Capped Teeth, Lucky Strike's & Chesterfield's, Minnesota Mining

Going to AA meetings with new teeth.

Newly divorced in 1974, 50 years old and wanting to attract willing women, it seemed to me that getting my teeth capped would be an enormous step forward.

I had  a slightly gapped front tooth and teeth somewhat yellowed from 30 years of smoking 4-5 packs a day of either Chesterfield's or Lucky Strike's (both non-filtered).

It seemed, to me, like a logical thing to do if I wanted to chase and catch broads. The capped teeth idea actually turned into a fucking disaster. Didn't make me look like a movie star nor did my new teeth attract women. In retrospect, no fucking surprises.

My teeth are now perfect except they are not mine. The dentist had capped my teeth that were decaying, putting me in the hospital in Amsterdam and in the office of the Queen's dentist in London. The natural teeth went bye, bye. I went from a mouthful of real teeth to a bridge in my mouth; to a full set of phonies called dentures. My false teeth, not my age, gave me credentials to become a senior citizen.

Being old ain't a barrel of laughs. More like a barrel of kvetches. Getting out of bed in the morning, feeling like shit, and hoping, to paraphrase Dean Martin, that it will prove to be as bad as I am going to feel all day.

It doesn't seem too miraculous to me that I am, at 90, still alive but it is no small trick. The bigger trick is to have had two serious bike crashes in my very late eighties and a serious fall at 90 without breaking any bones and retaining good memory. Another miracle is that someone hasn't killed me because of my big mouth. But as my revered Pop used to say, "Honesty can be the biggest swindle in the world. As long as you tell the truth, you can get away with murder."

At Alcoholic Anonymous meetings one of my mantras was 'that as long as I stayed in motion physically, mentally and emotionally I would be okay'. Physically meant working on fitness, mentally meant creating and meeting challenges and emotionally meant making and keeping friends. Women and sex was a huge part of making friends. Meaningful conversations and orgasms go a long way to achieve mental health.

So, when farming in Iowa turned into a self made disaster (A Bronx Jew slopping hogs didn't make for a pretty picture.) I turned to a very imaginative friend/shirt tail relation for ideas.

My friend, Izzy, was so creative, that as a Major in the Army in North Africa during WWII, he married a gal in the States by telephone. Got home, got divorced then married two more times. The first to a gal with a drinking problem and the last to a great gal.

Izzy came up with the idea to make bumper strips for cars out of newly invented reflective Scotchlite. He had a friend at F.W. Woolworth who bought and inventoried the bumper strips. Izzy and I with his sister Sarah would sit at the kitchen table, slicing up the Scotchlite sheets into strips and inserting them into cellophane envelopes. Laugh, laugh, laugh swapping war time stories while stuffing the envelopes, which was a brainless task.

I came up with the notion to convert the Scotchlite into advertising specialties and made replicas of Baby Ruth candy bars and the Ralston Purina corporate logo.

Today's use of  Scotchlite reflective sheets in advertising.

Both companies liked the notion but Minnesota Mining, the manufacturer of Scotchlite, didn't cotton to the idea that two nobodies, or anybody for that matter, should be exploiting Scotchlite. Stopped selling the stuff to us and shut us down.

It was fun leaving Mason Fucking City to go to St Louis to call on Ralston Purina and to Chicago to visit Baby Ruth. Being able to drink without being in the protective custody of the Princess was a great taste of freedom. And fun working with Izzy, an idea factory with a great sense of humor...no fun getting shut down.

Lessons learned? Choose wives, husbands and dentists carefully.

Early To Bed, Early To Rise With Graduating High School And Fitness The Prize

On my ass, one more time.

Stubbed my toe, flew like a disabled bird, through the air, fell on my pot belly and side and didn't/couldn’t jump back up. God was punishing me for wanting to get some empty calorie fucking jelly beans out of my car. My eye glasses were ten feet away, fortunately still in one piece. Laid there a few minutes, on the concrete, while thoughts flowed through my unscathed, empty head. I knew that those fucking jelly beans would get me in trouble and that I was an old man.

While stretched out on the concrete I concluded: 

1. Nothing felt broken, which, at 90, is a big fucking deal.

2. Felt like an idiot for not paying attention to where I was walking.

3. Felt like shit.

4. Going after jelly beans was a big mistake.

  
Wondered if I could get my fat Jewish ass vertical without help. Years of squats and flexibility training did make that happen.

My wonderful Pop made an early riser out of me. It made him nuts to have two intellectually superior kids, a third blossoming genius and me, an intellectual derelict (aka delinquent) kid in the middle of the action. Shitty school marks were my hallmark.

Nothing, including living in constant fear of bringing my usually terrible report card home, energized me to do better in school. I had concluded that there was absolutely no fucking way I could come close, much less equal, my brother Herman and sister Florence's accomplishments in school. Trying would be like pissing into the wind or rowing against the current.

My sister Florence caught hell because she knew I was lying to my parents about my delays in producing those fucking report cards. Making bullshit reasons was tough but doable. Our family intellectual King Kong, Herman, speaking from the mount called M.I.T. in Cambridge, made it plain and clear to my folks that I was hardly worth the effort to even try making a school success out of me. Being classified by the family guru as hopeless didn't bother me at all since I agreed with him.

When I would come home from school I would grab some fruit and go out the door with whatever the season called for: baseball, basketball, football, roller skates for street hockey. Whatever. Do homework? A disgusting thought.

We had, across the street, in the Bronx, an Italian neighbor Mr.Trissollini. Who had, as I was, an intellectually handicapped son, Patty. Mr.Trissollinni convinced my Pop that the only way to get my nose to the homework grindstone was to make me get my ass out of bed by 5:30 AM and do my homework before I went to school, not after I came home. And so began at age 14 a lifetime habit of waking early. It should be noted that it worked. I did graduate, painfully, high school, to the surprise of all including me. It did take a few remedial summer schools to qualify for a diploma.

I converted early rising time for school to early rising for business and fitness routines.

Yesterday, one more time, this major league klutz's fitness addiction saved the day. Years of walking 1 1/4 miles a day, pounding the hell out of my legs on tennis hard courts, (no varicose veins doubles) plus light weight lifting and flexibility training, had been interwoven into my lifestyle. So all of the fitness stuff has, at least, allowed me to fall on my ass at 90 and not fracture or break a bone, though I am sore. Picking on the scabs on my arms gives me some diversion. A small reward.

No need to worry about the 'bone' between my legs. Can't break, long gone. Sadly, as Willie Nelson so famously sad, "I'm sorry that my dick died before the rest of me."

Reid Dennis, Wilson Johnson & Higgins, Fucking For Practice

'The only difference between you and me Peter is that you fuck your clients always wearing your vest. I don't always wear a vest'.

With or without eye drops, living next door to Reid Dennis was an eye opener. Reid was a venture capital investor before either terms, 'Venture Capitalist' or 'Silicon Valley' were invented.

He was a genius investor with the touch of Midas, investing very successfully in start-ups including Ampex the grand daddy of the video tape recorder and even our current consumer and industrial recording technology. Reid's investment success extended to regular, gee whiz, mature companies as well.

Blythe & Co, an investment bank, had done a study in the early 50's which showed conclusively that new and used car salesmen made the best stock brokers. The combination of the disastrous and then moribund stock market of the 30's had made being a fucking stock broker unattractive, thereby generating a shortage of self perceived geniuses.

Hearing Reid's investing success stories and the combination of my built in drive for success plus greed drove me to the pearly gates of the financial world. Transferring the flimflams necessary to being a successful furrier, dress salesman, farmer and car salesman to being a stock broker was easy. Three years in the Army and getting shot added to my street smart base. The transition to the financial world was a slam, fucking, dunk.

Fully embracing the concept of 'Serendipity' I went into the business of broking of which I knew nothing. The stock broker shortage gave me the opening to enter the financial world. Later, Bronx, street educated Jews like me didn't have a chance to enter the financial world. We just didn't 'fit'.

The poor Princess cried the Mississippi River at my latest 'career change'. But the Princess quickly embraced the good life once the money started rolling in, while, avoiding embracing me. But the financial world opened the door to a lifetime of meeting great people and bums. Sadly, the world of CEO's offered too many bums. Yes there were 'Saints' as well, but not near the number of bums.

From Joe Wood Pontiac to Wilson, Johnson & Higgins Investments was an easy change for me. The move from shoving cars out the front door to wearing button down shirts, a bow tie and suits with an occasional vest, to pushing shares of stock of companies that I didn't know shit about was almost pleasant But in retrospect, laughable.

While farming I became convinced that the expression 'honest Iowa farmer' was a total piece of bullshit. Those 'honest, clean living, non profane speaking, church going farmers would fuck you for practice even if it did them zero amount of good. They just didn't want to forget how to do it. With the help of Reid Dennis I became a competent security analyst so I didn't have to peddle someone else's touts. I made my own smart calls and my own mistakes.

Yeah, being, screwed, blued and tattooed by farmers had become an important part of my Iowa life style. But those painful years contributed mightily to my successes in the financial world. Selling cars was not a step up from raising hogs in fucking Iowa.

Peddling shares? As I told a pontificating asshole, Lazard Freres Partner, 'The only difference between you and me Peter is that you fuck your clients always wearing a vest. I don't always wear a vest."

A few months at Wilson, Johnson & Higgins opened my eyes to another sophisticated bullshit genre. The management genre. I quickly learned that some management would say anything to promote the share prices of their companies. (Bear in mind that the SEC's oversight was virtually non-existent in the late 50's and early 60's. In those days the SEC commissioners wore cowboy hats but had no cattle).

In an effort to garner the companies' investment banking business the investment banking 'suits' would repeat the corporate exaggerations in order to peddle the companies' shares to their clients, friends and enemies. It took slobs like me very little time to become paranoid about the corporate claims and the investment bankers’/analysts’ anxiousness to perpetuate the borderline bogus claims.

As a friend said "School learning doesn't compare to living learning."


After a few months at Wilson, Johnson & Higgins, the error of my ways got to what conscience I had and I went 'straight'. Joined New York Stock Exchange member, Irving Lundborg & Co. thereby joining a genre where everyone including me, was totally powerless over our own bullshit and believed everything we said.

But that move opened the door to a lifetime of consorting with straight shooting oil and gas companies' CEOs, gentlemen all. Dean McGee, Joe Pevehouse, Jon Brumley, Deane Stoltz, John Moore, Ashley Priddy plus non oil and gas straight shooters, S.A. Ibrahim, Jeff Immelt, John Myers, John Carlson and Marian Pardo to name but a few.

Merv Griffin, John Gardiner, Jews To South Africa

John Gardiner's Tennis Ranch

"My God Bernie, what great breasts you have."~ Merv Griffin

John Gardiner's Tennis Ranch in Carmel Valley was one of a kind resort that catered to the rich and famous. It had spectacular food, great tennis pros and over the top ambiance.

It also had sessions in the summer for kids. Ronald Reagan, a friend of John Gardiner's, did 'inspections' of the kid's quarters while staying there. I became a member through a fluke. I was neither rich nor famous and a Jew to boot.

Joe Swanson, the illegitimate son of Gloria Swanson, was a high tech engineer, and he and his wife were bridge playing, tennis playing friends of ours (the Princess and me). Joe and I had another bond. We were both really serious drinkers. The Swanson's who were members invited us to our first visit to the Tennis Ranch.

John Gardiner had been a tennis pro at Pebble Beach, married to Barbara who in turn was very fucking smart though tough as nails. Barbara really conceived the notion of making the Tennis Ranch very exclusive. You could only have one stay at the Ranch without becoming a member. It certainly was not a place for ethnic diversity. Thank God that they didn't check for circumcisions.

John Gardiner took a liking to me on that first trip and allowed me to return many times. John and I became good friends and after Barbara passed away he was my guest on a tour of oil towns: Midland, Texas, Denver and Calgary. I also hosted him in London. We never stopped laughing.

A few years after the Princes unloaded me (Thank God) I was spending one of many weekends at the Tennis Ranch. The whole atmosphere at the Ranch was warm and friendly enhanced by spectacular food and fabulous weather.

So I'm at the Tennis Ranch talking chit, chat with a young, 30 something, good looking guy. Naturally, one of the first questions out of my mouth was 'What do you do for a living?' (A must ask question always asked by all Jews of my vintage.)

I play polo, he says. Not being part of the polo playing WASP set and being addicted to foul language my response was, 'Don't bullshit me. No one in America plays fucking polo for a living.' Well, I do he says very vehemently and goes on from there. The unreal conversation about fucking polo finally ends and we split. About then, Anne Priddy, Ashley's daughter, who was there with her parents comes up to me and says, 'Bernie, that guy is here with Merv Griffin's and is Merv's lover'. 'You're shitting me, are you telling me that Merv is a fag?' (Homo had evolved into fag and gay had not yet become the politically acceptable word.) 'Absolutely' Anne says.

Merv was one of the friendliest people, ever. He was as common as an old shoe, just a terrific person. He was an above average tennis player, very smart and very funny. He, by the way, out witted Donald Trump in a business transaction. Merv made Trump look like a wig wearing dummy. They settled a gambling casino transaction and Merv, one liners and all, 'pantsed' Trump. Fucking fun to watch.

Merv had a weight problem and in a fit of insanity I sent him two big time collections of nutrition books. One to the Beverly Hilton where he lived and owned and one to his 1,000 acre spread in Carmel Valley. Didn't do him any fucking good. I think he died over weight.

So one Saturday Merv, John Gardinder, Monique Gardiner (A true blue phony), Barbara Wiederecht and I are having lunch in the glorious Carmel Valley sunshine. Tennis clothes and all.

I was wearing one of the first Polar Heart Rate Monitors, which was ticking loudly away like crazy. Monique commented on the ticking and asked me what the ticking was all about. I explained the ticking to be my heart rate, and turned the ticking off. I then lifted my tee shirt to show Monique the chest band which measured my heart rate. Merv takes one look and out popped, "My God Bernie, what great breasts you have!"

I thought John Gardiner would slide under the table: Monique, for once in her bullshitting life, was speechless and Barbara Wiederecht, a great gal, just sat there stupefied. Me? I thought 'Shit, my pecs aren't as bad looking as I thought'.

About a year later:

• Walking down Madison Ave., here comes Merv with his polo playing lover. Merv asks, "How's the oil business, Bernie?"

          "Same ole sixes and sevens.”

          "How is your weight management business?"

          "Same ole sixes and sevens.”

          "My cook loves the books you sent. She's lost a lot of weight. Looks great."

• "Thanks for the exercise bike", John Gardiner said to me."It's a great bike and I've hired a guy to ride it for 45 minutes a day for me. He is really looking good." That ended my weight management efforts on John's behalf.

• Monique? Monique pontificated at breakfast one morning that the Jewish 'problem' could be solved by shipping all the Jews to South Africa; John was embarrassed while Monique continued her rant. I couldn't bear the sight of her and went back to the ranch only one more time. I stayed in touch with John using that old fashioned device called the telephone.