Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Marijuana, Kurt, The Vatican

Going to Rome by way of Tel Aviv and Kibbutz Mishmar David to see Kurt made perfect sense to me since acting without premeditation came naturally to me.

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 making individual investments in the venture capital arena.

Not only was our basic concept terrible but the business plan really sucked. Making investments in venture deals found and vetted by others turned out to be really different than developing and vetting your own deals. Like the difference between night and day.

One of my partners knew a guy (Lloyd Hand) who had been Chief of Protocol for President Johnson, so he knew every son of a bitch and his uncle. We paid him $10,000 (About $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 fucking nut with a knife.

The trip was wild, booze driven, insane trip. Travel for me back then was a way to get away from the Princess, really drink big time and walk around feeling like shit every day. A good trade off for me. Rather feel like shit than be treated like shit.

"Kurt I'm going to give you three options. You can finish high school and go to Israel. You can quit high school now and go to Israel. Or Kurt, you can go to jail. You have a week to make up your mind.”

”You are maniac.", the Princess screamed at me. We were sitting in our all white living room and for a fucking flash I thought that I'd be a victim of domestic violence with that sweet demure Princess beating the shit out of me, while I bled red in a fucking sea of white.

When we built that Jewish mansion (aka a house you can't afford) the Princess and her decorator came up with all white furnishings for the living room, which made the living room unlivable. Unfucking real.

So the living room was designed for adult groups only. The only time that the kids were allowed in that fucking room was when they were in trouble with me or the Princess. It was a come to Jesus room. It was an all white 'woodshed' without a horse whip or club. Lots of ranting words by me was the punishment of choice.

Kurt had a kidney ailment and was in and out of the Stanford Convalescent Home for Children, which literally saved his life. Being in and out of school was a great hindrance in his making lasting friends at school though he did have a few. He started shooting pool and coming home at all hours. The Princess would wake me in the middle of the night to find him, which I’d sometimes do but mostly not.

His friends were pool hall bums. They would come to the house to play poker, each guy looking worse than the other. When those fucking bums started showing up at the door (seldom used) looking for Kurt I got really spooked. In between all the action, the Princess and I went away for a weekend. Came home to find the un-living room a virtual shambles with Russian antiques pieces, for all practical purposes, destroyed.

So one Sunday night, without premeditation or discussion with the Ice Queen, I issued my ultimatum. Two Israel and one jail option.. with a week to decide.

The following Sunday Kurt told me that Israel absolutely now, was his choice. He was less than a month from high school graduation and the Princess, an education freak, started crying. But it was apparent to me that Kurt was up to his ass in alligators.

The next morning Kurt came with me to S.F. to go to the Passport Bureau.

Filled out the forms but we didn't have his Goddamn birth certificate. So we left the bureau and I went into action. Phoned Iowa for instructions. Sent $2.50 to Iowa, special delivery, where Kurt was born. Enclosed another $2.50 for the bureau to return the birth certificate special delivery.

Memorial Day weekend, starting that Thursday, was coming up and the Passport Bureau was to be closed Friday. I had an intuitive feeling that time was of the essence. Wednesday arrived and so did the fucking birth certificate. So down to Passport Bureau to get the passport went Helene my secretary.

Helene was beautiful, a good worker but not a Phi Beta Kappa Key candidate. She phoned from the bureau to tell me that there was an enormous line and doubted that she would get to the front before closing.

San Francisco Passport Bureau
"Get up close to a window and just stare at the clerk. Do not take your eyes off him/her. The clerk will feel the pressure, call you up to the window and ask you what you want. Get the passport." Which is exactly what happened and Helene got the passport.

Thursday evening Kurt was packing to take the Red Eye to New York when in walked the police to pick him up for selling marijuana. The Princess was hysterical while I had a few pops to sustain me and concentrated on finding an attorney.

Kurt was one of 13 kids from affluent, upscale Woodside and Portola Valley. Most of the kids had been picked up at least once before.

Turns out that the Princess and I were the only parents in attendance and Kurt was the only one with an attorney. When I asked one of Kurt's arresting officers where the other kids’ parents were with attorneys for their kids, the officer said "The fathers are probably traveling and the Mothers are in the bag. Attorneys? No way were the parents going to spend any more money on those kids."

After Kurt was gone the car he had been driving was taken in for service and a big bunch of marijuana was found stuffed behind the front dashboard. Plus shoe boxes full of grass were found in his closet.

Kurt was on the Mishmar David Kibbutz in Israel when I was going to Rome. 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. Spent a night on the Kibbutz which was memorable. It was only a few years after the '67 war and spirits and ideals on this communal farm were high.

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.

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