Delusional

So Wifey and I had a lovely time last night -- we went to Coral Gables for their "Art in the Park," an event we had never before sampled. They had vendors selling food and booze, and some local galleries showing their wares. They also had music: a reggae band, and then a young fellow named Jacob Jeffries, who I had seen before. He's angling, it seems, to be the next Springsteen. His songs were catchy and the crowd seemed to enjoy him quite a bit.

We walked around under a gorgeous full moon, the "Wolf Moon," brightest of the year.

We ran into some old friends who Wifey first met when D1 and their boy were newborns. The wife, a pretty blonde Midwesterner, caught us up on her life while her husband chatted on his cell phone. The husband is a formerly succesful Cuban business owner, who knows tons of folks and is always doing deals.

The wife allowed as to how they're broke -- trying to sell all their fancy possessions, and embroiled in litigation about failed business deals. Their son, a handsome and athletic young man, was never much of a student, and despite sending him to a very expensive private school, couldn't get accepted to any universities. But, the wife told us, he's at an upstate community college, on the "many year plan," trying to get into the university there.

The husband got off his call, and we began to chat. I've always really liked him, and still do --he's funny and charming. But then he began to tel me how GREAT his new business was going, and how his son was at the UNIVERSITY, and how rosy it all was. OF course I was happy to hear the good things, but hadn't I just heard a completely different version?

They met other friends, and Wifey and I ambled along. We got such a kick out of the "Rashamon"-like effect --how people going through the same things can have such radically different points of view. One is a realist; the other delusional.

Still, it was nice to see some old friends. And, I want to wrangle at least one more ride on their gorgeous yacht, before they sell it!

Human Resources

Over the past 15 years of having my own law firm, the business end of it turned out to be the thing I enjoy the most. My partner does most of the depositions and hearings, and I hire and fire.

Fortunately, the firing part has been rare, as I hate to do it. I guess it comes from my Liberal Democratic upbringing --it's awful to have to let some one go.

We hired a new receptionist 2 months ago, a nice, bright FIU student who wants to go to law school. Like D1, she's in her final semester of her senior year, and can't work all 40 hours per week. But, she's resourceful, and brought in a high school friend to cover the 10 hours per week or so the receptionist is away.

The part timer started 3 weeks ago. She goes to Miami Dade college, is smart, and has been doing a fine job. In fact, one of my office roommates, and experienced criminal defesne lawyer, prefers the part time worker to the one who is there more.

Alas, as I was on my way in today, Mirta called and said there was a major problem. It seemed that another clerk had lost her debit card, and all of the ladies figured out it was C, the part timer, who had stolen it. She rang up nearly $200 in charges, and even bragged about "finally having some money to spend" on Facebook.

I came back from lunch, and brought C into my office. She's 19, and overweight. I told her what we knew, and at first she denied it. And then Mirta went into prosecutor mode, telling C that the store where she used the stolen card had her on videl. C confessed.

The girl shose card had been stolen didn't want to call the police. I told C how lucky she was, that this thing could have essentially rruined her life. Diana, another secretary, told her that stealing was bad enough, but to do it to a co worker was despicable.

C was fairly impassive --almost annoyed at the whole affair. She left after writing out a resignation letter.

I was saddened at all of this. Her attitude showed she'll do this again, and probably escalate her life of crime.

The receptionist who brought her in is most embarrassed, wondering why she never knew her high school friend was a bad seed.

Ah --people come; people go...

Insufferable Lawyers

Ishmael said he knew it was time to go to sea again when he hung around too long at funerals, and felt melancholy about his life on land. Maybe the sign I need to truly retire from the practice of law is how little tolerance I have for the agressive, obnoxious personalities of my professional brethren.

I got a call last week from an old friend, who's a retired doctor. He was subpoenaed to give a deposition about a patient he saw one time in 1996! He has zero recollection of the gentleman, and hasn't even been near an examination room for 8 years.

I called the lawyer who issued the subpoena, and it turned out she worked for a friend of mine, a partner at a large firm. The partner came to the phone, and I asked whether the doc could simply send in a letter saying the note in the file WAS his, abut he had no other memory or information.

My friend said that sadly, the plaintiff's lawyer was a stickler for detail (the word he used was better: "asshole," and that he would insist on having my doctor friend testify about the authenticity of the single note in the chart.

I asked then for a simple favor of having the depo take place at the doc's house, lest he have to schlep Downtown for this annoying bit of his civic duty. My friend agreed.

Tonight my secretary called, telling me I had an "urgent" call from the plaintiff's lawyer. I know him, sort of, from years ago when I was a clerk at a firm where he was a young associate. I guess he was concerned why I, a fellow plaintiff's lawyer, was involved in his case, and wanted a preview of this pro forma depo.

Now, had I been in HIS shoes, I'd have said simply "Dave --what's the deal here? Seems like a simple records custodian depo --why are you involved?"

He took a different tack. Before I was even finished saying hello, he launched into a soliloquy about how his case was "worth $50 million" and how the defense lawyer was "going to get his head handed to him," and he assumed tomorrow's depo was no big deal...

I let him go on, as he was obviously enjoying the sound of his own voice, and then I answered, deadpan, that his client, years ago, told my doctor friend that he was planning, someday, to find a way to hurt himself and claim fault, that "no matter what, I'm going to win the Lotto at the hands of some idiot company."

There was a pregnant pause, and then the plaintiff's lawyer started saying that if my doctor friend had kept that to himself, it would be a breach of ethics, that he must be lying, and that he (the plaintiff's lawyer) might have to call the Medical Board (it's actually the Department of Health, or D'OH), etc... etc..

I answered that my client was retired anyway, and was therefore immune from these threats.

Again, stunned silence, until I said "Dave (what I will call him, because that's his name)I'm just kidding. My doc has no memory of your client at all, and there's only a depo because you, apparently, never agree to dispense with these things."

He laughed, nervously, the laugh of someone who saw his huge case's success pass before his eyes. I felt grand...

In fact, my inderstanding of this whole dustup is that his client IS badly hurt, but essentially hurt himself by misusing some sort of machine. My friend has defended these types of cases before, and gotten defense verdicts for his corporate clients.

I have no dog in the fight, of course.

Still, I wonder whether I was ever that insufferable. Nah --I never loved the sound of my own voice, at least to that extent...

Brush With Luridness

Wifey and I were watching "48 Hours" the other Saturday night, and they featured a story on the death of Teddy Binion in Las Vegas. It brought back memories of a few days we spent with him, and his alleged murderer.

It was 1996, and my law firm had settled a huge case. My partner had a live in girlfriend who he had met in Vegas, and he convinced me to host a "law firm retreat" in that town.

We paid for 11 folks to fly out there, and stay at the Mirage, and to live like big shots for a long weekend. It was some experience! We had limos, meals at the best restaurants, shopping sprees --the whole trip was something out of a movie.

My partner's girlfriend has a friend named Sandy Murphy, who had come from the LA Valley with her to find her fame and fortune in Vegas. Both girls worked as strippers, and Sandy ended up meeting Ted, from an old, wealthy Vegas family.

Ted was royalty there, and whenever our party would arrive at a venue, tables would be found, and lines would be cut.

Ted was a sweet, humble fellow, prone to saying "yup" and "nope," and we had a fine time with him. Our last night in town, he took us to an Italian place off the beaten path, where all of the waiters were convicted felons. His then teenaged daughter stopped by, and told him she was going out. "Well, sweetheart, take this," he said, pulling out an enormous gun he wanted her to have for protection.

We left Vegas, and returned to our mundane lives, and my parter broke up with Sandy's friend, and then years later the story broke that Sandy killed Ted to get his money. It was a sensational scandal, involving assignations with Ted's assistant, and buried silver in the desert.

The "48 Hours" episode recalled the whole affair. Sandy was convicted, served 4 years in prison, and then won a retrial with the help of the annoying but effective Alan Dershowitz. The second time was her charm, as she was acquitted.

These days, she's married to a succesful art dealer in LA, and again living the high life.

Wifey and I looked at each other, and were amazed we had met these characters out of a film noir movie. She assured me she had no plans to have me killed, since 1/2 of my money is hers already.

To thank her, I made her a cup of tea.

Two Old Guys Died

Yesterday my partner Paul told me about the death of Nate, his best childhood friend's father. He was 90. Paul is flying up to Philly today for the funeral.

This morning, my sister told me that her ex father in law Bob died, in California. He was 82. His funeral is sometime this week.

I never met either man, but I know a lot about their lives. Nate was a succesful business man, who made his money buying and selling properties in Philly. He adored his kids and grandkids, and, from what I've heard from Steve, his son, was extremely generous with his family.

He put his kids through school and helped them do the same for THEIR kids. He lived modestly, in the same row house he bought after WW II. His family grieves his passing.

Bob was a succesful salesman, who was of that generation who could become well off as a company man. He bought several properties, and was a collector of vintage cars. He and his wife bought vast amounts of antiques.

He was very cheap with his family. I know personally about one grandson, who once borrowed about $1000 to get through a semester of college, and was made to feel like he had borrowed the money from the mob.

As far as I know, Bob never gave to charity, although he'd probably consider tipping the waiters at his country club to be a charitable act.

I don't grieve for either of these men, as I didn't know them.

To Nate, I'd say, so long, and congratulations on a life lived well.

To Bob, I'd say...

The Death of a Memory...

I stopped at the UM campus today, to check on a kosher restaurant that opened in student union. Wifey's orthodox second cousin, Ephraim is coming to visit this Sunday, with his 2 lovely little girls. They're glatt kosher, and I figured we'd get food from the restaurant for them.

They were closing early for shabbos (sabbath) but I learned they'd be open on Monday, so we can get the observant family over there for breakfast.

On the way back to my car, I stopped at Starbucks by the library, and got myself a copy of the student paper, the Hurricane. On page 3, I saw a terribly sad article.

They're closing my old on campus apartment building, number 22! Apparently the new housing on and near campus has made the old apartment buildings, circa WW II vintage, expendable. Today's undergraduates prefer wood floors, and new kitchens to the barrack-like fixtures in the old apartments.

I was saddened. I lived in 22Z for 3 and 1/2 years. I was there from my second freshman semester through graduation. I can honestly say it was my real home in Florida --I never felt at home visiting my parents in Delray Beach, where I'd go for breaks from school.

Dr. Barry and I were roommates the whole time, and grew closer than brothers. Dr. Eric commuted to the U, but spend many a night crashing on our couch, or staying in Barry's bed when he'd go to Broward to work weekends.

The experiences I had in building 22 were those that transformed me from a boy to a man. I contemplated the meaning of a broken heart there. I stared out at the setting sun, dealing with the pain of my father's death. I plotted my adulthood there.

And now they're closing the place down. The article said the university hadn't yet decided whether to demolish the building, or use it for offices. I'm betting the old white brick and concrete structure is coming down --it's not at all an attractive edifice, and space is always at a premium on an urban campus.

I called Dr. Barry as soon as I finished the article. We pledged to meet there, if they DO demolish it, and hoist one final beer.

As soon as I hung up with Barry, as if on cue, Jorge called me as well. He was our roommate for one year --the first Cuban I became close to. Jorge, more of a historian and political scientist, said "Wow --it'll be like when the Berlin Wall was knocked down." I corrected him --it's more akin to the loss of the Orange Bowl.

I'm reading the pop rabbi Kushner's latest book, about bad things/good people/stress, etc... He made the point that change in life is the only constant.

Goodbye, Building 22.

It's Hard to Be an Optimist in the City

Tuesday night my office roommate Brian and I went to watch the Canes basketball team. They dominated Boston College, an ACC opponent, for 3/4 of the game. They led by 17, which in college ball is a huge lead, and then they collapsed, losing by 5. I have my doubts about a coach who can let his players lose focus that way --Frank Haith reminds me of Randy Shannon in that regard.

The loss was tougher to take than a close game, or a blowout by the other team, because my Canes SHOWED their ability and then squandered it.

I came home late, and learned that the Democratic party pulled a similar stunt. They somehow squandered political capital, and LOST a Massachussets senate seat! The Peoples Republic of Mass, as my GOP friends call it! They elected a Republican!

Of course, now all the Times OP ED pieces are decrying the end of health care reform, peace, etc... I guess we'll see.

And, I'm no political scientist, but it's easy, even on casual analysis, to see what happened there. The Dem candidate was a know it all scold, sort of Marcia Clark/ Moira Lasch type. Most don't remember Moira Lasch, but she's the humorless prosecutor who lost the Kennedy Smith case ("Are you some kind of sex machine, Mr. Smith?").

The Republican guy drove a pickup truck, and knew his sports. He even palled around with Doug Flutie, he of cursed name to me and other Canes fans. Anyone who grew up in the suburban Northeast in the 70s knows that Northeastern suburbanites all fantasize about being Southerners, so the GOP guy got it, while the off key Dem frosty lady was bumbling Red Sox facts.

As Dr. Barry noted, the top TV show in this country is "American Idol." What can we really expect?

So, I guess I'll keep my optimism and sunny outlook on a local level. I guess Hemingway was right: the most we can reasonably hope for is to secure our own little bits of heaven, "clean, well lighted places," in this world of idiots.

And as for my Canes? We need a new coach...

The Howling

Along with good looks, intelligence, and razor sharp senses of irony and humor, my father passed down to me a world class case of hemorrhoids.

I know I'm not alone in this regard --apparently 70% of Americans share my discomfort.

I've been dealing with them for years, and about 10 years ago, went to see a surgeon who did something called, truthfully, rubber band ligation. That fellow, NOT of deft hand, placed some bands on the offending tissue to choke them off, and leave me be. IT worked for about 6 or 7 years.

Alas, the "Rrhoids" returned, despite my attendance at, as I called it, Band Camp.

They're fortunately not painful, but sometimes cause, well, let's just say the females aren't the only ones in the house who get their periods...

I decided to try a different surgeon, one I had vetted for much faster dexterity. I saw him today, and he was terrific. He's a few years younger than I am, well trained, and to the point.

He took me into the examining room and said he'd "scope things out" and then do some ligations. The "scope things out" would have caused, if I didn't stifle myself, an ululation probably detectable by the hard of hearing in Homestead. As it was, I grimmaced and bore it.

After torturing me for 30 seconds, in a table that tilted, space ship style, to about 45 degrees, he aborted the mission and told me to pull my pants up.

"Sorry, Mr. Dave --you're not a candidate for the bands anymore. If I tried it on you, you'd jump off the table and run out of here."

He was nothing if not effectively graphic.

Turns out, he thinks I'm a candidate for a good old hemorrhoidectomy. He'd do it under sedation (As if I'd man up otherwise) and, he warned "I'm not going to sugarcoat it --the one week recovery is pretty uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable." To me, that's sitting at a Canes game when it's a tad hotter than I'd like. "Uncomfortable" isn't the word I'd use for enduring the feeling of being knifed in the tuches for 7 days...

Dr. Eric called to chat, and have some laughs at my bottom's expense. He had many patients who had the surgery. "Forget it" were the intricate words of my Harvard trained dear friend.

And so I will.

The way I figure it, I'm so blessed, and lucky, that into each life, some hemorrhoids must fall.

And Dr. L, deft hands and all, had a packed waiting room. He won't even miss the absence of my tuches...

The Poor Wretches

SO I sit on the porch of my big house, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Lately the news of Haiti's devastating earthquake dominates. I can't even finish the articles anymore.

The media tries to keep readership, of course, by sprinkling nuggets of hopefulness into the tales of mass graves and utter destruction, but it rings hollow.

Before the quake Haiti was the most godforsaken place there was; now it's gone to apocalyptic levels.

Dr. Barry's partner Patti is over there, as medical director of an urban search and rescue team. I'm worried about her, as the reports are coming in about desperate Haitians attacking rescuers, looking for food and water. Patti is tough, but this place seems out of control and understanding.

When D1 had her crash in September, an older Haitian American couple stopped to render help to her. They made sure no cars hit her disabled Volvo, and waited with her and comforted her until the paramedics came. They didn't leave their names.

In their honor, whoever the folks are, Wifey and I made a chai-multiple donation to the UM Med School's Global Initiative, which pays for UM docs to go to Haiti and provide care. It also helps buy supplies for them.

Still, I wonder what's to become of those poor wretches. As a government official noted in one of the articles I DID read, the Haitian government can't even bury the dead, let alone provide support and assistance to the living.

I've always read that in rehab, a patient has to hit rock bottom before he has a chance to recover. Maybe the same will hold true for these suffering folks in Haiti.

Banana Pancake Morning

We all slept in this Sunday morning, as it was gray and rainy. Wifey and I got out of bed at 930 --for me, that's the equilvalent of 2 pm!

Around 1130, D1 and D2 emerged from their dark crypts, and D2 had her friend Dani with her. I hadn't seen Dani for quite awhile, and it's great to see the beautiful young woman she's become. Like D2, she's waiting to hear from colleges.

I sprang into Daddy action, and made the ladies "Daddy PAncakes" "Daddy Eggs." There are no secret ingredients to these dishes, I just prepare them with "Daddy Love," as D1 notes. Plus, I have a nifty way of melting the banana slices...

Wifey's leaving soon for an afternoon on Miami Beach with her friends Linda and Cara. Cara seems to be adjusting to widowhood fairly well --she's back to work, and socializing.

I got my haircut Friday, and asked Dania about a mutual friend, Alyse, who was also recently widowed. She told me Alyse is seeing an old high school boyfriend. Life goes on, like a river flowing to the sea...

Speaking of high school, I just reconnected with my high school friend Debbie. Through the miracle of Facebook, I got a friend request from Ginny, Debbie's next door neighbor and best friend. I asked after Debbie, Ginny gave me her email address, and we've been communicating.

One thing struck me about our renewed correspondence. We last spoke probably over 15 years ago. Debbie asked me if I gave up being a lawyer yet, as I was complaining about it so much! A decade and a half, and I've been whining about my job!

MAybe that will light a fire under my ample tuches, to finally make a move...

Meanwhile, the rain continues outside. The Ds are firmly entrenched --D1 politely declined Wifey's invitation to spend the afternoon with the post menopausal set, opting instead for some reading and tv movies. She heads back to Gainesville tomorrow. D2 is studying her her FINAL set of MID TERM exams.

As for me: the NFL playoffs beckon. Two good friends are Jets and Cowboys fans, so I guess I have a slight rooting interest.

IF the rain stops, maybe I'll grill tonight...

All That Jazz

My friend and broker Victoria invited Wifey and I to see a jazz show at the new concert hall at the Arscht Center. We had plans to have dinner with her and another friend/client named Wendy, and then, alas, D1 came home as a surprise.

The restaurant we chose, Il Gabbiano, was one D1 was dying to try, so instead of 4 for dinner, it was 7: D2 and her friend Michael joined us as well. The food was delicious, and we all had a real good time. We left the younger guests at the restaurant, and Victoria gave Wifey and me our tickets, and went ahead with Wendy. We were to meet at the seats. Not so fast!

Wifey and I arrived at the concert hall, and were impressed. It's a gorgeous facility, that's supposed to have near perfect accoustics. We handed our tickets to the snooty usher, who, annoyingly said we'd have to wait for "applause" to enter, and then we waited for clearance. It was not to be.

Another usher, a 70 something Jewish appearing lady, rushed over to report that our tickets were no good. She had with her an usher who was clearly a former NFL lineman --black, about 6 5, and probably 350 lbs. He politely asked me to go over to the box office.

I did, and the agent asked me, accusatorily, where I bought the tickets. I told her I didn't --they were given to me from a Merrill Lynch broker, who got them from Bank of America.

"Oh --the BOA tix were returned!" the woman shrieked --"they're no good!"

While this was going on, the overweight, 30 something butch usher told Wifey she couldn't wait where she was --without a ticket!

By now, we felt about as welcome as Al Quada at a B'Nai Brith luncheon. We wanted to just leave.

The truth is, neither Wifey and I really even like jazz that much. I mean, it's ok music to have on the background on a Sunday while you read the papers, but we don't like it enough to go to a concert, usually. And, especially THIS kind of jazz --there were 2 groups, one of which was "The Manhattan Transfer." We can only take so much "doo waa, doo waa" before it becomes annoying. But, we like Victoria a lot, and figured it would be fun and different. The night was turning out very different.

I went back to the usher, and asked them to go summon Victoria, since I was due to give her a ride home, and I wasn't about to leave Wendy to do it, since Wendy lives in Lighthouse Point --the other way. The usher snapped "I'll go in at the break --about 40 minutes!"

At this point, I became a tad more perturbed (Wifey says livid) and demanded a manager. Jose came over, was very accommodating, and offered me free drinks while this was sorted out. I didn't WANT drinks --just to get word to Victoria.

Jose complied, and Victoria and Wendy came out. Victoria was embarrassed, of course. If I had been some big shot client she was trying to impress, this would have been a catastrophe.

Next thing I knew, we were being led upstairs to a "box" that was behind and above the band. It was a cool vantage point, but we essentially had views of everyone's buttocks. Plus, the vaunted accoustics didn't seem to be designed for audience members to the rear of the performers.

Wendy left mid way through the Transfer, and we followed suit shortly afterwards. We had had enough of the muffled "Doo Waas, Doo waas..."

We passed the nasty Jewish lady, who said "After all that, and we found you a special box, you're LEAVING????!!!!'

Yes, I replied, "we got tired of looking at tucheses."

So, in the car on the way home, the three of us laughed, and I'm sure Victoria will be able to get a refund of her $500 she paid for the tickets.

For me, jazz will be best left to background. And, I think it will be a long while before I head back to the Knight Concert Hall and its nasty ushers, despite manager Jose's offers to "make it up to me."

Unless of course someone I really want to see is playing there...

Good News on the Doorstep

Last night I was feeding my news junkie fix, reading about the misery in Haiti, when D2 told me to put my pants on. I remove them when I come home each night, lest they become streaked with Basset Hound slobber. I then spend my time home, Homer Simpson-like, in my attractive underwear.

I complied with D2's request, in order to greet her friend Andrea, apparently home for the 3 day MLK weekend. There was Andrea, on the front porch, holding pizza, and looking happy to be in the 305. "I have a surprise," she said.

And there, behind her, was D1 with her puppy MAdeline! They decided to come home for the weekend, too.

We were thrilled, of course. If there's a better surprise than seeing your college daughter on your front porch, happy and excited to be home, I don't know what it is.

So, as I write, she's sleeping in. D2 is at school, and Wifey and I are about to walk the full pack of dogs.

I was planning on going to the office today, to move piles of paper around my desk, but now I'm not too sure...

Casa Carajo

I love that phrase. It's the Cuban equivalent to "Bumfuk, Egypt." It means a place that's extremely out of the way; a schlep to get to.

Last night I was helping D2 with her final (yay!) college application essay. As an academic dilletante, I know a little bit about the sort of drivel colleges want to hear from their prospective students. At the top of the list is DIVERSITY. In fact, D2 has Hispanic friends who get into top colleges precisely BECAUSE the Northern schools want diversity.

So, we worked on the essay, feeding them lines about how diverse the school is, even though it's a private college where the students tend to be upper class whites. Whatever works.

But then I started to think -- I really DO embrace diversity. One of the things I love about Miami is that you feel like you're visiting a foreign country without getting on a plane.

Sometimes it's a little annoying, like when sales clerks approach you in Spanish, assuming you're part of that majority, but that's a small price to pay, I figure.

Besides --would any of us prefer it on Long Island, where the sales girls all speak English, and sound precisely like Fran Drescher? Nah --subtle, lilted Spanish wins out in that department.

So tomorrow, I'm headed up to Sunrise, to watch the Panthers play. My friend Norman has season's tickets. I haven't been to a PAnthers game since 1996, when they made it to the Stanley Cup finals.

I grew up an Islanders fan. Our junior high's assistant principal, Jim Garvey, was that expansion team's radio announcer. I watched the Isles nearly win the Cup, always to lose to the hated Philly Flyers, until they finally won in 1980, and I watched the games alone in my dorm room at UM, surrounded by Saudi students who had never seen ice.

So tomorrow I'm headed to Casa Carajo, in Sunrise, to watch the Panthers. Norman is also taking Ken, who I met in junior high, and Jim, the biggest sports fan there is. I have a feeling we'll drink more than a few, and laugh, and enjoy the moment.

Then I'll drive back to the 305, and diversity...

A Clean, Dim Lighted Place

Ever since I was in high school, I've loved the idea of a nice tavern. On Long Island, my friends and I, with nicely done fake IDs, used to sneak into a fern bar on Hempstead Turnpike, and order wine and listen to bad folk music.

When I was a new lawyer, my mentor, Ed, took me to a place called Fox's Sherrin Inn. He said, while I was driving him home one night: "Dave, turn here. We're not going home yet. We're stopping at Fox's, for a martini this fu***** big." I complied, and visited for the first time.

Supposedly the upstairs was a brothel in the 50s and 60s. I consider it my country club.

After Hurricane Wilma, my friend Pat and I visited HIS country club, Riveria, for dinner. On the way home, we stopped at Fox's, despite the curfew. There was a fellow at the bar who said he had moved to Minneapolis in 1975, and was visiting for the first time in 30 years. He was shocked to see the red naugehyde chairs and black and white bar awnings were the same as he remembered. The only thing missing was the acrid cigarette smoke, thanks to the ban.

Last New Year's, D1 went to a party there with some college friends. Their waiter, Nelson, treated her and her boyfriend like royalty.

Last night, I was supposed to meet my friend John at my OTHER favorite tavern, Tobacco Road. He had business in SOuth Miami, so we switched to Fox's. The food was fine, and the laughter flowed freely, as we spoke about the characters we've both dealt with in our combined 50 years of Miami lawyering.

Nelson took care of us. I asked him about my daughters' friends behavior New Year's Eve. "Hey --you know I subscribe to the bartender/patron confidentiality rule!"

I always think about Ed when I'm at Fox's. He died too soon, in his early 60s. He'd have been there last night, if he were in town, wearing his brightly colored golf pants ("I learned my sense of style from the Polish Bowling Leagues of Milwaukee") and maybe a sweater, for the cool night.

Fox's is a fine place. May it never meet the fate of the Orange Bowl...

Macabre

As I slouch along as a lawyer, it seems the only interesting matters I handle are the ones I do pro bono for friends.

Yesterday I represented a dear old friend at a deposition in a case that was out of a movie.

My friend is a professor, and used to volunteer as a member of the bioethics committee at a local hospital. The committee would typically hear "cases" presented by doctors and patients or patients' families involving end of life decisions.

This one involved a toddler who had a terminal, awful condition that left him in a vegatative state. The doctor and his parents agreed that the only reasonable course was to let the baby die, without further stringing along his corpse-like existence by artificial means.

The committee agreed, and the orders were written to allow the natural death. The mother got into bed with the baby, to hold him and let him pass.

Not so fast! A nurse on the unit, a strict Catholic, decompensated. She started raving that she was going to the press to expose how the hospital kills babies, how this was terrible, etc...

So, of course the hospital took the nurse off the case, explained that a wrenching decision had been made, and that although she was allowed her feelings, she was not to interfere with a parents' decision and doctor's order that was approved by an ethics committee. NOT!

The hospital caved in, and told the parents that they had reconsidered, and decided to keep the toddler going along for awhile!

And, for good measure, the hospital or one of its staff called Child Protection officials to report the parents for abuse --just in case they decided to go ahead with letting the toddler die! As Dave Barry always writes, I'm not making this up.

Well, the parents essentially fled the hospital with their baby, checked into a hotel room with him, and let him die. They then hired a fine young lawyer (I'm getting so old I remember his father well) and sued the doctor who reversed his order, and is about to sue the hospital.

My friend isn't going to be sued, but he's a star witness in the case --he confirmed that the commitee was asked to consider this worst of all situations, and agreed with the course of action.

The lawyer for the doctor is an old timer --good med mal defense lawyer, although he defended another doctor friend of mine several years ago, which led to a multimillion dollar judgment against him. (I got that one settled after suing the insurance company that left my friend hung out to dry).

My guess is that the hospital, at some point, will realize that although they have a lot of legal defenses to the claim, damn well better settle. Their handling of this matter was at best clownish, and at worst terribly cruel.

A close friend , also a top defense lawyer, called me to ask how the depo went. I asked him how the hell he even knew about the case. It turns out he was hired by one of the doctors who cared for the child, but one who won't be sued, either. The difference is that my buddy's getting paid for babysitting HIS deponent, while I worked for, I must say, a rather good Cuban chicken (pollo) lunch.

Once again, another example of how Miami is such a small town of a big city. At least in legal circles, there's never more than one degree of separation.

Watching organizations scramble to ass cover when bad things happen has been one of my career's guilty pleasures. This case takes the cake.

The Indian at the Gate

I love a good practical joke, particularly at Wifey's expense, but yesterday D2 called me, out of breath from laughing, to report the results of a NON-prank that turned out hilarious.

Wifey is sometimes Mr. Magoo-like, and she forgets to do things like open the gate for food delivery men. Last year I arrived home to see and angry Chinaman from Canton, whose calls were being ignored. I paid him, and then called and left a scathing message, in my fake Chinese accent, about how I was losing money, and how rude and inconsiderate "you wich rite people are." There is zero political correctness in my house...

Last night, Wifey again ordered Canton, and 30 minutes or so later, there was a call at the gate. She answered and let the man in, but reported to D2 that it really WASN'T the Canton man, because he had a "fake Indian accent."

No, Wifey concluded, it must be me again, lampooning her tardiness in responding to delivery men.

A few moments later, there was a knock at the door, and D2 asked whether Wifey was going to answer. "No," Wifey replied in her sing-song way, that retains the inflections and tone of her Canarsie, Brooklyn youth, "It's NOT the Canton man --it's Dad!"

Well, the knocking became more insistent, and angry, and finally Wifey responded to the poor, subcontinent delivery man, who wondered why he was being ignored.

"I thought you were my husband, pretending to be the Canton man."

Indian Canton man: "You husband no work for Canton! If he did, why he need me to deliver. I no understand."

Well, D2 had a bout of laughter so hearty that it may have purged most of the angst of her difficult high school senior year, and when we reported this latest Mr. Magoo-ism to D1 in Gainesville, she savored it as well.

So --the fable is true. The one about the boy who cried Canton.

And It's All Right Now...

I ran into an old college friend yesterday, in my office building. He's a financial guy who seems to be prospering despite the bad economy. We joked and compared pre-empty nester stories, and then I asked him about a mutual friend.

The mutual friend, who'll I'll call Sean (NOT his real name), went to college and became a professor. He's been "writing his great book" since 1980, and "recording his great song" since about 1983. Despite being more of a dreamer than doer, I always admired him and thought he was pretty happy. Whenever we'd meet, usually at Canes games, he'd seem delighted to see me, and we'd exchange our, as Bruce Springsteen called them, "boring stories of Glory Days..."

Well, I hadn't spoken to Sean in over a year. I'd called a few times, and he never got back to me. He's a confirmed Luddite, so email is out of the question. I asked Financial Guy after him.

"Well Dave, you might as well know this. Sean CAN'T stand you. He admitted to me he tolerated you for years, mostly because you always picked up dinner and bar tabs, but when you slowed down in that department, he really saw no point in continuing to have anything to do with you."

I was surprised, since I had never considered Sean disliking me so much. Financial guy explained more. Sean sees me as an always happy, know it all, who thinks he's better than everyone. He resents how I throw money at people and think they ought to appreciate it. He sees my self deprecation as simply a twisted exhibition of my supreme arrogance.

He begrudges what he sees as my idyllic life, with a stable marriage, and 2 daughters I adore. He knows I give my time and money to charity, but he thinks that's simply another way I go around "subtley showing off."

I listened to all of this, and felt like I was the object of the great Bob Dylan tell off song "Positively 5th Street."

Financial Guy felt bad about telling me this stuff, but I appreciated it. I guess I was truly tone deaf about this old buddy's true feelings. If nothing else, I can take a hint --I'll no longer call the old professor (middle aged professor). And I'll wish him well.

I don't know. I never begrudge anyone success and happiness. In fact, I HOPE people I know win the Lotto, so they can give more to charity, and pay for some of MY dinners.

The great Brendan Behan line about "Fuck the Begrudgers" came to mine, but I really don't feel that way about Sean. More precisely, I hope someday he finds inner peace, and the ability to admire without envy.

In the meantime, I guess I've learned my lesson well: you see you can't please everyone...

A Real Dog

D1's puppy Madeleine has really grown on me this Winter break. She's truly a cute little girl, but not too fufu like a Yorkie or other might be.

She hops into my lap, and licks my face. She also has an adorable habit of finding a napping human, and curling up around his or her head. I'm told this is a "Mads hat."

This morning, she was romping around in the back yard, on this chilly January morning, and dragged what I thought was a small piece of a tree into the family room. I looked closer --it was a dead rat! For all I know, she might have even killed it outside. Wow --she's a real dog, too!

Yesterday Wifey and I traveled the parent circuit. First we saw my mother, and she seemed happy enough. Wifey bought her a new wardrobe, since she (Mom, not Wifey) has shrunk so much her old clothes hang on her. She seemed to enjoy the gifts.

Later, I told her that when she needed cash, she simply needed to have her aide take her to the bank, and she could use her debit card to withdraw what she needed. I've taken over her finances, and the only transaction she makes is paying a cleaning lady and Louise, her drive and assistant.

She called me this am, having "been up worrying the whole night" about the simple instruction. She's going to have Louise call me this am, and I plan to take over even that simplest of operation --paying for rides. Everything is so daunting.

Wifey's prediction is right --we're going to have to move her to Miami, probably this year, so Wifey and I can be closer to her. She really needs family visits at least a few times per week, and Delray Beach is just too far. Once she's closer, we can keep a closer eye on her.

She'd prefer to stay in her condo, where she's been for 30 years, but that just won't be in the cards very soon. Her decline is going to force a move sooner than later.

Next stop --Wifey's folks. Her mother, 85, is fit as a fiddle --even worrying about her weight. She led me to her condo's trash room to throw out a plant, and I could barely keep up with her.

We took my in laws to a Village Tavern, and they grumbled about how fancy and expensive it was. I ordered for the both of them, and fortinately my father in law didn't make some offensive racial comment to the Black waiter. Still, I needed 2 stoli martinis to make it through my visit.

The Ds and Thomas had a blast at Lady Gaga, and are sleeping in. D1 and Thomas head back to Jacksonville today, and then Gainesville tomorrow. D1 will commence her final UF semester.

I agree with Wifey -- we're going to miss D1 AND her wonderful puppy. She's won a place in our hearts, and now has utility: she can help control the rats!

Families

Wifey and I have long admired our friend Norman's extended family. He used to be married to Julie, and we'd visit for birthday parties for their 3 sons, and it always seemed that everyone got on so well.

Norman and Julie split up a few years back, and Norman married Deb, a very classy Canadian. They now live in a beautifully renovated house, and yesterday hosted a New Year's Day brunch. We still admire their family...

There qwas Norman in the kitchen, making waffles for his nephews and nieces, as well as the kids of some of his law partners. His parents, blessedly still alive were there, along with his sister and brothers, all with their now grown kids. They're an old Miami Jewish family, and seem to truly savor their time together.

As we left, Wifey turned to me and said "Well -where is THEIR family pathology?" I'm sure it's somewhere, deeper, but surely not apparent, and being among them was a stellar way to start 2010.

I spent the rest of the day watching college football and taking a prodigious nap. I only left the house later, briefly, to drive the girls to Blockbuster (tm) to take out a TV series. We talked about the demise of that company, due to NetFlix and all the computer availability of shows. We remembered going to the video store when the Ds were little, on a Saturday night, and finding it packed with families renting movies. The Ds realize their old enough now to watch corporate births and deaths...

Today, Wifey and I are doing the octogenarian circuit --first visiting ancient Grandma Sunny, and then taking HER parents for a late anniversary lunch, at some diner they like in Broward. In the back of our minds is the question of how many more turns of the year these 3 will see...

The Ds, D1's boyfriend Thomas, and D2's friend Rebecca, are going to see a pop performer called Lady Gaga. It's at the Knight Center, attached to the hotel where Wifey and I married 23 years ago tomorrow.

As a former English major, I can never let symbolism pass, and this week was DRIPPING with it. D1 attended a New Year's Eve party across the street from South Miami Hospital, where she was born, and now BOTH Ds are heading to a show in the same buliding where our family started. Joyce and his Dublin ain't got nothing on us!

Paths cross, people come, and people go. A lot happens...

Coming Full Circle

In the early years of our time together, Wifey and I always hosted big New Year's Eve parties. In our first house, which was smaller than 15oo square feet, we once had over 100 people attend.

There were parties where faded rock stars sang, and work friends announced they had to leave at 11:30 pm to rush back to their Hialeah apartment so they could "synchronize new year sex." (I never learned whether they were succesful).

Our last big party was at our last house, for the '99-'00 event. We probably had 50-60 folks there, including a bunch of sleep over guests.

Over the past few years, we've been partial hosts for progressive neighborhood dinners, and last year we actually went out to a club in Coral Gables to hear a fine local blues musician.

As the Ds got older, sometimes we'd drop them at parties.

Well, last night, D2 went to a big bash, where one of her friends, a budding DJ, hosted 50 guests.

And, D1 and her boyfriend Thomas, both 21, went to Fox's. And here's the kicker --Wifey and I DROVE them over there! They didn't want to drive, of course, so Dad was the chauffeur again! I loved it!

D1 looked gorgeous as she left the house, as did D1. They both wore black, and were elegant. D2 and I spoke shortly after midnight, and she sounded as excited as my not too effusive teenager ever gets.

D1 called to tell me my favorite waiter at Fox's, Nelson, was taking care of them. I spoke to Nelson, an affable Puerto Rican chap, and he promised he'd watch out for and take good care of my "stunning" daughter.

He must have been succesful, as D1 and Thomas, laughing out loud, crackled up the gravel driveway at about 3:30 this am.

So, it's the first day of 2010, and I'm the only one awake. What else is new?

Wifey and I are heading to my old, dear friend Norman's for a New Year's Day brunch. His lovely wife Deb is back from her native Canada, and the two of them are gracious and funny. One of my resolutions is to see more of them in 2010.

And, of course a major resolution, is to continue to savor life. Who knew that I'd still get to drive my grown up daughters to parties?