I'm SO over Gainesville. After visiting many, many times for D1 and now D2, I've had more than my fill. Wifey's back was bad for a few years, so she didn't travel, and I picked up the slack. So, she went to visit D2 last weekend, for some mother/daughter bonding.
It's funny. Over the years of our marriage, when we travel, I take care of everything. Wifey enjoys the luxury of merely enjoying the scenery, while I mess with maps (now GPS) and lead her on and off airplanes, rental cars, etc...
So, spoiled as she is, she found the simple trip to Gainesville a bit daunting --what time should she return to the airport, how to get from GNV to campus, etc...
I'm proud to report she acquitted herself well, and had a successful trip --she and D2 took old friends to dinner, and laughed, and enjoyed each other's company. They even shared an adventure --a 7 am fire alarm at the Downtown hotel, which caused a not very happy D2 to lose precious non dorm room sleep...
Meanwhile, I enjoyed a weekend of bachelorhood. I poured myself a few vodkas Friday night, and lit a fire in my outside pit, and even took a rare dip in my JAcuzzi, as I stared up at the stars.
Saturday night, my neighbor Pat (his wife was also away, in Phoenix) and I headed to Anthony's Coal Fired, and drank beer and wine and ate pizza. We joked that some guys in our position would head to strip clubs. We prefer pizza.
D1 kept me company late Saturday, after returning from a babysitting gig. I greeted her Sunday am with fresh bagels, and then we took a glorious walk around the 'hood with the aging LAb and the frisky grand dog. She left, and it was soon time to fetch Wifey.
Short separations really do help a marriage. I found I missed her, by the time she came home. I picked her up, and we headed home. We stopped at a burger place, one we hadn't visited in years. She ordered dolphin. I got the 2/3 pounder.
I coudn't finish it. It's the first time I've EVER left part of a delicious burger on the plate. As Wifey devoured it, she remarked "Oh no --hamburger impotence --a sign of an aging man."
She's funny. It's why I keep her around.
We took our second walk in the gathering dusk, this time sans grand dog. We talked about our girls, and the weekend, and it was lovely. I told her I was happy to have her back.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Honors Dorm
We were like the cast of "Friends" in Building 22, except smarter, and no one looked like Jennifer Anniston.
U Miami had decided to shed its "Sun Tan U" image in the late 70s, and the Honors Program and Scholarships was the method they chose. The Program lured kids with the grades and SAT scores to get into 2nd tier colleges, like Duke or Vanderbilt or the better SUNY schools, with offers of half or whole tuition scholarships. It worked.
The Program attracted truly talented kids --some at genius level. One of those was Claire, who came to study Marine Chemistry from a small suburb of Minneapolis. She was Minnesota Nice, years before anyone knew that term, but would ace upper level science classes with seemingly no effort. I remember tales told by my friends Barry and Mark. Barry's now the Chief Medical Officer of Florida's top Peds hospital, and Mark is the Chair of Neurosurgery at the top hospital on Long Island.
The two of them would be tearing their hair out in Analytical Chemistry and upper level Calculus classes, and Claire would finish the tests in about 20 minutes, quietly stroll out, and be sunbathing in the outback by the time Barry and Mark dragged their sorry asses back to the dorm. I wonder what became of Claire...
Almost all of the Program's graduates went on to impressive careers. Most went to medical or law school, but a few became writers and scientists. One, Tom, a tall quiet guy from the Midwest, was just in the news for discovering some new early detection test for Alzheimer's Disease. He married a Cubana from the dorm, who got a medical degree from UCSF while Tom was getting a Stanford doctorate.
But back to the Fall of '80. Rudy kept to himself and his studies, emerging from the library only for the occasional beer at the Rathskellar when his Green Bay PAckers were on TV. Mike studied and smoked a goodly amount of weed, and romanced Tere, our red headed neighbor.
Barry and I became very close, along with Eric, who commuted but spend most of his free time in our apartment. Barry and Eric helped me with my science classes, I helped Eric with his Humanities papers, and the 3 of us analyzed and discussed all aspects of human nature. We followed Dr. Schultz's advice...
Meanwhile, one morning as I was waiting for Organic Chem to begin, I noticed a cute Latina sitting by the door. She was wearing a Magen David. I told her it was funny to see a Cuban girl like her wearing that. She told me in her Spanish accent that first, she was Colombian, not Cuban, and second, she was Jewish.
What???!!!! Jews in Colombia? No way. I knew there were Jews in the US, mostly in NY where I was from, and LA, and surely South Florida, with a few in places like Philly and Chicago. There were Jews in Israel, and some in the Soviet Union trying to get out. But South America?
My provincial Long Island upbringing was rearing its head. I really knew little about the world. Not so Silvia, my new friend. She spent much time in Paris, and knew French. She knew about classical music. She had culture, and class.
Over the rest of the school year, 1980 to 1981, I fell in love with her. My father grew concerned. He always feared I would fall in love, get married, and drop out of college. It didn't happen, but the Latina with the Magen David WOULD be the only woman to break my heart. I DO know what became of her --3 failed marriages, and the difficulty of single motherhood. Who could have foreseen?
At the Dorm, we threw theme parties. There was "Drinks Around the World" where we issued passports which were stamped as you sampled each "country." You would have beer from England, Scotch, of course, vodka from Russia, and wine from France. Africa held "Jungle Juice" made with grain alcohol. After the party, there was, of course, vomiting from around the world. I still feel queasy thinking about that party 30 years later.
As I returned inside from a vomiting episode, I saw my next door neighbor Edee crying. She had just been dumped by a boyfriend. I went to the apartment's bathroom and grabbed some toilet paper. I forgot to tear it off, so when I handed it to her, it was still attached to the roll, probably 20 feet away. Edee's tears turned to hysterical laughter. It was the beginning of a brother/sister relationship that has endured to this day.
Edee's now a nationally honored spinal cord injury scientist and researcher. She speaks all over the world and has written articles and books. She's transcended the most asshole of fathers to do this. In fact, trying to be exactly UNLIKE her father has defined me as the father I'd become 8 years later...
It was all such a heady time. As I read Joyce's Ulysses, the chapter about the windy mansion, the part based on the god Aeolus, I was reminded of Building 22. Doors would open and slam shut, and young men and women would enter, engage in witty talk, stay for a drink or a joint, and leave.
Mike, Barry, and I would order take out Chinese, and sit around the dining room table with 3 cardboard containers. We'd eat from one, and then one of us would call "Switch" and we'd pass the container. Such was our fine dining...
Spring, 1981 ended, and I headed back to Delray Beach. I landed a job as a Pharmacy tech at Boca Hospital. It paid amazingly well, as I recall. The minimum wage had just been raised to about $3 per hour, and the Boca job paid about $4.50. I was living in the Retirement Village (satirized years later by Seinfeld, with perfect pitch as Boca DelRey Del Mar) and thinking a lot about my future.
I was still pre med, and had a mentor --Bob Davidoff, the vice chair of Neurology at the med school. I met him though my freshman comp professor Judy Davidoff, and the couple took me in as a friend and protege --having me babysit for their kids, and house sit when they travelled for academic conferences. Bob let me help out as a research assistant in his lab, and even listed me as a co-author on some scholarly journals.
He was a frustrated History Professor, who yielded to family pressure and went to med school. He thought medicine needed more "humanities types" and truly helped and mentored me. I figured with his help, I could get into med school despite my Cs in Organich Chem...
But I was increasingly realizing I didn't WANT to. That would become clear the next semester --the Fall of 1981.
U Miami had decided to shed its "Sun Tan U" image in the late 70s, and the Honors Program and Scholarships was the method they chose. The Program lured kids with the grades and SAT scores to get into 2nd tier colleges, like Duke or Vanderbilt or the better SUNY schools, with offers of half or whole tuition scholarships. It worked.
The Program attracted truly talented kids --some at genius level. One of those was Claire, who came to study Marine Chemistry from a small suburb of Minneapolis. She was Minnesota Nice, years before anyone knew that term, but would ace upper level science classes with seemingly no effort. I remember tales told by my friends Barry and Mark. Barry's now the Chief Medical Officer of Florida's top Peds hospital, and Mark is the Chair of Neurosurgery at the top hospital on Long Island.
The two of them would be tearing their hair out in Analytical Chemistry and upper level Calculus classes, and Claire would finish the tests in about 20 minutes, quietly stroll out, and be sunbathing in the outback by the time Barry and Mark dragged their sorry asses back to the dorm. I wonder what became of Claire...
Almost all of the Program's graduates went on to impressive careers. Most went to medical or law school, but a few became writers and scientists. One, Tom, a tall quiet guy from the Midwest, was just in the news for discovering some new early detection test for Alzheimer's Disease. He married a Cubana from the dorm, who got a medical degree from UCSF while Tom was getting a Stanford doctorate.
But back to the Fall of '80. Rudy kept to himself and his studies, emerging from the library only for the occasional beer at the Rathskellar when his Green Bay PAckers were on TV. Mike studied and smoked a goodly amount of weed, and romanced Tere, our red headed neighbor.
Barry and I became very close, along with Eric, who commuted but spend most of his free time in our apartment. Barry and Eric helped me with my science classes, I helped Eric with his Humanities papers, and the 3 of us analyzed and discussed all aspects of human nature. We followed Dr. Schultz's advice...
Meanwhile, one morning as I was waiting for Organic Chem to begin, I noticed a cute Latina sitting by the door. She was wearing a Magen David. I told her it was funny to see a Cuban girl like her wearing that. She told me in her Spanish accent that first, she was Colombian, not Cuban, and second, she was Jewish.
What???!!!! Jews in Colombia? No way. I knew there were Jews in the US, mostly in NY where I was from, and LA, and surely South Florida, with a few in places like Philly and Chicago. There were Jews in Israel, and some in the Soviet Union trying to get out. But South America?
My provincial Long Island upbringing was rearing its head. I really knew little about the world. Not so Silvia, my new friend. She spent much time in Paris, and knew French. She knew about classical music. She had culture, and class.
Over the rest of the school year, 1980 to 1981, I fell in love with her. My father grew concerned. He always feared I would fall in love, get married, and drop out of college. It didn't happen, but the Latina with the Magen David WOULD be the only woman to break my heart. I DO know what became of her --3 failed marriages, and the difficulty of single motherhood. Who could have foreseen?
At the Dorm, we threw theme parties. There was "Drinks Around the World" where we issued passports which were stamped as you sampled each "country." You would have beer from England, Scotch, of course, vodka from Russia, and wine from France. Africa held "Jungle Juice" made with grain alcohol. After the party, there was, of course, vomiting from around the world. I still feel queasy thinking about that party 30 years later.
As I returned inside from a vomiting episode, I saw my next door neighbor Edee crying. She had just been dumped by a boyfriend. I went to the apartment's bathroom and grabbed some toilet paper. I forgot to tear it off, so when I handed it to her, it was still attached to the roll, probably 20 feet away. Edee's tears turned to hysterical laughter. It was the beginning of a brother/sister relationship that has endured to this day.
Edee's now a nationally honored spinal cord injury scientist and researcher. She speaks all over the world and has written articles and books. She's transcended the most asshole of fathers to do this. In fact, trying to be exactly UNLIKE her father has defined me as the father I'd become 8 years later...
It was all such a heady time. As I read Joyce's Ulysses, the chapter about the windy mansion, the part based on the god Aeolus, I was reminded of Building 22. Doors would open and slam shut, and young men and women would enter, engage in witty talk, stay for a drink or a joint, and leave.
Mike, Barry, and I would order take out Chinese, and sit around the dining room table with 3 cardboard containers. We'd eat from one, and then one of us would call "Switch" and we'd pass the container. Such was our fine dining...
Spring, 1981 ended, and I headed back to Delray Beach. I landed a job as a Pharmacy tech at Boca Hospital. It paid amazingly well, as I recall. The minimum wage had just been raised to about $3 per hour, and the Boca job paid about $4.50. I was living in the Retirement Village (satirized years later by Seinfeld, with perfect pitch as Boca DelRey Del Mar) and thinking a lot about my future.
I was still pre med, and had a mentor --Bob Davidoff, the vice chair of Neurology at the med school. I met him though my freshman comp professor Judy Davidoff, and the couple took me in as a friend and protege --having me babysit for their kids, and house sit when they travelled for academic conferences. Bob let me help out as a research assistant in his lab, and even listed me as a co-author on some scholarly journals.
He was a frustrated History Professor, who yielded to family pressure and went to med school. He thought medicine needed more "humanities types" and truly helped and mentored me. I figured with his help, I could get into med school despite my Cs in Organich Chem...
But I was increasingly realizing I didn't WANT to. That would become clear the next semester --the Fall of 1981.
Friday, January 28, 2011
More Fanning
I wish my Spanish was good enough to remember that great Cuban phrase --the one about fanning one's testicles. It conveys such a great image of a sort of intentional laziness --the man on his porch, deliberately avoiding work, but engaged in such a funny activity that shows the world he's not about to get up and do any heaviy lifting.
And such has been my week. I've floated in and out of my office, conferring with my appointed successor about some cases. I've gone on walks through the neighborhood. Monday night Wifey and I had dinner with a dear friend and his reconciling wife.
This am I'll take Wifey to MIA to catch a flight to Gainesville, so that she can visit D2 ahead of D2's 19th birthday.
I have more of little planned for the weekend.
I still think I'll find something productive to do, but I'm in no rush. The more I see my lawyer friends busy, the less I want to be involved any more.
I got a letter from my insurance carrier the other day. A year and a half ago, the Ds were returning from a road trip, and were nearly home (they were in D2's car, but a male friend was driving) when they got into a fender bender, literally, on US 1. I raced over, and saw that Brett had cut off another car trying to get to the middle lane. Both cars were damaged, but no one was hurt.
The young Colombian student in the other car, Rosa, thankfully accepted my ride to meet her boyfriend. I explained that my insurance (or Brett's family's) would pay her damages. She was thankful, and got out of the car.
So the cars were fixed, and all got on with their lives. Ha! As if! Rosa hired a TV lawyer, some tool named Anidjar, and he sent her for over $25,000 worth of chiropractic treatments, at some place called, I think, Metro Injury Centers. From there she saw an orthopedic surgeon, and a radiologist, and now, according to my insurance carrier, wants our entire $250,000 policy!
My carrier will fight it, I'm sure, and probably end up settling for $10K or so...
The Ds and Wifey were disgusted, until I reminded them that this fine lifestyle we all enjoy was due to precisely this sort of thing --turning injuries into money!
And, due to the Rosas and Anidjars of the world, we have an entire defense industry, making friends of mine like Norman rich, too! (At least he gets to represent the good guys, usually).
What a world, what a world. I'm SO like the former smoker who's the most militant anti smoker!
With stuff like Rosa and her ambulance chasing, 1/4 of a million dollars seeking lawyer, is it any wonder I prefer to sit on my porch, fanning away?
And such has been my week. I've floated in and out of my office, conferring with my appointed successor about some cases. I've gone on walks through the neighborhood. Monday night Wifey and I had dinner with a dear friend and his reconciling wife.
This am I'll take Wifey to MIA to catch a flight to Gainesville, so that she can visit D2 ahead of D2's 19th birthday.
I have more of little planned for the weekend.
I still think I'll find something productive to do, but I'm in no rush. The more I see my lawyer friends busy, the less I want to be involved any more.
I got a letter from my insurance carrier the other day. A year and a half ago, the Ds were returning from a road trip, and were nearly home (they were in D2's car, but a male friend was driving) when they got into a fender bender, literally, on US 1. I raced over, and saw that Brett had cut off another car trying to get to the middle lane. Both cars were damaged, but no one was hurt.
The young Colombian student in the other car, Rosa, thankfully accepted my ride to meet her boyfriend. I explained that my insurance (or Brett's family's) would pay her damages. She was thankful, and got out of the car.
So the cars were fixed, and all got on with their lives. Ha! As if! Rosa hired a TV lawyer, some tool named Anidjar, and he sent her for over $25,000 worth of chiropractic treatments, at some place called, I think, Metro Injury Centers. From there she saw an orthopedic surgeon, and a radiologist, and now, according to my insurance carrier, wants our entire $250,000 policy!
My carrier will fight it, I'm sure, and probably end up settling for $10K or so...
The Ds and Wifey were disgusted, until I reminded them that this fine lifestyle we all enjoy was due to precisely this sort of thing --turning injuries into money!
And, due to the Rosas and Anidjars of the world, we have an entire defense industry, making friends of mine like Norman rich, too! (At least he gets to represent the good guys, usually).
What a world, what a world. I'm SO like the former smoker who's the most militant anti smoker!
With stuff like Rosa and her ambulance chasing, 1/4 of a million dollars seeking lawyer, is it any wonder I prefer to sit on my porch, fanning away?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Honors Dorm
Fall, 1980, and I was full of excitement. I was the new president of the HSA, and I was still "alive" as a pre med student, despite the nagging feeling that I was on the wrong academic path.
My last episode was incorrect, as my dear friend Barry pointed out last week. Colin, the now millionaire Chinese guy, didn't come for another year. Rather, my roommate was Rudy a personality-less Filipino from Wisconsin. In the other bedroom was Mike S, a blonde Italian from LI.
Mike and I hit it off right away. We had much in common. We were both the first in our families to seek 4 year college degrees, and we had been to many of the same concerts and sporting events on LI. He was a HUGE Jets fan, though, while I had adopted the Dolphins, thanks to my friend Eric, who took me to games at the OB with his father...
Rudy --bleah. The guy did nothing but study, and cared not at all about anything else. He was the typical cut throat pre med. When I'd ask him to borrow notes from Organic Chem, he'd find a way to "forget." He was so tunnel-visioned, he dropped his Honors class, for fear of getting a pre med "B," and ended up kicked out of the Dorm the following semester.
He was close to Fred, though, his fellow pre med. Fred was the rich Trinidadian Chinese guy. The summer before, Fred and I went to see our Biology professor, Dr. Clegg, about a mistake on the final. I went in first, and Dr. Clegg changed my exam score, which raised me to an "A." When Fred went to see him, Dr. Clegg decided he'd changed enough grades, and kept Fred at a B.
I had nothing to do with the decision, but Fred felt otherwise. I found out in a most hurtful way.
I grabbed Rudy's text book by mistake one day, and when I opened it, a letter fell out, from Fred. I read it. It was all about how "Judas Dave" had betrayed Fred, and I was "typical of my race." Fred went on about now understanding Hitler's motives, and how Jews were evil, and "real Christians like Fred and Rudy" had to band together to avoid the evil Jews like me would visit upon the world.
I had known some anti semitism, of course, but this was the first time it hit so close, and by supposedly educated people. I confronted Fred, and he said I had just hurt him so much, he was lashing out. He always was a bit effeminate, and I wondered in later years whether his feelings for me went a bit deeper than friendship, and knowing I was never going there caused these hateful thoughts.
Whatever. Years later, he became a doctor, and then director of a UM health program. I'd run into him, and he always seemed leery --I guess because he knew I could expose him and cause him, in Miami, many problems for his anti semitism.
Last I heard, he was a health department, director in Alabama. Ha! A Trinidadian Chinaman who hates JEws in Alabama. Talk about a sitcom waiting to be made...
And so, there I was one day, studying Physics in a pair of shorts and no shirt, when there came a knock upon the door. I opened it, and there stood Clark Kent. A tall curly headed handsome fellow, wearing glasses and carrying a plaid suitcase. I immediately said to myself "Nerd from Central Casting."
"Hi --I'm your new roommate. My name's Barry." I invited him in, and (he recalls) offered him a beer. It was probably 11 am. I showed him to Mike S's bedroom, and he settled in. I had no idea I had met my brother, a man 31 years later would still be an extremely close friend...
As usual during the semester, I excelled in Humanities, and struggled in science and math. I took Calculus. Barry, a math whiz, helped me. Still, I was bored and confused in the class, to the point where I spent the entire session staring at the ample bosom of Christina, a freshman from Texas. Christina lived in the Honors Dorm, too, and sunbathed daily in the outback. Her body was legendary --this was pre implant days, and she somehow defied gravity.
So, when faced with learning Derivatives or staring at the goddess of my dorm...One day, as I was staring, I noticed the guy on the OTHER side Christina was staring, too. Our eyes met, over this set of enormous breasts. He gave me the thumbs up sign. After class, we met, and shook hands. We agreed we both had excellent taste. His name was Vince, another guy destined to become my brother...
I struggled mightily in Organic Chem, even though the professor, Harry P Schultz, was one of the most gifted in the university. The WW II vet greeted the huge lecture hall each morning at 8 with a booming "Good morning wonderful fellow students!"
Late in the semester, some wise ass raised his hand, and asked whether Dr. Schultz was being condescending to us by calling us fellow students, since we were novices, and he was a nationally known chemist. Dr. Schultz's reply: "Young man --we are ALL students inthe study of human nature!" I took that wisdom as my own, and think of it daily...
Dr. Schultz ended up giving me a gentleman's C. My best friend Eric, meanwhile, got As both times, as well as As in the rest of his classes (he ended up our Valedictorian, with acceptances into Yale MEd School and a scholarship, which he accepted, to Miami Med).
Meanwhile, I LOVED my English classes, and History classes, and even Psychology. I soared in Religion, thanks to Steve Sapp, a young, energetic Duke transplant, who would go on to become one of my life's mentors..
I skipped Organic one morning, and woke up to hear my radio playing nonstop Beatles songs. I lay in bed loving it. Rudy came in, and said "Lennon got killed. Just as well. Guy was a commie."
I was truly moved --the first time a celebrity death has affected me. John Lennon was one of my heroes. Learning about his death from the crass Rudy made me despise Rudy even more. I have no doubt that Rudy is some amazingly rich doctor somewhere in the MidWest, probably head of his country club and head of his local GOP club, unless he was rejected because of his Filipino background...
Mike S studied and smoked pot, and Barry studied and wrote sappy letters to some high school girlfriend.
We held wonderful parties --themed, and with tons of alcohol.
We met our next door neighbors, including Tere, a red headed valedictorian from Hialeah High, whose Dad was a hurricane meteorologist. Tere was brilliant, but looked like and talked like the simple ginger next door. Her roommate Sandy came from outside of Philly, and had dreams of being an international business woman...
The cast grew. I enjoyed meeting them all...
My last episode was incorrect, as my dear friend Barry pointed out last week. Colin, the now millionaire Chinese guy, didn't come for another year. Rather, my roommate was Rudy a personality-less Filipino from Wisconsin. In the other bedroom was Mike S, a blonde Italian from LI.
Mike and I hit it off right away. We had much in common. We were both the first in our families to seek 4 year college degrees, and we had been to many of the same concerts and sporting events on LI. He was a HUGE Jets fan, though, while I had adopted the Dolphins, thanks to my friend Eric, who took me to games at the OB with his father...
Rudy --bleah. The guy did nothing but study, and cared not at all about anything else. He was the typical cut throat pre med. When I'd ask him to borrow notes from Organic Chem, he'd find a way to "forget." He was so tunnel-visioned, he dropped his Honors class, for fear of getting a pre med "B," and ended up kicked out of the Dorm the following semester.
He was close to Fred, though, his fellow pre med. Fred was the rich Trinidadian Chinese guy. The summer before, Fred and I went to see our Biology professor, Dr. Clegg, about a mistake on the final. I went in first, and Dr. Clegg changed my exam score, which raised me to an "A." When Fred went to see him, Dr. Clegg decided he'd changed enough grades, and kept Fred at a B.
I had nothing to do with the decision, but Fred felt otherwise. I found out in a most hurtful way.
I grabbed Rudy's text book by mistake one day, and when I opened it, a letter fell out, from Fred. I read it. It was all about how "Judas Dave" had betrayed Fred, and I was "typical of my race." Fred went on about now understanding Hitler's motives, and how Jews were evil, and "real Christians like Fred and Rudy" had to band together to avoid the evil Jews like me would visit upon the world.
I had known some anti semitism, of course, but this was the first time it hit so close, and by supposedly educated people. I confronted Fred, and he said I had just hurt him so much, he was lashing out. He always was a bit effeminate, and I wondered in later years whether his feelings for me went a bit deeper than friendship, and knowing I was never going there caused these hateful thoughts.
Whatever. Years later, he became a doctor, and then director of a UM health program. I'd run into him, and he always seemed leery --I guess because he knew I could expose him and cause him, in Miami, many problems for his anti semitism.
Last I heard, he was a health department, director in Alabama. Ha! A Trinidadian Chinaman who hates JEws in Alabama. Talk about a sitcom waiting to be made...
And so, there I was one day, studying Physics in a pair of shorts and no shirt, when there came a knock upon the door. I opened it, and there stood Clark Kent. A tall curly headed handsome fellow, wearing glasses and carrying a plaid suitcase. I immediately said to myself "Nerd from Central Casting."
"Hi --I'm your new roommate. My name's Barry." I invited him in, and (he recalls) offered him a beer. It was probably 11 am. I showed him to Mike S's bedroom, and he settled in. I had no idea I had met my brother, a man 31 years later would still be an extremely close friend...
As usual during the semester, I excelled in Humanities, and struggled in science and math. I took Calculus. Barry, a math whiz, helped me. Still, I was bored and confused in the class, to the point where I spent the entire session staring at the ample bosom of Christina, a freshman from Texas. Christina lived in the Honors Dorm, too, and sunbathed daily in the outback. Her body was legendary --this was pre implant days, and she somehow defied gravity.
So, when faced with learning Derivatives or staring at the goddess of my dorm...One day, as I was staring, I noticed the guy on the OTHER side Christina was staring, too. Our eyes met, over this set of enormous breasts. He gave me the thumbs up sign. After class, we met, and shook hands. We agreed we both had excellent taste. His name was Vince, another guy destined to become my brother...
I struggled mightily in Organic Chem, even though the professor, Harry P Schultz, was one of the most gifted in the university. The WW II vet greeted the huge lecture hall each morning at 8 with a booming "Good morning wonderful fellow students!"
Late in the semester, some wise ass raised his hand, and asked whether Dr. Schultz was being condescending to us by calling us fellow students, since we were novices, and he was a nationally known chemist. Dr. Schultz's reply: "Young man --we are ALL students inthe study of human nature!" I took that wisdom as my own, and think of it daily...
Dr. Schultz ended up giving me a gentleman's C. My best friend Eric, meanwhile, got As both times, as well as As in the rest of his classes (he ended up our Valedictorian, with acceptances into Yale MEd School and a scholarship, which he accepted, to Miami Med).
Meanwhile, I LOVED my English classes, and History classes, and even Psychology. I soared in Religion, thanks to Steve Sapp, a young, energetic Duke transplant, who would go on to become one of my life's mentors..
I skipped Organic one morning, and woke up to hear my radio playing nonstop Beatles songs. I lay in bed loving it. Rudy came in, and said "Lennon got killed. Just as well. Guy was a commie."
I was truly moved --the first time a celebrity death has affected me. John Lennon was one of my heroes. Learning about his death from the crass Rudy made me despise Rudy even more. I have no doubt that Rudy is some amazingly rich doctor somewhere in the MidWest, probably head of his country club and head of his local GOP club, unless he was rejected because of his Filipino background...
Mike S studied and smoked pot, and Barry studied and wrote sappy letters to some high school girlfriend.
We held wonderful parties --themed, and with tons of alcohol.
We met our next door neighbors, including Tere, a red headed valedictorian from Hialeah High, whose Dad was a hurricane meteorologist. Tere was brilliant, but looked like and talked like the simple ginger next door. Her roommate Sandy came from outside of Philly, and had dreams of being an international business woman...
The cast grew. I enjoyed meeting them all...
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
It's Always Something
Sisyphus truly symbolized life. Pushing the huge rock to the near top of the pit, only to have it roll back to the bottom.
A dear friend just hit his stride. His kids are doing well (although one seems destined to be on a non traditional road), his wife is nagging him a little less, and his career is soaring. And then, he gets the news that his mother, still very young, apparently has a serious case of cancer. She's having major surgery today.
My mother likes to quote the wisdom of HER mother, my grandmother Anna. I was never close to the old lady, who always seemed ancient to me, and spoke in such a heavy Yiddish accent on top of a mumbling way of speaking, that I never understood more of about 30% of what she said.
But, according to my mother, Grandma said "Sunny --if you want true peace, there's only one place you'll get it --in the grave. There it's quiet and no one bothers you."
In the metaphor department, I've always liked my former boss Ed's approach. He'd always allude to the classic cartoon of a man hanging on a rope over a pit of starving and snapping alligators. When I'd complain about too much to deal with , he'd say "Dave --the only reasonable course of action is to deal with the biggest alligator, followed by increasingly smaller ones. Eventually, you've put them all to rest, or fallen into the pit and died. Either way, your troubles are over."
And so it is. I'm visiting my ancient mother today, a woman who has had to deal with precious few alligators in her life, at least by herself. My father dealt with them for her, followed by some 21 year old forced to become a man far earlier than he wanted to...
Then, I'm off to meet my friend at the hospital, while he waits for the surgery to end. Hopefully it will be positive news. and we'll go out for a few drinks and laughs.
Regardless, the rock's going to roll right back down the hill...
A dear friend just hit his stride. His kids are doing well (although one seems destined to be on a non traditional road), his wife is nagging him a little less, and his career is soaring. And then, he gets the news that his mother, still very young, apparently has a serious case of cancer. She's having major surgery today.
My mother likes to quote the wisdom of HER mother, my grandmother Anna. I was never close to the old lady, who always seemed ancient to me, and spoke in such a heavy Yiddish accent on top of a mumbling way of speaking, that I never understood more of about 30% of what she said.
But, according to my mother, Grandma said "Sunny --if you want true peace, there's only one place you'll get it --in the grave. There it's quiet and no one bothers you."
In the metaphor department, I've always liked my former boss Ed's approach. He'd always allude to the classic cartoon of a man hanging on a rope over a pit of starving and snapping alligators. When I'd complain about too much to deal with , he'd say "Dave --the only reasonable course of action is to deal with the biggest alligator, followed by increasingly smaller ones. Eventually, you've put them all to rest, or fallen into the pit and died. Either way, your troubles are over."
And so it is. I'm visiting my ancient mother today, a woman who has had to deal with precious few alligators in her life, at least by herself. My father dealt with them for her, followed by some 21 year old forced to become a man far earlier than he wanted to...
Then, I'm off to meet my friend at the hospital, while he waits for the surgery to end. Hopefully it will be positive news. and we'll go out for a few drinks and laughs.
Regardless, the rock's going to roll right back down the hill...
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Honors Dorm
The semester ended. Since I didn't know anyone in Delray Beach, where my parents lived, I decided to stay at UM for the summer, to take some more science courses, to lighten my load sophomore year.
I already knew that was the "weed out" year for pre meds, as Organic Chemistry loomed ahead --the class that separated us into those who would get into med school in the US, those who'd have to go overseas, and those who wouldn't get accepted.
Bldg 22 closed for summers, so I moved back to the 1968 Complex, a 12 story dorm so named for its year of completion, and where I had spent my first semester.
The first day, as I was unpacking, my roommate came in. He had an Arab-fro, a silk shirt, and a gold coke spoon necklace. He wore a Rolex. He was the very rich son of a Saudi Arabian, something or other. He presented me with the deal --his family thought he was going to live with me, but he had a hot Latin girlfriend in Kendall. He was going to live with her. Twice during the summer, a call would come from the Sheik. I was to tell the Sheik that (we'll call him Mohammed, which was probably his name) was in the library, studying. I was to then call Mo (I love when they take that nickname!) and let him know.
If I did this, I'd have the room to myself. Deal. We shook hands. How could peace between Israel and the Arabs be so hard to accomplish? Mo and I reached an accord within 10 minutes of meeting...
Off he went. I was thrilled at first, but soon became lonely and bored. My friends were all gone. Eric, my best friend, was working full time at the JCC summer camp, and I barely saw him.
My beloved Islanders were playing for their first Stanley Cup championship. I watched alone, in my room, on a 12 inch black and white. Most of the rest of my floormates were Middle Eastern Arabs, too (presumably sans LAtinas) and lauged at the silly sport.
I took Genetics and got a B. My GPA was around 3.5 --As in the Humanities, Bs in Sciences...Med School was still an option.
Alison came down for her freshman orientation. She was due to follow me from LI and enroll in the Fall. I broke up with her. I told her that, at 19, I just wasn't ready to commit to marriage.
Later, I saw her mother on campus, as Alison walked with her. The mother looked at me with such pure hatred. It's a look I never forgot --as if I had, as a 19 year old undergraduate, ruined an entire life plan for a nice family from Seaford, LI.
The summer semesters ended, and I went to Delray for a few weeks. I became acquainted with a beachside bar called Bostons. I drank a lot and sat at the beach. I had meals with my parents, and my Dad debriefed me on my freshman year. His first major life regret was never going to college, and he wanted every detail about what he missed (his second life regret was not staying in California after WW II. He's convinced he'd have gone into show biz writing instead of glassware sales).
I wrote a mass letter to the incoming Honors Class, as their president, asking for the $15 HSA dues. I got one reply, in perfect grammar and penmanship, from a young lady from Roseville, MN. She wrote that she had never been out of Minnesota. What did UM kids wear? What things did they like to do? Would I show her around?
My father read the letter, and gave me a look exactly like the one on Bluto Blutarski's face from "Animal House," as he peeked into the sorority window, and the coeds were starting a topless pillow fight...
I also learned I'd have new roommates in Building 22. My roommate was Rudy, a Filipino doctor's son from Wisconsin, with zero personality. I had met him in Chem class, through my good friend Fred, a Chinese Trinadadian whose father was a rich businessman.
A word about Fred. We became pretty close, He had been schooled in England. We'd had amazingly different backgrounds. His mother cooked me Caliloo (a spinach soup) at their house in Kendall. My mother made him corned beef at our Delray condo.
Fred and Rudy were study partners. They'd teach me a lesson, later that year, in old school anti semitism. Ha! Even among Filipino and Trinidadian immigrants! Who knew?
The other room was to house Mike S, a blonde Italian from LI with perfect math SAT scores and a command of the English language out of the "Godfather" movies, and Wing Wang Wei, a student from Hong Kong, who asked the Honors secretary to give him a more typical American name, and since she was of Irish ancestry, chose "Colin."
So the Fall, 1980 roster for Building 22 was set! In the far bedroom were Mike and Colin (they both subscribed to Playboy magazine, though Colin''s was in Chinese --a fact when discovered caused us all to pee in our pants). In the near bedroom I was to bunk with Rudy.
Organic Chem loomed in the horizon...
I already knew that was the "weed out" year for pre meds, as Organic Chemistry loomed ahead --the class that separated us into those who would get into med school in the US, those who'd have to go overseas, and those who wouldn't get accepted.
Bldg 22 closed for summers, so I moved back to the 1968 Complex, a 12 story dorm so named for its year of completion, and where I had spent my first semester.
The first day, as I was unpacking, my roommate came in. He had an Arab-fro, a silk shirt, and a gold coke spoon necklace. He wore a Rolex. He was the very rich son of a Saudi Arabian, something or other. He presented me with the deal --his family thought he was going to live with me, but he had a hot Latin girlfriend in Kendall. He was going to live with her. Twice during the summer, a call would come from the Sheik. I was to tell the Sheik that (we'll call him Mohammed, which was probably his name) was in the library, studying. I was to then call Mo (I love when they take that nickname!) and let him know.
If I did this, I'd have the room to myself. Deal. We shook hands. How could peace between Israel and the Arabs be so hard to accomplish? Mo and I reached an accord within 10 minutes of meeting...
Off he went. I was thrilled at first, but soon became lonely and bored. My friends were all gone. Eric, my best friend, was working full time at the JCC summer camp, and I barely saw him.
My beloved Islanders were playing for their first Stanley Cup championship. I watched alone, in my room, on a 12 inch black and white. Most of the rest of my floormates were Middle Eastern Arabs, too (presumably sans LAtinas) and lauged at the silly sport.
I took Genetics and got a B. My GPA was around 3.5 --As in the Humanities, Bs in Sciences...Med School was still an option.
Alison came down for her freshman orientation. She was due to follow me from LI and enroll in the Fall. I broke up with her. I told her that, at 19, I just wasn't ready to commit to marriage.
Later, I saw her mother on campus, as Alison walked with her. The mother looked at me with such pure hatred. It's a look I never forgot --as if I had, as a 19 year old undergraduate, ruined an entire life plan for a nice family from Seaford, LI.
The summer semesters ended, and I went to Delray for a few weeks. I became acquainted with a beachside bar called Bostons. I drank a lot and sat at the beach. I had meals with my parents, and my Dad debriefed me on my freshman year. His first major life regret was never going to college, and he wanted every detail about what he missed (his second life regret was not staying in California after WW II. He's convinced he'd have gone into show biz writing instead of glassware sales).
I wrote a mass letter to the incoming Honors Class, as their president, asking for the $15 HSA dues. I got one reply, in perfect grammar and penmanship, from a young lady from Roseville, MN. She wrote that she had never been out of Minnesota. What did UM kids wear? What things did they like to do? Would I show her around?
My father read the letter, and gave me a look exactly like the one on Bluto Blutarski's face from "Animal House," as he peeked into the sorority window, and the coeds were starting a topless pillow fight...
I also learned I'd have new roommates in Building 22. My roommate was Rudy, a Filipino doctor's son from Wisconsin, with zero personality. I had met him in Chem class, through my good friend Fred, a Chinese Trinadadian whose father was a rich businessman.
A word about Fred. We became pretty close, He had been schooled in England. We'd had amazingly different backgrounds. His mother cooked me Caliloo (a spinach soup) at their house in Kendall. My mother made him corned beef at our Delray condo.
Fred and Rudy were study partners. They'd teach me a lesson, later that year, in old school anti semitism. Ha! Even among Filipino and Trinidadian immigrants! Who knew?
The other room was to house Mike S, a blonde Italian from LI with perfect math SAT scores and a command of the English language out of the "Godfather" movies, and Wing Wang Wei, a student from Hong Kong, who asked the Honors secretary to give him a more typical American name, and since she was of Irish ancestry, chose "Colin."
So the Fall, 1980 roster for Building 22 was set! In the far bedroom were Mike and Colin (they both subscribed to Playboy magazine, though Colin''s was in Chinese --a fact when discovered caused us all to pee in our pants). In the near bedroom I was to bunk with Rudy.
Organic Chem loomed in the horizon...
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Honors Dorm
And so the Spring, 1980 semester continued. I loved my Humanities classes, and endured my science classes, but felt I had to stay on track. My parents, in their Kings Point condo, WOULD get their dream, the dream of every Jewish parent of the "Greatest Generation" (though that term had not yet been coined --TOm Brokaw was still an unknown) --the ability to introduce me at an early bird dinner as "Our son the doctor."
The self doubts grew. My best friend Eric sailed through Chem exams, and Bio exams. He struggled with "Lit of the Holocaust" while my essays, penned at 3 am after a night of partying, got easy As... The Lit professor, Helen Fagin, was to me an omen. 4 years later, I was to meet my future mother in law, a tiny Polish Jewish woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Fagin...But back to Apartment 22...
So I escaped death or a beat down by the Marks Bros angry weed customers...It was now March, and my HS girlfriend Alison came to stay for a week. Talk about being on track: her folks has identitified me as their future son in law, and treated me like a king. They threw a huge going away party for me after HS graduation, and Alison's mother helped her bake delicious baked goods to send to me at UM...
Alison was sweet and cute and lovely and bright, but I wasn't ready to settle down. Still, there she was, staying at may apartment, and we were fast asleep. There was a knock on my locked bedroom door. It was about 4 am. Mark B stood in the doorway, as Alison looked up, wondering whether we were being attacked... I asked him what the hell he wanted at 4 am He stood there, stoned as ever, and pointed at my window..
"Dave --look. It's raining. Has been all night. You know what that means?" I had no idea.
"SHROOMS!!!! There's a field in Hialeah where they grow. They'll be the size of apples now. I'm afraid I must demand the use of your car to go retrieve them."
I told him he was wasted, and to go to sleep. Then appeared Mark T, who, somewhat less stoned, also insisted, and telling me that I'd have "no peace the rest of the night with my lady" if I didn't turn over the keys. I did.
The next day, they returned around 11, with my car intact, though slightly muddy. They had 2 huge buckets filled with the fungi. Carl the Swimmer came over, and they ate them, along with smoking the weed. Their conversations about Carl's "Nazi roommate" became even more bizarre --they started combining his fake names with those of celebrities...
One afternoon, I came home from class (Alison had stayed and planned to go get sun at the pool) to see her with a look in her eyes I never saw before. She was giggling, and wouldn't stop.
Mark B offered "Dave --I hope it's ok --I got your sweet ladyfriend a little high." Alison was still giggling the next day when I dropped her off at her grandmother's condo in Tamarac...
The colorful and bright characters at Bldg. 22 never waned. I met Jean, a pre law student from Minnesota. She studied English, and kept asking me why I was in pre med, since all I did was complain. Jean ended up graduating, and heading to UCLA Law. I wouldn't see her for nearly 30 years, until a reunion party...She found the fountain of youth. She looked younger and prettier than she did in the early 80s...
Joe Durnell led the Honors Students Assoc meetings with his sardonic wit. At the parties, I hung with him and observed. One meeting, he told me to run for president, as it was a great gig, and the president got to decide who went to the national conference trips, and how the parties would be planned.
I agreed, and ran at the end of the semester. I ran against a fellow from New England named Ed, who was so weird that no one understood his speech, which kept alluding to Dungeons and Dragons.
I won, and came home all excited to tell the Marks Bros, who never attended meetings. By now, Mark B had a Colombian girlfriend, who he met through one of his dealers. She was older, and lived in an apartment in West Dade. He decided to move in with her. Mark T looked crestfallen. Neither cared much about my new position with the Honors Association.
Carl the Swimmer kept visiting, but without Mark B there, something was lost. The 3 Stooges had lost their Moe. Mark T announced he was transferring to Purdue, to try to become a veterinarian. Carl the Swimmer stayed for his junior year. After the semester ended, I'd never hear from Mark T or Carl again...
Mark B would remain in the cast for a bit longer...
The self doubts grew. My best friend Eric sailed through Chem exams, and Bio exams. He struggled with "Lit of the Holocaust" while my essays, penned at 3 am after a night of partying, got easy As... The Lit professor, Helen Fagin, was to me an omen. 4 years later, I was to meet my future mother in law, a tiny Polish Jewish woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Fagin...But back to Apartment 22...
So I escaped death or a beat down by the Marks Bros angry weed customers...It was now March, and my HS girlfriend Alison came to stay for a week. Talk about being on track: her folks has identitified me as their future son in law, and treated me like a king. They threw a huge going away party for me after HS graduation, and Alison's mother helped her bake delicious baked goods to send to me at UM...
Alison was sweet and cute and lovely and bright, but I wasn't ready to settle down. Still, there she was, staying at may apartment, and we were fast asleep. There was a knock on my locked bedroom door. It was about 4 am. Mark B stood in the doorway, as Alison looked up, wondering whether we were being attacked... I asked him what the hell he wanted at 4 am He stood there, stoned as ever, and pointed at my window..
"Dave --look. It's raining. Has been all night. You know what that means?" I had no idea.
"SHROOMS!!!! There's a field in Hialeah where they grow. They'll be the size of apples now. I'm afraid I must demand the use of your car to go retrieve them."
I told him he was wasted, and to go to sleep. Then appeared Mark T, who, somewhat less stoned, also insisted, and telling me that I'd have "no peace the rest of the night with my lady" if I didn't turn over the keys. I did.
The next day, they returned around 11, with my car intact, though slightly muddy. They had 2 huge buckets filled with the fungi. Carl the Swimmer came over, and they ate them, along with smoking the weed. Their conversations about Carl's "Nazi roommate" became even more bizarre --they started combining his fake names with those of celebrities...
One afternoon, I came home from class (Alison had stayed and planned to go get sun at the pool) to see her with a look in her eyes I never saw before. She was giggling, and wouldn't stop.
Mark B offered "Dave --I hope it's ok --I got your sweet ladyfriend a little high." Alison was still giggling the next day when I dropped her off at her grandmother's condo in Tamarac...
The colorful and bright characters at Bldg. 22 never waned. I met Jean, a pre law student from Minnesota. She studied English, and kept asking me why I was in pre med, since all I did was complain. Jean ended up graduating, and heading to UCLA Law. I wouldn't see her for nearly 30 years, until a reunion party...She found the fountain of youth. She looked younger and prettier than she did in the early 80s...
Joe Durnell led the Honors Students Assoc meetings with his sardonic wit. At the parties, I hung with him and observed. One meeting, he told me to run for president, as it was a great gig, and the president got to decide who went to the national conference trips, and how the parties would be planned.
I agreed, and ran at the end of the semester. I ran against a fellow from New England named Ed, who was so weird that no one understood his speech, which kept alluding to Dungeons and Dragons.
I won, and came home all excited to tell the Marks Bros, who never attended meetings. By now, Mark B had a Colombian girlfriend, who he met through one of his dealers. She was older, and lived in an apartment in West Dade. He decided to move in with her. Mark T looked crestfallen. Neither cared much about my new position with the Honors Association.
Carl the Swimmer kept visiting, but without Mark B there, something was lost. The 3 Stooges had lost their Moe. Mark T announced he was transferring to Purdue, to try to become a veterinarian. Carl the Swimmer stayed for his junior year. After the semester ended, I'd never hear from Mark T or Carl again...
Mark B would remain in the cast for a bit longer...
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Why Stuff is Better
Wifey ran into an old college friend the other day. She hadn't spoken to her in years, though at one point they spent a lot of time together. She had become an antiques collector.
Wifey asked about her family. The woman had a son, soon after college, and he's now over 30. He had become troubled, and separated himself from the friend. She said she rarely spoke to him, and had "accepted that." But then she said something that took Wifey aback: "To tell you the truth, I get more joy from my antiques. I spend hours around them each day, and they give me such happiness. I imagine the stories that surround each piece --many came from very rich families. They never let me down."
I thought about this lady, and I get her point. People are messy. They DO let you down. They break your heart. There's surely a logic to walling yourself away from them, certainly at the level of deep feelings...
At the same time, my sister in California is going through another crisis with her son, a young man nearly 29 who brings her much worry and sadness. Just when my nephew's life seems on the upswing, he finds a way to fall again --breaking his mother's heart more each time.
My heart breaks for my sister. No matter what --she's his mother, and will never have him out of her soul. She does all she can to help him, and, after many years, it takes a terrible toll. But there's no choice for her. It's who she is. She's a mother.
My sister has no capacity to wall herself off from her son, emotionally. Wifey and I are the same. We're so blessed that the Ds have been on a positive journey, but at the unpleasant bumps, we're there. I can't conceive of anything happening that would change that. As Wifey says "Always loved them, always will."
Meanwhile, all I can do is hope my nephew finds his way. He's still so young, and has so much to give. More, though, I wish him stability and peace to bring that to my sister, who has suffered so long with him.
Back at Wifey's meeting: her old friend looked at her watch, and said she had to run. A maintainence crew was due at her warehouse to do some work, and the lady had to make sure they didn't break anything, or worse, steal anything. "If I lost a favorite piece," she told Wifey, "it'd break my heart."
To her, the stuff is precious, more than people...
Wifey asked about her family. The woman had a son, soon after college, and he's now over 30. He had become troubled, and separated himself from the friend. She said she rarely spoke to him, and had "accepted that." But then she said something that took Wifey aback: "To tell you the truth, I get more joy from my antiques. I spend hours around them each day, and they give me such happiness. I imagine the stories that surround each piece --many came from very rich families. They never let me down."
I thought about this lady, and I get her point. People are messy. They DO let you down. They break your heart. There's surely a logic to walling yourself away from them, certainly at the level of deep feelings...
At the same time, my sister in California is going through another crisis with her son, a young man nearly 29 who brings her much worry and sadness. Just when my nephew's life seems on the upswing, he finds a way to fall again --breaking his mother's heart more each time.
My heart breaks for my sister. No matter what --she's his mother, and will never have him out of her soul. She does all she can to help him, and, after many years, it takes a terrible toll. But there's no choice for her. It's who she is. She's a mother.
My sister has no capacity to wall herself off from her son, emotionally. Wifey and I are the same. We're so blessed that the Ds have been on a positive journey, but at the unpleasant bumps, we're there. I can't conceive of anything happening that would change that. As Wifey says "Always loved them, always will."
Meanwhile, all I can do is hope my nephew finds his way. He's still so young, and has so much to give. More, though, I wish him stability and peace to bring that to my sister, who has suffered so long with him.
Back at Wifey's meeting: her old friend looked at her watch, and said she had to run. A maintainence crew was due at her warehouse to do some work, and the lady had to make sure they didn't break anything, or worse, steal anything. "If I lost a favorite piece," she told Wifey, "it'd break my heart."
To her, the stuff is precious, more than people...
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Honors Dorm
The Marks Brothers were in their usual state of repose, in the living room. I guess at this point I should give a layout of apartment Z, a place I'd come to know like Joyce knew Dublin...
The building itself was white and ugly. It consisted of 26 apartments, and was 3 stories. There were no elevators. There was a back yard of mostly dirt and gravel and patches of grass, named, of course, "The Outback." Even Honors students at UM worshipped the sun, and the girls would set up towels there (especially Christine, the best endowed, who would move there the following year, and whose bosom would be responsible for the beginning of a friendship that's lasted over 30 years --more on that later).
The guys would toss footballs and baseballs and frisbees there, and I ended up breaking 2 first floor apartment windows over my 3.5 years there, with errant throws...
The apartment itself had a dining area on the left when you walked in, with a pressed board table covered with peeling formica strips. On the right was a naugahyde couch and chair, and the Marks Brothers' amazing stereo, on plywood shelves and cinder blocks --a look I would copy for years after I left 22, in my first off campus apartments.
There was a kitchen off the hall, and then 2 bedrooms, each with 2 beds, and a single bathroom on the left. Continuing down the narrow hallway, there was another door that opened into an interior stairwell, and the next apartment, which always housed girls, during my tenure. A knock at the back door was always a positive thing...
The Marks Brothers shared the first bedroom, and I ended up alone in the second one. The deal was that you had to take an Honors course to stay in the dorm, and someone (probably a grade hungry pre med student) had dropped one, so I ended up, a second semester freshman, that Spring of 1980, with my own bedroom.
Building 21, the next door identical structure, served as the dorm for the swimming and diving team, and the Marks Bros had befriended Carl, a 6'4" blond adonis swimmer from rural Michigan. Carl fit right in with my roommates, and was ALWAYS in 22, since his own roommate, a "real Nazi" with the name of Vanderdyke, hated Carl, and the fact that Carl was a complete pothead.
The MArks Bros and Carl would smoke prodigiously each afternoon (again, Pink Floyd's "The Wall" played over and over) and make up comical mocking names about Vanderdyke, each one longer and more absurd, fueled by the cannabis. I remember one Carl came up with: "Dudes --let's call him Zin-Van-Dyke-a Sluice-Von Tropolis!" This never failed to lead to raucous laughter among the 3, and I, trying to make sense of Inorganic Chem on the dining room table, laughed along, too.
The other thing I remember about Carl is that he always walked around with a baseball bat, a size 34 "Al Kaline" model. Carl was a huge Detroit Tigers fan. I asked him about it. "Dave --it's a dangerous world out there. A man has to protect himself from all types of evil. If attacked, I can 'Al-kaline' the aggressor. He pronounced his new verb like the opposite of acidic. I LOVED the verb. Al-kaline-ing someone...
In those days, the Swimmer/Diver's Dorm had a budding celebrity living there --Greg Louganis, who would go on to become an Olympic champion and openly gay celebrity. He came by with Carl a few times, and, when he left, Carl commented "Great athlete, but I think he likes boys. I'm cool with that, as long as he doesn't appear at my bed some night. If he does, I'll have to Al-kaline him..."
Ah, the Marks Bros. Mark T was a pre-vet student. He transferred after his sophomore year back to college in Indiana. I wonder if he made it to Vet School. MArk B and I became closer.
The Marks Bros joined the Zion Coptic Church, a group of hippies on Miami Beach who claimed weed was a sacrament. They joined to, that's right --smoke more weed. They also brought some strange girls they had met back to 22. They also started dealing some weed.
One night, I was asleep, and Mark B woke me. He had a full pillowcase full of "Jamaican sensimilla" he had received at the Coptic Church. "Dave --I'm just going to place this in the empty closet. Some angry Dudes are coming over --MArk and I have a conflict with him. They're a little rough. But don't worry --they'll never look in YOUR room."
I sat bold upright in bed, thinking about my father's reaction when he learned I was either arrested by the police for drug sales, or was an innocent bystander killed in a drug deal gone bad. This was 1980 Miami, and the drug murders were just starting to become routine...
I heard a door open, some yelling, and then the door slammed shut. It was 3 am. Mark B reappeared in my room, fetched the pillow case (it must have held 20 lbs) and said "Thanks, Dave. You're righteous!"
I politely asked him to never do that again, and, for the rest of the semester, he and Mark T complied.
But neither one had a car, and, one MArch night, as I slept with my visiting HS girlfriend, appeared again at my door with another strange request...
The building itself was white and ugly. It consisted of 26 apartments, and was 3 stories. There were no elevators. There was a back yard of mostly dirt and gravel and patches of grass, named, of course, "The Outback." Even Honors students at UM worshipped the sun, and the girls would set up towels there (especially Christine, the best endowed, who would move there the following year, and whose bosom would be responsible for the beginning of a friendship that's lasted over 30 years --more on that later).
The guys would toss footballs and baseballs and frisbees there, and I ended up breaking 2 first floor apartment windows over my 3.5 years there, with errant throws...
The apartment itself had a dining area on the left when you walked in, with a pressed board table covered with peeling formica strips. On the right was a naugahyde couch and chair, and the Marks Brothers' amazing stereo, on plywood shelves and cinder blocks --a look I would copy for years after I left 22, in my first off campus apartments.
There was a kitchen off the hall, and then 2 bedrooms, each with 2 beds, and a single bathroom on the left. Continuing down the narrow hallway, there was another door that opened into an interior stairwell, and the next apartment, which always housed girls, during my tenure. A knock at the back door was always a positive thing...
The Marks Brothers shared the first bedroom, and I ended up alone in the second one. The deal was that you had to take an Honors course to stay in the dorm, and someone (probably a grade hungry pre med student) had dropped one, so I ended up, a second semester freshman, that Spring of 1980, with my own bedroom.
Building 21, the next door identical structure, served as the dorm for the swimming and diving team, and the Marks Bros had befriended Carl, a 6'4" blond adonis swimmer from rural Michigan. Carl fit right in with my roommates, and was ALWAYS in 22, since his own roommate, a "real Nazi" with the name of Vanderdyke, hated Carl, and the fact that Carl was a complete pothead.
The MArks Bros and Carl would smoke prodigiously each afternoon (again, Pink Floyd's "The Wall" played over and over) and make up comical mocking names about Vanderdyke, each one longer and more absurd, fueled by the cannabis. I remember one Carl came up with: "Dudes --let's call him Zin-Van-Dyke-a Sluice-Von Tropolis!" This never failed to lead to raucous laughter among the 3, and I, trying to make sense of Inorganic Chem on the dining room table, laughed along, too.
The other thing I remember about Carl is that he always walked around with a baseball bat, a size 34 "Al Kaline" model. Carl was a huge Detroit Tigers fan. I asked him about it. "Dave --it's a dangerous world out there. A man has to protect himself from all types of evil. If attacked, I can 'Al-kaline' the aggressor. He pronounced his new verb like the opposite of acidic. I LOVED the verb. Al-kaline-ing someone...
In those days, the Swimmer/Diver's Dorm had a budding celebrity living there --Greg Louganis, who would go on to become an Olympic champion and openly gay celebrity. He came by with Carl a few times, and, when he left, Carl commented "Great athlete, but I think he likes boys. I'm cool with that, as long as he doesn't appear at my bed some night. If he does, I'll have to Al-kaline him..."
Ah, the Marks Bros. Mark T was a pre-vet student. He transferred after his sophomore year back to college in Indiana. I wonder if he made it to Vet School. MArk B and I became closer.
The Marks Bros joined the Zion Coptic Church, a group of hippies on Miami Beach who claimed weed was a sacrament. They joined to, that's right --smoke more weed. They also brought some strange girls they had met back to 22. They also started dealing some weed.
One night, I was asleep, and Mark B woke me. He had a full pillowcase full of "Jamaican sensimilla" he had received at the Coptic Church. "Dave --I'm just going to place this in the empty closet. Some angry Dudes are coming over --MArk and I have a conflict with him. They're a little rough. But don't worry --they'll never look in YOUR room."
I sat bold upright in bed, thinking about my father's reaction when he learned I was either arrested by the police for drug sales, or was an innocent bystander killed in a drug deal gone bad. This was 1980 Miami, and the drug murders were just starting to become routine...
I heard a door open, some yelling, and then the door slammed shut. It was 3 am. Mark B reappeared in my room, fetched the pillow case (it must have held 20 lbs) and said "Thanks, Dave. You're righteous!"
I politely asked him to never do that again, and, for the rest of the semester, he and Mark T complied.
But neither one had a car, and, one MArch night, as I slept with my visiting HS girlfriend, appeared again at my door with another strange request...
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Honors Dorm
So I went to my first HSA (Honors Students Association) meeting, and met the President, Joe Durnell. Joe was a Midwesterner and he led the meeting with a dry, sardonic wit. Also, he wasn't a good looking guy, but a bunch of pretty coeds seemed to hang around him. I introduced myself after the meeting, and told him I wanted to get involved in the club.
Although I grew up on LI, I always found NY accents grating, particularly the ones of my peer group. Years ago, Wifey and I found an old cassette recording of my buddies and I sitting around my room, chatting. We sounded like we were in a movie --the LI accents so thick.
Joe didn't speak that way. He had elocution. He didn't drop his rs, or turn his "yous" into "yas." I decided there and then that I'd change my pronunciation and delivery. I was 18 and now that the boy was out of Long Island, I was going to take some of the Long Island out of the boy. I wanted to sound like Joe Durnell.
Joe hosted a party at his apartment at the HD. Although he and his roommates were juniors, to me they were grown men. One was Dave, a large, Jimmy Buffett look alike from North Florida. He wore Hawaian shirts and ALWAYS had a drink in his hand. Another roommate was Mike, also a Midwesterner. Mike had a beard, was a music engineering major, and wrote a wine review article for the UM paper, "Mike's Mondo Vino." These were wordly men. I wanted to be like them.
The Honors Students at UM those days were truly a talented bunch. Most were attracted there by scholarships, or by the world class Marine Science program. They were students who could have gone to the likes of Duke, or even lesser Ivy League schools (in those days, Penn was pretty easy to get into. No one wanted to go to the crappy Philly neighborhood. I laugh, now, to hear that Penn marketed themselves so well, it's a "hot school.").
Looking back, the talent level was high. One friend of Joe and his roommates was Tom Kodadek. Tom was a Marine Bio major, who went on to get a doctorate at Stanford, I think. Last week, he was in the news as the discoverer of a new test to detect Alzheimer's Disease.
The party was great. Joe and his roommates had a killer stereo, and blasted Ramones songs. Everyone seemed to know a dance to "Sheena is a Punk Rocker." Dave kept slipping Jimmy Buffet songs onto the record player. Late in the night, someone had a guitar, and all sang along to Neil Young's "Rust Never Sleeps."
We were all young Baby Boomers. Jimmy Carter had just been voted out, and Reagan was the new sheriff. The Vietnam War had ended 4 years before. We were required to register for the Draft, but no one was concerned he'd have to really serve, unless he joined the military to pay for tuition. The hostages had been released by Iran.
I met an Israeli girl, Dalit, at the party. We talked about Reagan. I told her I had voted for John Anderson, that Reagan was a reactionary. Dalit told me I had it all wrong, that under Carter, America had become a laughing stock. It used to be that an American passport brought awe to someone seeing it, she said. That would return with Reagan. Wow, I thought --a Jewish Republican! I had never met one. I had so much to learn...
I hung with Joe, and over the coming weeks, he adopted me as a protege. I haven't spoken to him in nearly 30 years, and I still owe him a debt of gratitude. He included me in meetings, and then gave me a great gift. He selected me to go to Atlanta, to a NCHC convention. The NCHC was a national group of Honors PRograms.
Joe picked another freshman, Janet, who he was dating. The three of us had a blast in Atlanta, a place I'd never been. I remember a pub near Emory (the host school) named Manuels. Joe was on national committees, and I admired how he handled himself. Coming from Miami, a university not known, in 1979, for academics, we were a curiosity. I remember one young lady from LSU, a gorgeous blonde southern belle, asking me if I studied underwater basketweaving. I decided I did NOT want to copy a southern accent --they all reminded me of Gomer Pyle. But the LSU girl was extremely hot.
Joe hung with Janet, and I palled around with the LSU girl. I felt like Joe's little brother. He knew Atlanta well, from childhood visits, and led us up the elevators of the PeachTree Hotel. We were real grown ups...
Back in Coral Gables, there were more parties at he HD. I hung there every week. I met two fellows who lived in apartment Z. They were both names Mark, and so became known as the "Marks Brothers/" They were also known as Cheech and Chong for their prodigious marijuana use. Mark T was from New Castle, Indiana, and wanted to become a vet. Mark B was from Cincinnatti, and was pre med. Both spoke like surfers. Years later, when I saw Sean Penn playing Jeff Spicoli, I was convinced he took the character from the Marks Brothers.
"Dave, DUDE! You need to smoke more, especially when you fly in an airplane. It's always a good idea to be a little higher than the contraption you're flying in."
The Marks Brothers other 2 roommates were nerdy guys, who rumor had it were gay.
Depite his drug use, Mark B somehow got into med school in Ohio (after his father took care of a possession charge) and became a leading radiologist at a nationally known medical center. Mark T --whereabouts unknown.
Meanwhile, I was living in the Towers, with a nice fellow named Ahmjed, from Karachi, Pakistan. We taught each other about Islam and the Secular Humanist form of Reform Judaism I knew. Ahmhjed was a nice fellow, but he never wanted to drink or chase coeds...
In January, when my Spring semester started, I got a call from Barbara Clark, the Honors Program's administrator. There was an opening in the HD! Barbara, sort of the mother of the program, knew all that went on. "I'm not sure you want to move, Dave. The opening is in Apartment Z --with the Marks Brothers."
I accepted, packed up my 2 suitcases, said goodbye to Ahmjed, who took the news graciously (he did everything graciously) and walked across campus . Z was on the third floor. I opened the door, and, just like a Cheech and Chong movie, a cloud of week smoke came out.
Mark and Mark were on the brown naugehide sofa, totally stoned. It was 10 am on a weekday. Pink Floys's "The Wall" was blasting. Over the rest of the semester, they played "The Wall", no kidding, hundreds of times.
"Hey, you're the nice Jewish Dude from NY, right?. Joe Durnell's buddy? Well, welcome, young Dude."
I was home.
Although I grew up on LI, I always found NY accents grating, particularly the ones of my peer group. Years ago, Wifey and I found an old cassette recording of my buddies and I sitting around my room, chatting. We sounded like we were in a movie --the LI accents so thick.
Joe didn't speak that way. He had elocution. He didn't drop his rs, or turn his "yous" into "yas." I decided there and then that I'd change my pronunciation and delivery. I was 18 and now that the boy was out of Long Island, I was going to take some of the Long Island out of the boy. I wanted to sound like Joe Durnell.
Joe hosted a party at his apartment at the HD. Although he and his roommates were juniors, to me they were grown men. One was Dave, a large, Jimmy Buffett look alike from North Florida. He wore Hawaian shirts and ALWAYS had a drink in his hand. Another roommate was Mike, also a Midwesterner. Mike had a beard, was a music engineering major, and wrote a wine review article for the UM paper, "Mike's Mondo Vino." These were wordly men. I wanted to be like them.
The Honors Students at UM those days were truly a talented bunch. Most were attracted there by scholarships, or by the world class Marine Science program. They were students who could have gone to the likes of Duke, or even lesser Ivy League schools (in those days, Penn was pretty easy to get into. No one wanted to go to the crappy Philly neighborhood. I laugh, now, to hear that Penn marketed themselves so well, it's a "hot school.").
Looking back, the talent level was high. One friend of Joe and his roommates was Tom Kodadek. Tom was a Marine Bio major, who went on to get a doctorate at Stanford, I think. Last week, he was in the news as the discoverer of a new test to detect Alzheimer's Disease.
The party was great. Joe and his roommates had a killer stereo, and blasted Ramones songs. Everyone seemed to know a dance to "Sheena is a Punk Rocker." Dave kept slipping Jimmy Buffet songs onto the record player. Late in the night, someone had a guitar, and all sang along to Neil Young's "Rust Never Sleeps."
We were all young Baby Boomers. Jimmy Carter had just been voted out, and Reagan was the new sheriff. The Vietnam War had ended 4 years before. We were required to register for the Draft, but no one was concerned he'd have to really serve, unless he joined the military to pay for tuition. The hostages had been released by Iran.
I met an Israeli girl, Dalit, at the party. We talked about Reagan. I told her I had voted for John Anderson, that Reagan was a reactionary. Dalit told me I had it all wrong, that under Carter, America had become a laughing stock. It used to be that an American passport brought awe to someone seeing it, she said. That would return with Reagan. Wow, I thought --a Jewish Republican! I had never met one. I had so much to learn...
I hung with Joe, and over the coming weeks, he adopted me as a protege. I haven't spoken to him in nearly 30 years, and I still owe him a debt of gratitude. He included me in meetings, and then gave me a great gift. He selected me to go to Atlanta, to a NCHC convention. The NCHC was a national group of Honors PRograms.
Joe picked another freshman, Janet, who he was dating. The three of us had a blast in Atlanta, a place I'd never been. I remember a pub near Emory (the host school) named Manuels. Joe was on national committees, and I admired how he handled himself. Coming from Miami, a university not known, in 1979, for academics, we were a curiosity. I remember one young lady from LSU, a gorgeous blonde southern belle, asking me if I studied underwater basketweaving. I decided I did NOT want to copy a southern accent --they all reminded me of Gomer Pyle. But the LSU girl was extremely hot.
Joe hung with Janet, and I palled around with the LSU girl. I felt like Joe's little brother. He knew Atlanta well, from childhood visits, and led us up the elevators of the PeachTree Hotel. We were real grown ups...
Back in Coral Gables, there were more parties at he HD. I hung there every week. I met two fellows who lived in apartment Z. They were both names Mark, and so became known as the "Marks Brothers/" They were also known as Cheech and Chong for their prodigious marijuana use. Mark T was from New Castle, Indiana, and wanted to become a vet. Mark B was from Cincinnatti, and was pre med. Both spoke like surfers. Years later, when I saw Sean Penn playing Jeff Spicoli, I was convinced he took the character from the Marks Brothers.
"Dave, DUDE! You need to smoke more, especially when you fly in an airplane. It's always a good idea to be a little higher than the contraption you're flying in."
The Marks Brothers other 2 roommates were nerdy guys, who rumor had it were gay.
Depite his drug use, Mark B somehow got into med school in Ohio (after his father took care of a possession charge) and became a leading radiologist at a nationally known medical center. Mark T --whereabouts unknown.
Meanwhile, I was living in the Towers, with a nice fellow named Ahmjed, from Karachi, Pakistan. We taught each other about Islam and the Secular Humanist form of Reform Judaism I knew. Ahmhjed was a nice fellow, but he never wanted to drink or chase coeds...
In January, when my Spring semester started, I got a call from Barbara Clark, the Honors Program's administrator. There was an opening in the HD! Barbara, sort of the mother of the program, knew all that went on. "I'm not sure you want to move, Dave. The opening is in Apartment Z --with the Marks Brothers."
I accepted, packed up my 2 suitcases, said goodbye to Ahmjed, who took the news graciously (he did everything graciously) and walked across campus . Z was on the third floor. I opened the door, and, just like a Cheech and Chong movie, a cloud of week smoke came out.
Mark and Mark were on the brown naugehide sofa, totally stoned. It was 10 am on a weekday. Pink Floys's "The Wall" was blasting. Over the rest of the semester, they played "The Wall", no kidding, hundreds of times.
"Hey, you're the nice Jewish Dude from NY, right?. Joe Durnell's buddy? Well, welcome, young Dude."
I was home.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Honors Dorm
So Wifey thinks I should write a book. Today, in the shower, the idea of its subject came to me. But, since I'm too lazy and undiscliplined, I'm going to write it in installments. Sort of like Dickens did, but without his talent.
Today is the first one. I'll go back to it from time to time. It's called "The Honors Dorm."
A confederation of events has compelled me to write. First, more than any place I lived, my old apartment at U Miami was significant to me in my formative years. And, as I visited yesterday and confirmed --it no longer exists. The old concrete and block three story building, built after WW II, is just a pile of rubble. Actually, not even that --they've cleared the rubble to a smooth, graded, ready to build empty lot.
Third, my youngest, D2, is precisely the age I was when I moved into the HD. She's a second semester freshman in college, as I was in January 1980. I gow older and don't know how long my memory will be relatively solid.
So I begin today.
Chapter One: What Brought Me There? I was a pretty good student at MacArthur High in Levittown, LI. As my friend Ken's wife Joelle points out, being good at MacArthur, the working class capital of LI, where most of the kids were children of NYC cops, firemen, salesmen, and factory guys, was like being tall among midgets. Yes, Joelle, who went to Stuyvesant High in the City, and then to Ivy League colleges, is an educational snob. She's also right.
Meanwhile, my mother had decided that the family should move to Florida. She was 58 and my father was 59. He had a profit share pension coming to him with a value of about $250K. My folks had other savings, and the prospect of Social Security beginning when my Dad turned 62. They figured the money they got from our split level on the 1/6 acre lot would pay for a Florida condo. And then came the Winter of '77.
It was very cold, and snowed a lot. My mother rarely left the house. She told my father the HAD to move. Coming from a long line of Jewish husbands, he knew that if mama ain't happy, ain't no one in the house happy. He agreed, especially after my mother went to visit HER mother in Miami Beach to move her to a nursing home, and came home to show my father a contract she signed to buy a condo in Delray Beach.
My mother had NEVER done something like that before. My Dad knew she meant business...
So, my father set about trying to get me to apply to U Miami. Ha! No way. I was going to go to Stony Brook, or Hofstra, or one of the other SUNY schools. Miami was "SunTan U," and I wasn't going there.
Then, my father met a young doctor, the son of one of hus customers, and the fellow had received his undergraduate training at UM, in the Honors Program, and raved about it. I listened, a little. And then I applied.
And then came the scholarship offer. Since I was in the top 10% of my class, and had a 1200 SAT, they offered me a "Presidential Scholarship," which covered 1/2 tuition. In 1979, that was worth $1200 per year! More importantly, my 17 year old ego was stroked. Even though I never visited, I committed to go to UM, and join the entering Honors Program in the Fall of 1979.
When I arrived, though, the Honors Dorm, Building 22, was full. I was placed on a waiting list.
But I joined the Honors Students Association (HSA) and met my life's first mentor, other than my father. I met Joe Durnell.
Today is the first one. I'll go back to it from time to time. It's called "The Honors Dorm."
A confederation of events has compelled me to write. First, more than any place I lived, my old apartment at U Miami was significant to me in my formative years. And, as I visited yesterday and confirmed --it no longer exists. The old concrete and block three story building, built after WW II, is just a pile of rubble. Actually, not even that --they've cleared the rubble to a smooth, graded, ready to build empty lot.
Third, my youngest, D2, is precisely the age I was when I moved into the HD. She's a second semester freshman in college, as I was in January 1980. I gow older and don't know how long my memory will be relatively solid.
So I begin today.
Chapter One: What Brought Me There? I was a pretty good student at MacArthur High in Levittown, LI. As my friend Ken's wife Joelle points out, being good at MacArthur, the working class capital of LI, where most of the kids were children of NYC cops, firemen, salesmen, and factory guys, was like being tall among midgets. Yes, Joelle, who went to Stuyvesant High in the City, and then to Ivy League colleges, is an educational snob. She's also right.
Meanwhile, my mother had decided that the family should move to Florida. She was 58 and my father was 59. He had a profit share pension coming to him with a value of about $250K. My folks had other savings, and the prospect of Social Security beginning when my Dad turned 62. They figured the money they got from our split level on the 1/6 acre lot would pay for a Florida condo. And then came the Winter of '77.
It was very cold, and snowed a lot. My mother rarely left the house. She told my father the HAD to move. Coming from a long line of Jewish husbands, he knew that if mama ain't happy, ain't no one in the house happy. He agreed, especially after my mother went to visit HER mother in Miami Beach to move her to a nursing home, and came home to show my father a contract she signed to buy a condo in Delray Beach.
My mother had NEVER done something like that before. My Dad knew she meant business...
So, my father set about trying to get me to apply to U Miami. Ha! No way. I was going to go to Stony Brook, or Hofstra, or one of the other SUNY schools. Miami was "SunTan U," and I wasn't going there.
Then, my father met a young doctor, the son of one of hus customers, and the fellow had received his undergraduate training at UM, in the Honors Program, and raved about it. I listened, a little. And then I applied.
And then came the scholarship offer. Since I was in the top 10% of my class, and had a 1200 SAT, they offered me a "Presidential Scholarship," which covered 1/2 tuition. In 1979, that was worth $1200 per year! More importantly, my 17 year old ego was stroked. Even though I never visited, I committed to go to UM, and join the entering Honors Program in the Fall of 1979.
When I arrived, though, the Honors Dorm, Building 22, was full. I was placed on a waiting list.
But I joined the Honors Students Association (HSA) and met my life's first mentor, other than my father. I met Joe Durnell.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Long Way Home
So Thursday evening, I was pulling out of my office garage, and my loyal friend and former secretary Mirta called, to tell me about a major traffic tie up on US 1. Typically, I'd then switch to Bayshore Drive through the Grove, but I decided to head West instead.
I took the long way home.
Once you pass the I-95 overpass, you're in Little Havana. That's a misnomer now, as Little Havana isn't very Cuban anymore. Most of the residents are from Central or South America.
Some of the old houses, circa 1920s and 30s, are well preserved. I wondered who lived in them. Many of the structures, though, are ugly concrete 2 story apartment buildings, with "For Rent" signs and "No Parking" signs the only adornments.
It was a cool night, and I had my windows and sun roof opened, so I heard conversations as people walked home. I heard ZERO English. It's funny, and one of the things I love about Miami --you really can travel to a foreign country by just driving a few blocks away from your usual "American" neighborhoods.
As I continued West on SW 8th Street, also US 41, the neighborhood turned to hundreds of "no tell motels." They were all well lit and seemingly in good repair. I guess there is no shortage of demand for people seeking mini vacations from their spouses...
As if on cue, my XM classic rock station played Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below." I chuckled to myself. People are the same in Detroit as they are in Miami, although Seger's song here would translate to "Fuego Uterino."
I drove North on SW 27th Avenue to Flagler, and passed Miami High. They're building an enormous extension to the old building, it looks like. I was only inside once, when my 1L "Equity Playhouse" used the old theatre there for their show lampooning the professors. I remember the gorgeous old space. I hope they preserve it...
I continued West, and the traffic tie ups there took me through formerly Jewish neighborhoods which are now COMPLETELY Latin. Some old delis I recall from my first days in Miami 32 years ago are now serving only lechon...
I made my way to the Palmetto, and then south, towards our little pocket of gringo-hood.
The Herald reported last week that, according to the latest census, Broward is becoming exactly like Miami Dade, demographically. I saw it myself at Dr. Barry's boy Josh's holiday show --my rough estimate of his middle school, in Pembroke Pines, was that it was more than 50% Latin families.
I happen to think this is cool. My Levittown, LI upbringing was so limited. All my friends were Irish, Italian, or Jews. "White Ethnic NY" as the demographers call it. I didn't meet a black person until my freshman college year, and the only Spanish speaking kid I met was a Puerto Rican foster child named Ralph Ramirez. He had a big afro...
In South Florida, there's more variety. And as much as I love a good pastrami sandwich, sometimes the lechon is tastier...
I took the long way home.
Once you pass the I-95 overpass, you're in Little Havana. That's a misnomer now, as Little Havana isn't very Cuban anymore. Most of the residents are from Central or South America.
Some of the old houses, circa 1920s and 30s, are well preserved. I wondered who lived in them. Many of the structures, though, are ugly concrete 2 story apartment buildings, with "For Rent" signs and "No Parking" signs the only adornments.
It was a cool night, and I had my windows and sun roof opened, so I heard conversations as people walked home. I heard ZERO English. It's funny, and one of the things I love about Miami --you really can travel to a foreign country by just driving a few blocks away from your usual "American" neighborhoods.
As I continued West on SW 8th Street, also US 41, the neighborhood turned to hundreds of "no tell motels." They were all well lit and seemingly in good repair. I guess there is no shortage of demand for people seeking mini vacations from their spouses...
As if on cue, my XM classic rock station played Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below." I chuckled to myself. People are the same in Detroit as they are in Miami, although Seger's song here would translate to "Fuego Uterino."
I drove North on SW 27th Avenue to Flagler, and passed Miami High. They're building an enormous extension to the old building, it looks like. I was only inside once, when my 1L "Equity Playhouse" used the old theatre there for their show lampooning the professors. I remember the gorgeous old space. I hope they preserve it...
I continued West, and the traffic tie ups there took me through formerly Jewish neighborhoods which are now COMPLETELY Latin. Some old delis I recall from my first days in Miami 32 years ago are now serving only lechon...
I made my way to the Palmetto, and then south, towards our little pocket of gringo-hood.
The Herald reported last week that, according to the latest census, Broward is becoming exactly like Miami Dade, demographically. I saw it myself at Dr. Barry's boy Josh's holiday show --my rough estimate of his middle school, in Pembroke Pines, was that it was more than 50% Latin families.
I happen to think this is cool. My Levittown, LI upbringing was so limited. All my friends were Irish, Italian, or Jews. "White Ethnic NY" as the demographers call it. I didn't meet a black person until my freshman college year, and the only Spanish speaking kid I met was a Puerto Rican foster child named Ralph Ramirez. He had a big afro...
In South Florida, there's more variety. And as much as I love a good pastrami sandwich, sometimes the lechon is tastier...
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Persecution
Oh, the PI business. It's provided a wonderful living for my family, but the more I really look into cases and what they mean (particularly medical malpractice ones), the more I think the Republicans are right about tort reform...
Yesterday I attended the deposition of Dr. Barry's chief accuser, a nebbish academic doctor up in North Carolina.
Dr. Barry handled a case 5 years ago, last Christmas. A ghetto Mom in Lauderdale spilled boiling water on her baby, and took the baby to a Broward hospital. The staff at the Broward hospital gave poor care, as many Broward hospitals are wont to do. They inserted a line into the child's vein, and turfed the kid to Barry's hospital.
Probably from the bad line insertion, the child developed an infection and a weird vessell disorder. Barry asked a surgeon to look at the boy's leg. The surgeon said it would be fine. That was all Barry was required to do. It would have killed the child, quite literally.
Barry, relying on his years of experience (he once told me a kid playing video games never gets to stay in the ICU) knew something wasn't right. So he asked for a different surgeon to evaluate the child. This one knew if he didn't operate, the vessel in the child's leg would burst, and the toddler would become one less inner city denizen of Fort Lauderdale...
The surgery was done, and the life was saved, thanks to Dr. Barry. So the mother dropped to her knees, praised Jesus (it never gets old when my Black clients do this) and then hugged Barry, to thank him for saving the life of the child HER neglect nearly killed.
Ha! Not so fast! She hired a Black Muslim lawyer from a firm in West Palm (the guy's voice is an exact copy of the Johnny Cochran character from "Seinfeld") and sued everyone who saw the boy. The Broward hospital and its doctors already settled for a moderate sum.
And so the case continues. Dr. Barry will win at trial, I believe, although the counsel his employer hired is a heavyweight only literally, not as a lawyer. (Why are my friends and I so juvenile and cruel that fat girl jokes never get old?).
The case will probably settle, although Dr. Barry was already through the ringer. The State Health Department selected his case randomly as one to investigate, and Dr. Barry's employer had to hire another lawyer (this one also a little zaftig, but also a legal heavyweight) to get the claim dismissed.
Also, any money Dr. Barry's Department pays to settle will come out of their budget, where it would have been used to pay for, quite literally, more lifesaving equipment for other kids, and maybe even another doctor in the overworked ICU.
Dr. Barry practiced good medicine, not defensive medicine, with this child. Ironically, had he played the case by the defensive medicine book, and only called the one surgeon in, the boy would be gone.
The nebbish expert in North Carolina has already been paid over $15 thousand dollars by the Muslim lawyer. To a back country hack like him, that's serious scratch. Hence, his motivation for testifying against Barry.
I tell the girls all the time that life isn't fair. I'm just thrilled neither of them wants to become a physician...
Yesterday I attended the deposition of Dr. Barry's chief accuser, a nebbish academic doctor up in North Carolina.
Dr. Barry handled a case 5 years ago, last Christmas. A ghetto Mom in Lauderdale spilled boiling water on her baby, and took the baby to a Broward hospital. The staff at the Broward hospital gave poor care, as many Broward hospitals are wont to do. They inserted a line into the child's vein, and turfed the kid to Barry's hospital.
Probably from the bad line insertion, the child developed an infection and a weird vessell disorder. Barry asked a surgeon to look at the boy's leg. The surgeon said it would be fine. That was all Barry was required to do. It would have killed the child, quite literally.
Barry, relying on his years of experience (he once told me a kid playing video games never gets to stay in the ICU) knew something wasn't right. So he asked for a different surgeon to evaluate the child. This one knew if he didn't operate, the vessel in the child's leg would burst, and the toddler would become one less inner city denizen of Fort Lauderdale...
The surgery was done, and the life was saved, thanks to Dr. Barry. So the mother dropped to her knees, praised Jesus (it never gets old when my Black clients do this) and then hugged Barry, to thank him for saving the life of the child HER neglect nearly killed.
Ha! Not so fast! She hired a Black Muslim lawyer from a firm in West Palm (the guy's voice is an exact copy of the Johnny Cochran character from "Seinfeld") and sued everyone who saw the boy. The Broward hospital and its doctors already settled for a moderate sum.
And so the case continues. Dr. Barry will win at trial, I believe, although the counsel his employer hired is a heavyweight only literally, not as a lawyer. (Why are my friends and I so juvenile and cruel that fat girl jokes never get old?).
The case will probably settle, although Dr. Barry was already through the ringer. The State Health Department selected his case randomly as one to investigate, and Dr. Barry's employer had to hire another lawyer (this one also a little zaftig, but also a legal heavyweight) to get the claim dismissed.
Also, any money Dr. Barry's Department pays to settle will come out of their budget, where it would have been used to pay for, quite literally, more lifesaving equipment for other kids, and maybe even another doctor in the overworked ICU.
Dr. Barry practiced good medicine, not defensive medicine, with this child. Ironically, had he played the case by the defensive medicine book, and only called the one surgeon in, the boy would be gone.
The nebbish expert in North Carolina has already been paid over $15 thousand dollars by the Muslim lawyer. To a back country hack like him, that's serious scratch. Hence, his motivation for testifying against Barry.
I tell the girls all the time that life isn't fair. I'm just thrilled neither of them wants to become a physician...
Monday, January 3, 2011
Students Come, Students Go...
Early on in our careers as parents, Wifey and I agreed that we wanted to be the house where our kids always wanted to bring friends. Neither of us was particularly fastidious, and neigher cared that much for the sanctity of our possessions, so it was an easy thing to do.
I'm proud to report we've succeeded. Over the years, we've been privileged to grow close to many of the Ds' friends, and it continues to this day.
D2 has had her friend Ali staying over for the past several nights. Ali is a sweetheart --grew up on LI, and chose to go to college at UF. She and D2 are sorority sisters. Last night we got the chance to talk, and shared our views on a variety of topics over some take out chicken. It was gratifying to me to see the quality of LI kids is still so high.
Even though D1 lives in her own apartment now, our house is still her home base, and we saw several of her friends over the break. Brilliant Hannah, the Stanford senior was here, and she and D1 made plans for D1 to visit her in SF later in January.
Hannah is the kind of brilliant young woman who never shows it. She has a hippie vibe to her, and is pretty taciturn, but then with questioning you find out she has amazingly high grades in tough Stanford classes...
We're so blessed with the Ds, but at the top of the list is their choice of friends. They've always chosen high quality people, and savored their relationships with them.
It's our treat to have these impressive kids visit. Wifey and I love it.
In the anti-blessing department: D2 attended a charity walk/run yesterday, in honor of a friend who was killed in a car crash in Gainesville in October. The event was to raise funds for a scholarship in Andrew Parker's memory, for a Palmetto Bay student headed to UF.
I just read a line in the Mark Twain autobiography my sister Sue bought me that is right on point. Twain was given the news that his beloved 24 year old daughter died of meningitis while he was in Europe. He noted that it was one of the great mysteries of mankind that a parent could be hit by that kind of thunderstrike and still be able to live on.
And so it is for Andrew's folks.
Meanwhile, Wifey and I savor our Ds, and their friends. If a house is happier than when energetic young folks stay in it, laughing and talking and planning --I can't imagine it.
I'm proud to report we've succeeded. Over the years, we've been privileged to grow close to many of the Ds' friends, and it continues to this day.
D2 has had her friend Ali staying over for the past several nights. Ali is a sweetheart --grew up on LI, and chose to go to college at UF. She and D2 are sorority sisters. Last night we got the chance to talk, and shared our views on a variety of topics over some take out chicken. It was gratifying to me to see the quality of LI kids is still so high.
Even though D1 lives in her own apartment now, our house is still her home base, and we saw several of her friends over the break. Brilliant Hannah, the Stanford senior was here, and she and D1 made plans for D1 to visit her in SF later in January.
Hannah is the kind of brilliant young woman who never shows it. She has a hippie vibe to her, and is pretty taciturn, but then with questioning you find out she has amazingly high grades in tough Stanford classes...
We're so blessed with the Ds, but at the top of the list is their choice of friends. They've always chosen high quality people, and savored their relationships with them.
It's our treat to have these impressive kids visit. Wifey and I love it.
In the anti-blessing department: D2 attended a charity walk/run yesterday, in honor of a friend who was killed in a car crash in Gainesville in October. The event was to raise funds for a scholarship in Andrew Parker's memory, for a Palmetto Bay student headed to UF.
I just read a line in the Mark Twain autobiography my sister Sue bought me that is right on point. Twain was given the news that his beloved 24 year old daughter died of meningitis while he was in Europe. He noted that it was one of the great mysteries of mankind that a parent could be hit by that kind of thunderstrike and still be able to live on.
And so it is for Andrew's folks.
Meanwhile, Wifey and I savor our Ds, and their friends. If a house is happier than when energetic young folks stay in it, laughing and talking and planning --I can't imagine it.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Almost 1/4 Century
Tomorrow Wifey and I will celebrate our 24th wedding anniversary. The day will also mark our family's holiday season, which begins with Chanukah (not too big a deal since the Ds have grown), Christmas Day/Wifey's birthday (Chinese food and a movie per Wifey's wishes, and a Xmas party at Arnald and Cathay's) and New Year's Eve (burning question each year for the past few: can Wifey and I stay up until midnight? This year we did, barely).
We decided to get married over Winter break because it made travel plans easier for family and friends to make it to Miami then. Where have the years gone?
Wifey and I wanted a simple luncheon outside as our wedding. We thought about Vizcaya or Matheson Hammock. My mother in law would have none of that. Wifey was the only child of Holocaust Survivors, and Rachel was having a big, Saturday night party. There's really no way to win when a relative plays the Holocaust card, and, the second mortgage my in laws took out to pay for the wedding gave them tremendous value in the guilt department years later when we had a dispute about whether Wifey and I owed them a waterfront condo. But that's another hilarious tale...
So it was to be a Saturday night at a big hotel. We checked several, but couldn't use them. Another thing: my mother in law insisted the meal be kosher. Over 150 guests attended, and precisely one of them kept kosher: my mother in law's brother Alter, from Boro Park. I had never met him, but he was my mother in law's closest relative (the rest had been killed in, that's right, the Holocaust, so the party was directed a certain way.
We picked the Hyatt Downtown, for their kosher kitchen, and the party was planned. After our Rabbi backed out at the last minute, to take a free trip to Israel, we were forced to find a relief rabbi. The original rabbi, who I'll call MArk Kram, since that's his name, lured Wifey and I into his Reform World with platitudes about how important he was going to be in our lives, etc... He bolted for the free trip like the old man first in line at Wolfie's on free rye bread night.
Fortunately, Dr. Eric's Mom Norma found a nice fellow named Lipson, and he acquitted himself nicely. The ceremony was lovely, punctuated by my father in law's clumsiness taking down several flower arrangements as he walked the aisle, and my mother in law grabbing Wifey for the post ceremony first kiss, before I could.
The dinner party was tons of fun. Wifey and I chose the band, Harry Frank and his combo, precisely because they were traditional, Borscht Belt quality. Harry was charming and fun, and they played our song, Sam Cooke's "You Send Me."
A major highlight was our friend Elizabeth's then husband, the rock singer Pat Travers. After 4 or 10 drinks, he took the stage and played some great rock and roll. Wifey's friend Eileen, even drunker, decided to join him, and sang "Lont Tall Sally" while Pat and the band played "Good Lovin'" It made for a memorable performance.
I danced with my mother, and remember thinking how old she was --a fragile old lady of 67. I wouldn't have dreamed she'd still be here, at nearly 91, and now really, really, really old. I'm talking ancient.
Wifey had 4 bridesmaids. She still keeps in touch with 2 of them. He best friend, Edna, couldn't make the trip from Atlanta because she was 9 months pregnant with her second daughter. Edna is still angry we didn't pick a later date...
I had 7 groomsmen. I'm still close with 4 of them: Drs. Eric and Barry, and Mike and Jeff. The other 3 have moved on and away from me.
After the party ended, after midnight, Wifey and I went up to our suite. We opened another bottle of champagne, got undressed, and then got into bed. We then engaged in the traditional first activity of a new husband and wife following a Jewish wedding. We opened the envelopes to see what gifts we received.
My mother's family was amazingly cheap. One aunt, my mother's only surviving sibling, brought several daughters and her husband and gave a check in the amount of $25, as I recall. Wifey's family and her parents' friends were much more generous.
Still, the money was in the thousands, and we decided to pay off one of my law school loans --one that bore a high interest rate.
We left the next day for our honeymoon in Jamaica. It was January, and the prices were high, and we could only afford to stay for 4 nights, as I recall. We had a blast --walking up Dunn's River Falls, taking a lazy boat down the Martha Brae River, where little boys offered speefs the size of footballs for sale, and getting lost in Falmouth in a rental car, where it took me 5 tries to extricate myself from a roundabout, as little Jamaican boys peed themselves watching me.
Wifey and I returned to our new life together, in our 1400 square foot house on SW 125 Terrace, a street with neighbors so quirky that David Lynch could have made a movie about them. Wifey worked for a flower company, selling cut flowers all over the country. I was a one year old lawyer, learning how to defend insurance companies on my $29k/ year salary.
We laughed a lot and were immeasurably happy. We savored our friends. We hosted parties. The Canes won national championships. Life was grand.
Of course, we had no idea what real happiness was, until a year and a half later, when D1 joined the band. We moved to a bigger house, on SW 136 Terrace, with less quirky neighbors (excluding the family of a notorious teenaged pedophile who was in prison, and targeted young girls at his church, and caused me to think we'd have to move before his family fled to the Netherlands following a controversial acquittal).
Then, in 1992, D2 joined the band, in time to live through Hurricane Andrew, and our house being, as D1 said, "misstroyed" around us.
It's funny. Wifey and I helped write our wedding vows, and we borrowed from Bob Dylan, promising to be each other's shelter from the storms of life. We didn't imagine we'd quite literally have to do it.
And so, tomorrow night, Wifey and I and the Ds will gather at Christy's in Coral Gables, to remember and celebrate. Maybe next year, if we're blessed to he around for number 25, we'll have a big party, or take a big trip.
All I know is, it's been a hell of a ride, and, looking back, the best night of my life.
She still sends me...
We decided to get married over Winter break because it made travel plans easier for family and friends to make it to Miami then. Where have the years gone?
Wifey and I wanted a simple luncheon outside as our wedding. We thought about Vizcaya or Matheson Hammock. My mother in law would have none of that. Wifey was the only child of Holocaust Survivors, and Rachel was having a big, Saturday night party. There's really no way to win when a relative plays the Holocaust card, and, the second mortgage my in laws took out to pay for the wedding gave them tremendous value in the guilt department years later when we had a dispute about whether Wifey and I owed them a waterfront condo. But that's another hilarious tale...
So it was to be a Saturday night at a big hotel. We checked several, but couldn't use them. Another thing: my mother in law insisted the meal be kosher. Over 150 guests attended, and precisely one of them kept kosher: my mother in law's brother Alter, from Boro Park. I had never met him, but he was my mother in law's closest relative (the rest had been killed in, that's right, the Holocaust, so the party was directed a certain way.
We picked the Hyatt Downtown, for their kosher kitchen, and the party was planned. After our Rabbi backed out at the last minute, to take a free trip to Israel, we were forced to find a relief rabbi. The original rabbi, who I'll call MArk Kram, since that's his name, lured Wifey and I into his Reform World with platitudes about how important he was going to be in our lives, etc... He bolted for the free trip like the old man first in line at Wolfie's on free rye bread night.
Fortunately, Dr. Eric's Mom Norma found a nice fellow named Lipson, and he acquitted himself nicely. The ceremony was lovely, punctuated by my father in law's clumsiness taking down several flower arrangements as he walked the aisle, and my mother in law grabbing Wifey for the post ceremony first kiss, before I could.
The dinner party was tons of fun. Wifey and I chose the band, Harry Frank and his combo, precisely because they were traditional, Borscht Belt quality. Harry was charming and fun, and they played our song, Sam Cooke's "You Send Me."
A major highlight was our friend Elizabeth's then husband, the rock singer Pat Travers. After 4 or 10 drinks, he took the stage and played some great rock and roll. Wifey's friend Eileen, even drunker, decided to join him, and sang "Lont Tall Sally" while Pat and the band played "Good Lovin'" It made for a memorable performance.
I danced with my mother, and remember thinking how old she was --a fragile old lady of 67. I wouldn't have dreamed she'd still be here, at nearly 91, and now really, really, really old. I'm talking ancient.
Wifey had 4 bridesmaids. She still keeps in touch with 2 of them. He best friend, Edna, couldn't make the trip from Atlanta because she was 9 months pregnant with her second daughter. Edna is still angry we didn't pick a later date...
I had 7 groomsmen. I'm still close with 4 of them: Drs. Eric and Barry, and Mike and Jeff. The other 3 have moved on and away from me.
After the party ended, after midnight, Wifey and I went up to our suite. We opened another bottle of champagne, got undressed, and then got into bed. We then engaged in the traditional first activity of a new husband and wife following a Jewish wedding. We opened the envelopes to see what gifts we received.
My mother's family was amazingly cheap. One aunt, my mother's only surviving sibling, brought several daughters and her husband and gave a check in the amount of $25, as I recall. Wifey's family and her parents' friends were much more generous.
Still, the money was in the thousands, and we decided to pay off one of my law school loans --one that bore a high interest rate.
We left the next day for our honeymoon in Jamaica. It was January, and the prices were high, and we could only afford to stay for 4 nights, as I recall. We had a blast --walking up Dunn's River Falls, taking a lazy boat down the Martha Brae River, where little boys offered speefs the size of footballs for sale, and getting lost in Falmouth in a rental car, where it took me 5 tries to extricate myself from a roundabout, as little Jamaican boys peed themselves watching me.
Wifey and I returned to our new life together, in our 1400 square foot house on SW 125 Terrace, a street with neighbors so quirky that David Lynch could have made a movie about them. Wifey worked for a flower company, selling cut flowers all over the country. I was a one year old lawyer, learning how to defend insurance companies on my $29k/ year salary.
We laughed a lot and were immeasurably happy. We savored our friends. We hosted parties. The Canes won national championships. Life was grand.
Of course, we had no idea what real happiness was, until a year and a half later, when D1 joined the band. We moved to a bigger house, on SW 136 Terrace, with less quirky neighbors (excluding the family of a notorious teenaged pedophile who was in prison, and targeted young girls at his church, and caused me to think we'd have to move before his family fled to the Netherlands following a controversial acquittal).
Then, in 1992, D2 joined the band, in time to live through Hurricane Andrew, and our house being, as D1 said, "misstroyed" around us.
It's funny. Wifey and I helped write our wedding vows, and we borrowed from Bob Dylan, promising to be each other's shelter from the storms of life. We didn't imagine we'd quite literally have to do it.
And so, tomorrow night, Wifey and I and the Ds will gather at Christy's in Coral Gables, to remember and celebrate. Maybe next year, if we're blessed to he around for number 25, we'll have a big party, or take a big trip.
All I know is, it's been a hell of a ride, and, looking back, the best night of my life.
She still sends me...
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Out With the Old...
And so goodbye, 2010. At least as far as our beloved Canes are concerned, my friend Norman said it best: "Kish mein tuches..."
I had a great bunch of guys over to watch our team's match against our historical rival, Notre Dame. Dr. Dave brought delicious wings, and Norman had given me enough beer for the whole football team. They'd have played better if they drank it. The game was over by the 2nd quarter.
Still, we sat in my football room, Jeff, Dr. Barry and his boys, Dr. Vince, Norman and his fine son, the budding professor, neighbor Garrett, and friend/neighbor Pat and his boy Patrick (Gator fans, both, but who showed great class and restraint as the Canes crumbled).
We went through 7 pizzas, delivered by my Palestinian pizza guy, and joked about the Halal pepperoni.
I adore my Ds and Wifey, but it's such a great treat for me to be surrounded by only men once in awhile, and yesterday was one of those special afternoons...
After the game ended, Wifey returned from a visit to her parents' house, with tales of a visit to a seedy gambling hall and a diner (the Fountain) that had just reopened after a Health Department closure... Her parents loved the day. I loved not being a part of their day...
Dr. Barry and his family came back over after dinner at Captain's Tavern, and neighbor/friend Diane came by for a New Year's toast on the way to dinner with HER son.
D1 and D2 and D2's friend flitted in and out, on their way to more exciting New Year's events. D1 and some friends were headed over to Fox's, my favorite tavern, where, for the second year, a bunch of the 20 somethings paid to take over the place. In anticipation, I was there Wednesday, and heavily tipped the trrific waiter Nelson. I look forward to hearing about D1's night.
Dr. Barry and his boys Scott and Josh dropped D2 and her friend Ali at THEIR party. The girls looked gorgeous in their black dresses, prompting Dr. Barry to reflect on the security of being a father to sons, not daughters...
As I write, I have begun 2011 in my favorite way --with coffee and the Herald on my front porch, with Wifey upstairs watching old movies, and the lovely quiet of a Pinecrest weekend morning.
I called my ancient Mom, and she was chipper and excited and out of her mind. It took me 5 minutes to tell her I was visiting on Tuesday, not Thursday, but that's ok. She'll turn 91 in April, and she's mostly happy and completely thrilled to have lasted so long...
We're due to drive up to Miami Lakes later, to see Wifey's cousins, who are visiting from LI. They're staying in Broward, and so we settled on the Lakes as an easy half way point. We can compare tales of dealing with 80 something Holocaust Survivors...
I have made firm resolutions about 2011. I plan to, as much as possible, minimize the annoying and bad, and maximize the happy and good.
I'll see in 7 months if my Canes, under their new coach, abide...
I had a great bunch of guys over to watch our team's match against our historical rival, Notre Dame. Dr. Dave brought delicious wings, and Norman had given me enough beer for the whole football team. They'd have played better if they drank it. The game was over by the 2nd quarter.
Still, we sat in my football room, Jeff, Dr. Barry and his boys, Dr. Vince, Norman and his fine son, the budding professor, neighbor Garrett, and friend/neighbor Pat and his boy Patrick (Gator fans, both, but who showed great class and restraint as the Canes crumbled).
We went through 7 pizzas, delivered by my Palestinian pizza guy, and joked about the Halal pepperoni.
I adore my Ds and Wifey, but it's such a great treat for me to be surrounded by only men once in awhile, and yesterday was one of those special afternoons...
After the game ended, Wifey returned from a visit to her parents' house, with tales of a visit to a seedy gambling hall and a diner (the Fountain) that had just reopened after a Health Department closure... Her parents loved the day. I loved not being a part of their day...
Dr. Barry and his family came back over after dinner at Captain's Tavern, and neighbor/friend Diane came by for a New Year's toast on the way to dinner with HER son.
D1 and D2 and D2's friend flitted in and out, on their way to more exciting New Year's events. D1 and some friends were headed over to Fox's, my favorite tavern, where, for the second year, a bunch of the 20 somethings paid to take over the place. In anticipation, I was there Wednesday, and heavily tipped the trrific waiter Nelson. I look forward to hearing about D1's night.
Dr. Barry and his boys Scott and Josh dropped D2 and her friend Ali at THEIR party. The girls looked gorgeous in their black dresses, prompting Dr. Barry to reflect on the security of being a father to sons, not daughters...
As I write, I have begun 2011 in my favorite way --with coffee and the Herald on my front porch, with Wifey upstairs watching old movies, and the lovely quiet of a Pinecrest weekend morning.
I called my ancient Mom, and she was chipper and excited and out of her mind. It took me 5 minutes to tell her I was visiting on Tuesday, not Thursday, but that's ok. She'll turn 91 in April, and she's mostly happy and completely thrilled to have lasted so long...
We're due to drive up to Miami Lakes later, to see Wifey's cousins, who are visiting from LI. They're staying in Broward, and so we settled on the Lakes as an easy half way point. We can compare tales of dealing with 80 something Holocaust Survivors...
I have made firm resolutions about 2011. I plan to, as much as possible, minimize the annoying and bad, and maximize the happy and good.
I'll see in 7 months if my Canes, under their new coach, abide...
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