Picasso's "The Dream"

Let me say this about that.

I have met some pretty smart guys in my time.  I even used to think I was pretty smart until I got to know a few of these guys.  Smart people, like the fabulously wealthy – ‘are different from the rest of us’ – and operate on an elevated ceriberal plane that is intellectual ‘Shock and Awe’ to an average person like me.

When I say “Smart”, don’t confuse that term with intelligence.  Don’t confuse that term with educated ….. or astute, clever, savvy, intuitive or wise. ‘Smart’ is the confluence of many of these attributes, but also requires timing, speed, and above all else, ‘balls’. I have never met a really smart guy that did not have a set of ‘cojone’s’ the size of  watermelons.  Case-in-point:

When I graduated from college in 1969, I got a job with an aerospace company in Cape Canaveral working on the Apollo program.  I was young, broke, inexperienced, and basically did not know my ass from a hole-in-the-ground when it came to surviving in a corporate environment …. none of which, I reasoned, was cause not to be optimistic about my future.  But it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was in WAY over my head.  I needed…    help, I needed guidance, I needed a mentor.

A few months after I started work, I was lubricating my sorrows in draft beer at a local tavern.  I noticed this guy, probably twice my age, chatting-up a hand full of mini-skirted honeys at the end of the bar.  He looked familiar, but four beers had significantly reduced my cognitive powers and I couldn’t remember where I had seen him.  He looked and acted a lot like Rodney Dangerfield with that ‘screw-the-establishment’ demeanor and threw money around like it came off a Monopoly board.  Turns out, I knew one of the girls in his harem and she motioned for me to join them.  I walked over and the guy introduced himself as Grant.  He was the executive vice president for the company I worked for.

A lowly peon in the presence of one of the top guys in the company – HOLY CRAP!!  I was very intimidated, but he turned out to be a regular guy.  He bought me – and the girls –  beers for the rest of the night and donated his harem to me after he left the bar.  What a guy!

I would ocassionally see Grant at work and the local watering holes and after a few months we became friends.  I really liked the guy, but what wasn’t there to like?  I became his ‘running-buddy’ and everywhere he went, free beer and hot girls followed.

One night at a regular watering-hole, we got into a conversation about art and artists - ‘Who was the greatest artist of all time?’, or something like that.  Grant happened to mention he owned a painting by Pablo Picasso and asked if I would like to see it sometime.  I said “sure”, and he invited me to his home the following Saturday to see the Picasso and a few other of his collectibles.

Let me take a moment and tell you that I grew-up in Appalachia and had just finished six years of engineering school – neither of which are hotbeds of art appreciation.  But I had heard of Picasso, and I felt that was sufficient to get me in the door without unduly embarrassing myself, and pursuing my primary passion …. free beer.

So I show up at Grant’s house the following Saturday, just as a haggard-looking middle aged woman was driving away.  I entered the house and followed Grant to the refrigerator for one of many beers I would drink that afternoon.  I asked him about the woman I had passed in the driveway and he said it was his wife.

Shambo: “WIFE ?!?!  You’re married?

I was shocked.  The guy got laid more than carpet tile and he’s married?

Grant: “Yeah, married for twenty-two years.  The old girl has some issues, though.  She has been really down for a while.  She is on medication for her hallucinations, you know.”

I could feel a great story coming on.  Free beer, great stories, and oh yeah, an art show.

Grant: “I suppose some of it is really my fault, especially after the incident last year.”

The little angel on my right shoulder was telling me to shut up and be a gracious guest in the man’s home.  The little devil on my left shoulder was saying “Are you out of your freakin’ mind?  Drink the man’s beer and listen to some dirt on his wife !!”

Shambo: “What incident?”

'60's star Jane Mansfield

OK.  So I’m a slut, what can I tell ya?

Grant: “I had this girl over here on a Thursday afternoon – nineteen years old with an ass like Jane Mansfield.  Anyway, the wife was supposed to be in Orlando on a shopping trip with her girlfriends, but she had car trouble and returned home.  She walked into the bedroom and caught me – what’s the old saying?  ‘in-the-saddle’.  Well, she went completely berserk, I gotta tell ya.  She yelled, she screamed, she cried, she threw things, she ran around in circles and basically  freaked-out.”

Shambo: “So, what did you do?”

Grant: “While she was on her rampage, I got the girl out of bed and out the door.  I got dressed,  made the bed, cleaned up the wine glasses, and brought my wife a stiff scotch.  I sat her down and asked her what was wrong.  Of course she started screaming again about me playing hide-the-sausage with little Miss Perfect Ass.  I just looked at her and asked her what she was talking about.”

“I took her into the bedroom and showed her a perfectly made bed.  I took her outside and showed her the only cars in the driveway were hers and mine.  I fixed her another iced-tea sized glass of scotch and brought her a couple of her ‘happy-pills’.  She got a little woozy and I suggested she lie down and we would discuss this incident after she had a nice nap.”

Shambo:  “So what happened when she woke up?”

Grant:  “I waited about fifteen minutes until she got into that deep, alcohol and pharmaceutical semi-comatose state.  I changed into my work cloths, moved my car behind hers, and woke her up.  It took me nearly five minutes to get her awake, she was so out of it.  I said “Baby, wake up – are you all right?  You must have been having a horrible dream.  I came in from work and you were screaming at the top of your lungs.  Are you OK?”

Shambo: “You bastard - and she bought it?”

Grant: “She is convinced to this day that she dreamed the whole thing.”

Shambo: “And that’s when the hallucinations started?”

Grant looked at me like I had just fallen off the turnip truck and said:

“What hallucinations?”

And, that’s all I have to say about that.

Shambo