But She's Not There...

So I visited ancient Mom on Tuesday, and she reached another negative milestone: she couldn't walk back to my car after lunch.

Watching someone into extreme old age really is observing the down side of a hyperbola. I've observed my Ds' milestones as they grew, and my mother is doing it in reverse: each day losing some new measure of physical or mental function.

So I wheeled her in her walker, and got her back to her condo. Her spirits were pretty high, though, especially when I assured her that I continued to take care of all of her practical affairs. "Oh David, I'm such an idiot, that if you didn't --we'd both be bankrupt!"

And then Thursday am, my sister called me to tell me the latest adventure: she called Mom, and caught her entertaining some guests --2 young girls. They were lost, Mom said, and trying to get a ride home from their mother. My sister asked to speak to them, but Mom said they didn't want to talk on the phone.

My sister immediately became concerned. Were they criminals? Mom has little to steal, but still...So she called 911, and the Palm Beach Sheriff said they'd send someone over. My sister and brother in law headed to Mom's condo.

The cops were there, and pretty sure no visitors had come. Or, is somehow 2 young ladies found there way to my Mom's condo, past the guard gate, and picking my Mom's unit out of the nearly 8000 old people homes there, well, they did no harm.

Mom couldn't offer more details, except that they mentioned they were friends of my cousin Janet's daughters. A quick call to Janet confirmed that wasn't so.

I called Mom later that night, and she insisted she WAS visited, but was cloudy on details. And then, she launched her pre emptive strike about refusing to move to an ALF, or anywhere else, but maybe she SHOULD start locking her front door...

My California sister weighed in the next day --a nurse she knew figured it all out: my mother should be on NO medication. I politely explained to her that her friend is a moron --diagnosing a patient he's never seen from 3000 miles away.

No --medical advice isn't the problem. Mom's cared for by Dr. Eric - a Harvard trained interninst and cardiologist who's known her for 32 years...

I emailed Eric, and asked him to check for more dementia at her next appointment. Eric, of course, suggested a neurologist consult. But that's not going to happen --when someone is 91, we all know what's coming, and all more medical intervention will do is make things more complicated and uncomfortable.

I'm reading Russell Baker's autobiography, written in 1982. He went through the same issues with his aging mother. She began living in the past, mentally.

So I wish the same for my mother. The hallucination came on a day she had no visitors --Thursday --and I think she simply invented some to help pass the time.

Last night our neighbor and friend Diane came over, with her pretty friend Cindy. Cindy just turned 50, like me. She reported that she's been going to a bunch of funerals for 50 and 60 somethings lately. The last 2 were of defense lawyers I knew as well. Her theory is that our "sandwich generation" is under stress from worrying about our children as we also worry about declining parents, and the stress lets the cancers and heart diseases gain footholds...

She's probably right, of course. All I know, or knew as I drank my 3rd stiff Middleton, is that the end is bad: either too soon or too late.

Diane and Cindy left, and Wifey and I went swimming around midnight. It was exquisite. The recent USAF planes spraying for mosquitos had done the job, and we heard nary a buzz.

We floated together in the moonlight, laughing that if the Ds saw us it would lead to months of psychological therapy to get the vision out of their minds...

But we celebrated our relative youth. And life. And no hallucinations...

Dead Singer

D1 called from her restaurant job a few hours ago to tell me that my prophesy had come true: the singer Amy Winehouse was dead.

I rarely follow the personal travails of actors or singers, but I really dug Amy's music. The first time I heard her, I thought it might have been a newly discovered Bessie Smith record. Amy's voice is so smoky and sultry and throaty --the last thing I expected to learn is that she was a young, English Jewish girl.

Her songs were stirring. The arrangements were sparse and clear --like I was listening to a rehearsal in a small jazz club. She sang in a way that went right to my soul --you could hear the pain and suffering in her voice. I bought 2 of her CDs --and buying records is a rarity for me.

She seemed to cram too much living into her short life, and became addicted to a bunch of drugs. Her life story is cliched, of course. She died at 27, like Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin, and Cobain --the tortured artist --somehow too intense in her art to exist in this world.

I told Wifey and the D2 3 years ago that she'd be dead soon. Somehow, she eked out another 36 months or so of failed concert gigs and numerous domestic dramas, and failed rehabs.

The Facebook (tm) postings will be full of tales of the fallen diva. My friend Arnold, ultra conservative and strict Catholic, already commented showing this as a passion play in favor of tougher drug laws. Arnold's a terrific guy -- wonderful husband and father, true community leader. He's also a political retardate. As if tougher drug laws would have mattered.

Better to legalize and tax and spend more resources on treatment and drug abuse prevention.

But what do I know? All I know is that a talent is now silenced for the future. And when her hit song "Rehab" comes on, in which she sings about refusing to go, it will have a deep poignancy --deeper than it did before.

I'm so glad my family and close friends are mere mortals --no artistic geniuses among us. Our run of the mill demons are enough to battle, day by day, and night by sometimes sleepless night.

Take a Load off Fanny...

Today's Herald has an article about grown children and how they share the load of dealing with ancient parents. As next month is the one year anniversary of a crisis time for my ancient Mother, I read it closely.

We were all set to move D2 into her dorm for the start of college. That is an exquisite time for a parent and child, at least in my view. It's a mix of happiness, wistfulness, and reflection. Unfortunately, D2 got pushed off of center stage.

My mother had had a fall, and seemed in a death spiral. My local sister was in Tampa visiting her daughter and grandkids, and my California sister was a whole country away, and dealing with her manifold issues. So, in the middle of stuff, I had to go up to Delray, and fetch Mom, and then drive her back to Delray on our way to Gainesville, in our over packed and over stuffed SUV.

And then, as if in a sitcom, after we left Grandma in her condo, we got a flat tire, and had to spend some time at the tire store, again with the packed and college ready SUV.

D2 was a trooper about the whole thing. She showed a lot of maturity, and realized that, even though it was to be HER time, it didn't work out that way. Of course, we made it to Gainesville ok, moved her in, met the roommates, and did the classic Wal MArt and Target trips, where all of the other parents and undergrads jostled carts full of shelves, and chairs and toilet paper and all manner of supplies. And then we had our menancholy goodbyes...

And then stopped back to make sure Mom was alive. She was.

Now, a year later, Mom is actually doing better. My sister and I have settled into a happy cooperation about taking care of her. I really appreciate that --I no longer feel that I have the whole load myself. We coordinate with each other when we visit, and make sure there's coverage when one of us goes out of town.

The Herald article says that the task are never completely shared, and, in fact, our California sister, due to geography and economics, isn't much of a factor. But we've settled in with Mom, waiting for the inevitable other shoe to drop with her...

And in a few weeks, we move D2 again. She'll come home from summer session, spend a week, and then we drive up to Gainesville for what seems like the thousandth time (D1 started in '06, so by now I can recite from memory what each Turnpike rest stop offers).

D2 is moving into the sorority house, so there's no real furniture to buy, but there is still a trip to Target and Wal Mart for supplies and decorations. I get to schlep the heavy stuff up the stairs, Wifey (and presumably D2's roommate Ali's mother) get to make the crucial decisions about layout and colors and coordinating supplies...

So I'm looking for a happier move in this time. Mom is stable in her condo. Any reasonable evaluation of her would find it absurd that she lives alone, but that's the way she demands it.

My sister and I truly share the responsibility of her, and I'm grateful for that...it makes things much better all around.

Hello Gainesville. Here we come again...

Not Even a Wafer Thin Mint

So my birthday eating orgy is nearly over. I'm meeting my old friend Jeff in an hour at Lots O Lox for breakfast, but I'm already done. Maybe just a coffee and bowl of oatmeal...

Saturday I gorged on the gourmet offerings of Captain Russ, on his lovely sailboat. Sunday night the Ds, Wifey, and D1's boyfriend Joel ate steaks at Smith and Wollensky on South Beach. It was a great night --major thunderstorms gave us a show over Fisher Island while we ate and drank.

Yesterday, Wifey and I took D2 for a farewell breakfast before her flight back to UF. We went to Wagon's West, and I thought --why not --it's my birthday --I'll have pancakes. So I did, and they were delicious.

I headed to the office, and Stuart took us all out for sushi. I just had some soup, and thought that was it.

D1 and Wifey offered a final dinner, but I begged off. No more eating! And then...

Stuart, Brian, and I gathered in Stu's office for "one birthday toast." But then, while we were there, Brian got a call from a defense lawyer: a case we got referred to Brian, which we hoped he'd settle for nuisance value, got an offer of $800K! It was Brian's biggest settlement ever. So there was a second cocktail...

And then Barry called, having just left the hospital. I told him to circle back to my office for a celebratory toast, which he did. The 4 of us sons of the Ashkenazim laughed and talked. Brian left, and then, somehow, hunger set in.

So I picked Burger and Brew, which started in South Beach and opened its second location in Mary Brickell Village. We parked, and went in.

I ordered the appetizers: mini fried corn dogs, fried onion rings, and then Stuart added deep fried pickles. We each had a beer. We each had enormous burgers. Then came their signature dessert: deep fried twinkies with vanilla ice cream.

We laughed at our absurdity. What an orgy of unhealthiness. To make things better, the parking garage houses an LA Fitness, and a bunch of the gym goers got into the elevator with us, all slim and sweaty...

So I ended my celebration of becoming 50 much the same as I probably celebrated becoming 15.

Where are the salads?

Ahoy!

Biscayne Bay, where the Cuban gentlemen sleep all day...

So Wifey and I fetched D2 from MIA. D2 got into the car and was greeted with a turkey breast sandwich, black and white cookie, and an ecstatic little Spaniel who immediately took a lick of her sandwich...

And then last night Wifey and I drove over past the Seaquarium, and mustered with Eric, Dana, Barry, and Donna, and boarded the Captain Sir! for a sunset sail. Captain Russ and First mate Susan set out a lovely spread of cheese and fruit and crab cakes, and crusted sea bass and his award winning key lime pie. It's true - food tastes better on a luxury sailboat on a gorgeous, breeze filled Miami night.

Eric mixed martinis and cosmos, and even Wifey had a drink! She got nicely buzzed, she said, for the first time in awhile. We sat on the foredeck and drank and chatted, and laughed. Susan played 70s tunes on the sound system, and Dana and I showed our name that tune chops are still very sharp, though we needed help from Eric's shazam (tm) app on his I phone to identify the singer of "Show and Tell" (Al Wilson).

The lights came on in the city. An impossibly huge orange full moon rose over the Port. The beauty was almost absurd.

I've been everywhere, man, like Johnny Cash sings, and seen some gorgeous places. Miami, on a night like last, from Biscayne Bay, tops them all. It truly does. The evening light, the office and condos reflecting off the water, back lit by the orange moon --it was surreal. Like we were watching something created in an animator's studio.

I felt bad for anyone who has never seen it. I really did.

We headed for home. The enormous bottle of Stoli that Eric figured we'd use a fraction of, well, it was 3/4 empty. D2 smirked as she saw it and welcomed us back.

Eric and Dana made me a gorgeous photo mosaic of our families. Eric is truly a pro level photographer (and bartender). He only keeps his day job as cardiologist to pay the bills...

Barry and Donna gave me some fine single malt Scotch, and a Cole Haan Kindle cover. Barry and I have been talking about Kindles for years now --the Ds bought me one for Father's Day, and I suspect Barry will get his for HIS birthday, which is a week away.

Even sweeter --there were birthday cards from Barry's boys, to their terrific "Uncle." I'm so proud of them. Scott is a mini Barry (though mini isn't the right word for the 14 year old who is already 6'2"). He excells in school, and is loved by his classmates. Josh, the musician, marches to his own drummer, and confounds his parents constantly. But I have no doubt he'll soar as well...

So we're back on land for now, though headed back next to the ocean for dinner tonight, with both Ds, and D1's boyfriend Joel. D1 is working like a dog at her "part time" job --and working like a REAL dog, not her pampered Cavalier...Tonight she's taking a well deserved break.

This turning 50 thing doesn't really suck. As long as you don't go it alone...

The Last of the 40s

Hello Narcissus. Dave here. I'll be wallowing with you for awhile, as I reflect on a milestone in my life --I turn 50 two days from now.

I ran into an old aquaintance at the Trulucks bar the other night, Alan. Alan's an entertainment lawyer, and we used to play in a band together, back in the mid 80s. It's been so long since I even picked up my flute, I forgot I ever played. My friend Craig played drums, and had a foam coated, sound proofed room in his West Kendall townhouse. He had a CPA bud who played bass (I forget his name) and Alan played lead guitar and his wife Lisa sang lead.

I was the least talented of the group, which was saying something. We played covers of Springsteen and Neil Young. We met probably 20 times, and mercifully for the audiences of Miami, never made it out of Craig's room.

Years later, I learned that Alan returned home from a business trip, and went into his apartment to find it totally empty of all furniture and possessions, except for his clothes. He first thought it was a practical joke, but there was a "Dear Alan" letter telling him that Lisa had left him for a much richer and older lawyer. Oh well --when you marry a frustrated Chrissie Hynde, I guess that's a risk...

But anyway --back to Alan in the present (he remarried a far hotter South American lady and seems to be no worse for the wear): My friend at the bar mentioned I was turning 50. Alan's take: "That's the best age for a man. He knows who he is --good guy, asshole, or a bit of both. He realized not much more's going to change in his life --if he's a winner, he'll still win, and if he's a loser, he'll just find more creative and pathetic ways to lose. Dave --you're luckily a winner. Good for you."

I really enjoyed his complement, I must say.

And so I celebrate this weekend. I didn't want any big parties. I did that when I was 40 --had close to 100 people to Villa Wifey for a clambake. It rained, and my thoughts of DJ fueled dancing outside fizzled. There was a highlight, though --my secretaries and associate hired a plane pulling a banner to fly over and wish me a happy 40th. I stood on the balcony outside my bedroom as the plane flew over, and my family and friends gathered in the courtyard below and I felt completely and fully like Jay Gatsby.

This year, not so much. The mysterious sources of income are slowing, and I'm ratcheting down a bit.

Still, D2 is flying home this afternoon from Gainesville. I can't wait to pick her up and hug her and re live college life through her tales...

Tonight, Wifey, and Drs. Eric and Barry and Dana and Donna are taking a sunset sail out of Key Biscayne. The boat's captain, Russ Boley, is a gourmet cook, and will serve us sea bass as the sun goes down. Dr. Eric is bringing his handy martini making kit, and photo gear. We'll talk of the old times, and compare the manifold blessings of our children.

Tomorrow Wifey, the Ds, and one D boyfriend and I will go out to South Point for some steaks at Smith and Wollensky. I plan to toast them all.

It's no coincidence that my celebrations are near or on the ocean. I'm honoring my father, whose spirit is there. I try to be like him all the time. I hope I come close.

So hello 1/2 century mark. In so many ways, I still think I'm about 20 or so. Most of my friends are the same. Barry and Eric and I were all in college together then, trying to analyze and savor human nature. We still are, 3 decades later.

Although I'd like to recall a quote from a great writer or poet, somehow only Jimmy Buffet comes to mind, probably since I'm about to set sail tonight: " Good times and riches, and son of a bitches, I've seen more than I can recall."

Yahrzeit

So yesterday, July 14th was my friend Mike's 50th birthday, Bastille Day, and the 39th anniversary of my father's death.

I celebrated the first event the evening before, with some drinks at Trulucks, and Mike and I talked about the summer 25 years before when we went to Tampa to do battle with the Florida Bar Exam. We won. I don't really give Le Rat's Ass about the French (though I do dig Paris and want to return), and the third event was most poignant to me.

I visited ancient Mom. I asked her if she knew what the day meant. She looked at me blankly, and said "Is it your birthday already?" No, I told her, it was the anniversary of Dad's death. "Oh," she said, "I only remember happy dates, like our wedding aniversary." I guess that's a major reason she's lived past 91.

On the way back to the Turnpike, I passed the former Oriole Shopping Plaza where he died in my arms, in a barber's chair. I wonder whatever became of that poor young haircutter. She was about my age, and sort of punk looking (it was 1982). I wondered if she quit the business after the customer died while she was cutting his hair and chatting happily. Maybe she let the pink in her own hair grow out, and attended medical school.

Time truly does soften all blows. For the first year after Dad died, I sort of slept walked through my life. I later learned this was a psychological phenom called dissociative behavior. I remember the strange sense I had that I was sort of watching my life happen from an outside vantage point.

I still think of my father daily. I wonder what his take would be on the world "a black president? Really?" On his children, on his grandkids, on his wife.

I headed back home, as Wifey was spending the night at her friend's on Miami Beach, helping her recover from a secret surgery (facelift). I let the dogs out. My father loved dogs. He used to spend hours on a weekend getting our mutt Missy to howl along to his singing --it delighted him.

And then I went to the water. My Dad was cremated, and his ashes spread in the ocean off Pompano Beach. He wanted this done for two reasons. First, he ABHORED the funeral industry --he felt they preyed upon the vulnerable, and second, he wanted to be remembered whenever any of us was at the beach, instead of having to make a sad trip to a cemetary.

I drove to Matheson Hammock. As if it was scripted, there was an enormous, gorgeous, almost surreal full moon to the East. The lights of Downtown were coming up to the North. It was calm.

I told my father how much I still missed him. I told him about his grandkids. 3 were born while he was alive, the last three came along later (including my Ds).

I apologized for failing to light candles in synagogue, as I did for several years when I became friends with a rabbi. I told him I was his son, and he always taught me that organized religion was a load of horse shit, and I'm quickly coming around to the same conclusion, but if I was wrong, and he was spending eternity getting poked in the tuches by a devil with a pitchfork, well, my eternal fate would be the same...

I told him about the love I found in my life, and how joyful it was.

Isaac Singer wrote that as he grew older, he believed more in ghosts. I'm getting that more and more. When I fetch the newspaper in the pre dawn gloaming, sometimes I think I see things.

I drove home to my house, wondering. Did my father's premature death force me to become a man faster than I otherwise would have? Clearly. I didn't see it as much of a choice, as my mother, Edith Bunker as we called her, never paid a bill in her life, or balanced a check book.

Still, I miss him dearly, and every day. Unlike my mother, I remember even the unpleasant days. Sometimes I remember them more clearly than the happy ones.

Bad Movies

Wifey has always loved movies. Me? Rarely.

When I was younger, I'd enjoy them more, but as I've gotten older, more critical, and more possessive of my ever dwindling time left on this planet, I've become much more difficult to please in the theatre.

I love reading. And the best part of a book is that, if it stinks, you just put it down and go to another. It's tougher to walk out of a theatre in the middle, especially since Wifey usually wants to stay, as she's better than I am at finding SOMETHING worthwhile in a film.

So yesterday, we had a lovely Saturday. I had breakfast at Lots 'O Lox for the second am in a row, with my friend Vince, and then headed home for a break from eating, but not too long of a break. Wifey and I had plans to visit D1 at the restaurant where she's a hostess, which is arguably the top new restaurant in town.

We were treated like royalty. We ordered 2 dishes, and the chef, knowing our little girl worked there, sent over 3 more, including the second most delicious thing I've ever put into my mouth: their king crab claw chunks. They season is and grill it with some magical sauces, and, well, it's amazingly delicious. (The first most delicious thing I've ever eaten is a deep friend kreplach at Sammy's Romanian in the Lower East Side, but that was following prodigious amounts of Stoli served in a block of ice, so maybe my judgment wasn't too clear).

Anyway, on the way over, my old friend Kenny called and asked us to go see "Beginners," and "independent" film playing at the Gables Art Cinema. We agreed, and met Kenny and his wife Joelle there.

The movie start Christopher Plummer as a widower who comes out as gay at 75, and Ewan McGregor as an emotionally challenged (whiny)grown son, and how the two of them seek true love as the Dad happily dies of stage iv lung cancer.

Yawn. By the end of the too long movie, I hoped that Ewan McGregor's character would be the one to die the painful death, as punishment for his excessive whining and sad looking eyes. His character DID suffer from terminal wimpiness.

He had a hot girlfriend, played by some French chick, but even there the movie stunk: we never got to see her topless.

I walked out into the hot, humid night feeling that 2 hours were stolen from me.

Ken and Joelle liked the movie. Different strokes... Wifey agreed with me it was cliched and boring and tried to be a drama, rom-com, and coming of age all at the same time, failing at all three. As she said, it needed to be funnier...

So I think I'll give films a rest for awhile. The truth is, I only really enjoy like one movie per year. When's the next "Animal House" coming out?

And on the way home, I thought --what's the big deal? It's not like Wifey and I had other plans for Saturday night. So what--we wasted time on a bad movie.

But, the time cut into my precious reading period. I left several great library borrows, courtesy of Wifey, alone and untouched.

Free Food

So Norman texted after picking up lunch yesterday at Lots of Lox: "Lori says you better come in soon."

Norman and I know better than to mess with the best and happiest waitress in the history of restaurants, so we made plans to meet this am at 730. To make sure I was sufficiently rested, I went to sleep at 10 following a nice phone conversation with D2...and then...there was the dreaded 130 am ring of the phone.

Wifey and I are old (well, I am) and any calls after, oh, 1030 pm are not happy ones. I jumped up, fumbled over to Wifey's nightstand (she remains a very sound sleeper) and grabbed the land line, expecting, at best, to hear from Delray EMT the my ancient mother was not going to be having lunch with me next week...

Nope. No one there. Just music and laughing and talking in the background. D2 made a "pocket call," which happens when the phone, in a purse or pocket, activates the dial last call button...

I was relieved, and figured I'd go right back to sleep. I did...at 6 am, after finishing a book about Chicago's "Operation Family Secrets" and the ruination of "The Outfit" mafia there, perusing all national and local news, and then remembering to pull some insurance papers for an unpaid bill...

Still, I dragged myself to the restaurant, and Norman and I had our usual fine food and even better company, talked about the "old days" in our legal careers (in the halcyon days of the 80s), and saw our accuser, Lori.

Then, after some local errands, Stuart called. A depo he was supposed to take over near Dadeland canceled, and he was meeting his old friend and mentor Max for lunch at Roasters, my SECOND favorite deli. Hmmm --I thought --had a decent amount of time passed since my enormous breakfast to now have a large lunch? It had. I met Stu and Max.

Max is over 80, a native Miamian and former Miami High and U Florida football player who enjoyed a long and respected law career. He has VERY succesful sons, and a loving wife. As I told Stuart, he is truly a man in full...

And I acquitted myself by eating an enormous tuna sandwich on rye toast.

Hopefully tonight, no scary calls...

Dead Baby Case

I admit it: I'm somewhat of a cultural snob. I take pride in avoiding mass interest stories and shows, especially reality tv. In the case of some reality shows, I'm convinced that watching for more than 10 minutes actually lowers one's IQ. I've noticed Wifey falling off a bit after watching all of "Millionaire Matchmaker."

I blame this snobbery on a professor of mine, John Paul Russo. Professor Russo was English Chair when I was at the U. He spoke in a clipped New England accent, the product of Boston Latin, Harvard B.A. and Harvard PhD. As fas as anyone knew, he was asexual, but lusted for the Classics.

I used to try to convince him that Jim Morrison was every much the poet as Byron or Shelley, and he'd laugh --advising me to be "like a giraffe, taking only from the tops of trees," and leaving the lower growth for less majestic animals.

So it was with the Casey Anthony trial. I avoided reading about it or watching any of it --figuring it was best left to overweight housewives to obsess over while doing their housework...and THEN: my sister called Wifey to tell her to watch, since some expert was testifying, and he had a speech impediment that made him sound like Elmer Fudd.

My family has a long and ignoble history of thinking some things that aren't funny are, and this prompted the call about the fumfering scientist. Well, Wifey was infected, and, next thing I I knew, our TV was tuned to the damn trial, with small breaks only for U Verse recorded "Millionaire Matchmaker" episodes.

Still, I avoided the case, until the verdict yesterday: my office roommate Stuart and his Dad and I watched in the office. Not guilty! Whatever.

Honestly, the only thing that got to me is that the murdered toddler looked a lot like D1 when she was that age, with those big, soulful eyes. Other than that, hey --it's a local family tragedy. Stories of crime visited upon others get me much more riled up --when strangers get killed by psychopaths. I figure the Anthony family gets their own hell...

And, as a lawyer, I DID have to learn about the defense lawyer, and I was impressed. I've long known that the best trial lawyers are street guys, not ivory tower types, and this dude Baez takes the cake. Homestead High dropout, GED, Miami Dade College, FSU, and then the 3rd crappiest law school in Florida, which is saying something, as we have some PRETTY crappy law schools! (I still think the one founded by the Catholic pizza guy, Ave Maria, I think it's called, will hold the crappiest of all title for years to come).

So Baez, who couldn't even get admitted by the Florida Bar for 8 years after he passed the exam, won big! The Florida Bar is the one that welcomed Scott Rothstein!
And all the experts, including such luminaries as some fool named Jarvis who teaches at Nova Law (a few levels less crappy than St. Thomas, Baez's alma mater) now have egg of their face, as Baez Colombo-ed his way to an impressive win.

We lawyers are a cynical lot. We refer to birth injury cases as "bad baby" ones, and cases like the Anthony one as "dead baby" ones.

So at least my tv will be safer for awhile, now that the case is over.

And, I look forward to the resumption of properly erudite programming. College football will be back on in less than 2 months. Professor Russo would be proud of me...

Confederacy of the Ancients

So my ancient mother's caregiver is on vacation, and I had to double up my visit. I saw her last Friday on my way to UF with D2, and then saw her again last Thursday.

Wifey was due a visit to HER mother and father, and stumbled upon the idea of a field trip, where we would take my mother in law Rachel to Delray to visit my mother. Wifey's father doesn't leave the condo much these days, and he chose to stay home.

We picked up my mother in law, and Wifey started to direct her to sit next to me, in front. This is because my mother in law talks incessantly, and Wifey didn't want to endure that for the 45 minute car ride. Just hold on there, slim! WTF! No --that dog wasn't going to hunt on MY watch!

I put my mother in the law in the back with Wifey... And, true to form, she talked and talked and talked and talked. After that, she talked some more. Poor Wifey. When I glanced in the rear view mirror, she had the look on her face of someone being talked at and talked at and talked at.

It could have been worse. It could have been me in the back seat...

We arrived at my mother's condo, and let the 2 ladies catch up. They began a series of comical non sequiter conversations. Neither can hear well, and so they each made believe they were hearing the other. An example: My mother: "Rachel, I thank you so much for the fish you sent me. It was delicious." Rachel: "Yes, Sunny, I still play cards two nights per week."

Wifey and I enjoyed this comic relief from an otherwise wildly annoying day. It's true --spending time with the REALLY old (my mother is 91, my mother in law is 86) is like having toddlers. You need to keep them on task, and be aware of potty accidents. You plan your trips to keep them fed and not too tired...

Of course, toddlers are going to grow up (in most cases) and become independent. The future for the very old is, of course, going from bad to worse.

We went to the local deli, and were mercifully seated right away. My mother in law got her hot tea right away, so her life was saved. If she goes to a restaurant and is not IMMEDIATELY brought hot tea, apparently the result is fatal. At least that's how she acts if the tea doesn't come.

My mother in law is also the world's oldest eating disorder patient. She's 86, and plump, and forever on some diet or another. So, here we were in this great deli, where the Jewish soul foods of her shtetl upbringing were literally hanging from above in front of her, and she ordered, unhappily, egg beaters!!!!

I guess that goal of being ready for next swimsuit season remains in reach for her.

My mother ordered stuffed cabbage, and Wifey got a Nova platter. Me? I have decided more strongly than ever that I do NOT wish to live too long, and become to my Ds the burden my mother and mother in law have become on us. I had the New Yorker: corned beef, pastrami, swiss cheese, Russian dressing, and cole slaw. It was delicious.

My mother in law saw the matzo ball soup I also had, and mentioned that my father in law would like it. So I went to the deli counter and bought 2 quarts. I showed her.

She smirked and admonished me that my father in law would never eat so much. It's hard to mimic my mother in law's smirk and admonition. Woody Allen's caricatures of Jewish mothers fall short.

Wifey saw this, and I mumbled under my breath, knowing my mother in law wouldn't hear "Toss off, you old female dog." Wifey understood and laughed.

We went back to the condo, and witnessed some more comical non conversations. My mother would seem lonely. She isn't. After about 45 minutes, she went into her classic passive'agressive mode: "Doesn't the traffic get bad soon?"

We took the hint and left. This time I gently and lovingly helped my mother in law into the back seat --to remove any chance of a repeat attempt at seating her next to me.

We hit the Turnpike, and Wifey fell asleep on her mother's lap. Still, the talking came and came and came. I tried to nod or shake my head to the barrage of questions that came from behind me. After about 45 minutes I was tempted to turn around and give her the answers she so hungered for, not caring that the SUV would slam into the median and kill us all.

We arrived at my in laws', and Wifey announced that we needed to visit with my father in law. He was in bed, and immediately barked at Wifey that the cable company had turned off the Military Channel, and he "couldn't live without it."

Wifey, ever the dutiful daughter, set about navigating the awful Comcast customer care call center.

I fell asleep on my in laws' couch, which is the world's most comfortable. After a blissful 10 minute nap, my mother in law threw on the light, and barked at me "Oy David --you are sleeping!!!!" Not any more...

Wifey, after a solid half hour, seemed to get the channel re ordered. I came into the bedroom, and my father in law started talking at me as well. I simply, truly, couldn't take another moment.

I told him I had to leave lest I fall asleep at the wheel, and he asked why I couldn't stay longer, to be talked at for another hour or so. I told him I wished he had chosen to spend the day with us, I understood he was too tired, but now he needed to understand that I, although not yet 50, was also too tired.

Wifey and I drove home through a torrential rain. We plopped onto our couch, put on U Verse, and, sure enough, saw a call coming in from my in laws.

Tragedy! The Military Channel had gone off! Wifey looked at me, with a combination of fear and resignation. She simply couldn't deal any more. I understood.

My mother in law left a message. Ten minutes later, in came another call. This message was one of hope and joy. The Military Channel had returned!

Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" seemed to play over the answering machine! Catastrophe solved!

Oh, Pete Townshend. Even though you didn't follow your own advice in "My Generation," I see the wisdom in it.

Perils of Peafowl (Thanks for title, Susan M)

Things in my 'hood have been quiet. Too quiet. Summer's here in Miami, and anyone with any sense has fled the oppressive heat. Neighbor/friends have taken refuge in Maine, the Poconos, and North Carolina. Even our local Gladys Kravitch has put up her hurricane shutters and headed for her daughter's apartment in NYC.

The dog poop dustup seems to have settled. There have been no more threats of poisoning furry woodland creatures (along with pooping dogs), and the threatened streetfight between a Napoleonic attorney and a wise ass retired South American banker never took place. Sadly, the banker's beautiful chocolate Lab darted into Ludlam Drive and was killed...

So nothing much was happening...UNTIL! At the Association meeting in March, several of the sweet old ladies complained about peafowl. Peafowl is the gender neutral term for peacocks and their lady friends, the peahens.

Anyway, while Wifey and the Ds and I think that spotting these majestic blue birds is way cool, apparently the peafowl are prodigious poopers (wait! I've stumbled onto the working title for a great kids' book "Priscilla, the Prodigiously Pooping Peafowl") and heavy enough to damage pool screens and roofs, AND, make an awful racket.

Winston Churchill apparently delighted in telling ladies they "sang with the voice of a peacock." Since the birds are so beautiful, the recipients of Churchill's comments assumed he was complementing them. In fact, the peafowl "song" is an awful screech.

A year or so ago, a peahen sat on our dining room roof and squawked. Wifey was in bed convinced that I was outside making comical jungle sounds. She didn't believe it was actually a peahen until she got up and saw it.

So, the Association complained, and our great president Gloria took action. Gloria is one of my favorite neighbors. She's a most serious appearing woman, unfailingly pleasant, with big glasses. One look at her in school, and I'm sure anyone would have identified her as the girl you wanted to sit next to and copy exam answers. I know I would have.

Gloria put the matter to an email vote. About 40% of the neighbors voted, and voted overwhelmingly to remove the birds. Gloria then set about researching peafowl removal --talking to folks in Four Fillies Farm, and Snapper Creek Lakes. She was directed to a peafowl removal company, who trapped the birds and took them somewhere better suited for them (my friend Jorge thinks that place is a cockfighting arena, where the slow moving peafowl are practice targets for the gamecocks...)

So Gloria hired the company, which is not to be paid until the catch and remove 10 of the critters. Apparently, the peafowl proved more wiley than expected, and over the past few months, nothing happened.

And THEN: the techs got frustrated with trapping, and decided to shoot tranquilizer darts into their targets. On Monday, this was happening when Dawn happened upon the scene.

A word about Dawn. She's a pretty young mom, with 2 adorable kids, about 4 and 7. She runs --a LOT --and weighs, I guess, about 90 lbs. Her husband Steve is a retired military officer, now a corporate lawyer, and movie star handsome. He's not very tall, but built like the triathlete he is.

When HE runs down the street, with his adorable son in tow, the neighbor ladies say "Aw, how cute" but their thoughts are elsewhere...

Anyway, to call Dawn somewhat high strung is to call Shaquille O'Neal somewhat tall.

Dawn had, well, a reaction when she and her kids saw the birds getting darted. Apparently she threatened the trapper, and our off duty FHP Trooper Corporal Card came by.

Jim Card is our version of the wise, friendly, small town sherriff, a la Andy Taylor. He's head of FHP Traffic Homicide in his day job, and he has the mien of the guy who has seen just about every form of human stupidity and tragedy, and somehow keeps a sense of calm and humor. He once told me, in a somber moment, that he has probably called more family of deadly crashes to report on the awful loss of their relatives than anyone else in Florida. He can deal with high strung rich suburbanites and their problems...

As expected, Jim deftly diffused the crisis, and convinced Dawn to go into her house without turning the dart gun on the trapper.

And then Dawn fired off an emotional, heart wrenching email, about how her kids have been nightmare plagued and traumatized, and the barbaric darting of the peafowl must stop, and maybe the vote to remove them was rigged in the first place!

Poor Gloria. She volunteers as president, does an amazing job, and gets as thanks an accusation that she's a modern day Richard Nixon, and the architect of a vast, anti peafowl conspiracy!

The email floodgates opened. The Napoleonic lawyer, apparently also pro peafowl, announced that he was well armed (don't all little guys have guns?) and if the trappers trespassed on his property in pursuit of the birds, well, he couldn't tell what might happen.

Another neighbor, another young mom known for speeding through the 'hood in her mini van, probably being the truly most dangerous factor in our quiet hamlet, is very much in favor of continuing the roundup. She explained that she has a new roof and skylight, and the peafowl crap all over it, and are likely, with their bulk, loosening roof tiles, and besides, we voted fair and square and to go back after the fact sets a bad precendet for future issues...

I weighed in, too. As a lawyer, I mentioned the "L Word." No, not lesbian, which our neighborhood, as far as I know, is sadly deficient in, but rather LIABILITY.

I told Gloria that our Association might get sued by a neighbor, visitor, or even trapper, and now that we had notice, we ought to suspend operations.

Gloria agreed. She always makes the right call. So for now, the peafowl are free to keep pooping, heavily perching on screens and roofs, and screeching away. They are also free to amaze us as we take evening walks (pm thundersotrms permitting)with their shocking plumage and impossible colors.

So Lebron James was right. The NBA Finals are over, and we mere mortals now return to our sad, boring, little lives.

Until the next drama...