GUILT, SOBRIETY, DROP DEAD, AN OLD MAN'S UNDERPANTS

Rancho La Puerto probably means nothing to 99.9% of humanity. It is a holistic fitness, mind fucking, expensive facility outside of San Diego in Mexico...It was my first ex wife's favorite fitness, mind elevating place. There I was, busted on my fat ass, while the Princess was living high on the hog trying to shrink her ass. Not doable. Elevate her mind? Maybe...

I had given the Princess 100% of our substantial assets and had taken on 100% of our substantial debt. But for this guilt ridden Jew, it was a great idea. After all, the Princess really needed to recuperate from a 27 year ride on my roller coaster of married life. Also, as a guilt ridden Jew, it gave me the over the top feeling of martyrdom.

So, all in all I was as happy as a pig in shit. After all, my fucking suicide attempt could have been successful. Rich or poor I was still looking down at the grass, with a great AA sponsor, Pat Cooper who I loved. Though, it did bother me that Pat told me, everyday, that I was crazy and should institutionalize myself. Advice I didn't take.

Our divorce wasn't final yet and the Princess was, as usual, attending Al Anon meetings and seeing a shrink to boot. The shrink, Mrs. Mindick, and the Al Anon women seemed to spend a lot of time telling the Princess that I was a total, irredeemable fucking bum.

When we were still living together, I had always known when the Princess went to see the shrink or went to an Al Anon meeting.  And so did the kids. The Princess would always, that night, have a life style changing pronouncement, sometimes two, for all of us. In one ear and out the other; Al Anon for the ignorant is a support group for husbands, wives and kids of serious drinkers.

While the Princess was working on her ass and freeing her mind from my influence at the Rancho I decided to turn off all that fucking noise. First I went to her Al Anon meeting. I was one of two guys in the room. The other guy was, when push came to shove, chasing pussy. Sitting around a big table each woman spoke of her difficulties in being married to a drinking schmuck called 'husband'.

When my turn came I said "My name is Bernie and I’m an alcoholic. I'm here to tell you that I am not a fucking telephone pole. When you give advice about me to Bonnie, bear in mind that I'm a living, breathing human being."And I stood up and walked out. I'm sure that those broads were horrified, shocked and pissed off that I had the gall to effectively tell them to drop dead. The guy, also a drunk, loved it.

Then I went home (No cell phone those days,1973-4) and called Mrs. Mindick  and gave her the same message. Poor Mrs. Mindick, she too was horrified at my phone call. But after 23 years of seeing shrinks, it was easy for me to manipulate her.

When the Princess got home and found out what I had done she went off the fucking wall. As a Confirmed Californian she shouted that I had 'invaded her space'. Did all that action change anything? Nah, but it made me feel warm all over. Like a clam in mud. Telling people to fuck off is, gratefully, part of my DNA....

And then there's the one about the old couple in the doctor's office with the doctor giving the old man last minute instructions. "When you come back”, the doctor says, “bring urine and feces samples". The old man being hard of hearing turns to his wife and asks," What did he say?".The old lady replies "He said, bring your underwear the next time you come here". ...A little too close to home...

Free Association

-->

There was a Jewish oil man in Wyoming who was being offered, to buy, a ranch that included some Black Angus cattle that were being grass fed on the ranch. The oilman reacted with a classic line (true story)... "I never own anything that's eating while I'm sleeping"

...The Italians have a great line, "Unless you can stand ingratitude, never do anything for anybody". Makes it essential to do good things for good's sake - not for the reward. Ever wonder, as I do, what 40-year-old hookers turn to? Probably marry guys who have little interest in sex… 

In the seventies the Regency Hotel bar in The Big Apple used to attract older (thirty something) hookers. Very expensive. The crème de la crème of hooker bars in NYC was the Sherry Netherland Hotel bar. Knockout looking women, seriously expensive (sadly, way out of my pay scale)...But the opening question no matter what the pay scale was, "Are you a working girl?”  

And the all time fun bar in NYC was Maxwell's Plum...Always 4-5 deep with young guys and gals all looking to fall in love for an hour or two (wham, bam, slam, good bye ma’am). But I couldn't pick up a hooker or a straight woman if I had $100 bill pasted to my forehead. Happily I'd quit drinking by then.... 

And in Midland, Texas there was Lonnie, the bellman and an absolutely great guy, who was Midland's premier pimp (great personality with a stable of girls at his disposal). In the 70's Midland was a booming oil town and hookers were attracted to it. The last I heard Lonnie was shining shoes and making everyone laugh...

Calgary, Canada was the last of the Wild West towns with the hookers patrolling "hotel row". Very fun town.... Drinking and using hookers wasn't too swift. Could hardly remember what happened except I that I always had less money in my pocket the next day. Sober and being able to remember what happened much better...

In retrospect I find it remarkable that I did my business and evolved into a one-man investment "bank". With it all I developed was a deep store of knowledge of the oil and gas business plus a formidable address book of folks that are big time in the world of finance. I raised some $1 billion (adjusted for inflation) from blue chip pension funds while making good friends with the people I solicited for investment. I made bunches of money which I gave away or spent, enjoying myself as I went. 

Yeah, hookers were beneficiaries of my profligate spending. Life was (is) good. The alternative ain't too swift.

Rolled, Hedging, Fitness

Going to Israel, 1970, lay over in N.Y., get drunk, pick up hooker, pass out, no sex, get rolled....didn't miss a beat. Go to Israel next day but not feeling too swift or too smart (aka really stupid). Flew El Al, First Class, sat next to the head of Mossad. Not much conversation. Drinks served in very small glasses. Being a high velocity drinker I asked for my third drink within 10 minutes of taking off, the flight attendant looked at me and asked with that Israeli intonation, "Another one?"(emphasis on "another"). It took me 13 months of shuttling to Israel, while trying to promote seriously wealthy U.S. Jews, to conclude that Moses had made a significant error. He should have turned right instead of left and the Jews would have the oil - though in past years there was a huge off shore Israel natural gas discovery (in those days there were more Jews in New York City than Jews in Israel). In the beginning I went through several months of trying to connect with someone in the Israeli bureaucracy with zero success. So one night (my time) I phoned Golda Meir, the Israeli Prime Minister, spoke with someone in her office who put me in touch with Zvi Dinstein, the Israeli Energy Minister. Trying to raise money to drill for oil in Israel was a great ride. I grew to love unbelievably bureaucratic Israel and it’s over the top rude people. I have always contended that if you combine the rudeness of a New Yorker with the rudeness of a Parisian, you have an Israeli. But I loved them for what they were and are- a relentlessly creative and imaginative culture, rudeness and all. A word to the wise… Hedging oil and or gas prices ain't for neophytes or the weak of stomach. Check the airlines with their fancy computer driven models - lost reams of money playing the hedging game. "Sleep is one of the most vital workouts". Stay optimistic, stay fit (walk a lot) and laugh a lot for a long life.

24 Hours With The Hardest Drinking Hardest Living Couple I have Ever Known

In the seventies, some 25% of all the onshore oil and gas produced in the U.S. was produced within 180 miles of Midland, Texas, the capital of hard drink, hard living old fashioned wildcatters. Entrepreneurs to the end. Traveling with any of them was an experience.

Mike was the ultimate hard living oil man. He started his business life as a salesman with a tire company and evolved into a drilling contractor/producer in the oil business. He lived a lot longer (into his seventies) than I had predicted. He made, lost and remade a fortune. Mike and I spoke a few weeks before he died, and he told me he was happy. "I've lived one hell of a life", said Mike.

I traveled in the U.S. of A in the 70's and early 80's, mostly in Mike's "burner" (aka private jet) after he made his first fortune. Mike's wife at that time, Edith, was a classic. Great looking gal but one who had too many face lifts...her face seemed frozen in time. Edith was a terrific drinking companion for Mike with an appetite for booze that seemed unquenchable.

One afternoon, I was "assigned" to baby sit her in the United Airlines lounge in L.A. while Mike was making a phone call. She already had some drinks before we took the cab to the airport. Her taste was simple...chilled vodka (didn't smell, or so she thought). She sipped the vodka through a sterling straw she had made by Tiffany. Mike showed up saying "I'm thirsty". Edith had put away at least five drinks before he arrived. He then inhaled three or four while Edith kept pace with him until our flight was called. On the ride from L.A. to S.F. (50 minutes) both Edith and Mike inhaled, I repeat, inhaled, at least four drinks each. That night at dinner they had after dinner drinks, by the gulps, without eating dinner. They got into a roaring, drunken argument, and we had to go back to the Mark.

The next day Mike and I made a corporate presentation at a North Beach Restaurant in San Francisco. But before the presentation, Mike had at least two Bloody Mary's and then had a couple of belts of booze plus wine at lunch. I was pissing my brains out after consuming what felt like gallons of Perrier water. Mike stayed at the restaurant with two of my friends. They ordered a "six pack of stingers on the rocks", waiting for the next drink was too tough for them. When I returned to the hotel, Edith phoned my room and asked me where Mike was. I told her and she pleaded with me to go get him as she thought she might be drawing her last breaths. So I did, feeling like an idiot. My two friends and Mike were roaring drunk, and I took Mike back to the hotel.

That evening, we were going out for dinner with some investment friends of mine. Edith came down to the lobby lounge looking regal (she was tall) in a white dress. She announced that she felt like hell and only by drinking two glasses of milk and bourbon was she able to join us. I knew that I was in for a very long night.

There was a great looking hooker sitting by herself, sipping wine and I went over and asked her if she was a "working" girl to which she proudly said "yes". She became my companion for the evening (she saved Mike's life with the Heimlich treatment later in the evening). The hooker was a school teacher moonlighting as a hooker but only giving blow jobs. She was okay, I enjoyed it. More on travel with Mike and Edith in my next blog.....

Dead Dick

To paraphrase Willie Nelson, it is very sad for me that my "dick" died before the rest of me. The other day in a family restaurant a young woman offered me a lap dance. "Lap Dance"? I asked "Are you crazy? It would take one hell of lot more than a lap dance to bring my dead "dick" back to life". I did suggest that a "bj" might do it, but the "bj" wasn't acceptable.

But there were times in my first single life and at the very tail end of my first, long drawn out marriage when "it" was very active if not always strong. Stumbling across two street women from Mosambique in Paris and ending up in bed with them at the Muerice made for a fabulous menage a trois. Too bad I was so drunk that I can't remember why it was so fabulous.

And a hooker in Denver so unbelievable that when I woke up few hundred dollars lighter, I couldn't remember what happened to my money. Every drunk in the world thinks while totally "in the bag" that he is the last of the great Latin lovers. But it wasn't all wild and crazy when I was drinking. In AA (where I owe 35 years extra of life and where I learned a ton) the standard line is "the worst day sober is better than the best day while drinking." I don't subscribe to that notion. I had some great times while in the bag.

We had an apartment in S.F., and I spent many evenings at the North Beach restaurant eating, drinking and laughing and doing bizarre things. My many trips to N.Y getting loaded and laughing all the way with the flight attendants were fun, full of accomplishments and a great way to get away from the Ice Princess. Going to Israel seven times in 13 months in a failed attempt to organize a fund to raise money to drill for oil in Israel was ludicrous. Everyone knows that Moses made a mistake and turned left instead of right so the Arabs have the oil. I am sure that I took a few of those trips just to get the hell out of the house.

Being married to the Ice Princess wasn't like spending a day at the beach. Drinking, laughing, coming, going and doing was much more fun. Who sober would invite the entire crew of a National Airline flight to dinner at the North Beach restaurant after a flight from New Orleans. Bizarre? For sure. Fun? Absolutely!!! Laughed all the way to a huge check. Regrets? None!!!!

No Choice

After swallowing a full prescription of Valium and drinking a fifth of scotch, I passed out. When I woke up a few hours later, I felt like the all time loser. I couldn't even fucking kill myself successfully. So you see, I didn't go to AA because I was looking for a new social life.

October 30, 1973 was the last time I ingested any alcohol or mind altering drug. AA was an unbelievable and great life changing experience. But I've never subscribed to the AA mantra that my worst day sober was better than my best day drunk. I had some fabulous times while in the bag. Sadly I don't remember all of them. But when it takes two shaking hands to bring one scotch over ice to your mouth, you know you have a problem, and I had a big one.

I had tried AA several times, but after a few meetings I would just blow it off. You would have thought that being forced to take a cab in S.F. to find my car because I was half gone when I parked it would have been enough to convince me that booze and me weren't even kissin' cousins. A typical drive back to Portola Valley would start at Ruggiero's on Pine Street at 4:00 PM (didn't want to hit the traffic was my excuse) where I’d knocked back more than a few pops. Then it was to the garage with a quick stop at another bar. Once in the car, I’d stop on the Embarcadero to pick up a pint to nip on while on my way home. But before actually hitting the freeway, I stopped at a bar frequented by merchant seaman (I walked in with my Brook's Brother's suit and everyone looked at me like I was a bull with a bastard calf). Finally, I’d drive home to face the Formidable Princess. Now, that really wasn't like spending a day at the beach.

This time, however, I knew it was different because I concluded that I had no choice. I hit rock bottom.