My in laws are a never ending source of amusement and exasperation. When I met Wifey in 1983, her parents were actually a plus. As a third generation American, I guess I hungered for my ethnic roots, and when I met my future in laws, I found their schtetl ways and immigrant habits charming.
My mother in law cooked like, I imagined, my grandmothers and great grandmothers must have cooked --authentic Jewish soul food. They were always very generous with my family and friends, and anyone leaving their house without being stuffed by meals was considered a poor guest.
Over the years, I've learned, like many son in laws, that there's often a thin line between charming and annoying.
Wifey, as an only child, is on a mission to have her parents visit their grandchildren every two weeks. Since D1 is away at college, D2 has the singular pleasure of being the sole object of her grandparents' love and adoration. They truly do adore their granddaughters, and my girls, to their credit, look past their eccentricities and appreciate them.
Last visit, they showed up with weeks' worth of laundry. They live in a gorgeous condo we bought for them, with, I thought, a working washer and dryer. My father in law claims that the washer DOES work fine, but his wife is simply incompetent to use it. My mother in law says that he's nuts --the machine is broken.
I'm a Florida Circuit Court Certified mediator, so I figured I'd get to the bottom of this dispute. I asked my father in law why he doesn't just call the service company he pays for, to check the washer. "It works fine"! he bellowed to me. I turned to my mother in law, and said there's apparently no problem. "Vell --if it's no problem --vy he has to put 5 buckets of vater into the machine ven he uses it?"
Some disputes are insoluble.
Thus, it appears that for the forseeable future, the bi weekly visits will come with a built in activity: doing laundry.
Ah, in laws...
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The Dissing Date
Wifey had a breathing class at the U today. Don't ask. Anyway, I drove her to campus, and walked around while she was occupied. It was a gorgeous day, and I always get nostalgic when on the campus.
I walked past one of the Residential Colleges, which was formerly the 1968 dorm, and recalled a funny anecdote involving a man who is now about the most successful human beings I know. In 1981, he was a tad awkward with the ladies...
I was sort of dating a freshman who would later become the first wife of a friend who is now a neurosurgeon in NY. My roommate Barry was single, and eminently eligible. He was tall, handsome, brilliant, and a great guy.
I met another freshman in my American Lit class, a freshman from Hollywood, Fla. She was cute, and most important on Barry's list of criteria: Jewish. I think her father was a physician in Broward. I told her about Barry, and my date, Rikki, Barry, and Lori (if that was her name --the years have faded my memory) made plans to go out.
We went to a restaurant in South Dade called Bogey's Barn, which was on a golf course. The best thing about Bogey's was that the dinners were modestly priced, and after you ate, you got free admission into their nightclub, where they had a decent band and dancing.
We all went and had a fine time. As I recall, we got back to campus around midnight, and walked Lori to her dorm in the 1969 complex. Invited the girls back to our apartment, where I had, I'm sure a few bottles of Mateus Rose or Lancer's (back then we were talking about $5 per bottle). Rikki agreed, but Lori said she had to get up early the next morning, and begged off.
Rikki, Barry, and I left, but Barry ran into another friend in the lobby of the complex, and stayed behind. A few hours later, when he returned to our apartment (Rikki had gone home) I asked him excitedly what he thought of Lori, and whether there would be a second date. His reply:
"Well, I ended up staying in the lobby for awhile, BS-ing with my friend, and then the elevator doors opened, and out popped Lori, in a much sexier outfit than she was wearing before, talking to her friends. She saw me and looked shocked, She stammered something about being ready to go to bed, and then her friends 'dragged her out again.' Off she went, and I stood there feeling like a loser."
I guess I should have offered support, but I think I laughed so hard I had to run to the bathroom. I knew, even then, this man was the ANTI-loser, destined for great things, and could stand a little rejection.
If there is poetic justice, Lori has been married and divorced, unhappily, about 4 times, and every once in while thinks about the tall sophomore she shined on in the lobby of the 1968 dorm in 1981.
Nah. She's probably living in a huge mansion in Boca, married to some dermatologist. I knew even before I got to UM that life wasn't fair.
I walked past one of the Residential Colleges, which was formerly the 1968 dorm, and recalled a funny anecdote involving a man who is now about the most successful human beings I know. In 1981, he was a tad awkward with the ladies...
I was sort of dating a freshman who would later become the first wife of a friend who is now a neurosurgeon in NY. My roommate Barry was single, and eminently eligible. He was tall, handsome, brilliant, and a great guy.
I met another freshman in my American Lit class, a freshman from Hollywood, Fla. She was cute, and most important on Barry's list of criteria: Jewish. I think her father was a physician in Broward. I told her about Barry, and my date, Rikki, Barry, and Lori (if that was her name --the years have faded my memory) made plans to go out.
We went to a restaurant in South Dade called Bogey's Barn, which was on a golf course. The best thing about Bogey's was that the dinners were modestly priced, and after you ate, you got free admission into their nightclub, where they had a decent band and dancing.
We all went and had a fine time. As I recall, we got back to campus around midnight, and walked Lori to her dorm in the 1969 complex. Invited the girls back to our apartment, where I had, I'm sure a few bottles of Mateus Rose or Lancer's (back then we were talking about $5 per bottle). Rikki agreed, but Lori said she had to get up early the next morning, and begged off.
Rikki, Barry, and I left, but Barry ran into another friend in the lobby of the complex, and stayed behind. A few hours later, when he returned to our apartment (Rikki had gone home) I asked him excitedly what he thought of Lori, and whether there would be a second date. His reply:
"Well, I ended up staying in the lobby for awhile, BS-ing with my friend, and then the elevator doors opened, and out popped Lori, in a much sexier outfit than she was wearing before, talking to her friends. She saw me and looked shocked, She stammered something about being ready to go to bed, and then her friends 'dragged her out again.' Off she went, and I stood there feeling like a loser."
I guess I should have offered support, but I think I laughed so hard I had to run to the bathroom. I knew, even then, this man was the ANTI-loser, destined for great things, and could stand a little rejection.
If there is poetic justice, Lori has been married and divorced, unhappily, about 4 times, and every once in while thinks about the tall sophomore she shined on in the lobby of the 1968 dorm in 1981.
Nah. She's probably living in a huge mansion in Boca, married to some dermatologist. I knew even before I got to UM that life wasn't fair.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Funny Anecdotes
Wifey says I need to write down some funny things that have happened to me over the years, even if they were in the distant past. In deference to her, and because my blog title DOES contain the adjective "funny," I will do that, from time to time.
Earlier this week, an old friend stopped by my office with her boyfriend, and brought donuts. She told me she always thinks about my donut story, and asked me to tell him. I did, and here it is:
In 1986, I was a newly minted lawyer, and I drove to the Broward County Courthouse in Ft. Lauderdale to cover a hearing. I called the office from a pay phone (cell phones were nearly a decade away) to ask if anyone needed anything more in Broward before I returned to Miami. Marcy took the call.
Marcy was ten years my senior, and she was the office manager. I could describe her, but a shortcut is to say that when I saw the Mike Myers Linda Richman character, I assumed he based it on Marcy. The difference was that MArcy was from Boston, and had a Brookline instead of Brooklyn accent, but in every other way she was Linda Richman.
She was large and never married. She had a tiny white fluffy dog that accompanied her everywhere. She had the ear of the owner of the law firm, and she was IN CHARGE. Her answer to my question was "Bring donuts back, you twerp." There was no chance I wasn't going to obey her.
In the 1980s, before gentrification, Ft. Lauderdale was the white trash capital of South Florida, and the center of this was US 1 south of Broward Boulevard. Instead of heading for I-95, I took US 1, figuring there had to be a donut shop. As I passed a strip center South of Davie Road, I saw a sign that said "R --The Donut." I parked and walked over to the place.
I knew right away that something was amiss. When I entered, instead of a big glass storefront window, there was a dark corridor, like one encounters when going into a lounge. Once I got inside, there was disco music playing, and donuts and coffee being served to an array of "CAT TRAILER" cap wearing men. The waitresses wore nothing but shorts.
I had walked into a TOPLESS DONUT shop!
I was the only one there wearing a suit. A bleach blonde woman with enormous torpedoes beckoned me to the counter. "Hi sweetie --what can I get you?"
I stammered "Uh --I need a dozen to go."
Jackie (she had a name badge on her shorts) burst out laughing, and called out to her compatriots "This guy wants donuts to go!" They all started laughing, too.
I, of course, felt like a total schmuck. Who gets donuts to go from a topless donut shop? The entire raison d' etre of a topless shop is to stay there and look at the breasts.
Still, I was 25, wearing a $200 blue suit, and I was a baby lawyer, and I had to get back to my office, lest Marcy yell at me. And, truth be told, many of the waitresses there sort of LOOKED like MArcy, but with nicer breasts.
Jackie started searching around for a box. R --The Donut truly had no supplies for carry out. She finally went to the back and brought back a cardboard container that held paper towels. "What kind you want, honey?" I told her just to mix and match.
As she was about to place the last donut into the paper towel box, she rubbed some of the cream from it on herself, laughed, leaned toward me and asked "You wanna at least have SOMETHING here in the restaurant?" I declined, and asked her how much.
It turned out the donuts cost $5 each. I only had $50 on me, and they didn't take credit cards. I was about to go from schmuck to schlemiel, and tell her never mind, but Jackie turned out to be a true archetype: the stripper (or topless donut waitress) with the heart of gold. "Just give me $50 and we'll call it even, sweetie."
I retreated into the bright morning sun, carrying my oversized cardboard box of expensive donuts, and drove back to Miami.
Marcy never asked why the donuts came in a "Bounty" box. She wolfed down 3 donuts before I even had the chance to hang up my suit jacket.
"These are really bad for my diet," she said, "but they're great donuts. Stop at the same place and get some more, next time you go to the Broward Courthouse."
Last time I heard, over 10 years ago, Marcy had married a plumber who had come to her Aventura condo to install a custom sink. She outweighed him by 100 lbs.
R--The Donut is no longer there, I don't suppose.
Earlier this week, an old friend stopped by my office with her boyfriend, and brought donuts. She told me she always thinks about my donut story, and asked me to tell him. I did, and here it is:
In 1986, I was a newly minted lawyer, and I drove to the Broward County Courthouse in Ft. Lauderdale to cover a hearing. I called the office from a pay phone (cell phones were nearly a decade away) to ask if anyone needed anything more in Broward before I returned to Miami. Marcy took the call.
Marcy was ten years my senior, and she was the office manager. I could describe her, but a shortcut is to say that when I saw the Mike Myers Linda Richman character, I assumed he based it on Marcy. The difference was that MArcy was from Boston, and had a Brookline instead of Brooklyn accent, but in every other way she was Linda Richman.
She was large and never married. She had a tiny white fluffy dog that accompanied her everywhere. She had the ear of the owner of the law firm, and she was IN CHARGE. Her answer to my question was "Bring donuts back, you twerp." There was no chance I wasn't going to obey her.
In the 1980s, before gentrification, Ft. Lauderdale was the white trash capital of South Florida, and the center of this was US 1 south of Broward Boulevard. Instead of heading for I-95, I took US 1, figuring there had to be a donut shop. As I passed a strip center South of Davie Road, I saw a sign that said "R --The Donut." I parked and walked over to the place.
I knew right away that something was amiss. When I entered, instead of a big glass storefront window, there was a dark corridor, like one encounters when going into a lounge. Once I got inside, there was disco music playing, and donuts and coffee being served to an array of "CAT TRAILER" cap wearing men. The waitresses wore nothing but shorts.
I had walked into a TOPLESS DONUT shop!
I was the only one there wearing a suit. A bleach blonde woman with enormous torpedoes beckoned me to the counter. "Hi sweetie --what can I get you?"
I stammered "Uh --I need a dozen to go."
Jackie (she had a name badge on her shorts) burst out laughing, and called out to her compatriots "This guy wants donuts to go!" They all started laughing, too.
I, of course, felt like a total schmuck. Who gets donuts to go from a topless donut shop? The entire raison d' etre of a topless shop is to stay there and look at the breasts.
Still, I was 25, wearing a $200 blue suit, and I was a baby lawyer, and I had to get back to my office, lest Marcy yell at me. And, truth be told, many of the waitresses there sort of LOOKED like MArcy, but with nicer breasts.
Jackie started searching around for a box. R --The Donut truly had no supplies for carry out. She finally went to the back and brought back a cardboard container that held paper towels. "What kind you want, honey?" I told her just to mix and match.
As she was about to place the last donut into the paper towel box, she rubbed some of the cream from it on herself, laughed, leaned toward me and asked "You wanna at least have SOMETHING here in the restaurant?" I declined, and asked her how much.
It turned out the donuts cost $5 each. I only had $50 on me, and they didn't take credit cards. I was about to go from schmuck to schlemiel, and tell her never mind, but Jackie turned out to be a true archetype: the stripper (or topless donut waitress) with the heart of gold. "Just give me $50 and we'll call it even, sweetie."
I retreated into the bright morning sun, carrying my oversized cardboard box of expensive donuts, and drove back to Miami.
Marcy never asked why the donuts came in a "Bounty" box. She wolfed down 3 donuts before I even had the chance to hang up my suit jacket.
"These are really bad for my diet," she said, "but they're great donuts. Stop at the same place and get some more, next time you go to the Broward Courthouse."
Last time I heard, over 10 years ago, Marcy had married a plumber who had come to her Aventura condo to install a custom sink. She outweighed him by 100 lbs.
R--The Donut is no longer there, I don't suppose.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Heady Times
On November 15, 1994 my partner and I started our law firm. We left comfortable jobs and guaranteed salaries, and struck out on our own. We were energized. We were dauntless. Failure was not an option for us.
They were heady times. We'd work all day on the cases we brought with us, and spend most evenings taking referral sources to dinner to get more business. I was 33 and he was 44.
Our partnership agreement was a handshake and promise to always treat each other right, upon the memory of our dead fathers. Nothing was in writing. We pledged to do this for 10 years.
Our 13th anniversary passed last November, and we're still in business, although in a downsized version. We've decreased overhead and working hours. We're making a big staff change this week. It's still fun, but no longer exhilerating.
My nephew is about to leave his regular job and go into business for himself full time. He has every requisite ability to succeed. We spoke at length last week, and I hear the same fire and spirit in him that I had 13 years ago.
He'll be leaving his regular job within the month to focus on his business. Right now, he's choosing office space, designing advertising --all of the fun exciting choices a business owner makes.
I'm thrilled for him.
It's nice to see a younger generation aspire to greater things.
I shared with him my "secret" for success: always treat those who refer you clients
happy they did so. Make it worthwhile for others to find you business. Be overgenerous in that regard.
I also told him that my firm's success paralleled my partner and I giving more and more to charity. It may have been a coincidence, but if it was, the money we gave away was the best use of money we made.
Go get 'em, kid!
They were heady times. We'd work all day on the cases we brought with us, and spend most evenings taking referral sources to dinner to get more business. I was 33 and he was 44.
Our partnership agreement was a handshake and promise to always treat each other right, upon the memory of our dead fathers. Nothing was in writing. We pledged to do this for 10 years.
Our 13th anniversary passed last November, and we're still in business, although in a downsized version. We've decreased overhead and working hours. We're making a big staff change this week. It's still fun, but no longer exhilerating.
My nephew is about to leave his regular job and go into business for himself full time. He has every requisite ability to succeed. We spoke at length last week, and I hear the same fire and spirit in him that I had 13 years ago.
He'll be leaving his regular job within the month to focus on his business. Right now, he's choosing office space, designing advertising --all of the fun exciting choices a business owner makes.
I'm thrilled for him.
It's nice to see a younger generation aspire to greater things.
I shared with him my "secret" for success: always treat those who refer you clients
happy they did so. Make it worthwhile for others to find you business. Be overgenerous in that regard.
I also told him that my firm's success paralleled my partner and I giving more and more to charity. It may have been a coincidence, but if it was, the money we gave away was the best use of money we made.
Go get 'em, kid!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Five-Oh
I did a favor for my friend Steve the Cop's boss, and last night he took me to dinner to thank me. The Sergeant brought back memories of a law school class that discussed the mentality of cops.
The Sergeant is a great fellow, born and raised in Miami, but talking like he was born and raised in Tennessee. He's smart but uneducated. He truly sees the world in black and white, as us against them.
The "them" are bad guys, and as far as he's concerned, there is no such thing as rehabilitation. Bad is bad. If his daughter brought home a succesful man who had any type of criminal history, he'd be booted out of the house.
As I evolve into the classic :liberal is a conservative who has never been mugged" paradigm, I see more and more wisdom in the Sergeant's world view.
Anyway, as a result of the free legal work I did, I'm pretty much immune from any traffic ticket violations in the County. Other than eternal higher consciousness, that's one of the most useful things to have.
Speaking of great bartering: I went for a haircut this morning, and Dania, my "barber" wouldn't charge me. I had referred Dania to a high powered family lawyer friend, to see about collecting back child support from her deadbeat ex, and the lawyer gave her free advice. She told Dania to give me a free haircut in exchange. It was rather sweet, even though I overtip Dania every time I'm there, and bring her croissants and coffee on the early appointments.
As I write, a handyman is replacing a rotted garage door, and Wifey just left for a walk. Her parents are coming for their bi weekly visit. Maybe I could trade another professional something, and he could play the son in law here every once in awhile...
The Sergeant is a great fellow, born and raised in Miami, but talking like he was born and raised in Tennessee. He's smart but uneducated. He truly sees the world in black and white, as us against them.
The "them" are bad guys, and as far as he's concerned, there is no such thing as rehabilitation. Bad is bad. If his daughter brought home a succesful man who had any type of criminal history, he'd be booted out of the house.
As I evolve into the classic :liberal is a conservative who has never been mugged" paradigm, I see more and more wisdom in the Sergeant's world view.
Anyway, as a result of the free legal work I did, I'm pretty much immune from any traffic ticket violations in the County. Other than eternal higher consciousness, that's one of the most useful things to have.
Speaking of great bartering: I went for a haircut this morning, and Dania, my "barber" wouldn't charge me. I had referred Dania to a high powered family lawyer friend, to see about collecting back child support from her deadbeat ex, and the lawyer gave her free advice. She told Dania to give me a free haircut in exchange. It was rather sweet, even though I overtip Dania every time I'm there, and bring her croissants and coffee on the early appointments.
As I write, a handyman is replacing a rotted garage door, and Wifey just left for a walk. Her parents are coming for their bi weekly visit. Maybe I could trade another professional something, and he could play the son in law here every once in awhile...
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Is There a Chiropractor in the House?
I must confess a lifelong bias against chiropractors. First, my family were all believers in traditional medicine. In college, only the dummies who couldn't get into (in order of difficulty) US medical schools, Osteopathic medical schools, and finally foreign medical schools became chiropractors.
I have a cousin who failed out of college, truly one of the dumber women I know, who wento to chiropractic school and became wildly successful. The ex husband of one of Wifey's good friends was a chiropractor. Years ago I took him walking and to breakfast with two friends, a pediatrician and a physical therapist. The chiropractor went on and on about "proprioreception." Afterwards, his term became a catchword to the pediatrician and PT whenever they referred to simple minded, junk science. When I asked the PEdiatrician Barry about hyperbaric oxygen treatments, he replied, quoting the thought he was smart but not really chiro: "Well, maybe it helps the patient's proprioreception."
As a lawyer, the bottom feeders in the accident field tend to work with chiropractors. A client gets bumped from behind, the TV lawyer sends the client to a chiropractor, thousands of dollars of bills pile up, and the chiropractor testifies about "microfractures" and "subluxations," while the medical doctors laugh.
Well, it appears that traditional, allopathic medicine has failed Wifey in her quest to recover from back pain. Since last JAnuary she has seen two neurologists and two orthopedic surgeons, and has undergone three epidural injections. She has tried a plethora of anti inflammatory and pain drugs, none of which has worked.
She endured a horrible episode caused by a side effect of one of the narcotic drugs, which had a (now, viewed in hindsight, so to speak) very humorous conclusion.
She has missed weddings, Bar Mitzvot (plural), many trips, and, most sad for her, opportunities to visit D1 in college. D1's sorority sisters are convinced I'm a single father.
In short, she's been living the life of an invalid.
But now, finally, she saw a chiropractor yesterday. He reviewed her X rays, CAT scans, MRI studies, and is convinced he can fix her. I'm hoping he can. Most importantly, Wifey is encouraged, and hopeful.
I spoke to one of the two most brilliant medical doctors I know about this, and his take was "Hey --as long as he doesn't say he can cure diabetes or cancer with this stuff --it can't really hurt." So that's my attitude as well.
Go Dr. G! Go Wifey. There's a sorority weekend in February, and it'll be just grand if our whole family can be there, because, last time I checked, experiences like a beloved daughter going through college don't repeat themselves.
I have a cousin who failed out of college, truly one of the dumber women I know, who wento to chiropractic school and became wildly successful. The ex husband of one of Wifey's good friends was a chiropractor. Years ago I took him walking and to breakfast with two friends, a pediatrician and a physical therapist. The chiropractor went on and on about "proprioreception." Afterwards, his term became a catchword to the pediatrician and PT whenever they referred to simple minded, junk science. When I asked the PEdiatrician Barry about hyperbaric oxygen treatments, he replied, quoting the thought he was smart but not really chiro: "Well, maybe it helps the patient's proprioreception."
As a lawyer, the bottom feeders in the accident field tend to work with chiropractors. A client gets bumped from behind, the TV lawyer sends the client to a chiropractor, thousands of dollars of bills pile up, and the chiropractor testifies about "microfractures" and "subluxations," while the medical doctors laugh.
Well, it appears that traditional, allopathic medicine has failed Wifey in her quest to recover from back pain. Since last JAnuary she has seen two neurologists and two orthopedic surgeons, and has undergone three epidural injections. She has tried a plethora of anti inflammatory and pain drugs, none of which has worked.
She endured a horrible episode caused by a side effect of one of the narcotic drugs, which had a (now, viewed in hindsight, so to speak) very humorous conclusion.
She has missed weddings, Bar Mitzvot (plural), many trips, and, most sad for her, opportunities to visit D1 in college. D1's sorority sisters are convinced I'm a single father.
In short, she's been living the life of an invalid.
But now, finally, she saw a chiropractor yesterday. He reviewed her X rays, CAT scans, MRI studies, and is convinced he can fix her. I'm hoping he can. Most importantly, Wifey is encouraged, and hopeful.
I spoke to one of the two most brilliant medical doctors I know about this, and his take was "Hey --as long as he doesn't say he can cure diabetes or cancer with this stuff --it can't really hurt." So that's my attitude as well.
Go Dr. G! Go Wifey. There's a sorority weekend in February, and it'll be just grand if our whole family can be there, because, last time I checked, experiences like a beloved daughter going through college don't repeat themselves.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Freedom From the Press
If I want my kids to learn ONE thing in school, it's to read and write critically. In other words, question stuff --what it's based on, the competency of the writer. (By that standard, anyone reading THIS blog ought to have their head examined, to use an old NY phrase).
On Saturday, the Herald published a story about the continuing plight of the Overtown ghetto. The City has plans for all kinds of spiffy new stuff, and the thrust of the story was that Overtown has always been screwed by the white man, and this was going to continue.
To nail the point, they showed a photo of a community activist next to a burned out apartment building. The activist had one of those great Al Sharpton -like quotes, something about "We don't want the WHOLE pie, just our fair slice," or some such.
The burned out apartment was clearly designed to give that South Bronx in the 70s look, and the caption said it was an "example of neglect."
EXCEPT IT WASN'T! The dwelling shown was a co op owned by one of my clients that exploded in a gas accident 3 months ago! It's part of a development, where I spent a day on a site inspection recently, that's rather well kept. It has a charter school on premises, and is a pretty decent looking place, except for the one unit!
So, the Herald wants to convey this entire feeling of decay, so that we can all feel guilty while drinking our Saturday morning coffee in houses outside of the ghetto, but it's TOTAL BULL!!!!!
The owner of the damaged unit has already undertaken repairs, and is suing the gas company for damages, alongside of our case. The apartment used as this symbol of all that's wrong in Overtown wil probably be repaired and occupied by the summer.
So, the lesson is brought down once again --don't believe everything you read.
That's especially true when the writer tells you he's writing about crap!
On Saturday, the Herald published a story about the continuing plight of the Overtown ghetto. The City has plans for all kinds of spiffy new stuff, and the thrust of the story was that Overtown has always been screwed by the white man, and this was going to continue.
To nail the point, they showed a photo of a community activist next to a burned out apartment building. The activist had one of those great Al Sharpton -like quotes, something about "We don't want the WHOLE pie, just our fair slice," or some such.
The burned out apartment was clearly designed to give that South Bronx in the 70s look, and the caption said it was an "example of neglect."
EXCEPT IT WASN'T! The dwelling shown was a co op owned by one of my clients that exploded in a gas accident 3 months ago! It's part of a development, where I spent a day on a site inspection recently, that's rather well kept. It has a charter school on premises, and is a pretty decent looking place, except for the one unit!
So, the Herald wants to convey this entire feeling of decay, so that we can all feel guilty while drinking our Saturday morning coffee in houses outside of the ghetto, but it's TOTAL BULL!!!!!
The owner of the damaged unit has already undertaken repairs, and is suing the gas company for damages, alongside of our case. The apartment used as this symbol of all that's wrong in Overtown wil probably be repaired and occupied by the summer.
So, the lesson is brought down once again --don't believe everything you read.
That's especially true when the writer tells you he's writing about crap!
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Big Ass Bar Mitzvah
My orthodox rabbi's first born had his Bar Mitzvah yesterday, in the Center my law partner and I helped found. It was quite an affair, since the rabbi and his wife had all of their siblings there, and each comes from a 6 or 7 child family!
I sat through the hocus pocus part of the morning, as the son read from the Torah in front of the packed house. I saw a lot of folks from the old days (10-12 years ago) who I used to run into at the shul.
Afterwards, the Bar Mitzvah boy gave a great speech about the most positive aspects of the Chabad people --being a lamplighter, urging others to do good (not just doing good yourself). It was positive and uplifting.
Afterwards, the congregation went outside for the Kiddush luncheon, where a big tent was erected over the parking lot. The Rabbi's brother in law was there, a bundle of red headed energy. Mendy left Miami 7 years ago, newly married, and now has his own congregation near Boston, and FIVE CHILDREN!!!! He's 31, his wife is 30. The truth is, if the Jewish people are to survive, it will be because of Chasids like him, who follow the be fruitful and multiply law very well.
Mendy poured some fine single malt Scotch (just about all Scotch is kosher) freely, remiunding me of what attracted me to this branch of Judaism in the first place. Within the hour, we were all pretty drunk, and feeling closer to the Big Man.
The Rabbi kept introducing me as "the bedrock" of our congregation, a man "there for us from the beginning."
Of course, this was followed by the inevitable sales pitch about "the next stage" or "the coming level." As I said, I was drunk, and missed the details.
One of the family asked me the rhetorical question of whether I wanted even more business success. The answer is supposed ot be "Of course," whereupon the 770 (Chabad Headquarters) rejoinder is an urging to "Make God a partner."
I answered "No, not really --I've made enough money." This seemed to fluster the fellows at my drinking table, since the Home Office doesn't have, I guess, a proper fundraising hook for an admitted slacker to be.
Still, it was a fun afternoon, of drinking and laughing, and seeing old friends. My days as a big macher are over. My charitable endeavors will go towards issues of pediatric medical research, and other non religious causes.
I'm truly not a man of religion, and, as I've told my rabbi friend many times, until the Hurricanes start playing on a different day, will NOT keep shabbos. I'm proud of my heritage, and am thankful of what my rabbi friend has taught me, but, as far as any more observation of the faith is concerned, I'm borrowing Bob Dylan's words: It ain't me, babe.
I sat through the hocus pocus part of the morning, as the son read from the Torah in front of the packed house. I saw a lot of folks from the old days (10-12 years ago) who I used to run into at the shul.
Afterwards, the Bar Mitzvah boy gave a great speech about the most positive aspects of the Chabad people --being a lamplighter, urging others to do good (not just doing good yourself). It was positive and uplifting.
Afterwards, the congregation went outside for the Kiddush luncheon, where a big tent was erected over the parking lot. The Rabbi's brother in law was there, a bundle of red headed energy. Mendy left Miami 7 years ago, newly married, and now has his own congregation near Boston, and FIVE CHILDREN!!!! He's 31, his wife is 30. The truth is, if the Jewish people are to survive, it will be because of Chasids like him, who follow the be fruitful and multiply law very well.
Mendy poured some fine single malt Scotch (just about all Scotch is kosher) freely, remiunding me of what attracted me to this branch of Judaism in the first place. Within the hour, we were all pretty drunk, and feeling closer to the Big Man.
The Rabbi kept introducing me as "the bedrock" of our congregation, a man "there for us from the beginning."
Of course, this was followed by the inevitable sales pitch about "the next stage" or "the coming level." As I said, I was drunk, and missed the details.
One of the family asked me the rhetorical question of whether I wanted even more business success. The answer is supposed ot be "Of course," whereupon the 770 (Chabad Headquarters) rejoinder is an urging to "Make God a partner."
I answered "No, not really --I've made enough money." This seemed to fluster the fellows at my drinking table, since the Home Office doesn't have, I guess, a proper fundraising hook for an admitted slacker to be.
Still, it was a fun afternoon, of drinking and laughing, and seeing old friends. My days as a big macher are over. My charitable endeavors will go towards issues of pediatric medical research, and other non religious causes.
I'm truly not a man of religion, and, as I've told my rabbi friend many times, until the Hurricanes start playing on a different day, will NOT keep shabbos. I'm proud of my heritage, and am thankful of what my rabbi friend has taught me, but, as far as any more observation of the faith is concerned, I'm borrowing Bob Dylan's words: It ain't me, babe.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Surveillance
A lot of my work is pretty boring stuff, at least in the salaciousness department. Divorce lawyers get all of the great tales --my cases, the bread and butter of what I deal with --have to do with herniated discs, and broken bones.
Last week I prepped a client for a deposition, and told her that the insurance carrier probably had followed her and taken video. The companies reoutinely do this, to show that an injured party really can do the things they testify they can't.
I explained to this woman that she need only tell the truth, and there'd be nothing to worry about. As I headed back to my office, I noticed her following me. "Psssst," she said, "I need to talk to you without my husband."
I brought her into my office and she spilled it: she had been having an affair for the past year, and was petrified that this "surveillance" might include footage of her meeting her lover at an area hotel. "We meet at one of two places, go inside and enjoy each other's company."
She said she wanted to drop the case, lest her husband find out. The case would lead to money, but her husband supported her nicely, and she didn't want to lose that.
Well, happily we settled the case, and the surveillance turned out to be boring "look, she can carry groceries" stuff. The cuckholded husband is no wiser, and I have one of my better tales to tell.
It's all good...
Last week I prepped a client for a deposition, and told her that the insurance carrier probably had followed her and taken video. The companies reoutinely do this, to show that an injured party really can do the things they testify they can't.
I explained to this woman that she need only tell the truth, and there'd be nothing to worry about. As I headed back to my office, I noticed her following me. "Psssst," she said, "I need to talk to you without my husband."
I brought her into my office and she spilled it: she had been having an affair for the past year, and was petrified that this "surveillance" might include footage of her meeting her lover at an area hotel. "We meet at one of two places, go inside and enjoy each other's company."
She said she wanted to drop the case, lest her husband find out. The case would lead to money, but her husband supported her nicely, and she didn't want to lose that.
Well, happily we settled the case, and the surveillance turned out to be boring "look, she can carry groceries" stuff. The cuckholded husband is no wiser, and I have one of my better tales to tell.
It's all good...
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Chicken Sandwich
Not to be immodest, but around my office I'm by far the most generous person. I'm constantly buying lunch for the staff, and giving them $25 or $50 checks "just because." I enjoy doing these things, and feel it's my duty as one who has been unbelievably blessed with professional success.
MY office roommates NEVER show largesse. One fellow, also very succesful, sends folks out to buy lunch and counts out EXACTLY his share of the bill, even though he makes close to $1M per year and the staff less than 10% that. When I'm in that position, I simply pay for everyone. Or at least I did.
Yesterday, I skipped breakfast, and made it back for lunch. I asked one of the staff to order me a sandwich. She said she'd call another co worker, who was already out buying. Thirty minutes later, I saw the staff member in the kitchen. She had obviously forgotten.
She was 1/4 done with one of the most delicious looking sandwiches I'd ever seen. IT was a plump chicken breast on a baguette, that was flaking apart before my very eyes. OF course, it looked even more delectable because of how hungry I was.
The woman wasn't eating the sandwich so much as making love to it. One thing was clear: she'd have given up a lung before she was going to offer me 1/2 of the sandwich.
I slinked off, and had our file clerk go downstairs to get me some lunch. What's the moral here? IS it: good luck separating an obese woman from her lunch? Dave --stop being such a big schmuck all the time?
I guess the moral is both. The good news is that my charities will benefit with the hundreds of dollars I'm going to save no linger buying meals for ungrateful, selfish co workers!
I really am getting more prickly and crochety as I age. Either that, or wiser...
MY office roommates NEVER show largesse. One fellow, also very succesful, sends folks out to buy lunch and counts out EXACTLY his share of the bill, even though he makes close to $1M per year and the staff less than 10% that. When I'm in that position, I simply pay for everyone. Or at least I did.
Yesterday, I skipped breakfast, and made it back for lunch. I asked one of the staff to order me a sandwich. She said she'd call another co worker, who was already out buying. Thirty minutes later, I saw the staff member in the kitchen. She had obviously forgotten.
She was 1/4 done with one of the most delicious looking sandwiches I'd ever seen. IT was a plump chicken breast on a baguette, that was flaking apart before my very eyes. OF course, it looked even more delectable because of how hungry I was.
The woman wasn't eating the sandwich so much as making love to it. One thing was clear: she'd have given up a lung before she was going to offer me 1/2 of the sandwich.
I slinked off, and had our file clerk go downstairs to get me some lunch. What's the moral here? IS it: good luck separating an obese woman from her lunch? Dave --stop being such a big schmuck all the time?
I guess the moral is both. The good news is that my charities will benefit with the hundreds of dollars I'm going to save no linger buying meals for ungrateful, selfish co workers!
I really am getting more prickly and crochety as I age. Either that, or wiser...
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Adios, Daughter #1
The month passed like a speeding train, and Daughter #1 left this a.m. She and wifey were in bed watching a French movie and "Gilmore Girls" until late, and I ended up sleeping in Daughter #2's bed, since she was out at a sleepover. I slept the best I have in awhile. This idea of separate bedrooms may be a good one. More on that later...
D 1 woke up, and I made her her favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast. She loves the way I make her eggs --I whip them first, and watch as they cook, so they're always perfect. Wifey, D1, and I sat around the table and had a pleasant talk about life and school.
I drove her to her good friend and roommate's parents' house, we loaded up the car, and away they went. Both girls were a little excited, but also reluctant to leave their spoiled Miami lives. As Hillary said "My Mom brought me breakfast this morning. No one at school does that."
Whenever D1 leaves, I head to the ocean, to speak with my father. I usually go to MAtheson Hammock, and walk around the atoll. It was nearly empty this morning. The sun glistened on the water, and I spoke with him.
My father refused to be buried in a cemetary. He wanted to be remembered whenever one of us was by the sea. I hope he knew what he was doing, and this flouting of Jewish law doesn't land us both someplace where we spend eternity getting poked in the butt by some Devil's trident, but Dad was willing to take his chances, and so am I.
It occurred to me as I stared out at the gorgeous sea and sky, that he BECAME part of the eternity and infinity that we only observe. I guess Dad understood that, and didn't fear death.
MEanwhile, I guess I still have some stuff left to do down here. A bit more guidance for a 19 year old, and soon to be 16 year old. Some very helpful worrying and anxiety about them. Hemorrhoids. Isn't life grand?
D 1 woke up, and I made her her favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast. She loves the way I make her eggs --I whip them first, and watch as they cook, so they're always perfect. Wifey, D1, and I sat around the table and had a pleasant talk about life and school.
I drove her to her good friend and roommate's parents' house, we loaded up the car, and away they went. Both girls were a little excited, but also reluctant to leave their spoiled Miami lives. As Hillary said "My Mom brought me breakfast this morning. No one at school does that."
Whenever D1 leaves, I head to the ocean, to speak with my father. I usually go to MAtheson Hammock, and walk around the atoll. It was nearly empty this morning. The sun glistened on the water, and I spoke with him.
My father refused to be buried in a cemetary. He wanted to be remembered whenever one of us was by the sea. I hope he knew what he was doing, and this flouting of Jewish law doesn't land us both someplace where we spend eternity getting poked in the butt by some Devil's trident, but Dad was willing to take his chances, and so am I.
It occurred to me as I stared out at the gorgeous sea and sky, that he BECAME part of the eternity and infinity that we only observe. I guess Dad understood that, and didn't fear death.
MEanwhile, I guess I still have some stuff left to do down here. A bit more guidance for a 19 year old, and soon to be 16 year old. Some very helpful worrying and anxiety about them. Hemorrhoids. Isn't life grand?
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Dirty Old Man
If I've learned anything in my 46 and 1/2 years in this life, it's that Forrest Gump was right about comparing existence to a box of chocolates: you never know what you're gonna get.
And so, as I sit here typing on this rainy Saturday, three gorgeous girls are posing in my house in very sexy lingerie, along with Daughter #2, who's wearing more wholesome "loungewear."
My friend Iris left the law business to help her mother run a textile factory in Hialeah. The problem was, it soon occurred to Iris, that they couldn't compete with the shops in China and the Dominican Republic UNLESS they started their own line. They did, and last year we opened up our house to the first model shoot.
Well, they're back, and they brought 2 new young ladies, one who is 20 and the other late 20s. Not that I noticed, but if I did, well, let's just say they could be centerfolds in a Latina version of Playboy. And, as I was on my rocking chair, reading a magazine, one of them walked over wearing a silk bikini thing, and started talking to me about nursing school! I was going to say that if she was MY nurse, I'd never leave the hospital, but then she'd have thought I was off my rocker. Ha.
Anyway, Daughter #1's upstairs with Wifey, fighting off a cold that she hopes to be over by the time classes start Monday.
I may just amble back to the balcony, talk to Daughter #2, and let my peripheral vision get a workout.
Even on rainy days, sometimes warm rays of sunshine can come into our lives.
And so, as I sit here typing on this rainy Saturday, three gorgeous girls are posing in my house in very sexy lingerie, along with Daughter #2, who's wearing more wholesome "loungewear."
My friend Iris left the law business to help her mother run a textile factory in Hialeah. The problem was, it soon occurred to Iris, that they couldn't compete with the shops in China and the Dominican Republic UNLESS they started their own line. They did, and last year we opened up our house to the first model shoot.
Well, they're back, and they brought 2 new young ladies, one who is 20 and the other late 20s. Not that I noticed, but if I did, well, let's just say they could be centerfolds in a Latina version of Playboy. And, as I was on my rocking chair, reading a magazine, one of them walked over wearing a silk bikini thing, and started talking to me about nursing school! I was going to say that if she was MY nurse, I'd never leave the hospital, but then she'd have thought I was off my rocker. Ha.
Anyway, Daughter #1's upstairs with Wifey, fighting off a cold that she hopes to be over by the time classes start Monday.
I may just amble back to the balcony, talk to Daughter #2, and let my peripheral vision get a workout.
Even on rainy days, sometimes warm rays of sunshine can come into our lives.
Friday, January 4, 2008
The Case of the Blocked Bassett
We have two dogs, one of which is the sweetest Labrador Retriever in the history of dogs, a 12 year old gentle and loving animal. We also have a 2 year old Bassett Hound, Miss Molly, which is the strangest dog we've ever owned.
We've learned a lot about this breed of dog in the 2 years we've had Molly. For example, Bassett's don't obey commands like normal dogs, they sometimes acquiesce. The dog does make us laugh all the time, though, especially when she runs, if it can be called running. Typically, Molly's attempts to move rapidly result in a lurching, unbalanced series of motions, involving tripping over ears, and the front of the dog going in a different direction than the distant rear of the dog. As a British woman observed just yesterday "My, that dog goes on for a long, long way."
Anyway, we noticed that Miss Molly was even more slow moving and languid than normal yesterday, and she had no desire to eat. Eating is the one thing that seems to awaken this dog, and if Wifey comes down to the kitchen in the morning and doesn't immediately put out food, Molly begins a hilarious baying, right out of an old movie about fox hunting. It's really something to hear.
Wifey took Molly to the vet, the vet did an X ray, and there was the problem clear to see: a golf ball sized rock was lodged in the dog's intestine, just past her stomach. The vet sent us home with instructions to bring the dog back this morning for a rock-ectomy, which is pretty major surgery. Wifey was most concerned, but at the same time started seriously considered giving Molly to her friend Elizabeth in Orlando, an otherwise normal woman who, for some strange reason, loves Bassett Hounds.
Well, wifey arrived at the office at 830 this morning, they did a pre op X ray, and, VIOLA! --the rock had passed, just like the biblical adage that "This, too, shall pass..."
Wifey was elated, the Bassett was hungry, and life goes on. Wifey's right, though. The dog cries out to be memorialized in a childrens' book about this most humorous animal. Now that there has been some pathos, maybe I'll do it!
We've learned a lot about this breed of dog in the 2 years we've had Molly. For example, Bassett's don't obey commands like normal dogs, they sometimes acquiesce. The dog does make us laugh all the time, though, especially when she runs, if it can be called running. Typically, Molly's attempts to move rapidly result in a lurching, unbalanced series of motions, involving tripping over ears, and the front of the dog going in a different direction than the distant rear of the dog. As a British woman observed just yesterday "My, that dog goes on for a long, long way."
Anyway, we noticed that Miss Molly was even more slow moving and languid than normal yesterday, and she had no desire to eat. Eating is the one thing that seems to awaken this dog, and if Wifey comes down to the kitchen in the morning and doesn't immediately put out food, Molly begins a hilarious baying, right out of an old movie about fox hunting. It's really something to hear.
Wifey took Molly to the vet, the vet did an X ray, and there was the problem clear to see: a golf ball sized rock was lodged in the dog's intestine, just past her stomach. The vet sent us home with instructions to bring the dog back this morning for a rock-ectomy, which is pretty major surgery. Wifey was most concerned, but at the same time started seriously considered giving Molly to her friend Elizabeth in Orlando, an otherwise normal woman who, for some strange reason, loves Bassett Hounds.
Well, wifey arrived at the office at 830 this morning, they did a pre op X ray, and, VIOLA! --the rock had passed, just like the biblical adage that "This, too, shall pass..."
Wifey was elated, the Bassett was hungry, and life goes on. Wifey's right, though. The dog cries out to be memorialized in a childrens' book about this most humorous animal. Now that there has been some pathos, maybe I'll do it!
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
New Year Thoughts on Love
Another year has arrived, and we're all caught up in this artifice of calendrical importance. I'm thinking about love.
Barbra sang it best, about people who need people, but sometimes one lives most of a life and there aren't people, at least in the sense of a spouse or children. There are almost always nieces and nephews, but love for them is too convenient, and conditional. I didn't really understand love, at least in its most sacred meaning to me, until I had children.
So wifey has an old dear friend who's turning 51 in a few months and never married. She's a good hearted woman, who, for a plethora of reasons that could fill a psychology major's doctoral dissertation, could never truly share her heart. So, 10 years ago, she got a dog, and the dog has acted as a child substitute.
Wifey convinced her friend several months ago that the dog ought to have a young puppy, to keep it youthful, and the friend went out and bought a new canine. It turns out that the new dog was too energetic and "needy" for apartment life, and the friend decided she had to give him away.
Wifey met a neighbor who mentioned that the family dog had died, and they wanted another, and the fix up was in! The problem is, and I saw this right away, that the family has 5 kids, the youngest of whom is only two, and the mother has a very full life. She's also Israeli, with her people's typical antipathy about foolishness and needless worry.
Well, the friend left the dog last weekend in a tearful goodbye, and, ever since the friend has called sounding positively suicidal. There are voicemails asking about anti depressants, and referrals to psychotherapists, and throaty weeping. It's awful.
Wifey called the new owner at the request of her friend, to see whether the adoptee was "happy." The Israeli acted as if wifey had asked if the refigerator was running well "I have 5 kids. There's a LOT going on in my house. The dog is fine. Why do you ask me this?"
Aside from the absurdity of this affair, and the cries of "Jesus Christ --get a freakin' life!" it points out again the deep human need to love and be loved. If it's not another human or humans, it's an animal.
I have a friend from NY who acted the same way about an enormous diabetic cat he had. This fellow, a grown man, didn't travel, despite professing his need to travel the world, for his reluctance to leave his cat alone. Mercifully, the cat died, and he met a human -- a wonderful lady who he loves and who loves him back. The two will remain childless, but are indeed travelling the world together, sans cats.
I like my dogs, but they're dogs to me. If my family was starving, I'd serve roast Bassett Hound and Labrador shish kabob without hesitation (but with a lot of seasoning).
Then again, I worry so much about my women that I'm sure it's taking years off my life, as my father's anxiety about us shortened his.
Love is so much of who we are, and I guess our need for it trumps all else.
Here's to a year of love, in whatever form it comes, to all.
Barbra sang it best, about people who need people, but sometimes one lives most of a life and there aren't people, at least in the sense of a spouse or children. There are almost always nieces and nephews, but love for them is too convenient, and conditional. I didn't really understand love, at least in its most sacred meaning to me, until I had children.
So wifey has an old dear friend who's turning 51 in a few months and never married. She's a good hearted woman, who, for a plethora of reasons that could fill a psychology major's doctoral dissertation, could never truly share her heart. So, 10 years ago, she got a dog, and the dog has acted as a child substitute.
Wifey convinced her friend several months ago that the dog ought to have a young puppy, to keep it youthful, and the friend went out and bought a new canine. It turns out that the new dog was too energetic and "needy" for apartment life, and the friend decided she had to give him away.
Wifey met a neighbor who mentioned that the family dog had died, and they wanted another, and the fix up was in! The problem is, and I saw this right away, that the family has 5 kids, the youngest of whom is only two, and the mother has a very full life. She's also Israeli, with her people's typical antipathy about foolishness and needless worry.
Well, the friend left the dog last weekend in a tearful goodbye, and, ever since the friend has called sounding positively suicidal. There are voicemails asking about anti depressants, and referrals to psychotherapists, and throaty weeping. It's awful.
Wifey called the new owner at the request of her friend, to see whether the adoptee was "happy." The Israeli acted as if wifey had asked if the refigerator was running well "I have 5 kids. There's a LOT going on in my house. The dog is fine. Why do you ask me this?"
Aside from the absurdity of this affair, and the cries of "Jesus Christ --get a freakin' life!" it points out again the deep human need to love and be loved. If it's not another human or humans, it's an animal.
I have a friend from NY who acted the same way about an enormous diabetic cat he had. This fellow, a grown man, didn't travel, despite professing his need to travel the world, for his reluctance to leave his cat alone. Mercifully, the cat died, and he met a human -- a wonderful lady who he loves and who loves him back. The two will remain childless, but are indeed travelling the world together, sans cats.
I like my dogs, but they're dogs to me. If my family was starving, I'd serve roast Bassett Hound and Labrador shish kabob without hesitation (but with a lot of seasoning).
Then again, I worry so much about my women that I'm sure it's taking years off my life, as my father's anxiety about us shortened his.
Love is so much of who we are, and I guess our need for it trumps all else.
Here's to a year of love, in whatever form it comes, to all.
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