Life At 93

Staying hydrated and dry simultaneously is a major challenge.

Passing gas and bowel movements, often simultaneous, sounds like a loud explosion. Always unexpected and gives new meaning to the old army expression of 'blow it out your ass'. (Thank you Jack Tunnell.)

Diagnosed with lung cancer at 93 has reduced my life expectancy from immortality to God knows how long. Shooting for 8 years of remission. Though living until I'm 104, sounds indescribable. Good or bad, suit yourself. A lot depends on the size of your bank account.

In spite of being a 'recovering alcoholic' for 43 years, I still miss being 'whiskey smart'...Don't miss feeling awful (aka feeling like shit) after an evening of sincere drinking.

Two 'walkers', both distasteful. One seems to incorporate strength training. I check for laughers, my so called biceps, after using that walker. Never any change. Instant change a pipe dream.

Getting old was fun. Breathing hard after sex was good. Breathing hard after walking 40 steps or having a bowl movement, no fun at all. Heart rate out the window. But at least I still have one.

Getting dressed and undressed a stretching workout; 25 minutes, coming and going. Haven't put my warmups on backwards lately.

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Up, Up and Away

'Old age gives a whole new meaning to 'blow it out your ass.'... Jack Tunnell


Getting dressed in the morning becomes a 15 minute stretching exercise including a need to check the exercise sweat's pockets to be sure that I didn't put the sons of bitches on backwards.

Taking a diuretic causes me to wonder if I'm pissing my life away out of my dripping faucet. All the while wondering if I will ever get a good night's sleep again. Yeah a 'wet dream' would have a different meaning at almost 93.

I do fantasize about resurrecting my dead dick. No sexual disruption here since there ain't no sex.

Easy breathing and pushing 93 ain't easy to come by. Throw in replacing an aorta heart valve has made easy breathing a real challenge.

Thanks to my fabulous daughter in-law, Lisa, my recent round trip to, in and from the VA Pulmonary section was uneventful except when I went to get out of Lisa's car the wrong way. Exiting the car became my 'workout of the day'.

The blood test went well the second time around. The first time the needle wouldn't stay in. Not an unfamiliar sensation for me. The number of blood tests I've had should qualify me to being a pin cushion.

The folks in pulmonary at the VA were great. Ramon did the testing while Carrie, who really should dislike me since I hung up on her previously! She however, was extraordinarily nice to me, while generating a ton of Jewish guilt in me.

As part of the test Ramon asked if I could walk 5 minutes, not mandatory, to which I replied that if I could do that I wouldn't be there for the testing.

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92+

Kvetch, groan, but be happy.

Shrinking feet or growing feet? Either one works for me. Shoes easy to put on.

Gas or bowel movement? Bad risk to reward ratio if I choose gas route! Can get messy.

I use the stool!

First call at 1:00 AM! Second call at 2:30-3:00AM. The real moment of truth comes at around 5:00AM. Should I give up the fight and just piss in bed? Haven't chosen pissing in bed, yet.

Hydrating all day, with a weak bladder, results in a lot of pissing, but not all at once.

Being forced to use a 'walker' ain't too swift. But being bed bound or dead are poor fucking alternatives.

Wham, bam, slam!!! On my back again Mam!

A so called 'Care Giver' neglected to lock the wheels of my wheelchair which slid out from under me when I tried to sit down. I flew threw the air with the greatest of ease except that I wasn't on a fucking flying trapeze.

Roses are red, violets are blue, always walking up the down stairway when you're 92.

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Constipation, Poker, Mud

My all time prevention and cure for constipation is Chow Mein.

No stool softeners or pills stuck up my ass. Been there done that. Chow Mein works the best. Looking for a restaurant to sponsor and pay me for my Constipation Cure. Best to use restaurants with home delivery service. Chow Mein sometimes works in a hurry.

More Jews died in Kansas City from heart attacks going for an inside straight than from any other reason....The winners tell stories, while the losers scream, 'Deal, deal, deal already'....I was winning and winning, until I lost...Poker mantras from the 1940's and 50's.

The over two months aboard a hospital ship coming back to the states (Wilmington, Ca) were spent shooting craps, playing a bastard form of bridge and real poker. Nights often produced wonderful wet dreams.Wrote my folks almost every day. Letters censored (4 letter words, okay) and mailed from the various port stops.

Betty Sheets has described Seoul, Korea as a 'huge, modern city'. In 1945/46 it was a huge, not so modern, fucking mud hole when it rained in particular. You were literally up to your ass in mud. Damned little to recommend Seoul for an abrasive Bronx Jew, like me who never heard of Korea until he was there as a Sargent in the Signal Corps, which like my sex life, is gone. Long gone.

D Day barely mentioned in the press this year except for advertising D Day retail sales. Korean War and its veterans are now invisible. The National WWII Museum, in New Orleans, should be a model for our other wars. Thank you Peter Foss and others.

Driving at 16 was wonderful. Driving at 92 is dangerous for other drivers on the road. Hello Lyft.

Riddle me this:When did an operation become a procedure? And why? Older people look at me like a bull with a bastard calf when I use procedure to describe my aorta valve replacement.

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A Drunk And A Fool

When you turn 90 years of age, you revert back to childhood aging and every 6 months becomes as meaningful as bowel movements. As does keeping your feet elevated to get the fluid (aka 'pee') distributed through your body instead of sinking to your ankles which then become the size of soft balls.

So, I'm 92 1/2, with a new, 5 month old, aorta heart valve and slowly recovering with 'slowly' being the operative word. In order to avoid even borderline hypochondria, Dr. Google is out of my life. Dr. Patricia Nguyen a cardiologist of the VA/Stanford is terrific. Beats the hell out of Dr. Google.

Constipation is gone. The cure is in too much Chicken Chow Mein or Chicken Pot Pie. Either one will give you pleasure while chowing down, later you might decide that constipation is more better.

5 different prescription pills is my emotional limit. If you're Jewish, as I am, every kvetch becomes life threatening. Going into a hospital invites a UTI.

An ambulance ride ain't like spending a day at the beach. Two, resulting from being a careless outdoor cycler were my fate.

And along comes Memorial Day to remind me of the fallen and gives me reasons to be grateful for still being alive, having lived through two marriages, Okinawa plus a ton of travel and barrels of booze.

Al Brodie was the father of John who, in turn, was a star quarterback at Stanford and S.F. 49ers. Al died, I was told, of cirrhosis of the liver around 60 years old.

Al lived in Atherton, would walk  (He knew driving was a no,no.) to Beltramo's (a bar, liquor store on the edge of Atherton) at around 11 and drink hard booze til noon. Then walk to Fabbro's a drinker's bar and restaurant and have warm red wine with roast beef and spaghetti. Then back to Beltramo's for some serious drinking. This was a daily weekday routine. I would join him for the late afternoon, early evening stint.

His other son, Bill, was 86'd out of almost every local bar. He'd get plastered and look to get into fist fights. I think he also died of cirrhosis.

Me? God takes care of drunks and fools and since I qualify on both scores, I am still alive at 92 1/2.

71 Years Ago, Today

So the old man and his wife are in the doctor's office and the doctor tells the old man that he, the doctor, needs a sample of the old man's stool and a urine sample as well.

The old man, whose hearing was not too swift, turned to his wife and asked,'What did he say?' The old lady says, 'The doctor said we need to bring him a pair of your underpants.'

Old age brings almost a new life style with it. Having an aortic valve replacement virtually guarantees it. My stamina still ain't worth a hoot in hell. Or anywhere else.

'Maloney, I think I'm hit'.

'Ah Feshbach, you're full of shit.'

'But Jerry, I felt a huge thump hitting my left leg and there ain't no flying rocks on this fucking mud hole.' Okinawa, April 12, 1945. - 71 years ago.

Jerry Maloney then screamed at me to look, which I did. Saw a hole in my left leg that, at the time, looked to be the size of a silver dollar. Then I went nuts. Started screaming, not out of pain but out of pure indignation of having a bullet go through my left leg while in a fox hole, that I helped dig, in a fucking place I'd never heard of until we arrived: Okinawa.

That was the bad news. The good news was that if the bullet had been higher and to the right I would have been castrated and not enjoyed a drunken menage a trois, years later, in Paris with two hookers from Mozambique.

It had to be fun but I was so drunk that I remember zero. Except the hookers guaranteed me a fun experience and why would two hookers lie to me?

The other memorable happening on April 12,1945 was Roosevelt died that day. He made the obits. I got to write my Mom and Pop and tell them that I could still make babies and how lucky I was.

But then every one knows who their Mother is but only God knows who their Father is.

71 years ago, to the day.

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92 and 5 Months, Chomping At The Bit

It ain't easy to become a Body Attached To Pills.

First you have to be either growing old or be old. Every month, looking down at the grass, counts so 92 and 5 months really counts. Also gives you a taste of being a kid who was always 'going on' something.

As you grow older the quantity of pills increases. These days, my pills total 7 and include a water pill, stool softener and a 'heart pill'. That so I'm covered from head to toe. It doesn't include the stuff I shoot up my nose for my sinuses.

At 92, you measure your life in months. When the appointment person at the VA made a mid May appointment for me I thanked him for his optimism on my longevity.

Due in a major way to Jim and Sheila Ochowicz plus Jen Donat who inspired me to continue when I felt like slacking off of being a fitness freak. They made me feel special all the time for being old and active. Even I did look, at 89, look ridiculous, pot belly and all, in tight cycling clothes, expensive or not.

Not updating my Facebook is a no brainer since I currently look like an emaciated pill.

Up, Up and Away in My Flying Balloon still looking down at the grass.

The King of Insults

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.

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.

Mind boggling Trump. A reprise.

OLE ORANGE HAIR

Me and Donald Trump aren't even kissin' cousins and I would be stunned if Ole Orange Hair would even remember me. 

I am certain that he saves his memory for people he can still use or sue or preferentially, in thinking about himself. 

Some years ago a friend at G.E. Pension Fund decided that it would be a good idea that The Genius and I should meet. So I put my fat lower case 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. So we met in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel for lunch. His Royal Highness, my G.E. friend and me, The Ultimate Jet Setting lower case jewish Dummy.

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 the ultimate in frustration having been treated rudely and with zero respect 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). 

After lunch, I got back to my hotel and called Trump's office. I told his assistant that I wanted to see Trump immediately. His assistant told me that his calendar was too full for me which almost pushed me out the 10th story window. I pointed out that I had taken a serious trip 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 and he would see me.

The "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 about ADD when he was in the third grade that 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 says 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 a NYC restaurant a few years ago. He was standing under a bright light fixture which made his hair shine ORANGE.

P.S. Without GE Pension Fund and the education and financing they provided, Trump would have been another very smart failed RE operator who earlier had needed his Daddy to bail him out. Brains and all...but those are two other Trump stories left for another day.

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