Awards

Wifey loves the Oscars, like, apparently, millions of people. I couldn't care less. I usually don't like moves that much, and as I get older and crankier, my dislike has increased.

Unless a movie is really well done, I find myself angry that Hollywood stole hours of my life sitting and watching tripe that didn't make me feel anything or teach me anything...

Of the movies up for awards last night, I saw one, "True Grit" which was pretty good. So I figured Wifey would watch the show, while I surfed the web, feeding my news and trivia junkie habit...

But then Norman texted, and he and his lovely, Canadian wife Deb invited us over to watch the show. They're great hosts --they served delicious shrimp and stone crabs that were larger than jumbos. We drank wine and then watched the show (or started to) with some gourmet ruggelach Wifey and I bought earlier at a Farmer's market.

The show was terrible, and boring. The producers went for a younger demographic, and had it hosted by 2 young actors, one of whom looked stoned, and the other on stimulants.

Still, we made our own jokes, and enjoyed each other's company.

I really can't stand any awards ceremonies, unless they involve the Ds winning. The whole idea of people saying how great they are, and awardees either agreeing or feigning humility rubs me the wrong way.

I love Canes football, and yet one of the most boring nights of my life was spent at THEIR awards banquet. Many of the players who were honored were, well, less than sterling speakers, let's say, and they told inside jokes and stories that left those of us who paid money to honor them feeling like outsider schmucks.

On the way home, Wifey and I talked about how much we enjoy Norman amd Deb's company. It's tough to find couples where all 4 like each other.

We made plans for the 4 of us to see a movie at the new Gables art cinema. Foreign films always have better nudity, so I figure the movie will be better than the Oscars...

Shorty's

Wifey's on some weird new fad diet, where you have a milkshake or something, and one regular meal per day. The only detail I know is that the powder to make the shakes is the same price as cocaine...

Anyway -- she likes a big protein meal, and suggested we go to Shorty's barbecue tonight. I never, ever turn down the chance to go there.

Shorty's has been in the same location since 1950. At the time it was built, it was truly in the sticks -- a waypoint between South Miami and the Keys. Now, a stand of highrises, Downtown Dadeland, is right behind the Metrorail station behind it.

The restaurant burned down in the 80s, but they rebuilt it. It's ALWAYS crowded. At peak lunch and dinner times, there's a line. Tonight, at 5 pm, Wifey and I got right in.

I first visited in, I think, 1970. My Uncle Abe and Aunt Lorraine LOVED the place, as I did. My parents didn't. They just never got used to real smoky barbecue flavor.

During college, Shorty's was a go to for lunch and dinner --only 5 minutes south of campus, and a great take out place for Canes tailgates...

Once, years ago, Wifey and I tried their brisket of beef, and loved it. That year, we ordered their takeout for our Rosh Hashonah dinner. Leave it to Wifey.

Anyway, my mother in law loved it. "Dis is REAL Jewish brisket!" she proclaimed, thinking we got the meat from the usual deli, Roasters and Toasters. We laughed --knowing the Jewish brisket came to its flavor next to heaping slabs of pork...

Speaking of which -- a few years ago, I ran into a judge friend of mind, who introduced me to the Shorty's owner, a guy about my age. I think he bought the place from the original Shorty...

Anyway, the owner is a Jew. How great. Probably South Dade's biggest purveyor of pork is a Hebrew.

So tonight, the food was delicious. I had corn on the cob drenched in butter, and chicken and baby backs. Wifey had barbecued chicken breast, and sweet potato, and tomato slices.

Our waitress, Sade ("like the singer") was a lovely young lady. It was terrific.

We completed our Saturday night date with a trip to Home Depot, to buy a sink for our powder room. Our long time cleaning lady, Miriam, is a klutz, and somehow smashed a soap dispenser into the bowl, with such force that it looks like she took a sledgehammer to it.

She offered to pay. I laughed. The night she wreaked her domestic havoc, Wifey and I had dinner at Canton. My cookie fortune said "Important Things aren't Things."

How did the cookie know?

Miami Pizza

SO I was supposed to have dinner with one of my office roommates last night, and the call of his children proved too strong, so I had to go it alone.

My healthy sized belly often cries out of pizza, and as I drove West on the Dolphin I remembered a place my cop friend once told me about, on NW 25th Street, just West of the Palmetto.

I stolled in, and sat at the counter. Only one other fellow was there, having just ordered. I asked for my usual 2 slices of pepperoni, plus a diet coke. Ha!

Behind me, Fox En Vivo was showing a soccer match, and, like the gringo I am, I asked the fellow next to me who was playing. He told me the 2 teams in a perfect NY Rican accent. I told him he sounced like he was from NY, and, sure enough, he was a boricua. We began to chat.

He told me he hated soccer, but the owner of the place, an Argentine, loved it. Sure enough, the owner came over to talk with us, too, as our pizza baked...

So for the next hour or so, I had a perfect Miami moment. The Puerto Rican was born in NY, but lived most of his life in San Juan. I asked him if it was true that all the Puerto Ricans loved the Mets, my childhood team. He laughed, and said NOW they love the Marlins, since we have the first boricua manager!

The Argentine weighed in. He knew baseball pretty well, too. I told him baseball was my first love, because of the Mets in '89, but since moving here football took over.

Both guys loved the Canes! They missed the days, though, when they "used to kick all those redneck teams' asses." I had truly met brothers of other countries...

The talk turned to women. Both men were married, and, lest my sexist nature come out --let's just say that long time husbands share similar views about marriage, despite religious, national, and ethnic differences...

The boricua asked where on NY I was from . I told him Long Island. He asked if I was Italian or Jewish, since those are the only types in Nassau. I laughed, and said what about Irish? He said he knew I wasn't Irish, since I was drinking soda, and not the available beer...

And so went the rest of our politically incorrect but delighful evening.

Today, sadly, back to low carbs...

Techno Dinosaur

So Sunday night was the biggest party my dear friend Dr. Barry ever threw: the Bar Mitzvot (that's fancy Hebrew plural) for his boys. He had about 150 people at his temple, following the services they had on Saturday.

The drinks flowed, and they were pouring my favorite vodka --Ketel One. Dr. Eric was there, with Dana, as well as my partner Paul and his lovely girlfriend. I knew Wifey would be driving home, and so I drank, and drank, and drank.

I think Eric and I each had about 10 or 12 vodkas. We were feeling no pain. We all danced, and our attempts to follow the DJ's instructions (particularly Eric, who takes directions seriously) actually caused Wifey to pee in her pants with laughter (and some pee, too).

We toasted many, many times. Barry's boys were the last of our 6 combined kids to become adults, in the Jewish tradition. The evening was extremely joyful.

As much as we drank, no one said anything offensive, or disrobed, or acted in an untoward manner. No --just a bunch of very old and dear friends holding each other up, singing along to "Thunder Road" (only Barry's buddy from LI, another pediatrician and I knew the lyrics), and doing the worm on the floor --a continuation of a tradition from our college days at UM together.

So why, tonight, did I come away from my computer in a total state of annoyance?

Because I forgot something so obvious and relevant -- I live in the age of Facebook!

Duh! There have already been a host of videos and photos from the party, many showing Eric and I quite wasted. One video showed Eric, Barry, and I holding each other as we danced to Sinatra's "Summer WInd."

It's strange and naive of me, I know, but I feel violated. I feel my showing of intimate behavior with my dear friends is somehow reality television now --to be viewed by tons of folks I don't know and will never meet, since it's funny, I guess, to see middle aged guys drunk.

Wifey's surprised at my reaction. She and D1 thought my friends and I were "sweet and hilarious." I don't know --I guess I should have realized that all events these days become video and photographic dramas and comedies, to be sent over FaceBook as soon as they occur.

Sunday was a very special night, and now I feel it was cheapened, for entertainment value.

As my father aged, he had less and less use for people. My mother would go out and socialize with her family, and he'd choose to stay home with a book or public television. I get it.

Next time I'm at a party, I have to remember that, at heart, it's just a FaceBook or other social media show being filmed. I'll drink much less. I won't showcase my lack of dancing skills. I'll watch my words, and keep my laughter muted.

I'll behave as if I'm being filmed...

How can anyone even consider running for public office these days. Literally every slip of the tongue, belch, and fart gets broadcast immediately.

It makes me want to avoid parties. Or at least require my guests to check their video cameras, cell phones, and other cameras at the door...

More Intimations of TFO

I've always had, as Howard Cosell used to snarkily remark, a tremendous grasp of the obvious, and it came to me again last week.

It's awful to admit, but I really can't stand old people. At least a healthy majority of them.

Wifey and I visited ancient Mom last Tuesday. She lives in South Palm Beach County, old people central. I'm not a slow driver, but as the traffic light turned green at several intersections, I got a huge horn honk from some 80 or 90 year old behind me, clearly in some sort of amazing rush to a canasta or poker game...

As I drove into the parking lot to buy Mom and us our lunch, each car backing out was treated to another vicious honking, by more impatient seniors. By the time I got to Mom's condo, Wifey and I were going on and on about how they (the oldsters) contribute nothing to society, they just take and take and take, and they're nasty about it, to boot...

I know part of my feelings are deep seated psychologically. Delray Beach is the place my father died, in my arms, and so I'm never really going to have fond feelings about the city. And it's the place where my mother is sinking, slowly and with certainty, to further senescence and then death...

I also know some cultures, like the Asians, revere their aged. I wish I felt that way, but to me the very old are just annoying...

On Thursday, I was in Gainesville, the polar opposite of South Palm Beach County. The 352 is a city filled with young adults, in their prime, and on the make. They walk fast, they have real places to go, metaphorically. They're on their way to becoming our teachers, leaders, scientists, doctors, and (sadly) lawyers...

They're up beat. They contribute, and seek educations so that they can contribute more.

No one honked their horn at me.

Dr. Eric has a very succesful practice in Delray. The vast majority of his patients are angry, bitter, oldsters. They lash out at him for their ailments, after years of smoking and over eating. Why don't they have more energy at 80? Their doctors up North made them feel better (when they were 50, of course).

I absolutely couldn't have his job. I can't stand the few old bitter folks I've had as clients. I had one recently -- an 80 year old "big shot NYC developer" who was hit by a taxi on Miami Beach. He boasted of his riches, yet seemed mighty desperate to get a hold of the $35k or so his case netted him.

Luckily, my friend Stuart inherited this fellow, along with the daily operation of our practice. I joke with Stuart that this one client was the reason I don't want to handle cases anymore. I'm only partly kidding...

Since the men in my family seem to have the decency to die before their 70s, it seems likely I won't be around to become one of these nasty old men.

If fate shows her irony and I do live a long time, I plan to get a huge, white sedan equipped with an extra loud horn, to honk at those tarrying kids who get in my way.

Gainesville Again

After living through 4 years of D1's college experience, I learned that after a month, I suffer a bit of withdrawal. I just need some D contact.

So D2 left for UF January 5, and sure enough, but early February, I was feeling a bit of D2 sickness. I asked her to come for a weekend stay, but her Friday class schedule was too busy to make the flight, and she didn't see the point in driving 12 hours round trip for a short visit.

Last week she called, and told me her classes were canceled Thursday, and why didn't I come on up. I booked the American Eagle flight for Thurs am, and reserved a night at the Country Inn.

When they give out manuals for parenting, they leave out the exquisiteness of college visits. You spend time with the person you brought into the world, and kept alive against all odds, and laughed with and cried with, and who is now, more or less, an adult. And they're adult with 1/2 of your DNA!

The flight was uneventful, and I landed in the comically small GNV airport, where the rental car counters double up for lack of business. I got my Budget car at the Avis counter, and joked with the attendant that she at least ought to wear a Budget hat.

I picked up D2, and she smiled that killer smile, the one I know will steal a man's heart someday. D2 happens to be a beauty, and her eyes are amazingly expressive. Their smile lights a room; when she flashes anger, her friends flee...

We made our usual trip to Publix, where she uses my car to stock up, and then we picked up some printer cartridges. I saw some of her sorority sisters, and made them laugh with my knowledge of their latest web sites --one that makes fun of their Jappiness called "sushi with my girls." We had yogurt. We napped at my hotel.

We had dinner at a new steak place called Embers. It was great, but with Miami prices, which I always resent. At the next table, there was a group of UF MEd School faculty, with their spouses. It struck me how claustrophobic I'd feel living in a town like Gainesville. It's great for college, but I'd get extremely bored, extremely fast there...

D2 and I headed back to her dorm, and we found a bench under a Spanish Moss drenched oak tree, and we talked of life, and friends, and school.

She is so happy, and that warms my heart. She's enjoying precisely the type of college experience I had, where comical characters walk into and out of your life, and you learn in the classroom, but much more outside of it.

Friday, we had an enormous breakfast at The Flying Biscuit, a branch of the famous Emory U in Buckhead place, and I dropped her off at her dorm. I held for for a long time, as I always do when we part.

The Eagle flight was packed, which I like, since I want American to keep this service for the next 2 years at least. I feel like we have use of our private plane for these visits. It's terrific.

D2's due for Spring Break in 2 weeks. She's going on a cruise for half of it, with 3 sorority friends. After Break, she has just over 1 month left. Just like that, she's 1/4 done with college.

Today Wifey and I went to Dr. Barry's boys Bar Mitzvot up in Weston. Scott and Josh read their Hebrew flawlessly. Dr. Eric was there alone, as Dana is up in Gainesville for the sorority weekend we're going to miss.

Of the friends I had in my wedding party -- the ones still in my life --the kids are amazing. Eric's daughter Jen is excelling at UF. His boy Josh is applying to college this Fall, and his high grades and ability on the golf course will give him a ton of choices.

Barry's boys are now men, according to Jewish Law. Scott is going to be 6'6", and already looks ready for college, at 14. Josh is a budding musician.

Mike's girl Amanda is tearing up USC in LA. Chris has great grades and is a baseball star.

The next generation is well on their way...

Wifey and I came home from the ceremony, where we were given the honor of an Aliyah, a call to the Torah. We stood there next to Eric.

At the luncheon, Barry, Eric and I had a toast, with Ketel One. I recalled that we met when Barry was 17, and Eric and I were 19. The youngest of our 6 kids is close in age to ours, back in 1980.

We celebrated our greatest blessings, those 3 girls and 3 boys.

I wish the Ds could have joined us...

The Honors Dorm

So I was thrilled for Winter Break, '81-'82. I was excited about the coming semester, where I could focus of material that excited me, instead of muddling through the painful science classes.

I got a job as a Christmas salesman at Jordan Marsh in the Boca Town Center Mall. One of my parents' friends, Elsie Schrier, worked there, and she told me to apply.

I spent the days learning that my father's admonition against being an employee in life was perfect pitch: I loathed the job. My boss was an angry Haitian woman named Jackie, who told everyone she was French. She loved terrorizing the employees, with an imperial manner. I befriended a fellow college student named Michael, who was born in Germany. Over beers one night, he admitted to me that his parents were members of the Nazi party during the War. But, despite our different ancestries, we agreed completely that we despised JAckie, and the 2 weeks we worked there we did all we could to make her life difficult, with Bartleby-like acts of passive aggression...

Meanwhile, my aunts and uncles planned a big New Year's Eve dinner at a restaurant in Pompano Beach. I was thrilled to be introducing all of these New Yorkers to the black swan I was dating -- a Jewess from Colombia! I looked forward to all the comments from my family --"Jews in Latin America??? Who knew?"

The only problem was, she never came back! I called her Mom in North Miami Beach (this was before Aventura existed), and got strange, vague responses about Silvia's whereabouts. Finally, after the third call, on New Year's Eve itself, the mother, Josefina, sort of levelled with me: "She's going to stay in Medellin for a long time, David. Please don't call any more."

Wow! I felt like Ted Bundy, or something. My girlfriend's parents seemed scared of me. And no word at all, after we had been together over a year (10 years in adult time).

My Dad seemed to know the score right away --that when I got off the future rich doctor road, they no longer wanted me for their daughter. "I know it hurts, Dave, but you'll get over it."

He was right, of course, but it took awhile.

Still, it was time to move back to Building 22, in mid January. Serbian New Year's was coming.

Years before, some of the HD residents discovered that in Serbia (I guess it was then still Yugoslavia), they celebrated New Year's Eve in mid January. A Ha! A way now existed for the Honors kids to celebrate New Year's Eve together, even though they were all back in their hometowns on December 31.

So --one of the apartments hosted. There was enormous consumption of alcohol, and the party went on all night. And it was followed by the Hangover Bowl, the only time we played tackle football.

The first one up (usually around 11 am) had the job of waking everyone else, and the pathetic, hungover (many still drunk) headed to the intramural field, where we played and beat the crap out of each other.

I think that year, I played quarterback, and got the biggest beating of my life. It was so bad, I was unable to get out of bed the following Monday, and Barry brought me food. I learned first hand how tough football is...

Later in that first week, Barry, Eric, Mike, and Jorge asked about my girlfriend. I broke down and told them I had been spurned.

Jorge retrieved a bottle of Aguardiente Silvia had given me. It was Colombian liquor, which tasted like licorice. We passed the bottle around, and cursed this evil woman, who had broken my heart because of her perception that I was destined to be poor.

As we finished the bottle, the anti woman toasts grew more explicit. Jorge taught us Spanish curses we never knew. I forgot them, but one had historical significance --something about being the whore of all whores since recorded time...

Anyway -- I was single, and single minded. I attacked my classes. Several were literature, plus Religion, and Psychology.

While Barry, Eric, and Mike were groaning over Physical Chem, and Quantitative Analysis, I'd sit with one of my novels, reading aloud great insights about the human condition, courtesy of Steinbeck, or D.H. Lawrence, or Melville...

The parties at Building 22 continued. We hosted a Super Bowl watch, where several apartments brought their small black and white TVs, and we set them up all over --even the bathroom. We drank beer, we laughed, we learned about each other.

We became women and men.

It was a heady time.

Insomnia in a House I Love

I often write about how much I love my house, and early this am it became clear to me again. A dear friend was facing a hellish early morning event, and I found myself awake at 3 am, after just 3.5 hours of slumber...

He and his ex wife hired a drug intervention team to come fetch his son. The young man has had an awful time of it for the past year, and resisted all attempts at help. After meeting with school, law enforcement, and rehab experts, my friend became convinced he had to act, and fast.

The shock to the system involved 3 men coming to his house at 4 am, fetching the son, and taking him to a center in the middle of the Utah wilderness, where he'd stay for 60 days of therapy. I'm hopeful for my friend, but still, the thought of the "safe passage" crew effectively kidnapping his surly 17 year old, and the pleas for mercy and "another chance" that I knew would come, haunted me.

So I found myself sitting on my bedroom balcony, in the quiet of the wee hour.

Houses truly have spirits, and unique sounds and feelings. From the balcony, I heard the steady dripping of water condensed from the large clay tile roof, which leaves the concrete loggia wet after every temperature inversion. (It was cool yesterday and got warmer and more humid during the night).

I sat and listened, to the soft drip, drip, drip --like a drizzling rain.

It was so quiet at that hour. Usually on clear nights, I can see stars and planets, since we're less than a mile from Biscayne Bay to the East, and there's not too much light pollution.

But this morning it was cloudy, and I only saw a few lights in the sky. I watched a jet plane's lights come in, from over the Bay, coming from the Southeast. The plane was on approach to MIA, but I only heard it when it was nearly passing the house.

15 minutes later, another one came. I wondered whether either of these would be the 630am departure that would have my friend's boy on it, along with his three chaperones, headed to Las Vegas and then on to Utah.

A car drove past, slowly and quietly. I figured, at 330 am, it must be one of the neighbors' young adult kids returning from a late night of clubbing. No middle aged person in my neighborhood is out at that hour...

Inside, I heard Wifey breathe heavily, dreaming away, sleeping the deep sleep she's so blessed to enjoy most nights.

And then, at 430, came a text from my friend. I had texted him before, telling him I was awake, and available if he wanted to meet while the intervention folks gathered up his son...

The text said it had gone smoothly, albeit with some yelling. The troubled teen dressed while my friend and his ex wife said they loved him, and then beat a hasty retreat, as per the instructions of the professionals. In their experience, many of these life saving interventions fail at that point, when the teen reverts to a pathetic child, begging his loving parents "not to do this," that "he'd make it work, truly, this time."

And so I sat, in the darkness, counting the time with the quiet whispers of the approaching planes, and the occasional distant bark of a dog.

Another text came. My friend returned to his house, and his son was gone. There were "no signs of a struggle." My friend was going to shower and try to sleep a bit.

I tried, too, but sleep didn't come, so I went downstairs, and greeted my snoring, ancient Labrador, who was also in no rush to arise.

I let her out, and stared some more into the pre dawn sky. Surely one of these arriving planes would be the one the boy would be on in a short while.

The Honors Dorm

The Fall of 1981. I remember the weather, for some reason. We had monsoon -like conditions for the first 2 weeks of classes, and we sloshed through the puddles to get to the staircase for our apartment.

I was happy. I had a steady girlfriend, and was truly feeling like an adult. We passed the time of the rainy afternoons mostly by my girlfriend lecturing me on what a culture-less, unsophisticated, "typical American" I was. Ah --had we married, I can imagine the years of happiness...

Barry and I shared a bedroom, and the other room had Mike the LI Italian, and a new roommate --Jorge. Jorge was from Miami Lakes, the son of two doctors, and out of central casting for upper class, Miami Cuban American Republicanism. I don't think I realized there was such a thing as a college Republican then, but Jorge taught us all quite a bit.

He had a huge Ronald Reagan poster on his wall, looking into the eyes of the Farah Fawcett poster Mike had on his wall. He and Mike got along well, though Mike never really got the cultural diversity thing. One day, he came back after class, and handed Jorge a poster announcing a meeting of the Puerto Rican Students Association. He thought he had done a generous act, and Jorge asked if he understood that he was Cuban, and NOT, for God's sakes, one of those definitely Democratic (and probably even Socialist) Puerto Ricans.

Mike replied, in his classic LI accent "Ah, c'mon George --youse all Spics --is there really a difference?"

Despite his inelegance, Mike studied hard, did well, and ended up getting into medical school in Alabama. I haven't spoken to him since 1984, but when I saw "My Cousin Vinny" I thought Mike in Alabama must be a similar dynamic. Last I heard, he became an Infectious Disease specialist, and was living in Little Rock, Arkansas, where I assume he still cheers for the Mets and Jets and talks like one of Tony Soprano's crew...

Jorge, Barry, and I grew close. I put an ad in the "Hurricane," the school paper, seeking volunteers for the "Draft Ted Kennedy for '84" campaign, and leaving Jorge's name and number. He got many responses from the assorted hippie types, and he'd curse at them in Spanish, and hang up the phone.

Jorge wrote "Al Haig for President" in the dust on the roof of my car, and it baked in the Miami sun. Despite repeated washings, when I finally sold the car years later, I could still see the ad for the famous former Reagan Cabinet member, faintly embedded in my '78 Firebird.

Jorge dated mostly Jewish coeds from the northeast ('they think I'm exotic") and kept a 4.0 GPA in Honors Economics. Barry excelled in his classes, despite my always being succesful in getting him to goof off instead of studying.

Eric spent about 1/2 the nights sleeping on our sofa, also acing his pre med classes.

The prior year, our parents had been billed by Residence Halls for "excessive filth." We had gone the entire year without once cleaning our bathroom. So, one evening, Mike, Barry, Jorge and I had a meeting, and decided we'd each clean the bathroom one time per month.

Not so fast, said Jorge. He had NEVER cleaned a bathroom, had maids do it his whole life, and was not going to do it now. Cleaning anything insulted his wealthy, Capitalist sense of things. He was serious.

We politely told Jorge that we understood, but if he failed in his duty, we'd kick his ass. His month was November, as I recall.

November came, and we all waited anxiously. Would Jorge invite the beat down?

One evening, we all came home to see a tiny, Central American lady in our apartment, in a maid's uniform. "Who the hell are you?" Mike demanded. She answered, "Senors --I am the maid for Mr. Jorge."

She proceeded to clean the bathroom AND kitchen far better than we did. Mike thought Jorge had not lived up to his duty, and we should still kick his ass. Barry and I demurred --the effect of the better cleaning was what mattered --we gave Jorge a reprieve...

Meanwhile, I was taking Embryology. The Professor, at the beginning of the course, asked how many of us were pre meds. About 75% raised our hands. "Great --this class is most like what you'll be doing your first two years of med school."

As the class progressed, I was horrified. I was bored beyond belief, looking at slides, and analyzing what I saw. I was bad at it. I truly hated it.

Meanwhile, I savored my English classes, and History classes, and Religion classes.

One day, in December, I simply walked into an academic counselor's office, asked what was involved in changing my major to English, and that was it. Just like that, I had changed my future. No med school --I was going to become an English professor.

I told my rich girlfriend, and she reacted strangely --how would I support myself? As a writer? Writers starved, and lived in horrible little garrets in seedy parts of town!

I wasn't too worried --I was all of 20 years old. I just knew that med school wasn't it for me. But then, I had to tell my father the devastating news. His dream , like the dream of ALL Jewish Dads, of being able to introduce "His son, the doctor," was not to be...

I drove home to Delray, and we sat in the Florida room. I broke the news and held my breath. His reply "I wondered how long you were going to play with the science thing. You're an English student! You won English student of the year at high school. I always knew that's what you'd end up doing."

Not only WASN'T he disappointed -- he was PROUD of me. We talked for hours, and he said that saying "My son the mentsch" was all he ever wanted to be able to do. If possible, he cautioned, do something someday where I'm my own boss. That was his only advice.

God, how I adored and loved that man. He was truly my mentor, hero, advisor...His age made him like a kindly grandfather AND a father. He was truly the big man in my life.

Of course, I had no idea he'd be dead in less than a year.

I returned to Building 22, and finished out my last semester as a pre med. Somehow I managed Bs and Cs in my science and calculus classes.

I went to the bookstore and looked up the texts and novels I'd be reading Spring, 1982 as an English major. Lawrence, Hardy, Steinbeck...

I was truly excited for January, 1982.

Insufferable

It's been a quiet week in the 305. The heat returned, and we've had the a/c on for sleeping. D2 turned 19, and had a fine birthday, with multiple celebrations, room decorations, and a weekend visit by D1. We've been dogsitting for the grand dog.

Thursday, I went to a bris for my rabbi friend --his EIGTH child. Amazing. His wife is 39, and they could easily have 12 or more kids.

It's their choice, of course, and in their view what God and the Torah command --the old "be fruitful and multiply" thing. But, as a cynical friend points out --every time someone gives a donation, they have to bear in mind that they're helping pay for 10 plane tickets for a family vacation, multiple tuitions for private school,multiple fees for summer camp, etc...

I ran into an old acquaintance, a fellow I hadn't seen in quite awhile. I used to get a kick out of him --he always had an almost regal bearing, a sense of self importance that was tempored by a winking sense of humor.

Not any more. I listened to the fellow go on about his grown children, and all of his hobbies, and his professional accomplishments, and I found him an insufferable bore.

He never once asked about my Ds, or what I was up to, or anything of the sort, and I realized that tastes do change.

I used to like and enjoy the company of so many people. I'd find interest in their quirkiness --it seemed that every one brought SOMETHING to the table of human understanding, and I'd find common ground for conversation and laughter.

Not so much any more. Now I look, often with a jaundiced eye, at social acquaintances. I'm easily bored. I make myself scarcer as a social companion.

Mr. Insufferable isn't a bad guy. He's a devoted father, and involves himself in several community initiatives. I just no longer share the extremely high opinion he has of himself...

I AM becoming my father! He often chose to stay home and read, or watch public tv, rather than go out with my mother and her family, and their vacuousness.

As dear friends point out, though, the benefit is that if I DO hang with someone, they know I truly value their company --I'm not just going through the motions.

Welcome, old age and crankiness...

Rich Folks

One of the nice perks about having some money is all the free stuff you get invited to. Last night, my financial advisor/neighbor/friend Pat asked me to come to a nice Italian place in the Grove, to hear his company Oppenheimer's investment guru, Brian Belski.

I made sure I was dressed as a client (no tie) and headed over to the Mayfair, a place that always brings me fond memories. After Hurricane Katrina, Wifey, the Ds, and I holed up there for a week, waiting for the power to return to our tree infested neighborhood. We thoroughly enjoyed it --walking to lunch and dinner, and comparing stories with the other hurricane refugees, all while watching the poor bastards in New Orleans on TV, getting it much worse than we did.

Anyway --Belski was scary smart, and quick. He's a little guy, Polish background (he kept joking about it) from Minnesota, and he gave his spiel about returning to stocks in investing, even though folks were fleeing the market towards cash and bonds. As he said --companies like Johnson and Johnson aren't going away.

A wise ass Latin doctor shouted out "Yeah --just like General Motors!" Belski then pointed out the difference --GM had an unsustainable pension and benefits plan that made them go broke, it wasn't the core business.

He also described why the US is still the best place to invest: "The best house in a crappy neighborhood," and said he travels often to Europe, where the investors are all bitter about our success, and "there's nothing worse than a bitter European."

After the obnoxious Latin doctor peppered him with more questions, like "Oh yeah --then why is the Euro 138 to the dollar instead of 115?" Belski sat down, and we enjoyed our dinner.

The fellow across from me was an executive with the Miami Heat. He's originally from Southern Cal, and has lived all over the US, working for various sports teams, including the Celtics and Knicks. We chatted about grown kids, and how much has changed for them in today's job market, where the thought of coming out of college and working for one employer for a lifetime is no longer an option.

We also sat with another couple --a Cuban American urologist who trained in Atlanta, and his wife, an Atlanta Baptist nurse who met the doc and moved back to Miami with him. The doc was a dead ringer for Robin Williams, and although he was no cut up, I kept smiling when I looked at him.

They have 2 kids near the Ds age --one at Notre Dame, and a grad student at Boston College, and their kids went through Catholic schools all throughout their childhood.

We chatted about travel, and I related a story about a wonderful tour guide we had in Italy, who played the accordian, and regaled us.

There was a silence, and then the wife, Michelle, exclaimed "Remo!" Yes -- amazingly, we had shared the same tour guide, years apart. I guess Italy's a small town, like Miami is...

Wifey asked me about the dinner, and I estimated it probably cost nearly $100 per person (we had wine and beer and dessert) and there were over 50 folks attending.

Yes --somehow dinners are a bit tastier when someone else pays.