White Poster Prince:

The Tale of the “White Poster Prince”

http://www.amzn.to/416e7bn

Robert C., MD Cornell, MBA Columbia, J.D. Fordham Law

A book full of amusing tales, some frivolous, some tragic, some full of refreshing contrarian views to accepted dogma. 5 lessons of life are contained within this Odyssey of many venues, challenging us to learn and judge. Well worth the money.

S. Jones (author of “I Saw the Future”)

The unique mix of science, hidden lessons, and a chronology of someone’s life experience form a fascinating and unique combination. You live the author’s life with him, experiencing his various tribulations and wondering yourself what you would have done had you been him. A personal insight into another’s life that few often choose not to expose, especially the semi-privileged.

R. T., Yale

This is a pleasure to read. A colorful story full of scandals, tragedy, drugs, and death amongst the rich and famous. Lessons abound in finance, math, physics, history and politics. Tales of parties from Aspen, Hollywood, New York and Palm Beach serve to amuse us. And much much more. So very interesting.

Chapter 21.4: Al Gore gets a new job: Henny Penny, the sky is falling, send $100 to Al Gore to save our planet from destruction:

Shed not a tear for Al Gore. George Bush, Jr. would inherit the burdens of the Clinton Administration’s incompetency and suffer the September 11 attacks, while Gore found a new career gallivanting around the world in his private jet, predicting Armageddon and the end of the world in 10 years. Now Gore became the self-appointed High Priest of Environmental Causes, Al was out promoting his waste of cellulose. In January, 2006 – when promoting his Oscar-winning (yes, Oscar-winning) documentary, An Inconvenient Truth – Gore declared that unless we took “drastic measures” to reduce greenhouse gasses, the world would reach a “point of no return” in a mere ten years. He called it a “true planetary emergency.” Well, the ten years passed and the years continued to pass and surprisingly we’re still here, and the climate activists have to now allege the “Apocalypse” has been merely postponed. Yet again BS, as Al Gore yet again continued to fill his coffers with donations from the scared masses. A new Ptolemy had been born!

To keep the ignorant masses scared and the “global warming” cash cow flowing, Gore introduced the Keeling Curve—a graph depicting seasonal and annual changes in atmospheric carbon dioxide (CO₂) concentrations since 1958 from the Mauna Loa Observatory in Hawaii—to show how the burning of fossil fuels by industry and transportation, as well as other human activities, were changing the gaseous mix of the planet’s lower atmosphere. In the summer of 2006, atmospheric CO₂ concentrations stood at 395 parts per million (ppm). Ten years later, after the supposed “Apocalypse” due date, they flirted with the 407-ppm mark, a snoozing .03% increase per year in an atmosphere that consists of less than 4% CO_2, and water combined, where Nitrogen accounts for 78% of the atmosphere, oxygen 21% and argon 0.9%. Gases like carbon dioxide, nitrous oxides, methane, and ozone are trace gases that account for about a tenth of one percent of the atmosphere.

Therefore, much of his effort in the film needed a deceptive misdirection move, which necessitated drawing contrasts between conditions before and after the Industrial Revolution and illustrating how the rapid changes in atmospheric carbon in modern times were unlike anything that had taken place in several hundred thousand years. Forget about past false prognostications, the world was now coming to an end. “Armageddon” is finally here (almost). Don’t forget to send Al another $100 to save our planet before this all happens.

Chapter 21.5: Gee, Al, stop looking at your fat wallet and look at the facts, and the Sun, and the Ocean. You just might find Global Cooling is upon us and is the real danger, the real “inconvenient truth”:

Now all this “Henny Penny, the sky is falling” due to “Climate Change” was cute and scary, but the facts were not all there. We did not have weather buoys in the Southern Hemisphere to measure ocean temperature change until 1960. Methane Gas, many times more destructive than CO₂, was constantly being emitted from fissures deep in the ocean and from retreating tundras uncovering rotting vegetation. And CO₂ presents itself in many forms, many of which are good because they allow plants to create oxygen and at higher altitudes shelters us from the Sun’s intense heat.

I don’t want to go into the slow and fast carbon cycles, the protection CO₂ gives the planet acting as a coolant in the thermosphere, or the Thermohaline Circulation of Ocean currents, or heat escaping from the center of the Earth due to radioactive decay, or the overwhelming effect of humidity on greenhouse temperatures and on the Global climate. It would take years, but we do not need go there, because the Sun is the prime generator of heat, and that is where we should look first.

So let us start with a little science primer, which Al Gore forgot to tell you, as he pocketed your donations. You probably picture the Earth’s annual journey around the Sun as being more or less a circle, but that’s only true some of the time. Models have long suggested that our home planet’s orbit shifts from circular to elliptic orbit and back again over hundreds of thousands of years, which plays a part in natural climate swings.

The orbit has an effect on climate by determining the amount of incoming Sunlight. The cycle of ice ages are linked to changes in the earth’s orbit, so they are important to the long-erm climate variability of the Earth. Earth’s orbit around the Sun is due to the gravitational attraction between the Earth and the Sun.

The Earth goes through regular, large-scale cycles of ice ages and warmer periods, driven by a whole range of factors. Some of the main contributors are what are known as Milankovitch Cycles, along with variations in the Earth’s orbital path (cycling every 100,000 years), its axial tilt (on a 41,000-year cycle) and the “wobble” of its spin (on a 23,000-year cycle). These affect how much solar energy hits the Northern Hemisphere at different times of the year, and in turn affect the planet’s long-term climate.

The Earth‘s rotation around its axis, and revolution around the Sun, evolve over time due to gravitational interactions with other bodies in the solar system. When the orbit is more elongated, there is more variation in the distance between the Earth and the Sun, and in the amount of solar radiation, at different times in the year. In addition, the rotational tilt of the Earth (its obliquity) changes slightly. A greater tilt makes Earth’s seasons more extreme.

The semi-major axis is a constant. Therefore, when Earth’s orbit becomes more eccentric, the semi-minor axis shortens. This increases the magnitude of seasonal changes.

The relative increase in solar irradiation at closest approach to the Sun (perihelion) compared to the irradiation at the furthest distance (aphelion) is slightly larger than four times the eccentricity. For Earth’s current orbital eccentricity, incoming solar radiation varies by about 6.8%, while the distance from the Sun currently varies by only 3.4% (5.1 million km).

But the Sun and Earth are moving apart by about 15 cm per year – the culprit may be tides raised on the Sun by our home planet, according to Russian dynamists Gregory A. Krasinsky and Victor A. Brumberg. Something must really be pushing Earth outward from the Sun. But what?

One idea is that the Sun is losing enough mass, via fusion and the solar wind, to gradually be losing its gravitational grip on the Earth. And we only have 7.5 billion years left until the Sun swallows the Earth, unless the Earth continues to move away from the Sun as it is doing now.

But Takaho Miura of Hirosaki University in Japan and three colleagues think they also have the answer. In the European journal Astronomy & Astrophysics, theycalculate that, thanks to Earth, the Sun’s rotation rate is slowing by 3 milliseconds per century (0.00003 second per year). According to their explanation, the distance between the Earth and Sun is growing because the Sun is losing its angular momentum

The current trend of decreasing tilt between the Sun and the earth, by itself, will promote milder seasons (warmer winters and colder summers), as well as promote an overall cooling trend. Because most of the planet’s snow and ice lies at high latitude, decreasing tilt may encourage the onset of an ice age for two reasons: There is less overall summer insolation, and also less insolation at higher latitudes, which melts less of the previous winter’s snow and ice.

Chapter 21.6: Little Darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter, but here comes the Sun, here comes the Sun-Well Maybe Not:

The Sun is acting weird in this 24^th cycle. It typically puts on a pageant of magnetic activity every 11 years for aurora watchers and Sun gazers alike, but this time it overslept. When it finally woke up (a year late), it gave the weakest performance in 100 years.

David Hathaway (NASA / Marshall Space Flight Center), and Giuliana de Toma (High Altitude Observatory) think the 11-year cycle might be part of a larger one. Historical records show weak cycles at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, so it could be that the solar cycle tapers every 100 years or so, in what’s known as the Gleissberg Cycle.

Matthew Penn (National Solar Observatory) offered another, more catastrophic option: the Sunspot cycle might die altogether. His team uses Sunspot spectra to measure their magnetic fields, and his data show a clear trend: the magnetic field strength in Sunspots is waning. Penn’s research showed that the Sunspot’s magnetic field is declining over time. Sunspots can only form if the magnetic field is greater than around 1,500 Gauss units, so if the trend continues, we could be headed for a time where no spots appear on the surface of the Sun, thus lowering the temperature on earth.

“If this trend continues, there will be almost no spots in Solar Cycle 25, and we might be going into another “Maunder Minimum,” Penn states. The first Maunder Minimum occurred during the second half of the 17th century. Almost no spots were seen on the Sun during this time, which coincided with Europe’s Little Ice Age.

Moreover, NASA’s forecast for the next solar cycle (25) reveals it will be the weakest of the last 200 years, at what is known as “Dalton Minimum” levels. The maximum of this next cycle — measured in terms of Sunspot numbers, a standard measure of solar activity level — could be 30% to 50% lower than the most recent one.

NASA is in effect forecasting a return to the Dalton Minimum (1790-1830) but gives no mention of the brutal cold, crop loss, famine, and war associated with it:
1. Like the deeperMaunder and Spörer Minimum preceding it, the Dalton Minimum brought on a period of lower-than-average global temperatures. The Oberlach Station in Germany, for example, experienced a 2 degree C decline over 20 years, which devastated the country’s food production. Compare that to the 1 degree C increase from 1880 until now calculated by the Mauna Loa Observatory in Hawaii and used by Al Gore to promote his Global Warming Cash Cow.

2. The Year Without a Summer also occurred during the Dalton Minimum, in 1816. It was caused by a combination of already low temperatures plus the after effects of the second largest volcanic eruption in 2,000 years: Mount Tambora’s VEI 7 in Indonesia on April 10, 1815.

3. The newspapers were preoccupied with the Battle of Waterloo between Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington, right up until the start of winter in 1815, when the weather turned decidedly whacky. And by 1816, the climate was dominating headline news as both Spring and then Summer failed to arrive.
              One Virginia resident recalled, “In June, 1816, another snowfall came and folks went sleighing. On July 4, water froze in cisterns and snow fell again, with Independence Day celebrants moving inside churches where hearth fires warmed things a mite.”
             Clothes froze on the line in New England, ice on ponds and lakes was reported in northwestern Pennsylvania in both July and August, and Virginia had frosts in August. The temperature occasionally got into the 90s, but then would drop to nearly freezing in just a few hours. Crops that had managed to sprout were frozen out in early June, replanted, and frozen again in July. Very few crops were actually harvested, and of those that were, the yields were very poor. In turn, food and grain prices skyrocketed — for example, in 1815, oats sold for $0.12 a bushel but by the next year, a bushel would set you back $0.92.
And the story was the same across the world:
     1. The potato crop in Ireland rotted in the ground resulting in widespread starvation.

2. In England, France and Germany, wheat crops failed leading to bread shortages and food riots and looting.

3. Northern China was also hard hit with thousands of people starving to death.

4. While in southern Asia, torrential rains triggered a cholera epidemic that killed many more.

The year 1816 went on to earn another, rather more morbid nickname, “Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death”. One way or another, the COLD times are returning — it’s just a matter of when. An Inconvenient Truth? So, Al Gore, send your ill-gotten gains back to your frightened donors. Maybe I can replace you as the High Priest of Environmental Causes, for I predict the increase of 1degree C since 1880 will soon begin a quick trend towards minus 2 degree C as per the Dalton Minimum in 1816. Global Warming is a profitable hoax, but the inconvenient truth is that Global Cooling is upon us. Send your “Climate Change” donations to me now, for although I cannot promise to save our planet in the next 7.5 billion years, I can surely promise you I will buy a lot of fur coats and a private jet.

About the Author:

This is a story of a 14th generation American whose Dutch ancestors settled in New York in 1619, claiming North America, and intermarried with Mohawks. An elite dysfunctional upbringing results in the Author leaving home at age 13 never to return. Having to earn scholarships, he works his way through prep school, college with 2 degrees summa cum laude, a full scholarship to Yale Law School, and a MBA.

He then sets out in an Odyssey covering many strange but interesting venues: working at Woodstock, meeting Jimi Hendrix, learning from the 3 Wisemen at Yale Law School, subsequent adventures on Wall Street trading commodity Futures, partying in New York City, the Hamptons, and Newport, RI Society, in Hollywood distributing films, in the Wild West of Post-Soviet Moscow, with Putin and the Oligarchs, sailing the seven seas, traveling the world, settling down in Palm Beach and South Miami Beach, Florida, meddling in Florida in the elections of George Bush, the younger, and Donald Trump, and finally suffering through fascist pandemics and lock downs.

Gossip and scandals are abundant from Anna Nicole Smith, Ted Kennedy, Claus von Bulow, William Kennedy Smith, Doris Duke, Ivana Trump and Marla Maples, OJ Simpson, the great Hollywood rip-off of “Platoon”, the YouTube rip-off of Kim Kardashian, Jeff Epstein, Robert Kraft and countless more, for the Author was there and will weave these tales for your amusement.

But the real purpose is to share the Author’s incredible journey, seeking and grasping for Knowledge and Truth, which he attempts to share with the reader. Set up to be an invisible legal case, like a Supreme Court Brief: the Author is telling the facts, the evidence as he lived or learned them, and then arguing his point of view, attacking many “sacred cows”. The reader is thus charged with being the Judge and Jury alike, and at the end of the Book, the reader is challenged to Judge whether Author is the “White Poster Prince” as claimed, or a fool, or something in between.

The accompanying website/Glossary at www.whiteposterprince.com contains over 1,000 hyperlinks to Wikipedia to fact check, corroborate and verify names, terms, and theories of the Author as, with harsh verifiable accusations, questions our current cultural beliefs, questioning the future mankind in general, as Social Conditioning, the Green New Deal, “Behavioral Sink” and Alinsky Socialism lurk in our not too distant future.

The Book is unique in that is has a soundtrack built in, so you can actually see Jimi Hendrix play “the Star Spangled Banner” at Woodstock beside the Author and listen to Author’s selected tunes as referenced to in the Book. The Soundtrack is in the Glossary and at the very end of the Book, in YouTube. Press “Skip Ads”. Enjoy!

(The Author has degrees in behavioural psychology, political science, Law (JD), Business Administration(MBA), Financial Technology (Fintech) and has studied Theorectical Physics, yet he had led a colorful life with numerous escapades and adventures amongst the scandalous Rich and Famous around the Globe).

So follow this Odyssey through the life of this semi-privileged prince, who shares it with you. Learn from him, his adventures, and hard lessons learned. Follow the Tales of Brave Ulysses as he searches the World for his true self, and for Knowledge and Truth.

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WHITE POSTER PRINCE:

TALES OF BRAVE ULYSSES

Captain Rick

WHITE POSTER PRINCE:

TALES OF BRAVE ULYSSES

www.whiteposterprince.com

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Certain characters in this book are historical or public figures, and certain portrayed events did take place. However, this work may be considered fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.

Publisher: Captain Rick

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ISBN: 978-1-7359557-0-4

ISBN: 978-1-7359557-1-1
ISBN: 978-1-7359557-2-8
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Printed in the United States of America.

Instructions: To search for content throughout this book, click on the word and a search bar will appear in Google automatically as part of Kindle. If you have Paperback of Hardcopy versions of this book or do not want to use Kindle. you can go to www.whiteposterprince.com and this site has a search bar and contains a click-through hyper-linked Glossary at the end linked to rich additional content.

PREFACE TO TALES OF BRAVE ULYSSES

“You thought the leaden winter Would bring you down forever
But you rode upon a steamer To the violence of the Sun

And the colors of the sea Blind your eyes with trembling mermaids

And you see a girl’s brown body dancing through the turquoise
And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea

Her Name is Aphrodite and she rides a crimson shell

And you know you cannot leave her
For you touched the distant sands with Tales of Brave Ulysses
how his naked ears were tortured By the sirens sweetly singing.”
-Martin Sharp-

Preface to the Tale: Ernst Hemingway once wrote: “There is nothing noble about being superior to your fellow man. True nobility comes from being superior to one’s former self.” But now there is much talk in America about a concept called “white supremacy”. It has little meaning other than “the belief that white people are superior to those of all other races, especially the black race, and should therefore dominate society”. If that dubious proposition is true, who then is the most “supreme” of the supremacists. Who is top dog? The rest might just be superior-ist. You cannot have by definition have two Supreme supremacists, just one. And that Supreme one must rule, he is then the “White Poster Prince”, and he must be also be able to kill any man standing next to him, all others move to the back of the bus. They might by definition superior to whomever or whatever, regardless of race, color, creed or combat skills, just inferior to the White Poster Prince.

And I, the author, now make that claim. It is for you to ultimately judge, but my claim as the “White Poster Prince” is actually based on fact and law. My Dutch Ancestors landed up the Hudson River in North America then named it New Netherlands and in 1619, planted the flag of our Republic, and by 1624 had officially domiciled up there, thereby claiming this entire Country, while befriended the indigenous people (the Mohawks). My ancestors owned North America as they had legally claimed Stadtholder lordship over all the lands. International law was simple back then. One could not just plant a flag; one had to live in the claimed territory, inhabiting it, and leave the indigenous people to their lands as long as those indigenous peoples occupied them. A Stadtholder, derived from the Latin word “locum tenēns” (literally “I hold the place”), was a ruling placeholder, a stakeholder, for his people in his territory, and it was hereditary. So the Republics of New Netherlands and New Belgium arose to claim all of North America, except those lands inhabited by the indigenous peoples like the Iroquois Confederacy.

If there was a question amongst Catholic Nations about colonialism, the Pope would mediate it. If it was amongst Protestants, they would go to war. And my Calvinist ancestors from the Dutch Calvinist Republic had claimed North America and settled there, intermarrying with the indigenous Mohawks. Their claim was original, vested, and legal under then settled International Law. But it was never a picnic; it was a shootout over the valuable fur trade up the Hudson River and beyond. My ancestors chased out the French and the Swedes, and they warred with the English invaders for over 50 years. This 50 year war was settled by the 1674 Treaty of Westminster, concluding the Third Dutch-Anglo War, and the island of Nieuw Amsterdam (Manhattan) was ceded to the English along with all lands east of Oyster Bay, NY. We kept the rest. But the English invaders soon violated the 1674 Treaty of Westminster, they came by the boatloads, squatting on our lands and those of our allies, the indigenous peoples, then they warred on each other, leading a century later to the “American Revolution” and the founding by the 13 “interloping” English colonies of the “United States of America.” And they kept on coming and coming, and are still coming and my people have not had the guns, gunpowder, or manpower to stop them since 1674. So I, the supposedly “privileged” White Poster Prince”, the “stakeholder”, am heir to the vastly empty throne of North America, one just sitting there until the proper time when our legal Stadtholdership claims can be fulfilled. If the Jews had to wait thousands of years to reclaim Palestine, then I, or maybe my heirs, must wait until we are able take up the reigns of rule of our Stadtholder lordship again.

But shed no tears, a White Poster Prince lives a fascinating life, in spite of this, and if you lend me your ears or eyes, I will take you on many worldwide adventures this White Poster Prince has had, the famous and infamous people I have met, studied under, worked with, fought with, drank with and socialized with, as I traveled around and around the world in this “Tale of Brave Ulysses.” This Odyssey depicts the journey of the White Poster Prince, or “Captain Rick” as he is also known, through a world of the scandalous rich and the famous, the rock stars, athletes, singers, soldiers, geniuses, saints, murderers, thieves and politicians that litter this global pathway. There are hurricanes, riots, earthquakes, market crashes, and human disaster interwoven into the tale. This adventure spans the globe from bitch-slapping Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock (Yes I did! He was passed out on Quaaludes and supposed to be on stage Sunday night!), then we shoot past the ivy halls of Yale Law School across seven seas, through the collapse of USSR-Russia, Sao Paulo, Jakarta, and other Hell holes, through palaces and chateaus and black tie galas, and the camaraderie of Captains and Kings and Beggars and Thieves, into political wars and pandemics. It is a journey of many strange venues and strata as if it were Machiavelli’s Prince working his way up and down through the layers of Hell to find his true self, a modern-day White Poster Prince or a black sheep-scoundrel?

I will recall to you the privilege of playing, of working at Woodstock, studying under the Three Wise Men at Yale Law School, my subsequent adventurers in Hollywood, on Wall Street and in the Wild Wild west of Post-Soviet Moscow, Putin and the Oligarchs, the hobnobbing with the captains and kings of industry, sailing the seven seas, my capture on the Island of Circe and the meddling in Florida with the elections of George Bush, the younger, and Donald Trump. Be prepared for gossip and scandal ranging from Anna Nicole Smith, Ted Kennedy, Claus Von Bulow, William Kennedy Smith, Doris Duke, Ivana Trump and Marla Maples, OJ Simpson, Derek Gibson and John Daly of Hemdale and the great Hollywood rip-off of “Platoon”, the YouTube rip-off of Kim Kardashian, and countless more, for I was there and I will weave these tales and gossip for your amusement.
It starts with a Prince-like empty shell of genetic material and DNA. I am mostly Viking, my instincts are to cut your head off, the Mohawk blood in me wants to scalp you, and the Dutch fur-trader in me wants to take your scalp to Paris and sell it for a big profit. Then to the “privileged” like me becomes the endless drilling in weaponry and warfare, for if you cannot be the best killer, being willing, able and ready to kill your enemies, you simply cannot by definition be Supreme. You have to learn the struggle of life the hard way, like being taught to swim by being thrown off of a very long dock. Then becomes a procession of life’s events that are to instill the Calvinist hard work ethic into you and then the worship of the Almighty Holy One. Throughout, your CPU and SDRAM (brain) is filled with data, history, science, mathematics, and you are then maybe ready to take the first step of a child into an adventurous, dangerous, and hopefully fascinating world to go find your true self. In many ways you, not me, will find and determine my true self, you are now the judge. For am I a Forrest Gump, a James Bond type assassin, a comic international man of mystery, the scholar, the scientist, the artist, lover, or fool, the White Poster Prince? Or all of these? This Tale will tell the story. You must be the judge and jury alike.

And there is much more in this tale of scandal and adventure to digest, for I interweave cross-themes of human endeavors in science, economics, mathematics, theoretical physics, religion, philosophy, and war to challenge our minds and the pre-concepts that we are programmed with to believe and not question. As I scrutinize and denounce many “sacred cows” with documented truth and harsh opinions, including the “Hygienic Fascism” behind pandemic “lockdowns”, there are 6 hidden lessons of life. Please learn them.

Our job as humans is not to be cattle or Orwellian bleating sheep, but rather we are charged with intelligence to learn, build, innovate, and hopefully leave a better world than was left to us by the thousands of generations before us. Evolution, not devolution, of the species is the ongoing mission. Thus scandal and amusement fuses with science and ruthless critical observations on this Brave Odyssey.

And as we ponder the future of the human race as the inevitable pendulum swings, and as Facebook, Big Data, NSA and AI pushes us towards mind programming, modern serfdom, and Alinsky socialism, this will be food for you to digest and contemplate. Ask yourself: Where do we go from here? What legacy, if any, to be left behind if is it is not old fashioned time tested slavery and serfdom? Who is left to fight? Who is brave enough to march in Brave Ulysses’ footprints towards the evil monsters that lie over the horizon? Will that marching Army include you? Do you need a White Poster Prince to lead you? Or to completely rule you like the socialist Alinsky or the mass-murdering dictator Stalin would? Or will it just all end up the same: Time-tested Slavery and Serfdom or death? Thus follows the Tale of Brave Ulysses:

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Additional Content–E-Books like Kindle, click on word itself or use the search engine box. For Paperback/ Hardcopy Books, go to www.whiteposterprince.com, click on “Glossary” link on Header, then find the Chapter and the Term, and click on it. Or use the Search Engine Box on the Front landing page.—- —- Under each Chapter heading, you will find links to over 1,000 names, places, events, definitions, histories, and scientific terms which are referred to in this Tales of Brave Ulysses. This additional Rich Content is meant not only to corroborate the Author’s Tales and theories, but also to deeply educate you far beyond the four corners of this book. This is the White Poster Prince’s Gift to you as he presents his case to you as the Judge and Jury alike: KNOWLEDGE AND TRUTH. May the Almighty Holy One smile upon you.

PART I: CHILDHOOD: ESSEX, CT AND NEWPORT, RI:

Chapter 1.1: Mr. Big Stuff, who do you think you are? Paladin?

How does one begin such an incredulous tale? In the Movie “Gone with the Wind”, the Margaret Mitchell classic, there is a Captain Rhett Butler, a handsome scoundrel, sail master, sure shot and profiteer, from Charleston, a sort of role model for Captain Rick played by Clark Gable.

There is also scene where Olivia de Havilland reads the opening of the book “David Copperfield” as the Yankee soldiers descend on Scarlett O’hara (Vivien Leigh) and her Confederate household.

“I was born”. The “Copperfield” novel begins there. I was born too, I think. But I don’t remember being “born”. Birth is a primal moment and a primal scream. I am forced to admit my admiration for women’s’ breasts may result from this primal moment, a new born recognizing instinctually that these as the primary food source for survival. Ingrained into the subconscious, it is. My eyes still constantly look at a woman’s breast as a significant part of the package as I move through life. This is subconsciously ingrained, and the women know well these phenomena, and the plastic surgeons grow rich on it.

My very first memory in reality was as a walking child. It was broken down into meals and chores, school, wandering with my dog and rifle through the woods, hard work cleaning up the stalls, and the incessant training in weaponry and the art of death-dealing for nearly 10 years. This later art was a result of my crypto-father’s insistence that we are surviving warriors descended from surviving warriors.

He had enlisted in the U.S. Marines under age at 17 to fight and kill the Japanese in the Pacific Theatre. First Guadalcanal and then the decimated post war China. When he returned from years of ugly war and killing, the only skill he could pass on to his offspring was the art of dealing death. Thus every weapon was to be mastered, he was a first class marksman and sniper training by him was an easy task in a natural gun range of an apple orchard full of poaching squirrels. But we would have to lie motionless, covered in camouflage, even for a whole day. That really sucked. And we had to shoot directly for the eye of the poaching squirrel, and my crypto-father, a Marine marksman first class, was very unforgiving.

He would remind us, again and again, that the history of mankind is the endless history of violence, the endless history of war, and his children must be prepared and trained to survive, as he had in the jungles of the Pacific Theatre.

Bows and arrows, hand to hand combat, bayonets, knives, darts, and strangling, were mandatory in this curricula. Swordsmanship both Japanese style and English was also mandatory. My greatest shame was to take one of his signature master Samurai swords and cut a forest down with it. This Samurai sword, an incredible work of art by a master Japanese sword smith, was carelessly destroyed by me as was also the forest. It just was ugly all around in retrospect. We all make stupid mistakes in youth. I just wonder if we make more mistakes as we get older. My apology to the Japanese sword master can only be deemed inadequate. The forest would regrow.

Crypto-father’s weapons collection was vast and we were made to be all too familiar with it: the standard bolt action Japanese Arisaka 7.7mm rifle, the German 8mm Mauser, the M-1 Carbine with a 30 round jungle clip, the M-1 Garand, the U.S. issue .45 caliber pistol and the .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun, the beautiful 9mm German Lugar pistol, and down through history, cap and ball pistols, flintlock pistols, Sharps Buffalo guns with one .50 cal. round, and the original Winchester repeater. My favorite was the original six-shooter, the “Peacemaker” Colt .45, that one thing that made all men equal: “God made men, some unequal, but Samuel Colt made them all equal!” Nothing said was ever more true. But not lesson number one in this Tales of Brave Ulysses.

At night, we had our precious reading hours. I read science fiction: Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein, Bradbury. I read Edgar Rice Burroughs’ series, Tarzan and John Carter of Mars, and Ian Fleming’s James Bond series. I spiritually bonded with Bond and slept with a Beretta 418 with its eight rounds under my pillow until 007 changed to the Walther PP. I switched over to the Walther PP too. It was stronger at 7.62 mm, but still light with eight rounds of cartridges, or 9, including one in the chamber. Alas, the Tooth Fairy never showed up. Not a penny of Cash Flow. A deprived youth? Underprivileged?

But at my heart was always the JRR Tolkien “Lord of the Rings” trilogy. I read those books 100 times over. He was a genius linguist wrapped in knowledge of ancient Norse runes, creating his own languages. He wrapped me into a fantasy world to escape a basically dysfunctional upbringing. His other books “Silmarillion” and the romantic “The Legend of Beren the One-Handed and Luthien Tinuviel” and “Lost Tales” had great appendices. I learned his Elven tongue and dwarf runes. I even wrote a sweetheart poem to my Fifth Grade Flame in Elven runes.

It was not until decades later that Peter Jackson turned this genius work of “Lord of the Rings” into an Academy Award winning movie series. Well done, brilliant, but Elves at Helm’s Deep, I don’t think so, Peter. Wrong! Shame on you. But the Coffers of New Line Cinema and would overflow, and as Hollywood flourished, the long outlawed “casting couch” would find its way back to Hollywood thanks in part to Harvey Weinstein, causing great scandal. All because the brilliant Peter Jackson had created unparalleled masterpieces of Hollywood fantasy from Tolkien’s great works.

As children, we did not play with normal toys. Our chemistry sets were gunpowder bomb factories. Saltpeter was readily available at the local pharmacies. We created bazookas by cutting empty CO2 cartridges from our BB guns and stuffing them with cut off match heads. Fit it to a standard plumbing pipe and you had a rocket that could penetrate a 1 inch oak board. Cherry bombs and black cat firecrackers were very powerful those days and many hours were spent building a cherry bomb catapult or taping a black cat firecracker to an arrow head or to a sling shot, lighting the fuse, and playing war in the apple orchards and stone quarries with the neighborhood kids. Then, as the State of Connecticut built the Route 91 freeway through rock and stone, we found poorly secured storage sheds filled with TNT blasting caps and dynamite. That was super fun! No real injuries but more than a couple of picture windows bit the dust. We loved to put 12 gauge shotgun shells in bee cave entrances by the South Cove and then fire it off it with a bb gunshot to the shell’s primer. Bam! And then run, really, really run as the angry bees swarmed out. We were actual very normal kids for those days, and always carried a slingshot in our back pockets as we wandered the woods and vales, at home in the bosom of nature. We only went home when we were hungry.

We lived in the lazy rural village of Essex, Connecticut. Essex was unique in that it was located at the mouth of the Connecticut River, which was the only major river in this country that had no city at the mouth of it. Its claim to fame was that the British Navy sailed upriver and burned its shipyards in the War of 1812. Its only industry since 1812 therefore was Dickenson’s Witch Hazel, used for mosquito bites and a thousand other homeopathic remedies. Nevertheless, Essex was a beautiful colonial sailing town.

Chester Bowles was a neighbor across our cove and my dog and I would sometimes wander over there. Chester had founded the Benton and Bowles Agency which invented door to door polling in the Great Depression and became a huge successful advertising agency on Madison Avenue. He became a Governor of Connecticut and was appointed a Senator and then a very popular Ambassador to India. His daughter Cynthia wrote a book “At Home in India”. They would always welcome wanderers like me and my dog and invite us into the kitchen for very spicy Indian food. But leave the rifle outside, please.

Chester suffered a decade or more with Alzheimer’s Disease, a cure for which I would come upon decades later in the form of a compound “anatabine” derived from the tobacco leaf. It cleaned out the build-up of amyloid beta in the brain arteries, the precursor to Alzheimer’s, a low level inflammatory disease. But our efforts were only to be quashed by the Federal Death Administration. More on mistakes of Yale “social investing” later. Do something that saves mankind and the FDA will crush you.

Essex with its wide scenic river was also a destination spot for yachts. One day, a recent hippie friend from the woods of West Virginia, who had polio, wanted to go to the docks on his crutches and see the beautiful Connecticut River. He had recently completed a pot run North from Beckley, West Virginia, the pot capital of the world in those days. As he stood there on the dock with his crutches, in comes the yacht “Roma” with Frank Sinatra and Twiggy on board. They invite him on board, they chat with him, give him a beer, a cigarette lighter, and some cash. He was in total shock thereafter, I don’t know if he could ever return the rolling hills of West Virginia in peace. But “Ol’ Blue Eyes” was a good guy, with a good heart.

Other notables inhabited the area. D.C. heavyweight Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr. would often come in to dine at the Griswold Inn, the self-acclaimed oldest Inn in America. Walter Cronkite adopted Essex as his weekend retreat. Katherine Hepburn lived one town over on Fenwick Point. I visited her house several times with her nephew but there always was an issue of some rare oriental rug disappearing to fund her brother’s substance abuse problems. But she was a kind, friendly person, and an avid gardener, and she was truly “Kate”.

And I should not forget “Maurice the Tailor”. We would stop by his workshop on the mile walk into town. He had survived Auschwitz and had the tattoos to prove it. He would always welcome us with a heavy Yiddish accent “Vat R U do-ink, hey?” and a cup of lemonade. He always asked us what were kids doing these days, what music was “in”, and showed us his stitching skills. He never once talked about his ordeals at Auschwitz. I only knew of the Pacific Theatre War, Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima, and he knew such topics as concentration camps were not for us innocent children. He had come from Hell to Heaven in this peaceful little colonial sailing town on the Connecticut River, leaving the horrid past forever behind him. Only the Hurricanes with their natural fury would harass him now, Carol, Diane, Connie, Donna. They seem to follow me too, I have been in 15 Hurricanes so far.

In that peaceful little sailing town, I was also the recipient of several major bonuses. My crypto-father was a Marine but also a natural sailor and bought several Sailing Yachts, but one was sunk in a hurricane, and bought a unique amphibious automobile that drove on land and water. This was fun and thus my crypto-father turned me not just into a killing machine, but also a great sailor with a love for the open salt sea.

This began to coalesce into my personae, especially after I finally learned I was mostly descended from Vikings. No hours necessary to meditate and contemplate my inner self. Simple: Sail, pillage and plunder, it is in the Viking DNA. What a great future I was in store for, even as the temple of plunder, Wall Street, began to beckon me just as the Sirens seduced Brave Ulysses.

We also had a sense of complete freedom after the chores. In the winter we had bob sleds and ice skating, snow forts and snow ball fights and catapults. In the summer there was baseball, roller boarding, and the mandatory visits to my aunt in Edgartown and then my grandmother in Newport, Rhode Island.

My grandmother and grandfather had been residents of Paris, France in the roaring twenties and hung out with their fellow expatriates, the “Lost Generation”: Thornton Wilder, Ernest HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Hemingway”Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce and others. They were all the Literary Expatriates of their time. And huge party animals. Every night they would don their black ties and gowns and dance until dawn. My grandparents had been skiing in Austria in 1938 when the Nazis invaded. By the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, their host, the Austrian skiing champion Franz Graft, had been taken into custody by Nazis never to be seen again. So my grandparents, after generations of expatriates’ exile, booked it through Switzerland back to the United States and settled in Chappaquiddick Island, on Martha’s Vineyard. My Grandmother’s Mother and Sister, also fugitives from Paris, settled in Edgartown, a short swim away, as Teddy Kennedy would one day find out.

When a German U Boat submarine surfaced off of Chappaquiddick in 1942, as if the Nazis were following them from Austria, my grandparents hastily retreated from Chappaquiddick to Newport, RI and its guarded Naval base, while my Aunt braved it out in Edgartown. My grandfather joined Naval Intelligence there and thus they became denizens of Newport, Rhode Island. No Nazi U boats, but 9 years after World War II ended, they were hit by the devastating Hurricane Carol in 1954, which destroyed half their waterfront lawn and half of Newport.

Chapter 1.2: Newport, RI, from the Slave Trade, through the Gilded Age, to Summer White Houses and Scandal after Scandal.

Newport, RI originally was the first port of arrival in the trade between England and the Americas. It was also the middle leg of the Triangle Trade, the notorious “Middle Passage”, – sugar cane came from the Caribbean to Newport, RI, where it was distilled into rum, the rum was then loaded onto the ships, bound for West Africa, where the barrels of rum were traded for more slaves bound for the Caribbean sugar cane plantations, over and over and over again. It’s one of the ugliest parts of American history, especially as the epicenter was the theoretically enlightened Rhode Island, which was the second state to abolish slavery, banning the import of slaves in 1652.

The first synagogue in America, the Tauro Synagogue, was built in Newport and in its vaults contained detailed records of this triangle trade, including the many Jewish slave merchants. When Steven Spielberg came to Newport to shoot the movie “Amistad HYPERLINK “https://www.google.com/search?rlz=1C1AOHY_enUS709US710&sxsrf=ALeKk01TQmvNtsxyPTCiFzPRwtJmN3Kq4Q%3A1602191552326&ei=wIB_X8utE6PJ5gKruL3QAQ&q=wiki%2CAmistad%E2%80%9D+&oq=wiki%2CAmistad%E2%80%9D+&gs_lcp=CgZwc3ktYWIQAzIECAAQHjIGCAAQCBAeMgYIABAIEB4yBggAEAgQHjIGCAAQCBAeMggIABAIEAoQHjIGCAAQCBAeMgYIABAIEB4yBggAEAgQHjIICAAQBxAKEB46BAgjECc6BwgAEMkDEEM6AggAOgYIABAWEB46CQgAEMkDEA0QHjoICAAQCBANEB46CggAEAgQDRAKEB46CAgAEAgQBxAeOgYIABANEB5QpZ4CWNG1AmD3vQJoAHAAeACAAcQDiAHbCJIBCTAuMS4yLjAuMZgBAKABAqABAaoBB2d3cy13aXrAAQE&sclient=psy-ab&ved=0ahUKEwjLjdrS9KXsAhWjpFkKHStcDxoQ4dUDCA0&uact=5″” about the slave trade, he was lobbied heavily by the Rabbis to keep any mention of the Tauro synagogue and it’s library out of the movie script and public eye. No problem. It’s all about the spin, is it not?

What was also ignored was that at least 13,000 whites, (5,000+ Irish and the 8,000 Scottish Cavaliers captured in the English Civil War by Cromwell) were also sent into slavery in the Caribbean. Several Cavaliers were my ancestors; at least one is rumored to have escaped to become a notorious pirate. Go DNA! But my ancestors also shared on the wrong end in this sad chapter in history of the Triangle Trade. Yet I seek no reparations, unless you want to give me back my ancestral lands in Scotland and County Wexford, Ireland confiscated by Cromwell in the 1650’s. Then count me in, big time.

In the 1770s, the French landed 5,000 troops in Newport to support George Washington and the Siege of Yorktown and thus were instrumental in winning Freedom from the English Yoke of taxation. The favor from the French was paid back in World War II.

By the 1900’s, Newport and its natural healing waters had become, of course, the summer social venue of the Captains of Industry, the Vanderbilts, Astors, Beekmans, Morgans, who built mansion after mansion by the hundreds. In this Gilded Age, Gala ball after ball was the mandatory competition amongst the wealthy. The America’s Cup yacht race was an every three year tradition, where the likes of Sir Thomas Lipton of Lipton Tea fame and Harold Vanderbilt would match race giant extraordinarily expensive J-Boats for a cheap silver 100 guinea America’s Cup trophy.

This golden era eventually faded and Newport fell into disrepute when the Great Depression hit, followed by World War II. Many a beautiful mansion was torn down.

After WWII, Newport was still an interesting venue. Many notables still summered or visited there. The Navy and the Naval College for Underwater Warfare was there. Newport had the Tennis Hall of Fame and it still hosted the America’s Cup Race through the New York Yacht Club. Ted Turner came to race, Alan Bond, Dennis Connor, and every famous sailor. Prince Charles came to sail, Johannes, the 11th Prince of Thurn und Taxis, brought his great Sailing Yacht, L’Aiglon, from Monaco to Newport for the Americas Cup. Robert Redford filmed “The Great Gatsby” at the mansion Rosecliff, making tidal waves amongst the lavishly admiring ladies of Newport society. Newport also housed the Summer White Houses for President Eisenhower and President Kennedy .

What was left was a diminished but still healthy society with black tie balls. There were 5th generation DuPonts, Astors, and Vanderbilts, children with highly diluted inheritances amongst others, and children were cast off to the beach club every day to build sand castles, play ping pong, tennis, and swim while the parents played golf, sailed, socialized, or swizzled south sides. But we children had fun and some dear friendships made then still remain today.

Democratic Senator Claiborne Pell lived at the very end of Bellevue Avenue on Ledge Road adjacent to Cliff Walk. Known amongst students for his “Pell Grants”, he was the richest and most honorable man in the Senate for decades but lived in small Cape Cod house surrounded by the huge mansions on Cliff Walk. Reputably this was so his constituents could better relate to him as a Democratic man of the people, not the Aristocrat he really was. His nickname was Senator “Wellborn” Pell, and he was very rich. He became the third or fourth most powerful man in the United States for many, many years.

I played with his daughter Julie in sports group, we threw sand at each other like brats and I yanked her pigtails. Years later she was amongst the first to come out of the closet and declared herself a Lesbian and a leader of the movement. She died soon thereafter. It must be a tragedy to bury your child, but “tragedy” and “Newport” are almost synonymous.

I saw Jacky Kennedy playing with his son John John on the beach there. There is a picture in a night club called Camelot in West Palm Beach, FL, taken that day from my aunt’s cabana. Jack’s dad, Joe Kennedy, was a rum-running bootlegger turned stock manipulator turned Securities Exchange Commissioner head when FDR decided to clean up Wall Street by sending a thief to catch a thief. Joe had no end of ambition for his offspring. His son Jack married in Newport a stunning beauty named Jackie Lee Bouvier whose stepfather was an Auchincloss of Hammersmith Farm in Newport, where their wedding reception was also held. They often were in Newport as it was often their Summer White House.

But that Kennedy family was full of horrible tragedy. We know of the President JFK and his brother Robert’s death by assassination, and Ted’s fall from grace. John John had college a roommate named Billy Way, as tall and handsome a tennis player as John John. Billy was run over and killed crossing Madison Avenue after leaving the famed Madison Avenue watering hole “Fredericks” in the mid 90’s. I had one of his last drinks with him that night.

David Kennedy died of a drug overdose at the Brazilian Court in Palm Beach. John John went down flying VFR at night to Martha’s Vineyard. Just tragedy after tragedy. David was the first of four of Joseph Kennedy‘s young adult grandchildren to die prematurely. He was later followed in death by his younger brother Michael (skiing accident) and cousins John, Jr. (plane crash) and Kara (heart attack). William Kennedy Smith had that ruinous romantic encounter and subsequent legal disaster at “Au Bar” in Palm Beach. I was there that night with a date, but only saw Ted Kennedy holding Court at his table in the far corner. Very late that night I was walking the dog on a Full Moon on the beach near Mockingbird Trail, 4 blocks north above the Kennedy mansion. I saw nothing, I heard nothing. When becoming a witness was suggested to me, I had nothing to offer, especially not the knowledge or the time.

After the assassination HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assassination_of_John_F._Kennedy” of JFK, Jackie Bouvier Kennedy eventually moved on and married Aristotle Onassis. Onassis had made his fortune by wrongfully and illegally defaulting on all his charter leases and re-leasing his ships at much higher charter rates when the Suez Canal was closed for years in the 1956 Suez Crisis, and Cargo ships were rerouted the long route through the straits of Gibraltar around Cape Horn at great profit and fortune to Onassis. Onassis was not known as a gentleman. His mistress for many years was the great opera singer, Maria Callas, who claimed abuse. His daughter, Christina, died of a drug overdose. His other child died prematurely. Another tragedy. Scandals and thus tragedy never stop among the Rich and Famous and well to do in Newport and elsewhere.

Shortly down the street on Bellevue Avenue lived Sunny Von Bulow at Claredon Court,

whose husband Claus was convicted of putting his wealthy wife in a coma with drugs. The detectives had found a black medicine bag loaded with drugs he would inject into his wife. He was convicted of attempted murder. Alan Dershowitz, the Harvard Lawyer, got him off on an appeal and again on retrial and Claus then bailed out to London.

Sunny’s first 2 children, Alex and Alla von Auersberg were wonderful fine children, but devastated by this ordeal. Years later, I was at David Koch’s party in Aspen with Ludovic Autec, and I met his date, their von Auersberg stepmother. I learned their father, Prince Alfred HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Alexander-Georg_von_Auersperg”von Auersperg was also in a coma, having driven off a cliff in Austria. Both parents in comas, one for 9 years and one for 28 years. What tragedy for the children? How did these fine children deal with it? They created a foundation for the scientific study of comas, a benefit to society.

Another Newport tragedy occurred that would affect not the lives of the “rich and famous” but rather the lives of hundreds of thousands of “ordinary people”. In the early 80’s, Glen Farms in Portsmouth, RI, adjacent to Newport, there was hosted an Equestrian Festival courtesy of the Texans, Mason Phelps, Jr., Countess Szapary, a Vanderbilt, and socialite Cornelia Guest among others.

The Texans were flush with cash in those days and decided to hold a huge Texas style party: “The Newport Roundup”. No expense was spared. At least a quarter of a million of Texan dollars went to building an old fashioned Western town on the fields of Glen Farms. Dozens of Caterers were flown in from Texas to do a “Walk-Through Texas Barbecue”. A western town was built, complete with forts, saloons, Indian villages, Mexican cantinas and numerous oil wells flowing with tequila. Each guest was given a bandana, and a tequila cup on a neck loop. In a great big barn, Tammy Wynette sang her marquis song: “Stomp on your Man” (Did I get the song title wrong?). The Saturday-night soiree for 1,200 quests was the trendy Newport version of the Cattle Baron’s Ball in Dallas. It was a party to end all parties, and it almost did the job.

Sadly, of the 1200 guests, 1199 of us made it home safely, but one drunk crossed over the meridian of the ancient and narrow West Main road and hit a car head on containing a family, killing them all. This would become a poster child for MADD, an organization that grew in such political and monetary force that they would force States to lower blood alcohol limits to .08mg/l from .12 mg/l (BAC) under threat of a cut off of federal highway funds. These Zealots used force, politics, legislature and money to create a huge new class of criminals, multi hundreds of thousands of us who used to be “innocent” driving at .12 BAC but now were “criminals” at .08 BAC. MADD even offered law enforcement people a $100 bounty for a “catch”. MADD had a set of self-serving statistics of how effective they have been in saving lives as they counted the overflow of cash into their coffers, but not one dollar went to count the tens of thousands upon thousands of lives of ordinary citizens who they have destroyed in their Jihad by forced loss of driving privileges, jobs, fines, jail and legal fees, as MADD superciliously collected $50 per head. And MADD used juiced statistics to advance their Holy Crusade. According to statistical tables developed by MADD and its devotees, a BAC over .08 is unable to drive and a BAC of .40 to .50 is lethal, deadly to the drinker.

The Guinness Book of records recently considered entering the highest Blood Alcohol Level arrest ever at 1.8 BAC, more than three times the level of clinical death. It was in Lithuania near the Refinery town of Mažeikiai and the driver was pulled over because he was driving down the center of the yellow line on a country road to get home. He tested 1.8 BAC, which is scheduled as clinically dead, so the Police sent for another breathalyzer, thinking their equipment was faulty. The new breathalyzer also registered 1.8. BAC. Confused, they tested him a third time at the jail house with new equipment and again he tested 1.8 BAC. So they threw this clinically dead Lithuanian in jail for 3 days, where upon he dried up. After much discussion, they released him since technically they could not figure how to prosecute a clinically dead person. Upon what evidence, Mr. Dershowitz? He was dead at the time! As Benjamin Disraeli or Mark Twain said, there are “lies, damn lies, and statistics.”

And we can’t leave Newport without mention of the scandal of Doris Duke, who lived a few mansions down on Bellevue Avenue at “Rough Point”. Doris was orphaned at age 3 when her parents died in a car accident and she inherited the entire Duke Tobacco fortune. She was known as a recluse. Her best friend was Imelda Marcos, the wife of the former Dictator of the Philippines. Imelda was a shoe freak who owned probably more than five zillion shoes.

Doris Duke also at one time had a boyfriend. It was rumored they had a fight. That night, when he got out of the car to open the gate onto Bellevue Avenue, she accidently ran him over, crushed him to death against the adjacent wall. When the police investigated, she claimed her foot had accidently slipped off the brake. The only witness to the lovers’ earlier spat was the maid, who was found floating face down off the rocks near the Duke mansion at Rough Point. Doris was not charged.

Doris Duke then created a multimillion charitable foundation to restore the historic Point District in colonial Newport to its former 1770 beauty, replete with brick sidewalks and gas lanterns.

Years later, and I was in Florida, I remember reading the obituary of the former Police Chief of Newport at the time. He died in Sarasota, Florida with an estate worth about $12 million. Quite a nice sum for a retired public pensioner. Perhaps the movie “China Town” was right, the rich can get away with murder. But those who think the Rich and Famous are to be envied or idolized might want to take another look at the lengthy casualty list of the Rich and Famous and their children. It goes on and on and on.

Chapter 1.3: A Farewell to Arms.

By age 13, I was a well-educated killing machine with a thin veneer of the social graces. I was invited to Ligonier, Pennsylvania, in deer hunting season, to learn to jump steeplechase at the Rolling Rock Stables, after which Rolling Rock beer is named. The Stables were magnificent, built of carved mahogany. This was a Mellon family enclave with hundreds of miles of riding trails whereupon there would be periodic openings in the woods to clearings with flowing fountains and Greek statutes.

Our steeple chase lessons were drill after drill. We weren’t allowed to fall off the horse after a jump, the penalty was a six pack of Rolling Rock Beer to the instructor. That was a lot of money for us kids then.

On off time, my buddy, my host, and I would wander in the woods with 30.06 hunting rifles with telescopic scopes in search of prey. One day were we sitting on a log, talking about the two things all 13-year-old boys talk about: #1: girls. And then # 2: girls. There was a rustling behind us in the bushes, and a cute little fawn peered out at us. I aimed at this Bambi, but could not even pull the hair trigger. Its parents had been obviously shot. It was deer season. That moment I made the pledge to kill no animal that doesn’t try to kill me first. It was, at least in the animal kingdom, my “Farewell to Arms”.

Semi-pacifism has it rewards. Later, I had my first ever date at the movie theatre in Ligonier. I tried the “slip the arm slowly down the back” routine with her but got nowhere. But it wasn’t until we got to the Rotunda in the Ligonier Park, and I told her of story how I spared “Bambi”, that she kissed me, my first kiss, and a doozy at that. I had finally gotten to first base! This is how guys talked in those days, with the goal of a home run. I was not to lose my virginity, and hit the home run, until later, but you never forget your fist base hit!

Chapter 1.4: The Gulag Archipelago.

Bio- mother married a Marine but she was basically a pacifist. She came from a long line of Forefathers dating back to the Battle of Hastings in 1066, most of whom were warriors, but her ancestry was heavily intermingled with educated ecclesiastics like an Arch Bishop of York and at least 3 forebears that graduated from Harvard Law School plus three that graduated from Yale Law School (although none practiced law) and a famous great-grandmother, Teresa Viele-Griffin who brought Islam into the U.S.A., and took the Koran from West Point, NY to Havana, Cuba to New Orleans, then to Brownsville, Texas into savage Comanche territory, then up the Mississippi back to Lake Erie and then NYC. Her journey with the Koran is memorialized in her novel “Following the Drum: A Glimpse of Frontier Life(New York, 1858)”. She would ride on her Stallion alone into Comanche country to read “the calming versus of the Koran” under a shaded desert tree. The savage Comanche gave her wide berth, although they watched. Perhaps it was that their religion recognized crazy people as “blessed by the spirits”, not to be trifled with. Perhaps it was the will of Allah. Perhaps her husband had sent cavalry outriders unseen by her but seen by the Comanche. Nevertheless, the Holy Book passed from the New York to Cuba through savage Indian country in Texas, up the Mississippi and back to New York, and then finally to Paris, France.

A convert to Islam, Teresa lectured and introduced “Islam in America” at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1883. For her efforts, she would later receive a medal in person in Istanbul, a diamond tiara, the medal of the mujahida, “Holy Warrior” from the Sultan of Turkey, Mehmed VI, the last Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, and the last supreme ruler of Islam.

She was officially anointed “Holy Warrior”, probably the first and last woman to have been so. Her letter of introduction to the Sultan was written by the venerable US Secretary of State, John Hay. She was an empowered woman far ahead of her time.

Unfortunately, the Diamond Tiara given by the Sultan in honor of her service to Islam was immediately stripped all of diamonds and divided by her three granddaughters after she died. A precious treasure that should be in a Muslim museum was carelessly destroyed.

Chapter 1.5: From Istanbul and the last Sultan back to the woods of Connecticut, USA.

Bio-mother’s father had graduated from Oxford Law School, but he was a writer for Look Magazine, the premier magazine at the time, travelling the world in search of stories for Look. So bio-mother was left in Paris to be raised by her grandmother. The fact that my bio-mother was distant heir to the throne of Scotland and England through the House of Stewart and the throne of France through the Huguenot House of Valois, replaced by the House of Bourbon after Charles II voluntarily abdicated (after the third knife was driven into his back), did not bother her. Nor did she care that her Dutch Huguenot ancestors had landed in Nieuw Amsterdam (Manhattan) in 1619 and laid Stadtholder claim to North America, or that Archibald Gracie, who built Gracie Mansion in New York, mysteriously absorbed by the City of New York to be the Mayor’s Mansion, belonged to her grandfather’s grandfather, or that our Marble Family Tomb was buried beneath Second Avenue. This was of no consequence or significance to her. The past was the past.

She constantly disagreed with the warfare training my crypto-father over pursued, and followed the ancient Chinese philosophy that one must be either a “warrior”, “merchant”, “artist” or “priest”. She thus constantly was stressing “art” and “religion”, for war was “bad” and “coinage” and “mercantilism” was a base anathema to her, even though the financial efforts of her forbears resulted in a significant trust fund to her benefit so she never had to work a day in her life. At the top of her class at Foxcroft and Barnard College and with her pedigreed, she could have done or become anything. But she chose to have babies, which was the equivalent of installing a permanent bowling alley in her high-octane head. She thus became just another blonde beauty Helen of Troy, and her favorite companion was a mirror. And babies were her business.

Chapter 1.6: Exile to foreign venues.

At age 13, and on one thing, these two parents came to agreement. I was 13, and obsolete as a baby. And after Ligonier, I refused to kill any animal that did not try to kill me first, thus my value to the farm was also obsolete. So they agreed to export me to an all-boys preparatory school and pay Tuition for one year. I would have to earn my own way thereafter. We looked at a few, but I chose the one that expelled Peter Fonda the year before, I think for drugs. That was kind of cool.

Years later I would meet his sister Jane Fonda, Hanoi Jane, that is, or “Barbarella”, filming a workout video at my partners’ studio in LA for Lionsgate Entertainment at a still beautiful age of 70. She had a cute little dog that immediately took to me for some reason, which pleased her. Her work out video for seniors sold very well. Lionsgate made good money on that one.

Anyway, so off I went at age 13, exiled to an all-boys school, never to return home. “Home” was now wherever I laid my head to sleep.

Chapter 1.7: Stalag 13.

Now the all-boys prep school is a mixed blessing. It is regimented, disciplined and time scheduled as if it were a prison camp, a Stalag 13. The education was outstanding, you were forced to read in Latin Thucydides’ treatise on the Peloponnesian Wars, Marcus Aurelius’ memoirs, Cato the elder and Cato the younger, Caesar’s invasion of Gaul and of course Virgil’s Aeneid. Then we had in English the Medieval and English classics, history, science, poetry and art. I ate this stuff up, like a vacuum cleaner.

We had football, baseball, and a hockey rink for the aggressive outlet, and I had athletic skills. Yet we could learn to play chess against champions. I stalemated a Russian champion, Spassky, I think, who was on a publicity tour in the US and played 20 of us students at one time on timed clocks, easily beating 19. I became an instant hero to my classmates by virtue of this chess stalemate.

My gambit was simple. Unlike my schoolmates, I knew from art of war studies, firstly, that you shoot the officers first then move down to shoot enlisted men. Secondly, the exuberance of youth encourages you to go for the big game first, the home run, not nickels and dimes. This seasoned Russian champion would know this but had to play 20 games simultaneously on a clock, so if I did the opposite, he might not recognize it in time. So I did the traditional youthful opening as he would expect, but then went after his pawns, his enlisted men first. If we traded queens, I would be able to sacrifice my last Rook for his last pawn and reach a stalemate in an empty chessboard resembling a war torn battlefield. It worked. I had pulled off the nearly impossible by trickery, deceit, and using 19 other games to breakeven.

But in the end, the valuable lesson I learned is that a stalemate with a Russian is probably the best you can hope for. Just look at the Battle of Stalingrad in WWII, or Napoleon’s Defeat at Borodino in HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Borodino”1812. This one single lesson would definitely come in handy and perhaps save my life, for I would end up spending many years in Mother Russia and prosper. Much more on this later.

We were not exactly academic choir boys. The chemistry lab became the source of distilling equipment where we could distill apple cider into alcohol in our closets. Lots of kids smoked pot. Illegal pizza runs were clandestinely coordinated like the invasion of Normandy. And we learned how to cheat at the card game: Contract Bridge.

The authorities would torture us with Friday night films. I remember the cruelty of showing a theatre full of 13 year old horny boys the films just like “Blue Lagoon” starring the 14 year old Brooke Shields. I would meet Brooke many years later, in tow with her mother, at Maxim’s in New York, and I would later edit the memoirs of her late father, Frank, in Palm Beach, FL, but showing that type of movie “Blue Lagoon” to us adolescents in prep school was beyond cruel and inhumane.

Furthermore, this all-Boys school arranged grossly over chaperoned mixers with bused-in all-Girls Schools: a dance where caged-up testosterone meets caged-up estrogen. The fire escape was the secret make-out venue. But it was just a giant tease.

So, except for the lack of girls, I ate up the first three years of prep school. I was Summa Cum Laude, class VP, and sometimes Best Man on Campus. But the “free love” era had begun and long hair was in vogue. I knew I had no chance of getting laid with short hair, so I let mine grow and refused to cut it, even though I was prosecuted, physically abused by the assistant headmaster, and threatened with expulsion. Nevertheless, I fought it off and continued to live in this smug little world. But the world was changing quickly and the winds of war were blowing.

Chapter 1.8: The real world and its body-bags summons us.

The “Nam” war was gearing up. The French Legionnaires had lost the First French Indochina war after the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, in 1954, foolishly allowing the enemy to surround them with artillery on higher ground. The Peace was not to last but a few years when the Second French Indochina War broke out and lasted until Saigon fell in April, 1975. This second war became known as the Vietnam War and the United States had been sucked into it not by virtue of its cold war policy, but as I was to later learn at Yale Law School under the tutelage of Dean and Professor Eugene Rostow, because of its treaty obligations under now discarded SEATO (South East Asia Treaty Organization), the conveniently forgotten sister to NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization).

The mood of our Country was changing as the 20,000 casualties and body bags mounted. In October, 1967, a large protest was organized to march on Washington, DC and some of us volunteered to be Student Marshals, that is, we were to wear armbands and serve as a buffer between the police and the 200,000 plus peace marchers. So off I went on a bus to my very first riot, and it was a doozy. Friday night, DuPont Circle had nearly all its commercial windows smashed amidst the haze of tear gas and pepper gas.

Saturday would be worse. As we lined up and down Pennsylvania Avenue, we looked up at the over 5,000 US Marshalls and Police on the street and many Soldiers manning .50 caliber machine gun nests atop the FBI building, the DOJ building, the Post Office, the National Archives, and so on all the way down Pennsylvania Avenue. The machine gun nests were all sandbagged and manned each by three of these soldiers. A sobering scene.

As the protestors marched down the Avenue, a group known as Yippies, mainly followers of Abby Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, snuck up behind the student marshals and threw bottles and rocks at the police. Then these cowards turned and faded back. The police responded with massive bombardments of tear gas and pepper gas on basically innocent marchers and all Hell broke loose. The riots lasted into the late night, I was taken to a makeshift triage center at Georgetown University and was poorly treated for pepper gas inhalation. I was done in. Fortunately, unlike the Kent State massacre, no one was shot. 683 protestors were arrested. The machine guns remained silent, thanks to the Almighty Holy One.

Kids don’t know how to riot these days. I see pathetic attempts at civil disobedience that shame those early days of mass chaos under the menacing threat of machine guns. As a footnote, I blame the Yippee cowards, Abby Hoffman and Jerry Rubin for the massive DC riots. I was to meet the coward Jerry Rubin many, many years later on Wall Street. He had become a humble suit-wearing solar stock analyst for a second rate brokerage house. How the worm turns in reverse!

Well, I hobbled back to school from the riots in DC and finished the school year Summa Cum Laude and with Varsity Letters. But the long hair harassment thing would not go away and I would not give in. Finally, I was “invited” not to return for my Junior year. So I applied to a school in Northern Connecticut who we had played in football and they all had long hair. They had just expelled Robert Kennedy Jr. for drugs, which I guess was a sign that the school was kind of cool. They gave me a full scholarship and so I was booked to go off to what I thought was hippie-ville, prep school style. And it now summertime, time to cut loose!

PART II: THE LAZY SUMMER OF “68”, FREEDOM, MUSIC, FREE LOVE, “PARADISE ISLAND” AND MORE RIOTS:

Chapter 2.1: The woods and vales of Lyme, Connecticut, and keg parties galore.

It had been the winter of discontent with the embarrassing Tet (New Year’s) Offensive in Vietnam, and the assassination of Robert Kennedy and of Martin Luther King, Jr. There were riots everywhere. The war was increasingly unpopular. The country was torn asunder.

But the summer of ’68 turned out to be epic. I was homeless but free as a bird, and my hair was long. Everybody was cool with peace and “free love” was “in”.

In New England, June was very peaceful as spring matured into summer. I stayed for free with at my musician stepbrother’s crash pad in Connecticut, riding horses and learning to fly. In those days, we had small grass airfields and I learned how to do short takeoff and landing drills. Simple, face backwards at the end of the runway and gun your engine. Hit the left brake, spin around 180 degrees with the momentum, lift your flaps to jump the plane off the grass, and gain enough airspeed to lift up and avoid touching the grass, which friction would slow you down and crash and burn you. Landing was the opposite, drop your plane on the edge of the grass runway, hit the brakes and hope the grass slowed you down enough. Those were real barn storming days, adrenalin would surge and stay surged. And survival demanded good piloting skills. Those little grass airfields are long gone history now, converted to golf courses or nature preserves.

If you needed coin, there was plenty of work for carpenters, cement layers or roofers. And if you learned from the electricians and plumbers, you could learn to build your own house.

At night there were keg parties and my step brother was a bass guitar player in a local rock band and knew all the local girls. But eventually July came and it was time to go to Newport, RI, not for grandmother or the beaches but for the famous Folk and Jazz Festivals.

Chapter 2.2: The Newport Folk and Jazz Festivals.

The Newport Folk and Jazz Festivals were a trip. You could be sitting next to Taj Majhal playing his harmonica, or Janis Joplin drinking her Southern Comfort. Hitch a ride on a truck and in the back were Crosby, Stills and Nash with all their musical equipment. My stepbrother and I camped out, and partied like wild animals. It was too much fun, unreal.

The Folk Festival was laid back and it was a Joni Mitchell fest of soft tunes and songs of peace and love.

The Jazz festival had a different twist. Hundreds of Motorcycles and Motorcycle gangs arrived and of course there was some fisticuffs and puffery with long chains. We long haired youths were not seen as a threat or competition and we were let be. The Music was again awesome, and jazz is cool. And there were plenty of girls at both festivals adding to the enjoyment of life in general.

When the festivals came to an end, I found myself a place to crash in an apartment with six sailors. Newport was still a big Navy Base, and one roommate was a cook on a Navy Destroyer, so there was an endless supply of leftovers to feed our crash pad.

I made my way by Ferry-boat to Block Island, RI, a gorgeous island with low lands, harbors and marshes and high cliffs and bluffs on the North-west side. I had done practice landings with an airplane called “touch and goes” at the Block Island airport on the high bluff, but never landed or stayed there. In those days there were maybe 500 local cars on the island, none of which had or needed a license plate. And one lazy Constable.

Chapter 2.3: “Paradise Island”.

On Block Island, I found 3 girls to stay with. Pam, Amy and Sarah. They had rented a garage apartment and we became a cozy family. Days we would wander to the beach and swim and at nights we would gaze at the stars. I made frequent ferry boat runs back to Newport to pick up food and other “supplies” not found on Block Island.

It was endless paradise. One night Pam took a hit of blotter acid, and without telling me, French kissed me. I spent that night with my new best friend, a huge granite rock on the beach by the Ferry Dock. I hugged it all night and marveled at the infinity of time that was contained within its crystalline silica. It had maybe witnessed the dawn of time, and I worshipped it that night. In spite of that surrealistic bonding with silica and granite, if you want to live a long and interesting life, don’t trip, say goodbye to drugs.

Well all good things come to end, unfortunately, and I had to return to finish school. I tearfully kissed my three girls goodbye and set off for school, not to return to the paradise of Block Island for many years. Word came to me eventually that Amy, by far the most beautiful of the three, a very sweet and kind girl, had been arrested for possession of a marijuana joint. Having no jail, the Constable ruthlessly handcuffed her to a tire changing machine in the local auto repair garage until the State Police could come by ferry and pick her up and take her to court at Providence, RI on the mainland the next day. Then she was immediately released on a self- cognizance bond and soon thereafter acquitted. Oh the “horror” of paradise. “Paradise” was over.

Chapter 2.5: The Riots are Back again.

Then came the riots at the Chicago Democratic convention starting in late August. This was a monumental buzz kill, evidently Mayor Daly had decided anybody with long hair could be legally clubbed by police, plus media stars Dan Rather and Walter Cronkite took a beating also. Too bad Mayor Daly is not around to handle today’s “fake media”. A few Daly-like clubbings might bring some common sense into the fake media’s brains and their mindless diatribe.

But the Chicago Riot was not a lesson in democracy, it was a lesson in totalitarianism and fascism, Chicago style. This is not what we want in America, do we? Saul Alinsky wants it. The Evil Sith Lord, Darth Sorius wants it. Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama wrote positively about Alinsky as naïve students. But do we want it? Are you ready to try Socialism? Saul Alinsky’s Socialist Police State, the ones like Hitler, Stalin and Mao Tse-tung ruled, that end up killing many millions on hearsay evidence and end up financially like Venezuela? One of Alinsky’s cardinal rules was that the ends justify the means, and this was same axiom embraced by Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and which, in fact, used by all tyrants throughout history to enslave all and kill many without any due process of law. We here in America still have time to fight and retain our dearly fought for freedoms. Are you game?

Chapter 2.6: September: The Summer of Paradise is its own reward, but don’t you think I really should be back at school?

The endless summer of ’68 was over; finally it was time for reality. My Junior year had commenced at a school I transferred to in Northern Connecticut who we had played against in football and they all had long hair. So off I went to what I thought was hippie-ville, prep school style.

But as fate would have it, I would learn another lesson of life the hard way. The long hair policy formerly allowed would be changing that year because the elder DuPonts, generous donors to that school’s endowment fund, did not like long hair and demanded the school change its liberal hair policy. And of course the school rolled over. I did not yield. My hair was the First, Second and Fourteenth Amendment so forth combined; it was not theirs to decide. So I was back in the frying pan of harassment and condemnation.

But because of my academic and Varsity athletic contributions to Football, Ice Hockey and Baseball, and since I taught Judo class, and technically because there was no legal “hair rule” either in the School’s charter or marketing documents, they balked. And I put my hair into a pig tail and tucked it under my collar to “comply” with the spirit of the law.

They missed their one chance to bounce me when a classmate, Jeff Stoeckel and I, stole down to the computer room late at night. There was a PDP 8 computer the size of 6 refrigerators with punch type tape programming in original Cobol. We programmed the computer to take a coffee break during the next day’s computer class by making the computer count to 15 minutes, and then have it print out “Time out while I take a coffee break. Back in 10 minutes. Keep my circuits warm”.

To accomplish this, we programmed the PDP8 to solve a complex series of algorithms, each of which took a few microseconds to compute. Then after solving the equations, which we calculated to take 10 minutes using a slide-rule, it would go back on line and print “Hey, I’m back from my coffee break, let’s get back to work”.

The class could do nothing since it would take over 25 hours to key punch the programming tape and reprogram the PDP8 operating system. Well our “prank” worked, the computer went off line for about 8 minutes (we miscalculated the processing speed) and the anal computer professor went completely ballistic. The Headmaster announced that the perpetrators would be caught and expelled from school and then put a bounty out for information. But Stoeckel and I were mum. Stoeckel finished the year as a Junior then was given a full scholarship to MIT the next year, skipping his Senior year. The wizard Stoeckel was gone and the secret of the rebellious, errant PDP8 was mine alone to keep.

We also had a huge astronomy observatory where I could look at the stars through a large telescope and study astronomy. It was the official hangout out of the school’s many pot smokers, which was not of interest to me, so I always had the large telescope and its electronically controlled chair to myself. How great was the opportunity to learn astronomy. The North Star by which my Viking Ancestors navigated the seas. The planets, the stars, the constellations shined brightly, as did the far away Galaxies. It was awesome. It was my first “heroin” freebie for an addiction called “Cosmetology”. Stephen Hawking would later exploit this addiction through a made-for-morons best seller called “A Brief History of Time”. I would later endeavor to counter it as Heresy.

The school also had a fabulous art department where I painted, sketched and learned to sculpture. Spring break found a friend and I hitchhiking down to the Winston Salem School of the Arts in North Carolina. My stepbrother had enrolled there, and it was a fabulous campus full of beautiful artsy-craftsy free-love girls. We found two great girls a couple of years older than us to house and feed us off campus, and teach us more of the ways of women, and it was very, very good. And we got to try real homegrown moonshine! All was well with the world of arts and crafts. I wished I could have stayed forever, but the clock was ticking and it was time to head back to school. The rest of the school year passed smoothly, and it very soon was summertime again! Freedom awaited once again!

PART III: THE ENDLESS SUMMER OF “69”, THE JULY 4TH RIOTS, THE MOON LANDING, KENNEDY, CHAPPAQUIDDICK AND THE WOODSTOCK NATION:

Chapter 3.1: Deja Vue. The woods and vales of Lyme and keg parties redux.

And once again in New England, June was very peaceful as it matured into summer. As usual, I rode horses, flew airplanes, and attended all the mandatory keg parties. Again, my step brother was in a local rock band and knew all the local girls and it was fun, fun, fun, till the Sun comes up, hopefully with a companion by your side. But eventually, July came and it was time to go to Newport, RI, not for sun bleached beaches, but for but for rock ‘n’ roll.

It was again with some regret we decided to quit this Connecticut dreamland and hitchhike to Newport, RI, but the word was out. The famous Newport Jazz and Blues festival was consolidated into one festival on July Fourth and playing were to be an all-star lineup of Blood, Sweat HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood,_Sweat_%26_Tears”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood,_Sweat_%26_Tears” Tears, Ten Years After, Jethro Tull. Dave Brubeck, B.B. King, Johnny Winter and Led Zeppelin. It was a must go see.

Chapter 3.2: The July 4th riots-look at the sky turning Hellfire red!

Knowing the layout of Newport very well from youth, we set up camp near enough to the festival field but far enough away to have clean water. It was a good move because nearly 90,000 people showed up for a 22,000 seat event. Friday night got raucous as the outsiders decided to tear down the 10 foot fence and invite themselves in. The police manned the fence and cutoff the reverse jail break.

Saturday night of July 4th was a night to remember. When Sly and the Family Stone took the stage, all Hell broke loose. The crowds tore down the fence again. Some threw rocks and beer bottles at the police and then a deluge of smoke grenades, tear gas, rainy drizzle and July 4th fireworks went off simultaneously as the riot began, making the hazy sky red. Having been through the D.C. riots earlier, I was a now a veteran and was cool about it. Just another riot. But the smoke, drizzle, explosions, haze and tear gas gave the illusion of being in the misty underworld during a firefight amongst ghosts. It was in a reverse sense, kind of cool, the normal person never gets to experience a riot, and this was my second doozy, but not the last.

Then it was announced that Led Zeppelin had cancelled, and the festival for Sunday was also cancelled. No deaths but fifty-three people were arrested during the weekend, while one hundred twenty were hospitalized. The riots ended, the crowds dispersed and left.

But we had inside information from my friend Pierre Lorillard, the son of Elaine Lorillard, heiress to the Lorillard tobacco fortune and founder and patroness of the Newport Festival. After the rioters cleared town, the festival resumed late Sunday and Led Zeppelin did play that night and we were invited backstage. Supercool.

I would visit my good friend Pierre Lorillard many years later in California and sail with him on his yacht in Marina Del Ray. We raced in a Santa Monica regatta. We had a small intimate cocktail party which was attended by the son of the Governor of Rhode Island, from Newport and his close friend Margaux Hemmingway, whose grandfather and mine hung out together in Paris in the 1920’s. Margaux would die shortly thereafter of a drug overdose, just one more tragedy amongst the Rich and Famous.

Chapter 3.3: Chappaquiddick-If only he had my Crypto-father’s Amphibious Automobile, Ted would still be President.

My stepbrother and I then decided to bail out and hitchhike up to Martha’s Vineyard. We knew of a place to set up camp in Cow’s Bay in Edgartown and near my grandmother’s old house on Chappaquiddick. So off we went. It was not too long before bedlam followed us.

On the weekend of July 18, Ted Kennedy drove off the Dyke Bridge in Chappaquiddick, resulting in the death of a young woman under questionable circumstances. He abandoned the scene and swam back to Edgartown, a swim my grandmother and grandfather had often easily made back to Chappaquiddick when the ferry boat stopped, and they were still pubbing in Edgartown.

The resulting national news coverage made the Dyke Bridge an unwanted tourist attraction and the object of souvenir hunters, as thousands of the curious flooded into Edgartown. Memorabilia like paperweights containing sand from Chappaquiddick were being sold by the multi hundreds for $10, a princely sum in those days.

And so it came to pass in the summer of 1969, Presidential front runner Robert Kennedy had been assassinated a year earlier in June,1968, and Ted had now assassinated himself in July,1969. The ambitions of Joe Kennedy to create a Kennedy Dynasty had come to a bitter crashing end. (Seriously, no pun intended).

Chapter 3.4: Yeah, I heard about Chappaquiddick, but I was sleeping on the Moon that night, and I did not see anything.

The Apollo 11 mission had been launched a few days earlier, on July 16, and two astronauts, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the Moon on July 20 and spent the night there, 240,000 miles from Chappaquiddick. Ironically, this fulfilled a promise that John F. Kennedy made in 1961 to land a man on the Moon, but this was overshadowed by the Chappaquiddick incident as the tragic woes of the Kennedys continued.

Years later, in 2009, I was to meet Buzz Aldrin at a cocktail party in Beverly Hills. I was there shooting the Kim Kardashian work out video “Fit In Your Jeans By Friday” over Super Bowl weekend. My dear friend Ginger took me to the party, and introduced me to Buzz Aldrin. I was in awe, we shook hands and spoke deeply. Later, my date would apologize for taking me to a cocktail party with no “A” list celebrities. I answered “ Sweet Ginger, I just met the man who walked on the Moon, slept on the Moon. There is no bigger celebrity in my book. This was awesome. I’ll never forget this night. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Beautiful.”

And through my mind was going a scene of four men at a fancy dining table, two hedge fund managers, a Hollywood producer, and Buzz Aldrin. The first Hedge Fund guy says I have a penthouse in New York, a House in the Hamptons, and a villa in St. Tropez. The second hedge fund guy says I have a penthouse in New York, a House in the Hamptons, a villa in St. Tropez and a place in St. Barts and I also have a Yacht. The Hollywood Producer Guy says, well, I also I have a penthouse in New York, a Mansion in LA, a House in the Hamptons, a villa in St. Tropez and a place in St. Barts and 2 Yachts. Then they turn to Buzz Aldrin and Buzz just shrugs his shoulders and says: “I walked on the Moon”. Zaap!

Thus, as the late July Sun set on the now super-crowded Martha’s Vineyard, my stepbrother and I decided to bail out; pull the ripcord. He had been offered a job to help build a stage and a sound system in an obscure town in upstate New York for “An Aquarian Exhibition, 3 Days of Peace and Music”, and he told me I could find work there too. So off we went, hitchhiking to a village in upstate New York named “Bethel”.

Chapter 3.5: The Woodstock Nation: You can listen to Jimi but you can’t hear Jimi.

When we arrived at the 600 acre farm in Bethel in early August, there was a trailer that served as headquarters for the organizers, Artie Kornfield and Michael Lang. And very little else besides a pile of lumber and fencing material. The festival field formed a natural bowl sloping down to a large pond on the land’s north side. The stage supposedly would be set up at the bottom of the hill with the pond in the background so that all attendees could view the stage from the hill.

My stepbrother went to work immediately for the brilliant head sound engineer, Bill Hanley, who had to build speaker columns on the hills with 16 loudspeaker arrays in a square platform going up on 70-foot (21 m) towers. Behind the yet to be built stage were three transformers providing 2,000 amperes of current to power the sound amplification setup.

I scouted the area and found a small pond with fresh water away from the main field but within walking distance, and I set up camp for my stepbrother and myself.

Kornfield and Lang were insanely busy as they were totally unprepared but were expecting 50,000-150,000 people descending on them in less than 10 days. I had nothing to do, so I spent the next few days scouting out the 600 acre farm. Then my stepbrother told me they were looking for “bodies”: carpenters, electricians, security guards and traffic controllers, anybody who could walk. So I went to the headquarters, and because I knew the lay of the land, I was put into traffic control and issued my Walkie-Talkie and a T-shirt and a windbreaker with the official Woodstock Dove and Guitar Emblem, which was the official badge and pass. My paycheck was promised to me the day after they had collected entrance fees from the yet- to- be built ticket booths.

The logistics of traffic control were challenging. There were three exits from the New York Throughway leading to a series of small roads through and around the town of Bethel and the farm. We had to coordinate with the State and local police to make all roads one way to allow free traffic flow, the Police were to blockade all entrances and exits to this purpose and we traffic controllers were to find parking for the many buses and cars that would be arriving. So that was my job, designating the parking fields to move vehicles off of the roads quickly. I had walked the farm, so we set a plan on where to send the attendees to park and camp, depending on which direction they came from, to be coordinated on a dedicated police band communicating with the Police blockades on the NY throughway.

On Tuesday, August 12, the organizers had an emergency meeting. The stage was yet to be built, the fencing was not complete, there were no ticket booths to collect money for the festival that would start in 3 days. 35 of the greatest artist-performers had been booked to play at Woodstock, including The Who, The Band, Janis Joplin, Johnny Winter, Credence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane, Ten Years After, Joan Baez, Santana, Joe Cocker, and Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, and Jimi Hendrix.

The organizers faced disgrace from the musicians, a possible riot from ticket holders, and probable bankruptcy and endless litigation. So they ordered the stage to be built as a priority.

The next day, Wednesday, my job began to evolve from careful strategy to the difficult to the merciless to the surrealistic and then to the impossible. Over 10,000 vehicles arrived that day. Easy, the next day, Thursday, maybe 40,000 vehicles, still without issue, and we had a set up a field for the “Hog Farmers” commune accessible close to the field, for they would feed many. Friday was a nightmare; over 100,000 vehicles came through traffic jams on the New York State throughway onto the farm. Our system held up, barely.

Richie Havens kicked off the Music event Friday night with a long set starting at 5:15. The traffic kept other bands from arriving, so he had to go on for hours, exhausting every song he ever wrote or sung or even heard of. Eventually Joan Baez and Arlo Guthrie arrived also performed on Friday night. Rain started to fall, making the parking fields muddy. I worked through my second night without sleep.

Saturday morning was surrealistic. At about 12:00 p.m., the Police blockades failed and a mile plus stream of traffic, each in the opposite direction, came head on with no place to go. Miles of vehicles face to face, no in or out, it was Checkmate. The hippies realized this and hopped on the hoods of their buses and cars and broke out the pot pipes to pass around. Radio to the Police frequencies confirmed the failure of the blockades and the one way routing system.

I was out of a job. I radioed HQ but nobody answered. The Police coolly ignored the rampant drug usage, “hey, peace bro, we just in the hood.” They had no choice. Over 500,000 people showed up. It was now the third largest city in New York State, impromptu. But just epic: The Woodstock Nation!

Having no more work to do, I went to the Hog Farmers to get some rice and hotdogs, then returned to my station to figure out what was my next move. I climbed to the top of a remaining section of the 10 foot fence and sat and took in the scene. Awesome, thousands upon thousands of young men and women, bound in harmony, stoned, wandering in awe, peace and love and much music, as was billed, as the greatest musicians of the era played in the background, even as the rain came and went.

I noticed this extremely beautiful girl, just staring at me from below. For nearly 30 minutes she just stared at me with those woman’s laser eyes that can penetrate a man’s soul. I don’t know if it was my long hair and looks or the imprimatur of power from my Walkie-Talkie and T-shirt with the official Woodstock dove on guitar emblem, but she was locked onto me like a heat seeking missile. So eventually I bounced down from the top of the fence and took her hands and we sat opposite each other, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. She was a “12” on a scale of 1-10. Her name was Francie, from New Jersey, a 15 year old Virgin, a good Catholic girl from a normal functional family, and she had chosen me to be hers in this swirling festival of music and peace. It was a layup, but something strange came over me, I think it is called nobility or chivalry or lunacy, for I was only a little bit older, but this is what I said: “Francie, you are so incredibly beautiful. You are only 15 and you have the entire world ahead of you and can choose any man you want, have babies, go to your family dinners in New Jersey every Sunday night. A normal life, a good life. I am not what I appear to be, I am not normal, I have no home, I probably will have to go soon to Vietnam and die. Let’s just kiss and say goodbye. Your world lies ahead, mine is behind.”

Thus we hugged and kissed, she went off to a hopefully stable future, and then I was back to the Woodstock Nation. I began to make my way to the stage to find my stepbrother, who I had not seen for 2 days, and I needed to turn in my Walkie-Talkie at HQ. As I made my way to the stage, I was recruited to clear and rope off a helicopter landing zone on the hill, for National Guard Helicopters from the Stewart Air Force Base that were needed to fly in food, water, medicine and the performing artists. From there I could see The Grateful Dead were playing around 2:00 a.m., then my favorite, Janice Joplin came on, but as usual she was drunk on her Southern Comfort, yet again.

The Who came on later, and then the only violent incident in the Woodstock Nation humorously occurred on stage in this impromptu city of 500,000. Abbie Hoffman, that cowardly rabble-rouser, rushed the stage and grabbed the mike, and started a Yippie rant. Peter Townsend wacked him on the head with his lead guitar, took the mike and said “get off my stage”. That cowardly Yippie scum Hoffman disappeared quickly, hopefully never to be seen again.

I met Gracie Slick of the renowned Jefferson Airplane as she boarded the Helicopter Sunday Morning. Then some beautiful girl collapsed in my arms. So I quit my post and dragged her off to the Medicine Tent to be treated for an overdose of something.

Then I went back to my tent to get a quick nap. Sunday night I went to HQ to drop off my Walkie-Talkie and officially quit. When I got to HQ, Woodstock financiers John Roberts and Joel Rosenman were freaking out because they had lost their shirts. They were out almost $2 million and had spent most of Sunday on the telephone exhaustively convincing Governor Nelson Rockefeller not to send in 10,000 National Guard troops, which would have caused massive riots. I surrendered my Walkie-Talkie, but kept my official Woodstock T-shirt and windbreaker with the Dove on Guitar logo. It would be worth a small fortune today, but I lost them both over the following years.

They asked me that Sunday night to escort Jimi Hendrix to the stage as he was one of the last acts and they wanted desperately to stop the hemorrhaging of their huge losses. But Jimi was passed out on Quaaludes and was slouched on their couch, face between his legs, his arms hanging loose. I shook him, then I bitch slapped him not on the face but on his shoulders. I got an “ugh”, he was still alive! “Jimi” I cried, “This is the New America, the Woodstock Nation, sing to it!” “Ugh” was his reply. So I bailed. I booked it out of there. My job was done. I needed sleep.

Chapter 3.6: The Star Spangled Banner: Shame on you fools, you can’t hear Jimi. Stand to colors or leave.

But Hendrix dragged himself back from the dead on early Monday morning, and did the “Star Spangled Banner” impromptu. I woke up and went to watch. It was amazing performance by arguably the greatest instrumentalist in the history of rock music. The New America and its beautiful flag had been saluted by a great talent who would kill himself on drugs a little more than a year later.

Now those today in the NFL like that San Francisco Qlown Capernick that disrespect the Star Spangled Banner, a salute to freedom and the people who fought for it, that take a knee because of some sudden social injustice that appeared just after they signed their multi-million dollar contract, I spit on them. But if they ever take a knee to Hendrix’s “Star Spangled Banner”, I will challenge them to an old fashioned duel. Mano a Mano, in a dark alley with no witnesses. Dershowitz will arrange the legal waivers and life insurance policy assignments of their large salaries. Half will go to the wounded veterans who fought and sacrificed to allow these “social warriors” to be so stupid. And if I have my way, I will shred them and the authorities won’t even be able to find a trace of their disrespectful DNA in that back alley. Hendrix, who had served in the elite 101st Airborne Division, would probably approve.

Casualties at Woodstock: 2 Dead. One O’d on drugs, the other mistakenly slept under a Tractor that had work to do the next day. But that idiot Timothy Leary, who espoused the wonderful benefits of LSD, lysergic acid diethylamide, that is the left-rotating potent hallucinogenic drug, to a young naïve population, should have been hung by the neck. “Purple Haze” was a favorite brand of blotter acid that Hendrix made famous in his song. But nevertheless, Leary was LSD’s most outspoken and dangerous promoter and a fool that destroyed many lives.

Nevertheless, Woodstock was the party of a lifetime and as songstress Joni Mitchell said, “Woodstock was a spark of beauty” where half-a-million kids “saw that they were part of a greater organism.”

Roberts and Rosenman made their losses back and made a huge profit from their ownership of the film and recording rights to the hit documentary film about Woodstock in 1970. My stepbrother’s final paycheck bounced, and I am still waiting for mine. In 2017, the festival site was listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Chapter 3.7: The Party of a Lifetime was over, time to wake up. Riots and Vietnam are still out there.

So my stepbrother had weeks of work to dismantle this Woodstock stage, this monument of History, and to return the historic land to the grazing cows. I decided after a few days to hitchhike back to Connecticut alone, so my thumb went up. A white van pulled over, I got in, there were a bunch of hippies in the back and the driver had long hair, beads and peace symbols. The driver passed a jug of wine called in those days “Pink Pussycat” and I took a healthy swig. Then he passed a bong around and all partook except for me. Drugs have had no place in my life, too many casualties.

Next thing we knew, we were emptied out at the State Police station just off the highway.

The driver turned out to be an undercover Narcotics officer. They were too cowardly to go into the Woodstock Nation of 500,000, but would earn their paychecks by picking off stragglers days after. We were herded in to an intake facility where everybody was searched. Everybody was “holding” except me. They were arrested but the cops had no idea what to do with me. They played the “good cop”, “bad cop” interrogation for a confession, for anything to hang me, but I pointed out that they needed to arrest the Narc driver, for he had illegally served liquor to a minor: me! Well after some time, they decided to give me a warning ticket for “illegal hitchhiking”. No court date, just a promise to not to violate and obey the “no hitchhiking” laws of the State of New York. I signed it, and ironically they drove me out to the highway and dropped me off in order to “hitchhike” back to Connecticut. They wanted to get rid of me without liability. It was a Woodstock buzz kill, and it sucked. The “high” of the Woodstock Nation, of peace, harmony, free love and of decent humanity had come to a swift close. And we still had the war in Vietnam.

Chapter 3.8: Wake up Maggie I think I got something to say to you, it’s September and I really should be back at school.

The endless summer of ’69 was finally over, it was time again for reality. The short hair policy of my school replacing the long hair policy formerly allowed would again cause me harassment and grief. Back in the frying pan of harassment and condemnation and the threat of expulsion. But my academic and athletic contributions, Varsity Football, Ice Hockey and Baseball, bought me the backing of the Athletic Department and a reprieve. Plus, I kept my hair tucked under my collar to “comply” with the spirit of the law. And I stayed out of sight.

It was the beginning of the end of a sheltered life, and I began to prepare for the unknown future.

Chapter 3.9: Slum-Dog Millionaire-NOT! Maybe a Slum-Puppy?

In my Senior year, we had free weekends. I was a veteran of Woodstock and many riots by now, so I was fearless and off I went alone to Boston by bus every weekend. Boston was young and fun, you could start a snowball fight with strangers across the street and everybody laughed. In New York City they would shoot you. We would rendezvous at the local coffee-eatery at Kenmore Square and watch the human pageantry, especially the girls from the many Boston girl colleges.

When hungry, we would panhandle, looking pathetic and begging every passerby for spare change. It was truly pathetic but the lesson learned is that we humans have a great capacity for sympathy and generosity for those strangers in need, which would carry with me for the rest of my life, and repaid by me many, many times over in charity to those in need, especially in Eastern Europe and post-Soviet Russia.

I had met a cute girl and a guy who knew of a semi abandoned 5 story walk up on Edgerly Road near Fenway Park. It is a trendy neighborhood now, but in those days it was a slum, a dangerous slum. We found an abandoned apartment with heat on the fourth floor and just moved in. We were squatters. Any very happy squatters we were.

The fifth floor was occupied a group or gang of heavily armed crystal-meth addicts.

Sometimes they would be hanging around on the fifth floor stairwell with their shotguns and automatic rifles, M-14s, the same as used in ‘Nam. They were pointing and looking down at us as we climbed the round stairway. We would smile and wave the ”V” peace sign, paying homage, as we made our way home on the fourth floor. But it was very uneasy. Meth addicts have been known to “crash” and go paranoid schizophrenic, and they had an awful lot of fire power.

I felt I would be more at ease if I had a pistol, but kids could not go out and buy a handgun in those days. So I bought a six round .22 caliber revolver starter pistol, which only shot blanks. I took it clandestinely to my school machine shop, which I finally found useful, and drilled out the snub-nosed stopper in the barrel, and then drilled out the revolving cylinder to accommodate six .22 caliber short rounds. A .22 short at close range is plenty lethal if you know where to shoot, as my crypto-father had well taught me, and at a far range you just run away fast. Very simple. So that year of real-world weekends in Boston City was a fun time, a welcome blast from the drudgery of my bucolic all-boys school. And I was now “packing a rod” in Slum-ville.

Until, that is, the speed freaks on the fifth floor decided to cut loose. Evidently, they had run out of money and drugs and decided to hit an armored car as the solution to their drug- money woes. They did not plan the heist very well, for they were all mowed down, all dead.

Nevertheless, two weeks later, we get a knock on our fourth floor apartment. With my pistol tucked in my front belt, covered by my army jacket, I opened the door to find several Boston police officers there, to serve eviction papers to squatters. Well my pistol started to slide down to my crotch, and I kind of squeezed my legs together to keep the pistol from sliding down the pant leg onto the floor. Then I would be in real trouble. The Police must have thought I was scared and just needed to pee badly, for they just quickly served the eviction papers and off they went. I had dodged the proverbial bullet.

With a tearful farewell to my roommate-squatters, we vacated, I went back to the country to finish school, and the story of the slum-dog preppy-squatter-beggar came to an abrupt end.

PART IV: THE SUMMER OF “70”, AND SURVIVAL:

Chapter 4.1: What to do now?

The summer of 1970 had arrived. I had just barely been granted “full honors” and graduated in spite of my long hair. Sick of bureaucratic all-boy schools, I had decided to apply to only two colleges, the all-girls Vassar and all-girls Connecticut College for Women, both of which decided to go co-ed the following year. I knew my studies would suffer severely, but Wow, who cared? Fox in a hen coup!

I had done extremely well on the SATs, but unfortunately for me, the scores were not transmitted to either college in time for their application deadline and I was therefore shut out of Heaven. Huge Bummer. Nowhere to go but back to Lyme, Connecticut.

I bought an Oldsmobile station wagon in which I could always sleep in. There were a ton of beautiful girls and always something to do. Horses to ride, keg parties, and flying. I did crash a plane but it was not my fault. I came in hot and heavy on a downwind leg on the tail of an experimental aircraft. People could build their own airplanes in those days. And we pilots were always taught to do power off landings, as if each landing was an emergency one due to engine failure. We were trained to power off and glide in and drop our plane on a dime.

However, the aircraft in front of me was “experimental”, and as it landed in front of me, the airport owner’s dog, a Irish red setter, ran into the runway and was clipped by the landing gear which collapsed and the experimental plane, instead of rolling to the end of the runway and clearing it, spun around nose down and was stuck on the runway with me hot and heavy on his tail.

With a power off approach, I could not accelerate and climb and clear his wreckage safely, so I left-ruddered and side-slipped my plane left off the runway at 80 miles per hour and at a 45 degree angle, dropped my flaps, landed on the adjacent grass, moving sideways and spinning, with the friction of the grass slowing me down, but not without extreme damage to my own landing gear. It was a super rush! But no points off my pilots license, a freak accident.

Chapter 4.2: Wanderings: I wish they all could be California girls.

But Connecticut had its limitations and a priority of business was to hitch-hike to Berkeley, California to check it out. We got a group together in a VW minibus and off we went. We barely made it over the Rockies. There were no tunnels yet so we had to go over slippery Rocky Mountain high passes, where many trucks had fallen off and were piled up as wreckage at the bottom of the mountain pass. But we discovered two wonderful things, the clear cool taste of Rocky Mountain stream water and Coors HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coors_Brewing_Company”Beer, which was only sold locally, because in those days, it had to be always refrigerated in its old style formula, no preservatives.

On the other side of the mountain range the VW Minibus broke down and our group disbanded. A friend of mine and I set forth across Utah and Nevada. We got picked up by a Cowboy headed towards Reno, Nevada. He had a six shooter with plenty of ammunition so we were shooting traffic signs all the way, lots of fun. We stopped at a local bar in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada, and I saw my first slot machine. Over it was pasted a sign “In case of Air Raid, Hide under this Slot Machine, It has never been hit”. Nevertheless, I put in and lost a dime, the very beginning of an undistinguished career of gambling. I would later try to break the Bank of Monte Carlo with no success.

Now we were doing well as far as hitchhiking goes. But we got stuck high up in one of the Sierra Nevada Mountain passes. There was no traffic and it began to snow and we were going to freeze to death. We had to make it through the night. The branches we got for a campfire were wet and green, so I had to rip up my entire Bob Dylan song book to stoke the fire. My buddy was eyeing my guitar as firewood, but that was off limits. He would have to freeze to death first.

We made it through the night and a trucker picked us up in the morning. We then made it to Berkeley, which I found kind of boring with “attitude”, and highly overrated. My long haired buddy hooked up with a girl in Berkeley, so I decided to book it alone and hitchhike down Mexico- way. I stopped at the beach in Laguna Beach to take in the scenery. There were so many beautiful California girls on that beach, it is hard to describe the wonderment and dazzle if you grew up in New England. I sat on a rock for the entire day watching these amazing gazelles prance around, trying not to gnaw my arm off. The Beach Boys had it right: I wish they all could be California girls.

Well, I was soon bound Mexico way, south of the border. But at the Tijuana border, I was turned away by the Mexican Border Police. I had long hair and thus I could not pass. Illegal immigrant, in reverse? So I went over to the town next door, Tecate, tucked my hair under a cowboy hat, and snuck across the border. I made my way to Tijuana only to find a dirty border town with saloons full of drunken Sailors from the San Diego Navy Base and lots of Mexicans carrying knives and not looking very friendly. So I bought a $10 car and barely made it back to Lyme, Connecticut.

Later, I also made a trip out west to the Grand Teton, God’s country in Wyoming, with a buddy. We had climbing gear for we were to attempt to climb the Grand Teton, but 3 weather fronts of snow and hail came and left, the last being a near death experience as we had the vacate the mountain in haste. We carried .22 caliber rifles, they were allowed in Parks in those days, and there were plenty of Grizzly HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grizzly_bear”Bears, and you only had one shot, like with Lions, but unlike Lions, Grizzlies are canines, you can choose to curl up at their feet and surrender and maybe live, or you can shoot the Grizzly in the nose or eye. They will retreat in pain. One choice-if you miss, you probably won’t have the time to reload your bolt action rifle, aim and shoot accurately again. The Grizzly will then shred you. It’s like Lions attacking you in the jungle, you got one shot, don’t miss. It might be one of the first lessons you might learn in life: you can shoot me, but do not miss. Or else I will shred you and all you hold dear. Law of the Jungle? Not Lesson #1 of this Tales of Brave Ulysses, but just read on to find it.

Then we went to the Painted Desert in Arizona, a natural wonder, hunting poisonous sidewinder snakes, ready to coil and strike. It was fun, sleeping in the desert under the stars is in an experience you should not miss. Was it the “Eagles” song that said “I want to sleep with you in the desert tonight, with the peaceful stars all around”? It was awesome, but soon we were homeward bound.

So with a ton of beautiful girls and always something to do, horses, airplanes, and keg parties, I was for the moment very happy. It was a beautiful country life. My uncertain future awaited me, yet I was still blissfully unaware of reality.

Chapter 4.3: Sarge, I’m only eighteen, I’ve been trained by a Marine, and I always kill with one shot, I got eyes like an owl, I can disembowel, and I put my Country first.

It was also an era of major unrest and disruption, civil disobedience, and too many body bags were being shipped home from Vietnam. The “half –asked tie one hand behind your back in order to ‘fight” made the Second French Indochina War a protracted and deadly war. We could have flattened Hanoi in an instant, but the powers that were then in command were more scared of the media and public opinion. They would sacrifice our brave young men, rather than offend the media.

The plan was to pretend we were winning the protracted war by false inflated body counts of enemy dead compared to our dead. The media did not buy it, they did not help cheer lead. The nation was not fooled, but the military machine needed new blood and the Draft Board had abandoned special exemptions like student deferments, and the draft system became a lottery based on your birthdate.

And unfortunately, my number was punched up early in the lottery. I was thus in the front of the queue for Vietnam cannon fodder.

When I was ordered to report for the draft induction physical, I was ready. The previous day,

I rode my horse bareback as usual through the hills of Lyme, Connecticut with my bow and arrow, thinking, making internal peace, and the resolve came, I was going to fight and kill, not be killed. I was going to win. My ancestors fought centuries since 1619 for this land and now my turn had come. Hoorah! Kill the enemy. Kill them all.

The country previously had been in complete turmoil. Kent State University, The Kent State shootings HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kent_State_shootings” (also known as the May 4 massacre or the “Kent State massacre”) were the shootings on May 4, 1970 of unarmed college students by members of the Ohio National Guard at Kent State University in Kent, Ohio during a mass protest against the bombing of Cambodia by the United States. Twenty-eight guardsmen fired approximately 67 rounds over a period of 13 seconds, killing four students and wounding nine others, one of whom suffered permanent paralysis. Kids who riot today have no idea. They are so sheltered and stupid.

Some of the students who were shot had been protesting against the Cambodian Campaign, which President Richard Nixon announced during a television address on April 30. Other students who were shot had been walking nearby or observing the protest from a distance.

There was a significant national response to the shootings: hundreds of universities, colleges, and high schools closed throughout the United States due to a student strike of 4 million students, and the event further negatively affected public opinion at an already socially contentious time, over the role of the United States in the Second French Indochina War.

This weakening resolve was not lost on the North Vietnamese Communists or the Viet Cong. America was becoming chicken, looking for an honorably and desperate way to save face and withdraw like cowards. And we had the allegedly brilliant Dr. Henry Kissinger to orchestrate our defeat.

Now regarding the draft, a lot of kids tattooed “Fuck” on their salute hand, and intentionally failed the written test, but unaware of Army policy, they intentionally failed the Induction Test and thus they were immediately inducted.

When I showed up with my waist long hair and green army jacket at the induction center, I felt I was ready to kill again. I got a 100 on the test. My physical was going fine until the Doctor said I had a hernia and could not be drafted. I pleaded with him that it was tight muscle from bareback riding the day before, but they did not buy it. “Next in line please”. I did not fit the mold they wanted, maybe it was my long hair and gung ho attitude. Regardless, I was shut out of the U.S. Army.

Chapter 4.5: Well, come on all of you, big strong men, Uncle Sam needs your help again. He’s got himself in a terrible jam, way down yonder in Vietnam, so put down your books and pick up a gun, we’re gonna have a whole lotta fun!

But now I wanted in. I set up an appointment with the Marine recruiting sergeant. My ancestors were generals. My grandfather had been a high-ranking Naval intelligence officer. My crypto-father was a respected Marine, I was well trained to be combat deadly, and surely the Marines would take me. I sent my resume, my pilot’s license, my karate and judo certificates, and all the physical and educational reports to the United States Marines Recruitment Center, for I was ready to rock: “Born to love, Trained to kill, Prepared to die, but never will, United States Marines” Hoorah!

When my appointment came, the Sergeant looked at me, my green army jacket and long hair, and looked down at the dossier. He said sternly “Son, what do you think your mission will be in the Corps?” I replied “March to Hanoi, kill Ho Chi Minh, win the war, or die trying”.

“That was the wrong answer”, he said, “Your mission is to obey orders, any orders from your superiors.” I just stared at him, thinking aren’t we at war? Objective: Kill the enemy? March to Hanoi, Kill Ho Chi Minh? This is what General Patton would do. Take the fight to the enemy. Kill them.

Now he got friendly. He said “I have never seen a recruit profile like this in my life. It’s quite something. But you are a son of a Marine Vet who over trained you, with old fashion WWII ways, and apparently you will have trouble taking orders and have been so over trained, I can’t use you. We need unmolded clay here to train. What an embarrassment if you got the better of your instructor in hand to hand combat in front of all the other new recruits, or out-shot our marksman instructor on the shooting range. Those recruits would lose respect and become worthless. We can’t take that chance. The Marines can’t use you. But if you want to serve, you should really think of Intelligence, they could really use you.”

“What Intelligence? The CIA are just a bunch of bungling bookworms. They completely bungled the Tet Offensive.” I opined. He replied “Here, take this card” on the back was written “X(ray)Z(ebra)-OSS-D4-DS-DD -and a phone Number “call from pay phone, never use the same phone twice”.

I asked: “OSS? This isn’t the Office of Strategic Services? I thought they disbanded after the second war?” Answer: “Son, nothing in Washington, D.C. ever dies. Good luck.” He shook my hand, and gave me the courtesy of a salute.

And off I went back to Lyme, Connecticut, to my horse, my wooded hills, my bows and arrows. No war for me that day, maybe not ever. And a lot of rethinking. Deep thinking of my future pathways. Maybe the U.S. Air Force, I would be a great fighter pilot, I could really fly. But it was a career and I would probably need to find and marry a fine faithful woman first. There would be no play time. Many thoughts, many possibilities, but I kept that OSS card close, for it would play a role in my future life.

Chapter 4.6: I wasn’t born to follow. Easy Rider-Crash and Burn as Usual.

So it came to pass that I was direction less. Women and booze were aplenty. Peter Fonda had written and released a film titled “Easy Rider” which had taken the world of youth by storm and introduced an actor, Jack Nicholson, who we would never see the end off, in spite of his premature passing in that film. I had not gotten to meet Peter Fonda, he was expelled from my prep school a year before I entered, but his movie brought out the Steppenwolf in us all: “Born to be Wild”.

I was accepted into a local Harley Davidson motorcycle gang, sort of a Mascot, because I had long hair and a very respectable and fast Twin cylinder 750c.c.Triumph Bonneville motorcycle.

Plenty fast was I, but I had to respectfully ride behind the Harley Davidson Gang. They made me part of an extended family, but they are all dead now. Good people with a lot of issues. As my gang began to crash and burn from drugs, alcohol, slippery roads and little old ladies pulling out their cars from their driveways without looking out for motorcycles, the fatality rate was near 100 percent.

I had one serious crash out of several, and I still carry tar in my skin earned by sliding sideways in between two guard rails at high speed decades ago. If you are a good rider, and go down, you pull yourself up on the bike as it is sliding and avoid serious scrapes and road burn. But I was doing 60 around a corner with slippery wet leaves and I then tumbled after the bike and slid off into a culvert. It took more than two weeks to recover after the ICU dug the most of the tar out my skin (without painkillers). I still have some tar in my elbows decades later, but the Almighty Holy One had smiled on me once again by sending me in between two sets of guard rails to barely survive, and to face a very uncertain future.

Thus, gang biking was certainly not my future. I had survived the hard and sorrowful days in the bike gang. I would ride alone from now on. But what to do?

Chapter 4.7: Have Gun-Will Travel-Time Disappeared. So what happened, Dude? LSD?.

My pilot’s license was still highly rated. I did have another plane crash at Waterford Airport once during February, when after a great snow, they ploughed the short runway and there were as a result huge snow banks 7 feet high. As I lifted my Piper Cherokee off the ground in short field take off mode, a heavy cross wind pushed me and caught my left wheel in the snow bank. The result, the plane turned 180 degrees, flipped, the rear fuselage was torn off, and I was messed up, upside down in a very messed up plane. But no fire, just a bummer of a hair day, and luckily no derogatory mark on my pilot’s license.

Well, I had survived yet again, but something was bothering me, a sort of festering restlessness. I was tired of the crash and burn lifestyle. Keg parties and women had become monotonous. I was a trained killer, and I was bored, so maybe it was time for Vietnam. Finish it. March to Hanoi, Kill Ho Chi Minh. So I found my OSS card on a lonely and sorrowful night. The next night I found a pay-phone and dialed the number. After a hold, they answered my night phone call.

After the code, they knew who I was, and they soon had my dossier. They acknowledged that and asked me two really strange questions- Question 1: “Do you know what a blow dart is?” Answer: “Of course, we were taught that aboriginal cultures dipped the tip of the blow darts in curare or other natural poisons in order to paralyze the target. Blowguns are very easy to build. I can do it with a drinking straw and a napkin and a pin.”

Question 2: “Which 3 of the 6 following items would you wish to have on a jungle island with just one enemy soldier to kill. 1. A Rifle with one round; 2. A Pistol with two rounds; 3. A Sword;

4. A Knife; 5. A string of Rope; 6. A Sewing Kit?” My answer: “the last 3. A knife to fashion a bow, twine, and arrows, the rope to set traps, and a sewing kit to knit feathers to the arrows, and the needle being the blow dart tip, if I can find the right poison. And I still had the knife.” (Hunger Games?)

“That’s 100% perfect. But you have read Hemingway: ’There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter’. You still want in?” I replied, “I am all in, Sir.”

“Good. Let us set up a meeting for some further testing, and we can promise you adventure, good pay and the best education in our package. How far are you from New Haven, Connecticut?”

Thus I went. I signed documents, I took a bunch of tests, much training in a jet simulator, 100 % accuracy with a pistol and rifle. I was injected with performance enhancing drugs, not like LSD, and the two following years were to become sort of a hazy whirlwind, bleached from my mind. I used to wake up in strange nightmares, a jet with crylic instrumentation and stubborn controls, a funny school room, a stunningly beautiful Russian girl with blue-green eyes, a soul mate, in a class room full of beautiful people, explosions, missiles, and tied down in a hospital. Later, they tried everything from chemicals to hypnosis to free me up from these nightmares, as if it was still buried on my neural hard drive and not erased. They would fail for many years. There were allegedly classified documents to shed light on this missing episode of my life, and the rogue OSS unit, and these were scheduled to be declassified and released on April, 2008, but the file was allegedly uploaded and only contained on some spy satellite that the US Navy then shot down in February, 2008. So the mystery remains.

Thus it came to pass that after a period of this bout of Amnesia, I was suddenly back in Lyme, Connecticut. A shack-like house with a woodstove, and scholarship enrollment in college in New Haven, 45 minutes away. I had to finish off a Science Degree and a Liberal Arts Degree in nearly half the time, for nearly two years had seemingly disappeared. So I commuted the 45 minutes, burned the midnight candle, and finished the two degrees, one in arts and one in science, Summa Cum Laude. Exhaustive.

But I got to discover fellow Huguenot Andre Gide’s “Thesee” (Theseus, in English), the epic masterpiece of the struggle between the Minotaur and the Human Soul. Perhaps the finest literature ever written. Moreover, I got to study Renaissance Art, the Chiaroscuro technic, Tintoretto, Sandro Botticelli, and also marvel at the genius of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. This appreciation would later enhance my visits to the world’s greatest art museums and galleries, ranked by me in the following order: The Uffizi in Florence, the Louvre in Paris, the Prado in Madrid, the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, The Frick Collection and the Met in New York, and then London.

And I won first prize in the school wide sculpture competition, a real high. My bio- mother had actually done her work well, for I was not just the lethal junk yard dog my crypto-father had worked so hard to morph me into, but I also had absorbed an appreciation for music, poetry and art.

Chapter 4.8: An Apple, a Dollar, a Bible: Politics as usual: meet Joseph Lieberman

Well, academia has its own rewards, but I also decided to take a stab at extracurricular activities in politics. There was an intern program at the State Capital in Hartford, CT. I would drive up there to the legislative branch. For a while, I interned for a little known State Senator, popular because he always helped out his constituents. His name was Joseph Lieberman, and he would have a bright future basically because he attentively helped his constituents. Those were hard times and in spite of the hollow public assurances to the contrary, by the allegedly brilliant Alan Greenspan, short term interest rates were on their way up to 16%, and inflation was running rampant. Little old ladies were eating horsemeat to save money and survive.

Joe Lieberman would rise from a Connecticut Senator to the U.S. Senate, then to become a front runner for Vice President, the second most powerful position in the United States. And as fate would have it, I would be there to help foil his bid. Lieberman was definitely cool in my book, but Al Gore, his running mate, definitely was not. Much more on that later.

Now, I had my own agenda. There were three horse slaughter houses in Connecticut and I wanted them outlawed. They were illegal until 1947, and I wanted them illegal again. Gone. I drafted the bill and took it from legislator to legislator to find a sponsor to sponsor the bill. It was not easy, but I finally found one, a back-rubbing, handshaking, pleasant man from Northeastern Connecticut. He gladly became the “sponsor “and promised he would work my bill through the legislative system with great diligence. During my internship, I would meet with him and he would tell me it’s moving through the process. But nothing happened.

As my internship came to an end, I complained to another legislator, who had my respect. “Listen son”, he said, “the legislator sponsoring your bill is from a District in Northeastern Connecticut, where one of their principal industries is a horse slaughterhouse. Your bill would cost the town 300 jobs and cost him his seat. He just took control and shelved your bill, and made sure it never saw the light of day. Sorry.”

Well I had been duped on my holy crusade to spare horses. So the old joke was true:

“If you want to know what your child will become when he grows up, put an apple, a dollar bill, and a bible on the table in the room and send the child in to choose just one. If he comes out with the apple, he will become a farmer. If he comes out with the dollar, he will become a businessman. If he comes out with the Bible, he will become a preacher or a teacher. But if he comes out chewing on the apple, with the dollar stuffed in his pocket, and quoting from the Bible, he is sure to become a Politician.”

Thus spoke Zarathustra!

PART V: CHILDHOOD’S END:

Chapter 5.1: Not all “play”, there was “work” and decisions to make.

In those days, I had off the weekends, and I did fly some beauties from Waterford to Nantucket for lunch on weekends and I would take them back to my sculpture gallery in my basement (which I had my pistol shooting range also) and in the dim lights, I attempted the closing kiss. Batting Average was Ted Williams and Babe Ruth combined! At least in my fertile imagination. No fact checking allowed on this one.

I had taken the LSATs and the GREs and aced them. It was decision time. I really wanted to take my guitar, a book of Lord Byron’s Poems, and several changes of clothes in a duffle bag and hitchhike across the world. I was adventuresome and I still had to make up for the 5 years in an all-boys prep school during the free love era and missing out on Vassar and the Connecticut College for Women’s first co-ed year. The world and its women awaited me, my ballads and my poetry in strange faraway places.

Yet extreme pressure was being exerted on me by numerous family members to continue further education like my ancestors. It was a dilemma. I needed time to figure it out.

Chapter 5.2: Yale-The Tale of One of the Three Yale Wisemen-meet Robert Triffin

In those days, Yale’s campus was wide open to all. The gates were never locked and you could wander from college to college freely. There was an economics professor at the Berkeley College by the name of Robert Triffin. I had read his book Gold and the Dollar Crisis and I knew he was an internationally renowned economist and author of what would later be defined as the “Triffin Dilemma”. I sat in on his class and saw he was a genius.

Now being a student of the military, I knew that war reparations were taken from the Japanese and also from the Germans for WWII, one of the prizes being the 295 foot three-masted sailing barque, the “Horst Wessel”, sister ship of the German Sailing Yacht “Gorsch Fock” renamed the United States Coast Guard Cutter “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USCGC_Eagle_(WIX-327)”Eagle”. She was often familiar sight to me, based out of nearby Coast Guard port in New London, Connecticut, and was a three-masted majestic beauty, a “Tall Ship”.

But the real big reparation to the United States for WWII was the “Bretton Woods Conference” leading to the Bretton Woods System, signed in New Hampshire at the base of Tuckerman Ravine on Mt. Washington in 1944. Tuckerman’s Ravine was named after my ancestor, Edward Tuckerman, a Harvard educated botanist that discovered it. His kin, cousin Charles Keating Tuckerman, became the first U.S. ambassador in 1867 to Greece to the Court of King George I and Queen Olga, parents of King Constantine the 1st. He never returned from the sunny isles of Greece to the wet frozen winters of New England. After a visit to the beaches of Mykonos, Aos Sostis in particular, it is easy to understand why he never returned. All we have left of him is a beautiful tea service given as a gift by then Queen Olga to remember his service to her country, Greece, but I digress.

The Bretton Woods Agreement made the US dollar the world’s “reserve currency”, convertible to gold at $35 an ounce. Triffin exposed this “dilemma”, i.e. the inherent contradiction based upon the fact that a national currency must also play a dual role as an international reserve currency. On the one hand, giving priority to a national currency by curbing deficits in the US balance of payments would give rise to restrictions on international liquidity with deflationary effects on the world economy that needed rebuilding after WWII. On the other hand, a sustained flow of dollars and liquidity fuelling global trade implied continuous and persistent deficits in the US, consequently eroding confidence in the dollar and its reserve currency role, thus leading to instability or the eventual collapse of the gold-based US dollar.

The Bretton Woods system was doomed to fail. And fail it did in 1970, when Charles de Gaulle of France came looking to exchange all the US dollars he had accumulated for Gold. President Richard Nixon was forced to close the gold window at Fort Knox and decouple the US dollar from gold. The price of gold began to soar from $35 an ounce, but the US kept printing fiat dollars as there simply was no other viable currency as a world currency reserve.

Now it so happened that after Europe had absorbed all our IOU fiat dollars, we would find a dumping ground for a lot more Federal Reserve Notes because of the clever agreement with Saudi Arabia for Petro-U.S dollar pricing in all oil transactions, only in US Dollars, with the US in return guaranteeing Saudi Arabia’s military defense but in turn causing our military involvement in the Middle East for decades, especially when Saddam Hussein tried to move the US dollar off of oil transactions in retaliation for our sanctions. Saddam, in his arrogance, had tried to create a basket of currency-for-oil alternatives, including the new Euro.

It was unacceptable and dangerous to the US Treasury. WMD’s or Weapons of Mass Destruction were the hue and cry, but the continued supremacy of the un-backed US Dollar Treasury Note might have been the real raison d’etre for the Second Iraq War. Saddam is now dead. The US Dollar still lives. And Saudi Arabia still has our military protection.

But some day, some unknowns might win the Nobel Prize in Economics when they posit that the greatest robbery in history was our energy dependence on OPEC that sucked in and depleted the world’s energy supplies in exchange for our worthless toilet-paper petro dollars. Then we would suddenly become a huge net energy exporter as technology and shale oil came to bear from our vastly un-depleted natural energy reserves. OPEC would die, and the control of marginal energy and pricing would be totally in the hands of the Northern Hemisphere, Russia and the United States in particular, with their grip on oil and the endless natural gas in the Artic.

And the United States had the military, the agriculture, and the Silicon Valley technology to protect its vast reserves, and protect its borders, and the Treasury could still run the US dollar printing presses 24-7. Bretton Woods be damned. And China had just popped up to absorb even more of our toilet paper Treasury debt for plastic toys and flat screen TVs. It just might be a train wreck waiting to happen, but the fiat US Dollar has already outlived Lazarus.

Now Robert Triffin had earlier tried to invent a way out of the “dilemma”. He envisaged the creation of “Paper Gold”, an international reserve asset under the control of the International Monetary Fund, supported by regional monetary arrangements, starting with the area of Europe. The first proposal introduced SDRs (Special Drawing Rights), which was a success on the European front and earned Robert Triffin the mantle of “monetary genius”.

So I wandered up to his office, the “monetary genius”, one day. Professors always gave access to pupils without the necessity of an appointment. I told him I had read Milton Friedman’s book, his book, and I told of my fears of the worthless debasing dollar and my current dilemma. I asked him flat out, “If I wanted to make money or preserve it in these uncertain times, what should I do?” He said: “If you want to understand money, you have to first understand law. Fiat Currency. Forget about economics, go to Law School.” The First Yale Wiseman had thus spoken.

Chapter 5.3: Second Thoughts? Lawyer? Parasite?

But would I buckle to family pressure and go to Law School and make money, or would I wander the world with a guitar and poetry, as preferred, in search of the Perfect Mistress? The family barometric pressure was intensified, building like a storm builds into a hurricane. So I decided to play it coy. I would only apply to the two best law schools that interested me, Yale Law School’s 3 year program and Georgetown’s 4 year joint JD/Masters in International Relations. I had brilliantly figured the way out of the family pressure. If both schools said no, I was free to wander the world. If they said yes, I would not be able to pay the huge tuition, and my penurious family would not kick in, and thus I would wander the world with my guitar and poetry, in search of the Perfect Mistress. It was a master chest move.

But like the best laid schemes of mice and men, my dreams would come crashing down. Yale accepted me with a 100% scholarship plus living expenses and Georgetown accepted me with a 75% scholarship and living expenses. What to do? The pressure on me to continue my studies from family, relatives, etc. intensified into a Category 5 Hurricane, from unbearable to unbeatable.

I would cave in and go to Yale Law School. I would stay in rural Lyme and commute to New Haven, CT. Wandering the world in search of the Perfect Mistress would have to wait. I accepted Yale Law School’s offer, and as Julius Caesar said, “Alia HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alea_iacta_est”iacta est”. I would cross the Rubicon. The die was cast, I would become a lawyer and my life would change forever. I would walk amongst giants, my bucolic past world was shrinking into oblivion. As Arthur C. Clarke’s book was entitled, it was the beginning of “Childhood’s End”.

It was not without second thoughts that I decided to cross the Rubicon. I always would

roam the hills of Lyme, CT, bareback with my Morgan Mare, with a saddle blanket, hackamore, bow and arrow, looking like an Indian. I was later to learn I did have a dash of Native American in my blood, Mohawk, but for now I just looked like a blonde long haired one, with my long braided hair, bow and arrows.

Endless woods, field, vales and swimming holes of pure stream water were everywhere. My horse would know what to do just a touch of my toes or shift of weight. We were wandering in harmony as one, free and easy. There was just one time she decided to have fun on me, in Devil’s Hopyard, I was deep in thought on a canter, and she suddenly cut sideways to brush me off on a tree and I ended up on the ground with the reins wrapped around me feet. And she was leaning over me, laughing.

Now a lot of people don’t know, but horses have at least 17 different facial expressions, and my Mare was really laughing at me. Not acceptable. I slapped her, for the lesson had to be learned, my horse and I loved each other, but we were not equals, and pranks were not allowed. She was a mount under my command. A horse is a mount that you ride, if you let them carry you instead of command the ride, you are not an equestrian, just a passenger at their will. Perhaps she sensed I would be leaving to a different world, which my time would have to be spent in a law school library and there would be no more time for our bond of love and endless wandering amongst the hills and vales of Lyme, Connecticut.

As I tanned under the Sun in the open fields of Lyme, as my Mare grazed, there came upon me a horrible thought. Here was me, living in Lyme all these years with the Lyme Disease, lying in fields full of deer tick parasites and spirochete parasites it carried, but these parasites never bit me, free passage was given, even though I was literally everywhere in Lyme. Was it too much beer in my bloodstream or was it professional courtesy, a parasite giving professional courtesy of a pass to another parasite, a lawyer soon to be? A sobering thought. Yet my Mare and I knew that there were horizons ahead we would not share. I would be stuck in the Yale Law Library perhaps learning to become a parasite and she would be confined to her pasture avoiding parasites. It was the most painful parting of ways, but life goes on, and horses have always deserved absolute love, and they all automatically go to Heaven. Lawyers do not.

Chapter 5.4: The Real Truth behind Lyme Disease: Meet Dr. Julian G. Ely.

Well, before I cross the Rubicon to the real world, let us talk briefly about the truth of

the alleged “Lyme Disease”. It was originally called “Lyme Arthritis”. I knew the first victim. The Doctor who diagnosed it as a tick borne disease was Doctor Julian G. Ely, born in 1894 in Lyme, the land of his ancestors. He attended Harvard Medical College, and in 1917, he entered to the Medical Department of the 303rd Infantry, 76th Division and shipped off to WWI. After WWI, he was in the Austrian forests and noticed symptomatology similar to Lyme Arthritis. He then spent some time in Colorado and studied the Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever epidemic. He moved back to his birthplace of Lyme, Connecticut, and became a family practitioner on Rt. 156, the type of practitioner that used to make routine house calls with their black bags.

After returning to his birthplace in Lyme, he began to see cases of Lyme Arthritis. He immediately diagnosed it as a tick borne disease based on his experience with tick borne diseases in Austrian forests and the Rocky Mountains. It was a spiral shaped bacterium spirochete called Borrelia burgdorferi, and was carried by a tiny blacklegged deer tick . It was a parasite bacterium riding on a parasite tick and would transfer into your bloodstream after 24 hours and go hide somewhere in your tissue or joints. There it could lay dormant for years, hiding from your immune system. In most cases, there is instantly a swelling circle with a spot at the center lasting several days, like target for an arrow. Antibiotics, Penicillin in those days, had to be administered immediately or the spirochete would find a way to hide in your tissue and lay dormant. Years later, as your immune system degraded from age or stress, and the capillaries of your circulatory system began to clog with a stack of pancake- like platelets, the spirochete would emerge to reproduce and create havoc. And when it died, it released a virulent poison.

Yale Medical School stole the honors when Lyme Arthritis was renamed “Lyme Disease” and was clinically described as an infectious illness by Yale’s Dr. Alan Steere and colleagues in 1977. Dr. Julian Ely, the pioneer, the discoverer, was left to obscurity.

Because the spirochete dies at temperatures over 132 degrees Fahrenheit, use of far red saunas over 135 degrees have been recommended. The German clinics use hyperthermia in a different way to treat Lyme Disease, isolating your neck and head, which are at danger of being fried, and heat your body to over 140 degrees F., followed by a month of detox. This also works as well for early stage cancer, which cancer cells also cannot stand heat.

If you take modern “Tigerbiotics” as a cure, it would be wise to combine it with hyperbaric oxygen therapy. In a real metal hyperbaric oxygen chamber at 1.4 to 2.0 atmospheric pressures (ATI), your clotted capillaries will be possibly blown free, allowing blood, your immune system’s killer cells, and antibiotics to flow to and reach otherwise blocked areas, where the spirochete thrives. Ten times in a real hyperbaric chamber at higher ATIs, then homeopathic detox the poisons released from the dead bacterium. Just remember that cell necrosis, or killing off bad cells, release horrible poisons in your body that has to be cleared by your kidneys, that go into overdrive. Detox is so necessary in conquering these ailments and you need to help your kidneys detox. Try SaMe and homeopathic detoxifiers for starters.

So what does this all have to do with me crossing the Rubicon to go to Yale Law School?

Well, I had spent so much time in Lyme wandering the woods lying in the open fields and I never got the newly named “Lyme Disease”. Statistically, this was very improbable, maybe impossible. And this horrible thought had thus remained in my mind, had the Lyme Ticks deferred infecting me out of professional courtesy, one parasite to another parasite, a legal parasite? Are lawyers parasites? Lawyers don’t really build or create anything value-added like a carpenter, a coal miner, or a welder. The majority of lawyers really feed off of other peoples’ problems, like ticks.

Maybe Yale turned out a different kind of lawyer, a creative value-added one, one that increased the size of the pie, not pocketing slices of it. Time would tell, would it not?

PART VI: FALLING THROUGH THE RABBIT HOLE: YALE LAW SCHOOL:

Chapter 6.1: Mother, God and Yale.
Well on the other side of my Rubicon lay not Rome, but Mother, God and Yale. Just a barefoot boy from the countryside, I would be walking amongst Giants from now on. A stellar list of learned professors, distinguished visitors and lecturers, alumni and a lot more, including a lot of “student attitude”.

Most of old Yale was stone and brick, and slate roof campuses. Courtyards surrounded by castles. The Sterling Law building was no exception. Endless corridors of carved wood paneled walls, school rooms, stairways to the professors’ offices, and a law library on top. Two stories underground was the International Law library, accessible by a little known elevator, where foreign scholars could stay hidden for decades. The Sterling Memorable Library was next door containing most of the known content of the world, and not far away was and a bizarre looking Building made of sheered marble instead of windows, the Beinecke Rare Book HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beinecke_Rare_Book_%26_Manuscript_Library”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beinecke_Rare_Book_%26_Manuscript_Library” Manuscript Library. Yale New Haven Hospital, a hike from the main campus, was the most advanced hospital between Boston and New York City.

The entire campuses were open to all, the big black metal gates stayed open, as they had for nearly two centuries. But an incident happened soon after I arrived, either an attempted rape or robbery, from an outsider, and Yale began to go into lock down mode, closing all the gates at dusk, and passes were needed to the various graduate and undergrad campuses. And security has been consistently upgraded to FOB cards and security officers everywhere.

New Haven, CT was a unique city in that 80% of the land was owned by non-profits, Yale, Albertus Magnus, and Quinnipiac College. They paid no property taxes, so the 20% of private landowners had to pay 100% of municipal costs, equivalent to a 7% value tax per year on their property. So naturally they did nothing to fix up or increase the value of their property and New Haven became a slum. And thus Yale was a University surrounded by a slum, and it could be dangerous wandering too far from campus. But I was the fearless Slum Dog-preppy-junk yard dog, was I not? I could go anywhere. I could date Nurses from the Yale Hospital and escort them home cross town with nothing to fear. They appreciated it.

Chapter 6.2: Yale Law School: Freshman Follies.

Now the first semester was contracts, torts, procedure, and taxation. But the cool thing was you could sit in and audit any other class you liked. You were not graded and you got to learn. So I filled my schedule up, I wasn’t going anywhere but to an empty home, so I might as well soak it all in. My first term I sat in on a bunch of classes. Visiting lecturers of accomplishment came and would lecture one class. I remember a high-powered D.C. attorney came in and said: “The first rule a lawyer must learn is that if anybody goes to jail, make sure it’s your client, not you.”

Semi-retired Myres S. McDougal, a competitor for the title of “Father of International Law”, would hold informal classes and we would sit at his feet like children listening to his tales. Myres was in reality a Mule from Mississippi, and was old enough to remember when the Federal “Revenooers” came to tax the heavily armed moonshine distilleries in the back hills of Mississippi. Shot guns out, blasting away!

Professor McDougal left the back hills of Mississippi and went to Oxford, then Yale Law School, to become a renowned scholar, but he always retained his ol’ Miss roots. In those days there were a lot of liberals and few conservatives to push back. Myres would call their actions “knee jerk liberal- which basically makes them a knee jerk, or just a jerk.” He would say.

He would, as an expert witness, represent major oil companies that were under pressure for their business practices, especially in South America. He had many liberal professor adversaries who would be expert witnesses in opposition. Myres recounted meeting one of these in Court testifying surprisingly now in favor of Big Oil. Myres cross-examined him: “Your testimony is the opposite to what you have preaching for years, what changed your mind?” Answer: “I think better when I get paid.” Classic words. We always think better when we get paid! Lesson # One? No, too obvious.

I would constantly challenge Myres, because to him, international law started with Hugo Grotius De jure belli ac pacis libri tres HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_jure_belli_ac_pacis” (On the Law of War and Peace: Three books) that was first published in 1625, beginning a process of codifying international law that included the failed League of Nations after WWI and resulted in the United Nations after WWII.

As I have said, my ancestors had landed in this country in 1619, and claimed Stadtholdership over the lands in North America, as the Republic of New Netherlands and New Belgium. International law was simple back then. One could not just plant a flag, one had to live in the claimed territory, inhabiting it, and leave the indigenous people to their lands as long as those indigenous occupied them. If there was a question amongst Catholic Nations about colonialism, the Pope would mediate it. If it was amongst Protestants, they would go to war. And my Calvinist ancestors from the Dutch Calvinist Republic had claimed North America and settled there, intermarrying with the indigenous Mohawks. Their claim was original, vested, and legal under then settled International Law. And thus they warred with the English invaders for over one half of a century.

I would argue with Professor McDougal that there was no statute of limitations in International Law nor any law of “adverse possession”, since Israel claimed the right to Palestine over more than a 1,000 years after the southern tribes of Israel had been conquered and absorbed by Assyria and the Northern tribes of Israel driven northward to Europe. Thus we, S HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stadtholder”tadtholder heirs to the New American Dutch Calvinist Republics, still laid valid claim to North America under the international statute of limitations, and the 1674 Treaty of Westminster, ending the third Anglo-Dutch War and ceding Manhattan and lands eastward of Oyster Bay, NY to the English, was not valid as to the Dutch Calvinist Republics and to me as stadtholder heir. Even if so, and if it was, the rest belonged to us. And the Treaty of Paris in 1783 only ended hostilities between the English colonies, England, Spain and France, and the lands ceded to the “colonies” belonged to the Republic of New Netherlands and New Belgium, it was not King George III’s land to cede. And the Treaty was never signed or ratified by the Republic of New Netherlands and New Belgium, thus this Republic is adversely occupied territory, with me as the aggrieved hereditary Claimant.

Myres laughed, patted me on the head as would a grandfather, and asked: “Well you may be right. So where do you adjudicate your Stadtholder claims?” “The Hague?” I asked. Answer “ Son, you better grab some of that ol’ fashioned moonshine I was talking about, you’re gonna need it.”

Chapter 6.3: Social Life at Yale? You must be Joking!

Socially, there was not much to do. I had a few friends, but a lot of students had attitudes and wore T-shirts like “People not Profits”. I could not relate, but in the law school cafeteria, I made a friend from Africa, Peter, from Uganda, and we would have lunch every day together. His parents had been professors in Uganda, and thus were executed by the brutal Dictator Idi Amin, for a degree in higher education was the death penalty in Uganda. Peter could not go home, his asylum was the international law library, and Yale kept on inventing degrees for him to earn, J.D.,LLB.,PHJD, etc, etc. to keep him alive in the USA. Idi Amin was driven out of Uganda 4 years later after murdering between 200,000-500,000 of his well educated people and died in exile in 2003. I lost touch with Peter, a really good guy, but I hope he finally made it back home and was able to help rebuild his country.

I had another African friend. “Andrew” was his nickname, but he was from Zambia and actually named Mpazi Sinjela. After graduation, he would stay at my apartment in NYC as he began to work for the UN’s Law of the Sea Conference. He was not paid much as a civil servant especially with the high cost of living in NYC, but he would complain that his relatives in Zambia thought of him as a multi-millionaire, and they all had their hands out incessantly for his meager money. It would drive him crazy.

I had a set of married friends, Karen and Richard, very sweet nice people from Oregon or granola land out west, and Alicia and Peter from New Zealand who would later marry. Romance on the Yale Law School campus besides the Hill-Billary Clintons, who would have guessed?

As far as beautiful single women at Yale, they were rarer that the rarest orchid. It may in fact be that Hillary Clinton, in her youth, was one of the better looking women to ever attend Yale Law School. There was, however, one outstanding Beauty in our class, her name was Anne and she was, of course, from California, a single mother. In Boris Bittker’s mandatory but boring Taxation class, I would from across the room, fake taking notes while making sketches of her beauty, but always with pointy Elven ears like Mr. Spock of Star Trek fame.

Again and again I would do this as “Boring” Bittker explained the Rubik’s cube called the Internal Revenue Code. It was not until decades later that Peter Jackson in the trilogy “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lord_of_the_Rings”Lord of the Rings” cast the lovely Liv Tyler in the role as Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elven Lord Elrond, and that I realized, Bang! I had found my match! I had foresight to sketch this Elven character in the form of Law School Anne decades before. How funny is it that many things in life loop back from the past to the future, like the Orobourous dragon eating its tail?

Nightlife was a totally different animal. There was a hole in the wall across from the Law School, “Toads”, which was rocking, had live bands and cheap beer. When I could procure an overnight stay, I would go there. And then there was the secret society for undergraduates, The Skull and Bones Club, aptly located on or near “High” Street. Although I was in graduate school, I was often invited to this Rathskellar by the young cool undergrads and got even more wasted. It was fun, in fact the only fun, for Yale was a serious place, and theoretically your spare time in School should not have been spent at Toads or the Rathskellar, but in the Yale Law Library, like the Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor, who practically lived there. But you only live twice.

Chapter 6.4: The Second Wiseman of Yale-meet Eugene V. Rostow.

One of the Three Wise Men at Yale was a brilliant genius by the name Eugene V. Rostow, born in Brooklyn, New York, to Jewish immigrants from the Russian Empire His parents were active socialists and their three sons, Eugene, Ralph, and Walt, were named after Eugene V. Debs, HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ralph_Waldo_Emerson”Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Walt Whitman. This confused me somewhat, since he told me he considered himself a “White HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_movement”Russian” who had fought against the “Red Russians”: Trotsky and Lenin, and he was ferociously anti-communist. My guess was his family name derived from Rostov-on-Don, a port city in what is now the Southern Federal District of Russia. But he just humbly described himself as a “Yankee Puritan Jew”.

Chapter 6.5: Tales of Sir Winston Churchill, humor, and the Lend-Lease Program.

Now Professor Rostow walked on water. During World War II, Eugene Rostow served in the Lend-Lease Administration as an assistant general counsel, in the State Department, as liaison to the Lend-Lease Administration, and as an assistant to Dean Acheson, the architect of our Cold War Policy versus Russia-USSR. Rostow worked with and knew Winston Churchill, one of my favorite historical characters, admired by me not for his “grit’ and “blood, sweat and tears” but for his biting wit.

Churchill would say Democracy is the worst form of government except for all the others. Churchill was very offended that an American, Nancy Astor, or Viscomtess Lady Astor, became the first woman elected Member of the English Parliament in 1919. She had married Waldorf Astor, and his money, an heir to John Jacob Astor, the fabulously wealthy fur trader. This wealthy Patriarch’s grandson married Carolyn Schemerhorn, my distant relative from the intermarriage amongst my early Dutch ancestor settlers in Manhattan (Nieuw Amsterdam), and she in turn created the “Astor 400”, the top of the top of New York and Newport Society in the Gilded Age. Her son. John Jacob Astor IV, perished on the RMS HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titanic”Titanic, yet my other distant relative, Archibald Gracie IV, survived the Titanic sinking, the last man to leave the sinking ship and live. His ordeal was written in his posthumously published book: “The Truth About the Titanic. ISBN 1478164476”, for he died from complications from that ordeal 8 months after surviving the sinking of the Titanic. But how Gracie Mansion was purloined by New York City from the Gracie estate, which let it house the original Museum of the City of New York in 1926, after Archibald Gracie IV’s natural death, is still a mystery.

Later, some of the Astors would move to England and buy noble titles and thus Viscountess Nancy Astor would buy one and be elected to Parliament. But to have not only a “woman” but an “American” woman buying into nobility as the first ever lady Minister of Parliament brought Winston Churchill to his sharpest and constant barbs against her. Lady Astor was reputed to have said to Churchill, “If you were my husband, I’d poison your tea.” to which he responded, “Madam, if you were my wife, I’d drink it!” When asking about what disguise he should wear to a masquerade ball, Lady Astor suggested “Why don’t you come as sober, Prime Minister?”

My favorite rumor was when Ethel Barrymore, the beautiful and famous actress from Hollywood, met Sir Winston Churchill at a cocktail party, and she said “Sir Winston, with my beauty and your brains, think of what wonderful children we would have?” He replied: “Yes, Madam, but what would happen if they had my beauty and your brains?” A “Zapp” moment ingrained in history.

At another cocktail party, Sir Winston came up to Viscountess Nancy Astor and said, “Madame, you are ugly” to which she said “Sir, you are disgustingly drunk.” Sir Winston replied “Madam, in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.”

This last one I would refashion as an “ice-breaker” for female flattery, sic: “You are fantastically beautiful” to which the female inevitably would reply “Oh, you’re just saying that because you are drunk”: Retort: “Yes, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be fantastically beautiful.”

Listen, if done properly, flattery will get you everywhere. Sincerity really helps. And a quick wit, like Sir Winston Churchill had, could get you out of some real jams. Legend!

Chapter 6.6: The Lend-Lease Program and the Newest Cold Warrior-Am I now a Neo Con?

The Lend-Lease program was a program whereby America provided military supplies to the allied war effort. Over $31 Billion of 1941 dollars went to the UK, $11 billion to Russia and $1.6 billion to China. 22,800 armored vehicles, mostly tanks, were supplied to the Red Army by our Liberty ships, of which over 1500 were lost at sea to German Submarines on the dangerous Artic convoys. 2,710 Liberty ships were hastily built, many by the Steinbrenner Family of New York Yankee fame, thus providing them the wealth to bring Derek Jeter, A-Rod, Mariano Rivera, Aaron Judge, Gary Sanchez and so many others to Yankee Stadium for our amusement and cheers.

According to the War Shipping Administration, the U.S. Merchant Marine suffered the highest rate of casualties of any service in World War II. Officially, a total of 1,554 ships were Sunk due to war conditions, including 733 ships of over 1,000 gross tons.

The help to the Soviet Union was temporary. They had innovated the T-34 tank leading to the T-44. The T-34 possessed an unprecedented combination of firepower, mobility, protection and ruggedness. Its well-sloped hexagonal armor was difficult to penetrate by most contemporary German anti-tank weapons. Soviet industry would eventually mass produce over 80,000 T-34s of all variants, allowing steadily greater numbers to be fielded as the war progressed despite the loss of tens of thousands in combat against the superior German Wehrmacht. The Lend –Lease was no longer a necessity, our convoys would no longer sink into oblivion in the cold Artic Sea.

The ways of the Allies began to seriously part at Yalta, a small seaport at the tip of the Crimea, now a trendy summer resort for Russians, but always part of Russia since the 1790s. The British and Americans would reluctantly yield the Balkans, Eastern Europe and the Baltics to Stalin and his USSR as the Americans, the English and French took the war straight to France and Germany. And thus, when WWII was over, Cold War I with the USSR would start.

Rostow would become a Hawkish architect of our anti-communist policy, in the shadow of Super Hawk Dean Acheson. And it would last through the Reagan Years. Although Nixon is credited with Détente, Reagan is credited with the escalation of military spending that brought the first Cold War to an end, but many scholars of Russian studies attribute the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 to the Gulf War of George Bush, Sr. The Russian innovative T-72 tanks and MIG jets were the only good source of foreign revenue for Russia from rogue states, yet the Gulf War I proved that the MIG Jets had no chance to fly and survive our new jet fighters and the T-72s were no match for our modern Abrams Tank or the British HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(tank)”Challenger HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(tank)”Tank. The military industrial complex of the Soviet Union collapsed; nobody would buy their junk merchandise anymore. Kalashnikovs, the AK-47’s, were still big sellers, they could be made anywhere and Romania, not Russia, was the mass producer. And Russia’s vast supply of oil and gas had not yet begun to flow. The USSR was now broke.

In 1955, Rostow became Dean of Yale Law School, a prominent post he held until 1965. From 1966 to 1969 he served as Under Secretary for Political Affairs in Lyndon B. Johnson’s government, the third-highest-ranking official in the State Department. During this time he helped draft UN Security Council Resolution 242, one of the most important Security Council resolutions relevant to the Arab–Israeli conflict. This was the Six-Day War (“War of 1967”), also known as the June War, or the 1967 Arab–Israeli War, or Third Arab–Israeli War, which was fought between 5 and 10 June, 1967 by Israel and its neighboring states of Egypt (known at the time as the United Arab Republic), Jordan, and Syria. It was during this war that nearly 100 Egyptian Prisoners of War were massacred in cold blood in the desert by the Israelis, a war crime that has conveniently been forgotten. Inconvenient truths?

After leaving government, Rostow returned to Yale Law School, teaching courses in constitutional, international, and antitrust law. Concerned about Soviet military expansionism, in the mid-1970s he was an active member of the Coalition for a Democratic Majority and helped found and led the “Committee On The Present Danger.” The Committee On The Present Danger was set up to attack the allegedly brilliant Henry Kissinger’s dovish disarmament policies and Rostow became one of its most influential members. This was an important episode in the rightward shift of US foreign policy at the time, and Rostow’s legal credentials and sharp, moralistic style added to the committee’s credibility

He founded Democrats for Reagan, shifting from a lifelong Democrat to a Republican voter, and I faithfully followed him. In 1981, President Ronald Reagan appointed him director of the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency, making Rostow the highest-ranking Democrat in the Reagan administration. He joined the Committee on the Present Danger, Part II: USSR, and I, an acolyte, would go along with him. I was now officially a “cold-warrior”.

On a personal note, our classes with him were 12-13 students around an oval table with cigarette trays because everybody smoked in those days. He taught us from the beginning the history of Bi-lateral and Multi-lateral treaties, of the importance of our miserable experience in the Second French Indochina War, due to our SEATO treaty obligations, the forgotten stepchild of WWII.

With his bow tie and sharp twinkle in his steel gray eyes, he would interlace anecdotes of Winston Churchill with hard core international law. And he had Churchill’s bitter wit. As far a smoking, he would lite up a smoke and say with a witty smile “I can quit anytime, I’ve done it many times before.” He would quote the Bible: “The meek shall inherit the Earth”. “Six feet of it over their grave”, he would add. He was hard, this man, but brilliant, wise, and incredibly experienced. A warrior-scholar first class.

One day, I was walking down the ivy corridors of Yale Law School long after Nixon tried to open up China and sent Kissinger as an emissary to dine with Chairman Mao, at the Chairman Mao’s Residence in Peking, in the People’s Republic of China. A classified transcript of the dinner conversation had been leaked. It was now public information. There was a suspicious rumor that Kissinger was selling out to Mao Tse Tung both the USA and the Soviet Union, and that a very foolish dialogue had passed.

So I was walking with him, Professor Rostow, one afternoon after class. And I asked:

“ Did you know that the New York Times said in 1921 that ‘you were the best and smartest person to ever enter Yale’ based on your entrance examination scores? Mine were pretty high also.”

He looked at me with the biting twinkle in his steel eyes, and said “No, I did not know, and does that knowledge make you the second smartest?”

And then I replied “Ah, Mr. Kissinger, too early to tell!” He laughed. It was now public information, an insider joke. There was a dialogue in the now not secret transcripts, as Kissinger was selling out both the USA and the Soviet Union, at a state dinner in China, that this incredibly foolish dialogue was passed:

-Kissinger: “Mr. Chairman, what do you think of the effect of the French Revolution of 1779 on World democratic thought?”

-Chairman Mao: “Ah, Mr. Kissinger, too early to tell!”

Ha! I was now a Cold Warrior in a war that was supposed to be on its way out. Peace and tranquility, Woodstock Dreams! And thus ended my first fantastic first year at Yale Law School. During summers, we ambitious puppies were supposed to go clerk for the next great Supreme Court Judge, like a lady in waiting for the Queen of England. It would pad our resumes for future legal glory. But not me. Sorry. I had other more ambitious plans.

Chapter 6.7: Summertime-Time to cut loose: France, St. Tropez, and endless family.

Now I had a bunch of French Cousins. They had been from time to time visiting my grandmother in Newport, RI, and there was an outstanding invite for “Notre cousins d’Amérique” to come visit them in France. To understand the relationship, we have to go back a little into family history. My Dutch Ancestors, related to the dethroned Huguenot House of Valois, settled in Nieuw Amsterdam and New Netherlands (now New York City and America) starting in 1619 and my English ancestors came less than 40 years later, after the 1660’s.

There were plenty of centuries for intermarriage between the Dutch and English settlers here in America and one of these was the marriage of the Dutch Egbert Ludovicus Viele to the English Teresa Griffin, aka “Terrible Teresa”. She grew up on Bond Street in New York City and her father, Francis Griffin, was a Yale Law School graduate and on the Board of Directors of the venerable Bank of New York, and was very literate. He had as close friends Washington Irving, author of “Rip Van Winkle” and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ironic that more than a century later, I would become great friends with Irving’s direct descendant, Washington “Rip” DuPont Irving, and often ride his horse aptly named “Gunpowder” of Sleepy Hollow fame along the fields and beaches of Rhode Island.

Terrible Teresa became a theologian, an author (Teresa Griffin Vielé: Following the Drum: A Glimpse of Frontier Life (New York, 1858)) and a convert and proponent of Islam as previously mentioned, and carried the Koran (Qur’an) from New York to Cuba through savage Comanche Country in Texas back to New York. She later would be awarded the highest Islamic honor by the last Supreme Ruler of Islam, the last Sultan of Turkey, Mehmed VI.

Her husband, Egbert L. Viele graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York, in 1847, served in the Mexican War and on the Western frontier before resigning in 1853. A civil engineer, he supervised the creation of New York’s Central Park in Manhattan and Prospect Park in Brooklyn and mapped all the underground waterways in NYC, in a map that is still used today. Returning to the Army for the Civil War, he was promoted to Brigadier General and became Military Governor of Norfolk, VA. We still have the Tiffany sterling silver tea service given him by the “Loyal Citizens of Norfolk”. It should be in a museum, not in the attic. Later, General Viele became a US Congressman.

A few years after the Civil War, in the 1870s, trouble fell upon this marriage of my ancestors. The General took a mistress, Julia. Terrible Teresa filed for divorce. It was bitter legal divorce case, unheard of in New York in those days. Now my Dutch ancestors still had great influence in New York, the Vieles, Knickerbockers, Schuylers, Schemerhorns, and the Roosevelts still had extraordinary power and influence. In a bitter decision in the lawsuit: Viele vs. Viele, she lost custody of all of her children. She would complain of judicial bias, and she would further complain: “They know these are my children, yet they only have his word that they are his.”

She fled to Paris, France as her ex-husband married his mistress and he became a renowned Archaeologist and Egyptologist, learned in hieroglyphics and the Etruscan language. He would be buried in the only Pyramid in the USA, at West Point’s grave yard. He and his second wife Julia would be buried each inside of a carved marble sarcophagus in this pyramid. The General would wire his sarcophagus with an electric buzzer, electricity being so new, so that he could summon help when he returned from the dead, for they said he had discovered something in Egypt that was an unknown artifact. But as fate would have it, West Point would cut the electricity off during WWII to save money, leaving the General abandoned to the after-life, to save pennies on electricity costs.

Teresa Griffin Vielé, on the other hand, refused to accept the biased New York court decision. She would slip back into New York State from Paris through Canada, and reclaim her two youngest, Francis Viele and Emily Viele, and “kidnap” them and carry them back to Paris. They would change their name to “Viele-Griffin”. Francis Viele would become a famous French poet of the symbolist movement, where pantheism was the mantra, and also a Professor of Law at the Sorbonne. Emily Viele would, under her married name, author a book in 1915 “Eve Dorre, a story of precarious youth.”

Uncle Francis would not give up his American citizenship and assume French citizenship, a move that cost him a seat on the prestigious Acadamie Francaise, yet he was elected to the Acadamie Royale de langue et de Litterature Francaise in Brussels. Uncle Francis did, however, marry a noble French woman and they had 8 children, and those 8 had eight children and so on and so on. All married well into nobility, designated by the “de” before their name, signifying a Count or a Marquis., including the family of the famous General Philippe Leclerc de Hauteclocque. As a result, I had nearly 200 Catholic French Cousins with Chateaus and other possessions, who wore band aids on their neck on Bastille Day, in remembrance of the guillotining of their noble aristocratic ancestors in Paris during Robespierre’s reign of terror in 1789.

On the other hand, my great grandmother, Emily, traveled back to the U.S and married a Baltimore Banker, they had 3 daughters, including my grandmother. Only one had a child, my grandmother, who gave birth to only one child, my bio-mother, who in turn gave birth to me.

Box Score: less than a handful of American cousins vs. 200 French Cousins with a bunch of Chateaus and red wine. No Yale Law School summer internship to some Super Judge, I was on a jet to France to meet my many French cousins and cash in on their open invitation to their Chateaus and their red wine!

Chapter 6.8: J’adore Paris et Vive la France.

I landed in Paris first and spent a couple of days with a school friend and several French ladies. Then I took a train north from Gare du Nord to Saint-Quentin in the Aisne district, near Champagne country to visit my Tante Marie Louise de Paysac. Now, WWI had destroyed Saint-Quentin except for the Cathedral, which still had bullet holes and shell fire scars. My Aunt’s original Chateau had been destroyed, but the family had buried deep all the valuables and a New Chateau was built after the War. When the Germans occupied it during WWII, all the valuables were again buried deep.

I was welcomed with open arms. The gardens where full of fresh vegetables and the

fields full of wheat. I began to enjoy the French life. There was no ice and the beer was made from artichokes, and red wine was served at dinner because the drinking water was always suspect, and the bread, the baguette, was baked fresh each day. Each sunset passed in majestic peace and tranquility. It just was too cool for school.

Soon the word got out that le cousin d’Amerique was in France, and the various families began to plot and bid on and arrange my itinerary to visit all cousins, starting in Paris and moving south through various Chateaus finally to Biarritz. Paris was a blast with my young cousins. We wandered all over Paris, which at the time was totally safe everywhere 24 hours a day. The Louvre was awesome and I was invited to visit the mini-palace of Mobutu Sese Seko on Avenue Foche. Mobuto had plundered Zaire, the old French Congo, embezzled some $4-10 billion of foolish U.S. Aid money, and was fantastically wealthy, dripping with gilded opulence. A cousin of mine managed his Estate so I got the grand tour.

Soon I was on the train bound for the south, the first stop was a cousin’s old Chateau where I slept on a very soft mattress that had been there since year 1500 and something. It had vast wheat fields. The wine was great. The next stop was in Clermont-Ferrand, the home of Michelin Tires. There, my Uncle Claude Blatant ran the third most powerful agricultural Co-op in France, but it made seeds for next year’s planting, and thus was the most prestigious Co-op. Agriculture equated to power in France. He was close to the Michelin family as well as to the president of France at the time, Valery Giscard d’Estaing. This latter relationship would pay big dividends for me later. My cousin, Beatrice, about my age, would take a bunch of us swimming at the local lake. In we dived with no clothes, the French way, not like modest Puritan New Englanders. Naked as J-birds we swam and sunned. I really, really liked the French way, and Beatrice was hot!

Then I made one the biggest mistakes of my life. Uncle Claude’s friends, the Rothschilds, had invited me, the visiting American Prince, to a two week stay at their vineyards in Bordeaux. There I would learn the wine business, sample all the wines, and be treated like nobility. But in my mind there was St. Tropez and lots of French girls at the beach, top less, I had heard this. I thus deferred on one of the greatest opportunities of a lifetime, visiting the Rothschild’s vineyards, a mistake I have never ceased to regret all my life and hence more evidence of my youthful short sightedness and stupidity.

But after a brief visit to another aunt’s Chateau in the Dordogne, I hitch hiked to St. Tropez and found my girl, albeit she turned out to be German, not French. The big “in” beach was Plage Tahiti and I would wear cut off blue jeans as a swimsuit. We camped out and everything was excellent. Now to the French, blue jeans were at that time were an expensive luxury item, whereas in the US, we would wear our jeans until the knees wore out then cut the jeans into summer shorts to save money. But I was the subject of much curiosity and deemed to be rich beyond imagination as I could cut the very rare blue jean into a swim suit. And the Sun, the beach, the water, food and wine were great, every night was paradise.

Soon, the endless summer and “le grande vacance” would come to an end as school beckoned us all back home. My German girl and I would part. I made friends with a Belgian who offered to sell me his VW beetle for $50. The title and registration would have to be exchanged in Amsterdam, but I had to get back to Paris, so off we drove through the Alps to Amsterdam, and closed the deal. I left the VW at my Aunt’s Chateau in Saint-Quentin and I soon was back in the USA, on my way back to Yale Law School. I would work hard, but now I had “wheels” in France and I knew where St. Tropez was.

PART VII: TIME TO GET SERIOUS:

Chapter 7.1: Year Two at Yale Law School –Nose to the grindstone?

It is hard to describe the Yale Law School experience. We would grind out the non-electives like “Business Units II” and “Estate and Gift Tax”, but we also got interesting and unique electives. One of those was the “Political Economy of New York”, taught just the one semester by Donna Shalala, who ran the Municipal Assistance Corporation, or “MAC” as it was known, set up to rescue New York City out of Bankruptcy. Later she would become a U.S. Congressman from Miami after tenure as Dean of the University of Miami. Felix Rohatyn, from Lazard Frères, the titular head of MAC, and a Legend of Wall Street, would come for one session to lecture us. Michel David-Weill was the largest owner of Lazard, and little did I know at the time, that decades later, his brilliant step-son, David, a true bi-polar genius, and I would become serious close friends, and party like animals on Michel David-Weill’s dime at my friend’s mother’s Mansion on West Island, NY and then in Atlanta, where we would invent things to try to change the world. David Walker, the bi-polar inventor’s story, is yet to be told, but let’s move on.

At Yale, Stanley Sporkin, the zealous head of the Securities Exchange Commission would pop in for a stern lecture. We were invited to have lunch with David Rockefeller, head of Chase Bank. He taught us a premier rule of finance: you make money by “OPM”. “other peoples’ money”, banks do it, fund managers do it, why risk your money when you can risklessly profit from “OPM”.

Albeit Yale was straddling the real world, between fact, fiction and theory, there was an endless stream of movers and shakers. A young Senator Joe Biden from Maryland with a bright future would come and preach his socialist policies. James Schlesinger, then Secretary of Defense, gave a talk in which he admitted his hobby was bird watching. Not military jets, but actual birds in the woods, with advanced yet highly classified military field glasses not available to the public, and this went on and on, as we were exposed to the real worlds’ movers and shakers.

Yale Law School was Pass-Fail, an easy system, but it also awarded Honors. I worked very hard the first semester of the second year getting honors, just to see what it was like, and I kept on auditing other courses. In the back of my mind was padding my academic record, because I would not be clerking with some next almighty Justice in an air conditioned clerk’s office, on my second summer break. I would be off to France, grabbing my VW, and off to the French Riviera, St. Tropez, the Cote D’Azur and white sand beaches, with sunshine and topless Aphrodites wandering everywhere, living the endless adventure.

And again, I was faced with the fact that my academic record would suffer by not including a summer judicial internship, a negative, that needed to be hedged, unless I came up with a lame-plus excuse. And I think I had invented such. A possible Da Vinci masterpiece. And as life is life, so, I also volunteered for pro bono work, to pad the academic record.

Chapter 7.2: My first Pro Bono Client: The Tale of Irwin Schiff and the great American Tax Rip–Off.

My fist case pro bono case was the most difficult if not impossible to resolve. Irwin Allen Schiff was a libertarian American tax protester from New Haven, Connecticut, known for writing and promoting literature in which he argued that the income tax in the United States is illegal and unconstitutional. And he was adamant in his beliefs.

Among the arguments raised over the years by Schiff:

*That the Internal Revenue Service, in enforcing the income tax, seeks to impose a tax not authorized by the taxing clauses of the original United States Constitution;

*That no statutory deficiency in Federal income tax can exist until an assessment has been made;

*The filing of income tax is voluntary, and “voluntary compliance” is a misleading phrase used by the IRS to mislead the public;

*That no tax assessment can be made unless a tax return has been voluntarily filed;

*That the United States Tax Court has no jurisdiction over him; and

*That the United States Tax Court is not a legal constitutional (Article III) court, but is instead a part of the IRS.

He wrote more than several books in support of his cause:

Federal Mafia: How It Illegally Imposes and Unlawfully Collects Income Taxes (1992) ISBN 0-930374-09-6

The Great Income Tax Hoax: Why You Can Immediately Stop Paying This Illegally Enforced Tax (1985) ISBN 0-930374-05-3

Now Schiff had some real meat to his argument. As Chief Justice Marshall had said, “The power to tax is the power to destroy”. The income tax was not authorized by the Founders of the US Constitution, they did not write it into the Constitution. Income to the Federal Government was to come from tariffs and duties from commerce, and excise taxes.

In August, 1861, President Abraham Lincoln tried to impose the first Federal Income Tax by signing the Revenue Act of 1861. Strapped for cash with which to pursue the American Civil War, Lincoln and Congress agreed to impose a 3 percent tax on annual incomes over $800. He sent letters to cabinet members Edward Bates, Gideon Welles and Salmon Chase requesting their opinions as to whether or not the President had the constitutional authority to “collect [such] duties.” The war required it, the Union was cash-strapped, but there was no constitutional authority. And Lincoln was wrong. Regardless, the legal precedent had been set.

Congress repealed Lincoln’s income tax law in 1871, but in 1909, the 16th Amendment was passed, which set in place the federal income-tax system still used today. Congress and the majority of States ratified the 16th Amendment in 1913. Connecticut, with its homegrown rebel, Irwin Schiff, did not ratify that Amendment.

The 1913 law imposed a tax of 1 (one) percent on income up to $20,000, for both individual and joint filers. It was really meant only for the Rich, and just a meager 1% tax at that time. This was the sales pitch of the “Feds” to the States to get their vote of Ratification of the 16th Amendment of the US Constitution for Federal income taxation. Forgotten was the risk that that 1% maximum rate would soon find its way to a maximum of a 90% marginal tax rate as the Federal Government grew and grew and spent and spent like a drunken sailor.

So I took Irwin Schiff, the tax protestor, on as a pro bono client, and accompanied him to meetings with Federal District Court Judges to see if I could do anything. But getting in a cage with an 1600 pound Gorilla is bound to end up badly. In the foreseeable end, Schiff was doomed to martyrdom for his principles, and though I was able to help him buy time, when I left Yale, the Federales came down hard on him and he spent the rest of his life in prison.

Now as a final farewell to Irwin Schiff, one has to view government subjects either as slaves or serfs. The average American works 107 days just to pay his income taxes, then he gets to paint his house which will be confiscated by the local government if he doesn’t pay his property taxes. If he refuses to file, he will go to federal prison and be forced to work for free, or can work for 15 cents an hour for Prison Industries (UNICOR).

In many ways, the 13th Amendment at its time emancipating slaves did not free one single slave, for it had no jurisdiction in the South where the slaves were. It did however, provide more Union soldiers, more cannon fodder for the unpopular Civil War, since any liberated slave or freeman would have to find a way to earn a living, house himself, feed himself and pay taxes, and the Union Army had the only job offers available, and desperately needed more soldiers to die for the Union.

The 16th Amendment, on the other hand, just re-enslaved all of the people, for they would have to forfeit a large percent of their hard earned production to the government or be imprisoned like a slave.

It is really an argument of degree. The USA takes 33% or more of your production, your crops, whereas Stalin took 100% of the Ukrainian crops to sell for foreign exchange and allowed the producers to starve to death. Thus, the fertile Western Ukraine became a barren and desolate land.

So it just becomes now a mathematical argument: At what percent confiscation rate do you become a slave or just a serf? Or starve to death? Irwin Schiff had his well thought out answer.

Chapter 7.3: Lay Lady, Stay-It just takes one woman to change your world.

The second semester of my second year at Yale law School was different. Halfway through, I had rescued two cats – a deadly pure black female: “Yin Ishtar”, and a deaf pure white cat. “ Yang-Shai” named after the dualistic Yin and Yang, plus Egyptian deities in honor of my Grandmother’s Grandfather, the General turned Egyptologist who was buried in his sarcophagus in his pyramid at West Point. And I now had a family again, Yin and Yang.

The Ancient Chinese philosophy teaches us that Ying and Yang are also the starting point for change. When something is whole, by definition, it’s unchanging and complete. Moving forward therefore requires change. I wasn’t whole, just a brilliant fragment of what I could be. Two Taoist cats might help that shortcoming. And they did not cost that much to feed. But soon I was to meet a steady girlfriend. East of the Connecticut River, where there were lots of beautiful women, they all seemed to find their way to the major markets of NYC, LA, Boston or London. But this one was different. I tried the “fly–to-Nantucket-make out in the sculpture studio” scenario without success.

But I lived far away in the woods by a crystal clear lake, and we could walk 10 miles before any sign of civilization. Very few people have spent a day not seeing or talking to any other person. But many times I spent 3 days not seeing or talking to another human being, a rare experience. Try it.

Well, as I said, the “fly-to-Nantucket, kiss in the sculpture studio” move did not work. But she would bring her cat, “Binky” down and we would all walk our cats together for miles in the woods. Now you might think that walking your dog in the woods was normal fun, but walking three cats in a forest is as close to an LSD trip as you might want to take. One day, I brought my .22 caliber rifle, and shot off a designated target off the twig of a branch at 100 yards. And I did this once again. I “showed off” my marksmanship to my female companion and suddenly the cats started to hang out very, very close to us.

My companion was impressed, so much so at my marksmanship, that she became my “steady”, I guess she felt “safe” as should a woman with a man, but you never know how a woman thinks. Otherwise, you would be wealthier than Croesus. You would sell a book for a 50 cent royalty explaining how a woman thinks, and every man of the nearly 4 billion men on this planet would buy it, and you would now be in St. Tropez on one of your fifteen super mega yachts. And you would have earned the Nobel Peace Prize, now sitting on your lap. But being a marksman might help understand the equation- a sure shot equals safety. Maybe that is the true end equation with a woman-they want and deserve safety.

After all, history is full of barbarians at the gate, pillaging, plundering and raping. A guy who can shoot the barbarians accurately in the eye and cut and hack them to death and defend her and her babies might be a safer bet, a good bet. Only the Almighty Holy One can answer this proposition.

Chapter 7.4: Green leaves of summer turn red in the fall: Halfway through Yale with a different “Tude”, and boss man Professor Jose Cabranes, a future Supreme Court Justice?

Well the world kept on spinning madly, in a journey through the universe ablaze with changes. For me, there became much less “Toads” and the “Skull and Bones Club” in my life, for I had cats and an occasional “steady” to drive home to. I started to become a domesticated animal, with some decent academic credentials, no less. The phrase was “put your nose to the grindstone”, yet the Yale Law School experience to me was always Alice in Wonderland, or better yet, Alice in Candy Land.

Nevertheless, I had cats which were independent and not too expensive, and a “steady” which of course could become very, very expensive. You know the story. You don’t need to read the Duke of Wellington’s memoirs or the mathematical works of René Descartes to understand the mathematics of Romance. It is known as “red ink”.

An internship arose in the Office of Legal Advisor to Yale, and I jumped on it not only as a pad on my resume, but also because I wanted to give back something to Yale, which had treated me like the Prince of America. It was a fascinating experience, for Universities have legal issues not found elsewhere, and the boss-man, Jose Cabranes, a legal scholar, was as sharp as they come.

José A. Cabranes was born in 1940 in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico, and at the age of five moved with his family to the South Bronx. Cabranes made it through Yale Law School and thereafter not only taught, but was serving as General Counsel of Yale University.

It was also by coincidence that I was enrolled in his class “The Constitution, The U. N. Charter; & U.S. Territorial & Colonial Policy.” There we learned of the U.S. as a colonial power; whereas England, France, Spain and Portugal were the usual suspects, the United States, a former English Colony, had its own dirty little secrets. Puerto Rico was the least of them.

In my law school class was the handsome son of the Governor of Puerto Rico, and we became friends. He told me that Puerto Rico was having severe economic troubles with its poor population, so they erected billboards all over Puerto Rico stating that if you moved to the U.S mainland, you would be guaranteed at least $400 dollars a month of free welfare income. Rents in Puerto Rico were $40 a month, so this seemed like the ticket to paradise. When the poor Puerto Ricans immigrated to the USA, they learned that rents in America were $400 a month, and thus they were relegated to welfare slums like Bridgeport and New Haven in Connecticut or in New York.

The science you learn in business school is called “PPP”, or Purchasing Power Parity. A dollar in Puerto Rico went 10 times further than in the U.S. Thus the “PPP” was 10 to 1. But this deception allowed Puerto Rico to off load it’s poor onto our stateside welfare rolls and allow Puerto Rico to balance their internal budget.

This was not the only screw up. Association with the United States as a colony meant enough entitlements to make you relatively worthless to humankind. In Eastern Samoa (American Samoa), for example, the Polynesian “subjects” were offered cars with beer kegs installed. They lost their Polynesian cultural heritage to Chevrolets and beer. St. Thomas became a semi-slum. In the colonies formerly run by England, they exported Common law and social order. America exported its slovenly immoral but alluring entitlement society. Only Portugal was possibly the worse master, for they just pillaged and ransacked their colonies, then bailed out. We gave free handouts to create permanent slaves. Which was worse is perhaps an argument for a moot court

But so far, in this, my second year, I had learned far more than the normal run-of-the-mill Yale Law Schoolie. I got to know and respect Jose Cabranes as a professor and a boss, and learned the legal lay of the land of Yale University from a unique legal point of view.

Jose Cabranes was appointed to the federal bench in 1979; he was the first Puerto Rican appointed to the federal bench in the continental United States. With outstanding credentials and a hardened legal mind, he should have easily been the first Hispanic Supreme Court Justice.

But that nomination went to Sonia Sotomayor, a 1979 Yale Law School Graduate, years his junior, a Hispanic/woman in a politically proper “two for one” disaster. This politically correct “twofer” again deprived America and the Supreme Court of one of our best legal minds, Cabranes, in a sort of Robert Bork déjà vue screw up. When will we get the equation right, before we spiral our Supreme Court into the oblivion of mediocrity? It’s a disgrace when political “properness” trumps meritocracy, and only bad things can follow thereafter.

Chapter 7.5: Gosh: Summertime again? What should I do? Clerk for some Super Judge?

Well, gee! It was the end of my second year at Yale Law School. I could either clerk for a judge in some small air-conditioned little chamber and pad my resume, or I could take my “steady” to France, pick up my VW “wheels”, introduce her to all the French cousins at their Chateaus as was very customary in that society, and then hit the French Riviera, La Cote D’Azur and it’s white sand beaches. The decision was not agonizing. But sacrifices had to be made, two plane tickets, two mouths to feed. So I regretfully sold my 12 string Rickenbacker guitar, the kind Roger McGuinn of the Byrds used, for maybe $400 dollars and emptied out the coin jars. We took the cheap Icelandic Airlines with a stop in Rejavik, Iceland, the last pure Viking stronghold. I would visit that marvelous country decades later for a lengthy stay, but now it was a short stopover en route to Luxembourg and then France.

Soon we were at my Aunt’s Chateau in Saint-Quentin, greeted with welcome arms. Now, she had staying with her at her large Chateau two female Japanese exchange students, and one German girl, a family friend. We would all try to learn the Viennese waltz every night after dinner. It was fun, but not my forte, though I learned to love the “cafe” music of Johann Strauss, Jr.

My cousin Francois had opened a business importing Moroccan goods to Paris. He had a successful retail outlet in the very first Carrefour in Paris, for shopping centers at that time were a brand new concept in France. On weekends, he would return to his mother’s countryside estate.

One weekend, we decided all to take a day trip to the medieval town of Laon, a fortress atop a mountain, with 11th and 12th century medieval architecture. The museum of Laon had collections of sculptures and paintings. In its garden there is a chapel of the Templars belonging to the 12th century. One of the oldest churches in this town is St. John the Baptist, in the nearby neighborhood of Vaux-sous-Laon, which dates from the 11th through 13th centuries. It would, we thought, be an awesome educational experience, and it became so, but not as planned. So Francois, his two sisters, the two Japanese girls, the two Americans and the one German girl piled into his mini-van for the trip. We stopped for gas, then wound our way up the mountain road to the old medieval town and hit the museum in Laon.

When we returned to the minivan, we were all surrounded by French Gendarmes, arrested, cuffed, and thrown in jail. Evidently, it turned out that Francois had paid for gas from his store’s billfold a counterfeit French Franc note which came through his retail store, and the Gas Station guy notified the police. Well, the French Gendarmes were quite sure they had captured an international gang of counterfeiters, French, German, Japanese and American, not often seen in this medieval town. It was a super catch for them. We could be in prison for years or decades. They would all get Medals of Honor from France.

I threw a temper tantrum behind bars, screaming in French, demanding to speak to the Ambassador from the USA immediately. My cousin Francois, on the other hand, was cool. He called his mother, Tante Marie Louise, who called her sister in Clermont Ferrand, who called François Michelin, owner of Michelin tires, who then called the President of France, Valery Giscard d’Estaing, who then called the French Senior Prefect of Police in Paris, who then called the Prefect of Police in Aisne District, who then called the chief of Police in Laon.

And voila, in hours we were all sprung, let free. The Gendarmes had fruitlessly stripped and searched the minivan looking for Counterfeit printing plates and imaginary wads of counterfeit bills from this international gang of counterfeiters, and it was a mess. But we all piled in and beat it home, our adventure was over for the day. So we learned France was a very small well-knit country, socially. And we learned truly as the saying goes: “It’s not what you know, but who you know.” This, seriously, is one of the first lessons of life. Remember it. These important lessons are more to come, but they number not much more than six. Pay attention to this Lesson # One and the other lessons offered in Tales of Brave Ulysses. “It’s not what you know, but who you know.”

Well my “steady” and I left Saint-Quentin and made our obligatory stops to visit the cousins on our southbound trip to the Cote D’Azur. We stopped in Dordogne to visit one our Marquis de Baux cousins, relatives to the Grimaldi Family that ruled in Monaco, and she suggested that we go there instead of Biarritz.

My “steady” did not like camping out in St. Tropez, and was not impressed by the topless beaches, so no more Plage Tahiti for me. I was a collared dog by now, with a choke collar. So off we went to Monaco. Monaco was a beautiful Principality that is essentially a cul-de-sac, so it was very safe. We had a splendid room in a Monte-Carlo hotel with French Doors and a Balcony overlooking the harbor with the huge yachts of the Rich and Famous. Across the harbor was Monaco-ville, high on the mountain with the Royal Palace and the old town where the where dozens of fine restaurants were tucked into medieval courtyards.

The gem was les Jardins de St. Martin. The gardens are made up of a series of winding paths on the south west face of the Rock of Monaco overlooking the blue Mediterranean Sea under the soft moonlight. You could walk down to the Monaco harbor hand-in-hand from there after a fine dinner, then walk past Starvos Niarchos’ huge yacht “Atlantis”, the Greek shipping Magnate, built to socially outclass Aristotle Onassis, owner of the nearby super yacht “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_O”Christina O”, named after his soon to be dead daughter by yes: drugs: Christina Onassis.

The endless summer was again coming to an end. My “steady” and I were to drive through the Alps to Amsterdam, and sell my faithful VW beetle, for we needed cash to get home. Our flight on Icelandic Airlines, back to the woods and vales of New England, would depart soon from Luxembourg. We hopped on the train to Luxembourg, and began playing cards. The train stopped at a station and then we started moving backwards. Well, I popped and asked the conductor what was going on, we thought we were on the way to Luxembourg. He looked at our tickets and informed me that the train had split in half, and our half was headed to Metz or somewhere in France. The other half was headed to Luxembourg.

Well, I threw a temper tantrum in French, the second this summer, and the Conductor and I finally figured out that if we got off at the next station stop and took another train back, we could probably make Luxembourg just in time for the airplane. By then I was thinking, speaking and cursing in the French language. I was very proud of myself.

So this all happened, and I finally made it back to New England with a cool temper but a sense of foreboding. The last year of Yale Law School-Alice-in-Wonderland was approaching, and there would be no more summers of idleness in the South of France. No more scholarships. I would have to wear a suit a work and earn a living, probably in NYC. Just as “Childhood’s End” had come, so would come the time when I would have to leave the Ivy-covered walls of Academia and enter the real world. And I had a couple of extra mouths to feed.

PART VIII: THE THIRD AND LAST WISEMAN OF YALE AND YALE’S PARTING GIFT:

Chapter 8.1: Recruitment crazies

The fifth semester, the fall of the third year, was a different trip at the Yale Law School.

The fifth semester academic calendar was not taxing. It was the recruiting season and a thousand law firms would descend and recruit their next worker-bees from the finest collection of law school candidates. Yale was the numero uno Law School, then came Harvard, then Cornell, U. Penn. and so on.

It was like the NFL or a MLB draft. If you had a Rhodes Scholarship, a Yale Law Degree and were from Texas, Baker,Botts, the Texas Giant law firm, would crawl to you and also trade two number one draft picks. The vast majority of law firms, however, were from New York, and they would come interview you and ask you to visit their office in New York to meet the partners. I would go through this drill. I would meet countless senior partners, interview, and exchange stories.

After two dozen or so, I finally met the honest man. As I waited in his office, I could not help noticing he had the hottest secretary I had ever seen. She was magnificent. As I entered his office, it was immaculate and well-appointed with only a stack of SEC prospectuses piled 18 inches high on the right side of the desk. After small talk, this very senior partner asked “Do you know what my job is here?” Well, my mind began to add up the observations, he was powerful, the hottest secretary, no paper work on his desk. But not a clue. So I said “Not a clue, but it must be nice.”

“Son”, he said. Pointing to the huge stack of SEC prospectuses, “Do you know who Jimmy Ling is?” Answer: “Yes, he built Ling-Temco-Vought corporation. And he built the largest conglomerate ever to purchase a large number of corporations, ITT, Litton Industries, Teledyne, and Textron, it’s huge.” “Well son, we handled the SEC work for all the acquisitions, and these documents on my left are our LTV SEC prospectuses for all the acquisitions. My job is to look at the date of each, and when the 5 year statute of limitations has passed, and our law firm’s legal liability is over, my job is reach over to the right, take it from the stack and put in in the garbage can on my left.”

Wow! I thought, if only I could get his hot secretary and sit behind his mahogany desk, and count to five, I would be the Cat’s Meow. Securities law was the ticket! LTV went bankrupt years later and I doubt his law firm had any liability. That was the game!

So I got my job offers, I had a job lined up in NYC, cash flow would be okay, nothing outrageous, and it was back to Academia. The last semester at Yale Law School you would think would be the easiest, but at Yale, it was yet another opportunity to grow beyond your expectations.

Chapter 8.2: The Third and Last Wiseman of Yale: meet Robert H. Bork.

I met the third Wiseman at Yale during this semester, a genius amongst geniuses. An economist, lawyer, scholar and social scientist, I had sat in his class and saw his mind was brilliant. His name was Robert H. Bork.

One spring afternoon, I wandered up to his office and we began to discuss the Austrian Economist, Joseph Schumpeter’s theories. We just talked about Schumpeter’s treatise on the Crisis of the Tax State, its trajectory to self-destruction, and the analogy of the Tax State “Tree”, a simple comparison to a fruit bearing tree (the productive sector-the goods producing sector) with a parasitic vine attached, (the non-producing sector-the taxation authority) that feeds off the fruit bearing tree and eventually kills it. This is what government does with taxes, regulation, etc., it produces nothing but smothers growth and eventually the fruit bearing host dies along with the parasitic vine. Self-Destruction. Then hopefully, a Phoenix arises from the bitter ashes.

We discussed what I had been taught earlier, that a government can only exist to reallocate resources produced by the private sector. It reallocates what it does not produce by taking it from the producers and allocating the “take” to others for votes or power, by taxes, borrowing, or monetary inflation (devaluation of debt). And the government’s appetite is endless, the more it takes and reallocates, the more powerful it becomes. That is the end game, until the parasite kills the host.

Nobody at Yale would understand Schumpeter’s brilliant works except for Bork. I soon became his disciple, and enrolled in my third year to his “Antitrust” class. He was the third and last Wiseman at Yale, he was a giant, maybe a Teddy Bear giant, but nonetheless, a Jedi Master. I was his aspiring Jedi apprentice, a disciple.

He would go on to the government sector, and hopefully become a Supreme Court Judge, to save our country, which needed his intellect desperately. But this tale turned out to be the most horrible of the horrors that pervaded the American Legal System.

After I left Yale, Bork became an Appellate Judge for the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit between 1982 and 1988. He was nominated by President Reagan on December 7, 1981, was confirmed with a unanimous consent voice vote by the Senate on February 8, 1982, and received his commission on February 9, 1982. President Reagan then nominated Bork for Associate Justice of the Supreme Court on July 1, 1987, to replace retiring Associate Justice Lewis Powell.

A hotly contested United States Senate debate ensued over Bork’s nomination. Television advertisements produced by People For the American Way and narrated by Gregory Peck attacked Bork as an extremist. Accordingly, a large number of groups were mobilized to press for Bork’s rejection, and the resulting 1987 Senate confirmation hearings became an intensely partisan battle. On October 23, 1987, the Senate denied Bork’s confirmation, with 42 Senators voting in favor and 58 voting against.

According to columnist William Safire, the first published use of “bork” as a verb was possibly in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution of August 20, 1987. Safire defined “to bork” by reference “to the way Democrats savaged Ronald Reagan’s nominee, the Appeals Court judge Robert H. Bork, the year before”. Clarence Thomas was subsequently confirmed after again one of the most divisive confirmation hearings in Supreme Court history. As a fellow Yalie, I had nothing against Clarence Thomas until 2008, when the entire Supreme Court failed its vow to uphold the Constitution of the United States, and thus deeply betrayed their oath to protect their country. More on this later.

The Country’s highest Court, however, in losing Robert Bork, had been denied one of the most brilliant legal minds of the century, to the detriment of and severe prejudice to the United States.

Bork went on to write a best seller “Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline”, in which he argued that the rise of the New Left and entitlements in the 1960s in the U.S. undermined the moral standards necessary for civil society, and spawned a generation of intellectuals who oppose the Calvinistic hard-work values of Western civilization. But to a careful reader, he questioned the cancerous metastasis of the entitlement society, occurring before our very eyes.

Furthermore, Bork raised the ultimate religious question on abortion: Are you killing a potential life or potentially killing a life? Bork, in his genius, saw propagation of the species as the prime directive; it was the reason why the human race had grown from less than six figures to nearly 8 billion humans, in spite of a history of senseless murder, senseless wars, and senseless mass death. Children were thus a precious gift from God, a miracle. Was abortion a murder of a miraculous legal-medical concept simply called a “fetus”, or was it the murder of a human life? When does the clock ticking begin? When do you have the right to murder your offspring? At the first heart beat? Or do you have the right to kill your offspring when they constantly sass you back at age 13, when you really want to kill them? Logic would indicate that real “choice” comes only once, when a woman can choose to cross her legs at follicular or ovulation phase of her menstrual cycle, which starts sometime after the period begins and ends a week later with ovulation. But this is a religious coin-toss, one that can only be answered by the Almighty Holy One.

Nevertheless, we as humans had to address this delicate question, this dilemma, and thus we dumped it on the Justices of the United States Supreme Court. In their landmark 1973 decision, Roe v. Wade. Cited as 410 U.S. 113 (1973), the Court took a semi-cowardly way out and, with the wisdom of Solomon, split the baby in half, or rather thirds or trimesters. Failing to decide decisively, they created a trimester framework to allegedly balance the fundamental right to abortion with the government’s two legitimate interests: protecting the mother’s health and protecting the “potentiality of human life”.

Again, only the Almighty Holy One can pass on this, and may not really care. But you will find out, if so, when you pass on to the afterlife and be judged whether or not you murdered your offspring. I do not want to be there. It won’t be pretty. Trust me.

At Yale Law, I took this Bork genius’s antitrust class. He was best known for writing “The Antitrust Paradox”. He posited that the primary focus of antitrust laws should be on consumer welfare rather than ensuring competition, as fostering competition of companies within an industry has a natural built-in tendency to allow, and even help, many poorly run companies with methodologies and practices that are both inefficient and expensive to continue in business simply for the sake of competition, to the detriment of both consumers and society. Bork’s writings on antitrust law were influential in causing a shift in the U.S. Supreme Court’s approach to antitrust laws since the 1970s.

Now, however, we might want to go backwards, dust off, and test the Sherman Anti-Trust Act of 1890 against the privacy violating and data-gathering behemoths, Amazon, Google and Facebook, Twitter et alia. These Digital Oligarchs are trying to muzzle our free speech and control our minds. So break them up? Muzzle their ferocious power? De-fang them? Why not? Let us do it. Hoorah!

Unfortunately, I would leave Yale and never see this Giant Icon, Bork, again. I had so wished to collaborate with him on a sequel to his best seller: “Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline”. It would be titled “Bobsledding Past Gomorrah”. Such had the cancer of the entitlement society metastasized throughout this country.

Chapter 8.3: A Parting “gift” from Yale-Chaos Theory and Fractal Links, or Pandora’s Box?

Nothing good comes without a price. In my case, my formative years capped by the fantastic free undergrad and Yale Law School experience would carry with it a parting gift: a Ball and Chain, sometimes mislabeled “endless curiosity, pursuit of true knowledge, and fulfillment, to the betterment of mankind”.

In my case, the particular Ball and Chain would be in the form of a new book entitled “Fractals Form, Chance and Dimension, HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fractal_Geometry_of_Nature”” (1977) mistakenly found in the “New Book” section by accident at Yale’s Sterling Memorial Library. It was written by mathematician Benoit Mandelbrot. Mandelbrot is recognized for his contribution to the field of fractal geometry, which included coining the word “fractal”, as well as developing a theory of “roughness and self-similarity” in nature.

He said that things typically considered to be “rough”, a “mess” or “chaotic”, like clouds or shorelines, actually had a “degree of order”. In 1975, Mandelbrot coined the term “fractal “ to describe these structures and first published his ideas, and later translated: Fractals: Form, Chance and Dimension. Fractals are geometric shapes that are very complex and infinitely detailed. You can zoom in on a section and it will have just as much detail as the whole fractal. They are recursively defined, and small sections of them are similar to large ones. Fractals are related to chaos theory because they are complex systems that have definite properties

A chaotic system can actually develop in a way that appears very smooth and ordered, and can describe fractals as a form of geometric repetition, in which smaller and smaller copies of a pattern are successively nested inside each other, much like Russian Matryoshka nesting dolls, so that the same intricate shapes appear again and again no matter how much you zoom in to the whole. Thus, surprisingly, the equiangular chambered Nautilus or seahorse spirals with its many chambers, and the golden spirals reflecting Golden Ratio and Fibonacci sequences appear again and again, as if these natural reoccurrences were the keys to future physics, the future to long imagined warp speed space travel of Star Trek fantasy, and the beginning of Childhood’s End for all of Mankind.

But what was really interesting, the hook, line and sinker, is that Mandelbrot saw financial markets as an example of “wild randomness”, characterized by concentration and long range dependence. He developed several original approaches for modeling financial fluctuations. He found, for example, that cotton prices followed a Lévy stable distribution with parameter α equal to 1.7 (so much closer to the Golden Ratio of 1.6180339) rather than 2 as in a Gaussian distribution). “Stable” distributions have the property that is the sum of many instances of a random variables and follows the same distribution, but with a larger scale parameter.

My great ancestor, Archibald Gracie of Gracie Mansion in New York, was the extreme example of recognizing this, the world’s best cotton trader before Paul Tudor Jones. Thus, I was totally sucked into this religion.

Fractals are also found in human pursuits, from art to, yes, stock market prices. Mandelbrot believed that fractals, far from being unnatural, were in many ways more intuitive and natural than the artificially smooth objects of traditional Euclidean geometry: Clouds are not spheres, mountains are not cones, coastlines are not circles, and bark is not smooth, nor does lightning travel in a straight line.

According to Arthur C. Clarke, author of “Childhood’s End”, “the Mandelbrot set is indeed one of the most astonishing discoveries in the entire history of mathematics. Who could have dreamed that such an incredibly simple equation could have generated images of literally infinite complexity?” All of which seemed to curl down to the multi-chambered Nautilus or the spiraling seahorse.

Best-selling essayist-author Nassim Nicholas Taleb has remarked that Mandelbrot’s book: The (Mis)Behavior of Markets, fractal view of Financial Turbulence was in his opinion “The deepest and most realistic finance book ever published.”

It is a must read if you ever want to lose big money on Wall Street. And you Wall Street traders and hedgies, who use ancient Gaussian mathematics to formulate the copycat algorithms for your cloned high-frequency trading machines, you might want to read this book. It may save you from ruin someday, when the “Flash Crash” becomes the “Crash to end all crashes”.

But I was hooked. It was the ultimate ADDICTIVE drug. Here was a work that represented a revolution in mathematics and exposing misperceptions of our world, like when everybody after Ptolemy knew for a millennium that the world was flat and that the Sun revolved around it. These revolutions happen infrequently, when people like Copernicus, Isaac Newton, and Galileo come along. But there is always room for evolution, and Mandelbrot was the newest mathematical messiah. History is replete with statutes being torn down, when Stalin was recognized as the acolyte of Satan rather than a strong leader, or when the murdering dictator Saddam Hussein’s statute was toppled, or when they decided to pull down the statute of General Robert E. Lee, when it was perceived as a symbol of “political improperness”. Now maybe it was Einstein’s turn, with Steve Hawking not too far behind.

And maybe there were secrets therein whereby I could trade cotton and stocks and make much moola. So I checked the book out of the Yale library, and soon realized it would take me 10 years to read and understand it. When the Yale library came out with an overdue notice, I could not let it go. I bought it from them, it cost me $300, just about my entire net worth at the time. But it was worth it.

Several decades later Benoit Mandelbrot, toward the end of his career, became Sterling Professor of Mathematical Sciences at Yale University, wherein he was the oldest professor in Yale’s history to receive tenure. And by random chance, decades later, I would come upon him on Royal Poinciana Way in Palm Beach, Florida, by Chuck and Harold’s restaurant, sitting on a bench while his wife was shopping next door. I told him I had one of his original books from the Yale Library that cost me $300 to keep it and another 10 years to understand it. He laughed. I also told him how I tried to rewrite Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity based on his fractal mathematics in Russia. I wish I could have given it to him, he died soon thereafter.

Chapter 8.4 Move over, Steve Hawking, there is a new Sheriff in town! Benoit Mandelbrot.

Mandelbrot also put his ideas to work in Cosmology. He offered a new explanation of Olbers’ paradox (the “dark night sky” riddle), demonstrating the consequences of fractal theory as a sufficient, but not necessary, resolution of the paradox. He postulated that if the stars in the Universe were fractally distributed (for example, like Cantor dust), it would not be necessary to rely on the “Big Bang HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Bang”” HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Bang” theory to explain the paradox. His model would not rule out a Big Bang, but would allow for a dark sky even if the Big Bang had not occurred. This allowed for the Almighty Holy One to” exist” as the original “Cause”.

If we talk about impact inside mathematics, and applications in the sciences, Mandelbrot was one of the most important figures of the last century. Years later, when I finally understood these revolutionary works of Mandelbrot and how to apply them, I would spend a very large time frame seeking to apply them to disprove mistaken illusions in Einstein’s version of theoretical physics that was based on the faulty Michelson-Morley experiment of light speed in 1887, and I would attempt to rewrite the equation of special relativity in fractal mathematics as well.

And it could also be applied to debunk Stephen Hawking’s counterintuitive and contradictive theories on astrophysics as well. If there was a singularity, a Big Bang, how can galaxies curve and collide without any application of an extraneous force? Only if the Universe was collapsing on itself, not expanding as it is now. How can there be a Mobius Strip? Where does it begin and end, like infinity? So with a colliding Universe, there is no reasonable explanation of why and how? We need to ask the Almighty Holy One. For only He knows.

And Hawking was a closet Atheist, for he had the hubris to believe the Universe had a beginning and end, just like us human beings with a defined mortality. With only 5% of the Universe visible, the rest in Dark Energy and Dark Matter, Hawking would have to assume that like the known Universe, God also had a beginning and an end, a “Big Bang”. But who is to say the Universe was not always there? Certainly, the scriptures teach us that God must have always been there. And of the 5% of the visible Universe, we can see matter not die but change form, for even when matter and anti-matter meet and are annihilated, more than Gamma Rays result. There is no beginning or end, only change. Isaac Newton had it right. We can “observe” physical death, what we can only “feel” is metaphysical infinity and eternity. But you can find it usually in a grain of sand or see it in the emptiness in the open palm of your hand.

As the poet William Blake wrote:

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour”

Lesson # 2 from Tales of Brave Ulysses: Question everything. Nothing is what it appears to be. Always seek the real Truth, for there is always a hidden Agenda. For centuries, the world believed Ptolemy’s works that the world was flat and the Sun revolved around it. Because you can write and promote a bestseller to convince everybody that the world is flat does not mean your theory is true or even has merit, it just has overwhelming publicity that induces false credibility. We are taught to think like sheep in many ways, and thus our evolution towards totally operational and maximally efficient human beings is slowed by minefields of stupidity, group think, ignorance, misdirection, propaganda and so forth.

Mandelbrot theory applied to theoretical physics was not what I had been trained for, I should have been happy just being a Grunt Lawyer. But my early training was doused in Mechanical Physics. Any sharp shooter, assassin, or pistolero understands basic non-linear mechanical physics. “Ballistics” it is called. A projectile is dispersed from an explosion through a grooved barrel, spinning, subject to the power of gravity, wind speed, humidity, and depending where you are on the planet, the coriolis force from the spin of the planet which itself is spinning through gravitational space. To hit your target, all these things come into play, especially at a distance. The speed and trajectory of a photon ejected from the Sun’s nuclear furnace is probably no different. “Windage and elevation”, John Wayne would say as he aimed his Winchester rifle.

But as I said, the Yale Ball and Chain, and the last spirit out of Pandora’s box, was Mandelbrot. It was the reciprocal burden or pay back of living a semi-privileged and heretofore wonderful life. But it would have to wait more than a decade, and wait until I had the time and resources in Moscow, Russia to attempt to redesign the Universe in Mandelbrot’s fractal geometry and rewrite the Special Theory of Relativity in fractal mathematics, thus coherently relegating Einstein’s ancient Special Theory of Relativity and his maximum speed of light nonsense into the trash bin of history. More on this later.

PART IX: FROM ACADEMIA TO THE REAL WORLD:

Chapter 9.1: Graduation, from Ivy League Halls to well-paid Slavery.

Well, Graduation from Yale Law School is no special event. You get in black robes and file into the courtyard where various speeches extolling your virtues are benignly suffered through. You go get your piece of paper, then off go the Caps and you are now on your own, no more Mother Yale to nestle you from the real world, only to contact you for donations and endowment pledges. And the Relatives would all send congratulations. Even though they did not send one penny to help you through your three hard years of studies, they would all feel a special sense of pride in themselves for help shaping your hard earned accomplishments.

In the real world you need shelter and food. I had to start work soon as the coffers were now empty, so I went to New York to find an apartment. Now, New York City is a funny place, you have rental apartments of all different types, and most are under pre-war “Rent Control” and post war “Rent Stabilization”. This really messes up the supply-demand-pricing of open markets and results in Landlord-versus-New York Rental Board adversarial hijinks.

I was lucky. I wanted to live on the Upper East Side, preferably in the 50’s so I could walk to work on Park Avenue, and as close to the East River as possible, as I had grown up near water all my life. Well, I walked and walked the neighborhoods until my feet fell off trying to price out my options.

It was then that the Almighty Holy One smiled on me once again. I was standing on the corner of 52nd Street and First Avenue and I noticed an older non-descriptive man hanging out on the corner, as if it was his neighborhood. I figured he would know all the information about this area, what rents were asked, what was good, what was bad, so I struck up a conversation with him. I told him I just graduated from Yale Law School, had a job on Park Avenue with a huge Law Firm, and was looking for a one bedroom, not so expensive. What did he know about the “hood”?

The man’s name was Grasso, and he knew an awful lot. Prior to the Great Depression, his dad had been a shoe sales man but did not trust banks, so he saved all his money in cash in shoe boxes in the closet. In those days the East Side from the 40’s to the 60’s were slums, run down tenement after tenement, often without hot water. In the Great Depression of the 1930s, when the banks went down and the slum properties were offered for a song, Grasso’s dad pulled the cash from his shoe boxes and bought every slum building he could. He amassed a huge portfolio of rundown buildings, especially in the 40th Street blocks near the East River. Grasso would work with his dad as a repairman and learned everything about tenements and so they were able to make a decent cash flow.

It so happened that after WWII, the United Nations was designated to be in New York City, and what better spot but on the 40’s and the East River. So Grasso’s dad was bought out at a ridiculously huge sum, and they razed his slums and built the United Nations building. Grasso eventually inherited this vast fortune, but never changed his life style in New York. He hung out on the corner in his work clothes. He still had a handful of buildings in the 50’s, and so as we hung out on the corner, he took a shine to me and offered me a one bedroom, the only one he had open, and we struck a deal, and it was sweet. Landlords usually don’t like lawyers as tenants, but Grasso was too wealthy to care. Plus he knew I would be responsible, and if anything went wrong, I would call his office, especially in winter when he always went down to Florida. And he would always have someone to talk to when he was hanging around the “hood”. I, on the other hand, had a “crib” on a very safe cul de sac abutting Beekman Place and one of my block neighbors was the allegedly brilliant Dr. Henry Kissinger. And the fabulous River Club was at the end of the block. I had really lucked out.

I held onto this “rent stabilized” leasehold for decades. Grasso would die, and it would turn out that he had two wives and two families, one in New York and one in Florida. The battle over his estate would be prolonged and bitter, and the sleazy jackals that inhabit the NYC probate court would begin circling the embattled estate for their piece of flesh.

Chapter 9.2: Big Law Firm Practice: A Suit, a Tie, long hours and very little future.

Well, I began my career in law at a time when the basic dynamics of law practice were undergoing a fundamental change. In the former days, you would simply put in your time as an associate and would eventually become an equal name partner of the law firm.

But the economics of big firm law practice was changing. First, the law schools were graduating a huge surplus of lawyers. We needed mining engineers and scientists, but everybody wanted to be a lawyer. This surplus put downward pressure on law salaries, even from the best schools.

The second dynamic was that the huge corporations were unwilling to continue paying the high hourly fees charged by law firms and were taking many lawyers in house on salaries. The benefit to the in-house lawyer was that even though you had a fixed salary, you only worked 40 hours a week and could play a lot of golf at the corporation’s golf club on weekends.

The third dynamic was that loss of corporate client cash flow meant that there was intense downward pressure on the ability to rise to partnership. The senior partners did not want to share their “take” so they created a system of “tiered partners”, sort of like tranches of bonds, so that you could become a junior “tier 3” partner and call yourself one, but you were really just a more highly paid associate, and maybe you did not have to withhold taxes from your paycheck.

The fourth dynamic was that intense pressure was put on junior associates to work well over 40 hours, sometimes up to 80. This was because after the 40th hour, your overhead was fully paid for and each billable hour thereafter resulted in a 100% profit margin for the firm. And hard work would not pay off. In reality, it was the client that called the shots at the big firm. If you completely handled a big IBM litigation and told them you were thinking of quitting, they would call your senior partner and say either he stays and becomes a senior partner or they would take their business elsewhere. Otherwise, you were doomed to be a slave.

Tales of Brave Ulysses: Lesson # 3: Also, I learned in this service business as in many others, there are two types of people: “Rainmakers” and “Technicians”. The Rainmakers schmooze, booze and woo new clients, and bring in new business and cash flow. Then they pass the work off to the Technicians in the back of the bus to execute the needed work. Rainmakers are invaluable, Technicians replaceable.

Although I could see very little future in this trade, I got to work on two fascinating cases. The first was the Westinghouse Uranium litigation, which spanned the globe and involved every major law firm. A bunch of us associates were sent down to Pittsburgh and put up in the finest hotel carte-blanche. Our job was to review and wade through a zillion documents and stamp them either as “discoverable” or “attorney-client privileged.” We only had to work 8 hours a day, or 40 hours a week, then we could party. The most senior associate who had been there the longest wrangled his way into a penthouse suite and every night after work, we would party up there with 6 bottles of Dom Perignon and endless fine cuisine by room service courtesy of Westinghouse, as our host would play folk songs on his guitar. He was styling, he might still be there still.

During the day, it was drudgery. If you know anything about litigation, it goes like this:

There is a Complaint and Service. Then a Motion to Dismiss. Then an Answer and Counterclaim.

A “discovery” period is set whereby you get to see the other side’s documents and vice versa. Then there are Summary Judgment motions, pretrial stipulations, a selection of a jury with Voir Dire, a trial, a verdict, post-trial motions, and appeals.

The most expensive part is “discovery”. As I said, our job was to review and wade through a zillion documents and stamp them as “discoverable” or “attorney-client privileged.” If they were worthless, they were marked “discoverable”, they would go into one pile whereupon they would be collected, sent to the Xerox copy room to be copied 50 to 100 times over, Bate stamped, and then loaded onto a dump truck to dump on the other side’s attorneys. A war of attrition. Anything that might be important was sent upstairs to senior attorneys. Whether they were shredded or whatever other games were played, I was not privy. As long as we had our Dom Perignon courtesy of Westinghouse, we were happy campers.

The second most fascinating case I was involved in was the “Estate of Lambert”, a lady who was a very wealthy recluse. She rented for many years a huge suite in the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue and was never seen coming and leaving. She only had room service for her meals. One day she did not receive room service. This went on for several days when an attendant noticed a smell coming up from her door. Well, up comes the management, they open the door to find a huge suite piled to the ceiling with New York Times newspapers and a narrow cluttered pathway to the bedroom where they discovered that their long term client had died. About four days earlier, the coroner figured.

Well, in my Law Firm, the estate lawyers were faced with a large Waldorf Astoria suite covered to the ceiling with unread New York Times. As they began to sift through the copies page by page, they found numerous uncashed dividend checks from the Exxons and the Chevrons of the world going back years. Finally they found and uncovered a Grand Piano under it all. Littered in also were uncashed checks from Nassau County as she was the largest landholder along the Long Island Freeways. They condemned her land for Throughways, and they would send her many checks for land they condemned and needed to expand. Well, the estate was a mess, each page of the forgotten New York Times going back decades were photographed, indexed and archived for probate court, as the Law Firm without mercy billed her estate for each one tenth of an hour. A maid would have been many, many millions of dollars cheaper. But it did not matter, the very rich really are different, aren’t they? What say you, F. Scott Fitzgerald?

Tales of Brave Ulysses: Lesson # 4: But the most valuable lesson I learned, that I would take with me for the rest of my life to employ, was the “value of time”. In the law firm, every six minutes or one tenth of an hour of your time had to be accounted for. There was an index of client numbers and an index of tasks: Research, drafting, proofing, talking on phone to a client or an attorney, filing, etc. that had to be marked on a time sheet and submitted every day to the billing department. There were some loopholes like “staying up with current law” that could be used as fillers, but in the end, you had to account to the law firm each six minutes you spent.

Now this lesson goes a long way in life. If you get an unsolicited sales call, you say: “not interested, don’t waste my time or yours-“Click” It may sound curt and rude, but you are actually doing the caller a favor. His time prospecting is better spent elsewhere. So I always keep track of how my time is spent and especially how much of my time is wasted by interactions with others.

This was the best rule I took from my experience in “Big Law”, and invaluable at that. If you worked out the mathematics, if you worked more than 60 hours a week, the plumber would be making more than you on an hourly basis, and he would have a social life. There was just limited or no upside potential in the Big Law business. So now it was time to move on. A different horizon beckoned. But what?

Chapter 9.3: Entrepreneurship and New Horizons? Back at Home in the Woods with my buddies, the Lyme Ticks.

Well, I went back to the Connecticut woods. Not exactly a “new” horizon, but I concentrated on Mandelbrot’s works and learned the laws of thermodynamics, for the OPEC embargo had quadrupled the price of # 2 heating oil. Most old houses in New England were energy inefficient, and needed more insulation, weather stripping and new efficient heating oil burners, to conserve heat and thus energy, thereby saving the house owner energy costs. This was subsidized by the government as usual. Anybody with an understanding of thermodynamics could make money.

And the America’s Cup was coming to Newport in 1980 , and my grandmother was getting old and was writing her final book. I wanted to spend more time with her.

My grandmother was a unique creature, strong willed and descended from a long line of distinguished ancestors, including houses of the royal families of France and England that had been usurped by newcomers. An author, poet, successful investor, she was still a party animal and a world traveler. And she had tales to tell.

Grandmother had grown up in her father’s estate “Chateau La” in Ruxton, Maryland near Baltimore. He had worked his way up from the devastation of the Civil War and became a founder of what was the Mercantile Trust and Deposit Company. Grandmother had gone to school with Wallis Warfield at the exclusive “Old Fields” school in Maryland, and they stayed in touch. Wallis had journeyed to the Far East and trained vigorously in the oriental arts of music and the oriental methodology of pleasing a man. This would one day cause a constitutional crisis in England as Edward VIII would not give up the twice divorced and skilled Wallis for anything and thus had to abdicate the English Throne. Give him credit, life is too short, and Wallis, now the Duchess of Windsor, had learned in the Far East how to push all the right buttons.

Now that we girls are talking, let’s not forget grandmother had known the skillful Pamela HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pamela_Harriman”Digby Churchill Hayward Harriman. Pamela had a different skillset than Wallis, but that skill set was equally in demand. She married Winston Churchill’s son, Randolph, then later railroad tycoon Averill Harriman 20 years her senior. Besides her renowned skill set, she was known to have no financial skills and part of the great Harriman fortune was mysteriously squandered to the detriment of one of my good friends, his grandson Averill. Litigation ensued which was eventually settled confidentially. Life goes on.

And finally there was Leona Helmsley, known as the “Queen of Mean”. This is just hearsay that I heard from reliable resources, and relayed to my grandmother as “tit for tat”, but Harry Helmsley, 11 years her senior, was real estate giant in NYC and a Quaker, faithfully married for 33 years. Leona had a problem with her real estate license and went to Harry for “help”. She put her hand in a special spot and asked Harry to “please” help her. Harry did, and divorced his wife of 33 years to marry Leona. Leona went on to inherit his approximately $ 4 billion real estate empire. And guess who one her best friends was? Just down the street, my grandmother’s neighbor, Doris Duke’s best friend also: Imelda Marcos, the Filipino Dictator Ferdinand Marcos’s wife with the 5 zillion shoes. It’s a small world after all.

My grandmother had wisdom and much perspective to give, but I remember her soundest advice was: “If you have servants, hide the key to the liquor cabinet.” Sage advice, I was to later learn! Lesson number five of this Tales of Brave Ulysses? Not really.

When my grandmother passed, it seemed like the passing of an era. The elegant Astor-Vanderbilt gala balls and the “Lost Generation” Hemmingway Expatriate Paris party era was dying or dead, there seemed to be nothing left but Chevrolets and McDonalds. The history books were being remade as made-for-morons TV propaganda, and reading classics was becoming a forgotten art. Homer Simpson now ruled our nation’s intellect, not Homer’s classic Iliad and Odyssey.

Well if I was to become an entrepreneur, I needed to create inventions. After watching a baby suck on a baby bottle with a new inner plastic bottle liner that collapsed, I invented a similar system for an Oil Tanker. They were singled hulled in those days and if the hull fractured, you had a nasty oil spill. But put a liner inside, cheaper and as strong as Kevlar fiber, than you had a two hulled Tanker, and bam, no oil spill. So I sent a notarized and certified letter to the United States Patent and Trade Office (USPTO), which was sufficient under law in those days to protect your original invention.

Then, one night, watching the fireplace, I realized that smoke was a colloid suspension with particles of burnt wood and creosote being driven upward by heat into the atmosphere, i.e. smoke and pollution. If you could extract the power source, the heat, you could cool and then attach the colloid suspension to the chimney magnets, clean it, and eliminate pollution. It would be a “Scrubber”.

Later, the patent laws changed so that “first to invent” was changed by the Courts and the Congress to “first to invent and first to use”, then the “America Invents Act” HYPERLINK “https://itlaw.wikia.org/wiki/America_Invents_Act”, signed by Barack Obama on September 16, 2011, switched the U.S. patent system from a “first-to-invent, first to use” system to a “first-inventor-to-file” system for patent applications filed on or after March 16, 2013., leaving the field only to those who could pay huge patent fees and market ideas with cash, not think with genius. I was busted. These fools destroyed centuries of law that made America the most innovative country in the world, abandoning it to the “most money, most protection”. These decisions and laws leading to “first to file” would remain as the most destructive to our future innovation by our nation’s innovative ordinary but clever peoples.

Later, my friend David H. Walker from West Island, NY would invent and patent a system to transfer money over Cellphones, “mobile payments” before the year 2000, using our Palm Pilots. We called it 3GM Bank. He took out a patent, but got into a bitter divorce and forgot during the divorce to pay his patent dues. This cost him the patent, or about $10 billion and cost me my share of about $3 billion as his marital issues forced a default on our patent dues and Pay Pal, Pop-money or Venmo later took our ideas and took them to market. What can you say except say “c’est la vie”. David??? Hello?? Where were you? Ouch! That hurt.

Chapter 9.4: Life goes on, for most, and it is either “sweet” or “Tales from the Crypt”.

Since I was back in the forest, I subleased my apartment in New York City to my step-cousin, Frank and his girlfriend, Cathy Hartford, the daughter of Huntington Hartford, heir to the Atlantic HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Atlantic_%26_Pacific_Tea_Company”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Atlantic_%26_Pacific_Tea_Company” Pacific Tea Company Fortune. In the early days, Huntington Hartford was one of the richest men in America. The heir to over $500 million, he had homes then in the South of France, Palm Beach, as well as a 240-acre estate in Los Angeles and a 13-room duplex next door on Beckman Place in Manhattan. But he was well known for his spendthrift ways, and he blew his entire fortune.

He also failed as a parent. One of his sons committed suicide, and Cathy, his eldest daughter, who had moved with my step-cousin out of my apartment in 1984 (neglecting to pay the back rent or utility bills) died of a heroin overdose in 1988. Again: Money = Tragedy, over and over again like a broken record, amongst the wealthy and their children.

Two other Hartford children survived, one of which I which knew, Juliet Hartford, who was a beautiful, wonderful and well educated girl and was also kind enough to show Playboy Magazine what a socialite looks like without her debutante Ball Gown on. In that memorable issue were also the socialites Diane Crane, Bridgett Marks, and Pamela O’Conner, also wonderful people, with or without their debutante Ball Gowns.

Beautiful Juliet quietly disappeared from the New York “Scene”. It was rumored that she had gone to Lyford Cay to take care of her dying father. She was a good girl, well missed. Diane got married, I last saw her at her engagement party. I heard Bridgett got married and had a child, not a surprise because anybody would have married her, and my dear friend Pam had a son named “Morgan”; aptly nick-named after “Morgan the Pirate”, who became a cover model on GQ Magazine. Handsome, tall and brave with Rasto hair, he would always invite me to his parties. A really good person, notwithstanding he had braved the expected typical Newport dysfunctional upbringing. Fun, Fun, Fun till the Sun comes up! We always had fun, you need it in life. Morgan was a cool cat!

In Lyme, CT, I had also a good friend, Johnnie Ellis, from nearby New London, a really good guy who played catcher for my favorite baseball team, the New York Yankees, until he broke his leg sliding into second base. We hung out together a lot and he developed real estate, mostly apartment complexes and he taught me a lot. His best friend was the Yankee pitcher, Fritz Peterson, who I got to meet. Fritz was cool and a great pitcher, but is best known for swapping wives with another Yankees pitcher. Yes! A wife swap, like trading baseball cards. What a hoot!

Otherwise, I was stuck in the country, with Newport and Edgartown in the summers. And how we waited for the summer of ’83, for that was America’s Cup Summer, a race for a 100 guinea silver cup, successfully defended by New York Yacht club for 132 years since the schooner America won it in a race around England’s Isle of Wight in 1851.

PART X: THE AMERICA’S CUP RACES: BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE A DIME?

Chapter 10.1: The Holy Grail “Booby Prize”.

To a sailor, there is one “Holy Grail”: the “America’s Cup”. Never has so many billions of dollars been wasted on winning this cheap silver mug. The History of this cup is ironically amusing:

The History books merely recite that “on August 22, 1851, the U.S. built schooner America bested a fleet of Britain’s finest ships in a race around England’s Isle of Wight. The ornate silver trophy won by the America was later donated to the New York Yacht Club on condition that it be forever placed in international competition. Today, the ‘America’s Cup’ is the world’s oldest continually contested sporting trophy and represents the pinnacle of international Sailing Yacht competition.”

But the real inside dirt began with five members of the New York Yacht Club, including Commodore John Cox Stevens and my Dutch relative, George Schuyler, who all decided to build a state-of-the-art Schooner to compete against British ships in conjunction with England’s Great Exposition of 1851, organized at Crystal Palace in London by Prince Albert to showcase British technology and excellence to the World.

Now this group of Americans knew the British were great gamblers and sportsmen, and if they, the Americans, could built a fast boat, as was an accomplished great skill set in America, they could make a great fortune by betting against the English and collect hundreds of thousands of English pounds in sportsmen’s bets. It was a layup. This syndicate contracted with boat designer George Steers for a 101 ft. (30.78 m) schooner, which was christened America and launched on 3 May, 1851. America had a sharp bow, a V bottom, and tall masts, making it strikingly different from the traditional yachts of the day.

In June 1851, America set sail from its shipyard on New York City’s East River, bound for England and America raced and overtook numerous ships during the Atlantic crossing. Fearing rumors of the white boat’s speed would reach the port of Cowes on the Isle of Wight in England, America was clandestinely re-outfitted and painted black in Calais, France. America then sailed to Cowes on the Isle of Wight to challenge the best British sailboats in their own waters.

But the British were no fools, they had heard soft rumors along the waterfront of this boat from the “Colonies” and cleverly sent their fastest ship to “escort” America up the treacherous Solent to Cowes. Unfortunately, America arrived several hours ahead of her “stalking horse” escort. The word spread across the waterfront, and the British bets dried up.

At Cowes, America welcomed all comers for a match race, but no English yacht accepted the challenge. Finally, on August 22, the America joined 14 British ships for a regatta around the Isle of Wight. The prize was the Hundred Guinea Cup, a 2-foot-high silver mug put up by the Royal Thames Yacht Squadron, a $500 dollar booby prize.

In the 53-mile race, America trounced the competition. As the schooner America passed the Royal Yacht in first position from which Queen Victoria watched the race, America saluted her majesty by dipping its American ensign flag three times. Queen Victoria asked, “What British ship is second?” Her attendant surveyed the horizon and reportedly replied, “Your Majesty, there is no second.”

With their dreams and wallets broken, the New York Yacht Club syndicate sold America to an Irish lord, giving its owners a slim profit over what they paid for her. Meanwhile, the first owners of the America then deeded the booby prize, the Hundred Guinea Cup, to the New York Yacht Club in 1857 to be put up as the prize in a perpetual international yachting challenge, a competition among two sailboats in a match race that would, ironically, end up costing future contestants billions and billions of dollars. After winning the trophy, the United States embarked on what would become the longest winning streak in the history of sports, a 132-year stretch of domination that saw boats representing this country successfully defend the trophy 24 times from 1870 through 1980.

Chapter 10.2: Newport, RI and the America’s Cup Races: Can you spare a billion dollars?

Throughout its history, the America’s Cup has bedazzled business and industry tycoons such as tea merchant Sir Thomas Lipton, the Swan B HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swan_Brewery”eer brewing mogul Alan Bond, aviation pioneer Sir T.O.M. Sopwith, the Aga Khan, the Russians, Italians and Swedes, media mogul Ted Turner, Bill Koch, and the Vanderbilts, who won the America’s Cup five times. The America’s Cup has always been a race driven by technology and is the most difficult trophy in sport to win. But the losers, Sir Thomas Lipton sold a lot of tea and Alan Bond sold a lot of Swan Lager. Losing was still good for business.

The secret of the USA winning for so long was that the New York Yacht Club Deed of Gift rules required that all the Cup challengers had to be built in their home country and cross the Ocean on their own hull and race other yacht clubs from other countries for the right to challenge the New York Yacht Club’s Defender. Now in Newport, RI, the winds in July and August were very light, but picked up dramatically in September. So to win the right to challenge, you had to have a “light air HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forces_on_sails”” HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forces_on_sails” boat to beat other challengers, but to beat the New York Yacht Club Defender you needed a “heavy air HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forces_on_sails”” HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forces_on_sails” boat for the September winds. The New York Yacht Club only had to build “heavy air” boats that sailed well in strong September winds. In addition, the Newport Race Course had three water surfaces from the Narragansett Bay to the Sakonnet River that sent fluky winds into the race course. Local knowledge was a distinct advantage.

And if you got the opposing crew drunk enough the night before, as was the tradition, your odds increased. And the Clark Cooke House, or the “Candy Store” as it was known, owned by David Ray, a sailor and a restaurateur equaled only by Wolfgang Puck in talent, was the epicenter of the incredible fun and revelry every night.

Chapter 10.3: The 1983 America’ s Cup Race: aka: The “Australian Heist” or how Alan Bond absconded with the Auld Mug.

The winning streak came to an end in 1983, when Australia II became the first successful challenger. Alan Bond had pulled a fast one. He had designed and concealed a “winged keel” which technically complied with the 12 metre formula when upright, but on a heel to windward exceeded the formula, and thus his challenging boat had a significant speed or “pointing” advantage.

I had been to many Americas Cup races all my life, the key was to be on a yacht with a “privilege flag” so you could follow the match race close behind. My stepfather arranged my rides in 1980 and 1983 as he was well known sailor and a popular New York Yacht Club member. And he owned an international yachting firm that managed many of the wealthy’s yachts. So I had the best catered rides, especially aboard Johannes, the 11th Prince von Thurn und Taxis’ Sailing Yacht from Monaco: L’aiglon, from which I saw Dennis Connor’s Liberty lose to Australia II HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australia_II”.

Now Prince Johannes was probably the wealthiest man in Germany. His family had founded the German postal service in 1500 and for years had planted the profits into worldwide land holdings to the point where he was the largest single landholder in Canada. He was known as a quirky host and guest, and it was rumored that at some dinner party that he called Eileen Slocum, Newport’s grand dame from one of the oldest and wealthiest New England families: “Mrs. Scrotum”.

But he was a perfect host for us, for aboard were just my stepfather, my bio-mother, myself, and the Prince’s Nephew, a tall, handsome 19 year old. We had a crew of 8 of whom two served food and drink. After a tour of his 147 foot beautiful Sailing Yacht, we gathered on the stern deck to watch the races. I had my bulky VHS video camcorder camera, and with a rare “privilege flag”, we were able to sail close behind the match race and thus I got some good video footage.

I had a chance to chat with the Prince over a glass of the finest champagne. He told me when the Nazis took over, he, a teenager, and his father were thrown into a concentration camp somewhere in Germany. People forget that many of these camps were built after the “Night of the Long Knives” to dispose of Hitler’s German political opposition, at least 77,000 of whom were executed, they just moved onto the Slavs and Jews when the supply of Germans dried up. The Prince recounted how the Nazi Guards deliberately and laughingly forced him out of his bunk and executed prisoners directly in front of him, calling him “little princie” His father, the 10th Prince von HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_August,_10th_Prince_of_Thurn_and_Taxis” Thurn und Taxis, was also sent by the Gestapo to the Landshut concentration camp. Finally, Prince Johannes and his father were eventually freed, although I don’t remember when or why. All I can remember is the irony that the wealthiest man in Germany shared the same horrible experience as the poorest Jewish tailor, Maurice the Tailor from Essex, Connecticut, who survived Auschwitz. It’s a strange, unpredictable, ironic world, I remember thinking, as we sailed aboard one of the world’s finest Sailing Yachts, next to Germany’s wealthiest Prince, treated to finest food and drink as if we were in some grand finale of the gilded age of Princes and Kings.

George F.B. Johnson, Jr. was my stepfather’s name, from a blue blood New England family, and besides being a great sailor, he was a great stepfather and taught me so much more of the art of sailing, which although complex, is in reality simply defined as “the art of getting wet while slowly going nowhere at great expense”.

The 1983 America’s Cup races were ones for the history books, with the victorious Aussies entering Newport Harbor on Australia II with the Famous Green Boxing Kangaroo Flag flying, every yacht horn resoundingly saluting them, then lots of celebration. To Aussies, that means lots and lots of beer, the Australian kind, with high alcohol content.

Well in spite of Alan Bond’s clever winged keel, Dennis Connor almost beat him in an inferior ship, Liberty, in unusually light winds for September in Newport. Dennis made one big mistake. He broke a spreader, and instead of taking a lay day (a day off) and fixing and re-tuning the mast, he raced the next day in a clearly untuned and unshaped mast and sail, a big mistake, and he lost, in front of the most famous of yachts, the New York Yacht Club Committee Boat “Black Knight.”

That was it. The America’s Cup would travel to Perth, Australia, and many other venues never to return to Newport, RI as the old mono hull sailboats with skippers and navigators slugging it out in match-race sailing maneuvers and changing wind conditions became high tech catamaran bobsleds manned by lawyers and plastered with advertisements on international TV.

Chapter 10.4: America’s Cup: The Post Mortem.

Well, it was in my blood, so I had to follow the Cup around the world. The first stop was Perth, Australia, on the other side of the world, in 1987, where the Australian Defender Kookaburra III was trounced by Dennis Connor’s Stars and Stripes. The cup returned to the USA but to the San Diego Yacht Club to defend, not the New York Yacht Club.

My stay in Perth was fun. At a pub, I ran into the boyfriend of a female friend of mine from Newport, RI, Yves Marie Tanton, a yacht designer, and we became good friends.

At a starlight outdoor pub, I saw one of the most beautiful Australian girls ever, maybe second only to Elle MacPherson in beauty. I prayed to the moon to get a chance to “chat her up” as the Aussies would say, but she was elusive and my prayers that night went to naught. However, I was at the local nightclub the night after, I turn around, and voila: there she was! We had drinks the next day at my hotel and I learned the hard way you can’t drink an Aussie girl under the table. If that is your seduction move, forgetta bout it! Aussies can drink. She was on a train back to Melbourne so we agreed to meet again in Rome soon, which we did. That is a tale for another book.

Chapter 10.5: What’s the difference between a topless Polynesian girl bathing in Tahiti and a Californian housewife? Answer: Absolutely Nothing! Sad.

In 1988, Michael Fay, a New Zealander banker, began a series of legal challenges in New York Courts designed to bring the Cup to Auckland, New Zealand. At the time, my stepfather, bio-mother and I had been sailing with a group of Cruising Club yachts around all the leeward islands of Tahiti, which included Bora Bora, Raiatea, and Huahine. It was a spectacular cruise, wind, weather, everything. No wonder the artist Paul Gaugin made it his home. It was a virtual French speaking paradise, and I spoke French.

One day we docked for supplies at Raiatea, and as the boat’s tanks were filling with water and fuel, I walked to the end of the street where there was a hotel. I sat on the veranda, sipping some exotic concoction, when I saw one of the most beautiful things I had ever witnessed. A beautiful

stunning Polynesian girl bathing in the ocean, topless, with a flowered lei around her neck, right out of a Gauguin painting.

She came out and sat right next to me, smiling at me, toweling her hair off. Wow! Thank you, Aphrodite! Well, I smiled back and said in perfect French, “Ca va? Je m’appelle Richard, je vien d’arriver aux Etats Unis, a New York, et on voile les Îles Sous-le-vent” (Trans: Hi, I’m Richard, just arrived from New York City, and we are here sailing the leeward islands).

The Gauguin goddess smiles and says in perfect English; “Hi, I’m Puai Kalani (Polynesian Trans: “Flower of Heaven”) and I live in Burbank”. So it turns out she was born here, her father owned the hotel, and she was visiting him. But she was married to a film producer in Burbank, California and my dreams of a Polynesian life in paradise disappeared like a fleeting mist. I guess if it’s too good to be true, it is too good to be true. (Lesson # 5?). You bet!

Now while we were sailing, word came over the short wave radio that the New York State Supreme Court (which administers the America’s Cup Deed of Gift) ruled that Fay’s challenge on behalf of Mercury Bay Boating Club (MBBC) was valid and most like likely the next cup race would be in Auckland, New Zealand.

I was headed to Sydney, Australia, via to the Hellhole of Jakarta for adventure, and then to Hong Kong to visit relatives and get a new wardrobe meticulously fashioned by Prince Charles’ tailors “Tackly” or “Tacky” as I called them. My relatives lived on the “Peak”, an expatriate community, and offered to set me up on a blind date with Ka-shing Li’s HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Ka-shing” daughter, which I declined (Dumb, I mean really Dumb), but we went to the race track, The Jockey Club, in Hong Kong, with the head of Merrill Lynch. The Racetrack, horses and jockeys were owned by the Hong Kong government, and generated 80% on municipal revenues. As explained to me by our host, they would race horses and build up a huge pool of betting money. Then they would race horses named “Pride of China” and “Hong Kong’s Dream” against a field of other horses, including one inevitably named “American Lettuce”. You can guess what happened next, the high odds longshot “American Lettuce” beat the favorites, and the pool of bets was siphoned off to fund the government. Our host, the head of Merrill Lynch, had figured this out, and I made $HK 27,000 dollars betting alongside him.

Auckland, New Zealand was on the way to Hong Kong, so I volunteered to stop by in Auckland to survey its shipyards and docking facilities, waterways, weather conditions etc., and deliver a report to my stepfather to deliver to the New York Yacht Club’s Old Guard in case they wanted to mount a challenge in Auckland. This I did, and earned semi-kudos from the NYYC’s Old Guard.

However, after much legal wrangling, and a phony race in San Diego with a catamaran, the Cup ended up in San Diego after all. In 1992, the America³ team, skippered by billionaire Bill Koch, who was the estranged twin brother of David Koch, beat billionaire Raul Gardini‘s Il Moro di Venezia V, 4–1. Il Moro di Venezia V was a raving red beauty, all the style of the Italians, but not quite fast enough. I was lucky to sail on her later. A real privilege.

In 1995, in the following Cup challenge, the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron syndicate Team New Zealand, skippered by Russell Coutts, fielded a challenging boat “Black Magic“. When I first saw her, I knew we were done for, as she sliced through the waves like a hot knife through butter. There was no evidence of “hobby horsing”, meaning her hull was totally rigid, and sailed straight, not bobbing up and down, an uncanny design strength built for speed. I had never seen anything like her. Black Magic easily defeated Dennis Connor’s Stars & Stripes team, 5–0, to win the cup for New Zealand.

I watched the races, once onboard an old schooner with actor Michael York and triple crown actress Rita Moreno. I was put to work flaking the mainsail as most guests did not know how to sail a boat without roller furling. I was invited aboard the yacht of the Commodore of the San Diego Yacht Club for the final celebrations, which was fun, but my America’s Cup days had come to an end.

Americas Cup Yachts could now advertise, and large multinational companies would enter the fray for the branding of their products on worldwide TV. The old mono hull sailboats with skippers and navigators slugging it out in sailing maneuvers and changing wind and wave conditions would become distant memories as the America’s Cup Race became high tech drag races with catamaran bobsleds manned by lawyers, electronic rhumb lines (boundaries), teleconferenced by oversight committees, and plastered with advertisements for Oracle software and Louis Vuitton handbags.

PART XI: TIME TO GET BACK TO WORK: THE COFFERS ARE EMPTY!

Chapter 11.1: Tax Advantaged Hotels. And Welcome to Aspen and Palm Beach, Florida.

Changes in venue are often healthy, and I was ready to make one. Chopping wood, riding horses, motorcycles, flying airplanes, sailboats, keg parties and romancing young ladies by a fireplace was a great lifestyle. But coffers constantly have to be refilled and I still had a fine law degree that had been underutilized.

So I became involved in tax advantaged or tax shelter syndications of office buildings, shopping centers, apartment buildings and hotels. I learned the real estate business, the tax shelter business, the private placement securities business, the account receivables collection business, and, of course, the litigation business in fairly quick order.

I also was involved in the first syndication of a Grand-Prix Jumper, a Dutch Warm Blood Black Stallion named “Omen”, and he was an uncut stud. He was ridden by Lyn Little and managed by Raylyn Farms out of the Maryland Hunt Cup area. Omen helped win a Silver Olympic Medal for the US Equestrian team, a medal I proudly still have today. Omen came in second by a mere fraction of a second two years in a row at the Madison Square Garden Grandprix, it’s venue prior to moving to Wellington, FL. In that competition was the Tuckerman Cup, named after one of my ancestors.

On the third Grandprix, the competition was now very fearful of Omen, so they rented the stalls closest to the jumping ring, and filled them with Mares in heat. Omen, the Stallion Stud, smelled this, and would not jump, he balked and came in last. I asked Lyn what had happened, and she told me. And all I could say was “That’s my boy”. Omen cost $700,000, I thought my return on investment would just be horse manure, but he was sold for $2.1 million to a rich somebody who wanted his daughter to win jumping trophies.

By 1985, I was completely devoted to condo-hotel syndications. A Condo Hotel is a hotel in which each room is individually owned by investors but are pooled together so the hotel appears like a hotel. The success story was the Camelback Marriott in Scottsdale, Arizona. This involved a lot of travel. I began by working with Merrill Lynch on the syndication of the Marco Beach Hilton, on Marco Island, Florida. They were having trouble selling out the investment units and I came in with a re-structuring idea that worked. They were able to sell it out. Word got out, and people started coming to me with their problems in the condo-hotel syndication area.

Citibank had a particularly amusing problem. The “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sound_of_Music”Sound of Music” had been released in 1961, years earlier, the story of the singing “Von Trapp” family fleeing from the Nazi’s and their ancient home, their Austrian Castle about the same time my grandparents fled Austria in 1938. They soon became the singing darlings of America. The Von Trapps decided to settle in Stowe, Vermont, and they asked Citibank for a construction loan to build the “Von Trapp Family Lodge”, based on their family castle in Austria, to offer lodging, food and entertainment. This would be a good PR move for Citibank.

However, there arose a gross cultural conflict. Americans built buildings to last 40-60 years, whereas the Von Trapps came from a culture that built their buildings to last 600-800 years. So by the time I was brought in, the Foundations and the load bearing structures had been poured with triple the strength of concrete normally associated with a skiing lodge. The lodge would last 1000 years, even if the mountain fell on it. And Citibank was way over budget, red ink everywhere.

Citibank could foreclose and evict the Von Trapps into the cold snows of Vermont, but they would be perceived as evil villains by our Country, or they could soldier up and finish it and take a blood bath. I calculated the payback period for Citibank would be about one hundred years. There was no way it could be syndicated. Citibank must have bit the bullet for the Von Trapp Lodge was finished and still operates today.

Then I aligned myself with several syndicators, one of which was Dowmar Securities, run by an elegantly dressed Irish-American by the name of William Dowling. They gave me an office at 30 Rockefeller Plaza in NYC and we began to work on a condo-hotel syndication in Aspen, Colorado, along with the Aspen legend Dick Butera. In those days Aspen was still a real cowboy ski town. Après Ski was at the old Little Nell’s, a rundown pool hall with beer soaked rugs. No Gucci après-ski outfits there, just hard skiing and hard drinking. Then the “Red Onion” for a “stupid coffee”, and thereafter a hot tub with blueberry brandy surrounded by girls with names like “Bambi”. Then dinner and dancing, and rock ‘n roll.

But the old Aspen was dying. Marvin Davis would bring his fortune to bear, Saudi Princes would come build Ritz Carltons and après ski fashion outfits and truffled French fries would replace hard skiing as the competition de jour. We finished the Aspen Club lodge, and I would return to Aspen many times, as New York, Hollywood and Texas money drove the old Aspen natives westwards to Telluride. But the skiing and partying remained. And the Caribou Club was the hot spot as always.

Now my relation with Dowmar took a turn for the worst. They wanted to syndicate Ashford Castle in County Mayo, Ireland and I could see pride of Irish ownership trumping financial sense. Condo-Hotels in America were one thing, Castles in foreign countries with foreign tax laws is an entirely a different thing. I could only see trouble ahead, and though I loved my little office in 30 Rockefeller Plaza, it was time to bail out.

There was a small historic Mizner Hotel in Palm Beach, FL, and some developers were renovating it but had no idea what to do as a condo hotel. The Brazilian Court up the street was simultaneously being renovated by Clifton Harrison. Clifton had renovated the Barbizon Hotel in New York, and that is where I met him. Years later, Clifton and I would become business partners in Moscow, Russia and in Baghdad, Iraq.

So I took a look at the Chesterfield Hotel Project. I ran numbers and realized a 25% historic tax credit could be available. Andre Surmain, founder of the restaurant “Lutece” in New York, was putting in a restaurant that would be the best in Palm Beach. So I took on the project, the legal papers were drawn up, and off I went. The first thing I did was place the Hotel on the National Register of Historic Places. The next thing I did was get a façade appraisal and donate the façade to the Historical Society of Palm Beach, of which Earl Smith, Sr. was the President. He knew I played tennis often with his great son in Newport, RI. With a historic tax credit, a façade easement tax deduction, triple declining depreciation, and a 3 year tax write-off of furnishings, fixtures and equipment, we had an investment in a prime area of Palm Beach that would pay for itself. So I brought in investors, including prominent economist Ed Yardeni and Wade Boggs, the Red Sox baseball player, and Tommy Herr, a Pirates’ pitcher at the time. We barely got the Certificate of Occupancy from the Town of Palm beach and closed the deal before New Year’s Eve, a necessity because Ronald Reagan’s new tax laws were coming into effect.

Well we had a little trouble after that because the developer’s law firm turned over the marketing budget, some $300,000 to the developer, who absconded with it, which caused a soft season due to lack of advertising. We hired the former head of the Florida Bar Association, a bright eagle named Gerry Richman, to work things out. Eventually the developers’ lawyer’s malpractice carrier ponied up and we were made whole, but it was a hassle.

Gerry Richman had a bright associate named Michael Hanzman. He knew nothing about securities fraud law and I taught him everything I knew. He picked it up, they won our case. More than a decade later, I would see Michael Hanzman at a party in Coral Gables, FL. We caught up. Michael had recently won a class action securities fraud case against Prudential Bache Securities and pocketed a cool $40 million legal fee. He retired to become a judge. Where was my cut? Life is funny that way.

The Brazilian Court up the street also closed by New Year’s Eve, but had so much internal troubles that it’s developer and syndicator, Clifton Harrison took off to Moscow, Russia to await the six year statute of limitations to expire. There were no extradition treaties with Russia, so Clifton was safe. I would hook up with him many years later. The RTC would take over the Brazilian Court as real estate prices tumbled under Regan’s new tax code and overleveraged Savings and Loan Associations would crumble one by one.

The Chesterfield eventually got up and running smoothly. I would return to the Chesterfield only on special occasions, the last being the private engagement party of Real Housewives of New York Luan HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luann_de_Lesseps”deJessups and Tom D’Agastino. Otherwise, you would be carded, and any ID under age 80 was a no go. Scene 11, Act II: What to do next?

Chapter 11.2: Hollywood: Lights, Action, Cameras, Litigate until you Die! The Big Easy and Platoon.

The U.S. Congress passed the Tax Reform Act of 1986 to simplify the income tax code, broaden the tax base, and eliminate many tax advantaged shelters, including most real estate ones. Condo-Hotels were no exception, and thus I was basically out of that business.

However, Regan did institute a staggered income tax cut. The top tax rate for individuals for tax year 1987 was lowered from 50% to 38.5% and beginning in 1988, taxpayers having taxable income higher than a certain level were taxed at an effective maximum rate of about 28%.

That forced me to put my thinking cap on, and if I could invent a vehicle to arbitrage this drop in tax brackets, I might have something precious and profitable. You would need to deduct expenses at a 50% at the year one tax rate, and pay back income taxes on income received 3 years later at a 28% rate, and you then would have made a handsome arbitrage profit.

Well, there was only one playing field left in town with this potential and that was Hollywood. You need to understand the film business, it is complex. At the time, I was learning it by buying up bankrupt Dino De Laurentiis bonds at 9 cents on the dollar after he gave $40 million to his daughter, Rafaela De Laurentiis, to completely blow on a science fiction movie “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dune_(1984_film)”Dune HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dune_(1984_film)”.” I had read the book as a youth, the book was mediocre, the movie was worse, a horrendous bust and would end up busting De Laurentiis. But I had to go to LA Bankruptcy Court, read all the legal claims, review the accounts receivables, and try to value the remaining library rights. My 9 cent bonds might be worth as much as 21 cents on the dollar, I thought.

So you had to understand the movie business as it was in those days because technology is always evolving. But let’s talk about the movie business in 1986. There was: (A) Production: which is getting a director, screenplay, producers, actors and lights-action-camera, editing, then you had a single film in a can. Then there was: (B) Distribution: getting your Master Print of the film copied at $100 into as many “Prints” as needed for a multi-theatrical release. If it was a domestic theatrical wide release in 2,000 theatres, you would need 2,000 Prints costing $2,000,000. Plus you would need as much advertising money to alert movie goers that the next best film was at your local theatre. This would be first expenditure of additional moneys for theatrical release, or distribution, and it was all deductible up front in day one under the IRC’s 50% deductible Rule. When the film was finally distributed in theatres, you could receive 45% of “domestic theatrical (box office) receipts”, the theatres keeping 55% in year one. After that would be foreign theatrical release where the film was dubbed in Japanese or German and distributed internationally.

Thereafter, a newer technology would be a 12 month HBO Pay TV run and thereafter release to VHS, three years later, also a relatively new technology, and thereafter syndicated to airplanes and ships-at-sea. In between, a good film might be bought by “free television”, that is CBS, ABC or NBC to show for free Sunday night. Then the entertainment software would be relegated to the copyright “library” whereby the rights could be shelved and re-exploited, especially if a new technology came along like DVD or Blue-Ray.

I figured that if you played my game right, you could deduct the Prints and Advertising costs in year one and defer your guaranteed recapture for 3 years from the VHS distribution, then you could arbitrage Reagan’s 50%-28% tax cuts under this system, and if the film made money, you could also profit greatly. Boring Bittker’s Tax classes at Yale Law School had finally paid off!

There are two players in Hollywood, the large studios like MGM, Paramount or United Artists and a whole slew of “independents” who filled in for the voracious demand from movie theatre chains, who needed endless movie product to keep the turnstiles turning in order to keep on selling their overpriced popcorn.

Since prints and ads were tax-deductible up front at 50 cents on the dollar and VHS gave a guaranteed 3 year payback at 28% tax rate, this was the ultimate tax arbitrage deal under the Reagan 1986 Tax Reform Act, and so I invented the “Prints and Ads” tax arbitrage deal, where you would deduct your expenses at 50% and recoup your income from VHS three years later at 28%, and receive profits on the film, if any.

I first went to Austin Furst at Vestron. Furst founded Vestron by buying the assets of Time-Life Films and before VHS became a new market, he made a lot of money exploiting the Time-Life Film Library on the new technology: VHS. He wanted to build a film distribution company, so we agreed to finance the prints and ads financing on his first three 3 junk movies that would be a “bicycle release”, that is doing 300 prints and ads and going city to city by bicycle with local advertising rather than doing a nationwide one time release in 2,000 theatres.

Ironically, we made back barely the money on the first 3 Vestron films. But we also cut the frontier for them, created a demand for their product amongst movie theatres. Their fourth film released on our trail-blazed system, “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dirty_Dancing”Dirty Dancing” was a huge release and a Patrick Swayze hit and of course we got nothing. We pioneers got the arrows; they got the profits from our efforts. I last saw Austin Furst at his company’s Halloween costume party. He was dressed in a pink fairy queen costume. Then Vestron went bankrupt under Chapter 11. That’s Hollyweird!

The next venture was with Kings Road Entertainment. It was a publicly traded company and thus fairly transparent. It’s President, Steven Friedman, had produced a hit: All of Me with Steve Martin and Lily Tomlin. As a result, HBO had awarded him a contract for 10 to- be-made films, at $4.5 million each and a guaranteed dollar amount with a VHS deal at the end. European American Bank, a Dutch affiliated Bank with 97 retail outlets in New York City, seemed determined to join the train wreck of the banks before it that had jumped into the sexy “Hollywood” film business. They agreed to hypothecate the HBO contracts and front the money to Kings Road to produce films.

Our agreement was to do my “Prints and Advertising” deal with two films, the Big Easy HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Big_Easy_(film)” with Dennis Quaid and Ellen Barkin, unknown actors at that time, and Morgan Stewart’s Homecoming with Jon Cryer. We drew up the papers, a Distribution Joint Venture with Kings Road as the Managing Distributor and my partnership as the “Prints and Ads” financing distribution partner. And we built in a backend of a percentage of any profit we might get. European American Bank further agreed to subordinate its rights to receive revenues from the films to our first–in-order rights to receive revenues in a “Subordination Agreement”.

And we supposedly got good news, Columbia Pictures had agreed to do a nationwide release for a meager 17.5% distribution fee. A little costly, but we were in the Big Leagues now.

Finally, a third deal came down the road, Hemdale Pictures had two films “Hoosiers HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoosiers_(film)”” with Gene Hackman and a movie called “Platoon” with relatively unknown actors like Charlie Sheen. Hoosiers had scored big with its pre-screening focus groups, most likely because it was done in Indiana, the basketball capital of the world. I met with the principles of Hemdale, Derek Gibson and John Daly, but we could not work out a deal in time before the close of the calendar tax year.

Well, you might think I missed the “big one”. Platoon was a financial blockbuster and a winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture. It was the final mending catharsis for the Vietnam War.

But think again, as I tell you the tale of Hollyweird. Movies are all supposed to go bust and the investors shake their heads, walk away, and move on. But a successful film has many hands out for the reward, and that’s usually when the proverbial shit hits the fan.

Gibson and Daly, it turns out, had sold the rights to Platoon four times over, and after the unexpected success, all of the 400% of investors wanted their money. But Gibson and Daly had in turn been screwed by Orion. Orion had thought Hoosiers would be the big one, but their analytics came back and indicated Platoon was going through the roof. So they cleverly offered to buy out Hemdale’s backend of Platoon for a princely sum of money, but in retrospect peanuts. Then Orion promptly yanked all of Hoosiers “showings” in the theatres and replaced it with “Platoon”. It made a lot of money for Orion and none for Hemdale. Gibson and Daly were hit by 800 lawsuits, a record in its day, but they managed to use their remaining money to “double down” in an attempt to rescue them and made The Last Emperor, which also won the Academy Award but was an expensive financial dud. Gibson and Daly had to flee to England to avoid extradition and prison.

So, we are left with the tale of the Big Easy, which turned out to be a fairly decent success that made Dennis Quaid’s and Ellen Barkin’s careers, and yes, the shit did hit the fan, but in a different way. The first screw job was that Columbia released this great film in the middle of August. Movies and TV ratings are seasonal. You don’t release great programming in July or August, because everybody is at the beach. When the kids come back, and are on vacation, those are the prime release dates. But Columbia would save its prime release dates for its in-house films; the independent films were to fill in the “vacuum” dates. Big Easy surprised them because it grossed over $15 million in box office receipts in August. If released properly, like around Thanksgiving Vacation in November, it could have done double or triple that.

So Columbia sent us the accounting. We should have received 45% of $15 million box office revenues less their 17.5% distribution charge. However, they sent a bill, charging us retail prices for the wholesale advertising they allegedly spent. Instead of $5 million expected, there was no check, not even for 5 cents. Anybody with half a brain knows when you buy bulk advertising you get a huge discount to retail, like seats on an airplane bought in advance. There is always another flight and bulk early seats are dirt cheap when bought in advance. Why should your partner charge you retail when he had bought all the advertising at wholesale?

I immediately called my partner, Kings Road, and told them Columbia was charging us retail for ads when they had bought for wholesale. I demanded an accounting be done. They replied, “Yes, we got screwed but we are not going audit Columbia. They might release our future films and this might really piss them off. I’m not going to put that relationship at risk”

I said : “I don’t give an F— about your cozy future relationship with Columbia, you have an existing fiduciary duty to your partners in this film, not for others that you may or may not do, I want our money justly due or I will sue.”

The lawyers I consulted said you might win this if you are willing to hop into a cage with a 800 pound Gorilla like Columbia, however, the Managing Joint Venture Partner, Kings Road, has authority over this and they must agree, which they clearly expressed they will not. You would then have to sue Kings Road first for breach of fiduciary duty to get “standing” to sue Columbia in the Managing Partner, Kings Road’s, shoes and it could get really expensive.

So we would have to wait for the HBO and VHS revenues to come in. But European American bank did not withhold our share, they mistakenly sent it to Kings Road which immediately put it into a move entitled “Rent a Cop” starring Liza Minnelli and Burt Reynolds.

Kings Road was in fact “doubling down”, hoping a hit would bail them out of their financial difficulties. It was the same strategy that Hemdale used unsuccessfully with the Academy Award winning The Golden Child, hoping the roulette table of fickle Hollywood would bail them out. “Rent a Cop” was a complete flop, actually embarrassing.

Chapter 11.3: Idiot: This is Hollywood. Take 10 cents on the dollar and be on your way!

So when I came to Kings Road with my hand out for payment, they had no money. I met with Steve Friedman at the Russian Tea Room in NYC on 57th Street, and we had a short discussion: “Steve, you owe us $6,500,000. I want it now or I will sue.” He said: “Listen, we don’t have it. You can stand in line and sue us, and 5 years later, if you win, we will be bankrupt and judgment proof. But I will do you a favor, I will offer you 10 cents on the dollar for a full liability release.”

I said: “Thanks for your kind generosity and charity. But no, I will take what is owed, 100 cents on the dollar, nothing less. European American Bank has guaranteed the amount due. I will cut through your company first, strip it, and then take the balance owed from European American Bank. And I want legal fees as well.” So our courteous conversation came to an end. It was to be War!

Now litigation is no fun, it is expensive, filled with IEDs and minefields, and generally overloaded dockets where justice takes a back seat to efficiency and case flow. Litigation is a coin toss, what judge you get, who in the Bar Association is a member of the insider boy’s club, what sleazy lawyers will sell any lie to a judge or jury for $100, to win.

I was lucky. After much research, I found an LA law firm in which Dean Herman was a name partner, and a very experienced and analytical lawyer. He and his firm took the case. There is one thing that Dean had that few other’s had, a special hobby: he built guitars. He found the best acoustics wood across the world, gathered them, and had master artisans build him guitars with the frets fitted to the length of his fingers. He built twenty masterpieces before his wife exiled him and his guitars into their garage. What this meant is that people who read and write music and can build musical instruments tend to have astute mathematical or analytical skills

Dean was kind enough to give me the last of his stashed inventory of his Brazilian Rosewood, which had been declared an endangered species of wood and he had swept up what was left on the open market and inventoried it. Years later, he would give me enough Brazilian Rosewood and arranged that a master guitar builder from Martin Guitars would build me a custom guitar for my Sailing Yacht, frets to fit my figures and a small but loud body to exactly fill the cockpit with tunes.

I remember experiencing my first California Earthquake at his legal offices on Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills. I was at the desk in the guest office and all of a sudden, everything began to tremble and shake. I jumped out to the picture window where I could see the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. It was the oldest structure and would collapse first. The paralegals came running in and screamed “What are you doing? Get under the desk, hide in the doorway jam. This is an earthquake!” Well, reluctantly, I left my perch overlooking the potential destruction of the Wilshire Hotel, and stood in the doorway. The picture window had not shattered. Not much fun. I had felt trembling on the bedrock of New York City years ago, your bed shook as if you were over a subway train. But it is all bedrock. Same in Connecticut, the bed shakes but there are no trains within 20 miles. The worst we had was in South Carolina in the 1880’s, where the sand shifted and every house and village sunk into the very liquid quicksand. Many deaths.

I understand Hurricanes better, there is a vortex of wind that can rip you to shreds and mountains of crashing water, but at least you could prepare, measure the drop in barometric pressure, and know where the dangerous winds and water were coming from. Sail around it or find a Hurricane hole shelter. My last earthquake was in NYC, after 2005, a mass evacuation, a building on 32nd street collapsed. The epicenter was somewhere in the Carolinas, such were the vibrations northward. I prefer hurricanes.

Chapter 11.4: No more Weather Channel: Back To War and Oliver North Stories.

So we survived the earthquake and sued Kings Road and European American Bank (“EAB”) in State Court in downtown LA. Kings Road hired its usual sleazy lawyers and European American Bank hired a huge law firm full of over-priced three piece suits with incredible arrogance. They stayed in the background more or less since I had to knock off Kings Road first before EAB had liability under their “Subordination Agreement”.

Motions were filed and “discovery” began in what was to be a knock down-drag out fight. But then a miracle happened. CBS came in to offer $2,500,000 for the Free Television Rights to Big Easy. We immediately had the Court lock it up into an escrow account to await the outcome of the litigation.

After a period of time, the Screen Actors’ Guild heard of it. They were entitled to a piece of that money when paid by CBS and made demand upon Kings Road for their cut. Kings Road could not pay them, so SAG began to picket Kings Road outside its offices in Century City. Not only was it embarrassing, but it this also meant Kings Road would never shoot a movie again, they would be blacklisted by SAG. They would be out of the movie business.

So Kings Road rolled over, they agreed to a release all of the escrow to us whereby SAG got its dues and we got the rest. Kings Road got a Legal Release and now we focused on European American Bank for the remaining $4,250,000 still due. We went to European American Bank and made claim. They said “we are not going to pay.” I said “ The Subordination Agreement requires you to pay us those monies.” They said “We owe you nothing. The Subordination Agreement does not say what it really says”. I said “Its friggin only two pages long, and you subordinated your rights to our rights to receive our money which is sitting in your vaults.” They said “You can stand in line and sue us, and 5 years later, if you win, we will be bankrupt and judgment proof”. Where did I hear that before? What same slimy rock formation do these sleazy night crawlers all come out from? The wandering Greek Diogenes would do well to spare the kerosene in his lantern looking for an honest man in Tinsel Town.

Well the war dragged on. We were seriously out manned and out gunned. The bank had hired high-powered three piece suits at $500 an hour, who would lie and cheat to win. We had a court-sponsored Mock Trial and the results were not encouraging. Some changes had to be made. We needed a really good trial lawyer, and Dean found one in Orange County. His name was Terry Giles, a former Marine and had won his last 76 civil cases. He was the buzz saw we needed. He agreed to take our case and I learned many things from him. He would go to bed at 6:00 p.m. and wake up at 3:00 a.m. to prepare for trial the next day. He would be completely fresh in the morning and drop us off 3 blocks from the court house so no potential juror could see us in a fancy limousine. At trial, his adversaries would bring Perrier to drink, we drank the same tap water everybody else in the court was drinking. Little things count.

Terry also taught me a greater lesson in law that Yale Law School would ever teach: In old Texas, there was an “absolute defense” to murder: “He needed killing”. This means you could shoot down some gunslinger with your six-shooter, and claim not as an “affirmative defense” but rather as an “absolute defense” that “he needed killing”. That was an assassin’s purest legal defense, when they have to take out the bad guys: “he needed killing”. Most recently Trump took out Qassim Suleimani, an Iranian Terrorist responsible for over 200 American deaths in Iraq. Trump to Geneva UN crybabies: “he needed killing.”

Thanks for the lesson, Terry. But I digress. Back to LA.

So after a long and acrimonious battle in court, we went to trial and got our verdict for $4,250,000. EAB had within 30 days to pay or we could seize their assets. They made some settlement offers, to which I replied “Can you count to 100? I told you before I am not taking less than 100 cents on the dollar, that means 100, not 50, 75 or 80.” European American Bank stalled and stalled, 29 days had passed, so I took the California Legal Judgment and registered it in New York where EAB had 97 retail bank branches.

I got the Sheriffs the necessary “attachment warrants” to walk into each EAB bank branch the next day and seize all their furniture and computers and auction them off, in essence shutting them down. EAB sent a wire transfer of $4,250,000, which arrived 15 minutes before the close of the Fed window on the last day. In one of my saddest moments in my life, I had to call off the Sheriffs. I was so looking forward to shutting that Bank down and auctioning off their equipment. Winning can truly be bitter. So I became known in Hollywood as the WASP guy who would only take 100 cents on the dollar, like some untrained Junk Yard Dog who doesn’t know how to play the game- doesn’t know the “rules”. But no “Big Bad Leroy Brown”, it was just my Viking DNA, a badge of pride. Fight ‘till death.

Chapter 11.5: Junk Yard Dog to Hollyweird: Farewell!

Well I had my fill of Tinsel Town, in spite of the glamour, it is a town of accountants and lawyers and wanna-be Steve Spielbergs. I did have some interesting experiences. Parties at Hugh Hefner’s Playboy mansion, dinning with Tony Curtis, hanging with a friend, Michael Ault, at his new Santa Monica nightclub and working out the first LA Sports Club, an eye fest. While wandering the Court House in LA, I ran across Meredith Baxter Birney, very hot in her day. She was there testifying in the next courtroom over for Art Buchwald in his copyright suit over “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coming_to_America”Coming to America”. Rodney King , the fellow that had been beaten by Police on camera, causing huge riots in LA, was in a case being tried in a nearby court room. He had a huge skull made of granite.

My existing “steady” girlfriend in NYC and I had decided to take a three month hiatus, for I was stuck in LA and she was in New York. But dating in LA was an enigma. Everybody drove everywhere, and at the end of the day, girls did not want to dress up and drive another 30 minutes so they all cancelled their dinner dates at the last minute. So then you would make three dates, on the “game theory” that one would show up. This did not work because then all three would show up. It was a Rubik’s Cube, dating in LA. You would end up sleeping alone unless your name was Harvey Weinstein, or you had a suitcase full of $100 Benjies, or your latest release won an Academy Award.

I did, however, end up collecting on my Delaurentis Bonds at about 25 cents on the dollar, a 270% profit. It turned out Carolco bought their assets, including the foreign accounts receivables. They were able to collect 100 cents on the dollar of those receivables because they had the “ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rocky_(film_series)”Rocky” franchise and if you didn’t pay up, you would not get the valuable distribution rights to the next Rocky III-IX. That is how the game works, what do you have for me today? Then I pay what I owe.

I made a bid for Mercury Entertainment, the producer of Taxi Driver owned by John Phillips, the ex of beautiful Michelle Phillips, they had a screenplay I liked. But too much money was left over from Taxi Driver to realistically finance the takeover. I also got involved in Giancarlo Parretti’s takeover the of the Cannon Film Group Inc. and his buyout of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer in 1990 for $1.2 billion. It was a typical Hollyweird disaster. Under Parretti’s control, MGM released almost no movies, he appointed his 21-year-old daughter to a senior financial post. He used company money for presents to several girlfriends, including a former runner-up for Miss Universe. Parretti soon faced securities fraud charges in the United States and Europe. In March, 1999, he was found guilty of misuse of corporate funds and fraud and he was sentenced in absentia to four years in prison and fined 1 million francs by a Paris court. Tinsel Town! Who can beat this?

So I left Hollywood for over a decade. I went east to Moscow and beyond. Years later my friend hooked me up with Hollywood producers of 60 minute “Work Out” DVDs. One guy was from Creative Artists, the big talent agency, and as we discussed the deal, he said “I think I heard of you, aren’t you the WASP guy that would only take 100 cents on the dollar?” I replied: “Yes, get the picture?” Then an up- and-coming star named “Kim Kardashian” had been signed up. Paris Hilton was top dog at the time, I knew her. Her cousin Conrad Hilton, from Palm Beach and LA, was a dear friend. But Kim Kardashian was on the parabolic rise. We shot the workout videos “Fit In Your Jeans By Friday” over Super Bowl Sunday from 7:00 a.m. to 7.00 p.m. in 2009. We shot for 3 days. Kim could have been partying in Tampa Bay with Reggie Bush but decided to work instead. She was a very hard working professional, and a very nice girl. If you meet her in person, she is all of that, very nice and cordial.

The workout video sold well nationwide and made money, until YouTube decided to post it for free on their channel, violating copyright law and costing us huge lost revenues, probably $18 million. Anybody want to “RICO” sue an 800 pound gorilla that has a $40 billion war chest? Backed by Google with an even bigger war chest? If you find one, let me know. I already tried.

We also shot workout videos with others like Sting and Jane Fonda, but my favorite shoot was with Brooklyn Decker in New York for Elle Magazine. She was so nice and sweet a person, no attitude for all her success. Fun to talk to her during breaks on the set. She eventually married Andy Roddick, who I also previously had met in the tennis circuit in Florida, and Andy is as good a guy as it comes. Two wonderful, successful, cordial people fall in love and marry, like the fairy tale of the Prince and Princess of America. Nice things happen to nice people, I guess.

So that’s it for Hollyweird. Take two valuable lessons with you: 1) Always run receipts into an escrowed lock box, not through the hands of the producer. Everybody needs the money, but if it is locked up, everybody agrees by necessity to do the right thing; 2) Always sign a contract where the loser pays the winner’s legal fees. If it’s not in the contract in California, you are not entitled to your legal fees. That’s probably why Tinsel Town is a free-for-all legal brawl.

Chapter 11.6: Back home again: if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, New York, New York, New York.

Well, as fate would have it, I would be gravitating back towards New York City, the home of my ancestors. My stint at law, and at Condo Hotel Syndications at 30 Rockefeller Center, had drawn me back to the Big Apple. My stint in Hollywood with the Reagan -Tax arbitrage deals ended at the close of Calendar year 1986, as the movies worked their way through the distribution chain. What to do now?

I still had my apartment on 52nd St. and I had sublet it to a childhood friend, Michael Sopkiw, who grew up to be tall and handsome. He starred in Spaghetti Westerns and B-films like After the fall of New York. He then became a male Ford Model, and did advertisements for TV and for catalogs. When they were searching for a spokesman for “Mr. Camel” cigarettes, he came in second to all contestants except the cartoon camel, which got the job. He had good income and a royalty stream and was a really nice guy. When I needed to stay briefly in NYC, he would let me sleep on the fold out couch in the living room, and never asked for a rent reduction.

So when I discussed moving back to NYC, he suggested we become roommates. So I agreed, and thus I was styling again. I had a roof over my head in the “hood” and a roommate friend Ford Model -Movie star-wingman in a package deal. And he was wired into the Model and fashion scene. He would take me to the Ford Model annual party at Club Xenon and I would see more beautiful women in one night then I had seen in a lifetime. And I met OJ Simpson at the bar and gave him a high five. I would see OJ many times thereafter, before the tragedy struck. I was, in all senses of the word: “awestruck”.

PART XII: TALES OF SPARTICUS IN THE PITS:

Chapter 12.1: 40 bid at 50. 10 lots. Sold to SICO!

But I was not there for the nightlife, at least at this point in my life. I needed something to do and that was to be trading commodity futures on the Floor of the Comex at the old 5 World Trade Center, before it was destroyed in the 2001 terrorist disaster.

I would buy a seat on the NYSE Futures Exchange and commute by subway, and trade in the “Pits”, a chaotic ring with many steps where “floor traders”, members of the exchange, would chaotically trade on the open outcry system, with hand signals: hand inward, a buyer, with fingers designating the number of contracts, Palm outward, you were offering to sell. Orders would come from phone banks located near the pits where clerks could run order slips into their trader in the pit for execution.

This is where “front running” occurred. If a large buy order came in, the clerk would wink one eye and scratch his ear, signaling to his buddy in the pit what was coming in. His buddy then would buy a huge amount of contracts and “front run” the buy order for a quarter of a point. Then he would split the profit with the clerk. Similarly, if a huge sell order came in, the opposite eye would wink and the opposite ear scratched.

To be good in the pits, you had to notice things like that. It was part of the “fleecing game”. Nowadays, “front running” is done by high frequency trading machines (HFT) placed just on edge of the electronic pipeline to the electronic floor, that can “see” an electronic order coming down the pipe and front run it. Thus large Institutional block traders have created algorithms that fake an order, then cyber create a “black hole” which opens behind the HFT, so as to dump the trade without front running. This is cyber warfare at its best.

However, during my tenure, there were clerks, phone banks, floor traders and the huge trading floor was complete bedlam. There were many pits trading oil, gasoline, silver, gold, copper, coffee, orange juice, cocoa, stock futures, foreign currency baskets called the US Dollar Index, and a commodities basket index called the CRB. And then there were corresponding “option on futures” pits. Every pit was full of screaming traders. But as Mandelbrot taught us, apparent chaos is an organized system and this open outcry system on the floor of the Exchanges worked well. Soon your ears became your most valuable tool as over time, ears could learn to discern different voices, even as far away as the gold pit on the other side of the room. And you always checked your counter-party after a trade and confirmed the trade. Otherwise, an “out trade” occurred where you were stuck in a position overnight that you did not want, at the mercy of the opening call in the morning.

The cool thing is that you traded on margin, meaning you had tremendous leverage. You placed a US Treasury Bill with your clearing house, that is the House that reconciled the trades overnight, and you still could earn 6% on your T-bill as you leveraged it to the moon in an attempt to “scalp” a quarter of a point on hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of contracts in less than a second.

I chose the best and strongest clearing house, Speer Leeds Kellog, for I had heard the story of the legendary commodities trader, Paul Tudor Jones. When he first started trading, he had all his margin money in a clearing house that went under. They froze his assets for six months and he could not trade. A bitter lesson, starvation, but he went on to become a tremendous success in the commodities market, a rare event. And then he financed a Restaurant bar on Lexington and the 70’s called Shelby’s, run by good old Memphis boys, which became the favorite trendy watering hole for my friends and many many lovely ladies. This is how a role model is formed, is it not?

Chapter 12:2 So you want to be a Floor Trader? Tales from the Gladiators’ Arena.

Now you may think that I was crazy jumping into the trading pits. But trading is in my blood. I am descended from Dutch Fur Traders who came here it in 1619. It is thus in my personae, for the Viking in me, honed by my crypto-father, urges me to cut your head off. The Mohawk in me wants to scalp it, and the Dutch Fur Trader in me wants to buy the scalp cheap and trade it in Paris for a handsome profit. No need for long expensive hours on a couch undergoing Freudian analysis, I am really pretty simple, no onion layers to peel away at hundreds of dollars an hour. A “fearless trader”, a “Spartacus”, that is what is needed in the “pits”, and that is what I intended to be.

And I was not exactly an amateur. I had studied the history of price fluctuations in commodities, technical analysis and fundamental analysis. At Yale and while an associate lawyer in New York, I had a commodities futures retail account with Clayton, a subsidiary of Cargill Grain, the largest privately owned company in the US, followed by Koch Industries. From time to time, I would go sit beside my retail broker and trade silver futures. I thought I had the magic bullet. Silver was in a trading range with about $4.00 per ounce at the top end. Silver was in a habit of going “limit up” (the maximum daily price movement allowed by the futures exchange) then bouncing off. So it was simple, sell silver at limit up, with an MIT order (Market if Touched) and then cover or liquidate on the close with an MOC order (Market on Close). I turned some pretty coin until one day, the market went limit up, my short order got filled, but the silver price did not fall off as usual. I was short silver stuck in a “limit up pool” of buy orders, and I waited nervously all day to be filled and out, and I think the pool whittled down and I got out of a few contracts, but silver still closed limit up with a pool. I changed my buy order to GTC (Good till Cancelled). I went home, and although fear is not the word, apprehension to the point of sleeplessness was.

The next day, the Almighty Holy One smiled on me once again, for silver opened and the price fell off, and my GTC liquidation order was immediately filled and I was out, “flat” as they say in the trade. Then silver instantly went limit up again and locked there. For the next few days, silver opened limit up, locked there as it surpassed the $10 an ounce price. No short could get out, anybody short was being “short squeezed” and being murdered. I had been spared.

It turned out that Nelson Bunker Hunt and his brothers were cornering the silver market. They had bought up the a large portion of global silver supply and the price shot from $4.00 an ounce up to $50.00 an ounce by January, 1980. They had paper profits of $2-3 billion. Then the Exchanges, at the behest of governmental authorities, raised the margin to 50% from 10% and issued the Hunt Brothers a “margin call” for $100 million which they did not have as available cash. Meanwhile, every household in America was searching through their attics for grandma’s silver spoons and candelabra, and taking it to the silver smelters to sell at $10 a troy ounce, thus hugely boosting the domestic supply of silver. Silver prices crashed and crashed and the Hunts ended up losing a billion dollars or more and went bankrupt.

In spite of this, there are only two commodities you cannot trade, copper and cattle futures. They are so volatile that only the commercial hedgers, that is owners of copper or cattle, can survive. I saw the copper market being cornered by the Chinese miners, then by Marc Rich, who was better known as a tax evader who traded oil with the enemy, Iran. But Rich was a master trader. After fleeing the USA under indictment, he built the behemoth trading company, Glencore, out of Switzerland, and he had his hands everywhere, including post-soviet Russia.

His ex-wife, Denise Rich, from a wealthy family herself, became the toast of New York and St. Tropez Society and the darling of the Jet Set, the hostess with the mostest. Dubbed “Lady Gatsby” by Yachting magazine, she owned multiple properties, including a mansion in Aspen, Colorado. Always seen in Cannes, Monte Carlo and St. Tropez aboard her 157-foot yacht, Lady Joy, with celebrities and singers aboard, she hosted great parties. But she was not arrogant, actually a charming and gracious host. She gave up her U.S. citizenship in 2012 for tax reasons.

The US Senate found that Denise’s charitable contributions had helped sway Bill Clinton to issue a pardon for Tax Evasion and Trading with the Enemy to her ex-husband, Marc Rich, on Clinton’s last day of his term as President in 2001. It also helped that the former head of the Mossad, the Israeli secret service, had personally requested the pardon. Marc Rich had done Israel great service as he traded them embargoed Iranian Oil under the table from his true buddy, the Ayatollah Kohmeni of Iran. Marc Rich had his hands everywhere, and he could grease the wheels, on both sides. He never returned to the US after his pardon, but this figure was an amazing shadowy legend until he died in Switzerland in 2013. The behemoth trading company, Glencore, is his legacy.

So with copper futures off limits, that leaves us with cattle futures. Only one speculator has made money in that crazy market, and that was a fellow Yale Law School graduate, and her name was Hillary Clinton. She made $100,000 in cattle futures trading while her husband was Governor of Arkansas, courtesy of Refco, a large brokerage firm named after Ray E. Friedman. Refco forgot to give Hillary margin calls and Hillary forgot to pay her US taxes on her $100,000 profit.

In those days, as I well knew by experience, retail futures brokers time-stamped their order tickets before calling them to the trading floor for execution. It was at the end of the trading day that they had to turn their tickets into the back office and assign them to the particular retail accounts, and that is when the fudge factor entered in, a sort of license to steal. The trade had already been made, the results known, but still unassigned. You can fill in the dots from there, you don’t need to go to Yale Law School to figure that one out. Lesson # 6 from Tales of Brave Ulysses? No, just don’t trade cattle futures unless you actually went to Yale Law School and your significant other is a Governor. Or be an insider.

As a footnote, Refco went bankrupt in 2005. Its CEO went to jail for 16 years. Hillary went on to be the First Lady for 8 years with a plethora of IRS tax liens, then paid all her back taxes and penalties on the undeclared $100,000 profit made in 1979 in the year 2000, just before she ran and became a US Senator from New York. Tax evader or Clinton Teflon or both?

Chapter 12.3: How to become a Millionaire trading commodities? Answer: Start as a Billionaire.

My first day on the floor was like being thrown into a hornets’ nest. Chaos and screaming everywhere. I had been issued a badge “SICO”, my “trading handle”, and the Exchange’s trading cards where the badge of your counter party was written down and the trade to either buy or sell and number of contracts, or “lots” were double-checked with your counter-party. Or you could buy or sell “spreads” which are simultaneous buy and sell of different months of the same commodities at different prices.

Commodities at all times trade today at a “spot” price, that is what price you need to pay today to buy it on the open market. Commodity futures predict what the future “spot” price might be. “Contango in futures” refers to a situation where the expected future spot price is higher than the current price, and people are willing to pay more for a commodity at some point in the future than the actual spot price today of that commodity. This may be due to people’s desire to pay a premium to have the commodity delivered in the future rather than paying the costs today of storage and the carry costs of buying the commodity today. For instance, if you buy gold today, you need to safely store and insure it, thus the futures price in Contango forward contacts adds the “carry cost” of the commodity over that period of time in order to effectively equalize today’s spot price of the commodity to equal the future price 12 months from now, with carry costs built in.

The opposite of Contango is known as normal “Backwardation”. Backwardation is often considered as the normal state of the commodities market. A market is in Backwardation when the current spot price is higher the expected future spot price for a particular commodity. Crude oil, for example, may in in shortage today because of war or embargoes, but production of oil in the future will increase and thus ease the shortage, thus prices for Crude Oil in the future in Backwardation will be cheaper.

Thus “spreads” are a bet on the proper Contango or Backwardation, and arbitrageurs can exploit it, as well as hedgers, who will mine gold or pump crude oil in the future and want to lock in their future sales price, or gasoline buyers like airlines who can “hedge” the cost of their future purchases of gasoline.

Amidst this chaos is the fact that not only can you trade this year’s wheat or soybean production but can bet on next year’s unplanted crop and the year after’s crop. Thus you have today’s crop which prices will fluctuate with weather until September, when it is harvested, and next year’s unplanted crop in a delivery month called “Red September”, and the following year’s crop, known as the “Pink September” delivery month. Thus you could bet three years hence on whether “El Nino” or “La Nina” would affect the Pacific Ocean currents and thus the rainfall in Iowa, leading to good harvests or bad harvests. You are betting against Mother Nature, and that is a mistake if you can remember Sophia Loren playing Mother Nature in a margarine commercial: “It is not nice to fool Mother Nature.” Sophia was as hot as they come! Mamma Mia!

Now there is a tale of an idiot that betted against Mother Nature. He worked for a $9 billion hedge fund “Amaranth”. Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Wilma hit Palm Beach that year. Katrina had passed over Palm Beach as a Force 1 hurricane. We were on the beach to watch, and it only really messed up my hair and my dog’s hair, but it later crossed over Florida and hit the Gulf of Mexico and picked up huge thermal strength from the warm water, destroying New Orleans as a Force 5 hurricane and shutting down the Gulf of Mexico’s natural gas production , thus causing natural gas prices to rise dramatically.

So this “idiot” placed a huge bet buying next year’s natural gas futures, thinking the same thing would happen the following year, as if you can predict hurricanes. You cannot predict a hurricane, you can only track them and try to sail around them or quickly find a hurricane hole sheltered from the destructive wind. `

Blackrock, run by Steve Schwartzman, found out about this Amaranth bet and yanked their money out just before Amaranth yanked up their gates to their financial “Moat”, and locked you into this bet. No hurricane hit, natural gas prices fell, and Amaranth went under. Schwartzman got it right. I had met Schwartzman at a dinner party hosted by my friend and mentor, Bill Roosevelt, in Palm Beach. I sat a seat away from Schwartzman and had a brief conversation with him. Very cordial and unassuming. Who was to guess then that he would become a very wealthy wizard, a master of the universe? At least a master of the gambling house, the Casino called Wall Street.

As far as the idiot that blew $6 billion and put Amaranth in Bankruptcy, he was as punishment given a hedge fund of $500 million that he blew on a roulette bet again. Did he go to prison? No, they gave him a hedge fund of $50 million, which he then blew, and then he was finally exiled from the group of morons that seem to control Wall Street hedge funds.

Chapter 12.4: Making the first million is easy, keeping it is the hard part.

Like all human endeavors, you first adapt to the environment, then you observe, learn, question, and hopefully find a niche in a theoretically efficient market place that allows you to make money. There were all sorts of characters there, scalpers, gamblers, arbitrageurs, computer wizards and animals that just won, if you dropped these animals in a jungle, they would come out with all the bananas. And you could learn from them.

Except for one, his badge handle was “Elan” and all he did was watch the bond market and when the bond prices tumbled, he would run from pit to pit waving his arms and screaming in his Yiddish accent “The Bonds are Crashink.” To him, the Bond Vigilantes were going to destroy the market unless a shyster or a manipulator like Alan Greenspan showed up to coral them all into low or zero interest rates. Elan had been a tank commander in the Yom Kippur War and his tank was hit hard with an artillery shell and he was not quite the same again. When he first got to the Comex floor, he did gold and silver spreads, but screwed up, he wanted to buy gold and sell silver against it but he put his orders in backwards. As a result, when the Hunt’s cornered the silver market and the spread between the price of gold and silver rocketed to the moon, he made tens of millions of dollars by accident and never had to trade again.

There was a second trader I learned much from. His name was Marc Fisher, and grew up his whole life eating and breathing commodities trading. He was often seen on CNN or CNBC as an expert. He traded crude oil, and was ultra-successful. He had his own clearing house and he generously taught free classes after trading hours to teach traders all the knowledge and observations in his experience, and I took his classes. Now, Marc was no doubt brilliant, knowledgeable, and experienced, but how can you be successful all the time?

Well, Marc had a special gun to his head. He had married, divorced, and his first wife had won an $800,000 a year alimony award against him in a divorce. His second wife cost him $400,000 a year, so Marc was starting out the trading year $1.2 million in the hole in the most volatile and fickle of all markets, the oil pit. And we all know what happens when you don’t pay your alimony. You go to jail under contempt with no release date, and get to sit next to some big dude who asks “What is you in here for? I shot 5 people robbing a liquor store and I got twenty years.” You say “I didn’t pay alimony.” And the dude looks at you with sympathy and says “Man, you gonna be in here fo’ever. I just gotta do 20.”

Marc finally figured it out. He would withdraw $3,000 cash each day from his clearing house and go to the local strip club and throw it at the feet of the one girl who he fancied. He did this for 30 days in a row and she became his third wife with a prenup. I saw him a decade or so after I left the floor and saw he was on CNBC, so I knew he had beat the alimony gun always pointed to his head.

So I was searching for a profitable niche in a hugely competitive and theoretically efficient market. I knew I could not go toe to toe with the rocket scientists, the veterans, the Morgan Stanley cash hoard, the instinctual animals that always ended up with the bananas, or the Elans of the world who luckily got hit with an artillery shell. So I had to turn to mathematics once again.

Chapter 12.5: What is the value of “risk” worth and how do you fade it, Mr. Markowitz?

To start, you go back in time, study Joseph Fourier and then Louis Bachelier’s coin-toss theory of price distributions and random walks. Then after Wall Street adopted orthodox theories like efficient markets hypothesis and the Capital Asset Pricing Models, along came Markowitz, working out risk and reward anomalies which lead to “volatility” as a variant to risk-reward. Two guys, Fischer Black from MIT and Myron Scholes, a Canadian economist, came up with an all-inclusive Black-Scholes formula to calculate the values of option premiums relative to the “beta” or inherent volatility of the underlying asset and the relevant time frame. Applied to the futures game, you could sell “naked” puts and calls on options on futures, in effect write insurance policies, and watch the premium decay over time, which you pocketed. And Black-Scholes made it mathematically easy, you could sell 5 options and collect premium and buy a corresponding futures position of one or two contracts to hedge your bet. I then overlaid this with my own theory, there were two ways to win and one way to loose writing premium, giving you a 66.6% advantage. For you could win by your underlying asset either moving sideways or in the direction favoring you, and you pocket the premium, or the underlying asset could move in the wrong direction and you get called, if unhedged, for a loss. The disadvantage was you could take on infinite “risk”, thus poor risk management was your Achilles Heel.

Thus finding my niche became an easy game, thanks to Markowitz and Black-Scholes. In fact, I could write premium and head over to Monaco and just watch the premium decay in the International Herald Tribune as I lay at the Monaco Beach Club soaking up rays. It was easy money. And it worked because traditional Gaussian mathematics said a move that exceeded the volatility models could only be a once in a 700 million year eon event, and we had already had the crashes of ‘29, ’32 and ’37. So I prospered for a while, until orthodox mathematics destroyed Wall Street.

I was lucky to be on the floor of the Exchange in the USA on Friday, October 16th, 1987 and later took a train to Connecticut. There late Friday afternoon before the 4:00 EST close, I saw the market begin to roll over and die, and I called the floor clerk and my stock broker, and liquidated all my positions, futures and stocks. Earlier that day, I had seen a crazed floor trader paste Dow 3,000 on his forehead, for Robert Prechter, the guru du jour, had long predicted this, and the Gods do not smile on human hubris. Maybe it was time for a lesson in humility for Wall Street.

I missed Black Monday, for I had other business, but I would call the floor to get quotes and it was a nightmare scene. The Dow Jones plunged 29.4%, something was wrong, this was a once in an eon event and all Wall Street had been taken by surprise. Their carefully designed investment portfolios had all blown up. A fool and his money is soon parted, but Wall Street had been trained into being the fool’s parter, not the foolish partee. This time it was their turn, for portfolio modeling and efficient market thesis, based on ancient Gaussian mathematics, had gone terribly wrong, and the CAPM (Capital Asset Pricing Model) guys were being murdered. I had to rush back to New York, for Tuesday morning on the trading floor would reveal the extent of the wreckage and carnage of Black Monday.

Chapter 12.6: The ‘87 Crash and the Biggest Loser Ever-the Evil Sith Lord “Darth Sorius.”

Darth Sorius, the self-acclaimed financial genius, was the biggest loser in the ‘87 crash. He lost a billion dollars of his investors’ money in less than 30 minutes, which was a lot of money in 1987. He won’t admit to you this in any of his self-promotional material.

Everybody knows of crash of Black Monday, October 19, 1987, but little know of Terrible Tuesday, October 20,1987. On that morning of Tuesday, I was on the floor of the NYSE futures exchange at the old 5 World Trade Center. There was panic, mass panic, margin calls galore, and clearing houses folding like confetti. Everything was being liquidated at bargain basement prices as margin call after margin call were noticed to the traders and they had to liquidate or be forcefully liquidated at any price. The aura of panic and fear was everywhere. You could actually smell it.

The “word” then came onto our floor from the Chicago S HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Mercantile_Exchange”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Mercantile_Exchange”P Futures pit, and that was that a Portfolio Manager, Darth Sorius, was long a huge amount of S&P 500 futures hedged against a short basket of stocks. The floor traders in Chicago were going to hose him by withholding bids, thereby forcing margin calls to Darth Sorius on his long S&P 500 futures position, in effect pulling the stool out from underneath him and his “hedged” positions. The stock market would further crash, and he would be force-liquidated at a great loss.

Sure enough, the futures market opened 20% lower, from the “128” NYSE close Black Monday p.m. to “105” Terrible Tuesday morning. I bought NYSE Futures at 105 hand over fist until the head floor trader announced the NYSE and related markets were going to shut down. When asked when they would reopen, he said “maybe never”. Such was the panic, such was the fear you could smell. Every buyer bailed out. With one minute left to market shutdown, I dumped my entire position at a half a point gain to the last standing buyer in the pit. I did not want my money to be frozen like Paul Tudor Jones for months or years.

The NYSE Futures market shut down at 105.5. Later that day, it reopened at exactly NYSE 128, yesterday’s closing price as if nothing had happened. I asked the head floor trader who was the sole buyer I had dumped a mini-fortune to at the closing bell-Answer-“Morgan Stanley”. Did MS know that buying everything at NYSE 105.5 would be worth NYSE 128 in a half a day? The ways the Wall Street big boys can screw you can’t be counted. But the great Darth Sorius got really screwed that day.

Because my clearing house was the powerhouse, Speer, Leeds, Kellogg, I felt really screwed but was actually fine, I made $80,000 in one second on one options trade in the NYSE panic and we moved to the gold pits where traders were dumping gold to cover margin calls. I turned some good coin that day since I was fearless and bargain basement prices were available everywhere. Yet I got screwed out of a mini-fortune by Morgan Stanley, the insider.Darth Sorius got screwed out of a big fortune. That is the only time, thank god, Darth Sorius and I shared anything in common, we shared the Wall Street “Dildo”.

Darth Sorius went on to inherit the supreme mantle of the Evil Sith Lord, probably from Zbigniew Brzezinski. Darth Sorius shorted the Thai baht and Malaysian and Indonesian currencies, causing the Asian Currency crisis of 1997. He single handedly destroyed hundreds of thousands of lives and profited greatly on it. He followed with a similar attack on the British Pound, destroying even more lives and making even more profit as many more families were financially annihilated.

A clever, insidious Democratic donor, he leveraged $8 billion at beginning of Obama’s administration to $28 billion, courtesy of the U.S. Taxpayers. Using his ill-gotten gains to promote a network of Saul Alinsky type social organizations to promote communism and socialism worldwide, he earned himself a reserved table in Hell next to Stalin and Hitler, and his name remained “Darth Sorius”, the most evil of Sith Lords. That is my sincere opinion.

Recall that Darth Sorius favorite Hillary Clinton did her college thesis on Saul Alinsky’s

Writings. Alinky disciple, Obama, writes about Alinsky in his books. Alinsky merely simplified Vladimir Lenin’s original scheme for world conquest by communist socialism, under Russian Rule. Stalin perfected Lenin’s scheme, and described his converts as “Useful Idiots”. The result of this socialist scheme on Russia was staggering. Millions upon millions of executions, massive genocides, abject poverty and war.

If you can read, then read Saul Alinsky’s Book: RULES FOR RADICALS, REVEILLE FOR RADICAL (how to create a socialist state).
There are 8 levels of control that must be obtained before you are able to create a social state.

The first is the most important.

1) HEALTHCARE — Control healthcare and you control the people.

2) POVERTY — Increase the Poverty level as high as possible, poor people are easier to control and will not fight back if you are providing everything for them to live on.

3) DEBT — Increase the debt to an unsustainable level. That way you are able to increase taxes, and this will produce more poverty.

4) GUN CONTROL — Remove the ability of people to defend themselves from the Government. That way you are able to create a police state.

5) WELFARE — Take control of every aspect of their lives (Food, Housing, and Income).

6) EDUCATION — Take control of what people read and listen to — take control of what children learn in school.

7) RELIGION — Remove the belief in the God from the Government and schools.

8) CLASS WARFARE — Divide the people into the wealthy and the poor. This will cause more discontent and it will be easier to take (Tax) from the wealthy with the support of the poor.

Does any of this Socialist Agenda sound like what has been happening to the United States, courtesy of Alinsky, Clinton, Darth Sorius and Obama? You don’t think so? Guess again. After you put on your reading glasses.

Well anybody that has been to communist or socialist countries where “collectivism” is the mantra and “totalitarianism” is the leverage, one will understand. Under the tenures of Stalin and Hitler, over 40 million people were killed. Move on to the killings fields of Cambodia where more than 1 million Cambodians died at the hands of the Communist dictator Pol Pot, or the tens of millions of dead in Mao’s Communist China, Amin’s Uganda, the uncountable extra judicial killings in Milosovic’s Serbia, Kim’s North Korea, or Castro’s Cuba. At the same time, how many people were butchered in Democratic societies? A relative handful? Mass graves are a bummer to look at. It changes the way you think. Maybe you need to visit a couple.

Perhaps those students who idolize the Alinsky socialist ways should study first Stalin, from the 1930 extermination of the Ukrainians or the genocide of the Kulaks to the Great Purges (the Great Terror) of 1930-36. Stalin had 180 police districts. He sent 10,000 unnamed unsigned confessions to each District and ordered them to be carried out by executions. Each District could choose whom, how and when these confessions were to be filled out, who was to be executed, and they then filled out the confessions which were returned to Moscow for filing. Some districts held trials. Others dug huge pits and shot those who the authorities did not like. Then they filled out the confessions and sent them to Moscow. 1.8 million people were murdered in the name of “Terror”, the God of the Sith Lord, and if you search the internet, you can find crude video’s and New York Times articles depicting the floating corpses killed during the “Great Terror” years earlier in mass graves and dug up in the early 90’s by shifting river beds. I saw this in person in the early 90’s when I was in Russia. It was not a beautiful sight, chilling to the bone. Maybe you should chain yourself to a mass grave for three days and take a few hits of LSD. Bets are that you won’t be an Alinsky socialist after that experience! If not, try a more modern drug like Molly, it will give you a warm and fuzzy feeling so you might want to go hug and kiss these decades old corpses.

Yes, children, the Utopian ideal of all living in collective harmony has been discredited by human greed and their lust for power. For those of you with a college education, remember the Ugandan Dictator, Idi Amin, who you may wish to idolize, as being much more selective and discerning in his mass murder, for he executed any and all Ugandans with a college education or more. The rest lived. Are you next? What degrees have you earned entitling you to the firing squad? I’ve got 5 now. I will die before you, when Idi Amin’s clones decide to have us shot.

And for those of you with a pro forma education but still cannot read Alinsky or comprehend the evil brutality of communism and totalitarianism, try to read George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”. It’s like watching a Disney Movie, cute little piggys and bleating sheep. Your IQ can handle that, can’t it?

P.S. Don’t bother sending donations to Darth Sorius or his Alinsky organizations; he has already taken your money.

PART XIII: NEW YORK SOCIETY: PUTTING ON THE RITZ!

Chapter 13.1: Wanted: Wingman for Floor Trader turned Party Animal.

The time came for me to leave the trading floor. The rules had changed. Margins were yanked sky high, and trading curbs and collars were put on. I still kept on trading futures and kept my clearing house and seat on the Exchange, but the nature of trading is the time frame you choose. You can hold a position on the floor for seconds, scalping, and off the floor for a day, overnight, for a week of more or for years and years. My time horizon changed to daily and maybe weekly, based on technical analysis. I was waiting for the movie deals to work their way through the distribution channels, and thus I had a lot more spare time on my hands.

My roommate and friend, Michael was wired into the model and club scene, and I started to get into New York night life and it was fun. I wore a blue blazer with an ascot tie or silk scarf,

attempting to look both educated and debonair. Michael took me to a Ford Model party and the beautiful Katie Ford was the door-list checker. After checking us off, I gallantly bent Katie over and gave her a kiss on the check, thanking her for the invite. She smiled, and we moved on, but Michael said “Dude, did you know that was my boss?” I said “ Look, she seemed to like it, didn’t she?”

Nowadays, I would probably be locked up and hit by three dozen lawsuits. But back then it was a different attitude, the City was rocking and everybody was having fun. Gallantry was in. Flirtation was welcome, not offensive. Compliments were taken graciously. People enjoyed life. Beautiful Katie went on to marry, she and her husband built a restaurant on Sunset Beach on Shelter Island, NY, which became the Sunday Hamptons hangout for a long time.

On Shelter Island, NY, there is also an Inn called the Ram’s Head Inn. There is a bronze plague on the wall honoring the 1947 gathering of the great minds from the Manhattan Project who built the Atomic Bomb. The 1947 conference featured a veritable Who is Who of the veterans of the Manhattan Project, and other prominent physics, including Oppenheimer, Fermi, Edward Teller-anti Teller, Linus Pauling, Feynman and 19 other great physicists. Prominently absent was Albert Einstein.

Nevertheless, on the 40th anniversary of the first nuclear US Aircraft carrier, the USS Enterprise, the US Navy mistakenly painted E=MC2 on its runway deck. Einstein’s purloined Relativity Theory had nothing to do with nuclear fission, but phony PR has everything to do with it. The Rams Head Inn is a shrine to the truly great minds of the time and Einstein is not on it. Abraham Lincoln had said “you can fool some of the people all of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time”. He was wrong. In Einstein’s case, Einstein and his special relativity theory had fooled all of the people all of the time, like Ptolemy, except for a tiny few brilliant minds beginning with Max Planck. They would not fight the media PR, just invent quantum mechanics and quantum theory to bypass the Einstein PR.

Back to New York Social Life. Michael, my actor-model buddy, and I would wander about. He was not only handsome but very outgoing, friendly, and talkative. Both wingman and friend, we partied up a storm. That is until one day, Suzi appeared. Michael and I were at some luncheonette on 14th street and we were waited on by a beautiful girl from somewhere near Lake Minnetonka, probably of Norwegian heritage. Her name was Susan Hanson, and she was an opera singer. Michael eyes signaled this is it, what he had been waiting for.

Now men have a certain way of instantly feeling when their number one wingman is going down in flames, you don’t radio MayDay, as if a Japanese Zero shot him down. You are in fact very happy for him even though you are going to have to fly solo for a while. Michael had found and would close the deal on the love of his life. They would move out to California, Michael would become an accomplished skydiver, with his own line of skydiver clothing called “BounceProof”, and Suzi would go on to be a great opera star. I would go out and visit them on occasion. I would go with Michael to Bakersfield, CA, skydiving. One time Michael and I were riding in his Ford Mustang muscle car on lower Santa Monica Blvd, in LA, and up pulls another Mustang muscle car. In it was a guy, Jay Leno, before he became a fulltime night host. We revved up our engines and dragged raced up Santa Monica Boulevard. Just like in the old movies. It was a hoot!

Suzi would stay with me when she came to New York. Opera singers have to exercise their vocal chords just like professional athletes, so I had a song bird filling the building with music. And when she was not singing or jogging, she would knit. And she knitted me fantastic multicolored wool sweaters with ornate silver buttons. I would take them to Aspen, and so unique and stunning they were that at one Après Ski, at the Red Onion, I caught out of the corner of my eye Sylvester Stallone, admiring it.

Suzi would tease me, for I travelled extensively to Moscow and other far flung places of the globe, and nobody knew where I went, why I went, or for how long. Like a Secret Agent. But she did know that if I was not on spy business, I was probably at some mega-party in Sao Paulo, or hanging at Café Opera in Stockholm on midsummer night, or at the opening of some hip night club in Vegas or LA. She would always sing the words of Vanity-“You’re So Vain”:

“Well, you’re where you should be all the time
And when you’re not, you’re with some underworld spy
Or the wife of a close friend,
Wife of a close friend, and You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you?”

I would just reply, hey baby, read Ecclesiastes: “vanity of vanities! All is vanity.” And I would remember my bio-mother and her many mirrors.

Suzi went on tour with Faye Dunaway in Master Class, an opera about the late Maria Callas teaching her student protégé, which Suzi played. I caught up with them in New Haven, near my old Alma Mater. Faye and Suzi were brilliant in the opera and I was invited backstage to meet Faye Dunaway. Faye was very gracious and still very beautiful. And she was a hard driving perfectionist.

Chapter 13.2: Disco “till you puke”, and the Legend of Au Bar.

It did not take very long to replace Michael as a wingman. Billy Keelan and I had met on the NYFE floor and he traded currencies. But he had a lot of spare time, so we hung together. He had been ranked number 100 in the country’s ranking of pros on the tennis circuit and I was a good sparring partner, especially from the base line, so we could hit tennis balls either at the Vertical Club on 61st and First, Roosevelt Island, or Central Park when the weather was good.

Billy knew all the hotspots, including the Surf Club, and I would get a membership card to newly opened AuBar, the hottest nightclub in New York since Studio 54. On Saturdays, our friend Robert from Connecticut, who had earned his degree in partying from Tulane University in New Orleans, the number one school in that department, would come to town. We would hook for dinners at Elio’s or for Margaritas at Mezzaluna and then go wilding, usually to end up at AuBar, amongst herds of outrageously beautiful women.

AuBar in its heyday was off the charts. A creature of Howard Stein, it was elegantly laid out with a row of banquettes in the middle, a back room to relax, a long bar on one side, and a dance floor on the other. It had great ambience, great flow, and great music. Everybody went there. At Howard’s table at any given night would be Cheryl Tiggs, OJ Simpson or some other celebrity. I was standing in line on the stairways down to the front desk one night and I turn around and there was Kim Bassinger. She appeared to be the same height as me, eye to eye, but she was standing on the step above, in high heels. Still, she was pretty awesome. Beautiful hair.

One time I was hanging around, just digging the scene, and Sylvester Stallone is next to me. Up comes a girl and pulls the “You look familiar. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” routine. Sylvester says; “Yeah, I’m Pee Wee Herman.” He had a sense of humor, that guy.

Aubar would also have a flow of “shifts” you could sort of time like a factory punch clock. There was the 12 midnight shift, where people went home who had to work early. They were replaced by a wave of newcomers. Then there was the 2:00 a.m. shift, and a new wave came and went. Finally, for the truly brave, there the last shift, before closing. This is when the huntresses came to sift through the plush jungle to find prey. In the early days, there was not one night that you did not go home happy that you were alive, it did not matter what you were drinking or how late it was, it was just fun to be alive.

Eventually, I would lose Billy as my wingman. He had met Amy, a 24 year old beauty with a kind and generous way about her. She also happened to be number 3 at GAP, the youngest professional woman ever in that position with a bright future. So Billy ended up marrying her, his best man was Kenney, the head of GAP International. I was an usher and it was a great wedding, but I would have to fly solo again.

Just so I could take a break, I took out a year round lease on a carriage house in Newport, RI, overlooking the Ocean and Cliff Walk. There I could smell the aroma of fresh salt ocean air and chill down a little, but Newport had its share of non-stop parties in the Summer, only in winter could you have peace and tranquility. And little did I know that I was considered a Full Blood Prince of Newport, RI, and the parties would never end for me. Much more on this later.

Chapter 13.3: Have you any Spare Grey Poupon and a Turbo-Helicopter? The tale of Turbo-Goddess.

Before AuBar, the cool hangout at the time was the Surf Club on the upper eastside and the 80’s, run by the Beavers, Angus and Toby. It was a refugee spot for preppies and well-mannered people, and I knew a lot of people from Newport and New York who would go there and hangout and dance. Angus and Toby would become my good friends.

Back to NYC, one night at the Surf Club, I saw this incredibly beautiful woman and I asked my buddy Chris, who was she? He said “forgetta bout it, you need a turbo helicopter to date her.” I said “Jeez, the bank just repossessed my turbo-copter last week.” Anyway, her name was Nina Yonkman, from Greenwich, CT, and I gave her the nickname of “Turbo-Goddess”. She went on to marry a social friend, Harry Tower, a Vanderbilt heir. She divorced him a few years later and married another friend, Shant Hovnanian of the real estate family. They had one child. Then they divorced, and she hired Raoul Felder, the well-known NYC Raptor divorce lawyer. He claimed the Nina was not of sound mind when she signed a prenup the size of a phone book, because they “partied” all the time. Shant had just acquired a bandwidth company, Winstar, which had no real cash but a huge franchise in a rapidly growing market.

I was with Shant one night walking down Collins Ave. in South Miami Beach, and he was complaining that Raoul Felder was trying to rip up his phone book sized Prenup. I put my arm around his shoulder and said “Listen, I know the law game and the saying in the divorce business is that a Prenup is worthless after 7 years or two kids. In your case you got one kid and a real fight on your hands. They will try to drag the divorce proceeding on for years, until your bandwidth becomes valuable and Felder will have run his fees to the moon, which you will have to pay. Give her half your bandwidth now and move on, life is too short, buy it back later.”

What I was saying is that in New York City, if you were moving upward on the Bell-curve of success, the divorce lawyers would drag the divorce case on forever, hoping that you would become more and more successful and their cut of legal fees would become bigger and bigger as the Judge always awarded legal fees to the wife from the husband as part of Alimony. If you can make it in the Big Apple, your wife’s divorce lawyer can do better. New York, New York, New York!

Shant might have taken my advice, for the case settled. He went on to marry another beautiful woman, from Eastern Europe, I think, and they had two children. When I caught up with him years later at the Museum of the City of New York Benefit, he was happy as a clam, happily married with children. I never saw Turbo-goddess again. Shant will always be my friend.

Chapter 13.4: 007 and Bachelor-ville.

As I continued to socialize, I began to pick up new friends and become part of the “scene”. I began getting invited to all the parties and the black tie gala benefits for charities, and I had fun. Some friend told me “there is this guy named Charlie Krusen, he had a cool townhouse, he knows everybody, and there is a rocking party going on there tonight. You got to go”. So I went and met Charlie Krusen. He was tall, handsome and cordial and the “man about town”. When he had a black tie outfit on, he looked like James Bond, which earned him the nickname of “007”. He was a great tennis player, and would play at the South Hampton Meadow Club in the Hamptons with the head of Paine Webber or some hedge fund big wig. Charlie would always come down to the annual tennis tournaments at the old Polo Club in Wellington, FL, which would be some hard tennis followed by hard partying.

Charlie’s best friend was David Koch, who would throw a New Year’s Eve party in Aspen every year at his huge ski-lodge that was unparalleled in fun and elegance. Charlie, David and Don McShane were the triumvirate of eligible bachelors at the time. Don McShane lived in Palm Beach with his three dogs. He had made a bundle in a company named Copytel and his big issue in life seemed to be finding the right “au pair” to watch his dogs when he went to the South of France to hang out with David and Charlie aboard David’s yacht. He would spend weeks interviewing, then hiring, probably some great looking au pair from Sweden. Then after a month in Palm Beach, his au pair would be walking down the street and some guy would pull over in a Ferrari and invite the au pair to his big yacht, and Poof! She was gone and Don would have to begin the process of interviewing all over again. I became good friends with Don, but he just did not have the same issues that a lot of us more normal people have.

David Koch’s father, Fred Koch, was a chemical engineer, and graduate of MIT who developed a new cracking method for the refinement of heavy crude oil into gasoline. I think some big refiners tried to steal his technology and sued him, and he had to fight for years for recompense. After he passed, his son Charles Koch took the reins and proceeded to build Koch Industries into the second largest privately held companies in America, second only to Cargill Grain. I learned more about Koch Industries than I ever wanted to, for I was called in to consult on a war between the minority shareholders of Koch Industries, the Marshalls, and 24 year old Anna Nicole Smith who married Fred Koch’s minority partner, Howard Marshall II, a Yale Law School graduate with a distinguished career, at age 89. More of this tale will unfold in a later chapter “Anna Nicole Smith and Howard Marshall II, love at second sight”. There is some dirt there.

David I knew as a gracious host. But I had first heard of him in 1980, when he ran as the libertarian Vice President in the 1980 Presidential Race. I would have gone libertarian, but my Professor at Yale Law School, Eugene Rostow, had founded Democrats for Reagan, and thus I followed Rostow to Reagan. David Koch and I only had one time to speak at length, and that was at Le Club in NYC. I wandered one night up to the bar on the left and there was David, uncharacteristically alone. So I sat and talked with him of “libertarian” thinking. He was hard of hearing in one ear as a result that horrible plane HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Los_Angeles_runway_disaster”crash in LAX in 1991 when his commercial airline flight landed on top of a smaller passenger plane and slid off the runway and exploded into flames, killing all 12 in the small flight and 23 on the commercial flight. Only 3 of 6 exits were available on the Boeing 737, but David got out and proved to be a survivor.

So as we chatted, who comes up behind us but the actor, Gary Busey, wasted as usual. He was some wild guy, severely injured in 1988 in a motorcycle accident in LA, and he had substance abuse issues. The rumor amongst the legal profession was that he had been busted with an AK-47 and a bunch of cocaine in his car trunk in LA. When arraigned and asked “how do you plea, guilty or not guilty?” Gary shrugged his shoulders and said “Your Honor, it was Saturday night.” This became known in legal circles as the “Busey Defense”:It was “Saturday Night”!

David Koch went on to happily marry a New York Beauty named Julia and had children; the wild parties stopped, but David continued his philanthropist generosity. Charlie married the beautiful Kristen Maltese, they had children. Kristen was a supermom and also worked for John Paulson , “JP”, the hedge fund genius who happened to make $ 2 billion in one year and got confused with the great J.P Morgan of the 1900’s. Charlie, or “007”, went from being “the man about town” to the “husband around the house.” I would catch up Charlie when I was hitting tennis balls off the backboard in Palm Beach, FL and he would be playing with his son next door in the playground as a “Dad”. 007 was history! But still super cool.

The last hurrah! I accompanied the widow Ava Roosevelt to a cocktail party at David Koch’s mansion in Palm Beach. Wilbur Ross had been on CNBC that morning giving his sharp views on the issues of the day. So I briefly chatted with him and I looked around. Everybody was married except Don McShane and myself.

Later, Don and I were sitting alone on the veranda, and I said “Don, what happened, you and I are the only single men here?” Don looked at me, scratched his head, and just nodded. Times had changed. This was the last I would see of Don, for he and his 3 dogs moved out of Palm Beach and I am still single and seldom invited anywhere by couples (but welcome everywhere).

Chapter 13.5: BTW: A Fool and his money is not soon parted, a Fool and his money is soon invited everywhere.

As I said earlier, I continued to socialize, and I began to pick up new friends and become part of the “scene”. I began getting invited to all the parties and the black tie gala benefits for charities, there were new restaurant and night club openings, and I had much fun. There was a sort of hierarchy among different people for different events. Mark Gilbertson had an “A” list for the Museum of the City of New York, a great group of people which he meticulously managed, and every party, fall and winter, was a blast in a wonderful museum with ambiance that had all the history of New York City, going back to the time it was known as Nieuw Amsterdam settled by my early Dutch ancestors. Polly Onet seemed to have the list of the New York-Palm Beach-Lily Pulitzer set, always great. My favorite was Marc de Biron, who combined the preppy set with the European set and it was always a great mix. Marc was a tall gregarious fellow, and was from French nobility, designated by the prefix “de” before his name. So I nicknamed him the “Arch Duke of Paris” which always brought a smile from him. Marc would rent a house every summer in South Hampton and fill it with cool people. But one weekend every summer, he made a mandatory social visit to Newport, RI, and I would see him at the Candy Store hosted by the owner, David Ray.

Thereafter, there were a number of people who had lists, R. Couri Hay, Norah Lawler,

Nightclub owner and close friend, Michael Ault, a pioneer in bottle service, David Sarner, Carmen D’Alessio, a co-founder of Studio 54, and many others, and soon I was on these lists and receiving invitations to parties, gallery openings, charity events, and every night there was something to do. I joined Le Club, a hot private club with never ending fun and the stuffy Doubles, under the Sheri Netherlands on Fifth Ave. One night, Le Club had a pajama party. Afterwards, I took three girls to two private uptown parties. We were all in pajamas in NYC late at night on the streets hailing taxi cabs. It just doesn’t get better than that.

When there were not any cool events , there were dozens of trendy restaurants, often with a bar scene. On the upper eastside there was Nellos, La Goulue, Le Charlot, Le Bilboquet, Amaranth, Serafino, Mortimers, Shelby’s, MacMullens. And Fashion Week came every September to Bryant Park, with an endless list of parties to go to. The Madison Avenue restaurant, Nellos, held the dominant position for a long time, then his business began to fade off. His restaurant was empty. One day, on page 2 of the New York Post, there was a story how Nello beat up his girlfriend and he ended up spending the night in the “Tombs”, the NYC City jailhouse. I walked by his restaurant several days later and it was totally packed, all with women. 100% full, no empty table. Go figure that one out.

Serafino, when it opened in midtown was smoking. On a given night, you could walk in and see Elle MacPherson with Arky Busson entertaining 8 investors. At another table or two, supermodels like Claudia Schiffer or Naomi Campell would be dining. It was the “scene”.

Chapter 13.6: The Legend of Maria Pond: Trouble ahead, Lady in Red?

Maria Pond was a stunning blonde beauty from Chicago. Probably one of the most beautiful women from the mid-west to ever walk the streets of the Big Apple. No fooling. I met her in Au bar, another blonde in a red dress. I spoke to her a while and realized I was out of her league. Clint Eastwood had a famous line in one of his movies: “A man’s got to know his own limitations” and I did, at least that night. Maria and I, we became social friends, one time 8 of us were having dinner in Aspen, Laurie M was my date. When the check came, as the normal practice, it would be to split it eight ways, I would take a 2 share. So as we all got out our cellphone calculators, Maria picks up the check and within a microsecond says each share is X dollars and y cents. She was 100% right, kind of scary, that kind of mathematical mind in a blonde in a Red dress.

Later that week in Aspen, Ludovic Autec would throw a huge party, and somehow with Maria Pond in the middle, Dewey Sakarno, the wife of the former Indonesian dictator, and Minnie Osmanian, got into a fight and Dewey threw a glass of white wine at Minnie. The wine landed on my date, Laurie, but the broken wine glass cut Minnie’s skin on her check. Dewey was carted off to Aspen jail.

Much later that night after much revelry, Ludovic, Charlie Krusen, and the von Auersperg stepmother and I would end of at David Koch’s Lodge for a late nightcap. Minnie used her one jail phone call not to call her attorney but to call Ludovic and apologize to her host for the incident.

Later, back in New York, Minnie was contemplating suing Dewey, for say, oh: $5 million? Dewey stated her legal defense was simple: If Minnie had not had so much plastic surgery, her skin would not have been so tight and there would have been no cut.

Now Mariah Pond, for all her beauty, was sought after by many men, but she had a crush on Nicolas Berggruen. Nicholas was from a wealthy art family in Europe, estimated at $200 million or more. Furthermore, Nicholas in his thirties still looked like a teenager. Nicolas was Maria’s target, she was no dummy, yet she missed her kill shot. She was not wrong in her ambitious, but Nicolas was a horse of a different color.

Chapter 13.7: She left the station at quarter of two, on the wrong track, heading for you: The story of the homeless Billionaire

Nicolas was very social and proper and at every party, and he would dine regularly at the Harry Cipriani’s near the Sherry Netherlands on 5th Avenue. Everybody thought he was just another Rich Kid waiting to inherit, but there was a second Nicolas that very few saw. An extremely smart entrepreneur with a sharp mind.

Nicolas bailed out of NYC and bought a huge party mansion on Sunset Island in South Miami Beach, FL. He would throw amazing parties on his island estate with all the beautiful girls in Miami in attendance. He was a social butterfly, but little did people know that behind the scenes he was building an empire. He was super smart and while hosting wild parties, he had a high tech incubator going in the dot-com era.

Nicolas, the entrepreneur, would build and build, and soon he would sell his party Mansion on Sunset Island and rent the top floor of the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills in winters and the top floor of the Carlyle Hotel in NYC in summers. He bought a Boeing 727 and hosted Oscar parties at Chateau Marmot on Sunset Boulevard in LA. And he would invite people to his party and then have his secretary disinvite them as the space was limited but his rolodex was not. I last saw him at the Peninsula Hotel years later, and he still looked like a teenager.

Now another friend at the time, J.P., Jon Paulson, who I have sailed with, was also in the “scene” at the same time, made $2 billion in one year and built his fortune to $15 billion. J.P. never forgot his old friends in spite of his success. He would hire Alan Greenspan, the allegedly brilliant Fed Chairman, on his Board, and would volunteer to become a Trump economic advisor, but he would always take calls from his old friends like my partner, David Walker, immediately. J.P. was a good guy, married a fine woman, and with children was having a good life, well deserved.

Nicolas Berggruen also built his fortune to $2-4 billion, and made the Forbes 500 Billionaires’ Club. He began to become a LA philanthropist, hanging out with the Huffington Post Crowd, a liberal one. Nicolas “upgraded” his friends as he found new associates and forgot old ones. Thus the term NIOPGA came to pass amongst his former friends “Not In Our Peer Group Anymore.” As Nicolas Berggruen reached the Fortune 500 Billionaire status, he became known “the homeless billionaire” on account that he lived half a year at the Peninsula Hotel in LA in winters and the top floor of the Carlyle Hotel in NYC in summers. Nicolas is still wealthy and he still looks like a teenager. Go figure? Maria Pond was dead right to set her laser sight on him as a target, she saw in him what few other people saw.

Chapter 13.8: Candace Bushnell? Sex in the City? What Planet is that City on?

Dating in New York is a lot different than LA. In NYC, your next date is either 3 blocks or three days away. In addition, everything in Manhattan is relatively close, so that you or a group of 10 friends are only 10 minutes away by cab, and everybody can gather easily.

There were endless dating opportunities, a couple of Ms. Swedens, a couple of Ms. Russias, a Ms. USSR and a Ms. Israel. A ton of Ford models or models from other agencies. Then there were young professional women, by the hundreds if not thousands, and of course, debutante socialites by the dozens.

Candace Bushnell I remember from Aubar, before she started her column “Sex in the City”. We might have been on a date or we might have just hooked up, but I remember dancing with her, blonde hair, red dress. She was smart, fun, but there was no sex in the city that night. I did not follow her column or the TV show, but I heard she did very well. Good for her. Years later, I would get a call in Palm Beach from a master Palm Beach-Miami promoter Bobby Z, who said this guy Chris Noth, who plays “Mr. Big” on the TV series “Sex in the City” is staying at the Breakers Hotel and we should go to Rachael’s, a famous steak restaurant among other things. So I got my car and driver and picked up Chris and Bobby Z and went to Rachael’s. As we had dinner, a girl came over and asked “Are you ‘Mr. Big’?” Chris replied “Big is just a rumor”. Then out comes the chef who wants a plate autographed. We just had a blast and Chris told me next time I was in New York, to go to his bar on 22nd St. and drink on him. I took him up on his offer much later. I did not see Chris again, I heard he got married.

Chapter 13.9: The Illegitimate daughter of Zeus and Aphrodite.

I am not going to talk much about relationships and Sex in the City in this volume, only just a few notations, for the man-woman thing can be reserved for the next volume, maybe “Tales of Brave Ulysses: In Search of the Perfect Mistress”, and my worldwide wanderings to find her.

My first serious relationship in NYC came from AuBar. I was walking in and I saw the most beautiful goddess I had ever seen, a blonde in a red dress, of course. I involuntarily slapped myself on the face, to see if I was imagining it, this could not be real. She noticed it, my action was not contrived, and her female curiosity was aroused, it was not a common pick up move. Later that evening, on the by and by, we spoke and I invited her out. We became an “item.” I later accused her of being the illegitimate daughter of Zeus and Aphrodite, an indictment she laughingly did not deny. She was a child model years earlier, and her parents put the money in a trust fund until she was 21. Then she got well over $20,000; which she then blew in one day on one shopping trip to Chanel. I think we lasted close to a year, before parting ways. She would later upgrade her “beaus” to a former ambassador and heir to a Wall Street fortune. Good for her.

I would take her to Aubar, and we would sit in the back room in an armchair. Guys would come up and kneel before her, begging for a date. That’s with me sitting on the arm of the chair! When I went to get us drinks, I returned to find a swarm all over her. I felt needed a “Street Sweeper”, an automatic 12 gauge shotgun, to clear out the pathway to get back to her. It was really amusing but annoying at the same time. She was stunning. Thank God I had bid a “farewell to arms” at age 13. Otherwise there would have been a lot of blood on the floor of Aubar. And not mine.

Chapter 13.10: If you don’t succeed at first, try and try again.

My second serious relationship was not with a model or superstar, but rather with a brilliant student in economics. She was very young and incredibly beautiful. I met her by accident, for I was at a Black Tie benefit at the Puck Building south of Houston Street and she sent her wing girl to hit on me. I invited them both to Aubar for a night cap, and thus we went and began to talk.

She was a Prussian, from Berlin, very bright, here in NYC studying economics. Her god father ran Germany’s Third largest bank at the time. She was very young, about 20, and I was significantly older, but that age spread does not matter in Europe. The general formula for the right age is to take a man’s age, divide by two and add seven years. Then you have the right age for a female companion. And she was very beautiful and I could not take my eyes off of her. So began a relationship.

The first order of business was to teach her the Holy Ritual of American Football. She liked the linemen guys bending over and showing their big butts, but she had to learn that if the New York Giants were playing, there could be no negligees or foreplay. Rules are Rules and Religion is Religion. In return, she was spell bound by the fall of the Berlin Wall and we watched the process together, hand in hand, as Ronald Reagan’s call to tear down the Berlin Wall had come to fruition, and the two Germanys began the historic process of reunification. And we watched the Gulf War One unfold as the world’s largest army crushed the third largest army in the world.

We spent much time together, at Aubar, in the Hamptons, or in Newport, RI. One afternoon, we were swimming in a hidden cave off the rocks in Newport. The water was glass calm. We were making out, getting hot, in this cool hidden cave. I was trying to slip her bikini off, but the mighty cruise ship, the “MS Queen Elizabeth”, had passed out to sea much earlier and eventually the large wake caught up. In a cave, that means the waves of water funnels in and instantly rises, pushing you to the top of the cave smashing your head against the rock hard ceiling of the cave, a deadly proposition.

Passion turned to panic. The only way out is to dive to the bottom of the opening of the cave and let the undercurrent backwash push you out. Then, you surface for air and immediately dive to the bottom again before you can be pushed back in, again and again. I had 10 seconds to explain this to her, and the first wave hit, she was in front and I held either wall of the opening, getting cut up by the rocks and barnacles as the waves tried to push us back in to our deaths. Then she dove and I followed her, we dove again, and made it safely out of danger. Then the sea calmed and we swam to the beach. I wasn’t bleeding badly, but I tell you, it was such a rush, more maybe than crashing your airplane. I still have the scars. And my sex drive that afternoon was totally gone.

So our affair continued, and she, close to turning 22, was pushing for the commitment and I was hesitant, pushing back. Love was not the issue. People change so much in their twenties, less so in their thirties, less so thereon. So my thinking was that she had so much to offer, to experience, so much opportunity both socially, academically and back in Germany. And I had seen elder American military officers bring young German girls back to the US. They would eventually divorce, and a German woman in her forties is still awesomely beautiful with much opportunity, but the sixty year old officer was done for, alone in sorrow for the rest of his life.

Moreover, with the commitment comes babies, if you are lucky, and there was the serious question of whether I could settle down, take on the responsibility, in effect stabilize. Obviously, my track record was not great at settling into a career or profession, and being able to trade commodities was of little comfort in a world needing stability, unless of course, you were a Marc Fisher or Paul Tudor Jones. I was not one of them.

So we discussed this issue, at length, the question whether she should give up such a promising future at such a young age, with so little experience and with so much going for her, especially with a guy who had basically been unstable and homeless since age 13, a rolling stone. I had to go to LA for about three months and litigate over the Big Easy, having to fight to collect money due from my 1986 Reagan tax arbitrage deal. I suggested that we take a hiatus, a relationship break, during that time and think deeply about the aforesaid issues without the hormones and passions of sex and the need for companionship interfering with cold logic.

So off I went to my private war in LA, and she to her business school in NYC. We spoke by phone often. But it was not easy. We missed each other, but this was a trial separation, and it had to run its course. During this time, she was invited to a huge party in Aspen at David Koch’s Lodge, and flew out in somebody’s private jet. Soon, she, her brains and well-endowed beauty were invited everywhere, hunting pheasants in Scotland, scuba diving in the Maldives, skiing in New Zealand, or skeet shooting in Uzbekistan. Endless opportunity to grow and experience things, and she began to see my point of view. In the meantime, I was basically scratching the eyes out of sleazebag lawyers or dueling with arrogant three piece suits using Perrier bottles as weapons.

When I got back to NYC, I was willing to try again but she had seen my points, and she was ready to move on. Thus I lost probably one of the greatest opportunities to be happy with a companion, and was left with barren sorrow. She probably hurt too, but I think at the end of the day, I was right and her infinite opportunities to grow large and experience life have come to pass.

They say, strangely, that it takes as long the time to really get over a serious relationship as the time you spent in it. It does not mean you can’t have other relationships, and separations, for there can be layers and layers of grief co-existing in that Minotaur’s labyrinth called the human heart.

Chapter 13.11: Question? With a broken heart, what do you do? Jump off of a building or jump on a Jet to Stockholm and party at Café Opera like a wild animal?

Well, I was never very good at killing myself. I had survived plane crashes, motorcycle crashes, car accidents, horse riding accidents, hurricanes, earthquakes and a few bullets. So I hopped on a jet to go to Sweden, hang out with a buddy, an American with a Swedish passport, and drink my sorrows away with Folköl (strong beer). As the pain in my heart melted away in a misty fog, buried further away in the labyrinth called the heart, but not lost, I began to think of my future.

We partied at Café Opera. We drove up to Uppsala, the ancient seat of the Viking Kings, my kin folk, who ruled from there to the Black Sea. There were hundreds of beautiful girls there and since we spoke English, they were all very interested in something new. The local guys got jealous, and started to aggressively challenge us, for both of us could pass for Vikings, and they thought we were Swedes and were pretending not to speak Swedish and speaking English as a scam to interest the girls. My buddy took care of this, and we had a great time thereafter.

There is a crass saying that a man gets over a woman by sleeping with 7 more, and a woman gets over a man by getting under another man. In truth, the pain of loss is just buried deeper in the labyrinth of the heart, until it works its way into history. I was off to a good start, but in truth, the great romanticist poet Lord Byron, had it downright:

Chapter 13:12: L’amour est Bleu. Ode to A Lady:

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any;

But what it sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many.

But, now, I seek for other joys—

To think, would drive my soul to madness;

In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,

I conquer half my Bosom’s sadness.

Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,

In spite of every vain endeavor;

And fiends might pity what I feel—

To know that thou art lost forever.

PART XIV: NEW FRONTIERS AWAIT:

Chapter 14.1: Chaos in the Wild Wild West.

Notwithstanding the pain and pity of fiends, life must continue to go on and on. But what to do next? Enough with thoughtless throngs, and empty noise. New horizons, and suddenly new adventures in the Wild Wild West, beckoned.

Word had come that the fall of the USSR had unofficially happened, it was a mere formality before it legally disbanded. I had been waiting for this. It had collapsed in my opinion because Operation Desert Storm, when the Gulf War of George Bush, Sr. easily defeated the third largest military army in the world and had proven that the Russian tanks and MIG jets of the 2nd largest army in the world, the only good source of foreign revenue for Russia from Rogue States, had no chance to fly and survive our jets. Moreover, the outdated T- HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T-44″72 s were no match for our modern Abrams Tank or the British HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(tank)”Challenger HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(tank)”Tank. The military industrial complex of the Soviet Union collapsed; nobody would buy their junk merchandise anymore. The USSR went broke and now it was crumbling into oblivion.

This might be a once in a lifetime event, for the common man can only make good money when there is blood on the streets. Russia was now in chaos, and like in the real jungle, cats run to the source of explosion and chaos, not flee it. So this Cat–Dragon booked a ticket to Leningrad, now known as St. Petersburg, into the heart of the jungle.

From my social friends in NYC came a special request: a Chicago heiress of Noble Russian Heritage had a family mansion in Leningrad, and would I please go see it, and see if it could be reclaimed. Happy to do so, and off I went to chaos and adventure.

Chapter 14.2: Back in the USSR, you don’t know how lucky you are, friend: St. Petersburg and Vladimir Putin.

When I landed, I booked a real Russian hotel. I wanted to see how the culture lived. Big mistake. This room had a tiny bed with a thin mattress and holes in the wall. The view was great, I could see the shipping and boat traffic up the Neva River, but that was it. Shipping has always been an indicator of the economy. The only decent hotel, western style, at the time was the Hotel Europa, so I booked it over there.

Leningrad, or St. Petersburg, was an interesting city. Peter the Great had hired the finest French and German architects and builders to build a landmark city. It was a cross between Venice and Paris. Magnificent architecture, mansions and houses on canals. The buildings were so magnificent but so run down because the Russians inhabitants simply said, if the building belongs to the USSR government, let them paint it and fix it up. The city was so far north that mid-winter only had three hours of sunlight and mid-summer only had three hours of darkness.

I hired a translator, an educated and well-mannered Russian girl, and she took me places I would had never have conceived of going; to ballets, theatres and other cultural places. We went to the Hermitage, the Tsar’s palace, now a world class museum which had been kept up. It was loaded with the finest Dutch Art, for when Napoleon was exiled to Elba after Waterloo, Russian lore has it that Josephine Bonaparte fell on hard times and Tsar Alexander I, reputed to have a crush on her, bought all her Dutch artworks, art that Napoleon had looted from Holland HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holland” and Germany HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holland”, thus bailing her out. She later moved to St. Petersburg, and her grandson married into the royal Romanov family, very cozy. Palace intrigue. The Hermitage is a must see for anybody who loves art.

About 30 minutes outside of St. Petersburg near the deep water port, was the Peterhof Palace, the magnificent and opulent summer residence of the Tsars, built originally by Peter the Great. It had been occupied by the Germans in WWII, bombed, looted and burned. But the Russians were restoring it. It was a mess, but we got special passes, and we could still see the magnificence of it, possibly exceeding Versailles in beauty and opulence. The gilt work was amazing, it would take 1,000 more tons of gold to restore it, but the Russians were temporarily out of money. I hear that the restoration is now mostly finished, it is a must go see. The rumor was that Catherine the Great had a labyrinth of secret closet openings from her bedroom, and hallways to many other bedrooms so that she could sleep with all of her cabinet ministers, one by one. When you look at the history of Russian rulers, every Tsar or Tsarina died prematurely, by poisoning or assassination. Clever Catherine was the only one who survived to die of natural causes. Again and again, the theme of this book will rotate around the question of whether money and power brings happiness or death and misery. In America, Monaco, now in Russia. You decide.

We stopped by the Leningrad Yacht club on the way back. They had mounted a challenge to the America’s Cup in San Diego, sending a Russian built hull, but ran out of money. The yacht club is now restored as the St. Petersburg Yacht Club and it would be a mistake to underestimate how much wealth they now have access to.

We also looked at my Chicago heiress’s Mansion. It was run down and now a multi-family residence. A review of the law revealed that all lands belonged to the Tsar, and people lived in their Mansions at his pleasure. Therefore, there was no private ownership or titles to attempt to reclaim property in Russia. The former USSR countries like Latvia and Lithuania did have a mechanism for restitution, but land title in Russia now belonged to the biggest gun barrel. It would take another 10-15 years to establish a chain of title without risk of death. Russia would then explode with new modern skyscrapers, and Moscow would be on its way to becoming the Third Rome again.

Now, I was there for economic opportunities, and I ran into the chief scout for Walmart at the lounge in Hotel Europa, the gathering spot for expatriates and local Russian Political figures. My friend from Walmart was figuring out ways for Walmart to penetrate the Russian Market, but it was a nightmare. To ship goods by train, he needed 24-7 guards, and then 24-7 guards to guard the guards. Getting product through the port at St. Petersburg entailed a 15% “Russian Roof” fee, and warehouse storage without looting was problematic. A “Russian Roof” was locals that would see to your safety of you and your enterprises for a fee. They came in 3 designations: “Mafia”, former “KGB”, or “Military”, take your pick.

But my Walmart friend and I had fun. He took me to the only night club at the time, the Nevsky Starski on Nevsky Prospekt, the main drive, and it was “rocking”. We had to duck behind all the limos parked in front on account of the occasional drive by shootings, but when we got to the front door and inside, there was Nirvana. Elegance and music, hundreds of fantastically beautiful girls, and tables of champagne with the local big boys.

Being an American was a plus, because we were very rare and everybody was curious about us and our country. So the big boys and the girls all were friendly and practiced their English on us, and my American buddy was pretty fluent in Russian. And the girls would be happy to go back to your fancy hotel for a nightcap.

One night, I heard a thump at the back door, and I asked my buddy what was that. He replied that it was a percussion grenade rolled up to the back door by some landlord or landlord wannabe, a reminder that the rent was late. Nevertheless, we had a blast in the truest sense of the word.

Chapter 14.3: A brief sketch of Vladimir Putin, the future Tsar.

Sometime during my stay, I met briefly Vladimir Putin at either Hotel Europa or Nevsky Starski, I forget which, for it was a whirlwind. Putin at that time was with the St. Petersburg Mayor’s office in a rising position of influence. He had been a KGB Desk Jockey in Moscow mostly known for his prowess in organizing things. He was never a field agent or assassin. I doubt he even had weapons field training. He quit the KGB and left for Saint Petersburg in 1991, just prior to the collapse of the USSR. A great number of KGB were about to be laid off and disenfranchised from their jobs, as the government coffers were empty. I followed Putin’s career as I was soon to have significant business interests in Russia.

Saint Petersburg was the Wild Wild West in the early nineties and over the years, Putin got a reputation for taming it and organizing it. Gone were the random drive by shootings and the percussion grenade calling cards from wannabe landlords. He was the Wyatt Earp of Tombstone. From there he was upwardly mobile, and ended up in the Kremlin. By that time, the Oligarchs had “privatized” or seized most of Russia’s industry with the sole exception of Luke Oil, which became a publicly traded company on the London Stock Exchange. Putin told the Oligarchs “you stole the assets, don’t try to steal the power”.

Mikhail Khodorkovsky ignored him, flew to Davos and gave an egotistical speech, then arrogantly flew to Siberia, then went to jail. He obviously drew the wrong Monopoly Game card “Go directly to Jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.” Well, having drawn the wrong card, he definitely went to jail. His company, Yukos, was confiscated. Yukos was an oil conglomerate organized through the murder of many people by Khodorkovsky’s partners Nevzlin, Brudno and Dubov, who all fled to Israel to escape extradition. Jews cannot be extradited from Israel. The Russian population knew what the Western Press did not know, where the skeletons were buried. They supported Putin overwhelmingly.

Slowly the Kremlin has been taking back assets stolen by the renegade Oligarchs, especially after the 2008 crisis. Media can’t be owned by foreigners in excess of 25% now. Russia’s biggest asset is the Giant Gazprom that controls European natural gas distribution. Russia’s problem is that its state budget was pegged at $20 a barrel of crude oil in the mid 90’s but is now based on over $100 a barrel of crude. But oil prices have fallen. The Russians are forced to dip into their extensive reserves. This is forcing dislocation in their military budget and infrastructure, and the Russians can’t get over $60 a barrel or our Bakken Shale wells will reopen and flood the market. Estonia, their Baltic neighbor, sits atop the world’s third largest shale deposit. If Estonians were to start fracking, they could flood the European market with cheap natural gas, destroying Gazprom’s chokehold. This is Russia’s trump card for that region, cheap and endless energy if you are “friends”. Don’t underestimate this geo-political poker hand.

In summary, Putin was a brilliant organizer and saved Russia from chaos and ruin, and that is why his popularity with Russians was always around 70-80%. The US Media wants to portray him as a bad guy-thug expansionist having his KGB Agents murdering dissenters and interfering in American elections. This is nonsense. Take a look at Darth Sorius instead. He is a pseudo- reincarnation of Stalin, and the evilest of Sith Lords, and interferes in elections with lots and lots of money. Money he took from you and your great grandchildren. That is my opinion.

The media distraction with Trump-Russia and pure ignorance had prevented constructive talks on cooperation in areas like Syria, Iran and North Korea. But Putin is constructive, wanting to prevent disruption and always to secure the Russian Federation borders, and mostly preserve Gazprom’s natural gas monopoly in the region. His talent is organization, putting things in place properly where they belong.

As I write this, our sanctions against Russia are counterproductive and diplomatically foolish. We are going to need their help if we want to take on North Korea, China, Iran and future threats. As a Wall Street Journal article of the day pointed out, Russians believe “Tensions with the West are now at levels not seen since the Cold War.”

Where are the legends of Eugene Rostow and Dean Acheson, now that we need them again, as we stumble foolishly forward, forsaking the Giant Gains made during the First Cold War? This first Cold War ended in the Reagan era, we won, why is there another Cold War II started by the Obama era neocons? We were supposed to be partners with Russia, as Reagan wanted it to be. We were destined to be partners, for the Northern Hemisphere of the Planet with its endless reserves of energy is in our care and control. As the Haves, not the Have-nots, we jointly share the responsibility only for our people. Please think about this, if you have children and grandchildren, you must protect their future. That is your mission.

As for me, there is probably a new Cold War II to resolve. As the last of the acolytes of Dean Acheson, Rostow, Nitze and Reagan, I am the last act left of the Victors that won Cold War I, but it seems I am the last to have inherited Cold War II , and, if so, I will end it if I get the chance because the equation is still the same. I am just pissed off because Cold War II was caused by Obama and his “CIA” Morons, and the incompetent “ Mueller Hounds”, who created a completely “anti-Woodstock” ethos and a threat to the Northern Hemisphere. If I have to fight another Cold War , I will. I have done it before and watch it finished before, and if you make me do it again in a Cold War II or III, Captain Rick will soon come forth with voracious Hell nested on his shoulder, very unkind. He will unleash Hell because Captain Rick, unfortunately, does not like to solve problems more than once.

Do not try to understand. Just Read Shakespeare: “Ah! for a Muse of Fire to ascend the brightest heavens of invention. With Princes to watch and Kings to view the swelling scene. As with War-like Harry, crouched at his heels are the three dogs, Fire, Sword and Famine.” Yes, Ruin and Death are always readily available in our world. And I have been well-trained in use of such.

But please let me live in peace, pretty please. Enough people have died. Let us try for the stars, for deep space, there is plenty of room for adventures out there. And we can do it. Trust Brave Ulysses. The Stars await us.

Chapter 14.4: The media idiots and the Crimea Annexation Deja vue? Why don’t these Sanction Idiots look at history?

In the Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca, which was the result of the Russo-Turkish war, the Ottoman Empire was forced to cede sovereignty over to the Khanate of Crimea, and allow it to become an independent state under Russian control. Thereafter, Empress Catherine issued a formal proclamation of annexation on 19 April [O.S. 8 April] 1783.

In 1991, a referendum was held in Ukraine (as defined by the USSR). All provinces voted for independence, including Crimea. The second referendum, held in advance of Russian re-annexation was clearly questionable but reaffirmed the 1783 annexation by Russia. Hence most of the world does not accept that Russian sovereignty over Crimea is legitimate.

The Crimea has one asset besides the resort town of Yalta. That is the deep water port at Sevastopol. It is so strategically important, the only Russian seaport that does not freeze over in winter, hence the Russians maintain their Black Sea fleet there. During the Invasion of Georgia in 2008, the Russians were insulted by the USA sending 4 smaller warships into the Black Sea and also the USS Mount Whitney to Sevastopol. This pressure along with Sanctions and NATO troop buildups is counterproductive and stupid. Russia will never give up that port. It will never allow itself to be landlocked. And the Crimea with its deep water harbor at Sevastopol is legally theirs under International Law. And as I said before, in the current world of geopolitics, Russia is a much needed frenemy.

Chapter 14.5: The Moscow girls make me sing and shout, they leave the West behind: New Horizons, deja vue.

It was time to move on. There were no opportunities for me in St. Petersburg, but Moscow was 80% of the Russian economy and I had an acquaintance there, Clifton Harrison, a Texas frontiersman-socialite-real estate developer from New York and Palm Beach, who had been there since 1987.

So I hopped on a puddle jumper, an Ilyushin passenger aircraft,that was falling apart. As we took off, hitting the potholes on the runway, I uncomfortably noticed all the aircraft frames of crashed planes that were dragged down and deposited at the end of the runways. The aircraft frames were built of titanium, triple the strength necessary, so that was all that was left of the wreckage. The Russians used slide rules to calculate things, computers were not there yet. When Hewlett Packard sent a team to test Russian computer literacy, the score was 94% versus 76% in the USA. It revealed the spread between smart educated Russians and American celebrity worshippers and our weak educational system. If you don’t think we need the Russians as friends, or at least frenemies, you have the foresight of a blind goat.

When I first arrived in Moscow, I had a very strange feeling I had been there before. Deja vue? I stayed at the Hotel Metropole, the only western hotel until the 5 star Kempinski Hotel was built many years later. At cocktail hour, Gary Hart would hold court in the lounge as the regular prostitutes filed in. Gary Hart was best known as the front runner Democrat for President in 1988 until he was caught having an extra-marital affair with Donna Rice on a yacht aptly named “Monkey Business”.

Donna Rice I would meet later at a cocktail party in Georgetown, DC during the Gold Cup Steeplechase. She had been dating a great friend of mine, a reporter from the NY Post, Braden Kiel. Let me tell you, she was really built, a knockout. It cost Hart the Presidency, but it might have been worth it. Now Hart was in Moscow as a consultant for a telecom company called West Tech, or such, which paid him a lot of money to sit around and get no business done while he held court at the Metropole. I did not know he was a fellow Yale Law School graduate, or I might have gone over to chat with him, but I did not. I had other things on my mind. I needed to get the lay of the land first, so I wandered around Moscow. It was extremely safe, except maybe late at night when some drunken Russian Afghan Veterans would stumble around. You just crossed to the other side of the street to avoid them.

Moscow was a dreary, depressing city. Stalin had ruled from the top down, meaning every building had to be approved by him. As a result, every building was starkly built like a pillbox bunker, there was nothing architecturally interesting in Moscow. That is except for the Kremlin, which was also very run down.

Nowadays, Moscow is known as the “City of Lights”, splendid at night, but back then everybody was poor, Doctors were driving Taxi Cabs for a living, the collapse of the USSR disenfranchised the privileged and the unprivileged alike. Babushkas, old widows whose husbands had died in WWII defending Moscow and Stalingrad, had been stripped of their meager pensions, and would lie in doorways selling pathetic flowers for a ruble. I would give them US dollar after US dollar, remembering my Boston days as a young panhandler.

The official exchange rate was one ruble equals one dollar, but the real black market was about one US dollar to 30 rubles. One day, a young boy offered me a crisp Russia Officer’s Military hat for $5. I said I would only give him $2, he balked, said $4.00. I said $2.00. He walked away and so did I. But he came running back and sold me the hat for US $2.00. As he walked away with the $2.00, I came after him and said “wait”. I gave him his USD $5.00 and I said “Remember this, Americans are very fair people, we negotiate, but we are fair. Your hat is worth $5.00. See you later, alligator.” He went home ecstatic, a hero to his family, food on the table for a while. He was probably a son of a KGB, judging from the hat, I guessed, but it would not have made a difference. The hat I have kept. I will return it to Russia someday and give it to Putin or his successor. (See a great analysis: “Post Putin: Succession, Stability, and Russia’s Future” by Herman Pirchner, Jr.). I will also give back two fine crafted antique Matryoshka dolls, one of Gorbachov and one of Brzezinski, with Catherine the Great on the very inside. They belong back in Mother Russia, I am a just a caretaker.

Chapter 14.6: The 8th wonder of the world lies in the basement of the Kremlin—The incredible jewelry collection of Catherine the Great.

In spite of the dreary architecture and poverty abundantly evident in Moscow, there is one amazing world wonder in the basement of the Kremlin. I got a special pass to the Kremlin, I saw it, I have never been the same since.

Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon in the 49 B.C. was the beginning of the creation of the great Roman Empire, to last 1500 years. At its height, one third of the Roman Empire’s population were slaves. It’s wealth was beyond imagination. From “Caesar” derives Kaiser, the German Emperor, and the “Tsar”; the Muscovite Prince recognized as an “emperor” by Maximilian I, the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire in 1514. Moscow had spent 1223 until 1480 A.D. to completely throw off the Tartar-Mongul Yoke, and was thereafter known as the Third Rome after Constantinople (now Istanbul, and formerly known as Byzantium).

Besides its current mineral wealth, in the vaults under the Kremlin you will understand the great historic wealth of Russia, when you see endless rooms piled high with uncut diamonds the size of golf balls and baseballs, a Softball sized Diamond on the Scepter of the Tsar, and the endless exquisite jewelry of Tsarinas displaying countless earrings, necklaces, tiaras and rings combining diamonds, sapphires and rubies. The most modern camera with infinite pixels cannot capture the extraordinary brilliance of the explosive light reflections off of these exquisite pieces of jewelry. It is a truly moving, almost existentialist, experience to see this dazzling eighth wonder of the world. Women may want to bring along a d HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defibrillation”efibrillator, they will need it. It is truly the last great wonder on the Earth.

Chapter 14.7: Oh, you’re were such a noble Saint during the day! What did you do at night, pray tell?

Well, any single American male who has not been to “Night Flight” has not been to Moscow, or is lying. In those days, there was only one night club, Night Flight, which opened on Moscow’s main drag, Tverskaya Street, in 1991 when the USSR was living out its final months. It was owned by Swedes, and it was off the charts. From the Décor to music to dancing and a hundred or more elegant ladies, you might have thought you died and went to heaven.

The girls were friendly, and like in St. Petersburg, they were curious about rarely seen Americans. And I was apparently the Prince of America. One time, a beautiful girl approached me and offered to buy me a drink. She wanted to talk. I found out she was far wealthier than God. Her uncle was a USSR Party apparatchik who was awarded supervision of a diamond mine by the Party. He would dig up two diamonds, put one on the books to send to the USSR State, and she would smuggle the other diamond into Switzerland and deposit it in the family vault. She was sophisticated, rich, smart, beautiful, and fun to talk to. And she did not need my US Dollars.

And it never ended. I would make Night Flight my destination spot for many years, for there was no other place to go until the oil started gushing out around 1999 and tables began to cost $5,000 at the finest of many newly opened nightclubs. But in the early days, I was the Prince, there were uncountable beautiful women, and a great city, the third Rome, in a country that was ready and needed to move from the 19th to the 20th century.

On one of my last visits to my Moscow “second home” years later, it turned out that Night Flight had been bought from the Swedes by an Armenian. As a background, when I first got to New York City years before, I befriended a Harvard Law School, Wharton School of Business graduate, a lady’s man of Greek heritage, “Jimmy the Greek”. And he was a Spartan, not Athenian, tough as the granite rock that Sparta flourished on. He was a successful investor. I told him I was of Scottish heritage, the lost 13th tribe of Israel, an heir to Gracie’s Mansion, and the Scots were too cool for school in commerce. I was going to rule in NYC. Jimmy then gave me the riot act Gospel: “Listen: It takes 10 Scots to fool a Greek, 10 Greeks to fool a Jew, and 10 Jews to fool an Armenian.”

So, years later, I would belly up to the bar at the Night Flight, and right next to me is the new Armenian owner of Night Flight. So I tell him the same Armenian joke, knowing I will be either appreciated or shot dead. He laughed so hard, slapped me on the back, and ordered me drinks for the rest of the night. And he sent a lot of women in my direction. A night to remember.

It sure beat Yale Law School in the winter. If I go to Moscow, I always try to make it back to Night Flight in spite of the other higher brand clubs, it just is “home” and it just recently celebrated its 25th year anniversary.

Now, enough of Night Flight and the outrageously endless stream of beauties. I have already said that my next volume will deal with Women, their issues and their sex. This current Volume is about the Tales of Brave Ulysses’ struggles as he took two decades to get back to his home on the Island of Ithaca. I had already caught up, maybe surpassed what I lacked in boy-girl interactions, after my deprived youth in an all-boys schools. My detailed misunderstanding of women and their issues will have to wait to the next volume, and I will disclose it all. This is now about digging for gold in the Wild, Wild West.

PART XV: DIGGING FOR GOLD IN THE WILD WILD WEST:

Chapter 15.1: From Russia with Love and Bullets.

So I began to focus on exactly that, digging for Gold in the Wild, Wild West. I knew that physical goods could not move through Russia without guns and costly “Russian Roofs”. I went to visit my old friend from NYC, Clifton Harrison, a Texas frontiersman-socialite-real estate developer, who fled Palm Beach when his Brazilian Court Hotel project collapsed, and he had been in Moscow since 1987 to avoid service of subpoenas, and to wait out the US 6 year statute of limitations.

Clifton was a real estate developer by trade, and was working on real estate deals, but there was no record of title in Russia. Here, in the USA, we have 200 years of title records filed in the town clerk’s office that can be insured. So, to invest in a real estate deal in Moscow, with soft costs, architectural drawings and everything else, money had to be spent, and at the last minute, a bunch of Russians with very big guns would come in to inform you that you had no title, or title insurance. The deal would collapse. You would lose your soft costs and maybe your life.

Clifton and I caught up. I told him of my opinion that real estate was a no-go, it would take 10-15 years to establish title. But air waves, data transmission, bandwidth, internet, etc. could not be high-jacked by the Russian mafia. That was where I was willing to devote my time.

Clifton’s “Russian Roof” was a highly respected and a powerful local man. The media would call him a “Mafia Godfather” for lack of a better term for the hundreds of territories under peace and control of powerful citizens, who had the respect of the people in whose territory they lived in, maybe for generations. It is only when territorial invasions happen that there is violence and killing, and then consolidation happens as the last men standing seek to legitimize their consolidated territory, just like Chicago in the 1920’s. This was what was happening in Moscow, exactly according to script. I had the honor of having the privilege of lunch at his friend’s and Guardian’s house. We had true Russian soup, Borscht, and I became a good friend of the family. They liked me. Nobody would ever F—k with me in his jurisdiction.

However, this was not what I wanted or needed. I did not need protection from people, for people really needed protection from me. For years, I would not hesitate to go alone to places where Angels fear to Tread, and sometimes I would have a large body guard with me. If I was asked “is that your bodyguard”, my answer was “No, he is your body guard” (from me). Such was my dysfunctional youth, such was my crypto-father’s endless drilling to kill. I just see infrared, no color of skin, just killing points. I needed a bodyguard to restrain me. Aggressive people needed protection from me, for I was not an ordinary person, and I did not discriminate amongst targets, for I was trained to be lethal without prejudice. And I did not know the word “fear”, it had been bred out of my Viking culture a long time ago. Fearlessness would go a long way in the new frontier called “Russia”.

Well, Clifton and I agreed to work together. I needed boots on the ground in Moscow and he needed my intellect and capital. He introduced me to a few people, and I began to flourish from there. I met with many, many people in high places that had recently been displaced by the complete collapse of the USSR and were trying to find a way out. Soon, I had a number of possible deals on the table, media, fiber optics, TV and cable TV.

I had met with the KGB, I hired an ex-KGB driver, Alexi, who had been let-off but had uncles and cousins were still in the KGB. The KGB took a shine to me somehow, as if they knew me, and felt I was cool, one of theirs. Maybe they had a classified file on me. But anyway, they were to become my “Russian Roof”. And I did not have to pay anything. I was the “Golden Child” to them, and when their relatives drove me, I would tip them with $50, 2 months wages, and I also insisted they buy their wife flowers or “else”. They loved me, nobody would dare F—k with me except one prick named Mikhail Lesin. That bastard would cause me much angst.

It was soon that I had three deals in the hopper. Thus, I had to establish a forward post in the Wild, and man it with soldiers. I hired a very smart, fluent and trustworthy secretary, Olga, full time. I

put on as a legal consultant the Head Legal Counsel of the Duma (the Russian Legislature) for $50 a month, and also the head of Intersputnik, Boris. Intersputnik controlled all the satellites and satellite transmissions across the 13 Russian time zones and the rest of the world. Intersputnik was a must in airwaves, the only asset that could not be high-jacked, at least that is what I thought.

Boris later came to NYC, and challenged me to a tennis match. So I took him to the Vertical Club on 61st St and we played a match with dinner reservations at Mortimer’s afterwards. I thought I would crush him and move on quickly. Instead, this Russian with a firm round girth challenged me. He was very good. I fought hard. I had to dive for return shots, like Boris Becker. He beat me by one shot, I lost, but earned his eternal respect, and he evolved from a business associate to now a friend who controlled worldwide broadcasting ability through Intersputnik’s satellites.

Later that night, my business partners toasted our guest and he said I was as tough as Boris Becker, redux. Russians love tennis, they never quit, and they don’t always look like the very beautiful tennis champion, Anna Kournikova.

Chapter 15.2: Moscow, Russia: Act One, Strike One: Oops, watch that baseball bat! The Gangster Lesin.

Our first deal was a big winner. The company was “Novosti” which was the Associated Press of Russia. Their cash flow had been cut off by the collapse of the USSR and they were looking for options. They needed capital and help. I had that. I had that, and a link to the worldwide A.P., and an ability to wire or broadcast across 24 time zones, thanks to Boris, and the ability to transfer language and cross-protocols (Russian version of VHS to the American VHS and Beta). We got along fabulously. We made a deal, the lawyers drew up the papers, and we met at 9:00 a.m. By 10:00 a.m., I had sealed the deal with my signature and waxed over and imprinted by my family “signet ring”. And then they broke out the champagne. Russians liked to do that, morning, noon, or night. In those times, not only did you sign the Agreement, but you signed it in ink and then a wax seal was poured over your signature and you imprinted your family signet ring on top of it just like in the old Roman times. It was a sign of bond, not just ink, but of family honor. The Russians loved it, but you had to honor your bond.

After years of Cold War and anti-Russia propaganda, I had finally made the bond to bring the Northern continent together to help bring peace to the world. I was the last messenger from Eugene Rostow, Dean Acheson, the Yale Law School experience, the apprentice peace maker from the first Cold War that Stalin had started and Reagan had finished. The deal was signed and sealed. My purpose was fulfilled, the lines of destiny were laid bare, people would communicate across propaganda barriers, and my world would be at peace, just like the Woodstock Nation dreamers imagined. But alas, not to be so easy in the real world.

Mikhail Yuriyevich Lesin was Russian Gangster with a great ambition to take over all media news outlets, and he was not afraid to kill anyone in his way. He threatened to kill us if we did not rescind the Novosti deal and he issued killing contracts on us. The KGB could not really guarantee our safety, so after a long discussion with Novosti, and about the safety of their families, they agreed to allow me to rescind the deal with family honor intact.

Lesin thereafter took over and became the Director of RIA Novosti, and was pivotal in the Russian parliamentary elections of 1995 and, especially, the re-election campaign of Yeltsin in the 1996 Russian presidential elections, and became head of Public Relations for the President of Russia under Yeltsin. He helped consolidate the NTV network into Gazprom, the Russian Gas Giant, and Lesin helped conceive and create the RT (Russia Today) television news network, he said, “to establish a news channel that would counter CNN and BBC with a Moscow spin”.

Mikhail Lesin was nicknamed the “Bulldozer” (Russian: Бульдозер) because of his ruthless ability to get virtually all Russian news media outlets under the Kremlin’s control.

Using this leverage, he helped Putin win the 2000 election in Moscow and served Putin until 2004, as “Ministry of Press, Broadcasting and Mass Communications of the Russian Federation”. He later took control of Gazprom-Media, a state-controlled media giant. But the honeymoon was not to last. On November 5, 2015, Lesin died in Washington, DC, in a hotel room under unusual circumstances.

His family initially said the cause of death was a heart attack but, after a year-long investigation, Washington’s chief medical examiner and Federal authorities released a joint statement saying he died of blunt-force trauma to his head sustained in his hotel room. Lesin was bludgeoned to death. The weapon was said to be a baseball bat. Obviously, an old fashioned assassination. The Baseball Bat was so vulgarly antique; it is just low grade Ghetto, Babe Ruth style. A Calloway putter to the head is the best assassination tool since Cyanide, considering the physics of kinetics and energy of mass. Read up on Physics.

But it obviously took years for the former KGB, the nascent FSB, to catch up to modern assassination techniques; such was the devastation from the collapse of the USSR. The rumor on the street was Lesin was under investigation by our FBI, and some FSB agents assassinated him just prior to a scheduled meeting between Lesin and U.S. Justice Department officials to discuss the inner workings of Russia Today (RT), the news outlet he helped create, that broadcast worldwide, including in the USA, and which was built from the bones of Novosti, stolen from me and my Cold Warrior mentors.

When I heard the news of Lesin’s fortunate departure from Earth from my former partner,

Clifton, I said it could not have happened to a more deserving person. A long time coming, overdue. I could of done in 2 years what that idiot Gangster took over ten years to do, to establish a news channel that would counter the anti-Russia false media that was planted by CNN and BBC, all because I had the 24 time zone satellites and the A.P. lined up to play. It was a blunder of history. But now, at least, Clifton and I finally knew, if there were any leftover killing contracts out on us from the old days in Moscow, they probably died along with Lesin. Perhaps. That prick went to Hell with pre-arranged reservations.

Chapter 15.3: Moscow, Russia: Act Two, Strike Two: Oops, swing and miss again. meet Paul Nitze and Elmo Zumwalt.

I was jumping back and forth between New York and Moscow. While in New York, I get a call from a former British diplomat. He wanted me to fly down to Washington, DC and meet Paul Nitze and Admiral Elmo Zumwalt. They were working on a project in Moscow and had heard of me.

Like my former Professor at Yale Law School, Eugene Rostow, Paul Nitze was a cold warrior legend. President Kennedy appointed Nitze Assistant Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs. In 1963, Nitze became the Secretary of the Navy, serving until 1967. Following his term as Secretary of the Navy, he served as Deputy Secretary of Defense (1967–1969), as a member of the US delegation to the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT) (1969–1973). Nitze was President Ronald Reagan‘s chief negotiator of the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty (1981–1984). In 1984, Nitze was named Special Advisor to the President and Secretary of State on Arms Control. He was Legend.

For more than forty years, Nitze was a significant contributor to the Committee on the Present Danger, which warned of a Soviet edge in the Cold War competition, a voice no less persuasive than my Professor Eugene Rostow’s voice. They saw eye to eye. And so would I.

I had also heard also of Elmo Russell “Bud” Zumwalt Jr. from the Vietnam War era. He was an American naval officer and the youngest man to serve as Chief of Naval Operations. As an Admiral and later the 19th Chief of Naval Operations, Zumwalt played a major role in U.S. military history, especially during the Vietnam War after the Tonkin Gulf Incident. After a 32-year Navy career, he launched an unsuccessful campaign for the U.S. Senate.

So I hopped on a jet shuttle from NYC to DC and had the honor of meeting these two great Icons. They had been working on a Moscow project and they wanted my advice and a potential partnership. They had been attempting to acquire the exclusive rights to lay fiber-optic cable through the underground power grid of the Moscow utility (RAO Unified Energy System of Russia). There was one other competitor for those rights, the Anderson Group, Inc., an American company run by Oliver Grace, Jr. I knew very well as friends his nephew, Jack and his niece, Maisie, from Newport, RI, heirs to the W.R. Grace company. It’s a small world after all.

Well, it was a good meeting. I gave my opinion that in my view, such a franchise could become very valuable, if we could get the exclusive rights to the run fiber-optic cable through the utility grid in Moscow. There was the possibility of delivering internet, VOIP, and even cable TV.

I said I would drag the cable through the sewers myself if need be, I would be on the front lines, in the trenches. But I cautioned them that some Russian would come along with a pair of scissors and cut the cable line if we did not pay up. Thus we would have to make examples of them, dragging them in public and hanging them in the public square, so to speak, until they all got the picture. Scissors equals the death sentence. Nitze and Zumwalt knew exactly what I was talking about, they were warriors. This was just real-world hardball.

I also discussed the alternate option of a nascent technology whereby you could send data over the magnetic fields generated by electrical currents going through utility grids. This would be impossible to block, and every household could have a simple router device that they plugged into an electrical outlet to access the internet. The death rate would be zero. But the technology would take time to develop.

Finally, I thought there was inherent risk that the Russian telecoms would certainly try to grab big market share and also the possibility of competition from a newly developed but untested technology protocol, “Wi-Fi”, which could also render our franchise unprofitable in the future.

Nevertheless, we agreed to move forward. But it came to pass that Andrews Group outbid us, and proceeded to do what we had intended to do. Andrews Group became known as Moscow Cablecom Corp. Rumors were that they were having difficulty, and Nitze, Zumwalt and I might have dodged a bullet. And I, most off all, might have avoided the embarrassment of failure in front of two of the greatest warriors of the last generation. I wanted to run across Oliver Grace, Jr. in Palm Beach, and ask him how it all turned out. It took decades, but finally he called me to disclose he sold Moscow Telecom in 2005 to a Kremlin connected Oligarch. He made some money but not a lot. Later I had dinner with him. It was fun recounting with him the old days, when Moscow was a Wild West frontier. Ollie was a good guy.

Chapter 15.4: Moscow, Russia: Act Three, Two Strikes, Wham! That Ball is outa here! Maybe? The CTC Media Network.

Well, I began to look at television. The first product advertisement to ever run on TV in the USSR was around October, 1991. The history of the development of television broadcasting in the former USSR was fascinating. Stalin had originally wired every household to receive radio broadcasts of his propaganda. When Television came, Soviet TV, or Channel One, was started, and Stalin again re-wired every household in the USSR to receive his propaganda television broadcasts over cable TV or VHF.

Soon the Russians began to complain, wanting their own TV station, creating Russian Channel Two, then the Military complained and Channel 3 was created for them. Then came the students, who wanted their own educational channel, which became Channel 4. Soon there were 11 TV channels. Stalin was a control freak, so all TV broadcasting had to come from a centralized source, in this case Ostankino Tower. Ostankino was a huge white cement pillbox maybe four by four city blocks, with a tower at the top that looked like the Washington DC Monument. It surpassed the Empire State Building to become the tallest free-standing structure in the world. On the Ostankino Tower were located all the transmitters for all of the USSR TV stations, under the watchful eye of the Kremlin.

So I started to do my homework. I went to a broadcast interview of a businessman, Boris Berezovsky, who had television interests. While he was being interviewed on TV, his .45 caliber pistol slipped out of his pocket onto the floor with a thud. He had bought up all the advertising blocks ad infinitum on Channel One and Two, so there was no opportunity there. Berezovsky also owned the Mercedes Benz dealership in Moscow. When a shipment of 100 cars arrived, these were sold in one day as the Russians queued around the block with suitcases full of cash. Berezovsky became very wealthy, and moved to London, where has was seen gallivanting around Monaco and St. Tropez with his yacht and his private jet.

One season, he did not show up. Where was he, everybody asked? Well, Russia had put extradition warrants out on him everywhere, he could only now go between London and Switzerland. He had become, foolishly, an enemy of the Kremlin, and a public feud erupted between him and Kremlin favorite, Roman Abramovich, the most famous of the public Oligarchs, and the Tattle Tale rags in London had fun for years writing about this. One day, Berezovsky decided not to breathe anymore, and the London rags had a field day with conspiracy theories.

He died alone his bathroom, long before the nascent FSB, the successor to the KGB, figured out how to use a Plutonium 3 isotope to “off “ somebody. Berezovsky had harvested many enemies, besides the Kremlin, such as former partners, competitors, etc. He had screwed a lot of people and what goes around comes around. Nobody attended his funeral,

I realized I was not going to be able to play with the Big Boys, but I was able to arrange to buy Channel 11, a UHF channel, with a very weak 0.5 kilowatt transmitter that covered maybe 3% of Moscow’s population of nearly 9 million people. Victor helped me acquire this through a “joint stock company”, a brand new Russian legal creation that was based on and mimicked our Western corporation legal structure.

Then I created the “Business Plan”. It was simple: Deep six the 0.5 kilowatt transmitter. In its place we would put up a 5.0 kilowatt transmitter to cover most of Moscow. A license amendment was needed, but that was not an issue with Victor on my side. US and European Programming were still dirt cheap, as there was no advertising market as of yet, and there were many facilities in Moscow to lip-sync dub such foreign programming. It was to be pure entertainment; no costly news broadcasting that would get you in trouble with the Kremlin in short order. Local Studios were available to produce and edit cheap content. Our demographic profile target would be younger upwardly mobile group of 25-40 years old. The older Russians would, like trained sheep, keep watching the propaganda of Channel One, or Two, but they had no money, their demographic was worthless. The youth on the other hand, could rise as Russia created a middle class, and they would buy Pepsi, cigarettes, beer and other consumer products from our nascent advertisers.

It was a lay-up shot, notwithstanding the frequent hiccups that makes Russia a volatile environment. I had seen early cable TV in the USA, guys in pickup trucks and ladders would climb to the top of a telephone pole, string a cable to your house, drill through the wall and put in a cable TV box. For each house! Expensive! We just had to climb to the roof of each apartment building and splice a UHF receiver into the existing receiver that was hardwired to the rest of the building’s main cable system, and poof, we had tremendous coverage. We just needed permission from the mayor’s office to access the rooftops; for we already had our KGB “Russian Roof”.

The Mayor of Moscow at that time was Yury Luzhkov, a party politician with a deep love for Moscow. The Russians are proud people, and he, like many, wanted to bring Moscow into the 20th century and was devoted to that ideal. Thus, getting permission was simple, there were no holdups, and with the Mayor’s office blessing, we began putting up UHF receivers on apartment buildings with no issues. They said he retired a devoted and humble man, but he had been fortunate enough to marry into money. He wife was said to be worth well over $400 million when he retired.

Well, the work on building a TV station had begun. My model was the old channel 11 in New York that could become a very valuable anchor station to a network. The franchise in Moscow was valuable because 80% of the advertising market was Moscow and the other 20% was in Saint Petersburg.

Moreover, I was very proud to be the only American to ever buy a TV station in Moscow and build it out. In fairness, there was another American with the vision to see the future, and that man was named Ted Turner, and my stepfather had sold him his first 12 meter Sailing Yacht, “War Baby” to compete in the America’s Cup Race in Newport, RI. Ted had come to Moscow, and had expressed interest in creating a joint venture with Channel Six, and he would contribute his massive TBS library that could be converted into local content.

Alas, for Ted, his timing was a little off. In October of 1993, the Russian Parliament rose up in rebellion to Yeltsin. Then tanks shelled the Russian White House and of course, also shelled Ostankino, for any coup d’état requires a takeover of media as the first order of business. Unfortunately, the tanks shelled only one corner of the huge Ostankino pillbox, and that one corner contained Ted Turner’s partner’s studio and Ted’s TBS library. Poof! No more studio, library, or joint venture, all up in smoke, and Ted moved on to much bigger things. His partner quickly fled Russia for some reason, Vladimir Guzinski was his name, I think.

The Parliamentary Rebels had the same level of luck. They stormed and took over Ostankino and issued orders to control the airwaves. But Ostankino was a massive complex totally out of control. The Rebels would order a broadcast, but when they pushed the button, something else would go on the air because some technician on the other side of the building had been bribed with 2 cartons of Marlboro Cigarettes, and stuck in a different program to be broadcast. So the Rebels shot a couple of people, and generally stood around and looked stupid until the 13 day rebellion came to an end. This was not the first of Russian hick-ups, or speed bumps, that we would confront.

By 1994, I realized it might be good to have a strong partner in the media business. We began discussions with Channel Two of France. I had heard Ron Lauder had bought an interest in a Czechoslovakian TV Anchor station. I met in New York with his daughter, Aerin Lauder, to discuss this, she was kind enough to have lunch with me and hear of my Russian adventures, but Ron was having his own issues, and his TV Station was in a different, kinder frontier than Russia. And that family had much bigger fishes to fry. But Aerin was the best.

We ended up in talks with a group of Americans who owned a TV station in Russia’s second largest market, St. Petersburg, about 20% of the market, as well as outlets in 200 other poor worthless cities in the former USSR. Peter Gerwe was the point man, he began his career as the premier assistant to Steve Jobs, and was no slouch. A second principal was Mike Wick, whose father was in Reagan’s kitchen cabinet. And their other partners included Merrill Lynch Capital Markets, Morgan Stanley, and MGM-UA, with its extensive library of films. We discussed our respective “business plans”, and they were nearly identical: Build out the company, place programming to appeal to the upwardly mobile viewers, and take it public through an IPO, and cash out.

I had something they desperately needed, an Anchor Station in the major market of Moscow, and they had something I wanted, programming, a network, and the ability to do most of the heavy lifting. Finally, they were a Delaware Corporation, so I had jurisdiction over them in the US, and they could not screw me lest they find themselves in Federal District Court in the USA, rather than in some far flung Russian Court. We agreed to keep the Network separate; I would convey to them the majority interest in the Moscow Anchor Station, keeping veto power under Russian Law. We would at some future date roll up the 2 entities into one, CTC Media (STS Media in Russian) with valuations set by an independent US Investment Bank, and IPO it on Wall Street. Now I had strong, connected media partners, I could take time off for socializing and travel, smooth sailing ahead. My worries were over, so I naively thought.

In 1997, Darth Sorius would attack and nearly destroy the Eastern Asia countries via currency manipulation and ruin hundreds of thousands of families. Thereafter, in 1998, Russia would unravel, defaulting on its government debt, its Russian Ruble would also collapse, and its bank owners would wire their depositors’ money to the Bank Owners’ private Swiss Accounts, and then the Bank Owners would flee Russia and extradition as the banks shuttered their doors, and the depositors were left penniless. Long Term Capital Management would then collapse creating another world wide currency crisis. Only two banks, Kremlin sponsored, survived. But it was disaster for us, with the Ruble collapsing, our advertisers could not price their merchandise, and they yanked all their ads. We had massive lay-offs. My Russian interest was now worthless.

It was a grim outlook, but Russia has always been about grim things. However, something wonderful happened there, the oil began gushing out of the ground, Russia began to export oil. And with huge currency inflows, the Ruble stabilized, and Russia began to rebuild their middle class, as the trickle-down theory took effect. Our advertisers flooded back to take advantage of a huge untapped and soon to be wealthy market. We were back in business, that was at least until Ostankino Tower burned up in August of 2000. The fire knocked out virtually all television broadcasts in Moscow and the surrounding regions and we were out of business again. Agh!

Eventually the tower was repaired and the transmitters reinstalled, and the Russia airwaves hummed again. Meanwhile, the CTC Network took in an investor, Alfa Bank JSC, a well-known Russian giant run by Oligarch Mikail Friedman. Morgan Stanley had no stomach for revolutions, fires, and currency crises, and they wanted out, and Modern Times Group out of Sweden, known as Channel One, swooped in and bought them out at a bargain basement price. Modern Times could consolidate the earnings of CTC into their financials, thus it was good for them, and was reflected in their appreciating stock price in Sweden.

In the small world department, the owner of Modern Times was Jan Stenbeck, based out of Glen Cove, NY. He had married one of the great Long Island beauties of his time, Merrill MacLeod.. Together they had children Cristina, Hugo, Sophie and Max Stenbeck. Jan went on to buy “Black Knight”, the most famous of yachts, on which my step-father and bio-mother honeymooned, and which was the New York Yacht Club’s Committee Boat when Australia II lifted the America’s Cup from Newport, RI in 1983. I had met Jan in Lyford Cay, Bahamas. I was walking the docks waiting for my Sailing Yacht to come over from Palm Beach, but the weather was bad. In comes the famous yacht “Black Knight”. So, I had a nice chat with him, little knowing that he would soon be a partner in our Russian TV Network Venture.

That Network Partnership would become a byzantine labyrinth of infighting as the Swedish Modern Times Group and the Russian Alfa Bank each owned 40%, and the Americans 20%. The Americans were in the middle, the swing vote. But the cash flow kept in coming as the oil gushed out from Russian soil. Soon the TV enterprise was grossing $70,000,000 a year with a profit margin of around 45%.

The long awaited Roll-up happened and Morgan Stanley and Deutsche Bank took CTC Media Public in 2006 at $14 a share. At a $1.5 billion valuation, it was the first publicly traded Russia media company on the NASDAQ. Most Americans bailed out in the IPO, happy to exit Russia without suffering bullet holes. Some stayed in, like me, and the stock steadily climbed to $33 a share. Then the stock was recommended on CNBC by the clown-like fellow who looked and acted like a hybrid between Krusty the Clown of Homer Simpson fame and a Klingon Warrior Prince out of Star Trek. The stock immediately traded down, and kept going down.

In 2015, the Kremlin invited Modern Times to leave CTC Media, restricting foreign ownership of Russian Media to 25%. CTCM then went private. It did much better thereafter.

Chapter 15.5: If you have a hot Russian Girl Friend, what romantic spot do you take her to? Obviously the Republican National Convention in Houston, Texas. Right?

In the summer of 1992, I had a very beautiful Russian girlfriend, Anna. She had been to Paris, but that was the only time she had been outside Moscow. So I invited her to come visit me in New York City and Newport, RI. It was easy back then to get her a Travel Visa. Later Visas became far more difficult to get, not because of destination countries, but because Russia was losing all of its beautiful women to the West, thus causing Russia to institute a crackdown on exit Visas.

So I picked up Anna at JFK Airport, showed her the Big Apple, and we went to Newport, RI. I had a friend, Herb Millard, a Harvard guy who married Cocoa Blafford, an Exxon heiress from Houston and they summered in Newport. Their wedding was recorded by Robin Leach of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous as one of the top 10 weddings ever in the world. They had rented the Taj Mahal in India, flew in the guests, and had a wedding procession on elephants.

Although it was prime season in Newport, The Millards invited Anna and I to come to River Oaks, their Houston residence, as the 1992 National Convention HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1992_Republican_National_Convention” of the Republican Party was being held in the Astrodome in Houston, Texas, from August 17 to August 20, 1992, and everybody was going. So Anna and I flew from Providence, RI, to Houston. We were put up in one of Cocoa’s many guest rooms, on one side was Senator John Chafee, Sr. from Rhode Island and on the other was Thomas Quinn, a powerful and influential Democratic lobbyist, from Newport, RI and DC. Then the fun began.

Anna hung out in a bikini by the pool, she had never had the experience, never having been this far south on the planet, yet she was a natural, as she soaked up the rays. But we were all afraid old Senator Chafee would get a heart attack, Anna was such a knockout.

Herb and I went to the Houstonian Club, but the security for Bush, Sr. was so heavy that it was a mess. So we went to the Bayou Club to play tennis. The Bayou Club is a little known private club for Houston’s social elite. It has yellow sand tennis courts; the only of its kind in the world, and your tennis shoes would be forever yellow, similar to the red clay courts in Monaco where the red clay gets imprinted into your tennis shoes forever, also.

Changing in the Locker Room was also cool, with narrow old wooden lockers. I had a guest one, next to me was one with a nameplate “James Baker” then “George H. W. Bush”, then “George W. Bush”. I hung my clothes next door to the “Big Guys”. Herb and I played tennis, and had a bite at the Club, then returned home. There were cocktail parties to go to, but it was all too political for me.

The next day, Anna and I made the “Jail Break”. Cocoa had two sons by a previous marriage, Walker and John. Walker was a tall, handsome gregarious party animal. He took Anna and I to the “Men’s Club”, the premier “Gentlemen’s Club” in Houston where we hooked up with Billy Bush, George Sr.’s nephew and we had a blast. The beautiful women would come one by one and sit on Walker’s lap to say hi. He had been there before, I would guess. I had brought sand to the beach, so to speak, but Anna had a great time, as did Billy Bush. Billy gave Anna and I two tickets to the Republican Convention floor, where his uncle would be nominated for President the next day, so we were totally set up. The next day, we went to the nomination of George Bush, Sr. for his second term, and went to the floor when all the balloons came down, and Anna met Arnold Schwarzenegger, as the balloons bounced off our heads. It was a bit overwhelming for poor Anna, but she held up well. But I was not done yet. The next day, we were on a plane back to the northeast, through NYC to Providence, RI. In the row in front of us was Senator D’Amato from New York, and I could not help notice that he often turned his head to see Anna, she was a masterpiece.

When we got back to Newport, RI, I got in touch with my trial lawyer from the LA “Big

Easy” litigation, Terry Giles. Terry had just been cruising the Northeast on his 100 foot Broward, Enchantress, and she was docked in Newport. He said I could take her for the day, with full crew and provisions, and have fun.

So I invited my friend, Washington “Rip’ Irving, my stepfather and bio-mother, and Carolyn Skelly from Houston. She could not make it, but she sent her court entourage. We motored out and anchored in front of Rip’s Beach Club. Anna and I swam into the beach, others went by tender. Anna and I then swam by the rocks and laid in the Sun. I said “Anna, this is just how the average American lives.” That was a little cruel. But when I put Anna on a plane back to Moscow from JFK, she knew that she had an experience that nobody in her country had ever had. And I made sure she had all the right souvenirs.

Chapter 15.6: It Ain’t over till its over, Politics, Presidents, and the self-inflicted defeat of President George Bush, Sr.

So I told Anna I would remain in the USA. I would work for the Bush campaign, for when my professor at Yale Law School, Eugene Rostow, founded Democrats for Reagan, I went with him and would remain there. Moreover, the candidate for the Democrats and his wife had gone to Yale Law School, and I knew very first hand that this was really bad news. Any US President from Harvard or Yale Law Schools would be a disaster, the last Yale Law School President of the USA was Gerald Ford, and Nixon, a lawyer and liar, was a major disaster.

Moreover, George Bush Sr.’s war on Iraq had put the final nail in the coffin of Stalin’s USSR, and given me the chance to exploit economic opportunity, the real reason why I was in Russia, notwithstanding the fantastically beautiful women there. I owed it to him and my Cold Warrior mentors for the end of the Cold War I, and my adventures in the new Wild Wild West.

So I fought for him, with some very bright allies, but unfortunately George Sr.’s staff thought the President had already earned the second term, and would go home at 5:00 p.m. George Sr. had earned a popularity rate unprecedented in US history of 89% after the first Gulf War. As the enemy press media continued to erode that approval number, his staff was oblivious. They were totally entitled to slide up the mountain on their butts, they thought, but the only real entitlement is from The Almighty Holy One, and it is six feet of earth over your grave. They condescendingly did not get into the back alley ground war, and when we tried to fax their Houston campaign’s office after 8:00 p.m. EST from NYC, they were closed. Meantime, the Iraq war had skewed the economic cycle three months into the future, and though the economy was humming again, the dishonest press did not report it as happening. They beat up on Bush with misinformation about the economic numbers and they were behind Bill Clinton and his saxophone, intentionally covering up the booming economy.

Ross Perot was also a wild card. In the Roman Days, competitors would get together to form triumvirates to maintain power. Julius Caesar, Marcus Crassus, and Pompey, then Marc Antony, Octavius Caesar, and Marcus Lepidus. But George Bush, Sr. would not stoop to such pragmatic politics; he would not go to Ross Perot. Thus Bush, Sr., one of the finest men, a man of distinguished service in WWII, the CIA, and the Reagan Whitehouse, sadly lost this country to a saxophone playing Yale Law School playboy and the avaricious Clinton Foundation. Clinton did not win, George Bush, Sr. had lost, a self-made loss. Sad.

I would come back into politics years later, in Florida, to help flip Florida and thus the USA to George Bush, Jr., a very interesting tale to be told later. In the meantime, I had to suffer the corrupt Clinton years. And when the Lewinsky sex scandal became public, my Catholic French cousins would write me and ask, how could your President, the most powerful man in the world, stoop to this? Sure, they understood the Jack Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe extra marital affair, but Lewinski? It was an international disgrace. I tried to explain that Clinton had grown up in Arkansas and New Haven, CT, and never had the opportunity to learn or understand the “savoir faire” of women. His only criterion was his testosterone and the XX chromosome. To the French, who distinguished amongst fashion, beauty, and fine wines, we Americans were a complete disgrace, and I was totally shamed by them. So back to Russia, with its many complexities. France was off limits for the time being.

PART XVI: MANDELBROT’S FRACTALS MAKE IT TO MOSCOW: (FOR NERDS ONLY).

Chapter 16.1: The Yale Ball and Chain follows me to Moscow: The Landau Institute For Theoretical Physics. Only Physics Geeks Need Apply:

I did not spend all my time fighting Oligarchs for airwaves or hanging out at Night Flight with gorgeous women at night. I had a sincere interest in Science, medicine, and technology, and the technology and science in Russia was second only to the US, and in many cases, far in advance.

There was the Moscow Heart Institute, their version of Sloan Kettering and the Mayo Clinic. Their science had solved Hepatitis C by irradiating water until the water molecules reached a vibrational frequency that wiped out Hepatitis C. They had a 100% cure for skin cancer, melanoma, by injecting a triplet oxygen (O3) ozone serum that was absorbed by abnormal cells. Then they would hit the abnormal cell with a 770 nanometer infrared light, which could penetrate the skin by inches, and the O3 triplet would release the third singlet oxygen in an explosion destroying only the abnormal cell from inside ,thus curing the cancer. They even had a crazy cure for terminal cancer. Some crazy Russian had taken 17 terminally ill cancer patients with weeks left to live and injected them with an attenuated trichinosis worm. Their immune systems went into shock overdrive and all the patients were still alive 10 years later. Russia did not have an FDA, thus their medicine could brave new frontiers and save people, rather than bury them as the FDA, Big Pharma, and the American Trial Lawyer’s Association would do in the USA.

I was fascinated by this medical science, and since all funding had been cut off, all the technology and science was for sale to the highest bidder. I tried to find outlets in the USA, but the simple solutions the Russians had could not be sold here (due to regulations) and generate profits from US companies, even if the FDA (Federal Death Administration) ever decided to be on the side of health and welfare.

There was, however, a satellite branch of the Landau Institute at the Moscow Heart Institute. The Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics was formed in 1965 to keep the Landau school alive after the tragic car accident death of Lev D. Landau. Since its founding the Institute grew rapidly to about one hundred scientists, becoming one of the worldwide best-known and leading institutes for theoretical physics. It was located in Chernogolovka, well over an hour from Moscow, but it had satellite branches, including one at the Moscow Heart Institute nearby. And it had a unique philosophy. The School was in close touch with real down-to-earth physics-as opposed to some, may I say, detached formal esoteric schools of thought that seem to dominate western schools. Secondly, it fostered an extremely wide range of interests, physics in general, not generic theoretical physics that was the rehashed religion of the West.

Here, I hatched a plan to finally rid myself of the Yale Ball and Chain and relegate Einstein’s silly works to the dustbin of history. I did not have any written paper, I was not Russian, my US Dollars could not buy me the prestige of this Institute, but maybe a science publication or two. But I had an ace up my sleeve: Benoit Mandelbrot and his fractal universe, a game changing disruptor that I could sell to these curious and open-minded Russian Professors. But I needed a lot of help and even more luck.

The plan had to be fool-proof. One slip, and I would be dismissed as a snake-oil salesman. The first order of business was to hire two bright English and Russian speaking physics students earning their way to their masters at Landau, the “Kandidat Naut”, on their way to a “Doktor Nauk“, a very difficult PHD, of high esteem. Then I had to sell them on my battle plan:

• Discredit the Michelson-Morley speed of light experiment in 1887 as inaccurate and uni-dimensional. (Thus discrediting “c” as the absolute speed of light).

• Phase I: Dismiss the Einstein Time-Twin Paradox as the baseless mind trick, easily disproven as it had been so many times over the years, thus discrediting Einstein in phase one to implant doubt in Einstein’s theories for Phase II.

• Phase II: Break down the contradictory E=mc2 into its static one dimensional components, then rewrite it in fractal mathematics to apply to multi-dimensions, where time and space really could stretch and shift in the blink of an eye. Then there would truly be a “relativity theory” A form of Mandelbrot’s ordered chaos. Goodbye, Einstein.

• Redesign Bohr’s model of an atom into a cone shaped object based on Sierpinski’s triangle and make it 3 dimensional, while also designing a 3 Dimensional model of the Universe using the Kock snowflake fractal for 2D as well as a Sierpinski derivative for 3D. Both geometric models would incorporate “Infinity”. Under Mandelbrot, each fractal would be recursively defined with infinite detail, which exhibits “self-similarity”, thus at every scale you look, each element of the Mandelbrot diagram, is similar in shape to the sister element on the next scale higher up or lower down, implying that the model of a spinning spiral galaxy would be similar to an atom or a subatomic particle, with a black hole in the middle of each. It starts with as a “triangle” and every new iteration of an added triangle creates midpoints allowing more triangles to be placed on it again and again ad infinitum. Sierpinski’s Triangles can have an infinite number of triangles within it, all within a defined and confined circle which we would guess is the “Universe”, functioning mechanically much like a Swiss Watch.

And there was plenty of room for the Almighty Holy One, for he could be the “Watch Maker” outside the circle of the Universe or pervade it in particular as the Pantheists like Uncle Francis wanted to believe. Or both. All I needed to do was take the Sierpinski’s Triangles and make them into spiraling cones, similar to spinning ice cream cones, and build a model of the Universe that would allow that and enough additional space for the missing “dark matter”.

“Eternity”, I had no answer for, any more than Steven Hawking. Only the Almighty Holy One could know of that equation, for the questions of mortality and immortality, death and rebirth, reincarnation, are not in our domain or that of Theoretical Physics. This has always been reserved only for the Almighty Holy One. But I knew that all galaxies would be spinning and rotating on their journey, and all would be spinning with a black hole in the center, and under Mandelbrot theory applied to these 3 Dimensional models, there was plenty of room for the answer to the missing “dark matter”. That was my “Mission”. Then I could shed the Yale “Ball and Chain” and go play. Really play! Like a child done with his “chores”.

• Finally, attack Stephen Hawking, for at the center of his wandering and tedious theories of time and space is an actual Universe, dispersed as in chaos, and careful observation under a fractal eye would reveal patterns of galaxies arrayed like Cantor’s Dust, in a primordial order, such that super computers yet to be built 200 years from now would be powerful enough to map and navigate them, in a reverse-engineering sort of way. Hence the beginnings of space travel would begin today as human flight began in Leonardo Da’Vinci’s time. Then I could foresee on the horizon the playground of life beckoning me, after the “Mission” was complete, and the legacy Yale Ball and Chain dragged with me to Moscow were all to be cast off, to become enlightening bread crumbs or just dust. And I would then be totally liberated, free from Yale’s legacy burden.

To those of you who would laugh at my ambitions as foolish and fantasy, I remind you

that fools like you believed Ptolemy’s world was flat for one thousand years and the Sun revolved around it, and for 17,000 years you all mis-believed that a cannon ball would hit earth sooner than a feather if both were dropped in a vacuum at free fall at the same time, from a leaning Tower of Pisa. And how many of you fools laughed at Leonardo Da Vinci’s engineering drawings of a man flying less than 500 years ago, before the Wright Brothers flew and the Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the Moon in 1969?

Read up again on Plato’s allegory of the Cave, a chained man in a cave, who only knows the world through reflections off the wall. That just may be you. And my job was to cut the ankle shackles, the Einstein endorsed chains, so the Cave Man could finally turn, look, around and see the real world, and evolve to another dimension full of unfulfilled dreams.

All is possible. I just wanted to get my ideas out there with Mandelbrot’s genius in the

mix. And if I was really lucky, I might get an honorable mention the Russian Academy of Sciences, an honor of such magnitude it dwarfed the now cheapened Nobel Prizes. My life with that award would have been worth living for me, for our children, and a future that encompassed the Universe and beyond. And I might just get on Wikipedia, like my ancestors. That is, if I did not get shot dead first by my Russian enemies.

Chapter 16.2: The Michelson–Morley experiment- wrong! Any sailor knows you can’t sail downwind without gaining distance.

The misdirected Michelson–Morley experiment in 1887 was a scientific experiment to find the presence and properties of an ancient substance called “aether”, a substance believed to fill empty space. The Greeks called it “quintessence”, the 5th element. According to the Hindu Philosophy, the whole of Nature is composed of two principal substances. One of them is called the “Akasa” or aether and the other is named “Prana” or energy. These two may be said to correspond to matter and force. Everything in this Universe that possesses form or that has material existence is evolved out of this omnipresent and all-pervasive subtle substance ‘Akasa’, aka “aether”.

The experiment to confirm the existence of “aether” was done by Albert A. Michelson and Edward Morley in 1887. Since waves in water need something to move in (water) and sound waves do as well (air), it was believed that light waves also needed something to move in. Scientists in the 18th Century named this substance “aether”, after the Greek God of Light. They believed that aether was all around us and that it also filled the vacuum of space. Michelson and Morley created this experiment to try and prove the theory that aether existed. They did this with a device called an interferometer.

The Earth travels in its own dimension very quickly (more than 100,000 km per hour) around the Sun, which is also travelling swiftly through the galaxy and generating solar wind. If aether exists, the Earth moving through it would theoretically cause a “wind” in the same way that there seems to be a wind outside a moving car. To a person in the car, the air outside the car would seem like a moving substance. In the same way, aether should seem like a moving substance to things on Earth, so thought Michelson and Morley.

The Michelson interferometer was designed to measure the speed and direction of the “aether wind” by measuring by laser the difference between the speed of light traveling in different directions. It measured this difference by shining a beam of light into a mirror that was only partially coated in silver. Part of the beam would be reflected one way, and the rest would go the other. Those two parts would then be reflected back to where they were split apart, and recombined. By looking at interference patterns in the recombined beam of light, any changes in speed because of aether wind could be seen (at least in theory).

This was a fatal mistake. Any sailor knows the wind and water. Similarly, a wave of light will lighten its peaks and troughs the further it goes. To measure it, it needs to ricochet of the theoretical mast of a moving sailboat and be re-calibrated to a measuring instrument following at exactly the same speed and distance. And the measurement tool has to measure everything exactly the same way, which, of course, violates Heisenberg’s HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uncertainty_principle”uncertainty HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uncertainty_principle”principle. A photon-like baseball can be measured at different points as the first third, or the middle, or the tail end of the ball is registered by the instrument. Same with an oblong football. At 299,792,458 meters per second (“c”), and at the speed of light, there is plenty of room for measurement error.

But Michelson and Morley surprisingly found that there was in fact no substantial difference in the measurements. This was puzzling to the scientific community at the time, and led to the creation of various new theories to explain the result (Sorry, Ptolemy redux). The most important was the Lorentz factor which is used in Albert Einstein‘s Special Theory of Relativity to fix the absolute speed of light, that doomed us to more than a century of clown-like mathematical formulae using Einstein’s mistaken acceptance of that experiment, and endless dollars spent on the tenure of ignorant professors who also bought into the ice cream flavor of the day. But it put over one hundred years of shackles on our scientific feet. Fear not! Plato’s Cave man was about to revolt!

The Michelson-Morley experiment, in particular, implied that the speed of light did not

change as the Earth moved through space, in apparent contradiction with the aether idea, part of Greek and Hindu philosophy. Aether was of course, the missing answer to the missing “dark matter”, but aether was a theoretical idea that never found experimental support, even though the Greeks recognized it and called it “quintessence,’ the fifth element, for centuries and centuries before. Also the Hindus. There is still much we don’t know about “dark matter” and “dark energy”; in particular, we certainly haven’t nailed down what exactly they are (although we have many plausible ideas), and the only way we have detected them is indirectly, through their effects on gravitational fields in the Universe.

But they are not arbitrary; both ideas make very specific predictions for what those gravitational effects should be, which astronomers have tested and verified. The case for “dark matter” and “dark energy” continues to grow stronger. I would put forward in Moscow, that this missing matter and energy is simply filler for Benoit Mandelbrot’s 3-Dimensional universe. Redesign Bohr’s model of an atom into a cone shaped object based on Sierpinski’s triangle, and make it 3 dimensional, while also designing a 3 D model of the universe using the Koch snowflake fractal. Both geometric models, built on triangles, could incorporate “Infinity” and allow for “dark energy” or “Aether” as an alternate dimensional “filler”. “Eternity” I still had no answer for, any more than Steven Hawking. But I am still thinking about it.

Shackled now by Michelson and Morley, in 1905, after he hijacked Lorentz’s theory from a year earlier, Einstein pointed out how to preserve the symmetries of Maxwell’s equations without referring to all inclusive “aether” at all, in the newly coined term “Special Theory of Relativity”. The idea of aether was temporarily relegated to the trash bin of scientific history.

It is now time for Einstein to go into this trash heap and time to examine Mandelbrot’s theories as relates to aether and “dark matter” and “dark energy”.

Break down the contradictory E=mc2 into its static one dimensional components, then rewrite it in fractal mathematics to apply to multi-dimensions, where time and space really could stretch and shift in the blink of an eye. Then there would be truly a “relativity theory”, a form of chaos theory that could be understood. Logical. But I needed help, a lot of it.

Chapter 16.3: Hiring the Russian Gunslingers who could get me into The Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics, part time.

As I said, I needed lots of help, tons of it. After many interviews, I found my two Russian gunslingers. Extremely bright in Physics, fluent in both languages and greatly needing my US Dollars, they also were excited about Mandelbrot and his theories putting physics upside down. I had brought them the Holy Grail, paid them well, and we communicated well, even as to consistently argue in English.

I had found my soldiers, Kostya, a brilliant mathematician, steady with purpose, and Anastasia, named after the last Romanov Princess, and as arrogant as her. Now Anastasia was a very, very beautiful girl, with tremendous IQ and deep blue eyes and blonde hair. But I remember the analogy that man has two brains but only enough blood to fill one at a time. There were plenty of other girls in the world, and Anastasia had a royal demeanor about her, like her namesake, hard to argue with. But I desperately needed her help. My blood would remain in my brain. Together they could slip me into the Moscow satellite of The Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics and propound my radical theories with their deference and understanding. They had to take on Khalatnikov and Pytor Kapitza, the brilliant physicists that were the gatekeepers, but I surmised that the brilliant works of Mandelbrot, if presented coherently by brilliant Russians, and not some Amerikanski, was the bait that would lure their curiosity into a rare pass for me and my theories. But the hook, line and sinker was needed. And I thought Mandelbrot had provided it.

I was now styling, a Russian- American Prince. I had my day projects, Nightlife and Night School with my brilliant students. If only I could get an honorable mention from the Russian Academy of Sciences, much better than a Nobel Prize, I would be a universal hero, a candidate for Wikipedia! Like my ancestors, no shame. Again, that is, if nobody shot me dead in the meantime.

Chapter 16.4: Einstein and his thought experiments-throw the time-twin paradox in the trash heap, for starts.

Einstein had always been, in my opinion, a gadfly to theoretical physics. He had

purloined Lorentz’s Ʃ =mc2 formula in 1904 by using the Alpha Numeric “E” for “energy” instead of the Greek Epsilon in 1905. These soon had been forgotten, Newton’s Physics ruled the planet Earth, quantum physics applied elsewhere, and Einstein was relegated to the far reaches of the Universe, with his special theories of relativity and thought experiments that were just distant esoteric distractions.

In 1942, he republished E=mc2. In 1946, a weekly news magazine called Time Magazine, issued on July, 1, showed on its cover Einstein and E=Mc2 on a Nagasaki-like atomic mushroom cloud, and he was falsely given credit for nuclear fission, even though he and special relativity had nothing to do with it or the Manhattan Project that produced it. Nevertheless, science fused with celebrity worship and E=mc2 was painted on the landing deck of the first NAVY nuclear powered air craft carrier. Well you can be wrong, as Ptolemy proved, but still believed as long as you had a huge PR machine, and you could also cash in. Einstein’s estate still takes in an estimated $10 million a year.

The silliest of Einstein’s thought experiments was the Time-Twin Paradox, which has fooled many generations. Power of false or uneducated media is unparalleled in shaping human opinion. And it is the nature of humans to make observations that neatly fit their assumptions.

But the General Flaw in this Paradox that the Einstein-assumed Universe is static, but in reality it is apparently expanding, and as later discovered, at an accelerating rate, thus the Earth Twin does not just appear to be in free fall, as observed from a fixed (not moving) observation station, but spinning and spiraling away at an ever greater rate. And on the inbound leg, the Space Twin must accelerate or must travel a further distance to catch the Earth Twin, which invalidates the Paradox. If one were to construct a geometric model, the World line of the Earth-Twin would be an elliptical curve and the path of the Space Twin also, in effect a twisted Mobius strip. This means the Space Twin may have a slower or faster internal clock at any given time of his journey, but in the end, he arrives back at the same place and same age as his Earth Twin, with the same internal time clock, contrary to Einstein’s paradox.

Now I had a hard time originally convincing Kostya and Anastasia that the Great

Einstein had fooled so many. But they had to admit that the Universe of Hubble’s Law was expanding.

Secondly, JRR Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy was finally published in Russia in 1982, 18 years after its publication in the West, and it was a big hit. So I decided to entice my two Russian aides to have fun. Since both Twins had to move in an expanding universe, we would redo the thought experiment with Tolkien’s twin immortal elves, Elrond and Elros, and Taffy-Yardsticks (that stretched with space and time), and photon-surfing surf boards. Should we go to Middle Earth, Santa Monica Beach to start, or maybe the far reaches of the Universe?

Chapter 16.5: The Tolkien Twin Experiment: of Surfing Elves and Taffy Yardsticks.

Tolkien’s masterpieces provided two identical Elf Twins: Elrond and Elros, immortal and ageless, possessing near-identical quantum-clocks, and each using a conventional yardstick that measures intervals in space and time identically. They are bored with being identical immortal twins forever, and think that Einstein’s Space Twin Paradox will make them different in age. They hop on a comet, and mount brand new model 1200-Mike surfboards with identical speedometers calibrated with Conventional Yardsticks.

Each pushes the each other off the comet, in opposite directions traveling at a uniform speed to conserve the Newton’s Third Law of momentum. Each circles their half of the universe and collides back with their twin at the origination reference point. Of course, they appear not to have aged, and their clocks show near-identical time has elapsed. They are still the same elf age, having the same inertial frame of reference, thus refuting the Time Twin Paradox.

Completely frustrated, the elves decide to try a new approach, Elros will repeat his last journey, obeying Einstein’s limit and the Einstein ordering postulate, and still using a Conventional Yardstick to calibrate his speedometer and Elrond will attempt the same journey recalibrating his speedometer with a non-conventional yardstick called a “Taffy Yardstick”. Elrond can do this because, being elf-wise, he realized the inherent contradiction in Einstein’s special theory of relativity, an identical SI: That is all Conventional Yardsticks are the same for two observers occupying the same reference point, they agree to the SI Base units for meters (Space-(distance) and seconds (time intervals), but once put in motion, the yardsticks carried by the observers can become distinctly different and “Taffy-like” in that their relative time and space stretch, and heretofore identical SI Base unit specifications may not apply or be identical. Thus each observer will measure a different speed of light because meters/per second on their yardstick becomes non-uniform making the definition of “c” relative and not absolute under Einstein’s and Michelson Morley’s mistaken theories. Thus Elrond realized that there could be no absolute speed of light with special relativity theory, or in the alternative, no special relativity theory with the absolute speed of light if “c” is measured by conventional or identical yardsticks.

To continue the parable, Elrond and Elros hop back on their photon surf boards, and in accordance with Newton’s Third Law, they push off in opposite directions to surf a photon at the speed of light. Elrond, however, modifies the speedometer on his surf board with a device called a “Taffy-Yardstick”, which measures the space and intervals of the speed of light differently than Elros’ Conventional Yardstick. Elrond has no absolute speed limit because he can fudge the speed of light by shortening his definition of meters/per second. Thus Elrond can escape the Einstein limit and appear to wave-hop on a faster-than-light particle (a tachyon) and surf the universal loop faster than his twin. He will pass the origination reference point and collide with Elros before Elros has completed his loop. Elrond and Elros may probably still look the same age but in fact Elrond’s Quantum clock versus Elros will be younger, Elrond having arrived before his speed of light information, or age, arrives. Elrond’s clock has, in effect, traveled backwards in time relative to Elros. They thus proved the Time-Twin Paradox can be not be fulfilled by an Einstein presumption of fixed SI. By tinkering with light speed, (i.e. the SI of their yardsticks) they proved that Einstein’s Twin Paradox was a hoax.

Tolkien’s moral of the story: Elrond must stay immortal, because he is now younger. Elros is now considered mortal, having aged relative to Elrond. Hence Elros has chosen mortality and can begin the mortal line of the Kings of Numeanor, leading to Aragorn, who then marries immortal Elrond’s daughter, Arwen, his distant cousin, as referenced in the “Lord of the Rings”. Then Peter Jackson and New Line Cinema can make a huge fortune when “Lord of the Rings” is filmed and released, and LA’s Harvey Weinstein can look forward to “cuffs” and jail time for his illegally revived “casting couch”. Oy!

Chapter 16.6: Tolkien-Taffy Yardsticks? Thinking Outside the Russian Death Box: the Seduction of Anastasia and Kostya.

Well, Anastasia and Kostya took the bait. This funny little Elf story amused them, for it combined fantasy Tolkien elves with Relativity Theory and “Bay Watch”, and it was the very first knife into the back of Einstein and his propaganda. They began for the first time to think “outside the box,” which heretofore was usually a death sentence in Stalin’s Russia.

For example, Nikolai Kondratieff was a brilliant Russian economist in the 1930’s, analyzing past economic cycles and predicting future economic cycles in Capitalist economies. He was the “Toast of the Town” until Stalin realized that Kondratieff’s works implied that Capitalism would always survive, through ups and downs. This is not what Stalin was pitching, for the “Party Line” was that Communism and Socialism was great (especially for Stalin), and Capitalist societies must fail and collapse to greed and lust for power. So Kondratieff was sentenced to eight years in prison, wherein he continued his brilliant works. When the eight years were up, he was tried immediately again and sentenced to 10 additional years in prison. Then, the same day, they took him out and shot him dead. I guess that is the Russian way. If you get confused, shoot first, ask questions later.

The Royal family, the Romanovs, fared no better in July, 1918. They had been arrested by the “Reds”, Lenin and Trotsky and Stalin, and held in decent custody as befitting Royalty. They were moved to Yekaterinburg during the Russian Civil War, but when the White Army was approaching the city, the Red Russians did not know exactly what to do with this Royal “‘Baggage”. Moving the Royal family again was a logistical nightmare to the captors, so without Lenin’s permission, they decided to execute the Romanov family, shot the entire family, the parents and four children, and all the servants and their doctor. Tsar Nicholas II was allegedly shot 18 times, I guess the Russians wanted to make sure he was dead. Then they hid the bodies. They were never punished for their audacious murders.

The Poles also fared no differently. When the Russian army drove out the Germans from Poland in 1940, they inherited over 22,000 Polish prisoners of war, including the cream of the Polish officers’ corps and all the intelligentsia and magistrates. Even though the Poles were allies of the British and French, the Russians feared the Poles might resent Russian occupation and go over to the Nazi Axis. So the Russians shot them all, one by one, and buried them in mass graves, then blamed the Germans. This was known as the Katyn Massacre, one of the greatest war crimes ever. But there is insight into the Russian mentality, if you don’t exactly fit into a square peg, you just might end up in front of a firing squad.

Hence, getting Kostya and Anna to think outside the box was a shunned anathema to the harsh lessons of Russian history. Fortunately for me, they were brilliant, curious and there was no political “party line” in Theoretical Physics to violate. And I could get a little high quality Vodka out of Finland which would smooth the nights where we would explore Mandelbrot’s fractal Universe. Kostya would remain silent deep in thought as I threw out food for thought, and he would take a sip of Vodka and then ask questions, all very good.

Anastasia, pronounced “Anna-sta-zia”, or Ana-kin, as I called her, on the other hand, would talk a lot. She was the daughter of what used to be a high Party Official, and was used to special privileges, for the Communist Party Bigwigs had their own stores for food and clothing, etc., with the best Russia could offer, even though it was inferior to Western food and clothing. When it all ended, when Communism collapsed, they were left with no privileges and all had to eat the same garbage merchandise of the masses. Yet Ana-kin retained her haughty demeanor for in her mind, she was still the Princess she had been named after and had been raised as.

Therefore, she tended to drive the conversation, the narrative, which sometimes was positive and creative, and other times on the wrong track, and Kostya and I would gently rein her in. Such were the ingredients necessary to destroy the absolute speed of light in Einstein’s silly special theory, destroy the Universe as taught, and then reconstruct it with a Mandelbrot fractal Universe where the speed of light could be a multiple of any fractal value.

Two brilliant Russian students who, until the Communist Iron Curtain fell, were told what to believe by Stalin and his huge propaganda machine, and now were forced to think outside of the box, and one Amerikanski who always thought outside of the box, and now was forced to think inside the box and conform to certain immutable rules of physics enforced by two brilliant physics students. It was a fun way to spend a cold night in Moscow.

Chapter 16.7: Freedom Calls to Plato’s Caveman. Time to destroy Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity.

In order to destroy something, you have to understand it, probe its weaknesses, and then shoot accurately to kill it. Then you have to have something of value to replace it with. In Einstein’s case, there were two theories encased in one equation, relativistic (moving) Mass and Resting Mass. But the fact that Resting Mass had a value greater than nihil meant there was something there that should not be there. And he had thrown out aether, or quintessence, as a result of the Michelson Morley mishap, to argue for an absolute speed of light in a vacuum in space. But a vacuum in space still has some form of substance swirling within it, perhaps the missing dark matter and energy, according to quantum field theory. Certainly Feynman and his peers had posited that there is zero-point energy in a vacuum in an order of magnitude greater than nuclear energy. So to knock off Einstein, the first thing was to shoot down the possibility of a theoretically pure vacuum in space. That was the easy part.

Finally, the c2 of his theory was like putting two wooden Yardsticks of 36 inches or metersticks across from each other and multiplying them. Where was the relativity? What could make each yardstick stretch like taffy so that intervals in time and space could be anything based on fractal math? And how to rewrite Einstein’s equation in fractal math so that there would be no absolute speed of light? You would have to destroy the known universe and rebuild it in Mandelbrot’s fractal geometry, accounting for missing the dark matter and energy, then you could play with relativistic Mass, theorizing perhaps that Mass could be reduced the faster it went, through the absorption of and use of the missing dark energy, thus eliminating the Einstein limits on light speed due to maxing out energy needed to accelerate the relativistic Mass. But Newton’s Second Law would need to be modified.

Well, early on one night, I told Kostya and Ana-kin that we first needed to clean house. Throw out anything after Michelson Morley and Einstein, except for Heisenberg, because as you will see, everything observed in our 4 dimensional worlds is a function of measurement.

And Mandelbrot asked us to think of “dimension” not as an inherent property, but rather a tool for measurement, and fractal math would allow us to find the “Taffy Yardstick”, one that stretched like taffy or appeared to do so. Thus this value could be assigned an “F” for fractal and a “d” for the dimension. Incorporating this into the Special Relativity formula would destroy Einstein’s absolute speed of light and throw it into the trashbin of history. Now both Kostya and Anna had a very hard time accepting this, as it violated all the known tenets of 20th Century physics that comprised their brilliant education, so I had to explain Mandelbrot’s theory that, in linear physics, you measure a straight line by getting a ruler.

But if you want to measure a curved line, you get a smaller ruler, inching it along the curve and counting how many times you did this. Eventually, as the ruler gets smaller and smaller, you get a more precise value for the curve’s length. But what if the curve is jagged and irregular, like the coastline of Scotland? You need minute, ever smaller rulers, and the length you measure is growing faster than the rulers are shrinking, and that should be known in non-linear physics as the fractal dimension: “Fd”. So to start with, a straight line has a fractal dimension “Fd” of 1 (one). The rugged coastline of the UK has a fractal dimension of 1.25 and the smooth coastline of South Africa has a fractal dimension of 1.02. But if you measure the intricately curved surface area inside your lungs, through which a network of bronchia in our Respiratory System stretch, then you find the total area is vast, the size of a Tennis Court. It has a (Fd) fractal dimension of nearly 3. The lining is so convoluted and folded upon itself it takes on a multi-dimensional aspect. And so we have a new Mandelbrot tool to measure not length, weight, distance, heat or sound, but rather how convoluted it is, a “Taffy Yardstick” to measure roughness and chaos. So if an integer can be assigned “Fd” and if properly inserted into Special Relativity theory, it could wreak havoc with the absolute speed of light. And you could fold space and time like bronchia, flatten it so to speak. Thus, I said, we have to build a Mandelbrot fractal model of the Universe, then we could try to curve it and flatten it to get different results, like Taffy.

The mathematical range of the speed of light starts at zero, Nihil, stopped, except for the Heisenberg quantum fluctuation, or ends at infinite. Einstein had mistakenly pegged it at no more than 299,792,458 meters per second (approximately 300,000 km/s (186,000 mi/s), an absolute speed. But why not a higher speed, if you could modify Newton’s Second Law? If you could shrink Mass with increasing speed using perhaps dark matter or dark energy, then nearly infinite speed would be possible, hopping from one side of the Universe to the other in less than a minute. But you would need waypoints to navigate, just like in sailing you would need to zig and zag. And you might have obstacles, hazards to avoid, like unseen black holes, like hidden shoals, and maybe shortcuts like an Einstein–Rosen HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wormhole” wormhole, a canal between two oceans of space. And you only had a fractal slide rule and compass to navigate with, just like we pilots and sailors had to use before GPS was invented.

Well, I had set out the mission parameters, and Kostya went into deep thought as he sipped his Finnish Vodka, for his mind was throwing the “Fd”’ into various mathematical formulae, for all this theory would have to eventually be written into a mathematical formula to sell to the Landau Institute gatekeepers. Ana-kin was still very skeptical. “So, if what you say is true, that light speed can have a value between zero and infinity, why cannot a light speed fractal have a value of minus 1?

“Ana-kin”, I replied, “would not that imply moving backward in time in a different Universe? We are not trying to move backward in time, we are trying to redesign our Universe in Fractals. Time and space must stretch and be measured with a fractal ruler. Chaos must become an ordered system. Under Mandelbrot, each fractal must be recursively defined with infinite detail, which exhibits “self-similarity”, thus at every scale you look, each element of the Mandelbrot diagram is similar in shape to the sister element on the next scale higher up or lower down, implying that the model of a spinning spiral galaxy would be similar to an atom or a subatomic particle, with a black hole in the middle of each. It starts with a “triangle” and every new iteration of an added triangle creates midpoints allowing more triangles to be placed on it again and again ad infinitum. Sierpinski’s Triangles can have an infinite number of triangles within in it, all within a defined confined circle which we would guess is the “Universe”. Then we expand it to 3 then 5 Dimensions. That is our mission here. Leave time-travel to H.G. Wells and others.”

Kostya chirped in and said in Russian: “Yes, Anastasia, get on board the train.”

I added: “Ana-kin, there is also an Amerikanski law called Moore’s Law. His theory was that computer processing power would double every two years. That means in less than 40 years, computers could out think us and become more intelligent than us, and figure out these things. You will probably be a Senior Professor at Landau, you will have at your fingers the ability to answer many of these theoretical questions. In the meantime we have to set the table, put out the napkins, silverware and plates. Our job is the redesign our Universe according to Mandelbrot, and destroy Special Relativity Theory as it is known today. We can only set the table for others to eat.”

Ana-kin put on her Princess face and responded: “But you ask too much. You would ask us to disbelieve everything that is true and taught. This Mandelbrot is very challenging, so how do you propose we sweep out the door everything we know or believe is true?”

“Ana-kin, we must doubt everything observed outside our linear dimension, which is the Solar System. For example, suppose you are the lens of a telescope, the soon- to-be fixed Hubble Telescope, in effect a “gatekeeper” of information from outer space. And you are looking for Photon Soldiers. One Photon Soldier comes in the gate and says I left my Fort 20 years ago.

So you assume he marched on a straight line at speed “x” (e.g. the speed of a photon) and traveled “y” kilometers to get your gate, and thus the Fort he set out from is “z” kilometers of light years away. Then instantly thereafter, a second Photon Soldier arrives at speed “x” and says he left his Fort 40 years ago. You assume that since he arrived at speed “x”, he left his Fort at speed “x” and traveled “y × 2 y” and the light years he travelled is “z” 2. Therefore, the assumption is that his Fort, the origin of his departure, is twice as far as Photon Soldier One. But in fact, Photon Soldier # 2, instead of marching in a straight line, had to navigate through galactic bogs and swamps, in various fractal dimensions, and headwinds that drove him backwards, in effect driving him backward in space/time, until he could find a fractal dimension of one (1), a straight line to your gate, at speed “x”. But you, the gate keeper, like the lens on that new-fangled Hubble telescope, see Photon Soldier # One originating from a Fort or Galaxy 20 light years away while Photon Soldier # Two One is originating from a Fort or Galaxy 40 light years away when in fact Photon Soldier # Two started only 10 light years away. Thus your observation is false. Photon Soldier number one had a linear straight line to your gate, a fractal of one, while Photon Soldier #2 had to navigate swamps of Dark matter and Dark energy, slowing him down, and headwinds that may have forced him backwards, thus Ana-kin, maybe moving sideways or backwards in space/time. Yet when they reach your gate, they are again travelling at speed “x”, Einstein’s supposed limit. Your measurement is mistaken, because the pure vacuum in space does not really exist. Is it not why we should discard all past theories and start again from the beginning?”

Ana-kin stared at me with her beautiful blue eyes. She was not upset, and if I could believe my male instincts, she was aroused. She uncrossed her legs, did a hair flip, that is, brushing her hair back with her hand, and glared at me. She could not refute my logic, so she would appeal to my base male instincts, the Caveman. And trust me, with a couple of shots of Vodka, I wanted to rip her clothes off and take her. But then I would become the Caveman I was trying to free, I would lose the needed two young warrior companions on my quest, and I would assume the chains of Plato’s Caveman, trapped forever.

Fortunately, Kostya came out of his vodka-induced thought experiment, and surveyed the situation, his brilliant mind recognizing there was a sex-driven stalemate, like in the trenches in World War I between the Germans and French-English. No quarter asked, no quarter given. I needed a leave of absence, R HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R%26R_(military)”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R%26R_(military)”R, or I would be a dead dog. That is why I needed Ana-kin on my side so desperately. She could manipulate anything. And so I needed her mind, not her body. But hormones were on the loose.

Kostya asked: “ But Kapitan Rick, is not our purpose to rethink, maybe redesign, time and space? I understand your theory that a telescopic lens may not accurately measure distance based on photon velocity, but why is Anastasia’s question of reversal of time have everything to do with what we are trying to do here, redesign the model of the Universe?”

I was saved! I replied: “No. I want to go back in human time, but not space/time. I want to go back to Newton’s aether and the Greeks’ “quintessence”. It is not new, it had been the theory of mankind until that stupid Michelson -Morley experiment in 1887. There can be nothing new except these two factors in some one of their forms. Conservation of mass and conservation of energy as Isaac Newton taught us are the two fundamental laws of nature that we cannot ignore or change. Our mission is to go back in time and reinstate that with Mandelbrot and his revolutionary theories. And redesign reality. Let’s adjourn and next meeting, I will bring pictures, worth a thousand words, to prove these theorems”

Well, Kostya and that “quintessence” diatribe cooled everything down. We left together to meet several nights later, when their academic schedules allowed. I would begin the pictorial presentation of my theories for their consumption. As we left, Ana-kin turned to look at me. Then she turned to look again. I learned from the early days at Aubar in NYC that if a beautiful woman looked at you once, turned away, then looked at you again, you were game. You had a bulls-eye on your chest. I had a hard choice coming between becoming an Ana-kin loving Caveman or just remaining a Mandelbrot disciple of non-linear systems in theoretical physics. It would not be an easy world to navigate, like Homer’s poor Brave Ulysses and the enchantress Circe. But I was on a mission. Maybe: Mission Impossible.

Chapter 16.8: Let us build a new model of the Universe, Mandelbrot style. Start with Serpenski’s Triangles and Koch Snowflakes and a little vodka.

When we met again, Ana-kin was fortunately dressed in pants with her hair in a bun, looking like a librarian. No hormones tonight. I had brought a series of sketches by which I hoped we could attempt to build out a Mandelbrot Fractal Universe, and I began the conversation thus:

“Notice the Triangle on the upper left becoming the Star of David, then as additional triangles are added at the midpoint, it becomes a Koch snowflake and the resembles a sphere, yet infinite additional triangles can be added and yet never exceed a fixed surrounding circle. Then we must look at Sierpinki’s triangles. Again, additional reiterations can be added ad- infinitum yet bounded by a sphere, or a fixed surrounding circle. Then we will make it a 3D pyramid of Swiss cheese out of it, perforating it to find enough room for missing dark matter and energy. Later, we will integrate both the perforated Triangles into a 3D Star of David, Sierpinki’s tetrahedrons, for the beginning of a 3D model of the Universe, containing infinity but surrounded by a fixed circle.” There was silence.

“Now let us look at 3 dimensional versions where we invert pyramids. The first is a solid state 100% matter universe model that still has Mandelbrot’s infinite reiterations allowable, and the second is where we do the same, but perforate it like Swiss cheese. We still obey Mandelbrot’s infinite reiteration rule, the law of “self-similarity”, but we now have plenty of room for missing dark matter and energy. And, of course, the Almighty Holy One”

Now, Kostya and Anna were starting to think outside the box, their turbo-charged minds moving into a higher gear. I asked “And so, what is missing?” Anna looked at me and said “Kapitan, obviously “spin”. And Kostya chirped in and said “And we have to account for gravitational fields in this Mandelbrot model. A mathematical nightmare.”

Chapter 16.9: Ice cream cones and gravitational wells come in Vanilla Vodka only.

“So, Ana-kin and Kostya, Let us have some fun. In America, we serve our ice cream in cones, conical objects that start at a single point and expand upward and outward, with the ice cream on top, sort of like a gravitational well with the ice cream on top, but at the point of origin, the tip of the ice cream cone, at the bottom of the well, is a single object, whether a galaxy, a Star, an atom, a sub-atomic particle. It some form of a black hole, in order to obey Mandelbrot’s law of self-similarity.”

Kostya said: “I now see. A planet’s gravitational field can be neatly compared to a slopping well, with the planet at the bottom. The depth of the well determines the energy required to escape it, the further the distance from the well bottom, the less energy needed to escape it. Newton’s inverse square law.”

“Yes, or in reverse, a planet at the bottom is some form of a black hole, dragging everything close to it into a swirling eddy or whirlpool of destruction, or at least disappearing from our Universe of matter. I will get into this more as we look at Edward Teller and his anti-universe, but first I want you to think mathematically at gravity not as guided by Newton’s inverse square law but rather a Fibonacci numbers and periodicities. This is because the mathematical patterns that produce the Mandelbrot Set do occur in natural systems, from spiraling galaxies to hurricane vortexes to Sunflower seeds, pinecones, strawberries, and artichokes, for example. The periodicities of the Mandelbrot Set follow the Fibonacci sequence, and under his law of “self-similarity”, we are forced to use it. Newton’s Laws can be modified, they are called “MOND”, or modified Newtonian dynamics. We might apply this to his second and third laws. Understand?”

“Yes Kapitan, but the mathematics are excruciating! You are asking to insert the nonlinear Schroedinger’s equations and combine it with the Landau-Zener formula.”

I replied: “ Yes, but as I told Ana-kin, Moore’s Law tells us that in 40 years, computers will do in a microsecond what it will take you a week to do with a slide-rule. We are here to rewrite Einstein’s Special Relativity with Mandelbrot’s fractals, a simple mission with the maximum speed of light times the Fractal (“F”) times the dimension (“d”). We are here to break this mistaken speed of light barrier. Nothing more, nothing less. But we still have to examine a Mandelbrot Universe of “self-similarity”, and posit a theory, otherwise the Landau Institute will dismiss us as wayward children, not the brilliant futurists that you both are. Computer modeling of the Mandelbrot Universe will become easier and easier as time passes. We are just going to set the table for other smarter, younger, more adventurous physics wizards to eat at, probably not born yet. But the Mandelbrot rule of “self-similarity” must pervade our new Universe.

Kostya asked, “That means we must posit that an atom must have a black hole at its center just like the Milky Way Galaxy, and thus also for subatomic particles?”

“Yes, self-similarity” I replied, “ the neutron and proton are so tiny compared to the electrons that spin around it, thus moving in time and space it would look sort of like a spinning ice cream cone, either coming or going, with the black hole sucking the rest slowly into its gateway, or just maybe into oblivion. Atoms have half-lives, don’t they? They eventually decay and self-destruct, they consume themselves like the proverbial Ouroboros dragon eating its tail. This Mandelbrot proposition combined with and the Edward Teller–Anti-Teller universe model, which we will get to in a bit, is but a static pictorial model of a swirling Universe in the process of creation and destruction.”

Well Kostya and Ana-kin both nodded, and we poured a glass of my fine Finnish Vodka, made the Russian toast, and the mind experiment fun began. I said: “ Let’s take our infinite pyramids and wrap each with a cone divided by periodicities to allow more volume for missing dark matter and energy, than we smash them like with a hammer and warp them by time and space into fractal nightmares”:

They laughed. I continued “and can then we can warp them by stretching them with time and space. Flatten and fold it, if we want to, like the bronchia in your lungs, to create a much larger fractal value, to allow space time warp to exceed the supposed speed of light at least times three.”

Ana-kin said:” Yes, and that allows “spin”. To leave the gravitation well, you would have to travel in a seemingly straight but actually spiraling line from the bottom of the well to the top, deflecting gravity, and gravitational waves, and those spirals would create different Mandelbrot dimensions and thus allow different speeds, maybe exceeding that of Einstein’s limit, which could only be a straight line, a fractal of one. But spin could add to the Fractal Value. No?”

“Ana-kin, you’re brilliant” I exclaimed, but she would not look me in the eyes.

Kostya chirped in, now excited, asked: “Yes, but what about the space-time area where these now spiraling cones encapsulating pyramids that should be anchored, or tethered, to meet their previous Mandelbrot iteration. There could only be chaos, time and space swirling and warped.”

“Yes,” I said “ It would be a maelstrom, a series of whirlpools, vortexes and tornadoes, to rip you apart, to be avoided. It is not much different than sailing, there are eddies, maelstroms, shoals and storms. If you want to go travel in space, you avoid these by navigating waypoints, and as Ana-kin said, you travel not in a straight line, but in a faster spiraling nonlinear paths, trying to avoid these and gravitational pull and maybe rogue gravitational waves.”

Anna-kin said: “I read this obscure article that is very interesting to this point. I will translate it and bring it in next time we meet. You need to read it.”

“Thank you, Ana-kin. That will be our next meeting, gravity shields and space travel. In the meantime, lets pour another Vodka and finish up our design of the Mandelbrot Universe. There is one more addition that we must look at, and that is Edward Teller’s anti-universe”.

Chapter 16.10: Dr. Edward Teller, please meet Dr. Edward Anti-Teller, annihilation and Gamma Rays?

Under Mandelbrot’s theory, and extrapolating from the universe down to a subatomic particle or a “singularity” under Mandelbrot’s doctrine of “self-similarity”, we have a diagram of each cone, spinning, with a black hole in the center, but maybe simply a gateway to another identical but opposite universe, with opposite spin, which I would guess is made of anti-matter. That can be warped also by the force of time and space. So I showed Ana-kin and Kostya my final two pictures:

The gateway could be a Black Hole, or a White Hole on the opposite side. This is not fantasy. Edward Teller, a student of Werner Heisenberg, and known as the inventor of the Hydrogen Bomb, posited that our universe could be the mirror image of an antimatter universe extending backwards in time before any “Big Bang”. Physicists, who have devised a new cosmological model positing the existence of an “anti-universe” which, paired to our own, preserved a fundamental rule of physics called CPT HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CPT_symmetry”symmetry.

Edward Teller advocated this theory, which was labeled “Complementarity”. For example to describe what electrons are, we sometimes imagine waves, sometimes we picture particles. But both must be used. And since they are mutually exclusive one has to adjust the two approaches “’in a manner that is not obvious”. The adjustment of two mutually exclusive approaches are drawn from the pursuit of simplicity. The problem then arises that when antimatter and matter meet, they annihilate each other, so to co-exist, or be “complementary” they had to be in different universes.

So our theory of the Mandelbrot Universe had to include an Anti-Mandelbrot Universe, the gateway could only be the Black Hole that lay not only at the center of our Milky Way galaxy, but at the ultimate center of everything, under the Mandelbrot “self-similarity” Rule, as well as Newtonian conservation, for nothing can be destroyed, only changed in form. Matter to energy, and upon human death, our physical bodies divest a soul, to be reborn if you believe in Hindu and early Christian philosophies of reincarnation.

Edward Teller had written about matter and antimatter, stating that:

“I do not believe that Anti-Teller lives in our galaxy, since it is unlikely that there are any anti-stars or anti-planets in our milky-way system. On the other hand, anti-galaxies may exist. The main questions are how to get there and what to expect upon arrival.

But let us arrange a meeting between Teller and Anti-Teller on a truly neutral ground: in space. If they are appropriately dressed (space suit and anti-space suit, respectively), and if they carefully avoid the escape of any molecules or anti-molecules, they may approach without danger. They can see each other without trouble, because light and anti-light are the same. Upon contact, however, a violent explosion will occur. Parts of Teller and Anti-Teller will produce an assortment of ephemeral particles (known as mesons, hyperons, and anti-hyperons) and a great number of more stable products, such as nuclear fragments, anti-nuclear fragments, electrons, positrons, neutrinos, anti-neutrinos, and gamma rays. The remainder will fly apart in opposite directions as vapor and anti-vapor. All this will happen faster than anti-thought, which is probably the same as thought.”

Now Dr. Edward Teller was a giant that walked the earth. Inventor of the Hydrogen Bomb, he was a cold warrior like my Professor Eugene Rostow from the Yale Law School, and both served on Ronald Reagan’s SALT team. So he was a cold warrior on “my” team and vice versa. But he, the inventor of the destructive Hydrogen Bomb, said something very profound that I share with those of you that have suffered through this Mandelbrot-Yale Ball and Chain Odyssey:

“’It is not only the universe that is almost infinite; the consequences of the actions of every human being – or every fly – also border on infinity” (Teller, 1991). Here are the truths which Teller in 1980 accepted as evident: -That no limits are set to human knowledge; -That knowledge leads to power; -That power can be used for the benefit of everyone. If we believe more than this, we may be fools; if we believe less, we are cowards.” “The preservation of peace and the improvement of the lot of all people require us to have faith in the rationality of humans.” (Teller, 1980).”

Finally, Kapitan Rick had an ace up his sleeve. I knew Edward Teller had been very good friends with and collaborated with Lev Landau, after which the Landau Physics Institute was named. The Landau gate keepers would have a hard time belittling Teller’s theories. In fact it might force them into a box wherein Ana-kin, Kostya, and my works would have to respected and at least archived. Mandelbrot was perhaps the bait, but Edward Teller-Anti-Teller could be the hook. My mission was almost over, the Yale Ball and Chain was about to be parted from my ankles after so many years.

Chapter 16.11: Of Mice and Men, Gravitational Shields, and yes: UFOs.

At our next meeting, Ana-kin, primly dressed again like a librarian, presented me with a translated article from an obscure Russian Science Journal written by an E. Podkletnov entitled:

“A possibility of gravitational force shielding by bulk YBa2Cu307-x superconductor”.

The term gravitational shielding refers to a hypothetical system or process whereby an object is shielded from gravitational forces, and the science behind it was charged superconductors creating an anti-gravity device of rotating discs. Such a device of properly rotating particles could generate a new force of gravitomagnetic interaction, cancelling gravity and invalidating Newton’s Second Law.

Now I knew as a pilot that on fighter jets, even with a G-suit, a hard 90 degree bank at 9 Gravs would really hurt and break bones and 10 Gravs would crush your body against itself, for your body would weigh ten times your 1 G weight. However, with gravity shielding, you could go any speed and bank at any angle and remain at 1 G. And if you sketch out the perfect device, it would have superconducting circular rotating discs at the bottom, with a layer of powerful capacitors on top to power them, encased by a beveled circular casing, so as to allow this vehicle to pivot or change direction by change of yaw, just like a helicopter. And a little bubble on top to house your pilots, who would also be shielded from g-force at any speed or abrupt change of direction. You had your perfect UFO!

“Anna” I cried: “This article is amazing! It is a map to the future of space travel! You’re so brilliant I should marry you!” She retorted: “Kapitan Rick, you are a Petuck (Trans: Playboy- Петух, плейбой). I would not marry you for all the Gold in Russia!”

I looked at her for a moment, and replied: “Well, I bet you would marry me if I gave you Katerina the Great’s jewelry collection in the basement of the Kremlin as a wedding gift.”

She looked at me and smiled and said: “In that case, yes, I would marry you.”

See, I knew, being a daughter of a high party official, she had been given a special pass to see the Eighth Wonder of the World in the basement of the Kremlin, Catherine the Great’s jewelry collection. Moreover, her father, still with great influence, would have thoroughly investigated me before allowing his daughter to work with me, and would have known I liked to go out at night to nightclubs. And I had passed his test. But Ana-kin knew about my love of nightlife. No issues, we were all comrades.

So we all three toasted our efforts with a Russian toast, then a second one for the timely modification of Newton’s Second Law, then a third for the impending death of Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity. Then we spent the rest of the night talking about fantasy space travel, from gravitational shields to using our newly discovered use of missing dark energy and dark mass to reduce relativistic mass and increase speed beyond Einstein’s supposed limits, or to push Kip Thorne’s recent theories of wormholes, or just changing the geometry of space by creating a rogue wave that would contract the fabric of space ahead of the aircraft and cause the space behind it to expand. The spaceship would ride this wave inside the bubble like a surfer, and would be carried along within this warp bubble as the region of space moved at a different speed. All was possible with our resuscitated “aether” or “quintessence”.

We never were closer than we were that night, us three. Just letting our minds fly loose on hyper drive as the Vodka flowed and fantasy mixed with fiction and science. We were trying to do what Leonardo da Vinci did in 1485, when he drew detailed plans for a human-powered ornithopter (a wing-flapping device intended to fly a man). In another 500 years or less, our fantasy would also become reality, if the human race did not destroy themselves in the meantime. This is what we drew up, rotating discs, superconductors, super capacitors and a gravity shielded cockpit:

As we parted, the agenda was set for the next meeting: We would rewrite Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. The burden would fall on Kostya, our mathematician, who would strike and cut the chains off the feet of Plato’s Caveman.

As a footnote, Podkietnov’s article went relatively unnoticed for several years, then a flurry of activity discrediting him and proposing alternative superconductors and anti-gravity theories flooded the scientific journals. It was by no small coincidence that in 2002, Black Ops at the Boeing Phantom Works approached Podkietnov to work for them, and this was blocked by the Russians. There was something very suspicious going on there, and thus I posit that if you see a UFO one night, it may be ours from Boeing’s Phantom Works, or Lockheed Martin’s Skunk Works, or a Russian or even Chinese aircraft. Or maybe just little green aliens, from the binary Zeta Reticuli star system, checking us out to see if we will blow ourselves up with Nuclear Weapons before we reach for Deep Space.

Chapter 16.12: Time for to rewrite E=mc2 into Mandelbrot’s Special Theory of Relativity.

Our next meeting was solely devoted to rewriting Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity and destroying the concept of an absolute speed of light. Here I needed Kostya’s brilliant mathematical mind, for a simple equation is never simple, and he would have to write the many equations that would challenge not only Einstein, but Lorentz and others who bought into Michelson–Morley mishap.

To me, it was simple. Barring any ability to reduce mass while accelerating by use of

dark energy or dark matter, we were stuck with Newton’s Second Law. But that law applied only in this one dimension, planet Earth, and an absolute speed of light that was also attached to this one dimension, a measurement, which was the sum total the earth spinning around the Sun while each were traveling at huge rates of speed through a galaxy that also was moving and expanding swiftly. Calculating that, and the resulting cancellations of aether waves,was a task for supercomputers yet to be built.

So I proposed a simple formula: E = m ((c)(cF/d)). I said that the denominator would have to be the fractal, so that, for instance a Fractal of 3 would end up reducing the “M” mass by two thirds, thus allowing 3 times the absolute speed of light given the same energy input. Kostya said he would need to sketch out the mathematics, but he said : “Kapitan, in essence we don’t need to destroy Einstein by discrediting the Michelson–Morley experiment. We just need to confine it to a box where the fractal is 1(one), a straight line, and the dimension is one here on earth where the experiment was performed. Thus the numerator and denominator can equal 1, and E and M also equal one, and thus we are left not with an absolute speed of light, but just the speed of light registered in the Michelson–Morley experiment. This experiment had light moving in a straight line, a fractal value of one. Then we can play with different fractals and dimensional values to juice up the speed of light in other venues in outer space.”

“Yes” added Ana-kin, “ It is much easier for the scientific community, our peers, to accept. We do not have to disprove Michelson–Morley, we only concede that here on Earth in a straight line, in linear physics, the speed of light is “c”. Elsewhere it will be different spin, as a function of the Fractal Dimension, using Mandelbrot mathematics. With “spin”, we can accelerate Mandelbrot’s fractal value of one to any value, any speed of light”.

“I see, I get to eat my cake and have it too. We do not have to disprove Michelson–Morley and I still get to throw Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity in the Garbage Bin. You are brilliant”. I said.

Kostya laughed and said: “The Great Kapitan Rick-И рыбку съесть, и в воду не лезть, (Russ. Trans: “you want to eat a fish without first catching it from the waters.”) So true!

This, sadly, was the last time we all would be together to work on Mandelbrot’s Special Theory of Relativity. The Moscow Heart Institute would finally collapse due to lack of funds, and the satellite branch of the Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics would have to fold also. Ana-Kin and Kostya would have the hard choice of either commuting from Moscow to Chernogolovka, or renting a flat there, and returning on free time to Moscow. I, of course, would finance their choice. Our last meeting, we made the arrangements, I set up a funding mechanism and a schedule to meet them when our paths crossed, for I would be coming and going from Moscow frequently, but in a clandestine stealth mode, because I still had a killing contract out on me, a price on my head, so I had to move swiftly and carefully and invisibly. Ana-Kin and Kostya would go on to get their Doctorates, their Doktor Nauk, after 10 years of intense research and schooling. Each would get married and become respected members of the Russian Physics community.

Mandelbrot’s Special Theory of Relativity was published in two relatively obscure but cheap Russian Scientific Journals, one short of qualifying for a Masters. All of our works are in the public domain now and can be found in the library archive of the Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics in Chernogolovka,. Someday, maybe many decades from now, some young wizard will find it and take it to the next level with supercomputers and Artificial Intelligence.

Although my Yale Ball and Chain were now gone, my dreams of an Honorable mention by the Russian Academy of Sciences came to a crashing end when the Duma and Kremlin took control of it in 2017. Dreams die first, but I had to be sure that I did not die next. With killing contracts still out on me, it was wise to spend less time in Russia and move offshore.

PART XVII: OLD HORIZONS. DOESN’T IT EVER STOP?

Chapter 17.1: With a Price on your head in Moscow, there is only one option: return to New York and become a Socialite? No, Fool. Buy a Sailing Yacht and sail the seven seas.

My Moscow TV Station venture was demanding less of my time. No more night school, I had to think of other frontiers. Moscow was slowly changing, becoming organized with less chaos. The Gangster Lesin was gaining more power through the Novosti media and helped Yeltsin get elected. This was disconcerting. In the meantime, Yeltsin was reorganizing the old KGB into the FSB, and my days as the KGB fair-headed golden child were slowly evaporating.

My old KGB friends did give me some passing advice, while coming to Moscow, use the airport VIP lounge and a private driver and stay at the former National Communist Party Hotel Oktiabriaskaya, which was very cool and secure, and had a spa at the top you could rent for an hour or by the day. I had issue with the hotel policy of not allowing guests, but after a heated argument with management, they understood that they own the walls, we Americans rent the rest of the room, and companions were welcome (if they surrendered their passports to the front desk). The other alternative was the monstrous Rossiya Hotel ,which had few entrances and excellent security. And maybe, like a fox, I should just book a room at the cheaper Aerostar as a decoy and use aliases.

In America, they thought I would be relatively safe if I stayed out of the NYC social papers and away from Brighton Beach, N.Y., Aventura, Florida or Chicago, the 3 largest Russian communities in the US. And a Russian “hit” was still dirt cheap in those days, maybe $5,000, and why should I have any such angst in my life? So I bought an amazing Sailing Yacht, for nobody can find you when you are sailing around. I also bought an Amphicar, an amphibious automobile, that drove on land and in the water, like my Crypto-father had. Then I arranged to anonymously buy 3 condos and a set of docks in Palm Beach, Florida, which had not yet been discovered by Russians as a destination spot.

I called a friend Richard Johnson, the editor of the gossip Page 6 in the New York Post, probably 40% of the paper’s demand, and asked him never to mention my name again. He had married one of my best friend’s sister, I did not need to tell him a White Poster Prince must only be in the newspaper 3 times, when he is born, married, and dies (from natural causes or an assassin’s bullet). Richard was totally cool about this. Done deal. I was now invisible.

Thus I was set up for the life of a Prince. Sail between Newport, Sag Harbor and the 23rd Street Marina in NYC during summers, and Palm Beach and South Miami Beach in winters, with an occasional jaunt down island to St. Barts. And nobody would know where I was, unless I threw a big party on my Sailing Yacht, which I very often did. I just could not help it, it was a sleek Sailing Yacht built for partying. One chilly autumn night at the 23rd Street Marina, I had 50 guests below deck, everybody was warm and cozy and the women were outrageously beautiful. A night to remember. And not a word from Page 6.

Chapter 17.2: But New York Nightlife was still rocking on the East Side and an “Ode to Elle”.

It is hard to describe New York nightlife in the fast lane unless you have been there and done it. Fredericks had taken over from Aubar as the place to go. One night, I was standing by a wall with a glass of white wine, and right next to me on my left is Elle MacPherson, speaking in perfect French to the maitre’de. I was impressed. Now Elle in high heels is lot taller than I, and a little intimidating. Well, in the natural course of events, this incredible Australian beauty glides by me and evaporates like a dream. I am left alone to reflect on this special experience. On top of that, I looked through my toes and realized I had a business call to the other side of the world, Perth, Australia, where my lawyers were still sorting out our failed MGM takeover, in about one hour or 2:30 a.m. EST. But during that call, I began to write a poem to her “Ode to Elle.” I thought of stealing a few of Lord Byron’s lines:

“Woman! Experience might have told me

That all must love thee who behold thee…

But placed in all thy charms before me

All I forget is to adore thee.”

But that would be trite justice. I needed more, much more, so my creative pen went into high gear.

“There is a word the English language: “divine”. And there is a word “beauty”. If one could combine these terms and look up “divine beauty” in the Webster’s Dictionary, one would surely find this term defined. But it is not there.

Now I reject Webster’s definition of “beauty” because beauty is not some definitive absolute concept like Einstein’s Speed of Light or a Newtonian Law of Physics. It is a variable concept according to the subjective eye of the beholder. It is Relative. And being a mortal by birth, I am hard put to even conceptually understand Webster’s definition of “divine” as pertaining to, or proceeding from, or of the nature of God or of a god.

I suppose the19th Century Romanticist Lord Byron may have tried to describe Elle’s beauty in his poetic verse:

“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

But this could not do her justice. And Byron’s use of the term “beauty” is inadequate. Adjectives like “graceful”, “glowing”, “vivacious” must be discarded. Even “exquisite beauty” falls somewhat short. But this same gorgeous creature that had just swept by me in a nanosecond, had also instilled in me a belief that although “beauty” is not an absolute concept and may be relative to the eyes of the beholder, and although “divine” is simply an incomprehensible concept to us mortals, the merger of the terms into “divine beauty” created an absolute irrefutable concept like the speed of light, an unsurpassable barrier that is easily defined, readily understood and even a witnessed event.

Thus it will come as no surprise to me, years hence, as I thumb through Webster’s next edition, that I should come upon the combined term “divine beauty” and see adjacent to it a most proper and fitting definition: ‘Elle MacPherson’.”

—————————————————————————————————————–
Now I rarely wax that poetic or romantic, I have written less than a dozen poems to or about women over these many years, but this was fun, well done, and well deserved. And in this world, the romantic poet George Gordon, Lord Byron was my idol, my icon, he ruled my world.

Chapter 17.3: The “Scene”. Home becomes the 23rd Street Marina on the East Side.

Back to the “scene”. Nello’s was the Madison Avenue early gathering spot. Dozens of new trendy spots arose. Downtown became trendy, the Bowery Bar opened on 4th street, and on any Thursday night you would see Bruce Willis, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Dolph Lundgren and a host of actors and super models. Michael Ault opened the Merc Bar, frequented by Mick Jagger and his endless supply of white powder, and thereafter the nightclub “Chaos”. One night I remember being stuck in an elevator with Robert DeNiro, who seemed to have had a fetish for black hookers, he was headed up to his penthouse with 2 draped over him. Not my style, I have nothing against black hookers or hookers in general, being the oldest profession in the world, the second oldest profession is similar, a lawyer, of which I am guilty. One sells their body, the second one sells their morals, their souls. What was really offensive is this guy’s unwelcome and perverted ideas of politics. He is but an “entertainer”. He is simply trained “face” to memorize script lines and do a prearranged act behind camera and lights. He has no business spouting off about politics since I think he is basically an ignorant one trick pony, and in my opinion, a moron. Excuse me. Make that opinion: “low class moron”.

But other well known, interesting people of accomplishment were abundant. I remember Peter Beard, many years my senior, was a fascinating character. I first met him in at his Montauk retreat high on the hills, it ended up that he and I went to the same all-boy’s school and college. He devoted his life to documenting the extermination of 35,000 elephants in and around Kenya. He was gored by an Elephant but survived, and survived well. He married the beautiful model Cheryl Tiegs then divorced her. He was a perennial rock star. 15 years later, I would seem him at the trendy night club “Bungalow Eight” with two 24 year old beauties draped over him. I had a chance to chat with him as my buddy wing man was chatting up Bay Watches’ Pamela Anderson nearby. Peter and I briefly chatted about his god daughter, one of my best and brightest friend’s sister. He was a good guy, a player. I wished for some of Peter’s charm, but if any of Peter’s charm rubbed off on me, in was microscopic in retrospect.

My friend, Dayton Carr, a Trustee of the New York Yacht Club, had a dinner party at the stuffy Knickerbocker Club for the last of the Royal Romanov family, and I asked him whether I could stop by with the new Miss Russia for cocktails. My friend Geraldine had been trying to set Miss Russia and I up, on a blind date, so what better an entrée than to bring her by to meet the last of the Romanovs. That’s called scoring points! I had dinner later with Miss Russia at the trendy La Goulue. She was a Ford Model, and spoke seven languages, including Latin, which we both spoke as we gazed into each other’s eyes.

I whispered an abridged poem from the Roman poet Catullus:

“Ipsa mi par esse diva videtur, Ipsa, si fas est, superare deam”

(Trans: “She is a goddess to me who sees her, She surpasses the divine, if possible”).

It was incredibly romantic, tables next to us approvingly noticed the chemistry, that is, until the two cell phones in her purse started exploding like Roman Candles. She seemed to have had a lot of previous obligations, and so off she had to go, for us to catch up at another time. She told me she lived in Trump Tower and her father ran a truck company in Russia. So the next day I called some friends in Moscow and nothing seemed to add up. Living in Trump Tower on a Ford Model average salary of $400,000 before taxes did not add up. There had to be a Sugar Daddy somewhere in the picture, maybe a Russian one, with a big pistol. Maybe a friend of the Gangster Lesin. So I repeat my previous Lesson #5: If it is too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.

Chapter 17.4: Have Courage! There are always good dates: If you get caught between the Moon and New York City, the best that you do is a helicopter, a six pack, and a Lady.

I had an actress friend Gail, who I knew from Connecticut. She was gorgeous, and like most New England beauties, they find their way to the larger markets of Hollywood, New York or London, she had moved to LA to act. She had a number of roles on TV, and had a good career. But she was also a talented designer. I kept in touch.

I happened to run into her in New York, she had redesigned the upstairs, I think, at the Yale Club. I invited her to dinner at the Lutece Restaurant, and when Andre Soltner, the Chef, learned I knew his friend, Andre Surmain, the founder, from the Relais a Mougins in Palm Beach, he came out and sat with us for quite a while, explaining why ambience is the most important element of a good dining experience. You just cannot beat that attention from the “sous-chef” when you have a date.

I also had tickets to the premier of “Indochine”, a film starring Catherine Deneuve, a tear-jerking movie about brutality in French colonial Indochina (now Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam).

So we went to the premier and I needed a pick-me-up after that one. Over a drink, she had complained that she missed the celebration of the Statute of Liberty years before on account of convalescing from a boob job. Wow, that was a tragedy. Not like the teary tragedy of “Indochine” we had just cried over, but what to do?

So I had the solution. I charted a late night helicopter in New Jersey, and we stopped by to pick up a couple of six packs at the local 7-11, and a we flew around the Statue of Liberty a few times, then flew around Manhattan and back to New Jersey. A dazzling night, truly stuck between the Moon and New York City. Those were crazy days, and what a lady, what a night! Keep the faith!

Chapter 17.5: Party Rules from Captain Rick: Let’s start with the “Peggy Sue Effect”.

There are rules to partying. There are good days and bad days. In the City that never sleeps, you must learn the rules or flame out. You have got to know your own limitations, and believe the Greek mantra that “homeostasis” or temperance is mandatory.

One night, I got an invite to a New Night Club, “Peggy Sue”, that was opening in 14th St near Union Square. It was seeking to take over Wednesday nights as the place to go. There were maybe 20 -25 specially invited guys, and in came a parade of 60 beautiful model-goddesses. When the guys got home, we radioed all our guy friends and told them of this wonderful new night club.

The next Wednesday night, there were maybe 70 guys there and a handful of women, for it turned out that the women the previous week had called all their girlfriends and said it was the worst club ever, no guys, all girls, all unwanted competition. Thus the “Peggy Sue Effect”, and the newly named Peggy Sue Rules:

If you were waiting in the lobby for an elevator up to a party and down comes three guys, you ask how the party is, and they say it’s awful, you turn around and leave. If you were waiting in the lobby for an elevator up to a party and down comes three girls, you ask how the party is, and they say it’s awful, you quickly head up the elevator to the party. I did not make the rules up, Mother Nature did.

If you want to throw a party, the rule of thumb is try to keep the male/female ratio at about 1 to 1.2 males per 1 female. That always seems to work. It worked well when I threw parties on my Sailing Yacht. It can make life sweet. Uncomplicated and fun for all.

Chapter 17.6: Another lesson: Women make great friends and wingmen too!

And I had found a good network of friends, four of whom were beautiful women that that I remained friends for life, in a platonic way, and we always had wild fun together. No issues.

Laurie M was one of my first of dear friends. We decided to jointly throw a party

at her apartment in NYC which was large had a garden terrace, perfect for a torchlight cocktail gig. We had many guests, one of whom was Donald Trump, who I met for the first time. I remember Nick Simunek was the first to arrive and was the very last to leave. An Englishman, he had a serious drinking problem, and he was near the point where his doctor said either you quit or you will be dead in weeks. Well, he disappeared for a while and when he came back, he was not the bloated red face mess he had been, but was rather in good shape. He had totally cleaned up. He ended up marrying Terry Allen Kramer, whose Dad founded Allen and Company, the number one media investment bank. Terry had a Mansion in Palm Beach, the Hamptons and in St. Tropez, plus a private jet to get them there. Nick was styling, he had turned everything around. I would see him in Palm Beach from time to time, he was producing movies and living the good life. Terry’s Mansion would host the Agassi–Brooke Shields wedding and would later sell for $110 million, a record in Palm Beach at the time.

Laurie M ended up moving to London and was sharing a flat with the daughter of Sir Anthony O’Reilly, CEO and Chairman of HJ Heinz, Susan. She was out of town so Laurie invited me to fly over and to visit, they had a fold out couch, and Laurie and I hit London town together for a cocktail party, dinner, clubbing and dancing.

We first went to the cocktail party of John Loeb, Jr., our former Ambassador to Denmark, and his live-in girlfriend from NYC, none other than my former flame from Aubar, the stunning Karen M. We caught up, and I invited them to Newport, RI, the next summer to a party we were planning there. Then Laurie and I went to dinner and then hit Annabel’s nightclub, a stuffy but well-appointed private club in those days. We were still on a roll so we decided to go to Tramp’s, London’s other then trendy nightclub. But neither Laurie or I were members, so Laurie says “Maria Pond is a member, I’ll just use her name.” So we got to the front desk and Laurie says “I am Maria Pond”. The deskman looks into his computer, and says: “Ms. Pond, I see you haven’t paid last year’s dues. Would you like to pay now?” Laurie looks at me, I look at her, I tell the deskman “we’ll be back.” Laurie and I laughed all the way home.

Laurie M and another dear friend of mine, Nancy Pearson and all the usual suspects would all go to Aspen together every New Year holiday for skiing and partying. Nancy was a beautiful and accomplished interior designer, and I had met her on a blind date, and we decided that being platonic friends would be more fun. Thus we have been life time friends since and there was not one night we did not go out and have a blast together. Again no issues. We were having lunch one day at Bonnies on Aspen HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aspen_Mountain_(ski_area)”Mountain with a Congressman, and a fight erupted between Marla Maples and Ivana Trump over Donald Trump. Donald would go on to marry Marla, and thereafter our First Lady, Melania. Who would have guessed that this public cat fight amongst the skiing elites was over a future president of the United States?

Thirdly, there was Laurie L’Esperance. Laurie was a beautiful smart blonde with smoldering brown eyes. Her father, Francis, was considered a pioneer in laser vision correction. In the 1960s’ he led the introduction, testing, and broad application of laser therapy for correcting near-sightedness, farsightedness, and astigmatism, and for the treatment of diabetic retinopathy. He was the first to use the new laser technology in humans to correct eyesight.

His daughter Laurie and I became great friends. She invited me to the Lyford Cay Tennis Tournament in the Bahamas to play mixed doubles. We were out the night before till 4:00 a.m. watching the stars and sipping champagne. Then Laurie went Scuba diving in the morning and showed up for our doubles match in the most stylish of tennis out fits, with beautiful ribbons in her hair. Unfortunately, late nights and scuba diving are probably the worst preparations for a tennis match and we had unfortunately drawn the young male and female national tennis champions for the Bahamas. It was ugly, and over soon.

The L’Esperances had a huge condo on South Ocean Blvd. in Palm Beach. They invited me to dinner at the Bath and Tennis Club and I invited them to a pool party and my condo and docks on Atlantic Ave. in P.B. My Sailing Yacht was docked there and the elder L’Esperances just hung out on the boat and mellowed out. The pool party was rock ‘n roll for the younger set. The next day, I took Laurie and a bunch of friends sailing. She met a good friend of mine, Torrey Rossetter, they fell in love and got married. Soon there was Winston Aylesworth Rossetter, and I was asked to be and agreed to be a godfather. Then there was the all too typical divorce. I invited Laurie and Winnie to Newport for the weekend and she invited me to her parent’s house on Flying Point Road in South Hampton. There was a party next door, the annual Huggy Bear Tennis Tournament Black Tie put on by Teddy Forstmann, a Wall Street financier. So Laurie and I went, and when it was over and we were walking home, I noticed a huge party going on next door, in fact people had trampled Forstmann’s hedges to get a short cut to it.

Well, Laurie turned me loose, she went back to her daughter and I went next door. I found out this rocking party was being put on no less than by my Beer Buddies, Whitney and Chris from Palm Beach, heirs to significant beer fortunes. There was plenty of beer there. And it rocked all night. In the morning, the entire lawn was littered with empty kegs, smashed plastic cups and the pool was full of clothing of both genders. No cleanup for us, we all went to Sunset Beach on Shelter Island to nurse hangovers.

The world sadly lost the beautiful Laurie early, in 2013. Her daughter is well taken care of. The job of the Godfather is to make sure your godchild, if orphaned, is raised in the eyes of God. This was not the case and Winnie has her dad and her mother’s Mom to well guide her.

Chapter 17.7 : I hear you went to Saratoga, and your horse, of course, won, Then you flew your Jet up to Nova Scotia, and saw the total eclipse of the Sun. Aka: “Jim Kimsey and the founding of AOL by accident.”

The last dear and long lasting female friend from NYC was Sonja Tremont. Sonja came to New York around age 24 and became the hostess at San Pietro Ristorante in midtown Manhattan. We somehow became friends and we would rollerblade together around Central Park. We had many adventures together and always had fun.

One summer, Sonja and I decided to go to the Travers Stake Races in Saratoga, N.Y. together, where we met two of the coolest people, Jim Kimsey and Holidae H. Jim was a founder of American Online, and had just been replaced by Steven Case, so he was Chairman Emeritus with a big allowance. Holidae was a dazzling beauty that reminded one of Jessica Rabbit. But not to be fooled, she was a sharp lawyer and chief legal counsel to Senator D’Amato’s Senate Finance Committee, I think. Holidae was from Lexington, Kentucky, and she knew her horses. As we were sitting around ripping up our losing tickets, Holidae would say “I wun”. Again and again.

I begged her for a tip but she said no, it might hex her. Next race she won and I was out. She ran the table that day. But Jim and Holidae took us to dinner at one of the finest restaurants in Saratoga and I forgave her. I also reciprocated by inviting them sailing on my Sailing Yacht in Sag Harbor, NY, which they accepted, and it was forever crazy fun.

So Jim and Holidae and some friends were driving up to meet us in Sag Harbor to go sailing. They were bringing beverages and had open containers in the back. Holidae was pulled over on the Bridgehampton-Sag Harbor Turnpike. The beverages were quickly covered with sweaters as the Officer came and asked Holidae for her license. Holidae starts fumbling through her purse, pulls out some pink silk underwear, and hands it to the Officer, asking him to hold it while she digs through her purse looking for her Kentucky driver’s license. So this poor cop is standing on the Sag Harbor turnpike holding pink panties blowing in the wind while the whole world is driving by. He finally says: “Here, take this back, forgetta bout it. Get outta here” Thus the whole gang arrived with beverages and we went sailing, and later dropped anchor in peaceful Noyac Bay not far from where Mirabella III, charted by Steve Spielberg, also lay at anchor. Holidae’s well-endowed friend, Cat O’Neill, got wasted and she decided she wanted to go jet skiing. So she grabs the Sailing Yacht’s hand held radio and radios Mirabella III to ask if she can borrow one of their jet skis.

Now there are century old yachting protocols, very many, very strict, which are time honored meticulously by captain and crew either by radio or by signal flags, either underway or at anchor. But nowhere is there a yachting protocol about borrowing a jet ski from your temporary neighbor at anchor. Thus as Cat awaited a reply, Mirabella III picks up her anchor and Spielberg motors off. I guess it was a “there goes the neighborhood” moment.

On that sail, Jim Kimsey told us the story about the beginning of AOL. Frank Caufield and Jim had gone to West Point together, fought in ‘Nam, and were best of friends. Good old boy soldiers you would want in a firefight or guarding your back in some dark alley. Frank went out to Silicon Valley and became a name partner in the powerhouse known as Kleiner, Perkins HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleiner_Perkins” Caufield HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleiner_Perkins”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleiner_Perkins” Byers.

Jim stayed in Washington, DC and tended a bar. Frank called him one day and said they had a restaurant/bar in DC with booths and electronic communication devices so you could electronically mail a message to another table if you saw a girl or guy you liked and wanted to get to know, but it was spewing red ink and Frank asked Jim to take it over and fix it. Jim did, and the electronic communication devices (“you got mail”) became the tail that wagged the dog, e-mail, which grew into AOL.

Morgan Stanley moved in, and Jim was replaced by Steve Case and Jim became Chairman Emeritus with a large spending account to spread the gospel of AOL. Jim would complain that he had worked hard, fought hard, all his life and made well over $40 million and he wanted to pull some off the table, but Morgan Stanley had locked him up. I looked at my friend, Jimmy, an accomplished stock investor, and said, “Gee, if the founder want’s out, don’t you think AOL is a short?” Well Kimsey’s locked up $40 million plus grew to become close to a billion dollars, and then Jim Kimsey was allowed to cash out some of his chips, got a private jet and flew people like Queen Noor of Jordan around on missions of mercy. Kimsey desperately wanted to return to ‘Nam to be the first US ambassador to Vietnam, at which he would have excelled, but fate would not have it to be. That was yet another American mistake.

Frank Caufield and I got to meet in New York City. I took him and some friends sailing around New York Harbor and the Statute of Liberty. Frank was fun loving but a down to earth ‘Nam vet who ended up immensely wealthy through his Silicon Valley VC business. He said he was going to take off 3 months to go to a monastery in Tibet and meditate on his good fortunes. We spoke also of his partner, Tom Perkins, well known in the Sailing and Yachting world, having built Adromeda la dea, a 154 foot Ketch that incorporated all the Silicon Valley technology to make it the largest sailboat that could be sailed single handed by one man. I saw her at the San Diego’s Americas Cup Races, then later in the port town of Split, Croatia, where I spoke to the Captain about her history and up fits since San Diego. Tom Perkins later went on to build the 289 foot Maltese Falcon HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maltese_Falcon_(yacht)”yacht, a three masted high tech barque, that theoretically could be sailed by one person due to the technology. Perkins said he spent somewhere between $150-300 million dollars on her, but would not disclose the exact cost. Maybe Tom Perkins and Frank Caufield forgot how to count pocket change, such was the success of the Silicon Valley powerhouse, Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers.

I last saw Frank Caufield and Jim Kimsey at a trendy restaurant on 44th street in South Miami Beach. I stopped by their table to say hi, they had either just got back by helicopter from Key West or were going the next day, I forget, but they had dinner guests and I did not linger, just said hi. They were two good people, friends together from West Point to ‘Nam to Sobie. Always fun to be with and fun loving. Guys you would want watching your back.

Sonja went on to marry John Morgan, a descendant and heir to J.P Morgan of the 1900s. He had been a friend of my stepfather, and was a well-known member of the yachting community. I invited them for drinks on my Sailing Yacht in Palm Beach and they invited me for dinner. Later, around New Years Eve of Y2k, John and Sonja had a huge costume party in St. Barts aboard his large yacht, Jamaica Bay, and Sonja called me a week before and asked me to bring my Sailing Yacht down to St Barts and anchor next to them for the party. I said “Sonja, it is a 14 day sail down to there into headwinds. A little advance notice would be nice.” Besides, I was not going anywhere. With Y2k approaching, no nobody was sure the navigational equipment, GPS, or anything else would work the next day.

Sonja and John had a beautiful bright daughter, Quincy. And then, later, the all too familiar divorce. Sonja went on to become a Reality TV Star and with the legal hassles that followed, I was called in as the family tax advisor, for there was a St. Tropez villa, a Telluride Condo, and a New York Townhouse in the mix, all with tax issues, including international ones.

I remember one time being on a conference call, for Sonja had just called Donald Trump for advice on her NYC townhouse. Donald took the unexpected call and spent an hour and a half giving her suggestions and advice. He asked nothing in return. It was at that point I realized he had a heart, and was a generous person. I had known him socially and knew he was a ferocious litigator, but I had not seen this part of him. This would later cause me to endlessly fight for him in the 2016 elections in Florida against fellow Yale Law School Grad Hillary, who I thought had no heart, or at least one smaller than the smallest sub-atomic particle. More on this later.

Chapter 17.8: West Island: Yet another Party to end all parties. Almost!

Now it came to pass, that I met the Walker family, who inhabited West Island in Glen Cove, NY, the former Spencer Morgan Estate. Margo Walker and her first husband had mated in Newport, RI, as youngsters on yacht service. Both were from well to do families, I think one was Citibank. Margo was so beautiful she was in competition for the “Helen of Troy” award against Jan Stenbeck’s wife in Long Island. Margo won, as did my bio-mother in Connecticut and Rhode Island. They were so beautiful that mirrors were their favored companions. I am not accusing them of Narcissism, but “truth” is an absolute defense. Michel David-Weill of Lazard Freres (“Micky D”) would become a significant familiar with Margo and a quasi- step father to her off-spring, with lots of genuine love.

The two offspring of Glen Cove’s Helen of Troy were David Walker and Sacha Walker. Sacha is a Russian name, the true definition of which is “princess warrior as well as defender of man-kind”, so my interest in her was stimulated, having been through the Russian Wars and not being shot dead, there should be a hidden story, no? Like my Grandfather’s Mistress was a Romanov, from the Russian nobility, so the mystery of her name “Sacha” would perplex me. And her godfather was the famous photographer, my fellow alumni, Peter Beard.

David and I became very good friends. David was a Bi-Polar Genius. Each of the Walker children had engines of 600 horsepower in their brains, versus 60 for the average adult. The question was always the transmission, to engage the star drive. David would hook up in 6th gear and go 6,000 miles an hour on the NASCAR track, then crash and burn, as his high power intellect drove him to the heights of Icarus and then came crashing down to Earth, where he would binge and hang out with alcoholic street bums.

I could measure on one hand the geniuses I have met in life: Robert Triffin, Eugene Rostow, Robert Bork, Roger Penrose, Benoit Mandelbrot. But David would be on the next hand, on a super wave-length ahead of all other geniuses. His family did not understand this deserved but nebulous aspect of David, that his disparaging family never gave credit to him for. Sacha, on the other hand, had all the assets for extreme success, with beauty, brains and Mickey D’s connections on Wall Street, she could have become anything, the most powerful woman in New York, easily eclipsing Muriel “Mickie” Siebert or Maria Barteloma. But she just petted her horses, and had servants and slaves bring her trumpets and tea, and much like my bio-mother, did nothing except look at herself in the mirror. A total waste of talent, beauty and brains.

David, on the other hand, had many moments of brilliance. His mind invented so many new things and he would consult me, for physics and logic. If you put David and I in a room with three other Brainiacs and enough Pizza, we could easily solve any problem of mankind, cancer, Aids, coronavirus, EPMs, Cyber warfare, strategic vulnerability, Faraday cages, etc in a matter of days or weeks. I never have had an idea or invention that I would not run by him, and his intellect, first.

But we were all mortals, young rascals at that. So David decided one day to have a huge party on West Island, the old Spencer Morgan Estate. The word went out, and I put the GPS coordinates in the Invitation and brought my Sailing Yacht in to where JP Morgan and Spencer Morgan had laid anchor nearly a century earlier. And I took the yacht tender in early to help David with his guest list.

When we broke out the list, there on the male side were all his buddies, the de Kwiatkowski brothers whose father smuggled the Shah of Iran out when Iran fell, various Vanderbilts, Whitneys, and Mellons, etc. A long list of young who is who. Half of the Piping Rock Club. Then I flip the page for the female invitees, and there is one sentence: “ALL HOT GIRLS”.

So I spent half the night with the servants on a golf cart checking the guests in. It was not party time but duty. One time, there was a limo of six beautiful girls up from the City, one of whom I knew well as a former lover, all 9s and 10s, being held outside the gate until the servants got the okay from me, so off I go to the gate on the golf cart. I was thinking, what part of David’s handwriting can’t you read? ALL HOT GIRLS. Not rocket science.

Margo had been smart enough to lock down the mansion and drain the swimming pool. Unfortunately, later that night, a drunk Irish neighbor named Patrick did a swan-dive off the diving board into the empty pool and there was blood and guts everywhere. 911.

It was an Epic Party, never to be matched. Unfortunately, there was one more casualty. That was the host, David, he disappeared for days until his good friend, Richard Arnold, found him in some flop house and David was thrown into the local hospital to detox. Somehow, I had the honor of getting a discharge and retrieving him when he dried out.

So I took my Sailing Yacht from the 23rd St.Marina to anchor off West Island, where the Morgans had anchored their mega yachts of the day, and I went in to Glen Cove Hospital to fetch David. I sat with him and the nurse came in with the discharge papers, and I asked for his records, thinking it would be a good idea to have it in his file. Little did I know.

The nurse returns with a computer printout the size of 3 phone books. David had been here before, many times. I called Margo Walker, and told her I was picking David up from the hospital, and dropping him off at West Island, and she said No! David could not return to West Island unless he finally committed to give up his substance self-abuse. I argued, I begged, I pleaded to her logic, but Margo was tough, intransigent and could probably out-negotiate the allegedly brilliant Dr. Kissinger. Less than 45 minutes later, I realized I was stuck with David. What to do?

So I had to put my thinking cap on. David had a super IQ, a turbo engine spinning wildly with ideas, and so he had to wash it clean every once in a while with alcohol or other drugs. In many ways, it was like the Greek myth of Icarus, he would fly too close to the Sun, the wax would melt off his wings, and he then came crashing down to earth. But alcoholics always have “enablers”, those who catch Icarus before he crashes to ruin, thus reinforcing the behavior, and my guess was that Margo was his enabler. She would never let him totally crash and burn, and that is unfortunately necessary in order to totally rehabilitate. You need to lose your coveted job, your money, your loved ones, land in jail, in order to be cured. You have to crash and burn and then survive, having lost everything precious to you, to really cure alcoholism.

You could not send David to some institutional rehab clinic that would try Jedi mind tricks to strip his identity and rebuild him into a straight person. David could out think them, play their game like a cross word puzzle, and be awarded a diploma and a pat on the back. The next day he would be in a gutter somewhere with an empty bottle of gin. It was a game to him, a country club vacation.

And when he did come out and act like a good boy, he was awarded jet pilot or helicopter pilot lessons, while he learned to write computer code in some new bit-bite language like C++. There was totally positive reinforcement, and I was now stuck with this enigma-Rubik cube thanks to Helen of Troy’s intransigence. No problem, I think I had the long and short term solution to my suffering friend’s issues.

The Captain of my Sailing Yacht picked us up, and David and I sat in the cockpit talking. I went down below and pulled out the fully loaded stainless steel .45 caliber Smith and Wesson automatic pistol that was part of the ship’s armory. I handed it to David and said “ David, you should shoot yourself in the head and spare yourself and everybody else your problems, but please go to the Yacht’s forward bow to blow your brains out, so we can wash off your blown out brains overboard with the fresh water hose located up there.”

Well, the First Mate totally freaked out, but the Captain restrained her, he guessed I knew what I was doing, offering David a way out of the game or the chance to stay in it. Not to our surprise, David took the pistol, ejected the .45 caliber round from the chamber, dropped the clip out, and field stripped the gun into its component pieces quicker than any field operative spy could. He knew his guns.

He looked at me and said “Look, I am self-destructive but I am not suicidal” I answered: “It is the same thing, we are arguing about time now, how soon you will self-destruct, which is the same as suicide? Einstein has already told us about time, it is relative, so get it over with now. Go to the forward to the bow and do it! Blow your head off and be done with it. The crew and I will clean up afterwards.”

Some people call it “Tough Love”, but for me it was “pragmatic”: Live or Die: your choice, and you only have two choices. I had seen enough of Rich Kids killing themselves. There would be no cuddling or sympathy from me for their imagined but privileged issues. All I had to offer was a loaded .45 caliber pistol.

But David would not reassemble the pistol. He started talking about how he accidentally shot a pistol in his mother’s mansion, putting hole in the ceiling. The Sun began to set, and we talked and talked. Finally, I was able to get on the wireless and called Margo. I told her that David had promised me he would remain straight and on the narrow, at least for a very long time. I did not mention the pistol incident, but my words were persuasive. Margo caved in and we sent David home to West Island. Either Margo owed me one, or I owed Margo one, or the human race owed both of us, for David was a bright star. But we both knew that his high turbo mind would redline, and he might douse it in alcohol again, but never suicide.

David and I would remain friends for a very long time. He picked up a very awesomely beautiful cover girl from Atlanta, cohabiting with her, and we began collaborating on his inventions, the biggest being the 3gm wireless transfer of money over cell phones. David patented it, but he eventually got into marital issues, and did not re-up on the patent fees, thus turning the 3gm money-over-cell phone patent technology in the “public domain” and thus over to Pay-pal, Amazon pay, Venmo, etc,. free of charge. We had cornered the market, we had the technology, but we lost a shot at multi-Billions.

Well you never cry over spilt milk. There is enough of it in a lifetime to run you out of tears, and you just might die from dehydration. I visited David and his beautiful girlfriend in Atlanta many times. The last time his dog “Fang”, a Labrador retriever puppy, bit me on the hand as I was petting him. Like Master, like dog, both rascals of the first magnitude. David knew I would not hesitate to shoot David dead to put him out of his misery, but I would not kill an animal, I had bid my “Farewell to Arms” in the animal world. And David has survived for decades.

Last time I saw David, he was working on “X-Walker”, a brilliant platform/app that will enable bricks and mortar stores to compete with and defeat Amazon. He has reinvented a nanosecond search engine technology, combined with Bricks and Mortar uploaded Quick Books, to offer a much better local deal than Amazon. You can go on your phone and upload the relevant inventory of a local store located nearby by GPS and walk or drive there, or instead of hopping in your car, they will send you your picks to try on in your own house via Uber, and you return the unwanted items by Uber back to the store for immediate credit. Like “Crazy Eddy”, you will get the best price. Shopping at home. Without the U.S. Postal service’s huge subsidized discount to Amazon, the playing field would be leveled, the Bricks and Mortar stores could retake the advantage. David Walker is as smart as Jeff Bezos, or much more, thus was his biggest threat in retail. That is, until the Pandemic enabled Amazon to become the only one stop shop.

And I have said before, put David and I and 3 brainiacs in a room with enough Pizza, we will solve any problem of humanity in days or weeks versus generations. Cancer, Aids, Electromagnetic pulses, Faraday cages, Covid viruses. We got it covered. Such is the bright shining star of David’s IQ, which barely survived self–destruction. Margo should be very proud.

Chapter 17.9: Newport, RI: The Bachelor’s Ball, Act I:

Newport, RI, had its gilded past age of grand balls and gala parties, but now in summers it was still full of party activities, including stuffy affairs like the Preservation Society Ball, or the Newport Coaching Ball, a weekend when elegant horse drawn carriages paraded about the Island every two years. Notwithstanding the America’s Cup loss in 1983, there were a just ton of black tie affairs and Disco-till-dawn parties. At the epicenter was a Bachelor by the name of David Ray, who founded Banisters Wharf and the Candy Store, and the elite top floor of his restaurant, the Clarke Cooke House. He was sort of the Emperor of Newport. He kept at his wharf his beautiful sailing yawl “Nirvana”, built by William D. Rockefeller. David had many friends amongst the rich and famous, from Ted Turner on down, on account of the America’s Cup Races. And he was a perennial bachelor.

His great friend was a Wharton, Harvard Law School graduate, who was designated perennial Bachelor number two. He made his money on Wall Street stock speculation, McMillian Publishing and Grow Group, and had the largest Investment Bank in shipping , and he knew everything about ships, bulk HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulk_carrier”carriers, container ships, oil and gas tankers, and American rollup HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roll-on/roll-off”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roll-on/roll-off” roll on carriers, and swapping cargoes. It’s a Greek thing, shipping, and he knew all the Greek shipping magnates.

The well-educated Wilbur Pinkerton from Boston was the third Bachelor, Thomas Quinn, the powerful lawyer and lobbyist from D.C. was the fourth. Technically, he was a divorcee with 3 wonderful children, but that was in his past, and was now a re-born bachelor. Finally, there was Ned Evans. Ned had walked away from McMillian Publishing with $400 million in cash, which he soon turned into $1 billion cash plus a very large and prestigious horse farm near Middleburg, Virginia.

Now these five bachelors would each kick in $5-$10,000 into the pot every summer, and rent the exquisite mansion Rosecliff, designed after le Petit Trianon in Versailles, built by Louis XV. They would invite the entire 1,000 social scene plus 400 single girls from New York and surrounding environs, and then a great party would ensue, a Mansion, the white tent, fine food, fine wine, and dancing overlooking the ocean. They would charter the “Black Night” for after parties since Puritan Rhode Island closed the bars at 1:00 a.m., just when the punch bowl was just starting to rock.

This became Legend. The most elegant and beautiful people on the East Coast were in attendance. One for the history books. That is, until one day, the insurance company said “we cannot insure you bachelors for more than 1000 people, not 1400”. So the Bachelors culled their invitee list and the result was that the first mandatory invitees were the 1000 people they saw every day socially and the other 400 ladies from New York and surrounding environ who made the party a bachelor’s ball, could not come. The financially savvy Bachelors saw this as a losing proposition. And the great legend, the last of the Great Gatsby Era of elegance, fine cuisine, dancing under moonlit waters, and epic fun had been curtailed by the lawyers and insurance companies. The famous Bachelor’s Ball, Act I ceased to exist.

As a footnote, the Bachelor Ned Evans never found his perfect bachelorette. He had a beautiful horse farm near Middleburg, Virginia and $1 billion in cash, and was living the good life alone, no family. But his doctors’ diagnosed him with acute myeloid leukemia with less the than 2 months to live. Ned then had to scramble to arrange his affairs.

So he went to his old alma matter, Phillips Academy in New England, and told them that he had to donate his estate shortly. Phillips Academy welcomed him and told him “Ned, we have changed so much for the better. We have “diversity”. We have x% blacks and Latinos, y% Asians, Z% women and a bunch of LTBG, etc.

Ned asks: “How many white Christian males are still here?” The answer: “Oh, we don’t count those anymore.” So Ned gets up and leaves.

Then Ned went to his last alma mater, Yale, who said “Ned, we have changed so much for the better. We have “diversity”. We have x% blacks and Latinos, y% Asians, Z% women and a bunch of LTBG, etc. Again Ned asks: “How many white Christian males are still here?” The answer: “Oh, we don’t count those anymore.” So Ned gets up and leaves.

But he goes to the Yale Business School and says if I give you fifty million dollars to build a building; will you name it after me? You know the answer to that one. There is now a modern steel and glass building far away from the main campus: The Edward P. Evans Hall. A beauty. It really pissed me off when the Yale Alumni magazine wrote an article on Ned’s generous bequest, boasting about his generous contribution. I wanted to write back: You stupid morons, you could have had his entire Billion $ if you did not have a screwed up diversity policy. You f-ups lost $950 million!

Simple math tells the sad story. There are 200 seats a year at Yale Law School. The military represents 5% of our country, and therefore should have 10 seats. But they historically have only had four seats for our courageous men and women. Why don’t you count Soldiers or White Christian men or even white Jews? Diversity is Bull sh-t.

When the Ned Evans of the world see through it, Yale endowment pledges will plummet until those leftist fascists get it right. True Diversity, mathematically based. Then maybe my pledge comes in.

Chapter 17.10: Newport, RI. The Bachelor’s Ball, Act II:

When I first got to Newport for my weekend retreat, I had not been there for years, since the Cup Races years before and the death of my grandmother. But I knew a lot of people from New York City that went there instead of the Hamptons. In addition, I had a carriage house on Tuckerman Avenue, named after my ancestors who once owned it. I had a Greek landlady, and the local Greeks all loved my grandmother on account of her often entertaining the Greek Naval Officers attending the Newport Naval War College, in honor of Charles Tuckerman, the first US Ambassador (minister) to Greece. I was a welcome tenant in the local Greek community.

And my grandmother’s best friend, Aunt Sylvia Talmadge, an heiress to the F. W. Woolworth 5 and Dime store chain, had left to my bio-mother a beach membership where I had played as a child with a nice cabana. So when I arrived, I had to put on the white tennis Lacoste shirt and the preppy look. But when I first walked up to the beach bar, there was this stunning longhaired tigress-like beauty dressed in a tight black leather outfit, right out of downtown, NYC. Give her a cat o’ nine tails whip and let the fun begin! This was not the beach club I remembered. Her name was Eve, visiting her mother, and she did in fact live in downtown, NYC, but she had been educated at Le Rosey in Gstaad and then Harvard. Years later, I was at a dinner party in NYC and she introduced me to her Le Rosey classmate, Manuel Noriega’s daughter from Panama. Noriega had salted away $ 2 billion for her from his nefarious dealings as the dictator of Panama, but she was sweet and well educated. I told me good friend Gregg, part Cuban and spoke Spanish, hey, you should meet her, she will get $2 billion. He looks at me and says classically “It is not enough!”. I would remember that one forever. But not as lesson number six.

Eve went on to marry a fellow Yale Law School grad, and have children, Greg went on to marry Kim, a great benefactor to homeless animal shelters. She had a heart of pure gold. As for me, I just lay in the cabana soaking up the rays and the scenery of young gazelles from prominent families throwing Frisbees and playing volleyball. And I made many friends, and new acquaintances and was soon invited everywhere.

One day, my friend Ridgley Beck and I were talking about throwing a party together. Then we began thinking about bringing back the Bachelors Ball, Act II. Ridgley had the big mansion, no need to rent Rosecliff, and we could put a huge tent on his lawn and make his dining room into a dance floor. Missing were three bachelors, so we got Paul Zapary, a Vanderbilt heir who lived at the Breakers Mansion, Alex von Auersberg, and Archie Van Buren, a Campbell Soup scion, to all chip in. I anchored my Sailing Yacht off of Ridgley’s mansion and decorated it with Christmas tree lights and lit the walkway to the beach with torches in case anybody wanted to go late-night skinny dipping in the ocean. It was an awesome party, and we had it each summer for a number of years, finally in the spirit of diversity, a Bachelor’s and Bachelorette Ball, as Lilly Holt and her friends came in and balanced the Invite. Parties like this were few and far between, but the memories of such fun stay with us.

Chapter 17.11: Not all play, there was work to do. The tale of Anna Nicole Smith and Howard Marshall, Jr. Love at second sight.

It was not all parties. I still had to jaunt often to Moscow to check on my TV station, and I did get summoned to LA at the request of my old law firm there. They had taken on as a client Howard Marshall III, a son of the man who married Anna Nicole Smith, and he had formed an alliance with her in a fight over Howard Marshall II’s estate, which theoretically owned 16% of Koch Industries, which was growing into the second largest private company in the US, worth over $100 billion.

Now I would like to think I was called in for my sharp legal mind and analytical skills, but my old firm knew that if they prevailed, there would only be paper of a private company, no liquid asset, and to cash in, somebody would have to go to Charles Koch and David Koch and negotiate, if possible, a discounted settlement. That somebody could be me since I knew David well socially. But I had to learn the case from the beginning, in their conference room amidst boxes upon boxes of legal documents, court rulings, sifting through each, and it was quite a story, which should begin at the beginning.

James Howard Marshall II, the man who married Vickie Lynn Hogan at age 89, was no lecherous slouch. He had a distinguished career, almost all in the oil industry. He graduated magna cum laude from Yale Law School in 1931. At Yale, he was case editor of the Yale Law Journal. Upon graduation, he served from 1931 to 1933 as an Assistant Dean at Yale Law School. In 1933, he left Yale to become the Assistant Solicitor at the Department of the Interior and later became Vice Chairman and President of Ashland Oil and Refining Co. (now Ashland Inc.).

In 1984, when he founded Marshall Petroleum, he became friends with Fred Koch. In 1927, Fred Koch developed a more efficient thermal cracking process for the petroleum refining process which allowed smaller players in the industry to better compete with the oil majors. The larger oil companies quickly sued in response, filing 44 different frivolous lawsuits against Koch, and embroiling him in litigation for years. Koch was to prevail in all but one of the suits (which was later over-turned due to the fact that the judge had been bribed).

Marshall II turned his investment in Great Northern Oil Co. into Marshall Petroleum and with Fred Koch’s blessing during the 1950s into a 16% stake in Koch Industries, now America’s second largest privately held company. Soon, Koch Industries and with it, Marshall Petroleum, became a battleground amongst the family members. When J. Howard Marshall III sided with Bill Koch, Frederick R. Koch and other collateral family members in a failed attempt to take over Koch Industries from Charles Koch and David Koch, the war began. The case was initially settled; Charles and David bought out Bill Koch and his other brother for $400 million each. The Marshall’s settled and Howard Marshall II, and his other son, Pierce Marshall, stayed with Koch Industries and Howard Marshall III was on the out. War broke out amongst the Koch brothers, for Bill Koch had felt the company, valued at somewhere near $2 billion, was really worth far more, and that he had been cheated. Howard Marshall III joined the fight on Bill’s side. The dispute was bitter, pitting David Koch against his twin brother Bill in a no-holds barred legal battle. Bill went on to turn his $400 million quickly into a billion dollars ( the Koch Midas touch) and won the Americas Cup, later was inducted into the Sailing Hall of Fame by my dear friend, Dayton Carr. But it took many years for the twins to bury the hatchet, which they finally did, they made up, living only two miles from each other in Palm Beach’s South Ocean Drive. The Marshalls were no less litigious. It was a bitter fight. They are probably still litigating amongst themselves in Texas.

As previously stated, Howard Marshall Jr., in 1994, at the age of 89, married Vickie Lynn Hogan, now rebranded as 26-year-old model Anna Nicole Smith. They had met at a strip club and he proposed marriage on the second visit, and everybody knows the tabloid romance. Their marriage lasted 14 months, until his death.

The Newspapers said Marshall II died of natural causes at the age of 90 in Houston, Texas. But that was not the true story. Pierce Marshall had taken custody of his father and locked him into Pierce’s gated and guarded compound, and would not let his father see Anna Nicole Smith, or let her visit him. She was locked out. A Texas Court then ordered the visitation and appointed a guardian, so Anna Nicole went with the Court appointed Guardian to see her husband. When Howard Marshall II saw her, he jumped out of his death bed and began dancing with her. He was alive again, happy. I read the Guardian’s report to the Court, in which he repeated Howard Marshall II’s joy at seeing his young wife and recommended to the Court that Howard Marshall II was to be released from Pierce’s guarded compound to go live with his wife elsewhere. Within an hour of the Judge signing the order giving the wife custody of her husband, poor Howard Marshall II died and was swiftly cremated by Pierce. I have seen this before, amongst the rich and famous, the “accidental” death and swift cremation before an autopsy can be performed, and you have to question whether money is a death sentence when you get old.

Following Marshall II’s death, Anna Nicole Smith became involved in a court battle with her former stepson, Pierce Marshall over the Estate of Howard Marshal II, and joined forces with his son, Howard Marshall III. The legal dispute worked its way through both state and federal courts as Anna Nicole and J. Howard III sought to overturn the will and trust. In 2001, they both lost their cases in Texas, even though Anna Nicole Smith was awarded $474 million by a California Jury. But Howard II’s estate became the subject of protracted litigation, which was reviewed twice by the US Supreme Court, resulting in the landmark cases Marshall v. Marshall and Stern v. Marshall.

Anna Nicole Smith would not survive the final Supreme Court case, dying from a drug

overdose at the Seminole Hard Rock Café in Hollywood, Florida. I last saw her at Mar-a-Largo, standing next to Donald Trump by the pool. I went over and said hi, she remembered me from LA.

It is truly sad when I write a book and many if not most chapters end with death by drug overdoses or skullduggery of the Rich and Famous. Stay away from drugs for starters.

PART XVIII: THE BERMUDA QUADRANGLE COMES TO AN END:

Chapter 18.1: Farewell to Aspen:

Aspen had been a blast but it was changing. David Koch married Julia and there were no more wild parties. Marshall Fields moved the New Year’s Eve Party to St. Barts. Wexner’s parties were stuffy. Alan Block, the gracious Pittsburg publisher, would still have dinner parties at the Caribou Club, but it was becoming long in tooth. It was not easy to let go.

Since the days of the Aspen Club Lodge, I made always made it a habit to always stop by and ski on the way to and from LA and NYC. It was easy, just take US Airways to Denver, then Aspen Scareways to Aspen. And it could get really scary with the habitual snow in Aspen, coming in over the mountains IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) to a small airport at the bottom of a valley. Plenty of plane wrecks. I have a video of a brave F-16 fighter pilot that made a fake bomb run on Aspen Airport IFR. Pretty amazing. Takes your breath away.

And I was a hard skier, preferring slalom and racing and jumping to double diamonds. Like Jean-Claude Killy, I was a downhill racer. I had a habit of making my last ski trip to Aspen when the time sprung forward under daily savings time. I was always invited by Caroline Mary Skelly from Newport, RI to the River Oaks Tennis Tournament in Houston, Texas, for which she always had a box. Her nephew and daughter were good friends of mine.

Caroline Skelly was the daughter of a founder of what became Getty Oil. She had been disfigured by those old hair heaters, which blew up, but that did not stop her from being an incredible party animal. So I would always go to River Oaks, do the social thing, and always miss the first plane from Houston to Denver because I invariably forgot to set my watch an hour forward the night before.

At that time of year, you could ski Aspen in a swimsuit, warm dry air. There was plenty of snow high up, but it got slushy at the bottom. Aspen has two basic mountains, SnowMass and Aspen or Ajax Mountain. SnowMass was about 20 minutes out of town, but was massive. You could start the morning on the fresh Northern slopes and move during the day to the mid slopes, have lunch and then ski the south slopes, avoiding rush hour traffic all the way. The last run was a 5 mile shush that you barreled down at the speed of light to end up at the après-ski lodge amongst a happy crowd of revilers and party animals, and usually some very attractive women.

Aspen Mountain, on the other hand, was a social mountain, set at the exact base of Aspen Village, and all its surrounding shops, restaurants and pubs. Over the Christmas holiday, it became a total social scene, for all your friends were in from NYC and the Hollywood crowd was shuffling in. Thus, like New York, it was tightly scheduled, when and who do you meet at the Gondola lift in the morning, who did you meet for lunch with at Bonnies, the mid-mountain restaurant, where Marla Maples and Ivana Trump notoriously fought in public over Donald Trump, who did you ski with in the afternoon, who did you catch up with après ski drinks at Little Nells, who did you hot tub with, have cocktails or dinner with, what party to go to, who to meet at the Caribou Club for dancing. Where was “Siri” when you needed her the most?

And there was always good people the Caribou Club. There were always after-parties.

Steve Tisch would invite us back to his lodge and serve us fine champagne in exquisitely carved champagne glasses. When I abandoned Aspen, I lost touch with everyone. But one night I ran across Steve Tisch at Frederick’s, the new Madison Avenue hotspot in NYC. He had just produced “Forest Gump” and won a bunch of awards. I stopped by to say hi and congratulate him.

The next time I see him, it is on the TV and he is handing the 2008 Super Bowl Trophy to Eli Manning and is running my team, the New York Football Giants! He is with his nice family and children on national stage, and I am shocked. Here is a guy who had every ability to just wait around for his inheritance, drinking fine champagne, yet he climbed to the top, responsible, productive, and successful. I really mean “hats off” to Steve. And go: Big Blue!

Chapter 18:2: New Snow Horizons: Europe.

I began skiing other mountains, Sun Valley, Squaw Valley at Lake Tahoe, and Tellurid

Then I went to Europe, and skied the European Mountains. Gstaad was my favorite, as it had a robust nightlife and I knew people there. Every President’s Weekend in the U.S., there was the Le Rosey Alumni reunion weekend in Gstaad. Though I did not go to Le Rosey, there were many friends of mine that did and very interesting educated people from good families all over the world. And the Palace Hotel was the center of action, only 35 Euros per glass, orange juice or the finest champagne, same price. And I knew Taty, a dear friend, who ran the hotel for years.

And I skied Verbier, Courchevel and if the snow was better on the eastern Alps, Kitzbuhel in Austria. I stayed away from St. Moritz. My grandmother had skied there but it had become a little too trendy for me. Courchevel was amazing, for you could ski all day and end up 5 kilometers from your lodge with no idea where you were. And there was a sister night club to the famous Les Caves du Roy at the Hotel Byblos in St. Tropez at the top of the mountain at Courchevel. Disco till you die!

Chapter 18:3: Well, now what do you do on New Year’s Eve? Times Square is not an option:

Without Aspen as a New Year’s Eve destination, I began to wander the world for a substitute. St. Barts was too crowded. Palm Beach had the famous black tie “Cocoanuts” which got long in tooth, but there were other more exciting venues. Every year Punta del Este in Uruguay was always rocking, one year I joined my friend Zoli in Budapest surrounded by Hungarian party animals, including some very beautiful ones, but the best by far was Juarare, a high end beach on the northern tip of Florianopolis. Florianopolis was one of the three Brazilian states located below Sao Paulo, and there was a heavy concentration of German and Italian immigrants and very little crime, unlike in the North of Brazil. My Brazilian friend, Gerald and I hopped down there and went to a New Year’s Eve beach party where I think 2,000 people were there. We met Giselle Bunchen and Brazil’s top tennis player at the time, Gustavo Kuerton, as we wandered the beach with our free champagne bottles. I remember Giselle, from the State next door, Rio Grande do Sul, before she married Tom Brady, I just respectfully want to say that though she is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, all the girls looked like Giselle. And it wasn’t the champagne. What a party!

Chapter 18:4: Farewell to the Hamptons, South Miami Beach Beckons:

I had spent much time in the Hamptons on summer weekends. I alternated between Newport, RI and Sag Harbor in the Hamptons. I would throw a cocktail party on Friday aboard my Sailing Yacht, then take some of my many New York friends sailing in Noyac Bay Saturday.

Conscious Point had a rocking night club, and there were tons of charitable benefits and private parties, and the general rule was everyone was welcome to the private parties, especially at the Wilzig brothers’ gold-plated palace. The more the merrier and this was the general rule until Hamptons began to get stuffy, door lists appeared and the Hollywood crowd gated themselves in seclusion. But until then, groups of my friends would all gather, and we would wagon train to all the various parties, being sure to use the back roads, maybe we had four to five cars, jumping from party to party. It was fun. Then on Sunday, everybody would vanish, taking the Hampton Jitney back to NYC, and Sag Harbor and South Hampton became ghost towns.

Sometimes I would stay and sail back to Newport or New York Monday morning at first light. But once, I decided to leave my boat in Sag Harbor on Sunday and drive my amphibious automobile over the two Shelter Island Ferries to Greenport then North Fork, Long Island and take the Orient Point Ferry from there to New London, CT, a one hour drive from Newport. I had no problem taking the South Ferry from Sag Harbor to Shelter Island, but when I got to the North Ferry, there was a line of cars two miles long, hours and hours of waiting for the small North Ferry. No wait for Captain Rick, I gunned my amphicar up past the miles of waiting cars, drove down onto the beach, into the water, turned the propellers on and off I motored to Greenport. Well in my rear view mirror, I could see a bunch of amazed people scratching their heads. They had never seen anything like it. I waved goodbye, “have a nice wait”.

But the story does not happily end there. When I got the Greenport, there was no place to drive out of the water. I tried the beach, but the sand was so soft, I could not get traction to drive the amphicar out of the water. So I am motoring around Greenport, helplessly looking for an egress, nervously looking at my gas gauge. Fortunately, two curious kids motor up in a small boat and tell me hidden behind a stone jetty at the very end of town, there is an asphalt boat launch ramp, and I am saved! I reach the Northpoint Ferry just in time for its last run, making it to Newport, avoiding the devastating mariners’ shame of having to be rescued and towed ashore.

Before I say farewell to the Hamptons, I must say once again that on Shelter Island, there is also an Inn called the Ram’s Head Inn. The bronze plague honoring the Shelter Island Conference, the 1947 reunion gathering of the great minds of the Manhattan Project, the project which developed the atom bomb that ended the war in the Pacific Theatre, featured a veritable Who’s-Who of the veterans of the Manhattan Project, and other prominent members of physics community, including Oppenheimer, Enrico Fermi, Edward Teller-anti Teller, Linus Pauling, Feynman and 19 other great physicists. The Rams Head Inn is a tribute to the truly great minds of the 20th Century. Shelter Island is a unique special venue, the Ram’s Head Inn contains that shrine to those most brilliant minds, with no Einstein in the mix.

PART XIX: ULYSSES SAILS SOUTH TO THE ISLANDS OF CIRCE AND CALYPSO:

Chapter 19.1: Landfall in SoBe paradise, the Early Days:

Although I had docks and condos in Palm Beach, I decided to first sail south and make landfall in South Miami Beach. We had engine trouble right in the middle of the Miami Channel where great big commercial freighters and Cruise Line Boats were constantly passing by. Scary. We managed to make barely it to the South Beach Marina, tie up, and it was cocktail time.

I had been in and out of South Miami Beach for years, it was slowly morphing from a slum and low rent area for elderly Jewish retirees into what would become an international jetsetter destination spot. The famous Versace mansion, Casa Casuarina, was a rundown multi-tenant building with broken iron gates. Downtown Miami and its Brickell Avenue was a dangerous slum.

Originally, there was only one hot night club, Semper’s. The News Café, Miami Beach, was the only gathering spot on Ocean Drive in South Beach and 8th street. Hotels were $40 a night. Then the changeling process began as German Catalogue vendors saw the lighting, white sand beach, and clear blue water and South Beach became a mecca for professional photography. The “A” rated models followed, and often a News Café you would see a Naomi Campell, a Kate Moss or a Christy Turlington at the next table.

Soon the “B” models came for the business, and then the “C” models, that is any cute girl from the Midwest who could get together a $500 portfolio and a second rate modeling agency. That in turn brought in a bunch of young well financed hoaxers and scammers who would have fake “model calls” where they would line up and get telephone numbers from 50 wannabe models. But this in turn brought real business into town, Jason Binn, editor of Hamptons Magazine started the prestigious Ocean Drive Magazine, with it’s fantastic parties. Penrod’s, on 2nd street where drug gangs used to shoot it out in the parking lot, became the trendy Nikki’s Beach, where the likes of Oliver Stone, Charlie Sheen, and Micky HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mickey_Rourke”Rourke would hang out. The panache of Hollywood was slowly working its way to South Beach, and the parties and night clubs followed.

In 1994, the Savoy on 4th street opened with great fanfare. OJ Simpson was there, alone, and I went over and talked to him. I was actually seeking some information on his friend Nick Buoniconti, who was the president of Columbia Laboratories, a NASDAQ biotech company I had invested in that was developing the cure for pre-term babies, a noble cause championed by the March of Dimes. I will disclose more of this story later, as I discuss the perils of Yale “social investing”. OJ was uncharacteristically alone and a few months later, in LA, his nose dive from fame and fortune would begin when his wife was murdered.

My friend Eric Hersman’s fiancée, Alexandra, was there. Eric was my part time wingman in NYC and I was with him when he met his future wife in a downtown restaurant. We took her and her sister to Aubar and did we have a wild fun night. I lost touch with Eric, but years later I would by accident run across him in Las Vegas where he was raising money for a Steve Wynn Casino. He had two children by then and was living in St. Tropez, and he invited me to his birthday party the next year in St. Tropez, which I attended, and it was a blast with some really fine people. Eric then went on to syndicate the Formula One team and logo and made a bundle. A good guy, well deserved.

Chapter 19.2: The early days, SoBe part II:

In those early days, you could go to Senior Frogs, a beer and pool hall on lower Collins

Avenue. You would get a pitcher of beer for $2.00, grab a pool table and two hot models, and play doubles. And I was pretty good at pool, I came in second in the Annual Model Lapalooza contest only because my model partner scratched on the eight ball. But she and I got tee shirts and each a large Bottle of the brand new Blue Skyy Vodka. I saved that trophy proudly for years until one day, as my grandmother had forewarned, the servants broke in and drank it all.

Anyway, one night in Senior Frogs, in walks an incredible beauty, probably the most beautiful girl in South Beach, and that was saying an awful lot. Her name was Arianne Brown, but she was 24 and was with a kid that was also 24 and had a Ferrari.

I was not in that league. I drive an amphibious automobile, and despise Ferraris, and I

don’t drive high powered dual engine Cigarette kidney cruncher speed boats, I just hoist a sail and let the wind take me where I want to go. And I did not go for the Dom Perignon lifestyle, I was down with $2.00 beers in a pool hall full of beautiful models. But I would see Arianne from time to time over the years, roller blading on the Southern Causeway, at an Ocean Drive Magazine Party or at a Nicolas Berggruen Party, even one time in Serafino on 62nd St. in NYC. I heard she finally got married, but I never forgot that moment at Senior Frogs when she walked in. Kind of a religious experience, she was a masterpiece of fine art in a town full of very beautiful women.

But the days of shooting pool with models and two dollar beers were coming to a swift close. Thomas Kramer was buying up the South Pointe and prices were rising. Kramer would throw parties at his Star Island mansion but I would not go. He had “borrowed” $200 million from his father- in-law, Siegfried Otto, who lived in Palm Beach. Otto had made a fortune printing deutsche mark currency notes for Germany’s Central Bank, the Deutshe Bundesbank, and you wonder how you can become super wealthy at the printing business. The answer was that that after the Central Bank’s order was fulfilled, the printing presses kept on printing, and thus Otto became super wealthy.

But Kramer had borrowed and then wired $200 million of Otto’s money to a hidden offshore account, ripping his father-in-law off. Thus I did not want to be anywhere near Kramer when they came to machine gun him down, as anyone coming from my world would naturally expect. But they never came. I found the answer “why” skiing in Kitzbule with German friend from Munich, who knew the family and the “story”. He said that if Kramer had been “offed” as I totally expected, the German authorities would begin an investigation, and start digging and digging, and soon digging into father-in-law Otto’s affairs. Otto did not want this, so he was mum. So Kramer, probably knowing this, committed the perfect crime, getting away scot free with a huge heist from his muzzled “Dad” in law. Send a Thief to catch a Thief?

Enough with junior mafia, there were two annual parties you could not miss. The first was Jason Binn’s annual Ocean Drive Magazine party, an extravaganza of fine food, wine and models unparalleled in fun and fashion.

The second was Dr. Lenny Roudner’s party on Palm Island in South Beach. Dr. Lenny was a leading plastic breast surgeon would invite all his clients and former clients to his mansion, which had a large pool in the middle and was an eye fest to the point of tears. He was an Aussie, so whenever I got to talk to him, it was about sailing, which he, and most Aussies, love. But his handy work, or I should say artwork shown off every year at his party, was unforgettable. Beyond description of words.

Chapter 19.3: The South Beach scene heats up: the nightclub invasion of SoBe:

Soon, the nightclubs started to roll into town. As did high end restaurants. There used to be a couple of watering holes that everyone went to, that changed to a different venue each night as new places opened. Promoters like Tommy Pooch and later Michael Capponi made their reputations by driving the right people to the right places.

Michael Capponi became a good friend and invited me to his 30th birthday party on Peter Nygard’s six acre private island adjacent to Lyford Cay in the Bahamas. There, half of South Beach came down to dance on Nygard’s 32,000 square foot six story Mayan Palace with a revolving acrylic discotheque floor. It was a staggering party with fireworks beyond belief. I stayed aboard my friend’s 72 foot Mangusta docked next door at Lyford Cay, and we motored the next day to Atlantis Paradise Island and its harbor, Hurricane Hole. It was a day well devoted to “recovery”.

A massive 3 story mezzanine club aptly called “Amnesia” opened up near 2nd street. My friend Sonja, and her well-endowed accountant friend Jill were staying in Palm Beach so we decided to zip down to SoBe and go to the opening party. As we stood on the 3rd floor mezzanine, foam began to fill up the dance floor. Jill took off her leather shoes and off she went to the first floor where the foam had now reached about 8 feet and it was difficult to see. I took off my shoes and belt and followed to find her, while Sonja stayed and guarded the leather. By the end of the night, the foam had reached the second floor, and then subsided. I found Jill and we found a huge water fountain to wash off the soap foam. Then we sped back to Palm Beach at around 4:00 a.m. in their convertible, soaking wet and laughing all the way. It just doesn’t get better than that.

My friend Michael Ault opened Chaos, a sister of the NYC Club, and made more money per square foot than in the history of nightclubs, at least those clubs that kept one or two books.

Thereafter, dozens more followed, including a cool club called Mynt. But the crème de la crème was to be found at the newly renovated Fontainebleau Miami Beach near 50th street, where high-roller guys like Mark Cuban would drop $60,000 tips and make the rest of us look like penny pinchers.

And for the Walking Dead, there was in downtown Miami a late, late night club called

Club Space. People would set their alarm clocks for 4 a.m. to get up and go. Hedge Fund brats from NYC would finish the Saturday night action in NYC, then take a private jet and a bunch of eight balls of Cocaine from Teterboro airport to Miami to go to Club Space at 6:00 am, a wise use of their client’s funds. And yes, there were quite a few body bags, as the young and restless o’d on MDMA or Molly and other strange drugs, and were hauled off to the morgue.

Chapter 19.4: The Lazy winter of ‘95-96:

In the winter of ‘95 or ‘96. I brought my Sailing Yacht back down from Newport to the South Beach Marina. This would turn out to be a mistake for I got absolutely no work done. Just Parties and rollerblading with models, parties with take out from Joe’s Stonecrab next door, with girls dancing on the Settee table of my Sailing Yacht to the tunes of the Steve Miller Band.

I also rented and shared a two bedroom apartment overlooking the ocean on Collins and 17th street with Doug Dechert from NYC and Bobby Z from Palm Beach. Groove Jet was the new late night hotspot and I could walk back to the apartment and swim in the nearby salt ocean in the morning. That was the game plan.

I had met Bobby Z initially because I used to stay at the Majestic or Avalon Hotels owned by a friend from Newport, RI, Don Glasse, and I got the friend and family rate. It was next door to the News Café on Ocean Drive and 8th street, which was the center of action in South Beach at the time.

In the early days, you always had a table a News Café and at the next table there would be Super “A” models, for South beach was the center of German catalogue shooting with the blue sky and ice clear water and a strong Eurodollar. It was one of the rare places in the world where everybody passes by, like Nellos and la Goulue on Madison Avenue in New York or Chuck and Harolds or Cuchina in Palm Beach.

One early morning in South Beach (“SoBe”), I get a call from Doug and I tell him I am checking out. He says “stay” and puts Bobby Z on the phone. Bobby Z, who I did not know, says “stay”. I replied “I’m checking out.” He said “stay for one half hour more”. Well I am ready to roll but I get a knock on my door, and there is a young brunette model with a spiked collar and a whip. She pushes me onto the bed and locks the door. I will say no more except that Bobby Z and I became close friends and shared many adventures thereafter.

So I shared the rent on this apartment with them on the ocean side at 17th St. At that time, Coerte Felske had just published a popular novel “The Shallow Man” which was about men who date models in NYC. He was now very popular and Doug Dechert offered him my apartment room if he wanted to hang out in South Beach, which he did. Doug was sucking up to Coerte at my expense.

Well they threw a “Shallow Man” party and in attendance were a number of beautiful women, including a well-endowed Playboy Centerfold named Priscilla. I was finally able to manoeuver into the kitchen and engage her. She smiled at me and I smiled back and we introduced each other. She told me “The Shallow Man” was her favorite book. I coyly asked “Priscilla, what do most you like about it?” She gleefully responded: “It’s about a shallow man!”

Now, my mind went totally blank. What could I say? I have many degrees, with honors, studied under geniuses, rewritten Einstein’s theory of Relativity in Mandelbrot’s Fractal mathematics, and travelled the world. But it was total checkmate. My mind was empty. There was nothing I could say, and I’m still trying to figure out what I could have said. What would you have said? “Yeah, I dig it, I’m a shallow man too?” “I am shallower than shallow?”

Well, in spite of Coerte Felske hijacking my room that season, I enjoyed sleeping on my Sailing Yacht, and Coerte and I ended up becoming good friends and I would later see him from time to time at One Oak or some other NYC hotspot. He was a good guy.

But I am still trying to figure out today what I should have said responding to the Playboy centerfold, Priscilla. A Rubik’s cube would have been much easier to solve. South Beach and Playboy centerfolds? Checkmate, or return to square one, do not pass go, do not collect your 200 dollars. Oy!

CHAPTER XX: TRAPPED ON THE ISLAND OF CALYPSO WITH AN EXIT VISA TO SOUTH MIAMI BEACH:

Chapter 20.1: Landfall yet again in paradise:

In the Odyssey, Ulysses makes landfall on the island of Calypso, and lost ten years of time on his journey homeward. I thus similarly sailed North and made a semi-permanent landfall on Palm Beach, a very unique barrier island on Florida’s South East coast. It was a very wealthy enclave with only three bridges to access it, thus very safe, with maybe 50 billionaires living in the palatial mansions on the ocean, with hedgerows and palm trees everywhere. And if you did not trim your hedges, you would be fined $100 a day by the town’s Zoning Commandos. Across Lake Worth, which separated the barrier island of Palm Beach from the mainland, was the city of West Palm Beach, and you could go merely two miles to find active nightlife and many slums where drug dealers murdered their competition.

20 minutes west was Wellington, Florida, another very wealthy enclave for horse people and polo teams, at the epicenter of which was the International Polo Club, and a Sunday afternoon venue for high goal polo at the Polo Club, culminating it the U.S. Open Polo Championship. There you would find Tommy Lee Jones and his very expensive polo team vying for the title against an heir of Budweiser Beer and his very expensive polo team, all manned by high goal Argentineans that commanded annual salaries of two million dollars, and that did not include the string of polo ponies, for each team had to have 25 well trained horses, costing over $250,000 each, especially if they were clones.

Palm Beach had it’s Worth Avenue, a shopping mecca rivaled only by Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Everything was there, Tiffany’s, Cartier, Brooks Brother’s, Sax Fifth Avenue, etc. You, or rather your significant other, could drop a lot of coin on Worth Avenue. The beaches were extraordinary, usually with crystal clear blue water, and small waves. Two times a year, the sharks commuted south to the warmer South Florida waters, then north to chase seals and game fish up to Cape Cod. And far out to sea were the big bad guys, the Great Whites and Bull sharks. And the Palm Beach Airport was only 15 minutes away, and you could be in NYC in a bit over two hours, and go hang out there with the Wall Street sharks.

To the North were the wealthy enclaves of Jupiter, Florida and Hobe Sound, where golf and yachting were abundant, a Tiger Woods paradise. To the South was the city of Fort Lauderdale, a yachting mecca, and then further was Miami and South Beach, now an international party destination with a beautiful beach with a lot of Hollywood thrown in.

But my new home now was Palm Beach, where there was plenty of peace during the day and an active nightlife there and in West Palm Beach across the lake. And if that was not enough, an hour drive got you back into the hotbed of insane night life, South Miami Beach.

Palm Beach was full of who’s who, Estee Lauder had her estate there, soon to be owned by her son Ron, with Aerin running her cosmetics empire. Next door was David Koch’s mansion, down the ocean was his brother Bill, who won the Americas Cup. Further up was Jimmy Buffet’s estate, and nearby, Rod Stewart. You could often see him playing soccer at the towns recreational park, or his beautiful wife, Rachael Hunter, jogging down the 3 mile lake trail. Jim Clarke, founder of Netscape lived there on the Ocean, nearby was Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots. For Politicals, Rush Limbaugh and Anne Coulter had digs, as well as Wilbur Ross, a Secretary of Commerce, and of course Donald Trump had Mar-a-Largo. Scattered in the mix were a huge number of successful Wall Street Hedge Fund giants like Steve Schwartzman and Trust Funders whose great grandfather founded and had built some Fortune 500 industrial giant.

Chapter 20.2: Palm Beach: “God’s waiting room” or Rock N Roll?

In spite of Palm Beach being a destination of old and retired people, earning it the nick name of “God’s waiting room”, there was actually a vibrant scene of young people, often well-educated and well healed and always some party or another. At the time, the Palm Beach AuBar of William Kennedy Smith had begun to fizzle out and a new hot club called “251” sprung up. And it became the hottest club for miles around. On any given night you would be sitting next to Keith Hernandez, of the New York Mets, while Donald Trump took an entourage to his table, and the dance floor was always crowded. Everyone went there. They even said 7 of the 9-11 bombers passed through 251 on their way to Hell.

And 251 was rocking. The Dotcom boom was at its peak and money was everywhere. It became the main watering hole for the local gentry as well as a destination for people far away, including some very awesomely attractive women. The owner was Alan Heise, a nice young man, who often played tennis with General Alexander Haig when he was not running his club, and we became friends. I lived upstairs, above the club, having sold my Sailing Yacht, condos and docks around the alleged top of the Dotcom boom. I was playing tennis with my friend Billy, when I was told AOL had merged with Time Warner, and we knew the bell had rung, the speculative frenzy called the Dot-com bubble was at its peak, not to last much longer. We could see a massive deflation looming, little guessing that a so called economist named Greenspan would drop interest rates to near zero, destroying the savers and the middle class of this country while creating another bubble, a real estate bubble that would again destroy many others. I had sold too soon.

But as I said, the owner of 251 and I became friends. Since I lived above the 251 club and knew all the secret back entrances and hallways in the giant building that housed it, I was given free rein to the liquor in their bars. I did not have to stock any liquor in my suite, I had plenty below me. Those were happy days. Alan eventually moved on to the west coast, married and had children. I see him from time to time, and we remember those wild days.

It was like a lemming run on weekends, some cocktail party or dinner, then 251. Then when 251 closed, we would hop over the bridge to Club Liquid, the hot club in West Palm Beach, open for an hour later, then when it closed, to Club Diamonds, (a bar-strip club-aka “Gentlemen’s Club”) that was open for two more hours. In the morning, you would gather up what was left of yourself and go to the beach for Sun and a swim in the salt water ocean. Then perhaps organize late afternoon tennis match to sweat out the toxins before beginning the lemming run again. But you always had a smile on your face. Happy care-free days, they were.

Chapter 20.3: Who was that girl? The tale of Brooke Shield’s sister.

The manager of 251 was a girl named Cristiana, who was the half-sister of the actress Brooke Shields. Cristiana had special features, a winning smile and a soft voice that was like nightingales singing near a waterfall. Having met both of them, I can tell you honestly that Cristiana was far better looking than her older half-sister Brooke. If fact, two people thought she was might have been the most beautiful girl that walked this planet. The first person to think this was me, unfortunately the second person was her. That did not leave much to fill when the glass was already full. And though I should have fallen in love with her if I could find any space in her heart not consumed by herself, I certainly did fall in love with her dog Corky, a terrier rescue who I would teach to swim and chase tennis balls. Corky and her friend Behr Behr, a Golden Retriever who I borrowed to chase tennis balls in the ocean, had brought me closer than ever to the dog species. I had grown up with dearly loved dogs when a youngster, never leaving each other’s side, until I was exiled away to school at the age of 13. Now the Almighty Holy One had given me another chance to relearn what I had forgotten: the faithful unconditional love of dogs and the joy of their company. But they had to chase tennis balls, no excuses.

Cristiana had grown up under a number of shadows, a famous actress sister, a larger than life father who was a champion rower and just loved and admired by so many friends and acquaintances. Her father’s second marriage was to Didi Auchincloss, who had first married Tom Auchincloss of the Newport Auchincloss clan of Hammersmith Farm. So there were a lot of step children and half siblings running around.

Cristiana also had a famous grandfather who she knew little about, who was a Wimbledon finalist in the 1930’s. I took her to see his picture and plaque at the Tennis Hall of Fame in Newport, where he was listed as “defeated”. His name was Francis Xavier Shields, Sr., and he was a tall and very athletic kid from Brooklyn who rose in the ranks of tennis to become the tennis pro at the prestigious Meadow Club in South Hampton, then on to become a Wimbledon Finalist.

I did not tell Cristiana, but when her father Frank was dying of cancer in the early 2000’s, the Palm Beach Journal did an extensive story on his life. And since I was a part time editor, I got to help edit his memoirs. Frank said his Dad did not “lose” at Wimbledon, he actually “defaulted”. He was in fact a “no show”. Frank’s father said the wily British, obviously after placing their wagers, had sent three woman and three bottles of strong spirits up to his room the night before the Wimbledon match. The result was that Frank’s Dad did not show up the next day at Wimbledon and was defaulted. He told his son Frank: “I did not care about the match, I had just had the best night ever of my life!” He went on to marry two European princesses and a Dodge or Chrysler heiress and lived a very good life. Wow!

It in fact reminded me of a story that Lawrence Taylor, the legendary Football Icon and the greatest ever line-backer of the New York Giants, told me and some others once. Whenever Taylor went to play the Washington Redskins, they would find out what hotel he was staying at and send 3 hookers and an eight ball of cocaine to Taylor’s room the night before the game. What effect? Taylor said “ Hey, it made me play better the next day.” Go figure? Go ask Joe Theismann, the Washington Redskin quarterback whose leg he broke.

I had met Jack Kent Cooke, owner of the Washington Redskins for years, a billionaire who left his very beautiful, sweet and only daughter, Jackie, a mere $ 5 million when he died. She deserved so much better, she was beautiful, kind and well-mannered. He was a conceited arrogant man whose tiny heart had room only for his football team.

Back to Newport,RI. I took Cristiana to a late night party at the Auchincloss Windmill on Hammersmith Farm, where I think her sister Olympia was staying. When we got back to my place, the terrier Corky was at the door apparently jumping up and down in joy to see us. We opened the door and Corky, deceptive brat terrier that she was, scooted under our legs and chased a skunk into the bushes. It was a disaster, I had to go in and get her, drag her through the bush, put her in the bath tub and pour tomato paste all over her, and still she stunk to high heavens. PetSmart the next day, yuck. Bad, bad dog!

The last I held Corky in my arms was on the beach when Hurricane Katrina passed over Palm Beach as a Category One hurricane, it just messed our hair up, little knowing that it would strengthen over the warm Gulf Waters and destroy New Orleans. It was the 11th Hurricane that passed over my head, in my life with destructive Hurricane Wilma, #12, only a few weeks away. I patted Corky’s head as the blustery Category 1 Hurricane wind of Katrina howled, for Corky would soon die from cancer, and I cannot tell you the pain of loss of one whose love was unconditional.

Chapter 20.4: The tale of Bill Roosevelt, a Gentleman and Scholar, and Fidel Castro

I became friendly with Bill Roosevelt. A bit older, he was FDR’s grandson, and a really kind and accomplished person, and we had two things in common, we shared early Dutch New York (Neiuw Amsterdam) heritage and he was a lawyer too. His specialty was oil and gas, which I knew a little about, and we enjoyed each other’s company because we could talk intelligently about law and other real world things. Too much of Palm Beach is social, so you don’t really get many chances to discuss serious things. So from time to time we would go to the Sailfish Club for the buffet dinner and have a chance to chat about the real world.

He was the only American ever allowed to be an advisor to the Cuban Government, due of course to his connections in Washington, D.C., and he was invited to come down, meet Fidel Castro, and tour the country with the Oil and Gas minister. Bill knew something nobody knew back then, that Cuba was sitting on a huge puddle of oil. Echo Soundings and Seismic readings by the Cousteau Society offshore boats had revealed the huge percentage probability of large oil reservoirs throughout Cuba, which in and of itself is a beautiful country, with high mountains, fertile soil, and white sand beaches. Bill was privy to this information.

So off he goes to Havana, the once “Crown Jewel” of the Caribbean, where my grandmother’s grandmother first brought the Koran ( Qur’an) a century earlier on her way to the wild frontier of Texas and Comanche Country. Bill waits several days at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, the only real hotel for foreigners, and he gets a call at 4:00 a.m. that Fidel is downstairs waiting for him in his limo. Obviously Fidel moved clandestinely for he probably feared he had too many enemies to be careless. Weird schedules of daily life are necessary in order to duck the assassins’ bullets if you are a Dictator.

Bill joins him, and Fidel goes on and on about how much he respected FDR and was happy to meet his grandson and grateful for any advice he could give the Cuban Oil and Gas Ministry. They part company after a good talk, and Bill is picked up by the Oil and Gas Minister for a tour of Cuban oil industry the next day. Now anybody who has been to Cuba knows it’s in a time warp, like back in the 1950s. The cars are all old, everything is pretty much run down except for Fidel’s many fine palaces. Bill is shown a handful of old vertical oil wells pumping as they had for 40 years, with all the natural gas just being flared off. So Bill makes a number of suggestions that they use modern technology to refit the old wells and use horizontal directional drilling and enhanced oil recovery methods to maybe quintuple plus Cuba’s energy production at very little cost. The Oil and Gas Minister says that is exactly what is not recommended by all our other advisors. Bill asks “so who are these advisors?” The Minister replies they are “PDVSA, the Venezuelan National Oil Company and Pemex, the Mexican State Oil Company”. So Bill asks “Where do you import all your oil and gas from?” The Minister replies “PDVSA and Pemex”. Go figure that one out!

Now Bill had been diagnosed with metastasized prostate cancer along with his friend, Frank Shields, and they had been going to the Anderson Cancer Clinic in Houston, one of the finest, yet there was no experimental clinical trials allowed, the FDA and the American Trial Lawyers Associations had seen to that, so there was not much hope.

I knew from my early Russian days at the Moscow Heart Institute that there were many alternate options overseas, so I hoped on a jet airplane and flew around the world looking for answers to my friend’s problem. In Ireland, they have starvation clinics. If you are terminally ill, you starve for 30 days. The theory was that when looking for energy, your body would consume the fat, then scavenge the abnormal cells, including the cancer cells, before consuming normal cells. There was some evidence this worked.

I made my way to Germany, were they have excellent clinics. I found the Hufeland Klinik located in Bad Mergentheim near Frankfurt. It had a reputation for successfully treating cancer and chronic diseases, and had cured one of my German friend’s sister of early stage cancer. I spoke at great length with the head doctor as he described the various things they do. They employ hypothermia, for cancer cells cannot stand heat. Nor can they thrive with a small diminished blood supply. But if you killed too many cancer cells at once, in a process called cell necrosis, then virulent poisons would be released. Proper detoxification was key, or the cure would kill the patient. If anybody could save my friend Bill, these people had the best chance.

So I flew back to Palm Beach. Bill had married a beautiful Polish woman, Ava Roosevelt, a novelist who spoke fluent German and she got on the phone with the doctors at the Hufeland Clinic. Because Bill already had kidney stents inserted, these stents made the Hufeland treatments complex and dangerous. They could not accept him as a patient. There was no hope.

So with all the education and the blessings of knowledge bestowed on me by the Almighty Holy One, I was still unable to help my friend Bill, help him survive. So, I failed to save him and I lost a great friend and Mentor, as the world lost a great human being. The bitter side of life is hard to take.

Chapter 20.5: Giovanna, the tale of the Brazilian Princesa:

One night in the social scene I met Giovanna Stephenson. She was a beautiful Brazilian

girl with brown eyes and a long flowing mane of blonde hair. She had just recently been divorced and had a young son, John. We became immediate friends, almost like brother and sister, and when she did not have her son, I would from time to time escort her to the nightlife and introduce her to my single friends, especially those who spoke Portuguese, the native language of Brazil. I nicknamed her the Brazilian word for “Princess” which is Princesa, pronounced Prin-chez-ah. I was invited to family functions, as her mother frequently came up from Sao Paulo to visit her grandson, and she liked me.

Giovanna’s mother was extremely beautiful and cultured, and remarried a man who

became the largest Coffee exporter of Brazil, then went into construction, equipment and other ventures, building a conglomerate and resulting in them becoming one of Brazil’s 10 wealthiest families. They owned two houses in Palm Beach, and Giovanna moved into one.

I once escorted Giovanna to the black tie Red Cross Ball at the prestigious Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach. I had to wait quite a long time while she blew dried her hair to perfection, but it was worth it. She was pretty stunning. Donald Trump and Melania were hosting it and greeting all the guests at the door, and while Donald chatted to the stunning Giovanna, I got to meet Melania, and tell her I had been to her wonderful country, Slovenia, and I could even toast her in that language “Na zdravje (literally “on health”), pronounced Naz-drah-veea.

Giovanna’s family had a weekend getaway Mansion high on the isolated mountain of Pedra Azul in the state of Espirito Santo, just north above Sao Paulo in Brazil. The Mansion was built around a huge tree in the center, with birds singing everywhere, and was elegantly appointed as Giovanna’s mother had excellent taste. One year they decided to have young John’s Birthday party there and invite the world of their friends, family and children. The theme was Harry Potter, so they built a Harry Potter town on the estate grounds replete with castles and dungeons with wizards in boats in the swimming pool. It was some Disney-world extravaganza and people flew in from all over to attend.

Giovanna was kind enough to invite me and my friend Gerald, a Brazilian Hedge Fund Manager out of New York, and put us up in one of the many bedrooms. So we flew to Rio, then Sao Paulo, then to Minas Gervais. We took a cab up into the mountains, and Giovanna picked us up in a Mercedes at the bottom of the steep long driveway, and whisked us up and away to Harry Potter Wonderland. Before the party, Gerald and I were invited to take a walk in the surrounding woods by her stepfather. He was a man of simple background and told us when he was young, he had to take a 4 wheel drive jeep up the mountains to tend to his coffee plants. He took great pleasure in pointing out the wild monkeys in the trees watching us. We were at home in Brazil’s natural forest, and the stepfather was at peace, happy for our company on our long walk in the woods, far away from the now bustling Harry Potterville.

Well the birthday party was crazy, so many kids having the time of their life in this Harry Potter wonderland, and Gerald and I took it all in. It was like being in Disneyland high up in the mountains. The next day, we had a formal sit down dinner. Giovanna’s mother had a theme of birds, and everywhere in the dining room there were sterling silver birds exquisitely set out. The silverware was masterfully carved in bird theme and set out in array. Each guest had two servants dressed in white behind them to attend to their needs. It was like in the old days of Newport at the turn of the century with the elegance of the Vanderbilt’s or Astors, or at some European prince’s castle. You never get to experience something like that anymore.

On the way back, Giovanna invited me to stay at the family compound in Sao Paulo. San Paulo is a very dangerous city. The safe wealthy part is in compounds and guarded buildings in the very center of town, and as you get further away from the center, the danger escalates. They will cut your hand off if it has a Rolex on it, and if you carry a credit or debit card, a no-no, they will lock you in the basement and remove your fingers one by one until you give them the Pin number. Then they withdraw cash until the card runs out, and then set you free. You never change your US dollars in public, and if you do, you become a target of a kidnapping. You have three days to vamoose, for they will first do the research over the internet on you to find out if your family is likely to bail you out. The going rate was usually $5,000.

I declined Giovanna’s kind offer to stay at her family compound, as much as I wanted to see it, I knew I could not get into any mischief. Since I knew my way around Sao Paulo, I figured off I was better off staying at a decent hotel and wander freely about town, enjoying the nightlife. I knew where to go and I was pretty fearless, so Sao Paulo was a fun town for me.

Giovanna returned to Palm Beach and remarried. I lost touch, but ran across her in the town park one day years later when I was playing tennis. She had two new daughters in tow, and they will turn out to be very beautiful too. I caught up with her at length, she was very happy and we enjoyed talking of the old days. She was a wonderful Princesa.

Chapter 20.6: The tale of the Amorous and Alluring Mermaid: Valerie de la Valdez:

So it came to pass in the early 2000’s that I was hanging out at Club 251. And as the night lengthened, I was invited to cross the lake to the dance Night Club “Liquid”. So I hoped in a car out-bound with my friend Harold, and there is this cute blonde in the back seat. Somehow, I turned back and made some remark, which might have been sexist, drunk, stupid or nonsense, but she bitch-slapped me so hard on the back of my head that I was in shock. She was playing hardball and was obviously fearless.

We made our peace at Liquid that night, and I invited her home. She was actually a fantastically accomplished woman, and directed Discover Channel’s underwater TV documentaries and was eventually elected to the Scuba Diver’s Hall of Fame. As I told her of my James Bond crash and burn youth, she told me “You really have never had a ‘rush’ unless you are in an underwater cage with just a camera and a Great White Shark comes and rams your cage several times. That is a real rush!”

Well I took her home and when she saw my bed sheets, she complained I did not have a proper amount of Egyptian cotton threads, and insisted I come over to her place, where she travelled with a suitcase full of 600 thread Egyptian sheets and the brand new Sony Robot Dog, a new technology. So we went and as she changed her sheets, I programmed her Sony Robot Dog to chase tennis balls. The ball went off the balcony, and the Sony Dog followed, and there was a mess of broken plastic and semi-conductor chips below. Good bye, Rover.

Well, she forgave me and the very next day bought me an expensive designer canvass beach bag, which I used to take to the beach every day, remembering her, and she encouraged me to continue scuba diving, for there were so many reefs and wrecked ships deep off the coast of Florida, where multi colored fish, sea turtles, and an occasional shark created an underwater psychedelic world to gaze upon. She had to move that next night to the Jimmy Buffet Estate, her family’s friend, then shoot back to San Francisco for work.

So I lost track of her, the last I heard of her was that she was assassinated in Santa Cruz in the Galapagos Islands off of Ecuador. She had moved there to save sea life, Giant turtles, endangered species, rare fish, she had a heart of gold. But local poachers were her enemy. And when they found her, she had been shot through the right temple with a .22 caliber pistol.

But everybody who knew her knew she was non-violent and left-handed. I also knew from my early days of learning the art of death-dealing that it is impossible to bend a pistol over your head from left to right and shoot upwards. But there were no forensic science or investigators in the Galapagos Islands, so they declared it a suicide and went back to their Pina Coladas. This was an impossible suicide, agreed by my friend, John Hanke, a Flagler heir, who grew up with her and went to school with her It is impossible to shoot yourself in the right temple if you are left handed, you can’t get the gun aimed right. So we in Palm Beach knew she had been murdered.

We reached out to Álvaro Noboa, the owner of Bonita Bananas, who had just missed the Presidential election in Ecuador by fractions of points. Álvaro was related to the famous John Paulson., who made billions in NYC on the 2008 crash. In Sag Harbor, Álvaro Noboa had invited my Sailing Yacht and I to sail around the Galapagos, to be shipped on top of the deck of one of his banana freighters before nature preserve boundaries were set up, isolating major parts of the Galapagos. But like a fool, I turned down this once in a lifetime opportunity to tour the now off-bounds Galapagos Islands, just like I had rejected the invite to the Bordeaux vineyards by the Rothschilds many years before. Really dumb!

But the mystery of the murder-assassination of Valerie de la Valdez in Santa Cruz in the Galapagos remains an unsolved and an undying mystery, mourned by her friends, her family and the creatures that roam the sea that she filmed and watched over. RIP, beautiful mermaid.

PART XXI: FALLING THROUGH THE RABBIT HOLE AGAIN: BATTLEGROND FLORIDA. THE WARS BEGIN:

Chapter 21.1: Bush-Gore 2000 and the media fake out.

Ulysses had spent 10 years fighting the Battle of Troy, and spent another 10 years trying to sail back to his home, the Island of Ithaca. I would soon find out that I would not be sailing home but rather to war, a war that would last more than 10 years.

I had a friend, Rob Nottingham. I knew him socially from Georgetown for he always threw a big Friday night party at his townhouse the day before the Gold Cup Steeplechase in Middleburg, Virginia. He was young, handsome with red hair, and a very staunch Republican. He and his family moved to Palm Beach so their vote would count in this Democratic Republic. And I am sure the lack of a state income tax was icing on the cake. So we spent a lot of time together and I learned he had gone to Virginia Law School and was an exceptional Constitutional Law scholar, having read the Madison papers and Federalist papers, etc. The November election was underway. Florida was the number one battleground state and nobody can win the US Presidency without taking Florida, and the margins of victory are always razor thin, because the South of Florida is heavily Democratic and the North is very Republican. Moreover, the Panhandle of Florida is in another time zone so its polls are open one hour later, and the Panhandle is majority Republican.

I was a great admirer of George Bush, Sr. and had gone to his convention in Houston and I liked the Bush family. Joe Lieberman was the vice presidential nominee for the Democrats and I had interned under him in Connecticut and thought very highly of him. On the other hand, his running mate, Al Gore, I did not like. He had served under the Yale Law School Graduate Bill Clinton for 8 years and had gone to Vanderbuilt Law School, and I don’t need to reiterate the numerous controversies in the Clinton Administrations or my distrust of Lawyers as Presidents.

I think lawyers make terrible Presidents, more so if they are Ivy League products. Part of the problem is that lawyers are taught the Socratic method and devil’s advocacy, and professional ethics require them to lie, even if they think their client is guilty. So the moral framework is not rock solid, it shifts with the winds, the client, or the political polling. The results seem always ugly. If we look at lawyer US Presidents, let us look first at lawyer Abraham Lincoln, whose administration saw over 625,000 dead soldiers, half of American soldiers ever killed in every other War this nation has fought. He also suspended Habeas Corpus, fascist move, and installed the illegal personal income tax. Fast forward to the lawyer Richard Nixon, a liar. President Gerald Ford went to Yale Law School but played football without a helmet. Bill Clinton, a disbarred Ivy League liar and playboy was a mess. Obama, another Ivy League lawyer, put on $10 trillion in debt on this, our nation, doubling the debt of all President’s before him. Where did it all go? Not to the military, veterans, or the middle class. We know Darth Sorius got $20 billion, but the rest is missing. And the nation was now in a quagmire of debt. Lawyers should not be allowed to be Presidents, especially if they went to the best Ivy League law schools.

So I decided to sit the 2000 election out, that is until Rob Nottingham came running up to me around 3:00 p.m. and screamed the media had just called Florida for Gore.

They, the media, were trying to screw George Bush Jr. by discouraging voters in other time zones from voting, for if Gore won Florida, he would be the next President. Case closed. “Grab your Palm Pilot phone,” Rob told me, “We have got to get down to Republican HQ on Australian Avenue in West Palm Beach immediately.” It reminded me of “Allons enfants, Aux armes, citoyens” as the French National Anthem, “La Marseillaise“, would call to rally us to arms against injustice.

Chapter 21.2: Allons enfants de la Patrie, To the Barricades: Flipping Florida to Bush (and the U.S. Presidency):

So Rob and I raced down to Republican HQ, only to find half the volunteers on the phone bank had left in discouragement. Rob and I surveyed the situation, noticing the phone banks had stacks of paper files with phone numbers with telephone area codes running from south Florida to north Florida. The Panhandle had not been called yet and its polls were open an hour later due to it being in a different time zone. We convinced the RNC manager to call back the volunteers, call the other RNC statewide HQ’s and focus on the Panhandle. Rob and I got on the phone and dialed away.

We quickly discerned that many voters in the Panhandle did not go to the polls to vote, thinking it was fruitless because of the fake media call. We had to convince them that the fake media had lied, sabotaging George Bush, Jr., and their vote would mean something of great importance.

The Volunteers returned and dialed away on the phone banks. Rob and I were soon using our Palm Pilots now at 10 cents a call. The efforts by the RNC in West Palm Beach and elsewhere turned all the phone banks and volunteer cell phones to the Panhandle area codes in a last ditch effort to convince voters that the media was wrong and their vote would count. This effort brought out the last minute vote in the predominantly 300,000 strong Republican Panhandle, which polls closed one hour later because of the dual time zone. These brave loyal people promised to and went out to vote even though it was raining at the time, stood in line for up to an hour in the rain to cast their votes, giving the Republicans that surplus of 537 votes to win all the Florida Electoral Votes (and thus the Presidency). The rest is forgotten history.

This story was obscured by media coverage of the “hanging chad” dispute in Palm Beach County, and the subsequent litigation, but it was really the volunteer Republicans with boots on the ground that ultimately convinced these loyal Panhandle Republican voters to go out, stand in the rain and vote in 2000, thus “flipping” the election to George Bush, Jr.

Chapter 21.3: The “Hanging Chad” dispute, cheating at its finest:

“But For”- A mere 537 Florida Votes in the 2000 election determined the winning Electoral College Vote and therefore the President. YES– 537 Florida Votes swung the entire Presidential election! As discussed above, the Republicans in Florida had been ambushed on election day. The Media had begun hinting at midday the Gore was going to win in Florida based on flawed “exit polling”, and the Media (via VNS) officially called the election for Al Gore before the Polls closed in Florida or the Panhandle, a predominantly Republican area.

The media then reversed itself several times as the stock market plummeted, recovered, only to plummet and recover again. Later, Bush was unofficially called the winner of Florida and all its Electoral College Votes by 537 votes.

This unleashed a flurry of lawsuits wherein lawyers from both parties were flying to each County in Florida to file suit against the electoral boards. But the epicenter of the fight was, of course, in Palm Beach County where the ballots were found to have an awful lot of chads, or circular paper punch throughs, that did not detach, and presumably the ballot was not properly accounted for. Voto-matic style punched card ballots where incompletely punched holes had resulted in partially punched chads: either a “hanging chad”, where one or more corners were still attached, or a “fat chad” or “pregnant chad”, where all corners were still attached, but an indentation appears to have been made. Such ballots were gathered up for inspection, as these ballots were evidently not counted by the tabulating machines.

So teams from both parties swarmed down to West Palm Beach and sat across each other as the election board recounted and examined each ballot with a hanging chad. It was pandemonium outside the counting place as partisan crowds gathered and heavy weights like James Baker were dispatched by the Bushes from Texas to oversee the melee. I shook hands with him, but did not mention I hung my clothes next to his locker while playing tennis at the Bayou Club in Houston years ago. No socializing in this fight, a bitter fight that would consume the nation in vitriolic angst.

I did however play tennis with a friend that I played with often in Palm Beach, and who was on the Democratic side of the chad table, and he told me the various ways the Democrats were trying to cheat. I’m sure this was not lost on the Republicans, who must have engineered their own ways to cheat. But it seemed to all even out.

Katherine Harris, Florida’s Secretary of State, certified Bush as the winner on November 14 (a deadline established by Florida statute). Bush v. Gore HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bush_v._Gore,_531_U.S._98_(2000),”, 531 U.S. 98 (2000), was a partisan 5-4 decision of the United States Supreme Court that settled a recount dispute in Florida’s 2000 presidential election. The ruling was issued on December 13, 2000. On December 9, the Court had preliminarily halted the Florida recount that was occurring. Eight days earlier, the Court unanimously decided the closely related case of Bush v. Palm Beach County Canvassing Board HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bush_v._Palm_Beach_County_Canvassing_Board”. The Electoral College was scheduled to meet on December 18, 2000, to decide the Presidential election.

The Supreme Court decision allowed the previous vote certification to stand, as made by Florida Secretary of State Katherine Harris, for George W. Bush as the winner of Florida’s 25 electoral votes. Florida’s votes gave Bush, the Republican candidate, 271 electoral votes, one more than the required 270 to win the Electoral College and thus the Presidency, and led to the defeat Democratic candidate Al Gore, who received 266 electoral votes.

This war was over, but the Supreme Court (and the Country) was deeply divided for a long time.

Chapter 21.4: Al Gore gets a new job: Henny Penny, the sky is falling, send $100 to Al Gore to save our planet from destruction:

Shed not a tear for Al Gore. George Bush, Jr. would inherit the burdens of the Clinton Administration’s incompetency and suffer the September 11 attacks, while Gore found a new career gallivanting around the world in his private jet, predicting Armageddon and the end of the world in 10 years. Now Gore became the self-appointed High Priest of Environmental Causes, Al was out promoting his waste of cellulose. In January, 2006 – when promoting his Oscar-winning (yes, Oscar-winning) documentary, An Inconvenient Truth – Gore declared that unless we took “drastic measures” to reduce greenhouse gasses, the world would reach a “point of no return” in a mere ten years. He called it a “true planetary emergency.” Well, the ten years passed and the years continued to pass and surprisingly we’re still here, and the climate activists have to now allege the “Apocalypse” has been merely postponed. Yet again BS propaganda, as Al Gore yet again continued to fill his coffers with donations from the scared masses. A new Ptolemy had been reborn to mislead the ignorant and trusting!

To keep the ignorant masses scared and the “global warming” cash cow flowing, Gore introduced the Keeling Curve—a graph depicting seasonal and annual changes in atmospheric carbon dioxide (CO2) concentrations since 1958 from the Mauna Loa Observatory in Hawaii—to show how the burning of fossil fuels by industry and transportation, as well as other human activities, were changing the gaseous mix of the planet’s lower atmosphere. In the summer of 2006, atmospheric CO HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon_dioxide_in_Earth%27s_atmosphere”2 HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon_dioxide_in_Earth%27s_atmosphere” concentrations stood at 395 parts per million (ppm). Ten years later, after the supposed “Apocalypse” due date, they flirted with the 407-ppm mark, a snoozing .03% increase per year in an atmosphere that consists of less than 4% CO2, and water combined, where Nitrogen accounts for 78% of the atmosphere, Oxygen 21% and Argon 0.9%. Gases Like Carbon Dioxide, Nitrous Oxides, Methane, And Ozone are trace gases that account for about a tenth of one percent of the atmosphere.

Therefore, much of his effort in the film needed a deceptive misdirection move, which necessitated drawing contrasts between conditions before and after the year 1800 AD Industrial Revolution and illustrating how the rapid changes in atmospheric carbon in modern times were unlike anything that had taken place in several hundred thousand years. Forget about past false prognostications, the world was now coming to an end. “Armageddon” is finally here (almost). Don’t forget to send Al another $100 to save our planet before this all happens.

Chapter 21.5: Gee, Al, stop looking at your fat wallet and look at the facts, and the Sun, and the Ocean. You just might find Global Cooling is upon us and is the real danger, the real “inconvenient truth”:

Now all this “Henny Penny, the sky is falling” due to “Climate Change” was cute and scary, but the facts were not all there. We did not have weather buoys in the Southern Hemisphere to measure ocean temperature change until 1960. Methane Gas, many times more destructive than CO2, was constantly being emitted from fissures deep in the ocean and from retreating tundras uncovering rotting vegetation. And CO2 presents itself in many forms, many of which are good because they allow plants to create oxygen and at higher altitudes shelters us from the Sun’s intense heat.

I don’t want to go into the slow and fast carbon cycles, the protection CO2 gives the planet acting as a coolant in the T HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thermosphere”hermosphere, or the Thermohaline Circulation of Ocean currents, circulating water temperature to the Northern or Southern Hemisphere, or heat escaping from the center of the Earth due to radioactive decay, or the overwhelming effect of humidity on greenhouse temperatures and on the Global climate. It would take years, but we do not need go there, because the Sun is the prime generator of heat, and that is where we should look first.

So let us start with a little science primer, which Al Gore forgot to tell you, as he

pocketed your donations. You probably picture the Earth’s annual journey around the Sun as being more or less a circle, but that’s only true some of the time. Models have long suggested that our home planet’s orbit shifts from circular to elliptic orbit and back again over hundreds of thousands of years, which plays a part in natural climate swings.

The orbit has an effect on global climate by determining the amount of incoming Sunlight. The cycle of ice ages are linked to changes in the earth’s orbit, so they are important to the long-term climate variability of the Earth. Earth’s orbit around the Sun is due to the gravitational attraction between the Earth and the Sun.

The Earth‘s rotation around its axis, and revolution around the Sun, evolve over time due to gravitational interactions with other bodies in the solar system. When the orbit is more elongated, there is more variation in the distance between the Earth and the Sun, and in the amount of solar radiation, at different times in the year affect Climate. In addition, the rotational tilt of the Earth (its obliquity) changes slightly. A greater tilt makes Earth’s seasons more extreme.

The semi-major axis is a constant. Therefore, when Earth’s orbit becomes more eccentric, the semi-minor axis shortens. This also increases the magnitude of seasonal changes.

But the Sun and Earth are moving apart by about 15 cm per year – the culprit may be tides raised on the Sun by the gravitational pull of our home planet, according to Russian dynamists Gregory A. Krasinsky and Victor A. Brumberg. Something must really be pushing Earth outward from the Sun.

But Takaho Miura of Hirosaki University in Japan and three colleagues think they also have the answer. In the European journal HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomy_%26_Astrophysics”Astronomy HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomy_%26_Astrophysics”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomy_%26_Astrophysics” Astrophysics, they calculate that, thanks to Earth, the Sun’s rotation rate is slowing by 3 milliseconds per century (0.00003 second per year). According to their explanation, the distance between the Earth and Sun is growing because the Sun is losing its angular momentum

The current trend of decreasing tilt between the Sun and the Earth, by itself, will promote milder seasons (warmer winters and colder summers), as well as promote an overall cooling trend. Because most of the planet’s snow and ice lies at high latitude, decreasing tilt may encourage the onset of an ice age for two reasons: There is less overall summer insolation, and also less insolation at higher latitudes, which melts less of the previous winter’s snow and ice, thus tending to cool the Earth’s climate.

Chapter 21.6: Little Darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter, but here comes the Sun, here comes the Sun-Well Maybe Not:

The Sun acted very weird in its 24th cycle. It typically puts on a pageant of magnetic activity every 11 years for aurora watchers and Sun gazers alike, but this time it overslept. When it finally woke up (a year late), it gave the weakest performance in 100 years.

Matthew Penn (National Solar Observatory) offered another, more catastrophic option: the Sunspot cycle might die altogether. His team uses Sunspot spectra to measure their magnetic fields, and his data show a clear trend: the magnetic field strength in Sunspots is waning and is declining over time. Sunspots can only form if the magnetic field strength is greater than around 1,500 Gauss units, so if the trend continues, we could be headed for a time where no Sunspots appear on the surface of the Sun, thus lowering the temperature on Earth.

NASA is in effect forecasting a return to a Dalton Minimum (1790-1830) but gives no mention of the brutal cold, crop loss, famine, and war associated with it:
1. Like the deeper Maunder and Spörer Minimum preceding it, the Dalton Minimum brought on a period of lower-than-average global temperatures. The Oberlach Station in Germany, for example, experienced a 2 degree Centigrade decline over 20 years, which devastated the country’s food production. Compare that to the 1 degree C increase from 1880 until now calculated by the Mauna Loa Observatory in Hawaii and used by Al Gore to promote his “Global Warming” Cash Cow.

2. The Year Without a Summer HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_Without_a_Summer” also occurred during the Dalton Minimum, in 1816. It was caused by a combination of already low temperatures plus the after effects of the second largest volcanic eruption in 2,000 years: Mount Tambora’s VEI 7 in Indonesia on April 10, 1815.

2. In England, France and Germany, wheat crops failed, leading to bread shortages and food riots and looting.

3. Northern China was also hard hit with thousands of people starving to death.

4. While in southern Asia, torrential rains triggered a cholera epidemic that killed many more.

The year 1816 went on to earn another, rather more morbid nickname, “Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death”.

Besides NASAs prediction of another “Dalton Minimum” like 1816, other little tidbits might indicate that Global Cooling is upon us. The South Pole just had its coldest winter on record. The Hunga volcano in the Pacific island nation of Tonga erupted recently emitting climate cooling ash. Not the strength and devastation of Mt Tambora in 1816, but scientists should still take notice. And when everybody agrees on something like Global Warming, history just tells us to bet the other way.

One way or another, the COLD times are returning — it’s just a matter of when. An Inconvenient Truth?

So, Al Gore, send your ill-gotten gains back to your frightened donors. Maybe I can replace you as the High Priest of Environmental Causes, for I predict the increase of 1degree C since 1880 will soon begin a quick trend towards minus 2 degree C as per the Dalton Minimum in 1816. Global Warming is a profitable hoax, but the inconvenient truth is that Global Cooling is upon us. Send your “Climate Change” donations to me now, for although I cannot promise to save our planet in the next 7.5 billion years, I can surely promise you I will buy a lot of fur coats and a private jet on your nickel.

PART XXII: A BRIEF RESPITE FROM REALITY: THE AMERICA’S CUP JUBILEE IN COWES – THE SAILORS’ WOODSTOCK:

Chapter 22.1: A Sailor’s Nirvana never to be seen again.

The 150th anniversary of the 1st America’s Cup Race was to be held in a week long

Regatta from 16-25, August, 2001 at the Isle of Wight at Cowes, UK where it all started. One the largest collections of 12 Metres, vintage yachts, IACC yachts and J-Class Yachts, Maxis, America’s Cup Class yachts and multitudes of the world’s most elegant Sailing Yachts would descend on Island of Cowes in one of the biggest celebrations of sailing the world has ever seen. It was staged by the Royal Yacht Squadron (British Yacht Club) and the New York Yacht Club in August 2001 to mark the 150th anniversary the world’s oldest sporting trophy. More than 30 Twelve Metres, the three existing J Boats, Shamrock V, Velsheda and the newly restored Endeavour, and up to 40 of the world’s greatest classic yachts including the 23 metre yachts Candida, Astra and Cambria and a few of more recent International America’s Cup Class yachts would take part in a Jubilee Race around the Isle of Wight on Wednesday, 22 August, 2001 following the original course of the 1851 Regatta, leading to the America’s Cup.

In Newport, RI, the Mighty Servant 3, a 139-metre long cargo ship, would literally flood

several of its compartments and sink extremely low in the water. The aft deck, which is open to the sea at the stern, would fill with water and the yachts would enter and be stored on exactly fitted cradles. Then this marvel of technology would discharge water from its compartments and raise itself up from under the water. I got the grand tour of the whole ship, as they loaded history, all the 12-Metres, including the America’s Cup winners Columbia (1958), Intrepid (1967 and 1970) and Freedom (1980) and the elegant Black Night, loaned to the NYYC by Modern Times owner Jan Stenbeck, now a 40% owner of my partner, the CTC Network, in Russia.

It was a sight to see as the Mighty Servant 3, filled with beautiful yachts, motored out of

Newport off to cross the Atlantic and drop its cargo off at Cowes by doing the reverse, flooding it’s compartments and sinking low enough so that the yachts could float off their cradles and put out to sea.

I took a picture of this fully loaded vessel from the Newport Bridge, it is on the front cover of this book.

Chapter 22.2: The Prince and I are put on a mission. Off we go to Cowes on the Isle of Wight.

Palm Beach at that time had a very prestigious publication, the Palm Beach Journal. It was published twice yearly with only 25,000 copies issued, to be sent to the well healed social elite and nobility in Europe. The editor and owner, Alexandra de Wankowicz, of Noble Polish heritage, had tasked myself and Prince Michel de Yougolslavie to cover this historic event and write articles, for one of the two annual Palm Beach Journal editions would be devoted entirely to the America’s Cup Jubilee in Cowes, UK. So off we went.

Prince Michael of Yugoslavia, or more properly in French: Michel de Yougoslavie and his brother Dimitri I knew from Palm Beach and New York City. So off Michel and I went together to the Regatta, but I did not see much of him thereafter. I was granted special access to the Royal Thames Yacht Squadron Library and did extensive research. When I was not in the library, I was out on one of the media’s high speed Zodiac boats shooting pictures alongside Onne van der Wal, a famous yacht photographer I knew from Newport, RI.

One of the most amazing scenes I have ever witnessed and photographed in the sailing world was a fleet of 12 metres at the race course starting line. When the starting gun went off, they all began sailing but the whole fleet was moving backwards. This was because the swift current of the Solent was driving them backwards and it was a scene to behold until the swift current abated.

Otherwise, there was very little socially to do besides talk to sailors. I did meet a beautiful woman standing behind me in a long line for e-mail access to the only AOL terminal on Cowes. Her name was Bridget. She knew Palm Beach, and had a son, Liam, by Kevin Kostner. Years later I would take Liam and his schoolmate John to the Yacht Yard north of Palm Beach to see the wreck of my beautiful former Sailing Yacht, which I had sold an incompetent sailor years ago. Bridget was with Bill Koch, as I remembered, for she married him years later. A beautiful woman, but not in my league, and Bill had just bid $500,000 for a rare bottle of wine.

Michel, on the other hand, had a superb time with his relatives. Michel, I believe, was related by blood to the Royal House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, which in its heyday ruled many countries. The three cousins that fought each other in World War I, George V of England, Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany, and Tsar Nicholas II, were also from the Royal House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. English King George V renamed the his house name to the “House of Windsor” in 1917 to distance himself from his German Cousin, his German roots and his German enemies in WWI, but Michel’s cousins, Prince Philip and Princess Anne were at Cowes and Michel would always dine with his kin-folk.

King Juan Carlos of Spain was also there to race with his beautiful black Maxi-Yacht

“Stealth”, but I think he was of the Catholic House of Bourbon, the House that had usurped my Protestant Huguenot House of Valois in France, causing my Huguenot ancestors to flee France to Holland and then to Nieuw Amsterdam-America in 1619. But I don’t hold grudges, especially 400 year old ones. Sometimes you just have to let bygones be bygones. You just have to let go, no?

Chapter 22:3 My work was done, no women, wanderlust strikes hard. Off I go to Slovenia.

So I told Michel that I was bailing out of Cowes. My articles for the Palm Beach Journal

were finished, I had great film footage for them, and I wanted to go somewhere where there was nightlife. So I bid farewell and I hopped on a plane to Vienna, Austria and rented a car and drove to the Capital of Slovenia, Ljubljana.

I had heard the Slovenia had some beautiful women, and I was not to be disappointed. I soon learned the lay of the land, and ended up in a night club. There, I saw an incredibly beautiful looking girl and I smiled at her and she smiled back in an encouraging way, and I offered to buy her a drink. Ah! But one problem, she spoke fluent Slovenian and German, but only a few English words. I spoke fluent English and French, but only a few German words. We managed to draw pictures to communicate and I ended up having one of the most exciting romantic evenings of my life, for we did not really talk to each other. It was a unique experience. And I can honestly attest to one thing, Melania Trump may be a very beautiful and gorgeous woman, but she has some serious competition back home in Slovenia.

So when it came time, I flew back to America. The entire historic experience, the fantastic beautiful Sailing Yachts, the sailor’s Woodstock, the unique access to the Royal Yacht Squadron library, the photography next to One van der Wal, a famous yacht photographer, a wonderful romantic night in a faraway land, had made me as “high” and as happy as a I remember being just after the Woodstock of 1969. And like that Woodstock, my “high” was not to last long, for September 11th was just around the corner and the Winds of War would begin to blow once again.

Chapter 22:4: BTW. Did you get a Pulitzer Prize for your work at the America’s Cup Jubilee?

When I got back to Palm Beach, I submitted my articles and photographs to the Palm Beach Journal. I got Cristiana Shields to be the cover girl on a shoot aboard my borrowed friend’s 12 metre “Gleam”, which had just been shipped over from the Regatta on one of those huge boat carriers.

The shoot went well, and maybe I was in line for a Pulitzer Prize. But a bunch of terrorists got a hold of some passenger jets and they wreaked havoc on our Nation. The aftermath caused the Palm Beach Journal to yank its second edition and to compress it into the one edition that was supposed to be solely devoted to the America’s Cup Regatta at Cowes on the Isle of Wight. As a result, space was at a premium and politically they had to publish Prince Charles’ article on his greenhouses and gardening and a very, very lengthy article by Bill Koch on his extensive wine collection.

Politics ruled, and the editorial axe was taken to the Prince Michel’s and my fine works to make room for Prince Charles and Bill Koch. Such is life. Cristiana’s cover photo was kept and the edition was circulated across the world. And I told her that because of Prince Charles’ article, she and her cover shot was at least bound to be seen by Queen Elizabeth II, when the that edition ended up on her bathroom magazine rack at Buckingham Palace, and she was sitting on her second “throne”. Ha! Better than a Pulitzer prize? You bet!

PART XXIII: THE AUGUST “HIGH” BECOMES A SEPTEMBER 11, 2001 “BUMMER”.THE WINDS OF WAR BEGIN TO BLOW:

Chapter: 23.1: New York City is a disaster-Refugee East to Newport, RI.

I was enjoying a cool September morning overlooking the ocean from my deck in Newport, RI, when I got a hysterical call from a relative in NYC. “Turn on the TV” she screamed, “we are at war”. By then the first Passenger jet had hit the North Tower known as WTC 1. And a second hijacked jet was not far behind and would hit the South Tower (WTC 2). I told her to calm down, it was just a terrorist attack, I surmised, and she should remain uptown and leave the City as soon as possible, for it would soon become a ghost town.

Fear and panic unfolded as each concrete floor of the Twin Towers collapsed down on each other in a pancake- like effect as the steel girders were melted by the fireball generated from the two jets’ full gas tanks, and then buckled and collapsed. New Yorkers fled on foot uptown as the dust and smoke followed them, not knowing whether or when a second shoe would drop.

The panic continued as more and more information was collected and people began to flee New York. I got a call from a former girlfriend, they were selling parachutes at JFK airport and she wondered if her current boyfriend, returning to LA, should get one. I said it was silly, what would he do if his plane was hijacked? Knock on the pilots’ door and say “Hey, Akmed, Praise be to Allah, do you mind bringing this plane down to an elevation where there is oxygen and slow the air speed down so I don’t hit your tail wing when I bail out?” Oy!

As we gathered the information, we began to find out who we knew that had died. We lost Lindsay Herkness, he stood resolute at his office at WTC 2 and did not attempt to escape. It took them 3 days to realize he was missing and break into his Park Avenue apartment to rescue his pride and joys, 3 hungry Basset Hounds. Many of my friends had escaped but had witnessed it, people falling to their death, and were emotional messes. I told many to refugee eastward to Newport. My friend Ridgley Beck had a mansion and many beds as did I. There they could rest and recuperate.

When the refugees arrived, Ridgley and I decided that to lift spirits, we would, of course, throw a party in his mansion overlooking the ocean on Saturday evening. We gathered all our local friends, they made food and dishes and Ridgley and I bought the booze, a lot of it. It turned out to be a great success, we mourned our dead, prayed for our nation, thanked the Almighty Holy One for our deliverance, then the party began. It was somewhat subdued, but it brought everyone together and everyone felt better for it, as the soothing ocean waves crashed below us.

Chapter 23.2: The tale of a Jedi Master to the rescue.

The following Monday I went to NYC to see the damage. I worked my way down to the WTC and took pictures of the smoking ruins of 5 WTC, where I had traded commodity futures on the exchange floor many years before.

I had a friend, Doug from Palm Beach and New York. He had been on the street just below the North Tower, WTC 1, when the first plane hit. He could feel the oxygen sucked up out of the air to feed the fireball high up. He then ran into a CVS and bought a little box camera, and photographed the events. The second to last picture he shot was backwards as he was running away from a large cloud of dust generated from the collapsing tower.

Doug was well connected and Doug’s best friend had secured the hanger deck of the aircraft carrier, USS Intrepid, which my stepfather had steered to Pearl Harbor during WWII, for the FBI to set up headquarters. The Intrepid was a now a museum on the Hudson River, with aircraft on the topside but the lower hanger deck had an abundance of space and 3,000 FBI agents would quickly fill it.

Doug’s friend had a Suite at Yankee Stadium right next to George Steinbrenner’s, and the New York Yankees had commenced playing baseball again that week. People were still scared, and so he offered it to Doug. So Doug called me and then we called a bunch of beautiful models to come with us to Yankee Stadium. A Suite is a magical place where there is an inside living room with televisions and an outside set of seats just over home plate. And you had room service, which only brought you hot dogs and beer.

I saw Shane Spencer hit a home run, and we had a blast that night in a city that was still dark, glum and fearful of another terrorist attack. My spirits were lifted again in this now glum city of my forefathers. The only problem is once you have had the Yankee Stadium suite experience, it’s a little hard to go back to regular seating. But there are much greater problems in life than downgrading your Yankee Stadium experience, and many would soon be upon us.

Chapter 23.3: The aftermath of 9-11: Wanderlust strikes deep for the fearless.

After 9-11, people were still scared to fly, but in fact it was one of the safest times to fly. Airport Security was over zealous, pilot’s cockpit doors were locked from the inside, and the planes were less than half full, meaning cheap first class tickets. So, in the early morning rain, I decided it was time to fly around the world a couple of times, perhaps in search of a Perfect Mistress and certainly in search of adventure.

In what was to be a whirlwind of destinations, I started with Buenos Aires near the South Pole, where there is emphasized this Planet’s coriolis effect, deflecting moving objects to the right in the northern hemisphere and to the left in the southern hemisphere. Being from the Northern hemisphere, I instinctively turned left when I should be turning right. It was a mind blower. From there I worked my way up through Uruguay, across to Chile, Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, then across to Manaus in the Brazilian Amazon Jungle, then to down to Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo in Brazil. Then up to Columbia, Panama, Costa Rica, Cuba and back to Florida. Then to Iceland at the other end of the earth, near the North Pole, to Tallinn, Estonia, Riga, Latvia, and Vilnius, Lithuania in the Baltics, Berlin, then Czechoslovakia, Poland, Budapest, Hungary, then to Moscow to check on my TV enterprise there. Then south to Kiev in the Ukraine, the Crimea, Romania, Moldavia, Bucharest, Serbia then to Monaco and St. Tropez.

Well I was pretty dizzy by then, so I rested a little and decided to go back to Florida. But soon I was on a jet back to Buenos Aires to then jump over to Capetown, South Africa on Malaysian Airlines First Class, a real treat. And I would continue eastward to Bangkok, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Hong Kong, then to Taipei in Taiwan.

There I had a friend from Greenwich, CT, John, who had moved to Taipei 10 or more years before in pursuit of semiconductor business, and never returned to the U.S. He had started the Taiwanese version of Zagat or the Michelin Guide and was held in very high esteem by the Taiwanese. So he picked me up at my hotel and we went out to a real Chinese restaurant, a real treat, as he explained the many dinner courses. Then he asked if I wanted to go out to a nightclub, run by one of the big mafiosa families. I was definitely jet lagged, but I wanted the experience.

So we went down this tiny little alley way to an elevator guarded by a very big guy and up we went. When the doors opened, there was a nightclub the size of a large shopping mall packed with dancing Taiwanese. But John was recognized and immediately we were whisked into a special suite with a living room, TV and bedroom. Food and drink were brought in, and the son of the mafiosa boss came in and had a drink of tea with us, a sign of honor. The Mother came in with 10 girls, and asked which ones we wanted. John looked at me and I looked at him and said, “Man, I am really jet lagged”. John nodded his head and said in Taiwanese “no thank you”. And they all left, so John and I got back to catching up.

Ten minutes later, the Mom enters our Suite with ten more different girls. John looked at me and said: “look, this is going to go on all night long so just pick a girl, get it over with”. So I did and he did and they cuddled up to us on the living room couch and the Mom was happy her guests were pleased. And all my girl said all night was “tak-ee me home.” Over and over again. So it was quite an experience. Very few people have had the unique privilege of being a VIP guest of the Chinese Mob. I was on a plane the next day to Vancouver, but this experience I would remember the rest of my life. Disco mafia style! Can’t beat it.

PART XXIV: BACK TO THE ISLE OF CIRCE AND CALYPSO:

Chapter 24.1: A new house in a great neighborhood, skinny dipping, and rock star parties.

I would find my way back to Palm Beach, Florida. My friend had bought a huge old 10 bedroom house on Barton Ave. designed by the famous architect Marion Sims Wyeth, who designed Mar-a-Largo. It was in a great neighborhood, just a few houses up from the Lauders and David Koch. It would take a year to get the necessary permitting from the Town of Palm Beach so he rented it out to me for a year.

The was something special about this house, it was built to be a party house, it had three wings extended around a pool with a 17 foot wall, perfect for skinny dipping. So I would have parties, and I did not have to worry about party damage and security deposits since it was to be gutted in a year and such damage would only save my friend demolition costs.

Many people came to party there. It might have set the Guinness Record Book for nocturnal skinny dipping. Bobby Z had become friends with the lead guitar player and drummer of Puddle of Mudd, a well-known alt rock band, and they were cool. So I threw a party for them and 100 girls showed up. They played music, everything was cool. Everyone had a blast. But when I was cleaning up afterwards, the toilet backed up and all out comes all these tiny empty plastic bags. Was this the “party favors’ I heard tell about?

The beach was a half block away. My world was easy back then, no worries except a few plumbing issues. I had total privacy, I could skinny dip when I wanted, walk to town, work or socialize.

I met a beautiful Polish Model at a lingerie party BZ had taken me to in Fort Lauderdale. Joanna Krupa was her name, and she was sweet and a dedicated animal lover. She had no haughty demeanor and was down to earth. She would grow into a top model and go on to promote many animal rescue benefits, become a Real Housewife of Miami and marry the owner of the Night Club, Mynt, a fast crowd I could not play with. But the last time I saw her, I was with my handsome 100 pound Golden Retriever “Flash” waiting in the endless valet line at La Piaggia in South Beach, and she comes up and hugs him, pets him, and they stare lovingly into each other’s eyes. I think I was actually jealous of my dog, believe it or not. But my dog did not care, he was the Prince of Hounds. I was just his highly educated chauffeur that night.

Chapter 24.2: Another new house in a great neighborhood, a cat rescue, a dog, and more parties.

When my time on Barton Avenue was over, I decided to lease for 10 years another house a few blocks away with 3 guest rooms, a swimming pool and a guest house where I could set up office and put one of my motorcycles, a carbon fiber BMW 1200RS racing bike, inside, sheltered from the ocean’s corrosive salt air. It was a big house, a block from the ocean, well decorated with fine art and antiques, and I was styling again. Except for one thing. I was alone.

I had been in Hvar, Croatia the year before, waiting for its night club to open, sitting outside, when a little black kitten brought me a butterfly in his mouth. We cozied up, and when the night club finally opened, I went to the food vendor and bought my new friend a meal. The next night the kitten did not show up, I wondered what had happened, maybe he had been killed. A year later, I am walking in a PetSmart store in Florida past the cages filled with rescue cats, and a little black kitten reached out and grabbed me. It was not the same one from Croatia, of course, for this one was only four months old but this black kitten looked the same. So I adopted him. Getting approved to adopt him was harder than getting into Law School. I had to sign an agreement that he would forever be an indoor cat, for the lizards in Palm Beach transmitted parasites. I named him SCAT, short for Schrodinger’s (Quantum) Cat, the quantum theory riddle of the Cat that could be both dead or alive at the same time. I thus did not have to ever deal with the Cat HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat” has+ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat” “nine lives” theory, and when I said “scat cat”, he would come running to me instead of fleeing. With my friend’s Golden Retriever, Behr Behr and Cristiana’s terrier Corky, I had the Three Amigos always hanging out with me in the kitchen, always looking for a treat.

And of course the parties never stopped, I always threw a big one right after Christmas, and I always had plenty of friends who would come by, use my pool or the beach, and drink up my liquor. I was never again to be alone again. So I thought.

Chapter 24.3: The flight towards commitment. A new love enters the picture.

I had a very special relationship with a Golden Retriever, Behr Behr, for she had only one interest, chasing tennis balls on land or in the water. I was once playing tennis with a friend from the base line on a clay court and Behr Behr was at the net. She would jump at each ball as it whizzed by, and got some. We had to stop when she got all of them, for they were pretty slimy and covered with clay.

I begged the owner to buy Behr Behr but she declined. She did however, make me an offer I could not refuse. I could not buy Behr Behr, but she would let me breed her and I could have one of the puppies, the pick of the litter. She would sell the rest. So we set about finding an AKC registered mate and found one named “Charlie”. We introduced the two dogs and I drew up the papers. One agreement with a “stud fee” is called a “Rent a Stud” Agreement, and the other is a “Lease a Bitch” Agreement. Can we use these in human relationships too? Put the divorce lawyers out of business?

Well soon we had a litter of eight adorable puppies. I got the pick of the litter, who was the first of the 8 to chase a tennis ball: “Flash”. He was born the very minute Hurricane Katrina made landfall on New Orleans the morning of August 29, 2005, a holy moment. He grew into a big strong beautiful Golden Retriever, so well trained that I could walk him down Madison Avenue in New York without a leash. Every summer, he went to summer camp in Connecticut where he could chase deer and rabbits and swim in a pond, dig huge holes, and do whatever he liked. And there were kids on the farm that would take him everywhere, ballgames, keg parties, beaches, etc.

One summer night, I am asleep in Tallinn, Estonia, and I am awakened by a phone call. It is from somebody in Connecticut who says “I have your dog, can you please come and get him?” Flash had wandered off the farm down the road with his ID tags. I told the man in Connecticut that I was in faraway Estonia but I would send someone in Connecticut to get him. Poor Flash, as punishment, was chained to a tree for the rest of the day. He got the picture, he was so smart, he never wandered off that farm again.

In Palm Beach, FL, he would be baby-sited by beautiful girls when I jetsetted around the world. When I got back, there would always be some hand written note left by them on the refrigerator: “Flash prefers to be fed by Hand.” Well you know, Princess, so would I. Oy! The injustice of it all.

So Flash, Prince of Hounds, gave the most unconditional love, and was in turn loved by so many. He was such a handsome and well behaved 100 pound dog, everything I could I pray for. I thank the Almighty Holy One for the blessing of Flash in Memoriam and his unconditional love and companionship.

PART XXV: THE WINDS OF WAR NOW HOWL, TIME TO GO TO BAGHDAD:

Chapter 25.1: Belgrade to a Baghdad Bummer: Drilling for oil, (hoping your head would not be cut off)!

My former partner in Moscow, Clifton, had moved to Serbia and had been the boots on the ground for a partner of the Russian Oligarch Boris Berezovsky. They were looking for big opportunities, but found only yogurt, cheese and dairy products.

Clifton went after the largest engineering companies in the third world, a Serbian engineering company, with great physical assets, including ships and barges, building Dams and Hydroelectric projects in foreign venues. I was called in for analysis, but the Serbian law did not allow the firing of employees, and there was so much deadwood and un-fireable employees in this socialist society that this company could never be profitable. Sounds like the U.S. bureaucracy, amongst other countries? But I got the opportunity to visit Clifton in Belgrade, which became one of my favorite cities in the world.

Along the blue Danube are 2 kilometers of boats that are all discos, bars and party venues. Weekends are insane, but they party 24 -7 over there, Sunday nights are wild in town with girls dancing on the bars. Yet the electronics are so sophisticated so that I could watch over the internet the New York Football Giants playing the Chicago Bears on my Laptop, after I had an early dinner with a young lady I met at one of the barges along the Danube. The women over there are beautiful, either Viking origin with blue green eyes or with brown Mediterranean eyes, for the Moorish invasion was stopped at the Danube, the Serbs held out in the North, and thus the intermingling was limited. The ladies of Serbia and Montenegro are a tale another book.

The Serbs are, by the way, very tough warriors. They fought the Nazis with great valor. The bouncer at one of the hot night clubs in South Beach off of Lincoln Road was Serbian, and so I rapped with him and he just loved my appreciation of his country. He was the size of a Bull, it was nice to have him on my side. They are loyal to a fault. When Djokovic played in the finals of the US Open, the entire Belgrade stadium was filled at 4:00 a.m. to watch live on wide screen the tennis match, and when Djokovic won, a massive uproar of nationalistic pride ensued. I met Novak in South Miami Beach when he was much younger and had been eliminated from the Nasdaq or Sony tennis tournament in Coral Gables. Djokovic loved to party, like a Serbian, but he got serious and soon climbed to ATP 1. No more partying for him.

Socialist Dictator Slobodan Milosevic had ruined Serbia. We visited the real estate destroyed by President Clinton’s coalition, the Parliament building out of town and the one downtown office building surgically destroyed by US airstrikes, which would have been a great project if you could unwind the politics. A great piece of real estate. But it was a no-go. Milosevic, before he was deposed, had hyper-inflated the Serbian currency to help him remain in power, but it did destroy the people in his country, like so many socialists before him. I have a Serbian Bank Note of 500,000,000,000 Serbian Dinars. Yes, 500 billion, on one piece of toilet paper. Anybody want to trade it for a mega-yacht in St. Tropez? No? Get the picture? Governments debase their currency until it is worthless toilet paper, causing hyperinflation like in the German Weimar Republic or Mozambique. Are we on the same track? Ask Saul Alinsky’s devotees like the Clintons, Obama and their task master, Darth Sorius. They will tell you all is cool. No worries. But you will have to pay the horrible price, and your childrens’ children too, of the all too familiar currency debasement by greedy governments.

Clifton’s partner, Berezovsky’s Russian partner, allegedly got screwed by Berezovsky and thus Clifton was not adequately rewarded for his brave foray into the war torn frontier of Belgrade and Serbia, putting together deals from the myriad pieces left over. Berezovsky decided to stop breathing one day, and the money owed Clifton was not in Berezovsky’s Last Will and Testament. So Clifton decided to bail out to new frontiers.

When the U.S. and a few allies invaded and took Iraq with inadequate military forces, frontiersman Clifton immediately packed his bags and set up shop in Baghdad. We backed him financially. People still don’t understand how we, the U.S.A., got into the Iraqi quagmire, just like Vietnam, but perhaps Clifton’s experience can shed some light, as well as my quasi-knowledge of military history.

Chapter 25.2: The USA fumbles the ball: Gulf War II.

Historians must start from the beginning. In Gulf War I, the entire world was behind George Bush, Sr. They put together a coalition of all Nations and the Mandate from the United Nations (S.C Resolution 678) was to expel Saddam Hussein from Kuwait and return the loot. We easily crushed the 3rd largest army in the world, the Iraqis, causing the collapse of Russia’s military-industrial complex, and thereafter the collapse of the U.S.S.R. The Coalition forces surrounded Baghdad, but instead of invading and cutting Saddam’s head off, the Saudis had put enormous pressure on the U.S. to withdraw. The U.N. Mandate had been fulfilled, and the Sunni Saudis needed a unified Sunni Iraq as a military buffer zone between it and Shiite Iran, so the Saudis prevailed. We withdrew, only to return in less favorable circumstances.

In exchange, the petro-dollar would remain supreme in world-wide oil transactions and we would maintain friendly military bases in the Middle East. Life would go back to normal. Saudi King Fahd would keep his mega-yacht in Porto Banus near his 200 room summer castle in Marbella, Spain, and the Saudi Finance minister would keep his slightly smaller 344 foot Lady Moura anchored in Monaco. They would party like rock stars unless the timing of Ramadan interfered, in which case they would disappear from the Cote D’Azur in observance of Islamic custom and law.

When George Bush, Jr. came into power, with the not insignificant help of Rob Nottingham, myself and the Florida Panhandle, all was well with the world. Until 9-11, that is. We were attacked on George Bush Jr.’s watch, and he would retaliate with deadly force, and his administration would change from fiscal conservatism, low taxes, and money back to the people, into a war footing, to defend America, the Prime Directive of any President.

Afghanistan was a no brainer, except the Soviet Experience was similar to the French experience in the First French Indochina War. The French worked themselves into a quagmire, only to pass the polluted Baton to the USA by virtue of the SEATO Treaty. The Russians worked themselves into a quagmire in Afghanistan with nobody to lay off the blame to. They withdrew in costly defeat. We then stepped into the same quagmire in October, 2001. Then came the invasion of Iraq in 2003.

Young President George Bush, Jr. was surrounded by incompetent advisors. As I have already written, my opinion for decades is that the CIA could not tie their own shoe laces. They screwed up on Soviet capability, the Tet Offensive, and just about everything thereafter. But now they had a new, much better theory: Saddam was feverishly inventing WMDs, Weapons of Mass Destruction, and we had to go in and wipe those WMDs out. No more 9-11s anywhere in the world under George Jr.’s watch. Forgotten was the issue of the petro-dollar, and the history of warfare from the beginning of time.

Sycophants, wise men, soldiers and military advisors were summoned to the White House for advice. George, Jr. was told that he only needed 200,000 shock troops to get the job done and the Baghdad inhabitants would throw roses and flower petals at the feet of us liberators.

The Sunnis could be bounced from power and the Iran-leaning Shiite majority would become our close friends and allies. The wise men and competent military advisors doubted this and advised twice to three times the troops would be needed or we would be short-handed, and they wanted the real enemy, the media, ousted from the front lines. And we would have to build defense outposts for the expected counter attacks. And to close and patrol the Iraq-Iran Border. It would not be the cake walk the sycophants were deceptively and naively portraying.

No war has ever been won cheaply from afar. Sun Tzu, in his classic “Art of War” written in 470 B.C. said:

• In the operations of war, where there are in the field a thousand swift chariots, as many heavy chariots, and a hundred thousand mail-clad soldiers, with provisions enough to carry them a thousand li, the expenditure at home and at the front, including entertainment of guests, small items such as glue and paint, and the sums spent on chariots and armor, will reach a total of a thousand ounces of silver a day. Such is the cost of raising an army of 100,000 men.

• When you engage in actual fighting, if victory is long in coming, then men’s weapons will grow dull and their ardor damped. If you lay siege to a town, you will exhaust your strength.

• Again, if the campaign is protracted, the resources of the State will not be equal to the strain.

• Now, when your weapons are dulled, your ardor damped, your strength exhausted and your treasure spent, other chieftains will spring up to take advantage of your extremity. Then no man, however wise, will be able to avert the consequences that must ensue.

• There is no instance of a country having benefited from prolonged warfare.

Chapter 25.3: When you are in the Arena, Catness, remember who the true enemy is.

Sun Tzu had it dead right back then, it is still the Bible on War, and his wise writings have been either heeded or ignored as man has consistently waged war on each other over the last 2,500 years. And unfortunately, the ignorant Sycophants and court jesters would have their way this time. George, Jr. would buy the easy sell, the low cost Walmart bargain deal, and his top aides, the less than brilliant Rumsfeld and Powell would nod their ignorant consent. We would go in with the least amount of troops, the least amount of logistics, and embed the true enemy, the press, in our attacking forces so that they could broadcast our coordinates over un-encrypted band waves to satellites monitored by our enemies, thus boost their Nielson ratings in the U.S. Apparently, Rumsfeld idiotically expected our precision weapon strikes would be broadcast live by embedded media and thus cause the US public to go: “Wow, how cool, how civilized! How technology has advanced our new grossly undermanned army. Go USA! ”

This would enable self-serving correspondents like Geraldo Rivera to broadcast our position in the battlefield to the enemy in order to gain Nielson Ratings in the U.S. Did the unit commander shoot him immediately? No, Geraldo was expelled back to the Kuwait airbase, and shipped back to the U.S. without charges for treason, to endlessly and arrogantly appear again and again on cable TV political shows. If my great great grandfather, the General, or I were there in command, he would be immediately be shot in the head, and staked out in the desert for the vultures to feed on, as every self-involved traitor deserves.

So in went the inadequate U.S. forces. They were furthered hampered by “protocol” and had to ask permission from Kuwait HQ to fire, a process which took seconds to transmit over satellites. Collateral civilian damage after thousands of years of warfare was no longer in vogue. No more Dresden firebombing of innocent German civilians or Hiroshima’s instant 90,000 civilian death toll. We did not want to shoot anybody by accident, thus the chain of command over satellite broadcast tied our warriors’ hands behind their backs. They would have to die before innocent civilians could. And thus the enemy was free to use civilians as human shields while shooting at us.

Moreover, the CIA naively thought every Iraqi would surrender by waiving their shirts like a white flag, not knowing that Saddam, since the last war, had embedded loyal Iraqi Republican Guard forces in every military unit. Thus if an Iraqi General even wanted to surrender, he would be shot by the embedded Republican Guard. As would everyone else who wanted to surrender. It was not going to be the cake walk the incompetent CIA had mistakenly projected and sold to the young US President.

Chapter 25.4: The 2nd Fumble: The short-lived Honeymoon comes to a miserable end.

Nevertheless, our overwhelming advantage of firepower prevailed, and soon we were in Baghdad. And for the first few days, Iraqis would welcome Americans. They would expect no different a ruler than Saddam. As my partner Clifton reported, all the Iraqis were expecting a loud speaker blaring, announcing the Americans were now in charge and everybody should return to work as usual.

As I said before, my partner Clifton decided to bail out of Belgrade. Clifton packed his bags and set up shop in Baghdad. We backed him financially. When Clifton first got to Baghdad, he would jog down beside the Tigris River and the Baghdadis would all smile and talk to him. He was American, and he was a welcome sight, a source of information, for their world was about to change dramatically. But while the sweet honeymoon was there to exploit, the Americans would soon bungle their way into the Iraqi dog-house.

Now throughout the beginning of the history of mankind, conquerors had enlisted the subjugated armies as mercenaries to fight on their side for gold or silver. Cyrus the Great, Darius, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, every single army swelled its ranks with additional manpower from conquered and well-trained mercenary soldiers.

But what did America do? They kicked out all the Sunnis upon the stupidest advice ever given, and the Sunnis went home with their AK-47s and RPGs instead of paychecks. Moreover, little did our wonderful CIA give proper input, but there were many ammo dumps of 4 by 4 acres piled to the sky with high explosive shells, yet we did not have the manpower to leave behind guards to keep them guarded. We were short the 200,000 additional soldiers that the wise men and warriors had insisted were needed. So these massive mountains of high explosive shells, as a form of currency, were raided by locals and traded to create the IEDs, which in turn caused havoc and many, many US casualties. The stupidity of the first American administrators goes beyond belief, they built the Baghdad Green Zone, a sanctuary from the chaos induced by American stupidity, and hid there as Iraq further spiraled into chaos.

Meanwhile, Iraqi society also disintegrated into tribal fiefdoms that had grievances against their neighbors going back centuries before the English tried to cobble them together after WWI from the ruins of the Ottoman Empire. Every road became a toll road, you would have to pay toll at every tribal border. Only cell phones worked, and not very well. In the lawless chaos, copper wire was stripped from every phone line and electrical lines to be sold as scrap metal in Jordan. Southern Iraq disintegrated into war factions. Kurdish North Iraq was fairly stable and held the Northern provinces in check, but the rest of Iraq became a dangerous, endless mess of sectarian violence.

Chapter 25.5: No time to get your head cut off. We move operations to Amman, Jordan.

Meanwhile, Texas frontiersman Clifton could no longer safely jog down the Tigris River. He made friends with one of the top 10 ruling mercantile families in Iraq. These families had controlled banking, agricultural, machinery imports, coca cola, transportation franchises, etc. for a century or more. Saddam was just another come-and-go dictator to whom they would pay lip service to as they counted their profits. Clifton, and we, as his backers, became partners with the Al-Bunniahs, who had bought off the Iraq Oil and Gas Ministry and moved them, their families and all the maps, software and infrastructure to the very safe Amman, Jordan, and so went Clifton. There, Clifton would see all the hundreds upon hundreds of oil fields over 500 million barrels of oil in Iraq on a map board. Anything smaller was not worth putting in. The light sweet crude was all down in the Basra region, Shiite dominated, but in constant turmoil. Northern Iraq, the Kurdish area had many oil wells, but of less valuable very heavy crude. But they could ship it out safely. Basra was a horse of a different color. It was chaos, and yes, you could get your head cut off in the desert. Clifton could get any drilling franchise he wanted, and so he reached out.

In America, the Americans were scared. We asked Tim Hess of Hess Oil would he come in and drill? His answer was “Why would I go into the Iraqi desert for oil and get my head cut off? Plenty of oil on the open market.” All Americans took this attitude. Clifton got one large Russian Company interested, as well as Maersk, the ambitious Danish company, but the Iraqi government had begun to disintegrate under the incompetent oversight of the naïve Americans. And our boys continued to needlessly die.

Finally, I took a trip to Moscow to meet other my partner in this venture, Preston Haskell IV, who had moved from Alabama to Moscow to build Collier.ru, a big real estate firm, and he had other interests in diamond mines in Siberia and other ventures as well. He had married an Estonian girl, had a child, and divorced. So one weekend he was Mr. Mom with custody of his child, and the next weekend he was on his private jet southbound where he would pick up his good friend in Monaco, Prince Albert II, and fly down to his Ranch in Kenya and watch what? Elephants? I did not ask him, nor Prince Albert. The only things Elephants do of interest is in musth, in mating season, and you don’t want to be anywhere near two swirling Elephants that can mow down a village like a swirling bowling ball for days as they procreate.

Preston rented a $5,000 table at the hottest night club in Moscow, we had already spoken of disbanding the Iraq venture at lunch, and so as his other guests arrived, I bailed out and hunted the scene. I found a beautiful girl and asked her with my best charming smile whether I could by her a drink? Her answer: “No”. What? My time in Moscow as an American Prince had obviously come and gone, I was not a Prince anymore, but a peasant, a serf. Maybe the Russian girls only wanted a round trip ticket to Disneyland these days? Mother Russia and Moscow had moved into the 21st century, and Moscow was once again the opulent Third Rome. And obviously I was not on the Tsar’s “A” list.

But Preston and I decided to abandon Iraq, for over 1.5 years, as we had no firm commitment after much investment. Preston and I parted ways as partners, I heard he did extremely well in all his ventures. He was a good man, a good old boy from the USA. When I ran across Prince Albert II in Monaco by the Beach Club, I did not ask after Preston. I knew Preston was a mover and shaker, and a good Dad. The later quality is how you judge the character of a person, rich man, poor man, beggar man or thief. Iraq was now in my past, Clifton persevered and did fairly well with his Russian contacts, some of whom had been both our drinking buddies in the 1990s and had risen over the years to power in the turbulent Russian oil business.

As a final salute to American stupidity, the military did bring in a great warrior, savvy and experienced, to fix their botched mess. His name was General Petraeus, and he did a brilliant job. He boosted our credibility, and he saved many lives of American Boys. He was promoted to the head of the bungling CIA to fix it.

A rogue FBI agent in Florida began a search through the General’s e-mails without a warrant and found evidence of an extramarital affair. Thus the great Petraeus’ private life was illegally exposed and destroyed by a rogue FBI agent.

This is now the New America, not the one Jimi Hendrix once saluted at Woodstock, but the dark one Darth Sorius has worked so hard to finance along with the destruction of our citizens’ rights and liberties. If you are not scared, you should be. Orwell’s Big Brother is watching. And he has a lot of money, money he took from you and your grandchildren. And Hate is the Mantra.

PART XXVI: BACK TO THE ISLE OF CALYPSO AND BATTLEGROUND FLORIDA:

Chapter 26.1: Kerry v. Bush- Deja Vue all over again. (“The Media Dogs Bite Again”).

Oh Joy! It was Presidential election time again. Rob Nottingham and I were ready. We had warned the RNC of the standard fake media “call” during the Florida election at 3:00 p.m. in favor of the Democrat. The RNC had bought into this and they were ready. But would the media stand by its promise not to interfere with the election? Or was that just a stupid question?

Florida is considered the “must have” State in the Eastern Time Zone, any media “call” both during and after the polls closed must have an adverse effect on the voters in the western and central time zones. If this hypothesis is true, then we could argue that one Florida vote is worth far more than non-Florida votes, at least on the East Coast of the US. One could also argue that a Tiger Does Not Change His Stripes. The fake media were all but ready to interfere.

The flawed (or biased) media exit polling that took place during election day, 2000, to discourage potential Republican Voters could not be accurately tracked in 2000. However, the Nasdaq 100 futures index (December) did show a decline beginning with media coverage during election day at around 5:00 P.M. EST and climaxing to a 2.5% loss after Florida was again mistakenly called for Gore at 7:53 P.M. It completely rebounded when the media recanted and called the election for Bush at 2:00 a.m. the next day. Nobody can guess how many voters in the Central and Western Time Zones failed to vote because of this grossly negligent miscall in Florida.

However, by Presidential election day, 2004, the financial markets had invented an entire series of traded derivatives that allowed liquid a “prediction market” for tracking the election outcome during the election day, based on real time information delivered by media sources. The electronic trading of equity indexes and other futures showed an almost identical pattern to election day, 2000.

As predicted by Rob Nottingham, in 2004 flawed, but widely believed, exit polling was released around 3:00 p.m. Eastern time and, of course, predicted a Kerry win and a Bush defeat. The price of a security paying $10 if Bush was reelected fell from $5.5 to $3. As votes were counted that evening, the same security rallied and reached $9.50.

Erik Snowberg of Stanford and Justin Wolfers of Wharton decided to analyze movements in economic indicators caused by clearly exogenous changes in expectations about the likely winner during Election Day, based on information fed by “flawed, but widely believed” biased Media :“We employ an alternative identification strategy that exploits two recent financial market developments: 1) the electronic trading of equity index and other futures while votes are being counted on election night, and 2) for the 2004 election, the emergence of a liquid prediction market tracking the election outcome; and 3) Our analysis also benefits from natural experiments created by flawed, but widely believed, exit polling. In 2004, exit polls released around 3pm Eastern time predicted a Bush defeat, and the price of a security paying $10 if he was reelected fell from $5.5 to $3. As votes were counted that evening, the same security rallied and reached $9.5 by midnight. Similar events occurred in 2000, although without a prediction market precisely tracking changes in beliefs. The probability of Bush winning the election starts near 55 percent. When the exit poll data was leaked, the markets quickly incorporated this information, sending Bush’s probability of election to 30 percent and stocks down about one percent. When it became clear that the earlier exit poll data was faulty, Bush’s chances rose to 95 percent and stocks rebounded.”

The rest is history. Bush won by 52%. The RNC had listened to Nottingham and I about the fake media call, in favor of the democratic candidate, around 3:00 p.m. and is confirmed by the chart below.

Chapter 26.2: The Lull before the Storm-Cashing in on Russia and Social Investing.

Well, Bush had a walk in the park in 2004 in Florida, and I could return to my big

House, borrow a Golden Retriever or terrier, and go to the beach each day to play and swim with him or her. Or I could resume a heavy travel schedule. Or I could work on cashing in on my now successful Russian TV network venture that was getting ready to go public or IPO through Morgan Stanley and Deutsche Bank. Or I could turn to social investing-Yale Style.

The later I did, and I want to tell you about it. The conclusion is simple. If you do

something beneficial for mankind, the FDA will crush you. Forget about social investing. Buy

Arms manufacturers, munitions makers, Kevlar vests, the Ratheons, Lockheed Martins and defense contractors of the world and you will flourish as mankind kills one another.

I will start with a cure Alzheimer’s Disease. It started many years ago with an American Airlines study of 25,000 flight attendants that tracked them through death. Many died from lung cancer, from second hand smoke on the airlines, many died of other afflictions, but not one died of Alzheimer’s disease or Thyroiditis. This was statistically impossible given the huge sample size, so it appeared that in the one common denominator, second hand cigarette smoke, there was something beneficial. So they began to isolate the tobacco leaf and found a compound, Anatabine, a minor alkaloid, that seemed to reduce low level inflammation in diseases characterized by low level inflammation, such as Alzheimer’s Disease, thyroiditis and multiple sclerosis.

After significant testing, they found it worked. The Chairman of Crocs, the shoes, had tested high on stage Five on the Alzheimer’s scale (Reisberg Scale). Within months of taking Anatabine, he tested under One, and then joined the Board of Directors of company known as Star Scientific. The compound worked, and worked well. John Hopkins University was interested as well as some other universities and began clinical trials for Hashimoto’s thyroiditis.

Star Scientific developed and sold the compound as a dietary supplement “Anatabloc” primarily through GNC up until mid-2014. It was endorsed and used by athletes such as Jeremy Shockey and Jack Nicklaus, people began feeding it to their dogs. People with Alzheimer’s sung its praise.

But In 2013, the FDA (Federal Death Administration) warned Star Scientific for unlawfully promoting Anatabloc before anatabine, a natural, not synthetic compound, was “proved” to be safe. “Safe” according to their rigorously demanding protocols, protocols that would keep FDA employees employed for a very long time, until a major pharmaceutical company offered them a better job. Subsequently, Star Scientific management withdrew the dietary supplement because of the FDA’s concerns and filed for bankruptcy in 2016. As a consequence, the development and clinical trials of Anatabine were halted indefinitely. This benefit to mankind was crushed by the FDA, as usual.

Chapter 26.3: If you don’t succeed at first, try, and try again, redux.

So let’s try another. Columbia Laboratories. It had originally been based in Florida and Nick Buonoconti of Miami Dolphin fame was its President. We bought in early and heavily as Columbia had an exciting pipeline. One was a fertility drug made of natural progesterone “Crinone” which had passed clinical trials. Soon American Home Products, Wyeth, offered us $40,000,000 up front plus royalties to market it. Time to celebrate with Dom Perignon, for we thought we would be drinking a lot of it for a long time as the royalties flowed in. That was until American Home Products decided to “shelve” Crinone and release one of its in-house drugs instead. Sort of like the major Hollywood Studios. It sat for years on the shelf until we decided to buy it back for? You guessed it: $40,000,000.

But soon, we had another indication for Crinone, what is known as a “label extension” for an already FDA approved drug. Since Crinone was essentially natural progesterone absorbed through the uterus, it could be used to stop pre-term baby births. So we began a clinical trial, a clinical double-blind study, where a number of high risk mother’s to be were given either Crinone or a placebo of water, using our same delivery system called the uterine pass effect.

I was on my way to a super bowl party at the Versace mansion in South Miami Beach where Peyton Manning was going to show up when we got the news: The clinical trial had brought all participants to a near full term 36 weeks, no pre-term babies, but the FDA would not approve it because we could not show the difference between Crinone and the placebo. Both had worked, and worked because the idiots that designed the trial had used the same medium for the uterine pass effect. I would lose $2 million before the stock market opened the next day. Not a good way to start a party. But it would not stop there. We did a detailed study of subsets, that is subsets within the entire number of clinical trial participants. And we found a nugget of gold. Women whose cervix was shrinking at greater the 2 centimeters were much more likely to give preterm birth. With a sonogram to detect, we could use Crinone to arrest this shrinkage and bring the pregnancy to full term.

So another expensive clinical trial commenced and soon the excitement was shared by the heavyweights in this business, the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the March of Dimes, Brigham HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigham_and_Women%27s_Hospital” and Women’s HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigham_and_Women%27s_Hospital”Hospital out of Harvard, and of course, the American Institute of HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Institute_of_Ultrasound_in_Medicine”Ultrasound in Medicine, whose members would see a great new source of revenue.

And the results were impressive. Nearly all women in the trial were brought to full term. We could save the some 2 million pre-term babies born each year from the NICU units and life-long health problems that often plague pre-term babies. We were all ecstatic, that is until the FDA said “No”. They did not provide a coherent reason why they would not expand the label of Crinone for pre-term babies, but the result was the same. The Stock was cut in half. We could not do any new clinical trial since we had already sold the US and foreign rights to a major pharmaceutical distributor and they would not cough up more money. Millions upon millions of future preterm babies were doomed to NICUs and health issues.

Now I could go on and on regarding other instances of inventions or drugs beneficial to

mankind being blocked by FDA incompetency, red tape, bribery from competitors, but just take away this one lesson. Social investing is not the ticket. Yale was dead wrong. Just buy defense industry stocks and weapons merchants’ stocks and just hope a war breaks out somewhere. You will become very rich.

PART XXVII: THE BIRTHER WARS AND THE ECONOMIC COLLAPSE OF 2008:

Chapter 27.1: Vladimir Putin pours cold ice on the party. The great derivative “unwind” begins.

I was sunbathing on the pier at the Monaco Beach Club with my friend and his Russian girl friend around August 7, 2008. She gets a call from her hysterical Georgian-born girlfriend who was now in the in the US. Putin’s Russia had just invaded the nation country below Russia, the Republic of Georgia, and her brother there in Georgia was thrown on a pickup truck to be driven to the front lines, to defend without any weapon. Their orders were to pick up their weapons from the dead soldiers and use them.

Putin was ostensibly protecting South Ossetia, which was then the crime center of European drug trade routes and the counterfeiting of American money. And they actually had the real printing plates from the US Treasury. But the real raison d’etre was something that never came out in the Western Press. Georgia had running through it the only gas pipeline out of the control of Russia’s Gazprom, a threat to its chokehold on Europe’s natural gas needs. It was regarded as a threat to the Russian energy monopoly because Georgia hosts the South Caucasus NG Pipeline parallel to the Baku–Tbilisi–Ceyhan (BTC) pipeline,1,768 kilometres (1,099 mi) long crude oil pipeline from the Azeri–Chirag–Gunashli oil field in the Caspian Sea to the Mediterranean Sea. These pipelines connects Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan and Ceyhan, a port on the south-eastern Mediterranean coast of Turkey, via Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia. BTC is the second-longest oil pipeline in the former Soviet Union, after the Druzhba pipeline. These pipelines are widely regarded as an “end run” around Russia’s and Gazprom’s energy hegemony and the Russians wanted to stop it. How shocked they were when their invading Mig fighter jets and tanks were blown sky high by Israeli UAV drones. This escalated the war, but the Russians were scratching their heads, what were Israeli weapons doing so far north in Georgia? Well, it turned out that the Israelis had a big percentage share of ownership in that gas pipeline.

Well, soon a cease fire was in effect and a peace went into effect, saving the unarmed brother of my friend’s friend. I had cocktails with an elderly retired Russian Ambassador at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo that I knew well. My first question was: “Mr. Ambassador, what do you think of this recent war in Georgia?”

His first answer was harsh: “We didn’t get the job done.” I persevered: “Yes, but what do you really think?” He replied in his Russian accent: “We didn’t get the job done.” It was obvious that the strategic by-pass natural gas pipeline in Georgia was the crown jewel; the Russians did not get it. It would encourage other countries to bypass the Russian natural gas monopoly pipeline system. The 1600 pound Gorilla, Gazprom, that dominated European natural gas distribution, might start sweating a little.

But the financial pandemic was escalated. The multi-billion unregulated OTC derivatives market and NINJA financial bubble started by the illustrious Greenspan and thereafter overlooked by his successor clones had already imploded and began to unwind. The following week in Moscow, US$ 25 billon disappeared overnight. Then the financial contagion spread to the OTC derivative counter-betters in London. AIG went down. Then Bear Stearns in New York and the prestigious Lehman Brothers defaulted. Bank upon bank were on the verge of collapsing. The US Congress panicked as the Dow Jones Industrial Average plunged. Small Banks collapsed as the hoards of tranched NINJA loans were defaulted on. There was a real threat that money market funds, the safest of all, would crack. And unless you were too big to fail, it was financial Armageddon. Just like 1987, but worse.

I was lucky on this 2008 leg down. I had smelled a rat and had bought “volatility” to financially hedge the long side of my portfolio, but I had to get back to New York City for this was going to be a disaster as the OTC derivatives continued to unwind and the counter-bettors failed one by one. The whole economic system was on the brink of failure.

And you could not line up the usual suspects. Kremlin favorite Abramovich went overnight from $20 billion to $5 billion, Oleg Dereprovsky went from plus $2 billion to minus $2 billion. Ron Lauder, head of the World Jewish Congress lost many billions overnight and Bernie Madoff was a neutron bomb to his investors. Who made the real money? Who pulled the trigger? Darth Sorius?

Chapter 27.2: Oh! Hooray. Time to elect a new President amidst Financial Armageddon. Great!

Amidst this worldwide bloodbath, it was time to elect a new President in the USA. If you have read my previous chapters, you will know I fear and despise Lawyers as Presidents, especially if they come from Ivy League Law Schools like I attended, and have been taught the Socratic method. Obama was one of those, married to another lawyer, just like Hill-Billary, both admirers of Saul Alinsky, who dedicated his communist works to the Devil Lucifer, and I had serious reservations whether Obama was qualified to lead a Nation at War. Had he ever been trained to shoot and kill like I had? Had he pounded nails and poured cement in the hot summer months to earn a middle class wage like I had, and the entire US middle class of tradesman do for a living? Had he ever started or ran a business? Did he study money like I had under the brilliant monetarist professors like I had at Yale and at least learn something about economics and the value of a dollar? The answer appeared to be No, he was an empty suit with the gift of gab, charming as he was. And a lawyer, an Alinskyst lawyer, a closet communist. And he was more than happy to bankrupt the US Treasury, dilapidate the US military, and play golf as he watched with indifference the worst recession since 1932. He would become the Nero who fiddled while Rome burned.

John McCain was a different enigma, a bona fide warrior, jet fighter pilot, national hero, public servant, but aging. And as a jet fighter pilot, he had a hair trigger, he would fire away on a whim. At the Republican Convention from September 1 to September 4, 2008, this became apparent. Rudy Giuliani and Arnold Schwarzenegger gave rousing speeches that sent Democrats scrambling for cover with their tails between their legs, as the Republican polls rocketed skyward. The old guard expected McCain to pick the well vetted Mitt Romney, a handsome talented business executive, for Vice President, but McCain fooled them with his hair trigger and chose an obscure Alaskan Governor, Sarah Palin. He picked an unvetted candidate who would invite you on her helicopter to hunt moose. Not very fair to the Moose, and if you’re not going to eat it all, why not shoot a head of lettuce instead?

The evangelists were ecstatic, but the RNC Old Guard were stunned. But somewhat later, a powerful Democratic lobbyist explained it all to me. The pollsters, the wise and all omniscient pollsters, had predicted that the entire election would revolve around 3 districts in Pennsylvania and 3 in Ohio that were full of Soccer Moms. If Sarah Palin could rally the Soccer Mom vote as predicted, McCain would take those states and the Electoral College. McCain unfortunately bought in.

I had my doubts as Florida has always been Battleground Zero, the war starts there, as the left wing media attempts each to year to steal Florida and discourage the other time zones from voting.

It is like clockwork, but McCain was up 5 points in the Florida polls, and I was consumed in New York City with the Financial Armageddon and watching Goldman Sachs opportunistically slip into all positions of financial power while everyone else collapsed. Still, it was my duty to watchdog our Dutch Stadtholder claims from 1619, as codified in the 1674 Treaty of Westminster ending the third Dutch Anglo War. So I had to be ready to throw my two cents in. Sorry about that. My bad.

McCain had a very comfortable lead in the Florida polls through September, until

the financial crisis took its toll. At approximately the exact same time that Lehman Brothers went down, Obama overtook McCain in the polls. And Obama spent $37 million in Florida, while McCain just spent $17 million. The collapse of investment banking firm Lehman Brothers ushered in the biggest financial crisis since the Great Depression. This and the economic disaster that occurred just weeks before Election Day changed the media’s campaign coverage, and perhaps the outcome, of the presidential race. The Pew Research Center data analyzing the tone and focus of media coverage through the final stretch of that election showed how that coverage shifted dramatically in mid-September 2008 to focus on the financial crisis and 75% of the media narrative grew increasingly critical of Republican candidate John McCain. During this same period, Pew’s public opinion survey data indicated that what had essentially been a deadlocked contest between McCain and Obama before the Lehman Brothers meltdown turned into a solid lead for Obama in the following weeks. After September 25, the media coverage was only 7% positive for McCain. The left wing media had finally pulled off its coup d’etat in Florida.

4 years later, Romney would come back in the picture. But he would fumble the ball on the one yard line because his ground game, his back alley war, did not exist. The Republican ground game was an unmitigated disaster. The RNC HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Republican_National_Committee” West Palm Beach office had volunteer phone banks in which Romney’s high tech “super” phones were programmed with unvetted software that determined who and where to call. The software punched up the phone number and dialed it and the Republican volunteer had no control. They could only offer a pre-arranged sales pitch. Often, an angry and harassed recipient said he was already called 12 times, by Super Pacs or repeatedly by Party phone banks. Volunteers spent much time trying to get the person’s phone number deleted, which had to go up a chain of command and then onto the programmers in tech support. When a list of phone numbers ran out, the “super” phones had to all be rebooted and volunteers stood around idle for up to a half an hour as new phone numbers were uploaded. When I asked the RNC head for the phones to be programmed to call the Panhandle for the last hour or so, I was told there was no way to do this given the programming of these phones. No area code flexibility. It was a debacle. Whether Romney could have made up the 74,309 Vote shortfall in Florida with a competent ground game is conjecture. But the lesson of this horror show should not be lost. Volunteers and ground games make the difference, not whiz-kid equipment and software. If new equipment and software is to be used, it must be vetted, beta tested, and every attempt made to try to break it. And have a Plan “B”. Use old fashioned Xeroxed print-outs with area code headings as a backup.

There were many rumors of additional failures by the Romney Ground Game: (1) New automatic voter machines in New York, North Carolina, Colorado, Ohio and Missouri and elsewhere were reported to have defaulted to Obama, rather than to “no vote”, when a mistake was made. Only those machines that were “flagged” by a few observant Republican voters were then “recalibrated” by the officials. No one checked the software in advance; (2) Inner city precincts in Philadelphia and elsewhere went 100% for Obama. One was rumored to have gone 107% for Obama. Where were the observers, where was Romney’s back alley ground game? Romney had outsmarted himself.

Chapter 27.3: THE “BIRTHER WAR” (Where Is Judicial Reform?)

The Birther War was in fact the bastard child of Obama. On the jacket of his booklet promoted in the 1990s, “Journeys in Black and White” was the claim that he “was born in Kenya and raised in Indonesia and Hawaii”. He either could not read, or lied, or somebody that knew told him so. Maybe he was just “gaming the system” by such a claim. The booklet was later reprinted and re-titled, and all references to his birth in Kenya were wiped clean by 2007, but the question never went away, it just grew.

The Framers of the Constitution specifically required that a Presidential Candidate must be born in the United States to be eligible to serve as President under Article II of the U.S. Constitution. This did not apply to Senators, Congressmen, Judges, or Cabinet members. Why just the President? Well, I did not read the Madison or the Federalist Papers like Rob Nottingham had, but a safe guess was that the cultural aspect of being born elsewhere in a different society might just be poison. Someone foreign born person just might be willing to destroy the values, structures and institutions that would sustain the free society which the Framers sought to maintain. And Obama just might have been just the person to prove them correct, for he was essentially an Alinsky communist and it now seems he did his very best to destroy the US Constitution and build a socialist Alinskyist Deep State, a precursor to Totalitarianism.

But at that time, the law suits and accusations multiplied and no judicial body had the guts to take it on. Obama’s Certificate of Live Birth was not a Birth Certificate, just an attestation that the child was alive at the time the infant was presented for documentation, and the short form was written on high tech paper that did not exist in 1961. Obama would not cough up the long form Certificate of Live Birth allegedly held within the vaults of Hawaii, because in front of forensic experts, it would fail to muster as authentic because in the 50’s and 60’s, different brands of typewriters often had their own recognizable typewriter fonts. Even so, all typewriter fonts were fairly similar in those days.

They were monospaced fonts that were classified as either “pica” or “elite” in typewriter pitch. “Monospaced” meant that each character, thin or fat, resided in a small block of space that was the same size for each character, whether it was thin or fat (eg. “I” versus “M”). It was therefore obvious that it was impossible for the different letters that appear in the Obama Born Alive certificate to have been typed by one typewriter. Typewriters in 1961 could not change the size and shape of a letter on the fly like that. The IBM Selectric typewriter could have produced different typefaces in a given document, but only if the Selectric ball was changed every time a different typeface letter was struck. But IBM only invented and introduced the Selectric in July 1961 and it was gobbled up in the US. It did not find its way to Hawaii until years later. Moreover, in 1961, approximately 70% of the world’s typewriter paper was produced by one manufacturer, and so the thread and the weave of the paper could be examined by forensic experts for authenticity.

In addition, there was a plethora of missing documents from Obama’s past such as his application to Occidental College, Columbia, Harvard Law and IBM, where he worked for a year, where he would have been required honestly to state his place of birth. Furthermore, and the promotional literature for his 1991 book (which he obviously must have proofed) stated he was born in Kenya.

Chapter 27.4: The U.S. Supreme Court to the Rescue! Well Maybe not. Where were they?

This was obviously a question for the Supreme Court to resolve. Because the flurry of lawsuits had different results, eligibility for the US president had to be decided by either Congress or the Courts. Who then has the burden of proof? Certainly if I am a Florida resident, I cannot run for Senator from Rhode Island unless I could prove I was a Rhode Island Resident. The burden of proof was obviously mine.

But there was no such burden of proof on the Presidency of the United States, ruled some courts: “There appears to be no affirmative requirement that a person indorsed in a nominating petition for the Presidency present to the Secretary of State any certification or other proof that he is qualified for the Office.”

So in 2008, I decided to ask the Supreme Court to Enjoin the Electoral College for voting for Obama unless he could prove by a preponderance of evidence that he was eligible or qualified to serve as President. If Obama could not meet this low burden of proof, then the Electoral College would have to vote for McCain as President and Joe Biden as Vice-President. What a hoot that would have been? I think it happened once before in this Country. Another Constitutional Crisis, this one on me? My bad.

So in early November, I wrote Clarence Thomas and mentioned I was a few years behind him at Yale Law School, etc. and informed him I would be filing a Writ of Mandamus with the Court in the next several days requesting an order that Obama be compelled by Supreme Court Order to prove by a mere preponderance of evidence (the lesser standard) that he was born in the United States and eligible to serve as President under Article II of the U.S. Constitution.

If I lacked standing, I pointed out that it was now the Court’s duty, sua sponte, since the DNC Certification to 49 of 50 states was missing the following required text, and I quote;

“- and that the following candidates for President and Vice President of the United States are legally qualified to serve under the provisions of the United States Constitution.”

The legal certification text on the DNC certified nomination document for Obama and Biden used for the DNC ticket was limited to:

“THIS IS TO CERTIFY that at the National Convention of the Democrat Party of the United States of America, held in Denver, Colorado on August 25 through 28, 2008, the following were duly nominated as candidates of said Party for President and Vice President of the United States respectively:” (Obama and Biden).

Thus the DNC had not met the constitutional requirements for legal certification of eligibility, omitting by accident or intentionally: “and that the following candidates for President and Vice President of the United States are legally qualified to serve under the provisions of the United States Constitution.” Why such an omission? Perhaps they knew something. Perhaps they feared criminal liability. But it was the Supreme Court’s duty and responsibility to find out what.

My gambit was an attempt to force the burden of proof onto Obama so that he would have to cough up the original Certificate of Live Birth, withheld in secrecy within the vaults of Hawaii, in order to be examined in front of forensic experts.

In addition, as mentioned before, there was a plethora of missing documents from Obama’s past such as his application to Occidental College, Columbia, and IBM, where he worked for a year, which could be subpoenaed. It could all be done quickly and the controversy put to rest.

Well, the Supreme Court clerk of who (I don’t know) returned my Writ of Mandamus, stating the page margins were wrong, even though I carefully read the guidelines and complied with them. I guess a Yale Law School Graduate on a scholarship with experience with a tape measure as a carpenter could not get either the rules, margins, or the measurements right using Microsoft Word? I don’t think so. What was going on?

So I Federal Expressed the Writ to Philip J. Berg, whose case was seeking an injunction, (Berg v. Obama, No. 08-4340) and was already on the Supreme Court Docket. He then amended his pleading to request that the burden of proof of eligibility to be President be shifted to Obama. But the Supreme Court punted Berg’s Case further out the docket until it became moot, until the electors had already voted. My read was that after the Bush-Gore debacle in 2000, the Supreme Court had no heart to defend the Constitution that they swore to defend. They had betrayed their sacred sworn duty and hid in the bushes like cowards because they did not want to go through the highly partisan Bush v. Gore melee again. But this is what they were paid to do, swore to do, but they punted instead. They did not earn their pay checks.

When the original Long Form was released in April, 2011, there were more questions raised then answered: It was an Abstract, the Hospital named was Kapiolani Maternity & Gynecological Hospital, when in fact its name had been changed to Kapi’olani Maternity and Gynecological Hospital in 1931, and it was located at 1611 Bingham Street, on the southeast corner of Punahou and Bingham streets in Honolulu not the Kalanianaole (actual spelling Kalaniana’ole) Highway as listed, which overpass was still under construction in 1965. And the certification swore he was born outside the city limits of Honolulu, etc, etc, etc. But it is all history now, it is “moot” and it makes no sense to continue “flogging a dead horse”. But when two cents do not add up, am I not entitled to throw in my own two cents? No? You might be right.

And my fears for this land my ancestors fought centuries to defend were not misplaced. At the end of Obama’s 8 years, the USA was bankrupt with double the $10 trillion debt compiled by all Presidents before him, which was thus placed on the US Treasury and generations of future US Taxpayers, and nobody knew where it went. The military was severely dilapidated along with the middle class. But Soros had profited by $20 billion, the Clinton Foundation had ripped the US taxpayers out of maybe $700 million with their IRC 501(c) (3) “non-profit” status, my sincere opinion, but the facts were that the economy was super stagnant and your grandchildren’s grandchildren were deeply in debt. The rest had all but disappeared. And the dark evil shadow of Saul Alinsky had grown immensely.

And without belaboring the point, we were in a Cold War again with Russia, which my mentors had worked so hard to resolve forever. And as the last living subscriber of the prestigious Committee on the Present Danger, iterations I & II, which at one time had as members the best and brightest of my professors, Eugene Rostow, and brilliant concerned icons like Paul Nitze and Edward Teller, I was very unhappy. And Obama had also weaponized the IRS, the FBI, and the FISA courts against the people of USA. Joseph Stalin would have admired Obama, Saul Alinsky would have been proud. Thanks for the great job of destroying the Framers’ dream of a timeless U.S. Constitution. Well done, Obama! Make sure you mention this in your next best seller. Maybe publish it under a “pen name”: NERO.

PART XXVIII: BACK TO WORK: CAN KIM KARDSHIAN FIT IN HER JEANS BY FRIDAY?

Chapter 28.1: Hollyweird again?

I had been happily absent from that Hollywood scene for years. An old friend of mine, Billy, was now living in LA and introduced me to a young mover and shaker from Creative Artists, Will Hobbs, and we had dinner in downtown New York. His partner was the number one independent producer of work out films in LA and they had a plan to build out the business into a work-out cable TV channel. As we discussed the deal, he recognized my infamous name as the only WASP who ever collected 100 cents on the dollar (during the Big Easy Litigation) and we thus had an immediate understanding that revenues from the project, if any, would be lock-boxed and scrutinized.

So I signed on to do a 3 DVD sexual themed yoga workout called Fit4Sex. They hired a top porno star named Tera Patrick to film the yoga workout, and we hoped she would go mainstream and boost our sales. But the very nature of her reputation prohibited us from getting distributors or even a bank account. So this, one, like so many before it, crashed and burned to the detriment of the investors, including me. Yet another tax write-off from Hollywood.

Later, they came back to me. They had signed an up and coming star named “Kim Kardashian”. Paris Hilton was top dog at the time, I knew her. And her cousin Conrad Hilton, from Palm Beach and LA, was a dear friend of mine.

But Kim Kardashian I had never heard of, so I declined to co-produce the project, until a young friend who read Celebrity Magazines like “People Magazine” told me quite strongly I should quit reading “Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology News” and jump on the celebrity bandwagon, or I would be a total idiot. I did not know it, but Kim Kardashian was on the parabolic rise, and we were at ground zero. Our deal with her company Kims-A-Princess, Inc. was the cheapest deal she would ever do. We then jumped over to Mi-Fed in Cannes, France, the mass convention for video and programming distributors, and inked a deal with Gaiam, the largest DVD distributor in its heyday, and they would put us in Walmart, Target and 40,000 other retail outlets.

Things looked good, we were ahead of the curve, we had Kim, and had the best distributor at a great price. Should we pop that champagne cork now or wait?

Chapter 28.2: The shoot. Lights, action, cameras again.

We built the studio set and we shot the 3 Kim Kardashian workout videos “Fit In Your Jeans By Friday” over Super Bowl Sunday February 1, 2009 from 7:00 a.m. to 7.00 p.m. We shot for 3 days. Kim could have been partying in Tampa Bay with Reggie Bush but decided to work instead. She showed up at 7:00 a.m. prompt and worked until 7:00 p.m. She was a hard working professional, a very nice girl.

I had a chance to talk with her, she was not only professional but if you meet her in person, she is all of that, and very nice and cordial. Her trainer, Jennifer Galardi, was also very attractive and accomplished. It turned out that Jennifer’s mother worked at a bank in Palm Beach, FL only a few blocks from my house, so I invited Jennifer to look me up when she next visited her mother.

My wonderful friend, Ginger picked me up the second day of the shoot, and took me to some super bowl party in Malibu. That was fun. Then I took Ginger to Kim’s signing promotion on Robertson Boulevard and she got to talk with Kim and I got a chance to meet her mother, Kris Jenner, and have a nice talk with her. Then Kim was off to New York to do the promotional tour on shows like “Good Morning America” and “Rachael Ray”.

Chapter 28.3: The Hollyweird game again. The great Kim Kardashian rip off by YouTube.

Kim’s workout video sold well nationwide and made a lot of money, until YouTube decided to post it for free on their channel, violating copyright law and costing us huge money, probably over $18 million in lost revenues. YouTube believed it had immunity under Digital Millennium Copyright Act’s (DMCA) safe harbor law provisions to post unauthorized copyrighted materials.

A lawsuit entitled Viacom v. YouTube was basically the guiding principal in this new area of law. In 2006, Viacom International Inc. (Viacom) sued YouTube and Google in the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York for 3 counts of indirect copyright infringement based on roughly 79,000 video clips that appeared on You Tube between 2005 and 2008. You Tube argued that they had cured all specific instances of infringement of which they had either “actual” or “red flag” knowledge, and moved for summary judgment dismissal of Viacom’s case, citing the Digital Millennium Copyright Act’s (DMCA) Safe Harbor Provisions. The District court granted summary judgment to YouTube (Viacom I) and Viacom appealed to the Second Circuit Court of Appeals (Viacom II).

The Appeals Court disagreed. Viacom II held for the first time that the Digital Millennium Copyright Act’s (DMCA) safe harbor provisions are inapplicable to an online service provider that is “willfully blind” to facts indicating a high probability of copyright infringement, because “willful blindness” is legally tantamount to actual knowledge of infringement.

Now, you might ask, how could YouTube not be aware that Kim Kardashian was the number one star in America? She was a household name. How could they be so blind if it was not intentional? YouTube had a duty to filter copyright infringing material, and a further duty to make inquiries into possibly infringing materials. Furthermore, YouTube also had the ability to control infringing activity through its electronic filtering technology, including Google’s proprietary Content ID filtering. YouTube did not follow its own procedures when it uploaded 3 Kim Kardashian feature length works to distribute free to YouTube viewers.

YouTube turned a “blind eye” to such a well-known name as Kim Kardashian and in doing so reaped the financial benefits of 1.7 million views to its platform, through advertising on its platform, including banner ads. So YouTube “must have known,” given it’s sophistication, expertise and experience in copyright law, and automated solutions to identify infringing content and to electronically tag authorized content, that the 3 full length DVD works entitled “Kim Kardashian- Fit In Your Jeans By Friday” was most probably a criminal copyright violation in the United States, and a “red flag” issue, voiding the safe harbor provisions of the MDCA, thus making them legally and maybe criminally liable.

So it was time to find a law firm to take the case, maybe a $60 million dollar case on a contingency fee. And every jury in this country would find in Kim Kardashian’s favor. It would be a no-brainer one would think. But no takers. Why not?

Anybody want to sue an 800-pound gorilla that has a $40 billion war chest? Backed by 1600 pound Gorilla, Google, with an even bigger war chest? They would see this as the total destruction of the YouTube business model of stealing copyrighted material and hiding within the “Safe Harbor” of the MDCA. Thus YouTube would spend billions in legal fees and certainly appeal it all the way up to the Intergalactic Supreme Court. That’s Hollyweird! You got money and power, you own the town, maybe the world, maybe the entire Galaxy. You can do anything illegal. Just ask Harvey Weinstein.

Chapter 28.4: Kudos for Kim

I would only see Kim one more time years later. I was dinning with two great friends, at Cecconis in Beverly Hills. Kim had taken the big room next door and was surrounded by a group of 13 or so, some of whom were professional athletes. Two very very big bodyguards stood at the door. But I thought it rude not to pay her respects, so I popped over to say hi. The bodyguards’ hands inched towards their handgun shoulder holsters, but I was in a blazer jacket with a silk scarf around my neck, not really a threat unless you are allergic to preppies. I saw Kim, apologized for interrupting her dinner, asked how everything was. She was so sweet and courteous, we exchanged pleasantries, I said great seeing you again, you look great, and off I went, to the joy of the bodyguards.

Later, after Kim had her first baby, a group of us got together, Park Lane Capital, Jake Steinfeld of Bodys by Jake, and the recent purchaser of Playboy Magazine. I had control of the rights to any Kim Kardshian sequel workout DVD, which might sell big because new mothers want to learn how to get back in shape. Jake Steinfeld was friends of the Jenners, and Kris Jenner liked the idea, so Jake pursued it. However, we were on a compressed clock to produce it in time for Christmas and Jake had a previous commitment to tour the country for two weeks with Arnold Schwarzenegger promoting health. So we ran out of time.

Now all things given, Kim has not sat on her great fame and laurels like so many, she worked hard for justice reform, sadly needed. Our country prisons contain the highest per capita population in the world. The federal conviction rate is unbelievable 93%+, for they are powerful and can legally tamper with witnesses, or should I say help them “compose” a guilty verdict for the prosecution while the prosecutors waive the American Flag in front of a jury. My guess is at least 25% of prisoners do not belong there but were beaten down by the overwhelming power of the State. Kudos for Kim Kardashian for taking up this crusade.

PART XXIX: BACK TO BATTLEGROUND FLORIDA REDUX-DONALD J. TRUMP

Chapter 29.1: The Florida Trump Wars: Gather your weapons, it’s going to be bloody.

Yes, another Presidential election was upon us. This one would be one for the history books. On one side was the already coronated Queen in Waiting, Hillary, and other side was 16-17 boisterous yet accomplished Republicans, and one long shot named Donald Trump.

It did not take me long to pick sides. I knew what sort of creature Hillary was, I had gone to the same Law School and taken the same classes. I knew of her tax evasion with Refco in Arkansas, the endless scandals from Whitewater and Travel Gate through Benghazi and the e-mail servers. I believed she was basically the Tyrannosaurus Rex of grifters, using the Clinton Foundation’s IRC 501(c)(3) Tax exempt status to basically rip the American Taxpayer out of nearly $700 million for the Foundation’s “benefit”. “Play for pay Hillary” was for sale, price to be negotiated. And with her came the “Clinton Body Count Bag”, over 50 corpses of people close to the Clinton’s that had died in “mysterious” circumstances, always to the benefit of the Clintons. She and her Foundation were for sale, dangerous, incompetent, so I thought, and lastly, and worst of all, as I have written above, she was an Ivy League Lawyer. And she was an Alinsky-Lucifer disciple, and I really can’t tell you which of the two is the worst indictment, an Ivy League Lawyer President or an Alinsky-Lucifer disciple. Maybe they are the same.

Donald Trump, on the other hand, was an enigma. In my early days in New York City , I had met him socially, he was very pleasant and courteous. But I also went downtown to the State Court and Federal Court in downtown NYC and read the Plaintiff- Defendant Index tables listing all the lawsuits that were “Trump versus so and so” or “so and so versus Trump”. These overwhelmed the “T”s, and were a substantial portion of those Index tables. Maybe over 1400. It wasn’t until his campaign was full underway that they broke down each one into categories landlord-tenant, commercial, etc., that I saw it was all legal jousting and fair play. But at the time, I thought he was tough, extremely litigious, pugnacious, intelligent and dangerously unpredictable. Not to be messed with.

It was not until much later when I was as a family tax advisor on the one hour conference call with Donald Trump and my friend, a New York Real Housewife star, who was having real estate troubles re-financing her townhouse, that I realized he had a heart, a big one actually. And there were rumors that Donald had helped many people in need, including paying off their mortgages, and not a word from Donald, no brag, no self-adulation, he just kept quiet about it. That says something about character.

So the choice between and Alinsky loving Ivy League Lawyer-grifter with a heart smaller than the smallest sub-atomic particle and a tough, pugnacious, dangerously unpredictable scary street fighter with a real heart was actually a fairly easy choice. Plus I was educated and well-traveled, spent time in Russia, was geopolitically and historically savvy, and looking at the state of the world as the Ivy League lawyer Obama’s eight years came to an ugly close, I saw a world of chaos: Isis, alienation between China, Russia , and Iran, a dilapidated US military, weaponization of the Deep State against fellow Americans, and economic malaise.

It was a wise but contradictory choice to go for Trump, for contrary to normal instinct, I felt a dangerous unpredictable and tough President would strike fear into the heart of not only our enemies but also our Allies alike. They would not take us for granted and they would lose a lot of sleep. And thus they would all tend to fold at the poker table. Just what the Doctor ordered. And this was my watch, the country we claimed in 1619 as Dutch settlers and as stadtholders, and it was a mess, and so I jettisoned all my travel plans, abandoned other duties, and sat behind the computer each day, to see what I could do to deliver magic Florida’s crucial 29 electoral votes to Trump.

Chapter 29.2: The weapons, Blog and websites, a detailed study of Florida Demographics.

I was on my own, nobody to tell me what to do, pay me, or strategize with me. I would

make my own war plan, do my own thing, and then try to shoot it up the ladder to the RNC Bigwigs.

There were 3 priorities of business in this War:

• Blocking action: Grab all the domain names around Hillary and Donald that were

relevant in search engine searches, build a couple of websites, send out web-crawlers and point all the domain names to them. In essence, block the enemy from using those domains.

• Blog: That is to go onto the internet and Blog. Mostly attack the deluge of Fake Media

stories that were so plainly derogatory to Trump, attack the so–called reporters/propagandists as morons, especially the moronic prejudiced infantile Huffington Post. It is sort of like counter-intelligence. If you find a derogatory, you counter it with a challenge, and don’t be nice about it. Those media clowns never graduated from Kindergarten. If you found a person asking questions, making up their mind, you put forth a logical argument. If the blog was pro-Trump or anti-media, you would put in a “thumbs up.” Tedious and boring it was. But the feedback to me was often very encouraging. A lot of people out there were looking for answers and did not believe the fake news. This was indicative of an electorate that were not Orwellian Sheep, but rather independent thinkers who wanted to make their own mind up based on facts, not fake news propaganda. There was hope, the Americans were no dummies.

• Detailed study of Florida Demographics: Research the very many ethnic, religious and military

voting blocks in Florida, their age, voting patterns, turnout statistics, and create a report on what Trump must do to ensure taking Florida, which I have said is the most important State due to time zones and electoral votes (California and New York are larger, but not relevant). Florida sets the tone for the rest of the nation, and the pro-Hillary fake media is very predictably ready to pounce at 3:00 p.m. with a fake media call to discourage voters in other time zones. Nobody had won the Presidency without taking Florida, except once.

The very first thing to do was to acquire domain names and block the opposition, so I gobbled up domain names such as www. studentsfortrumppence.com;www.republicansfortrumppence.com; www.republicansfortrumppence.org; www.independents fortrumppence.org; www.democrats

fortrumppence.org;www. HYPERLINK “http://www.studentsforclinton.org;,www/”studentsforclinton.org;,www.independentsforclintonkaine.org;www.democratsforclintonkaine.org; www. republicansforclintonkaine.org; and so forth. Then I built some basic websites and pointed the rest of the domains to the websites so that random internet searches would end up on a pro-Trump site, and I sent out web-crawlers, or spiderbots, and set forth Metadata tags.

The next daily task was to Blog: My favorite blog was comparing Trump to Ronald Reagan. I saw similarities. I did not know that Trump was using Twitter to rise above the fake news, but I saw him as a possible Reagan-like two term mover and shaker. So when I was not calling the fake media clowns, morons or kindergarten drop-outs, I was posting on alternative sites and days, as follows:

“IS TRUMP ANOTHER RONALD REAGAN? Ronald Reagan showed an uncanny ability to circumvent the media. The Media originally called Reagan a clown, a two bit actor, a grey-hair dyeing Narcissist. Reagan went around the MEDIA and spoke directly to the American people. His second term was a landslide victory. The Media hyenas could not tear him down, and years later the Reagan legacy speaks for itself.

TRUMP appears to be doing the same thing. He has recognized the media bias from CNN to PBS to NBC, and even to the subliminal and biased media giant and Clinton donor: GOOGLE .

CLINTON, backed by mainstream media, Google, all the Clinton Foundation foreign donors, and the $$$billions from WALL STREET Hedge funds, can only POLL even to Trump, who has spent nothing.

THIS is a mighty testament to Trump’s business savvy and acumen. He is not ivy league degree smart but is very street smart. We as a NATION need that business acumen after 8 years of wage stagnation, rising taxes, rising food prices and lost jobs. We need that financial savvy after the shameless treatment of VETERANS and equally shameless treatment of STUDENTS, who are leveraged to the hilt at usurious interest rates via government education loans, and thus graduate with poor credit scores and little hope of a decent job.

AND these horror shows are after $9 TRILLION (US$ Nine Trillion) was borrowed and squandered by the current Democratic administration. WHERE did all that money go? Wall Street?? Washington?? Certainly not to the MIDDLE CLASS, not to VETERANS, and not to the newly impoverished STUDENTS. Certainly not to free up CREDIT for small businesses. Those many TRILLIONS have all but disappeared into that tar pit called “government”.

TRUMP can change all this if he can only bypass the Media hounds, just like REAGAN did. REAGAN would be voting for TRUMP.”

Finally, I concurrently began my opus magnus, a deeply detailed research report on the

very many voting blocks in Florida, their ethnic and religious background, age, gender, voting patterns, turnout statistics, and create a report on what Trump must do to ensure taking Florida.

Chapter 29.3: General Florida Demographics – A Tale of Two Cities:

Florida had 12,278,580 registered voters as of June 30,2016. 35.88% were Registered

Republicans, 37.95% were Registered Democrats, and 23.52% were Independents. A further breakdown as of February 16, 2016 showed that 13.31% (1,605,767) were Black not Hispanic; 14.88%(1,794,927) were Hispanic; 65.7% (7,924,635) were White, Not Hispanic; 1.8% (214,595) were Asian or Pacific Islander; and 4.3% (520,825) were other. Strategic Goals:

• The Panhandle is a must.

As discussed earlier, 9% of Florida’s Republican Vote is based there. And the Panhandle

polls close one hour later, giving a rich target for the entire Republican phone-bank effort for another hour. There are 340,837 Republican Votes to be had, 117,247 Independent votes, and 187,684 Democrats to turned if possible. There is a heavy military concentration, and a very conservative bias.

• Military Absentee Ballots (Why so few are returned?).

Florida is the home of 21 Military Bases, 1.6 million veterans live in Florida of which

449,000 were Vietnam Veterans and 164,000 were World War II veterans. This represents 13% of Florida’s voting population. However, an enormous number of military absentee voters seem to have been repeatedly disenfranchised by a cumbersome absentee ballot process, in spite of laws like the UOCAVA, and those ballots seem to never make it back. In spite of improvements, it is still a disgrace.

In 2008, Florida had only 27.8 percent of military voters requesting an absentee ballot. Only 20.6% percent of the eligible military voters in Florida actually returned their ballots.

In 2010, the rate of active-duty military voters who reported not receiving a requested absentee ballot almost doubled from 16 percent in 2008 to 29 percent in 2010, according to a survey done by the Defense Department’s Federal Voter Assistance Program (FVAP).

For the first time, FVAP also surveyed military spouses and found that 52 percent of them voted in the 2010 elections. Of those who voted, 57 percent of military spouses voted in person. Overall, just 33 percent of military personnel voted in person, the report said. In 2012, 66,668 ballots were returned by absentee military voters in Florida of which 1% were rejected. Extrapolating the mathematics, there were potentially hundreds of thousands missing votes.

• The Russian community in Florida is the third largest in America, yet their heavily

Republican vote is neglected. There are estimates that 200,000 Russian American Voters live in Florida, mostly in Adventura, Sunny Isles and North Miami in Dade County. The Russian Americans tend to hold very conservative values.

In this Russian speaking and closed knit community in North Miami, Russian-Americans are only watching one TV station “Channel One”, the old Soviet TV, known here as RT America, as I well knew from my earlier days in Russian Television. A few well-placed Russian-language ads might be explosive for a significant turn out. Channel One (RT America) is the largest watched satellite channel by Russian speaking Americans.

• The Haitian Community is approximately 150,000 strong. Normally Democratic, a

huge opportunity existed in 2016 to exploit the massive dissatisfaction of Haitians with the Clintons due to the financial rape of Haiti by the Clinton Foundation. Haitians listen to a few radio stations in Creole, a French derivative language. This could be exploited as an inexpensive media channel. Without Obama on the ticket, and with the Clinton Foundation financial rape of Haiti, Haitians would have had every incentive not to vote Democratic or vote at all.

• The Polish voting community was reputed to be over 513,690 strong in Florida. Al Gore

did not attempt to win over the Polish-American vote with much effort, and the National Democratic Ethnic Coordinating Council identified that as a major blunder in his 2000 campaign. Specifically, Gore was criticized for not holding any events for the Polish-American community in Florida, where there were roughly 500,000 voters of Polish descent. He lost Florida by 537 votes. The Florida Polish community identifies itself as 77.8% Roman Catholic and 67.8% conservative. Voter turnout is exceptionally high. The endorsement of Romney by Polish solidarity leader Lech Walesa led to a huge pro-Romney turnout in Florida in 2012.

• The Elderly: Much has been said and done about the elderly, about 20%+ of the voting

population (2,455,716 votes). It is traditionally 44% Democratic, 56% Republican with a large 72% turnout. Their main concern is stability and benefits. They are targets of ballot harvesting.

• Jewish Voters: There are estimates that the Jewish voters represent 3.4% of the voting

population in Florida. As near as can be estimated, there are 417,472 such voters. 10% are orthodox Jews of which 57% lean Republican. The Aggregate vote leans 69-78% Democratic. This metric does not appear to be fungible. The turnout is phenomenal, nearly 90%. Social Welfare seems to be a priority. When Lieberman ran as VP, there was no measurable effect. Safety, law and order are the cards to be played.

• Hispanic Voters: There were approximately 1,795,000 Registered Hispanic Voters in

Florida of which 479,000 were registered Republicans and 678,000 were registered Democrats. Approximately 27% of Hispanics in Florida were Puerto Rican, leaning heavily Democratic. Approximately 31% were Cuban Americans, —leaning Republican. Hispanics of Mexican Origin were reported at 9% although I have seen as numbers as much as 15%. The rest represent groups less than 3%, e.g. Columbia, Dominican Republic, Honduras, etc.

• Muslim Voters: Of the approximately 120,000 Muslims in Florida, a great many overlap

The Hispanic-Puerto Rican category. Muslims voted heavily for Obama yet they tend to be socially conservative, family oriented and business oriented.

• The Student/Millennial Vote: This was to me a “strategic” but unexploited opportunity

to appeal to the large number of college youth and recent graduates in Florida. The top 7 college/universities as of 2013 in Florida are: 1. Miami Dade College-Enrollment: Over 174,000 (students over eight campuses); 2. University of Central Florida-Enrollment: 58,693;

3. University of Florida-Enrollment: 49,5894; 4. Florida International University-Enrollment: 47,966; 5. University of South Florida– 47,1226; 6. Florida State University-Enrollment: 41,710; 7. Valencia Community College-Enrollment: 35,351. Total: 250,000+.

In the Age Group 18-29 years old: approximately 60% vote Democratic and 37% vote Republican. Age group 30-44 years old: approximately 52% vote Democratic, and 38% vote Republican.

Chapter 29.4: The Student Loan Debt Relief Initiative.

As usual, I was not just satisfied with statistics, I wanted to innovate, right a wrong, and give Trump a chance at the millennial vote. I could justify it by claiming it was my over-watch duty, which is based on the my ancestors lawful Stadtholder claim to this land in 1619, a codified in the 1674 Treaty of Westminster after fighting the English for 50 years, or I could just say I had an enticing pathway to woo student voters and millennials; make them an offer they can’t refuse, to get their vote.

But either way, there is a huge Student Debt Crisis in America effecting student voters and millennials: $1.26 trillion in student loan debt that had been incurred by 43.3 million students and millennials. The delinquency rate is 11.6% affecting 5,022,800 borrowers whose credit rating was in the tank. The average student debt is $32,300 and the average monthly debt service payment is $351 over a 10 year amortization schedule.

This front-loaded debt schedule over a 10 year amortization schedule had put enormous pressure on recent graduates, effecting their ability to buy a first home or make consumer or other lifestyle purchases. It was a drag on the economy. Students were unrealistically expected to support themselves after graduation, starting out with a mound of debt, and in a lot of areas, with little or no job prospects. As a result, many millions of recent graduates were struggling financially. 35% of graduates had to move back with their parents, a historically record number.

This student debt accumulation in turn leads to lower myFICO credit scores for the graduates. myFICO scores had morphed into an indicator not of creditworthiness, but of responsibility and reliability, which in turn further limited job opportunities and housing options for student debtors. (myFICO is a 4 part mathematical algorithm that sweeps and scores credit reports from the 3 large Credit Reporting Agencies: Equifax; Transunion; and Experian). This vicious circle led to subprime lending and borrowing and again lower credit scores. Millions more fell into the spider web of poor credit and subprime borrowing. Soon many defaulted on their student loan obligations and entered into the debt collection nightmare of garnishment, attachment, high collection fees, which I called “debt slavery”. The Student Loan Crisis had created a generation of DEBT SLAVES, for it is the first generation in modern times to have highest level of education, the highest levels of student debt, more poverty, and lower levels of personal income than any generation at the same stage in life in the history of this country. This was and still is a major crisis, it needed fixing. If the Democrats could fix it or wanted to fix it, they would have done it already.

All the while, the government and its usurious loan servicing contactors were taking their huge slice of the pie and were apparently making huge profits. The US government is reputed to have made a $41.3 Billion profit in 2013 and a $44.9 Billion profit in 2012 off of student loans.

Democratic candidates had offered confusing and conflicting proposals to give away tuition to the next generation of borrowers and voters. But they failed to address any fix to the “Crisis” in Student Debt. They did not offer to help all student borrowers or their parents, only a select few in massive distress. The Democrats under Obama had 8 years to fix this and only made it worse. Reagan would have asked “are you better off then than you are now?” The answer was a clear “No.” Trump was maybe the only hope for these students and their parents.

The then current borrowing rates for the United States Treasury- 10 year was 1.58% The rate for 10 year Stafford Student loans (subsidized and unsubsidized) was 4.29% plus a 1.069% upfront fee. For Parent Plus Loan and Graduate Plus Loans, the 10 year Treasury rate was 1.58% but the 10 year Parent and Graduate Plus Loans demanded a whopping 6.84% rate plus a 4.272% upfront fee. Quite a horrendous and unconscionable net interest spread bordering on criminal theft. The Government is by the people, for the people, but it was acting like a profit making Mafia bank, borrow low-lend high. And the swamp creature student debt collectors and managers were swarming there to take their piece of flesh, the huge spread between the governments cost of borrowing and the usurious interest rate charged to hapless students and their parents.

I proposed an optional 30 year student loan amortization schedule based on the 2.22% 30 Year US Treasury Bond borrowing rate with an added 98 basis point servicing cost (3.18%), which would cut the student monthly debt payments in half. That $40 billion in savings annually to students would go to housing, consumer purchases, entrepreneurial investment, and enhanced life style. The students would pay because they were in reality paying for their social security retirement. The student-debtors I spoke to said they would vote for Trump if he got them a decent amortization schedule and a lower interest rate. They could move out, get married, buy a house. Pocket book + quid pro quo = Trump vote. It was not rocket science.

Throw the greedy student loan servicing swamp profiteers out the door, they were ruining thousands of young lives. It is criminal and unnecessary. For a few bucks and a few IT people, the IRS could monitor and collect this debt at little if any additional cost, the students would get the well-deserved benefit of their Government’s low borrowing rate. The rapacious middlemen and the myFICO gangsters could be locked away. That was my thesis, I hoped this would lead to significant change, help liberate the DEBT SLAVES, but alas, not to be. The swamp profiteers would fight back and win, at least so far.

Chapter 29.5: Finally, connected to the RNC and the brilliant Steve Bannon.

I had a few dear friends, and they could reach the top of the RNC. They put me on to their special encrypted network, the type diplomats use, and I sent my research and data up the ladder to the Bigwigs.

I got a few kudos, because although they had the Panhandle and most Florida demographics under control, they did not know of the mass Haitian migration towards Trump on account of the raping of Haiti by the Clinton Foundation. The Haitians all had relatives there, they considered it still their country, and they especially did not like all the Haitian gold mines going to Clinton cronies. Since I spoke French, I talked to many Haitians driving cabs or cleaning the bathroom of some bar, and they all said the same thing: Hillary had raped Haiti and she was a no go. This the RNC was unaware of, so I advised them to put radio station ads in Creole language to reach out to the Haitian community, who in general don’t watch TV.

They were also interested on the thesis of the Russian Vote and advertising on Channel One, or RT America, something that you could only know if you were Russian or had spent time there in the TV business like I had. And the Military Absentee ballot numbers were appalling. I don’t know what they did about that.

But I was very flattered that word had come down from the very top that they appreciated my work, especially on the Haitian equation that they were apparently unaware of. I knew it was from the brilliant boss-man Steve Bannon. I would not speak with him until after the election, but he was there, and pulling the rabbit out of the hat. I had pitched into the Trump Train my unasked for “two cents” and maybe 29 electoral votes to boot. I was quite pleased with myself.

Chapter 29.6: Trump surprisingly wins, and the War begins.

This was the strangest pre-election I had ever seen. Nowhere were there bumper stickers or signs on the lawns for either candidate. Perhaps people feared their cars would be key-scratched.

Hurricane Matthew was threatening to make Palm Beach its Bulls eye at maybe a massively destructive Category 5 storm on the Saffir-Simpson scale, as it spun towards Florida in late September, 2016. But as it tracked northwards along the coast, a friend and I decided to circumvent it by driving inland and then down to the Florida Keys to outflank it and weather it out at the exclusive Ocean Reef Club, which my friend belonged to. We would sip Martinis as the fate of Hurricane Matthew vs. Palm Beach worked its way through the Weather Channel hysterics. Fortunately, Matthew tracked offshore up the coast. But on the very long drive to the Ocean Reef Club and back I did not see one bumper sticker or lawn sign for either candidate.

There was a sense of fear in this election. I sat at a bar one night and a Captain of a boat sits next to me and whispers: “Are you going for Trump?” The media polls were suspect, not to be trusted, voters were scared and held their cards close to their vest. Nobody wore a button or hat for Trump as I had seen in all other elections in my life going back to Kennedy vs. Nixon-Lodge. Nobody told you who they were going to vote for, nobody debated in public, only on the web, incognito.

I was convinced Trump had a good shot at taking it all. Google was honest and open back in 2016 and showed its daily searches for Trump and Clinton, and I kept a log. Trump consistently outscored Clinton by about 1 million hits per day, which to me was a leading indicator of national curiosity.

I had also done what I called “Mathematical Doodles” based on the various Primary Elections. The Premise of this exercise was to compare per capita primary voter popular vote in swing states like Florida, (Closed) Ohio, Pennsylvania,(Closed) Wisconsin and Virginia (Semi-closed) in a Trump vs. Clinton contest where the voters for runner ups give 60% of their vote to the winner and the disgruntled 40% go home and do not vote. The assumptions were therefore that whoever voted for Trump will vote again for him and whomever voted for Clinton will again vote for her and 60% of the runner up voters will vote for their party nominees, and that independents (unable to cross) are divided 50-50%, a draw: Florida: Popular vote Trump:1,077,221 plus 60% of other Popular vote: 1,990,705(x.6=719,8823)- Popular Vote Clinton:1,097,400,plus 60% of Sanders:566,603 (x.6=339,962): Result: Trump: 1,797044/Clinton: 1,437,362-Trump takes Florida. Ohio: Popular vote Trump: 727,585/ Popular Vote/Clinton:679,266: Trump takes Ohio. Wisconsin: Trump 805,628,/Clinton 773,529: Trump wins Wisconsin.

My numbers also wrongfully predicted a win in Virginia for Trump. Maybe I forgot to include the busloads of DC residents that were double registered in Virginia. Since the corrupt Tammany Hall days, the saying has been “vote early, vote often.” Now they had to change it: “Vote Early, Vote Often, and Vote yet again in another State.”

To be sure, I took my “magnus opus” to the local West Palm Beach RNC headquarters several days before the election and explained the previous fake media calls for the Democrat in past 4 elections around 3:00 p.m. EST. and they should be prepared for the same this time. They were smart, read my research report, and took it seriously. On election day, I went down to RNC and at 3:00 p.m., they turned the phone banks to the Panhandle as the predictably biased CNN released the flawed and deceptive exit polling, calling the Florida election for Hillary at 3:29 p.m., right on schedule. So I hung around for a while, had a slice of pizza, and felt relatively useless as they had the RNC ground team efficiently at work. So I went home to watch the results. And I thought of my friend Rob Nottingham and our “flipping” role in the 2000 Bush-Gore melee. He had passed away due to skin cancer, but he would have been proud.

When Trump finally won late in the evening, a small group of us who had fought so hard for Trump, we all texted each other. There was relief, but there was no joy. We all texted “We won the battle, the War is just beginning.” Little did we know how right we were.

PART XXX: RICH AND FAMOUS SCANDALS AGAIN AT POLO AND PALM BEACH, JEFF EPSTEIN, ROBERT KRAFT, MAYOR BLOOMBERG ET ALIA:

Chapter 30.1: Polo anyone? Wellington can have Scandals too.

Polo is more than just a sport, polo is a way of life. In polo, each of four players receive a handicap on the basis of his polo skills. The highest possible handicap in polo is +10 and the lowest is -2. +10 means highest quality and standards only the best players can accomplish this.

Most are Argentinians like the Carlos Gracida, Adolfo Cambiaso, Juan Martín Nero , the Pieres brothers and Miguel Astrada. They grew up riding horses at the age of 3 in the Pampas of Argentina, and could gallop for miles while bobbling a small ball on a polo stick. “40 goal” polo is the rare pinnacle of the game, each of the four players on each team are ten goalers,

To play in this league, it’s about $2 million per player per year not including 25 polo ponies, so the team sponsors, who also play, are super wealthy heirs of some Fortune 500 company like Budweiser beer or Coca Cola. Other sponsors like Peter Brant and Tommy Lee Jones are in the mix, along with many others with extremely large bank accounts. The pinnacle is the U.S. Open Polo championship, in Wellington, Florida.

It is the most dangerous of sports because you have a 1,000 pound horse galloping at full speed, and the physics are that the moving mass of horse and rider resemble a freight truck. Thus Polo has many intricate rules to avoid disastrous collisions. The direction of the ball creates a “right of way”, you can approach it only at a 45 degree angle. You have to ride off the opposition, that is bring you pony side to side with the opponent, lean on him and his horse with you and your horse, and push him off the track of the ball. You have to swing your polo stick forward and backwards from either side. Knock the ball backwards or sideways and a new right of way is thus created.

Accidents are often, deaths are not uncommon. Amateur Polo is the most dangerous, because the amateurs do know or follow the rules, and collisions are common.

But the is no thrill or feeling in the world like you and your well trained horse playing Polo together with one mind, you are both together as one in a very special zone. But horses sometime slip and down you go at a gallop, and a horse rolling over you is no fun as I found out one afternoon at the Meadowbrook Polo Club in Old Westbury, Long Island. I was lucky to be able to walk again.

Wellington is a wealthy, laid back equestrian enclave about 25 minutes west of Palm Beach. Bill HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_T._Ylvisaker”Ylvisaker built there the Palm Beach Polo and Country Club when he ran Gould Corporation many years ago, when Wellington real estate was dirt cheap swampland. He was able to build elegant houses and a clubhouse, pool and tennis courts for next to nothing. He also built a Polo stadium with viewer stands and a facility for show horses. It became a destination spot for equestrians and soon every Sunday from late December until Easter the U.S. Open Polo Tournament would begin. It became a very prestigious and expensive show of the best talent Polo had to offer and the wealthiest of sponsors vying for the coveted U.S. Open Championship Trophy.

Somebody bought the old Polo Club and raised prices to insulting levels, so Tim Gannon,

Founder of Out Back Steak Houses, and John Goodman, his good friend and godfather of Tim’s wonderful daughter Kathleen, said “screw you”. They went down the road a few miles and built the very successful International Polo Club. Soon, miles away, a new Equestrian Center would be built with capacity for thousands of Grand Prix Show Jumpers, show jumpers and dressage horses. The old polo stadium built by Ylvisaker was an empty shadow of its former self, abandoned.

Chapter 30.2: The entire Venezuelan Lechuza Caracas horse team mysteriously dies in the US Open quarter final. How?

So Polo was renewed at the new Polo Club. Gannon and Goodman were cool and laid back. Dogs were welcome, for Wellington is an animal loving venue. On Easter, the ladies would dress in their elegant outfits and their stylishly lavish Easter Hats. My Dog would wear rabbit ears. The new stadium was surrounded by smaller tents and tailgate parties where grilled food and drink were aplenty.

In 2009, the U.S. Open quarter finals were just about to begin in Wellington at the International Polo Club. Team Lechuza Caracas was in the competition having had an excellent Tournament. The team was owned by multimillionaire Venezuelan Victor Vargas, a polo player, reputed to be the second richest man in Venezuela.

I was walking with my Golden Retriever at my side on the east side of the field when, at about 2:15 pm, two Lechuza Caracas horses fell in their trailers as they were being unloaded before the polo match. Others showed signs of dizziness, breathing heavily, before finally collapsing.

As they fell, one by one, grooms and vets rushed to treat the animals, spraying them with water to cool them and administering intravenous fluids. But their efforts were in vain: all horses that showed signs of illness died. Fourteen Lechuza Caracas horses died on the field that Sunday, I had to take my dog upwind, to the West side of the field, for I did not want him to smell this horrible tragedy unfolding.

I learned from Neil Hirsch, a well-known entrepreneur and polo player and the owner of the Player’s Club, that a further seven Lechuza Caracas ponies passed away overnight, wiping out almost the entire team that had been brought to the tournament.

The carcasses of the dead horses were transported to laboratories in Tallahassee to await the coroner’s verdict. Victor Vargas was quickly on his private jet back to Venezuela, there are criminal penalties in Florida for animal abuses. The world of Polo anxiously awaited the results of laboratory tests to help reveal how 21 horses from a Venezuelan team died suddenly in a mystery outbreak. These were beautiful and absolutely magnificent ponies, trained to a very high standard, among the top 100 best polo ponies in the US. Further attention fell on whether the animals were given any performance enhancing fluids before the match. It is not uncommon at this highest level of this sport for horses to be given cocktails of fluids, similar to steroids, though steroids themselves are banned in some circuits, including at British competitions.

It is a well-known rumor that not only the horses but also the players get “Jacked up” in unregulated Polo. Speculation also focused on the possibility of toxic shock, which would explain the symptoms displayed by the horses of dizziness, water in the lungs and cardiac arrest. If so, that would lead investigators to ask what caused the reaction. It could be explained by contaminated food or water, which would raise the issue of whether the toxin was mistakenly or consciously given to the animals. Veterinarian James Belden, who was at the scene, told NBC: “Clearly it’s an intoxication … there’s some sort of a poison.”

The coroner eventually found that an improperly mixed nutritional supplement had been ordered for the horses, turning it toxic. The Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office said it was not investigating the incident. Victor Vargas flew back to the U.S. in his private jet. The more cynical of observers circulated a rumor that the coroner in Tallahassee had a few new Mercedes Benzes in his driveway shortly thereafter.

Chapter 30.3: News Flash, News Flash: Bloomberg’s Daughter’s in the News! Oops, the Gag Order.

At the Equestrian Center a few miles down the road, the word came that Mayor Bloomberg’s daughter, an accomplished Gran Prix Jumper, had a 4 year old Dutch Warm Blood which just died of a heart attack while jumping. It’s an ugly thing to see a horse die of a heart attack. I had seen it at the Myopia Hunt Club in Massachusetts. The horse falls on its side and kicks his legs for minutes before he goes out. So sad and heart breaking.

But the Bloomberg incident did not add up. I had syndicated the first Dutch Warm Blood, Omen, many years ago and they are a hearty breed. Heart problems show up when a horse is two years old, not four years old. Heart attacks are usually amongst much older hoses, in their mid to late teens. Again, performance enhancing drugs are often used for horse and rider alike.

The horse ambulance came to pick the dead horse up and take him to the same coroner in Tallahassee. The ambulance drivers would not talk to the press. They said they had a Bloomberg “Gag Order”, they could say nothing.

Then the entire incident disappeared. One of the largest News Organization in the World, Bloomberg News was silent. The internet was wiped clean. And the more cynical floated the rumor that the coroner in Tallahassee had yet another Mercedes Benz in his driveway.

Chapter 30.4: The Tragic fall of the Rich and Famous: Polo Club Owner John Goodman.

John B. Goodman, co-founder of the International Polo Club with his partner, Tim Gannon, was an extremely well liked and respected member of the Polo community. He was heir to a Texas heating and air conditioning fortune and the world was his oyster. But many of the Rich and Famous fall into ruin. And the crash and burn is always ugly and tragic.

In John Goodman’s case, Goodman was drinking at the Player’s Club one Thursday night and tried to navigate his way home near the polo club he founded, when he disregarded a stop sign and collided with a car driven by a young student returning home from college. The student’s car ended up overturned in a canal and the student drowned. Goodman broke his wrist. Goodman left the scene of the accident without calling the 911 emergency services. Goodman hired well-known criminal defense attorney, Roy Black, best known for high-profile trials involving William Kennedy Smith and Rush Limbaugh, but to no avail.

He was found guilty of DUI manslaughter and vehicular homicide in March 2012 and again on retrial. Goodman was sentenced to 16 years in prison. The Player’s Club’s insurance company coughed up $10 million, and his partner, Tim Gannon, sold the Polo Club after divorcing his 5th wife. Crash and Burn, again and again, amongst the Rich and Famous.

Chapter 30.5: New England Patriot Owner Robert Kraft is sacked by the Patriot Act.

I recently sat in on the Robert Kraft case for “solicitation of prostitution”. Scandals are not rare in Palm Beach, and I now share my perspective with you on this scandal. Florida prosecutors charged the 77-year-old Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, with soliciting prostitution after secretly videotaping a day spa in Jupiter, Florida, under the auspices of a “sneak and peak” warrant, a warped child of the USA PATRIOT ACT, passed in 2001 to guard against terrorism.

Kraft and others had been ensnared into the spider web of the criminal justice system through an investigation into what police originally described as a felony human sex-trafficking case, but had to “downsize” it into a misdemeanor “soliciting prostitution” when they could find no “human trafficking”.

In October, 2001, in the name of national security and guarding against terrorism, President Bush signed into law sweeping changes to search and surveillance laws: The USA PATRIOT ACT. Due to what can only be called “Police State Creep”, provisions of the PATRIOT ACT have been used to target innocent Americans and are widely used in investigations that have nothing to do with terrorism and national security.

Originally issued with a “sunset provisions”, many of the Act’s provisions were to

“ sunset” in 2005. Thereafter, it was renewed in different forms through 2019. It was scheduled to sunset again in December, 2019, but did not. The PATRIOT ACT was a “wish list” of law enforcement officials to change surveillance laws, denied because of civil liberties concerns, until the September 11th, 2001, Terrorist Attacks. The USA PATRIOT ACT was sold to the fearful Congress and the panicked public, sidestepping due process, as a necessary anti-terrorism measure.

But this has long since morphed into Police State abuses now used on ordinary citizens. One of the truly radical expansions of criminal and intelligence search and surveillance authority, the one that would cause Robert Kraft and others much angst and legal fees were: the “SNEAK AND PEEK” warrants, with hidden cameras. From 2006-2009, sneak-and-peek warrants were used a total of 1,755 times. Only fifteen of those cases—a microscopic 0.8%—involved terrorism.

In the Kraft Case, the local prosecutors told the public they had smashed an international sex-trafficking ring and caught some of the country’s most privileged citizens participating in it. “The men are the monsters in this case.”

The narrative soon changed. The following week those same Florida officials walked back many

of their most inflammatory claims, including the allegation that the spas engaged in human trafficking. “We have no evidence that there’s human trafficking involved,” a state prosecutor told a judge. And Police are supposed to stop recording surveillance with hidden cameras when they aren’t witnessing criminal activity, a process known as “minimization”. Four courts found “sneak and peak” warrants violated people’s Fourth Amendment rights, and “that minimization techniques employed in this case did not satisfy constitutional requirements.” The surveillance video footage could not be used in a trial as evidence.

In an ideal world, every American would have access to the same level of legal defense

that Kraft did. But many can’t afford any lawyer, let alone some of the best in the field, and they suffer for it. But Robert Kraft had money. He hired top rated trial attorneys Alex Spiro (Harvard) and William Burke (Yale) and local counsel, Jack Goldberger, a seasoned veteran who successfully represented Jeff Epstein.

By the third day, this case was over. The surveillance videos would be thrown out. The Spa owners would not testify against Kraft. No credible witnesses, no forensic evidence, no surveillance tape. The case was over except for the fighting.

The State appealed it, but they will lose. The Town of Jupiter, FL will be sued for over

$100 million dollars by the John Doe Anonymous Plaintiffs wrongfully captured on surveillance cameras, and the town and county taxpayers will have to pay up. Tiger Wood’s real estate taxes will increase.

In the real world, most Americans can’t afford any lawyer, and this encourages “sting”

operations like the one that ensnared Robert Kraft, and 90-95% of federal and state cases are thus resolved through “plea deals”.

The Kraft case “sting operation” makes me fear the knocking on our door of Saul Alinsky’s Socialist Police State, the ones like Hitler, Stalin and Mao Tse-tung ruled, that end up killing many millions on hearsay evidence and end up financially like Venezuela.

Think of the Robert Kraft Case as a “bell tolling for thee”. Saul Alinsky’s Socialist Police State is indeed knocking on our door. “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.” –Benjamin Franklin.

Chapter 30.6: Jeffrey Epstein works his way from Jets, Islands, and Mansions into the Morgue.

Jeffrey Epstein and I had met several times in Palm Beach, just a handshake at some social function. He was in a very fast crowd that included Bill Clinton, Prince Andrew, Les Wexner, and a Rolodex of high profile people that he jetsetted between an island or two in the Caribbean, one nick-named “Pedophile Island”, then Palm Beach, New York, and New Mexico. I was not in that fast crowd.

In 2005, police in Palm Beach, Florida, began investigating Epstein after a parent complained that Epstein had sexually abused her 14-year-old daughter. Epstein pleaded guilty and was convicted in 2008 by a Florida state court of procuring an underage girl for prostitution and of soliciting a prostitute. He served almost 13 months in custody, but with extensive work release. He was convicted of only these two crimes as part of a plea deal; federal officials had in fact identified 36 girls, some as young as 14 years old, whom Epstein had allegedly sexually abused. Some people that I knew, who also knew Epstein, were not surprised at all.

Epstein had dodged a bullet. But he did not have the brains to take his money and run. He was worth over $500 million, and had the extreme Hubris to think he could do anything he wanted anywhere he wanted. This is the usually the part when the Gods step in and crush you.

Epstein continued his wayward ways and he was arrested again on July 6, 2019, on federal charges of sex trafficking of minors in Florida and New York. He died in his jail cell on August 10, 2019. The medical examiner ruled the death a suicide, by hanging, although Epstein’s lawyers have disputed the ruling. The suicide thing never added up. People who have $500 million to fight and hire the best lawyers, they don’t suicide, do they?

Moreover, the alleged noose was an untwisted bed sheet with no DNA traces. But if you look carefully at the photos, there were markings on his neck that indicate a standard electrical cord was used, and bruised his neck on the way up. Now I had been trained years ago in the art of death-dealing, and strangulation is in that curricula. The standard strangle “101” is to approach from behind, put a rope cord around someone’s neck, preferable with a knot in it to crush the Larynx. Then you turn your back to the victim, bend over forwards to lift him up off the ground on your back with the cords crisscrossed in your hands. This keeps the victim from touching the ground, gaining grip, and flailing helplessly as his breath is quickly being taken away, really by the force of his own weight. That is just standard combat strangulation. And the 3 unusually broken bones in Epstein point to such an assassination.

But here there were other complications. The guards would have to be drugged to sleep for six hours with an untraceable drug agent. Moreover, the technology to mess with the video cameras from afar is possessed by very few intelligence agencies. So that narrows it down. Not the CIA, they simply are incompetent in these matters. The FSB (old KGB) had no skin in the game. MI6 possibly had the wherewithal, but why would they risk endangering the close tie to the USA? Not to protect Prince Andrew. That leaves only one competent and very lethal agency, the Mossad, Israel’s shadowy Deep State intelligence agency, known on occasion to free-lance.

Now Epstein had a lot of dirt on a lot of very rich and powerful people. And you do not have to be a rocket scientist to know that Epstein would turn State’s evidence to get a deal. He would sing like a canary, or even “compose” to the Federales’ liking. His Rolodex of the Rich and Famous would be dragged into a co-conspiracy charges, etc., so that in the end, the Rolodex of Epstein’s former friends and buddies would become a list of very powerful and fearful enemies, any one of which would want Epstein taken out. And the Mossad could do it easily, untraceable drugs, undetectable video camera manipulation, an electric cord that could be easily switched. There is the broken bone issue, very telling, but the real clincher is: Why would somebody with $500 million in the bank not duke it out in the Court System?

No, Epstein was taken out skillfully. And we have a good guess by whom. His newly found frenemies, to be found on his old Rolodex.

PART XXXI: THE “SCIENTISTS” STUPIDLY FUMBLE THE BALL AS THE HYGIENIC FASCISTS AND BIG PHARMA CHEER. JEFF EPSTEIN’S MORGUE DOES MORE BUSINESS.

Chapter 31.1: The Plague is upon us. Not Covid-19, but “Hygienic Fascism”. Alinksy’s Dark Shadow deepens.

The world has not been kind to Mankind after Epstein’s “alleged” suicide. His buddy Ghislaine was put in “cuffs” the very next year, more than 30 years after her wealthy father, Robert Maxwell, had allegedly committed suicide when he “fell” off of the stern of his mega yacht Lady Ghislaine. Ironically, his funeral was attended by six former top brass of Mossad, the shadowy Israeli secret service agency that has been known to “freelance”, and would be the prime suspects if in fact Epstein was assassinated by his powerful former friends. And that Maxwell family obviously had the “connections”. Wow!

But the “tragic” world of the Rich and Famous, like Epstein and Ghislaine, would soon be put upside down: no more Polo, black tie benefits, gala parties, jetsetting or photo ops. But also the entire world would be likewise flipped upside down for the ordinary common citizen.

Families, kids, worship, socialization, dating, mating, and education would be hastily shoved into existential “cuffs” much like the real ones worn by Ghislaine. Businesses would be shut down, parents and kids arrested for playing in the park or walking on the beach. Social distancing and wearing surgical masks would become mandatory in a symbolic move to muzzle freedom of speech, as well as freedom of assembly and debate. All in the name of a nebulous, constantly shifting “Science”, a word descending from the Latin word “scientia” meaning “knowledge, a knowing; expertness”. But Science, since people must do it, is a socially embedded activity. It progresses by hunch, vision, intuition, and constantly shifting “empirical evidence”. Much of scientific change through time does not necessarily record a closer approach to absolute truth, but rather the alteration of cultural contexts that influence it so strongly.

Remember my earlier illumination that the entire world for a thousand years misbelieved Ptolemy that the Sun circled the Earth, until Copernicus came along. That is science.

Chapter 31.2: Neo-Carpetbaggers jump onboard the Hygienic Fascist Gravy Train.

Nevertheless, a great opportunity had arisen for disease scientists and the puppet paycheck slaves of Big Pharma to grab center stage. Soon they were joined by political power mongers to evolve our society into “Hygienic Fascism” which imposes impossible conditions on society and the economy without popular consent, by means of Executive Orders without legislative recourse, all in the name of “Science.”

And while the executives at Big Pharma were licking their chops at the $$billions soon to be had, the Digital Oligarchs, the behemoths of privacy data gathering, foresaw in their quest for a Cyberocracy a great opportunity in this disaster, along with their ally, the fake media and its always hysterical gloomy news. For disasters sow “fear” and bad news draws viewers, especially locked up viewers confined to house arrest, and thus can generate more advertising revenues, while good news does nothing for them. Dog bites a Man is not news, but Man bites a Dog is news, Randolph Hearst once said. Fake media would do one better with “Covid bites Man, or, should it be “Pandemic threatens to destroy Mankind”? It presented the media a great chance to boost their Neilson ratings and cash in on Human Misery.

The pandemic thus also offered the Digital Oligarchs an unprecedented opportunity to monitor citizens to an extent never possible before, as “contact tracing” allowed them to circumvent HIPPA, our medical records privacy law, and collect citizens’ medical records. All in the name of “Science”. Likewise, Amazon could expand its chokehold on bricks and mortar businesses using shipping subsidized by the US Postal Service, on taxpayers’ dollars, to a nation of consumers under house arrest. And of course there was the U.S. Treasury to be further plundered into bankruptcy by politicians in order to buy votes, all in the name of “Science” and “Hygienic Fascism”.

George Orwell’s “1984” had finally arrived, albeit late. As the famous author of “Brave New World”, Aldous Huxley once said, “a thoroughly scientific dictatorship will never be overthrown”. Thus, this was a First Class ticket to corporate tyranny and behavioral conditioning, authoritarianism and totalitarianism, eradicating the last vestiges of individualism, all leading historically to imprisonments, mass graves and extra-judicial killings of those who do not comply with the “party line”.

In sum, the pendulum had further swung from the United States’ Constitutional Free Democratic Republic to an Oligarchy of Hygienic Fascism, Big Data, and media propagandists, on its pathway to complete Totalitarianism. Alinsky’s dream of total socialist control of this Brave New World by a mere few was apparently becoming a reality before our very eyes. The evil Sith Lord, Darth Sorius, as death and the Grim Reaper neared him, and his time clock on Earth was running out, gleefully rubbed his hands together, hoping he might actually live long enough to see his dark evil works fulfilled. And he had no worries, for he had the best Table in Hell already reserved, next to Stalin and Hitler.

Chapter 31.3: The “Pandemic” and the Law of the Jungle: The FINAL LESSON.

The culprit was a puny little viral creature, a coronavirus identified as SARS-CoV-2, or “Covid-19”, allegedly released by the Communist Party of China in furtherance of its evil scheme to rule the world. Covid-19 was a meek and mild “culling virus”, not like the Bubonic Plague that wiped out a third of Medieval Europe or the Spanish Flu of 1918 that killed as many as 50 million persons worldwide, including so many young soldiers huddled together in the unsanitary trenches and hospitals of World War One.

Covid-19 was a more benign virus, it did not hurt the young or middle aged, it only killed the old, the weak and the infirm, those with pre-existing conditions and weak immune systems. And that was by accident, the virus does not want to kill its host. Like most parasitic organisms, it wants to procreate, be fruitful and multiply, and killing the host is the ticket to its own demise.

To understand a “culling virus”, one must first understand the last lesson of this Tales of Brave Ulysses, and that lesson is a lesson in law they don’t teach you at Yale Law School: The Law of the Jungle. Lesson # 6 in this Tales of Brave Ulysses.

In a jungle environment, “culling” is a process whereby the old and infirm are removed from the herd. A primary example is predatory cats, lions and tigers, chasing a herd of zebras or gazelles. The old and the weak lag behind the stronger, younger, faster fleeing herd, and those stragglers are the ones taken down and eaten by the predators. The herd is being culled, just as the human herd is now being culled by Covid. But Covid is not attacking our very young, and that makes it relatively benign, unless of course, if it mutates like the Spanish Flu did in the fall of 1918 into a more lethal form.

Before I get into the science of the Covid virus and the stupid blunders, incompetency and mistakes that were made, I want you to understand the Law of the Jungle, the last lesson in this Tales of Brave Ulysses, for we are descended from predatory jungle creatures, and the only difference is that Mankind tends to be the one of the very few species that preys on itself. Jungle species tend to prey on other species as part of the “Food Chain”.

To understand the “Law of the Jungle” and to be truly enlightened, you have go back there. You have to strip away the distractions of modern life, the internet, TV, computers, smartphones, jets, cars, railroads and high speed trains, and the skyscrapers. You have to go back in time and strip away the inventions and innovations that boosted mankind into its current stage of evolution. Some of those major inventions were, going back backwards in time, antibiotics, the light bulb, the telegraph, the steam engine, the printing press, the compass, gunpowder, the stirrup, the wheel, all the way back to before fire.

Having stripped away these things, you have only your Jungle, where the Law of the Jungle originates. It is Live and Let Die, Kill or be Killed, Eat or be Eaten or both. You are Predator or Prey or both. There is the “Food Chain” where the strong struggle to the top like Lions and Great White Sharks and the Food Chain works its way down to insects and then to microbes like the Covid virus.

And it applies not only to fauna but also flora. Vines prey on trees, weeds upon grass, and there are outliers like the Venus Fly Trap that prey on insects. In forestry, culling is a process of cutting back and removing dead branches and trees, cutting back and trimming flower gardens and hedges. In the Jungle, Mother Nature does this naturally. But Mankind not only is culled by Mother Nature through disease and famine, but then Mankind further culls itself through self-inflicted war. And it is always a struggle between life and death, and the subsequent right or ability to procreate: the Jungle.

Fast forward to the present and metaphorically speaking, what are you, Predator or Prey? Wolf, sheep, or sheep dog? Whose lunch are you eating and who is eating your lunch? Where are you in this Food Chain, where are you on the corporate ladder, the military hierarchy, the lifestyle hierarchy, the social hierarchy, the power structure? Are you a monarch, an oligarch, a subject, servant, serf or slave? Is the person asking for or buying your vote ( with your dollars) doing so because this person wants to help you in this modern jungle, or because this person wants to move up in the power structure, the Food Chain, to rule and exploit you?

So the Law of the Jungle exposes the real “END GAME”: POWER. Granting POWER to a small elite “expert class” who will tell you what to do and when to do it, and will gladly take what you own or produce and redistribute it to those more needy, including themselves, for you are nothing more than “Human Capital”, a resource to be exploited. You are the “Prey”. This is the Law of the Jungle. Lesson # 6. You don’t need to learn it, you are already living it. You just have to recognize it in its many modern forms, and avoid it in order to better your life, or use it to grab a bigger piece of the pie.

Chapter 31.4: The War against Covid-19. “Science” and “Hygienic Fascism” imprison Mankind.

In the American invasion of this puny little virus, highly paid Institutes of Research saw a new source of Grant money, and cranked out apocalyptic prophesies of millions upon millions of people to be killed by this new virus. But you did not need to pay these Institutions the big Grant money for their frightening forecasts. Any kid with an iPhone calculator could extrapolate the mathematics. If 675,000 Americans had died of the Spanish Flu of 1918-19 and the population then was 103.2 million persons, and the population a century later in 2020 was 331,000,000 persons, or three times that of 1918, then 3 times 675,000 would die, or roughly two million persons. Maybe 150 million deaths worldwide.Covid-19 would be the second or third worst plague to ever hit mankind, after the bubonic plague in medieval times and maybe equal to or greater than the Spanish Flu of 1918-19, not the puny little culling virus it really was. But the seeds of Fear and Panic had been sown, to be exploited, and Covid-19 would thus morph into a national security threat to survival. Severe and swift action was mandated to combat this puny little invader.

And so it was to be War! We were under attack once again and the Nation had to be mobilized for War. And this was Donald Trump’s watch, and although Donald was a proven deal maker, and an accomplished and feared street fighter, having beat back the countless waves of attacks from a hostile Democrats, a weaponized bureaucracy, and the fake medias’ daily artillery barrages on Cable TV, now he had a tiny unseen microscopic enemy to deal with. And he apparently he never had a viral flu or had been attacked by tiny microscopic predators, so Trump found himself sailing in unchartered waters.

But Donald had the talent of organization, and so he, like George Bush, Jr. after the suffering 9-11 terrorist attacks in Bush’s first term, likewise summoned to the White House the “experts”. However, Trump had to rely on Big Government, surrounded by Virologists and Immunologists and doctors with tenure from the bureaucratic CDC, who were thus heavily entrenched with their future employers, Big Pharma, in effect the same type of sycophants and Court Jesters that had ill-advised George Bush, Jr. on the Second Iraq War nearly two decades before.

Then Trump summoned the Captains of Industry, Big Pharma, and the military, and put the screws to their thumbs. Thus “Operation Warp Speed” was developed and it would deliver a swift temporary if not permanent victory over the Covid-19 virus by vaccinations developed in record time using a fairly new science: mRNA monoclonal antibodies and viral vectoring. This new “science” would seduce and trick our bodies’ immune systems into thinking the puny little Covid virus had invaded it, and gear up IGm antibodies for a counter-attack. It was War, and Trump would have to fight his “scorched earth” form of modern warfare using the only tools and weapons at his disposal, this new “science” as preached by CDC sycophants and the Court Jesters.

The “new science” was intended to bypass Mother Nature, for rather than recognizing Covid-19 as a “culling virus” under the Law of the Jungle, “Science” would ride to the rescue and reap the billions upon billions of dollars to be had by installing panic and fear, then rushing new vaccines into market to cash in on the new Covid-19 “California Gold Rush”. If the virus was let be to run its course, the natural immune systems of the young and strong would quickly develop their own IGm antibodies to kill the virus, and thereafter shed the virus into the community to thus create herd immunity, as nearly 70% of the population would become immune. But there would be no payday, no would-be heroes on prime time TV, just a fairly large number of elderly and individuals with compromised immune systems, by heart disease or Diabetes Type 2, that would have to be buried if they failed to properly shelter from the virus.

And the sycophants, Court Jesters and Big Pharma puppets would have their way once again. Their myopic degrees in “Science” would not allow them think outside the box. And if they could, their paycheck would be threatened, for 65-75% of FDA staff go on to be hired by Big Pharma. It was not much different than in Stalin’s USSR: there was a “party line”, and if you did not follow it, you would be exiled to Siberia or lose your life to a firing squad. Here in America, the powerful grip of Big Pharma dictated the “party line” in medicine and thus also the paycheck firing squad.

Chapter 31.5: A “Ship of Fools” manned by a “Confederacy of Dunces”.

During the American Civil War, waged in the 1860’s, General William Tecumseh Sherman created a wide swatch and path of fire and destruction to forever crush the Southern Confederacy as his Union Army marched from Atlanta to the Sea. After this “scorched earth” campaign of ruin and destruction, a more damaging and punishing plague would descend upon the crushed Confederate States in the form of “carpetbaggers”, those human parasites from Northern States who would come to feed on and profit immensely from the rubble left in the wake of Sherman’s ruinous March to the Sea.

And unfortunately, history repeats itself, and as Trump’s Operation Warp Speed threatened to arrest and crush this puny little Covid Virus like General Sherman’s March to the Sea, a far more deadly plague appeared in the form of “Hygienic Fascism”, the “Neo-carpetbaggers”.

As the sycophants and Court Jesters and Big Pharma puppets struggled and sought to understand the various aspects of the Covid culling virus, an opportunity for profit and power was recognized by politicians, Big Data, and the “fake news” to sow fear and panic in order to impose conditions on society and the economy without popular consent, by means of Executive Orders without legislative recourse. Thus there was immense “power” to be reaped in addition to profits.

The Nation was put into lockdown or “house arrest” by local and State officials, neatly termed in Orwellian “1984” false-speak as “shelter in place”, as if these newly-born benevolent dictators were protecting you from the ravages of a Force 10 Hurricane. Public and Private Beaches, where the Sun’s ultraviolet rays and salt ocean would help destroy the virus, were closed. Businesses were mandatorily closed, ruining the dreams of hard working entrepreneurs and blue and white collar workers alike. Churches and schools were closed. Young kids were deprived of education and the all-important socialization of playtime with playmates, the dating and mating ritual of the mature immune young would be put on indefinite hold, and any form of socialization of a very social species, Mankind, would be prohibited under penalty of law.

If you were to leave your jail cell for necessities, you would have to wear a surgical mask meant to protect the patient from the surgeon, not the surgeon from the patient. But the net effect was to conceal facial expressions, so important in human interaction, as you wheeled your shopping cart down one-way isles staying six feet away from your dangerous fellow shoppers, unable to recognize a concealed smile or a scowl. And the cosmetics industry would suffer, especially the lipstick makers, as vanity tables and beauty parlors stood idle and the restaurants, bars and dance clubs closed their doors.

Humanity had ground to a ruinous halt as the sycophants, Court Jesters, and puppets of Big Pharma, struggled to understand the Covid enemy, constantly shifting their opinions on center stage on a prime time TV show , as a literally captive Nation waited in apprehension and in never ending anticipation of regaining its lost freedoms.

Nobody understood that Covid-19 was merely a “culling virus”, lethal only to the elderly and those with pre-existing conditions, or a weakened immune system, and thus all age groups were made to suffer and were stripped of heretofore unquestionable rights to speech, assembly, discourse, and of course parties, dancing and mating.

And scientifically ignorant imbeciles like the Governor of New York at the time arrogantly sent thousands of elderly into the front trenches in this War to help spread Covid-19 amongst more elderly, while overcrowded hospitals became Petri Dish killing zones.

Trump, as usual, delivered on his promises as his watch came to a bitter contentious end, and mRNA vaccines were delivered right on schedule. America is well on its way to achieving 70% herd immunity except that it is an immunity not generated by Mother Nature’s time-proven personal IGm antibodies, but rather a hastily conceived scientific “mousetrap” ruse.

Thus, I feel that in the Law of the Jungle there is a form of survival known as Charles Darwin’s Adaptation By Natural Selection, that is to say organisms evolve and mutate in order to survive, and I suspect the Covid-19 virus is no exception. And as the mutations and variants emerge, I fear that a Covid mutation similar to the Spanish Flu mutation in the fall of 1918 might create a far more lethal pandemic.

But I fear far more that the possibility of such variant will allow the Alinsky- loving “Hygienic Fascists”, the Neo-Carpetbaggers, to continue their chokehold on the freedoms once granted to this Nation’s people, and dearly fought for since 1619 by my forbears. So after 14 generations of North American ancestry who fought for our disappearing freedoms, I will again throw in my unasked for two cent opinion, by virtue of my claimed right as Stadtholder heir. Here it is for what it is worth:

Chapter 31.6: Gee! These CDC Muppets might be right about chemical energy, slow costly vaccines. But why not look at electromagnetic and biomechanical acoustic energy? Attack the virus first!

Now, as I had previously written, I am descended from warriors who survived and I am thus a probably a product of Darwin’s natural selection. Add to that my Viking and Mohawk blood and my childhood training in weaponry, sprinkle in a little Law of the Jungle, and you have a jungle “cat” that just basically wants only to attack. An “Attack Cat”. Always go on the offensive, take the war to the enemy as General George Patton would do.

The “scientific” community, however, apparently thinks only in defensive terms. How does one protect themselves from an attack by a virus? What mechanisms of defense can be found, how deep can we dig a moat or build a high wall to protect us, as we “shelter in place”? What medicines can we take?

Add to that the Primetime TV and the spotlight of Hollywood stardom on the Guru du Jour on Covid-19, and you had basically a nightly Big Pharma sponsored puppet show.

I had already seen the “Muppets” puppet series, so I decided to tune out, listen to my warrior instincts, and put on the thinking cap. How to go on the offensive, how would you attack the Covid virus, kill it instead of waiting to see if it killed you?

Again, you begin by looking at the Sun first, the prime generator of life on Earth. And as the Sun

shines on Earth, it gives us light in the form of a spectrum of Electromagnetic energy that help plants produce oxygen and warms the surface of our planet. But it is a vast spectrum of electromagnetic energy, consisting of bands of infrared on one side and ultraviolet on the other as measured in frequencies. It is only the very small center of this vast spectrum that we humans can visibly see, the rest is invisible.

The effects of this invisible light, this electromagnetic energy from the Sun, on chemical compounds and biological organisms depend both upon the radiation’s power and its frequency, which a resemble smooth rolling ocean waves at lower frequencies with much wave length and compressed bunched-together high energy storm waves at higher frequencies. Lower frequencies (i.e., visible light, infrared, microwaves, and radio waves) measured in nanometers are non-ionizing radiation, because its photons do not individually have enough energy to ionize atoms or break chemical bonds. The effects of these radiations on chemical systems and living tissue are felt as heat or warmth.

In contrast, high frequency ultraviolet, X-rays and gamma rays are called ionizing radiation, since individual photons of such high frequency have enough energy to ionize molecules or break chemical bonds. These radiations have the ability to cause chemical reactions to bleach fabrics and ionize metals and can really damage living cells. Ultraviolet light is a Killer. It kills more than just Vampires. The Chinese were already using UVC light at the traditional germicidal frequency of 254 nanometers to kill the Covid-19 virus and sanitize its public transportation buses, but it would damage human tissue, for it was both carcinogenic and cataract genic, so it had to be done mechanically with no humans around. By robots.

But could we find an “assassin” frequency for Covid-19 without damaging humans? Scientific Research showed the answer was “yes”. At the far end of the ultraviolet spectrum called far-UVC at exactly a frequency of 222 nanometers, there existed a far-UVC light frequency that would kill the Covid coronavirus dead while not penetrating the human skin or the cornea of the eye. It could not penetrate the ozone layer and atmosphere of planet Earth, but we could synthetically manufacture it via huge quantities of light bulbs of filtered krypton-bromine (Kr-Br) or krypton-chlorine (Kr-Cl) excimer lamps to emit far-UVC 222 nanometer light to constantly kill and sanitize the air while human traffic safely came and went. Light bulbs and tubes emitting far-UVC 222 nanometer light could be put in elevators, buildings, public transportation, airplanes or in restaurants on tables to constantly kill the Covid-19 coronavirus.

And this was not hypothetical mumbo-jumbo. Earlier research had shown far-UVC light was highly efficient in inactivating aerosolized H1N1 influenza virus [Welch, D. et al. “Far-UVC light: A new tool to control the spread of airborne-mediated microbial diseases.” Sci. Rep. 8(1), 2752 (2018)]. And the H1N1 influenza virus was from the same “beta genus” family as Covid-19, which meant both were enveloped in similar positive-strand RNA. Covid would die just like its cousin H1N1 did when exposed to the right frequency of far-UVC light, 222 nanometers to be exact.

And the time cycle was excellent. 90% of the airborne Covid-19 would be killed in 8 minutes, 99% in 16 minutes, and 99.9% in 25 minutes. Life could return to normal as businesses and restaurants retrofitted their lighting to combat, kill, and desiccate the puny little Covid coronavirus.

Chapter 31.7: Torah, Torah, Torah! Attack and Destroy the Enemy Virus! But with Music?

But I was not satisfied, I wanted another killing weapon to reap havoc on a full 100% of the Covid coronavirus, wipe its DNA off the face of this Earth, Mohawk style. I wanted “scorched earth” warfare, to totally destroy the virus with overwhelming force, and that extra force could be in the form of acoustical energy, or radio waves. Everybody knows a talented opera singers can shatter a wine glass at the right frequency with their vocal cords, generating enough energy to destabilize and shatter glass. Can you do the same to shatter a virus? Science said the answer was “yes”.

Moreover, my early days at the Heart Institute of Moscow in the 1990s revealed a 100% cure for Hepatitis C, an infectious disease caused by the hepatitis C virus (HCV) that primarily affects the liver. The Russians made this cure possible by irradiating water molecules to emit frequencies that would kill the hepatitis C pathogen, and thus cure the disease. The science was lost in the chaos following the collapse of the USSR, but not forgotten by me.

So I knew that the right acoustic frequency could kill an organism like COVD-19 by finding the right frequency to vibrate and shatter the protein layers of the outer shell of a pathogen like the coronavirus. All organisms have what is known as a “mortal oscillation rate”, a frequency that would vibrate the organism or cell membrane until it shattered just like an opera singer shattered a wine glass, and then just die.

And with $20 million dollars, you could access research labs with 20 or so electron microscopes and run experiments using different sound frequencies on the Covid virus in petri dishes until you found the right frequency to shatter the outer capsid layers of the Covid shell, which I suspected might be in the ultrasonic range. It would just be a matter of time. It might take a second frequency to destroy the inner shell of the Covid-19 virus after the outer capsid shell had been destroyed. Another way to discover the “mortal oscillatory rate” of the Covid-19 pathogen would be computer modeling using Artificial Intelligence and such models as the MARTINI force field.

This is not really rocket science, since proteins are key building blocks of virtually all life, providing the material foundation of spider silk, cells, and hair, but also offering other functions from enzymes to drugs, and comprise the nano-container shells for pathogens like viruses. And if you can envision the virus as a pathogen encapsulated in a protein nano-container of building blocks, joined at certain spots like a Large Ship’s steel plates are welded together to create a Hull container, then theoretically such protein shells can be targeted, destabilized and shattered at their weakest point, the places, or interfaces, where their protein sheets join together. And I knew enough about biochemistry to know the interfaces of the Covid capsid shell are 5 fold pentameters and 6 fold hexamers, and the hexameric unit could fail ( destabilize and shatter) more easily because it is more pre-stressed. Therefore, that would become the primary focused targeted area for attack of the Covid’s capsid outer shell. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Protein_dimer

So I went ahead and had my lawyer file a Provisional Patent in early 2020 entitled METHOD AND APPARATUS FOR KILLING OR DESICCATING CORONAVIRUS AND/OR OTHER PATHOGENS BY USE OF FAR-UVC APPARATUS WITH OR WITHOUT ACOUSTIC FREQUENCY GENERATION ATTACKING MORTALITY OSCILLATION RATES OF TARGETED PATHOGENS,FOR USE IN PORTALS, ELEVATORS, BUILDING STRUCTURES, RESTAURANT TABLES, AIRPORTS, AIRPLANES, VEHICLES AND OTHER CLOSED SPACES, AND/OR IN SITU. Appl. No.: 63/101,538. And it was then released to the internet for any or all to see.

The methodology was fairly simple if you can read or write music. Based on a Nano mechanical analysis of the structure and motions of atoms and molecules at multiple scales, sonified versions of the coronavirus spike protein of the pathogen of COVD-19, 2019-nCoV would first have to be identified. The audio signal, created by using a novel Nano mechanical sonification method, would have to discover and disclose an overlay of the vibrational signatures of the protein’s primary, secondary and higher-order structures. Presenting musical encoding in two versions – one in the amino-acid scale and one based on equal temperament tuning, gave us a method that would allow for expressing protein structures in audible space, and would then reveal novel avenues to represent, analyze the architectural features of the pathogen and pathogen “mortal oscillatory rates” and further designate an exact lethal frequency. In effect determine the weakest structural “binding” areas of the protein capsid shell to be targeted with a precision guided Music to shatter it. Yes, Mr. Beethoven, a beautiful symphony of missile-guided killing tunes!

The complexity of this composition would be furthered by the fact that protein molecules consist of 20 naturally occurring amino acid building blocks that are assembled into hierarchical structures across various length-scales. Proteins are usually classified by their structural organization, from primary structure (also known `helix), as well as tertiary and quaternary structure (overall folded arrangement). More broadly, the folded structure of proteins, encoded by the sequence of DNA, determines material function but would also would reveal the failure prone areas, in the context of disease remediation.
Since each amino acid features a distinct audible expression, defined by their unique profile of molecular vibrations, they can be assigned a particular musical “note” or tone. In this framework, the primary sequence of amino acids defines the note sequence played, which is augmented by the other frequencies. The next higher level of organization of a viral capsid protein is the secondary structure, reflecting the local organization of the 1D chain into helices or sheets. Information about the secondary structure associated with each amino acid is necessary in the identifying the duration and volume of notes necessary to cause oscillatory vibrations leading to the desiccation or cracking of all the capsid shells of the targeted virus or pathogen. In addition to mapping primary and secondary structure, the overall vibrational motions of the molecule must incorporate their normal mode frequencies into an audio signal. In sound generation, both signals – the primary and secondary, as well as audio generated by the overall vibrations are overlaid and played together, creating a multi-dimensional image of the protein’s structure, true to its accurate reflection of vibrational spectra, in effect a dance to a symphony of death music. Sidechain compression would be used to modulate the volume of the secondary signal based on the level of the primary signal. This renders a dynamic interplay of the two sound sources to completely destroy the targeted pathogen.

Sonification of the virus spike protein, for example in twelve-tone equal temperament tuning, requires that all sounds generated are based on the spectrum of the actual molecular vibrations. This, however, poses challenges in matching it with conventional tuning systems. While the sound of amino acids closely resembles that of bells, another approach that can be used is to map each of the 20 amino acids onto a unique tone in a particular musical scale, such as a Dorian mode. Other possible scale choices could be a major or minor scale, or variations thereof, whereas 20 notes are picked in ascending order to describe each of the 20 amino acids. The note assignments are made in the order TYR, ASN, LEU, MET, GLU, PRO, TRP, ARG, GLN, HIS, PHE, SER, LYS, VAL, ASP, THR, ILE, CYS, ALA, GLY, following an ordering based on their lowest vibrational frequency from small to large or vice versa.

And if you really wanted to be a hero, you would find a frequency to desiccate the coronavirus once it had infected a human, once its spike has latched onto the ACE2 receptor of a human cell. In this instance, the frequency needed would change, so in order to kill the virus and the infected cell host, a different frequency would have to be discovered to be used “in situ”. Where was Ludwig von Beethoven when Mankind needed him the most?

Regardless, the net effect would be a cheap double whammy on the Covid coronavirus as you could technically hand out inexpensive CDs or stream music in to sanitize empty buildings at night, albeit with acoustical engineering refinements to be match the area of the space to be sanitized. And if you wanted to be sure, in large buildings and heavily trafficked areas, you could suck the air into retrofitted airducts with reflective inside coatings, bouncing 222 nanometer far-UVC light along the pathway while sound frequencies were ricocheting inside. It could be a deathly crossfire killing zone for the virus and the clean air could be sucked through a HEPA filter to be cleanly recirculated. In effect, a mass virus killing field. Objective accomplished, draw the enemy into a trap, into a deadly crossfire, and kill them all. So I had been taught as a youth, and it was thus ingrained in my blood and personae, even though my enemy was a now just a puny little virus.

Now I was not really inventing this attack on the Covid-19 virus from scratch. There was no Wizard’s hat in the mix. As I said, there had been much research on the effects of ultraviolet rays as a disinfectant and the Chinese already had a major program sanitizing its public transportation buses with standard germicidal 254 nanometer UVC light, used by robots, as it was very harmful to humans.

And acoustic energy to vibrate and shatter a protein based pathogen was a not new revelation. In 1932, Royal R. Rife (a scientist with expertise in microbiology and physics) had created and patented the “Rife Universal Microscope“. Then, he cataloged and observed the effects on various diseased microbes as he bombarded them with endless combinations of acoustic frequencies. He successfully identified the “mortal oscillatory frequencies” that rupture or destroy some deadly pleomorphic (shape changing) microbes active in cancers and other diseases. (Rife had, in fact, invented and patented a 100 string guitar).

And the science never died. In 1980s, Robach et al demonstrated that ultrasonic energy can be absorbed by viruses. By 2015, Chinese Scientists had empirically established a theoretical model to estimate the microwave power threshold for virus inactivation, by structure-resonant energy transfer that physically fractured the virus structure, confirmed by real-time reverse transcription polymerase chain reactions. They provided a pathway toward establishing a new pandemic prevention strategy in open public for an airborne virus. [ Szu-Chi Yang1, Huan-Chun Lin et al.:”Efficient Structure Resonance Energy Transfer from Microwaves to Confined Acoustic Vibrations in Viruses”, www.nature.com, Sci. Rep. 5, 18030 (2015)].

The thesis of my filed invention to attack and kill the Coronavirus was soon thereafter corroborated in an article published later in 2020 by Manuela Buonanno, David Welch, et al. of the Center for Radiological Research, Columbia University Irving Medical Center, New York, entitled “Far-UVC light (222nm) efficiently and safely inactivates airborne human coronaviruses.” (Sci Rep. 2020 Jun 24;10(1):10285). And ironically, a link to it was posted by the FDA on their website, who then just “forgot” to tell Trump about this phenomena.

So this use of electromagnetic and electromechanical and acoustical energy was ignored by all, especially the virologists, immunologists and puppets of Big Pharma. No one would inform Trump or his administration that a cheaper, quicker pathway toward establishing a new Covid pandemic prevention strategy in open public for airborne virus was readily available.

For had he been informed, Trump, with a few phone calls, would have Westinghouse and GE quickly cranking out millions upon millions of 222 nanometer far-UVC Light bulbs, and some Research Institute quickly identifying with electron microscopes the resonant frequency that would shatter the Covid-19 virus. Trillions of dollars could have been saved, along with the businesses and lifestyles of more than half of America and maybe the World. But no big paycheck for Big Pharma and its puppets, and the Hygienic Fascists would soon become an extinct species. A no go, apparently. This is unfortunately the human way.

So the nightly Faucian puppet shows continued unabated as the themes constantly shifted, mask, no mask, two masks, school, no school, sports, no sports, Restaurants at 25%, 50%, 100% then back to 25%, as these Puppets urged a continued lockdown and isolation.

And thus the “Science” on the Covid pandemic has been fictitious, incompetent, wrong, and the solutions completely stupid as Big Pharma, the puppet master, continues to entertain a captive audience at great profit, as the Hygienic Fascists continue their chokehold on our freedoms. In the meantime the evil dark shadow of Alinsky continues to grow unabated. Can it be stopped? Maybe. Possibly. But like a cancer that has metastasized, or clearly has begun to, drastic measures must be taken to cure the suffering patients: We Americans and our now missing freedoms.

Chapter 31.8: One Ring to rule them all… and in the Darkness bind them: Welcome to Shelob’s Lair:

We can’t do anything about solar flares disappearing and maybe such causing a Little

Ice Age. We cannot fully control a Rogue State’s misuse of Nuclear Energy or EMPs or cyber-attacks. And the perils of “Hygienic Fascism” and Alinsky Totalitarianism are upon us in the disguise of a “pandemic”, as discussed above, and will probably continue to smoother us with continuing “control” as they and Big Pharma find “variants”, Covid mutations, requiring “booster shots’ and thus generate further revenues for themselves and Big Pharma, ad infinitum. And no fear of quick death! The destruction of the Green New Deal and “Behavioral Sink” are lurking in the foreseeable future to finish us all off.

Amidst these calamities, we can find yet another clear and present danger. And it is being taught in our schools, first to convince our Young that they are entitled to everything and it should be free. And unfortunately the Young are buying it, because “free cost” sounds good and they are too busy multi-tasking, texting, playing X-games.

Then these Young are being forced to listen to sublime propaganda pieces about diversity and guilt, rather than learning the basic reading, writing and mathematics, or questioning, and debating. They are being deliberately being shamed and dumbed down for the Evil Sith Lord. Control over thought and ideas is the Mantra, all of which is then shuffling mind control over to the Digital Oligarchs: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and the Monster Google to exploit them as Human Capital and create a “Cyberocracy”.

These predatory data mongering monsters seek to control the mind and thoughts of the current and next generation and turn them into Orwellian sheep while these powerful behemoths steal their private “data” for resale. Thus Big Data will continue to reap the spoils of war and fill their coffers with untold wealth. It is the human way, unfortunately. They will start attacking our youth at young ages, in politically correct schools, introducing new words of Orwellian “false-speak” while and banning others, just like the Serpent who speaks with a forked tongue. They will shame these youths rather than seek to build their confidence and self-esteem. They will promote self-deprecation and self-loathing.

They will thus continue to exploit the young by trapping them into the spider-web of Cyberocracy and suck their digital blood, their private data and metrics. Just as a government steals your own production and money to buy votes to dilute your vote, just as a miner mines gold until the vein is played out, so will Big Data ensnare the young into their spider web and drain their blood, by image beguilement, electronic deceit and agenda driven curriculum. For our young are new, fresh Human Capital, to be exploited by them. It is the Law of the Jungle. Welcome to Shelob’s Liar!

But don’t be fooled by their amateurish Jedi mind tricks. Tell your children, and all others, to look at themselves in the mirror each morning and see a unique individual, only one of a kind, and express great love for that person in the mirror. As these Young grow older and wiser, they will perceive the “END GAME” of these agents of Lucifer, these Alinsky disciples: POWER to control you, own your data, power to eat your lunch. Only then will the Law of the Jungle become a lesson learned.

And these agents of Lucifer not only want to take everything from you, eat your lunch, make you a serf or a de-facto slave, but first they will also attempt to dumb you down, financially beggar you, and then seduce you first by and giving you unearned entitlements so you are dependent on them forever. In metaphoric shackles, in digital slavery, that is their “END GAME”.

But don’t be fooled by these unpaid for promises of entitlements. I may claim I am entitled to the title of “White Poster Prince”, but is not my “elite” entitlement really exactly the same as yours, six feet of earth over my grave? Are not you a Prince or Princess too? Somebody thinks you are. Maybe others than just your parents. And then is not the color of my bones white, same as yours? Those facts we share, the rest is conjecture, happenstance, a roll-of-the–the dice. Diversity and guilt thus are simply Orwellian “1984” false-speak illusions, mind tricks, but very useful tools in pursuit of the “END GAME” of Alinsky socialist control and its synonym: Totalitarianism.

Thus “Diversity” and “Racism” are just more “false-speak” terms taught in schools to divide us and exploit our Young,. But we don’t really need it. We are all Homo Sapiens, identical in biological makeup. Then we organize ourselves into diverse Tribes and Tribalism. Then we have innovated ways to fight and kill each other’s Tribes and have fought amongst ourselves for many thousands of years without any need of help of a government or Cyberocracy. And we don’t now need imbecilic teachers and media clowns to exploit “Diversity” and “Racism” or make our children feel guilty or shamed. We are who we are, who we always have been, humans and tribes. And we will find ways to hate and kill each other as always, regardless of Race, Color, or Creed. So just teach the Law of the Jungle to our children instead. Then they don’t have to go to Yale in order to climb the “Food Chain, they just have to learn to recognize the Alinsky Predators waiting there for Prey in Shelob’s Liar.

Chapter 31.9: The War against Alinsky enters its fifth decade.

It has nearly one half a century since Saul Alinsky fortunately departed this world. I’m

sure he went to visit his buddy, Lucifer. But he left behind him a sewer of political swill that caught the eye of the likes of Hillary Clinton, Obama, and Darth Sorius, the most evil of Sith Lords, and they, and many alleged Professors, as well as media clowns, now continue to over-promote socialism as the ticket to Sir Thomas More’s Utopia in spite of history to the contrary.

The “evidence” is that socialism is the ticket to mass graves under Totalitarianism, but these idiots don’t study history, they promote socialism as long as they still get a paycheck. And as long as they are in the “Elite Class” and you are not, they will preach endlessly to you as they reach into your pocket for your wallet, your vote, and your data.

“Democracy” is based on the assumption that a million men are wiser than one man. “Autocracy” is based on the assumption that one man is wiser than a million men. Thus the war between individualism and autocracy is very simple, one million persons can determine the pathways available to every person, that is called “Democracy”. Or one person can control the destiny of a million persons, and that is called “Totalitarianism”, known also as Communism, Socialism, Fascism, or Nazism. And that leads to mass graves, history has taught us.

Saul Alinsky’s Book: RULES FOR RADICALS, REVEILLE FOR RADICALS was written on

how to create such Totalitarian state that historically kills millions of people. And unfortunately it prevails, in one form or another, as the curriculum in our dysfunctional educational system.

Again, there are 8 levels of control that must be obtained before you are able to create a Socialist state.

The first is the most important.

1) HEALTHCARE — Control healthcare and you control the people

2) POVERTY — Increase the Poverty level as high as possible, poor people are easier to control and will not fight back if you are providing everything for them to live on.

3) DEBT — Increase the Household and National debt into an unsustainable level. That way you are able to increase taxes, and this will produce more poverty.

4) GUN CONTROL — Remove the ability of people to defend themselves from the Government. That way you are able to create a Police State.

5) WELFARE — Take control of every aspect of their lives (Food, Housing, and Income).

6) EDUCATION — Take control of what people read and listen to — take control of what children learn in school.

7) RELIGION — Remove the belief in God from the Government and schools.

8) CLASS WARFARE — Divide the people into the “wealthy” and the “poor”. This will cause more discontent and it will be easier to take (Tax) the wealthy with the support of the poor.

So that is what is happening now, probably more dangerous than all other threats. I had written earlier that the Government takes and takes from you, and wants to control you and everything you own or produce, and then the question becomes whether you are a serf or slave, or do you starve like under Stalin’s rule? And there are plenty of Elites that are willing to rule in your best interests if you provide them with your work product, your slave labor. One third of the Roman Empire were once slaves. Why not again? Does not history repeat itself? We shall see. But be forewarned. Alinsky is gaining control.

PART XXXII: NEVER SEND TO KNOW FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS, IT TOLLS FOR THEE:

Chapter 32.1: Armageddon is finally upon us: Extinction, Death and “Behavioral Sink”.

What follows in this next chapter is really, really scary. A unique and severe danger so few know about, I have carried this knowledge with me for so many years, it is time now to share it. Maybe you should not read it. You might lose a lot of sleep if you truly understand this threat to all Humankind.

Following Steven Hawking’s posthumous call for outer space, I need us to ponder this one other significant threat, the first really scary one that is biological in nature. So let us begin there. There was a brilliant man, Dr. John B. Calhoun who wrote between 1957 and 1971 about the necessity of man groping for the Moon and beyond. He saw the threat of overpopulation as standing second only to the threat of nuclear warfare as a force that could destroy the course of human progress. He was a behavioral research Psychologist and Ethologist, in Maryland, who postulated that the increase in population and the numbers of humans sustainable on this finite planet would become a major crisis, but not in a Malthusian way. Calhoun invented the term “Behavioral Sink” to describe a collapse in normal human behaviors which can result from overcrowding, leading to possible or probable extinction of our race.

He and his colleagues recorded man’s evolutionary history, and their equations showed a very interesting relationship: Each doubling of the population required half the time as that of the immediately prior doubling. Maybe like Moore’s Law. They postulated nearly 60 years ago that, given 25% of the earth would be given over to non-habitat purposes, they calculated a “maximum stable” human population of Earth was 7.5 billion, ( we are at 7.8 billion now), then they calculated that there was after that a “maximum functional” world population of 9.5 million persons, and thereafter an “overload population” whereby extreme deviant behaviors and extinction trends, the “Behavioral Sink”, would beset upon the 12.5 billion persons/population. Their estimate was that the maximum functional 9.5 billion would be reached on Doomsday, Friday, the 13th of November, 2026, calculated over 60 years ago.

They did innumerable experiments on mice and rats, in environments where food and shelter were aplenty, there was no competition for scarce resources, and watched the behavioral changes as the population multiplied and density increased. Soon, at a saturation point, all types of deviant behaviors emerged starting with stress and social withdrawal. Random aggressive behaviors became rampant, mice aggressively bit for no reason. “Nippers” they were called and you can see them emerge today in human form in the senseless unmotivated mass shootings of fellow humans.

All typical breeding behavior altered to where sex and mating disappeared, mice of same sex mounted each other regardless of age or sex, an effect counter to nature. The actual chromosome that at birth coded the definition of sex of male and female was irrelevant, breeding became impaired, “nest building” became dysfunctional. Many [female rats] were unable to carry pregnancy to full term or to survive delivery of their litters, if they did. An even greater number, after successfully giving birth, fell short in their maternal functions. Some ate their young. Then they began to die, and the population explosion trended to a full extinction when all the many subjects just died. They all just died, no one killed them. They ended up like a mass of stacked up dead bodies in a pyramid, as seen in the Auschwitz gas chambers: Yes: “Behavioral Sink.”.

This threat is immediately upon us. A Clear and Present Danger. We must begin moving underwater or off-planet. Mars is a good start or “Behavioral Sink” (Armageddon) will soon arrive.

Chapter 32.2: The Law of Unintended Consequences. If we survive Armageddon, don’t worry: The idiotic “Green New Deal” will certainly finish us off.

The Law of Unintended Consequences is a law they don’t teach you at Yale Law School. Unlike its cousin, Murphy’s Law (“what can go wrong will go wrong”) which you have probably learned by now, the Law of Unintended Consequences implies that government policy decisions, no matter how noble, are far more likely to backfire, and do the opposite of what was intended. In other words, Government screws up and more Government screws up even more, and Yale cranks out “Policy Makers” to charge forth into mankind with Noble intentions but with devastating results on average.

This is because, from a mathematical point of view , only one third will have a positive intended result, the other two thirds will result in either: (1) An Unexpected drawback: An unexpected detriment occurring in addition to the desired effect of the policy (e.g., while irrigation schemes provide people with water for agriculture, they can increase waterborne diseases that have devastating health effects); or even worse: (2) A Perverse result: A perverse effect contrary to what was originally intended (when an intended solution makes a problem worse).

This is not new knowledge, not a new revelation. The idea of unintended consequences dates back at least to John Locke who discussed the unintended consequences of government interest rate regulations in 1824. This idea was also discussed in 1759 by Adam Smith, the father of “Laissez-faire”, a French phrase that translates to “allow to do.” Or “let it be”. It refers to a political ideology that rejects the practice of government intervention in an economy (or elsewhere).

Sociologist Robert K. Merton popularized this concept in the twentieth century. Thus the law of unintended consequences has come to be used as an adage or idiomatic warning that an intervention in a complex system tends to create unanticipated and often undesirable outcomes. In 1936, Robert K. Merton listed five possible causes of unanticipated consequences:

• Ignorance, making it impossible to anticipate everything, thereby leading to incomplete analysis.

• Errors in analysis of the problem or following habits that worked in the past but may not apply to the current situation.

• Immediate interests overriding long-term interests.

• Basic values which may require or prohibit certain actions even if the long-term result might be unfavorable (these long-term consequences may eventually cause changes in basic values).

• Self-defeating prophecy, or, the fear of some consequence which drives people to find solutions before the problem occurs, thus the non-occurrence of the problem is not anticipated.

Akin to Murphy’s law, the Law of Unintended Consequences is now commonly used as a wry warning against the incredibly hubristic misbelief that humans can fully control the world around them, which they cannot, due to the consequences that include the world’s inherent complexity (parts of a system responding to changes in the environment); perverse incentives; human stupidity; self-deception; failure to account for human nature; or other cognitive or emotional biases.

And in the scientific sense, there is the chaotic nature of the Universe, which we have deeply examined in regard to the Chaos Theory, the Mandelbrot Set and redesigning the Universe in Mandelbrot Fractals, as well as the “butterfly effect” quality of having small, apparently insignificant changes with far-reaching effects. We quoted the genius icon Dr. Edward Teller “It is not only the universe that is almost infinite; the consequences of the actions of every human being – or every fly – also border on infinity” (Teller, 1991).Green New Deal Idiots have already played us for fools. They subsidize electric cars (no CO2 Emissions) increasing demand for electricity and thus increasing cost for electricity. But how to meet new demand for electrical energy? Build new coal fired power plants, for Newtonian physics requires matter to be turned to energy. More CO2 emissions, higher electrical costs so the taxpayer subsidizes electric cars while his utility bill skyrockets, just frigggin brilliant! How about everybody planting a tree as Mother Nature allows ocean plankton to grow and absorb all the excess CO2?

But let us arrogantly play another little mind game with Mother Nature. Let us pretend we are smarter, all knowing, devoid of any faults or self-interest. But before we get into the Green New (Old) Deal, tinkering with our outer Thermosphere to manipulate the World Climate from ravages of mankind, let us examine the past tinkering with the Ozone Layer in the Stratosphere.

In the 1970s, the World believed that chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) destroyed the Stratospheric Ozone layer which blocked much of the Sun’s carcinogenic Ultra Violet Rays, especially in the far spectrums, and began a campaign to eliminate refrigerants in automobiles, refrigerators, and air conditioning systems at great economic disruption to the industrial sector and daily life, but a great many new jobs were created for CFC regulators. Such CFCs were phased out in the decade following the signing of the Montreal Protocol in 1987 and a “victory” was declared in 2009 that the Ozone Layer had been saved! Mankind had saved itself from the Sun’s Ultra Violet Rays by tinkering with the Stratospheric Ozone Layer, and computer models touting the “victory” popped up everywhere: e.g. https://www.nasa.gov/images/content/319761main_uvindex_full.jpg

So if we look closely at the chart, “but for” the heroic intervention of mankind in the Stratospheric Ozone layers, the UV Index would be extreme in the midlatitudes (30 degrees-50 degrees North) and by 2020, everybody would have to wear sunglasses and hats from 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.to shelter from the extreme Sunlight.

Now let us now look at Wuhan, China in 2020. It’s Coordinates are 30.5928° N, 114.3055° E, within the midlatitude belt. Could it be that if Mother Nature were just let be, in 2020, Wuhan would have been doused in high energy Ultra Violet rays destroying the Coronavirus in just several 24 hour rotations of the Earth under sunlight? We already believe Covid-19 can be targeted and killed in less than 8 minutes by 222 nanometer far-UVC but that doesn’t mean that the aerosolized virus can not be destroyed by different frequencies of Ultra Violet Rays. Everybody will agree, except possibly Vampires, that Sunlight is the best disinfectant.

Moreover, something every health conscious professional in the entire world knew, with the possible exception of the CDC Puppet Fauci, that when your skin is exposed to sunlight, it manufactures vitamin D. The sun’s ultraviolet B (UVB) rays interact with a protein called 7-DHC in the human skin, converting it into vitamin D3, the active form of vitamin D and many recent studies suggest high vitamin D levels may protect against COVID-19 [ eg: March 19, 2021 Alison Caldwell, PHD. [https://www.uchicagomedicine.org/forefront/coronavirus-disease-covid-19/vitamin-d-covid-study].

So does that allow us to conclude nearly 50 years later that the Montreal Protocol unintentionally led to the unnecessary deaths by this tiny little Covid-19 virus of 3.5 million persons worldwide, great economic disruption and far more unintended consequences via deferred health treatment than we cannot now foresee? Does that allow us to conclude that “but for” the tinkering with the Stratospheric Ozone layer nearly 50 years ago, we may be unable to dodge a more lethal bullet in the form of a more potent virus on the magnitude of the Spanish influenza Flu of 1918, which could have led to 2 million deaths in the USA and over 150 million deaths worldwide? With so much blood on their hands, what “scientist” would now crawl out their myopic holes to hubristically claim victory against Mother Nature?

And let us take the Law of Unintended Consequences one step further. We all think we know Big Bad CO2 is going to wreak havoc on us, so let us tinker with Mother Nature by tinkering with the CO2 in our Thermosphere, with the wonderful, brilliant Green New Deal. We know the CO2 shield coating on the Thermosphere is a coolant protecting us from the intense heat of the Sun. So let us play with it. We assume the Green New Deal will have no effect on that Thermosphere shield, because? Vested interests and media clowns and environmental high priests like Al Gore and his endless parade of imbecilic disciples have told us so. And under the Law of Unintended Consequences, they have a 33.3% chance of being right this time, and 66.6% chance of being wrong.

So, Gee! Let us guess what happens next if they are wrong. The Thermosphere is depleted of CO2, the Sun’s intense heat scorches the earth surface so the entire planet is like the Sahara Desert. In the meantime, Oceans evaporate creating a vapor shield trapping heat in the Earth’s Atmosphere and one volcanic eruption later, viola, you have Venus. Venus has a surface temperature of 840 degrees F (450 degrees C). You got your “Global Warming” now, kiddos, an unintended perverse consequence. But don’t worry, you have maybe 50 years before this happens, and the very rich who made $billions off of the Green New Deal can dig very deep holes or move to Mars. The rest of us, our children, our grandchildren, we will all become scorched and burnt Road Kill.

Remind us again Mr. Merton. What are the root causes of 66.6% failure of policy due to the Law of Unintended Consequences: Ignorance, Errors in analysis of the problem; Immediate interests overriding long-term interests; Basic propaganda-instilled values which may require or prohibit certain actions even if the long-term result might be unfavorable; and self-defeating prophecy, or, the fear of some consequence which drives people to find solutions before the problem occurs? Sound familiar?

Again, Adam Smith, less government intervention is the best intervention, “Laissez-faire”, is it not? And it’s not nice to fool with Mother Nature, right?

PART XXXIII: THE CLOSING ARGUMENT: THE FACTS AND EVIDENCE ARE NOW BEFORE YOU, THE JUDGE AND JURY. TIME TO JUDGE.

Chapter 33.1: Yes Virginia, There is a God. Why? Because Stephen Hawking told me so.

I always suspected Hawking was a closet Atheist. He had dropped hints of this during his long career as a media star and would-be physics Guru, suffering from ALS, a motor neurone disease that paralyses the body and progresses to a paralysis of thinking, evidently, and then death. In his final book, published posthumously, he came out of the closet, and stated “God does not exist”.

But people of far greater intellect had already resolved this issue. Saint Thomas Aquinas believed that the existence of God could be proven in five ways, including observing movement in the world as proof of God, the “Immovable Mover”; and observing “cause and effect” and identifying God as the cause of everything.

We need not go further scientifically, because “cause and effect” in physics are everything, and Hawking’s Big Bang was an “effect”, a singularity is really an “effect”, the “cause” must therefore be something unseen, an “immovable mover”. Like perhaps the Almighty Holy One? As Hawking’s brain failed, he forgot the basic tenants of the physics he learned before he became the media promoted Guru-du-Jour. He forgot Sir Isaac Newton’s basic law, that there is no real destruction, only change, matter to energy and energy to matter. Akasa and Prana.

Ergo death, scientifically, cannot be the end, just a change. And in fact, there has been multiple evidence of a human body losing ever so small physical weight upon expiration, so as Feynman and others posited that there is something there-there in an absolute vacuum, there is also a there-there when earthly life passes to the afterlife. The spirit? The soul? As I have consistently written throughout this Odyssey, only the Almighty Holy One knows, but by now Mr. Hawking knows he was totally mistaken. He just cannot admit it now. And in a universe of Chaos that functions much in quantum mechanics and Newtonian physics like a Swiss Watch, there has to be the Swiss watch maker, no? Sir Thomas Aquinas’s “immovable mover”?

And there are no Atheists in foxholes, you do not need to have survived the Battle of Bastogne to know this. You have been in foxholes before in this battle of life, and then survived with prayers all the relentless artillery shells that sometimes beset upon us from time to time. Contrary to Hawkins hubristic views, over 90% of mankind believes in God, and they can’t all be dumb. As for me, I do not “believe” there is an Almighty Holy One”, I “know” there is one. It is scientifically impossible not to be so. So in God we must trust, in our kinfolk we can trust, but in others we must doubt their hidden agendas, trust if you must, but verify, it is the Law of the Jungle. Seek your very own Knowledge and Truth. Case Closed.

Chapter 33.2: I beg your Pardon, I never promised you a Rose Garden.

Thus ends the wandering Tales of Brave Ulysses, tales of adventures, scandals, needless death, dire warnings and hope for better things to come, for we have seen a common thread of needless death, from drugs, alcohol and suicide among the Rich and Famous as we ponder our own fate.

J.P Morgan, the great financier of the 1900’s, when told “money doesn’t buy happiness”; retorted “the only thing money can’t buy is poverty.” He was wrong; it cannot buy you back the life of a loved one that died a tragic unnecessary death from suicide, drugs or alcohol. These are the IEDs that litter the road of life. Teach your children well, train them to recognize and avoid these IEDs, build their moral foundation on self-esteem and self-love, on bed rock, not on sand. Teach them that Ferraris and Mega yachts are just objects, not objectives. Teach them to think for themselves, and not swallow the lies.

Now where do we go from here? If we can control our nukes, we can reach for space, the alternative to extinction. Mars awaits our footprint. Forget Steve Hawking, an atheist that had the temerity to think the Almighty Holy One had a beginning, a “Big Bang”, and will have an end, like mortals. “Infinity” can have no beginning or an end. But Hawking was finally right in his last and final book, published posthumously. He postulated that the human race would destroy itself if they did not reach out to outer space travel. I’ll concede only that wisdom to him. My contribution to his hypothesis lies somewhere in the basement of the Landau Institute in Chernogolovka, outside of Moscow.

I have laid out the severe headwinds we now face not only in nuclear weapons and EMP control, but also in the threat of Global Cooling due to lack of Solar Sunspot activity. I have reported that NASA is effectively forecasting very soon a return to the Dalton Minimum (1790-1830) with its brutal cold, crop loss, famine, and probably war, just as in the summer-less 1816. War, famine and pestilence have always been part of the story, or tragedy, of human life and death. And now as Hygienic Fascism moves us towards Alinsky socialist Totalitarianism and as “Behavioral Sink” besets upon us, we now have the brilliant “Green New Deal” to pound the final silver stake of death into the heart of Mankind.

Chapter 33.3: The White Poster Prince logs his last report. Over and Out.

And as we ponder the future of the human race as the inevitable pendulum of Facebook, Big Data, NSA and AI swings towards mind programming, modern serfdom, and Saul Alinsky socialism, and as I question our future as a species, I end this book with an apology to all my friends not mentioned.

I have been blessed by many, many wonderful friends in my Odyssey through life. There is an old saying on Wall Street, “friends come and go, but enemies are forever,” In my case, I try to make enemies go away swiftly and mercilessly, but friends are forever. If I did not to mention you in this book, this is because there was no scandal, no saleable gossip, nothing to disparage you and no space left in the book. I have not forgotten: I do not name you but you know who you are. Our friendship was an honor to me, a very great privilege, very dear to me, and always remembered. This is actually the White Poster Prince’s only true “elite” privilege, the only one that really matters in life, the one thing no one can take from you, and the only one thing you can take to your grave and keep forever, Prince or Pauper alike: True Friendship. You, like me, must earn everything else because we are all part of the “Food Chain”, the Law of the Jungle, and there are no free lunches, just predators and prey, and eventually six feet of earth.

The Campfire is now smoldering to ashes, no more tales to tell. Ernst Hemingway told us,” There is nothing noble about being superior to you fellow man. True nobility comes from being superior to ones former self. That pathway is by learning Knowledge and Truth. There is nothing more to say except: May the Almighty Holy One smile upon Humanity and especially on your own Odyssey through life. Knowledge and Truth!. -Over and out: /s/Captain Rick.

GLOSSARY
Tales of Brave Ulys HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqNg8ui2sE8″s HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqNg8ui2sE8″es
PREFACE
white supremacy
Dutch Ancestors
Hudson River
New N etherlands
Map of New Netherlands
Stadtholder
International law
Catholic Nations
colonialism
Pope
Protestants
Calvinist
Dutch Calvinist Republic
Mohawks
French
Swedes
1674 Treaty of Westminster
Third Dutch-Anglo War
Island of Nieu Amsterdam
United States of America
Jimi Hendrix
Quaaludes
Yale Law School
USSR-Russia
Sao Paulo
Jakarta
Machiavelli’s Prince
Hollywood
Wall Street
Putin
Oligarchs
Island of Circe
George Bush
Donald Trump
Anna Nicole Smith
Ted Kennedy
Claus Von Bulow
Patrick Kennedy
Doris Duke
Ivana Trump
Marla Maples
OJ Simpson
John Daly
Platoon
Kim Kardashian
DNA
Viking
Calvanist
CPU
SDRAM
Forrest Gump
James Bond

Sacred cows
Orwellian

Hygienic Fascism
Facebook
Big Data
NSI
AI
Saul Alinsky
Stalin
Serfdom

PART I: CHILDHOOD: ESSEX, CT AND NEWPORT, RI:

Chapter 1.1: Mr. Big Stuff, who do you think you are? Paladin?

Paladin
Gone with the Wind

Tara HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxOrh19hAP8″’ HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxOrh19hAP8″s Theme

Margaret MitcHell
Captain Rhett Butler
Charleston
Clark Gable
Olivia de Havilland
David Copperfield
Yankee soldiers
Scarlett O’hara
Vivien Leigh
Confederate
primal scream
subconscious
weaponry
U.S. Marines
Japanese
Pacific Theatre
Guadalcanal
post war China
marksman
sniper
Bows and arrows
hand to hand combat
bayonets
darts
strangling
Swordsmanship
Japanese style
English
Samurai swords
Japanese Arisaka 7.7mm rifle
German 8mm Mauser
the M-1 Carbine
M-1 Garand
.45 caliber pistol
Thompson submachine gun
9mm German Lugar pistol
cap and ball pistols
flintlock pistols
Sharps Buffalo guns
Winchester repeater
Peacemaker” Colt .45
Samuel Colt
Asimov
Clarke
Heinlein
Bradbury
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Tarzan
John Carter of Mars
Ian Fleming’s
James Bond
Beretta 418
Walther PP
Tooth Fairy
JRR Tolkien
Lord of the Rings
linguist
Norse runes
Silmarillion
The Legend of Beren the One-Handed and Luthien Tinuviel
Lost Tales
Peter Jackson
Academy Award
Helm’s Deep
New Line Cinema
Hollywood
casting couch
Harvey Weinstein
gunpowder
Saltpeter
bazookas
CO2 cartridges
BB guns
Cherry bombs
firecrackers
catapult
the State of Connecticut
Route 91 freeway
TNT
blasting caps
dynamite
12 gauge shotgun shells
slingshot
Essex, Connecticut
Connecticut River
War of 1812
Dickenson’s Witch Hazel
Chester Bowles
Benton and Bowles Agency
Great Depression
Governor
Senator
India
Alzheimer’s Disease
anatabine
amyloid beta
inflammatory
FDA
Yale
social investing
hippie
West Virginia
polio
pot
Beckley, West Virginia
Frank Sinatra
Twiggy
D.C.
Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr.
Griswold Inn
Walter Cronkite
Katherine Hepburn
Fenwick Point
Auschwitz
Yiddish
Iwo Jima
Carol
Diane
Connie
Donna
Sailing Yachts
amphibious automobile
Vikings
DNA
Wall Street
Sirens
baseball
Edgartown
Newport, Rhode Island
Paris
roaring twenties
Lost Generation
Thornton Wilder
Ernest HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Hemingway”Hemingway
F. Scott Fitzgerald
James Joyce
Austria
Nazis
Switzerland
United States
Chappaquiddick Island
Martha’s Vineyard
Teddy Kennedy
German U Boat
Naval Intelligence
Hurricane Carol

Chapter 1.2:Newport, RI, from the Slave Trade , through the Gilded Age, to Summer White Houses and Scandal after Scandal.

Newport, RI
Middle Passage
Tauro Synagogue
Steven Spielberg
Amistad
Scottish Cavaliers
English Civil War
Cromwell
Scotland

County Wexford, HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/County_Wexford” HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/County_Wexford”Ireland
George Washington
Siege of Yorktown
French
World War II

Captains of Industry
Vanderbilts
Astors
Beekmans
Morgans
Gilded Age
America’s Cup
Sir Thomas Lipton
Lipton Tea
Harold Vanderbilt
J-Boats
Great Depression
World War II
Navy
Naval College for Underwater Warfare
Tennis Hall of Fame
Alan Bond
Dennis Connor
Prince Charles
11th Prince of Thurn and Taxis
L’Aiglon
Robert Redford
The Great Gatsby
President Eisenhower
President Kennedy
Senator Claiborne Pell
Bellevue Avenue
Cliff Walk
Pell Grants
Joe Kennedy
Jackie Lee Bouvier
Hammersmith Farm in Newport
Madison Avenue
Brazilian Court
Palm Beach

tragedy
VFR
Martha’s Vineyard
Michael
Kara
William Kennedy Smith
Ted Kennedy
assassination HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assassination_of_John_F._Kennedy” of JFK

Kennedy Curse
Jackie Bouvier Kennedy
Aristotle Onassis
1956 Suez Crisis
Maria Callas
Sunny Von Bulow
Alan Dershowitz
Harvard Lawyer
David Koch
Prince Alfred HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Alexander-Georg_von_Auersperg”von Auersperg
Austria
Mason Phelps
Countess Szapary
Cornelia Guest

Tammy Wynette

Stomp on your man
BAC
Cattle Baron’s Ball in Dallas
MADD
Guinness Book of records
Lithuania
Mažeikiai
Benjamin Disraeli
Mark Twain
Doris Duke
Rough Point
Duke Tobacco
Imelda Marcos
Sarasota, Florida

Chapter 1.3: A Farewell to Arms.

Ligonier, Pennsylvania

Mellon Family
Rolling Rock beer

steeplechase
30.06 hunting rifles
telescopic scopes

Bambi

Virginity

Chapter 1.4: The Gulag Archipelago.

Marine
Battle of Hastings

Edwin Sandys

Arch Bishop

of York
Harvard Law School
Yale Law School

Teresa Grifffin-Viele
Islam to the U.S.A.
Koran
West Point, NY
Havana, Cuba
Brownsville, Texas
Comanche Country
Mississippi
NYC
Following the Drum

Allah
Paris, France
Islam
Chicago World’s Fair of 1883
mujahida
Sultan of Turkey
Mehmed VI
Ottoman Empire
venerable US Secretary of State, John Hay

Empowered woman

Chapter 1.5: From Istanbul and the last Sultan back to the woods of Connecticut, USA.

Oxford Law School
Look Magazine
House of Stewart
House of Valois
House of Bourbon
Charles II
Nieu Amsterdam
Manhattan
Archibald Gracie
Gracie Mansion

marble family tomb

Anethema
Foxcroft

Barnard
Helen of Troy

Chapter 1.6: Exile to foreign venues.

Peter Fonda
Jane Fonda
Barbarella
LA
Lionsgate Entertainment

Chapter 1.7: Stalag 13.
Latin
Thucydides
Peloponnesian Wars
Marcus Aurelius
Cato the elder
Cato the younger
Caesar’s invasion of Gaul
Virgil’s Aeneid
Spassky
Battle of Stalingrad in WWII
Borodino in 1812
invasion of Normandy
Bridge
Blue Lagoon
Brooke Shields

Love Theme (Emmaline)

Summa Cum Laude

Chapter 1.8: The real world and it’s body-bags summons us.
French Legionnaires
First Indochina war

Battle of Dien Bien Phu
Second French Indochina War
Vietnam War
SEATO (South East Asia Treaty Organization)
NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization)
Washington, DC
DuPont Circle
Pennsylvania Avenue
FBI building
DOJ building
Post Office
National Archives
Yippies
Abby Hoffman
Jerry Rubin
Georgetown University
Kent State massacre
Varsity Letters
Robert Kennedy Jr.

PART II: THE LAZY SUMMER OF “68”, FREEDOM, MUSIC, FREE LOVE, “PARADISE ISLAND” AND MORE RIOTS:

Chapter 2.1: The woods and vales of Lyme, Connecticut, and keg parties galore.

Tet Offensive
assassination of Robert Kennedy
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Crash pad
flaps
airspeed

friction
carpenters
roofers
electricians
plumbers

Bas HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bass_guitar”s HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bass_guitar” guitar

Chapter 2.2: The Newport Folk and Jazz Festivals.

Newport Folk Festival
Taj Majhal

harmonica
Janis Joplin
Southern Comfort
Crosby
Stills
Nash
Joni Mitchell

Long chains

Navy Destroyer
Block Island, RI
Block Island airport
Constable

Chapter 2.3: “Paradise Island”.

French kissed

Infinity
crystalline silica

Surrealistic
State Police
Providence, RI

Chapter 2.5: The Riots are Back again.

Chicago Democratic convention
Mayor Daly
Dan Rather
Walter Cronkite
Saul Alinsky
Hillary Clinton
Barack Obama
Police State
Hitler
Stalin
Mao Tse-tung
Venezuela
ends justify the means

Chapter 2.6: September: The Summer of Paradise is its own reward, but don’t you think I really should be back at school ?

DuPonts
endowment fund
Fourteenth Amendment
Judo
PDP 8 computer
Cobol
algorithms
slide-rule
MIT

astronomy observatory
North Star
Galaxies
Stephen Hawking
A Brief History of Time
Heresy

Hictchhiking
Winston Salem School

North Carolina

Moonshine

PART III: THE ENDLESS SUMMER OF “69”, THE JULY 4TH RIOTS,

THE MOON LANDING, KENNEDY, CHAPPAQUIDDICK AND THE WOODSTOCK NATION:

Chapter 3.1: Deja Vue. The woods and vales of Lyme and keg parties redux.
Johnny Winter

Chapter 3.2: The July 4th riots-look at the sky turning Hellfire red!
Family Stone
Led Zeppelin
Elaine Lorillard
Marina Del Ray
Santa Monica
Rhode Island
Margaux Hemmingway
Paris

Chapter 3.3: Chappaquidick-If only he had my Crypto-father’s Amphibious Automobile, Ted would still be President.

Martha’s Vineyard

Ted Kennedy
Chappaquiddick
Dyke Bridge

Robert Kennedy
Joe Kennedy

Kennedy Dynasty

Chapter 3.4: Yeah, I heard about Chappaquiddick, but I was sleeping on the Moon that night, not see anything.

Apollo 11 mission
Neil Armstrong
Buzz Aldrin
Beverly Hills
Kim Kardashian
hedge fund
Hollywood producer
Hamptons
St. Tropez
St. Barts
Mansion

Rip cord
Aquarian Exhibition
Days of Peace and Music
Bethel

Chapter 3.5: The Woodstock Nation: You can listen to Jimi but you can’t hear Jimi.

Bethel
Artie Kornfield
Michael Lang

Woodstock Dove and Guitar Emblem
Bill Hanley
The Who
The Band
Janis Joplin
Johnny Winter
Credence Clearwater Revival
Jefferson Airplane
Ten Years After
Joan Baez
Joe Cocker
Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young
Jimi Hendrix

Hog Farmers
Richie Havens
Joan Baez
Arlo Guthrie
Woodstock Nation
Stewart Air Force Base
The Grateful Dead
Janice Joplin
Southern Comfort
Gracie Slick
John Roberts
Joel Rosenman

Freaking out
Governor Nelson Rockefeller
National Guard

Chapter 3.6: The Star Spangled Banner: Shame on you fools, you can’t hear Jimi. Stand to colors or leave.
Star Spangled Banner

The HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3-b3ViNTMI”Star Spangled Banner
Timothy Leary
LSD
Tractor
Chapter 3.7: The Party of a Lifetime was over, time to wake up. Riots and Vietnam are still out there.
bong
illegal hitchhiking

Chapter 3.8: Wake up Maggie I think I got something to say to you, it’s September and I really should be back at school .

Maggie May-Rod Stewart

Chapter 3.9: Slum-Dog Millionaire-NOT! Maybe a Slum-Puppy?

Senior year
Boston
New York City
Kenmore Square
Eastern Europe
post-Soviet Russia
Fenway Park
meth-crystal
M-14s
.22 short

PART IV: THE SUMMER OF “70”, AND SURVIVAL:
Chapter 4.1: What to do now?
Vassar
Connecticut College for Women
SATs
Lyme, Connecticut

Oldsmobile
downwind leg

Chapter 4.2: Wanderings: I wish they all could be California girls.

California Girls
Berkeley, California
VW minibus
Rocky Mountain
Coors Beer
Utah
Nevada
Reno, Nevada
Sierra Nevada Mountain
Bob Dylan
Laguna Beach
Mexico
Tijuana border
Mexican Border
Tecate
San Diego Navy Base
Grand Teton
Grizzly bears
Law of the Jungle

Painted Desert
Sidewinder Snakes
Eagles band

Peaceful Easy Feeling

Chapter 4.3: Sarge, I’m only eighteen, I got a ruptured spleen, and I always carry a purse, I got eyes like a bat, my feet are flat and my STDs are getting worse.

Draft Dodgers Rag
Hanoi
body counts
student deferments
draft system
Vietnam cannon fodder.

Chapter 4.4: I’m just a typical boy from a typical American town, I believe in God, Senator Dodd and putting Fidel Castro down. When it came my time to serve I knew “better dead than red”, but when I got to my local draft board, buddy, this is what I said:
Kent State University
Kent State shootings HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kent_State_shootings”
Cambodia
Richard Nixon announced
North Vietnamese
Dr. Henry Kissinger
U.S. Army.

Come on all of you big strong men

karate
United States Marines Recruitment
Ho Chi Minh
General Patton
CIA
bookworms
Office of Strategic Services
U.S. Air Force

Chapter 4.6: I wasn’t born to follow. Easy Rider-Crash and Burn as Usual.

I wasn’t born to follow
Peter Fonda
Easy Rider
Steppenwolf
Born to be wild

750c.c.Triumph Bonneville motorcycle
Harley Davidson
ICU

Chapter 4.7: Have Gun-Will Travel. Time Disappeared. So what happened, Dude? LSD?
Piper Cherokee
fuselage
Hanoi
Ho Chi Minh
blow dart
Hunger Games
New Haven, Connecticut
performance enhancing drugs
LSD
whirlwind
crylic
neural hardrive
classified documents
spy satellite
US Navy shot down in February, 2008
scholarship
Science Degree
Liberal Arts Degree
Summa Cum Laude
Huguenot Andre Gide’s
Theseus
Minotaur
Renaissance Art
Chiaroscuro
Tintoretto
Sandro Botticelli
Da Vinci
Michelangelo.
Uffizi
Florence
Louvre
Paris
Prado
Madrid,
Hermitage
St. Petersburg,
Frick Collection
Met
New York,
London

Chapter 4.8: An Apple, a Dollar, a Bible: Politics as usual: meet Joseph Lieberman

State Capital in Hartford, CT
Joseph Lieberman
Greenspan
U.S. Senate
Al Gore
horse slaughter houses
sponsor
duped
Zarathustra

PART V: CHILDHOOD’S END:

Chapter 5.1: Not all “play”, there was “work” and decisions to make.

Ted Williams
Babe Ruth
LSAT
GRE
Lord Byron
Vassar
Connecticut College for Women

Chapter 5.2: Yale-The Tale of One of the Three Yale Wisemen-meet Robert Triffin

Yale
Berkeley College
Robert Triffin
Triffin dilemma
Gorch Fock Ship
United States Coast Guard Cutter “Eagle”
Tall Ship
Bretton Woods Conference
Bretton Woods System
New Hampshire
Tuckerman Ravine
Mt. Washington
Edward Tuckerman
Harvard
botanist
Charles Keating Tuckerman
U.S. ambassador in 1867 to Greece
King George I
Queen Olga
King Constantine the 1st
Mykonos
US dollar
international reserve currency
US balance of payments
deflationary
WWII
gold based US dollar
Charles de Gaulle
President Richard Nixon
fiat dollars
Saudi Arabia
Middle East
Saddam Hussein
Euro
WMD
Nobel Prize in Economics
OPEC
Northern Hemisphere
Russia
United States
Artic
Silicon Valley
China
Lazarus
SDR
Milton Friedman
debasing dollar

Chapter 5.3: Second Thoughts? Lawyer? Parasite?
Yale Law School
Georgetown
penurious
scholarship
Category 5 Hurricane
Julius Caesar
Alia HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alea_iacta_est”iacta est
Rubicon
Arthur C. Clarke’s
Childhood’s End
Morgan Mare
hackamore
Mohawk
Devil’s Hopyard
17 different facial expressions
pranks
equestrian
Lyme Disease
professional courtesy
parasite
Yale Law Library

Chapter 5.4: The Real Truth behind Lyme Disease: Meet Dr. Julian G. Ely.
WWI
Austrian
Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever
bacterium spirochete
Borrelia burgdorferi
deer tick
Antibiotics
capillaries
platelets
Yale Medical School
Dr. Alan Steere
hyperthermia
detox
hyperbaric oxygen therapy
atmospheric pressures
killer cells
cell necrosis
SaMe
lawyers

PART VI: FALLING THROUGH THE RABBIT HOLE: YALE LAW SCHOOL:

Chapter 6.1: Mother, God and Yale.
Rome
Sterling Law
Sterling Memorable Library
Beinecke Rare Book HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beinecke_Rare_Book_%26_Manuscript_Library”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beinecke_Rare_Book_%26_Manuscript_Library” Manuscript Library
Yale New Haven Hospital
non-profits
Albertus Magnus College
Quinnipiac College

Chapter 6.2: Yale Law School: Freshman Follies.

torts
procedure
taxation
audit
Myres S. McDougal
Mississippi
Revenooers
Oxford
South America
Big Oil
Hugo Grotius
De jure belli ac pacis libri tres
League of Nations
United Nations
adverse possession
Israel
Palestine
stadtholder
statute of limitations
Dutch Calvinist Republic

Hague

Chapter 6.3: Social Life at Yale? You must be Joking!

Africa
Uganda
Dictator Idi Amin
Zambia
UN’s Law of the Sea Conference
Oregon
granola
New Zealand
Boris Bittker
Mr. Spock
Star Trek
Rubik’s cube
Internal Revenue Code
Peter Jackson
Lord of the Rings
Liv Tyler
Arwen Undómiel
Elrond
dragon eating its tail
Toads
Skull and Bones Club
Rathskellar
Sonia Sotomayor

Chapter 6.4: The Second Wiseman of Yale-meet Eugene V. Rostow.

Eugene V. Rostow
Brooklyn
Eugene V. Debs
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Walt Whitman
White Russian
Red Russians
Trotsky
Lenin
Rostov-on-Don
Yankee
Puritan

Chapter 6.5: Tales of Sir Winston Churchill, humor, and the Lend-Lease Program.
Lend-Lease Administration
State Department
Dean Acheson
Cold War
USSR
Winston Churchill
Nancy Astor
Waldorf Astor
John Jacob Astor
Carolyn Schemerhorn
Nieu Amsterdam
Astor 400
Gilded Age
John Jacob Astor IV
RMS HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titanic”Titanic
Archibald Gracie IV
Gracie Mansion
Museum of the City of New York
Parliament
Ethel Barrymore

Chapter 6.6: The Lend-Lease Program and the Newest Cold Warrior-Am I now a Neo Con?

Liberty ships
German Submarines
Artic convoys
Steinbrenner Family
New York Yankee
Derek Jeter
A-Rod
Aaron Judge
Gary Sanchez
Yankee Stadium

War Shipping Administration
U.S. Merchant Marine
T-34
T-44
German anti-tank weapons
German Wehrmacht
Allies
Yalta
Crimea
Balkans
Eastern Europe
Baltics
Hawkish

Dean Acheson
Reagan Years
Détente
Reagan
Gulf War
George Bush, Sr
Abrams Tank
British Centurion Tank
Kalashnikovs
Under Secretary for Political Affairs
Lyndon B. Johnson
UN Security Council Resolution 242
Security Council
Six-Day War
Egypt
Jordan
Syria
100 Egyptian Prisoners of War
constitutional
international
antitrust
Coalition for a Democratic Majority
Committee On The Present Danger
Henry Kissinger
disarmament
Arms Control and Disarmament Agency
Second French Indochina War
SEATO
Chairman Mao
People’s Republic of China
French Revolution of 1779
Supreme Court Judge
lady in waiting

Chapter 6.7: Summertime-Time to cut loose: France, St. Tropez, and endless family.

Huguenot House of Valois
Egbert Ludovicus Viele
Bond Street

Francis Griffin

Washington Irving
Rip Van Winkle
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Teresa Griffin Vielé
Koran
Cuba
Comanche Country
Islamic
Mehmed VI

United States Military Academy at West Point
Mexican War
New York’s Central Park
Prospect Park
Civil War
Brigadier General
Norfolk, VA
Tiffany
US Congressman
Knickerbockers
Schuylers
Roosevelts
Paris
Archaeologist
Egyptologist
hieroglyphics
Etruscan language
Pyramid
sarcophagus
Canada
Francis Viele
pantheism
Sorbonne
Emily Viele
citizenship
Acadamie Francaise
Acadamie Royale de langue et de Litterature Francaise
Count
General Philippe Leclerc de Hauteclocque
Chateaus
Bastille Day
guillotining
Robespierre’s reign of terror

Chapter 6.8: J’adore Paris et viva la France.
Gare du Nord
Saint-Quentin
baguette
Biarritz
Louvre
Mobutu Sese Seko
Avenue Foche
Zaire
U.S. Aid
Clermont-Ferrand
powerful agricultural Co-op in France
Michelin
Valery Giscard d’Estaing
Rothschilds
vineyards in Bordeaux
St. Tropez
Dordogne
Plage Tahiti
Belgian
VW beetle
Amsterdam
Alps

PART VII: TIME TO GET SERIOUS:

Chapter 7.1: Year Two at Yale Law School –Nose to the grindstone?

Estate
Gift Tax
Donna Shalala
Municipal Assistance Corporation
Felix Rohatyn
Lazard Frères
Michel David-Weill
Atlanta
Stanley Sporkin
Securities Exchange Commission
David Rockefeller
OPM (other peoples’ money)
Senator Joe Biden
Maryland
James Schlesinger
Secretary of Defense
Aphrodite

Da Vinci masterpiece

Chapter 7.2: My first Pro Bono Client: The Tale of Irwin Schiff and the great American Tax Rip –Off.

Irwin Allen Schiff
libertarian
tax protester
income tax in the United States
Internal Revenue Service
United States Constitution;

tax assessment
tax return
United States Tax Court
jurisdiction
constitutional (Article III) court
Chief Justice Marshall
Founders of the Constitution
tariffs
duties
excise taxes
Federal Income Tax
Revenue Act of 1861
Civil War
Edward Bates
Gideon Welles
Salmon Chase
16th Amendment
ratified
pro bono
800 pound Gorilla
martyrdom
slaves
Serfs

Prison Industries (UNICOR)
13 HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thirteenth_Amendment_to_the_United_States_Constitution”th HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thirteenth_Amendment_to_the_United_States_Constitution” Amendment
Ukrainian crops
confiscation rate

Chapter 7.3: Lay Lady, Stay -It just takes one woman to change your world.

Lay, Lady, Lay

Ishtar
Shai
Yin and Yang
change
Taoist
Connecticut River
LA
London
Nantucket
LSD trip
.22 caliber
Croesus
super mega yachts

Chapter 7.4: Green leaves of summer turn red in the fall: Halfway through Yale with a different “Tude”, and boss man Professor Jose Cabranes, a future Supreme Court Justice?

Alice in Wonderland
Duke of Wellington
René Descartes
red ink
Jose Cabranes
Mayagüez, Puerto Rico
South Bronx
colonial power
Puerto Rico
Bridgeport
Purchasing Power Parity
welfare rolls
American Samoa
Polynesian
Chevrolets
St. Thomas
Common law
entitlement society
Portugal
Sonia Sotomayor
Robert Bork
meritocracy

Chapter 7.5: Gosh: Summertime again? What should I do? Clerk for some Super Judge?

Summertime,Summertime

12 string Rickenbacker guitar
Roger McGuinn
Byrds
Rejavik
Iceland
Viking
Luxembourg

Viennese waltz

Blue Danude Waltz
Johann Strauss
Moroccan
Carrefour
Laon
medieval
Templars
St. John the Baptist
French Gendarmes
French Franc note
counterfeiters
François Michelin
Senior Prefect of Police

It’s not what you know, but who you know

Marquis de Baux
Grimaldi Family
Monaco
Principality
cul-de-sac
Monte-Carlo
Monaco-ville
Royal Palace
les Jardins de St. Martin
Rock of Monaco
Mediterranean Sea
Starvos Niarchos’
Aristotle Onassis
super yacht “Christina O”
Christina Onassis
Metz

PART VIII: THE THIRD AND LAST WISEMAN OF YALE AND YALE’S PARTING GIFT:

Chapter 8.1: Recruitment crazies

Cornell
U. Penn
NFL
MLB draft pick
Rhodes Scholarship
Texas
Baker
Botts
SEC prospectuses
Jimmy Ling
Ling-Temco-Vought
ITT
Litton Industries
Teledyne
Textron
statute of limitations

Chapter 8.2: The Third and Last Wiseman of Yale: meet Robert H. Bork.

Robert H. Bork
Joseph Schumpeter

The Crisis of the Tax State
Phoenix
private sector
monetary inflation
Antitrust
Jedi
United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit
Lewis Powell
United States Senate
People For the American Way
Gregory Peck
Senate
William Safire
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Clarence Thomas
Constitution of the United States
Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline
New Left
moral
civil society
intellectuals
Western
fetus
Roe v. Wade
The Antitrust Paradox
Sherman Anti-Trust Act of 1890
privacy violating and data-gathering
Amazon
Google
Facebook
Icon
metastasized

Chapter 8.3: A Parting “gift” from Yale-Chaos Theory and Fractal Links, or Pandora’s Box?

Ball and Chain
Fractals Form, Chance and Dimension (1977)
Benoit Mandelbrot
fractal
self-similarity
chaos theory
Matryoshka
equiangular chambered
Nautilus
seahorse spirals
golden spirals
Golden Ratio
Fibonacci sequences
Star Trek
Lévy
stable
Gaussian distribution
parameter
Archibald Gracie
Gracie Mansion
Euclidean geometry
Nassim Nicholas Taleb
The (Mis)Behavior of Markets, fractal view of Financial Turbulence
hedgies
copycat
algorithms
high-frequency trading
Flash Crash
Ptolemy
Copernicus
Isaac Newton
Galileo
messiah
acolyte
Satan
Saddam Hussein
Robert E. Lee
Einstein
Steve Hawking
Sterling Professor of Mathematical Sciences
Palm Beach, Florida
Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity
Russia

Chapter 8.4 Move over, Steve Hawking, there is a new Sheriff in town! Benoit Mandelbrot.
cosmology
Olbers’ paradox
Cantor dust
Big Bang
Michelson-Morley experiment
singularity
Universe was collapsing
Mobius Strip
infinity
Atheist
hubris
Dark Energy
Dark Matter
Gamma Rays
metaphysical
William Blake
group think
Mechanical
pistolero
Ballistics
coriolis force
photon
nuclear furnace
Windage and elevation
John Wayne
Pandora’s box

PART IX: FROM ACADEMIA TO THE REAL WORLD:

Chapter 9.1: Graduation, from Ivy League Halls to well-paid Slavery.

caps
endowment pledges
Rent Control
Upper East Side
Park Avenue
East River
Great Depression
United Nations
Beekman Place
Henry Kissinger
River Club
NYC probate court

Chapter 9.2: Big Law Firm Practice: A Suit, a Tie, long hours and very little future.

surplus
tranches of bonds
profit margin
IBM
Rainmakers
Westinghouse Uranium litigation
Pittsburgh
carte-blanch
attorney-client privileged
Dom Perignon
Complaint and service
Motion
Answer and Counterclaim
discovery
stipulations
voir dire
Xerox copy room
Bate stamped
A war of attrition
Waldorf Astoria
New York Times
coroner
dividend checks
Exxons
Chevrons
Grand Piano
Nassau County
Long Island
F. Scott Fitzgerald

Chapter 9.3: Entrepreneurship and New Horizons? Back at Home in the Woods with my buddies, the Lyme Ticks.

laws of thermodynamics
OPEC embargo
New England
Americas Cup
Ruxton, Maryland
Baltimore
Mercantile Trust and Deposit Company
Wallis Warfield
Old Fields school
Far East
Edward VIII
to abdicate the English Throne
Duchess of Windsor
Pamela Digby Churchill
Averill Harriman
Leona Helmsley
Harry Helmsley
Quaker
Doris Duke’s
Imelda Marcos
Ferdinand Marcos
balls
Expatriate Paris party era
McDonalds
Homer Simpson
Homer
Iliad
Odyssey
oil tanker
Kevlar
USPTO
colloid suspension
creosote
scrubber
first to invent
Congress
America Invents Act
Barack Obama
mobile payments
Palm Pilots
Pay Pal
Pop-money
Venmo
c’est la vie

Chapter 9.4: Life goes on, for most, and it is either “sweet” or “Tales from the Crypt”.
Huntington Hartford
Atlantic HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Atlantic_%26_Pacific_Tea_Company”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Atlantic_%26_Pacific_Tea_Company” Pacific Tea Company
spendthrift
Playboy Magazine
debutante
Ball Gown
Lyford Cay
GQ Magazine
Fritz Peterson
America
Isle of Wight

PART X: THE AMERICA’S CUP RACES: BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE A DIME?

Chapter 10.1: The Holy Grail “Booby Prize”.

Holy Grail
America’s Cup
schooner
New York Yacht Club
John Cox Stevens
George Steers
schooner
America
Cowes
Isle of Wight
Calais, France
regatta
Hundred Guinea Cup,
Queen Victoria
ensign

Chapter 10.2: Newport, RI and the America’s Cup Races: Can you spare a billion dollars?

Sir Thomas Lipton
Swan beer
Alan Bond
Sir T.O.M. Sopwith
Aga Khan
Ted Turner
Bill Koch
Vanderbilts
New York Yacht Club Deed of Gift
light air boat
heavy air boat
Narragansett Bay
Sakonnet River
Clark Cooke House

Chapter 10.3: The 1983 America’ s Cup Race: aka: The “Australian Heist” or how Alan Bond absconded with the Auld Mug.

Australia II
winged keel
12 metre formula
races
Johannes, the 11th Prince von Thurn und Taxis’
Dennis Connor
Liberty
Australia II
profits
camcorder
concentration camp
“Night of the Long Knives”
German political opposition
Slavs
Jews
10 HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_August,_10th_Prince_of_Thurn_and_Taxis”th HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_August,_10th_Prince_of_Thurn_and_Taxis” Prince von HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_August,_10th_Prince_of_Thurn_and_Taxis” Thurn und Taxis
Gestapo
Landshut
Aushwitz
Green Boxing Kangaroo Flag
spreader
Perth, Australia
San Diego
catamaran

10.4: America’s Cup: The Post Mortem.

Kookaburra III
Stars and Stripes
San Diego Yacht Club
Elle MacPherson
Aussies
Melbourne
Rome

Chapter 10.5: What’s the difference between a topless Polynesian girl bathing in Tahiti and a suburban Californian housewife? Answer: Absolutely Nothing! Sad.

Michael Fay
New Zealander
Auckland, New Zealand
Cruising Club
Bora Bora
Raiatea
Huahine
Paul Gaugin
French speaking
Polynesian
flowered lei
Burbank, California
Mercury Bay Boating
Sydney, Australia
Jakarta
Hong Kong
Prince Charles
Ka-shing Lis HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Ka-shing”
The Jockey Club, in Hong Kong
Merrill Lynch
America³
Bill Koch
Raul Gardini
Il Moro di Venezia
Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron
Team New Zealand
Russell Coutts
Black Magic
Michael York
Rita Moreno
flaking the mainsail
Oracle
Louis Vuitton

PART XI: TIME TO GET BACK TO WORK: THE COFFERS ARE EMPTY!

Chapter 11.1: Tax Advantaged Hotels. And Welcome to Aspen and Palm Beach, Florida

tax shelter
private placement securities
Grand-Prix Jumper
Dutch Warm Blood
Maryland Hunt Cup
Silver Olympic Medal
US Equestrian team
Madison Square Garden
Wellington, FL
Mares in heat
Stallion Stud
Condo Hotel
Camelback Marriott in Scottsdale, Arizona
Marco Island, Florida
Citibank
“ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sound_of_Music”Sound of Music”

Von Trapp

Do-Re-Mi
Stowe, Vermont
load bearing structures
30 Rockefeller Plaza
Dick Butera
Gucci
Red Onion
Marvin Davis
Saudi Princes
Ritz Carltons
truffle French fries
Hollywood
Texas
Telluride
Caribou Club
Ashford Castle
County Mayo, Ireland
Mizner
Palm Beach, FL
The Brazilian Court
Barbizon Hotel
Moscow
Baghdad

Chesterfield Hotel
Andre Surmain
Lutece
National Register of Historic Places
façade
Earl Smith, Sr
historic tax credit
easement
declining depreciation
Wade Boggs
Red Sox
Tommy Herr
Certificate of Occupancy
Florida Bar
securities fraud law
Coral Gables, FL
class action
Prudential Bache Securities
six year statute of limitations
RTC
Savings and Loan Associations
Real Housewives of New York
Luan deJessups

Chapter 11.2: Hollywood: Lights, Action, Cameras, Litigate until you Die! The Big Easy and Platoon.

U.S. Congress
Tax Reform Act of 1986
income tax
tax advantaged shelters
tax rate
arbitrage
Dino De Laurentiis
Rafaela De Laurentiis
“ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dune_(1984_film)”Dune HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dune_(1984_film)”.”
Bankruptcy Court
accounts receivables
Prints
IRC
box office
Japanese
HBO Pay TV
VHS
free television
CBS
ABC
NBC
DVD
Blue-Ray
Boring Bittker
MGM
Paramount
United Artists
Vestron
Time-Life Films
Dirty Dancing
Patrick Swayze
Chapter 11
publicly traded company
Steven Friedman
All of Me
Steve Martin
Lily Tomlin
hypothecate
the Big Easy
Dennis Quaid
Ellen Barkin
Morgan Stewart’s HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgan_Stewart%27s_Coming_Home”Coming Home
Jon Cryer
Subordination Agreement

Columbia Pictures
Hemdale Pictures
Hoosiers
Gene Hackman
Platoon
Charlie Sheen
Orion Pictures
Academy Award for Best Picture
catharsis
The Last Emperor
TV ratings
Thanksgiving
breach of fiduciary duty
standing
Rent a Cop
Liza Minnelli
Burt Reynolds
The Golden Child

Chapter 11.3: Idiot: This is Hollywood. Take 10 cents on the dollar and be on your way!

Russian Tea Room
judgment proof
IEDs
acoustics
frets

Dueling Guitars
Brazilian Rosewood
Martin Guitars
Sailing Yacht
California Earthquake
Wilshire Blvd
Beverly Wilshire Hotel
South Carolina in the 1880’s
Hurricanes

Chapter 11.4: No more Weather Channel: Back To War and Oliver North Stories.

escrow account
Screen Actors’ Guild
Century City
Legal release
Greek Diogenes
mock trial
Orange County
buzz saw
Perrier
absolute defense
affirmative defense
verdict
seize their assets
registered it in New York
Sheriffs
warrants
Viking DNA

Junk Yard Dog

Chapter 11.5: Junk Yard Dog to Hollyweird: Farewell!

Tinsel Town
Hugh Hefner
Tony Curtis
Santa Monica
LA Sports Club
Meredith Baxter Birney
Art Buchwald
“ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coming_to_America”Coming to America”
Rodney King
riots in LA
enigma
game theory
Rubik’s Cube
Harvey Weinstein
Carolco
“ HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rocky_(film_series)”Rocky”
Mercury Entertainment
Taxi Driver
MicHelle Phillips
Giancarlo Parretti
Cannon Film Group Inc.
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
Miss Universe
securities fraud
United States
Europe
sentenced in absentia
francs
Moscow
Creative Artists
Kim Kardashian
Paris Hilton
Super Bowl Sunday
Tampa Bay
Reggie Bush
YouTube
RICO
800 pound gorilla
Google
Sting
Jane Fonda
Brooklyn Decker
Elle Magazine
Andy Roddick

Chapter 11.6: Back home again: if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, New York, New York, New York.

New York, New York

Big Apple
Spaghetti Westerns
B-films
Ford Model
Mr. Camel
royalty
Club Xenon
OJ Simpson
high five
awestruck

PART XII: TALES OF SPARTICUS IN THE PITS:

Chapter 12.1: 40 bid at 50. 10 lots. Sold to SICO!
the Comex
5 World Trade Center
NYSE
Futures Exchange
floor traders
open outcry
front running
high frequency trading
cyberwarfare
US Dollar Index,
CRB
margin
Speer Leeds Kellog
Paul Tudor Jones
Memphis

Chapter 12:2 So you want to be a Floor Trader? Tales from the Gladiators’ Arena.

Freudian analysis
Spartacus
Cargill Grain
Koch Industries
short squeezed
Nelson Bunker Hunt
margin call
smelters
commercial hedgers
behemoth trading company, Glencore,
Switzerland
Denise Rich
Jet Set,
US Senate
Tax Evasion
Trading with the Enemy
Mossad, the Israeli
Ayatollah Kohmeni of Iran
Hillary Clinton
Governor of Arkansas
Refco, a large brokerage firm
CEO went to jail

Chapter 12.3: How to become a Millionaire trading commodities? Answer: Start as a Billionaire.
hornets’
contracts
spreads
Contango in futures
spot price
current price
Backwardation
soybean
delivery month
El Nino
La Nina
Pacific Ocean
currents
Sophia Loren
Mother Nature
hedge fund
Amaranth
Hurricane Katrina
Hurricane Wilma
New Orleans
Gulf of Mexico
Blackstone
Steve Schwartzman
Moat

Chapter 12.4: Making the first million is easy, keeping it is the hard part.

Bond Vigilantes
Alan Greenspan
Yom Kippur War
Comex floor
CNN
CNBC
alimony
prenup

Chapter 12.5: What is the value of “risk” worth and how do you fade it, Mr. Markowitz?

Joseph Fourier

Louis Bachelier
random walks
efficient markets hypothesis
Capital Asset Pricing Models
Markowitz
Fischer Black
MIT
Myron Scholes
Black-Scholes formula
puts
calls
futures premium
risk management
Achilles Heel
International Herald Tribune
Robert Prechter
guru
Gaussian mathematics
Black Monday

Chapter 12.6: The ‘87 Crash and the Biggest Loser Ever-the Evil Sith Lord “Darth Sorius”.

Confetti
Margin call
NYSE
futures exchange
confetti
Chicago S HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Mercantile_Exchange”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Mercantile_Exchange”P Futures pit
Portfolio Manager
Morgan Stanley
Sith Lord
Zbigniew Brzezinski
Thai baht
Malaysian
Indonesian
Asian Currency crisis of 1997
British Pound
Democratic
Obama
Saul Alinsky
communism
socialism
Hell
Stalin
Hitler
Vladimir Lenin’s
Useful Idiots
Russia
Saul Alinsky’s Book
HEALTHCARE
POVERTY
DEBT
GUN CONTROL
WELFARE
EDUCATION
RELIGION
CLASS WARFARE
collectivism
totalitarianism
tenures
killings fields of Cambodia
Pol Pot,
Mao’s Communist China
Amin’s Uganda
extra judicial killings
Milosovic’s Serbia
Kim’s North Korea
Castro’s Cuba
extermination of the Ukrainians
genocide of the Kulaks
Great Purges
Moscow
LSD
Molly
clones
Animal Farm
Disney Movie

PART XIII: NEW YORK SOCIETY: PUTTING ON THE RITZ!

Chapter 13.1: Wanted: Wingman for Floor Trader turned Party Animal.

trading curbs and collars

debonair

Compliments

Sunset Beach

Ram’s Head Inn

Atomic Bomb

Enrico Fermi

E=MC2

shrine

Norwegian heritage.

Ford Mustang muscle car

Santa Monica Blvd

Jay Leno

Aspen

Red Onion

Sylvester Stallone,

Moscow

Sao Paulo

Café Opera

Vegas

You HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cleCtBP0o5Y”’ HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cleCtBP0o5Y”re HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cleCtBP0o5Y”S HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cleCtBP0o5Y”o HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cleCtBP0o5Y”V HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cleCtBP0o5Y”ain

Master HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5bqXpCbA4s”C HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5bqXpCbA4s”lass-Susie Hanson-

Chapter 13.2 Disco “till you puke”, and the Legend of Au Bar.

Vertical Club

New Orleans

Margaritas

Mezzaluna

OJ Simpson

Newport, RI

Cliff Walk

Chapter 13.3 Have you any Spare Grey Poupon and a Turbo-Helicopter? The tale of Turbo-Goddess.

Hovnanian

Big Apple

Museum of the City of New York

Chapter 13.4: 007 and Bachelor-vile.

black tie gala

James Bond

007

Paine Webber

hedge fund

David Koch

au pair

Sweden

Ferrari

Fred Koch

MIT

Charles Koch

Koch Industries

Eugene Rostow

plane crash in LAX in 1991

Chapter 13.5: BTW: A Fool and his money is not soon parted, a Fool and his money is soon invited everywhere.

Museum of the City of New York

Norah Lawler,

Tombs, the NYC City’s jailhouse

Chapter 13.6: The Legend of Maria Pond: Trouble ahead, Lady in Red?

Chicago

Aspen,

Dewey Sakarno

Indonesian

Nicolas Berggruen

Chapter 13.7: She left the station at quarter of two, on the wrong track, heading for you: The story of the homeless Billionaire.

Harry Cipriani

Sunset Island in South Miami Beach

Miami

Peninsula Hotel in Beverly

Chapter 13.8: Candace Bushnell? Sex in the City? What Planet is that City on?

Sex in the City

Chapter 13.9: The Illegitimate daughter of Zeus and Aphrodite

Chapter 13.10: If you don’t succeed at first, try and try again.

fall of the Berlin Wall

Gulf War One

MS Queen Elizabeth

Like a Rolling Stone

Perrier bottles

Minotaur

labyrinth

Chapter 13.11: Question? With a broken heart, what do you do? Jump off of a building or jump on a Jet to Stockholm and party at Café Opera like a wild animal?

Lord Byron, had it downright:

Chapter 13:11: L’amour est Bleu. Ode to A Lady:

fiends

pity

PART XIV: NEW FRONTIERS AWAIT:

Chapter 14.1: Chaos in the Wild Wild West.

USSR

Operation Desert Storm

T-44-84

Abrams Tank

British Centurion Tank

Cat–Dragon

Leningrad

St. Petersburg

Chapter 14.2: Back in the USSR, you don’t know how lucky you are, friend: St. Petersburg and Vladimir Putin.

Paris..

Josephine Bonaparte

Germans

Opulence

San Diego

St. Petersburg Yacht Club

Third Rome again.

Nevsky Prospekt

Chapter 14.3: A brief sketch of Vladimir Putin, the future Tsar.

Vladimir Putin
KGB
Saint Petersburg
USSR
Wyatt Earp
Tombstone.
Oligarchs
London Stock Exchange
Mikhail Khodorkovsky
Davos
Siberia,
Monopoly Game
Yukos,
Nevzlin,

Israel

Gazprom

barrel of crude

Kremlin
Gazprom
Estonia

Baltic

Northern Hemisphere

Dean Acheson

Rostow

Nitze

Reagan

Obama

Shakespeare

Fire, Sword and Famine

Chapter 14.4: The media idiots and the Crimea Annexation Deja vue? Why don’t these Sanction Idiots look at history?
Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca
Khanate of Crimea
Yalta
Sevastopol
Black Sea fleet
Invasion of Georgia
USS Mount Whitney
NATO
frenemy

Chapter 14.5: The Moscow girls make me sing and shout, they leave the West behind: New Horizons, deja vue.
Ilyushin
titanium
slide rules
Hewlett Packard
Moscow
Gary Hart
Donna Rice
Georgetown, DC
Gold Cup Steeplechase
NY Post
Stalingrad
Matryoshka dolls
Gorbachov
Brzezinski
Catherine the Great

Chapter 14.6: The 8th wonder of the world lies in the basement of the Kremlin—The incredible jewelry collection of Catherine the Great.
Julius Caesar
Rubicon
German Emperor
Tsar
Holy Roman Empire
Constantinople
Istanbul
Byzantium
Scepter of the Tsar
defibrillator

Chapter 14.7: Oh, you’re were such a noble Saint during the day! What did you do at night, pray tell?

Tverskaya Street

apparatchik
Switzerland

Harvard Law School
Wharton School of Business
Spartan
Athenian
Armenian

PART XV: DIGGING FOR GOLD IN THE WILD WILD WEST:

Chapter 15.1: From Russia with Love and Bullets.

Brazilian Court Hotel
subpoenas
Borscht

Mikhail Lesin
Intersputnik

Boris Becker
Anna Kournikova

Chapter 15.2: Moscow, Russia: Act One, Strike One: Oops, watch that baseball bat! The Gangster Lesin.

Associated Press
VHS

Gazprom-Media

Babe Ruth
Cyanide
FSB
FBI
U.S. Justice Department

Chapter 15.3: Moscow, Russia: Act Two, Strike Two: Oops, swing and miss again. meet Paul Nitze and Elmo Zumwalt.

Paul Nitze
Elmo Zumwalt
Assistant Secretary of Defense for International Security Affairs
Secretary of the Navy
Strategic Arms Limitation Talks
Committee on the Present Danger
RAO Unified Energy System of Russia
W.R. Grace company
VOIP

Chapter 15.4: Moscow, Russia: Act Three, Two Strikes, Wham! That Ball is outa here! Maybe? The CTC Media Network.

Ostankino Tower

Washington Monument

Boris Berezovsky

Roman Abramovich
transmitter
lip-sync
demographic profile
UHF
Yury Luzhkov
Ted Turner
October of 1993, the Russian Parliament
Ron Lauder
Aerin Lauder
Merrill Lynch
Morgan Stanley
IPO
Delaware Corporation
Federal District Court
CTC Media
STS Media
Russian Ruble
Long Term Capital Management
Alfa Bank JSC
Mikail Friedman
Modern Times Group
Jan Stenbeck
Lyford Cay
Deutsche Bank
NASDAQ
IPO
CNBC
Krusty the Clown
Klingon

Chapter 15.5: If you have a hot Russian Girl Friend, what romantic spot do you take her to? Obviously, the Republican National Convention in Houston, Texas. Right?

Travel Visa

JFK Airport
Exxon
Robin Leach
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
Taj Mahal
1992 National Convention of the Republican Party
Astrodome
Providence, RI
Senator John Chafee
Houstonian Club
James Baker
George H. W. Bush
George W. Bush
Arnold Schwarzenegger
Senator D’Amato

Chapter 15.6: It Ain’t over till its over, Politics, Presidents, and the self-inflicted defeat of President George Bush, Sr.

Gerald Ford
Nixon
Gulf War
Bill Clinton

Ross Perot
Julius Caesar
Marcus Crassus
Pompey
Marc Antony
Octavius Caesar
Clinton Foundation
XX chromosome

PART XVI: MANDELBROT’S FRACTALS MAKE IT TO MOSCOW: (FOR NERDS ONLY).

Chapter 16.1: The Yale Ball and Chain follows me to Moscow: The Landau Institute For Theoretical Physics. Only Physics Geeks Need Apply:
Sloan Kettering
Mayo Clinic
Hepatitis C
melanoma,
infrared light
O3 triplet
singlet oxygen
FDA
American Trial Lawyer’s Association

Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics
Lev D. Landau
Chernogolovka
Kandidat Naut
Doktor Nauk
Michelson-Morley
Twin Paradox
E=mc2
Bohr’s model
Sierpinski’s triangle
Kock snowflake
iteration
Pantheists
dark matter
Steven Hawking
reincarnation
Cantor’s Dust
Leonardo Da’Vinci
Ptolemy’s world
Tower of Pisa
Wright Brothers
Neil Armstrong
Buzz Aldrin
allegory of the Cave
Russian Academy of Sciences
Nobel Prizes

Chapter 16.2: The Michelson–Morley experiment- wrong! Any sailor knows you can’t sail downwind without gaining distance.
aether
quintessence
Hindu Philosophy
Akasa
Prana
Albert A. Michelson
Edward Morley
solar wind
Michaelson interferometer
Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle
speed of light
Lorentz factor
Special Theory of Relativity
dark matter
dark energy
gravitational fields
Universe.
chaos theory

Chapter 16.3: Hiring the Russian Gunslingers who could get me into The Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics, part time
Mandelbrot
Holy Grail
Romanov
Khalatnikov
Pytor Kapitza

Chapter 16.4: Einstein and his thought experiments-throw the time-twin paradox in the trash heap, for starts.
gadfly
Alpha Numeric
Time Magazine
Nagasaki
the World line
Mobius strip
Hubble’s Law
JRR Tolkien
The Lord of the Rings
Middle Earth
Santa Monica Beach

Chapter 16.5: The Tolkien Twin Experiment: of Surfing Elves and Taffy Yardsticks.

Elrond
quantum-clocks
surfboards
Newton’s 3rd law of momentum
inertial frame of reference
Einstein ordering postulate

Taffy
SI Base units
tachyon
Quantum clock
Numenor
Aragorn
Lord of the Rings
Peter Jackson
New Line Cinema
Harvey Weinstein
casting couch

Chapter 16.6: Tolkien-Taffy Yardsticks? Thinking Outside the Russian Death Box: the Seduction of Anastasia and Kostya

Bay Watch
Nikolai Kondratieff
Stalin
Communism
Socialism
Romanovs
Lenin
Trotsky
Yekaterinburg
Russian Civil War
White Army
execute the Romanov family
Tsar Nicholas II
Poles
Vodka
Iron Curtain

Chapter 16.7: Freedom Calls to Plato’s Caveman. Time to destroy Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity
relativistic (moving) Mass

Resting Mass
Feynman
zero-point energy
Yard

Heisenberg
dimension
fractal
coastline of the UK
Respiratory System
Tennis Court
quantum fluctuation
black holes
Einstein–Rosen wormhole
GPS
H.G. Wells
Moore’s Law
Solar System
Hubble Telescope
Photon
fractal dimension
Galaxy
trenches in World War I
No quarter
R HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R%26R_(military)”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R%26R_(military)”R
Conservation of mass
conservation of energy
Isaac Newton
non-linear systems
Circe

Chapter 16.8: Let us build a new model of the Universe, Mandelbrot style. Start with Serpenski’s Triangles and Koch Snowflakes and a little vodka

Star of David
Koch snowflake
Sierpinki’s triangles
3D
spin
gravitational fields

Chapter 16.9: Ice cream cones and gravitational wells come in Vanilla Vodka only

Star
atom
sub-atomic particle

Edward Teller
inverse square law
Fibonacci numbers
Mandelbrot Set
modified Newtonian dynamics
nonlinear Schroedinger’s equations
Landau-Zener
Moore’s Law
Landau Institute
self-similarity
Milky Way Galaxy
neutron
electrons
half-lives
ouroboros
Edward Teller

waypoints

Chapter 16.10: Dr. Edward Teller, please meet Dr. Edward Anti-Teller, annihilation and Gamma Rays?

Black Hole
White Hole

Edward Teller
Werner Heisenberg
Hydrogen Bomb
Big Bang
CPT symmetry
antimatter

Chapter 16.11: Of Mice and Men, Gravitational Shields, and yes: UFOs
E. Podkletnov
gravitational shielding
gravitomagnetic
G-suit
yaw
g-force
UFO
Catherine the Great
Kip Thorne
aether
quintessence
ornithopter
super capacitors
Plato’s Caveman
Boeing Phantom Works
Skunk Works
Zeta Reticuli
Nukes

Chapter 16.12: Time for to rewrite E=mc2 into Mandelbrot’s Special Theory of Relativity.
Chernogolovka
Doktor Nauk
Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics
Russian Academy of Sciences

PART XVII: OLD HORIZONS. DOESN’T IT EVER STOP?

Chapter 17.1: With a Price on your head in Moscow, there is only one option: return to New York and become a Socialite? No, Fool. Buy a Sailing Yacht and sail the seven seas.

Brighton Beach, N.Y.
Aventura, Florida
Sailing Yacht
Amphicar
amphibious automobile
Palm Beach, Florida
New York Post
Sag Harbor
South Miami Beach
St. Barts

Chapter 17.2: But New York Nightlife was still rocking on the East Side and an “Ode to Elle”

Elle MacPherson
Perth, Australia

Chapter 17.3: The “Scene”. Home becomes the 23rd Street Marina on the East Side.

Bruce Willis
Jean-Claude Van Damme
Dolph Lundgren
Mick Jagger
Robert DeNiro
Peter Beard
Montauk
Kenya
Cheryl Tiegs
Pamela Anderson
New York Yacht Club
Knickerbocker Club
Ford Model
Catullus
Roman Candles
Trump Tower
Sugar Daddy

Chapter 17.4: Have Courage! There are always good dates: If you get caught between the Moon and New York City, the best that you do is a helicopter, a six pack, and a Lady.

Lutece Restaurant
Andre Soltner
Andre Surmain
sous-chef
Indochine
Catherine Deneuve
Indochina
Laos
Cambodia
Vietnam
Statute of Liberty

Chapter 17.5 Party Rules from Captain Rick: Let’s start with the “Peggy Sue Effect”.

homeostasis
Chapter 17.6 Another lesson: Women make great friends and wingmen too!

Donald Trump
Allen and Company
Agassi–Brooke Shields wedding
Sir Anthony O’Reilly
HJ Heinz
John Loeb, Jr.
Denmark
Annabel’s
Aspen Mountain
Marla Maples
Ivana Trump
Lyford Cay
Teddy Forstmann
Shelter Island

Chapter 17.7: I hear you went to Saratoga, and your horse, of course, won, Then you flew your Jet up to Nova Scotia, and saw the total eclipse of the Sun. Aka: “Jim Kimsey and the founding of AOL by accident.”

Central Park
Travers Stake
Jim Kimsey
American Online
Steven Case
Lexington, Kentucky
Steve Spielberg
Frank Caufield
Kleiner, Perkins HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleiner_Perkins” Caufield HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleiner_Perkins”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleiner_Perkins” Byers.

Morgan Stanley
Queen Noor of Jordan
Tom Perkins
Split, Croatia
Maltese Falcon yacht
Key West
J.P Morgan
Y2k
Telluride

Chapter 17.8: West Island: Yet another Party to end all parties. Almost!

Glen Cove, NY
Citibank
Helen of Troy
Narcissism
Lazard Freres
Robert Triffin
Eugene Rostow
Robert Bork
Roger Penrose
Benoit Mandelbrot
Muriel “Mickie” Siebert
cancer
Aids
coronavirus
EMPs
Cyber warfare
Faraday cages

de Kwiatkowski
Shah of Iran
Vanderbilts
Whitneys Mellons
Piping Rock Club
Dr. Kissinger
IQ
Icarus
.45 caliber
Smith and Wesson
pragmatic
Pay-pal
Amazon pay
Labrador retriever
Amazon
search engine technology
Uber
Crazy Eddy
Bricks and Mortar
Jeff Bezos

Chapter 17.9 : Newport, RI: The Bachelor’s Ball, Act I:
Clarke Cooke House
William D. Rockefeller
bulk carriers
container ships
tankers
American rollup HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roll-on/roll-off”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roll-on/roll-off” roll on carriers
Middleburg, Virginia
Rosecliff
Petit Trianon
Puritan
Great Gatsby
Hotchkiss School
Yale
Yale Business School

Chapter 17.10: Newport, RI. The Bachelor’s Ball, Act II:
Naval War College
Charles Tuckerman
F. W. Woolworth
Lacoste shirt
Le Rosey
Gstaad
Harvard
Manuel Noriega
Panama
Cuban
Spanish
Breakers Mansion
Campbell Soup

Chapter 17.11: Not all play, there was work to do. The tale of Anna Nicole Smith and Howard Marshall, Jr. Love at second sight.
Howard Marshall III
Anna Nicole Smith
Howard Marshall II
Koch Industries
Charles Koch
David Koch
Vickie Lee Hogan
Yale Law Journal
Fred Koch
cracking process
petroleum refining process
Pierce Marshall
Midas
cremated
Marshall v. Marshall
Seminole Hard Rock Café in Hollywood, Florida
Mar-a-Largo

PART XVIII: THE BERMUDA QUADRANGLE COMES TO AN END:

Chapter 18:1: Farewell to Aspen:
Wexner
Instrument Flight Rules
Jean-Claude Killy
River Oaks Tennis Tournament
Getty Oil
SnowMass
Aspen Mountain
Gondola lift
Caribou Club
Siri
Steve Tisch
“Forest Gump”
Eli Manning
New York Football Giants

Chapter 18:2: New Snow Horizons: Europe.
Sun Valley
Squaw Valley
Lake Tahoe
Tellurid
Gstaad
Le Rosey
Palace Hotel
Verbier
Courchevel
Kitzbuhel
St. Moritz
Les Caves du Roy

Chapter 18:3: Well, now what do you do on New Year’s Eve? Times Square is not an option:

Punta del Este
Uruguay
Budapest
Hungarian
Florianopolis
Giselle Bunchen
Rio Grande do Sul
Tom Brady

Chapter 18:4: Farewell to the Hamptons, South Miami Beach Beckons:

Hamptons
Hampton Jitney
Greenport
North Fork, Long Island
Orient Point Ferry
amphicar
jetty
Shelter Island Conference
Oppenheimer
Enrico Fermi
Edward Teller
Linus Pauling
Feynman

PART XIX: ULYSSES SAILS SOUTH TO THE ISLANDS OF CIRCE AND CALYPSO:

Chapt. 19.1: Landfall in SoBe paradise, the Early Days:

Brickell Avenue
The News Café, Miami Beach
Ocean Drive in South Beach
Naomi Campell
Kate Moss
Christy Turlington
Jason Binn
Hamptons Magazine
Ocean Drive Magazine
Jack Penrod’s Nikki’s Beach
Micky Rourke
OJ Simpson
Nick Buoniconti
NASDAQ
March of Dimes
Steve Wynn
Formula One

Chapter 19.2: The early days, SoBe part II: Collins

Avenue
Skyy Vodka
Ferrari

Dom Perignon
Nicolas Berggruen
Thomas Kramer
South Pointe
Star Island
Siegfried Otto
deutsche mark
the Deutshe Bundesbank
Kitzbühel
Munich

Palm Island in South Beach

Chapter 19.3: The South Beach scene heats up: the nightclub invasion of SoBe:

Michael Capponi
Peter Nygard
Atlantis Paradise Island
Fontainebleau Miami Beach
Mark Cuban
Club Space
Teterboro airport
MDMA

Chapter 19.4: The Lazy winter of ‘95-96:

Joe’s Stonecrab

Steve Miller Band

The Joker

Madison Avenue
Rubik’s cube

CHAPTER XX: TRAPPED ON THE ISLAND OF CALYPSO WITH AN EXIT VISA TO SOUTH MIAMI BEACH:

Chapter 20.1: Landfall yet again in paradise:
Calypso
Lake Worth
West Palm Beach
Wellington, Florida
the International Polo Club
U.S. Open Polo Championship
Tommy Lee Jones
Worth Avenue
Rodeo Drive
Tiffany’s
Cartier
Brooks Brother’s
Sax Fifth Avenue
Cape Cod
Great Whites
Bull sharks
Palm Beach Airport
Jupiter, Florida
Hobe Sound
Tiger Woods
Fort Lauderdale
Jimmy Buffet
Rod Stewart
Rachael Hunter
Jim Clarke
Netscape

Robert Kraft
New England Patriots
Rush Limbaugh
Anne Coulter
Wilbur Ross
Secretary of Commerce
Donald Trump
Mar-a-Largo
Hedge Fund
Steve Schwartzman

Chapter 20.2: Palm Beach: “God’s waiting room” or Rock N Roll?

William Kennedy Smith
Keith Hernandez
New York Mets
General Alexander Haig
Time Warner
Dot-com bubble

Chapter 20.3: Who was that girl? The tale of Brooke Shield’s sister.

Brooke Shields
Hammersmith Farm
Wimbledon
Tennis Hall Of Fame in Newport
Francis Xavier Shields,Sr,
Lawrence Taylor
Washington Redskins
cocaine
Joe Theismann
Jack Kent Cooke
Hurricane Wilma
Category 1 Hurricane

Chapter 20.4: The tale of Bill Roosevelt, a Gentleman and Scholar, and Fidel Castro

FDR
New Amsterdam
Fidel Castro
Echo Soundings
Cousteau Society
Cuba
Havana
Koran
Comanche Country
Hotel Nacional de Cuba
directional drilling
enhanced oil recovery
PDVSA
Pemex
Anderson Cancer Clinic
American Trial Lawyers Associations
Ireland
Germany
Bad Mergentheim
Frankfurt
hyperthermia
detoxification

Chapter 20.5: Giovanna, the tale of the Brazilian Princesa:
Breakers Hotel
Minas Gervais
Sao Paulo
Brazil
Harry Potter
Rio
Vanderbilt
Astors
Rolex
Pin number

Chapter: 20.6: The tale of the Amorous and Alluring Mermaid: Valerie de la Valdez:

Discover Channel
Scuba Diver’s Hall of Fame
San Francisco
Galapagos Islands
Ecuador
22 caliber
forensic science
Flagler
Álvaro Noboa
John Paulson
Bordeaux vineyards
Rothschilds

PART XXI: FALLING THROUGH THE RABBIT HOLE AGAIN: BATTLEGROND FLORIDA. THE WARS BEGIN:

Chapter 21.1: Bush-Gore 2000 and the media fake out.

Battle of Troy
Ithaca
Middleburg, Virginia
Virginia Law School
Constitutional Law
Panhandle of Florida
time zone
Joe Lieberman
Al Gore
Vanderbuilt Law School
controversies
Socratic method
Abraham Lincoln
Habeas Corpus
Richard Nixon
Gerald Ford
disbarred
Obama
Palm Pilot phone
French National Anthem

“La Marseillaise HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vjg6uv0q1i0″”

Chapter 21.2: Allons enfants de la Patrie, To the Barricades: Flipping Florida to Bush (and the U.S. Presidency):

RNC
hanging chad

Chapter 21.3: The “Hanging Chad” dispute, cheating at its finest:

Electoral College
Palm Beach County
Votomatic-style
James Baker
Katherine Harris
Florida’s Secretary of State
Bush v. Gore HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bush_v._Gore,_531_U.S._98_(2000),”, 531 U.S. 98 (2000)
Bush v. Palm Beach County Canvassing Board

Chapter 21.4: Al Gore gets a new job: Henny Penny, the sky is falling, send $100 to Al Gore to save our planet from destruction:

September 11 attacks
Armageddon
An Inconvenient Truth
Apocalypse
Mauna Loa Observatory
CO HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon_dioxide_in_Earth%27s_atmosphere”2 HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon_dioxide_in_Earth%27s_atmosphere” concentrations
Nitrogen
oxygen
argon
nitrous oxides
methane
ozone

weather buoys
Southern Hemisphere
Methane Gas
thermosphere
Thermohaline Circulation
radioactive decay
elliptic orbit
Milankovitch Cycles
axial tilt
solar system
semi-major axis
semi-minor axis
solar irradiation
perihelion
aphelion
orbital eccentricity
Victor A. Brumberg
fusion
solar wind
Hirosaki University
European journal HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomy_%26_Astrophysics”Astronomy HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomy_%26_Astrophysics”& HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astronomy_%26_Astrophysics” Astrophysics
angular momentum
high latitude
summer insolation

Chapter 21.6: Little Darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter, but here comes the Sun, here comes the Sun-Well Maybe Not:
NASA
Marshall Space Flight Center
Giuliana de Toma (High Altitude Observatory)
Gleissberg Cycle
National Solar Observatory
Sunspot spectra
Gauss units
Solar Cycle 25
Maunder Minimum
Europe’s Little Ice Age.

Dalton Minimum
Spörer Minimum
The Year Without a Summer HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_Without_a_Summer”
Mount Tambora’s VEI 7
Indonesia
Battle of Waterloo
Napoleon
Duke of Wellington
Virginia
Independence Day
New England
Pennsylvania
Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death

PART XXII: A BRIEF RESPITE FROM REALITY : THE AMERICA’S CUP JUBILEE IN COWES – THE SAILORS’ WOODSTOCK:

Chapter 22.1: A Sailor’s Nirvana never to be seen again.
Isle of Wight
12 Metres
IACC yachts
J-Class Yachts
America’s Cup Class yachts
New York Yacht Club
Shamrock V
Mighty Servant 3
CTC Network

Chapter 22.2: The Prince and I are put on a mission. Off we go to Cowes on the Isle of Wight.

Prince Michel de Yougolslavie
Kevin Kostner
Royal House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha
World War I
George V of England
Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany
Tsar Nicholas II
King Juan Carlos
Maxi-Yacht
House of Bourbon
House of Valois

Chapter 22:3 My work was done, no women, wanderlust strikes hard. Off I go to Slovenia.

Vienna, Austria
Slovenia
Ljubljana
Melania Trump
Woodstock
van der Wal

Chapter 22:4: BTW. Did you get a Pulitzer Prize for your work at the America’s Cup Jubilee?

12 metre
Pulitzer Prize
Prince Charles
Bill Koch
Queen Elizabeth II
Buckingham Palace

PART XXIII: THE AUGUST “HIGH” BECOMES A SEPTEMBER 11, 2001 “BUMMER”. THE WINDS OF WAR BEGIN TO BLOW:

Chapter: 23.1: New York City is a disaster-Refugee East to Newport, RI.

South Tower (WTC 2).
parachutes
JFK airport
LA,
Park Avenue
Basset Hounds

Chapter 23.2: The tale of a Jedi Master

to the rescue.

CVS
USS Intrepid
Pearl Harbor
WWII
FBI
Hudson River
Yankee Stadium
George Steinbrenner
New York Yankees

Shane Spencer

Chapter 23.3: The aftermath of 9-11: Wanderlust strikes deep for the fearless.

In the Early Morning Rain

Buenos Aires
coriolis effect
Uruguay
Chile
Peru
Bolivia
Ecuador
Manaus
Rio de Janeiro
Sao Paulo
Columbia
Panama
Costa Rica
Cuba
Florida
Iceland
Tallinn
Estonia
Riga
Latvia
Vilnius
Lithuania
Baltics
Berlin
Czechoslovakia
Poland
Budapest
Hungary
Moscow
Ukraine
Crimea
Romania
Moldavia
Bucharest
Monaco
St. Tropez
Capetown, South Africa
Malaysian Airlines
Bangkok
Singapore
Malaysia
Indonesia
Hong Kong
Taipei
Taiwan
Greenwich, CT
Zagat
mafiosa boss
Chinese Mob
Vancouver

PART XXIV: BACK TO THE ISLE OF CIRCE AND CALYPSO:

Chapter 24.1: A new house in a great neighborhood, skinny dipping, and rock star parties.

Marion Sims Wyeth
Guinness Record Book
Puddle of Mudd
Joanna Krupa
Real Housewife of Miami
Golden Retriever
South Beach

Chapter 24.2: Another new house in a great neighborhood, a cat rescue, a dog, and more parties.

BMW 1200RS

Hvar, Croatia
PetSmart
Schrodinger’s Quantum Cat
Cat’s nine lives
Three Amigos

Chapter 24.3: The flight towards commitment. A new love enters the picture.

AKC
Stud
Bitch
Hurricane Katrina
Madison Avenue
Tallinn, Estonia
Connecticut

PART XXV: THE WINDS OF WAR NOW HOWL, TIME TO GO TO BAGHDAD:

Chapter 25.1: Belgrade to a Baghdad Bummer: Drilling for oil, (hoping your head would not be cut off)!
Serbia
Boris Berezovsky
Danube
New York Football Giants
Chicago Bears
Viking
Moor
Montenegro
Nazis
Lincoln Road
Djokovic
Sony tennis tournament
Coral Gables
ATP 1
Dictator Slobodan Milosevic
Serbian Dinars
Saul Alinsky’s
Baghdad

Chapter 25.2: The USA fumbles the ball: Gulf War II.
Gulf War I
George Bush, Sr.
Mandate
Saddam Hussein
Kuwait
Saudi’s
Sunni Iraq
Shiite Iran
Saudi King Fahd
Marbella, Spain
Lady Moura
Ramadan
Cote D’Azur
Afghanistan
SEATO Treaty
invasion of Iraq
CIA
Tet Offensive
WMDs,
Weapons of Mass Destruction
petro-dollar
Sycophants
Iraq-Iran Border
Sun Tzu Art of War

Chapter 25.3: When you are in the Arena, Catness, remember who the true enemy is.
Walmart
Rumsfeld
Colin Powell
Nielson ratings
Geraldo Rivera
Dresden firebombing
Hiroshima’s
Iran Republican Guard

Chapter 25.4: The 2nd Fumble: The short-lived Honeymoon comes to a miserable end.
Tigris River
Cyrus the Great
Darius
Alexander the Great
Julius Caesar
Napoleon
Sunnis
AK-47s
IEDs
Baghdad Green Zone
Ottoman Empire
Jordan

Chapter 25.5: No time to get your head cut off. We move operations to Amman, Jordan.
the Iraq Oil and Gas Ministry
Amman, Jordan
barrels of oil
light sweet crude
Basra
very heavy crude
Hess Oil
Maersk
Danish
Prince Albert II
Kenya
musth
Disneyland
Third Rome
General Petraeus
Orwell’s Big Brother
Mantra

PART XXVI: BACK TO THE ISLE OF CALYPSO AND BATTLEGROUND FLORIDA:

Chapter 26.1: Kerry v. Bush- Deja Vue all over again. (“The Media Dogs Bite Again”).

RNC
East Coast of the US
Tiger Does Not Change His Stripes
Nasdaq 100 futures
traded derivatives
Wharton
exit polling

Chapter 26.2: The Lull before the Storm–Cashing in on Russia and Yale Social Investing.

IPO
Morgan Stanley
Deutsche Bank
Kevlar vests
Ratheons
Lockheed Martins
Alzheimer’s Disease
American Airlines
flight attendants
cancer
Thyroiditis
Anatabine
alkaloid
multiple sclerosis
Crocs
Reisberg Scale
John Hopkins University
Hashimoto’s thyroiditis.
GNC
Jeremy Shockey
Jack Nicklaus

Chapter 26.3: If you don’t succeed at first, try, and try again, redux.
Miami Dolphin
progesterone
Wyeth
Dom Perignon
pre-term baby
Versace mansion
Peyton Manning
American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists

The March of Dimes

Brigham HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigham_and_Women%27s_Hospital” and Women’s HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigham_and_Women%27s_Hospital”Hospital
Harvard
The American Institute of HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Institute_of_Ultrasound_in_Medicine”Ultrasound

NICU

PART XXVII: THE BIRTHER WARS AND THE ECONOMIC COLLAPSE OF 2008:

Chapter 27.1: Vladimir Putin pours cold ice on the party. The great derivative “unwind” begins.
Republic of Georgia
South Ossetia
raison d’etre
Mig fighter jets
UAV drones
Hotel de Paris Monte Carlo
OTC derivatives
financial bubble
Greenspan
financial contagion
London
AIG
Bear Stearns
Lehman Brothers
tranched
NINJA loans
money market funds
Armageddon
volatility
financially hedge
Abramovich
Bernie Madoff
neutron bomb

Chapter 27.2: Oh! Hooray. Time to elect a new President amidst Financial Armageddon. Great!
Ivy League Law Schools
Socratic method
Saul Alinsky
Devil Lucifer
Nero
fiddled while Rome burned
John McCain
Rudy Giuliani
Arnold Schwarzenegger
Mitt Romney
Alaskan
Sarah Palin
RNC
pollsters
Pennsylvania
Ohio
Electoral College
Goldman Sachs
the Great Depression
Election Day
The Pew Research Center
coup d’etat
RNC HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Republican_National_Committee”
Super Pacs
beta tested
Xeroxed
New York
North Carolina
Colorado
Ohio
Missouri

Chapter 27.3: THE “BIRTHER WAR” (Where Is Judicial Reform?)
Birther War
Kenya
Framers of the Constitution
Article II of the U.S. Constitution
Madison or Federalist Papers
Certificate of Live Birth
Birth Certificate
Certificate of Live Birth
monospaced fonts
typewriter pitch
IBM Selectric typewriter
Hawaii
Occidental College
Columbia
Harvard Law
IBM

Chapter 27.4: The U.S. Supreme Court to the Rescue! Well Maybe not. Where were they?

Supreme Court
burden of proof
Enjoin
Electoral College
preponderance of evidence
Constitutional Crisis
Clarence Thomas
Writ
Mandamus
DNC
subpoenaed
page margins
tape measure
carpenter
Microsoft Word
Philip J. Berg
Berg v. Obama, No. 08-4340
Docket
moot
Bush-Gore debacle
flogging a dead horse
my own two cents
Saul Alinsky
Cold War
Committee on the Present Danger
Eugene Rostow
Paul Nitze
Edward Teller
FISA courts

PART XXVIII: BACK TO WORK: CAN KIM KARDSHIAN FIT IN HER JEANS BY FRIDAY?

Chapter 28.1: Hollyweird again?

Creative Artists
Tera Patrick
Write-off
Paris Hilton
People Magazine
GEN (Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology News)

Ground Zero
Cannes, France
DVD
Walmart
Target

Chapter 28.2: The shoot. Lights, action, cameras again.
Super Bowl Sunday
Tampa Bay
Reggie Bush
Malibu
Robertson Boulevard
Kris Jenner
Good Morning America
Rachael Ray

Chapter 28.3: The Hollyweird game again. The great Kim Kardashian rip off by YouTube.

YouTube
copyright
Digital Millennium Copyright Act’s
safe harbor law
Viacom v. YouTube
Viacom International Inc
Google
U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York
summary judgment
Second Circuit Court of Appeals
willful blindness
criminal copyright violation in the United States
contingency fee
800-pound gorilla
Harvey Weinstein

Chapter 28.4: Kudos for Kim

handgun shoulder holsters
blazer jacket
preppy
Jake Steinfeld
Playboy Magazine
sequel
federal conviction rate
Kanye West

PART XXIX: BACK TO BATTLEGROUND FLORIDA REDUX-DONALD J. TRUMP

Chapter 29.1: The Florida Trump Wars: Gather your weapons, it’s going to be bloody.

Chapter 29.2: The Weapons: Blogs and websites, a detailed study of Florida Demographics.

Chapter 29.3: General Florida Demographics- A Tale of Two Cities:

registered voters

Demographics

Panhandle

Military Absentee vote

Elderly voters

Chapter 29.4: The Student Loan Debt Relief Initiative.

millennial
Student Debt
credit rating
amortization schedule.
Fico credit scores
Equifax
Transunion
Experian
subprime lending
garnishment
usurious
Reagan
Stafford Student loans
Plus Loan
Graduate Plus Loans
10 year Treasury
net interest spread
30 Year US Treasury Bond
basis point
social security
quid pro quo
IRS

Chapter 29.5: Finally, connected to the RNC and the brilliant Steve Bannon.

RNC
demographics
Creole language
RT America
Steve Bannon
electoral votes

Chapter 29.6: Trump surprisingly wins, and the War begins.

Hurricane Matthew
Category 5 storm on the Saffir-Simpson scale
Florida Keys
Primary Elections
Tammany Hall
magnus opus
RNC
CNN

PART XXX: AGAIN, RICH AND FAMOUS SCANDALS AT POLO AND PALM BEACH, JEFF EPSTEIN, ROBERT KRAFT, BLOOMBERG ET ALIA:

Chapter 30.1: Polo anyone? Wellington can have Scandals too.

Polo
Carlos Gracida
Adolfo Cambiaso
Pampas
Peter Brant
Tommy Lee Jones
U.S. Open Polo championship
Wellington, Florida
right of way
Meadowbrook Polo Club
Old Westbury, Long Island
Bill HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_T._Ylvisaker”Ylvisaker
Tim Gannon
Out Back Steak Houses
International Polo Club
Grand Prix Show Jumpers

Chapter 30.2: The entire Venezuelan Lechuza Caracas horse team mysteriously dies in the US Open quarter final. How?
Easter
Lechuza Caracas
Venezuelan Victor Vargas
Neil Hirsch
Tallahassee
NBC
Mercedes Benzes

Chapter 30.3: News Flash, News Flash: Bloomberg’s Daughter’s in the News! Oops, the Gag Order.
Mayor Bloomberg
Dutch Warm Blood
Myopia Hunt Club
Massachusetts
Gag Order
Bloomberg News

Chapter 30.4: The Tragic fall of the Rich and Famous: Polo Club Owner John Goodman.

John B. Goodman
International Polo Club
criminal defense attorney, Roy Black
Rush Limbaugh
DUI
manslaughter
vehicular homicide

Chapter 30.5: New England Patriot Owner Robert Kraft is sacked by the Patriot Act.
Robert Kraft
New England Patriots
USA PATRIOT ACT
Police State
due process
SNEAK AND PEEK warrants
Fourth Amendment rights
Alex Spiro
William Burke
Jupiter, FL
Benjamin Franklin

Chapter 30.6: Jeffrey Epstein works his way from Jets, Islands, and Mansions into the Morgue.
Sex trafficking

Plea deal

DNA
FSB
MI6
Mossad

PART XXXI: THE “SCIENTISTS” STUPIDLY FUMBLE THE BALL AS THE HYGIENIC FASCISTS AND BIG PHARMA CHEER. JEFF EPSTEIN’S MORGUE DOES MORE BUSINESS.

Chapter 31.1: The Plague is upon us. Not Covid-19, but “Hygienic Fascism”. Alinksy’s dark shadow deepens.

Chapter 31.2: Neo-Carpetbaggers jump onboard the Hygienic Fascist Gravy Train.

Cyberocracy

Randolph Hearst

George Orwell’s “1984”

Chapter 31.3: The “Pandemic” and the Law of the Jungle: The FINAL LESSON.

coronavirus

SARS-CoV-2

Covid-19

Communist Party of China

Chapter 31.4: The War against Covid-19. “Science” and “Hygienic Fascism” imprison Mankind.

Institutes of Research

Grant money

apocalyptic prophesies

mobilized for War

Donald Trump

Democratic House of Representatives

weaponized bureaucracy

mRNA monoclonal antibodies

Chapter 31.5: A “Ship of Fools” manned by a “Confederacy of Dunces”.

American Civil War

General William Tecumseh Sherman

adaptation by natural selection

Chapter 31.6:Gee! These CDC Muppets might be right about chemical energy, slow costly vaccines. But why not look at electromagnetic and biomechanical acoustic energy. Attack the virus first!

Viking

Mohawk

General George Patton

moat

Guru de Jour

Muppets

spectrum of Electromagnetic energy

non-ionizing radiation

photons

ionize HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ionization” HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ionization”atoms

chemical bonds

c HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carcinogen”arcinogenic

bromine (Kr-Br)

Chapter 31.7: Torah, Torah, Torah! Attack and Destroy the Enemy Virus! But with Music?

Royal R. Rife

Universal Microscope

La Jolla California

American Medical Association

Rife Frequencies

pathogens

structure-resonant energy transfer

reverse transcription polymerase chain reactions

Center for Radiological Research, Columbia University Irving Medical Center

Faucian

Chapter 31.8: One Ring to rule them all… and in the Darkness bind them: Welcome to Shelob’s Lair:

Little Ice Age
Rogue State
EMPs
cyber-attacks
Big Pharma

Chapter 31.9: The War against Alinsky enters its fifth decade.

Facebook
Twitter
Instagram
Google
entitlements
swill
Sir Thomas More’s
Utopia
Democracy
Autocracy
Totalitarianism
communist socialism
fascism
Nazism
Saul Alinsky
RULES FOR RADICALS

serf
slave
One third of the Roman Empire were slaves

PART XXXII: NEVER SEND TO KNOW FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS, IT TOLLS FOR THEE:

Chapter 32.1: Armageddon is finally upon us: Extinction, Death and “Behavioral Sink”.

Dr. John B. Calhoun
Ethologist
planet
Malthusian
Behavioral Sink
Moore’s Law
overload population
unmotivated mass shootings
Doomsday, Friday, thwe 13th of

November,2026

Chapter 32.2: The Law of Unintended Consequences. If we survive Armageddon, don’t worry: The idiotic “Green New Deal” will certainly finish us off.

The Law of Unintended Consequences

Vitamin D3 HYPERLINK “https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Previtamin_D3”

CO2

Venus

PART XXXIII: THE CLOSING ARGUMENT: THE FACTS AND EVIDENCE ARE NOW BEFORE YOU, THE JUDGE AND JURY. TIME TO JUDGE.

Chapter 33.1: Yes Virginia, There is a God. Why? Because Stephen Hawking told me so.

ALS

Sir Thomas Aquinas

Immovable Mover

Sir Isaac Newton

Atheists

foxholes

Battle of Bastogne

Chapter 33.2: I beg your Pardon, I never promised you a Rose Garden.

Garden

J.P Morgan
IEDs
self-esteem
Mars
Steve Hawking

Big Bang

Landauu Institute

EMP

NASA

Dalton Minimum

Summerless 1816

Chapter 33.3: The White Poster Prince logs his last report. Over and Out.

Pendulum

Face Book

Big Data,

NSA

Serfdom

species

The Law of the Jungle

SONG TRACK TO TALES OF BRAVES ULYSSES- INSTRUCTIONS:

Click on YouTube Link-if advertisement, wait 5 seconds, press “skip adds” button on lower left corner. Close out YouTube Window at end of Music or it will continue in background.

• Cream: Tales of Brave Ulysses:

• Jean Knight: Mr. Big Stuff

Lyrics

Mr. Big Stuff
Who do you think you are
Mr. Big Stuff
You’re never gonna get my love

Now because you wear all those fancy clothes (oh yeah)
And have a big fine car, oh yes you do now
Do you think I can afford to give you my love (oh yeah)
You think you’re higher than every star above

Mr. Big Stuff
Who do you think you are
Mr. Big Stuff
You’re never gonna get my love

Now I know all the girls I’ve seen you with
I know you broke their hearts one after another now, bit by bit
You made ’em cry, many poor girls cry
When they try to keep you happy, they just try to keep you satisfied

Mr. Big Stuff, tell me tell me
Who do you think you are
Mr. Big Stuff
You’re never gonna get my love

I’d rather give my love to a poor guy
That has a love that’s true (oh yeah)
Than to be fooled around and get hurt by you
Cause when I give my love, I want love in return (oh yeah)
Now I know this is a lesson Mr. Big Stuff you haven’t learned

Mr. Big Stuff, tell me
Who do you think you are
Mr. Big Stuff
You’re never gonna get my love

Mr. Big Stuff
You’re never gonna break my heart
Mr. Big Stuff
You’re never gonna make me cry

Mr. Big Stuff, tell me
Just who do you think you are
Mr. Big Stuff
You’re never gonna get my love
Mr. Big Stuff

• Gone with the Wind-Tara’s Theme

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxOrh19hAP8

• Tammy Wynette: Stand by your man:

• Blue Lagoon Soundtrack : Love Theme (Emmaline)

• Hendrix-The Star Spangled Banner-Woodstock -interview

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFLy8eGtSYo

• Rod Stewart: Maggie May .37 sec -2:32-Fade

• Beach Boys: California Girls

• Eagles: Peaceful Easy Feeling, I want to sleep with you in the desert tonight

• Phil Ochs: Draft Dogder Rag

• County Joe and Fish- Vietnam Song ,Come all of you big strong men.

• Steppenwolf: Easy Rider: Born to be wild

• Byrds: I Wasn’t Born to Follow:

• Bob Dylan; Lay,Lady, Lay

• Ian and Sylvia: Changes

• The Jamies: Summertime, Summertime

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WG6zo05tcQA

Lyrics: It’s summertime summertime sum sum summertime
summertime…
         Well shut them books and throw em away, Say goodbye to dull school days
So come on and change your ways, It’s summertime…
        Well no more studying history, And no more reading geography
And no more dull geometry, Because it’s summertime
       Well we’ll go swimmin every day, No time to work just time to play

• Johann Strauss: Blue Danube Waltz:

• Do-Re-Mi from The Sound of Music

• Jim Croce: Bad, Bad Leroy Brown

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aB_TM5AvJP0

Lyrics: Bad, Bad Leroy Brown…Badder than ol’ King Kong, Meaner than a Junkyard Dog

• Dueling guitars: Father and Son

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3cWOK5f2hE

• Frank Sinatra: New York, New York:

• Susie and Faye: Susie sings at 9:35-11:46 into opera

• Fred Astaire: Putting on the Ritz

• Grateful Dead- Casey Jones: to 1:15-2:352:03

Driving that train
High on cocaine
Casey Jones you better
Watch your speed
Trouble ahead
Trouble behind
And you know that notion
Just crossed my mind?

Trouble ahead
A lady in red
Take my advice
You’d be better off dead!
Switchman’s sleeping
Train hundred and two is
On the wrong track
And headed for you!

• Rolling Stones: Like a Rolling Stone

• Love is blue, L’amour est blue,

Lyrcis:

Blue, blue, my world is blue

Blue is my world since I’m without you

Gray, gray, my life is gray

Cold is my heart since you went away

Red, red, my eyes are red

Cryin’ for you alone in my bed

Green, green, my jealous heart

I doubted you and now we’re apart

When we met

How the bright sun shone

Then love died

Now the rainbow is gone

Black, black, the nights I’ve known

Longing for you so lost and alone

Gone, gone, the love we knew

Blue is my world since I’m without you

• Beatles: Back in the USSR

• Arthur’s Theme: Stuck between the Moon and New York City

• Four seasons “What a Lady, Lady,

what a night”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDxhugRKZ8g

• Carly Simon: You’re so Vain

Well I hear you went up to Saratoga
And your horse naturally won
Then you flew your lear jet up to Nova Scotia
To see the total eclipse of the sun

Well you’re where you should be all the time
And when you’re not, you’re with some underworld spy
Or the wife of a close friend wife of a close friend and

You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain (so vain)
I bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you don’t you don’t you?

• Steve Miller Band: The Joker

32. National Anthem: France – La Marseillaise

33.Beatles: Here comes the Sun

34. Ian and Sylvia: Early Morning Rain:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyhZXdJ_4l0 HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyhZXdJ_4l0&list=RDFyhZXdJ_4l0&start_radio=1&t=4″& HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyhZXdJ_4l0&list=RDFyhZXdJ_4l0&start_radio=1&t=4″list=RDFyhZXdJ_4l0 HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyhZXdJ_4l0&list=RDFyhZXdJ_4l0&start_radio=1&t=4″& HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyhZXdJ_4l0&list=RDFyhZXdJ_4l0&start_radio=1&t=4″start_radio=1 HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyhZXdJ_4l0&list=RDFyhZXdJ_4l0&start_radio=1&t=4″& HYPERLINK “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyhZXdJ_4l0&list=RDFyhZXdJ_4l0&start_radio=1&t=4″t=4

35. Lynne Anderson: Rose Garden

SONG TRACK TO TALES OF BRAVES ULYSSES- INSTRUCTIONS:

Click on YouTube Link-if advertisement, wait 5 seconds, press “skip adds” button on lower left corner. Close out You Tube window at end of Music or it will continue in background.

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The Tale of the “White Poster Prince”

Testimonials

Robert C., MD Cornell, MBA Columbia, J.D. Fordham Law

S. Jones (author of “I Saw the Future”)

R. T., Yale

SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Chapter 21.4: Al Gore gets a new job: Henny Penny, the sky is falling, send $100 to Al Gore to save our planet from destruction:

Chapter 21.5: Gee, Al, stop looking at your fat wallet and look at the facts, and the Sun, and the Ocean. You just might find Global Cooling is upon us and is the real danger, the real “inconvenient truth”:

Chapter 21.6: Little Darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter, but here comes the Sun, here comes the Sun-Well Maybe Not:

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