Free Association

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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.

Golden Years

As I learned in A.A., God does indeed take care of drunks and fools. I qualify on both scores. Monday, April 12, is the 65th anniversary of my being hit on Okinawa, a place I had never heard of and took me a while to remember how to spell. And while everyone seems to think that at my advanced age that I am now living in my golden years, I can assure one and all of the pure bull shit of that conclusion.

My golden years started in my callow youth and ended in my late 70's. Those in between years including the ones in the service were, in retrospect, my golden years. I was a profligate spender my entire life...on my family, my friends and certainly myself. I was always certain that I could replace the considerable amount of money that I spent every day. And replace it I did into my late 70's. I loved every minute of giving it away and spending it.

The first sign of the end of my golden years came when my dick started to die. I went from hookers galore, loose and easy, to a once in awhile triumph of being able to do it. Hookers, as I have often said, were wonderful. For a few hundred dollars, I got to fall in love for a half an hour a time. I didn't have to make any conversation and the burden of proof was never on me. And when it was over she was gone. No cuddling!! My decline during my Golden Years became really apparent when pictures of naked, beautiful young women with big boobs (aka tits) failed to titillate me. Then when people started asking me if I was retired, I knew that my golden years had, for the most part, ended. I lived my golden years believing that moderation was fatal and plenty fucking boring as well. In my ongoing view, very little done in excess was very little done.

I did for doing's sake, not to generate a reward. I have always wanted to, and still want to, touch people's lives and the devil take the hind most. Putting myself under the gun (as in spending more than I made) provided the impetus (aka adrenaline) that I needed to keep me in money making motion. Sadly, I think my contretemps wore my first ex wife out by the time she was 23 (She was 22 when we were married). I am sure, in retrospect, that she actively disliked me very soon after getting married. Probably within the first two weeks of our marriage. Her bedtime headaches became legion. But I ended up with four great kids with her.

So here I am, 65 years after taking one on Okinawa, as happy as a pig in shit with at least 70 Golden Years. The last five years haven't been too swift, but with 70 Golden Years out of 86 total years my life has been more than just okay. My Golden Years started with my first erection at around the age of 10. Getting hit on Okinawa 65 years ago, is something to remember and for some weird reason, something I'm proud of. And who the hell is Simon Murray?

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!!!!

Chasing Hookers

In the 70’s, before herpes and aids, N.Y. was "hooker heaven" and a "travellin' man's" paradise whatever his economic limits were. My oil and natural gas industry clients (the ultimate hooker chasing group) in N.Y. each had his particular routine. Not all chased hookers. The way to be sure of the woman's occupation was to ask "Are you a working girl"?

Set routines for my clients/friends were common place. With one of my favorite guys, we would start with a business dinner at Christ Cellar. Then we would walk up the street to a bar that was habituated by older, worn out hookers so nothing really happened except serious drinking. Then it was to Maxwell's Plum which was jam packed with amateurs interested in one night stands. But that wouldn't do, too much verbal foreplay at the bar. Bear in mind that, for me, it was boring going from one bar to the next since I wasn't drinking. Then it was to the Regency Hotel with very high priced hookers (in their late twenties early thirties).

Before any action could begin, the bar tender had to be paid off. Then the hookers would interact with the John. This was out of my league at that time. We stayed at the Waldorf Towers with its small lobby and elevator operators where every one knew my friend, his wife and kids. So it was an exercise getting the hooker into the hotel and up to the room. The remarkable thing was having a lucid business meeting at 8:00 the next morning in Peacock Alley.

Horses, Hookers and Grab Ass

Horses

When I brought the white face cows back home, I knew I needed a horse so I could check up on them. That night I went to a B'nai B'rith meeting in Mason, Never Live There, City. Max, a Jewish horse dealer, was at the meeting, and I told him of my need. He then described this great horse he owned which he would sell to me for $250 (1952 dollars). I bought the horse sight unseen, and Max delivered it. Most evenings I saddled him up (a chore which I hated) and played cowboy (no cowboy hat or cowboy boots) and went out to check on those animals.

I noticed that the horse had a peculiarity. He seemed to want to join another horse on an adjoining farm whenever that other horse neighed. One day (no kidding) the cows literally got into the corn. I saddled up that damn animal and went out to get the cows back into the pasture. Once I was in the corn, the neighbor horse neighed and my horse became uncontrollable as he wanted to join that other horse. I had an unbelievably scary struggle to bring that SOB under control and get the cows back where they belonged. That night I went to another B'nai B'rith meeting and there was Max. I proposed that I would pay him another $250 if he would get that horse off of my place by 6:00 AM the following morning. Lesson? Jews, horses and cattle don't mix too well if at all.

Hookers

In the old days, before herpes and AIDS you could if you so chose get a great hooker for a few hundred dollars. You could "fall in love" for a half hour at a time, never have to make conversation, you had no burden of proof and when it was over she was gone. No cuddling required.

Grab Ass
My first ex-wife was a freak for associating with the Stanford Faculty folks. Because of her, we had become very friendly with a Nobel Prize winner and his wife. My ex-wife and the wife of the Professor played varicose veins doubles together. We were invited to their home for dinner quite often. There were additional Stanford Faculty members at these dinners including another (would you believe it?) Nobel Prize winner.

First it was the booze, then it was the wine followed by those vomit producing after dinner drinks (the vomit came much later). Then it was pushing the furniture back and dancing. Then playing grab ass and grab a boob or two with everyone else's wife became the pleasure of the evening. Me? I couldn't care less. I was happy as a clam in mud getting and staying loaded and then taking everyone on the road's life in my hands by driving home.