Here and Now: Post Puking in Korea, ADHD On a Tractor

The 'here and now' is sometimes hard to take but it is sure one hell of a lot better than 'the dead and gone'.

Unless, of course, you believe in a glorious after life. But old Jews like me don't believe in an after life.You do good for good's sake so that you can leave a good name not because you want to go to heaven. For me there ain't no heaven and their ain't no hell.When I die I will be stone cold, fucking dead.

'Here and Now' was the name of a AA Sunday night meeting started by a tough little Irishman named Jimmy. Jimmy had empathy but no compassion. If a practicing alcoholic showed up at the meeting, in the bag, Jimmy would throw him out.

Strangely, the meetings that were held at the VA facility in Palo Alto didn't draw flies. The weird part is that booze was big time in the service (dope and pills hardly at all) in my days.Getting drunk at every opportunity was a sign of manhood. I was very big time Macho in that department.

At 21 being blotto and getting an erection is possible. At 51, and beyond, being in the bag and getting an erection is every man's dream..

At my first AA meeting, at the Vets, there was only one other guy, the secretary and me. After listening to the 'other guy', a Viet Nam vet, it seemed to me that the poor son of a bitch needed to be put away. He was the product of dope and booze and a real mess. More looney than sane.One more meeting was my emotional limit.

When farming in Iowa, getting half in the bag on weekends felt like my only way out. Slopping hogs, milking cows, plowing corn, needing to take an outdoor shower in the summer before the Princess would let me in the house for dinner, deserved some reward. Weekend booze was my reward.

Actually one of the most memorable farming experiences was spending days on end plowing corn. Sitting on a fucking tractor, going up and down endless rows of corn at about one mile per hour and having to concentrate on staying in the dirt, between the rows of corn, tested my ADHD. At the end of each day I was really wired for sound and could have probably lit up the city of Philadelphia. So, often a little booze and a roaring screamer with the Princess were my outlets.

My drinking companion in Iowa was often my first father-in-law but he complained about me drinking his whiskey, the whiskey he had paid for. So I told him, in no uncertain terms, to stick his whiskey where the sun don't shine aka 'stick it in your ass'.

We continued to drink together, but each out of our own bottle. We were attached to one another by an electrical bond of mutual disrespect and dislike.

We had a great trade going. He disliked me for my in his face attitude and in turn, I disliked him for what he was. He drowned fishing in that fucking fish-less, loaded with weeds, Clear Lake, Iowa.

Getting in the bag on warm sake in Seoul, Korea was fun until it wasn't. I made my first and last trip down Sake Alley (warm or not) in Seoul. I barely made it back to the barracks to puke my brains out. Getting sick from drinking was no big fucking deal in the Army. That was just part of the whole Army scene.

Out here in the Land of Milk and Honey and Fruits and Nuts, there was a guy, a sometimes drinking buddy of mine who loved heated red wine. He drank that bullshit heated wine which got him in almost instant motion or numb. Sometimes he just passed out at the table. He called it falling asleep.

I concentrated on Grants 8 year old scotch. He died of alcoholism and here I am at 91 1/2.

The moral is an old AA 'truism' that God takes care of drunks and fools and since I qualify on both scores here I am, still around, full of piss and vinegar. And still, thank God, without a filter between my brain and my mouth.

~

Sex, The Princess and A Dripping Faucet

After three years in the Army which included one gunshot wound, two things drove me: making money and my little head (now, no more useful than a dripping faucet).

It took my first ex-wife, in a rare show of candor, just three weeks after we were married, to tell me that she felt that she had made a mistake in marrying me and was already very worn out with me. On our honeymoon, in Jamaica, a few months later the Princess said it again. The Princess seemed to enjoy telling me, that even knowing me was a mistake.

Being both a guilty Bronx Jew and stupid, I tried futilely to get the Princess to like me.Love never had a chance.I often wonder why self pity was a very minor factor in my life. But optimism, looking for serendipity and laughter have always mostly overcome negative feelings.

After 27 years of my trying to change her negative feelings towards me the Princess threw me out.She originally claimed that it was my drinking that forced her into bouncing my ass out of our Jewish Mansion.

When the Princess blamed my drinking for our divorce to a friend my self righteous indignation surfaced and I went fucking nuts.

I phoned the JAP and said, "Bonnie, quit telling people that you threw me out because I drank too much. Tell the them the God damn truth. Tell them that you threw me out because you didn't like me in 1947 and you still don't like me in 1974. That's the real truth and I'm cool with it. Quit playing the booze card."

Never did get any more 'Woe is me, I married an alcoholic.", feedback.

The Princess did confess to a mutual friend that being married to me was exciting. In a moment of weakness she told that to me as well.We'd been happily divorced for about 10 years when that comment popped out of her mouth.Talk about a day late and a dollar short.

But the Princess had a ferocious memory and remembered, in detail, all the asshole things I had done and they were a big fucking bunch. As I told her several times (redundancy is a specialty of mine) "Why is it that you remember, in detail, every asshole thing I've ever done and you never give me credit for the good things that I've done?" Her answer was her consistent steely eyed, WASP look of total disgust and disdain.

My son Joe's advice on how to stay married came along way too late for me. My son, Joe, contended that a basic rule for staying married is for the guy to say, when necessary, 'I'm sorry, it's all my fault.'

Yeah, most divorced couples are amiable toward one another until they talk about something serious. Then it's the same old noise.

For 28 years after our divorce, without a court order, I saw to it that the Princess continued to live in the life style that I had made her accustomed to living. She surely deserved it. (Living with me wasn't like spending a day at the beach.)

The minute the Princess stopped receiving her $5k a month and other high priced perks, she stopped even acknowledging me. See me at a local shopping center and the Princess would turn turn her head away.

The Princess, I believe, died with Italian Alzheimer's where you forget everything except the grudge. Sad for her.

~

Above and Beyond with My VA Hospital

God bless the VA Palo Alto Health Care System, a caring health facility.

Starring Dr. Patricia Nguyen, Dr.Mitchell Wong and Angella in the pharmacy at the VA PAHCS.

Dr. Nguyen a pre-eminent cardiologist is always over booked but on my very recent date, Dr.Nguyen broke her previous record for keeping me waiting.

After sitting in the waiting room for 45 minutes, building up a head of indignant steam, a nurse came along to take my 'vitals': blood pressure, temperature, weight, etc. Then back to the fucking waiting room.

After another 15 minutes, along comes a different nurse and escorts me to the examination room. 15 minutes later, in walks a doctor, not Dr Nguyen, who introduces himself. I look at him like a bull with a bastard calf and ask him what the hell he wanted. 'Just want to ask you some questions,' he says.

'Where is Dr Nguyen?'.

'Dr Nguyen will be along in a few minutes'.

By then I've gone aerobic, my blood pressure has gone through the roof and I say to that fresh faced doctor 'Fuck you, I'm outta here.', and to my car...drove home, wired for sound, sucking wind all the way.

(Went for a blood test necessary to get my thyroid pill prescription renewed.)

About an hour later at home, Dr.Nguyen phoned, to my huge surprise, apologetically and insisted on 'interviewing' me for about 20 minutes. I complained, in my usual grating voice that her scheduling person was an overbooking maniac. Dr.Nguyen, in spite of my bitching and complaining gave me survival guidance.

In my 91 1/2 years of being 'doctored', this and my next day experience with Dr.Wong, really stand out. I could have laid down and died in the Menlo Medical Clinic and my doctor would have stepped over my body to get to the next paying patient.

Phone me? The Menlo Medical Clinic? That's a joke.

The next day, schlepping my weary ass back down to the VA was more than I could contemplate. I cancelled my appointment with the great, Dr. Mitchell Wong my Primary Care physician, who then phoned to check up on me.

Dr.Wong put me through his wringer, checking up and advising me with his survival wisdom.That made two phone calls in 24 hours from two caring physicians.

Ah, but those thyroid pills were a problem that Dr.Wong solved. Dr. Wong leaned on the pharmacy to get the pills out the same day.

Lo and behold Angella from the VA pharmacy phoned at 5:30 PM to tell me that she was going to drop them off at my place after work.

The VA PAHCS is a shining model of fostering a culture of caring. How lucky can I be.

And yeah, no woman will have me, thank God, because I no longer drive at night. Gotta have concern for the other drivers on the road...Hello Lyft/Uber.

~

One For All, All For One

'What you see is what you get.'

'Take a flying fuck to the moon.'

Expressions of independence learned while in the Army but well used by me since those days.

The strange part is that independent thinking and being a GI were not even kissin' cousins.Except when you were diving for cover when the bullets started flying. Then we became heavy thinkers. By then we had learned, the hard way, that the bullets were not our friends.

For some weird reason, my days in the service didn't come into my daily stream of conscious until I was around 84 years old. No one ever asked about them and I never spoke of them.Once in a long while someone would ask why I limped. Always had some smart ass answer. Never said that I was hit on Okinawa.

Putting myself out as some kind of hero or patriot seemed silly then, as it does now. We were wherever we were because that was where we were supposed to be.

But going to the VA Palo Alto Health Care facilities snapped me to attention. Seeing vets who looked worse than I did (no small trick) and still being alive brought history back to me. Lots of vets with WWII baseball caps in my early days at the vets.

Now it's the Korean and Vietnam War vets who tool around in their motorized wheel chairs, mostly overweight and looking like shit.

WW II vets, like me, die every day. Hardly ever see a vet with a WWII baseball cap at the VA health care facilities these days.

Now the Korean, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq vets look at the likes of me and think that we are fucking freaks. Freaks maybe. Fucking freaks, hardly possible. At 91 1/2 my schlong is a faucet which drips from time to time. Hardly a fucking sex tool. A major league generator of the need for fresh, dry underwear.

At the end of the day the most meaningful memory, for me, of the service was the deep seated feeling of family. A feeling that is sorely lacking in my life these days.

As a first generation American, with immigrant parents, I was lucky as a kid to have lived 'family' to the hilt. Huge family dinners: 'break the fast', passover, on and on. Squabbles but feelings of family reigned.

The Army, through fist fights, harsh words and hard times was the ultimate in 'family' living.We were, all of us, in it together. One for all, all for one.

~

Optimism, The Army's Greatest Lesson!!!

Google says (and Google knows all) that 16,000,000 served in WWII. 

And Google also says that as of D Day, 2014 there were only 1,000,000 of us left and surely much less by now this April of 2015. 

Being one of 1,000,000 doesn't sound very special. But one of 1,000,000 sounds so much better than being one of 16,000,000 so I'll take it, gladly.

The services are great optimism training grounds, especially during war time and in combat. All but the Section 8 candidates were sure of the inevitability of their getting home, sooner or later, safe and sound. And their girlfriends having waited patiently for them. But the ultimate in optimism was the hurry for discharged vets, schmucks like me, to get out of the service and get married.

Schmuck is the Yiddish word for penis which we all know is a really stupid appendage.When a man gets old the schmuck doubles down on stupid and it becomes a fucking dripping faucet. (This is Noah talking about the flood.)

Guys became Section 8 candidates when they started over worrying about their own welfare.Section 8 was for those with mental problems. Anyone looking healthy, going on sick call too often was suspicioned of bucking for a medical discharge including a Section 8. Check the film Patton where Patton slaps the frightened, distraught soldier.

I was accused of bucking for a Section 8 or a medical discharge by a fucking starched up newbie doctor, who just arrived in Saipan from the States. God was he self-important and pompous with shiny new lieutenant bars and freshly pressed uniform. 

As opposed to the officers who had endured Okinawa, Saipan and more. Those guys had, as we all had, learned lessons in mortality.

I couldn't walk up the fucking hill to the mess hall and complained, almost daily about it. It took a pediatrician to read the X-rays and determine that the impact of the bullet had destroyed the inside of my knee.Certainly wasn't cause for discharge. I was happy to get back to my outfit. 

A Section 8 discharge was an appetizing vehicle for the worrier/pessimist. He not only got out of the service but then received a lifetime of disability pay. You never thought consciously about being an optimist when in the service. It came with the territory.

How else could you do a fucking 20 mile forced march in the Sacramento Valley, during July in100 plus degree heat without being an optimist? And get to your barracks which were originally a Japanese detention center with low slung, tar paper roofs? Out of the sun, into a sauna. But optimistically still breathing while trying to cool off in your underwear.

Optimism is endemic in the service. Even when grousing about some impossible to understand directive that showed up. And since your life was totally controlled with the exception of going to the latrine what was there to worry about?

Optimism is the most notable, enduring lesson the Army taught me. Think 'down' and be 'down'... 

~

Okinawa and 70 Years Later

April 25, 2015 marks my 91 1/2 years birthday. At my age, recognizing six months at a time seems right.

There is nothing but gratitude in my heart for my two ex-wives. Neither one followed their strong inclination to kill me.They both had a litany of what was and still is, wrong with me besides my just being alive. And neither was shy in ripping my ass open. Just my being in their presence and talking made everything really bad for them.

But like the classic dumb Jew that I am, I kept trying to please the 'unpleasable'. The most surprised person at still being fucking alive at 91 1/2 is me.

April 12, 2015 is really a big fucking anniversary for me. It is 70 years to the day, on Okinawa, that a bullet made its way, in a hurry, through my left leg. A little higher and that little devil would have gone through my scrotum and would have destroyed my dreams of sexual glory.

Instead it just, thank God, left me with limp. I had hoped that the limp would make me look distinguished. No chance.Use a lift in my shoe.

Not that my first wife considered me to be the last of the Latin or Jewish lovers. She never was an admirer of my love making skills.But then she wasn't even close to hot. Hookers on the other hand never complained. $100-$200 up front, made me King Kong for 30 minutes, more or less. Mostly less.

The real fighting on Okinawa began about a week after the initial landings.The landings began on a beautiful, Easter Sunday, April 1.The cannon fire noise from the battleships was ferocious. Being young and not too fucking smart, I was fearless.

When the rains came, Okinawa turned into an enormous mud hole. Mud, ass high.

My first experience with gunfire taught me nothing.When you're 21 you know, for sure, that if anyone was going to get hit or killed it was going to be the other guy. That time it was Sgt. Hobbs who came from a bifurcated town, Texarkana, part in Texas, part in Arkansas, who caught a deadly bullet.

We were unloading a Landing Craft when the Japanese Zero's came swooping in.We scattered to underneath the trailers swearing at the fucking airplanes.One fatal casualty, lots of damaged egos.

70 years later, at 91 1/2, life for me ain't easy but it's better than the alternative.Optimism, trying to live like I'm 40, are keys to living long and liking it. Keeps me charging.

~

Jewish, Irish, Italian Guilt

Jews and Irish make ideal marriage partners because they both lead guilt driven lives.

The Irish are guilty forever because they left their mother's womb. The Jews are guilty because they showed up. Italian Catholic men have their share of guilt except when it comes to cheating on their wives. That's part of the culture.

But the Italians know that a stiff schlong has no conscience and have no problems with that notion. But then you don't have be Italian to live in that style, except for the goody two shoes guys or guys with erectile dysfunction. But Viagra doesn't overcome guilt.

One of the saving graces of being in the Army is that I never felt guilty. Stupid often but guilty, never. Someone else was making the good and bad decisions.

The Princess made up for my guilt free Army time lapse. The Princess drove guilt into me like I was the nail and she was the hammer. She remembered, until the day she died, every asshole thing I ever did and I did many.

The good stuff was totally forgotten, surely not mentioned. The Princess was the ultimate co-alcoholic and booze was a momentary relieving virtue for me but then guilt took over.

Being a traveling schmatta salesman did have its strong points. I was in charge of my life driving that dress laden car,but guilt helped my drive to excel.

There I was, traveling with my typewriter banging out thank you notes every night in my motel room, to the buyers who would look at my line of dresses and sorry I missed you notes to those who weren't in. To the the rude assholes who effectively told me to fuck off went a conciliatory note as well.

Those last notes were tough to write.

If I got blasted instead of writing those notes, guilt stepped in and I did double penance the following night. I hated writing those fucking notes but hated the prospect of failing even more.

Yeah guilt is a great driver. Guilty if going a day without a sale. Guilty if getting in the bag instead of writing notes. Guilty of having 'going to hell' thoughts by looking at a great looking gal and wishing I could bang her.

No cuddling.

Being around the oil and gas business, being a car salesman, being a stock salesman or a private equity entrepreneur were a constant challenge to telling the truth and avoiding guilt.

One time that guilt never came into play was when I sold a previously foundered horse who had become a stumbler, at an auction in Iowa. It was my turn to fuck the Iowa farmers who had fucked this ignorant Bronx Jew for four miserable years.

~