d's and concierges at the best restaurants and hotels all over the world. But more important, he knows where all the hidden closets are on Wall Street and where all the bodies are buried.
Bernie's about to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of his fortieth birthday later on this year and as such has experienced more market cycles than anyone I know. Every deal I ever did with him or recommended by him was a success. But Bernie's real value to me can't be measured by the deals we did or didn't do. It's my having the ability to pick his brain. Bernie's never been shy in voicing his opinions to me or of me, and his thoughts are incredibly valuable. Everyone needs a truly independent sounding board, preferably one that knows what he's talking about and without a personal stake in the outcome. Every business leader needs to find a Bernie Feshbach..." who was wounded at Okinawa. He grew up in the Bronx and after the war tried his hand at pig-farming, oil wild-catting,
Monday, February 16, 2009
Living on the Edge...of Money
If I knew that I was going to live this long I would probably have taken better care of my money. Ah where did the many, many millions I earned go? 'Cause I don't have even a small itty, bitty, little bit of it left. Profligate spending? No respect for accumulating money? Always spent at least a little more than I made? Guilty as charged of all of the above and more.
Did I enjoy being constantly overdrawn at the bank? I must have because I was constantly overdrawn. Me and keeping a record of the checks written while keeping a record of my bank balance weren't even kissin' cousins. I was totally arrogant about my ability to make money and my arrogance was well founded. A banker once asked me what I was going to do with the money I wanted to borrow. "Spend it" I said. He thought that I was being a smart ass, and he turned me down. But how did I make many millions of dollars disappear? No problem for this old, lower case jew.
While I did spend mucho bucks on myself, the bulk of the money was spent on others. My wives before and after divorces (a half of a half doesn't leave a whole hell of a lot). My four kids and the Ice Princess plus my second ex wife were my prime targets. The Ice Princess complained, sometimes bitterly that I spoiled the kids. But my cry was that I was not "schizo" and that I couldn't give her (#1 ex wife) everything she wanted (and she wanted plenty starting with being a born again clothes horse) and not do the same for the kids. How she adored and loved I Magnin's. I loved every spending minute of it. I was pretty much consumed with love and affection for kids and yes, even for the Ice Princess and wife #2.
I also pissed away a ton of money on people I hardly knew or even cared to know. One of my kids had a tennis shop. God only knows how many warm up suits and tennis rackets I bought for flight attendants that I saw just once and didn't care to see again. I was trying to support the tennis shop and most flight attendants became brain dead while on that job, so I seldom pursued them. I was a real money sump pump and just loved it. The seventeen years between marriages were also terrific for spending money. Would I do it all over again? For sure!! My disrespect for accumulating money never included lack of recognition of what money was doing for my beloved family, good and casual friends and yeah even a few enemies.
Redundantly, I have lived a long and rich life and, thank God, always on the edge.
Did I enjoy being constantly overdrawn at the bank? I must have because I was constantly overdrawn. Me and keeping a record of the checks written while keeping a record of my bank balance weren't even kissin' cousins. I was totally arrogant about my ability to make money and my arrogance was well founded. A banker once asked me what I was going to do with the money I wanted to borrow. "Spend it" I said. He thought that I was being a smart ass, and he turned me down. But how did I make many millions of dollars disappear? No problem for this old, lower case jew.
While I did spend mucho bucks on myself, the bulk of the money was spent on others. My wives before and after divorces (a half of a half doesn't leave a whole hell of a lot). My four kids and the Ice Princess plus my second ex wife were my prime targets. The Ice Princess complained, sometimes bitterly that I spoiled the kids. But my cry was that I was not "schizo" and that I couldn't give her (#1 ex wife) everything she wanted (and she wanted plenty starting with being a born again clothes horse) and not do the same for the kids. How she adored and loved I Magnin's. I loved every spending minute of it. I was pretty much consumed with love and affection for kids and yes, even for the Ice Princess and wife #2.
I also pissed away a ton of money on people I hardly knew or even cared to know. One of my kids had a tennis shop. God only knows how many warm up suits and tennis rackets I bought for flight attendants that I saw just once and didn't care to see again. I was trying to support the tennis shop and most flight attendants became brain dead while on that job, so I seldom pursued them. I was a real money sump pump and just loved it. The seventeen years between marriages were also terrific for spending money. Would I do it all over again? For sure!! My disrespect for accumulating money never included lack of recognition of what money was doing for my beloved family, good and casual friends and yeah even a few enemies.
Redundantly, I have lived a long and rich life and, thank God, always on the edge.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Being A Garmento 1953
One way for a marriage to stay in tact is for one or both of the spouses to travel a lot. It takes a lot longer for the couple to get bored with one another (aka sick of one another…and this is Noah talking about the flood). My first bout with getting out of the house for at least four or five days at a time was in peddling dresses on the road (aka travelin' man living). It was wonderful. The Princess didn't have to worry about having sex with me, and I didn't have to worry about pleasing her. I was, to turn a phrase, "pussy whipped". Also I couldn't figure out whether I was a lousy lover or that the Ice Princess didn't care about sex. Carries over to that old line that the best way to stop a married man from masturbating is to get him a divorce.
I had no dress selling competency. I got the job by convincing the bosses that I was a powerful salesman and that they should take a gamble on me. I spent three weeks working in the showroom (1440 Broadway) to learn. I had volunteered to work for nothing but the boss couldn't handle that so I received a small retainer.
My first territory was Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Eastern Kansas, Wisconsin, and Eastern Nebraska. A lot of two lane roads, 60-70 miles between towns. I could drive through a target town without realizing that I had gone through it. I then had to turn around and go back to the fucking town. When N.Y. sent me sample dresses, they would enclose a note describing the fabric. It was not until I covered N.Y. and Pennsylvania that I started making money and really loved the work. The joy of not having to be pussy whipped by the Princess was huge as well.
In the Midwest, you would get to some no name town with three dress shops. The owner of one would be out of town, the owner of the second wouldn't look at my line and the third would look but wouldn't buy. Very unpleasant. Every night in the hotel room, I would bang out thank you notes on a Royal Portable typewriter. "Sorry I missed you", "Sorry you wouldn't look at my line" and "Sorry that you didn't see anything you liked". The next time I hit that no name town, each of the owners greeted me with open arms (if they were there). I became a top salesman, but the biggest pay period I would have had turned to shit when the corduroy factory that produced the fabric for my hottest selling dress burned down.
The Ice Princess' father just plain didn't like his kid being married to a garmento travelin' man for sure. The fact is, he just didn't like me. Sadly it took me a very long time to realize that the dislike ran in the family including the Princess' sister. The Mother had died so I was relatively safe there.
I had no dress selling competency. I got the job by convincing the bosses that I was a powerful salesman and that they should take a gamble on me. I spent three weeks working in the showroom (1440 Broadway) to learn. I had volunteered to work for nothing but the boss couldn't handle that so I received a small retainer. My first territory was Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Eastern Kansas, Wisconsin, and Eastern Nebraska. A lot of two lane roads, 60-70 miles between towns. I could drive through a target town without realizing that I had gone through it. I then had to turn around and go back to the fucking town. When N.Y. sent me sample dresses, they would enclose a note describing the fabric. It was not until I covered N.Y. and Pennsylvania that I started making money and really loved the work. The joy of not having to be pussy whipped by the Princess was huge as well.
In the Midwest, you would get to some no name town with three dress shops. The owner of one would be out of town, the owner of the second wouldn't look at my line and the third would look but wouldn't buy. Very unpleasant. Every night in the hotel room, I would bang out thank you notes on a Royal Portable typewriter. "Sorry I missed you", "Sorry you wouldn't look at my line" and "Sorry that you didn't see anything you liked". The next time I hit that no name town, each of the owners greeted me with open arms (if they were there). I became a top salesman, but the biggest pay period I would have had turned to shit when the corduroy factory that produced the fabric for my hottest selling dress burned down.
The Ice Princess' father just plain didn't like his kid being married to a garmento travelin' man for sure. The fact is, he just didn't like me. Sadly it took me a very long time to realize that the dislike ran in the family including the Princess' sister. The Mother had died so I was relatively safe there.
Monday, February 2, 2009
No Thaw
After being married a relatively short period of time (11 years) and having, during that time, helped manage a tanning and dyeing plant (converting sheepskin into mouton lamb), being a "travelin man" (sold dresses on the road), farmed, I traveled for a wholesale automobile auction and was selling cars. I arrived home one night and announced to my then wife that I had taken a job as a stockbroker. She broke down in tears (she could cry a river just looking at me). That poor woman's life's dream was to have a quiet, table top smooth life, and I was giving her none of that.
Her idea of "living" was slow suicide for me. After moving from Mason City, Never Live There, Iowa, I was making a damn good living pushing new and used cars out the door. I was one of the top 3 West Coast Pontiac salesmen with yearly earnings of some $25,000 per year in 1957 dollars ($195,191 in today's money). And I was giving it up, with a wife, four kids and a dog (A Sheltie) for a starting draw (against commissions) of $1,200,1957 dollars a month. Why?
Well we lived next door to a very smart guy who was a Security Analyst with Fireman's Fund and was investing personal money. He kept telling stories about his big stock market successes, and I thought "Shit, I'll never make 'real money' peddling cars." So I went looking for a brokerage firm who would hire a car salesman who didn't know a stock from a bond.
And I found one that hired me. I promptly went on a self education binge and developed into one of the top broker/salesman/security analysts in the US and made more money than I deserved. But even that didn't help the Ice Princess 's attitude towards me. She had developed an ingrained dislike of me. Being slow (but not stupid) it took me some 30 years to recognize her dislike. But I refused to accept it and continued to try to get her approval until she passed away.
She, while dieing in the hospital, gave my kids instructions for me, not to phone, come by or send flowers. And when she left this world for the next, I was not to be allowed to her memorial service. Wow…I just never ever made it with the Princess.
Her idea of "living" was slow suicide for me. After moving from Mason City, Never Live There, Iowa, I was making a damn good living pushing new and used cars out the door. I was one of the top 3 West Coast Pontiac salesmen with yearly earnings of some $25,000 per year in 1957 dollars ($195,191 in today's money). And I was giving it up, with a wife, four kids and a dog (A Sheltie) for a starting draw (against commissions) of $1,200,1957 dollars a month. Why?
Well we lived next door to a very smart guy who was a Security Analyst with Fireman's Fund and was investing personal money. He kept telling stories about his big stock market successes, and I thought "Shit, I'll never make 'real money' peddling cars." So I went looking for a brokerage firm who would hire a car salesman who didn't know a stock from a bond.
And I found one that hired me. I promptly went on a self education binge and developed into one of the top broker/salesman/security analysts in the US and made more money than I deserved. But even that didn't help the Ice Princess 's attitude towards me. She had developed an ingrained dislike of me. Being slow (but not stupid) it took me some 30 years to recognize her dislike. But I refused to accept it and continued to try to get her approval until she passed away.
She, while dieing in the hospital, gave my kids instructions for me, not to phone, come by or send flowers. And when she left this world for the next, I was not to be allowed to her memorial service. Wow…I just never ever made it with the Princess.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
It's Never Too Late
"It's never too late, or in my case
too early to be whoever you want to be.
There's no time limit.
Start whenever you want.
You can change or stay the same.
There are no rules to this thing.
We can make the best or the worst of it.
I hope you make the best of it.
I hope you see things that startle you.
I hope you feel things you never felt before.
I hope you meet people
who have a different point of view.
I hope you live a life you're proud of,
and if you're not,
I hope you have the courage
to start all over again."
Eric Roth, From the Screenplay of
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"
Monday, January 12, 2009
Dead Dick
To paraphrase Willie Nelson, it is very sad for me that my "dick" died before the rest of me. The other day in a family restaurant a young woman offered me a lap dance. "Lap Dance"? I asked "Are you crazy? It would take one hell of lot more than a lap dance to bring my dead "dick" back to life". I did suggest that a "bj" might do it, but the "bj" wasn't acceptable.
But there were times in my first single life and at the very tail end of my first, long drawn out marriage when "it" was very active if not always strong. Stumbling across two street women from Mosambique in Paris and ending up in bed with them at the Muerice made for a fabulous menage a trois. Too bad I was so drunk that I can't remember why it was so fabulous.
And a hooker in Denver so unbelievable that when I woke up few hundred dollars lighter, I couldn't remember what happened to my money. Every drunk in the world thinks while totally "in the bag" that he is the last of the great Latin lovers. But it wasn't all wild and crazy when I was drinking. In AA (where I owe 35 years extra of life and where I learned a ton) the standard line is "the worst day sober is better than the best day while drinking." I don't subscribe to that notion. I had some great times while in the bag.
We had an apartment in S.F., and I spent many evenings at the North Beach restaurant eating, drinking and laughing and doing bizarre things. My many trips to N.Y getting loaded and laughing all the way with the flight attendants were fun, full of accomplishments and a great way to get away from the Ice Princess. Going to Israel seven times in 13 months in a failed attempt to organize a fund to raise money to drill for oil in Israel was ludicrous. Everyone knows that Moses made a mistake and turned left instead of right so the Arabs have the oil. I am sure that I took a few of those trips just to get the hell out of the house.
Being married to the Ice Princess wasn't like spending a day at the beach. Drinking, laughing, coming, going and doing was much more fun. Who sober would invite the entire crew of a National Airline flight to dinner at the North Beach restaurant after a flight from New Orleans. Bizarre? For sure. Fun? Absolutely!!! Laughed all the way to a huge check. Regrets? None!!!!
But there were times in my first single life and at the very tail end of my first, long drawn out marriage when "it" was very active if not always strong. Stumbling across two street women from Mosambique in Paris and ending up in bed with them at the Muerice made for a fabulous menage a trois. Too bad I was so drunk that I can't remember why it was so fabulous.
And a hooker in Denver so unbelievable that when I woke up few hundred dollars lighter, I couldn't remember what happened to my money. Every drunk in the world thinks while totally "in the bag" that he is the last of the great Latin lovers. But it wasn't all wild and crazy when I was drinking. In AA (where I owe 35 years extra of life and where I learned a ton) the standard line is "the worst day sober is better than the best day while drinking." I don't subscribe to that notion. I had some great times while in the bag.
We had an apartment in S.F., and I spent many evenings at the North Beach restaurant eating, drinking and laughing and doing bizarre things. My many trips to N.Y getting loaded and laughing all the way with the flight attendants were fun, full of accomplishments and a great way to get away from the Ice Princess. Going to Israel seven times in 13 months in a failed attempt to organize a fund to raise money to drill for oil in Israel was ludicrous. Everyone knows that Moses made a mistake and turned left instead of right so the Arabs have the oil. I am sure that I took a few of those trips just to get the hell out of the house.
Being married to the Ice Princess wasn't like spending a day at the beach. Drinking, laughing, coming, going and doing was much more fun. Who sober would invite the entire crew of a National Airline flight to dinner at the North Beach restaurant after a flight from New Orleans. Bizarre? For sure. Fun? Absolutely!!! Laughed all the way to a huge check. Regrets? None!!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)