Something about the Way the Sun Looked

I found myself on the highway this morning,in my convertible, and something about the way the sun shone, and the air smelled, took me back to 1975, and my family vacation on Miami Beach. Also, there have been stories in the news about the anniversary of the Eastern L1011 crash in the Everglades that December, an even that always resonated with me. My parents and I had flown an Eastern L1011 from JFK to MIA about 9 days before the fateful flight.

Starting in about 1972, my parents would come every Winter and Spring Break to South Beach. Some years my sister and her family would come, too, and we usually met some of my mother's family.

Back then, South Beach was truly God's Waiting Room -- a bunch of decrepit hotels, and third class restaurants. My grandmother wintered in a hotel on Collins and 10th Street. We found a place right on the beach at 1st and Ocean.

My father would book the same room every time -- a small efficiency that opened right onto the sand. He loved to wake me up and take me for walks in the morning, as the solstice sun was rising over the Atlantic, and the air smelled so fresh. He was so happy on these vacations --the happiest I ever saw him. I'm sure those experiences instilled in me a love of Miami that I still have over 35 years later.

And this morning the sun looked the same --something about the light. Even though the highway was 5 miles West of the ocean, I could smell the brine. It was lovely to go back in my mind.

One year, probably when I was about 15, I had an awful cough on the trip. My father took me to a doctor, somewhere on Washington Avenue, probably near the Famous Restaurant. The doctor spoke with a very heave Spanish accent. He listened to my chest with a stethoscope, looked me over, and said "Seeemply a chest cooold." He was right --I was better soon. My father and I celebrated with some corned beef sandwiches --probably at Stein's Deli on Washington.

It's the 2nd to last day of 2007. Maybe the ghosts of years past are stirring. All I know is, as I drove this morning, I was in December of 1975. In my mind I'm going to South Beach.

Back Home Again

Finally, we have them both home and safe. Daughter #2 is continuing to recover from her wisdom teeth extraction, sleeping a lot on Vikodin, and eating soft food. Daughter #1 made it home after a long, journey from Israel.

She left at 11 am Israel time, and 4 am local time, and arrived at JFK at 4 pm. She made it on a standby JetBlue flight that left at 8 pm --a good thing, because her regularly scheduled flight didn't arrive until 4 this morning.

Meanwhile, I drove to Delray and took Mom out. We went to Atlantic Avenue, and it was HAPPENING! We went to a place I thought had seafood, and it did --but sushi. Mom made a great "YUCK!" face. We found a cooked seafood restaurant down the block, I had a martini, and all was grand. I bought Mom a lobster, and she savored it, as she always does. She NEVER orders lobster when she goes out by herself, so I really enjoy treating her to it. We stopped at the liquor store and I bought her some premium vodka --5 bottles that would last me a full year. For her --about 4 months worth, as she drinks it nightly for "medicinal purposes."

Barry called my cell, and was getting off work at 8 pm. I drove to Lester's Diner in Lauderdale, by the airport, and Barry ate chili while I had a delicious slice of blueberry pie (al a mode, of course). Barry left at 10, to get some sleep before his last day of 14 hour days, and I headed to FLL. During our time at Lester's, we solved about 40% of the world's problems.

Actually, if one follows the Torah dictate that saving one life saves the whole world, Barry really DID save the world. He told me about a 6 week old recovering from surgery who needed resuscitation, and a nurse and resident were doing it wrong. Barry took over, and the child was fine. The child was #7 of a 24 year old mother. I told Barry he'll probably grow into a street thug, and shoot us someday. I guess we didn't solve ALL permutations of the world's problems...Barry can only do his part.

Daughter #1's flight was on time. To make her laugh, I made a little sign welcoming her home, and stood next to the limo drivers holding THEIR signs. She enjoyed her greeting.

We drove home, and I heard about the Private Benjamin-like exploits of an "extreme sports" vacation undertaken by a "where's the mall" type of young woman. Actually, she related a story about her looking wistfully out the bus window as they passed a huge Jerusalem shopping center on their way to a crater hike.

I fell asleep and slept until 845 --that's like 3 pm for normal good sleepers. Both girls home and accounted for!

Tonight Daughter #1, wifey and I are heading to a Holiday party of some long time friends. We chuckled --these folks sent us a Christmas card DRIPPING with really, really Catholic messages. I think there was something in the message about BLOOD! EWWWWWW, as my wife said. Anyway, these folks now have a Jewish son in law, and a few years ago, we introduced them to lox and bagels. They're really quality people, even though I guess they're a bit tone deaf about other religions and traditions.

John Denver, one of my musical guilty pleasures, said it simply and said it best: "Ge it's good to be back home again." In my case, that means having my full contingent of women.

Wisdom Teeth

So Daughter #2 visited the orthodontist last month for her final post braces visit, and was told that the thousands spent making her teeth straight were NOT ENOUGH! No --she needed her wisdom teeth extracted, too, so that all of the great orthodontia wouldn't be affected.

Wifey figured that the Winter break was the best time to have it done, so Daughter #2's chip monk appearance would be gone before school started again. We arrived at the oral surgeon's today to a waiting room of 15-25 year olds, all on a similar mission.

Dr. Jerry gave her an IV of versed, and apparently she drifted off. The quadruple extraction took about 15 minutes, and we greeted an EXTREMELY stoned Daughter in the recovery room. She was hilarious --she told me the same thing 4 and 5 times, and had no memory of it. An 11th grade friend was next in line, and she thought Daughter # 2 looked "spaced." Daughter #1 called from Israel, and I held the phone to the patient's ear. 30 minutes later --no recollection of the call.

We stopped for a fruit smoothie on the way home. We're now 5 hours post surgery, and so far, all is well. A friend is over, we gave her her prophylactic antibiotic and a Vikodin for pain, and we're looking forward to a quiet night.

Oh yeah- the extraction cost $2300 --not covered by insurance.

Daughter #1 is boarding her return flight at 3 am our time --due to NYC at 4 pm tomorrow. It'll be great to have both girls home for another week.

Meanwhile, I settled a case with an Ohio adjuster over the phone. we settled for about 30% more than the client wanted, and earned a decent fee, so I guess we can afford the oral surgeon's fee.

I'd like to get my hands on some of that versed. How great would it be to forget traumatic events?

Proclamations (Continued)

I've been known to make some proclamations, which end up evaporating. In 1994, after rebuilding our Hurricane Andrew destroyed house, and moving three times, I proclaimed that I would NEVER move again. Somehow, six years later, I fell in love with another place, and it was "so long, forever house."

I've repeatedly proclaimed my disdain for private schools, feeling that my kids needed to be exposed to the real world, ethnic and racial diversity, and all of that good stuff. In fact, I tend to look down on folks who send their kids to private schools, in a sort of reverse snobbery. When parents tell me how much they pay for private tuition, I thought to myself --what a waste There are perfectly good public schools if you live in the right neighborhoods, and your little angels will miss out on "real world" experience.

My opinion of private schools was only slightly above my opinion of home schooling, which, in my experience is the province of religious zealot nut jobs, afraid to have their kids learn about Darwin.

My proclamation held true for Daughter #1, and she ended up getting a decent education at her public high school, and getting into her first choice college. As Daughter #2 is half way through her sophomore year, however, another of my solid proclamations is on rather shaky ground.

The problem is that a new principal took over at her school 3 years ago, an old school NY liberal (yes, he's Jewish and from Brooklyn) and safety at the school has become an issue. About 15% of the school's students come from a very poor, Black part of the County, and, unfortunately, many of them bring trouble. There are fights 2 times per week, and the local police are at the school almost daily. Daughter #2 and her high achieving friends have gotten used to stepping around the fights among the "BPs," as they're called, like they'd step around a water leak.

Two weeks ago, three of the students from the school were arrested for being accessories to a car jacking that ended up killing an innocent passenger in a fiery wreck. Just last Friday a fight between Black and Latin boys ended when one fell and hit his head, had a seizure, and had to be airlifted to a hospital.

Wifey was at a PTA meeting, and the principal (a Ben Stein look alike, by the way) was asked about these conditions. He answered that "not all the students were from the wealthy neighborhood surrounding the school, and for some, violence was what they knew." In other words, typical and sickening liberal apologist speak.

The principal before him was a no nonsense tough lady. She dealt with the same demographic, but brokered no foolishness. If a kid fought, he was gone for good. She was promoted to the District, where she no longer has direct supervision over the school.

I emailed the principal about this issue, and he replied that he'd get back to me after the break. I emailed our local school board member, and she said she's heard there were problems, too, but she'd get the data and respond to me after the break, too. But, she mentioned, I should take solace in knowing that the School Board was breaking ground on a new high school designed to help with the overcrowding that was probably a causative factor of the violence. Ha! Daughter #2 and I can go by and see the new school probably about the time she graduates from college.

So --we've applied to the fancy private high school in the Grove, which probably IS the finest school in Florida. Daughter #2 is actually a bit excited about a change. Although she loves her friends and is doing well in the public school, the thought of true intellectual discussions in classes of 10 students or so is appealing to her.

The tuition is high, but as my law partner pointed out, we've allowed a friend who owes us a ton of money to delay repayment, and he's been sending HIS kid to private school (essentially on our dime), so should my kid get less?

As far as the benefits of public school diversity --who was I kidding? Daughter #2's school is essentially South Africa. The well off white kids are in the gifted and AP classes, the "BPs" are not. In all of her classes, there is exactly ONE Black student. At lunch, the races largely keep to themselves, with the exception of the sports teams.

It turns out there is more racial mixing at the private school --some children of Black professionals go there.

So, we'll see what happens. Daughter #2 takes an admission test next month, and will have an interview in February, and then we'll decide. Maybe the current school principal will grow some stones, or be replaced with the type of martinet a large public high school needs.

Regardless, this whole affair has taught me a lesson, again. My proclamations aren't worth the paper they're not written on.

Another Sunday Afternoon

So I came home from a West Coast business trip to turmoil. I had told Wifey that I wanted nothing further to do with one of her friends, after the friend embarrassed me terribly by taking advantage of a professional I had referred her to. Wifey agreed, but handled the situation rather inartfully, which led to a fight.

The undercurrent was that she was more concerned about this acquaintance's feelings than mine, and I became prickly about that. We made up, though, and I went off to breakfast with a former business associate.

I asked the associate how he was doing. He told me awful. I'd have felt bad for him, except for the fact that he drove to breakfast in a brand new $70,000.00 car, an addition to the over $500,000.00 worth of cars that he owns. I guess I really DO have a naive face, and people assume they can B.S. me. Oh well..

Now wifey's getting ready to continue her birthday celebration. Tuesday night I took her and 4 friends to see "My Fair LAdy." Now she's going with 8 others to have lunch, and then dessert at Jeannette's. Her girlfriends really love and treasure her, that's for sure.

I'll decamp to the sofa to watch a meaningless Dolphins' game. Maybe I'll read a bit, too.

Boring is good, I've found.

The Last Week of the Year

So, Daughter #1's in the Holy Land, hiking the Golan Heights, and relaxing in hot springs. She called to say that she walked for 2.5 hours and forded a stream. She spoke like she climbed Everest.

She likes it, but so far no thoughts about moving there forever, which is a common Birth Right sentiment. I have a feeling she's going to enjoy the cities Jerusalem and Tel Aviv more. We'll see...

The big news with Daughter #2 is a consideration about changing high schools. Every time I hear about an incident with some of the trouble kids, I always jokingly say "That's it --we're sending you to Ransom." Ransom is probably the best high school in the state, and it also costs $23,000 per year.

Anyway, last week, 3 arrests were made in a horrible car jacking case in Homestead, where a young woman sleeping in the back seat of a car was killed after the car jacker, running from police, crashed head on into a tanker truck. The car jacker was killed, but his 3 accomplices were "students" at Daughter #2's school.

Of course, these types of kids are in different classes, but I mentioned Ransom again. We're at least going to explore it this time. Daughter #2 thinks it might be sort of cool to make some new friends, and try something new, even at a "snooty school." We'll see...

We're closing the office next week, so I look forward to "chillin'" as my daughters say, and maybe having some picnics in the park. #1 is due back from Israel late Thursday night, and then has another week here before returning to UF.

Wifey's birthday is Christmas day, and I'm having a hard time accepting this "wife in the 50s" thing. I mean, aren't I still about 24????

So, here's to a nice, soft, and slow end of 2007. I'm off to the West Coast tomorrow for some depos, and then back home Saturday.

Life goes on...

Parenting Decisions

Daughter #1 leaves tomorrow for Israel, on an eleven day trip sponsored by a group called "BirthRight." BR was funded by billionaires Bronfman (Seagrams) and Adelson (casinos) who are both avowed Zionists, based upon studies that show that Diaspora Jews who visit Israel as young adults support the Holy Land; those who don't visit --not so much.

Daughter #1 is very excited. She's going with her dear friend and UF roommate, and has heard from former participants about how the voyage is a life changing event.

A week ago, I spoke to an old friend about the trip. "Really? You'd Let your daughter go? Aren't there still suicide bombings there?"

Just moments ago, Daughter #2 came in and told me she was going to lunch with her friend "A," an 11th grader we've known for years. A is a handsome, respectful young man, who overdosed on an anti depressant drug 3 months ago, in a suicide attempt. Since then, he has undergone intense therapy, is drug free, and has returned to school where he's gotten great grades.

Of course --my dilemma is clear. In Daughter #1's case --she's 19, and could go regardless of my blessing, but she wouldn't. #1 is not yet 15, so a simple "No --because I said so" works.

So, like all caring parents, I balance the need to let them live and learn and experience versus the fear of danger and bad consequences.

Do I teach Daughter #2 that you have to run from friends with problems? Is a friend less dangerous because he's never had problems?

In the end, I just do what I always do --keep constant cell hphone contact, hold my breath, and hope for the best.

It's easy to see why so many fathers just withdraw from this stuff --it's a hard job!!!!!

Smokin' Cousins

Wifey's cousin from LI was in town, so last night we met him, his wife, and his brother and sister in law for dinner. We went to the Chart House in Coconut Grove, and had a lovely time.

The conversation was essentially "whose parents are crazier and weirder." Mark and Sandy's father is my father in law's brother, and the two men survived the Holocaust together. They share, unfortunately, certain characteristics of those whose families were taken and killed at a young age, and who had to scrape and fight to survive. The manifestations of these experiences, over 60 years later, are pretty comical.

For example, neither man can talk normally. They bark, and bark again before the "listener" has a chance to respond. Sandy and Mark LOVED the story I told about my friend Barry coming upon my father in law in a Borders cafe, and calling me the next day to tell me he sas in a huge shouting match with another old guy. I told Barry that was just the way the two brothers spoke to each other.

Anyway, we walked through the Grove, and the 2 brothers and their wives, still clinging to their youth, walked into a legendary "Head Shop" there. When they came out, Wifey and I were talking to a friend and his son from our 'hood. The son had a new job --working for ATF! Everyone laughed at the fact that the son was hopefully "off duty."

We came home, and daughters #1 and #2 were awake, so we all lay in bed together talking, and savoring the togetherness that time seems to steal from us.

Today is shaping up to be a lazy Sunday, and then back to the office tomorrow, for some more moving of papers from pile to pile.

Oh yeah --I had a mock heart attack Friday. More on that later.

Muchos Gracias

I learned an early lesson from my mother that has served me amazingly well throughout my life: always show gratitude. She made us send thank you notes, and always make someone who had given us a gift feel good about doing it.

When I met wifey, she found the whole idea about writing thank you notes a novel one. She was taught to say thank you, but that was it. She begrudgingly sat with me after our wedding, writing notes to all who came and brought gifts. Whenever someone would visit, and bring something, it was the same routine.

Even in college, I would send notes to professors who went out of their way for me. Often they would be surprised, and called me a pleasant anachronism.

The habit continued as a young lawyer, and I can say unequivocally, after 21 years of practice, that my graciousness has paid enormous dividends. My mentors were so thrilled when I'd buy them a bottle of scotch, or pay for a dinner, after they took the time to counsel me. I got an offer for the job that turned me into a success after I was the only one of 10 candidates who sent a written note thanking the firm for lunch and their interview.

I thank people generously when they send me cases, and, as a result, they send me more cases! It's so simple and logical: people like to do business with folks who make them feel good, and showing one's appreciation is a sure fire way to make someone feel good.

My daughters have been taught the same way. Daughter number one has gotten a reputation at her sorority as the most gracious one, since she sends notes whenever someone does something nice for her. She even asked me if she should thank her aunt for a birthday gift she was told about; I told her it was proper to wait until the gift was actually received before acknowledging it.

I wonder and worry about the majority of her generation, though. I recently bought dinner for several young lawyers, and only one even bothered to send me an email thanks. The rest of them seemed to think that a free dinner at Capital Grille was somehow bestowed upon them. When I have a case to refer, guess which of that group is going to see it.

I give gifts to friends and family regardless of their response. I get the joy in giving a gift.

In fact, Wifey reminded me that years ago, when I was a struggling young lawyer, she asked me what I'd do if I made a lot of money. She claims that, without missing a beat, I replied that I'd love to be the guy who could always pick up the check at a dinner.

I got to that point largely by showing gratitude. I hope those I know and love learn that lesson, too.

Lost Soul

After months of no contact, which probably aged his mother years, the family got word last weekend. He had been picked up by police in Idaho, of all places, and was in custody.

It turns out that he had bought a car in California, legally registered it, and drove some 800 miles to a place he lived years ago. He was healthy but unkempt, and when he knocked on a woman's door to ask if there were any odd jobs, she called the authorities and they arrested him.

His mother spoke to the arresting officer, who reported that he was a very smart and courteous young man, who looked like he came from the 60s. The cop figured he'd take him in for his own good, for a hot meal and a shower, and then he'd be on his way. A week later he's still in state custody, and they're determining whether to commit him for mental health treatment.

His extended family is heartbroken for his mother, for all of her pain, anxiety, and uncertainty over the fate of her son. His brother is concerned, but feels strongly that he's making his own decisions, wrong ones, but still his own decisions, and that ultimately he'll find his way. His brother is wise beyond his years.

I'm powerless to help, but I tried anyway, calling upon a clergyman who lives in the city. I've seen people find direction through the Torah. Hell --the majority of my co religionists will tell you it's the ONLY direction. I'm praying that maybe this young rabbi will awaken something in this troubled young man, and give him some wisdom.

I joked with his mother that I wish for her a dilemma --her son won't eat in her house someday because she doesn't keep kosher. Oh, we both agreed, wouldn't that be a wonderful dilemma to have.

Chanukah started last night. The modern symbolism of the day is giving light. We're taught that all people must be the lamp lighters, giving charity, and sharing of ourselves, so that the darkness of evil and sadness will be vanquished.

I pray that the symbolism is true for one young man, a true lost soul. Let him see the light, and come in off the road, and make a life for himself.

Coupe Deville Hiding in the CrackerJacks Box

Early Sunday afternoon plods along like my Bassett Hound.

We went to a party in the neighborhood last night, where the guests were asked to bring donations to a food bank. The food bank is a glatt kosher one, since contrary to popular opinion, there ARE some very poor Jews in Miami. We brought some diapers and wipes, and I joked that these were kosher, too. I got a few chuckles.

I met an interesting woman from Inwood, in northern Manhattan. She has a chemical engineering degree from Manhattan College, and a MBA from NYU. She's Irish American, and married to an enormous Israeli man, who's in the watch business. She converted, and the two of them moved here from Connecticut a few years ago for her job as an executive with the Latin America branch of a big US company.

Her family lived on Dyckman Street in NY, a street where my family lived after WW II. She tells me the neighborhood is mostly Dominican now.

Speaking of which, we then chatted with our newest neighbors, an oil company executive and his wife, both of whom are Dominican. It turns out that Susan, the NY Irish Jewess, had worked in the oil industry, and she and Pablo chatted about that for awhile. PAblo and Carolina just moved here from Amsterdam, with their 3 beautiful children.

We were joined by Ofra, another Israeli American, and next thing I knew, the Jews were explaining to the Dominicans the concept of the Bris. I told PAblo that if I had to convert to Judaism, that would have been a deal breaker for me. Susan agreed, and said she only had to take a ritual bath in a mikvah.

So, a lovely evening with a diverse group, one of the joys of living in Miami.

Speaking of joys of living, the Dolphins game starts soon, and my napping sofa beckons me...

The title of today's entry? I was watching a great Meat Loaf interview this morning, and he sang "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad."

Dinner with the Widower

Last night I had dinner with my friend John, whose wife died 2 months ago. He's doing well, although learning, bit by bit, this parenting thing for his 13 year old daughter. His late wife was a stay at home Mom, and John a traditional breadwinner Dad, so he's slowly adapting to a new role.

"Ole ball and chain" jokes aside, it's remarkable the way life goes on after things change so radically. Last year all was going smoothly, and now, all of a sudden, 1/3 of a family is gone.

Another friend of mine lost his wife to cancer, too. She was 57. My friend got married within 6 months, to a woman nearly 30 years his junior. I guess he just couldn't fathom life without a spouse.

Today's Herald has a retrospective of the Eastern Airlines crash inthe Everglades, which was 35 years ago last Thursday. 100 were killed; 75 survived. One of the lucky ones, a former stewardess (they didn't call them attendants then) is now 60, and living in West Miami. She says she never leaves the house angry at her family, and without saying "I love you."

Wifey and I were talking the other day that our daughtere end every cell phone conversation with those words. We're proud of our girls' wisdom.

Fawlty Towers

In the classic British comedy "Fawlty Towers," the best episode by far is the one where the German guests are coming to stay at the Inn. Basil, for most of the episode, pounds into his staff the admonition "Whatever you do, don't mention the war."

Of course, Basil is conked on the head, and ends up talking about NOTHING EXCEPT the war, going so far as to call the guests Nazis, and blaming them for everything that's wrong with the world.

The episode is so funny because we relate to Basil's exasperation. He just asks for one small thing, and then it blows up in his face.

Sometimes this happens in life. We just ask for sone small thing, repeatedly. Sometimes we're promised that thing, and then BLAM! It blows up on us. Sometimes when this happens, it's not funny at all.

Wasting My Time

Lawyers' clients seem to have a disconnect between wanting advice and realizing they have to pay for the lawyer's time.

When you hire a plumber, he comes to your house and you pay by the hour. Last time I had one, I paid over $75 per hour to a fellow who had a high school education, and, when he fixed my leaking toilet, was happy to pay every dollar.

Earlier this week, I took some clients to my friend and neighbor's office, to refer their case. My friend spent a good 3 hours explaining the intricacies of the case to them, and then called to tell me the clients were going to "think about it."

Today, my partner went to see a gentleman in Hollywood, who was badly injured in a car wreck. He spent 2 hours explaining things to the man and his wife, only to have the wife say "Wow --you've really taught us a great deal, and you're impressive, but my son from California forbis us from hiring a lawyer. He has a connection to one, and we'll probably go in that direction."

Lord forbid these jerks told my partner that before he gave up 1/2 of a day to meet with them. Years ago, when I asked a law school classmate about his clients, he said "Dave --clients in this filed are the moral equivalent of cockroaches. I do a good job for them, but never go out of my way." I guess he had LOTS of experiences like this.

In other news in the jerk category, I got an announcement in the mail yesterday from an attorney in PEmbroke Pines who I'll call Susan D, because that's her name. She was asking me to refer her cases. The problem is,years ago she cheated me out of a co counsel fee. Talk about chutzpah! I sent her a sarcastic email, telling her she's a piece of offal.

Not a very inspiring week here in attorney town...

Food Glorious Food

I'm 46, and I really, really love to eat. Today, I saw a client in Hialeah, a working class city here in Miami Dade County, mostly Cuban, and afterwards I went to a great sandwich shop on W 12th Avenue called Sarussi Cafeteria. They've been there since 1965, and make a chicken sandwich with a marinated breast, onions, toasted Cuban bread, and the little potato spears that we used to get with lunch in grade school. It may have been the most delicious sandwich I've ever had, except for a corned beef on rye, which, if I ever fail to respect, will cause my father's ghost to come down and haunt me.

Anyway, it was great, and HUGE. You'd have thought that was enough food for the day, but NO --Barry's on his way over, and we're heading out for sushi next door. More food. I love it.

When I was a child, I hated to eat. Apparently I was very skinny, and my mother remembers buying "slim" pants and having to take them in. Once I passed puberty, though, it all changed, and I've never looked back.

I wish I could report that I was a foodie, but I'm not. I love many simple things, like Cantonese Chinese, pizza, a good hamburger. Hey --as I've already reported, a great sandwich does it for me.

So, it appears this extra 50 lbs I carry around isn't going anywhere for awhile. Besides, compared to many folks I know, I look positively tubercular.

Ah --Barry draws near, and I just told him that the Thai/Japanese place next door has the best bowl of wonton soup in the City. I love to eat.

The End of the Weekend

It's Sunday morning, one of my favorite times of the week. As Greg Allman sang "Good ole Sunday morning, bells are ringing everywhere..." Who am I kidding? As the annoying and upbeat person I usually am, MOST times of the week are my favorite.

But this one is special. Daughters #1 and #2 went out last night to a movie together, and really enjoyed each other's company. #2 is sleeping at a friend's; #1 is snoozing away in her bed here. #1 will leave in a few hours for her return to UF, and 2 final exams, before returning here, hopefully, on December 6.

Wifey and I just dragged the dogs around the 'hood, and then went to Roasters for my Sunday morning ambrosia: coffee, a perfectly toasted bagel, and Nova salmon sliced so thinly you could read the Herald through it.

Friday night our friend from Orlando came, and we set up some chairs in front of the house to gaze at the gorgeous full moon. Clouds came in, and then a summer-like rain started. We brought the chairs under the porch (loggia --it's an Italian style house) roof, and I lit a fire in the chimnea. I drank whiskey and our friend drank wine, while the 3 of us talked about life and love, and how hard it is to find the latter.

At about 1145 pm, we ordered some pizza, and we ate it after midnight, like we were still in college. It was white pizza, and it was delicious.

So, back to work tomorrow. Daughter #1 has a few days of classes, and then a final exam or two. If she can't find a driving partner home, I may fly up to Orlando, have her pick me up at the airport there, and drive home with her. Daughter #2 has 3 weeks of classes before her winter break. I'm thinking that the liklihood of my working the last week of 2007 is pretty small.

So, I'm back to Sunday morning. Wifey just told me that she saw a woman on a talk show saying that she was looking for her perfect man, who would take her on her perfect Sunday morning date: work out together, go for breakfast, and then go to church. Well, I hit two out of three...

The Matriarch

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and we all decamped to Boynton Beach for a fine feast prepared by my sister. My brother in law spoke briefly, and was beautifully overcome with emotion as he shared his gratitude for his grandchildren, children, wife, and my family. He also recognized my mother, the matriarch of our clan. She beamed.

She'll be 88 in April, and, as far back as I can remember (probably when she was 48 or so) she has treated every single day as a precious gift. She lives very simply, probably on less than $15,000 per year, and feels like she's extremely rich. She envies NO ONE, and NOTHING. I think that's a key to her long and happy life --eliminating all the negative feelings that accompany the "I coulda been a contenda" mantra of life's losers.

At this point in her life, Mom simpy doesn't want to hear the negative. She's cut off contact from people who tell her sad tales. She doesn't watch the news or get a newspaper, because she doesn't want to hear the mostly negative stories.

Sometimes we, her children, feel a bit cheated that we can't share our trials with her. But, the truth is, at almost 88 there's nothing practical she can do when there's a difficult issue, so we act wisely and insulate her. She's taught us well --we now know that telling her negative tales simply lets US vent, upsets her, and changes nothing. It's no longer her job to dispense advice or support. We're thrilled to simply have her with us.

She still makes us laugh. One of her great granddaughters gave her a running hug yesterday, and nearly knocked her down. As we all replayed various permutations of the "flying grandma," she laughed along with us. Later, one of her great grandDOGS jumped up and licked her face. She told me it was the "most action" she's had in years.

She volunteers at a local hospital each week, feeding sick patients and transporting them around. The hospital staff loves her there. One of my closest friends is now a big shot doctor at the hospital. He always goes out of his way to greet her, and give her a big play, as they say in Vegas. She loves that.

So, as I gather and consider my blessings, this one's for Sunny, she of the most appropriate nickname around.

Years ago, I asked my father's advice about chosing a wife. Did he care about her religion, or background. "Dave, it's simple. MArry someone who is PLEASANT." He did that, in 1942, and she remains so 65 years later.

We all love you, Mom.

Erev Thanksgiving

Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, and I thought it best to ease into the holiday by taking the day off. Daughter #1 came home last night, and she awoke and headed for the smoothie shop to bring her sister a "Blueberry Burst" (with soy protein). Daughter #2 LOVES when her sister does this.

Afterwards, the college sophomore met wifey, and the two visited the new Whole Foods store in South Miami. As she called me about this, you'd have thought she visited Disney World for the first time.

Tonight the girls have friends over, and I'm loving the feel and sounds of a full house --having them both here. If I had one goal as a father, it was to have my girls become close friends, and it seems it's mission accomplished. I want them to be there for each other no matter what. They have different personalities, but they love each other deeply. That makes me so happy.

Anyway, tomorrow it's over the Interstate and through the retirees to grandmother's house we'll go, to hang a few pictures and do a few chores for the world's happiest almost 88 year old. Then, off to Aunt T's for her annual Thanksgiving Day feast, the one day of the year we all seem to be able to get together.

Wifey's a bit anxious, since she hasn't been out of Dade County since JAnuary, but we'll take our time and get her there, hopefully.

The rest of the weekend, I plan to continue the Daddy-\Daughter bonding thing.

It's nice to have the kids home for the holidays.

The Land of Our People...

Daughter #1 called wifey tonight with exciting news: she was selected for the "Birthright " program, along with her roommate and some UF fraternity brothers, to go to Israel this December.

Birthright was funded with over $1 Billion (with a B) by a JEwish philanthropist who wanted all Diaspora JEws to visit the Homeland before they were 25. Trips leave from NYC, LA, and Miami (the nation's 3 Hymietowns), and this trip leaves from JFK.

I visited Israel with my parents when I was 8, as our first trip on an airplane. I still remember a good deal, although the most exciting part to me, a junior NASA-phile, was watching Neil Armstrong's moon walk from a store front TV in Tel Aviv.

I want to go back.

Daughter #1 tends to like luxury trips, and the Birthright trips are the opposite. They take the young adults to cultura sites like Masada, and Kibbutzim, and really teach them about their heritage. I'm told they don't tolerate princess-like behavior. We'll see...

My father was always more of a Zionist than observant Jew, and I'm the same. I'm anxious to hear my daughter's take on her mother's native country. I hope she likes it, but not too much --lest we have to buy a condo in Hertzalea someday. We could do worse...

Select A Seat

Yesterday was the day long time season ticket holders were invited to Dolphins Stadium to pick out "Club Seats" for the Hurricanes. My appointment was at 10 am, so, as usual, I left very early. I had a delightful drive in my convertible under blue skies and temps in the 60s, singing along with PAul McCartney to "Oh Darling" as I drove North on the Interstate.

I fibbed to the officials at the stadium, and told them I had lost my appointment card, so they took me at 930. I bought 2 Club Seats for me, and 2 for my partner in the end zone. The seats were a "bargain" at $900 each. The truth is, it really IS the civilized way to watch a game, since you can watch the game, go inside the gorgeous Club Area to eat and drink, and then return to your seats, which are covered and cooled by huge outdoor AC ducts.

Dr. Barry met me as I was finishing up, and we went to sit in the new seats. IT's pretty cool being in an empty stadium, and the enormous TVs played scenes from the Canes 5 championship seasons. Barry and I watched and remnisced, and the populist in Barry wondered how all these folks had the money to spend a minimum of $900 per seat for 6 college games (many people were buying skybox seats, which cost a minimum of $2500/seat, and you have to buy 10 of them!).

We left to go to Mo's Bagels in Aventura. Mo's is named for Mohammed, no fool, who realized his name before a bagel shop in Aventura wouldn't be good for business. We ate heartily, and then returned to the stadium to meet Eric, who was selecting his Club seats.

What a scene! There were at least 2000 people on a very slow moving line, and few things are as funny as thousands of rich folks angry in a line. The stadium folks tried to pacify the upscale crowd, all of whom were saying "I have to wait hours to spend thousands of dollars for a losing team???!!!"

Eric ended up filling out an absentee order, and leaving with Dana and the kids. They had a late afternoon Bar Mitzvah, and couldn't wait. Barry enjoyed grinding Eric, famous for his meticulous planning, about why he didn't come early like I did, to get prompt service. We all decided that my being a lawyer immunized me from following rules.

The trip home only took about 30 minutes, and this time I sang along with Springsteen. After bemoaning the loss of the Orange Bowl, ad nauseam, I've accepted the reality of having to watch my team in the best stadium in the country instead of the most decrepit.

Change is inevitable. And, when I start to miss the old days, I'll just have to step inside the Club Lounge on game days and order another mojito.

Playing Hookey

The season's first cold front came though last night, leaving us a morning with temperatures in the high 50s and ridiculously blue skies. I walked daughter #2 to the front gate to await her ride from Chris, and then I left on my daily 1.1 mile hike around the hood.

When I returned, wifey was just emerging from the house, wanting to take the dogs for a walk, too. I agreed, and we took the bitches for another go-round, where we ran into a gaggle of neighborhood women with their dogs. I was the only husband/man. The others were all off at work, making money so that their stay at home wives could enjoy countless mornings like this. In other words, they're all schmucks.

In any event, I took all of this to mean that today is meant for hookey, or, as John Sebastian sang decades ago, custom made for a daydreaming boy. That office of mine is looking farther and farther away, "el culo del mundo," as the Cubans say when describing a place too far away, literally the "ass of the world."

Speaking of asses, I'll stay on mine for awhile, and then maybe go for a leisurely lunch somewhere.

I have clients who have entrusted their cases to me for professional and competent handling. Nah --not today!

Down on the Human Race

In years past, I was the first person to refer friends and friends of friends to various professionals. I enjoyed putting together people I know, and, if one friend can help another --how sweet is that?

Well, as I 've gotten older and more crotchety, I've cut down on these "fix ups," after repeatedly experiencing the old maxim that no good deed goes unpunished.

Well, a few months ago an out of state aquaintance called me, tearfully needing the help of a professional. The details don't matter, but suffice it to say it was a pretty serious matter that had serious consequences for the person, so I relented. I set her up with a specialist I know, and told him to waive any referral fee he might have sent, in order to pass the savings onto the in need person.

Well, the professional did a sterling job. What could have led to devastating consequences for the out of stater instead ended quietly and without any trace of a problem. The professional, who would have charged $7500 for his services, sent the client a bill for $1500.

I got a call from the person today, and she was livid about the charges. Although she agreed that a fair fee would have been at least $6,000, she felt, I guess that the fellow shouldn't charge at all, She truly thought she "had it coming to her."

Of course, I was wholeheartedly embarrassed, and called the professional to apologize. He's a great guy, and said the $1500 wasn't really a big deal to him, and that he told the client that, although she sees herself as a classy person, she's the same as ALL of his clients, many of whom you wouldn't leave alone to cut your grass. Thanks Professot Shultz --anothr lesson in human nature.

In other news, I went to a friend's mother's pre funeral tonight. The woman lived ntil 90 and died in her sleep. What a way to check out of this grand hotel we're all staying in. I had originally thought I'd go to the services tomorrow as well, but then I learned it's a "full high mass" in a Catholic church. Hey --I don't even like my OWN religion, let alone a much sillier and hocus pocus -filled one. I'm taking a pasadena.

As to the aquianitance --I'm done with her. As Luca Brazzi would have said, you won't see her around here no more.

Veteran's Day

Today is Veteran's Day, and I'll be going to a cemetery, but not for the usual reason. My in laws have been asking wifey to find and buy them a burial plot, and we're going to Mt. Nebo in Kendall later to check out a "slightly used" one. By "slightly used," I mean a resale of a space that some prior purchaser no longer wants, since they've moved. Still, my black humor LOVES this whole affair, and I look forward to an afternoon filled with deadly puns and double entendres.

My father ABHORRED the funeral industry. He had read exposes over the years about their awful sales tactics, and decided to make a stand by being cremated and having his remains scattered over the ocean. Of course, his choice flouts Jewish law. When I asked him about an afterlife, and what becomes of a person after death, he sat back, stroked his chin, and said simply "bones."

Since I'm fiercely proud to be my father's son, I'm taking the same route, as is wifey. Our friend the Chasid is properly scandalized by these choices. The orthodox, like all primitive cultures, are obsessed with the after life, and the fact that, if you're cremated, when the messiah (Moshiach) comes, you won't have all your parts and pieces to use when he revives the dead. Along with my Dad, I'll take my chances.

My in laws have chosen to stick closer to Jewish law, and want a traditional burial. We've learned that buying the stuff before (pre need) costs about 1/2 as buying it when you die (at need). So, at least we're going to save them some money.

Plus, I've been to Mt. Nebo before for a few funerals. It's a peaceful enough place. Oy, the jokes are starting already!

Maybe afterwards I'll drive over to the ocean to honor my father on this Veteran's Day. I always talk to him when I'm at the sea. But, truth be told, he was never a proud veteran --he loathed the stupidity of the military, and its absurd bureacracy. He served his four years, as did many of his compatriots, simpy because it was his duty, as he saw it, not his choice.

So, off the the park of all parks. IT's been a pretty boring day off, and I guess I'm dying to go...

Now it's done

After months of hoopla, and anticipation, it's over: the last Canes game in the Orange Bowl.

Daughter #2 and I drove there in my yellow convertible yesterday afternoon, arriving about 4 pm. As we pulled up to our familiar corner of lot E2, we saw a group of folks in green t shirts. I thought it was an African American family mourning the early death of one of its members by gunfire --it seems that whenever a young Black person is shot, the T shirts with the victim's likeness appear within hours. No --it turns out that my friend Mike's father in law, a Cane great from the late 50s was being honored, and his OTHER son in law had the shirts made for the family to wear.

My partner handed me a tall plastic cup of his patented vodka juice, and it reminded me of the scene in "Animal House" where the fraternity brothers toss Bluto, played by John Belushi, a bottle of whiskey to soften the blow of seeing their beloved house taken apart. The vodka juice did the trick.

Old friends came by, and there was a lot of hugging and showing of "man love." I think after 3 of the vodka drinks I actually kissed 5 or 6 friends, on the cheek I hope.

I made Mike's sister Jeanine cry by reminiscing about her late father, my mentor as a lawyer and Cane fan.

Inside the stadium, I let the atmosphere wash over me. I looked up to the Upper Deck of the West endzone and imagined 2 undergraduate boys watching a Dolphins game with their fathers, now both dead. The game was in 1980 or 81, and it was a very cold December day. IT was the first and only football game my father went to, and we laughed all the way home about feeling so cold in Miami. I got misty eyed remembering.

Was there a football game played? Oh yeah --the Canes were awful, losing 48-0 in the worst shutout in their home playing history. IT was almost like the team was telling us that the stadium doesn't matter when you have either a great or bad team. Of course, for me, the stadium most certainly DOES matter --it's the place where some of my happiest memories were created. As Jim remarked, 15 years ago, it was a place where he had his most fun ever while wearing his pants.

Daughter #2 and I left in the 4th quarter. I had seen enough ghosts. She drove home --succesfully navigating through drunken pedestrians, and crazy drivers. She's nearly an adult. A symbol of my young adulthood is no more. Apparently the City's demolishing the place in March or April. Daughter #2 wants to watch it happen, so we'll probably make one last trip to that part of Little Havana.

It was a lovely evening, and a lovely way to say goodbye to an old friend.

A World Without Us

So last night wifey and I went out to dinner with my friends Ken and Joelle. I've known Ken since 7th grade, and he and Joelle just moved here. Ken's a pediatric radiologist, and Joelle's a law professor at FIU's spiffy new school.

We parked on Miracle Mile in the Gables, and went to a restuarant with a packed happy hour. Next door there wan another one also packed, and the scene was really alive.

We had a nice dinner and then walked down the Mile to a book store. People were out, walking and drinking, having a good time. It occurred to us that we typically stay home, and don't take part in this whole scene. We felt old.

Today we walked the funny looking dog and enjoyed the cool November weather. I got a call from Daughter #2 to pick her up from her sleepover and drop her at Driver's Ed. At noon my in laws are coming over, so I'm leaving for awhile (once a month is MORE than enough for me to encounter them), and then, at 330, Daughter #2 and I leave for the last waltz.

Yes, tonight the Canes play their final game in the storied Orange Bowl, and we'll be there for the final tailgate party in lot E-2, final game, final everything. As I've said before, they'll be some grown men and women crying there tonight.

So, soon there'll be another "scene" I won't be a part of. What's left?

I guess it's true that humans all crave being a part of something larger than themselves. We all want to belong, to a church, to an extended family, to a "nation" of sports fans.

To be, in a nutshell, part of some world.

Unimaginable Sadness

So Sunday afternoon I was out buying some new koi for my pond down in the Redland, wifey was at a play with her friends in the Gables, and Daughter #2 was about halfway home from visiting her sister in Gainesville. Daughter #1 called. "Dad --I wanted to tell you because you're probably going to hear about it in the news --a girl in my sorority was killed early today."

It turns out the girl, Pam, flipped her jeep on 34th street at 2 am, was ejected, and died at the scene. Daughter #1 barely knew her, even though they were in the same pledge class, but this sure has affected wifey and me.

Pam's parents, from Coral Springs, presumably did all the right things. They raised their baby daughter, got her through adolescence, and into our state's flagship university. Then, for reasons known only to, I guess, the Big Man, their daughter was taken from them.

It turns out that there have been several UF motor vehicle deaths this semester. A first year law student, hit while jogging, just died today. Two other undergrads died in October.

I don't know. These things shock us back to reality. My friends and I have been trading emails about the "tragedy" of our beloved Canes leaving the Orange Bowl (the last game is Saturday). How silly it is to be upset about this, or just about all of the other "small stuff."

Daughter #1's sorority rented a bus for the long round trip to Coral Springs for PAm's funeral. Daughter #1 and her friends, who barely knew Pam, aren't making the trip. Still, my heart breaks for these parents.

When I was in college, the first of my contemporaries began to die. One girl, Dianne, a pretty blonde, was killed in a car wreck in California. Another young man, Carl, who I was fairly close with when we were kids, drowned, Monty Python-like, when he fell through the ice on a pond while playing hockey, and his goalie pads filled with water, dragging him down. That was nearly 30 years ago.

I've been fortunate to do a LOT of living since 1979, and I wonder about Diane and Carl. Now Pam joins their fraternity/sorority --the saddest group to be a part of.

Somewhere Out There

As I write this, my sister's in some small Northern California town looking for her son. He's going to be 26 in April, and left her home last Summer, and hasn't called or written since.

The last evidence of him comes from a woman my sister spoke to, saying she had seen my nephew in September. In August his brother went looking for him without any success.

We're all heartbroken. We die a little when our kids have a bellyache, or struggle in their lives. To not know ANYTHING about one of our children is unthinkable, and yet my sister is living this.

She left on the 7 hour drive yesterday. I'm hoping against hope that she calls me with some positive news. Just to know he's alive would be so positive.

So, here are some positive vibes sent out West. I pray that, as I'm writing this, my sister is with her son, drinking a cup of coffee, and figuring things out.

I have no advice for her, just empathy, hope, and love.

Crazy Numbers

It wasn't that long ago that I sheepishly entered the senior partner of my law firm's office to ask for a raise. It was 1988, I was two years out of law school, and I was making $38,000.00 per year. Wifey was pregnant, and we knew we were going to lose her salary for awhile (she was making close to $50,000/year --little did I know that "for awhile" would come to mean "forever"), and I had been offered $45,000 per year by another firm.

I told my boss, Calvin F. David, that I truly loved my job, knew that I was making a good deal of money for the firm, and that the additional $7,000 per year would mean a lot as I supported my growing family. Cal, as he liked to be called, began a didactic that became legion among my friends. "Young man --you are at the equivalent of the Sorbonne. You have been offered a small raise to go work at the equivalent of a community college. Would you leave the Sorbonne for a few dollars?"

Fortunately, even at the age of 26 I had a highly developed bullshit and pompousity detector, and I left his office, immediately returned to mine, and phoned the other firm to take the job. Calvin, one of the Waspiest Jews of all time, married a rich divorcee, took the money he had made from years of frugality with his employees, and moved to Italy a few years later. I never wrote to thank him.

Anyway, that financial turning point flooded back into my mind yesterday as I opened my real estate tax bill for this Ponderosa Ranch where I live. The Florida legislature reduced property taxes, so this year I'll pay a paltry $22,000.00! How has this happened? How did I go from a guy worried and obsessed about a $7,000.00 raise to one who pays the County three times that amount just to live in my house?

It boggles my mind.

As I thought back to 1988, I recall being very happy. Daughter #1 would arrive in November, and we brought her home to our house, all 1400 square feet of it, in a neighborhood of rather colorful characters (a white supremacist small engine mechanic who said he had "no problem with most Jews," but "major problems with negroes and Spanish," a nightclub owner who commuted to work in Cincinatti, and brough home a gorgeous Asian stripper to live in his Miami house, and a Metro Dade fireman/ Vietnam vet who had to shoot his commanding officer in the jungle, and jumped out of bed at night and held a knife to his wife's throat whenever a helicopter flew overhead).

I remember gorgeous winter days riding my bicycle with daughter #1 in the baby seat, and I'd feel the gentle bump in my back as she fell asleep and slumped forward, having inherited her mother's habit of sleeping in all moving conveyances. I remember playing with her and our black lab Midnight, who burst with energy, along with his sidekick Alfred the cocker spaniel.

Today's a day like those in my cherished memories, dry and cool with dazzling sunlight.

In other words, the money's really NOT relevant. I'll just shut up and pay.

Losing Mental Acuity

Well, I had a smooth trip to NC. I took care of my business, then checked in to the glorious Inn on the Biltmore Estate. I hiked a bit, and had a fine dinner in the Inn's library, as the sun set over the western hills.

The next morning, I ordered breakfast in my room, which had a patio overlooking the valley and Biltmore Estate. There was fog gathered in the lowest points of the valley, and I watched the sun burn it off. The leaves were a burst of Fall color. I drank my coffee and smiled.

I then went to Malaprops, and bought a few books, and chuckled at the Asheville denizens. "Excuse me," said a tiny fellow to the barista, "are these carrot muffins PURE vegan-friendly?" I told him I had a friend who was vegan before becoming Catholic. The little man didn't laugh.

I drove back to Charlotte, early for my flight as always, and was stopped by the TSA agent who checked my internet printed boarding passes. "This flight was yesterday, sir!" And so it was. When I bought my tickets, I made the return flight the same day as my initial flight. Since my flight home left 5 hours after arrival, the computer didn't stop me.

I went to the ticket agent, and learned the 415 flight was "oversold." I bought the very last ticket on the 1015 pm flight, and got on the 415 standby list. As I watched the entire 415 flight board, the gate agent gave me the sad news: there were 2 standby openings, and I was #3 on the list.

I then spent another 5 and 1/2 hours at the Charlotte Douglas Airport. I had dinner, and a few beers. IT was now 530. Four hours to go. I found a US Airways executive lounge, paid a $40 admission fee, and read the entire Charlotte Observer (the Catawba River is polluted) and the entire NY TImes. I then read an entire New Yorker magazine, started an "Economist," and then paid to use the internet for another 1/2 hour or so. Somehow, at a snail's pace, it was time to board.

Well, hopefully my lesson was learned. It's not enough to stop multi tasking, I now have to double and triple check all I do.

I woke today to a beautiful morning. I told my neighbor Sherri I brought the hint of cool air back with me from NC. I didn't tell her about my "adventure."

No Saints Day

I'm up extremely early, even by my lark-like standard, to catch a flight to NC.

Last night was Halloween, and a little something happened that was lovely.

Daughter #2 was home with her friends, and wifey and I waited on our porch for trick or treaters. A large number came, despite the blustery weather caused by Tropical Storm Noel churning over Cuba.

A large group of kids came, nearly 20, with about 6 parents in tow. As they were ready to leave, a deluge came, in one of those waves. We invited the kids in, and under our porch, and enoyed their giggles and excitement. Daughter #2 got everyone bottled water and sodas, and we chatted with the parents about schools, the neighborhood, etc...

It was so pleasant.

The rain passed, and the group moved on. The kids high fived me, and the dads shook my hand and thanked us for providing refuge. Earlier in the day, my rabbi friend was in my office discussing Torah. A major tenet is giving rest to strangers at your gate. Funny.

Giving shelter from the storm. Isn't that what it's all about?

Autumn

I've lived in Miami nearly 30 years, and love the climate most of the time. I remember the REAL weather of the Northeast --the steel gray skies and freezing rain that makes up much of the year. Still, the one season I do miss is Autumn.

I used to love walking home on an October night, feeling the evening chill, and smelling wood burning fireplaces. I bought myself a fire pit and chimnea here, and get to use it maybe 30 nights or so, in January and February, in a feeble attempt to recreate that Fall atmosphere.

I try to experience Autumn by traveling each year, and I 'm set to visit Asheville, NC on Thursday. I checked the weather forecast: 60s during the day; 40s at night. I can't wait --my body needs to chill a bit, literally. I also checked the foliage report and learned that the area around the Biltmore Estate, where I'll be staying, has "peaked" last week. This means I can walk through the forest and enjoy the color and smell.

I've stayed at the Biltmore Estate Inn before, and it's delightful. They have a big patio area with rocking chairs, where you can look across the valley to the Estate. I'm thinking of spending a few hours there with a hot cuppa (as the Brits say) and maybe read an entire NY Times.

Downtown Asheville has my second favorite bookstore in the US, Malaprops, and I may pay that fine shop a visit. Asheville has a hippie vibe, and there are many colorful characters there --the better to study human nature while browsing the aisles.

So --if all goes well, I can get my Fall fix. Maybe by the time I return, we'll be getting our first cool fronts passing through. Still --November 10th needs to be a hot day. The Canes play for the final time in the Orange Bowl, and it'll be only appropriate if it's a hot, steamy, sweaty night game.

But in the meantime, Asheville here I come. As James Taylor sings, in my mind I'm going to Carolina. It's only Monday, and I'm already there.

Rude Awakening

Well, I'm having a jackpot of a weekend. Daughter #1 arrived from Gainesville last night with her lovely sorority sister, and Daughter #2, wifey, and I shared a warm homecoming with healthy pizza (their choice, not mine).

This morning I woke up and went for fresh bagels, and enjoyed the company of my house of women. My in laws came around noon, and Daughter #1's friend laughed at how "cute" they were. As I told her, I thought they were "cute" for a few years, too.

The girls went shopping, my father in law went for his usual nap in one of the bedrooms, and my mother in law went upstairs with wifey to watch a movie.

Ah --college football on TV on a Saturday afternoon. Life is grand. I picked a boring Big 10 game (Michigan State/Iowa) and mimicked my Basset Hound in turning around 3 times before settling into the couch. Life was sweet.

I drifted into a nap, dreaming that I was the Canes quarterback, directing a Joe Montana-like drive in a packed Orange Bowl, the national championship on the line.

"DAAAAAAVID!!!!!!" "OY --VAS YOU SLEEPING?????!!!!" My mother in law came into the room and shrieked thusly. Her face was inches from mine. I jerked awake cartoon-like from the sheer impact and volume of her voice.

Fingernails on a blackboard. A whistling tea kettle. A train horn. A siren (the really bad European kind, not even American). All of these sounds are more pleasant and soothing than my mother in law's voice in waking me from my nap this afternoon.

Whatever. I guess no one with all of my blessings deserves a really good Saturday afternoon college football nap, right?

So I'm now wide awake. The offender, the disruptor of my afternoon reverie, has left. My girls are due back at 5, and I'm taking them all to Bayside for an evening sightseeing sail on the Heritage OF Miami. Daughter #1's friend has never been to Miami before, and she needs a proper tour.

Wifey's friend Elizabeth is coming this evening, so there'll be FIVE women and me (plus my 2 bitches).

Maybe I'll turn in early tonight while the lot of them are solving the world's problems.

Aren't We Still 20?

The last few days, there's been a media frenzy about the spreading panic about an antibiotic resistant staph bacterium going around. A few kids have some infections that have been treated, and parents are up in arms about the Dade School Board's "failure to inform." Throughout it all, my dear friend Vince, now the Assistant Director of Public Health, has been calmly discussing this, and acting as the voice of reason here. He's been on TV and in the news more than OJ's lawyers.

Isn't Vince 20, buying a huge jug of "Big Wine," and trying to romance a pretty LAtin girl at UM?

For years now, Barry's been a big macher at UM Medical School. Not only is he often in charge of the ICU for children --he's in charge of TRAINING future doctors. Hundreds of people really think he knows stuff.

Eric is one of the top cardiologists in Florida, and could very well have been head of a major hospital. As it is, he's a doctor's doctor --many older and more experienced physicians call Eric when they're scratching their heads.

Worse --Eric's best Med School friend was named freakin' DEAN of a major branch of UM MEdical School. He's large and in charge!

My friend Mike was recently profiled in our local legal journal as a lawyer's lawyer --at the top of his game. Just yesterday he was living at home and hosting pizza nights for his high school friends.

George -- Circuit judge --literally with the power to sentence felons to death. He's leaving the bench to make some more money, but I have no doubt that he'll return some day --probably on the Federal level.

I'm still not quite sure how my 20 year old friends, living in dormitories like pigs, barely out of high school, are somehow now "The Man."

Good thing I haven't aged.

Working my Nads off Here!

When I was an impressionable 17 year old, I worked as a stock boy at Rite Aid drugs in the Sunrise mall in Massapequa, LI. The job paid about 25 cents an hour above the minimum wage, and it had the fine long term effect of making DAMN SURE I went to college, so I wouldn't have to have a "career" like George.

George was the store manager, and he seemed old, but was probably younger than I am now. He had a mid 60s Elvis haircut (this was 1978), and a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor. On Tuesdays the supply truck would come from Harrisburg, PA, and I would get to the store at 5 am, help unload until 630, drive to my high school, and then return to work the 3-11 shift. George admired my work ethic, even though, as he said, "Dave --you're a JEW --you ain't even Protestant!"

One afternoon, George called me over to the candy aisle, and pointed to the floor. I thought he was going to complain about some mess I had left, but instead pointed to 2 M&M candies lying side by side. "Dave," he said, "I've been workin' so hard, the two of 'em fell off."

It may have been the funniest thing I'd heard in my life up to that time, and it immediately instilled in me a love and appreciation of low brow, working class humor.

Well, this week, for a change, I've been working so hard that I might have dropped a pair of M&Ms. Whenever I'm very busy ar work, I think of George.

I hope he retired and earned a nice pension, and is fanning himself somewhere up in Central or West Florida, where folks like him tend to move to escape the cold NY winters. I still laugh at his line nearly 30 years later.

Grumpy Old Man

I guess as a man ages he becomes more like his father. It's happening to me.

My Dad rarely had use for people or social engagements. He was a succesful salesman, but when retired, usually preferred a good book to a party. My mother would go out without him, while my father read or watched a movie. An exception was if he had the opportunity to be with an educated person. Dad was a self educated intellectual, and felt it worthwhile to listen to someone who had something to teach. Small talk: not so much.

I'm relating to this more and more. Last night I went to a birthday dinner for a cop friend of mine. It was a pleasant enough evening, and I had 3 beers, but the conversation was essentially cop talk and little else. Oh --one of the wives, herself a former cop, held court for a full hour about her back injury following a car crash caused by a drunk driver, including details about which therapists were best, and which trainers helped the most. Yawn.

As I thought about the evening, I felt the way I do when I see a really bad movie, like someone stole hours of my time. I've concluded that my time is my most precious asset, and I loathe wasting it. Now -- I can KILL time prodigiously, just walking around, staring at the trees, etc... But that's MY time, and last night I felt it wasn't.

I made a half hearted attempt to beg off last night's party, but ended up going (after the spectacular Canes win over FSU). I listened to the talk about working out, and motorcycles, and injuries. Next time I'll take a stronger stand, and avoid doing something I know will be BORING.

I know you can't spend all your time with PhDs, nor would I want to. But my father had it right --sometimes an evening home with a good book, instead of listening to the puerile, is the way to go.

Another Pleasant Valley Saturday

Well, I know my friends and family think I'm sometimes too happy, especially in the early mornings. In fact, I came close to daeth several times in college when I walked around the campus apartment snapping my fingers while Barry (bigger and stronger than I) was struggling to awaken and go to an 8 am Organic Chemistry class.

Still, I must share the glorious morning here. As the Appalachian folk song goes, the simple pleasures are the greatest...

Wifey and I took the 2 dogs for a walk, and stopped for a pleasant chat with our neighbor Susan. A SUV pulled up and asked me for an address where there was a yard sale. "Must not be here -- our Association prohibits garage sales." The woman, gray haired and with a Midwestern accent, showed me the Herald ad. Sure enough, it was here in Devonwood. After I directed her, I tripped over a rock and my speed bump-like Bassett Hound, so I started off Susan and wifey's morning with a good belly laugh. I self reduced my fractured hip, and away we went.

We got to the house having the sale, and stopped to say hello. It's owned by a retired orthopedic surgeon (and former college football star) now battling cancer, and his lovely wife Audrey. I held the dogs, and watched as the arriving customers laughed at my funny looking Bassett, and chatted with Audrey.

Wifey found a rocking chair she liked, for $25, and I was able to joke that now Audrey was "off her rocker." We left for home.

When we arrived, daughter #2 was awake, along with the 3 friends who had slept over, rummaging through the refrigerator for the left over pizza from the night before. I offered to go for fresh bagels, but 2 of the girls were leaving.

IF there's a warmer feeling than having your house be the headquarters for your kid and her friends, I don't know what it is. I love it when my house is buzzing with that kind of activity in the morning.

Wifey's friend Crazy Sheryl had also spent the night, with her girl Amelia, who we've known since she was 4. Amelia's grown into a brunette beauty, like her mother. They were on their way to visit Sheryl's middle son, who goes to college in Boca. Sheryl always brings energy wherever she goes, and when she heard about the yard sale, immediately asked wifey to take her. Thirty minutes later, they returned, Sheryl carrying 2 crystal lamps, worried "later" about how she was going to carry them home on the plane to Boston. That's Sheryl --a modern day Daisy Miller --living for the moment. It's fun to be around folks like her, in small doses.

Well, as I write this, Daughter's friends have left, as has Crazy Sheryl, and Wifey's taken Daughter #2 to Driver's Ed. In 3 hours my Canes play FSU, and we may or may not go watch the game at aome friends' house. This evening we have a birthday dinner for another friend, to be prepared by his daughter, a gournet cook in training.

All in all, a delightful Saturday morning, I must say.

Bankers

Last night the building where I have my office had a grand opening party. Actually, the bank that's my landlord moved its retail branch to the corner of the lobby, to make room for a new restuarant that is supposed to generate big rental income, and they invited some building tenants and "private banking" clients to welcome in the new space.

"Private banking clients" are the rarefied customers with $100,000.00 or more in assets, who the bank tries to sell investment products to in addition to the usual checking and savings accounts.

I went down about 530 pm, and was greeted by my 2 teller friends, one a lovely Colombian young woman who's pursuing a finance degree at FIU, and the "anchor man," as I call him, a Black fellow about my age who has worked for the bank his entire career. The latter teller (I like the way that sounds) has a daughter off in college like I do, and we always trade tales of being happy but anxious dads.

There were about 50 people there, and we listened to some corporate welcomes from the local president, a nice fellow about my age with a degree from FIU, and the regional director from Atlanta, a sandy haired, Midwestern fellow named Eglund, or something, who, if you saw him in a crowd of 1000, you'd know was a banker.

One of the waitresses from the caterer, servivg shrimp, looked at me. She was vaguely familiar, and when she saw my name tag, smiled. She remembered we both worked as pharmacy technicians at Boca Hospital during the summer of 1983. She still works there! She's Italian, from Boston, and about my age. Later in the evening, she reminded me that about how I dated a "much older pharmacist" at the hospital, and how the other techs thought it was funny. I was 22, and the pharmacist was 35. We laughed, now in our mid to late 40s, about a 35 year old being "an older woman."

Anyway, as I drove home, I fantasized about being a corporate officer type like that Eglund fellow, flying around to openings, shaking hands, saying nice things, reporting to higher layers of bureaucracy, checking my retirement portfolio throughout the day. NAH! I've developed a rather strong fondness for owning my own business. I prefer to eat the shrimp rather than worry about whether it arrives at the party on time.

Got a Call From An Old Friend, We Used to Be...

The title's from a Billy Joel song, which is appropriate, since he's a Long Island guy, and this is a Long Island tale.

An old friend from LI was passing through Miami, and called me at the office yesterday. We ended up talking for quite awhile, and he regaled me with examples of his great wealth and success. Apparently he's a major NY investment bank's "top point guy" in Latin America, which I immediately found hilarious, since I clearly recall his spewings while growing up about the "freakin' spics" his father, an Irish NYC fireman, had to deal with in Spanish Harlem.

Anyway, he was the first in his family to go through college, and he worked his way up at the bank to this self professed summit of success. He told me of his various houses in Europe, and Rio, and the Carribbean, and his meetings with ministers of finance from around the hemisphere. He was like the unnamed man in Carly Simon's "You're So Vain:" if something BIG was going on in the world --it appeared that my old friend was going to be there.

He barely asked about my life in the nearly 30 years since I'd left LI, which was fine with me, since I had nothing to offer to compare with his experiences of great wealth and international finance.

After I hung up the phone I called Mark, a friend I've kept in touch with on LI, and someone I knew had kept up with the globetrotter. I told Mark about his call, and told him I was shocked to learn about the fellow's station in life. Mark's reply:

"Nah. He's a $150k/year guy at Citi Bank. They send him to do the scut work in South America the really big guys won't do --kissing the asses of the deputy undersecretaries of animal husbandry, or whatever --so they repay the bank's loans."

Well --what about the houses throughout the world? "He owns a nice ranch in Huntington --paid about $250k for it, and it's now worth about $800k, but that's it. He DOES travel to places, but doesn't really own anything else."

I asked Mark why he tells all the tall tales. "You know, Dave, I have NO idea. I mean --the guy's done great. Being a Wall Street banker -type, with a degree from a SUNY college, is pretty good. He makes good money, has a nice wife, healthy kids, and house. I guess that's not enough --he wants the world to think he's George Hamilton, or Ricardo freakin' Montalban."

So, another character entered and left the stage of life, at 46 apparently still not comfortable in his own skin. He was always a decent sort, and I wish him all the great wealth and success he feels he must have to impress. Maybe I'll get an invite to his Villa in Rio at Carnival time. Not really. I wish for him the wisdom to see that, with friends and family, he was already a lucky and wealthy man.

Tuesday Morning

The tree trimmer's here, dealing with a matter of grave concern: my loss of high definition satellite reception. Mike diagnosed the problem while we were attempting to watch the Canes lose to NC 2 Saturdays ago. As the ficus and oaks endemic to Pinecrest get taller, the sensitive high def signals can't get through, and you have the annoying pixillation.

So, Dave is here, and he's a pleasant fellow. He's in his late 30s and started the tree trimming business himself. He originally had an old truck and a ladder, and built up his company into one of the biggest in Miami. Along the way, he took botany classes at Miami Dade College, so he knows how to trim and prune, and not just slash. He's justly proud of his work.

I admire folks like him. He's the classic American success story. He's also self deprecating and humble, and I'd bet he's a millionaire, or, will be someday when he sells his business. Meanwhile, I should be good to go for Canes/FSU on Saturday, in high def.

In honor of Dave's hard work and enterprise, I think I just may goof off today. We have an annoying client coming in today at 1, who is going to be told about a windfall offer we received in her case, and will undoubtedly complain about it nevertheless. Since my partner's off tomorrow for a 3 day vacation, I think it's fair to let him deal with this malcontent, while I stay home and admire my increasingly clear view of the southern sky.

Chop on, Dave!

Neighbors?

Years ago, in his "Speech to Graduates," Dave Barry answered his rhetorical question about choosing a career where you get to "work with people:" "The more one works with people, the more one HATES people." He is a brilliant and insightful commentator.

My neighborhood of gorgeous houses, where prices START at $1M, and lush foliage abounds, has lately been the venue for a rich persons' brouhaha (one of wifey's favorite words).

Our friends across the street were having very attractive stepping stones installed in front of their house. Actually, they were more stepping BOULDERS, made of oolitic limestone (coral rock), and the design mimics a gorgeous walk way at Fairchild Tropical Garden. Wifey and I felt lucky that we were going to see this pretty scene as we daily drove past.

Well, one of the neighbors, who has remained anonymous (Riva --busybody wife of a jerky commercial lawyer (who himself was booted out of a Miami law firm for being too much of an asshole (which, if you know Miami law firms, is really saying something)) drove by a few weeks ago. Of course, since she noticed the project was going to beautify the neighborhood, she smiled and admired the work being done, in that way rich folks like watching laborers do the chores they won't do, right?

NO!!!! She called her contacts in village government, and an "inspector" came out, on a Saturday! and told our friends they needed a permit, since the stones were a "paving project." $500 and three weeks later, they finished the job.

Well this morning, MY landscape guy had a 2 man crew outside beautifying our curtillage. They had one truck parked on the side of the road, not blocking traffic. At 930, I got a call from a frantic Riva, who blurted out something about how the truck had nearly caused an accident, because "a vehicle was speeding, and almost hit her," and she had no where to go because of the truck. So --she went after the speeder to vent her pre-menopausal road rage, right? NO! She drove to the workers, and told them to move their truck. She then called me, and we had the following conversation, which, to borrow another Dave Barry phrase, I am not making up:

R: "I asked them to move the truck, and they made believe they didn't speak English."

D: "Riva --they're Mexican or Guatemalan laborers --they don't speak English."

R: "Well, when I mentioned calling the police, they seemed to understand.!"

So, this stay at home, educated (UM, I'm embarrased to say) wife of a succesful lawyer, feels it necessary to pick on minimum wage earning landscapers. Why? I guess a psychologist specializing in the neuroses of the wealthy and succesful could tell us.

Anyway, as I write this, no police were called, although if I get some sort of fine from the Village, I won't be surprised.

Dave Barry: one again, when it comes to human nature: you NAILED it!

Time and Money

I write this blog simply as a notebook to record stuff I see as I travel along the path of my human existence in 2007 in Miami, Florida, USA, North America, Northern Hemisphere, The Earth, The Solar System, The Milky Way Galaxy, The Universe. (Only James Joyce fans will get that reference). I'm incompetent to deal in profundities.

Still, as I was walking this dawn, I started thinking about the nature of time.

I met wifey in September of 1983, when we were 22 and 26. At the time, my dear friend and roommate Eric had a very long time girlfriend Dana. They ended up marrying. Eric and Dana had been together FOREVER, it seemed, while wifey and I were the new couple. It turns out, from the vantage point 24 years down the road, that Eric and Dana had met in February, 1983, only 7 months before. To twenty somethings, the 7 months may as well have been a decade.

I passed our neighborhood's historic house, the Warwick Estate. It was built in 1926. A few years ago, when I showed it to my mother, she laughed: she was 6 years older than the home we all considered historically significant. My mom's 87. She's had a lot of time, and yet savors every moment. She travels through life happily, and with a naive sense of wonder. She's never bored, she never wastes time.

In 1989 she had a transient ischemic attack. We thought it was the end of her. I rushed to the hospital, as the attending doctor was doing a neurological exam. It's funny --to neurologists, orientation as to time is a critical diagnostic tool. He asked my mother who was president. Looking lost, she said "Roosevelt." She had lost her place in time. Fortunately, she recovered, and now is well aware that the president is that "dumb bastard" George Bush.

At my firm, my partner is debating with me giving up some of the responsibility of our cases to a new office roommate. His reluctance, is "giving away too much money." I'm all for the move. My time is far more precious to me than the attorney fee. I 've spent the last 40 years or so either studying or working to make money. It's lost its luster.

Of course, if I hadn't made the money, could I afford to sit here on a Friday morning typing these thoughts? MAybe so. I know plenty of people who have a LOT of free time, and making money doesn't even occur to them. I can't escape my Jewish work ethic, though, and this ingrained thought that I have to provide generously for my family before I'm allowed the luxury of goofing off.

My neighbor Irv stopped to chat with me this morning. He's close to 80, I think, with a young hottie wife about 70 or so. They're always on the way to their country club to play golf, or to an arena or stadium to watch Hurricane sports. I asked Irv if he's going to the UM/GA Tech game tomorrow. He answered: "I ALWAYS make the time to go to the Orange Bowl."

I've read several deep philosophical books on the nature of time. I always have to read these slowly, since they play tricks on my less than genius brain.

As for this morning, I may just brew another cup of coffee, and sit outside by my pond. Just passing, and enjoying, the time.

Most Meaningful Complement

The other day I had lunch with my friend Edee, a woman who has a prominent place in my pantheon of friends who've done exceedingly well in life. Edee grew up in a working class Hialeah house with a brother and single mom. Unlike many single moms divorced or never married to deadbeat dads, Edee's mother's ex was a Maine gringo who left her and the kids in Miami to return to his home state and become a millionaire oil distributor.

Even though Edee's father thoroughly ignored her, Edee insisted on keeping a relationship with the man. Once, when Edee was keeping two jobs and still maintaining her 4.0 gpa, she asked her father if she might borrow some tuition money so she'd "only have to keep" one of her jobs. His answer, in his clipped Yankee accent "Edee --I could help you, but you'll think higher of yourself if ya do it alone!" I only hope there's a special place in hell for this piece of crap.

Despite this so called father, Edee worked herself hard, got a B.S., a Master's, and finally a P.hD from one of the nation's most prestigious Neuroscience colleges. She's now an internationally recognized Neuroscientist and Professor, who sits on NIH boards and lectures all over the world. In the meantime, she never sold any of the "starter houses" she lived in while getting her degrees, and built up a VERY comfortable real estate portfolio. Oh yeah --she's also a great mother and wife who somehow balances lectureships in Australia with visits to her little boy's school.

Anyway...years ago Edee and I were talking about our parents, and I told her that, among all of the many lucky things in my life, the minimum amount my parents screwed me up was at the top of the list. I recounted to her the day I told my father I was dropping out of pre-med, and the failure I felt telling a second generation Jewish American Dad that he was never going to utter the words that would have exceeded winning the lottery or being US President "My son, the doctor." My father, without missing a beat, responded that he wondered how long this "science thing" was going to last, since he knew my true strengths were in English, and how proud he was that I was pursuing a course of study he wished he could have, had he gone to college.

Edee's reply: "Dave, imagine meeting an utterly abject loser in a bar. He's 40 years old, never held a real job, an alcoholic and drug addict, failed in relationships --the whole nine yards of a wasted human being. He tells you how, at 20 years old, he had it all. He was an honors scholarship student at a university, dating lots of girls, had tons of friends. And then one fateful day, the person closest to him in his life, his wonderful, saint-like father, died in his arms as he was giving him CPR, and the snot was blowing out of his nose (she remembered the ghastly details of July 14, 1982), etc... THIS, the loser tells you, is the reason he's ended up this way. The point being, of course, that you could have taken that path, Dave, instead of becoming who you've become. There are ALWAYS excuses in life. Losers just seem to be much more adept at finding excuses than solutions."

Well, I always try to deflect complements, but this one has stayed with me, since it happens to jibe with my deepest held philosophy. Bad, even tragic, things, happen to all of us. The measure of a person, in my view, is how they deal with those trials and go on from there.

Anyway, as I type these dribblings, Edee's off in her lab Downtown, teaching some spinal chord patient the latest rehab techniques. When the news breaks in a few years that they've found a "cure" for paralysis, I have no doubt that Edee's name will be among the authors in the groundbreaking paper. I'll clink her glass mug (we always have a few beers together near the University), and be thrilled for her.

She's done it all herself.

Saying Goodbye

Yesterday Wifey's dear friend Jeannette celebrated her 51st with a lovely brunch at her house. Her daughters Sam and Erica came in from UCF and FSU, and we had a fine time with Jeannette's delightful parents, cousins and family, and aunt and uncle.

It was great catching up with Sam and Erica, whom I've known since they were born. Erica's a happy FSU freshman, continuing the streak I always joke about: EVERYONE I know who went to FSU loved it, with one exception (wifey). Apparently, the South Georgia Christian girls made wifey feel out of place, so she transferred here to FIU.

Sam's applying to law school, and I wish her well. I wrote her a recommendation letter, and hope to hear she's been accepted by either UM or FIU, her two top choices. She wants to be a real estate lawyer, or possibly family lawyer. She's bright, honest, mature, and caring. She'll excell in whatever field she chooses.

LAte in the afternoon, the party was still going on, and the men were watching the hapless Dolphins lose again. Sam and Erica left for Orlando and Tallahassee. It was so bittersweet to watch them go.

Of course, it brought back feelings of Daughter #1 when she leaves for UF. I'm thrilled for her, and she loves it there, but I miss her terribly each time she walks out the door.

Daughter #2 will be striking out on her own soon enough, hopefully, in less than three years.

Where does the time go? Aren't these girls still in Grade School? I remember Sam as a delightful and earnest toddler. Erica had blonde curls, and turned beet red when she had a tantrum. They're both in college, with one close to graduating?

It's rainy outside tonight. Maybe I'll stand in the dark drizzle , so wifey won't notice the "Sunrise, Sunset" wistful tears.

Beatlemania

Last week, with Daughter #1, I saw "Across the Universe." The Gainesville movie theatre had a big deal going on, with folks dressed in 60s garb, and an acoustic band playing hippie music. I figured this was a prelude to a bad movie, but I was absolutely wrong. I haven't enjoyed a movie this much since "American Beauty."

ACU is a simple musical based on Beatles' songs. The plot is the typical boy meets, loses, and regains girl, against a back drop of the turbulent 60s. Still, the movie was visually and musically brilliant. It reminded me of something Kubrick may have directed, if he collaborated with Terry Gilliam, and maybe had some help from Alexander Payne. I came away blown away.

I've loved the Beatles since I was a small child. My sister bought me "Magical Mystery Tour" when I was six, and I memorized every lyric and album photo. The summer of 1969 or 1970 I stayed with her and her husband in a house in Southhampton, and played their copy of "The White Album" probably 200 times. At the end of the summer she and her husband Jeff gave it to me, and I still have it upstairs with my old vinyl colllection.

Still, over the past 10 years, I haven't listened to the Beatles that much. I guess I suffer from the overload of hearing their songs EVERYWHERE, even including commercials. Now, though, after ACU, I've been listening again, and rediscovering the musical and lyrical genius of their work.

Even better, Daughter #2 is completely hooked on Beatles music. She saw the movie with wifey, and has now asked for ALL of the Beatles albums. We finally have something we can sing to together, as oppposed to my making fun of her rap songs, as if I was "down with da gangsta cred." Ha.

Anyway, I was saddened as a child when the Beatles broke up, and hoped against hope for a reunion. I loved the story about how they almost appeared on "Saturday Night Live" in th 70s.

It's nice to listen again, almost like running into an old, cherished friend. Listen on, daughters!

Nothin' Much Going On

It's a peaceful Friday evening, luckily. Daughter #1 called late this morning, sounding near death. She got a quick doctor's appointment as I went home to check flight schedules to Gainesville, so I could visit her in the ICU before she slipped into a coma.

The doctor said it was gastritis, something she ate. My local expert, the Master Pediatrician, opines it might have been some sugar free stuff, which has mannitol, and has produced, for him, some of the worst abdominal cramps in his life. Nonetheless, I'm a relieved daddy.

The old R and B song is so dead on accurate: when something is wrong with my baby; something is wrong with me.

We're going out to dinner with daughter #1's roommate's parents. I may have an extra beer or two to celebrate.

Tomorrow at noon my Canes play on TV. I've invited a few local boys over to watch the game, and eat some pizza. Should be a fine Saturday.

Speaking of Gainesville, it's most famous native son Tom Petty wrote a lullaby a few years back, called "We're All Right...For Now." I guess that about sums life up pretty well.

Porque?

Tonight I'm going to a memorial service for my friend John's wife, Kim. She died last week of melanoma, at 49. She leaves a 13 year old daughter, Elizabeth, John, and her parents.

I met Kim in 1984, when I was clerking at a big Miami law firm, and John was a young lawyer there. John had graduated UF Law two years before, but had been an Air Force fighter pilot between college and law school, which all of us clerks thought was EXTREMELY cool. He was dating Kim, a very pretty blonde who he met at UF, and the two of them were "raising" Winchester, a gorgeous black lab. Kim was lovely.

I've kept pretty close to John over the years, and we've referred some cases back and forth, but have only seen Kim a few times. Every year we get a picture of Kim and Elizabeth in their Christmas card, and Elizabeth has inherited her mom's good looks. Wifey always comments that their card could have been painted by Rockwell.

Kim was a gifted teacher at UM's Debbie School for disabled kids, where she won awards and developed programs. When her daughter was born, she left her job and became a "super mom," starting charity programs for her daughter's girl scout troop, and devoting herself to her daughter and John.

John, realizing just this year that his wife was dying, merged his solo practice with a larger firm, so he would have the backup necessary to allow him to be a single dad. John's my kind of guy -- a realist who puts his family first.

I'm left to ponder why this stellar woman was taken so young. I know there's no answer, but still I question the unfairness. he lesson, as I've impressed upon daughter #2 since she was about 5 years old, is that life ISN'T fair.

So, we'll go to the Palmetto Bay church tonight, and I'm sure hear stirring words about a fine woman, a devoted wife and mother, and community leader. And I'll sit there, watching my friend fight back the tears like the true Air Force officer and gentleman he is, and wish I was drinking beer with him at a Coconut Grove bar, laughing about the absurd career we've both chosen. And I'll keep hearing the question "Why?" in my head, over and over.

Forgive Me Ed Perse

I just returned from a trip to Gainesville, and a visit to "The Swamp" to watch the Gators play. I've come to the difficult conclusion that the UF college football game experience is superior to my beloved UM Canes experience.

The night before the game, Gator signs were EVERYWHERE in town, and several huge parking lots were packed with RVs and cars packed with rabid fans tailgating THE DAY BEFORE! The hotels were as well, and packs of fans passed each other doing the Gator chop. The spirit was palpable.

Saturday, University Avenue was also packed with celebrating fans in and out of the bars and restaurants. Wherever you looked, there was a sea of orange and blue, and the minority of Auburn fans passed apprehensively, though safely.

My host and friend Pat and I made our way to the Swamp, and bribed our way upstairs, where we drank some beers and soaked up the scene. At 6 we made our way to the stadium.

Pat has a skybox in the North end zone. I've been in these things before, at the AAA and Dolphin Stadium, but they pale in comparison. Pat's box has its own bathroom, full bar, theatre seats, and was catered with a delicious array of ribs, shrimp, and paella (he shares the box with some well off Cuban businessmen from Miami). Most importantly, the box is pretty low in the stadium, so the view is unbelievable.

The stadium was packed, as it always is, and the fans chanted their well practiced cheers. The Gators lost on a last second field goal. My suite mates were angry and heartbroken. I grabbed another beer and some ribs.

I love my Canes and always will, but I cursed the fact that we never had an on campus stadium and the sort of spirit UF has. there are, truthfully, only about 30,000 diehard Canes fans. The rest are folks who showed up when the team was winning a bunch of championships, and took off when they began to lose.

True Gator fans are blessed to have a great experience, win or lose.

I eagerly await another trip to the Swamp next September, to watch my team take on the Gators. Maybe if I promise to lay low, Pat will invite me back to his luxury box.

Eating Crow

As a die hard Canes fan, I've always hated the Florida Gators. Not as much as I hate Notre Dame, but close.

Notre Dame repeatedly beat UM in the 50s, 60s, and 70s, by huge scores. Visiting Miami was a nice beach vacation for the Irish --some fun in the sun and a guaranteed win. That changed in the 80s, when the Canes began to dominate. Did Notre Dame accept this inevitable end to their victories? No --they started calling the Canes thugs, and cancelled the series. Sanctimonious whiners. One of my most obvious expressions of schadenfreude is Notre Dame's current misery. They're 0-4 this year, despite having great recruiting classes the past few years. Ha! May they lose forever!

The Florida Gators were a yearly rival, until they also got tired of losing to Miami and chickened out s well. They claimed their SEC schedule was too grueling, and they wanted to schedule more "geographically diverse" teams. Now they play schools like Western Kentucky. Wussies! In 1983, I travelled to Gainesville and watched the Gators crush my Canes. The Canes went on to win their first national championship. The Florida fans wore T shirts proud that they had beaten the champs. Losers!

Lately, the Canes haven't been so great, but they still beat Florida the past times they've played.

And now, this weekend, I'm spending money and travelling to Gainesville to watch the Gators play, and I'll be cheering for them.

Of course, Daughter #1 is a UF sophomore, but she couldn't care less about football. My neighbor is a "Bull Gator," and he invited me to go and watch UF play Auburn in his VIP seats. We have a Saturday planned of sitting in a sports bar, eating wings and drinking beer, and watching college football all day (including my Canes against lowly Duke). At 630 pm, we'll wander over to the Swamp, and tailgate before the 8 pm kickoff. I won't wear a Gators shirt, but I will cheer for them, as I did last January when they beat Ohio State for the National Championship.

Dave a sort of Gator fan. MAybe North Korea and South Korea can someday be allies...