Hadn't Been There in Awhile

My old friend Kenny's wife and boys decamped up the coast to spend some time with Joelle's mother, and Kenny suggested a boys' night out. As always, I was game.

Kenny suggested Indian food, which happens to be my LEAST favorite, but since I eat anything that doesn't move (in the case of fresh sushi, sometimes it moves a little) I agreed. But then fate in the form of a flat tire struck, and Ken needed a ride from the Mobil Station at 104th and US 1, and a ride home to South Miami afterward.

I picked him up, and realized it'd be some extra driving, and as an old freakin' guy, I hesitated. Then I looked up at the enormous billboard over the Shell Station on the South side of 104 Street, and told Kenny it was fated that I introduce him to Keg South. He was game.

I drove into the almost hidden road one needs to get there, and parked. The place hasn't changed at all since I started going in 1979, although I seem to remember there was more space around it then. Now, it's truly packed in, with a small parking lot.

My college buds and I used to go there to watch games, eat burgers, and drink beer. They also shot pool, which I was never really good at, so I practiced more beer drinking.

Sure enough, there were folks playing pool, drinking beer, eating wings, and watching football. FSU was playing Notre Dame. I like the Noles when they don't play the Canes, and LOVE whoever is playing Notre Dame, so I had some interest in the game.

D2 used to go to Keg South sometimes after high school. Many Palmetto teachers gathered there after class, to try to cleanse themselves with beer all of their students' pathology.

Sure enough, last night at a long table there were some late 20s folks, most of whom were FSU grads, and looked like young teachers. They drank beer and asked who thought Notre Dame's new glittery gold helmets looked stupid. Knowing, or assuming they were teachers, I raised my hand. They laughed.

Kenny and I shared a pitcher of Sam Adams. He remarked that he rarely gets to drink pitchers of beer -- going to more upscale and exotic places with his wife, the pitchers tend to be of mojitos, or sangria... We thoroughly enjoyed our pitcher of Sam Adams, and the frosted mugs that came with it.

The wings were fine, and the burgers delicious. We chatted about places we've lived (a short discussion for me --just LI and Miami) and a long one for Kenny, given his long career in the Navy. We talked about our kids, and college choices, and how times have changed since we met in about 1972...

Ken's a retired full Navy Captain, which is a big deal, but has kept his lefty politics. This gives him gravitas when a chicken hawk questions his patriotism...he asked what battles the neocon fought in. Ken was a flight surgeon on a carrier during the Gulf War.

The game was a good one, with a great ending when Notre Dame's turnovers cost them the game. Ah, it always makes me feel all warm inside when those sanctimonious phonies lose...imagining

A very nice night, inded. I will visit the Keg more often.

It's The Most Wonderful Traffic of the Year

Ah, Miami. Great weather, never ending interesting people and things going on, and awful traffic.

When I moved here, in 1979, the worst thing about the place was the crime. It was truly out of control. The drug dealers were killing each other off so rapidly that the medical examiner couldn't keep all the corpses -- they had to rent refrigerator cars. And then, in 1980, the Mariel boatlift brought even MORE criminals...

My friends from NY used to call and ask if I wasn't afraid. I wasn't, since crime wasn't too much of an issue on the UM campus or the other places I hung out.

Well, the drug dealers are in Mexico now, and the Marielitos who were bad have been caught and imprisoned (and the good ones have largely assimilated --Dr. Barry has had several sterling residents who were part of that wave), and crime here is down to 1960s levels. There are the occasional incidents, of course, but few of us are affected like we were in the 80s and 90s...

No, the current scourge is traffic. I'm used to thinking you can get to, say, Hollywood from South Dade in 30 minutes. Ha. As if. Now I have to leave more than an hour.

D1 hates it as well. Her commute from Brickell to FIU (solamente 30 minutos de Sweet Home Hialeah) can take well over an hour, even though it's fewer than 10 miles away.

But not this week! School is out, and many offices close this week. I drove D1 to MIA this am, and it took less than 20 minutes, on a blissfully fast moving Palmetto and Dolphin.

We sighed. Cars SHOULD be able to move. It was lovely.

D1 is off to Atlanta, where the traffic is even worse than here. She's spending the night with her boyfriend's family in Buckhead, and then they're all driving to Evansville, Indiana. I'm told there's not much traffic in Evansville.

I'm at the office, looking over a few papers.

And then home, with mercifully NO rush hour. Ah, the holidays...

A Very Wifey Christmas

And so it came to pass, on December 25th, 1956, in Haifa, Israel, a baby girl was born to a VERY loving mother who had lost much of her family to the Nazis. Her father was on the road to Tel Aviv, called in, and learned that his first and only child had been born. He made a U turn and returned to Haifa to meet his little girl...

Yesterday we celebrated this anniversary, and Wifey hit the jackpot. First, D1's roommate Alyssa's family invited us to their traditional orphan Jews X mas brunch. Barbara and Alyssa baked delicious foods, and we feasted on bagels, lox, egg salad, tuna, etc...

We saw old friends who we didn't know were even older friends with Alyssa's family. The guests watched the Knicks-Celtics game, and greatly anticipated the Heat opener later.

We then drove to the Grove, and watched a movie that all 4 of us (Wifey, the Ds and me) agreed was one of the worst all time: "The Descendants." We typically enjoy Alexander Payne movies, like "Election" and "Sideways," but this one was a depressing clunker that somehow made Hawaii look like a place you'd never want to visit, like the sleaziest parts of the Keys...

We laughed at how bad it was, and may have prevailed upon Wifey to take a break next year from her annual birthday movie trip...I suggested a picnic instead...we'll see next year.

No one was too hungry after the enormous brunch, but I knew a few moments smelling the enticing aromas at Tropical Chinese would fix that fast. It did. We arrived at 6, and D1 ran into an sorority sister sitting with her parents. I knew who her Dad was -- my client had hernia surgery with him, and we all chatted while they waited for their food.

We sat outside, and as each steaming plate of food passed, we all got VERY hungry. We also saw another few families we knew -- Tropical is truly the South Dade traditional Jewish Christmas spot.

We were seated, and ate spring rolls, chicken and shrimp dim sum, wonton soup, orange beef, and black bean chicken. We savored the food and each other's company.

A dentist and his wife and daughter sat at the next table. We knew them from the 'hood. He was there with his friend, a UM transplant surgeon who knows Dr. Barry well. The dentist, David, said we clearly had a minyan at the restuarant...He was correct.

We came home and lit the 6th night's Chanukah candles. I just realized -- no one sang Happy Birthday to Wifey.

Somehow, I don't think she minds...

December 25th!

So tomorrow is a day celebrated the world over, with lights, and trees, and the giving of exhorbitant gifts, with the gathering of families for meals together, and good cheer and fellowship: it's Wifey's birthday.

December 25th is a big day in our families. My parents got engaged on 12/25, during the big one, WW II. I know this because it's the date on the wedding ring that my mother gave me to give Wifey. It's also Wifey's parents' wedding anniversary. They were married in Israel, and December 25th was no big date there, unless you were a tour operator taking Christians to see the holy sites.

Wifey doesn't like me telling everyone her age all the time, so I can't mention that she's turning 55. But she wants to celebrate as she always does: family trip to a movie, and then the tradition of most Jews on Christmas Day: Chinese food.

She loves movies very much. In fact, today three of her friends are taking her out for her birthday, to see some French silent movie.

The Ds and I see movies far less frequently, although D1 wanted to see the new Muppets movie on HER birthday, and we complied. As for me, I can always wait until something comes out on DVD, or plays on U Verse...

I think we may add a different wrinkle to Wifey's Day tomorrow. D1's roommate Alyssa's family has a long running Christmas brunch for Jews at their home, and they've invited us. So we may stop by there, and then hit the George Clooney flick, and then head to Tropical Chinese, for the best dim sum in Florida.

My friend Vince, who's Catholic, takes his family out for Chinese on Christmas, too. 2 years ago, we ran into him and his lovely wife Maryam, and their combined 4 kids, at New Chinatown, in South Miami. We had a great time together, and this year we'll see if we can't all meet at Tropical. Vince's late father, one of my life's mentors, went to the same high school as my parents in the Bronx, and spent his life as a clothing manufacturer, or the schmata trade. I'm guessing that Vince, Sr, picked up the Chinese food thing from those experiences...

So bells will be ringing, and the Ds and 3 dogs will greet Wifey tomorrow, to celebrate the big day.

If there's something better than all being together, in one house, I don't know what it is.

Hebraic Diversity

Two Falls ago, Wifey and I went with Dr. Eric and Dana to North Carolina for our leaf peeping trip. We stayed a few nights at the Old Edwards Inn in Highlands, which is a gorgeous place, but not heavy on the Jewish thing...

Dana and I were in the living room, waiting for our spouses by the lovely fireplace. On the other side of the overstuffed sofa, there was another couple who had just met another fellow. The fellow was apparently waiting for his wife, too. The three had just discussed religion, and learned that one was Presbyterian, one Methodist, and one Baptist. One of the men announced: "You know --that's what's so great about America. Here we are, the three of us, enjoying this place, and we're all so diverse!"

Dana and I looked at each other and had one of those exquisite moments usually confined to Junior High School, where you feel an urge to laugh hysterically, but have to stifle it. We walked outside and let it out. Diversity! Ha! The three of you, we laughed, are all Southern WASPS! Real diverse...

Well, last night I was in a similar situation, but this time with my own peeps. Wifey and I attended a Chanukah party, hosted by our new neighborhood young millionaires, the owners of a wildy succesful internet retail company. These folks, who I'll call Ben and Rachel, since those are their names, are truly remarkable. The bought a huge mansion, and told Rabbi Yossi that the place was available for many community events, and indeed they have come through. They host weekly, catered Torah classes, and last night had a lovely party for about 50 of us, with delicious food, and a guitar player/singer who could have passed for a South American Leonard Cohen...

Anyway, we chatted, and played games, and it occurred to me how diverse the crowd was. All Jews, of course, but we heard Spanish, and Yiddish, and Hebrew, and various accents of English.

When I was among Jews on Long Island, it was VERY homogeneous. Everyone's grandparents were born in Russia, or Poland, and we all sounded the same, with Long Island accents.

In Miami, at our table last night, there was David, a dentist who was born in Miami, tall and blonde, and his wife Lisa, born in Queens but moved to Miami Beach as a young girl. There was Peter, very tall and very dark, the son of a Jewish mother from Venezuela and a non Jewish black, Caribbean father. Peter has a wonderful West Indian accent. You'd expect him to burst out singing reggae, but he knew all the traditional Hebrew songs better than I did...

Wifey and I heard Hebrew coming from behind us, from a tall, Israeli fellow, and his Yeminite Israeli wife, a lady with a dark, exotic beauty. At their table was Ralph, a Jewban born in Havana, with his wife Barbara, from Northeast Philly.

I even joked about it with one couple, Molly and Joseph. Molly was born and raised in Medellin, Colombia, of Ashkenazi backround, and Joseph, Sephardic, was born in North Africa. I told them their kids were one half Hispanic, and one half African American --they could get into ANY college in the US they wanted!

OUr hosts, Ben and Rachel, were born and raised in Milwaukee and Montreal. Ben has the classic midwestern accent, and LOVES the Packers and Brewers. Rachel speaks with the slightest hint of an accent --she speaks French, English, Hebrew, and Yiddish. I hear and "Eh" every once in awhile...

And so it went last night. Rabbi Yossi is ALL Crown Heights, Brooklyn. He speaks as if his speech coach was Jackie Mason, and his humor is classically sharp and sarcastic. He had the Mike last night, and was in his glory --leading us in song, and prayer, and comedy.

We played a game where we each told 2 truths and one lie about ourselves, and the rest of the crowd had to guess. I said I was born and raised in Philly, and one fellow, Shaya, hugged me and said he never knew I was a landsman --he's a Conshohocken guy! I admitted that was my lie, and Molly and another Jewish Latina, Irene, said "Mentira!" (Lie, in Spanish).

We fulfilled the required mitzvah of eating oil based food (potato latkes and donuts) and drank a few L'Chaims.

On the short drive home, I thought of the diverse Protestants in North Carolina, and realized I had nothing to make fun of.

Snapshots in Time

Well, my renewed sense of gratitude continues, even after a brand new article in the Herald tells me I'm not alone. It tracks essentially my story: a high PSA test that led to a biopsy and anxiety and "even depression" according to the head prostate guy at the U, Bruce Kava, who Dr. Barry is friends with and would likely have been given stewardship of my prostate had things gotten dicey...

No matter. I went through a rough time, for me, and coming through it has left me looking skyward several times a day and saying "thank you."

Yesterday, after a phone conference with some lawyers on the west coast wanting Paul and me to get involved in a get rich quick scheme (Paul listened patiently for an hour; I was mentally out of it after 15 minutes), Wifey, the Ds, and I fired up the Hyundai and headed North.

After a stop at a Boca bagel place, where we all chuckled at the gathering of our peeps (overheard: "Juuuudy --did we get enough Chanukah cookies???!!!!"), we ordered sandwiches to take to ancient Mom's condo. Ah, West Boca. Long Island's Five Towns moved south, with the less than melodic nasal accents, and jewelry, and little dogs. We smiled, and new that as we drove the few miles to West Delray, the population would get older. It did...

Anyway, Mom was in good spirits. She seems on an upward trend these past few weeks. Dr. Eric said she had the kidney function and cholesterol levels of a healthy 12 year old, so it doesn't appear she'll be joining my Dad in the afterlife any time soon.

We ate, and caught up, and had some laughs. D1 told her she'd be going to Indiana with her boyfriend for New Year's, and Mom asked why she was going to "Havana." Close enough, I told her, though the mojitos weren't as good when made by Hoosiers...

Anyway, I went to my former bedroom, which many years ago became a sitting room, and retrieved some old photo albums. They're falling apart and crumbling, but we still enjoyed one in particular: a scrap book from my parents' early marriage years, in Pasadena.

My mother had typed a letter to her in laws, apparently never sent, talking about how she had learned to cook, and how happy and surprised "her darling Hy" was about that. She recounted my dad inviting his seargeant (she misspelled it "sargent") and "another boy from the camo" to their apartment for dinner, and how proud my father was of her for the dinner she prepared.

The letter was filled with the great 40s expressions, like how "swell" things were, etc...

There were also menus from restaurants they visited in Hollywood, with steaks for 70 cents, and sandwiches offered for thirty cents.

And then the snapshots in time, showing my father graduating from a US Army college program at a junior college, and young marrieds in Southern California.

My mother was D1's age, 23, D1 noted. WW II to the Ds is truly ancient history. To me, growing up with the stories, it's not. And Wifey, a child of Holocaust Survivors, grew up essentially overshadowed by those days...

And so we laughed, and Mom told some disjointed stories, and peppered her words with some choice profanities, which the Ds love, of course...

We left her, about 5 pm, and drove D1 back to Brickell. D2, Wifey, and I came home, and lit our menorah. It's the start of the 8 crazy nights, as Adam Sandler sings...

Wifey actually fired up the fryer, and heated up a few latkes...Truly, this is the time for miracles.

In the Shelter

So the orgy of retail excess is in its final week, and I, miserly scrooge, sit back and SMH, as the young texters text. But wait, D2's friend Ben's Mom again came to the rescue, to bring warmth into the Season.

As far as I'm concerned, and now this is our second year of participation, Julie is the reason for the season. Julie started organizing a toy drive to a Homestead homeless shelter when her boys were very young, after she became a bit fed up with the excesses of Pinecrest Chanukah's and Christmases, and wanted to teach her family about giving.

Yesterday evening, D1 and Joel gave up vacation time from their exams, and came over, and they, and D2, and Wifey, and I fired up the aging Volvo SUV and headed over to Julie's house. We congratulated Julie's S2 Josh on his college acceptances, and the Ds caught up with old friends. Julie's S3, Ethan, a 12 year old with one of the sweetest personalities ever (I'd be not at all surprised if the kid wins American Idol someday, he loves to act and sing, and it comes from genuineness), told D2 that he never realized D1 was so short...we laughed as we loaded up the toys and toiletries and headed to far south Dade.

The shelter caters only to homeless families. Steve, Julie's husband and a macher in the national Democratic party, told me that the shelter is PACKED these days, on account of the economy. Inside the room, the Pinecrest Moms and future Moms used their fine organizational skills, displaying the toys according to age and sex and whatever other categories were deemed appropriate. The Dads and future Dads sat around, after we did the heavy lifting, and talked football and basketball, and premium TV (I think I converted 2 guys to at least try our "Breaking Bad.").

Then came the rush of kids, and their parents. They were like, well, kids in a toy store, where everything was free! Ethan and some of the other kids acted as personal shoppers, matching the shelter kids up with age appropriate toys. On the way out, the kids got cookies and candy packages. It was a truly joyful scene.

Of course, as I looked upon some of the little girls, I started wondering why they were born into such tough lives. One family in particular got my attention, The Dad was young, probably mid 20s, and handsome in the way some are with tatoos and shaved head, and the Mom had a very pretty face but dyed red hair and strange clothes. If I had to guess, both had been in prison, probably for drug related things, but who knows. Anyway, they had 3 adorable, blonde girls, probably about 4, 6, and 8, and they looked like any other family in a toy store.

Except this was a homeless shelter, and not West Kendall, or Plantation, or Cooper City. I kept optimistic, deciding it was just a rough patch for all these folks, and with love, and hard work and some changed luck, all would climb out and away from the shelter. But at least for last night, there was joy and happiness.

Afterwards, we retreated to Shiver's Barbecue, a place in Homestead since the 40s, apparently. Somehow, this place escaped my attention. We ate delicious ribs and chicked and corn and pulled pork. The walls were covered with jet fighter and helicopter photos from the nearby Air Force Base...

We then drove home, up US 1, and the Ds and Joel and Wifey joked about Wifey's open cheating at online Scrabble. I was so proud of my Ds and Joel, spending a night this way, helping those who need it.

Earlier, I wrote to Julie that she was my hero, and she is. Her charity caused other charity, now 10 years worth. She adores her 3 sons, who are some of the finest young men around. And she is funny, and sweet, and knows good barbecue. What a lady!

So Christmas isn't ALL bad, nor Chanukah. This year, the holidays coincide. I'm headed into the garage later to do my family's preparation: pull the electric menorah from the shelf, and make sure all the bulbs work. We'll light a regular one, too, and surely admire all the neighborhood lights and displays.

When folks give to their fellows, like Julie did and does, well, that's as good as it gets.

Oh What a Night

When I met my dear friend Eric as a UM freshman, in 1979, he invited me to his family's house in Kendall for the Jewish holidays. We ate, and read, and had a wonderful time. I clumsily broke a dish on the holiday table, one that I think Eric's Mom Norma had inherited from her grandma. I felt awful, the family shouted Mazel Tov, the classic Jewish phrase of "good luck," shouted at weddings and celebrations, and, in the Ashkenazi tradition, when something breaks, to both acknowledge the brokenness of the world, and to hope for fewer klutzes like me in the future.

Well, it has been MY great mazel being adopted by Eric and his family, nearly 33 years ago. Eric and I have grown close like brothers, literally grown from teens to men together. We shared college, lived together during grad school, stood as best men for each other at our weddings, and kvelled over our 4 kids, who have brought us more joy than we would have ever dreamed...

At my life's lowest point, in July of '82, when my father was in the hospital with the heart attack that would eventually claim him, Eric came to my mother's condo in Delray, and slept on my floor, giving me the comfort of a kid whose brother promises to drive away the boogie man. I still wonder whether those days affected Eric's decision to become a cardiologist...

More significantly, as the Torah teaches us that true friendship is revelling in one's friend's successes, he was there at those, as well. And we have been blessed to have many of those lately, from great Canes games to family vacations together, filled with laughter and the creation of memories that are for me, sacred...

Well, last night Eric and Dana hosted a combination party at their house -- to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary, and Eric's impending 50th birthday. The theme was sprts tailgate, and everyone wore their favorite team jerseys... I wore and was several times complemented on my Canes HOCKEY jersey, which my bud Norman gave me this summer. No one had seen one, and no fewer than 5 folks asked if the U had an ice hockey team. I told them they did, but the season was short -- games were only played when the campus lake, Osceola, was frozen...

Dr. Barry, the third stooge and brother, made sure to wear his NY Jets jersey, to annoy Eric and me. Although Barry moved to South Florida in the 9th grade, he still loves the team that used to play next to his Flushing childhood...Somehow he found a Revis shirt, to honor the latest Jets star, in a size probably 5 larger than the actual Revis jersey. Revis will probably fall down and cause the Jets to lose at some critical junction, as per normal for that team...

Anyway, back to the party. All of our spirits soared. I'm still high on the news that I don't have a tumor the size of a basketball growing inside my prostate, and Eric's boy Josh, who is essentially Eric with a far friendlier personality, thanks to his mother's genes, was accepted into Georgia Tech and Michigan. Jen, his daughter, is soaring at UF, and leaves soon for a Birthright Israel trip.

We ate, and drank a few (ok, more than a few) shots of vodka, and toasted these wonderful milestones. Eric put together a video slide show, and we were amazed, truly, at how young we all looked back in college. There was a shot of Eric in his first medical office, in Boston, and he truly looked like Doogie Howser, M.D. People trusted that kid with their hearts?

And at the wedding, we all looked like an episode of "The Little Rascals" putting on a wedding. At the time, we were in our mid 20s, but to these 50 year old eyes, it was a children's party.

Ah, sunrise, sunset...

I hugged Dana, and Eric, and Barry a little tighter than usual. I planted man kisses on their cheeks, in the way I used to kiss my father.

I guess one can go through this life without friends who are closer than brothers. I'm sure I don't know how.

If I Had a Rear View Mirror

Yikes. What a tough 2 weeks it's been for me, the typically annoyingly happy and optimistic guy.

Dr. Dave called with my yearly blood test results: my cholesterol was "perfect," but my PSA, a marker for prostate cancer, had more than tripled in a year, from 2.5, already high for a guy my age, to 6.8. Dr. Dave said I had to see a urologist for follow up.

My bud Dr. Vince had the same PSA rise earlier this year. I asked him for advice, and he told me to go see Dr. Rob Puig, a urologist Vince had observed in the OR, and had great technique. Plus, Vince said, he's a nice guy. I called and they had an opening for Friday, which is now 2 weeks past.

I went home and hit the internet. I learned that PSA tests are notoriously innacurate, and that most men die WITH prostate ca than OF it. But my Dad had it at 60, and family history was a major determinant. Plus, a PSA rise like I had could signal a rare form of aggressive and deadly cancer, especially for a relatively young guy like me. I read about Frank Zappa (dead at 52) and Dan Fogelberg (dead at 57).

I'm always a big shot about death. Since my Dad died in my arms at 63, and his father died at 55, I always figured I wouldn't live too long. I hoped and figured that statins would keep my cholesterol down, and maybe get me to 70 or 75, hopefully old enough to become the best grandpa of all time...

But I found myself SCARED. Not so much of dying, but of putting the Ds through the hell of losing their father, something I endured when I was between them in age, just short of 21. It was hell, and I kept seeing them grieving and mourning.

I knew Wifey would take it hard, but she has such a full life with her friends, and the Ds, that I knew she'd be fine, assuming she didn't fall prey to a gigolo who'd swoop in and steal all my hard earned savings...

I slept badly. I was down. I leaned on my brothers, big time: they were great, as usual. I whistled past the grave yard in a more piercing tone than ever.

I didn't tell the Ds, but then Monday night, D1 was in the car when the surgical center called to pre register me. I explained what was going on, and asked that she not tell D2, who had finals and a long drive from UF.

Wednesday am, Wifey frove me to the surgical center. I got undressed and they started an IV. They wheeled me into the room, and started some valium. I felt calm. Then they started the propophol, and I went to another universe.

Next I knew, I woke up, and was completely at ease. I felt a mental acuity and freedom from anxiety unknown to me since I was a teenager. It was amazing.

I see why Michael Jackson became addicted. The stuff is magical, truly other worldly.

I got up to pee, and out came some blood, just as Dr. Puig told me. He said it'd last a day or so.

I called the office, and was told to come in next Thursday. Great. 8 days to learn my fate. My friend Maureen, Dr. Dave's wife and office manager, said she'd call and see if they could let me know sooner. She tried yesterday, but no results were in.

D2 and I had a big cry together. I tried to be strong, but admitted I was afraid. She was, too.

Last night, Rabbi Yossi hosted a meeting at our neighbor's house, a holiday to the Chasidim honoring the Alter Rebbe's release from prison, and his authorship of the Tanya, a book of spiritual thought. Essentially, the message is that we need to love each other's souls, and that our bodies and stations in life are the illusions.

As we drank, Rabbi Yossi said that tradition held that God listened carefully when blessingw were sought during these get togethers. I told him I needed a blessing, and he said a L'Chaim in my honor...

Well, all I know is that it must not have hurt.

Wifey, the Ds and I went to my in laws to take my mother in law out for her birthday. When we returned to the condo, I checked my voicemail and there was a call from Dr. Puig's PA, Jessica (the woman who gave me a DRE (digital rectal exam) with blessedly small fingers). She said the biopsy was normal.

I shouted out loud, waking Wifey, who was napping. I literally danced, and cried with the Ds. I was ecstatic. This may have been as good as the Canes win over Nebraska in '84. Nah, it was better.

So I was given a new dose of happiness and perspective, literally via a poke in the ass. Actually, the biopsy was 12 needles that penetrated my rectum, and stuck my prostate, so 12 pokes in the ass...

Life can be very, very sweet. I hugged Wifey and the Ds, long, hard, and often.

I plan to celebrate BIG. Tomorrow night, Dr. Eric and Dana are hosting a big party at their house, Eric's 50th birthday, and their 25th anniversary. Barry will be there. I think we may have a drink, or two...

I thanked the Big Man. My favorite Atheist, Chris Hitchens, died yesterday, at 62. I'm having doubts about atheism. The joy I felt today, when I learned I'd be around awhile, well, it came from a deeper place, I believe, than simply positive neurochemistry.

I got stuff to do, still, and now it appears I'll have time to do it.

HELL YEAH!!!!!!!

My Dad's Job

A knit ski cap from the early 70s turned up in my office the other day, emblazoned with the corportate name "Toscany." I smiled --that was my Dad's employer from 1960 to 1999.

My father was a salesman, and Toscany, a start up from a few years before, recruited him. The founder, Morris Katz, was a powerful, big presence of a man, and with 3 partners willed the company into existence and growth. They imported glassware and dinnerware from overseas, mostly Europe, and he needed hard working "outside" salesmen to sell the stuff. My father, a Jewish WWII vet like many of the other partners (one was Italian), fit right in.

The company was the best thing to happen to my Dad, professionally. He developed customers who were booming in the 60s and 70s, like Alexanders Stores, and Al's Pottery. He was also lucky, in many ways. Toscany decided to import flower pots at exactly the time there was a new attention paid to ecology, and EVERYONE wanted house plants in their homes. My Dad sold many of them.

By the early 70s, he had so many "standing orders" from his customers that he made money without having to find new ones. I remember him smiling in his home office, which was just an alcove off of the laundry room in our small, split level house, as he explained to me that he made money for years after developing a client.

His desk was the house's original formica counter top from the kitchen, held up with some wooden dowels installed at the front. It was never very stable, and I was always aware, as I rumbled by with my friends on our way outside to play sports, not to let it topple over.

In the early 70s, the company offered my father a sales/buying manager's position, which paid a LOT. I seem to remember a salary of something like $150 k per year being discussed, but the job required him to travel at least one week per month. I thought he should take it (I had visions of becoming a much richer kid, like some of my classmates who lived in South Wantagh and Seaford (whose fathers had bigger jobs), but he turned it down. He simply loved being home with my Mom and me too much to sacrifice the time.

When I was a teenager, Toscany hired me and a friend to come to the NY Collisseum to help set up the yearly trade show. My friend Kenny, now a retired US Navy Captain and Pediatric Radiologist, still remembers it as the best gig ever. We rode the train to the City with my father, had to wait for union guys to do stuff like roll open carpets, unwrapped some merchandise and put it on tables, and got paid like $50 each. Back then, a new record album was $4.99 and a concert ticket about $7.00, so we were some flush teens...

Mr. Katz loaned my father, I think $2000, for a down payment for my family's first house. My father paid him back promptly, but that one financial gesture propelled us from apartment living in Queens to the true American Dream, with a lawn on our less than 1/4 acre property.

My father feared Mr. Katz' wrath in later years. When a call came in on Dad's business number (PE 1-1679) (I wish I could remember relevant things today like I can remember 50 year old phone numbers), I was instructed to say Dad "wasn't home" even if he was stadning right next to me. In fact, this business of "having a boss" was what inspired my father's one dream for me, professionally: to have a profession where I wouldn't have to answer to a boss... I followed his advice.

Still, Mr. Katz was a legend in our house. He died in, I think, 1977, and I remember my father showing me that his obit warranted several columns in the NY Times, because of his business and philanthropic positions.

My father, coerced by my mother, retired in 1979, as I was graduating high school. My mother had grown to despise the cold weather, and essentially made the family decision to move to Florida. My father, in the best thing he ever did, pressured me into coming, too, by going to the U (before it was the U).

32 years later, and nearly 30 years after my father died only 3 years into retirement, my nearly 92 year old mother is still living on the last of the savings and retirement money my Dad earned at Toscany. Again, there was luck --back then you could get over 15% return on bank CDs, so the principal remained untouched for years... Oh, now that I have savings, how I wish those days would return...

But the point is, Mr. Katz and his partners Sid Glazer, Sonny Pasquale, and Harold Potchtar started a company, and my Dad and my family had a life changing experience.

I went online and did some checking, yesterday. Toscany apparently went out of business over 20 years ago, and its assets were bought by the Anchor Hocking Company of Ohio. Sid Glazer died just last August, at 93. He and my Dad were the same age --since Sid was the boss, I always assumed he was older.

Harold Potchtar died in Boca 10 years ago, at 77. I couldn't find any news about the lone Italian partner, Sonny Pasquale.

My partner Paul and I had similar experiences. At the height of our firm, we changed the lives of some of our employees. Norma and Andrea, our long time secretaries, retired from law with savings more than they ever hoped for. Mirta, our last "tenured" staff member, thanks me constantly for how we changed her life, financially.

So, over 50 years after a new company in NYC hired an honest, hardworking salesman named Hy, who took the anglicized name Henry to better appeal to his non Jewish customers, I thank this Toscany Company.

Although they're long gone, the acts of their owners continue to have good effect.

New Job

So I started my new part time job yesterday. My official title is "Family Liason for the Friendship Circle of Miami."

FC is an organization started by Chabad, my friend Rabbi Yossi's homeboys. It pairs teen volunteers with special needs kids, for home visits and events at the local Chabad shul. As I think about it, it's sort of like Andrew Shriver's Best Buddies, but more geared to kids...

Rabbi Yossi and his wife Nechama run the South Dade operation. They started it years ago, and I've visited and known about it, but never got very involved. The Ds just missed it when they went through Chabad's Hebrew School, and I've sort of admired it from afar.

But lately, as I told Yossi I have some free time and lack of productive things going on, he invoked the age old religious adage: idle hands are the Devil's workshop. Not really, but he was thinking that...

So we came up with a job for me. I'm going to reach out to the families of the special needs kids, and get their thoughts about the program, and see what suggestions they have. I'm also going to get involved in designing programs for the parents. Finally, I'll start meeting with pediatricians and other health care providers in the community, to recruit more kids.

Yossi and Nechama want to increase the size of the program. It currently serves about 60 families, and they want to double that number.

The program, though sponsored by an orthodox Jewish group, is not religious. About 90 % of the special needs kids are not from Jewish families. Most of the counselors are, as they get recruited from Chabad and local synagogue youth programs, though that may be changing. Yesterday, Nechama had a training meeting for some new volunteers, and they included beautiful West Indian twin 9th graders, who are volunteering as their younger sister, who has a disability, is part of the program.

So I spent 3 hours at the center yesterday, mostly observing. What I saw was so beautiful, I was forced to stifle some tears. There's no crying in volunteer work, right?

A tall, handsome, teen volunteer in a basketball jersey spent the entire time with his buddy. The younger man had pretty involved autism, and didn't react much, even to the loud music and other activities. But when he looked up at his friend, he smiled so broadly, and the two of them kneaded dough together while making cookies, as the young child beamed.

Scenes like these were common yesterday, and Nechama told me there's even closer connection when the volunteers visit the houses. The sad truth is that the kids with special needs, most of whom have autism, rarely have friends visit. So, while they get great medical care, and of course the love of their families, they miss out on the socialization that comes from friendship. Hence, the very essence of this program.

I stood outside after the baking demonstration (led by a lovely young grad student who was sharing her favorite hobby) and music therapy, and play therapy, and met several of the parents. I introduced myself, and told them I'd be contacting them soon.

Of all the pride I have for my friend and partner Paul, for his legal prowess, I'm proudest of his current gig. He volunteers many hours per week as a guardian ad litem, meeting with kids in foster care and advising Juvenile Court judges on whether the kids should be sent to parents or remain in state care. It's an awesome responsibility, and he treats it as such.

It's funny --when we'd handle an auto crash case, we were sometimes paid very handsomely to get a money recovery for someone who, say, broke an arm. Now, Paul uses his same skills and training to do something far more significant, and the pay is, at least in dollars, zero.

And he'd tell you he's privileged to do the work. I get it, too.

For me, this may be the start of something big.

Paul Simon, Pearl Harbor Day, Thoughts of Mortality

Wifey and I saw Paul Simon last night, at the Seminole Hard Rock theatre. It was our first show there.

We arrived early (surprise!) after a decent visit to ancient Mom, and a coffee re charge in Boca, and walked around the casino for a bit. I'm not a casino guy, but something about the Hard Rock struck me as even more sad and pathetic than my visits to Vegas casinos...

I guess that in Vegas, most of the patrons are visitors, and they look happy and excited. The lights seem brighter. At the Hard Rock, more locals seem there, and are decidedly more downscale. The light was dim. I noticed 2 Latin guys, dressed in work uniforms playing the slots, and could only think that they were blowing meager paychecks their immigrant families needed.

Plus, Wifey got a slice of pizza from a surly server, and reported that it was one of the worst she's ever eaten. The accompanying stench of cigarette smoke as she chewed couldn't have helped...

Things brightened up in the theatre, which was sold out. A 5 piece band called the Wildfires opened, and they were pretty good --reminded me of the Outlaws or Marshall Tucker bands of my youth.

The crowd was, Wifey and I estimated, about 50 or 55 in average age. Duh! Paul Simon is 70, just barely pre Baby Boomer, and most of his audience grew up in college in the 60s and 70s (and I guess 80s, when he released "Graceland") and so that's who was the audience...

The show was terrific. He had one of the best backing bands I've ever heard, including some of the African guys from the Graceland period. He sang wonderful new songs from his latest (So Beautiful or So What) musing about love, and mortality (One song was great --with lyrics about having to fill out a form and wait in line) and his earliest periods, and the wonderful 70s albums.

He sang "Mother and Child Reuinion" in true reggae form, and brought down the house with "Late in the Evening." What a career he's had! He could have sung all night and just scratched the surface of his songbook...

So today is Pearl Harbor Day, and as always, I think about my Dad. December 7, 1941 was a true "marker day," as the historians call them, for him. He knew his life would change, and it did, with a draft notice soon after and over 4 years in the Army...

I think about him, at 22, and what he was like. And then my memories turn to the man I knew, and how he died at 63. Although that was so young, to me, he was already an old, retired guy...

And worse -- 63 is just a Bar Mitzvah Boy's age away for me! Caramba!

Aging folks always say that age "doesn't matter," it's just a number. Bullshit, I say! Years are all we have, in the way dollars are the only measure of material wealth. And 13 isn't that many, at all...

So I'm hoping to be lucky, like my fellow Queens Ashkenazi Simon. He's 70 and still at the top of his game --creating, contributing, the whole ball of wax.

But as my father learned 70 years ago today, sometimes change and events hit like a sneak attack...

Anti Liberal

Wifey continues to feed my reading habit in a most economical way: she has books sent fromour local library. A few years ago, when her back was so bad that it was tough for her to leave the house, she signed up for a program that lets you order books online, which are then mailed to your house. Our library in Miami Dade is actually quite good and efficient, and the books are very current.

Wifey prides herself on knowing my taste (she really could be a librarian) and is usually very on point. Her latest is David Mamet's confession of moving from being a liberal to conservative. I've been reading it and it resonates with me.

One of his points, which is well known, is that liberals tend to give far less in charity, individually, than conservatives. This is of course because libs think government ought to help the less fortunate, by taxing us all more, while conservatives believe more in self determination and less government. Plus, conservatives tend to believe more in quaint concepts like religion and God, and feel compelled, largely, to help because of those commandments...

Anyway, I do admit to enjoying some liberal friend tweaking...and a small event Saturday was a prime example of this.

D1 was at a local liquor store, doing her part time job of selling a brandy for an importer. We figured that several friends and acquaintances would see her, and they did.

2 folks stopped by, and they happen to be some of our more conservative friends, politically. They said hello, and bought a bottle of the brandy, having no intention, I'm sure, of drinking it. The husband, who I'll call Mike, since that's his name, is a gin and tequila man, and his wife, who I'll call Loni, prefers white wine.

Still, doing what most of us would do, helping out a friend's kid, they happily bought a bottle, and will tuck it away for possible use if, oh, say, the most interesting man in the world comes over, and wants cognac instead of Dos Equis.

Later, another old acauaintance came by. Wifey says I have to stop identifying local folks when they act like assholes or jerks, so I'll just say she is someone we've known for a long, long time. We don't socialize, but keep in touch through other people.

She greeted D1, saw what she was doing, and blithely said "Oh, we don't drink brandy" and trotted off to buy some vodka.

I don't know. I've ALWAYS bought crap from friends and neighbors' kids --even reams of Christmas wrapping paper, much of which sits getting moldy in my garage. To me, it's the decent thing to do -- to help whatever the child is doing, whether fundraising or getting ahead.

Not so the uber liberal...she probably rushed home to drink martinis and read "The New Republic" and catch NPR...

Of course I know I paint with an absurdly broad brush, and the friends who bought the brandy are simply good folks, while the one who ignored D1 is not, at least in my book...

Plus, as a protective papa bear, ANY slight to my Ds, no matter how insignificant (D1 really couldn't have cared less about this --literally shrugged and said "no big deal, or any deal" when I pointed this out to her) is magnified.

All I know is...sending away a friend or neighbor's kid, no matter what, well, that makes you the kind of person I want nothing to do with, to twist grammar.

Back to Mamet's book tonight...he's just getting to the part about apologists for Obama's abysmal performance ('he inherited a mess!") by pointing out that he campaigned preciscly on the principal of fixing the mess...

Interesting times, as the Chinese curse goes, and interesting people...

Metro Man

Wifey and the Ds (well, D1 at least) decry the fact that, when it comes to fashion, I am a world class schlump. There were a few periods in my life when I shopped for decent clothes, and actually looked presentable (I recently saw some photos of a holiday party circa 1997 where I wore a smashing gray sweater with a finely tailored blue blazer and khakis), but those periods are past.

These days, I wear a pair of black jeans when we go out for dinner, or a pair of blue jeans when we don't, and several pairs of shorts with varying degrees of bleach stains on them...

On occasion, I still wear a suit, but I consider those days a sartorial failure (either a client meeting or a funeral or bar mitzvah).

Although I am one of the least homophobic guys I know (I DIG fags, really) I dress the least like the stereotype of the gay man. Proudly.

Well, Wifey had finally had it with a pair of topsiders I favor for daily use when I wear shorts. They were worn visibly. So, after dinner at Tony Roma's last night (we pondered why Outback in our 'hood is always packed, while Tony Roma's, with similar food quality, isn't), Wifey demanded I head to Dadeland for some new shoes.

She had several unused Nordstrom gift cards, and I dutifully complied. I actually like that store. The service is terrific, and there are plenty of plush chairs for husbands to sit on while wives and daughters shop. Of course, they USED to have a pianist, too, but those were removed last year, apparently at the demand of some young snot nosed marketer who figured out that the post menopausal target customers wanted "hip" music piped in, instead of the Sinatra standards...

In any event, I quickly found a pair of Sperry Topsiders, on sale for $109, down from $159, and took them. The zaftig young Cubana salesgirl then showed me a pair of Cole Haans (my other favorite shoe) also on sale, and I went crazy and all metro and effiminate, and bought them, too, even though my existing Cole Haans have another solid 6 months before they wear out.

We were done. No, not so fast. Wifey wanted to see what was on sale upstairs as well, for her. I found a great seat near the escalators, and watched the ladies shop, while Wifey found some things she liked. She then fetched me, along with an old acquaintance who now works at Nordstorms. I'll call her Flippy, since that's her nickname -- her girls grew up with the Ds -- and one is now in law school in D.C. while the other is at art college in Boston.

Flippy popped me into a chair in the dressing room, and I watched Wifey emerge with some sweaters and a nice red dress. I felt like Richard Gere in "Pretty Woman," although we were in Kendall instead of Beverly Hillls, and Wifey is not a whore...

Flippy and I chatted about our daughters, and Wifey found some things she liked. We then retreated outside, where Flippy told Wifey to open a Nordstom account, so that my already discounted shoes could be discounted another $20...

We stood at the counter, and it turned into a retail happy hour. First, Flippy's husband came by and said hello (an empty nester like me, he was killing some time walking the mall), and then 2 of Flippy's friends, Elise (whose kids grew up with the Ds, too), and a cardiologist's wife came by, too. The cardiologist's wife, who I'll call Amy, since that's her name, is a long time UNfavorite of Wifey's and mine.

Our kids always crossed paths growing up, and the woman was, almost to a level of caricature, a bitch! Somehow she remained friends with the ladies.

She had been shopping, and was ready to leave. She handed her bag to Flippy, and said "Can you take this home for me and I'll pick it up at your house?" One would have thought she was kidding; one would have been wrong.

Wifey, off in her own world while waiting for the Nordstrom approval of her new credit card, missed this whole exchange. Flippy told her that it was a hassle for employees to bring home packages for customers, even friends, because of store security.

Amy was relentless. Finally, her friend Elise offered to carry the package (we're talking one bag here --probably about 4 pounds worth of shoes and clothes), and the ladies left.

I often say it: I find it funny when people act in ways different from their natures, and also when they act in accordance with them. Amy and her haughtiness and bitchiness made my evening.

So I did my shoe shopping that will last at least until D2 graduates college (2014). My shorts are another issue --I begged off further retail searching. Wifey will now bring a few pairs home, probably from Marshall's, and I'll wear them.

A clothes horse I'm not, to use the great, Yiddishized grammar of my ancestors. Not even a clothes mouse.

Still, as always, trips out of the house lead to human nature lessons. Thanks, Amy.

December Light in Miami

As I drove up Ludlam Road today, on the way to meet my old LI friend Kenny for lunch, I was struck by the pure, golden, beautiful light.

Years ago, I read a book about Miami by David Rieff, and he spoke about how even average buildings in our town look majestic in the amazing light, and also why more and more movies and tv shows are shot here.

It's true, I thought. Especially on a dry, cool, December day, no place is more gorgeous.

The best light on LI, where Ken and I grew up, was during a cold, clear, winter's day. I remember once in high school we had a major ice storm one evening, and walking home the next afternoon from school all of the tree branches and trunks were covered in a layer of clear ice, which slowly melted. It was as if someone had added flood lights to the day. It must have been, oh, '77 or '78, and I still recall the way it looked.

Speaking of light, and vision, last night D1 and her friend Alyssa and I went to the grand opening of Art Basel, on Miami Beach. Our neighbor is an exec on the board, and sent us passes to the VIP opening. Wifey begged off, following a day of errands, but I got to go.

What a scene! We were definitely not in suburbia anymore, as we watched the international glamour and art folks mill about, looking at the absurdly expensive pieces.

D1 noticed a painting which we have in our house. Of course, we have a mere poster of the Botero, but hanging there was the original, from 1982. We didn't ask, but I'm guessing it cost in the millions...

We saw about 1/2 the exhibits, and then admitted to ourselves that we cared more about food than art. The only thing sold at the fair was overpriced sandwiches, so we left and headed to Lincoln Road. On the way, we saw one of the most colorful, literally, puppies. We stopped to talk with its owner, who told us it was some rare mixed breed from Louisiana.

I was skeptical --I thought it was a blue tick hound, like the U Tennessee mascot, but later in the evening D1 sent me a web site about this unusual cur --named Amadeus.

Alyssa took us to a great salad and pizza place, where she and D1 shared a salad and pizza, and I had an antipasto.

They were lovely company -- talking about grad school, and careers, and siblings, and life --all with the vitality of 23 year olds.

I dropped them off a happy man. I mean, I was the happy man --I didn't deliver any to them.

So Kenny and I met at Shorty's, and I bought him lunch in honor of his joining the 50 club. Ken still has high school and middle school aged boys, so he has another 1/2 decade before he's an empty nester.

I drove home with the sun roof open, and that amazing December light streaming in. This time of year, there's no finer place to be.