66th Anniversary:Wilma:Shrinking Your Stomach

Three meaningful events happened on April 12: The Civil War began on that date in 1861, President Roosevelt died on that date in 1945, and an enemy bullet found its way into my left leg while I was in a muddy, nasty fox hole on Okinawa on that same day in 1945. Virtually everyone aboard the hospital ship, including me, cried when the news of the President's death came over the speaker on the hospital ship. Cry or whimper over a shot up leg? No chance. I felt lucky. Two feet or so higher I would have been made into a eunuch, castrated. So God does take care of drunks and fools and I had (emphasis on had) an active, memorable sex life which has virtually (I live in hope) disappeared...Ah, there was Wilma, a blind date from San Diego that I brought over, for "company", to London. Wilma was a great looking money manager who drove me berserk constantly raving about her young son. Wilma lovingly (really) called the kid "her terrorist"..I went back to the States for another quick visit with my patroon and Wilma and I flew on the Concorde together but I insisted that she sit as far away from me as possible. When we deplaned I requested one favor of Wilma: that she never mention my name and certainly never tell anyone that she knew me.....Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was making life long friends in London's City. Eating and entertaining my way to an additional 30 pounds. In those days, if you didn't entertain, you couldn't raise a squat amount of money, only more weight. I worked out (no fitness spa at Claridge's in the eighty's) on an exercise bike and with weights in my room. Also climbed four flights daily, hit tennis balls with a pro twice weekly, and walked from The City to Mayfair several times a week but at the end of the day I was consuming more calories than I was burning and gained 20 pounds. I would wake at 5:30 and in London nothing happened until 9:30 AM. Hell of a culture. I would call the Continent at 8:00 London time. I was shooting away, in expense money, literally $20,000 of 1981 dollars a month but was successful with having an over the top blast. (I had given up booze, wine, and any mind altering drugs but my prostate, unbeknownst to me, was growing like Topsy). Making friends, talking about oil, gas and promoting was fun. The independent oil and gas business was my shtick and I loved telling stories about the nuances of the business and the great characters that I was associated with out of Midland, Dallas, and Wall Street...The most simple weight control method works your arms and shoulders while shrinking your stomach. It is called "Pushing Yourself Away From The Table".

Sharon, Natural Gas, Fitness

Sharon was her name. I met her on a flight to Midland, Texas having been summoned from London by my oil and gas patroon. Great looking, bright gal on her way to Albuquerque on some kind of business. While I had never, in my life, seen her before the flight I felt that sitting next to her for two hours gave me the necessary insight to invite Sharon to London as my guest. Bright, good looking, big boobs gave Sharon the aura for me of a perfect soul mate. Couldn't beat that image with a stick... A few weeks later, on a first class flight with a guarantee of her own room at Claridge's, in came Sharon who I welcomed at Heathrow with a car and driver. Very big time showing off... Sharon immediately proved herself to be a sincere wine drinker who loved to smoke dope. I did neither. All I wanted was good company and at least the prospect of sex. Not very complicated and I was getting neither. So I sat Sharon's sorry ass down in my suite and said, "Sharon, your meter has expired. Your time is up and it is time for you to go home." I felt foolish for having invited her but smart for sending her home - cut my losses short. For all of you prospective natural gas investors...just bear in mind that "cheap" natural gas is going to become a lot more expensive and a lot less attractive as environmental costs start rising exponentially, which I believe will happen as sure as night follows day. Fitness tip of the week...Good balance, good range of motion and flexibility will keep you looking and acting younger than your chronological years. Yoga, Pilate's and plain ordinary walking helps a lot.

Back Again

Back again, such as I am, with mostly weekly blogs. My blogs will now narrate my unsuccessful and successful business and life experiences that were actively lived over my 87 year eclectic life. e.g....Raising investment money in the UK and Europe for 6 months while ensconced at Claridge's Hotel... A fitness tip will also be included...e.g. "Walking has been found to reduce heart disease risk, balance stress hormones, raise 'good' HDL cholesterol levels, and help improve both blood pressure and blood sugar." ...Paranoia improves peripheral vision.

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?

Jumping the Devil, Again

Thursday is 65 years to the day, Easter Sunday April 1, 1945, when U.S. troops landed on Okinawa. It was a bright beautiful day with the battleship's cannons roaring. While I didn't participate in the initial landing (landed the 2nd or 3rd) the noise and ferocity of the bombardment by the battleships with troops landing simultaneously was an unforgettable moment in my life.

There was no resistance to the landings and the biggest risk was getting wet. The fighting came into being when the infantry moved into the hills where the Japanese had entrenched themselves. At the same time it started pissing rain and everyone was up to their asses in mud. As a communication/radio outfit our initial chore was to establish communications with Saipan. None of the other dot dit guys could pull it off. So up jumped the devil again. Captain Gooch sent for me as a last resort the filling station operator reluctantly called on me. The walk in the thigh deep mud to the radio tent was unfucking real.

When I did raise Saipan, my big moment in the service, he was happy that we connected but annoyed that the Bronx, loud mouth Jew had pulled it off. I must comment that in some regards, while I did take a bullet in my leg, some of our WWII efforts in the field don't compare with the trials and tribulations of the kids in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Those guys and gals are true heroes.

The Undying Hate of Captain Gooch

There was not an officer born who liked me when I was in the Army. And not very far behind were the non coms. I was a street kid from the Bronx with a firm belief that unless you were from New York, you were a hick who didn't know shit. I had the big, loud mouth to go with it. That attitude kept me a private for a very long time.

After I returned to my outfit from radio operator's school, I taught myself how to type and became a high speed radio operator and the second fastest dot/dit guy in the radio group. Lieutenant Hamlin then called me in his office to proudly tell me that he was going to put me in for PFC which came with a $4.00 a month pay raise (the base pay was $50 a month). I told the Lieutenant that I would pass the promotion. I was the ranking private in my barracks, a private longer than anybody else in the barracks and liked that distinction. So I told him to "give the $4 a month to someone who needed it".

That brilliant move really accelerated my application to get transferred to an outfit that was going overseas. Ah, the folly of youth. Hamlin couldn't wait to get rid of me, so I was sent as a high speed radio operator (with a high speed confrontational big mouth) to Ft. Lewis to join the 241st Signal Corps Group which was attached to the Sixth Army. The 241st was out of Boston consisting mostly of Boston Irish from Scollay Square. They were tough mothers who always wanted to beat the shit out of any Jew. But embarkation on the troop ship saw the end of that attitude. We also had a few homos, as gays were called in those days, and no one gave a fiddler's fuck. People who never served with gays don't know shit, only ignorant prejudice.

Captain Gooch, the Commanding Officer, who had owned a filling station in civilian life, was our fearless National Guard leader who thought that enlisted men were dirt. About a week after my arrival, some guy was packing his duffle bag and I asked him where he was going. "Home for a 10 day furlough". Officers got "leave", grunts got "furloughs". Like I was shot out of a cannon, I was in the Headquarters Office asking the Master Sergeant to see Capt. Gooch. The Sgt. asked me why, and I told him I wanted a furlough as I hadn't been home for 18 months. He said no chance because we were getting ready to ship out. I told him that was bull shit because of the guy I spoke with. The Sgt.'s comment was "No wonder, with soldiers like you we might lose this fucking war". But he did allow me to see the Captain who turned me down with that same lame alibi. And my big mouth went into high gear culminating in a threat to turn the son of a bitch into the IG (Inspector General) if he didn't treat me like everyone else. That really pissed off Captain Gooch, and he never forgot the confrontation.

When I made Sergeant because some poor bastard was killed, Captain Gooch could barely contain himself. But my fuck you and the horse that brung you attitude got me the furlough and the undying hate of Captain Gooch.

God Takes Care of Drunks and Fools

We shipped out of Fort Lewis December 1944 on our way to God knows where. But the trip was aborted and the troop transport ship had to go back after two really rough days in the Pacific with lots of vomiting (most of us had never been on a ship before). And then we were on our way.

We stopped in Hawaii and were ensconced in Schofield Barracks. It was there that I made corporal, much to Captain Gooch's chagrin. I had made myself into a high speed radio operator and was being assigned to General Buckner as his personal radio operator. Captain Gooch couldn't send a private and say that I was above average in competence. The Captain literally said that he hated to make me a corporal but felt that he had no choice (why he disliked me is a story in itself). So I dragged my ass over to headquarters and was soon on a half track learning how to use a 50 caliber machine gun which had very little appeal to me.

When I was told that I was expected to dig the General's latrines, I was determined to fuck up and be sent back to my outfit, the 241st Signal Corps Group. I dropped radio equipment and even books as we were getting ready to ship out, doing everything to look like a klutz. I was successful (it was easy) and was sent back to my outfit. General Buckner and his radio operator were killed on Okinawa which once again proves that God takes care of drunks and fools.