Last week, my favorite, optimistic, and only cardiologist Dr.Nguyen made an appointment to see me in six months. At 91, rowing upstream, to make it, yet for another six months. Too bad that Dr.Nguyen's optimism can't bring my dead 'schlong' back to life.
In the seventies, some 25% of all the onshore oil and gas produced in the U.S. was produced within 180 miles of Midland, Texas, the capital of hard drinking, hard living old fashioned wildcatters. Entrepreneurs to the end. Being around them, much less traveling with them was always serendipitous.
Mr. Clean (Tall guys are called Shorty.) as I called Tom Brown, was the ultimate hard living, hard driving, fucking obnoxious when drunk, human being. Every trip with him was always memorable. Something unexpected always happened.
One time he and Donny Evans came to London to speak at a one day oil and gas seminar that I had organized. Oil men Deane Stoltz, Joe Pevehouse, Ken Whiting plus a very smart Denver attorney, Bill Fishman were speakers. Drew a big crowd of institutional investors plus the usual ration of fucking flakes who wanted to have a free lunch at Claridge's.
The Bobbsy Twins were well on their way to becoming blind drunk while flying from Midland to Dallas to New York. Once aboard the Concorde for the trip to London, they settled in for some serious drinking until Mr. Clean got nasty and belligerent and the flight attendants cut him off. Donny was less drunk, which was easy done.
When they arrived at Claridge's, Brown started his London stay off by calling the London cabbie, loudly, a 'stupid son of a bitch'. The cabbie may have been stupid but at that moment Mr. Clean wasn't any smarter. By paying the cabbie the fare with an oversized tip I stopped him from beating the shit out of Mr. Clean.
It was a Sunday night and Claridge's Hotel lounge was as dead as a married man's sex life, or my sex life. Same, sad deal. Brown stormed into the lounge drunk wearing a crumbled, wet, corduroy suit literally screaming, 'Where are the women?'. He even embarrassed the other oil and gas geniuses who were kicking back with a drink or three.
Brown never recognized that alcohol and erections only worked when you're 20 years old. Only one of the many London sex clubs was open and Brown and Evans left the group and went to the club in the pissin' rain.
Tom Brown was the ultimate hard living oil man. He started his business life as a salesman with a tire company and evolved into a drilling contractor/producer in the oil business. He lived a lot longer (into his seventies) than I had predicted. He made, lost and remade a fortune. Tom and I spoke a few weeks before he died and he told me he was happy. "I've lived one hell of a life", said Tom. What a fucking understatement!!!
Brown's wife at that time, Roz, was a classic. Great looking gal but one who had too many face lifts and had inhaled too much booze. Her face seemed frozen in time. Roz was a terrific drinking companion for Mr. Clean with an appetite for booze that seemed unquenchable. Roz was a walking example of the AA adage: one drink is too many and 100 isn't enough. Been there, done that.
One afternoon while we were on a stock promoting trip to LA, Roz was with us I was "assigned" to baby sit her in the United Airlines lounge while Mr. Clean was making a side trip to Santa Ana promoting the stock.
Before Roz and I left for the airport, Roz had had already inhaled her favorite 'get up and go' drink of half a glass of milk mixed with half a glass of Jack Daniel's Black Label. She was barely lucid while complaining about how terrible she felt all the way to LAX.
Once in the United Airline Lounge, Roz's taste was simple: chilled vodka no vermouth. Roz thought that her breath didn't smell by drinking vodka. She sipped the vodka through a sterling silver straw she had made by Tiffany.
Tom showed up shouting, "I'm thirsty". Roz had already put away at least five drinks before he arrived. He then inhaled three or four while Roz kept pace with him until our flight was called. On the 50 minute ride from L.A. to S.F. both Roz and Tom inhaled, I repeat, inhaled, at least four drinks each. They were high velocity drinkers.
That night at dinner they had after dinner drinks, by the gulps, without eating dinner. They got into a roaring, drunken argument, and we had to go back to the hotel. It was both very boring and surprising that either one was still able to walk. Or hadn't killed one or another.
The next day Mr. Clean made a corporate presentation to about 150 suits at the North Beach Restaurant in San Francisco. But before the presentation Tom had at least two Bloody Marys, then had a couple of belts of booze plus wine at lunch. I was pissing my brains out after consuming what felt like gallons of Perrier water. The more Mr. Clean had to drink, the greater the company oil and gas reserves had grown. That day they grew by a factor of three or four without drilling a well.
After making the presentation, Tom stayed at the restaurant with two of my friends Peter Costigan and Bill Kneas. They ordered "six packs of stingers on the rocks”. Getting really bored I went back to the hotel.
When I returned to the hotel, Roz phoned my room and pleaded with me to go get Tom because she felt like shit and thought that she might be drawing her last breaths. So like a fucking idiot I did. Brown and my friends were blind, roaring drunk and all four of us went back to the hotel.
That evening, we were going out for dinner with some friends of mine. Roz came down to the lobby lounge looking regal (she was tall) in a white dress. She announced that she felt like hell and only by drinking two glasses of milk and bourbon was she able to join us. I knew that I was in for a very long night.
Sitting in the lounge drinking chilled vodka Roz suddenly jumped up, announced that she didn't feel good and was going back to the room. Brown, Peter and Bill never missed a beat. Repeating the same fucking stories over and over again and laughing like crazy with each repetition like it was the first time they heard the story. Very fucking boring.
There was a great looking gal sitting by herself, sipping wine and I went over and asked her if she was a "working girl” to which she proudly said "yes". She became my companion for the evening.
She literally saved Tom’s life with the Heimlich maneuver after a snack at Trader Vic’s almost choked Mr. Clean into the next world.The hooker was a school teacher moonlighting as a hooker but only giving blow jobs. She was intelligent company and a great sex partner. Should have taken her home.
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