The World Series at Yankee Stadium in '36, '37 and '38

To paraphrase W.C.Fields, 'I spent most of my money on booze, wives and my kids. The rest, I just pissed away.'

In the thirties it cost $1.10 for a right field bleacher seats in the Yankee Stadium to see the World Series games, twice the regular season price of $.55 cents and who the hell cared? We thought that we were the luckiest, fucking kids in the world just to be there.

George Selkirk was playing right field and we loved him. We could almost touch him while we shouted words of encouragement to him. Selkirk had replaced the one and only Babe Ruth. As they used to say in vaudeville, ‘How do you follow the banjo, act?

Ruth's greatest line by far, was when confronted by a reporter that he, Ruth, was making more money than the then President of the United States, Herbert Hoover. Ruth said,’ “I had a better year than he did.”

But seeing The Babe was special. He would talk to us bleacherites. He was one of us. We always watched him, with fascination, trot into the dugout, always, superstitiously, stepping on the second base bag. And he had a beautiful, rhythmic swing. He looked great, even when striking out.

Buddy and I would arrive at Yankee Stadium for the Series at around 5:00 a.m. After a bus and subway ride, leaving home at 4:00am, we would talk baseball with those around us who were also waiting to get into the Stadium. Talk isn't quite right. We would scream to argue our cases that our favorite ball players were the best in baseball at their positions.

If you couldn't name the 25 players on your favorite team, their batting averages and ERA of the pitchers, you were a really dumb schmuck to be ostracized by us geniuses. All of us waiting for the gates of heaven to open to let us into the fucking ballpark.

The only NY Giant ball players worthy of discussion with Yankee fans were Mel Ott and Carl Hubbell. The fucking Polo Grounds was in Manhattan and compared to the Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, was a 'piece of shit'. (It was later torn down because it really was a total piece of shit.) Giant fans on the waiting line, dared not open their fucking mouths about the Giants except to mention Mel Ott or Carl Hubbell.

1937 Official Program

Nobody cared that we were just early teen age kids who had hardly squeezed a tit, much less having been laid. Nah, as we used to say, we were not blued, screwed or tattooed. Young or old the only thing that mattered in that fucking line was how much baseball you really knew. And Buddy and I knew enough to be accepted by the hardnosed, know it all, bleacher based, baseball fans.

The gates into the ball park would open at around 11:00 a.m. We had been on line, screaming and shouting for 6 hours. At noon, out would come a marching band to entertain us. Then Army, Navy and Marine drill squads would strut their stuff. We were truly awe struck with their precision and the bleachers would go wild with applause after each drill. The big, rich guys in the grandstand seats which were reserved hadn't begun to arrive.

Right before the ball game started, the so called "Clown Prince of Baseball" would come out and do some stunts with a baseball in right field. He would end up at home plate with another ball player on third, and they would start to steam the ball at one another all the while closing the gap between the two. The crowd just roared with every throw, waiting for one or another of the ball players to miss and get clobbered.That never happened.

The outfielders would put on an exhibition of throwing the ball to home plate without a bounce. Myril Hoag, a little guy and center fielder, was really good at it. (In later years Joe DiMaggio would do the same.) Today's entertainment at a ball park is to watch those overpaid jerks high five one another.

To get the day's action started, Buddy and I would take the bus and the subway to the ball park. We would bring sandwiches that my Mom had made for us the night before and at least a pound of peanuts. We weren't going to get fucked at the Stadium and pay a dime for a lousy small, bag of peanuts when we could buy a pound at the grocery store for less than $.25 cents.

My Mom would give me $2.00 to cover the whole shebang; $1.10 to get into the game, 10¢ for subway carfare coming and going, and all the treats that I could get for 80¢. Hot dogs and cokes were a dime each...although we complained loudly that a dime for a fucking coke was a total rip off. But Buddy and I were in hog heaven. As happy as pigs in shit.

We didn't know that we were living in the Great Depression. We weren't just 'making do'. $2.00 gave us all that we wanted. We were living high on the hog. Watching our idols in person, waiting to get their autographs as they left the Stadium, going up to the Concourse Plaza Hotel, a few blocks from Yankee Stadium, where they stayed just to see them.

We didn't bring a baseball glove to the ball park. If you were fucking lucky enough to have a ball hit your way you were expected to catch it with your bare hands. No, one wanted to take the chance of somehow losing their hard to come by baseball glove which had been 'broke in' plus being dark from being well oiled. We would oil our glove with Mazola Oil and then tie it up with the ball in the center, to guarantee that our glove had a pocket. And looked like a major leaguer's.

As long as I didn't have to show my folks my chronically awful report card, my life, Great Depression or not, was perfect. Life was simple then.

'Those were the days, my friend.We thought they 'd never end."..Fiddler On The Roof...

Eyes Wide Shut: the Old Normal : Growing Up in 1930's New York

'My father was never a kid. He was born 33 years old.' … Joe Feshbach

The term 'street smarts' was invented because the streets were our play grounds. If you could survive in the rough and tumble world of the street with the always overhanging threat of getting your fucking brains beat out, you became street smart.

The alternative was that you were considered a dumb schmuck. Going both ways came natural to me with my often empty head.

In the thirties the N.Y. Daily News and The Mirror cost 2¢ each. The New York Times, which cost a nickel, was considered the paper of the intellectuals. Shit, it didn't even have funnies. The nickel cost made it special.

The Wall Street Journal? Never heard of it. We'd hear guys on the radios, spewing numbers. We didn't know what the hell they were talking about and we didn’t fucking care.

In New York City there were evening newspapers coming out your ass, 4 of them: The Sun, World Telegram, N.Y. Post and the Journal. We often bought the Post which was often trying to seduce readers with coupons. Enough coupons and you could get First Edition books and enormous fucking dictionaries. The Jewish immigrants, like my folks, believed that education was everything and the Post in those days with its book offerings was a vehicle.

The movies cost 10¢, except on Saturdays and Sundays when you got a double feature for 15¢. (I was at the movies December 7, 1941).

An allowance? How ridiculous. You got nickels, dimes and the occasional two bits by asking, sometimes pleading. But God help any loose change lying around. It disappeared.

My Mom, who would know that I was the thief, said nothing. My Pop's business went through bankruptcy but we barely knew it. My parents were fabulous and almost always succumbed to my entreaties: a dime for the movies and a nickel for candy.

For big occasions, the family would go downtown together from our home in the Bronx to downtown at the Yiddish Theatre.

The right field bleachers, great seats, at Yankee Stadium cost 55¢ including double headers. I saw Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Tony Lazzari, and Frankie Crosetti. Baseball was a "way out" of hard times for everyone except blacks and the occasional Jew (Hank Greenberg a Jewish baseball idol, married a Jewish Gimbel).

NY YANKEES

Jews who married Shiksas were often ostracized by the Jews as were the Shiksas, by the non-Jews. The Army was another place for unemployed guys. Not a good place for Jews or blacks.

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 all white. The six day bike race at the Garden was a big thrill. Going to the Garden for the rodeo was a real highlight.

The Garden was the Capital of The Sports Universe. Basketball, prize fights and hockey. The horse and dog shows at the Garden had zero appeal for us street kids. No one I knew owned a dog or rode a horse much less owned a fucking horse. We wondered how the Garden could have the fights on Friday night, college basketball on Saturday and hockey on Sunday.

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". Clear ‘emmies’, aka marbles, were premium. 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 head for the streets to meet our friends and play the sport of the season.

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 for my Bar Mitzvah. We were sure that he was rich beyond belief. It was a Roll Fast with balloon white wall tires. My friends were really envious and when I let them take a ride on it I was fucking King Kong.

The Irish dominated the Police Department. My best friend was Jimmy McNiece whose old man was a patrolman. The Italians controlled the Department of Sanitation and the Jews drove the cabs and opined incessantly.

They, and I, could talk about anything for 30 minutes even if we didn't know a fucking thing about it. And enjoy it.

Horse and wagons would come down the streets loaded with fruits and vegetables that were being hawked by the guy 'driving' the wagon. Once in a while the horse would refuse to move as he unloaded in the street. Horses smell by nature and if you throw in manure, the result ain't too swift.

A big pizza cost 50¢ and a Pepsi to go with it was either a nickel or a dime. Ice cream cones were a nickel with a double scoop a dime. A banana split with everything but the kitchen sink and free sex cost 25¢ (huge "treat").

You bought kosher pickles by reaching into the pickle barrel and pulling the pickles out. Bakeries really made bread (rye, corn, white and pumpernickel) and bagels were truly very Jewish water bagels not fucking baked bread with a hole in it.

My mother could buy chickens with or without the feathers. Plucking a chicken made a hell of mess. Some stores carried live chickens and you would choose one and they were killed while you watched. It was almost as bad as sitting in the front row and watching a circumcision.

Puke inducing. I avoid circumcisions, ceremonies and funerals. I don't need any help in feeling like shit...

The Great Depression? For me it was a great growing up time. Who knew? Not me.

Israel History Lessons

In 1970 there were more Jews in New York City, than there were Jews in Israel. But after all, Jesus was a Jew. L. Ron Hubbard? No chance, though he sure as hell was smart enough to be a Jew.

The '67 Israel, Arab war was still fresh in most every Jew's mind. My generation of Jews remembered the virulent anti-Semitism that had been prevalent in the pre WWII United States, joined by France, Great Britain and of course the cradle of it all, Russia. So becoming a Zionist was a natural for this Bronx Jew.

Being, in 1970-71, too fucking smart, by half, the idea to create a Private Equity Fund to drill for oil in Israel took over my life. My first ex-wife screamed like she was being raped. (Sex was never her thing). The Princess, who thought me (in any event) bizarre, used my idea to constantly point out that there 'was something wrong' with me. I didn't do one helluva lot to prove her wrong.

Being 'wrong' in the eyes of The Princess generally meant that I was on the right track. So, away I went in my flying fucking balloon. And fly I did; 7 times to Jerusalem in 13 months. The King David became a home away from home. The food was awful except for the desserts which were fabulous. Helped keep my cholesterol count at a near dangerous level.

Setting up meetings with the Israel energy hierarchy for their knowledge and their cooperation, so that I could raise money in the States to drill for oil and or gas in Israel, was often like pissing into the wind. Wading through the Israel bureaucracy wasn't like spending a day at the beach. Took a phone call to Golda Meir's office to get out of spinning my wheels. Never spoke with Ms. Meir but her office put me in touch with the Energy Minister, Zvi Dinstein.

The Princess was dead right. The deal fell flat on its fucking face and, as it turned out, rightfully so. The Princess, no slouch at the 'I told you so' game, stuck that failure in my ear at every opportunity and there were lots of them.

15 years later, a swollen prostate and an Israeli avant garde solution to the problem landed me in the King David for over two months.

I went weekly to Petah Tikva where Bellinsin Hospital was located, to get my prostate fried. During the week, with my schlong on fire from my prostate treatment, I spent a lot of my time at the King David swimming pool ogling the beautiful Sabra women. They were knockouts before they became breeding machines. Then they acquired the broad, fat butts of women who are knocking too many kids out of their ovens. Very fucking sad.

In those times Jerusalem provided employment for many Arabs, particularly those from the Old City. The bartender at the King David was an Old City Arab resident. He called himself an Arab not a Palestinian. The maids were all Arab. My Sunday Petah Tikva driver was a very tough little Sephardic Jew from Algeria…tough as fucking nails. In those days, there was no love lost between the Ashkenazi and Sephardic Israeli Jews. Israel is not without prejudices. Try black Ethiopians.

Sundays I would drive to the Bethlehem market place to buy fresh fruits and fresh baked bread from the Bethlehem Arab Christians and Muslims. My room overlooked the Old City and hearing the early morning horns calling the Arabs to prayer was a kinda welcome alarm clock for me. Driving through the Old City, through the Damascus Gate and through the 'four sections': Christian, Muslim, Armenian and Jewish was always an adrenaline boost for me.

Dinner at the Blue Dolphin in East Jerusalem with Teddy Kolleck's chief assistant, Shula, a wonderful person, was fun. The restaurant was 50% owned by a Jew and 50% by an Arab. The food beat the hell out of the King David's awful fucking food where they could destroy a fish by sauteing it. Chicken was an invitation to choke to death.

Today’s unbelievable animus of the Arabs and Jews alike, which has grown from an undercurrent of resentment, is for me, both sad and frightening. Israel is also caught in the 2,000 years of war between the Arabs.

As long as the Sunnis and Shiites continue their 2,000 year war, there is no end in sight for Israel. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ says it all.

A Reprise Request To Celebrate ' A Clean Tour de France'...And Immigrants

Moderation is fatal. (And Plenty Fucking Boring.)

The Tour de France, at that time, 2008, was dominated by rouges that had drug infused monumental rides. Grunt riders were being paid hundreds of thousands a year, the so called stars millions and the King, Lance Armstrong, was making multiples of tens of millions.

And schmucks like me turned our backs on our suspicions. I guess we thought that if we closed our eyes cyclist drugging would just go away. But personal cycling was the milk of the God's for me. I had been riding 3,500 to 4,000 miles a year for many years, well into my 80's, and spent almost zero time worrying or even thinking about those druggies.

But in the middle (to be the end) of my road biking addiction, there I was, on my lower case, sorry, 88 year old, bronx jewish ass. There was an ambulance nearby and a bunch of people hovering over me as I became conscious, after a nasty bicycle crash, which had left me unconscious.

I had an IV stuck in me while I struggled to get up and said that I wanted to get back on my bike, as though I could, to ride home. Shit, even my helmet was dented. My hard head seemed to be unscathed.

Being 88 years old, dressed in Lycra, pretending that I was in training for the Tour de France, without drugs, was a great fantasy. But if you can't bullshit yourself, who can you bullshit?

The Lycra emphasized my ever present and ever depressing ugly, fucking pot belly. Win, lose or draw, with an Eddy Merckx racing bike, dressed to a cyclist’s nines, I still looked like shit. A fat old man trying to ride and look like a 40 year old.

The fucking ambulance ride to Stanford Hospital's ICU facility was severely uncomfortable (Too bad Hitler wasn't a cyclist.) Probably the longest 15 minutes of my life.

The ambulance guy cutting off of my high priced, $250 Assos Lycra bib really did bite my ass. Shit, I was only bleeding a little bit. Maybe the ambulance guy thought that the Lycra would cut off my blood flow, starting with my legs.

Avoid teaching hospitals if you can. They are loaded with 30 year old geniuses with little practical experience and who don't know shit from a rainy day and who will spend all their time scaring the hell out of you. Spend enough time in a teaching hospital and you will become a borderline hypochondriac, at least.

But just getting into the hospital and going to ICU was a lesson in needing fucking health care coverage. Without the VA and Medicare I am chopped liver. The bill started with a mind boggling $28,000 just for admission to the hospital plus another $28,000 for admission to the ICU. Fees easily paid by hedge fund geniuses but not by the common folk.

Then came the actual treatment charges which came to another $50,00 for total of over $100,000 for 18 hours in ICU. The insanity of the bill was highlighted by a $600 charge for less than 5 minutes, to show a physiotherapist that I could walk.

90 days later while not fully recovered, macho-pacho, jackass me went out for another bike ride. New Lycra, pot belly, Eddy Merckx bike and all. Still, basically still looked like shit.

Lost my balance unclipping and on my lower case bronx jewish ass I went again back first. Falling, while unclipping, even by professional cyclists, is as common as taking a piss. I had fallen several times but this time my first impact was flush on my back on a concrete road and I was virtually paralyzed except for my groaning fucking mouth.

Palo Alto supplied the ambulance to the Veterans Hospital ICU. This time for a week being unable to walk, have a bowl movement or piss and needing a catheter to drain my bladder. Talk about feeling like shit all the time with no respite from feeling really stupid.

Then came an awful month in a terrible rehab facility with a catheter stuck in what is left of my schlong for the entire month. Throw in not being able to walk for the month which made me grow to respect people stuck in a wheel chair or even stuck with a walker. Not being able to walk for a month, then using a wheel chair before graduating to a walker, totally dependent on others is a grim lesson in humility.

My stay at that terrible fucking rehab facility with a catheter stuck in me for the month resulted in a Urinary Tract Infection and back in the VA ICU unit again for a week.

My Grand kid, Jake, drove me down to the hospital, at 2:00 in the morning, with me screaming at him to ignore the God Damn red lights.

And God bless immigrants. Without Filipino, Hispanic, Vietnamese, Chinese and Indian doctors and aides our hospital system comes apart at the fucking seams. The upside of all this action, for me, is that I lost 15 pounds. Still look like shit, but didn't break any bones or my spirit.

God takes care of drunks and fools and since I qualify on both scores, I’m mostly okay but with no positive effect on my dead sex life. With all the rehab effort you'd think that my limp noodle would come alive again. No chance. As Willie Nelson so famously said, "I'm sorry that my dick died before the rest of me".

You are fucked if you can't laugh at yourself and if you don't recognize how ludicrous life can be and laugh at the humor of it all.

Looking in a full length mirror while naked makes me really grateful to be single. Talk about laughs.