Camp Hayden to Ft.Lewis to the Troop Transport...

At 19 years old, being a loud mouth, abrasive, know it all, Bronx Jew were points of pride for me but for Lt. Hamlin, my CO at Camp Hayden, I was a real pain in the ass.

His breaking point with me came when he, in his office, told me that I had done a terrific job in raising my speed on the dot dash key from 18 words a minute to over 35 words a minute and teaching myself how to type.

As a reward the Lt. wanted to promote me to PFC, with a pay raise from $50 a month to $54 a month. I told the Lt. that having been a private longer than any other private in the outfit, making me the ranking private in the outfit, made me special and I didn't want to to be one of the fucking mob.

I also told the Lt. to give the fucking PFC stripes and the extra $4.00 a month to someone who needed the money. My refusing the promotion really pissed off the Lieutenant but I thought, fuck him and the horse he rode in on. The $4 a month could fit nicely, stuck up his ass.

The Lt. actively disliked me, which wasn't a bad trade, since my opinion of him was lower, if possible, than his opinion of me. He really thought that he was clever. I thought he was operating above his deserved pay grade and totally full of shit. He thought that his silver bars made him special. I thought that they made him even more of a self-important asshole.

How that schmuck became a second lieutenant didn't really surprise me. The bar was pretty low in wartime. After all, Lieutenant Hamlin could walk, talk and chew gum at the same time.That seemed to be the qualifying requirement. His being promoted to first lieutenant proved that success in the service sometimes had little to do with talent.

The lieutenant had fat lips. Probably got larger from puckering up for sincere ass kissing. A practice not restricted to officers but certainly a specialty of theirs. Me kissing a Sergeant's ass would have been as useful as tits on a boar pig.

The Lt. was the ultimate people pleaser and wanted everyone to like him, except enlisted men like me. I, on the other hand knew, even at 19, that if everyone likes you, you are one innocuous son of a bitch. Not having a filter between my brains and my mouth kept me from being innocuous and helped generate some sincere dislikes of me.Which suited me then, as now, fine.

So when I asked to be transferred to an outfit that was going overseas Lt. Hamil was all over that request like a clam in mud.Or more like a pig in shit. A genre that I grew to know all too well while farming.

So less than 60 days after telling the Lt. to stick the army's $4 a month where the 'sun don't shine' my Jewish ass was on its way to Fort Lewis and the 241st Signal Corp Co.with its cadre of Boston Scollay Square Irishmen. They invented tough and nasty. It was out of the frying pan into the fire. As Oscar Wilde said, 'While it is disagreeable to be frustrated the real disasters in life begin when you get what you want'.

It only took 10 minutes of having my first chow in Ft.Lewis to realize that the 241st was loaded with anti Semites who talked about Yids and Kikes which in turn forced an 'I am Jewish' chip on my shoulder. I promptly, sincerely, in a loud voice, announced my Jewishness and that if anyone took exception to me that I was ready to step outside. So they mostly kept their hate in tow. Got into a few fist fights. Won some, got the shot kicked out of me as well.

After a few days in Ft. Lewis there was this guy packing up his duffel bag. Naturally, I asked him where he was going.

'Got a 10 day furlough.' he said.

Having been turned down, I erupted and went to the company office to confront Captain Gooch, a filling station operator in civilian life who rose to captain in the National Guard, a very lightly regarded group, in those days.

Once in his office, I earned the undying hate of Captain Gooch by threatening to go over his head and complain if I didn't get my fucking furlough.The threat and my grating voice (I'd been through puberty.) pushed that genius over the side and I got the 10 day furlough.

Back in the barracks while packing my duffel bag, I was having multiple orgasms knowing that I would see my special girl, who I later married in Minneapolis. Went back to the Bronx after a year and a half. You can take the guy out of the Bronx never the Bronx out of the guy.

But getting to New York City by way of Wyoming and Minneapolis, for a GI, in wartime 1944, really took some doing and being a street smart Bronx Jew helped like crazy. Wasn't at all like a blind hog finding an acorn. It took effort ....an adventure for another time.

~

Typhoon, Seoul, Pleurisy and Warm Saki

'It's not the years, it's the mileage.', Harrison Ford, Indiana Jones.

On that basis my next birthday should make me at least 115 years old.

September 10,1945 puts me on a merchant ship in a convoy going from Okinawa to Korea when Typhoon Ida hit. My stomach was not built for being on a lurching ship and every time that fucking ship slammed into the wild ass ocean my stomach went with it. Puking didn't happen happen but at the time I was hoping to have a relief vomit.

The Captain, God bless his gay soul (He had made a pass at me and the other two GI's stationed aboard the ship.) broke away from the convoy and found a cove out of the typhoon. So while the storm raged away from the cove my two buddies and I spent 4-5 days swimming off the side of the ship.

It was one hell of a long way down from the deck to the water and we didn't have the balls to dive so we jumped. The water was colder than a whore's heart but when you're 20 years old you're too stupid to care.We used a Jacobs ladder to get back to the deck. That was even more stupid.

Climbing a Jacobs ladder, attached to a gently rolling ship, put you in danger of getting slammed against the side of the fucking ship and breaking a few bones.

Seoul was a world unto itself. By comparison hot, dusty Fort Sill and Lawton, Oklahoma were garden spots.There must have been concrete roads but I don't remember any. Our barracks had been Japanese officer's quarters. No showers but small, circular, copper bath tubs that we had to fill by hand with water.

After we set up our so called radio command post there wasn't anything to do but sit around. No incoming messages, no outgoing messages. By then I was a Sergeant and knew that I was overpaid. Should have, as they said in the army 'backed up to the pay table'.

Going into Seoul sounded terrific until I tried it. Getting laid sounded even better until you saw the hookers who just looked like shit.Getting smashed on saki was the big deal but one time was enough for me, forever. Heated saki is not for sissies or any social drinkers.

So the first alternative was for me to get pleurisy which is some kind of a fucking experience, even at 20.
Going to the 'radio shack' in a jeep that seemed to find every fucking pot hole in the dirt road. The ride an exercise in sharp, stabbing pain with every hole.

Shooting craps in the latrine was our major distraction. For some weird reason we were not allowed to shoot craps in the barrack's sleeping quarters. We didn't care.The officers thought we were disgusting shooting craps in a latrine. But again, we didn't care.

A favorite cousin of mine Seymour, tracked me down. Great fun. Seymour was an officer assigned to the Military Police and had hair raising stories of how the GI's treated Korean women and ordinary Koreans who were found wearing three pieces of GI clothes. Two was the limit, three meant that the American GI would beat the shit out of the Korean.

Other very memorable memories include seeing women on their knees washing clothes in the ditch along the side of the road. And who could forget seeing the women with a baby on their backs, one in the belly and one in their arms while carrying something on their heads. The husbands walked about five paces ahead of the wives carrying nothing but their superiority.

That was my first exposure to 'male superiority'.

Jewish homes, in my day, were matriarchal. The man made a living, the wife ran the house.My Mom, whose name was Ida, was no slave.

My Pop was, basically, pussy whipped. And he seemed, in retrospect, to enjoy it.

~

Babe Ruth, The Southern Pacific Freight Yards, CZ, Silver Dollars

"I had a better year than he did.", was Babe Ruth's response when asked to justify why his $100,000 a year contract was more than President Herbert Hoover's annual salary.

Seeing Babe Ruth play, while sitting in what was then the right field bleachers (now the right field grandstands) is a not to be forgotten thrill. Memorial Day, July 4th and Labor Day had double headers at the Stadium and came with Babe Ruth playing for .55 cents each holiday.

We brought our own peanuts. No way we're we going to get fucked and pay .10 cents for a small bag of fucking peanuts.

Ruth's swings at the ball were unreal with his graceful rhythm. Watching the 'Bambino' talking to the 'Bleacherites' and watching him trot into the dugout by way of second base (a superstition of the Babe's) are memories embedded in my mind's eye.

Memorable also, was grinding my heel into the right eye glass lens while at radio operators school. The lens couldn't be replaced at Camp Kohler and going into Sacramento to see an optician to be able replace the lens was the only solution. So I got a three day pass into Sacramento with a purchase order and a ton of free time to make money.

Making a $1.00 an hour plus the opportunity to make double and triple time working at the Southern Pacific yards was a serious money making opportunity. When you were making $50 a month as a GI, a dollar an hour was hog heaven. Time and half  for $1.50 was Nirvana .

Carrying hot molten lead in pots from one place to another for 12 straight hours, shirtless, pants rolled up and sweating like a stuck hog bleeds turned out to be my emotional limit. Hauling molten lead in pots from one damn place to another was too nerve wracking, even at 20 years old.

Being paid in silver dollars was wonderful and used back at Camp Kohler for shooting craps. And I saved a few for my next trip into Sacramento to get in the bag. 3.2 % beer at the Enlisted Man's Club, just made me piss a lot.

But my weirdest civilian jobs were in Port Angeles while stationed at Camp Hayden. They were at at the Crown Zellerbach paper plant. Finding civilians to do those jobs during the war was plenty fucking tough. So jackass, greedy GI's like me were welcomed with open arms.

The first 8 hour job was at the Crown Zellerbach paper plant where I worked in a huge room with newly produced paper on rollers acting as the 'ceiling'. My job, every time there was a break in the paper, which was real fucking often, was to drag the very warm paper over to a stream that would carry the paper, while chopping up the paper into small pieces, back to be remade into paper.

After an hour in that paper hell and dragging it to the stream I was generating enough fucking static electricity to light the City of Philadelphia. I couldn't touch anything without generating an electrical charge. The next time in Port Angeles, I turned down the opportunity to spend my time dragging paper breaks for eight hours and ending up like a fucking walking electric charge storage plant.

But when you're 20 years old, and in the Army, you think that you're tough, smart and omnipotent. Certainly my body fat content was probably under 15%.

So this time, in my unfucking arrogance, I took a life and limb threatening job at CZ pushing logs into the 'grinder', (to be converted into paper) with a long pole. The logs were in a fast moving water stream fed by really cold, really fast flowing water from the Straits of Juan de Fuca.

The water sloshed over to where the other dummies and me were standing raising the serious risk, that while pushing the logs along of slipping, falling into the stream and getting chopped up with the fucking logs. My heart rate had to be through the roof.

Never went back to Crown Zellerbach. Left my $1.00 an hour greed in the the San Juan de Fuca Straits' water with the logs. And really started grinding my Captain to transfer me to an outfit going overseas.

And then came Okinawa and earning a Purple Heart. But I believe that I got more than I gave in the Army, starting with the privilege of serving my country.

~

Before Okinawa

Ah, life was simple in the Army.

Getting in the bag, aka drunk,was our big deal. Never even thought of crack cocaine or heroin. Never heard of 'meth' or oxycodone pain pill addiction. How would any of us, 1940's GI's, know that 'sucking on a glass dick' meant smoking a crack pipe?

The doctors in the Army were bored spit-less especially when talking to us ignorant, stupid enlisted men. I think they were resentful of their medical school 4F buddies who were home raking in the big bucks while they were pissing their lives away on a bunch of ignorant dummies who didn't have shiney bars on their shoulders.

It all seemed like the Catch 22 theme ruled where if you complained about being crazy, you had to be sane. How else would you know that you were crazy?

Going to the enlisted man's club bar to drink 3.2% beer was a big fucking deal. I volunteered for a job, for money, as a bartender. As smart and as quick as I thought I was, I couldn't get myself into the routine of collecting money for the beer and allocating the receipts, three for the club and one for me. That, even for me, with my consummate greed, crossed the line.

One night of bartending was enough for me. Guys screaming at me for their fucking bottles of Pabst, Millers, Schaefer's or whatever, crossed my emotional limit. And when one of my fellow schmucks started fucking fumble fingering in his pants pockets looking for change to pay, I would go nuts.

Everyone was screaming at me to get them a fucking beer while this guy was probably jacking off. He probably, didn't have any pockets up front and kept his money in his rear pocket pants. Fooling with his ass didn't turn him on.

Common labor was in very short supply during WWII. Sacramento with a vegetable packing plant, the Southern Pacific freight yards and a big time almond packing plant really needed common, unskilled labor. Phillip Wylie said the the trouble with the common man is that there are too many of them, too common.

Being a good soldier, while being noisy, pissing and groaning was my big drive in life. My non Army major commitments, at the time, were to make some money, get drunk and get laid. The first one required me to work at a civilian job, the second to have the money to go into town and get drunk. $54 a month, plus the $20 my Mom sent me, didn't go far enough to suit my voracious liquid booze appetite.

Getting laid, while important, was not that important. I had outgrown the fear that jacking off would cause hair to grow in the palm of my hand or cause me to go blind. Doing it so that 40 other guys in the barracks didn't know what I was doing was a minor problem. I mostly quit breathing.

Wrangling a three day pass by grinding my heel into the right lens of my eye glasses worked at Camp Kohler in Sacramento, so I gave it a shot at Fort Worden and Camp Hayden. Worked like a fucking slot machine since none of them had facilities to replace the specs and without them I was a useful as teats on a boar pig.

While stationed at Camp Kohler, I would go into Sacramento.On one three day span I worked at a tomato canning plant putting four cans of tomato paste at a time into boxes. Eight hours of looking at the blinding tops of the fucking cans made me believe that going blind seemed like a possibility. One eight hour shift cured me of ever wanting to go back.

The next day I worked at the Southern Pacific yards unloading freight cars which was wonderful. The other 'unloaders' were GI's. Plus the cars had little in them so we spent most of the time sprawled out in the freight cars dozing. Most GI's could sleep standing while leaning against the wall.

The third day was working at the almond packing plant packing almonds.Got the usual $1.00 an hour and a big time case of constipation.Couldn't look at a fucking almond for years much less eat one. Now my fucking dentures won't let me eat almonds though I do get constipated from time to time but not because of almonds.

Next blog will talk about working in the Southern Pacific foundry for 24 straight hours: $1.00 an hour for the first eight hours, $.1.50 per for the next four and $2.00 an hour for the last four. My two times at the Crown Zellerbach paper plant in Port Angeles proved that greed and the fearlessness of youth always overwhelms common sense.

'Everything changes. Everything remains the same.'

Army Privacy, Segregation, Drunken Brilliance...

Privacy in the Army was a non starter.

Having a bowel moment with at least 10 other guys, for company, in the same bathroom took care of the delusion of even trying for privacy. Taking a shower with at least ten other bare ass naked guys was like taking a shower in your high school gym locker-room after a basket ball game or gym class. Was a great motivator for six pack abs.(Which never happened to me.)

Any retained desire for privacy went bye bye when it was time for 'short arm' inspection. Where you, with a gazillion other guys in attendance, dropped your pants and drawers and tugged on your schlong to prove to a doctor that you didn't have a venereal disease. A dripping schlong was bad news and reason for confinement and other goodies like being busted down to private.

Thank God an enlarged prostate is an older man's problem. At least we were young and didn't have to have a finger stuck up our asses by a doctor.

~

But then there was segregated privacy. A favorite story of mine originated on a troop transport ship hauling us to Okinawa with a two week stop in Hawaii at Schofield Barracks.

Aboard ship the showers were salt water showers, which guaranteed feeling fucking slimy when you finished but it was better than smelling like shit. After finishing a shower one day, the First Sergeant stopped me and ate my ass out for taking a shower on the Black side of the ship.

Whites with Whites and Blacks with Blacks and never the twain shall meet was the absolute unwritten rule which I had ignored. The First Sergeant was Regular Army, a group virulent with hate and bigotry. Being around those mothers wasn't like spending a day at the beach.

'Regular Army' guys were guys who enlisted in the thirties when civilian jobs were hard to come by. Enlisting in the Army in the thirties was a way out of unemployment and poverty.

~

Being drunk on an airplane in the sixties and early seventies always meant being loaded with creativity and feeling feeling fucking brilliant. That was a great part of being in the bag, sitting in a flying tube on a flight to somewhere, often to NY.

Ideas galore which I wrote down religiously. The bad part was that the next day, when sober, I couldn't read my drunken handwriting. So much for my brilliance under the influence.

But the flight attendants either loved me or didn't care how much booze I ingested as long as I didn't bother them, which didn't happen.Yeah, in spite of wonderful Alcoholics Anonymous my worst days sober have not been better than my best days in the bag.

I had some really great times in the bag. A lot of which, I don't remember but I'm sure they were great.

No matter how hard you try, if you close your eyes you don't disappear.

~

Walter Wriston, Joe Pevehouse, WWII

"Those were simpler times."

Walter Wriston was CEO of Citi Bank plus being a savior of NYC from bankruptcy. For whatever insane reason I sent Mr.Wriston a copy of a book, South by South East by Walter Cronkite. The book's paper cover had a picture of the steamship Rex.

Meeting Mr. Wriston at John Gardiner's Tennis Ranch in the very early 80's is a highlight of my life. He was there with General Haig, Oscar Dunn of General Electric and Mrs.Wriston. General Haig was consumed with his self importance and Oscar Dunn was kinda a smart, good ole boy. My view was that Mrs.Wriston was the smartest of the group.

Mr. Wriston sent me a thank you note in which he said that he had, with his parents, taken the Rex on his first trip to Europe. He ended the note by saying, "Those were simpler times."

Some parts, of just being a civilian during WW II were toxic. Being young and a civilian wasn't all peaches and cream. The social pressure to be in the service was enormous. Being a young, healthy looking male and working as a civilian, on warships in the Brooklyn Navy Yard drew no kudos.You were a fucking draft dodger.

And when the war ended and we came home if you didn't wear a pin, we called The Ruptured Duck, on the lapel of your suit coat people kinda stared at you. The pin was formally known as the Honorable Service Pin and issued when discharged. Where the name Ruptured Duck came from God only knows.The Pins are currently for sale on eBay.

Jew's in uniform looked down at the civilian Jews who wouldn't fight Hitler and Tojo.We didn't bother to ask why they were still civilians. They just had to be fuck offs. Talk about discrimination.

But the war changed a lot of attitudes in NY. A Jew with a yarmulke could walk through German Yorktown in Manhattan without worrying about getting his fucking brains beat out by American Firster's, Third Reich lovers or a combination of the above.

Farewell parties for guys leaving for the Service were the order of the day. They always ended up being big time drunk scenes and they happened with great, almost weekly, regularity. Sometimes I wonder if that is when I started down the slippery slope of alcoholism.

Reminds me of our hospital ship stopping in Honolulu going home back to the States, getting a few hours shore leave and spending those hours drinking shots and beer. We were sure, having survived Okinawa, that we were indestructible. But I don't harbor Woody Allen's wish of becoming immortal by living forever. Just the thought of taking a fucking diuretic and constantly needing to pee for an eternity sounds awful.

Before we got to Honolulu we stopped in Yokohama. A bunch of us went directly, didn't pass GO, to a whorehouse.Once there, the thought of getting a dose and being forced to stay in the Army for another 60-90 days made my erection go away. Despite having paid my money I left. Jackin' off was a great dose preventative. Better than a med but not as good as getting laid.

Around 1980 sitting on a transcontinental DC 10 going to NYC, I was sitting next to gal. By definition a Jew like me can't sit next to someone for almost 5 hours without knowing what the hell that person does for a living. So I asked her. Turns out that this gal was a huge big shot in the consumer credit part of Citi Bank.

She in turn asked me what I did for a living.

"I'm a promoter."

"Really.", she says, "Tell me really what you do".

Out comes my business card which says 'Investment Banker'.

"Wow.", she says, "How did you become an investment banker?".

"I don't know how anyone else became an investment banker but I went to a printing shop and for $3.50 worth of business cards I became an investment banker. Pretty simple."

The woman looked at me like I was a bull with a bastard calf and never spoke to me again.

Those Investment Banker business cards were magic. My self invented title did help get me into a lot of places. But once inside, the interviewer knew, right away, that my master's degree came from the Bronx, Barnes Avenue School of Street Survival..

But then, at the end of the day, it all got down to the Joe Pevehouse mantra that, "If you can't dazzle them with your foot work then blind them with your bullshit". And I invented bullshit.

~

An Open Penitentiary Plus Georgie and Donny

Being 91 ain't all bad. 

Besides just not being dead, I can fantasize about oral sex (certainly not with the Princess) without feeling guilty. It's plenty okay, at 91, to stare at the tight asses of young women, knowing that being an old reprobate is good for my soul. 

After all, staring is as much as I can do, knowing that my drooping, dripping faucet no longer knows from the straight and narrow.

The independent oil and gas business in the 70's and 80's was an open penitentiary and if you didn't  realize that paranoia improved your peripheral vision you would get fucked. Looking over your shoulder was crucial for survival.What the average business man would think dishonest, the average oil and gas guy would think that it was sharp trading. 

Some oil and gas towns and states were worse than some others. Mr. McGee of Kerr McGee once told me that he avoided Denver based acquisitions because of some real life, unhappy experiences.

Midland, Texas, Fort Worth were almost 'straight'. Oklahoma City and Tulsa were very dangerous.Calgary, Canada was truly the last of the Wild West, cowboy towns.Vancouver, B.C. was an absolute no, no. Salt Lake City had a stock exchange that specialized in mostly oil, gas and mineral penny stocks. Unless you had the Mormons on your side you were fucked.

The guys who ran the drilling funds, aka tax shelters, were really dangerous except for guys like George Bush who didn't know how to be totally dishonest. But the Georgies of the world were in very short supply in the Denver oil patch. Phil Anschutz was/is  pretty straight. 

Georgie and his buddy Donny Evans would show up at the Y at noon to work out and recover from one too many the night before. They were serious drinkers. They waited, generally, until evening to start having again, 'the hair of the dog that bit them'. They were some kind of pair to draw to until Donny went straight, quit drinking and with a great assist from Laura Bush, got Georgie to quit.

At least Georgie and Donny  were mostly honest.The last totally honest being was Jesus and it's been all down hill since.

And then we have some button hole patriots who think that wearing an American Flag pin on their lapel makes anything they do okay, no matter how borderline the action. Samuel Johnson famously observed that, 'Patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels'. But even those button hole patriots, for the most part, pay no never mind to Pearl Harbor Day. Don't even pay lip service to Dec 7.

But even worse, young people hardly know what happened Dec.7,1941.

On Sunday, Dec.7,1941 I was at the movies with my best friend Buddy Goldfarb. Double feature for either 15 or 25 cents. Don't remember which.

Me & Buddy Goldfarb, Tinian, 1945

The Pearl Harbor attack was announced at the movie theatre. Everyone's reaction was disbelief and indignation. Monday everyone and anyone who could walk, talk and chew gum at the same time volunteered for a service. I went to a Navy recruiting office and was told that I needed a new set of eyes. Then I tried the Army who also told me to fuck off.

Then I started to pound the draft board to draft me which they finally did. Stamped my papers 'Not To Be Sent Overseas'. Orders which in the end were ignored, thanks to my insistence and to my ability as a dot-dash guy, aka radio operator.

My years in the service left me with a bum Okinawa leg and an enriched life with great memories.Very proud to be part of  the Greatest Generation. And still looking down at the grass.

~