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.