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.

It's Never Too Late

"It's never too late, or in my case

too early to be whoever you want to be.

There's no time limit.

Start whenever you want.

You can change or stay the same.

There are no rules to this thing.

We can make the best or the worst of it.

I hope you make the best of it.

I hope you see things that startle you.

I hope you feel things you never felt before.

I hope you meet people

who have a different point of view.

I hope you live a life you're proud of,

and if you're not,

I hope you have the courage

to start all over again."

Eric Roth, From the Screenplay of

"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

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!!!!

Sleepless Christmas Eve 2008

So here is Christmas Eve and guard duty at Fort Lewis Christmas Eve 1944 comes to mind. I had volunteered for guard duty so that a Christian GI could go to church. And as I walked the perimeter of Ft. Lewis, I could see the houses on the other side of the fence across the road, all decked out with Christmas decorations. I can still see it in my mind's eye including the people in the houses celebrating Christmas. And I remember, vividly, that overwhelming feeling of loneliness as tears streamed from my eyes. So Christmas Eve these past 64 years has always been special to this Old Jew. And I feel blessed that God put me in the army, gave me the opportunity to serve my country and still allows my tears to stream, 64 years later after a rich and fruitful life.

After being hit on Okinawa, April 12, 1945 the Army shipped my ass to the ambulatory hospital on Saipan which was not a "cool" place to be. And I'm not talking about the weather. When everyone around you is a war casualty, it's hard to elicit any sympathy because I could barely walk up that fucking hill to the mess hall. Where else would the army put the mess hall except in the most inconvenient, pain inducing location? There were Japanese soldiers with ammo still left in the hills who didn't know or care that the U.S. had taken the island. Almost every day machine gun fire would erupt from those hills, and we'd all scramble like crazy for some kind, any kind of cover. Once hit, twice shy.

When that bullet went through my leg on Okinawa, I realized for the first time that I was not omnipotent. I had lost my cherry on Okinawa. Bullet wounds do hurt and really can kill. As one did to Sgt Boggs. What really pissed everyone off was that machine gun fire coming down from the hills would come when we were in the Coke line. You absolutely lost your place in the line when scrambling. Not being too mobile meant that I was always ended up at the end of the God damn newly formed line. While on Saipan, I would go on sick call almost daily and complain about my difficulty in navigating the walk up to the fucking mess hall hill three times a day with constant discomfort (aka pain). And for awful food to boot! Those ass hole, newly minted lieutenants in their crispy, clean stateside fresh uniforms would tell me that there was nothing wrong with my leg, and that I was just bucking for a discharge. I also was accused of trying for a Section 8 discharge for mental disorder because of my bizarre behavior concerning my leg and otherwise.

A starchy clean, schmuck of a newly arrived doctor really got annoyed with me and shouted, "Do you want me to hold your leg?" To which I replied "Yeah, for as long as it would help" where upon he went off the fucking wall and threatened to have me court martialed. He did, however, send me to another doctor, a pediatrician in civilian life. He took the time and trouble to really examine my x-rays and discovered that all the bones in my knee were shattered from the impact of the bullet going through the flesh and bone of my leg. However knowing what was wrong with me didn't make mess hall hill any less steeper or shorter. And my Jewish ass really missed those ass hole Boston Irish from my outfit, so I started making noise to leave Saipan and rejoin my outfit on that other Garden Spot, Okinawa. Back I went to rejoin my anti Semitic (and who cared) buddies again.

The Great Depression/Private Equity Funds

More depression days stuff. Bear in mind that there was a resurgence in unemployment to 25% around 1936. But my genius immigrant father never seemed to miss a beat. He and my Mom were fabulous parents. We never really knew that there was a depression going on. And my needs were simple. They revolved around sports and avoiding bringing my report cards home (talk about a constant fear of impending doom). If they knew what ADD was in those days, I would still be in the third grade. I once told that to Donald Trump, about Donald Trump.

Between starting school early and skipping a grade, I graduated from high school at 16. All my friends were a few years older than me and a few years better athletically. Any street smart kid knew that if you brought the basketball, football, or baseball and bat you had to be chosen when they picked teams. My Pop understood that rule, so I always had the basketball etc., so I always got to play. Even in the worst of times my pop saw to it that I was guaranteed a slot on a team. When I showed up, all the other kids were fucked because I was the one with the ball. They had to let me play if they wanted to play at all.

Private Equity Investments
That shoe is about to fall a lot further than it has to date on further private equity fund holding valuations which will really raise hell with pension funds, endowments and foundations. I believe that the private equity funds have only begun to write down valuations of their investments which in turn will force the pension fund investors, endowments and foundations to further write down the value of their holdings in these funds, big and small. Harvard's attempt to sell their holdings in private equity funds in the secondary market at a 50% discount will, in my view, look optimistic and reaching for the stars…

Going to the World Series at Yankee Stadium in '36, '37 and '38

It cost $1.10 for bleacher seats, and we loved them and thought ourselves so lucky to be there. Buddy and I would arrive at Yankee Stadium at around 5:00 a.m. and talk baseball with everyone around us. Talk isn't quite right. We would argue our cases that our favorite ball players were the best at their positions.

They would let us into the ball park at around 11:00 a.m. and at noon out would come a marching band to entertain us. Right before the ball game started, the so called "Clown Prince of Baseball" would come out and do some stunts with a baseball in right field. He would end up at home plate with another ball player on third, and they would start to steam the ball at one another all the while closing the gap between the two. The crowd just roared with every throw.


To get the day's action started, Buddy and I would get up at 4:00 a.m. to take the subway to the ball game. We would bring sandwiches my Mom had made for us the night before and at least a pound of peanuts. We weren't going to get ripped off at Yankee Stadium and pay a dime for a lousy bag of peanuts that cost around two bits a pound at the grocery store.


My Mom would give me a $2.00 to cover the whole shebang; $1.10 to get into the game, 10¢ for carfare and all the treats you could get for 80¢. Hot dogs and cokes were a dime each...although we complained loudly that a dime for a coke was a total rip off. We weren't just "making do", we were having a great time (the term "having a blast" hadn't been invented yet). This was the Great Depression, and my Mom walloped me for the one and only time when I used the 15¢ change from buying a Sunday newspaper to buy candy.