Consuming Mass Quantities

It's Sunday, and the food orgy is now done. Wifey and I had 2 huge meals Friday and Saturday night.

Friday, Wifey's neighborhood book club, husband's division, hosted us at Jody and Bob's house. Bob made some terrific tenderloin, and chased it with big stone crabs, and Jodi's brownies. It was a delightful dinner, with 5 neighborhood ladies, and 3 of us men (one husband was home sick, and the other was at his job in upstate NY).

We drank beer and wine, and shared stories of grown or nearly grown kids, as well as tales of old Miami, and long closed bars and restaurants (I had almost forgotten about an old law school haunt, Ludways).

We laughed, and fueled by wine, came up with the idea of a calendar of topless neighborhood women. But cooler heads appraised this honestly, and al agreed that the only "month" that would sell would belong to one local wife, who, it is rumored, worked in the adult entertainment industry before becoming a stepmom and dog walker...

NONE of the men's photos would sell like those fireman calendars...

Last night Wifey and I were invited by friends Victoria and Alan to a South Beach Wine and Food festival event in the Design District. 4 restaurants each served a dish, paired with wine, and the vintners and chefs said a few words about their offerings. We'd then get up and walk to the next venue, like kids on a field trip.

The evening was delightful, with a chamber of commerce moon over Miami, and we met some neat folks from all over the country. One tall fellow claimed to be an evangelist from Tulsa, but was accompanied by 3 hot ladies, 2 of whom ended up dirty dancing at the after party. Either he was putting us on, which is my theory, or he heads a religion that I plan to take serious interest in.

Wifey and I aren't foodies, and were glad we didn't pay for the tickets, which were about $300 per person. For that price, we'd have enjoyed several dinners at the restuarants, over the course of months.

Still, it was a chance to "get out of Kansas," as Wifey calls it when we find ourselves among more arty and unusual people than we encounter in the suburbs.

And, I learned that Stag's Leap, my favorite winery for red wine, also makes an excellent chardonay...

So, today it's recovery from the orgy of food and drink, but, all in all, it was a terrific, indulgent weekend.

The P.O.S.

Wifey has been busy lately doing volunteer therapy work at a local old age home, with our comical Basset Hound Molly.

Molly EXCELS at laying around in one place, which makes her a terrific therapy dog, especially for the elderly.

Wifey takes her to the Palace, and the residents pet her (the dog, not Wifey) and all have tales of the dogs they've owned over the decades. Molly listens intently to their tales.

Wifey shared an anecdote with me that really raised the hair on my neck. For the past several months, she's visited an ancient, sweet old man, who stays in his room. Wifey noticed he had in his room a beautiful antique grandfather clock, and complemented him on it. He told her he and his wife bought the clock in the 60s, and took it with them whenvever they moved. He promised it to a grandson after he died.

Wifey asked about the grandson, and the old man said he was a nice fellow, and lived in Orlando. Wifey asked if he ever visited, and the old man said no, the grandson meant to, but was busy with his job, kids, etc...

Wifey went to the Palace last week, and saw the old fellow. He truly seemed on his way out, sadly. He petted Molly, and told some tales of being in the Marines during WW II. Wifey noticed the clock was missing, and asked the man about it.

Oh, he said, his grandson came down and got it, in a pickup truck. But, Wifey asked, didn't you want to keep it while you were alive? The old fellow said he did, but he knew if he promised the grandson the clock, he would come for a visit.

Apparently the young fellow came down, took the old coot for lunch, and left with his booty.

Wifey asked when he was due for another visit. The old man smiled, and said "Oh, he'll probably see me over at Van Orsdel's next." Van Orsdel is the local funeral home.

And so it went. Wifey was heartbroken for this sweet old man, who only warranted a visit from his grandson so the grandson could take something of, at best, questionable material value.

I guess to some, stuff is the currency of love.

Wifey is due to visit the old man next month, and plans to bring him a clock. She says Marshalls sells small replicas of grandfather clocks for less than $100. She'll tell him it's a gift from Molly the Basset Hound.

As for the unknown grandson in Orlando --Wifey says she hopes the clock breaks, like the way Wifey's heart did, a little, for this lonely old man...

The Association

I just came from a meeting of the Villagio Condo Association. Ay caramba.

Three years ago, I made a bonehead investment decision, and bought a condo conversion unit for $235,000. At the time, my instincts told me the unit was worth no more than about $125,000, but it seemed I was the only person I knew who WASN'T buying investment property. The idiocy of my purchase reached new lows recently.

The last unit like mine that sold went for about $140K. And then, in February, there was a fire caused by some white trash tenants who, if the rumor of the fire's cause and origin is true, were throwing lit candles at each other during a domestic argument.

Tonight I went to the "emergency meeting" called by the Condo Board. We heard from a lawyer the Board hired to handle issues arising out of the fire, as well as a public adjuster.

The news was bad. At best, 1/3 of the complex's 90 units will have to be demolished and rebuilt, and it will take around one year. During that time, it is anticipated that few, if any, of those unit owners will pay their maintanence fees, so those of us in the non burned buildings will get his with big assessments.

At worst, the Village of Palmetto Bay will require the entire building to be brought up to current fire code, and there will be insufficient insurance coverage to accomplish that. That will likely send the association to Bankruptcy Court, and between my own coverage and the community coverage, I'll probably get about 1/2 of what I paid for the unit.

Oh well. I'm a big boy, and can accept the loss. The funny part is the people at the meeting.

To a person, the 25 folks there wanted each of us to know their personal pain. One fellow in particular, an auto dealer and "failed condo investor," tried to dominate the meeting with questions about how this was affecting HIM.

Most of the other folks didn't get the concept of a condominium --that we were all partners here. A few of the older ladies kept asking about essentially casting off the building that was damaged, so that "the rest of us could go on with our lives..."

Despite the attorney's repeated explanation about how that wasn't permitted by the law, these ladies persisted.

I left before the meeting ended, after the same questions were being asked for the third time.

I came home and made a proclamation to Wifey. I've made them before, and broken them. This proclamation is that we would NEVER, EVER move to a condo. I've just grown too accostumed to my independence, and can't imagine having to suffer the fools one must suffer if he lives in a shared community.

Besides --I'm already a big enough fool as it is, for buying at the height of the bubble.

My partner Paul was smart enough to stay out of the game. He lost his money on the better investments of wine and women. As he told me, he knew there was something askew when our old secretary was buying and owning multiple properties.

Once the janitor is buying tech stocks, it's time to sell the tech stocks...

The good news is that my tennant Lenny wants to stay, and keep paying rent. There really aren't other renovated condo complexes available for reasonable rents in the area.

Hopefully they'll be able to fix the affected common areas for the available insurance coverage, and little by little the market will come back. I'll bequeath the unit to the girls, and THEIR kids can sell it, maybe, for what Grandpa paid, back in aught 6!

Where's the next investment bubble? This time I'll leave my checkbook at home...

Choice of Law

I got a call today from one of my mother's friends, with a legal question. It seems her cousin, a 63 year old man, had recently lost his life partner of 30 years, and he suspected medical malpractice.

I told the lady that in Florida, there would be no case. To collect for the pain and suffering caused by the loss of someone in the medical arena, in our state, one must be a child 25 or younger, or a spouse. The man who died had neither type of survivor.

Well, the couple lived in South Carolina! Ha, I thought to myself, South Carolina is even more backwards than Florida is --no chance. Still, I told the lady I'd inquire.

I called a lawyer I know in North Carolina, a fellow I handled a case with a few years back. He had no idea. I asked him how he couldn't know --I mean --was there really THAT much difference between these 2 Southern states? He laughed at my Yankee arrogance. He gave the the name and phone number of HIS South Carolina guy.

I got the fellow on the phone, and had a thoroughly entertaining call. He was older, probably near 70, and had an accent right out of a Falkner novel. He used all kinds of great similes, too, like "If you add Florida and South Carolina, and divide by 2, the result is Georgia." I have no earthly idea what the hell he meant, but said in his wonderful drawl, that saying smacked of folk wisdom.

He referred me to a THIRD Carolina lawyer, this one in Columbia. He was younger and a football fan. He assumed I was a Gator, and wanted to gloat about the fact that his university now has Spurrier, the patron saint of Gators, as their coach. I told him I despised the Gator football team, and as far as I was concerned, I couldn't care less if South Carolina won the SEC championship every year into the future. I made a friend.

Much to my surprise, he said the client does indeed have a case in South Carolina. Their law is more progressive than ours, recognizing who a decedent leaves as his or her beneficiary , and without the limits we have.

I called the client, and we chatted for awhile. The poor guy --his life was stolen from him by the loss of his partner. I heard the pain in his voice.

I told him about Matlock, or Atticus Finch, and he was going to call upon his return to South Carolina.

Perhaps there'll be a case for this nice, bereaved man.

The Old Professor

I met a friend at Fox's Saloon on Friday night, and we shared a few drinks and war stories about the law. We were celebrating: he had just received a windfall settlement.

About 3 years ago, my office roommate offered me a case, in which a man crossing Biscayne Boulevard was struck by a hit and run driver. I investigated, and concluded there was nothing to do, as there was no one to sue. The client wanted to sue the County, claiming that an improper traffic signal was partly to blame. I saw no case, plus I never bother suing the County, since the damages (and more importantly, attorney fees) are limited.

I called my friend and asked if her were interested. He was. He signed up the case, and, in all accuracy and fairness, just let the thing sit, for over a year.

And then, he got a call from the police. They found the driver who hit (now his) client. And, it was an old, rich drunk guy, with $1.5 million in insurance! From there on, the case was an unguarded layup.

My roommate got the lion's share of the co counsel fee, which he'll use to find African hunting trips. So far, he's only shot and killed SOME beautiful animals; he still needs to take down some elephants and other furry critters. For real.

My firm got a not insignificant co counsel fee, too. But back to Fox's...

So an elderly gentleman walked in, and stopped next to my table. "Well," he said, "you look an AWFUL lot like Bill Clinton." I get that a lot --even more these days as my hair has grayed towards white like the former President."

I replied: "And you know what else? I sat in your British Lit class at UM in 1982!"

And so I did. He was my old professor --the one who taught me old English poetry.

We chatted for awhile, about mutual friends, and then he went off for dinner with his wife.

My waiter friend at Fox's, Nelson, said he comes in every Friday for dinner. He always orders one bourbon with his meal.

I remembered something amazing about him. Over 10 years ago,I had heard he siffered a massive MI while playing tennis at a South Miami park. He died, essentially. At the next court, luckily for him, a cardiologist was playing, too. The doc brought the professor back to life, and here he was, over a decade later, drinking bourbon on a Friday night.

I called Nelson over, and gave him my AMEX card. I told him to put my professor's tab on it, and give himself a big tip. Nelson told me to write something on my business card. I did: "Thanks for teaching me Beowulf."

On the way out, the old professor pulled me aside, and thanked me. His wife had a twinkle in her eye, like she really felt her husband was "Da Man."

I drove home, imagining and hoping they'd spend the rest of the night reading Yeats together, and doing what the poets say to do...

P.S. My mother in law is dead

The philosophical wisdom of old movies keeps running through my mind like a broken record. Lately it's "The Grand Hotel's" "People come; people go, nothing much really happens."

I knew a friend's mother in law was dying, and I asked after her in an email. After talking about college acceptances and other current events, the email said, essentially, "Oh, my mother in law died 2 weeks ago."

Just like that. A life had passed, and to the family, the news rated in importance about where talking about a good or bad restaurant would fall.

So much for Arthur Miller's admonition that the lives of ALL in a family, even those who are only salesmen: "Attention MUST be paid."

I had met the lady several times, and didn't know her well at all. I'll make a donation to a local shul in her memory. I remember that when my father died, the few folks who did that, made a donation in his memory, gave me comfort. I guess it was the proverbial piece of immortality.

We all claim that "we don't judge," that people deal with loss differently. Still, this struck me, coming from educated, professional people --to not send out a mass email or something.

I guess I'm projecting. I'd like to hope that when MY time comes to meet the invisible Man in the sky, or join that lovely gathering of departed relatives and friends, that MY girls will at least tell their friends of my passing, that it will at least merit the first paragraph in an email. In other words, that I get at least THAT measure of importance, of immortality.

Meanwhile, her on Earth, D1 finally got to share in the "good mailbox news" that her sister has been dominating. D1 got an early admission to Graduate School. She's going to seek a Master's in Nutrition.

Of course, I read the good news to her, and she shared it with Wifey, who's visiting her up at UF. I then hung up, and looked at our kitchen table, the one we've had since D1 was 6. She used to read the food labels, even at an early age. I saw a vision of her, scrubbed and perfectly dressed as always, at 6 years old, already interested in food. And now, movie-like, there's a fast forward to a graduate student.

The message to me is, of course, that a TON of crap happens while people come and go.

And I MUST and DO pay attention, as I know my Ds do.

Hopefully our lives, to us, will maintain top billing.

Wifey and I want headlines, someday, not some small notice tucked away near the classified ads...

The Simple Pleasures

My income from my law firm is going to plummet this year, and I'm not really too upset about it. I've always been a saver, so I can still put D2 through college, and maybe even pay for the Ds weddings, someday...

But, Wifey and I ARE going to cut back on some of our more lavish habits, like absurdly expensive dinners, and trips...

It won't be so bad for Wifey. She never really enjoys fancy restaurants to begin with, since she's always counting calories of one type or another. She DOES like the first class travel, though...

And, as she correctly points out, when I'm with folks I enjoy, and have a few drinks, I always pull the "Dave fake bathroom move," where I sneak off and pay the check before the waiter even brings it to the table...

Anyway, last night we went with some friends to a Valentine's Day event we loved. The Deering Estate had a jazz show featuring a local singer made it big in NY named James Rodgers. He apparently grew up in South Dade, and now plays with likes of Liza Minelli. He was terrific.

The tickets weren't expensive, and I brought a bottle of champagne, which Lili and I shared. She brought some baguettes and turkey breast, and strawberries and pears and cheeses. We ate and danced and sang along with "How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You."

As I was laying on my back, under a blanket with Wifey, and staring at the stars, I realized there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

I've enjoyed being "the man" over the years, always picking up the check, and treating friends and acquaintances whenever we go out. It'll be interesting to see whether I can hand off that position to others. As Wifey notes "NO ONE else picks up the tab --even those much richer than you!"

That's not true. My partner Paul is a notorious check payer. Although, I did notice him changing a bit. Last week we had lunch with a younger Workers Comp lawyer, and he reached for the check. Paul let him!

All I know is, it occurs to me that the company and event make the evening, not the cost of the menu. Last night was delightful.

And then there will be bargain hunting! Leave it to Dr. Eric --he just learned that we can get our Canes Club seats this season for 60% of what we paid last season. We just have to move a few sections over, to a new "Alumni Corner," and we're in business.

My partner Paul is going to have a much tougher time of this new incarnation than I will. He routinely spends more on a weekend's entertainment than many people earn in a month. He's going to give up his nearly $100K luxury car when they "pry it from his cold, dead hands."

I think I'll adapt to more modest circumstances just fine. If not --Wifey can always go back to work!!!!

Valentine's Day

Whenever I think of Valentine's Day, I think about red construction paper and glue. That's because I was introduced to the holiday at East Broadway Elementary School, on Long Island, where we were handed that thick, almost cardboard, scissors, glue, and told to make cards for our mother's and the girls.

I was awful at art projects. I was a lefty, and the scissors never worked well for me. My paper hearts always came out looking like they had suffered some sort of massive death of cardiac muscle --typically a lobe was missing. I have no recollection of any girls I gave the cards to, and I'm sure my mother smiled, accepted hers, and thanked me. EVERYTHING I did, in her eyes, was worthwhile (exhibit A in the presentation of how to raise a self confident man).

Over the years of my adult life, I wouldn't DARE forget Valentine's Day. Wifey is like all women (this is sexist but true). She must have sat in Elementary School classrooms, too, petrified that none of the awkward boys would give HER a V Day card). All women maintain a healthy level of the petrified 3rd grader, when it comes to matters of the heart.

So, I'd always find ways to be creative, with cards and one year a huge poster, which Wifey now displays as her Facebook (tm) page. There'd be jewelry, and flowers.

Then came the Ds. Wifey and I would always get them gifts as well. (Exhibit B in the manual of how to raise self confident women). These are my favorite Valentine's Day memories --impossibly adorable girls smiling at chocolate and flowers...

Well, the Ds are women now. D1 is spending the weekend in Savannah, with her boyfriend. D2 has already "warned " me that HER (maybe not boyfriend, but someone she's dating) will be over early this am in some type of V Day recognition.

I've already wished Happy V Day to the 2 females up early with me --the aging Labrador and the strange Basset Hound. They were nonplussed.

Wifey is still sleeping. I'm going to bring her breakfast in bed, along with the Sunday Times.

Tonight we're going to a jazz show at the Deering Estate, with Jeff and Lili, very old friends. We'll bring picnic food, and a bottle of PJ I have chilling, which Lili and I, the only drinkers of the 4 of us, will share.

It's supposed to be a chilly night, so maybe Jeff and I will snuggle up (with our wives, of course).

The romance is there in the every day, I guess...

Trading Misery

I share sports tickets with an old friend, and he's fallen on tough times, sadly.

I called him the other day to confirm that he wanted to renew, and he said the strangest thing: I ought to pay the whole bill because he had such a tough time of it!

Now, he didn't ask if I might help him out, or request me to spot him the money, but rather figured, I guess in a mood of Socialist philosophy, that it was somehow FAIR of me to compensate him for his difficulties.

He went so far as to say "You know you wouldn't trade places with me!"

I started thinking, perhaps relationships SHOULD be all about trading misery. If I have a heart attack, but a friend only has curable skin cancer, should we work something out if I suffer more?

I mean, he didn't CAUSE my heart attack, nor I his skin cancer, but somehow, perhaps, there's a cosmic need to insure that all humans suffer and revel in happiness equally.

It fascinated me, that this fellow could see life so differently than I could.

To me, if I suffered a financial setback, I'd call him and say, simply, that I could no longer meet our shared obligation, and he needed to go it alone while I worked to get my own house in order. I'd never dream of implying, or saying, that somehow MY problems justified my leaning on him.

Oh well. I told him that I was sort of over the games anyway, so I wasn't going to renew. The only teams I really care about are the Canes, anyway.

He went on that he STILL wanted to go, and the tickets were always a responsibility we shared, and didn't I get it --I NEEDED to keep paying, now for him, because of all his troubles.

I thought of Curlie, my favorite Stooge. "The NOIVE o' that guy!"

I wish him well; I truly do. I hope his difficulties turn into opportunities, and he soars. But in the meantime, we ain't no longer partners...

Remembering Old Cases

My secretary Mirta has been working on cleaning up old trust account balances. When we settle a case, we keep in trust the medical bills owed to a provider, and then negotiate a settlement with the provider (hospital or doctor) and then remit the savings to the client.

Often this process takes YEARS, since the health care bureaucracy is nearly impenetrable. The problem is particularly bad when our clients are illegal immigrants, and they don't qualify for Medicaid. I'll offer the hospitals what they would have gotten from Medicaid, or a private insurer, and they usually say "no," they want full retail price ($15 for an aspirin --that sort of thing).

I hold the funds for years, and then contact them to offer a settlement, and find out they've simply written off the account, so my client gets all of the money.

No wonder public hospitals in South Florida are in such bad financial shape --their incompetent staffs don't even know how to collect money when its offered.

I know a lawyer who had a gambling addiction, and used the trust fund medical fees to feed it. He stole over $1 million from his clients. He's now an ex-lawyer, working as a paralegal for his former employee. He paid back less than $100,000.00, and served less than a few days in jail (and that was only due to a bench warrant from LAs Vegas where he stiffed a casino for about $10K). I guess crime DOES pay...

Anyway -- I was reminded about a humorous incident with one of my illegal immigrant clients. The fellow, a laborer from Mexico, was burned on a roof project on Miami Beach. He wandered over to the job site looking for work, and ANOTHER illegal worker told him to grab a bucket of hot tar and carry it up a ladder. The tar spilled, burning his arms.

The construction company owner, himself a convicted drug dealer, had no required Workers Compensation coverage, so my client was free to sue the company for "failing to provide a safe workplace."

My client was PETRIFIED that we were going to turn him in to the Feds, and have him deported. My old secretary Norma repeatedly told him we'd NEVER do that. First, it would be unethical, and second, if he were deported, we couldn't finish his case and earn our fee. I think he believed the second reason more...

Anyway, we got lucky with his case. The company owner was rearrested, and sent to federal prison for his drug dealing. The insurance carrier realized that, at trial, their insured would be testifying by video, in prison stripes, and they'd lose. They settled with us for nearly $400,000.00.

I invited the client to the office to sign the papers, and arrange for the funds to be wired back to MExico, where his sister was a banker. Poor guy --he came to my office, and his eyes were darting around the whole time, waiting to be arrested.

Norma, the client, and I were in our conference room, signing the papers. MY friend Steve, a local cop, happened into my office, as he was patrolling Metro Rail, and wanted to see if I were free for lunch. He was in full uniform. He waved hello to Mirta, then our receptionist, and strolled into the conference room.

The client looked up, and did a classically comic double take. His eyes grew wide. He began to sweat. "Aha!" he must have thought --"I was right. They're going to take my money and have me arrested!!!!"

After several beats, Norma and I realized what was happening. Pointing at Steve, we said, don't worry --he's a friend. Steve had to wait outside.

The client signed the papers, and literally ran out of the office, still convinced we were out to get him.

He went back to Mexico, expecting to live on the more that $250,000 he had obtained. His paranoia turned out to be misplaced.

He called a few months later, to report that his sister, the banker, had stolen his money! Apparently her bank's "fees" for processing the wire transfer, about equalled the amount of his principal.

Last I heard, he had hired a MExican lawyer, and was trying to get his money back.

Norma's been retired for years, and Steve's still a cop. He hasn't scared any of my clients in awhile.

It's No Good...

"It's no good, David, just no good to get this old." I stood by my maternal grandmother's nursing home bed, and she told me that. She was in her mid 90s and miserable. This was back in the mid 80s, not long before she died.

I was never close to Anna, but always treated her with respect. My mother revered her, and always explained how wise she was. I never saw it myself. First, she had an awful combination of a mumbling way of speaking and a heavy Yiddish accent, so I never got more than about 30% of what she said. And, for most of her life, she depended on the charity of 4 of her 5 kids to live (the 5th family were abject losers who barely supported themselves) so I always questioned the "wisdom" of someone who had ended up that way...

So there I was, in my mid 20s, hearing her tell me how she wished she were dead. I didn't know how to respond to her repeated declarations about how bad it was to be so old, so I think I said "Well Grandma, I'm sorry you're so old."

Her words haunted me today, as I spend the better part of a day with my own mother, who turns 90 in April. Wifey, my sister Trudy, and brother in law Dennis took her to the Dermatologist today, to see about a bleeding growth on her foot.

IT turned out the growth was a Kaposi's sarcoma, a common lesion among the elderly. The laconic doc, a Miami Beach native who looked and spoke like Donald Sutherland, zapped the thing off, and told Mom to follow up with her podiatrist for wound care. Afterwards we went to lunch.

But Mom's going south faster than slower. On the drive to the office, she showed a nastiness about the fact that it took 10 days to get in to see the specialist "I wonder if HIS mother has to wait so long..." She forgot that she no longer drove, lamenting that the wait for treatment of her foot meant she "couldn't drive anywhere last week."

Her manner is starting to change, I fear. She's always been sweet, and I'm worried that, like her mother, she may be souring a bit.

She vehemently insists she stay in her condo. She made a huge deal about getting her one of those "I've fallen and can't get up" alarm buttons, and now refuses to wear the activator around her neck.

Wifey and I talked about her on the long drive home to Miami. Wifey, always the optimist about her and her condition, reminded me that she could be MUCH worse. I know that's so, but I can't get my mother's mother's portentious words out of my head: "It's just no good."

Super Boring Bowl

At a house party the other night, I was asked where I was going to watch the "Big Game" today. The answer is probably nowhere.

I love football, but I'm more of a college guy. If the Dolphins were playing, I'd have a mild interest. I guess if the Jets had made it to the show, I'd also watch, in support of Dr. Barry, who loves that team. Indy and New Orleans? I truly couldn't care less.

In college, we used to have super bowl parties, and they were fun. I particularly remember the 1981 game --Oakland vs. Philly. We had probably 50 folks to our small apartment, and about 5 portable tvs all over. We drank heavily, and much later that evening, my roommate Barry left to study in the library, returning to our apartment about 2 am. What happened next is hilarious, but unfortunately a tale not to be told in a family blog...

I also remember watching games with Eric's Dad Marvin, now sadly gone many years. Marvin LOVED having us to his house in Kendall, where we'd order sub sandwiches and watch the game. I remember Cincinatti/San Francisco for some reason.

The news in Miami is that this, our 10th Super Bowl, may be the last, unless the taxpayers pony up hundreds of millions to "improve" the stadium to make the NFL happy. I truly hope this IS the last game here -- my populist, anti-corporate bent DESPISES the NFL and its billionaire owners. The game has zero impact on anyone I know, other than making hotels money.

Besides...AS IF! Dallas has a new stadium, and one of the threats is that they'd get the game over Miami. I've been to a Cotton Bowl in JAnuary, and can report that Dallas in Winter is a freezing, dreary place. Let the players and rappers give up South Beach...

Wifey and the Ds enjoy one thing about Super Bowl Sunday: Animal Planet has the "Puppy Bowl," a show featuring adorable pups frolicking on an astroturf pen, where officials call time out and throw penalty flags whenever one of the dogs pees or poops. The girls turned me on to it a few years ago --if I watch at all, it'll be that "game."

It's a gorgeous day here today. D1's in Gainesville, recovering from an outdoor "woodser" party with her boyfriend's fraternity. D2's sleeping off the last of her "birthday week."

Maybe Wifey and I will drive down to the Redland. I'm drawn there when the weather's cool in town.

As for football? Well, I did read something today to excite me. It seems the nation's top offensive lineman, a giant from Minneapolis, may come to my Canes after all. He announced he was choosing USC, but never signed his "letter of intent," and is having second thoughts about USC's program about to be in a heap of trouble. Now if we got him, that would be super...

Oh Very Young

Salad days for D2: she turned 18 Wednesday, and Wifey and I took her and her friend Michael to Christy's for dinner. Christy's is a venerable Coral Gables restaurant where my old UM Law professors would eat each day. We had a lovely meal, and toasted our young lady.

Last night we had 25 of her friends over, for Big Cheese Italian food. Wifey and I marvelled at all of the wonderful young folks --all high school seniors, and all excited about graduating and going to college.

Our friend and neighbor Diane came by, and gave D2 a lovely bracelet. My partner Paul came with his lovely date Patricia, and brought D2 a gorgeous necklace, made by his son's jewelry company. D2 was on cloulds 9, 10, etc...

While the younguns laughed and ate, we old-uns sat inthe living room drinking champagne. It was great, but it occurred to me later that much of the conversation was about our 80 and 90 something parents, and how they're detiorating, and how we all cope with it. Another major topic was pain, and the health problems of late 50 and 60 year olds --herniated discs, pain control, diminishing energy, etc... I kept my topic of hemorrhoids out of the conversation...

D2's birthday jackpot grew even more today. The mail brought an acceptance letter from the U, which I expected, but also a certificate that she won a "University Scholarship," which was a bit of a surprise. That scholarship is worth $24,000 per year --nearly 3/4 tuition. I was so excited, I woke D2 to show her the piece of paper, which had a value of over $100,000 (the award apparently increases as does tuition). She was characteristically nonplussed.

But the main thing is how great it is to be 18. I toasted all of D2's friends last night, telling them about how lucky Wifey and I were about the friends she choose. D1 is the same --she surrounds herself with only very high quality people.

Sometimes youth isn't wasted on the young.

Civil Servant

Years ago (16 or 17) I had a case against Charles, a Miami City attorney. I always liked him a lot, and wished I had gotten to know him better.

Charles is about 65 now, and a black man who came here from a Northern city. He's a black man from the 60s era --he protested Vietnam with his fellow college students, and has very liberal politics. Despite that background, he became a lawyer for the CITY!, and often represented their police department in civil rights cases. Talk about representing THE MAN!!!!!

The case I had involved a young black man who was in a marching band in Liberty City, and was practicing his moves with an umbrella. Unfortunately, the Miami police were taking a New Jersey cop on a training tour, and thought the young man was holding a rifle. They encountered the young man, and the Miami police kept their cool, but the New Jersey cop (a big Polish guy) fired off a shot, hitting my client in the thigh.

He lived, but was left with a permanent limp. My partner and I (at the time we worked for another firm) sued the New Jersey city that employed officer trigger finger, and also sued Miami. Charles was Miami's lawyer.

The New Jersey city hired a large firm (I'll call them Greenberg Traurig, since that's their name) who defended this injury case like it was one of their typical commercial disputes --they bombarded us with tons of paper. The judge we drew, not one of the brightest bulbs in the pinball machine, used to lift the enormous motions and memoranda in the air and say to the Greenberg lawyer "You expect me to READ all of this?" We'd win every motion on that basis.

Ultimately, for all of their horses and all of their associates, the Greenberg lawyers settled with us, for hundreds of thousands of dollars. We laughed all the way to the bank, because, under Florida law, the New Jersey city was entitled to the same damage limitation as the City of Miami had: they shouldn't have paid any more than $100,000.00. We happily took the money and turned to the City.

Charles, the City lawyer, played it cool. We all knew that the City ought to pay us THEIR $100K (he LOVED that the big civil firm messed up and paid us 3 times what they owed), but stayed firm. No offer.

Finally, we got to trial, and as soon as my partner started questioning the jury panel, Charles asked the judge for a "side bar," and announced the City wanted to settle. We agreed. His marching orders had been to see whether we were serious about going to trial, and, if we were, to pay the damage cap.

While Charles was chatting with my partner, I walked over to his desk, and lifted his trial briefcase. It was empty! I pointed this out to him, as I marvelled at this poker bluff. "Not exactly, Davey my boy," he said, "I DO have my lunch with me!"

Anyway, I'd see Charles over the years, and once bought him lunch at Tobacco Road. He was dining with a FINE looking lady...

He got into trouble recently, as he was involved in a class action brought by a Jewban lawyer, in which the only ones who made money in a big settlement were the Jewban and his firm.

I was happy to see Charles exonerated. I read he retired recently.

And then yesterday, I was crawling along in traffic on Bayshore Drive, and I was stopped in front of Peacock Park, where Acee's Icees is parked. I saw Charles park his Cadillac and get out, a book and New York Times under his arm. He looked fit and trim. His beard was white. He looked RETIRED and RELAXED.

I could just tell his day would involve reading by the Bay, and maybe meeting friends for lunch. I'm guessing he had a huge party the night President OBama won. Good for him!

So many lawyers fade into bitterness as they age. It was great to see Charles travel on a more pleasant road...

Time Passages

One of my great pleasures is a walk around my neighborhood with Wifey and our dogs. The perimeter road around the 'hood is 1.1 mile, and we never tire of the route, with its manifold botanical wonders.

In the mornings we tend to run into our fellow residents, and chat with them about families, jobs, etc...

Today we met a some of the newer folks, a lovely couple who bought a place 2 houses down. I had met them in December, but Wifey never had. They were out front cleaning away fallen leaves, in anticipation of the husband's mother's arrival from NY.

John is a tall, friendly Irish American, from Long Island, like I am. I joked with him that I moved to Miami to live among exotics, like Latins, and Carribbean types, and now, with his arrival, I'm virtually surrounded by Irish guys! He laughed, getting my saecastic NY humor, and I liked him right away.

His wife is Midwestern, and the two of them met in college on LI. They're marine science/business types, and they moved here to work for the cruise lines. They have 2 little girls.

I told them that my littlest girl was turning 18 tomorrow, and they smiled. D2 was in 3rd grade when we moved to our house, about the age the new neighbors' kids are.

They went on about how much they love the area, and can't believe that the housing slump dropped the price of the house so much that they were able to afford it, and how they wanted to stay forever, and watch their little girls grow and go off to college.

Wifey and I walked away, feeling wistful. Wifey just finished composing a birthday letter to D2, where she recalled reading one of her favorite childhood stories, "The Runaway Bunny." Wifey wrote that wherever D2 went, Wifey would follow, if not physically, then at least with her never ending love for her.

D2 will read the note, love it, and then probably remark about how her mother is forever "stalking her."

And so there it is, as the new neighbors show us...children grow and move away, and younger ones come into a community. D1 is coming back to Miami this Summer, but will probably get an apartment. Wifey and I will get to puppy-sit a lot.

So Wifey and I will continue to walk, and meet the folks, and talk about our Ds. Will we be blessed, someday, to introduce our grandchildren?

The Day the Music Died

Don McClean wrote and sang, about February 3rd, that "February made me shiver...with every paper I'd deliver...bad news on the doorstep; I couldn't take one more step." It was the day that Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and The Big Bopper were killed in a Wisconsin plane crash. It also happens to be D2's birthday!

What a lovely weekend we had. Saturday Wifey and I went to see the fine film "Crazy Heart" with Florida's best med mal defense lawyer, Norman, and his lovely immigrant wife, Deb. Deb's Canadian, which is really, to me, sort of like another Northern state, but I still like calling Canadians immigrants...

Afterwards we shared great conversation and food, and then marvelled as Norman extracted his large crossover vehicle from a parking lot that, while we were at the movies and dinner, had become infested with a flock of ancient Volkswagens. Norman manauvered deftly, and we left with no damage to the Beetles and Microbuses, as their owners chatted happily about air cooled engines and followint the Grateful Dead, back in the day...

Sunday D2 and some of her friends and I watched the Canes, who didn't choke, for a change, and beat the Seth Greenberg-coached Virginia Tech team. Greenberg used to be a Canes assistant, and I watched him during the game. He looks like a young Don Rickles, and appeared, several times, to be having a massive stroke. It's much better to watch college basketball than it is to coach or play it, in my opinion.

But back to D2...She turns 18 Wednesday. The Day the Music Died has been to Wifey, D1, and me, the day the joy came. We adore this young lady, and are immensely proud of her. She's been a terrific student, and colleges are frothing at the proverbial mouth to have her attend (another UM, Maryland, accepted her over the weekend).

I love watching her with her friends. She's so kind to them, and tweaks them constantly, at the same time. She's gorgeous. She can look you straight in eye and completely B.S. you (I wonder from whom she inherited THAT characteristic?).

At a post game frozen yogurt stop yesterday, she announced to her friends Amanda and Rebecca, that she was officially proclaiming the start of her "birthday week." She had her tongue firmly in cheek, of course. That's just so D2 --underlying sense of purpose, shrouded in blarney.

So, Wifey and I (and D1 from Gainesville) assume our roles this week to honor our baby girl as she enters adulthood.

February 3rd --the Day the smiles multiplied.