Living in the slow lane in a rehab facility. God forbid that you miss having a daily bowel movement.
It is a place where you are told that you are destined for a near term fucking heart attack if you go 4 days without a fucking bowl movement.
A suppository is an explosive pill, inserted in your ass. Something like a minor operation. Okay for someone else. It is a distasteful 'device', invented by a sadist, designed to virtually explode the fucking contents of your stomach. Born of optimism.
Ahoy! all you guys with a little age on you. You are staring down the barrel of a fucking walnut size gland called 'the prostate'. It causes everything from cancer to growing large enough to prevent you from urinating (aka pissing).
Can't piss? The next step is a tube inserted through the penis past that over sized walnut into your bladder. Hocus, pocus your bladder starts draining into the 'pouch' attached to the tube. A 'no fun at all' addition to your lifestyle. Please note the importance of the stomach to middle aged and older guys and to a lesser extent, women.
Wishing for old age has the spirit of masochism. My doing the the Transcatheter Aorta Valve Replacement (TAVR) procedure at age 92 smacks of masochism. The procedure was an unqualified success. The unexpected side effects not so much.
Life after the TAVR is better than the alternative of no life at all, at least that's the conventional wisdom. Since no one has convinced me that looking up at the grass is better than looking down at the grass I'll go with 'looking down'.
Meanwhile, life here at the 'rehab ranch' is a challenge, fighting everything from boredom to constipation. Getting old can be fun but being old ain't for wimps or sissies. But optimism brings sunshine living right up front.....this is Noah talking about the flood.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Monday, October 26, 2015
TAVR, Shrinking Schlong
'HITLER SURVIVES 5 ATTEMPTS TO INSERT A CATHETER INTO THAT SMALL WEENIE OF HIS. HAVING SURVIVED A LOBOTOMY, THE PAIN MEANT NOTHING TO DER FUHRER' ...Der Spiegel 1940
'You have stenosis of the aorta', a young, fresh faced doctor at Stanford Medical Center told me on a brief, 18 hour visit to the ICU after a bad bike crash 4 years ago. Stenosis? Never heard of such a thing.
Went directly to the universal center of all medical knowledge, 'Google'.
Want to become a borderline hypochondriac? Easy done. Just Google every ache (aka kvetch) or pain you have. Also, doctors at a teaching hospital specialize in scaring the hell out of you so I went to Google.
It told me that stenosis of the aorta just meant that the opening of my aorta was shrinking and my stenosis was moderate. Dr. Patricia Nguyen, an outstanding cardiologist at the VA and Stanford, tried to get me to agree to go into the TAVR program.
Google or Dr. Nguyen was the question.
Hell, I was cycling 20-25 miles 4-5 days a week, working with a terrific trainer, Jen Donat, twice weekly and with a resting heart rate in the mid to low forties. Felt as healthy as a pig in shit. Google was my natural choice.
One more really serious bike crash a few months later, a week in the VA Hospital, 30 days in a rehab center, including almost 30 days of being unable to walk. That was the end of cross country biking. So much for Google, last month I had the TAVR.
Hospitals and rehab facilitates do have a gift they keep on giving: Urinary Tract Infections.
Putting a catheter into my schlong hurts.Taking it out hurts only a little. Putting it back in hurts a ton. Trying unsuccessfully, many times with each new catheter, is ass shaking if not earth shaking in my small mind and small penis.
I do believe that my miniscule schlong shrinkage with old age is accelerating with each insertion of a catherer.
BTW the TVAR procedure was 100% successful.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Up The Down Staircase
A 'minimally invasive
procedure' is a procedure that is like a minor operation. Both are
something that someone else has. My 'minimally invasive procedure', on
Tuesday, is a result of a bum aorta (heart) valve.
Breathing
hard after sex was fun. Breathing hard after walking 150 steps, while a
laughing matter, ain't fun. But it is one whole hell of a lot better than
the alternative of not breathing at all.
Or so I'm told but not by people
who have died. They ain't talking.
Between
the Transcatheter Heart Valve Clinic (Now there's a mouthful.) at the
Stanford Hospital and the VA Palo Alto Health Care System (Another
mouthful.) a 'minimally invasive procedure' procedure has been prescribed
for me by outstanding medical professionals. GE Health Care testing
equipment was enormous help in getting medics to their conclusion.
TAVR
is the acronym for Transcatheter Aorta Valve Replacement, another
mouthful and the name of this 'minimally invasive' procedure. A catheter
with a new aorta valve attached is inserted in the groins and guided to
the heart where, through some magic hocus pocus, the defective valve is
replaced with the new valve.
Didn't Google TAVR because using Google for every kvetch was making me into borderline hypochondriac.
In
the olden days open heart surgery was used. Nothing minimal about that.
At 92 or even younger, open heart surgery sounds like a death defying
operation. It ain't 'minimally invasive'. Check that out with Bill Tichy.
Being
a curmudgeon does not prevent me from recognizing the efforts that Judy
Baer, Dr. Patricia Nguyen, Dr. William Fearon, Zoe Magee and Dr. Giacomini have
all made on my behalf. And the countless number of technicians as well.
A
few recovery days in the hospital and this Old Bronx Jew (92 in a few
weeks) will be ready to tear life up one more time. Can't wait to stop
breathing like a stuck hog bleeds when I take a whiz. Just standing
still shoots my heart rate to bad. Taking a whiz is an exercise in
stamina.
Making
money, riding my stationary bike for 45 minutes, being able to walk
several miles, lifting weights, learning Spanish and telling someone to suck
eggs out of small holes slowly or take a flying fuck to the moon are all
on my agenda.
Which includes traveling to the Big Apple, London and acting like a big shot one more time. Maybe King Kong, aka John Myers, will take me to Rao's so that I can hob nob with gangsters and bankers.
Which includes traveling to the Big Apple, London and acting like a big shot one more time. Maybe King Kong, aka John Myers, will take me to Rao's so that I can hob nob with gangsters and bankers.
Yeah, I
am looking forward to living and doing with optimism and a drive for
serendipity for another bunch of years. Living on the edge too.While my
dick has sadly died, the rest of me is raring to go.
~
Monday, September 21, 2015
'God's Banker' Archbishop Paul Marcinkus....A Partial Reprise
"Bernie did you see those Swiss guards when you checked into the Vatican? And you know my secretary Mauvi don't you? Well, Mauvi and those Swiss guards get paid. Don't bring me deals that don't bring me income."
The only thing the Bishop didn't say was 'Are you fucking stupid or what?'
This was my second visit to the Vatican to promote a deal to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus. I knew that the Bishop was big time but later found out how big. The Bishop was all over the newspapers. And not in a good way. But I didn't read newspapers in those days.Would have cut into my drinking time. The choice between reading newspapers or booze inhalation was a no-brainer.
The Bishop was a priest from Cicero, Illinois. Very personable, had huge hands, smoked like a chimney (Pall Mall, unfiltered or a pipe) and who was as competent to run the Vatican Bank as I would have been.Which was not at all. The Bishop didn't have the necessary paranoia. I am paranoid but not very fucking smart.
In the beginning the Bishop and I had one thing in common...smoking in size. The Bishop was 6'4" and a good looking guy. It was hard for me to think him abstinent.
Lloyd Hand, former 'greeter' for Pres. Lyndon Johnson and DC lobbyist, had introduced me and a colleague to the Bishop and I had stayed in touch with the Bishop. Fed my misplaced fucking ego to say that the Archbishop who ran the Vatican Bank and I were friends.
And so down the tubes went a proposal that I made to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, the President of the Vatican Bank and Governor of Vatican City. I had developed a personal relationship with the Bishop over a 10 year time span and he had agreed to see me regarding an oil and gas royalty deal.
The deal was dependent on successful wildcat drilling to generate income. Turned out that the guy in charge of the drilling couldn't find his ass with either hand much less oil or gas with drilling equipment. He didn't find even a fucking mouthful of oil or gas.
But the Bishop proved that he did have some common sense (aka street smarts) and he turned down the deal which turned out to be a bad bet on a bad concept. But I stayed in touch with the Bishop.
At one point, after the Bishop was back in the States, the Knights of Columbus had been looking for him and they called me, a Jew from the Bronx, to find out where the Bishop was.
The Bishop was a terrific guy. He loved playing golf and I would send him, from time to time, golf books and boxes of golf balls. He would "try" to convert me. He never gave up though I told him that I was born a Jew and would die a Jew. He spent his last days in Sun City preaching in nearby communities.
He was "for decades, one of the highest ranking American prelates to the Vatican serving Popes John XXX III, Paul VI and John Paul II." But at the end of the day, he was in many ways a simple learned priest, from Cicero, Illinois without a financial background. The Bishop also lacked the deep seated cynical trait that is so crucial to being a successful money manager.
Sadly, he became embroiled in two scandals where one principal, a banker named Calvi, was found hanging beneath a bridge in London. Calvi had been a friend of the Bishop and was convicted of fraud. That association cost the Vatican Bank over $200 million. Previously, the Bishop was involved with a shadowy character named Sidona, with Mafia connections, who died in prison in Milan after drinking a cup of coffee laced with poison. That friendship cost the Vatican tens of millions or so it is said.
At one point the Italian government indicted the Bishop but he confined himself to Vatican City for a few years until the indictment was dropped.
The Bishop was, for me, a marvelous man who added significantly to the richness of my life and I cried when I learned of his death from Mauvi, his secretary. It was rumored that he was "banging" Mauvi who was not my cup of tea. She was, for me, a lovely woman with the sex appeal of a sore ass.
And no, in the twenty five years of knowing the Bishop I never did a deal with him as being his friend became the paramount feature of my relationship with the Bishop, may he rest in peace.
The only thing the Bishop didn't say was 'Are you fucking stupid or what?'
This was my second visit to the Vatican to promote a deal to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus. I knew that the Bishop was big time but later found out how big. The Bishop was all over the newspapers. And not in a good way. But I didn't read newspapers in those days.Would have cut into my drinking time. The choice between reading newspapers or booze inhalation was a no-brainer.
The Bishop was a priest from Cicero, Illinois. Very personable, had huge hands, smoked like a chimney (Pall Mall, unfiltered or a pipe) and who was as competent to run the Vatican Bank as I would have been.Which was not at all. The Bishop didn't have the necessary paranoia. I am paranoid but not very fucking smart.
In the beginning the Bishop and I had one thing in common...smoking in size. The Bishop was 6'4" and a good looking guy. It was hard for me to think him abstinent.
Lloyd Hand, former 'greeter' for Pres. Lyndon Johnson and DC lobbyist, had introduced me and a colleague to the Bishop and I had stayed in touch with the Bishop. Fed my misplaced fucking ego to say that the Archbishop who ran the Vatican Bank and I were friends.
And so down the tubes went a proposal that I made to Archbishop Paul Marcinkus, the President of the Vatican Bank and Governor of Vatican City. I had developed a personal relationship with the Bishop over a 10 year time span and he had agreed to see me regarding an oil and gas royalty deal.
The deal was dependent on successful wildcat drilling to generate income. Turned out that the guy in charge of the drilling couldn't find his ass with either hand much less oil or gas with drilling equipment. He didn't find even a fucking mouthful of oil or gas.
But the Bishop proved that he did have some common sense (aka street smarts) and he turned down the deal which turned out to be a bad bet on a bad concept. But I stayed in touch with the Bishop.
At one point, after the Bishop was back in the States, the Knights of Columbus had been looking for him and they called me, a Jew from the Bronx, to find out where the Bishop was.
The Bishop was a terrific guy. He loved playing golf and I would send him, from time to time, golf books and boxes of golf balls. He would "try" to convert me. He never gave up though I told him that I was born a Jew and would die a Jew. He spent his last days in Sun City preaching in nearby communities.
He was "for decades, one of the highest ranking American prelates to the Vatican serving Popes John XXX III, Paul VI and John Paul II." But at the end of the day, he was in many ways a simple learned priest, from Cicero, Illinois without a financial background. The Bishop also lacked the deep seated cynical trait that is so crucial to being a successful money manager.
Sadly, he became embroiled in two scandals where one principal, a banker named Calvi, was found hanging beneath a bridge in London. Calvi had been a friend of the Bishop and was convicted of fraud. That association cost the Vatican Bank over $200 million. Previously, the Bishop was involved with a shadowy character named Sidona, with Mafia connections, who died in prison in Milan after drinking a cup of coffee laced with poison. That friendship cost the Vatican tens of millions or so it is said.
At one point the Italian government indicted the Bishop but he confined himself to Vatican City for a few years until the indictment was dropped.
The Bishop was, for me, a marvelous man who added significantly to the richness of my life and I cried when I learned of his death from Mauvi, his secretary. It was rumored that he was "banging" Mauvi who was not my cup of tea. She was, for me, a lovely woman with the sex appeal of a sore ass.
And no, in the twenty five years of knowing the Bishop I never did a deal with him as being his friend became the paramount feature of my relationship with the Bishop, may he rest in peace.
~
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Booze & Broads
Making extra bucks in the service as a GI, while not leaving the base, was a prime goal of mine but not easy to come by.
Bartending at the Enlisted Man's Club at Camp Kohler became my goal. 3.2 beer was as hard a drink as you could get. Drinking 6 bottles of 3.2 beer would get you to the latrine often to take a whiz but without getting a buzz on. 3.2 beer tested your bladder capacity. At 20, bladder capacity is minimal.
As a patron, the club seemed sane. As a bartender it was a madhouse. I made 50 cents an hour and all that I could steal or drink but I was too fucking slow, as a bartender, to steal. Everyone was screaming at me for their fucking beer. Who had time to even think of stealing or drinking? Also the Sergeant in charge of the mad house kept his jaundiced eyes on the bartenders' hands to be sure that the money went into the register and not their pockets.
I think the beer cost 10 cents a bottle. A carton of Chesterfield cigarettes did cost 50 cents. Civilians had a hard time getting cigarettes so I would send cigarettes to 'my girl' who, sadly for both of us, became my wife after the war.
American Tobacco, during the war, took the color green out of Lucky Strike cigarette packages and launched a campaign entitled 'Lucky Strike Green Went To War'. Chesterfields were my choice of coffin nails. I never did understand why 'Lucky Strike Green Went To War' became a slogan for American Tobacco.
Smoking, drinking and hallucinating about women were the GI's 'hobbies' of choice. Newspapers were unavailable and who the hell cared. No headphones for music or even individual radios. We lived in a soldier's world. Life was easy and uncomplicated. Sleeping while standing up and leaning against a wall wasn't a challenge. Easy done.
It seems like no one had ever heard of alcoholism in those days and our sex lives mostly consisted of 'wet dreams' or 'jackin off'. I often wonder when I turned into a 'sincere drinker' and then an alcoholic. For me it seems that my addiction really started with the WWII 'going away parties' for the guys leaving for the service. No girls, just a bunch of teenage guys getting roaring fucking dunk and loving it.
AA taught me that booze can be as big an addiction as drugs or sex, if you can get the sex.
How else could a dumb Jew from the Bronx feel totally worthwhile? Drinking gave me a leg up. Certainly not from listening to the 'Princess' who had an exquisite memory of every asshole thing that I ever did and I did plenty of them. The good things I did were instantly snuffed out of the 'Princess's' memory bank. I always felt worthwhile while sliding into the bag.
In AA a standard line is that your best day drunk wasn't as good as your worst day sober. Now that is, for me, pure bullshit.
I always like to talk about a fabulous menage a trois that I had with two hookers from Mozambique in Paris. The only problem is that I don't remember what happened but it had to be fabulous because I ended up with zero dollars in my pocket.
Bartending at the Enlisted Man's Club at Camp Kohler became my goal. 3.2 beer was as hard a drink as you could get. Drinking 6 bottles of 3.2 beer would get you to the latrine often to take a whiz but without getting a buzz on. 3.2 beer tested your bladder capacity. At 20, bladder capacity is minimal.
As a patron, the club seemed sane. As a bartender it was a madhouse. I made 50 cents an hour and all that I could steal or drink but I was too fucking slow, as a bartender, to steal. Everyone was screaming at me for their fucking beer. Who had time to even think of stealing or drinking? Also the Sergeant in charge of the mad house kept his jaundiced eyes on the bartenders' hands to be sure that the money went into the register and not their pockets.
I think the beer cost 10 cents a bottle. A carton of Chesterfield cigarettes did cost 50 cents. Civilians had a hard time getting cigarettes so I would send cigarettes to 'my girl' who, sadly for both of us, became my wife after the war.
American Tobacco, during the war, took the color green out of Lucky Strike cigarette packages and launched a campaign entitled 'Lucky Strike Green Went To War'. Chesterfields were my choice of coffin nails. I never did understand why 'Lucky Strike Green Went To War' became a slogan for American Tobacco.
Smoking, drinking and hallucinating about women were the GI's 'hobbies' of choice. Newspapers were unavailable and who the hell cared. No headphones for music or even individual radios. We lived in a soldier's world. Life was easy and uncomplicated. Sleeping while standing up and leaning against a wall wasn't a challenge. Easy done.
It seems like no one had ever heard of alcoholism in those days and our sex lives mostly consisted of 'wet dreams' or 'jackin off'. I often wonder when I turned into a 'sincere drinker' and then an alcoholic. For me it seems that my addiction really started with the WWII 'going away parties' for the guys leaving for the service. No girls, just a bunch of teenage guys getting roaring fucking dunk and loving it.
AA taught me that booze can be as big an addiction as drugs or sex, if you can get the sex.
How else could a dumb Jew from the Bronx feel totally worthwhile? Drinking gave me a leg up. Certainly not from listening to the 'Princess' who had an exquisite memory of every asshole thing that I ever did and I did plenty of them. The good things I did were instantly snuffed out of the 'Princess's' memory bank. I always felt worthwhile while sliding into the bag.
In AA a standard line is that your best day drunk wasn't as good as your worst day sober. Now that is, for me, pure bullshit.
I always like to talk about a fabulous menage a trois that I had with two hookers from Mozambique in Paris. The only problem is that I don't remember what happened but it had to be fabulous because I ended up with zero dollars in my pocket.
~
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Oats, Corn and Schlongs
Nothing goes straight down, not even the stock market, except a 20 year old's schlong right after getting laid or right after masturbating. An old man's schlong has permanently turned into a dripping faucet always pointed down, limp. Check that out with Willie Nelson....
Wonder of wonders, Ole Orange Hair aka Donald Trump's, hair is turning blond and he's becoming a man of God. Insisting that he is a man of only the truth. It's like thinking that the Pope will become a Muslim.
Commodity traders, unless they quit early when they are ahead, die busted on their asses and rightfully so. They become powerless over their own bullshit. They really believe they can predict prices.
Ezra Taft Benson, the Eisenhower Secretary of Agriculture, was my inadvertent commodity mentor. A most important lesson that I learned from Secretary Benson is to never try to outguess government action and its impact on markets of all stripes.
In the early 50's I was slopping hogs, milking cows, feeding cattle, losing my ass while trying to become an Iowa farmer. Talk about pissing into the wind. It was a joke that I took seriously. A Bronx Jew, trying to farm in Iowa, was on its face, one giant step to being fucking stupid. Strike three came quick.
It was the early 50's and oats were selling for .65 cents a bushel with a government support price of around .80 cents. I was all over that like a pig in shit. Not having ever dealt with a commodity broker I went to a broker's office and with 10%, 6.5 cents down, bought 2 carloads of oats (5,000 bushels of oats).
I was like a blind hog finding an acorn.Oats skyrocketed to $1.20/bushel. I decided that it was time to sell. Not knowing that the broker was a phone away and I could call the order in, it was three days before I got to the broker's office.We were putting up hay...couldn't afford to gamble that it was going to rain and raise hell with the hay crop. By then oats were back in the 90's but it was still one hell of a trade. I had put up 6.5 cents per bushel and got back about .35 cents. Now I was a genius. All you had to do was ask me.
Being a self proclaimed genius prompted me to get into the corn business.Corn was selling, below parity, for around $1.55/bushel and I bought 3 carloads (6,000 bushels) and watched corn erupt to the upside to around $2.50/bushel.The guy at the grain elevator in Swillpale, Iowa (aka Swaldale) who I told that I was going to sell, dissuaded me by showing me write ups predicting $3.00 corn.
To a Bronx Jew the written word is the fucking gospel, so I didn't sell.
Eisenhower had been elected President, appointed Ezra Taft Benson, Secretary of Agriculture who gave me my most memorable commodity trading lesson.
Benson proclaimed that he only believed in price supports in times of disaster thereby causing a fucking disaster.Corn went down the limit every day for days and I was barely able to get out even. In those days a 1/4 of all workers in the US were in agricultural related work and the Secretary of Agriculture had a ton of clout. And clout me he did. A great inadvertent mentor.
Never fucked with the commodity business again.When I became a stock broker and started following oil prices I did so and still do, with morbid fascination. A market prone to manipulation was great for Marc Rich but not this Jew. 'Competing' with Marc Rich would be like having a death wish.
Wonder of wonders, Ole Orange Hair aka Donald Trump's, hair is turning blond and he's becoming a man of God. Insisting that he is a man of only the truth. It's like thinking that the Pope will become a Muslim.
Commodity traders, unless they quit early when they are ahead, die busted on their asses and rightfully so. They become powerless over their own bullshit. They really believe they can predict prices.
Ezra Taft Benson, the Eisenhower Secretary of Agriculture, was my inadvertent commodity mentor. A most important lesson that I learned from Secretary Benson is to never try to outguess government action and its impact on markets of all stripes.
In the early 50's I was slopping hogs, milking cows, feeding cattle, losing my ass while trying to become an Iowa farmer. Talk about pissing into the wind. It was a joke that I took seriously. A Bronx Jew, trying to farm in Iowa, was on its face, one giant step to being fucking stupid. Strike three came quick.
It was the early 50's and oats were selling for .65 cents a bushel with a government support price of around .80 cents. I was all over that like a pig in shit. Not having ever dealt with a commodity broker I went to a broker's office and with 10%, 6.5 cents down, bought 2 carloads of oats (5,000 bushels of oats).
I was like a blind hog finding an acorn.Oats skyrocketed to $1.20/bushel. I decided that it was time to sell. Not knowing that the broker was a phone away and I could call the order in, it was three days before I got to the broker's office.We were putting up hay...couldn't afford to gamble that it was going to rain and raise hell with the hay crop. By then oats were back in the 90's but it was still one hell of a trade. I had put up 6.5 cents per bushel and got back about .35 cents. Now I was a genius. All you had to do was ask me.
Being a self proclaimed genius prompted me to get into the corn business.Corn was selling, below parity, for around $1.55/bushel and I bought 3 carloads (6,000 bushels) and watched corn erupt to the upside to around $2.50/bushel.The guy at the grain elevator in Swillpale, Iowa (aka Swaldale) who I told that I was going to sell, dissuaded me by showing me write ups predicting $3.00 corn.
To a Bronx Jew the written word is the fucking gospel, so I didn't sell.
Eisenhower had been elected President, appointed Ezra Taft Benson, Secretary of Agriculture who gave me my most memorable commodity trading lesson.
Benson proclaimed that he only believed in price supports in times of disaster thereby causing a fucking disaster.Corn went down the limit every day for days and I was barely able to get out even. In those days a 1/4 of all workers in the US were in agricultural related work and the Secretary of Agriculture had a ton of clout. And clout me he did. A great inadvertent mentor.
Never fucked with the commodity business again.When I became a stock broker and started following oil prices I did so and still do, with morbid fascination. A market prone to manipulation was great for Marc Rich but not this Jew. 'Competing' with Marc Rich would be like having a death wish.
~
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Easy Come, Easy Go
'Blow
it out your barrack's bag.' was the Army substitute for, 'drop
dead', 'you're full of shit' or just plain, ordinary 'fuck you'.
The Army
had, in common with today's geeks and nerds, its own language and
phrases. In the Army there was an element of in your face honesty that is
pretty well hidden in civilian society.
The
path to a medical education is to live a long time. I get to have
doctors explain the kvetches that come with living longer than
planned. And while it ain't peaches and cream it is often laughable.
The
first bike crash that landed my sorry ass in the Stanford Hospital ICU
for a week put me on the road to becoming a borderline hypochondriac
and getting a PhD in Heart Problems. Google became my lord and master.
Being
in an ICU of a teaching hospital like Stanford means having a bunch of
fresh faced interns scaring the hell out of me every time one of those
self anointed geniuses stopped by to check on me.
Having bounced off the bottom several times, optimism and resilience are in my DNA. But those doctors wired me for sound.
This
one doctor hammered me daily with my having 'aortic stenosis'. Since I
didn't have my iPad to google 'aortic stenosis ' and cater to my budding
hypochondria I was fucked until I finally asked him what the hell
aortic stenosis is.
Pretty
simple: Aortic stenosis is when the opening in the aortic valve which
feeds blood to the heart has closed significantly, forcing my heart to
alway be in over drive. Bye, bye stamina. Not enough blood to my schlong and hard earned blood to my heart.
Then
after my stay at Stanford and one more bike crash (At 88, I was still
macho-pacho and still the same at 91 3/4) a terrific VA/Stanford
cardiologist, Dr Patricia Nguyen, told me that I needed an aortic valve
replacement if I wanted to continue to fuck the actuarial tables of the
Social Security system and keep getting my VA disability benefits for
any meaningful period of time.
As
a schmuck who thinks that he can beat any physical problem with fitness
I turned Dr. Nguyen down for several years. But now, having the energy
and stamina of a wet noodle, I have decided to go to the TAVR procedure
where they insert a catheter into your groin with a ballon containing a
new aortic valve and push that sneaky, slippery, little mother up to and
into your heart.
Using
some kind of hocus pocus or black magic the healthy valve replaces the
el sicko valve with a healthy valve. At the end of the day TAVR
(Transcather Aorta Valve Replacement)is a great substitute for open
heart surgery.
God bless Dr. Nguyen, her TAVR running mate Judy Baer and the rest of the VA Palo Alto Health Care System's great people.
Actually, I
want to die in an airport or on an airplane, preferably the
Concorde. Reminds me of another Army expression, 'I hope you die with a
hard on.'...The ultimate curse.
~
Monday, August 10, 2015
Sex And The Married Italian Man
The
'Should we go bankrupt or public?' of the olden days has now been replaced with
'Should we go bankrupt or raise private equity money'?
If
there is an after life, then God willing, I will come back as an Italian. Italians
seem to have a looser view of life than guilt ridden Jews or Irish Catholics.
There are no Jews and Irish Catholics without guilt.
My
closest friend, for many years, until he left this world for the next was an
Italian: Roland Biancalona.
Roland always maintained that his 'happy marriage'
was held together by him having a mistress on the side and that cheating on the
mistress as well, meant keeping his wife and mistress content.
In
later years, when Roland was having trouble getting it up more than once or
twice a week he conned his wife Dottie by asking Dottie if she was as
disinterested in sex as he was. Her answer, "Yes" took the pressure off
of him to try to accommodate Dottie, his mistress and occasional screw with his
dying schlong.
The
amazing thing about Roland was that he was short, fat, partially bald with
crooked teeth and he still charmed women right out of their clothes, as any true, blue, Italian
man is expected to be able to do.
He
loved to travel SAS and seduce those leggy, knockout, blond Scandinavian
flight attendants. How he worked-in a Scandinavian airline to fly back from
Italy was amazing.
One
time Roland,on a flight back from Europe, volunteered to give a flight attendant
a tour of the Bay Area.
He then invited the great looking, Swedish flight
attendant to dinner at his home and to spend the night. Suffice it to say she
accepted the invitation which sent Dottie, his wife, out the roof.
Worse, at about
1:00 AM, Dottie heard some noise downstairs and discovered Roland having sex (aka
screwing) the flight attendant. For Dottie, who was a Catholic that converted from
Methodist, divorce was not an option. She 'repaid' Roland years later, by having
him cremated rather than divorce him.
He had always told me that he wanted
a burial near his Father who he adored. Dottie wanted him to burn in hell.
Roland
was, with one exception, a devout Catholic. He went to church every week. The
exception was taking communion which, apparently, requires confession. He
wouldn't go to confession and tell the priest that he had been fucking anything
that would hold still. Roland said that the priest would insist that he stop
his dalliances. No chance. No confession.
Make
no mistake. Roland had a heart as big as all outdoors.We ate lunch three or
four times a week, mostly at the North Beach Restaurant, talking about chasing
pussy, stocks and laughing like crazy. Roland's upbeat personality was
contagious.
Personally, I
have just crossed another one of life markers. Am now 91 3/4 years old with a
dripping schlong and aortic stenosis but loaded with optimism while looking for a
new career before the fat lady sings.
~
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
George C. Scott
'$50 says that it's George C. Scott!!!'
Sitting, pre-lunch, at the bar of the North Beach Restaurant in San Francisco in 1968, with my good friend Roland Biancalana, I saw two guys at the end of the bar belting 'shots and beer' like there was no tomorrow.
Having just returned from a trip to NY with my kid Joe and having taken Joe to see the play Plaza Suite with George C Scott, I recognized Scott. So, I said to Roland, who poo pooed my observation, '$50 says that it's George C Scott'.
Roland got off of the bar stool and started walking towards Scott. I screamed at Scott, 'Don't tell the son of a bitch who you are. I'll split a $50 bet with you.'
Naturally Scott had no interest in $25 and told Roland who he was. Scott and his friend continued on their awesome drinking binge, virtually inhaling 'boiler makers'. And I was fucked out of $25.
But I have always felt an attachment to Mr. Scott even if he didn't know or care that I was alive.
The most fun part of the trip to NY, was hearing Joe, at the play, in a shocked voice say, 'Pop, the guy is putting his hand up the woman's (Maureen Stapleton's) dress.' It was the first, last and only time in Joe's life where something sexual surprised or shocked him.
Joe lived with a gal while they were both students at Utah State In Logan, Utah. Their landlord, a devout Mormon, threw them out when he learned that they were living in sin. I was drinking and smoking up a storm in those days and went crazy when ash trays were nowhere to be found in Logan. And unless you had a bottle on your hip, booze was out.
A memorable trip. Princess enjoyed my pain and suffering.
Getting my Purple Heart in the mail was no big deal. With or without the Purple Heart I have always felt blessed that I was given the opportunity to serve as opposed to Ole Orange Hair (aka Donald 'Elmer Gantry' Trump) with his four student deferments and one (the last one) medical. All hat, big mouth, no cattle.
Sitting, pre-lunch, at the bar of the North Beach Restaurant in San Francisco in 1968, with my good friend Roland Biancalana, I saw two guys at the end of the bar belting 'shots and beer' like there was no tomorrow.
Having just returned from a trip to NY with my kid Joe and having taken Joe to see the play Plaza Suite with George C Scott, I recognized Scott. So, I said to Roland, who poo pooed my observation, '$50 says that it's George C Scott'.
Roland got off of the bar stool and started walking towards Scott. I screamed at Scott, 'Don't tell the son of a bitch who you are. I'll split a $50 bet with you.'
Naturally Scott had no interest in $25 and told Roland who he was. Scott and his friend continued on their awesome drinking binge, virtually inhaling 'boiler makers'. And I was fucked out of $25.
But I have always felt an attachment to Mr. Scott even if he didn't know or care that I was alive.
The most fun part of the trip to NY, was hearing Joe, at the play, in a shocked voice say, 'Pop, the guy is putting his hand up the woman's (Maureen Stapleton's) dress.' It was the first, last and only time in Joe's life where something sexual surprised or shocked him.
Joe lived with a gal while they were both students at Utah State In Logan, Utah. Their landlord, a devout Mormon, threw them out when he learned that they were living in sin. I was drinking and smoking up a storm in those days and went crazy when ash trays were nowhere to be found in Logan. And unless you had a bottle on your hip, booze was out.
A memorable trip. Princess enjoyed my pain and suffering.
Getting my Purple Heart in the mail was no big deal. With or without the Purple Heart I have always felt blessed that I was given the opportunity to serve as opposed to Ole Orange Hair (aka Donald 'Elmer Gantry' Trump) with his four student deferments and one (the last one) medical. All hat, big mouth, no cattle.
~
Monday, July 20, 2015
Donald Trump - A Reprise
If it is true that one of the three most dangerous people in the world
is a Jew with an attorney, then Donald Trump, Ole Orange Hair, should be
Jewish.
Law suits plus a mouth bigger than the entrance to a subway station spewing pure nonsense aka bullshit are Trump's specialties.
In my golden days, the 90's, Cipriani’s at the Sherry Netherlands Hotel in the Big Apple was my favorite stomping ground. It had a low ceiling and was loved by women who had bodies of Auschwitz survivors, boobs by Dow Chemical and lips puffed up with Botox.
Dressed by Bergdorf Goodman, the women, single, divorced and married thought they looked beautiful. I thought they looked like shit. As phony as three dollar bills.
Trump, a big guy, would stand under the lights in Cipriani's under the low ceiling. His hair piece would take on an orange glow. You sort of expected Gypsy Rose Lee to show up and do a burlesque routine with the Man With The Orange Hair. What a fucking pair that would have been to draw to.
Me and Donald Trump aren't even kissin' cousins and I would be stunned, one surprised Bronx Jew, if Ole Orange Hair would even remember me.
He most certainly saves his memory for people he can still use, sue or in thinking about his wonderful self. He is a fabulous person. Just ask him.
Absolutely
the King of Shameless Self Promotion. Even with that big gut of his
escaping from his custom made Italian, French or British shirt.
Trump was well on his way to real estate bankruptcy (circa early 90's) when Dale Frey, John Myers and David Wiederecht of the General Electric Pension Trust took that narcissistic, egomaniac in hand and saved his business ass.
Taught him how to leverage his name into something with a franchise value and acquire real estate interests, at no cost to him, along the way. Ole Orange Hair now places billions of dollars on the value of his name.
Trump had a well deserved reputation of a low cost builder. GE Pension had taken possession of what was then known as the Gulf Western Building on the corner of 59th street and Central Park West on which the Pension Trust had a mortgage.
The fucking building was vacated because it swayed in the wind. David Wiederecht and Trump came up with the notion to build a hotel around the remaining stripped down framework. Trump had no money; his father had saved his ass from personal bankruptcy a few years earlier.
Dale and John then came up with the idea to have Trump take charge of the rebuilding process, build a hotel around the stripped down framework and Ole Orange Hair could earn an interest, out of the profits of the hotel, which he did. (Suzie Mills, the manager of the Trump International Hotel, deserves enormous credit for the success of the hotel).
This has been Trump's formula for the bulk of his ensuing success; putting his name on all those fucking buildings. Put up zero money and earn an interest in the properties. If the deal fell flat then Trump sued the owner to have his, Trump's name, taken off the property.
While the hotel was being built David Wiederecht thought that it would be a good idea for The Genius and I to meet. So I put my fat, lower case, bronx, jewish ass on a airplane and flew to New York for lunch with the self proclaimed genius.
Flying to N.Y. for lunch was something I did with some regularity which highlights what was a major stupidity problem of mine. I really thought that I was a big shot. Time has proved that to be a major fucking piece of bullshit. Trump and I met in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel for lunch. Mr. Wonderful, David and me.
In those days, Trump "controlled" the Plaza and there was a regular parade to our luncheon table of his acolytes, genuflecting for Trump who was in hog heaven. Trying to have a conversation in between Trump's pontifications to his worshipers was impossible.
By the time lunch ended, I was wired for sound with frustration at being treated rudely and with zero respect. And that, after what I considered to be a major league effort to get to The Big Apple (I was no longer drinking and getting blasted on airplanes). A total of 10 ridiculous hours, coming and going, in a fucking tube to have lunch with an overweight, self consumed, obnoxious suit, Master of The Universe.
After 'lunch', I got back to my hotel and called Trump's office. I told his assistant that I wanted to see Trump again, immediately. His assistant told me that his calendar was too full for me which almost pushed me out the fucking 10th story window.
I pointed out that I had taken a serious trip from California to see him and that he absolutely owed me the courtesy of 20 minutes of his time. She phoned me back and told me to get my ass over to his office right away and the Great One would see me.
Our ‘conversation’ could have been on Saturday Night Live.
What an arrogant, self consumed guy he was/is. He told me that once a person spoke the first five words of a sentence he, Trump, knew what the other person had to say and that he, Trump, didn't have to listen any further.
After a few more minutes of this bizarre ‘conversation’, I told Trump, that if they knew what ADD was when he was in the third grade, he would still be in the third grade and that his mind had the staying power of a moth on a hot light bulb.
But history does say that Trump is a bright guy if a boor as well. I never had the desire to ever see him again though I did spot him again in Cipriani's. Standing under a bright light fixture, hair shining ORANGE with the air conditioning blowing his wig up. Bizarre.
He looked right through me. Shit, I couldn't, wouldn't do him any fucking good so he didn't 'see' me. My experience with Ole Orange Hair was highlighted by Trump's total rudeness to anyone he couldn't use.
Some years ago Ole Orange Hair, at a lunch with a friend of mine, asked my friend why no one liked him, Ole Orange Hair.
P.S. Without GE Pension Fund and the education and financing that Dale, John and David provided him, Trump would have been another very smart failed RE operator who earlier had needed his Daddy to bail him out. Trump was fighting bankruptcy of his Atlantic City gambling emporium with interest on a loan coming due. His Daddy bought enough chips to cover the interest and didn't cash the chips in.
Law suits plus a mouth bigger than the entrance to a subway station spewing pure nonsense aka bullshit are Trump's specialties.
In my golden days, the 90's, Cipriani’s at the Sherry Netherlands Hotel in the Big Apple was my favorite stomping ground. It had a low ceiling and was loved by women who had bodies of Auschwitz survivors, boobs by Dow Chemical and lips puffed up with Botox.
Dressed by Bergdorf Goodman, the women, single, divorced and married thought they looked beautiful. I thought they looked like shit. As phony as three dollar bills.
Trump, a big guy, would stand under the lights in Cipriani's under the low ceiling. His hair piece would take on an orange glow. You sort of expected Gypsy Rose Lee to show up and do a burlesque routine with the Man With The Orange Hair. What a fucking pair that would have been to draw to.
Me and Donald Trump aren't even kissin' cousins and I would be stunned, one surprised Bronx Jew, if Ole Orange Hair would even remember me.
He most certainly saves his memory for people he can still use, sue or in thinking about his wonderful self. He is a fabulous person. Just ask him.
Absolutely
the King of Shameless Self Promotion. Even with that big gut of his
escaping from his custom made Italian, French or British shirt.Trump was well on his way to real estate bankruptcy (circa early 90's) when Dale Frey, John Myers and David Wiederecht of the General Electric Pension Trust took that narcissistic, egomaniac in hand and saved his business ass.
Taught him how to leverage his name into something with a franchise value and acquire real estate interests, at no cost to him, along the way. Ole Orange Hair now places billions of dollars on the value of his name.
Trump had a well deserved reputation of a low cost builder. GE Pension had taken possession of what was then known as the Gulf Western Building on the corner of 59th street and Central Park West on which the Pension Trust had a mortgage.
The fucking building was vacated because it swayed in the wind. David Wiederecht and Trump came up with the notion to build a hotel around the remaining stripped down framework. Trump had no money; his father had saved his ass from personal bankruptcy a few years earlier.
Dale and John then came up with the idea to have Trump take charge of the rebuilding process, build a hotel around the stripped down framework and Ole Orange Hair could earn an interest, out of the profits of the hotel, which he did. (Suzie Mills, the manager of the Trump International Hotel, deserves enormous credit for the success of the hotel).
This has been Trump's formula for the bulk of his ensuing success; putting his name on all those fucking buildings. Put up zero money and earn an interest in the properties. If the deal fell flat then Trump sued the owner to have his, Trump's name, taken off the property.
While the hotel was being built David Wiederecht thought that it would be a good idea for The Genius and I to meet. So I put my fat, lower case, bronx, jewish ass on a airplane and flew to New York for lunch with the self proclaimed genius.
Flying to N.Y. for lunch was something I did with some regularity which highlights what was a major stupidity problem of mine. I really thought that I was a big shot. Time has proved that to be a major fucking piece of bullshit. Trump and I met in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel for lunch. Mr. Wonderful, David and me.
In those days, Trump "controlled" the Plaza and there was a regular parade to our luncheon table of his acolytes, genuflecting for Trump who was in hog heaven. Trying to have a conversation in between Trump's pontifications to his worshipers was impossible.
By the time lunch ended, I was wired for sound with frustration at being treated rudely and with zero respect. And that, after what I considered to be a major league effort to get to The Big Apple (I was no longer drinking and getting blasted on airplanes). A total of 10 ridiculous hours, coming and going, in a fucking tube to have lunch with an overweight, self consumed, obnoxious suit, Master of The Universe.
After 'lunch', I got back to my hotel and called Trump's office. I told his assistant that I wanted to see Trump again, immediately. His assistant told me that his calendar was too full for me which almost pushed me out the fucking 10th story window.
I pointed out that I had taken a serious trip from California to see him and that he absolutely owed me the courtesy of 20 minutes of his time. She phoned me back and told me to get my ass over to his office right away and the Great One would see me.
Our ‘conversation’ could have been on Saturday Night Live.
What an arrogant, self consumed guy he was/is. He told me that once a person spoke the first five words of a sentence he, Trump, knew what the other person had to say and that he, Trump, didn't have to listen any further.
After a few more minutes of this bizarre ‘conversation’, I told Trump, that if they knew what ADD was when he was in the third grade, he would still be in the third grade and that his mind had the staying power of a moth on a hot light bulb.
But history does say that Trump is a bright guy if a boor as well. I never had the desire to ever see him again though I did spot him again in Cipriani's. Standing under a bright light fixture, hair shining ORANGE with the air conditioning blowing his wig up. Bizarre.
He looked right through me. Shit, I couldn't, wouldn't do him any fucking good so he didn't 'see' me. My experience with Ole Orange Hair was highlighted by Trump's total rudeness to anyone he couldn't use.
At
a Thanksgiving Day viewing from the then not quite completed Trump
International Hotel, Trump with his then wife Marla and Marla's Mother, hosted a friend of mine with my friend's wife and four kids. One of my
friend's kids was a knockout 18-19 year old daughter who, in front of his
wife etc., hit on the 19 year old.
Some years ago Ole Orange Hair, at a lunch with a friend of mine, asked my friend why no one liked him, Ole Orange Hair.
P.S. Without GE Pension Fund and the education and financing that Dale, John and David provided him, Trump would have been another very smart failed RE operator who earlier had needed his Daddy to bail him out. Trump was fighting bankruptcy of his Atlantic City gambling emporium with interest on a loan coming due. His Daddy bought enough chips to cover the interest and didn't cash the chips in.
~
Monday, July 13, 2015
Too Late To Die Young, Google Schmoogle, A Bie Gahzint
91 and FOS aka 'Full Of Shit',
literally and absolutely.
That was me last week. Having aortic stenosis
and forcing a bowl movement is, in my view, an invitation to a heart
attack. That may be true even without having stenosis.
Pushing
and shoving a hard rock out my ass was plenty fucking time consuming
and uncomfortable. (Pain is for wimps and sissies. Uncomfortable is a
word, more better.)
Trying
to function with the hard rock in me was damn near impossible. I felt
like I was plucking at a daisy or dandelion. Now the great event would
happen, now it wouldn't. Breathing hard was the order of the day. Traipsing to the john to grunt and groan for 18 hours was what I would have wished on Hitler.
Though I live in 800 square feet so I didn't have to traipse very far. And without a wife to whine to.
Google has created a whole new class of Real and Borderline Hypochondriacs. A genre that I left after one Google too many. If
you have an ache, pain or feel uncomfortable, Google it.
Google
'constipation'. You will, I believe, be amazed at the number of web sites
devoted to descriptions and cures of constipation. I was brought up on
'castor oil' which cured everything. A little nausea or the need to vomit
came along with the 'castor oil' but no fucking overload of
information. Prunes and/or a fresh fruit smoothie loaded with blackberries are the current 'cures'.
In Korea, right after WWII, riding in a jeep became an exercise in sharp
jabs in my lungs every time the fucking jeep went over bumps. It was
really annoying. Not having Google to tell me what was wrong with me, I
went out on sick call.
The
very bored Army doctor did the stethoscope routine, tapped me on the
back and said "You have pleurisy." "Will it go away?", I asked. He
said,"In a few days."
No intellectual curiosity here. I was 21 and
didn't care about what pleurisy was. The pleurisy leaving was all that
counted. It did go away, came back a few times and then
disappeared for good. Later learned that pleurisy is an inflammation of
the lining of the lungs and I lived many years without that overload of
information.
How did the expression 'boobs'
evolve from 'lungs'?
When we were kids in the Bronx, well endowed girls
had 'big lungs'. Now they have 'big boobs'. But then in those really
Golden, Olden Days, we also played stickball, stoop ball and pitched
pennies against a wall, when we had the pennies to pitch. We were too
relaxed to wonder why we had an ache or pain. Complaining was for wimps
and sissies.
Google, schmoogle, a bie gahzint.
~
Monday, June 29, 2015
Win, Lose Or Draw Or For Money, Marbles Or Chalk
Holy shit. In came, unannounced, via mail, in May of 1946 a government check for $16. About $200 in today's money.(A guess)
In
1946 a then big time government scandal revolved around people
stealing (receiving and cashing) government checks that didn't belong to
them. My paranoia (Paranoia improves peripheral vision.) caused me to
question why the Federal government would send me a fucking check for
anything. So in a drawer the check went.
When, after
receiving three $16 checks and Purple Heart showed up in the mail, it
became apparent that something was going on and it was time for me to
find out what the hell it was. I'm slow but hopefully, not stupid.
In
the olden days, 1946, you could make a phone call and talk to a
living, human being. None of today's having to go from option to option, pressing buttons at least three fucking times before you get a
recording that doesn't answer your question.
So, I
dialed up information (Yet another almost lost in time option.Thank you
Google.) and got a general government phone number from a living
person and away I went.
A woman answered the government phone (In those
macho days men didn't answer phones.That was strictly woman's work). She
patiently, asked me to read some stuff off a check and told me to call
the VA. Even gave me the phone number.
The
woman at the VA, after a few questions told me that the checks were
disability checks. I didn't think that having a big time limp was a
disability but the VA and Army thought that I was 30% disabled. I was
grateful that the perceived disability wasn't mental.
The Princess took
care of that option. She always believed that I was 'bizarre' and told me
so too many times to count. A basic function of marriage, in the
beginning, is to expect the unexpected. After a few years, I just tuned
out. Turned my non-existent hearing aid off.
Then, I
asked the VA woman about the Purple Heart.Why did I get it? And in the
mail? She told me that the bullet that went through my leg on
Okinawa, earned me the medal. Being a full time klutz, I pointed out that I
was not a hero. Didn't kill a gazillion Japanese, raise the flag on Imo
Jima or save lives.
When
that bullet found me I was too stupid to be scared and was minding my
own fucking business crouched in a fox hole, carbine at the ready, while
all hell was breaking loose.
Mailing
the Purple Heart was how it was done. The only ceremony (without a
band involved) was opening the box in which it arrived. When the Princess
threw me out she didn't include the medal. That went into a separate
dust bin.
My
disability checks and Purple Heart came about because a guy by the name
of Woody Daher from Lansing, Michigan convinced me, while walking to a
movie at the discharge facility in Fort Devons, Mass., to fill out
forms listing problems developed while in the Army instead of going to
the movie.
Walking
was a problem, as was pleurisy and a touch of malaria.The walking
problem was 'accepted', pleurisy and malaria were ignored. God bless
Woody Daher.
My
mental and emotional service related problems were subject to my first
ex-wife's analysis. The VA didn't care. The Princess with the aid of
shrinks thought that pills would solve my emotional problems. Booze was
my choice of addiction.Thank God for Alcoholics Anonymous.
COLA(Cost
Of Living Adjustments) started for the VA in the 60's and have jacked
my disability check to $400 while my limp has grown worse. My kid, Kurt,
suggested a lift in my shoe so my limp is neither as bad or as apparent.
No matter!!! Win, lose or draw or for money, marbles or chalk, I still look like shit.
~
Monday, June 22, 2015
Self Consumed, Donald Trump, Ole Orange Hair....A Reprise
If it is true that one of the three most dangerous people in the world is a Jew with an attorney, then Donald Trump, Ole Orange Hair, should be Jewish.
Law suits plus a mouth bigger than the entrance to a subway station spewing pure nonsense aka bullshit are Trump's specialties.
In my golden days, the 90's, Cipriani’s at the Sherry Netherlands Hotel in the Big Apple was my favorite stomping ground. It had a low ceiling and was loved by women who had bodies of Auschwitz survivors, boobs by Dow Chemical and lips puffed up with Botox.
Dressed by Bergdorf Goodman, the women, single, divorced and married thought they looked beautiful. I thought they looked like shit. As phony as three dollar bills.
Trump, a big guy, would stand under the lights in Cipriani's under the low ceiling. His hair piece would take on an orange glow. You sort of expected Gypsy Rose Lee to show up and do a burlesque routine with the Man With The Orange Hair. What a fucking pair that would have been to draw to.
Me and Donald Trump aren't even kissin' cousins and I would be stunned, one surprised Bronx Jew, if Ole Orange Hair would even remember me.
He most certainly saves his memory for people he can still use, sue or in thinking about his wonderful self. He is a fabulous person. Just ask him.
Absolutely the King of Shameless Self Promotion. Even with that big gut of his escaping from his custom made Italian, French or British shirt.
Trump was well on his way to real estate bankruptcy (circa early 90's) when Dale Frey, John Myers and David Wiederecht of the General Electric Pension Trust took that narcissistic, egomaniac in hand and saved his business ass.
Taught him how to leverage his name into something with a franchise value and acquire real estate interests, at no cost to him, along the way. Ole Orange Hair now places billions of dollars on the value of his name.
Trump had a well deserved reputation of a low cost builder. GE Pension had taken possession of what was then known as the Gulf Western Building on the corner of 59th street and Central Park West on which the Pension Trust had a mortgage.
The fucking building was vacated because it swayed in the wind. David Wiederecht and Trump came up with the notion to build a hotel around the remaining stripped down framework. Trump had no money; his father had saved his ass from personal bankruptcy a few years earlier.
Dale and John then came up with the idea to have Trump take charge of the rebuilding process, build a hotel around the stripped down framework and Ole Orange Hair could earn an interest, out of the profits of the hotel, which he did. (Suzie Mills, the manager of the Trump International Hotel, deserves enormous credit for the success of the hotel).
This has been Trump's formula for the bulk of his ensuing success; putting his name on all those fucking buildings. Put up zero money and earn an interest in the properties. If the deal fell flat then Trump sued the owner to have his, Trump's name, taken off the property.
While the hotel was being built David Wiederecht thought that it would be a good idea for The Genius and I to meet. So I put my fat, lower case, bronx, jewish ass on a airplane and flew to New York for lunch with the self proclaimed genius.
Flying to N.Y. for lunch was something I did with some regularity which highlights what was a major stupidity problem of mine. I really thought that I was a big shot. Time has proved that to be a major fucking piece of bullshit. Trump and I met in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel for lunch. Mr. Wonderful, David and me.
In those days, Trump "controlled" the Plaza and there was a regular parade to our luncheon table of his acolytes, genuflecting for Trump who was in hog heaven. Trying to have a conversation in between Trump's pontifications to his worshipers was impossible.
By the time lunch ended, I was wired for sound with frustration at being treated rudely and with zero respect. And that, after what I considered to be a major league effort to get to The Big Apple (I was no longer drinking and getting blasted on airplanes). A total of 10 ridiculous hours, coming and going, in a fucking tube to have lunch with an overweight, self consumed, obnoxious suit, Master of The Universe.
After 'lunch', I got back to my hotel and called Trump's office. I told his assistant that I wanted to see Trump again, immediately. His assistant told me that his calendar was too full for me which almost pushed me out the fucking 10th story window.
I pointed out that I had taken a serious trip from California to see him and that he absolutely owed me the courtesy of 20 minutes of his time. She phoned me back and told me to get my ass over to his office right away and the Great One would see me.
Our ‘conversation’ could have been on Saturday Night Live.
What an arrogant, self consumed guy he was/is. He told me that once a person spoke the first five words of a sentence he, Trump, knew what the other person had to say and that he, Trump, didn't have to listen any further.
After a few more minutes of this bizarre ‘conversation’, I told Trump, that if they knew what ADD was when he was in the third grade, he would still be in the third grade and that his mind had the staying power of a moth on a hot light bulb.
But history does say that Trump is a bright guy if a boor as well. I never had the desire to ever see him again though I did spot him again in Cipriani's. Standing under a bright light fixture, hair shining ORANGE with the air conditioning blowing his wig up. Bizarre.
He looked right through me. Shit, I couldn't, wouldn't do him any fucking good so he didn't 'see' me.
P.S. Without GE Pension Fund and the education and financing that Dale, John and David provided him, Trump would have been another very smart failed RE operator who earlier had needed his Daddy to bail him out. Trump was fighting bankruptcy of his Atlantic City gambling emporium with interest on a loan coming due. His Daddy bought enough chips to cover the interest and didn't cash the chips in.
Law suits plus a mouth bigger than the entrance to a subway station spewing pure nonsense aka bullshit are Trump's specialties.
In my golden days, the 90's, Cipriani’s at the Sherry Netherlands Hotel in the Big Apple was my favorite stomping ground. It had a low ceiling and was loved by women who had bodies of Auschwitz survivors, boobs by Dow Chemical and lips puffed up with Botox.
Dressed by Bergdorf Goodman, the women, single, divorced and married thought they looked beautiful. I thought they looked like shit. As phony as three dollar bills.
Trump, a big guy, would stand under the lights in Cipriani's under the low ceiling. His hair piece would take on an orange glow. You sort of expected Gypsy Rose Lee to show up and do a burlesque routine with the Man With The Orange Hair. What a fucking pair that would have been to draw to.
Me and Donald Trump aren't even kissin' cousins and I would be stunned, one surprised Bronx Jew, if Ole Orange Hair would even remember me.
He most certainly saves his memory for people he can still use, sue or in thinking about his wonderful self. He is a fabulous person. Just ask him.
Absolutely the King of Shameless Self Promotion. Even with that big gut of his escaping from his custom made Italian, French or British shirt.Trump was well on his way to real estate bankruptcy (circa early 90's) when Dale Frey, John Myers and David Wiederecht of the General Electric Pension Trust took that narcissistic, egomaniac in hand and saved his business ass.
Taught him how to leverage his name into something with a franchise value and acquire real estate interests, at no cost to him, along the way. Ole Orange Hair now places billions of dollars on the value of his name.
Trump had a well deserved reputation of a low cost builder. GE Pension had taken possession of what was then known as the Gulf Western Building on the corner of 59th street and Central Park West on which the Pension Trust had a mortgage.
The fucking building was vacated because it swayed in the wind. David Wiederecht and Trump came up with the notion to build a hotel around the remaining stripped down framework. Trump had no money; his father had saved his ass from personal bankruptcy a few years earlier.
Dale and John then came up with the idea to have Trump take charge of the rebuilding process, build a hotel around the stripped down framework and Ole Orange Hair could earn an interest, out of the profits of the hotel, which he did. (Suzie Mills, the manager of the Trump International Hotel, deserves enormous credit for the success of the hotel).
This has been Trump's formula for the bulk of his ensuing success; putting his name on all those fucking buildings. Put up zero money and earn an interest in the properties. If the deal fell flat then Trump sued the owner to have his, Trump's name, taken off the property.
While the hotel was being built David Wiederecht thought that it would be a good idea for The Genius and I to meet. So I put my fat, lower case, bronx, jewish ass on a airplane and flew to New York for lunch with the self proclaimed genius.
Flying to N.Y. for lunch was something I did with some regularity which highlights what was a major stupidity problem of mine. I really thought that I was a big shot. Time has proved that to be a major fucking piece of bullshit. Trump and I met in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel for lunch. Mr. Wonderful, David and me.
In those days, Trump "controlled" the Plaza and there was a regular parade to our luncheon table of his acolytes, genuflecting for Trump who was in hog heaven. Trying to have a conversation in between Trump's pontifications to his worshipers was impossible.
By the time lunch ended, I was wired for sound with frustration at being treated rudely and with zero respect. And that, after what I considered to be a major league effort to get to The Big Apple (I was no longer drinking and getting blasted on airplanes). A total of 10 ridiculous hours, coming and going, in a fucking tube to have lunch with an overweight, self consumed, obnoxious suit, Master of The Universe.
After 'lunch', I got back to my hotel and called Trump's office. I told his assistant that I wanted to see Trump again, immediately. His assistant told me that his calendar was too full for me which almost pushed me out the fucking 10th story window.
I pointed out that I had taken a serious trip from California to see him and that he absolutely owed me the courtesy of 20 minutes of his time. She phoned me back and told me to get my ass over to his office right away and the Great One would see me.
Our ‘conversation’ could have been on Saturday Night Live.
What an arrogant, self consumed guy he was/is. He told me that once a person spoke the first five words of a sentence he, Trump, knew what the other person had to say and that he, Trump, didn't have to listen any further.
After a few more minutes of this bizarre ‘conversation’, I told Trump, that if they knew what ADD was when he was in the third grade, he would still be in the third grade and that his mind had the staying power of a moth on a hot light bulb.
But history does say that Trump is a bright guy if a boor as well. I never had the desire to ever see him again though I did spot him again in Cipriani's. Standing under a bright light fixture, hair shining ORANGE with the air conditioning blowing his wig up. Bizarre.
He looked right through me. Shit, I couldn't, wouldn't do him any fucking good so he didn't 'see' me.
P.S. Without GE Pension Fund and the education and financing that Dale, John and David provided him, Trump would have been another very smart failed RE operator who earlier had needed his Daddy to bail him out. Trump was fighting bankruptcy of his Atlantic City gambling emporium with interest on a loan coming due. His Daddy bought enough chips to cover the interest and didn't cash the chips in.
~
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Expensive Talk, Big Boobs
'Never confuse activity for achievement.' ~ John Wooden.
Kinda like, 'Never confuse brains with a bull market'.
Lessons well learned but plenty fucking tough for me to live with. My big mouth has always been overactive without a filter between it and my brain. In the army my hyper active mouth earned me weeks of KP and the dislike of every non-com and officer that was unfortunate enough to be in charge of me.
Staying out of the guard house was a major accomplishment of mine during that laughter called my army career.
My big mouth was the source of the start of many weird, fucking, unique experiences that made my life 'different'. Inviting a gal, a stranger, to London as my guest seemed natural to me. The invitation rolled out of my mouth like water over a dam, unfiltered.
Sharon was her name. I met her on a flight to Midland, Texas having been summoned from London by my oil and gas patroon in Midland, Deane Stoltz.. Sharon was on her way to Albuquerque on some kind of fashion business.
Remember please, that a man thinks with his eyes and I was always inclined, at the first look-see, to look at a woman starting at her waist up. A habit that got me in a lot of trouble over the years but that didn't stop me from being 'boob addicted'.
While I had never, in my life, seen Sharon before the flight, I felt just sitting next to her for two hours gave me the necessary insight to know that she was perfect for me. Bright, good looking with big boobs gave Sharon the aura, for me, of a perfect soul mate. Couldn't beat that image with a stick and she acted as though she liked sex. So, I invited Sharon to London as my guest.(Turned out that if Sharon liked sober or drunk sex, it was with someone else.)
A few weeks later, on a first class flight from New York, with a guarantee of her own paid for room at Claridge's, in came Sharon who I welcomed at Heathrow with a car and driver. Very big time showing off.
Sharon immediately proved herself to be a sincere pain in the ass. While I worked all day, Sharon was a dedicated wine drinker who loved to smoke dope as well all day. I did neither. All I wanted was good company and some sex. It quickly became very fucking boring with Sharon being half stiff all the time and my schlong inactive. Having sex with a woman, three sheets to the wind had all the appeal for me of a sore ass in vinegar.
It was not very fucking complicated. I was getting neither sane conversation or sex. So, after two days of that action I sat Sharon's sorry ass down in my suite and said, "Sharon, your meter has expired. Your time is up and it is time for you to go home."
At the end of the day I felt pretty fucking stupid for having invited her but smart for sending her home - cut my losses short.
Looking for the unexpected has always been a driver for me. Too often the unexpected was pretty fucking expensive and always as a result of shooting from the hip with my big fucking mouth.
"Regrets? I've had a few but too few to mention." ~ My Way, Sinatra
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Slice And Dice For Mashed Potatoes, Living The Unknown, The Richemont
Trading our civilian clothes for Army khaki was like becoming a chameleon, in reverse.You went from different colored clothes to one color, known in the Army as 'shit, brindle brown', aka khaki.
I had just arrived, by train, in Fort Dix after saying goodbye to my crying Mom and my proud as punch Father in Pennsylvania Station, New York City later known as The Big Apple, The Capital of Temptation.
Every kid going through the Penn Station gate knew that their lives had taken a turn into the unknown but we all knew that we had a new family. The Army was our new family. And through all of the fucking wisecracks, none memorable, we knew that our family was run by our new lords and masters with whom we could not argue, ignore or dispute a decision.
Our freedom of thought and action was history.
Standing bare-ass naked, tugging on our schlongs, doing what was called 'short arm inspection' all to prove that we didn't have a 'dose' of gonorrhea. That first short arm inspection turned out to be repetitively common. As long as that 'thing' didn't drip we were safe. At 91 1/2 it drips, not from gonorrhea but from a diuretic.
There ain't anything like a free thinker in the Army. I don't think that any of us realized that our days of independent thought were as dead as an old man's sex life. (Sadly, at 91 1/2 I know all about that.)
No menus. High carb foods with mashed potatoes were a staple, the cornerstones of lunch and dinner. Fried potatoes at breakfast. Doing KP, peeling spuds, mopping floors and scrubbing enormous pots and pans were chores to come. All a long way from a 5 star hotel.
The Regular Army guys, pre Pearl Harbor enlistees, mostly looked like shit with both huge guts and huge appetites. Nutrition meant eating everything that wasn't nailed down which always seemed to include mashed potatoes at lunch and dinner. The regular Army guys also seemed to have a ferocious appetite to fight, big guts and all.
While the first day was truly memorable, spending the first night sleeping in a cavern like barracks with a bunch of guys that you didn't know from Adam's fucking odd ox was wildly different. Being 'homesick' never entered my stream of consciousness.
There was a certain electricity in the atmosphere with the thoughts of an unknown future. It really dominated my thinking, starting with the First Sergeant screaming 'drop your co..s and grab your socks' at 6:00 AM. That screaming, fucking voice eliminated any need for an alarm clock.
One day, some 40 years later, having lunch with a Swiss banker at the Richemont Hotel in Geneva, Switzerland I became distracted by the tall, willowy, blond beauties have lunch with their swarthy, Mideastern keepers and that first day at Fort Dix came into my mind.
Going from being a buck private making $50 a month to sitting at the Richemont having lunch in the middle of all that opulence seemed bizarre. And it was.
The Army taught me that living in the here and now, living in the unknown, was exciting and mostly great.Staying and eating at the Richemont was exciting and fun. It too was the ultimate in living in the unknown.
I had just arrived, by train, in Fort Dix after saying goodbye to my crying Mom and my proud as punch Father in Pennsylvania Station, New York City later known as The Big Apple, The Capital of Temptation.
Every kid going through the Penn Station gate knew that their lives had taken a turn into the unknown but we all knew that we had a new family. The Army was our new family. And through all of the fucking wisecracks, none memorable, we knew that our family was run by our new lords and masters with whom we could not argue, ignore or dispute a decision.
Our freedom of thought and action was history.
Standing bare-ass naked, tugging on our schlongs, doing what was called 'short arm inspection' all to prove that we didn't have a 'dose' of gonorrhea. That first short arm inspection turned out to be repetitively common. As long as that 'thing' didn't drip we were safe. At 91 1/2 it drips, not from gonorrhea but from a diuretic.
There ain't anything like a free thinker in the Army. I don't think that any of us realized that our days of independent thought were as dead as an old man's sex life. (Sadly, at 91 1/2 I know all about that.)
No menus. High carb foods with mashed potatoes were a staple, the cornerstones of lunch and dinner. Fried potatoes at breakfast. Doing KP, peeling spuds, mopping floors and scrubbing enormous pots and pans were chores to come. All a long way from a 5 star hotel.
The Regular Army guys, pre Pearl Harbor enlistees, mostly looked like shit with both huge guts and huge appetites. Nutrition meant eating everything that wasn't nailed down which always seemed to include mashed potatoes at lunch and dinner. The regular Army guys also seemed to have a ferocious appetite to fight, big guts and all.
While the first day was truly memorable, spending the first night sleeping in a cavern like barracks with a bunch of guys that you didn't know from Adam's fucking odd ox was wildly different. Being 'homesick' never entered my stream of consciousness.
There was a certain electricity in the atmosphere with the thoughts of an unknown future. It really dominated my thinking, starting with the First Sergeant screaming 'drop your co..s and grab your socks' at 6:00 AM. That screaming, fucking voice eliminated any need for an alarm clock.
One day, some 40 years later, having lunch with a Swiss banker at the Richemont Hotel in Geneva, Switzerland I became distracted by the tall, willowy, blond beauties have lunch with their swarthy, Mideastern keepers and that first day at Fort Dix came into my mind.
Going from being a buck private making $50 a month to sitting at the Richemont having lunch in the middle of all that opulence seemed bizarre. And it was.
The Army taught me that living in the here and now, living in the unknown, was exciting and mostly great.Staying and eating at the Richemont was exciting and fun. It too was the ultimate in living in the unknown.
~
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Currency Controls, Living High On The Hog
'Currency controls? What the hell are controls, Peter?'
While employed by the NYSE firm, Irving Lundborg & Co. I was deemed uncontrollable and needing proper supervision. So, I had my own.personal, compliance officer. Living on the edge, skirting the fucking rules were my specialty. And the powers that were at Lundborg decided that they needed a pair of extra eyes to supervise my trades.
Peter Costigan had all the necessary bona fides to ride herd on me: Stanford Undergraduate and Stanford Business School degrees. Most important he had a great sense of humor and with me, was a fucking hard drinker, though not as hard as me and he did escape my fate of needing to go to Alcoholic Anonymous, which turned out to be a life changing experience.
Peter often went to London to flog stocks.One day, at a boozy lunch, he commented that his niche market in London were investment companies that owned investing dollars.The UK had at the time, 'currency controls' to restrict pounds leaving the UK. So Peter would trundle off to London, ensconce himself at the Connaught and generate commission from investment companies that owned dollars. Peter concentrated on local California company shares.
One of my great, most fun, drinking experiences was with Peter and his closest friend, Bill Kneas. One evening, after getting suitably fucking smashed at the North Beach Restaurant, Peter left Bill and me to continue our drinking and get more fucking brilliant with each drink.
A most wonderful feeling when really smashed is the feeling of being a genius. No chance to replicate that feeling when sober. I see and feel all my 'pimples' when sober.
Bill lived in Marin and his wife came in to get him after speaking with him on the phone. Bill asked me to care for his car, an Oldsmobile Convertible. In those days I thought that genius was my first calling and being a big shot my second calling. So the Princess and I had a place in the City, at the Clay Jones Apartments, with a fabulous view of the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges. Loved to sit in an easy chair, inhaling Grants 8 Year Old Scotch smashed, enjoying the view.
The parking attendant at the North Beach told me that he had two Olds converts, a blue and a gray. Which one did I want? I chose the gray and drove off in it. All hell broke loose when it was discovered that I chose the wrong color car. Batting .500 was not acceptable. After suitably apologizing to the owner upon return of the car the following day, I sold the guy some stock in King Resources which then went bankrupt.
After looking into 'currency controls' and deciding that a prepaid London gig would be terrific for me, I went to my 'pay stations' in Midland, Texas and convinced the CEO's of five public oil and gas companies that pre-conditioning London to Midland company shares would pay off with the English buying their shares when they became available sans currency controls.Great trade: I produced results spending gobs of their fucking money.
My first step was to meet Peter and his wife Anne in London where Peter was to introduce me around. That was not, by any measure, a spectacular success. But Peter's introduction of me to Gordon Grender plus Bill Tichy's (a friend and Dean Witter analyst) introduction to Don Moynihan of Witter's London office began almost 15 years of London success and pleasure. It was pure joy living for months at Claridge's Hotel, shuttling in and out of London on the Concorde, making life long friends with lots of laughs along the way.
I damn near drowned in my own ego.
This go round started in 1977.Currency controls were lifted by Mrs. Thatcher in 1979. Like a blind hog, I found an acorn.
While employed by the NYSE firm, Irving Lundborg & Co. I was deemed uncontrollable and needing proper supervision. So, I had my own.personal, compliance officer. Living on the edge, skirting the fucking rules were my specialty. And the powers that were at Lundborg decided that they needed a pair of extra eyes to supervise my trades.
Peter Costigan had all the necessary bona fides to ride herd on me: Stanford Undergraduate and Stanford Business School degrees. Most important he had a great sense of humor and with me, was a fucking hard drinker, though not as hard as me and he did escape my fate of needing to go to Alcoholic Anonymous, which turned out to be a life changing experience.
Peter often went to London to flog stocks.One day, at a boozy lunch, he commented that his niche market in London were investment companies that owned investing dollars.The UK had at the time, 'currency controls' to restrict pounds leaving the UK. So Peter would trundle off to London, ensconce himself at the Connaught and generate commission from investment companies that owned dollars. Peter concentrated on local California company shares.
One of my great, most fun, drinking experiences was with Peter and his closest friend, Bill Kneas. One evening, after getting suitably fucking smashed at the North Beach Restaurant, Peter left Bill and me to continue our drinking and get more fucking brilliant with each drink.
A most wonderful feeling when really smashed is the feeling of being a genius. No chance to replicate that feeling when sober. I see and feel all my 'pimples' when sober.
Bill lived in Marin and his wife came in to get him after speaking with him on the phone. Bill asked me to care for his car, an Oldsmobile Convertible. In those days I thought that genius was my first calling and being a big shot my second calling. So the Princess and I had a place in the City, at the Clay Jones Apartments, with a fabulous view of the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges. Loved to sit in an easy chair, inhaling Grants 8 Year Old Scotch smashed, enjoying the view.
The parking attendant at the North Beach told me that he had two Olds converts, a blue and a gray. Which one did I want? I chose the gray and drove off in it. All hell broke loose when it was discovered that I chose the wrong color car. Batting .500 was not acceptable. After suitably apologizing to the owner upon return of the car the following day, I sold the guy some stock in King Resources which then went bankrupt.
After looking into 'currency controls' and deciding that a prepaid London gig would be terrific for me, I went to my 'pay stations' in Midland, Texas and convinced the CEO's of five public oil and gas companies that pre-conditioning London to Midland company shares would pay off with the English buying their shares when they became available sans currency controls.Great trade: I produced results spending gobs of their fucking money.
My first step was to meet Peter and his wife Anne in London where Peter was to introduce me around. That was not, by any measure, a spectacular success. But Peter's introduction of me to Gordon Grender plus Bill Tichy's (a friend and Dean Witter analyst) introduction to Don Moynihan of Witter's London office began almost 15 years of London success and pleasure. It was pure joy living for months at Claridge's Hotel, shuttling in and out of London on the Concorde, making life long friends with lots of laughs along the way.
I damn near drowned in my own ego.
This go round started in 1977.Currency controls were lifted by Mrs. Thatcher in 1979. Like a blind hog, I found an acorn.
~
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Here and Now: Post Puking in Korea, ADHD On a Tractor
The 'here and now' is sometimes hard to take but it is sure one hell of a lot better than 'the dead and gone'.
Unless, of course, you believe in a glorious after life. But old Jews like me don't believe in an after life.You do good for good's sake so that you can leave a good name not because you want to go to heaven. For me there ain't no heaven and their ain't no hell.When I die I will be stone cold, fucking dead.
'Here and Now' was the name of a AA Sunday night meeting started by a tough little Irishman named Jimmy. Jimmy had empathy but no compassion. If a practicing alcoholic showed up at the meeting, in the bag, Jimmy would throw him out.
Strangely, the meetings that were held at the VA facility in Palo Alto didn't draw flies. The weird part is that booze was big time in the service (dope and pills hardly at all) in my days.Getting drunk at every opportunity was a sign of manhood. I was very big time Macho in that department.
At 21 being blotto and getting an erection is possible. At 51, and beyond, being in the bag and getting an erection is every man's dream..
At my first AA meeting, at the Vets, there was only one other guy, the secretary and me. After listening to the 'other guy', a Viet Nam vet, it seemed to me that the poor son of a bitch needed to be put away. He was the product of dope and booze and a real mess. More looney than sane.One more meeting was my emotional limit.
When farming in Iowa, getting half in the bag on weekends felt like my only way out. Slopping hogs, milking cows, plowing corn, needing to take an outdoor shower in the summer before the Princess would let me in the house for dinner, deserved some reward. Weekend booze was my reward.
Actually one of the most memorable farming experiences was spending days on end plowing corn. Sitting on a fucking tractor, going up and down endless rows of corn at about one mile per hour and having to concentrate on staying in the dirt, between the rows of corn, tested my ADHD. At the end of each day I was really wired for sound and could have probably lit up the city of Philadelphia. So, often a little booze and a roaring screamer with the Princess were my outlets.
My drinking companion in Iowa was often my first father-in-law but he complained about me drinking his whiskey, the whiskey he had paid for. So I told him, in no uncertain terms, to stick his whiskey where the sun don't shine aka 'stick it in your ass'.
We continued to drink together, but each out of our own bottle. We were attached to one another by an electrical bond of mutual disrespect and dislike.
We had a great trade going. He disliked me for my in his face attitude and in turn, I disliked him for what he was. He drowned fishing in that fucking fish-less, loaded with weeds, Clear Lake, Iowa.
Getting in the bag on warm sake in Seoul, Korea was fun until it wasn't. I made my first and last trip down Sake Alley (warm or not) in Seoul. I barely made it back to the barracks to puke my brains out. Getting sick from drinking was no big fucking deal in the Army. That was just part of the whole Army scene.
Out here in the Land of Milk and Honey and Fruits and Nuts, there was a guy, a sometimes drinking buddy of mine who loved heated red wine. He drank that bullshit heated wine which got him in almost instant motion or numb. Sometimes he just passed out at the table. He called it falling asleep.
I concentrated on Grants 8 year old scotch. He died of alcoholism and here I am at 91 1/2.
The moral is an old AA 'truism' that God takes care of drunks and fools and since I qualify on both scores here I am, still around, full of piss and vinegar. And still, thank God, without a filter between my brain and my mouth.
Unless, of course, you believe in a glorious after life. But old Jews like me don't believe in an after life.You do good for good's sake so that you can leave a good name not because you want to go to heaven. For me there ain't no heaven and their ain't no hell.When I die I will be stone cold, fucking dead.
'Here and Now' was the name of a AA Sunday night meeting started by a tough little Irishman named Jimmy. Jimmy had empathy but no compassion. If a practicing alcoholic showed up at the meeting, in the bag, Jimmy would throw him out.
Strangely, the meetings that were held at the VA facility in Palo Alto didn't draw flies. The weird part is that booze was big time in the service (dope and pills hardly at all) in my days.Getting drunk at every opportunity was a sign of manhood. I was very big time Macho in that department.
At 21 being blotto and getting an erection is possible. At 51, and beyond, being in the bag and getting an erection is every man's dream..
At my first AA meeting, at the Vets, there was only one other guy, the secretary and me. After listening to the 'other guy', a Viet Nam vet, it seemed to me that the poor son of a bitch needed to be put away. He was the product of dope and booze and a real mess. More looney than sane.One more meeting was my emotional limit.
When farming in Iowa, getting half in the bag on weekends felt like my only way out. Slopping hogs, milking cows, plowing corn, needing to take an outdoor shower in the summer before the Princess would let me in the house for dinner, deserved some reward. Weekend booze was my reward.
Actually one of the most memorable farming experiences was spending days on end plowing corn. Sitting on a fucking tractor, going up and down endless rows of corn at about one mile per hour and having to concentrate on staying in the dirt, between the rows of corn, tested my ADHD. At the end of each day I was really wired for sound and could have probably lit up the city of Philadelphia. So, often a little booze and a roaring screamer with the Princess were my outlets.
My drinking companion in Iowa was often my first father-in-law but he complained about me drinking his whiskey, the whiskey he had paid for. So I told him, in no uncertain terms, to stick his whiskey where the sun don't shine aka 'stick it in your ass'.
We continued to drink together, but each out of our own bottle. We were attached to one another by an electrical bond of mutual disrespect and dislike.
We had a great trade going. He disliked me for my in his face attitude and in turn, I disliked him for what he was. He drowned fishing in that fucking fish-less, loaded with weeds, Clear Lake, Iowa.
Getting in the bag on warm sake in Seoul, Korea was fun until it wasn't. I made my first and last trip down Sake Alley (warm or not) in Seoul. I barely made it back to the barracks to puke my brains out. Getting sick from drinking was no big fucking deal in the Army. That was just part of the whole Army scene.
Out here in the Land of Milk and Honey and Fruits and Nuts, there was a guy, a sometimes drinking buddy of mine who loved heated red wine. He drank that bullshit heated wine which got him in almost instant motion or numb. Sometimes he just passed out at the table. He called it falling asleep.
I concentrated on Grants 8 year old scotch. He died of alcoholism and here I am at 91 1/2.
The moral is an old AA 'truism' that God takes care of drunks and fools and since I qualify on both scores here I am, still around, full of piss and vinegar. And still, thank God, without a filter between my brain and my mouth.
~
Monday, May 18, 2015
Sex, The Princess and A Dripping Faucet
After three years in the Army which included one gunshot wound, two things drove me: making money and my little head (now, no more useful than a dripping faucet).
It took my first ex-wife, in a rare show of candor, just three weeks after we were married, to tell me that she felt that she had made a mistake in marrying me and was already very worn out with me. On our honeymoon, in Jamaica, a few months later the Princess said it again. The Princess seemed to enjoy telling me, that even knowing me was a mistake.
Being both a guilty Bronx Jew and stupid, I tried futilely to get the Princess to like me.Love never had a chance.I often wonder why self pity was a very minor factor in my life. But optimism, looking for serendipity and laughter have always mostly overcome negative feelings.
After 27 years of my trying to change her negative feelings towards me the Princess threw me out.She originally claimed that it was my drinking that forced her into bouncing my ass out of our Jewish Mansion.
When the Princess blamed my drinking for our divorce to a friend my self righteous indignation surfaced and I went fucking nuts.
I phoned the JAP and said, "Bonnie, quit telling people that you threw me out because I drank too much. Tell the them the God damn truth. Tell them that you threw me out because you didn't like me in 1947 and you still don't like me in 1974. That's the real truth and I'm cool with it. Quit playing the booze card."
Never did get any more 'Woe is me, I married an alcoholic.", feedback.
The Princess did confess to a mutual friend that being married to me was exciting. In a moment of weakness she told that to me as well.We'd been happily divorced for about 10 years when that comment popped out of her mouth.Talk about a day late and a dollar short.
But the Princess had a ferocious memory and remembered, in detail, all the asshole things I had done and they were a big fucking bunch. As I told her several times (redundancy is a specialty of mine) "Why is it that you remember, in detail, every asshole thing I've ever done and you never give me credit for the good things that I've done?" Her answer was her consistent steely eyed, WASP look of total disgust and disdain.
My son Joe's advice on how to stay married came along way too late for me. My son, Joe, contended that a basic rule for staying married is for the guy to say, when necessary, 'I'm sorry, it's all my fault.'
Yeah, most divorced couples are amiable toward one another until they talk about something serious. Then it's the same old noise.
For 28 years after our divorce, without a court order, I saw to it that the Princess continued to live in the life style that I had made her accustomed to living. She surely deserved it. (Living with me wasn't like spending a day at the beach.)
The minute the Princess stopped receiving her $5k a month and other high priced perks, she stopped even acknowledging me. See me at a local shopping center and the Princess would turn turn her head away.
The Princess, I believe, died with Italian Alzheimer's where you forget everything except the grudge. Sad for her.
It took my first ex-wife, in a rare show of candor, just three weeks after we were married, to tell me that she felt that she had made a mistake in marrying me and was already very worn out with me. On our honeymoon, in Jamaica, a few months later the Princess said it again. The Princess seemed to enjoy telling me, that even knowing me was a mistake.
Being both a guilty Bronx Jew and stupid, I tried futilely to get the Princess to like me.Love never had a chance.I often wonder why self pity was a very minor factor in my life. But optimism, looking for serendipity and laughter have always mostly overcome negative feelings.
After 27 years of my trying to change her negative feelings towards me the Princess threw me out.She originally claimed that it was my drinking that forced her into bouncing my ass out of our Jewish Mansion.
When the Princess blamed my drinking for our divorce to a friend my self righteous indignation surfaced and I went fucking nuts.
I phoned the JAP and said, "Bonnie, quit telling people that you threw me out because I drank too much. Tell the them the God damn truth. Tell them that you threw me out because you didn't like me in 1947 and you still don't like me in 1974. That's the real truth and I'm cool with it. Quit playing the booze card."
Never did get any more 'Woe is me, I married an alcoholic.", feedback.
The Princess did confess to a mutual friend that being married to me was exciting. In a moment of weakness she told that to me as well.We'd been happily divorced for about 10 years when that comment popped out of her mouth.Talk about a day late and a dollar short.
But the Princess had a ferocious memory and remembered, in detail, all the asshole things I had done and they were a big fucking bunch. As I told her several times (redundancy is a specialty of mine) "Why is it that you remember, in detail, every asshole thing I've ever done and you never give me credit for the good things that I've done?" Her answer was her consistent steely eyed, WASP look of total disgust and disdain.
My son Joe's advice on how to stay married came along way too late for me. My son, Joe, contended that a basic rule for staying married is for the guy to say, when necessary, 'I'm sorry, it's all my fault.'
Yeah, most divorced couples are amiable toward one another until they talk about something serious. Then it's the same old noise.
For 28 years after our divorce, without a court order, I saw to it that the Princess continued to live in the life style that I had made her accustomed to living. She surely deserved it. (Living with me wasn't like spending a day at the beach.)
The minute the Princess stopped receiving her $5k a month and other high priced perks, she stopped even acknowledging me. See me at a local shopping center and the Princess would turn turn her head away.
The Princess, I believe, died with Italian Alzheimer's where you forget everything except the grudge. Sad for her.
~
Monday, May 11, 2015
Above and Beyond with My VA Hospital
God bless the VA Palo Alto Health Care System, a caring health facility.
Starring Dr. Patricia Nguyen, Dr.Mitchell Wong and Angella in the pharmacy at the VA PAHCS.
Dr. Nguyen a pre-eminent cardiologist is always over booked but on my very recent date, Dr.Nguyen broke her previous record for keeping me waiting.
After sitting in the waiting room for 45 minutes, building up a head of indignant steam, a nurse came along to take my 'vitals': blood pressure, temperature, weight, etc. Then back to the fucking waiting room.
After another 15 minutes, along comes a different nurse and escorts me to the examination room. 15 minutes later, in walks a doctor, not Dr Nguyen, who introduces himself. I look at him like a bull with a bastard calf and ask him what the hell he wanted. 'Just want to ask you some questions,' he says.
'Where is Dr Nguyen?'.
'Dr Nguyen will be along in a few minutes'.
By then I've gone aerobic, my blood pressure has gone through the roof and I say to that fresh faced doctor 'Fuck you, I'm outta here.', and to my car...drove home, wired for sound, sucking wind all the way.
(Went for a blood test necessary to get my thyroid pill prescription renewed.)
About an hour later at home, Dr.Nguyen phoned, to my huge surprise, apologetically and insisted on 'interviewing' me for about 20 minutes. I complained, in my usual grating voice that her scheduling person was an overbooking maniac. Dr.Nguyen, in spite of my bitching and complaining gave me survival guidance.
In my 91 1/2 years of being 'doctored', this and my next day experience with Dr.Wong, really stand out. I could have laid down and died in the Menlo Medical Clinic and my doctor would have stepped over my body to get to the next paying patient.
Phone me? The Menlo Medical Clinic? That's a joke.
The next day, schlepping my weary ass back down to the VA was more than I could contemplate. I cancelled my appointment with the great, Dr. Mitchell Wong my Primary Care physician, who then phoned to check up on me.
Dr.Wong put me through his wringer, checking up and advising me with his survival wisdom.That made two phone calls in 24 hours from two caring physicians.
Ah, but those thyroid pills were a problem that Dr.Wong solved. Dr. Wong leaned on the pharmacy to get the pills out the same day.
Lo and behold Angella from the VA pharmacy phoned at 5:30 PM to tell me that she was going to drop them off at my place after work.
The VA PAHCS is a shining model of fostering a culture of caring. How lucky can I be.
And yeah, no woman will have me, thank God, because I no longer drive at night. Gotta have concern for the other drivers on the road...Hello Lyft/Uber.
Starring Dr. Patricia Nguyen, Dr.Mitchell Wong and Angella in the pharmacy at the VA PAHCS.
Dr. Nguyen a pre-eminent cardiologist is always over booked but on my very recent date, Dr.Nguyen broke her previous record for keeping me waiting.
After sitting in the waiting room for 45 minutes, building up a head of indignant steam, a nurse came along to take my 'vitals': blood pressure, temperature, weight, etc. Then back to the fucking waiting room.
After another 15 minutes, along comes a different nurse and escorts me to the examination room. 15 minutes later, in walks a doctor, not Dr Nguyen, who introduces himself. I look at him like a bull with a bastard calf and ask him what the hell he wanted. 'Just want to ask you some questions,' he says.
'Where is Dr Nguyen?'.
'Dr Nguyen will be along in a few minutes'.
By then I've gone aerobic, my blood pressure has gone through the roof and I say to that fresh faced doctor 'Fuck you, I'm outta here.', and to my car...drove home, wired for sound, sucking wind all the way.
(Went for a blood test necessary to get my thyroid pill prescription renewed.)
About an hour later at home, Dr.Nguyen phoned, to my huge surprise, apologetically and insisted on 'interviewing' me for about 20 minutes. I complained, in my usual grating voice that her scheduling person was an overbooking maniac. Dr.Nguyen, in spite of my bitching and complaining gave me survival guidance.
In my 91 1/2 years of being 'doctored', this and my next day experience with Dr.Wong, really stand out. I could have laid down and died in the Menlo Medical Clinic and my doctor would have stepped over my body to get to the next paying patient.
Phone me? The Menlo Medical Clinic? That's a joke.
The next day, schlepping my weary ass back down to the VA was more than I could contemplate. I cancelled my appointment with the great, Dr. Mitchell Wong my Primary Care physician, who then phoned to check up on me.
Dr.Wong put me through his wringer, checking up and advising me with his survival wisdom.That made two phone calls in 24 hours from two caring physicians.
Ah, but those thyroid pills were a problem that Dr.Wong solved. Dr. Wong leaned on the pharmacy to get the pills out the same day.
Lo and behold Angella from the VA pharmacy phoned at 5:30 PM to tell me that she was going to drop them off at my place after work.
The VA PAHCS is a shining model of fostering a culture of caring. How lucky can I be.
And yeah, no woman will have me, thank God, because I no longer drive at night. Gotta have concern for the other drivers on the road...Hello Lyft/Uber.
~
Monday, May 4, 2015
One For All, All For One
'What
you see is what you get.'
'Take a flying fuck to the moon.'
Expressions of
independence learned while in the Army but well used by me since those days.
The
strange part is that independent thinking and being a GI were not even kissin'
cousins.Except when you were diving for cover when the bullets started flying.
Then we became heavy thinkers. By then we had learned, the hard way, that the
bullets were not our friends.
For
some weird reason, my days in the service didn't come into my daily stream of
conscious until I was around 84 years old. No one ever asked about them and I
never spoke of them.Once in a long while someone would ask why I limped. Always
had some smart ass answer. Never said that I was hit on Okinawa.
Putting
myself out as some kind of hero or patriot seemed silly then, as it does
now. We were wherever we were because that was where we were supposed to be.
But
going to the VA Palo Alto Health Care facilities snapped me to attention. Seeing
vets who looked worse than I did (no small trick) and still being alive brought
history back to me. Lots of vets with WWII baseball caps in my early days at the
vets.
Now
it's the Korean and Vietnam War vets who tool around in their motorized wheel
chairs, mostly overweight and looking like shit.
WW
II vets, like me, die every day. Hardly ever see a vet with a WWII baseball cap
at the VA health care facilities these days.
Now
the Korean, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq vets look at the likes of me and think
that we are fucking freaks. Freaks maybe. Fucking freaks, hardly possible. At 91
1/2 my schlong is a faucet which drips from time to time. Hardly a fucking sex tool. A major league generator of the need for fresh, dry underwear.
At
the end of the day the most meaningful memory, for me, of the service was the
deep seated feeling of family. A feeling that is sorely lacking in my life
these days.
As a
first generation American, with immigrant parents, I was lucky as a kid to have
lived 'family' to the hilt. Huge family dinners: 'break the fast', passover, on
and on. Squabbles but feelings of family reigned.
The
Army, through fist fights, harsh words and hard times was the ultimate in
'family' living.We were, all of us, in it together. One for all, all for one.
~
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