Opening Day

I hung around today, since I had lunch plans with my friend Kenny. We meet in South Miami on Ken's days off, which seem to be a weekday every other week or so.

We started chatting about sports, and Kenny reminded me that today is Opening Day at Yankee Stadium. On the way home, I reflected on baseball, my first love.

I started playing when I was probably 6 or so. The NY Mets were a new team then, and it seemed everyone on LI loved them, as hapless as they were. And then, the summer I turned 8, the Mets did the impossible: they won the World Series.

I remember racing home from 3rd grade that October to watch the final two innings. When Cleon Jones caught the final out, and dropped to one knee --it was a religious experience for me. My team had won. They were the best.

I played Little League every summer, and became a serviceable first baseman, since that's a position that requires the least amount of foot speed. I studied all the first basemen in the Majors, and tried to copy them. I figured if a fat guy like Boog Powell of the Orioles could play, so could I.

I was actually good enough to make my junior high, and later high school teams. I lost the starting spot on my high school squad, though, when I missed 2 games to go on a 10th grade trip to Europe. At the time I was filled with rage, since I knew I was a better player than Richie, my replacement. But now, of course, I realize that if I were the coach, I'd do the same thing.

After 10th grade, baseball became more of a drag. My stoner friends would come watch me play, and the jocks would harass me for hanging out with them. I'd had enough --I quit.

But I still remember practice in March in NY. I first knew real pain by hitting a ball with a wooden bat in cold weather. I was also forced to run --3 miles each afternoon.

I loathed it, and to this day, NEVER run. It'll probably take years off my life, but I do anything to avoid that feeling of being out of breath...

At the same time, my beloved Mets sunk into awfulness. I remember going to one game my senior year of high school. My friend Jeff drove, and we were among maybe 3000 people in Shea Stadium. It was depressing.

I started following the Yankees, who were on the upswing.

Then baseball came to Miami, and I went to the first Marlins game. I was there with my good friend Mike Perse, my brother in law Dennis, and Mike's dad, Ed. The Marlins won. Afterwards, we went home to our house west of the Falls for a Passover seder.

The Marlins provided an embarrasment of riches. They won the World Series 2 times in their short history.

They open against the Mets Friday --the Marlins' last year in Joe Robbie Stadium before their new home is finished, on the Orange Bowl site.

I'll go to a few Marlins games, like I did last year.

Opening Day always reminded me of the first day of school, my favorite time back when the Ds were little. Everyone was an A student that day. The screw ups hadn't screwed up yet, and the tired, cynical teachers put on happy faces.

By the middle of the year, things settled back into reality --just like baseball. The Mets will probably be out of the pennant race by the All Star Break, though the Marlins are being picked to finish well.

Was the magical Mets season really 42 years ago?

Community Service

On Saturday, as fate would have it, my whole family did some community service. D2 participated in an activity through her sorority at UF, and D1 and Wifey volunteered at the animal shelter in North Dade --helping groom the dogs there to make them more adoptable.

Meanwhile, I spent a few hours meeting with a young teen and her mother, in my role as a guardian ad litem for her PI case. I was volunteered for the duty by Dave, a PI lawyer acquaintance, and I interviewed the young lady and her mom, and came home and drafted a report.

I was quite proud of us, honestly. We have so many blessings, and are so lucky in so many ways, and when we give back --well, that's as good as it gets.

My parents taught charity by example when I was growing up. There wasn't a lot of extra money, but my mother was always involved in Ort, a group that built schools in Israel, and she also gave time and money to my schools. I remember working at flea markets in Freeport, a poor town on LI, to raise money for Ort.

My father used to love it. As a born salesman, he enjoyed rearranging the items for sale, to make them more attrractive. He beamed once when a whole pile of toys which had been sitting unnoticed flew off of the table.

My father also had a much funnier, jaded view of giving back. He was a Liberal, but not a politically correct one. One gorgeous Spring day, I remember my mother asking him to stay home from work. As he left for the LIRR station, he said "I can't. I'm not only working for us, you know. I figure the taxes I pay support about 10 Puerto Ricans in Spanish Harlem --they're depending on me!"

No wonder I became such a wise ass. I had a great mentor.

When my firm was making money, we greatly enjoyed our charitable endeavors. We gave, in retrospect, far too much to a Chasidic synagogue, but I don't really regret it. My father had the 10 Puerto Ricans --I figure my partner and I had the 10 members of the Rabbi's family...

I proudly became a U Miami "Founder" when my contributions to my alma mater, in total, exceeded $100K. My education and the contacts I made at UM were everything to me, professionally, as well as crucial personally (most of my closest friends have UM ties). When I was able to repay the scholarship UM gave me, many times over, well, all self deprecation aside --I was mighty happy about it.

My Ds inherited the bug, too. As proud as I am of all their accomplishments, seeing their charitable side holds a special joy for me.

And Wifey, too, of course. Although she cares more about animals and old people than I do...

Meanwhile, my partner Paul started a reading program for inner city kids both in Miami and his native Philly. His son participates, and also donates a lot of his family business's products to local charities. When Paul's daughter Tracy got married last summer, she and her husband Jon asked people to donate to Paul's reading charity in their honor.

Paul cried a lot at his daughter's wedding weekend. When he saw the message in the wedding program, his tears were more plentiful, and they were tears of amazing pride.

I saw some of that last Saturday. It's as good as it gets.

New Dog in Town

I really, truly hoped to follow the life advice of a bumper sticker I saw several years ago: "Life begins when the kids move away and the dog dies."

I really, really like dogs, but I like the idea of simplifying life even more. My plan was largely in place. The Ds moved away, and Honey, our aging Labrador was nearing 15. Molly, the comical Basset Hound, sadly died of pancreatic cancer. Our granddog Madeleine, the spoiled King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, spent part of the week here, and I thought that would satisfy Wifey's dog needs...

I made it very clear, and I was serious, that I wanted no more dogs. And --story of my life, I was manipulated by females, once again...

Apparently, last Saturday, D2's friends Spencer and Amanda, nearly ran over a small brown dog which was running on 136 Street near US 1. They stopped the car, opened the door, and the dog hopped inside. They drove around, looking for an anguished owner, and saw no one.

The dog, which the two former high school newspaper writers named Brown Dog (I love simple, descriptive adjectives myself) came home with Amanda, and spent the night. Amanda's folks, however, already have a dog and other pet infested house, so Brown Dog was shipped to Spencer's house, another dog infested abode.

Spencer's mom Susan took the dog to the vet, who told her there was no doggy GPS chip, but the dog was about 2 and in excellent health. In fact, she was overweight.

Susan posted "Found Dog" signs, but received no response. So --here came the Dave manipulation. Last Wednesday, Susan and her nice husband Steve showed up at my house with the dog. D1, on a rare midweek appearance, also showed up, the better to hug the dog and look up at me with her doe eyes (both D1 AND the dog).

There was vague talk of our "fostering" the dog until a proper home could be found. I actually bought into this, and called Dr. Barry, whose family LLasa Aapso died, leaving his boys Scott and Josh dog-less. No, Barry said --no dogs for now, pending Josh's promised improvements at school...

So, not surprisingly, my pack has grown. Wifey and D1 named the dog Vienna, since she resembles a Vienna sausage. And the truth is, the dog is very sweet and non invasive.

She's perfectly housebroken (unlike the spoiled Cavalier) and seems to enjoy sharing my family's favorite past time --laying around a lot.

Also, she's comical when we walk --she keeps up on her short, little legs, with a, um, dogged determination.

I will continue to call her Brown Dog, even though Wifey, a master at personification, claims that "confuses" her as she attempts to learn her new name.

After I took Midnight, our first marital dog, to the doggie Dr. Kevorkian, I told Wifey SHE would have to do it with Alfred, our cocker spaniel. Ha. As if. When Alfred's time came, somehow I had the awful task as well.

When Molly curled up and died, literally, outside our family room door, I also was the angel of dog death.

This is a big reason I don't want to deal with dogs. Somehow I get stuck with the sad stuff...

Whatever. I guess Brown Dog will be around for awhile.

D2 pines for a Corgy, and Brown Dog sort of has the same body type. Maybe Brown Dog can become hers this summer...

The Big Shoot

I left early to go meet my friend Norman for breakfast, and there was a car parked outside my gate. It wasn't an Indian (I always loved that line from "Key Largo").

It was a man in a security guard uniform. He said he was sent by "Burn Notice." They forgot to tell Wifey and me, though --apparently it was to be the day of our gate's debut and starring turn.

I left to meet Norman, where we had our usual great talk, about old and new. He's going to guest DJ on the campus radio station, WVUM, today. I told him I'd call in and ask him to play Misty for me...

Back at the house, Wifey got up and watched the gathering crew. By 10 am, about 15 vehicles were there, including a food service and bathroom truck. We strolled around and observed. I met a fellow who was a Miami Dade paramedic --he had been doing film and tv work for years -- we chatted about the Miami Vice crews, both for the tv show and movie. He told me Colin Farrell was never more than 10 feet away from a bottle OR a hot lady...

The scene they were shooting involved a black suv being chased by a brown Chevy van. The suv was to make it through the gate of the Venezualan "compound," the gates were to close, and the van was to bust through the gates.

3 off duty Pinecrest cops kept the streets clear. When I parked and walked back to my house after breakfast, they eyed me suspiciously. I told them I was the star of the show --the gate owner. They laughed, which is not too common for cops, although these guys were making time and a half for overtime.

The Director, Artie, drove up in a huge black pickup truck with a big trailer. His ATV was in the trailer, all tricked out with camera brackets. He drove around like a general. Cool looking guy --probably early 60s. The paramedic told me he had done lots of movies --many for Disney in Orlando.

The stunt actors walked around --looking quite fit. The paramedic told me they make around $200k per year, but then get residuals if the show goes to re runs, so a show like "Burn Notice," now in its 5th season, leaves then "done financially."

That explained why one of the actors asked me about the house next door for sale, and didn't flinch when I told him they were asking nearly $2M for it. Now THAT would be a cool neighbor to have...

D1 arrived, and we hung on the porch of the house across the street, in the shade, and watching the several takes. They shot each vehicle separately, then the chase. Each take they called for a "lock down" which I took to mean keeping idiots like me from strolling into the path of speeding vehicles.

And indeed there seemed to be about 10 folks whose only job WAS to keep idiot like me out.

Another thing became clear: why cities fight over having films and other shows shot on their location. It really IS a huge financial hit. A scene that was going to take no more than 10 seconds on film caused a whole day of a huge cast and crew to spend time and money...

Finally, about 330, it was time for the money shot. The crew buried a tiny high def camera in the gravel behind the gates (they had removed MY gates and replaced them with "break away" models. They also covered the "Villa Wifey" sign.

They placed another camera high on a ladder next to a tree, and two cameras on the street. The brown van sped up to about 40 mph. Boom! A succesful gate crash.

Afterwards, the crew seemed happy with the result. They all left as quickly as they came.

The construction guys had bad news for me, though --the gate anchors had been broken, and they couldn't fix them. They'd need to send a gate company out Monday.

The nice Asst. Manager Aaron came by. He had my check for $2500, and offered to pay the security guard to sit outside until the gates were repaired. I laughingly told him no --we had a safe 'hood, and the gates function more to keep our dogs in than bad guys out. I could survive just fine for the weekend, gate-less.

D1 had left, taking the Spaniel, so Wifey and I decided to walk the other dogs (oh yeah --there's a new dog in the house --more on that later). As we left, another crew fellow drove up, to replace the "Pare" signs they installed (the shot was to take place at a Venezualan compound) with our original "stops."

We got home, and, thinking about what I learned about Colin Farrell, I poured myself a Middleton. My hot babe was in the next room. Ah, Hollywood...

The End of the PI World

It appears that I picked a fine time to get out of the PI business in Florida. Last week a bill made it through committee, which will likely become a law: the essential end of bad faith law.

Bad faith is the hammer used by PI firms to get cases settled. Basically, an insurance company with a set policy limit knows that if it miscalculates and fails to settle (and therefore buy peace for the person or company with the policy), it can be taken to task later in the form of damages exponentially higher than its policy limits.

Once that fear is gone, there will NEVER be a policy that will be paid to a plaintiff, unless and until a judgment directs it. And, for PI lawyers, this is fatal. She me a PI lawyer who tries all his cases and settles few or none, and I'll show you a broke ass practitioner.

Years ago, we got a case where the aunt of a 4 year old placed her pretty little niece in the front seat of a car, right under the sign on the sun visor that said (in Enlish and Spanish): "Don't put your pretty little niece in the front seat, because in an accident the airbag will kill or paralyze her." Of course, the warning wasn't THAT specific, but it might as well have been.

Sure enough, Aunty Negligence drove through a light, crashed into another car, and, sure enough, lovely Ashley was Christopher Reeved. Tragic.

Aunty has a policy with limits of $10,000 --basically enough to pay for like 2 weeks of care for Ashley. Using big bad, bad faith law, I manipulated a settlement for the child of $2 million. Ashley died a few months later, and her mother got the remaining money. I don't know whether Mom still talks to Aunty Negligence...

Under coming law, Ashley would have gotten only the $10K. One can debate the ultimate fairness of either side, and like an ex smoker who becomes VERY anti -tobacco, as an ex PI lawyer I have a keener sense of the absurdity of what Plaintiffs' lawyers do, but in any event, the party is nearly over.

Dr. Barry has been unjustly and absurdly sued a few times over his career, the latest in a case where he, no kidding, saved a child's life, but in doing so cost the child a few toes. The good news for him is that immunity is coming for those who treat Medicaid patients --the majority of his flock.

Of course, as he points out, major Medicaid cuts are coming, so he won't get paid in the first place for treating those who can no longer sue him. Ah --life under Republican Florida legislators...

So I have to figure out something else to do. Wifey is putting out feelers to go back to work, too, and I'm thrilled. Both of us are too young to retire.

I'm getting a bit stir crazy --I'm even considering volunteering for a medical experiment, courtesy of my neuroscientist friend, in which they test my motor skills while applying a slight electrical charge (supposedly that I won't even feel). The research is supposed to help spinal cord injury patients, so I'd do it in Ashley's memory...

We'll see. But, PI work is dying, it appears, with or without me.

Hollywood At My Front Gate

So there I was, Tuesday morning, enjoying my coffee and paper before my drive to visit ancient Mom, when I heard clicking noises on the street behind me. I looked up to see a tall man taking pictures of the front of my house. I said good morning, and asked if I could help him.

His name was Ian (he showed me an ID badge) and he said he was a location scout for the show "Burn Notice," and thought my front gate might be perfect for a stunt scene they needed to film. I invited him in, and we chatted. He is from Jamaica, and used to manage the hotel across from the one where Wifey and I honeymooned, 1/4 of a century ago.

Ian said they needed a gate that was at the end of a street, and ours was perfect. He took my cell number, and asked if we were interested. "Of course," I answered. "We must all sacrifice for the furtherance of the visual arts." Ian laughed loudly. I liked him immediately, as I suppose most who meet him do. He's a good 6'5", handsome, with that terrific Jamaican accent, and quick to laugh...

Later that day, I got ANOTHER call from a young assistant producer named Andrew. He had been by the gate, too, and agreed it was perfect. Was I still interested? Yes, I was.

Still later, I was at the bar at Trulucks, with Mirta, a place I'm not uncommonly found. I got the call this time from THE location manager, Jen. They'd pay me $2500 per day, and insure me and the house, etc...Could they come by on Thursday?

This was the coolest thing to happen in my neighborhood since the bus load of Victoria's Secret models broke down in front of my house, and asked if they could sunbathe topless in my pool while they waited for a new ride, and THAT happened only in my fantasy...

So this am, my cell phone rang, and it was Jen. She was outside. Wifey and I strolled out, and there was an ARMY of people! There were, no kidding, 25 people, and about 6 vehicles. I met Jen, a fellow Cane (though 5 years younger than I ), and she introduced us around. One fellow spotted our granddog Madeleine, and said that one of the stars of "Law and Order," another show he works on, had the identical dog, and they used it a lot, since the breed was so good at just laying still...Wifey asked him to send a text of the photo to D1...

So, they like my gate. I learned I could have negotiated for more thatn $2500, but I also learned that if you're an agreeable homeowner, they might ask to use your house again, and, truth is, I probably would have paid THEM to be able to watch the shooting of a crash scene right at my house!

Jen also told me that by agreeing to this, we became part of the "Burn Notice" family, and could attend any filmings in the Grove, where they have sets set up.

As fate and Channel 33 had it, last night they showed the show's pilot and 2nd episode, and Wifey and I watched. It was actually well written and good! We liked it. And it makes Miami look amazing, with gorgeous scenes shot all over town --mostly South Beach and the Design District.

And now our front gate, at least a facsimile of it, will become part of show biz history.

I KNEW good things came out of sitting around in the mornings, drinking coffee...

Last Dad Standing

In life, at various times, I've had orbits of friends. In college, Barry and Eric were in my closest orbit, followed by more distanct circles and ellipses. Jorge and Mark were in the next orbit out.

Curiously, out of all my high school and college friends, just about all of our fathers have died. Most of the mothers are still alive, now in their 80s and 90s.

Mark and I met though Barry. Barry went to high school with Mark, and brought him by the Honors Dorm, I guess in the Fall of '80. Mark was so loud and annoying, and the rest of us asked Barry if he really needed to invite him back. But, Mark's father Norman owned a Mister Donut restaurant, so next time Mark visited, he brought a few boxes. We then accepted him.

I had causually dated a cute tiny girl from Hollywood named Ricky. She and Mark hit it off, and one evening Mark sort of sheepishly told me he and Ricky had gotten together. I was happy for them, and we all grew closer.

Mark went on to medical school, and then moved to New York for his surgical residency. Ricky went to UM Law, and graduated. They married, and then divorced after the move to New York. Mark met Jill, a nutritionist at his hospital, and they married.

We always assumed Mark would return to Miami, like Eric and Barry did, but Jill wasn't having it. Her hair, which is frizzy, is very important to her, and she announced that moving to South Florida would produce "bad hair years." So, the 2 settled in Long Island, and had twins, who are now 16. They have prospered. Mark's neurosurgery practice has boomed, and the two live an upper class lifestyle in LI's North Shore.

Over the years, Mark has grown apart from us. I last saw him 13 years ago. His brother Steve is a lawyer in Miami, and our kids know each other, so I keep up with Mark, but during his many visits here, and my many visits to New York, neither has bothered to call.

Alas, 2 weeks ago, Eric (who has become Mark's parents cardiologist) called with sad news. Mark's Dad Norman had an incurable leukemia. He might not last one year.

I saw Norman in June, as D2's high school graduation. Norman's granddaughter Haley was in the class. Norman and his wife Rita and Wifey and I shared a lovely moment at the arena on the U campus. I asked after Mark, and Norman the Donut man lamented that his son had indeed become a real big shot, and only saw his family in Florida a few times per year.

In August, Norman saw Eric and was fine. By February, the blood cancer had set in. Norman died Saturday.

So last night, we travelled to Rita's Emerald Hills condo for the shiva call. Eric and Dana and Barry were there. The 4 men from the U were reunited.

Mark chatted happily (and loudly, as ever) about his career and life on Long Island. IT was sad, though. Dana showed a video of Barry's boys' recent Bar Mitzvot, and Mark's absence was clear.

We told some old stories, and I reminisced about Norman. I used to see him at UM baseball games, with a granddaughter or 2 in tow. I'd be leaving, and heare my last name booming out --it was Norman sitting with Rita, his wife, and a big smile.

On the way home, Wifey realized that neither of us offered plans to get together again. And so it is -- a close friend from years ago has drifted away, and the only reunion is over the death of a family member.

I emailed Barry and Eric, and reminded them of the obvious: our wives will likely outlive us, and we damn well ought to savor the fruits of our labors, before our widows enjoy them with the next generation of gold digging men...

Yesterday afternoon, D1 was here to say goodbye to D2, who returned to UF on a late flight. The two of them sat on a bench on our large porch. A yellow tabebuia tree was in full, brilliant bloom behind them. They laughed and giggled together, like little girls. I watched them and a tear fell -- the sight was exquisite.

Norman got many of those moments, I know. A working class Jewish guy from New York, who moved to South Florida, and got to say "My son the lawyer, my son the brain surgeon..." He was blessed with 6 terrific grandkids. He made it to 80, the biblically promised 3 score and 10.

Nice gig for the donut man from Hollywood.

Calamitous Thursday

So it began as a routine day -- breakfast with my friend and broker Pat to discuss investment income in a bad market,a few hours in the office helping Stuart strategize about a case, playing on the computer, meeting D1 to slip her some cash...

I headed home, and Wifey had some friends over looking at jewelry for sale, and I intercepted friend and neighbor Diane out for a walk, to invite her inside for a glass of wine...and then D1 called, crying and panicked --another car accident.

I went into calm Dad mode, trying to quiet her, gathering info, and I soon learned she was on 441 in Hollywood, on her way to meet friends at the Hard Rock, when the suv in front of her stopped for a red light, she stopped, and the Infiniti behind her didn't... He hit her pretty hard, she was pushed into the suv, and hit her nose on the steering wheel --it might be broken, should she call an ambulance???

I scooped up Wifey and we headed to Hollywood, talking to D1 and calming her. We arrived and saw the car that hit her --looked pretty bad. I estimated he hit at about 30 mph, but then the tap into the suv was modest --ne damage there, and just a cracked plastic grille on D1's car.

D1 had ice on her nose, was in pain, but, thankfully --nothing catastrophic. The nice Hollywood cop wrote a ticket for the Infiniti driver, a Jamaican who came over and apologized ("I taught de was goin' through") and then we met D1's friend Joel, a UM 1L she's been keeping some company with. Nice fellow --he flew up to D1 as soon as she called him.

So, after awhile, Joel drove D1 back to her apartment, I drove the accident vehicle, and Wifey took my car. As night grew later, D1 was eating pizza and laughing with Joel. I think the loss to me was modest --no more than 5 years off my wife with this latest scare.

We called Dr. Dave, our family guy, and he said to just follow up with a nose man next week. D1 got an appointment for Monday, but I'm hoping she'll be fine before then and be able to miss it. No, I told her, unless there's a break, this is NOT an excuse to obtain the WASP nose she was denied by her ethnicity...

D2 returned from her cruise, and immediately had the pitch perfect take on her sister: "Classic JAP problem. Needs to get her BMW fixed, and maybe a nose job."

Meanwhile, we spent some exquisite time together. The Ds had lunch, and then we all drove to the insurance claims office (the Jamaican is well covered, luckily) to have the car's damage estimated. The claims examiner told us to take the car in right away, as the exhaust system was damaged, and she didn't want a carbon monoxide case...We took the car to the dealer where we bought it, and left it to their efforts. D2 should have it back in a few weeks...

And then, of course, is the earthquake in Japan. Things were a bit worse for those folks...

Life is so fragile. I made my living from much worse car wrecks than D1 had. I know that in a NY (or Tokyo) minute, everything can change...

And so we deal with crap, and keep thankful when it's annoying, and not calamitous...

Millions in Japan tonight would gladly take our place...

Crying (Pea) Fowl

Ah, my neighborhood. I love it so, with the gorgeous foliage, and each house with its own style and architecture. It's the opposite of cookie cutter. The neighbors are in interesting mix of rich folks, too --ranging from young families to very, very old.

We're fortunate that there aren't many real problems here. Out of 83 houses, I think there's been only one foreclosure. Crime is non existent. It's lovely.

So, human nature being what it is, folks need to create drama and controversy. A few years ago, the big issue was dog crap, and a jerk neighbor who thought the best way to deal with it was to threaten to poison all furry creatures that came onto his property. Poopgate still exists. A few months ago a diminutive neighbor, who is a well known trial lawyer in town, challenged a much larger (but less athletic) neighbor to a fist fight, over comments relating to the poop.

Well, last week was our homeowner's meeting, and, fortunately, a bad bout of diarrhea kept me from attending. Wifey was there, along with my friend Jeff, and Jeff's texts about the latest controversy had me in stitches while I was in the bathroom.

It seems that we have a peafowl problem. Peacocks and Peahens (peafowl) are non native, and the couple that set up nest here has grown to a flock (group, pride, riot)? of about 20. They tend to stay on the Eastern side of our neighborhood, and Wifey and I think they're kind of cool when they cross our paths during our constitutionals. But, alas, they apparently poop with amazing volume, and screech like banshees, and most folks consider them a nuisance.

Gloria, our association president, is the classic really smart Italian girl you wanted to sit next to in class. She's organized like a general, and has a wit drier than sand. She offered to hold an online election, to determine the peafowls' fate.

The results came in today. The proverbial thumb turned downward for the big blue birds. Gloria is going to get a quote from some animal "removal" company, and then ask the Village of Pinecrest to help pay for the fowl-o-cide.

I'm the neighborhood wise ass, but I've kept my comments to myself this time. Most of the emails were pretty benign, with old ladies detailing their encounters with the critters.

My neighbor Mark, also a lawyer, made a funny by summoning his inner Rodney King, and asking why we can't all live in peace. Another neighbor, who suffers from a chronic case of defective sense of humor, immediately fired back, in broken grammar, a protest that we DO live in peace, and that the previous commentator had the right to list her peacock grievances.

I wrote to Mark thanking him, as one of life's true joys is encountering a person with a clunky inability to laugh...

So, I guess it's just a matter of time before the only trace will be a few tailfeathers. Goodbye, peacocks and peahens.

At least I know the far more interesting and hilarious humans in our neighborhood remain.

Losing My Religion

I was raised, essentially, as a "Bagel Jew," as my California sister calls it. We were taught to be proud of our history and culture (bagels!) and to be staunch Zionists, but to be wary, no, beyond wary --to give zero trust to synagogues and rabbis...

In college, my refutation of the Temple was tested, by my best friends Eric and Barry, both of whom were synagogue going, more observant Jews than I . I actually became close to a Hillel Rabbi, and asked him to marry Wifey and me, and he invited us into his house as friends.

The Rabbi, who I'll call Mark Kram, since that's his name, told us he wanted to be our "3rd spouse," a part of our budding Jewish family. As creepy as that sounds, at the time Wifey and I bought into it, thinking --what the hell -- we can light shabbos candles and go to services...

Then, a week before our wedding, Rabbi Kram called to tell us that there was a cancellation on a trip to Israel, fully paid, and we were on our own for the wedding. "But I thought we was partners!" I protested. Sorry, he said, though he'd been to Israel many times, a free trip was just too good to pass up. Happy wedding.

Wifey and I , through Eric's Mom Norma, found a relief rabbi, and we were married under the chuppah. But we both had a "We knew it!" moment. We were done with the temple folks...

And then, as Fate (or Hashem) would have it, Rabbi Yossi came into our lives, as a young tenant in a rental property, with his beautiful, charming young wife, and baby boy. We grew to be close friends, and the charisma of Chabad drew us in, and then drew my partner Paul in even closer.

Paul, bless him, figures he needs a Stairway to Heaven, as Hashem's prophet Robert Plant sings, and Chabad is famous for being a refuge like that. Casino owners, white collar criminals, and the like, give huge sums to Chabad, drink some L'Chaim shots, cry while holding the Torah, and then, Viola! --their Jewish souls are saved.

Next thing I knew, we became major financial supporters of our local Chabad --even giving them an interest free mortgage to buy the house where the Center was to be built. And, truth be told, Rabbi Yossi did a lot of good --starting community programs, schools, and a terrific Special Needs group which pairs kids with teens, and brings them forth.

Well, alas, along the way, the Rabbi and his wife, like all Chasids, take literally the Big Man's commandment to be fruitful and multiply. At the time of this writing --they have been blessed with 8 (8!!!!) children, all of whom are in private schools, attend camps, etc...

As the Rabbi's income comes all from donations, we, of course, pay for this.

Well, last year I told the Rabbi that my Firm was winding down, and that, instead of giving money (which had been diminishing over the years, in any case) I would donate my time. And, in fact, I've written some articles for Chabad, in hopes of helping their fine PR Department...

Well, yesterday, Paul and I lunched with our old friend the Rabbi, and I mentioned to him that past fees had generated a rather repulsive IRS bill for me, and it was coming at a time when no more cash was coming in. In other words, Diamond Dave was feeling a bit less than his normal flush self...

He responded, with seriousness (after telling about several family trips to go to weddings and visit kids at out of state schools) that Paul and I had always been "partners with Hashem (via Chabad)" and this needed to continue, etc, etc, etc,,,

I like my friend too much to laugh in his face, but on a campus walk afterwards, Paul and I commented, essentially, "Da noive of this guy!"

So, for me, at least, the Recession, which has affected real estate the most, is going to take a serious toll on my Stairway to Heaven...

As George Carlin noted, God has everything, and is all powerful, but he seems to lack money.

I felt, yesterday, the way I did when I toured the Vatican Museum. The Faithful Pilgrims were falling to their knees in the Sistine Chapel, praising the Big Man and Son. Wifey and I were thinking "Man --sell some of this crap and feed the poor!"

I am SO my father's son. It just so happens my father had little use for the Father...

Amen.

The Homecoming

UF's spring break is here for D2. She had her last exam, and hit the road with 2 friends. The girl driving lives in Boca, so we made plans to see Eric and Dana for dinner, to arrange the pick.

First, Wifey and I packed up the Granddog (D1 is in Chicago, continuing her post college college visits. D1 applied for and was accepted into UF early decision, so really didn't visit other schools. She's doing it now that she has friends in grad programs --Wash U, Stanford, and now Chicago, where she'll see the city and catch up with friends)and headed to ancient Mom, for our bi weekly stop.

We brought in some food, and reaffirmed our thoughts (Wifey's with me on this) that Delray Beach is the worst place on earth, at least the western, side, home of Boca DelVista Mar-land. 2 80 somethings walked towards the sandwich shop from the opposite direction, and one took off sprinting to insure he got in line in front of me. His friend, less fleet of foot, then pushed past me.

The young sandwich maker then had the pleasure of serving him. "You call that lettuce!!???" was his accusatory way of asking for some more on his sub...

I just kept thinking of Pete Townshend's line, written before HE got old...

Mom enjoyed the granddog, but was clearly lonely --she told us how she broke up her day, and did we have to leave, etc... Wifey invited her to come stay with us for a few days, and for the first time in years she didn't reject the idea. We'll see...

And then we headed to Eric and Dana's. They prepared a feast --Eric had an enormous tenderloin, which he had marinated and then grilled with a high tech meat thermometer that broadcast the temps to a receiver Eric walked around with while he made mojitos. Meanwhile, Dana made delicious mojito chicken. We were beautifully themed...

Josh and Jen were there, and we chatted happily about college and high school. Their puggle Simba frolicked with the little grand dog.

D2 arrived via her Boca express, and she and her friend Catherine came in and sampled the food. It was a lovely reunion and homecoming...

Eric's patients are mostly the folks I met at the sandwich shop. He makes a great living, but he's underpaid, in my view, for having to deal with those folks. They all have such an awful sense of entitlement, to 100 years of life, to being served when they want it. Eric told the tale of a patiend who showed up 30 minites early for his appointment, and then had a fit with the staff when he wasn's immediately seen. Oy...

Anyway --it's Saturday, and D2 is sleeping off her first year of college so far. On the way home last night, she and Catherine were amazed at how fast their freshman year flew by.

Wifey and I get it. I wish the 80 year old creeps and crones, who populate my mother's village, had more appreciation for it...