Bob Metcalfe, Robyn Metcalfe, Dick Kramlich, 3Com, A Reprise

The French have a saying, "The best part of an affair is going up the stairs." And so it’s been that way for me with my 90 ½ year affair with life. For me, the anticipation of finding the unexpected has been the equivalent of "going up the stairs".

Meeting Bob Metcalfe was a really distasteful experience. He was, in my view, at that moment, a total asshole. Me and another guy were sitting by the Oak Creek pool, on a knockout summer day ogling women in skimpy bathing suits with falling out boobs, after playing tennis. He was a much better player than me.

Up walks this tall, good looking young guy. He says to my friend, 'My name is Bob Metcalfe, I’ve just moved into Oak Creek and I'd like to play tennis with you.’ totally fucking ignoring me, making me feel invisible.

That self non-introduction to me raised my fucking blood pressure significantly and wired me for sound. A burning match, shoved up my ass at that moment, would have shot me to the moon.

But I go up like a rocket and come down like a stick so making friends with Bob later was a natural outcome for me. He was absolutely right in ignoring me as a tennis player. I didn't belong on the court with him. Bob had been Captain of the MIT tennis team. As a tennis player I was a terrific plumber.

And so, days and weeks later, sitting by the tennis courts or out to dinner with my latest best friend, Bob Metcalfe, it was natural for me to insert myself into Bob's life. Always grinding on him, to look for the serendipity of life (climbing up the stairs) and use his formidable education, work background and work ethic plus his unbelievable creativity "to go up the stairs" and give up being a wage slave at Xerox Research.

Here was this guy, inventing, literally, a world changing procedure (Ethernet) while being a grunt for Xerox. How foolish. So having, at that point, fucked up my own life, why not give Bob's a whirl, drawing on my vast experience in fucking up.

Bob at Xerox, 1973. Courtesy EthernetHistory.typepad.com

Bob was good looking, loaded with charisma and the necessary touch of arrogance, and was working for someone else. Made no sense to me.

Beating on Bob, this over schooled guy, with my street smarts was fun for this recovering alcoholic.




Finally Bob left Xerox and started consulting. There is no doubt that my grinding on Bob helped that decision but I certainly was not the only influence.

One day, after leaving Xerox, Bob told me that he was going to Dallas to try to hook on with Texas Instruments as a consultant and proudly told me that he was going to ask $250/day and expenses (flying in the back of the bus). I looked at him like a bull with a bastard calf and told him that he was out of his fucking WASPY mind.

Reviewing with Bob his unbelievable academic credentials (2 BS degrees, an MS plus a PhD) and the years with Xerox Research there was no doubt in my mind that he could be a high priced consultant. My advice to Bob was to tell the geniuses at TI that he charged $1,000 a day plus first class air fares. Bob asked how the hell could he justify that number when the going price for consultants was $250 a day. I told him to tell those assholes at TI that he, Bob, was going to ask $1,250 a day but that seemed too high while $750 a day seemed way to low and so he split the difference.

When Bob started to raise money to fund 3Com he held soirees in Woodside on weekends for potential investors and to also simply drum up interest in his venture. They were done, in California style, with swimming, tennis, beer drinking, the whole fucking California living bit.

They started as a total fucking failure and didn't draw flies. When Bob whined to me about it I asked if he had invited women to his bashes. When he told me "No.", I laughed and told him to give inviting women a whirl. He tried and the bashes became a huge success. Being an occasional sexist wasn't a problem for me in 1976. It would be today.

Bob did get $700 a day from TI plus first class travel. When Bob started 3Com he commented, sadly, that the company couldn't afford first class travel.

The high point of my business relationship with Bob Metcalfe was to introduce him to Dick Kramlich of New Enterprise Associates, another great guy and super achiever. NEA became the lead investor in 3Com which became a big financial, success for Dick Kramlich and Bob Metcalfe.

At the end of the day Bob’s huge success was aided and abetted, in a large part, by Robyn, his over the top smart wife. Robyn is damn good looking as well. Robyn supported Bob's efforts at 3Com and later through all of his ups and downs. And a roller coast ride it often was. Plus the general vicissitudes of life as well. A great person.

By odious comparison, my Princess, with my every downturn to my endeavors, would just fucking quit talking to me. She was as supportive of me as a sore ass in vinegar. Good times or bad. I am really sorry that the Princess passed on but I sure don't miss her.

Mason City, Iowa - Hogs That Die - One Eyed Bull - A Bull With A Broken Tool

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. We had a mutual fuck you too attitude as 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 in each regimen. And never those lines to be crossed. As a result, you were relegated to a very small, terrible social life group.

The whole fucking town had twenty seven Jewish families. Getting loaded was a great way out for me. Teachers Scotch was my addiction of choice. Later I went upscale to Grant's 8 year old scotch or fancy, schmancy Jews Booze also known as J&B Scotch.

My life in MFC, Iowa largely consisted of sitting on a tractor, going up and down rows plowing corn, milking cows, having chickens (those filthy little things), feeding and vaccinating hogs, milking 84 Purebred Holsteins, feeding cattle and losing money. Included was such bullshit as driving a sick bull to Ames only to have the son of a bitch die as we entered the gates of Iowa State College.

That fucking nightmare of an animal not only wasn't worth a fiddler’s fuck as a bull but he had contracted a urinary tract infection that cost me the trucking fee to Ames to try to cure him. He had, incidentally, poked an eye out by falling down in an abandoned well pit.

I was convinced that lousy bull knew how much I hated him and died to spite me. That no good son of a bitch. The Princess always said that I brought out the worst in people so I guess that talent spilled over to Black Angus bulls and the asshole white face purebred bull that contracted a broken tool (sex was out for the high priced, no good son of a bitch).

Being a victim has never been my style. Farming in Iowa's just made me feel downright, fucking stupid for four years, almost to the day. Going to livestock auctions where everyone smelled, as I did, of horse shit and other farm smells, was both boring and annoying. Being on edge while losing my ass was above and beyond just feeling fucking stupid.

The only things that kept me going were my kids, my liquid protection (booze) and the growing white hot bond of anger between the Princess and me. The Princess 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.

That drove the Princess crazy. Between that JAP making me take a shower before I could come into the house (She complained that I smelled really bad. Sadly it was true.) and me 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. 20 below at night 19 above during the day. Regular fucking heat waves. 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.

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.

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 covering a deadly virus. I did not stop to consider that the "honest Missouri farmer" might be giving me a fucking certificate, covering other pigs, which he did.

The pigs grew to be hogs and then started to die. The rendering works truck came by every day to pick up the dead hogs, and we had to vaccinate the ones that were still alive. Grabbing and holding on to a 100 pound, squealing ugly hog by a hind leg while another guy gave him the shot was some kind of a work out. And I ended up smelling like hog shit. 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 fucking 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 God Damn 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 sold those Honest Iowa farmers sought out this dumb fucking Bronx Jew I was the mullet (a fish that's easy to catch) with my mouth wide open ready to be reeled in. And reel me in they did, in all of my not so glorious stupidity. Wet corn and wet hay results in rotting corn and hay. The farmers stacked the deck by putting dry corn and dry hay on the top.

When my four year sentence of living in River City was up, I happily left Iowa to the cheers of all who knew me. Nothing had changed in four years. What those Iowans saw was what they got, from the beginning to the end of my stay.

Sometimers, Lazard, New Orleans, Bucky Brock - Circa: 1970-1971

Having 'Sometimers' rather than 'Alzheimer's' at 90 ½ is great.

90 1/2? Yeah, when you're a kid you are 6 ½, 7 ½, etc. When you cross the 90 year old threshold then halves become important in the race between looking down at the grass and looking up at the grass. But then as Jack LaLanne who died at age 97, famously said, ‘I can't afford to die. It would ruin my image. '

Getting to be 90 ½ doesn't necessarily mean a clean living, kickback life. As a heavy, 4 packs a day smoker and an over the top, sincere fucking drinker, until age 50, I am living proof that God does indeed take care of drunks and fools.

Guilty on both counts, though my not drinking or smoking for the last 40 years may have helped me to continue to look down at the grass. Genes, schemes, "A bi gezunt!"

And then there was Bucky Brock, a ,a 5'10", 390 pound, New Orleans oil and gas engineer and a real gee whiz asshole. Bucky suffered severely from the NIH (Not Invented Here) syndrome. Bucky had a hair trigger temper and when he got pissed off he was a sight to see. His formidable jowls trembled and his whole fat, obscene body literally shook. Bucky told me that he slept on the floor and hadn't had sex with his wife in years. My bet is that he had a hell of time just finding his schlong to piss with much less have sex with it.

Bucky's wife was, predictably, quite a bit nuts. She had lived through Bucky's practicing alcoholic stage which in itself would test anyone's sanity. (The Princess, were she not looking up at the grass, would bitterly confirm that). Bucky, who prided himself on his newly found sobriety, located his office in downtown New Orleans, down the street from a historic Catholic Church.

Mrs. Brock was the bookkeeper for Brock Exploration and went to Mass every single fucking morning on her way to work. Lightening would have struck had Bucky gone inside the church. She, along with Bucky had a monumental temper. Bad pair to draw to. Mrs. Brock really detested me but I didn't much care. I didn't think a whole hell of a lot of her.

Overriding all his 'assets' Bucky suffered from Italian Alzheimer's where you forget everything except the grudge. Hate was in his DNA.

New Orleans and hard living went hand in hand. Drawing a sober breath while in New Orleans was not my thing but being in New Orleans often was my thing. Being on the Board of Directors of Brock was a fucking joke and pretty stupid of me. Bucky ran the show, made all the decisions while brooking no independent opinions. But it was a great excuse for me to get away from the Princess, get blind fucking drunk and recover lounging by the pool the next day with an exploding head. All paid for by Brock Exploration.

I met Bucky through a senior partner of Lazard Freres, when Lazard was a very prestigious partnership (a long gone reputation).They barely let me in the front door in those days. I was too no-class for those big time snobs.

Peter Corcoran was one of the few non-Jewish Senior Partners at Lazard at the time. He, with another non-Jew, Ed Kennedy, ran Lazard's oil and gas business. How those two snuck in without circumcisions always escaped me. Anyhow, Peter's recommendation of crazy fat Bucky convinced me that Bucky, in spite of being crazy fat and all, would be okay.

That was before I had gone from being a little paranoid to being totally paranoid about being fucked without being kissed by independent oil and gas men and investment bankers. Genres that are narcissistic, powerless over their own bull shit and would fuck you for practice, even if it didn't do them any good.

Plaza Petroleum was the name of the piece of shit before I made the mistake of causing it to be merged with Brock. It had been named, by me, Plaza after the hotel in NY. A name was needed at that point in time. I was blind fucking drunk, in the genius stage of drunkenness at that moment in time, at the bar of the Sherry Netherlands Hotel in the Big Apple. The Plaza Hotel came into my line of sight through the window of the bar and I thought, 'What a great name.’ so Plaza Petroleum it was.

Yeah being 90 ½ gives great memories. All of which grow richer with time. You learn that you never arrive. You’re always looking to get somewhere. Unless you've traded ‘Sometimers’ for Alzheimer's...

Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, 30's In NYC Reprise

Two cents plain. Egg cream, three cents. (Combo of seltzer, milk and chocolate syrup)

The Daily News and The Mirror cost 2¢ each with lots of pictures. The New York Times cost a nickel and was for the intellectuals. Sunday with the funnies, the News and Mirror were a nickel. The Times, without any funnies, was a dime.

We had, in New York City, four evening papers. The Sun, World Telegram, N.Y. Post and the Journal (not the Wall Street Journal). My folks took the dominant printed in Yiddish newspaper, The Forward, which is still around. Dick Tracey in the News was a real favorite.

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: a dime for the movies and a nickel for a bag of candy. For big occasions, the family would go downtown together from our home in the Bronx to the Yiddish Theatre. A huge treat.

My great Pop's manufacturing fur coat business went into the fucking tank, but he never pleaded or lived poverty. Bankruptcy in those hard times was as common as an old shoe and no disgrace. The immigrant families stuck together. It was all for one and one for all. A far cry from today's fuck you attitude.

The bleachers at Yankee Stadium cost 55¢.The same for double headers. Seeing Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Tony Lazzari, and Frankie Crosseti play in person, not on fucking TV, was a thrill. Always!!!

Satchel Paige

Major league baseball was a "way out" for everyone except blacks and the occasional Jew (Hank Greenberg a Jewish idol, married a Gimbel). The blacks were forced to have their own baseball, league producing Satchel Paige and more.

Jews who married Shiksas were often ostracized by other Jews as were the Shiksas ostracized from their church. Unless, however, the Shiksas were able to pussy whip their husbands into allowing the kids to grow up baptized and going to church.

Boxing was for blacks and Jews. Tennis, skiing and golf were for the wealthy. We thought that there was something "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. Dime hot dogs at Nedicks, chicken pot pie at the Automat and pizzas from real Italian restaurants. No one ever heard of a Jewish pizza parlor, much less kosher pizza (With pepperoni?)

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 Roll Fast with balloon white wall tires.

The Irish dominated the Police Department; the Italians controlled the Department of Sanitation and the Jews drove the cabs and opined incessantly. They could fucking 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 guy screaming specials and cursing the horses.

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. A banana split covered with everything but the fucking kitchen sink and free sex cost 25¢ (huge "treat").

You bought kosher pickles by reaching into the pickle barrel and pulling the pickles out of the brine.

Bakeries really made, on the premises, bread (rye, corn, white and pumpernickel) and bagels. Which were true water bagels, not fucking baked bread with a hole in it. Bagels were considered to be a Jewish thing.

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. You would choose one and they were killed while you watched. It was almost as bad as sitting in the front row 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 ever bring home was our adrenaline shot. 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 Yankee Stadium, get seats in nose bleed country, the upper left field grandstand. Cost? A nickel going and a nickel coming.

We waited outside of the player's exits at the Stadium after the ball game just to get a glimpse of our heroes close up. Then, the counselor in charge of us would round us up and home we'd go.

Television wasn't invented. Our activities, not including homework and reading, was done out of doors. We played baseball on empty lots. Got out on most Saturdays and Sundays at 7:00 AM, 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 fucking, heavy rock. But we didn't care because we didn't know any better and just having the baseball was the big event.

Baseball in the spring and summer, basketball in the fall, touch football and roller skate hockey in the winter. Our lives revolved around sports.

As always, 'You can check out anytime but you can never leave.'…The Eagles, Hotel California