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.

~

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.

~

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.

~

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.

~

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.

~

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.

~

Constipation

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.

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.

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.

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.

~

'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.

~

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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.

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