Stories Of A Lifetime

2006-07-28T08:22:00.000-07:00

Stories Of

A Lifetime

Andrew Lawrence

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extraordinary events in
an extraordinary life

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Introduction

2006-07-26T04:50:00.000-07:00

Stories Of A Lifetime contains extraordinary and true stories from my own extraordinary life.

I hope you will enjoy Stories Of A Lifetime. It took me a lifetime to write it.

Some Day ...

Some day you'll be old, really old, and sitting in a rocking chair. Some day you'll be old, really old, and sitting in a rocking chair and looking back over your entire life. You’ll look back and remember. You'll look back and remember your hopes and dreams. You'll remember the good times and the bad times. The struggles. The love. The pain. The successes and the failures. The fun. The tragedies. The things you did do ... and the things you didn't do. When you are old, and looking back at your life, what will count? What will be important and meaningful? What will have real value?

The memories.

When you are old, really old, you will want to look back at your life and be able to relive lots of wonderful memories.

Make memories. Make them now. Make them glorious!

Andrew Lawrence
Los Angeles, CA

copyright 2000-2008 Andrew Lawrence
all rights reserved; including all blog entries

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Birth Of A Baby Boomer

2006-07-25T03:47:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in the month of May, in the year 1946, I was born in upstate New York.

My very first recollection was of leaving the hospital. I was five days old.

Surrounded by my family I was swaddled in a soft blue baby blanket and was being carried by my mother’s mother. Down the corridor the small group walked. Toward the hospital’s front door exit. As we neared the exit I was dazzled by the beautiful warm sunny daylight streaming in through the doors from outside. The group came up to the doors and, for the very first time, I saw the sky. The deep majestic blue of an enormous sky that stretched forever. My senses were overwhelmed by the beauty and the color and the light.

The doors opened and, in awe and wonder, I went out into the world.

Kindergarten Love

2006-07-24T01:38:00.000-07:00

The first time I fell in love I was five years old. In kindergarten. I fell in love with the kindergarten art teacher. She was a true beauty. Tall. Long legged. Voluptuous. Dark haired. Beautiful. Kind. Intelligent.

Did I mention gorgeous?

I was mesmerized. Bedazzled. She had all my attention all the time (no small feat for a five year old). I watched her every move. She was achingly beautiful to look at. A fantasy woman come to life.

A Playboy centerfold in the flesh. Better than Playboy. Real.

She was maybe twenty-two years old. I was five. I didn’t care. At age five I just knew we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together; I just didn’t know what that meant.

She was my very first case of puppy love. She had a major impact on my love life; she became the model for the type of woman to whom I have always been strongly attracted.

Sadly, she and I were not to be. All too soon we parted; she went on to marry her boyfriend, I went on to the first grade.

But I never forgot her.

The Stethoscope

2006-07-24T01:05:00.000-07:00

At the tender age of five, I was involved in a major vehicular accident.

I was run over by a passing bicycle. A young girl was riding her bike; she lost control of her vehicle and somehow managed to run over my stomach.

I didn’t know what hit me. I was frightened and began to cry. Long and loud. My parents immediately took me to the hospital to get checked out by the doctor. The doctor decided to keep me in the hospital overnight for observation.

This was the first time I was to be on my own. Away from my parents. Away from home. All alone.

At the hospital the doctor began to examine me for injuries. While reclining on the examination table, I watched the doctor hook his stethoscope into his ears. Then the doctor placed the listening end against my wildly beating chest. As it touched me the tip of the stethoscope was shockingly cold and, out of pure reflex, I grabbed the end of it and jerked it away from my body. I refused to let go and maintained a death grip on the offending instrument.

The doctor tried to get his stethoscope back. I wouldn’t let go.

The nurse tried to get the stethoscope back. I wouldn’t let go.

My father tried to get me to give it up. I wouldn’t let go.

Every ounce of fear and strength in my body was focused on my hand staying wrapped around that stethoscope. Nobody knew what to do. Everybody tried everything. I wouldn’t let go.

This went on for some time.

The doctor was not pleased. My father thought it was funny. Until the doctor pointed out to him that I was holding an important piece of medical equipment as a hostage.

In the end, I did not let go. And my father had to buy the stethoscope from the doctor.

The following morning I was released from the hospital with a clean bill of health. And a stethoscope. Still clutched in my hand.

Big Boy Bike

2006-07-24T01:03:00.000-07:00

When I was nine years old, my dad bought me my first bike. A big boy bike. With little training wheels. A big twenty-six inch tall bike. I could barely reach the pedals. Ultramodern, it had two gears, low and high, when almost all bikes had no gears. It was brand new. Not a scratch on it. It was a beautiful maroon color. It was the most beautiful bike a boy could ever hope to have. I was thrilled. It gleamed. It was mine.

After a few weeks of riding I began to get embarrassed and self-conscious; it was the training wheels. Made me look and feel like a baby, a sissy. The big boys didn’t need training wheels.

If I wanted to be like the big boys, I had to learn how to ride like the big boys. The training wheels had to go.

I told my dad. He agreed to teach me how to ride a bike like the big boys. He took off the training wheels. He explained and showed me about balancing, holding the bike upright while I sat on the seat with my feet on the pedals. Next, while I perched on the seat, he slowly walked the bike up and down so I would learn about steering and braking. Next, came speed. My dad ran along behind me as I pedaled, holding on to the seat of the bike so I wouldn’t fall. Feeling secure, I was getting the feel of the bike, I began to get my balance. I began to be able to steer and brake. My dad began to get tired. After an hour or so, I was gaining confidence. Off we went, going faster and faster, my dad struggling to both keep up and keep me up.

With a little speed it felt like I was riding the bike all by myself. I turned around to tell my father. He wasn’t there. He was standing 50 feet behind me. Laughing.

He had let go!

Instantly, realization set in. Oh, my god, I was riding this huge bike all by myself! I got scared. The bike immediately started to wobble. I lost my confidence. I lost my balance. I lost my dad!

I was on my own.

Crash.

My father picked me up off the ground. He picked the bike up off the ground. After I stopped crying and he stopped laughing he made me see that, indeed, I had ridden the bike all by myself. That I could do it.

Within a few weeks I was riding like the wind. Like a pro. Like a big boy.

Thanks dad.

One Penny

2006-07-24T01:02:00.000-07:00

One Sunday in my ninth year, the family piled into the family car and set out on a trip. A mystery trip My mom and dad refused to tell where we were going.

After a short trip to the other side of town we pulled up to a nondescript building and parked in the parking lot. There was a sign on the building. The sign read ASPCA.

We were getting a dog!

Entering the building, I was assaulted by the smell; the smell of chemicals and the smell of fear. Inside the building were dozens and dozens of cages, dozens and dozens of caged barking dogs. Little dogs, big dogs and everything in between. Dozens and dozens of very unhappy caged dogs, waiting to get adopted…or die.

It was a very sad and unsettling place.

We walked slowly down the aisle, peering into each cage, looking to choose our family’s new pet. What kind of dog should we get? Small one? Big one? What kind of breed? How can we choose one dog over the other?

As we approached one of the cages, the black-and-white 2-year old part border collie/part german shepherd inside took one look at us and began to frantically wag its tail back and forth, barking a greeting and leaping for joy. It leapt up against the cage and tried to lick our hands.

This dog was very excited to see us. It liked us immediately.

It wanted to join our family.

It was unanimous. This was our new dog.

Her name was Penny. She was given up by her previous owner because she constantly dug holes in the lawn. Dug up the whole yard.

We took Penny home. Then I took her outside on a leash and showed her around her new neighborhood. We had a long talk about digging up the yard. She listened.

Penny was the smartest and best dog I ever knew. Everyone who ever met her said Penny was the smartest and best dog they ever knew. Even the veterinarian said she was the smartest and best dog he ever knew. She was not only a member of our family she was the queen of the whole neighborhood.

She quickly became “my” dog. She slept in my room. I played with her and taught her tricks. She was my constant companion.

We had her unconditional love and protection for 16 years. She had ours.

Then she got very sick with diabetes. I gently put her into the car and took her to the vet.

We buried her ashes in the backyard.

I miss her still.

Go Directly To Jail

2006-07-24T01:00:00.000-07:00

When I was about 10 years old (and maybe starting to exhibit some nice juvenile delinquent tendencies) my father decided to both have a little fun and make an important point concerning my future behavior.

He arranged for a short public relations tour of the local jail.

We drove over to the local police station, entered the building and were introduced to one of the policemen on duty. We began our tour. It was a little tour. It made a big point.

Stopping in front of an open jail cell my dad urged me to step inside and take a closer look. I entered the small confining space and in a few seconds saw all there was to see. Not much. Cinder block walls, a cot, a sink and a toilet without a toilet seat. Suddenly, I heard a rumbling noise. Felt the vibration of something heavy moving. I turned around just in time to see and hear the cell bars roll shut.

Clang.

A heart numbing sound. A fearsome sound. A final sound.

This was no joke. I was in jail! Locked up!

Locked in! Trapped! All my freedom gone in an instant. I was damn scared. Suddenly, there was a huge lump in my throat. Tears started to well up in my eyes. I had been thrown in jail!

After letting me absorb the situation for a few moments my dad smiled in at me through the bars and said, “this is what can happen to bad boys”.

He made his point. The bars rolled back, the cell door opened and I gratefully exited jail and entered my future. I still did get into a bit of trouble occasionally. But to this day I can still hear and feel that steel bar cell door clanging closed. Feel it close out the world. Feel it close out freedom. Feel it close out possibilities and opportunities. Feel it close out life.

Was it traumatic? Yes. Was it effective? Very.

The "Y"

2006-07-23T12:01:00.000-07:00

I am most grateful to the YMCA for providing so many developmental activities in my formative years.

Starting when I was 10 years old, every Saturday morning my father would drop me off at the “Y” and I would spend the day there. From 8 AM to 4 PM. This went on for several years. At the “Y” I learned to play checkers and chess and pool. Here I swam and played basketball and ran and lifted weights. Here I observed and learned from people athletically better than I.

Here I found something I became really good at.

Shooting pool.

After many hours of frustrating “hit and miss” I began to consistently sink shots. After many months I developed into a decent pool player. Within a few years I was able to beat most opponents most of the time.

Eventually, I also spent many after-school hours in the local pool hall. No fancy bowling alley type pool hall was this. Not a place to bring a date. It was dark, dingy and the best place in the world to spend a dark, cold winter’s day. And right near my high school. There I could be found after school (before I went home to do my homework). Bent over the green felt table. Within the pooled circles of the two hanging shaded lights a whole universe existed.

Shooting pool also helped to train my mind, make it razor sharp. The game of pool made me think, made me think ahead; three, four, five steps ahead.

I was good at it. Once, I even beat the #5 ranked pool player in the country (he did give me a big head start but I still won!).

What always fascinated me about pool was the cause and effect. Hit the ball here and this happens. Hit it there and that happens. Plus, you can play by yourself and constantly improve your game. Like golf or bowling or other sports you can play by yourself, you can never completely master the game. Because you are playing against yourself. Your opponent is you. No matter how good you become there is no ongoing perfection, you can never completely master the game. Because, eventually, you will always make a mistake.

But it’s not about the mistakes. It’s about the quest and the passion. Whatever your passionate interest, the quest for its mastery, the expansion of your abilities and boundaries, coupled with real achievements, makes you alive, makes you grow.

In pool, as in life, your real opponent is always you, and if you suffer a loss it's usually because you beat yourself.

First Date

2006-07-23T11:57:00.000-07:00

I had my first date when I was 10 years old. I asked out Peggy Spencer. She was a beautiful and sweet girl, the same age as I. She was tall, with lustrous black hair and a winning smile.

Best of all, when I asked her for a date she said yes.

We arranged to go to the movies. To see the movie where Vincent Van Gogh cuts off his ear to prove how much he loves his woman. I remember now; Lust for Life. A little extreme for a 10-year-old’s first date but there wasn’t much else playing.

It was my first date. It was her first date. Here’s how it worked; one of our parents would drive us to the movie, the other’s parents would pick us up.

At the theatre, we didn’t get to see very much of the movie; we spent most of the time kissing.

Movie theatres were great places to make out; it was dark.

After the date, Peggy became my very first girlfriend. I used to ride my bike over to her house. We kissed a lot. I liked her. A lot.

Eventually, she moved away. Many years later, at one of our high school reunions, I met her again. She took my breath away. She had grown into a truly beautiful woman. She was married with two children and lived somewhere in the midwest. She was still sweet. She remembered me right away. We hugged. We talked. She confided that she thought I was really cute when we dated. We remembered and shared the innocence and innocent love of the first date and the first relationship either of us ever had. For a few moments I was 10 years old again.

First date. First love. Very tender. Very sweet.

The Young Investor

2006-07-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

In my thirteenth year I became a man. I had my Bar Mitzvah. At thirteen, my voice was still changing but I was considered, in Jewish tradition, a man. It was also tradition to bestow upon the Bar Mitzvah boy gifts of money. I collected $1,000 (quite a considerable sum in 1959). Afterwards, my parents had to decide how to invest it for me. They were leaning toward a mutual fund. I was not. I piped up and said I wanted to invest it all in two shares of a local company. The company, like me, was still in its developing years, but growing. Its long-term future, like mine, was unknown.

“Better to invest in proven companies through a conservative mutual fund”, said my parents, parroting the advice of the mutual fund sales agent on commission.

“No”, I said, “I’m a man now and it’s my money and I want to invest it in the two shares, not some stuffy old mutual fund”.

Ten years later, my mutual fund was worth about the same as when my parents invested all my Bar Mitzvah money in it.

Over the same ten years, the two shares of that local company that I had wanted to buy had since split many times and were worth a small fortune.

That local and growing company was called IBM.

Autumn Leaves

2006-07-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

Upstate New York has two magnificent times of year. October and May. Middle-to-late October because the air becomes ozone-charged with the coming of winter and the oak and maple leaves put on a last ditch effort at blazing glory before they die. The month of May because it finally begins to warm up after five months of cold and snow and ice. A rejuvenation after the near death experience of winter.

I prefer October. It always made me feel most alive. The last chance before gloves and earmuffs and boots and long underwear. Sweater weather.

The Upstate New York/northeastern region of the United States is world renowned for its Fall foliage. And maple syrup and apple cider and Halloween pumpkins.

Up until I was about 14, every year, a week or two before October 31st, our family used to drive out into the countryside to the local pumpkin farm. Here, surrounded by the bright color pallet of the changing leaves, we would pick out a fresh pumpkin, just harvested from the field.

Amongst hundreds and thousands of pre-delivery-to-the-supermarket pumpkins we had our pick of the best pumpkins.

While at the pumpkin farm we would partake of cold fresh cider, homemade from cold fresh local apples. And if it was a particularly chilly day or night when we visited the pumpkin farm that year, we might have our cider hot, with a cinnamon stick in it for added flavor. Yum!

The pumpkin farm also offered hayrides. There’s nothing like a hayride on a cold night; burrowing into the warmth of the hay piled high in the back of a horse drawn wagon. Luckily, I remembered this as I became seriously interested in girls.

Autumn in Upstate New York. Cool, crisp, clear days…adorned with millions and millions of sparkling leaves. And cooler, crisper, clearer nights… adorned with millions and millions of sparkling stars.

The autumns of my youth. It was good to feel, and be, alive.

Now I live in Southern California where there are only two seasons. Hot and hotter.

Bowling Alley Road

2006-07-23T08:22:00.000-07:00

Before we were old enough to drive we had no party night transportation. No car to take us to parties far and wide. Until we found Marty Rebe. Marty was 17, had taken Driver’s Ed, and could legally drive at night. His mother stayed home at night so he had unlimited party night use of her car. He became our new best friend. The gang had wheels again!

On Friday or Saturday night, when there wasn’t a party going on, we usually went bowling. At Midway Lanes in Vestal. It was a huge place, open 24 hours a day, with 48 lanes (both of which were unheard of in those days!). The bowling alley was right off the new highway or, alternatively, accessible the back way via the narrow two-lane Old Vestal Road. At Midway we rented bowling shoes, threw lots of gutter balls (and an occasional strike) using the mucho heavy, mucho used 16-pound bowling balls provided by the establishment, and generally had an uproariously good time.

One chilly night we finished bowling at about midnight. Marty, Mike, Pete, Blib and I put on our coats and left the bowling alley. As soon as we hit the parking lot Blib pulls open his coat and shows us a large dark round object. A bowling ball. He stole it!

“What the heck are you going to do with that?” we asked incredulously.

“I don’t know,” he answered laughingly, “seemed like a good thing to do at the time.”

We suggested he take it back. He replied that if he did they’d ask him how he just happened to unconsciously walk out the door carrying a 16-pound bowling bowl without noticing it and how they’d figure he stole it and he’d get into trouble.

So we bolted. We jumped into the car; Mike, Pete and I in the back, Blib in the front passenger seat. Marty hit the gas and we sped out onto the unlighted pitch black Old Vestal Road and headed back to town. Roaring down the 2-lane road. Sixty, seventy miles an hour. In getaway mode. Then it hit us how ridiculous it was to steal a big heavy bowling ball that had no practical uses other than knocking down wooden pins at the far end of a long shiny wooden alley.

Blib looked thoughtfully down the long dark road for a several seconds, turned to us and said something like, “You don’t exactly really need a bowling alley to bowl on”.

Then, he put the appropriate fingers into the appropriate holes of the bowling ball, opened the car door at seventy miles an hour, and bowled the ball down the midnight dark road. We braked and watched it, like a cannonball shot out of a cannon, as it sped down the bowling alley road.

Luckily, no other car was on the road and it didn’t hit anything breakable.

A Real Case Of ESP

2006-07-23T08:01:00.000-07:00

It was a very hot summer the year I turned 17. Broiling hot. Roasting hot. There were no beaches within hundreds of miles of my hometown. However, Blib’s mother’s sister lived in Asbury Park, NJ. Right near the beach. She invited Blib to visit her for a few days. Blib invited me. I had never been to Asbury Park, NJ before. The three of us went; Blib, me, and the Greyhound bus.

We were welcomed at the aunt’s house; we had a place to stay and the Atlantic Ocean nearby. It was cooler already. To get to the beach and back we could simply catch a shuttle bus that regularly made the thirty-forty minute trip. The next morning Blib and I packed up our suntan lotion and caught the shuttle to the beach. In the late afternoon we returned to the aunt’s house for dinner. The third day, we met a beautiful blonde on the shuttle bus and talked to her all the way out to the beach. The next morning she was once again on the same bus that we rode. She was exceptionally pretty, very nice and about the same age as Blib and I. She told us her first and last name, a little about herself and the name (but not the number) of the street she lived on. It was a main street which ran for maybe ten miles through Asbury Park.

Later that evening, after dinner, Blib and I took a walk. We found ourselves on the same street where our new blonde friend lived. We laughed. Blib said we should go and visit her, except we didn’t have the address only the street and the street was ten miles long. And there wasn’t any phonebooks anywhere around to look up her address, assuming she was even listed.

We kept walking. Block after block. Houses and apartment buildings lined both sides of the wide and long avenue. After about twenty minutes we came abreast of a nondescript medium sized apartment building. Suddenly, I stopped. I pointed my finger at the building and said, “She lives there.”

Blib laughed. “Yeah, right” he said.

“No,” I said emphatically, “she really does live right there.”

Blib looked at the building. Then he looked me. Then he looked back at the building. “There’s thousands of buildings on this street and she could be living in any one of them and you’re telling me she lives in this building right here?”

“She lives here,” I restated.

“Yeah, right. Let’s just see”, he said and walked up to the entrance of the building. I followed as he opened the door, stepped inside and went over to the tenant directory on the wall. He looked for her last name on the roster…and found it!

He turned to me with a strange look in his eye. “This is her last name alright,” he said. “But it’s a common last name and the first name is different anyhow and maybe it ain’t her.”

“She lives here,” I said.

Blib picked up the house phone, buzzed the apartment and, when someone answered, asked for the girl by name.

The girl came to the phone.

It turned out that she lived with her mother. Right there in that building on that wide, long street in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

She was totally amazed that we found her.

So was I.

The Night We Saw A UFO

2006-07-23T07:08:00.000-07:00

When I was about 18 years old I saw a UFO.

I wasn’t the only one who saw it.

It was a typical, incredibly clear summer night in Binghamton, NY. There were a billion shining and twinkling stars overhead. Six or seven of us were over at my girlfriend’s house, at the top of one of the big hills/little mountains that ringed the town. We were outside. Just fooling around. I don’t know who first noticed something up in the sky but quickly we were all looking up to see. At first glance all there was to see was an airplane, not unusual due to the proximity of Broome County Airport. It had blinking lights like an airplane, flew like an airplane and was just an airplane. Flying southeast at maybe five thousand to ten thousand feet maximum. But then something weird happened. In a moment, as we continued to watch the airplane, something else started flying around it; circling it, darting back and forth.

Something very weird. A smaller object than the airliner. This smaller flying object didn’t have normal airplane lights, it’s lights didn’t blink and it looked like the whole thing was lit from the inside. Like a bright little shooting star. But it wasn’t a shooting star. And it wasn’t making any of the normal aeronautical movements airplanes make. This thing darted, in a strange jerky motion. This flying object was awesome! It accelerated faster than anything I have ever seen on land, sea or sky. It turned at impossible angles, without banking! It stopped dead in the sky! It darted around the airplane. From one side to the other. From front to back. Like it was taking a really close-up look. We all watched, dumbfounded, our mouths gaping. “What the hell is that???”, we astonishingly asked. It sure ain’t no airplane, someone stated. Maybe it’s one of those weather balloons?, another ventured. No way a balloon could fly like that, someone answered. A comet? A shooting star? Some kind of top secret new Air Force plane?

We continued to watch the object buzz the commercial airliner. After about three or four minutes of darting around the airplane the object just stopped, and hung there in the sky for a moment. Like it was gathering strength. Then, faster than any comet or shooting star, it leapt from one end of the vast sky to the other...as fast as the eye could follow...and disappeared.

Hundreds of people who had witnessed the event called the airport and the police for an explanation. It was reported on the local news and in the local newspaper.

No satisfactory explanation was ever given.

High School

2006-07-23T06:30:00.000-07:00

Some people never get over high school. For many, high school is the high point of their life. They make a life after high school; remaining in the place in which they were born and grew up, marrying their high school sweetheart, having 2-3 kids and trying to keep the same job for forty years. Then they die. Usually without ever traveling more than 50 miles from home. Without seeing the world. Without experiencing the whole enchilada. And never missing it. God bless ‘em if that works for them.

Me, I couldn’t wait to leave my nice, average “American normal” hometown and spread my wings. Maybe I just needed to see how good I was. Maybe I just wanted to see some of the world I had read about in books. Maybe I just needed to grow. Maybe I just needed more.

For me, high school was 4 years of homework, 4 years of fun, and 4 years of waiting for my life to begin. Don’t get me wrong, going to high school in the late 1950’s/early 1960’s was one of the very best times, ever, to go to high school (IMHO). Like every generation, we thought we had discovered everything for the first time (turns out in many cases we did!) We had youth, big fast cars, rock & roll, JFK, Elvis, The Beatles, innocent ripe young women, drive-ins, sock hops, cheap gasoline, cheap cigarettes and cheap beer, all basking in the golden glow of post-World War II prosperity. It was late 1950's-early 60’s teen America. Life was good.

It was before kids did drugs, had guns and before rampant pregnancy were an accepted high school norm. It was before teachers lost the respect of their students. It was pep rallies and football games and Friday night dances and passing grades because you did the homework and passed the tests. It was an age of innocence.

In the early 1960’s, anything was possible. Opportunities were boundless. It was a time with a future. John Fitzgerald Kennedy became president. He was a handsome, charming, warm, lovable leader. With a gorgeous and stylish wife. When JFK spoke he spoke to the people. Ke spoke of a new and exciting and young America. People believed him. People believed in him. I was 17 when he was shot. It shook my world. They immediately sent us home from school. Everyone everywhere was in total shock. I remember writing in my notebook, “what will become of us?”

America and the world sat glued to the television set in November 1963. In deepest shock we watched and re-watched the film of the Dallas shooting. In deepest grief we watched the funeral procession. In deepest shock we watched Jack Ruby kill Lee Harvey Oswald. Live on TV.

“What will become of us?” I had asked. The answer, unknown to me at the time, was President of the United States, Lyndon Baines Johnson, and The Vietnam War.

College or Death

2006-07-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

In 1964, thanks to president Lyndon Baines Johnson, there were two choices facing many 18-year-old male Americans upon graduation from high school. College or death. You could go to college or you could be drafted and go to Vietnam and die (not my idea of a good time). The government would give you a deferment from the dreaded draft if you were attending college. Seeing as how young men who went to Vietnam were getting killed it seemed prudent for me to go to college.

So I enrolled in a college, nestled somewhere in Upstate New York.

I settled in for four years of college, or the end of the Vietnam War, whichever came first.

I give college a grade of “C”. It did little to prepare me for any career. But it did keep me out of Vietnam. And it did allow me to communicate with, and learn from, many different kinds of people from many different kinds of cultures. And it did allow me to mature a bit more before I entered the big, bad world. And it helped me to develop and train my mind, but I pretty much did that on my own.

I don’t say that my time in college was not valuable. I did learn how to party! And play cards for days on end. And I saw the Jefferson Airplane and the Rolling Stones in concert. And I, like white people all across America, discovered and danced to soul music. And college girls were intelligent. And shapely. And marijuana was popular and cheap (yes, once upon a time it was only $5 an ounce!).

The mid 1960's were interesting.

And there were demonstrations. Lots and lots of demonstrations. For civil rights. Against war. For or against something. Everything. Important things. Thousands, millions of people marched and demonstrated and sat-in and revolted. For change. To change the system.

Eventually, it worked.

Revolution

2006-07-23T06:15:00.000-07:00

In the 1960’s came a great revolution.

The Second American Revolution. This was to become known as The "60’s". The Hippie Generation.

From Haight Asbury to Greenwich Village to Carnaby St it spread. Like wildfire.

It was a revolt of youth against their parents’ tight ass regimented lifestyle; go to school, grow up, go to work for forty years, get married, buy a house, have kids, get old, die. Millions of American youth, on the brink of adulthood, looked at that future, rose up and asked the miraculous question “why?” And were not satisfied with the less-than-miraculous age-old answer “because”. My God, we realized, our parents never questioned any of their actions. They were robots! Deafly, dumbly and blindly serving a life sentence! Not for us. We wanted to be free! Free to not conform, to not be a work slave, free to expand our minds and be one with the universe, free to l-o-v-e.

All of which was fairly easy to do at the time, as we had not yet entered the work force, had no families to support, and were living at home and freeloading off our robotic parents.

Yes, it was a revolution. And part of it was the sexual revolution. Imagine being 18-22 years old, physically healthy and fit and full of hormones, and having casual sex as much as you wanted!!! Without fear of making very expensive and life consuming babies. We blessed “the pill”. We guys, of course, had it made but from what I saw I do believe it was also very liberating for the ladies. And the young men of that generation, spurred on by the demands of women, started to genuinely honor and respect and listen to them. No more "Yes, dear" without paying attention! Men and women became partners. Equal partners. No more opening the door for the "weaker sex"; women declared themselves equal. Guys got to stop paying the whole tab on a date; with complete equality women had to now pay half (it was only fair!) This was, indeed, a new world! And, with all the free love and hugging and sex there were lots more cases of easily remedied crabs and clap and other minor sexually transmitted diseases but, unlike today, you didn’t fucking die from them!

It was a time of great universal love. It was a time of great unselfish sharing of mind, body and spirit. It was a time of great nonviolent protests and demonstrations.

It was a great time.

Read This

2006-07-23T05:33:00.000-07:00

I started reading at a young age. Thanks entirely to my mother. She always had magazines and books around the house. She had a whole set of Reader’s Digest “condensed” books which were kept on a long bookshelf over the couch in the den. Each book had three-to-four current best selling novels in it. A new volume was offered every three-to-four months. She had over sixty volumes. Over twenty years worth.

By the time I was twelve I had read them all. Sixty famous authors. Sixty famous novels.

Plus, I was reading nearly every mystery novel in my local library. During the summer I would go through nearly a book a day. When I wasn’t out playing and raising hell I spent nearly every minute in my room, my nose in a mystery novel. Sherlock Holmes, The Saint, Agatha Christie; I devoured them all.

A fantastic new adventure in each book! In each new story a fantastic new broadening experience for a young reader! Magic of the mind ! Without ever leaving the house. I was hooked.

In the 1950’s reading was a good leisure activity, a good way to pass the time. There weren’t any computers or video games (comic books but no video games). TV was limited to a few programs on a few channels. In those dark ages of the 50’s and 60’s (yes, we had electric lights back then) reading was a valuable way to pass the time.

Over my lifetime, I have gratefully and enjoyably read probably over three thousand books.

Reading has been one of the few fundamental constants throughout my life. Reading has been very important to my life. Because of reading I learned how to communicate better. I learned how to talk better ... I learned how to write better ... I learned how to think better. Reading has made me a better person. Reading has enriched my life beyond riches.

Parents, make sure your children can read!

Thanks To Ernest Hemingway

2006-07-22T22:00:00.000-07:00

To “Papa” Hemingway, whose work showed me how to write.

How to write in short sentences. How to cut out the excess words. How to get to the point.

In as few words as possible.

How to let go.

And move on.

Thanks "Papa".

Real Money

2006-07-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

After I graduated from college and was deciding what to do with my life I made nightly visits to the local bars. One night I ran into a high school acquaintance, Donny W. I asked him what he’d been doing. He grinned and told me he had become a stockbroker at the local Bache & Co. Then he told me how much money he had already made in his first year. It was the equivalent of about $300,000 in today’s money. Wow, I thought. I knew I was smarter than he was and if he can make that much money I can certainly make that and more! This could be worth looking into. The next day I went downtown to Bache & Co and told them I was interested in becoming a stockbroker. The manager interviewed me, liked what he saw and told me I had to take a test before they would even consider hiring and training me. I said O.K. give me the test so you can hire and train me and I can make a lot of money. So I took the test. I got very high marks. The manager told me he had two other people already on the list to be hired before me and only had two openings so I would have to wait a while before he could hire me. That was a sign. And it started me thinking. If a person can make that much money playing around with stocks and math in a small town like this one, what could one expect in a big time place like New York City? Millions? So I set my sites higher. I would go to New York City, go see Merrill Lynch (the biggest stockbrokerage company), and become a stockbroker. Except that I had been to New York City maybe twice in my life, didn’t know anybody at Merrill Lynch, and had nowhere to live.

Then a little light bulb went off in my head. My parents had told me that a neighbor, Rick R., who was a few years older than I, lived in New York. I got his phone number from his parents and called him. He knew who I was. We talked for a bit and then he told me that his roommate had just left for Europe and he didn’t know when or if the roommate was coming back so there was a roommate spot available right now if I wanted it.

Coincidence? I think not! I told my parents I was moving to the big city, the Big Apple, the Big Time. They were understanding and encouraging. Two days later I boarded the NYC bound Greyhound bus with all my worldly possessions stuffed into two suitcases and one suit bag, with a grand total of $200 in my pocket.

The bus got into New York about 10PM. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t know my way around this gigantic place at all. How far away did this guy live? How much would it cost to get there? Luckily, he lived a short distance away in a good neighborhood on the East Side of Manhattan near the U.N. I arrived at my new residence and was greeted by Rick. He took me on a tour of the tiny one bedroom apartment. I was very tired from my trip and retired to my assigned bed. Tomorrow, bright and early, I was going down to Wall St. to Merrill Lynch headquarters to convince them to make me a stockbroker. I was 23 years old. I had no appointment.

Suddenly, at 2 o’clock in the morning, I realized that I didn’t even know where Wall St. was! Or how to get there. Or where Merrill Lynch was located. Or who to see.

In the morning, before Rick went off to work, he told me how to get to Wall St. He told me about the subway. Subway? I had never taken a subway in my life! That morning, snappily dressed in my one and only suit (I called it my bar mitzvah suit), I took my first subway ride. Ugh. The subway was noisy and crowded and filthy and scary. Thankfully, I took the right train and did not end up fifty miles away or in Coney Island. I exited the subway at the fabled Wall St. stop.

Having realized that I didn’t know anyone at Merrill Lynch and had no appointment to see anyone specific when I arrived which might just complicate my plan somewhat in becoming a stockbroker there, I had come up with a plan. I remembered a man who was sort of a family acquaintance and who worked at someplace on Wall St. called Lehman Brothers. It occurred to me that I should drop in on him and maybe he knew someone at Merrill Lynch and could introduce me or get me in to see the right person. Maybe he could help me become a Merrill Lynch stockbroker.

So, at 9:00 sharp I showed up unannounced at Lehman Brothers and asked the receptionist to inform Mr. Stone that I was there and could I have a minute of his time. I didn’t know it at the time but normally Mr. Stone is never in the office, spending most of his time on the road, visiting clients of the firm. All over the world. Today, he was in. And I was invited in to see him.

We shook hands, he offered me a seat. Then he looked me over, evaluating me; I could see the wheels turning in his mind. I told him I wanted to be a stockbroker at Merrill Lynch and asked politely that if he knew anyone over there I would be appreciative. He responded to me that, first, he wanted to ask me a question. I told him to go ahead and ask. “What would you rather do,” he posed, “try to get five thousand dollars out of Joe Blow from around the corner ... or try to get five million dollars out of a corporate treasurer?”

I paused and briefly considered the question.

Then I gave him my answer. “I like the sound of the 5 million”, I said.

It must have been the right answer. Because he offered me a job. On the spot. I remember thinking that I had planned on being a stockbroker at Merrill Lynch but this was a golden opportunity and I’d be an idiot to pass it up.

I started that same day.

I got lucky. Very lucky. In a flash, I was now living in New York City and had a job on Wall St with a 100-year-old prestigious investment banking house.

I never did make it to Merrill Lynch. I never did become a stockbroker. Do I regret not becoming a stockbroker? Never.

First Week On Wall St

2006-07-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

I was not in stocks. I was in the short term money markets. Where large financial and corporate institutions borrowed money or invested their money for short periods of time. The minimum investment was $5 million. A typical workday was from 7AM to 7PM. The markets were open for actual trading from 9AM to 2:30PM but there was a lot of daily preparation and follow-up that was necessary. Each morning I read three newspapers; The New York Times, The Wall St. Journal and The New York Post ... all before 7AM. On Sunday, I read the entire Sunday New York Times. Being prepared, keeping abreast of not only the financial news but current events and general news as well was critical to the job; we had to know about anything that could impact the markets. Before anyone else. Our investment clients relied on us to provide them information, direction and understanding of the nuances of interest rate movements, on a minute-to-minute basis.

I immersed myself in the job. I was a general all around gofer, very busy trying to absorb all the fundamentals of the markets. Very busy just trying to keep up. This was training under fire.

I had taken several finance and economic courses in college and, occasionally would ask one of the pro traders or sales people a question about why things were not done according to what I had been taught in school. Sometimes they smiled tolerantly, sometimes they chuckled, and sometimes they rolled on the floor laughing. They explained that if it was done like what they taught in school it simply wouldn’t get done. Not enough time. In the real world, Wall St, things had to be done lightning quick thus many shortcuts had to be established to accommodate the reality.

Quickly, I unlearned everything I had been taught in school and started learning the practical real world techniques of professional Wall St. investing.

The pressure was intense. Everyone had phones on their desk. When the phones weren’t ringing the traders and sales people were often talking on two or more phones at the same time. Lots of action. Fast action. Non-stop fast action. One day towards the end of my first week the head trader thought I was too hesitant and too slow doing one of the tasks assigned to me. I was about ten feet away from him. He screamed at me. Then he picked up one of the phone systems on his desk and threw it at my head! Luckily, he missed.

Somehow, I survived my first week.

The Eight-Million-Dollar Mistake

2006-07-22T07:09:00.000-07:00

After only two weeks on the job I received a promotion.

They put me in charge of a whole department. A one-person department. Me; I was the department. I was now in charge of raising money for an agency of the United States government; the Federal National Mortgage Association (FNMA) in Washington, D.C.

How it worked was that there were four major dealers who were authorized to issue short term Fannie May discount notes. Each dealer was paid a commission for this by FNMA. Each day we were given an allotment, a maximum amount of money to raise for FNMA that day. This helped FNMA budget and smooth out the cash flow they needed to support the mortgage financing markets. Usually, they wanted to raise a few million dollars. Sometimes FNMA didn’t need any money at all on a given day. Management of this capital raising function rotated each week between the four dealers. Brand new to all this, my mentor, Paul briefly showed me how to do everything. Then, it was our turn to become the manager, run the book, manage the sales, report to FNMA, etc.

I was on my own, running a whole department! The other dealers would call me up and request an amount of money against orders they had generated. I filled all their orders and kept track of the sales. At the end of the day I would notify the director of our firm and then FNMA about how much we had raised for them that day. That day I had raised 12 million and was very proud. I told Paul how much I and the other dealers did. His jaw dropped. “Twelve million?” he gasped. “That sounds like an awful lot. How much was the allotment today?” I gave him a blank look. He ran over to my FNMA book and looked down at the official allotment I had received and written in for that day. Four million. Paul turned ghostly white. “Oh, lord”, he wailed, “we are in deep doo-doo. You were only allowed to raise four million dollars today and you raised twelve!” He immediately ran in to see the boss. A director of the firm.

I could see them through the glass walls of the boss’s office; we called it the fishbowl. Paul spoke briefly to him. Then the director’s face turned red. Very red. Then he started to scream at Paul. Then he stuck his head out of the door of the fishbowl and screamed for me to get in there. NOW! I entered the fishbowl with my knees shaking. At the top of his lungs the director screamed and screamed at me. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch! You raised eight million dollars more than you were allowed! Now I have to call the president of goddamn FNMA in goddamn Washington, D.C. and see if I can figure out a way to correct this friggin mess! If I goddamn can’t, we’ll have to cough up the extra eight goddamn million dollars out of our own goddamn pockets!!!”

Oh goddamn, I thought, I’m dead. My life is over.

The director told me to wait outside. Then he called Washington and spoke to the president of FNMA. He explained about the “new kid” and the mistake. They worked out a deal; FNMA honored the extra eight million dollars of notes sold by me even though they didn’t need the money right then and it could be a bit of political problem et al. And seeing as how I made them “overspend” their budget by eight million dollars that day they probably wouldn’t need anymore money raised by us, by me, for a while, thank you very much.

I was saved! Or so I thought. The director screamed at me some more. Then he screamed at Paul again. Then he screamed at me again. Then he finally calmed down a little.

He looked at me, hard, and told me he was now going to tell me something I would never forget. And he said,

“He who sells what isn’t his’n - delivers same - or goes to prison”.

Gulp. I went pale (or even paler if that was possible under the circumstances).

I heard that little ditty only one time. And for the rest of my life I never forgot it.

It took me a long time to get over making that eight-million-dollar mistake.

Somehow, I survived it.

And, to this day, I have never feared making a mistake again. Any mistake.

After all, once you make an eight-million-dollar mistake it isn’t very likely that you could ever make a mistake that big again!

Trading

2006-07-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

Eventually, I was moved into sales. Then, after about nine months of selling, I began to get a bit bored. I was pretty good at sales, with real expertise in explaining to my clients about the various markets, what the markets were doing, what they were about to do, the direction of interest rates, etc. I discovered that it was the markets themselves that fascinated me; how they moved, how incredibly fast they moved, why they moved. The markets were dynamic. They were seriously challenging.

Soon, I was to accept the challenge. I was offered a position as a trader. The position of municipal note trader had opened up and I was recommended by the former trader as his replacement. Municipal Notes are basically short-term bonds; they are issued by cities, states and the federal government as short-term financing for various governmental projects such as bridges, buildings, schools, hospitals, roads, stadiums, and in advance of tax revenues, etc. It is a market that involves billions of dollars in fund raising; by virtually every major city and state across the United States. There were about a dozen Wall St. dealers who comprise the entire market. They bid for these notes at auction and then resell them, usually in one-to-five million dollar lots.

The trader is the king of the non-equity markets. It is he, or she, who decides to buy or sell on behalf of the firm they work for, to move the market this way or that, depending on a myriad of financially related critical instant information. It is the trader who then determines the market price, mainly trading with other traders. It is the traders who control these markets. The sales people must go through the trader to fill their orders.

Traders think only about the immediate profit or value of the securities they trade. Rarely do they consider the good or harm they might be doing in the real world. No points are awarded for anything on Wall St except winning, except generating profits. It’s only the money produced by trading and sales that matters. It doesn’t even really matter what stuff is traded. As long as it’s legal…and supremely profitable.

Only years later did I realize I had helped hundreds of cities and states raise hundreds of millions of dollars for important services they provided to their citizens. It made me proud.

Trading the markets is somewhat like professional gambling, only harder. As a Wall St. trader you are using the firm’s capital to invest. You have to be in the game all the time; you have to play all day, every day. It’s like going to Las Vegas every day and being forced to play every hand. Trading takes supreme guts, quick intelligence and exceptional self-confidence. And you’re only as good as your last trade. One minute you’re up a million dollars and you’re a god, the next minute you’re down a million dollars and suicidal. Because of the incredible constant pressure and tension trading is really a young person’s game.

There are no old traders.

Toys

2006-07-21T11:54:00.000-07:00

I was now 23 years old. And a money market trader on Wall St. I began making money. I began spending money. At first, I didn’t know what to buy first. So, I bought a few nicer, more expensive suits and assorted clothing for the different seasons (in New York, you end up with a summer wardrobe, a fall wardrobe, a winter wardrobe and a spring wardrobe; it raises hell with your closet space but four wardrobes are a definite necessity). Then, I bought some toys. I bought a new Sony Trinitron 17” TV (it just came out that year and was quite a revolutionary TV at the time) for the equivalent of $1,500 in today’s money. I purchased a JVC videotape machine (the first model for consumer/home use) for $790, which in today’s money would be about $2,500-$3,000. I bought cameras and camera equipment and all sorts of toys, both expensive and inexpensive.

Then, about three months later, I looked around my cluttered New York City apartment and realized I had no room left. I thought maybe this is a good time to stop the spending spree. I basically now had all the toys I really wanted anyway. And I had no real interest in buying super big ticket items like a house, or a car (useless and a liability in Manhattan) or a boat. Or spending money just for the sake of spending.

So I made a deal with myself. The deal was that I allowed myself to spend up to $100 on any item I wanted; anytime, anywhere. On impulse (no sense being deprived if you have serious money coming in!) However, if an item cost more than $100, I could not buy it on impulse; I had to first decide if I really, truly, honestly wanted it. If the honest answer was yes, I was allowed to buy it. If the answer was no, I had to refrain from purchasing it.

With great discipline, I honored the deal with myself.

And, as a result, shortly thereafter I found that I really, truly, honestly wanted a lot less stuff than I thought. I stopped spending lavishly. I discovered that when I had enough money to buy or do anything I wanted, eventually the thrill of spending and accumulating stuff simply wears off. Eventually. I didn’t become a miser or a cheapskate or put myself on a strict budget but I did begin buying only the things I needed or things that would last that I really wanted to own.

At age 23, I had learned another valuable lesson about money.

And, by not spending it all, I began to accumulate some.

Older people called it savings!

The Five-Billion-Dollar Heist

2006-07-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

I used to take one of my Wall St clients, Ed, to lunch. Ed was the short-term investment manager for five New York City pension funds. The five New York City pension funds, at that time, had investments of over 5 billion dollars.

We went to lunch often. We always ate excellent and expensive lunches. I always paid.

One day, Ed told me a secret. He told me that the City of New York physically stored the short-term investments for the five pension funds they managed in a vault. The vault was down the hall from his office. He told me the investments were mainly in 100% negotiable U.S. Treasury bills. And that there were approximately five billion dollars worth of negotiable U.S. Treasury bills just sitting there in the vault. I was suitably impressed. Then he told me that the officials of the city didn’t know how much was in there. Nobody paid attention. Nobody ever took an inventory. Ed told me that, as an investment person, he had unlimited access to the vault. He told me that if he wanted he could just walk right into the vault. He could just walk right into the vault, carrying his briefcase. He could just walk right into the vault carrying his briefcase, in in five minutes he could pack up five billion dollars worth of negotiable U.S. Treasury bills, and walk right out.

He said it would be years before the City even knew it was gone!

We pondered that for a few minutes. Simple. Easy. Just the two of us in on it. It really would work! Five billion dollars of Treasury bills. Easily converted into cash. But that much probably had to be fenced through the mob (assuming there was a mob) and we’d be lucky to clear two billion in cash. Split two ways was a billion each. Cash. My God, I thought. With a billion dollars in cash I could skip the country, buy a tropical island, complete with voluptuous native girls, be the king of my own tropical island, and, as king and absolute ruler, declare a no-extradition policy with the United States!

Ed and I just looked at each other. Figuring it out.

After a few moments of very serious pondering, both of us, at the same time, smiled and said, “Nah, it’s not us. It’s not who we are.”

We finished our excellent and expensive lunches, left the restaurant and went back to our jobs.

I believe that that day we were both given a test. A test of temptation. A monumental test of temptation. A supreme test of moral fiber and character. We both passed the test.

For isn’t it a supreme test, a sign of good character ... if you are presented with an absolutely real and easy opportunity to steal five billion dollars ... and don’t?

Oh, Mr President

2006-07-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

One day on Wall St, long ago, as I was sitting next to one of the other traders, the most absol;utely amazing thing happened. This story is absolutely, 100% as-God-is-my-witness true ...

It was the day of the starting of the NBA Championship Finals between the NY Knicks and the Los Angeles Lakers (early 1970's). Tip-off was scheduled for 8:00PM. The game was to be carried live on TV. The trader next to me, Roy S., was an avid Knicks fan. I mean rabid, fanatic. I’m sitting there doing my work when all of a sudden Roy starts cursing. Not unusual in a trading room but this seemed personal. I look over and ask him what’s the matter. He points to the electronic Dow Jones newswire that ran across the front of our trading room. Across the Dow Jones wire comes the message that President Nixon will be giving a speech tonight - live at 8 o’clock. Roy is livid. He starts screaming that the president’s speech will interfere with the broadcast of the NBA Playoff Game. I tell him that’s too bad but it's the president of the United States -- what can you do?

Roy continues to steam.

I go back to work. A minute or two later, I hear Roy dialing Information for Washington, D.C. And asking for the number of the White House. I look over smiling, thinking it’s a joke.

Then I see Roy dial the number and then he asked, “Is this the White House?”

Now, I am utterly shocked; this is no longer a joke. This could be big trouble.

Roy is now giving his real name and real phone number and real address to the White House operator. “Oh, Christ,” I mutter to myself, “now we’re dead.” Any second I expect the Secret Service to come busting into the trading room, guns drawn, and arrest us all.

What in hell is Roy doing???

Now, mouth agape, I lean closer to hear everything he is saying.

Roy tells the White House Operator that the President probably doesn’t realize that his speech will be interfering with the start of the game tonight and could the president reschedule his speech at another time or maybe wait until after the NBA finals are over.

The White House operator apparently gave him an unsatisfactory response.

Roy then says, “Well, then who’s in charge of scheduling the president’s speeches?” The operator responds. Roy says, “OK, then connect me with the Press Secretary.”

I am flabbergasted. I can’t believe this!

“Hello. Is this the Press Secretary? Good. Would you please tell President Nixon that his speech tonight will be interfering with the first game of the NBA Playoff Finals and that he needs to reschedule the speech.”

Where are those Secret Service agents? They should have been here by now.

Roy says thank you very much and hangs up the phone. Then he calmly goes back to work.

I’m looking at him like he’s an alien from another planet (which after what he just did maybe he is an alien from another planet).

Not five minutes later, scolling across the Dow Jones newswire, for the whole world to see, came the following message ...

President Nixon’s speech tonight will not interfere with the NBA Playoff Game. The game will be shown in its entirety after the speech.

The Young Man And The Sea

2006-07-19T13:09:00.000-07:00

In my mid-twenties, during a winter vacation to the Bahamas, I decided to go deep-sea fishing. Wandering around the docks in Nassau I met Bob, a large football-player-sized American about my own age, who was also interested in going deep sea fishing. We decided to charter a boat together, for a half-day, and split the cost.

The captain took us out several miles into the Caribbean and we proceeded to fish the deep blue sea.

I was hoping to hook a marlin or a swordfish or at least a great big Tiger shark. I was young and strong and desirous of a giant game fish that would challenge me and fight for hours.

Bob won the coin toss and got to fish first. He strapped himself into the swiveling Fighting Chair bolted to the back deck, placed his feet on the support board, and grabbed the heavy fishing rod. And waited. Soon, a fish hit the bait. Strike! A hundred yards distant something jumped out of the water. The captain declared it was a large 3-foot-long wahoo, a very good fighting game fish in these waters. The fish fought the man. The man fought the fish. For more than thirty minutes the fish fought like crazy before finally giving up to the exhausted fisherman.

Now it was my turn. I glanced over at the exhausted, large, muscular Bob and wondered if I was strong enough to land a good sized fish, let alone a giant marlin or Tiger shark.

Determined, I strapped myself into the Fighting Chair harness, grabbed the heavy rod; it’s reel wound with steel fishing wire. I was ready. I squinted into the sun and looked out to sea, where the end of the line met the beginning of the water. Vigilantly, I watched. Vigilantly, I waited.

Wham! A fish hit my bait! I jerked the rod upwards and hooked the fish. I had a fish on the line! It was another wahoo, and it was only slightly smaller than Bob’s. I steeled myself for a long battle. This wahoo must have realized what a tough guy I thought I was…because he just started swimming in toward the boat. No fight. No resistance. He practically swam up to the boat and jumped in all by himself! All I did was reel in the line!

It was all over in less than five minutes. I had barely broken a sweat. My wahoo was a wimp!

Bob, still recuperating, didn’t realize this ... and gaped at me like I had super human strength!

It was a good half-day on the deep blue sea. Bob ended up getting a great workout. I ended up getting a great tan. And the captain ended up getting two great big tasty wahoos which he could sell at the local fish market or provide food for weeks for his family and friends.

That was a long, long time ago. Today, if I caught a fish I would be much happier releasing it back to the deep blue sea. Where it belongs.

Redwoods

2006-07-18T17:00:00.000-07:00

On a drive from San Francisco to Portland, Oregon I passed through huge forests. Northern California has big trees. Redwoods. Big redwoods.

I drove through one.

In the Redwood Forest the road goes right through the trunk of a giant redwood tree. It was very weird.

On that trip I saw thousands of giant redwood trees, many were hundreds of feet high and hundreds, maybe thousands, of years old.

Creations of nature. Majestic. Alive.

Still standing.

Cut them down ... and make big, expensive redwood decks for big, expensive houses.

Or maybe just leave them standing.

New York, New York

2006-07-18T15:39:00.000-07:00

New York, New York. So good, they named it twice!

New York City is the best place in the world for young people to test themselves. Always was. Always will be. New York draws the best of the best from all over the United States and beyond. In many industries and art fields. Not that you cannot be successful elsewhere, it’s just that Manhattan has the fiercest competition, the fastest pace, the supremely talented seeking supreme victories.

It’s the most exciting and the most difficult place in which to live. Essentially, Manhattan is concrete, noise, dirt, high rises and traffic congestion. With a spot of greenery here and there and a large blob of it, called Central Park, in the middle of the island. Frankly, most other major cities around the world, like London and Paris, are much more beautiful and much more livable. Though breathtaking in it’s physical presence and power it’s really the people that make New York a great and exciting city.

Stuffed onto the small island of Manhattan, which is a couple of miles wide by about 5 miles long, are a couple million full time residents. Daily, they are joined by another five million people who come to work there by train, subway, bus, ferry and car and then, at the end of the day, these same five million “extra” daily residents return home to New Jersey, Long Island, Connecticut or one of the other boroughs of New York. Leaving lots of garbage and newspapers strewn throughout the streets and lots of money strewn throughout the restaurants and stores.

New Yorkers have no time for amateurs or tourists. They’re busy and brusque. If you don’t already know where you are and where you are going or don’t know what you are doing then you simply don’t belong there. You will be eaten alive. Darwin would have been proud. When I first moved to Manhattan I would stop into a coffee shop on my way to work to get a cup of coffee to drink at my desk. At the coffee shop I would stand patiently in a group of about ten people waiting to be waited on. And I waited forever, because in New York, if you don’t “belly up to the bar” and loudly claim you’re next when it’s your turn, you will be ignored. You will starve. No one will ask you what you want. It took me six months to catch on to all the aggressive little techniques of basic survival.

I spent nearly twenty years on that little island. Everything a human being could possibly want or need is there somewhere. Available. At a price. An apartment rents for an arm and a leg. A monthly parking space rents for a hand and a foot.

In the end, New York tired me out. After nearly twenty years the constant struggle that the city inflicts on its residents took its toll. For me, Manhattan finally lost its appeal.

But I learned important and interesting things there I could never have learned anywhere else. Things about the world. Things about myself.

There I grew into a man.

Vicks And The Vixen

2006-07-17T16:00:00.000-07:00

One winter in my twenties I was dating a very sexy young lady. A vixen. The vixen’s name was Barbara.

One day I was finally starting to get over a bad cold. The nightstand next to my bed still held an array of cold remedies; Vicks Vapor Rub for my nose and chest, Vaseline for my chapped lips, etc.

Barbara came to visit me and for the first time in days I was again stimulated by her beauty and sexy, provocative nature. I wanted her. I was feeling frisky. Very frisky.

I drew her down on the bed. We made mad passionate love. For a long time. Such a long time that she was becoming a bit dry.

In the heat of passion I blindly reached over to the nightstand, dipped my fingers into the Vaseline and applied it to her nether regions. Back on track, we went back to making love. Hot love.

Thirty seconds later our hot love started heating up even more. Wow, I thought, she’s really, really hot! And she was. Literally.

I looked over at the nightstand and realized that I had dipped into the jar of Vicks Vapor Rub, not the Vaseline. And with all the friction the Vapor Rub was now really steaming up our loins. Yow! That stuff gets mighty hot!!! Especially there!

I looked at Barbara. Barbara looked at me. We both looked down. We both screamed.

Laughing and clutching our burning genitals we ran for the shower.

That’s the only time in my life I ever wanted to take a cold ... really cold ... shower!

The Schmuck Bird

2006-07-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

In my late twenties/early thirties I wanted to be happier. And couldn’t.

In my late twenties/early thirties I wanted to learn more about myself. And couldn’t.

So I went into therapy. For eight years.

Eventually, I did learn a great deal more about myself (and others) and I did learn how to be happier.

The husband of one of the women in my group therapy came up with a terrific psychological analogy. The Schmuck Bird. Arnie (the husband) claimed that he always felt like there was an imaginary bird sitting on his shoulder ... just waiting for him to screw up. And Arnie tended to screw up a great deal. And every time he screwed up the imaginary bird on his shoulder would lean over and squawk loudly into his ear, ”Schmuck! Schmuck!”

Growing Ears

2006-07-15T16:12:00.000-07:00

I argued with and fought with and hung up the phone on women until I was in my thirties. Control. I needed to be in control. It was difficult for me to listen, to hear what a woman was saying; I was very invested in protecting myself against criticism. I was hypersensitive to criticism. Real or imagined. Incompetence was my biggest fear.

As I matured I gave up more and more of the juvenile idea that I could always be in control. What a relief! I learned, mostly by exhausting myself over many years, that I was reasonably competent on an ongoing basis and I learned how to forgive myself when I wasn’t.

I even took it one step further; when I was having one of those days where everything I did was going wrong I would loudly announce to everyone who was within earshot, “I am totally incompetent today! Do not give me important tasks. Do not let me do anything that involves sharp objects!”

At the age of thirty-three I was learning how to ease up on myself.

This gave me the room to “grow ears” ... to be able to really listen to somebody.

Especially women.

Ladies, please note: men don’t grow ears until they are at least thirty.

Old People

2006-07-14T21:32:00.000-07:00

My grandmother (my mother’s mother) was a large and very independent person. We always called her Nanny. Widowed, Nanny lived for many years by herself in a small apartment in Schenectady, NY. When she was in her mid-80’s. though still in good health, it became difficult and dangerous for her to negotiate the steep flight of stairs leading to and from her residence. My mother decided that Nanny should move to a nice well-managed old folk’s home in the area.

Nanny refused. Eventually, she relented and, at age eighty-seven, was relocated to the home.

She had been there for about six months when I made my trip and went to visit her. In the retirement complex I observed that she had a great room of her own, good meals, beautiful grounds and lots of interesting and fun activities to keep her and the other residents productively occupied. I asked her how she liked it there. She said she was adjusting nicely to the new environment, it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, and she really had only one major complaint.

I thought that was pretty good considering she was 87 years old. I asked her to tell me her one major complaint.

She looked me in the eye and said, “the staff is very nice here and this is a really nice place and everything ... but it’s full of old people!”

International Oops

2006-07-13T21:40:00.000-07:00

I took a break from Wall St and joined a London-based firm, the world’s largest translation company, as U.S. Marketing Director. The company was able to translate business documents into and from over one hundred languages. Everyone at the firm was multi-lingual. More than a few spoke as many as five languages. I spoke only American. But I knew how to speak to senior-level business executives in the United States and I knew how to do business.

After touring the firm’s five offices in England I returned to New York and the firm’s 5th Avenue office and settled in.

As the head of Marketing and Sales in the U.S. I contacted Fortune 500 companies throughout the U.S. and offered our various services.

One of our clients was 3M Company. 3M was about to introduce scotch tape into China. That’s right, before 3M came to China, apparently the Chinese had never heard of scotch tape! We translated the necessary documents and materials for 3M to introduce scotch tape into China.

Another client introducing their product into China was Domino’s Pizza. For them we did some “cultural consulting”; examining American documents and advertising and policies and determining appropriateness in a foreign culture. In Domino’s case, the number of dots on one of the two dice that appear on every Domino’s pizza box was, in China, considered an unlucky number.

All too often, Americanisms translated into foreign languages and cultures can lead to embarrassing moments and costly miscalculations. There’s the famous story of General Motors and the Chevy Nova automobile. GM introduced the very popular Chevy Nova into Mexico and other Spanish speaking countries. It didn’t sell. No one seemed to want to buy the car. In Spanish cultures the popular selling Chevy Nova was a big dud. The reason was simple. And cultural.

It was the name Nova. “No va” in Spanish means “doesn’t go”.

Who's Paying?

2006-07-12T22:00:00.000-07:00

Another translation project was a large loan agreement between a major New York bank and a foreign country. The huge document had to be translated from English into Spanish. Quickly. This deal was being coordinated by a major Wall St. law firm who was representing the bank.

Due to the fast turnaround time I added a surcharge and quoted the law firm a fee of $25,000 (worth about $75,000 today). The lawyer thought the price was exorbitant. I suggested that perhaps he could find a Spanish-speaking attorney somewhere in his Wall St. law firm who had the time to translate the 300-page document quickly into Spanish and then they could do it themselves and save the exorbitant fee. The lawyer agreed to my fee. I asked him who was paying. He told me it was the recipient of the loan and I should send the bill to The Republic of Panama. Republic of Panama? I said that if there was a problem it would be most difficult for us to sue and collect our fee under international law. I suggested that perhaps the bank or the law firm might obligate itself to pay. “No way”, said the lawyer. At that point we were at a stalemate. The lawyer needed the agreement translated and I needed to be able to collect the big fee at the end of the job. I knew I couldn't get any money up front or a deposit; there was no time. Neither of us would budge. Then I had a bold, outrageous idea. I told the attorney that before I would undertake the job I wanted the appropriate government official from the Republic of Panama to fax me a signed promise obligating the country to pay. I heard a huge groan from the attorney. He said he would see what he could do. So here I was, holding up a $200 million dollar loan deal, dictating terms to foreign governments and being a real pain in the butt. But I didn’t want to get stuck doing the job and then chasing banks and law firms and foreign countries for the money.

Two hours later I received a response from Panama. It was a document obligating the Republic of Panama to pay. It was signed by the Minister of Finance himself.

We did the job. We were promptly paid.

The Lady in New York Harbor

2006-07-11T13:40:00.000-07:00

In the 1980’s, as a result of my efforts, the translation firm became involved in the Restoration of the Statue of Liberty. As the Statue was given to America by France the original architectural designs for Lady Liberty were done in French. In order to undertake the restoration project these designs had to first be translated from French into English, so the American workers could proceed.

Scaffolding was erected around the Statue. For many months artisans and construction workers climbed all over Lady Liberty and, working directly from our translations, began restoring the Statue of Liberty to her former glory.

The climax of the project was the successful refitting of the Torch; the beckoning beacon of independence, the very symbol of freedom, known throughout the world.

The Restoration of the Statue of Liberty was a once-in-a-lifetime endeavor and an extraordinary and notable event in American history.

They couldn't have done it without us.

I was honored and humbled to have been involved.

California Here I Come

2006-07-10T13:57:00.000-07:00

In 1987, after recovering from a 9-month-long bout of Epstein-Barr Syndrome (kind of like a severe case of mononeucliosis) it became obvious to me it was time to make major changes in my life. It was time to leave New York. And move to a kinder, gentler environment.

Now, at this point in my life, it was time to live a different life. In a different place.

California, here I come! Southern California. Los Angeles. La-La-Land. The Left Coast. Lots of strange people, lots of strange behavior. But also the land of 330 sunny days a year. And sunshine and warmth was what I was after. So I left New York and arrived in L.A. on Halloween in 1987 (no, there is no significance to it being on Halloween!).

Living in California I now considered myself sort of semi-retired. Early retirement. Very early. I slowed down. I took the time to smell the roses. Occasionally, I took a job if I found it interesting.

There are lots of interesting things here in La-La-Land.

Man Kills Building

2006-07-09T13:48:00.000-07:00

In L.A. I was working in a large three story cement building which housed approximately one hundred people. The company trained people how to trade commodities. I was one of the supervisors for the staff of telemarketers. Some of our telemarketers were rather difficult and rough characters. Including Nick. Nick H. was the current Ultimate Fighting Champion of the World. In case you do not know what that is, it’s organized two-man no-holds-barred brawling involving boxing, kickboxing and other martial arts. The two combatants keep fighting until one of them gives up. Or dies. As a person, Nick was a terrific guy…who happened to have a very short fuse ... attached to an explosive and lethal arsenal of fighting skills. Besides being a great guy Nick was dangerous. Deadly. Scary.

Luckily, he liked me.

One day I was taking a break in the parking lot next to our building when suddenly the door burst open (actually the door burst right off its hinges) and Nick came storming out. He was very upset. One of the other supervisors followed him out through the doorless doorway. The young supervisor and Nick apparently had had a verbal confrontation that now threatened to possibly erupt into murder. Nick being the potential murderer. With tremendous restraint Nick walked away from the kid and ranted and raved around the parking lot, getting more and more angry by the second.

By now, there were a half-dozen people who had come out to see what was going on. Adrenaline pumping, I decided to cautiously approach him to find out what was wrong.

Before I could get any nearer Nick walked up close to the building.

And started to punch the cement building with all his considerable might and skill.

He was trying to kill the building!

He hit the building so hard I saw it actually shudder! It moved!

He kept on hitting the building. Harder and harder. He hit it so hard that one of the women from administration came out onto the third floor outer stairs; she said she had been inside, felt the building shudder, and thought it was an earthquake!

I stood there absolutely amazed. I had never seen anything like it. Neither had anyone else. I gently walked up to Nick and started gently talking to him. He told me he was upset because the 23-year-old supervisor was telling him how to telemarket, something Nick had been doing successfully for many years. It’s what Nick did, between fights.

Nick is telling me all this while he is still ranting and raving and still punching the building. I noticed his knuckles were all bloody (he didn’t notice) and told him maybe he should leave the building alone, it was probably dead by now and he didn’t need to break his hands as that would maybe hamper his fighting career.

Luckily, he liked me.

He stopped killing the building. I walked him around the parking lot to cool down and then took him back inside to wash the cuts on his hands. We both noticed the door, torn off its hinges, now propped up against the wall. “Did I do that?” Nick asked. I just looked at him.

Workmen arrived shortly and installed a new door.

Nick, legitimately the toughest man in the world, shortly calmed down and went back to work.

I, either the bravest or the stupidest supervisor in the world, shortly resumed breathing and went back to work.

The near-mortally injured building also recovered ... and is still standing today.

If Looks Could Kill

2006-07-08T14:23:00.000-07:00

Here’s another Nick H. story ...

It’s another day and, once again, I was out in the parking lot taking a break from work and enjoying a few minutes of fresh air and sun. A taxi cab slowly comes down the street looking for a place to park. Parking places were difficult to come by in that neighborhood. The cabbie spies a spot just across from our building and approaches it.

Meanwhile, I see Nick’s car barreling down the street. Nick does not want to be late for work. His car is very unusual, even for Southern California. It’s an early 1970’s Cadillac, painted undertaker black, with blacked-out windows and orange flames painted on the hood. There are no door handles (it’s all electronically controlled). And when Nick steps on the gas or revs the engine, real flames shoot out from the exhaust pipe.

The cab driver, who appeared to be a recent immigrant, perhaps from Russia or Turkey, is now about to back into the parking space. Nick pulls up right behind the cab. Nick slowly gets out of his car. He looks at the cab driver. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move a muscle. Just stands there and looks at him.

The cabbie looks at the parking space. He looks at Nick. He looks at Nick’s freaky car. He looks back at the parking space. He looks again at Nick.

The cabbie, sensing mortal danger, decides that discretion is the better part of valor (or death), puts his cab in gear and drives away.

Nick gets back into his car, pulls into the parking space, gets out, crosses the street, walks by me and throws me a little grin, and goes into work.

Right on time.

NEXT STORY

Earthquake

2006-07-07T15:35:00.000-07:00

Yes, California has earthquakes. We also get floods, droughts, wildfires, riots and assorted other plagues, both natural and man-made.

The earthquakes we do get are mostly little shakers that you hardly notice or do get used to (you’ll have to take my word for it). Sometimes you get a lot of small or medium sized ones during a relatively short period of time, sometimes you don’t get any for years and years.

An earthquake is a very scary occurrence. However, while everyone is still waiting for the “big one” that will kill everybody, for hundreds of years Los Angeles residents have lived long and fruitful and happy lives without perishing in an earthquake, fire, flood or riot.

Earthquakes are fundamentally different than any other natural disaster like tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, etc. Other natural disasters you usually have some prior warning about. Earthquakes you don’t. And there is something prehistorically and fundamentally scary about the normally solid earth beneath your feet suddenly jolting and moving about on its own. Though it’s a natural phenomenon, an earthquake always feels so eerily unnatural.

On January 17, 1994, at 4:20 AM I was sound asleep. I vaguely heard the sliding glass patio door near the bed begin to mildly shake. Maybe a burglar? I thought. It kept shaking. Harder and harder. Then the whole room started to shake. It began to move. The room began to move! The bed was shaking violently, pieces of furniture were relocating themselves around the room. I heard crashing sounds from the kitchen and the bathroom. The entire building started to shake and groan.

Earthquake!

I jumped up and opened the patio door so it wouldn’t break and shatter glass all over the floor. The lady I live with, Marilyn, jumped out of bed, still half-asleep. Second by second the shaking became stronger and stronger. Instinctively, I knew we were in trouble. Big trouble. The violent shaking went on and on. After about thirty seconds I knew that if it didn’t stop, if it went on for another ten or twenty seconds, the building would collapse…and we would be crushed to death.

For forty seconds (hold your breath for 40 seconds and see how long it feels) the strong shaking continued, stressing and straining everything to the breaking point.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

There was no electricity. No light. It was 4:30 in the morning and pitch black, adding to the disorientation and the fear. And, worst of all, no one knew what was coming next. Was this a precursor to an imminent, even bigger quake?

We had to get out of the building. Fast.

I grabbed a flashlight (which I always keep near the bed) and quickly surveyed the damage. I saw the destruction that the earthquake had wrought. Dishes had been ejected from the kitchen cabinets, the entire contents of the bathroom medicine cabinet had been forcibly strewn into the sink, onto the countertop and across the floor. The big heavy wooden canopy headboard, bolted to the wall at ceiling height, had come crashing down on the bed, where Marilyn’s head had been resting just minutes before.

We dressed hurriedly and left the building. We went to the adjacent parking lot and got into my jeep. A series of strong aftershocks rocked the jeep, the parking lot undulated in little waves. As a gray dawn made a hesitant appearance people started coming out of the buildings, still dressed in their nightclothes. Everyone was shook up, highly nervous and plenty scared. I turned the radio on in the jeep. Emergency newscasts gave us reports as they came in. This was a big quake. No surprise to us!

For several days following the initial quake many of us refused to go back into our apartments and slept on the floor of the more sturdily constructed clubhouse instead. For a week after the quake, nervous as a cat, I slept with one arm around Marilyn and one eye open. For days and weeks and months afterward, the earth shook with aftershocks, some of them strong enough to be moderate earthquakes on their own!

In the San Fernando Valley, near where we live, many buildings completely collapsed. There were fatalities. One of the large concrete parking structures in our complex was heavily damaged and was in danger of collapsing. Nerves shot, I was in danger of collapsing!

The earthquake became known as the Northridge quake, named for the upscale community close to the epicenter. The quake was felt far and wide, as far as Las Vegas, some 200 miles away. The quake was officially calculated as a 6.9 (moderately strong) on the Richter Scale. But those of us who lived through it know it was a whole lot stronger than that!

You probably have to live here to fully understand this, but after a few months things got back to normal and, as usual, Southern Californians ignored the ever present threat of a killer quake and went about their sun-and-fun-filled lives.

So did I.

NEXT STORY

Regrets, I Had A Few

2006-07-06T15:40:00.000-07:00

God knows, my life has been far from perfect. And, yes, I have regrets. But because I took the chances, took the risks I wanted to take, my regrets are few. And, thankfully, mild.

I mildly regret that I was not the type of person to stick with my first Wall St. job. If I had done it differently, if I was a somewhat different person, I could have ended up a partner. Dick F. started about the same time as I did. He stayed for a lifetime and eventually became the managing director. As the managing director, in 2005 he was the fourth highest paid CEO that year, earning $119 million.

But no, I had to do it my way ... the hard way ... being stubborn and growth-oriented and choosing to involve myself in only things that were seriously interesting and meaningful to me.

The first real job I ever had turned out to be the job of a lifetime. Who knew?

I mildly regret choosing accounting as an elective course in high school instead of typing. I got an “A” in accounting and can balance my checkbook. But I can only type twelve words a minute.

I also mildly regret not having nearly the number of love affairs I could have had. I did not take advantage of nearly enough of the situations which presented themselves to me as a young man. In hindsight, I realize that, over the years, a lot of women were attracted to me. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of missed opportunities with dozens, maybe hundreds, of wonderful women. Many of these opportunities I was simply unaware of at the time. Chances of a lifetime. Who knew?

Guys ... if you’re single ... be 100% alert and receptive to women and don’t pass up any of potentially wonderful experiences!!!

Ladies ... be more obvious ... be 100% obvious. We guys are deaf, dumb and blind!!! And we can't read minds! If you want something, say the words.

Regrets? I had a few. Too few to mention.

NEXT STORY

Millenium Part 1

2006-07-05T15:55:00.000-07:00

On Friday, September 17, 1999, I had a heart attack.

I didn’t know it, I thought it was a pulled muscle. I took aspirin.

I walked around with my heart attack for five days before I went to the hospital.

I didn’t have a lot of pain. It was a mild heart attack. In the emergency room the nurse told me that the aspirin probably saved my life. She also told me that the main causes of heart attacks are heredity, stress, diet, lack of exercise, and smoking. I was guilty on all counts.

I was in the hospital for five days.

At the end of the five days they gave me a low-level stress test which I passed with flying colors.

After five days, I was released from the hospital and, feeling very lucky indeed, went home.

Alive.

NEXT STORY

Millenium Part 2

2006-07-04T15:59:00.000-07:00

Three weeks later I was back in the hospital.

I had been suffering from heartburn. I thought it not too unusual considering what I had been through. It lasted a week. In the emergency room I learned it was something called ischemia, lack of sufficient oxygen to an artery in the heart. I was scheduled for a heavy-duty stress test and a nuclear medicine heart scan.

Next thing I know I’m on the next day’s schedule for open-heart surgery!

Nobody told me anything. I had no information. All I knew is that it didn’t sound good. Not good at all. I raised a hell of a fuss until someone came in and explained everything to me. Their plan was to insert a stent, or shunt, which was a tiny plastic coil, like the spring found in a ballpoint pen, into the artery to open it up and keep it open. A relatively safe and common procedure with a very high success rate. Easy for them to say, it ain’t their heart!

OK, so I had no choice and they had me on a double dose of Xanax so I signed the release forms, made my peace with God, who I figured I would be seeing shortly, and surrendered myself to the situation.

The next morning, Friday, October 8, 1999, I was taken for my nuclear X-rays and then taken back to my room to eat lunch (hey, I was still living and I happened to be very hungry!)

After lunch they came and got me. Someone gave me a huge shot of valium and that’s the last thing I remember until Sunday.

NEXT STORY

Millenium Part 3

2006-07-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

I woke up two days later. Sunday. With a quadruple bypass. For those of you who do not know what that is, you don’t want to know. Suffice it to say it’s a lot worse than a root canal.

While I had been unconscious on the operating table somehow somebody had changed the scheduled little operation into a major production. My sternum was now wired together with stainless steel wire (no, it doesn’t set off the alarms in airports. I asked). I had a “zipper” (incision) running from the top of my breastbone to just above my belly button. Both legs looked like they had been gnawed on by a great white shark

I was a mess.

Alive but wondering if it was worth it, I was sent home the same day, 2 days after major heart surgery.

Marilyn took very good care of me. Unfortunately for her, I have never been a good patient.

I was in bed for weeks and weeks. I was very weak. When I wasn’t in total agony I was sleeping. Drugs helped a lot. I recovered very very slowly. My chest didn’t hurt much, it was my legs that were killing me. I could barely walk, I had huge painful incisions from the tops of my inner thighs to below my knees where they borrowed veins and turned them into arteries in my heart. My chest was doing unnerving things it had never done before.

I was lucky to be alive. Or was I alive? Sometimes I couldn’t be sure. Then the pain would return. That’s how you know you’re alive. The pain. Besides, how would you know you’re dead if you’re dead?

It was October, 1999. My goal in life was to be alive to see the new millenium. The end of a thousand years and the beginning of the next thousand years. The year 2000.

I made it.

NEXT STORY

Today

2006-07-01T16:07:00.000-07:00

It is now years - and a second heart attack - later.

As of today, here is what I learned and here is what I know ...

Every day is a gift.

Every day is a miracle.

Live it.

Every day.

And make your own memories. Make them glorious!

NEXT

"My Way"

2006-06-30T18:02:00.000-07:00

(P. Anka, J. Revaux, G. Thibault, C. Frankois)
[Recorded December 30, 1968, Hollywood]

performed by Frank Sinatra

lyrics as follows:

And now, the end is here
And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I'll say it clear
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain
I've lived a life that's full
I traveled each and ev'ry highway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way

Regrets, I've had a few
But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew
But through it all, when there was doubt
I ate it up and spit it out
I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way

I've loved, I've laughed and cried
I've had my fill, my share of losing
And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing
To think I did all that
And may I say, not in a shy way,
"Oh, no, oh, no, not me, I did it my way"

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels and not the words of one who kneels
The record shows I took the blows and did it my way!

NEXT

end page

2006-06-30T16:18:00.000-07:00

gather ye rosebuds

while ye may

- Robert Herrick
English poet
1591-1674

The End

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2006-01-25T08:56:00.000-08:00

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