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?

Dead Dick

It ain't easy staying motivated when your 85 and even masturbating doesn't work any more (my dick really did die before the rest of me). Not even looking at great looking women with "strong" fit bodies or even thinking about Bill Clinton style sex (which I endorse and loved) doesn't do anything for me anymore. Reminds me of that bad old gag "How do you stop a woman from giving head? Marry her!"

But I do stay motivated to stay alive and functioning through a fitness regime, devouring newspapers and books, trying to do deals, and remembering with laughs and fondness the experiences of my rich and unusual life (the Ice Princess would and did call me and my life's attitude "bizarre"). If you take care of your body your mind will follow. My four year stint working as a farmer, a Bronx lower case jew, slopping hogs was an absolute non starter. A real fucking, living, breathing nightmare that time has turned into a four year sequence of improbable but very funny stories. Like buying a bull with a "broken tool", selling hogs in Chicago and Austin, Mn. Thinking, in error, I could get fucked less in Chicago than at the Swift packing plant in Mason City, buying diseased Missouri feeder pigs, buying wet corn and even wetter, moldy hay. It was in Iowa where I really became acquainted with "If you can't fuck your friends, who can you fuck? Your enemies won't let you."

But at the end of the day, all of those experiences have helped to keep me laughing and always optimistic. I used to think that "It can't get any worse" but it did. And then the super pessimist, the Ice Princess would literally scream at me "You're such a Pollyana. Why should things get any better?" I would respond with, "Because I am going to make them better." And I did!!! So even today, at 85, I just recently got a testosterone shot to increase my energy level and perhaps even bring my dick back from the dead. I am still trying to live as though I'm 40. If that "thing" ever snaps to attention again with or without Viagra or testosterone you will will see pigs fly .

Being A Garmento 1953

One way for a marriage to stay in tact is for one or both of the spouses to travel a lot. It takes a lot longer for the couple to get bored with one another (aka sick of one another…and this is Noah talking about the flood). My first bout with getting out of the house for at least four or five days at a time was in peddling dresses on the road (aka travelin' man living). It was wonderful. The Princess didn't have to worry about having sex with me, and I didn't have to worry about pleasing her. I was, to turn a phrase, "pussy whipped". Also I couldn't figure out whether I was a lousy lover or that the Ice Princess didn't care about sex. Carries over to that old line that the best way to stop a married man from masturbating is to get him a divorce.

I had no dress selling competency. I got the job by convincing the bosses that I was a powerful salesman and that they should take a gamble on me. I spent three weeks working in the showroom (1440 Broadway) to learn. I had volunteered to work for nothing but the boss couldn't handle that so I received a small retainer.

My first territory was Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Eastern Kansas, Wisconsin, and Eastern Nebraska. A lot of two lane roads, 60-70 miles between towns. I could drive through a target town without realizing that I had gone through it. I then had to turn around and go back to the fucking town. When N.Y. sent me sample dresses, they would enclose a note describing the fabric. It was not until I covered N.Y. and Pennsylvania that I started making money and really loved the work. The joy of not having to be pussy whipped by the Princess was huge as well.

In the Midwest, you would get to some no name town with three dress shops. The owner of one would be out of town, the owner of the second wouldn't look at my line and the third would look but wouldn't buy. Very unpleasant. Every night in the hotel room, I would bang out thank you notes on a Royal Portable typewriter. "Sorry I missed you", "Sorry you wouldn't look at my line" and "Sorry that you didn't see anything you liked". The next time I hit that no name town, each of the owners greeted me with open arms (if they were there). I became a top salesman, but the biggest pay period I would have had turned to shit when the corduroy factory that produced the fabric for my hottest selling dress burned down.

The Ice Princess' father just plain didn't like his kid being married to a garmento travelin' man for sure. The fact is, he just didn't like me. Sadly it took me a very long time to realize that the dislike ran in the family including the Princess' sister. The Mother had died so I was relatively safe there.

No Thaw

After being married a relatively short period of time (11 years) and having, during that time, helped manage a tanning and dyeing plant (converting sheepskin into mouton lamb), being a "travelin man" (sold dresses on the road), farmed, I traveled for a wholesale automobile auction and was selling cars. I arrived home one night and announced to my then wife that I had taken a job as a stockbroker. She broke down in tears (she could cry a river just looking at me). That poor woman's life's dream was to have a quiet, table top smooth life, and I was giving her none of that.

Her idea of "living" was slow suicide for me. After moving from Mason City, Never Live There, Iowa, I was making a damn good living pushing new and used cars out the door. I was one of the top 3 West Coast Pontiac salesmen with yearly earnings of some $25,000 per year in 1957 dollars ($195,191 in today's money). And I was giving it up, with a wife, four kids and a dog (A Sheltie) for a starting draw (against commissions) of $1,200,1957 dollars a month. Why?

Well we lived next door to a very smart guy who was a Security Analyst with Fireman's Fund and was investing personal money. He kept telling stories about his big stock market successes, and I thought "Shit, I'll never make 'real money' peddling cars." So I went looking for a brokerage firm who would hire a car salesman who didn't know a stock from a bond.

And I found one that hired me. I promptly went on a self education binge and developed into one of the top broker/salesman/security analysts in the US and made more money than I deserved. But even that didn't help the Ice Princess 's attitude towards me. She had developed an ingrained dislike of me. Being slow (but not stupid) it took me some 30 years to recognize her dislike. But I refused to accept it and continued to try to get her approval until she passed away.

She, while dieing in the hospital, gave my kids instructions for me, not to phone, come by or send flowers. And when she left this world for the next, I was not to be allowed to her memorial service. Wow…I just never ever made it with the Princess.

Her Idea

1959
If it was big it was bad. If it was new it was bad. And if it was my idea it was absolutely awful. Because I had worked in and out of 8 "careers" in 13 years, my first ex wife the Princess had little or no respect for my business judgment or me in general. She also suffered from NIH (The Not Invented Here illness). However, new ideas for spending money on her were never rejected.

A real estate friend of mine phoned me about 13 acres for sale in a place called Portola Valley, 10 miles outside of Palo Alto. I went out to see it without a word to the Princess. There were 10 home sites on a stunning piece of property with redwood, giant yew and copper beech trees. The sale price was $70,000. So after some negotiations I bought it for $65,000 (roughly $473,000 in today's money). The quickest way to give a Jew an ulcer is to take him up on his first offer (I started at $55,000). I then had to come up with a way to borrow the money and "sell" the Princess on buying this property.

Success with her meant that the purchase had to be her idea. Being an accomplished promoter, I organized a family picnic on the property which didn't have a real road to drive to and through. The Princess immediately fell in love with the property and asked me if it was for sale. I told that I thought so and would check on it. She then suggested that it would be a wonderful place to build a house and that I should urgently pursue its purchase not knowing that I had already bought it. I will explain in the next blog why it was one of the great buys and living experiences of all time. And, incidentally, it was 100% levered with a 90 day time fuse.

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.

Beware Faculty Parties and Society Functions With Dancing

So after my first wife threw me out (she had moved from resentment to active dislike and distaste of me...a blessing in disguise) I was invited to what turned out to be my last faculty dinner, thank God. It was a regular gee whiz sit down dinner where the conversation was "scripted" to include...1) Campus real estate values 2) Politics 3) Bigotry and 4) Religion. Now that really was boring, particularly when the Stanford Provost started on the similarities of Catholic confession and psychiatry. Having spent some 23 years (on and off mostly on) going to shrinks. (My first ex-wife felt strongly that there was "something wrong with me" and my "bizarre behavior", her view of me) I resented the Provost's comparison. So I asked him if he was a Catholic. "No" he said. Then asked if he had ever been to confession. "No" he said. I then told him that it was apparent to me that he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. That capped off a pre-dinner conversation with one of the wives who had learned that three of my kids were/are Scientologists and she tried to lecture me starting with quoting a negative magazine article about Scientology. I had responded by asking her if she was one of those damn fools who believed everything she read.....I never was invited to another faculty dinner.