In 1946, just back from Korea, and in the Fort Devens Hospital I would get a weekend pass and take the train into NYC. My future ex-wife wife, Bonnie (and an up and coming, Born Again, Jewish American Princess), was living with my sister Florence and working at Alexander's as an assistant buyer.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, the combination of the Princess and me would turn out to be exactly like shooting the rapids. I didn't realize that I was embarking on a journey of a life filled with guilt, remorse and masochism not necessarily in that order.
Fortunately lots of laughs, adventures, booze, successes and wonderful friends became the cornerstones of my life. I owed the Princess for throwing me out.
Yeah, even the booze led me to good times. Being a roaring fucking drunk wasn't all bad. It would drive people at AA meetings crazy when I said that I had fabulous times when drunk even if I didn't remember what happened all the time.
Being a sincere drinker and operating in a blackout was as common as an old shoe for drunks like me. When in the bag, I went from feeling good, to being a genius, to being a lover, then to memory loss.
I would pick Bonnie up to start our weekend routine. Friday night was a Broadway show, Saturday night was the basketball double header at the Garden and Sunday night was the hockey match at the Garden. All of this financed by my meager Sergeant's pay and my ever generous Pop.
During the day the Princess, with guidance from the New Yorker magazine would schlep my lowercase bronx, jewish ass to art exhibitions. Piano concerts were absolutely out. The Princess loved a piano concert. For me they defied previous boredom limits.
But the Princess was relentless and ruthless in her attempt to shove some couth into me but not even the Princess could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. However the Princess did introduce me to Cezanne, VanGogh, Helleu and the Impressionists in general. An interest I have maintained these 65 plus years.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, the combination of the Princess and me would turn out to be exactly like shooting the rapids. I didn't realize that I was embarking on a journey of a life filled with guilt, remorse and masochism not necessarily in that order.
Fortunately lots of laughs, adventures, booze, successes and wonderful friends became the cornerstones of my life. I owed the Princess for throwing me out.
Yeah, even the booze led me to good times. Being a roaring fucking drunk wasn't all bad. It would drive people at AA meetings crazy when I said that I had fabulous times when drunk even if I didn't remember what happened all the time.
Being a sincere drinker and operating in a blackout was as common as an old shoe for drunks like me. When in the bag, I went from feeling good, to being a genius, to being a lover, then to memory loss.
I would pick Bonnie up to start our weekend routine. Friday night was a Broadway show, Saturday night was the basketball double header at the Garden and Sunday night was the hockey match at the Garden. All of this financed by my meager Sergeant's pay and my ever generous Pop.
During the day the Princess, with guidance from the New Yorker magazine would schlep my lowercase bronx, jewish ass to art exhibitions. Piano concerts were absolutely out. The Princess loved a piano concert. For me they defied previous boredom limits.
But the Princess was relentless and ruthless in her attempt to shove some couth into me but not even the Princess could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. However the Princess did introduce me to Cezanne, VanGogh, Helleu and the Impressionists in general. An interest I have maintained these 65 plus years.
One Sunday, after hockey, we were eating at Rumpelmayers, on Central Park South (later became Mickey Mantle's). I had a glass of milk, believe it or not, and suddenly felt like shit. Went to the loo and puked my guts out. Took a cab (That was big time, but the subway was out.) back to my folk's place while I shook like a whore on Saturday night. My Mom had the doctor come by. He gave me some Atabrin and told me that malaria had come back to bite my ass. My Mom continued piling blankets on me while I laid in bed, shaking with my teeth rattling. (They were mine in those days.)
Scared the hell out of my Mom, Pop and me. Have hardly ever gone near milk again much less drink it.
Pleurisy was another WWII, Korean Occupation groaner that hung on for awhile after getting back to the States. Hit a fucking pothole while riding in a jeep in Seoul and a really sharp pain went through me. I was certain that God had come to get me.
Get hit and you know that omnipotence is no longer an option. The ride back to the barracks was excruciatingly painful. Every little fucking bump in the road (and there were plenty of them) a stab of pain went through me, like shit through a tin horn. After a sleepless night, I went out on sick call.
Diagnosed as pleurisy. Told I wasn't sick enough to be sent back to the States and that complaining wouldn't do me any fucking good. Gave me a shot of something and sent me back to the Japanese officer's quarters that we were using as barracks. Very small bath tubs.
At that point, between getting hit and getting a touch of both malaria and pleurisy I had all of the fucking Army this Jew wanted or needed.
No one knew of PTSD in those days. If you complained you were either bucking for a discharge or trying to get Stateside, even on a Section 8. As in Catch 22, if you asked for a Section 8 (an insanity plea) then you had to be sane in order to know to ask for a Section 8. So even a request for a Section 8 trip back to the States was not an option.
My trip back home on a hospital ship came about because me and walking had become less than kissing cousins. A pediatrician in the Army had diagnosed the severity of the effects of the gunshot wound and I was deemed 'useless'. I didn't realize at the time that I would spend 27 years of a fucking married life often being told one way or another that I, was 'useless'.
In divorce however, I became terrific for the Princess. I just sent money and the Princess didn't have to put up with my 'eccentric behavior'. She had the best of all worlds. She was getting bunches of money without having to put up with me.
I also had the best of all worlds. It only cost me money to be shut of all that bitching and complaining about me. Getting a divorce was a great ego booster, for sure.
With the end of the war, every schmuck and his uncle was hell bent to get married. Me included. Out of Army in March, with my Ruptured Duck pin in my jacket lapel, married in October. Up like a rocket, down like a stick. That's the story of my schlong as well.
...Finally rained here in the Land of Milk and Honey and Fruits and Nuts. Good friend of mine's 80 something Father went out into the pouring fucking rain, opened his umbrella and while holding the umbrella in one hand was found watering his plants with a hose in his other hand, in the rain. I'm very surprised that he didn't piss in his pants too...
And so we saw all the now famous musicals written by Jews. When we got married and lived in Middletown, where Dan was born, we went into Manhattan and would see at least one Broadway musical, or otherwise, every weekend for several years. Yeah, Fiddler On The Roof, South Pacific, Oklahoma, on and on.
'Those were the days my friend. We thought they'd never end.'…Fiddler On The Roof
At that point, between getting hit and getting a touch of both malaria and pleurisy I had all of the fucking Army this Jew wanted or needed.
No one knew of PTSD in those days. If you complained you were either bucking for a discharge or trying to get Stateside, even on a Section 8. As in Catch 22, if you asked for a Section 8 (an insanity plea) then you had to be sane in order to know to ask for a Section 8. So even a request for a Section 8 trip back to the States was not an option.
My trip back home on a hospital ship came about because me and walking had become less than kissing cousins. A pediatrician in the Army had diagnosed the severity of the effects of the gunshot wound and I was deemed 'useless'. I didn't realize at the time that I would spend 27 years of a fucking married life often being told one way or another that I, was 'useless'.
In divorce however, I became terrific for the Princess. I just sent money and the Princess didn't have to put up with my 'eccentric behavior'. She had the best of all worlds. She was getting bunches of money without having to put up with me.
I also had the best of all worlds. It only cost me money to be shut of all that bitching and complaining about me. Getting a divorce was a great ego booster, for sure.
With the end of the war, every schmuck and his uncle was hell bent to get married. Me included. Out of Army in March, with my Ruptured Duck pin in my jacket lapel, married in October. Up like a rocket, down like a stick. That's the story of my schlong as well.
...Finally rained here in the Land of Milk and Honey and Fruits and Nuts. Good friend of mine's 80 something Father went out into the pouring fucking rain, opened his umbrella and while holding the umbrella in one hand was found watering his plants with a hose in his other hand, in the rain. I'm very surprised that he didn't piss in his pants too...
And so we saw all the now famous musicals written by Jews. When we got married and lived in Middletown, where Dan was born, we went into Manhattan and would see at least one Broadway musical, or otherwise, every weekend for several years. Yeah, Fiddler On The Roof, South Pacific, Oklahoma, on and on.
'Those were the days my friend. We thought they'd never end.'…Fiddler On The Roof
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