The Honors Dorm

Where was I? Oh yeah --Spring of 1982.

Looking back, the successes of those who lived in the Dorm is remarkable. One fellow, Tom, studied Marine Science, and fell in love with a local Cuban girl named Ofelia. They married and headed out to the Bay Area. Ofelia went to UCSF Med School, and Tom got a science doctorate at Stanford. I just read that Tom is now back in Florida, working for the Scripps people, and has discovered some new biochemical marker that seems destined to revolutionize the treatment of Alzheimer's Disease.

My roommate from Hong Kong, Colin, paid his way though UM working at a waiter at our local Chinese place, Canton. The owner became a cherished "Uncle," which is stronger than a mentor. The owner offered Colin a partnership, but Colin returned to Hong Kong to capitalize on the return of the place to China, from England. I understand that Colin became wildly wealthy in an import/export business. We last spoke in '04, when he was in Chicago, and coming to Miami. But the damn Hurricane Wilma dashed his travel plans.

We learned that we both lost our fathers young, and each have 2 kids. I'd love to see him.

Speaking of Colin...he used to cook, and thought the Dorm had maid service. He'd leave his dishes in the sink, and after a week or so, the cabbage and other Asian veggies started to smell a bit rank.

Barry and Mike deputized me to be the one to politely tell Colin that there was no maid service. I did, saying simply: "Colin, my friend, you have to do the dishes."

Well, he took this to mean that he must wash ALL dishes, and a few days later we realized that any breakfast or lunch ware we left in the sink was washed and put away.

Mike, the LI blonde Italian, saw this as a sign from above. "This is freakin' great! Don't even THINK about telling him!"

OUr next door neighbor Sandy guilted me into acting. (Sure enough, after her mother died and she returned to her native Philly, Sandy became the most religious of us all).

Colin seemed relieved.

We revelled in the cultural differences with our Asian friend. He had a Chinese language Playboy subscription, which cracked us up no end, for some reason.

One night, I was studying and heard Barry and our loudest friend Mark (now a Chair of Neurosurgery on Long Island) walking back to our apartment. I was seized with comic inspiration, of the Borscht Belt/Jerry Lewis variety.

I squeezed into Colin's red Canton waiter jacket, and when Barry and Mark opened the door, greeted them, in a bad Chinese accent "Welcome back, most honorable roomates."

Barry and Mark fell to the floor, literally, in convulsive laughter. Mark was asthmatic, and started getting a little blue.

We weren't politically correct, but we were mostly smart.

Don't Know Much About History

America, and South Florida in particular, doesn't care too much about preserving its history. I guess this can be a positive thing. Years ago, as we toured Italy and our wonderful guide Remo pointed out a thousand year old church, I marveled at its age, and told Remo that in Miami, "historical" means less than 100 years old. Remo looked wistful, and said "Ah, but David, that is wonderful. Europe is about the past --your country is about the future."

I guess. All I know is that I've lived here 32 years, and 2 iconic places for me have been torn down: my old dorm apartment building, and the Orange Bowl. Tonight I'm headed to a third, the UM Rathskellar, for its "Last Call."

Last night, I had time to kill before a meeting in the Gables. I headed, as usual, to UM, to walk around. Cops were everywhere, directing traffic for the Billboard Latin Music Awards being held at the campus arena. I drove to the parking lot next to my old Honors Dorm. It was knocked down a few months ago, but now has been thoroughly sodded. Literally, a big lawn is now where my building was, as well as the old Swimmers and Divers dorm.

I walked into the middle of the lawn, where I used to attend parties. A breeze blew in, and rain threatened. A UM cop called out to me "Hey --you can't leave your car there if you're going to the Latin show. I stood there looking very gringo. "Do I look like I'm going to a Latin awards show?" I asked. He laughed, and said "Guess not." Por favor!

The Rat is being torn down, and a new campus pub will supposedly be built as part of a new $40 million redo of the Student Union Building. Some wealthy hedge fund guy, Berkowitz, who has 3 kids at UM, gave an enormous gift to get 'er done.

So tonight there will be the final pitchers of beer. My friends Norman and Barry are going. Mike may tag along, too, even though he has to sell food at the baseball game to raise money for his boy Chris's high school team.

The Rat is (was) a cool place. When I ordered my first beer there in August, 1979, I truly felt like a college man. Back then, you could drink at 18, and even though I was in tropical Coral Gables, I held the mug firmly, and imagined myself at a Princeton mixer, waiting to make intelligent conversation with some of my fellow students...

My friends and I went to Happy Hour there, and saw a bunch of shows, including Papa John Creech, the ancient fiddler from Jefferson Airplane. I met him after the show, and couldn't understand a word he said.

After the Canes beat Penn State in a game most Canes historians feel signaled the beginning of their greatness, the following week they played at another powerhouse, Alabama. Eric and I met at the Rat, ordered lunch, and watched our boys get CREAMED by Bear Bryant's team. Greatness was a few more years away...

The burgers always tasted great, and they served them with those wonderful thick "steak fries." The beer was cold. Blow ups of the Sports Illustrated covers of the 5 football National Championships are proudly displayed.

The Rat has (had) a "Law Room," where we law students were allowed to privately drink and socialize.

One night, I was on the second floor, and went downstairs to the bathroom. I was with a few young ladies from the dorm. When I returned, they were giggling. I asked why. One pointed out that, from the second floor, you had a clear view of the urinals in the men's room, and they all enjoyed the show. Whatever. Women, I thought...

And so tonight will be last call. Who knows what they'll knock down next. As the great philosophers sing, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sea...

End of the Freshman Year

So Wifey and I fired up the Volvo SUV, and headed out onto the open road, with the mission of fetching D2 home for the Summer...

The drive to Hogtown never gets shorter. Nor does the dreary, boring scenery. I'm prejudiced, but other than Southeast Florida --we have a less than beautiful state.

5.5 hours later, we pulled off I-75 and headed for D2's dorm, Broward Hall. We met her friend, Josh, a very nice young man from Weston's Cypress Bay High. He helped us schlep the filled bags of clothes and shoes, immediately endearing him to Wifey: "That's such a sweet thing, when a boy helps a girl move..."

We chatted with Devon, D2's roommate, and noticed both she and D2 were, well, wistful. They were both sad their freshman years were coming to an end. They had such a sense of loss. I didn't help things by singing "We MAy Never Pass This Way Again" to D2 as we left the building...

We dropped off some stuff at the bungalo where D2 will spend 5 weeks this summer, and were greeted there by a sweet black cocker spaniel who likewise seems to enjoy college life.

From there we went to our favorite Gville restaurant, The Top, where I downed a couple of Stellas, and Wifey and I toasted our baby girl.

She earned a perfect 4.0 GPA! More importantly, she's been learning outside the classroom. She announced "I really don't see how anyone could enjoy college as much as I am, here at UF." She's fit in socially and academically. She loves the place.

I beamed. If there's something better than a happy young adult child, well, I don't know what it is.

We dropped her back at the dorm. She was going to Josh's fraternity end of the year bash ZBTahiti. All of the freshman fraternity boys died their hair blonde. I thought that was a much better initiation than paddles and "Thank you , Sir, may I have another?"

Although I threatened to show up at the party, in UM themed Hawaiian shirt and chanting "Toga, Toga, Toga" I didn't. Wifey and I retreated to the Country Inn, where I watched an HBO movie about the birth of Reality TV --the PBS show "Modern Family," in the 70s...

Amazingly, D2 awoke the next am at the crack of ten, and signed out of her room. We met Devon and her Dad Chris, who were headed back to Palm Harbor for the Summer. Chris and I traded aging Dad stories, and thanked each other for raising daughters who were non psychopaths. D2 DID have some nightmare roommate tales to share, but luckily she and Devon were a lovely match.

I left my obligatory "Go Canes" message on the door next to D2's, where Carly and Chelsea live, and no more was left to be done.

We drove off, and I chanted my Disney travel log "As we reluctantly say goodbye to Gainesville..." Wifey and the Ds have come to expect it whenever we leave a place...

We stopped at Delray, and bought some Subway sandwiches for ancient Mom. She was thrilled to see D2, and regaled her with her famous non sequiters and illogical words of advice, i.e. "You can always find garbage out there. Pick QUALITY in your boyfriends..."

From there it was back to the 305, where D1 greeted us all --thrilled to see her sister. D1 had hosted "A Very Jewish Easter" brunch for 8 at our house, although it wasn't a very OBSERVANT Jewish Easter, as there were bagels and croissants despite the lingering Passover prohibitions. Oh well, as my sister Sue observes, we're really just bagel Jews anyway...

So D2 bonded with Vienna, the new sausage dog, and we all watched her (Vienna, not D2) frolic with Madeleine, D1's spoiled dog. The ancient Lab Honey was not amused by all the activity...

I caught up on email and bills, and then looked for the Ds. Alas, they were in D2's bed, laughing together, and sharing sister tales.

I've been blessed to see a lot of the world. Istanbul, even. But there was no more beautiful sight than that one --my Ds, happy, and together.

I fell asleep and slept the sleep of kings...

Picking Up the Check

In the early years of our marriage, Wifey asked me what I'd do if I ever made big money. I don't recall this, but she does: apparently I said I'd save a lot for our family, give to charity, and always pick up the check at dinner.

Well, we got lucky, and some money flowed from my law business. Sure enough, I saved, gave to charity (I proudly became a UM Founder, to thank my alma mater for the connections and skills she gave me) and set about picking up checks and paying for stuff for family and friends.

It truly became a habit of mine. At dinner, I'd have a few drinks, and simply not want to deal with the unpleasantness of figuring out who owed what ("I had the soup --you had 3 drinks."). So I'd pay -again, again, and again...

The inevitable happened: folks got spoiled. They simply assumed the Gravy Train would run forever and ever.

Alas, the firm came to an end, and the Gravy Train derailed...

The other day, I was out to lunch with an old friend. The bill came, and it sat there. Finally, I picked it up, and asked to split it. He looked, well, dumbfounded.

At first, he said "Um, didn't I get it last time?" He did, but then I reminded him about the free meals over the last, oh,17 years!!!!

He turned red, and said, "Oh yeah --your firm DID pay a lot, didn't it?"

I answered that if he wanted to do an accounting, we could, and he could write me a check...

"Nah --let me just get this one, too," he said...

And so it will be. I'll return to normal, in the generosity department.

The truth is, most folks barely appreciate generosity. As my partner Paul says, our largesse just served to "create monsters" -the sense that we'd ALWAYS pay.

Wifey noticed that one of our charitable recipients no longer sent us holiday baskets, since the large gifts from us ceased. Even though when we gave we gave more than the cumulative gifts of most of the other members of the charity, it came down to "What have you done for us lately?"

The answer in the future will be: a reasonable amount.

As for the dinner tabs, well, I'm ready to deal with the normal unpleasantness at the meal's end. Now let's see --who had the soup?

Take Me Out to the Stadium Tour

It's all about the connections...When D1 was in Gainesville, she had a doctor named Chris Jolley, who became a friend. Chris is a wonderful guy, and I introduced him to Dr. Barry, who wanted him badly to join the staff at UM. Chris interviewed, the top folks all wanted him, but, alas, his wife had veto power, and she loves her life in rural Gainesville...

Still, at one of our dinner meetings, Barry mentioned how huge a Marlins fan his son is, and Chris said his father, in Dallas, was an engineer with the company building the new stadium, and did Barry think his son would like a behind the scenes tour? Only enough to give up some limbs, Barry replied...

And so yesterday was the day. I picked up Scott and Josh in Pembroke Pines, since Barry had a busy afternoon and I did NOT, and we drove south. We stopped by JMH and got Barry, and headed over to the site of the old Orange Bowl, where Marlins Stadium is rising.

We met Mark, the project engineer from Indy, who is Chris's father's friend. He took us into the construction trailers, and showed us models and pictures, and then gave us all hard hats and bright vests and safety goggles...

I love engineers. They're generally the opposite of lawyers. They're most efficient of words, and they actually BUILD stuff, as opposed to just talking all the time. Mark was a prime example --Purdue grad, laconic, sharp sense of humor.

Barry and I told Mark we were all standing on holy ground. The Orange Bowl was the scene of many wonderful memories for us, and a golden age of Hurricanes football (Dolphins, too, but Barry likes the Jets and didn't want to talk about that).

Mark took us across the street, and we walked into the stadium. It's mostly built, and the famous retractable roof is nearly complete. Mark told us the building is "sexy" from an engineering standpoint, and I saw what he meant: curves everywhere, and floating ramps --I saw immediately how it evokes the ocean and its waves...

We stood on home plate, and walked all the way to the top. A stiff breeze blew in from Biscayne Bay. It was lovely, as was the view. Looking out past centerfield, the stadium is built to showcase Downtown's skyline. When the roof is open, huge picture windows will open, too, so it will be a true open air stadium, instead of just one with a moving roof. It was WAY impressive.

Mark showed us huge cantilevered concrete trusses, the "biggest ever used." They were designed by my neighbor, John Nyitray, a famous Hungarian-American engineer, who has done structural work all over the word. If the roof collapses on me while watching a game or 2, Wifey can walk down 3 houses and yell at him.

We also passed some pallets with the name of another neighbor --Bostic. Judy, who lives next to John, owns the metal work company doing all the railings and grillwork.

I thought it was pretty cool that I knew 2 major contributors of the new project--and they're next door neighbors!

Mark took us to the locker rooms, and weight rooms. He showed us gorgeous views from overhangs, and told us about wind tunnel tests that made the stadium hurricane resistant, both to wind and flooding.

Barry and I agreed that the stadium was much less needed than, say, more money for hospitals and schools, but as long as they built it, it was silly to not appreciate it.

It's truly destined to become the coolest venue in the Major Leagues.

We thanked Mark, and headed to Tobacco Road for dinner. We bored Scott and Josh with tales of our many visits there over the past 3 decades. And I showed Josh, a budding musician, all of the posters of the great blues acts who had appeared there.

All in all, it was an outstanding way to spend an evening.

Scott went home and immediately FB posted that next April can't come fast enough. I agree.

I told Scott and Josh that someday they'll take their kids to games there, and tell them how they were at the place while it was being built, with Grandpa Barry, and long departed Great Uncle Dave.

They laughed. The future seems so far off when you're a teen.

All I know is, Yankee Stadium, where my mother went to games, was built in the mid 1920s, and they knocked down the "historic" park 2 years ago. My mother was born in 1920, before the House that Ruth Built was around.

So sometimes you can outlive history, I guess.

I just look forward to a couple of mojitos while also drinking in the breeze from the Bay, and watching the Fish play. I won't care if I ever get back.

Boca Seder

As a child, my family celebrated Passover, but it was really just an excuse to drink Manishevitz wine and take naps on the living room carpet. I don't have clear memories of those holidays, since they were never a big deal in my house.

When I moved to Miami, and started at the U (before we called it the U), I became close friends with Eric. He and his family invited me to their seder in April, 1980, and I saw what a big deal it was for them. We ate, and laughed, and read. Eric's little sister Elissa was in high school, and already headed towards a more serious study of Judaism. I remeber clearly Eric's father Marvin beaming --surrounded by the love of his family, and his favorite children --the Dachshounds Heidi and Schnapsi --the pups got a major role in the proceedings.

After Wifey and I got together, seders were held at her parents' house. The food was deliciously home cooked by my mother in law. The readings were brief. When my sister and brother in law were here on vacation, they were welcomed to the house, and we all enjoyed ourselved immensely.

I remember one year, my in laws invited Wifey's friend Carol, who came, proudly, with some delicious baked goods. We were gentle in making fun of the non leavened nature of the holiday...

We took over seder duty after D1 was born. With extended family and friends, some years we had over 20 folks. We don't cook, so we'd bring in the food from local delis. We kept services short, and the pouring of vodka and wine long.

After some complaints about the dried nature of the takeout brisket, Wifey switched to Shorty's --our local barbecue place. We laughed when my mother in law tried it and pronounced, in her Yiddish accent, that it "vas real Jewish brisket!"

Some years we had a catered seder, and the kids enjoyed it. It was a rare treat, after D1 went off to Gainesville, when we had both girls home.

Well, this year the Grandparents got too old. Wifey's father can't drive to Miami any more, and MY ancient mother isn't really up to the car trip.

Our dear friends Eric and Dana invited us. I last sedered with Eric 31 years ago.

Wifey and I picked up D1 and her friend Joel, who I call the Hebrew Hoosier (since he's an Indiana Jewish fellow) and headed up to Boca. After my passengers (except Joel) tortured me for being too early (we headed to Town Center to kill some time) we headed to Eric and Dana's.

Eric's little sister Elissa was there, in from New Jersey, with her husband Bruce and their 2 girls. Dana's brother Steve, who is one of the sweetest guys around, greeted me with a hug. Dana's grandmother, Trudy (known as Gaga --we joked she was the original Lady Gaga) was there, in her 90s and still sharp). Elissa's friend Liz was there, too, as well as Josh, whose 17th birthday fell on the day.

Bruce's Mom, also in her 90s was there, as was Norma --Eric and Elissa's Mom. Sadly, Marvin passed years ago.

Eric, a cardiologist only in his day job, but always the Lead JCC camp counselor, had a host of activities to enliven the seder --contests involving marbles, ping pong balls, tissue boxes, and cookies that had to be ridden down one's face.

The wind poured, the Hebrew songs were sung, and we had a terrific time.

D2 and Eric and Dana's daughter Jenn were at their sorority seder in Gainesville, and Jenn made an appearance on Skype. We missed the 2 Gator girls, but they'll be back in town later in the week...

We sang happy birthday to Josh, who I always call Eric with a better personality. At one point, someone pointed out that one of the seder games looked like beer pong. Josh, in mock amazement, said "What's that????" Great kid.

We left after 10. The time had flown. Mission accomplished --we celebrated and remembered the struggles of our Peeps in Egypt. We all truly enjoyed each other's company. Eric and Dana invited us next year.

Oh yeah --Simba, the Puggle, had a starring role. Eric hugged him, and during a song featuring a dog, Josh made sure he sang, too.

Wifey remarked "Eric sure loves that dog!" I recalled Marvin.

Eric beamed the same way...

Freedom

Tonight is the start of Passover, and my rabbi friend has taught me the holiday's true meaning. Of course, on a basic level (the simple son gets this) the holiday is to remember the Jews' escape from the slavery of Egypt, and the Big Man's leading his Chosen Peeps to the Promised Land (after 40 years, pre GPS, and the only damn part of the area without oil).

But the deeper, more contemporary meaning, is for each of us to recognize what we are slaves to, what constrains us, and to seek emancipation from our own prisons. Of course, as my contributions to the Rabbi have diminished, so too have his lessons to me, but this is one of several that resonated and remain with me.

Of course, the ultimate freedom is freedom with one's time. Having relative freedom from financial worries doesn't suck, of course, but time is our most precious possession.

Most of my life, I woke up and my time was spoken for. First it was school (from age 5 to 25) and later job. There were places I HAD to be; a small minority of my time was truly my own.

For the past several months, I wake up, and seldom have a place I HAVE to be. The Ds are grown, Wifey is independent, and Stuart is running the daily operations of what's left of my law firm.

Today, for example. We're invited to Eric and Dana's for First Seder, and we don't have to leave for Boca (via Brickell, to pick up D1 and her Hoosier friend) until 4 pm or so. My only other task is buying a birthday gift for Eric's boy Josh, who turns 17 today.

Buying a gift used to be something hurriedly done --dash into a store on the way home --dash out. Today I can savor the simple task, and I plan to.

Ah, Josh. What a kid he is! I'm so blessed with my adopted nephews --Barry and Eric's boys. Josh is a 4.0 student, and best golfer in his school. He's currently visiting colleges, all of which want him --both for his golf game and his academic game. I tell him all the time he's his father with better athletic skills and a better personality. A true joy of a young man...

I AM starting to get a bit bored not working. I guess I AM too young to retire. I plan to figure out my next career move over this Summer.

For today, though, I take the lesson of Passover to heart, and embrace, and am thankful for my freedom with time.

The sun is shining brilliantly after a night of rain. The air is washed and pure.

Now --what is the perfect place to buy that Canes hoodie for young Josh?

91 And Having Fun?

We celebrated ancient Mom's birthday yesterday. D1, Wifey and I drove to Delray to pick her up, and then met my Florida sister and brother in law at a Red Lobster (tm) for a late lunch. On the way, my California sister called, and suggested the toast be "91 and having fun." In reality, during the next few hours, I just thought how apt Springsteen had it: "In the end what you don't surrender, well the world just strips away."

At Mom's condo, she sat waiting, all dressed, and thanking Wifey: "All my clothes, you bought me!" That's because Mom's shrinking caused every piece of clothing she bought before she was 88 or so to make her look like a death camp survivor. She's shrunken from 5'5" and probably a playing weight of about 160 or so, to about, I'm guessing, 4'9" and less than 100 lbs.

Her mind is still largely there. She asked D1 about her new boyfriend, and read to us a birthday card D2 sent from Gainesville. Wifey noticed many birthday cards, from friends, and one niece in Oregon, and said "People still care about you and your birthday!"

California sister and her boys had sent some lovely strawberries dipped in chocolate, and those made her smile, too.

But then reality reentered. Wifey helped her put on her shoes, and then she Mom just sat, as if afraid of the pain of rising. Finally, we got her going and into the car. It was clear that on days her aide doesn't come, she must plod through --it must take her hours just to get out of bed and to the bathroom.

On the car ride to the restaurant, she launched into her speech --about refusing to go to an ALF. We all know she needs to. She only gets passionate these days when telling us how much she wants to stay in her condo.

It comes down to vanity. She has some episodes of incontinence, and is horrified when other people know. When I wheeled her to the group of folks at the Miami Jewish Home, during last year's attempt to move her there, she grimmaces. They all look exactly like her, but to Mom, in her mind, she's the elegantly dressed 40 something, on her way to see a Broadway show with her Long Island friends. I'm SURE of this --she looks at the aged, and thinks she's not one of them.

At the restaurant, my brother in law Dennis and I ordered 2.5 martinis each, the better to deal with this presentation of decay in front of us. Mom ordered her Maine lobster, and set about de shelling and eating it. Mom's love of lobster is family lore. The joke is that watching her eat it is the closest one can get (thank heavens) to watching an elderly person have sex.

And she did enjoy it, but then the rumblings started. She regurgitated a lot of it, and spit an egg drop soup looking liquid into her plate. We joked about it, but we knew what it meant: taking Mom out to restaurants was probably not going to happen anymore.

She then needed a bathroom trip, and Wifey jumped to her aid. On the way out, I told D1 that's a life lesson about true love. We make much fun of Wifey, but the way she treats her mother in law, with so much tenderness and care, teaches about love. I explained to D1, and she got it: love's not about valentines and flowers and perfume --true love is who cleans up the shit.

Anyway --we all decamped to Mom's condo, and sang happy birthday to her, and sampled the cake we brought from a French bakery. It was delicious.

Wifey gave Mom some of her jewelry, and my sister presented her with a lovely, handmade ornament. My sister is so talented with crafts. She took a styrofoam ball, and some thread, and wove it into a beautiful piece.

And then we all left. Mom's understandably become more needy. She asked me to visit weekly. I told her the 3 hour round trip was a bit daunting for me, but if she'd agree to move, we'd see her 3-4 times per week, between Wifey, me, and D1. The Miami Jewish Home is only 30 minutes away, and D1 lives even closer. We told her D1 would come and bring her great granddog. She held up her hand. No leaving the condo!

And so it will be, I guess.

I spoke to my professor friend Steve, an expert on aging. His father just passed in North Carolina, at 94. He faced many of the same issues.

The liklihood for Mom is that she'll fall in her home, go to the hospital, and then to a nursing home, where the end will come sooner than later. She'll miss out, sadly, on what could be some quality years of being with exactly her kind: WW II era folks, who love bagels and lox, and talking about back in the day...

Or the end will come some other way.

All I know is, some of Wifey's friends answered Wifey's posts about her 91 year old mother in law happily --telling her how lucky she is that the family has such "great genes."

To me --wishing someone that long a life is a dirty, angry curse...

Lullaby

Ah, sweet sleep. Probably the third best thing there is.

I've never had trouble sleeping --falling asleep and staying asleep. But now comes the aging process, and it's become an issue.

Most nights I fall right away, but then, 4 hours later, I'm up like the sun has risen. I surf the web, read, and sometimes go outside in the glorious silence of the wee hours and watch the stars and the occasional landing airplane making its way from the ocean, passing right over, and then turning North to MIA.

Sometimes I think about calling my friend Jeff, who I KNOW is up most of the night. I see his Facebook postings at 3, 4, 5 am, and he's NEVER been able to sleep the whole night.

My mother used to sing me a lullaby when I was a little boy. It had TERRIBLE lyrics --about a "little man" whose kiddie car was stolen. I was a sensitive boy, and the thought of this child's loss always made me cry. Somehow, my mother would still sing the song. Hmmm...I wonder where my sadistic streak comes from?

In high school, I always fell asleep to the radio, usually WLRN, or WBAB - the 2 Long Island progressive stations. In the am, I'd wake to those great glottal stop, deep voiced DJs, who sounded much cooler than they looked...

So anyway, the other night, after going to bed still feeling the effects of a couple of Ketel Ones from Trulucks, I found one of my favorite tunes on YouTube. It's Pat Metheny's "Last Train Home."

It played, and cleared my mind like a mantra, and I slept the whole night.

I tried it again last night. Wifey and I came home from "Pal Joey" at the Ring at UM, and she set about her late night puttering downstairs. I got in to bed, played "Last Train," shut the laptop cover when it ended, fell into sleep, and got up with the first rays at 630. It was magical.

So, I have my new lullaby, and it's an instrumental with some voices, but no lyrics. I don't have to feel bad about some loser kid who the bullies pick on.

I can just get on that late train, speeding alone though the gathering dark of the MidWest, and travel the night.

Thanks, Pat.

But Someone's GotTo Do It

At our first house, off Galloway Road, I learned to fear septic systems. The owner who sold us the house, who I'll call Rick Cohen, since that's his name, knew he had a problem, and it became our problem.

I learned that a pre sale "septic tank inspection" consists of flushing a toilet 2 times, and, if it flushes, that means passing. Apparently, Rick had had the tank pumped out right before he put the house on the market, it passed "inspection," and we inherited a big problem: floods and backed up toilets. The repairs were a big deal.

So, thereafter, I became much more aware of this kind of shit, literally.

When we looked at Villa Wifey, I hired the maestro of septic systems for an inspection, Mr. Smith of Smith Septic in Homestead. He came over, looked around, and told me he had personally installed the system, and he personally vouch for it. Just to prove it, he dug up the opening, and showed me. It looked like a bunch of filthy water to me, but Mr. Smith explained to me why it was "flowing right."

Afterwards, we stood there, and chatted, and he showed me pictures of his place in Montana, and we shared Big Sky stories, and both had met Dick Allgood, the proprietor of "Allgoods" which serves great food and is decorated with Canes and Dolphins memorabilia in the middle of Montana, and I liked Mr. Smith and his wry sense of humor. "Ive made a fortune out of shit, Dave."

So every two years, I dutifully Ha! call Smith's Septic, and have my tank pumped out. Last year, Antonio, the gap toothed assistant, convinced me it was a good idea to put in a manhole, so that the cover doesn't have to be dug up each time. I did, and now there's a green, rubber coated disc in my yard, which reminds me of what I'd otherwise take for granted -- good flushing toilets.

I called yesterday, and Mr. Smith answered the phone. He's in his 70s now. He remembered me, and the fact that my house is best served when the truck pulls up next to the stone wall in the rear, and the tech pumps from there, without having to navigate my driveway.

Antonio showed up at 8 this morning, gapped tooth smile as always, and pried open the cover and began his work. He remembered I was a lawyer, and asked me about a summons he had received, about a ticket. I gave him free advice, and he said, in his Ricky Ricardo accent: "Mein --it must be great to be a lawyer --ju know so much."

I told him that both of us were in the same business, just that he dealt in the human kind, and I dealt in the Bull-type. He laughed so hard I was afraid he was going to fall into the manhole, and I'd have to pull him out.

He finished the pumping, pronounced all was well, and commended me on keeping the drainfield clear of plants.

I was strangely proud of having proper septic system hygiene.

I asked how business was, and he told me last year was slow, with the bad economy. As stupid as it is, folks put off maintaining their systems to save the $200 --which will lead to $10K drainfield replacements.

But this year things are back to normal. "Shitty --like we like it!"

What a business!

Saturday Night Social

Wifey and I socialize much less than we used to, because we're old and boring. Not really --completely. We just feel so much of it these days is "been there, done that" and it seems so much of socializing is overpriced restaurants and less than illuminating conversation. So we typically end up home most weekends --Wifey watching film noir while playing computer Scrabble, and me feeding my news and trivia junkie habit on the web. Ah --maybe we need hormone replacement therapy.

Last Saturday was a happy exception. Our crazy friend Sheryl came during the day, in her typical whirlwind. As she was getting out of the car, her bag was in one hand and her cell in her ear, giving driving directions to her son, and asking me if they were right.

We enjoy Sheryl, in "small dosages." as another of Wifey's friends created the malaprop. She was in from Boston to celebrate her 50th, and Friday Wifey joined a group of Sheryl's peri-menopausal and newly post menopausal friends for an evening at a local restaurant.

So Sheryl was there, and next her son Steven joined her, and we had our friends Dave and Maureen coming for an early dinner. The dinner turned into some eating and wine drinking, with Dave and Maureen and Sheryl and BOTH her boys, who were on their way to Christy's (at my suggestion) for dinner with Sheryl's parents, who are snowbirds getting ready to leave Aventura for Boston in the Spring.

Then D1 popped in, on her way to an engagement party (THAT phase of her life is starting --her first high school and college friend got married last week) and the dining room was alive with several conversations, and laughter, and Jewish Geography...

Sheryl and her boys and D1 left, and I checked in on D2 by text. She was in Panama City for some fraternity formal, with the young man I don't need to know details about, according to her. It turned out he was no Panamaniac (D2 liked that phrase) --just a nice boy from Cypress Bay High School --and D2 had a great time and returned to Gainesville safely.

Now it was about 9 pm, and our friend and neighbor Diane came over, after attending a charity function at the U. She helped David finish off the red wine, while I sipped the last of my vodka, and ate the last of the pizza.

Dave and Maureen left, about 10, and we continued our chat with Diane, mostly about our 90 something mothers, and our grown kids, and how little we each like lawyers, even that's what we both are...

Diane left about 11, Wifey and I each joked that the other could clean up the next day, and that was it.

We really enjoyed ourselves. I guess the trick is the right people, and the right amount of alcohol. Duh.

Maybe we'll return to our more social ways --at least once in awhile.

"Brazil" in Miami

I loved the Terry Gilliam movie, about the Kafkaesque future with mindless, confounding bureaucracies, and trying to fight through them. Well, Wifey and I had a taste of it yesterday...

In the continuing saga of trying to prevent D2's Israel trip from becoming an updated, real life version of "Private Banjamin," Wifey met me at my office and we took the People Mover Downtown, to the New World Tower, for a visit to the Israeli Consul.

The building's security guard punched in an elevator code, and we went up to the 12th floor, the Consul's temporary headquarters. As soon as we exited the elevator, we stepped into an Aldous Huxley set.

There was a big metal detector, and no humans. All of a sudden, a voice boomed, in a scary Hebrew accent "Who are you and what do you want???!!!" I looked again, there was no curtain with a little man behind it...

I started to try to explain, heard a familiar (from my in laws' speech) "Accchh!" and then a small Israeli man came out. Right away, he pointed at Wifey's purse. "No bags allowed. Take it out!" I tried to explain that we took the train, and had no place to leave the bag." Clearly, the fellow empathized. He repeated, this time more annoyed, "No bags."

I told Wifey I'd try to ditch her bag, and she should go in with our papers. (I kept thinking about the old WW II movies, where guards asked if "Za papers are in order."

I went downstairs, and asked the friendly Cuban guy to hold Wifey's bag. I offered him $20. He declined the money, and took the bag, warning me not to tell the Israelis, since they discouraged potential terrorists like us from leaving their bombs be handed off to folks in the building's lobby...

I should say here that Wifey and I get it. Israel was born under seige, following the Holocaust, and daily fights for her survival, surrounded by millions who want to destroy her. We get it. Still, the truth is, as a pundit once wrote, the Mideast crisis pits clearly the rudest folks on the planet (Israelis) against the most warming and welcoming (Arabs and their culture).

Still, as we saw last week, when Hamas launches a rocket intended to kill kids in a school bus, you have to weigh manners versus morality...

I returned to the 12th floor, bag-less, and Wifey turned to me saying the man patiently explained to her that it was clear --D2, as the daughter of Wifey (and Israeli) would have to put in military service when she went "home." Agh!!!!!

After clearing the metal detector, and being stripped of our cell phones/detonators, we were buzzed into an even MORE Orwellian room, where a flat screen blasted Israeli TV. There were about 20 desks randomly arranged, and after a few moments, I realized there was a bullet proof window, where a man sat speaking Hebrew to a Consul employee. We sat, and watched what appeared to be Israel's version of "The Daily Show," with a host who looked less Jewish than Jon Stewart...

45 minutes later (which seemed like 2 hours, as we were cell phone-less), a tinny voice beckoned us to a second window. A nice young fellow with a Kippah, who had spoken to D2 the day before, knew why we were there.

Sure enough, he explained that, in Israel's view, Wifey (and her children) are STILL Israeli citizens. Doesn't matter that the Ds were born in South Miami, or that I'm NOT Israeli, or that Wifey is a naturalized US citizen --they only care about the birth in Haifa, well, a bunch of years ago...

The clerk copied all of our passports, Wifey's Certificate of becoming American, our marriage license, and Wifey's birth certificate (at least we THINK the crumbling document is her birth certificate --it might well be a lost Dead Sea Scroll...)

He typed up an official looking letter for D2, saying that she was allowed to visit Israel, just this one time, on "only" her American passport, since her mother's "papers were being updated." I guess they WEREN'T in order...

I thanked the young fellow, wished him good shabbos and happy Pesach, and we waited to be buzzed out.

I retrieved Wifey's bag, and left some money, telling the guard, with a wink, that I had found the money on the elevator, and wanted him to have lunch with it...

I figure D2 should be ok. I told her I thought she had a 90% chance of being allowed out of "her other country." She's spending the weekend in Panama Beach with a fraternity "formal," with some fellow she choosed to tell us little about. If she can navigate a UF fraternity weekend, she should be ok for Israeli bureaucrats...

And as I looked at Wifey on the People Mover, I had a new appreciation. Previously, she was, to me, just a nice Jewish girl, who happened to be born in Israel, but culturally was American, from Canarsie and Miami.

It turns out I'm married to an International Woman of Mystery...

The Reluctant Sabra

So D2 is scheduled for Birthright, leaving May 8. Birthright is an amazing program funded by billionaire Jews and the Israeli government which seeks to teach Disapora Jews about Israel. Of course, the real purpose of the program is to make sure young Jews gain a strong sense of support for Israel, by visiting and getting to know their ancestral homeland.

The Zionist Indoctrination failed on D1. She took her trip during Winter Break of her freshman year, and was sent to meditate in the Sinai Desert, and to climb Masada. She came home vastly prefering Paris to Tel Aviv.

Fortunately, she DID inherit our Zionist sensibilities (Wifey was born in Israel, and her father fought in the War for Independence), so D1 is strongly pro Israel. She just doesn't see the need to visit there again.

Now it's D2's turn. I have a sense that the trip will be more meaningful for her. Of course, now there's the chance she may have to stay there.

The Birthright folks emailed her and told her to contact the Israeli Consul, which for the Southeastern US, is conveiently in Miami. It seems that in reviewing her papers, they noticed that her mother, Wifey, was born in Israel, and they think that Israeli folks might take that to mean that D2 is ALSO somehow Israeli, and needs to remain to give military service.

I told D2 to go rent "Private Benjamin," and then I sent her a web link about "Women in the IDF (Israel Defense Force)." Like D2, the women are beautiful...

She doesn't see the humor in this like I do, and plans to make certain she won't be kept in Israel longer than the 10 day Birthright trip.

When Wifey was a teenager, her parents sent her to Israel to visit relatives. Sure enough, at the airport, someone noticed her place of birth, and they wouldn't let her leave! Tearful calls to the US prompted a trip to the US Embassy, and Wifey was allowed to return home.

Still, I ponder what may have been...this blog may have been written by a Wifey husband named Ari, or Rahm...

So hopefully D2 will be allowed home, If not, I'd of course go overt there and take on Mossad, if need be...they'd kick my tuches, but somehow I'd get my little girl back.

At D2's suggestion, we made plans to all fly to NY to see her off. We'll have a family vacation, get to meet my partner PAul's new granddaughter Lilly, and then all head to JFK. Wifey, D1, and I will head home; D2 to Israel via Zurich.

And then, if all goes according to plan, we'll fetch a properly energized little Zionist from MIA on May 18.

Otherwise, I guess we'll get photos of a beautiful 19 year old toting an Uzi...

Second City

So I was off to Chicago, for the first time in 20 years. I had a couple of meetings for a case I'm still working on.

I love corporate America. I got to MIA, and asked for an upgrade on AA. They complied, and so I flew to O'Hare in a seat the size of a coach seat from the ancient days of the 70s. Breakfast was an overcooked omelette. I thought to myself --if I paid real First Class prices for the ticket, I'd feel like a total schmuck. But for miles, it was fine...

I got to the hotel, which was a Holiday Inn near the Merchandise Mart. The consultant's office booked it for me, and it turned out to be terrific. It was right in the midle of the Loop, where I needed to be. I had my meeting, and was free the rest of the afternoon and evening.

I asked the doorman for a good local pizza place, and he directed me to Lou Malnatti's, whioh he pronounced "Lumanatti." It was terrific. I ate a small "Lou" at the bar while watching the Cubs opener on TV. Man, they love their Cubs there, even though that team is a world class loser.

I chatted with a fellow, and told him I was from Miami. His face tightened. They still hold a grudge about '03, and the Bartman fiasco. I told him my first team was the Mets. He had another sour look. They also hold a grudge about the '69 Mets, which won after the Cubs' monumental collapse. I was happy to get out with my coat...

The weather was just awful. It was high 30s and raining. It was April. I just don't understand choosing to live in that sort of climate...

I trudged through the Loop, and admired the buildings. They really are awesome. The Tribune Building is amazing. But, the city is far less crowded than NY, and the people seem less colorful, too. I guess as a native NY guy, I'll always have that chauvonism.

After a terrific nap (cold, rainy weather truly is good nap weather) I ventured out again, to a steakhouse called Gene and Georgetti's. My friend Robin told me to go there, when she realized I didn't care about fancy foodie type places.

G and G's was terrific. My friend Norman told me to order the "garbage salad," which I did --a great mix of greens, meats, cheeses, tomatoes...I then had a T Bone, which was on the top 10 list. Washed down with a Stella, I was a full guy.

The place was packed, and pictures of the Chairman of the Board were on the wall. Apparently the place was a Rat Pack hangout, and the decor hadn't changed.

A couple at the next table offered me some mushrooms. I declined, but we began to chat. They were in town for a hardward show, from upstate NY. They thought the weather was fine...

The next am, I had breakfast, then my second meeting, and then walked around some more. The folks on the street were friendly --a cop chatted me up, and even a homeless guy directed me to an L station.

I walked to Millennium Park, and called my partner Paul on the phone. He was in NYC --his daughter Tracy had a healthy baby girl, on April Fool's Day --no joke!

We also learned that a case we referred to our friend Lance in West Palm, a near impossible claim, had settled, and we would get a healthy co counsel fee. I felt better about ordering the big steak the night before...

The weather had cleared, and the sun shone off the famous steel bean sculpture int he park. Folks take pictures near it, as it gives fish eye perspectives.

From there, I went to the L, and trained it back to O'Hare.

I killed a few hours in the Admiral's Club, and then learned I got a second upgrade. Score! I sat next to a sour faced older lady, whose husband was in the seat behind us. I offered to switch. "No!," she snapped. "He needs room for his briefcase!" I looked back at her husband, a Dick Cheney look alike. He smiled the smile of the whipped man...

I had 3 vodkas, and finished 2 magazines. I got bored. I decided to annoy the old bitch. I asked her if she was going home, or on a trip. "Both" she snapped. "We have homes in both Chicago AND Miami." She returned to her book.

When we landed, the old biddy grabbed her bag and took off ahead of Dick Cheny. She stopped in the concourse, and looked back for him with utter disgust. I couldn't help myself, and so said to him: "You know, in Muslim countries, the men walk ahead of the women. The women prefer that, due to land mines. Looks like you figured out the opposite works better."

Dick Cheny let out a guffaw that probably exceeded the bounds of his WASPishness. I think I made his night.

I passed the now reunited couple as she was asking, annoyedly, "What's so damn funny?"

So, it was a fine trip. I plan to return Fall of 2012, when the Canes play Notre Dame at Soldier Field. I look forward to my whole crew at Gene and Georgetti's. I have a feeling there will be more alcohol that trip...