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...

Start Worrying. Details to Follow.

Today's Herald has a pullout ad entitled "Hurricane News." As I read it's infomercial articles, at first I thought it was a Stephen Colbert-like satire. Unfortunately, no such luck.

It was a prospectus of sorts for a new project being built near my office called Brickell Bunker. IT promises to be a hurricane proof building, with its own water system, generators, etc... But --here's the rub: it's a condo hotel, where investors buy a unit that's then managed as a corporate suite-type hotel. When the Big One approaches --the tenant agrees to GET OUT and leave the bunker for the rich owner! How delicious is that?!

It's a hotel/apartment that says, essentially, you can live here for your paltry rent, but when the going gets tough, the rich owners get to save themselves and their crap (pets are allowed only to the owners during a storm) and you lower castes go wander around in the whirlwind! I love it!

Look --I'm a rich guy, and I realize I'm no one to criticize the ways of other rich guys. Still, I guess I can't escape my populist upbringing, where I was taught things like cutting in line is wrong.

I really don't go to Miami Heat games for this reason. The AAA, where they play, is set up like the Roman Collisseum. The rich folks literally do not come into contact with the "lunchpale Irvings" who only buy regular tickets. The place is so economically stratified that it makes you want to become a Socailist. Plus, the Heat aren't going to win any more championships.

When I grew up and went to my first Mets games, it was always clear that being a Mets fan transcended your economic station. I actually met and spoke to my first real Black people at a Mets game --city guys who sat next to me, a kid from the all white suburbs.

I have great seats at the ORange Bowl, but someone with the cheapest seats there actually knows he's in the same stadium as I am. Not so the AAA, and not so the Canes new home, the corporate convention center they're moving to next year.

Back to the other type of hurricanes, and this Brickell Bunker thing. Can you imagine what happens when Sergio Garcia, the rich developer, is waiting to move in with his wife and 3 kids, who he's just picked up from Columbus High, and Lourdes Academy, and Tom Wilson, the IT guy from Chicago who's staying in Garcia's unit, says "I ain't leaving --I got no where to go!" Curses will fly in Spanish and English, as Garcia tries to get his real estate lawyer to file an eviction action AHORA, as the category 5 is making a beeline for Brickell. Will the Miami cops forcefully boot out Wilson?

I love living here.

Geez --Shoot Me Now

This morning I told wifey to please point it out to me if I say delusional things, or make proclamations. It occurs to me that proclamations rarely stand the test of time, and the proclaimer ends up looking foolish.

In 1994, after going through the rebuilding of a house destroyed by Hurricane Andrew, I proclaimed to all that I was NEVER moving again. In fact, I ljoked, our general contractor had forgotten one final task: digging a hole in the back yard for my grave, since I wasn't even moving AFTER I died.

Of course, six years later I fell in love with Villa Wifey, the only house I had ever seen that I dreamt about after my first visit, and a few months later we upped and moved to Beverly. Crest, that is.

Anyway, one of the problems of getting older, and maybe a tad wiser, is that I listen more carefully to people than I used to. And, I'm hearing a LOT of proclamations, said in complete seriousness, and earnestness, which, a few months later, turn out to be utter balderdash.

I have a client with an adult son who has NEVER held a job longer than six months. Last week, the client told me how the son had found THE career, and was going to make big money, and move from barely making it to "flyin' first class," as Gwen Stefani sings. Now, I realize that much of what he says about his son is wishful thinking, but would I bet that the job's going to be over in the next 5 months, accompanied by stories of how ALL of his co workers were jerks/prejudiced/ mean, etc... Yes I would.

Lawyers in particular make LOTS of proclamations, and not just about their cases. We're taught to speak and argue effectively and aggressively, and often we do so even when we KNOW we're full of it.

My favorite are lawyers who always complain about others being full of crap, and yet they're bigger B.S. artists than ANYONE.

I don't know. I ADORE daughters #1 and #2, and think they're the cats' meow, but I like to think I see all of their foibles and flaws, and never speak of them to others in elevated terms. In fact, they complain to me sometimes about making too much fun of them to others.

I probably do, and it's because I love them more then life itself. I don't think true love is blind --I think it brings clarity.

So, I'm a graying, overweight 3/4 time lawyer, often more lazy than I ought to be. I could be far more productive than I am, and far more charitable. I ought to lose the weight, eat better, get in shape. My skin's starting to look like I spent my career as a boat captain instead of an inside desk jockey. I dress poorly. And --chicks STILL dig me!

So, wifey --when I'm out with others, and I make daughters' good grades sound like they've won Rhodes Scholarships, kick me under the table. When I say something with absolute confidence and certainty --a proclamation --remind me I'm full of crap. Hopefully it'll be funny crap.

Open Letter to the Chair of our Public Hospital/ President of our flagship university

Dear Sir and Madam:

Through television media reports (and NOT, suspiciously through any coverage through the Miami Herald), I have become aware that your hospital and university medical school has been providing treatment for the past month to a brain dead patient. Good for you! Finally, a leading medical school and hospital have taken the lead in ending what has gone on for too long in American health care: discrimination against the living challenged.

I hereby offer to make the initial contribution to the newly created Brain Dead Treatment Center (BDTC). The BDTC, however, must agree to provide sustaining care to ALL brain dead patients, regardless of the degree of death. There can be no limits, for example, on how long a patient has been brain dead.

As for naming the center, well, I humbly suggest naming this cutting edge facility after an actual DEAD PERSON. This is typically done for "live care" facilities, and it seems appropriate here. If no suitable name is found, the trustees can simply visit Mt. Sinai Hospital and chose a name from the hallowed "Hall of the Ashkenazim," or possibly Mercy Hospital's "List of the Lapsed Catholics Who Gave Money." If neither of these provide a suitable title, one can be found in Miami Childrens Hospital's "Wall of Really Rich Latin American Donors, Some of Whom are Even Deposed Banana Republic Dictators." In any event, I'm confident the Development people can take an afternoon away from planning bland lunches to accomplish this task.

Staffing. I realize that many clinicians, especially those with academic institution-sized egos, will resist caring for dead patients. Still, your center is bursting with "dead wood" professors of medicine, who have been kept around FAR past their usefulness, and whose interraction with actual live patients presents a source of potential legal liability to your institutions. I would name some of these clinicians, but my best friend wants to keep his job at least until his kids can use the tuition remission plan, so I will refrain.

You simply must convince some of these "dead wood" faculty that caring for patients at the BDTC will be a keystone in their esteemed careers. Plus --they can be the first to apply for NIH grants in this newly developed specialty. And, since this will be the first BDTC in America, faculty and staff can be assured of a number ONE ranking in next year's US News and World Report ranking of America's Best Hospitals and Medical Schools (tm).

In sum, I know you share my enthusiasm in the creation of the BDTC. This idea is dead on, a dead away winner. Together we can correct a long held prejudice, and keep going long after traditional medical practice says we should stop.

Warmly,

Dave

My Favorite Sound

I've loved music my whole life, and still do. I enjoy all sorts of sounds, except atonal compositions, which grate on my ears. In fact, a few years ago, after I botched the date of front row tickets I bought for "Wicked," wifey and I bought some two-fers to that year's hot new musical "Light in the Piazza." That musical had a slightly non melodic score, and I had to leave at intermission in a sour mood.

Now past 46, though, I've come to realize my all time favorite sound. I listened to it last night at this very same keyboard. My in laws, mother, and sister and brother in law had left after a lovely family dinner, and wifey was up stairs puttering. She's a world class putterer, by the way, who is NEVER bored and always seems to have something to do.

Behind me, on the kitchen computer, daughters #1 and #2 were watching funny videos, and reading facebook profiles, and laughing heartily. #1's laugh, when deep, is oxygen depriving. #2's is a throaty giggle that's so adorable, it would be a huge seller if bottled.

The two of them laughed together for hours. It's not really my business what or whom they were laughing about, but they were together, and joyful.

The music of my daughters' laughter --that's my favorite sound in the entire world.

Exhileration

I went to services yesterday for about an hour. That's about all my tired back and short attention span will allow. I heard the shofar blow, which is something I always enjoy. It's so tribal --hearing the audible, ancient herald of a new year, surrounded by my peeps. I also got a nice story.

The Rabbi related an article by Gene Weingarten of the Washington Post. He used to be a Miami Herald editor, I recall, and is a talented guy. Weingarten, as an aesthetics experiment, placed violin virtuoso Josh Bell at a D.C. subway station, posing as a street musician, and observed. Almost no one stopped, even though Bell was playing really tough passages, and nights before had played a sold out command performance in town.

The Rabbi's message, beyond the obvious, is that we have the Torah, the most vital and essential work on the planet, and we daily ignore it, like the commuters ignored the classical wonder. In other words, "stop and smell the Torah."

Appreciating each day isa message I've NEVER ignored. Like today...

I went walking through my 'hood, and about 3/4 of the way through my journey,the skies opened with a typical late summer tropical downpour. The raindrops felt delicious. As I got soaked, I was exhilerated.

I rounded the corner to my street, and a woman pulled up alongside me, and opened her window. "Need a ride?" She was a vaguely familiar MILF from my 'hood, driving a Jaguar coupe. "No thanks," I said as I patted my ample belly through my sodden clothes, "I'm on my way to a wet T shirt contest." She let out a peal of laughter, and drove away.

Was it Gloria Steinem who observed that if you can get a woman to laugh, you can get her to do anything?

I completed my stroll, in squishy shoes, and made it to my front porch, where I stripped naked and came into the house. Wifey was in the kitchen, and when she saw my nude corpulence, holding my still dry cell phone, she laughed, too.

I always stop and smell SOMETHING.

Feliz ano nuevo judeo.

Time Flies

The sixth anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks was yesterday, and I have to admit, I didn't fly a flag, listen to a patriotic speech, observe a moment of silence, or even spend more time watching Fox news. Although I realize how terrible a day that was, to me it's ultimately nothing more than a group of zealots pulling off a successful (for their cause of terrorism) stunt. That's all that low tech operation was --a stunt.

Wifey reminded me that I was on my way to the office, and she called after the first plane hit (and it was thought to be an accident) to say she was glad my office was on the ground floor, so I wouldn't have to worry about that sort of thing. We joked about the great John Irving anecdote in "Garp," where the paranoid hero rushes to buy the house where a plane has crashed, because the "chances of that happening again would be astronomical."

As the morning unfolded, we learned the scope of the tragedy, of course. I was at the Brickell Morton's Steakhouse with my partner and our old boss, having just finished a big case, and we watched all the news reports on the bar's tv while we drank. Strange day.

What's more stunning to me, though, is how fast these past 6 years have flown by. I had a high school freshman daughter, and one still in grade school. Now daughter #2 is less than 3 years short of graduating high school, and daughter #1 is in the middle of her college studies.

I'm a good deal grayer and fatter. Wifey's actually much skinnier, and looking better as the years go by, especially as she recovers from a back injury.

Marvell was right, hundreds of years ago:at my back, I always hear, time's winged chariot hurrying near...

Of course, he was trying to seduce a young hottie, and I'm just trying to keep on keepin' on.

So six years ago this stunt caused such great sadness. Spouses lost spouses, children lost parents, parents lost children. Friends were left with memories. And yet time keeps flowing on, faster and faster, it seems.

The Study of Human Nature

Back in 1980, Eric and I were in an Organic Chemistry class taught by a truly impressive professor, Dr. Harry P Schultz. Dr. Schultz, who, with his crew cut and crisp manner, came across like a NASA chief engineer, was a national authority on carbon and all its properties. He'd bound to the lecture podium, and begin each class (taught at 8am) with a booming "Good morning wonderful fellow students!"

Near the end of the second semester (Eric got As, and he's a cardiologist; I got Cs, and I'm now a lawyer), one of the braver undergrads raised his hand, and asked, politely, if maybe Dr. Schultz wasn't being condescending to us with his daily greeting, since he was a renowned expert in organic chemistry, and we were mere first year students. Schultz's reply, which I remember as if he uttered it yesterday: "My delightful good man! We are ALL students in the study of human nature!"

And so we are...

Yesterday after watching the Canes get beaten like a red headed stepchild at Eric's palatial Boca hacienda, I drove Dr. Barry (also a Schultz protege, one year later) back to his house to watch MORE college football and eat take out Chinese. Barry and I sat on his sofa, and traded tales of each of our jobs' characters. These folks ARE characters, in the Dickensian sense.

As we shared the stories of bizarre human behavior, Barry said, simply, "So much of this is really funny." Hence, the theme of this entire blog!!!!!

Just last week Barry spent time with religious zealots rallying around a corpse, angry staff thinking he plays favorites (he doesn't); a brilliant Asian clinician who can keep a child with a horribly diseased heart alive but speaks like a newly arrived clerk in a Cantonese take out place, and a smart colleague whose ego (and underlying insecurities) are in inverse proportion to her diminutive stature.

While we were at Eric's, he regaled us with anecdotes about guilty children of dying elderly parents, inept hospital administrators with nasty streaks, and hugely egotistical practitioners (just like Barry's colleagues).

I added a dash of conniving, money hungry clients, platitude spouting lawyers who seem to be almost orgasmic when they hear their own voices, and those who think their quest for life's meaning is anything other than silly navel contemplation.

In other words --funny crap! In better words --the study of human nature!

A New Case. Joy.

After a glorious drought where I wasn't bothered by new clients for awhile, my firm was hired yesterday by a very nice and concerned father whose 3 kids were burned in a natural gas explosion. A large Florida utility was hired to install new lines at a co op building, and they caused a leak, which led to an explosion, injuring 3 kids.

The mother chose to hire her own lawyer: Johnny Cochran. Johnny's been dead about 3 years, but his name's still on a firm here in town, which is composed of 4 or 5 white guys. Johnny, from the grave, still appears in their ads. I had thought the Bar didn't allow this stuff, but I guess they made an exception for Johnny's estate's new partners. I'm thinking of changing my firm name to "The Honest Abe Lincoln Law Firm." I figure that ought to appeal to a large demographic. Maybe I could have a division called "The Moshe Dayan/David Ben Gurion/Barbra Streisand Firm" that would advertise in all the Boca papers, so I could pick up some nice probate work...

Anyway, when my partner and I get a big case, there's really no one better than we are at aggressively prosecuting it. We're going to file a lawsuit forthwith (right away in regular language), and go after the utility that burned these kids. We'll handle our part so competently, it'd kill Johnny Cochran if he weren't already dead.

So, we're dry cleaning the old trial suits, and calling our team of pyrologists (fire mavens). As Gleason said..and away we go!

As for the dead Cochran, I learned yesterday that his "firm" has hired the son of Cesar Chavez ( a lawyer I know in California) to help advertise for Hispanics (specifically Mexicans) throughout the nation. Apparently he's getting a percentage of all the fees generated by the huge draw Cochran is expected to have among Blacks, and the son of the "Mexican MArtin Luther King" will have among Mexicans.

Gee --why do folks abhor lawyers so much?

Hail to the Spirit of Miami U

If there's a better way to spend a Saturday than watching college football at the Orange Bowl, I don't know what it is.

I woke daughter #2 with a rousing rendition of the Hurricanes fight song, and at 930 am we hopped into the T Bird convertible and headed for Little Havana. It was a gorgeous day. The sky was cloudless, and while it was hot, it wasn't even too humid.

We parked and hung at the tailgate with most of the folks we've been seeing for over 20 years. Darriel was frying bacon while drinking mimosas. Daughter #2 went and sat with Mike's daughters and two other Palmetto classmates, and folks came and went, as I drank 2 10:30 am beers.

The toddlers of yesterday are somehow 15 and 16, and there's a new crop of little ones coming behind them.

Eric and Dana stopped by, and we exchanged some laughter and tales of Hurricane yore. There was a nice crowd in the parking lot, and the mood was festive.

We walked through turnstile and up the stairs, and saw the green grass on the field. We found our seats and shook hands and slapped backs with the folks we last saw last December.

The Canes took the field, and they dominated, like the Canes teams we love. The Orange Bowl was loud. Mike turned to me after a great quarterback sack, and I said "I really don't see why this has to be the last season here. We both got a little teary eyed.

Jeanine showed us how easily the orange plastic seat bottoms pry free, and we all agreed we were taking them with us November 11, after the final game. Jeanine remarked "I've sat here every season since 1975. This is going to my house. Let them try to stop me."

Daughter #2 and I left with 10 minutes left in the game, and we drove to Canton --another college favorite of mine. The co owner, Mrs. Lee, was leaving as we were arriving, and she stopped to chat. She asked, as always, if I keep in touch with Colin, my roommate from Hong Kong. I told her I'd heard from him last year.

The familiar, the traditional, is so wonderful. IT gives us roots in this world. I got to share this with my daughter today. What a blessing it was.

Daughter #1's college team, the Gators, also won their home opener. Daughter #1 doesn't really care about football. She's creating memories with friends in a sorority house. I hope her experiences are as rich and textured as mine were in college.

I hope they continue in the form of sunny days with dear friends.