Circa 1980
"F..k You!" my banker said and hung up. My banker of that moment was a man of clean living except for his drink of choice, lots of wine. He was also a man of deep faith or so he said. Wouldn't say s..t if he had a mouthful.
I had just left his office after getting into a beef with him over a combination of debts and over drafts of over $900,000 secured by nothing except my sincere conviction that I would "do a deal" and repay him. He thought that I could give him a partial payment and that I was holding out on him. He refused to understand that I was supporting an ex-wife, helping my kids get started in business and living an above average life style starting with always flying first class. I hated the back of the "bus" for starters plus the time it took to deplane.
After leaving his office, I drove to the local pharmacy to pick up a prescription and noticed they were selling lottery tickets (lottery tickets had just entered the economy). I purchased 5 tickets and called the banker from the car and said "I have great news for you, I'm working on paying off my entire loan and overdraft." All excited, he virtually shouted "Great what are you doing?" I said "I just bought five lottery tickets." "F..k You!" he said and hung up.
I ultimately paid that loan down to $90,000 and was always current on my interest payments. But the big honchos in S.F. weren't satisfied. They said that I had turned that loan into an "evergreen loan." They threatened to take me to court to collect. I, in turn, threatened to sue them for lending me the money (Lender liability it was called). So we had a standoff. They proposed that I pay $50,000, and we could say goodbye to one another. I then called my friendly banker who went berserk and screamed that it would hurt his bonus. I volunteered to make up the shortfall which didn't suit him. After deciding that I really owed the money and I that didn't want my banker screwed on my account, I repaid the bank 100 cents on the dollar plus accrued interest…well over $100,000. The banker, in gratitude for paying off the loan, then refused me a small loan saying that he didn't want my name on his books.
The Italians have a proverb: "Unless you can stand ingratitude, never do anything for anybody."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Upbeat in Down Beat Times
During the Depression my wonderful, genius, tough as nails immigrant father used to say in Yiddish "In America, the money is up to your knees. You just have to know how to bend down and pick it up." And he always espoused that well known saying (he did not believe in luck) that "the harder you worked, the luckier you got."
I would add that in order to "know how to bend down" you must believe in yourself. Remember, "it doesn't make any difference how many times you get knocked down. What really counts is how many times you get back up." These are difficult times for everyone emotionally and for many, financially. Belief in ourselves and those we love will see us and America through these never seen before times. May God bless everyone, and may we all have the wind at our backs and only good roads and good weather in our lives.
I would add that in order to "know how to bend down" you must believe in yourself. Remember, "it doesn't make any difference how many times you get knocked down. What really counts is how many times you get back up." These are difficult times for everyone emotionally and for many, financially. Belief in ourselves and those we love will see us and America through these never seen before times. May God bless everyone, and may we all have the wind at our backs and only good roads and good weather in our lives.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
In the Tank to the Bank
Circa 1972
"He said that he was going to jump out the window of his 9th floor room in the Century Plaza Hotel in L.A.!" My first ex-wife's response to my poor banker's frantic phone call was "So what do you want me to do about it?" Then she hung up. My whole world was coming to an end. I was a big time stock broker in Palo Alto, CA, and the stock market was in the tank. I was drinking A LOT and in those perilous times I decided to raise money to drill for oil in Israel (a story in itself).
I was in L.A. calling on a few executives of the now gone bye, bye MCA which was loaded with big time rich Jews. I wanted to see if they would participate in my drilling adventure. It was a labor of love for me…I had become an ardent Zionist. But the MCA office was like a tomb. Most of the executives had borrowed money against their MCA stock whose price had fallen off a cliff. They were underwater, and their bankers were calling it to their attention.
After my unsuccessful visit, I went back the the hotel and stretched out for a few minutes before going to the bar. The phone rang, and my banker informed me that the bank examiner would be at the bank the next day. He asked me what was I going to do about my outsized, underwater loan. He had loaned me too much money on non transferable, investment letter stock. I said "Look Walter, I'm down here in L.A at the Century Plaza hotel. I'm busted on my ass. What the hell do you expect me to do?" He screamed that I had to do something. "Okay", I said, "I'm on the 9th floor of the Century Plaza Hotel. I'm going to lay the phone down, open the window and go out of it!" and I hung up. He panicked and called my first ex-wife who basically told him that she would look forward to hearing the news of my demise. I had a ton of life insurance as well as her hard core dislike/resentment of me.
That night at the downstairs bar and restaurant, I was overwhelmingly depressed by my impending doom. A hooker came up to me and asked if I'd like a "trick". I said,"Listen sweetheart, if Gina Lollobrigida got on top of me naked I'd probably piss". That really turned the hooker off, and she was gone in a flash. No follow up requests. I was grateful.
For the record, when my life moved back up the roller coaster, my shaky bank loans were ALWAYS repaid…although very, very slowly. Incidentally, threatening suicide is very a old school Jewish thing (and I am old). It gets everybody's attention.
"He said that he was going to jump out the window of his 9th floor room in the Century Plaza Hotel in L.A.!" My first ex-wife's response to my poor banker's frantic phone call was "So what do you want me to do about it?" Then she hung up. My whole world was coming to an end. I was a big time stock broker in Palo Alto, CA, and the stock market was in the tank. I was drinking A LOT and in those perilous times I decided to raise money to drill for oil in Israel (a story in itself).
I was in L.A. calling on a few executives of the now gone bye, bye MCA which was loaded with big time rich Jews. I wanted to see if they would participate in my drilling adventure. It was a labor of love for me…I had become an ardent Zionist. But the MCA office was like a tomb. Most of the executives had borrowed money against their MCA stock whose price had fallen off a cliff. They were underwater, and their bankers were calling it to their attention.
After my unsuccessful visit, I went back the the hotel and stretched out for a few minutes before going to the bar. The phone rang, and my banker informed me that the bank examiner would be at the bank the next day. He asked me what was I going to do about my outsized, underwater loan. He had loaned me too much money on non transferable, investment letter stock. I said "Look Walter, I'm down here in L.A at the Century Plaza hotel. I'm busted on my ass. What the hell do you expect me to do?" He screamed that I had to do something. "Okay", I said, "I'm on the 9th floor of the Century Plaza Hotel. I'm going to lay the phone down, open the window and go out of it!" and I hung up. He panicked and called my first ex-wife who basically told him that she would look forward to hearing the news of my demise. I had a ton of life insurance as well as her hard core dislike/resentment of me.
That night at the downstairs bar and restaurant, I was overwhelmingly depressed by my impending doom. A hooker came up to me and asked if I'd like a "trick". I said,"Listen sweetheart, if Gina Lollobrigida got on top of me naked I'd probably piss". That really turned the hooker off, and she was gone in a flash. No follow up requests. I was grateful.
For the record, when my life moved back up the roller coaster, my shaky bank loans were ALWAYS repaid…although very, very slowly. Incidentally, threatening suicide is very a old school Jewish thing (and I am old). It gets everybody's attention.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Pigs, Hogs, Stupidity, Few Giggles
So there I was, sitting in the hog house on a below zero night in Iowa on the ready in case one of my sows had trouble "coming in" (giving birth). The next thing this Bronx Jew knew, my hand was inside the sow helping extract baby pigs. When it was over, I was sick to my stomach and almost heaved my guts out. Lesson? You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear and making a hog farmer out of a street guy from the Bronx is damn near impossible.
And then...
There was the time I bought 100 feeder pigs from a farmer out of Missouri. By then I was certain that I knew what I was doing, and I insisted on a vaccination certificate from the farmer for a deadly virus. I did not stop to consider that the "honest Missouri farmer" might be giving me a phony certificate, which he did. The hogs by then weighed 100 plus pounds and started to die. The rendering works truck came by every day to pick up the dead hogs, and we had to vaccinate the remainder. Grabbing and holding on to 100 pound hog by a hind leg while another guy gave him the shot was some kind of a work out. The hogs eventually stopping dying, and I lost my ass.
One year I purchased a bunch of Red Duroc pigs to feed out. I fed them on an enclosed concrete slab. No exercise. When they reached 200 pounds a few of them laid down and died. I called the vet who came out to the farm, examined the dead hogs and told me that the hogs had died of heart attacks brought on by too much fat and no exercise. The pay off was when I sold the hogs to Hormel in Austin and was docked because the hogs were too fat.
And when there was wet hay or wet corn to be bought, I was the mullett (a fish that's easy to catch) with my mouth wide open ready to be reeled in. When my four year sentence was up, I happily left Iowa to the cheers of all who knew me.
And then...
There was the time I bought 100 feeder pigs from a farmer out of Missouri. By then I was certain that I knew what I was doing, and I insisted on a vaccination certificate from the farmer for a deadly virus. I did not stop to consider that the "honest Missouri farmer" might be giving me a phony certificate, which he did. The hogs by then weighed 100 plus pounds and started to die. The rendering works truck came by every day to pick up the dead hogs, and we had to vaccinate the remainder. Grabbing and holding on to 100 pound hog by a hind leg while another guy gave him the shot was some kind of a work out. The hogs eventually stopping dying, and I lost my ass.
One year I purchased a bunch of Red Duroc pigs to feed out. I fed them on an enclosed concrete slab. No exercise. When they reached 200 pounds a few of them laid down and died. I called the vet who came out to the farm, examined the dead hogs and told me that the hogs had died of heart attacks brought on by too much fat and no exercise. The pay off was when I sold the hogs to Hormel in Austin and was docked because the hogs were too fat.
And when there was wet hay or wet corn to be bought, I was the mullett (a fish that's easy to catch) with my mouth wide open ready to be reeled in. When my four year sentence was up, I happily left Iowa to the cheers of all who knew me.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Feeding Cattle, Milking Cows, Speculating in Futures, Losing My Ass
If you want living proof that farming is an art not a science look at me. Any pseudo intellectual Jew (that's me) would always try to sincerely prove that education, reading and intellect can overcome can any genetic generated ignorance. Bronx Jews, milking cows, breeding and feeding hogs and cattle plus buying hay and corn just doesn't work.
So I read everything known to men, women, dogs and children about farming. The Department of Agriculture printed a yearly volume describing procedures to doing everything and anything relating to farming short of having sex with sheep (not my thing). So I scoured years of those volumes.
The net result was that I was a walking disaster as a farmer and as a Mid Westerner. I lost my ass with everything except sheep where I had an expert counseling me. I had 84 Purebred Holstein milk cows and something was happening every day. I bought 25 Black Angus calves at the St. Paul livestock sale. I fed them out and made money. The next year I bought 50 and made money again. Ah, now I was a genius! I bought 200 white face calves for feeding. But I couldn't understand why my feed lot was the only feed lot in the neighborhood with animals in it. Prices went to hell and every day that those animals put on a pound or two, I was losing money per pound. You couldn't move them because they would lose too much weight so I couldn't sell them until they reached 1,100 pounds (from 300). Lost my ass!!!
I bought corn futures for $1.50/bushel and watched the price go to $2.50. But then Eisenhower gets elected and appoints Ezra Taft Benson as Secretary of Agriculture who says that he only believes in price supports in times of disaster and thereby causes a commodity disaster. Corn went off the limit every day, and I barely got out with my 10% margin money. I was the ultimate mullet (a fish that's easy to catch) for those "honest" Iowa farmers who unloaded wet corn (purchased to feed the feeder cattle), wet hay and falsely documented feeder pigs that grew to die on a daily basis. The rendering works loved me.
But I "got even". I had purchased yet another horse (I hate horses. They are for me big, dumb dangerous animals whose latest best friend is anyone that feeds them an apple). This horse was a big black beauty who got into the high protein hog feed. He foundered...hooves and arteries expand to where the horse is immobile and "on fire". We dug a ditch around the son of a bitch and ran a cold water hose on his hooves for a week whereupon he could move pretty well until he stumbled, and he always did. When I had my sale to get out of that awful business, I became an "honest" Iowa farmer and sold him to another schmuck farmer. My next blog will be on how breeding and feeding hogs was a disaster for me to the point where I had 200 pound Red Durocs dying of heart attacks.
So I read everything known to men, women, dogs and children about farming. The Department of Agriculture printed a yearly volume describing procedures to doing everything and anything relating to farming short of having sex with sheep (not my thing). So I scoured years of those volumes.
The net result was that I was a walking disaster as a farmer and as a Mid Westerner. I lost my ass with everything except sheep where I had an expert counseling me. I had 84 Purebred Holstein milk cows and something was happening every day. I bought 25 Black Angus calves at the St. Paul livestock sale. I fed them out and made money. The next year I bought 50 and made money again. Ah, now I was a genius! I bought 200 white face calves for feeding. But I couldn't understand why my feed lot was the only feed lot in the neighborhood with animals in it. Prices went to hell and every day that those animals put on a pound or two, I was losing money per pound. You couldn't move them because they would lose too much weight so I couldn't sell them until they reached 1,100 pounds (from 300). Lost my ass!!!
I bought corn futures for $1.50/bushel and watched the price go to $2.50. But then Eisenhower gets elected and appoints Ezra Taft Benson as Secretary of Agriculture who says that he only believes in price supports in times of disaster and thereby causes a commodity disaster. Corn went off the limit every day, and I barely got out with my 10% margin money. I was the ultimate mullet (a fish that's easy to catch) for those "honest" Iowa farmers who unloaded wet corn (purchased to feed the feeder cattle), wet hay and falsely documented feeder pigs that grew to die on a daily basis. The rendering works loved me.
But I "got even". I had purchased yet another horse (I hate horses. They are for me big, dumb dangerous animals whose latest best friend is anyone that feeds them an apple). This horse was a big black beauty who got into the high protein hog feed. He foundered...hooves and arteries expand to where the horse is immobile and "on fire". We dug a ditch around the son of a bitch and ran a cold water hose on his hooves for a week whereupon he could move pretty well until he stumbled, and he always did. When I had my sale to get out of that awful business, I became an "honest" Iowa farmer and sold him to another schmuck farmer. My next blog will be on how breeding and feeding hogs was a disaster for me to the point where I had 200 pound Red Durocs dying of heart attacks.
Monday, September 15, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
More on Charley Pippert
Charley, who I blamed for that purebred bull staying alive while the bull's schlong died, was in my stream of consciousness on a daily basis. Naturally, blaming Charley for the bull's impotence was nonsense but being pissed off at Charley became a soul satisfying project. I really hated farming and Mason Never Live There City, Iowa plus I had very low regard for the population of River City (aka Mason etc) so why not take it out on Charley?
One day, after the bull was long gone, I had to go to see Charley. While driving in my pickup truck those forty unbelievably awful miles over gravel roads with the radio blaring I got to thinking about what I was going to say to Charley and what his response to me would be. 40 miles of this fantasy conversation where I imagined my part of the conversation and then conjuring up his responses really got me in mental motion, and I became increasingly angry with Charley. In fact I became absolutely wild with his fantasy irresponsibility.
As I pulled into the farm yard, Charley and his wife came down the farm house steps. I got out of the truck, strode around the front of it and shouted "Charley, you dirty son of a bitch!" and hit him. His wife screamed and threatened to call the sheriff but I felt that no one was going to "talk" to me that way, and he had it coming. I then got back into the pick up, drove home and had a few pops to calm down. Booze always calmed me down until it got me wired. The lesson? Beware of bulls with broken tools.
One day, after the bull was long gone, I had to go to see Charley. While driving in my pickup truck those forty unbelievably awful miles over gravel roads with the radio blaring I got to thinking about what I was going to say to Charley and what his response to me would be. 40 miles of this fantasy conversation where I imagined my part of the conversation and then conjuring up his responses really got me in mental motion, and I became increasingly angry with Charley. In fact I became absolutely wild with his fantasy irresponsibility.
As I pulled into the farm yard, Charley and his wife came down the farm house steps. I got out of the truck, strode around the front of it and shouted "Charley, you dirty son of a bitch!" and hit him. His wife screamed and threatened to call the sheriff but I felt that no one was going to "talk" to me that way, and he had it coming. I then got back into the pick up, drove home and had a few pops to calm down. Booze always calmed me down until it got me wired. The lesson? Beware of bulls with broken tools.
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