Reprise: Tom, Edith, Booze

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 drinking, hard living, old fashioned whoring wildcatters. Entrepreneurs to the end. Traveling with any of them was an experience.

Tom 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. Tom 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 Tom. He taught me a lesson in dying.

Tom's wife at the time, Edith, was a classic, one of a kind Great looking gal but one who had too many face lifts...her face seemed frozen in time. Edith was a terrific drinking companion for Tom with an insatiable appetite for booze. Wine was for sissies.

One afternoon, I was "assigned" to baby sit Edith in the United Airlines lounge in L.A. while Tom was making a call on a stock promoter in a close town.Tom had already made his presentation to a lunch group of L.A. brokers, at the Biltmore.

On our way to the airport Edith told me that her favorite 'starter' drink was Jack Daniels, Black Label and milk. Mixed half and half in a tall water glass. She already had at least two at the hotel before we took the cab to the airport and the Red Carpet Room. I knew when she started rambling, that the day and night would be long. Real fucking long. And they were. Both long and boring.

Once Edith got into drinking motion her taste became simple...chilled vodka martinis without wine (didn't smell, or so she thought). She sipped the vodka through a sterling straw she had custom made for her by Tiffany. When she pulled that straw out of the Tiffany case I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or puke.

When Edith started sucking her martini through that straw, I wanted to capture that moment with a picture. Who would fucking believe it? A martini inhaled through a straw?

The beauty of the internet...images you can find 40 years after the fact...Tiffany Sterling Silver straw.

She was, as was Tom, a high velocity drinker. Edith had put away at least five vodka's in the Red Carpet Room before Tom arrived shouting, 'I'm fucking thirsty', in his gravelly voice. He then inhaled three or four Royal Crowns on the rocks while Edith kept pace with him until our flight was called.

On the flight 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, but didn't eat any dinner. They then got into a roaring, drunken fucking argument, and we had to go back to the Mark.

The next day Tom and I made a corporate luncheon presentation at the North Beach Restaurant in San Francisco. But before the presentation, Tom had at least two Bloody Marys and then a couple of belts of Crown plus wine at lunch. I was pissing my brains out after consuming what felt like gallons of Perrier water.

Tom stayed, after the lunch, at the restaurant with two of my friends. They ordered "six packs of stingers on the rocks", waiting for the next drink was too tough for them. Their rants of drunken wisdom were too much for me. Really fucking boring and I went back to the hotel.

Edith phoned my room and asked me where Tom 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 Tom back to the hotel. My two friends followed in another cab.

That evening, we were going out for dinner with some good 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 water glasses of the milk and bourbon mix was that she able to join us, for the moment. She lasted about ten minutes and went back to her room to collapse.

Turned out that the hotel had sent a bottle of Jack Daniels to the room as a welcome gift. I knew that I was in for a very long night. And it was. But I found a 'diversion' pretty quick.

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 (later in the evening she saved Tom's life with the Heimlich treatment at Trader Vic's bar as he was choking on a 'cracker').

The hooker was a school teacher moonlighting as a hooker but giving blow jobs only which she didn't consider as having sex. She was okay, I enjoyed it. How could it be 'bad'?

Street Smarts, Booze, Being Gas Lighted

Learning that if I had the basketball I would always be chosen to play. Having the baseball meant that I was good to go for at least 18 innings of sand lot baseball.

After which we went to the local pizza joint, stuffed ourselves with a .50 cent, giant pizza, with anchovies and a huge Pepsi for a dime. 50 cents, then in 1933-36, I would guess, is the equivalent of at least $10-$12 now.

But a large pizza now is considerably smaller than in the thirties. Must be the water because Big Apple pizzas are still the best or maybe memories are in my pizza taste buds. And the pizza places were owned and run by Italians.

All the guys I ran with were two to three years older than me so that, at age 10, I was 'undersized' and getting into the pickup basketball game meant that I had to bring the basketball or I was fucked.

Or having the broomstick for stick ball. Which always got me in the game but really pissed my Mom off. Particularly, since no permission was asked for my getting rid of the broom part of the broomstick.

Cutting off the broom part of the family broomstick meant buying a new broom. In the hard depression and post depression days pissing money away on fucking broomsticks was not really 'money smart'. Not 'cool'.

It worked the same way with having the football. My Pop understood this and allowed me to buy the basketball, football and baseball so that I could always be in the game. My 5 foot 4 inch Pop was super street smart.

The football game we played was called 'association' and played between street telephone poles, as the 'goal posts'. Was kinda’ a form of two hand touch but all played standing up. No crouching.

Street smarts come from learning how to survive and thrive in the world of tough city kids where the games were mostly on hard city streets and scrapped arms and legs were part of the game. Particularly, when we played roller skate hockey.

If you couldn't play to street standards it was bye, bye even if you had supplied the ball. I was an above average athlete but then city kids were mostly good athletes. If you weren't a good athlete you were part of a different social set, book worms, a distinct minority. Kids like me would rather be illiterate than be a book worm. (Not acceptable in immigrant Jew's households)

On Barnes Ave. becoming a man wasn't really when you were bar mitzvah but when you spewed socially unacceptable four letter words like fuck and shit. I became a 'man' at 10. Swearing like sailor, puffed up chest and all was my specialty. School, sure as hell wasn't..My Mom and Pop wouldn't put up with foul language in the house. No fucking chance. George Carlin wasn't born yet and so hadn't yet made his famous pronouncement that, 'There aren't any bad words, only bad thoughts'.

I learned, early on, that defying the inevitable of getting beat up by the tough as nails city kids on my way to school was stupid. Being Jewish in the 30's wasn't like spending a day at a picnic. Anti Semitism was big time in NYC and even I knew who Father Coughlin and the Bund were.

Street smarts demanded that I find a different way, generally the long way round, to go to and from school. Safe not sorry was the rule.

Lydig Avenue & Holland

Stealing potatoes from stores with open vegetable bins, on Lydig Ave., our local shopping area, to roast, was fun. We would ride our bikes past the open bins of potatoes and swipe one as we rode by the bin. Coulda’ got one at home but that wouldn't have got our adrenalin moving. For firewood, we used wood scraps from deserted, partially built homes, victims of the Great Depression.

Yeah street smarts are an acquired skill, generally as a result of figuring out, how to survive in all circumstances, doing things you should and shouldn't do and avoiding getting the shit beat out of you just because you showed up.

Being 'Gas Lighted' is the fate of every married boozer and/or, drug addict that is living with someone, who was generally known as a co-alcoholic.

(Drugs and booze are inextricably linked, in addicts) Gas Light was a Broadway show, where two sisters were living with a brother who was trying to get rid of them by driving them crazy and into a mental institution. He was constantly accusing them of saying and doing things that they never said or did. And he was succeeding. They were well on the way to the nut house.

Street smarts allowed me to figure out that The Princess was constantly 'gas lighting' me by attacking me, for doing or saying 'bad ' things while I was in the bag. She kept my fucking guilt roaring. The Princess was always relying on me to have been in a drunken blackout, not unusual for me, and unable to tell her that she was wrong and full of shit. So for a short period of time I 'controlled' my drinking and found that she was 'gas lighting' me.

Didn't stop me from drinking but I sure stopped the Princess from playing mind games with my sad but true example of a fucked up, whiskey soaked mind. But make no mistake; it wasn't all bad being married to the Princess, just mostly. I do wish that the Princess would have thrown me out sooner. I had a wonderful 17 year break from marriage before I went stupid, yet again and remarried. Lasted a year and a half.

The Real Deal

Five feet, seven inches of charisma, loaded with energy, street smarts and with a small hat size that belies his intellect which would fill two normal thinking heads. Simon Murray is a Citizen of The World whose travels and friends do indeed span the world.

Simon Foreign Legion 1960

Instead of Oxford or Cambridge or some such school of higher learning Simon, at age 18, chose to hone his education in the French Foreign Legion, a group that attracted bullies, misfits and criminals none of which Simon Murray was or is.

He was just bored and looking for excitement. He got a ton of that. He was in a parachute regiment that was fighting rebels in Algeria who wanted to be shut of France.

After the Foreign Legion, Simon settled in Hong Kong with £28, a wife, a huge store of energy and the balls of a brass monkey plus the ability to seduce Jesus Christ down off the cross.

Beau Brummell, Simon is not. For one of the most imaginative people on the planet his clothes are really boring. Always wearing a black suit, white shirt and mundane tie. Simon thinks that people who wear brown suits at night are classless. And yet, in spite of his height, boring clothes and average looks women are attracted to him like bees to honey.

With energy coming out of his ears he ran, at age 60, a 240 km race across the Moroccan desert. ”He is the oldest man to have walked, unsupported to the South Pole, a 750 mile journey that he completed in 58 days, in 2004". Simon is constantly testing his physical endurance like recently climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. He is absolutely maniacal about staying in motion. As a matter of fact, Simon lives by the credo that "moderation is fatal" (and boring).

He flies a helicopter as a hobby. Just getting in a helicopter makes me edgy, much less flying in one.

Awarded CBE (Commander of British Empire) for his dedicated involvement in the momentous political change of Hong Kong and recognition of his time, efforts plus street smart contributions to the community of Hong Kong (spanning many years).

France in gratitude for his service as a Legionnaire, awarded him Order of Merit of the French Republic and Simon has recently received the highest honor of France, "Chevalier de La Legion de Honneur". Not bad for 5 foot seven shortie.

Simon's eye popping business accomplishments border on overwhelming. (Currently, among other titles and positions, Simon is currently Non Executive Chairman of Glencore a massive commodity trading house and mining concern).

Simon's unbelievably successful business CV includes a wide range of interests from managing $500 million in private equity money to managing expansion of container terminals. He has been active in public and private mobile phone and telecom companies. Because of his business creativity he has been and is on boards of premier international companies and has a roll-o-dex that is mind boggling.

Simon is no false idol. Simon is the real deal. How I met Simon and became associated with him is for another time.

“My late father would have ENJOYED reading this and my late mother would have BELIEVED it................” ~ Simon

Malaria, Pleurisy, Weekends In NYC, Alzheimer's

In 1946, just back from Korea, and in the Fort Devens Hospital I would get a weekend pass and take the train into NYC. My future ex-wife wife, Bonnie (and an up and coming, Born Again, Jewish American Princess), was living with my sister Florence and working at Alexander's as an assistant buyer.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, the combination of the Princess and me would turn out to be exactly like shooting the rapids. I didn't realize that I was embarking on a journey of a life filled with guilt, remorse and masochism not necessarily in that order.

Fortunately lots of laughs, adventures, booze, successes and wonderful friends became the cornerstones of my life. I owed the Princess for throwing me out.

Yeah, even the booze led me to good times. Being a roaring fucking drunk wasn't all bad. It would drive people at AA meetings crazy when I said that I had fabulous times when drunk even if I didn't remember what happened all the time.

Being a sincere drinker and operating in a blackout was as common as an old shoe for drunks like me. When in the bag, I went from feeling good, to being a genius, to being a lover, then to memory loss.

I would pick Bonnie up to start our weekend routine. Friday night was a Broadway show, Saturday night was the basketball double header at the Garden and Sunday night was the hockey match at the Garden. All of this financed by my meager Sergeant's pay and my ever generous Pop.

During the day the Princess, with guidance from the New Yorker magazine would schlep my lowercase bronx, jewish ass to art exhibitions. Piano concerts were absolutely out. The Princess loved a piano concert. For me they defied previous boredom limits.

But the Princess was relentless and ruthless in her attempt to shove some couth into me but not even the Princess could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. However the Princess did introduce me to Cezanne, VanGogh, Helleu and the Impressionists in general. An interest I have maintained these 65 plus years. 

One Sunday, after hockey, we were eating at Rumpelmayers, on Central Park South (later became Mickey Mantle's). I had a glass of milk, believe it or not, and suddenly felt like shit. Went to the loo and puked my guts out. Took a cab (That was big time, but the subway was out.) back to my folk's place while I shook like a whore on Saturday night.

My Mom had the doctor come by. He gave me some Atabrin and told me that malaria had come back to bite my ass. My Mom continued piling blankets on me while I laid in bed, shaking with my teeth rattling. (They were mine in those days.)

Scared the hell out of my Mom, Pop and me. Have hardly ever gone near milk again much less drink it.

Pleurisy was another WWII, Korean Occupation groaner that hung on for awhile after getting back to the States. Hit a fucking pothole while riding in a jeep in Seoul and a really sharp pain went through me. I was certain that God had come to get me.

Get hit and you know that omnipotence is no longer an option. The ride back to the barracks was excruciatingly painful. Every little fucking bump in the road (and there were plenty of them) a stab of pain went through me, like shit through a tin horn. After a sleepless night, I went out on sick call.  

Diagnosed as pleurisy. Told I wasn't sick enough to be sent back to the States and that complaining wouldn't do me any fucking good. Gave me a shot of something and sent me back to the Japanese officer's quarters that we were using as barracks. Very small bath tubs.

At that point, between getting hit and getting a touch of both malaria and pleurisy I had all of the fucking Army this Jew wanted or needed.

No one knew of PTSD in those days. If you complained you were either bucking for a discharge or trying to get Stateside, even on a Section 8. As in Catch 22, if you asked for a Section 8 (an insanity plea) then you had to be sane in order to know to ask for a Section 8. So even a request for a Section 8 trip back to the States was not an option.

My trip back home on a hospital ship came about because me and walking had become less than kissing cousins. A pediatrician in the Army had diagnosed the severity of the effects of the gunshot wound and I was deemed 'useless'. I didn't realize at the time that I would spend 27 years of a fucking married life often being told one way or another that I, was 'useless'.

In divorce however, I became terrific for the Princess. I just sent money and the Princess didn't have to put up with my 'eccentric behavior'. She had the best of all worlds. She was getting bunches of money without having to put up with me.

I also had the best of all worlds. It only cost me money to be shut of all that bitching and complaining about me. Getting a divorce was a great ego booster, for sure.

With the end of the war, every schmuck and his uncle was hell bent to get married. Me included. Out of Army in March, with my Ruptured Duck pin in my jacket lapel, married in October. Up like a rocket, down like a stick. That's the story of my schlong as well.

...Finally rained here in the Land of Milk and Honey and Fruits and Nuts. Good friend of mine's 80 something Father went out into the pouring fucking rain, opened his umbrella and while holding the umbrella in one hand was found watering his plants with a hose in his other hand, in the rain. I'm very surprised that he didn't piss in his pants too...

And so we saw all the now famous musicals written by Jews. When we got married and lived in Middletown, where Dan was born, we went into Manhattan and would see at least one Broadway musical, or otherwise, every weekend for several years. Yeah, Fiddler On The Roof, South Pacific, Oklahoma, on and on.

'Those were the days my friend. We thought they'd never end.'…Fiddler On The Roof