Thank Heaven, For Little...

Wifey's orthodox cousin Yechiel lives in Baltimore, where is the moshgiach, or supervising rabbi for Empire Poultry. He and his wife have 2 sons and 2 daughters, and Wifey and I see the oldest, Ephraim, every year or so.

Ephraim is a fine young man, who studied Finance at a Baltimore area college, and works as a consultant to a mining company venture capital group. He was explaining what he does last night, and lost me after 5 miutes.

Anyway, Ephraim was married and has 2 lovely girls, who are 13 and 9. Ephraim and his wife Malke divorced a few years ago a VERY rare occurrence in the orthodox community. But, they remain dedicated parents to their darling girls, and Ephraim brings the young ones to Florida each year on vacation. This is the third time they've stayed with us.

Last night we took them to one of the few Glatt kosher places in South Dade -- the Oasis at the U. We shared sandwiches and conversation, and then walked around the lake. Ephraim and the girls live in Brooklyn, and really savor the palm trees and other exotic vegetation commonplace to us here in the Tropics. One of the girls remarked "It just smells so great here..."

We came back to the house, and the girls watched "Hocus Pocus," an old favorite of our Ds.

Wifey and I became wistful -- we just savored the times our Ds grew up. It was absolutely lovely to have young girls in the house again.

The only problem is the dogs. Like many orthodox families, dogs aren't part of the scene. The girls enjoy our 3 dogs (D1 graciously left the granddog with us for awhile), but are a tad afraid of them, too. Still, when the dogs quieted down, and the girls petted them while watching the movie, it was a beautiful scene in our family room.

Today, Ephraim is off to Lion Country with his girls. He's such a terrific Dad -- dedicated to showing them a terrific time. They adore him.

They'll be back later, and Wifey and I will go hunt some more glatt kosher food -- our other option is our old friend Moshe's snack bar at the JCC.

D2 turns 20 in 3 days. D1 is 23. They're women. We adore them. But, oh, the days when we raised young girls...

Sunday Funeral

So I was up early yesterday to meet Norman for breakfast. Instead of our usual LOL venue, Norman suggested the more feminine, less Jewish Muffin Tin. We enjoyed ourselves, and enjoyed the different clientele -- older and not many synagogue members in sight. Still, he enjoyed his eggs Benedict, and I had some fine hotcakes...

Then it was off to a funeral. Wifey's longtime friend Linda's mother died. Diane was 78. I had never met her, though I've known Linda nearly 30 years. In fact, I had always heard that she was in ill health -- and that was many years past.

We gathered at the cemetary West of MIA. I met Linda's Dad, who I had spoken to over the years. He's a sweet man -- born in Key West of a pioneer South Florida Jewish family, and moved to Miami, where he met Diane, vacationing from Philly. They married in the early 50s, and moved into a house in West Miami, then a very Jewish suburb.

Over the years, their neighborhood became nearly all Cuban. But Lou and Diane stayed, in that same little house. Diane became active in a Conservative Shul, Beth David, after the one she attended, called the Whale because of its unusual architecture, became a church, the Iglesia del El Hombre Grande, I think...Not really.

Anyway, we saw Linda and her sister Karen, and Karen's daughter Danielle, who I last was when she was a baby girl. Danielle is lovely --works sending kids on trips to Israel, and lives close to her Mom in Hallandale. She spoke movingly about her grandma, her hero, and Linda and Karen spoke, too. Linda was honest about the troubled relationship she had with her mom, but you could tell there was much love there as well...

I realized I was at the same cemetary several times -- most recently for Wifey's friend Cara's husband Jack's funeral. I was also there for Larry's -- he was barely 50, as well as Marilyn and Caleb, both of whom also died far too young.

We drove out of the cemetary in search of dessert to bring to the Shiva. We stopped at a Winn Dixie in Fountainbleu Park. I told Wifey I would give her $10 each time we heard English spoken in the store. As I expected, I paid out nothing -- I think that neighborhood is about 300% Hispanic...

We found the West Miami house, off of 62nd Avenue and SW 13th Street. The 'hood looked great -- though you can tell its ethnic change by the fences in the front yards -- a custom, I'm told, in Havana suburbs which the "exiles" brought to SW Miami.

And sure enough, Diane and Lou's house was a time machine to the 60s. Wifey enjoyed the photos of Linda and her family from way back in the day. We ate great deli from Bagel Emporium, and prayed with the Argentinian Rabbi, who was most eloguent.

Linda thinks her Dad will finally move out of the house, probably to Aventura, to be closer to his daughters and granddaughter. His grandson Jordan is living in Germany for 2 years, and will probably relocate to Atlanta when he returns to the States...

The chapel at the service was standing room only, though Diane wasn't some well known community leader. I thought about my friend JOhn's report about big shot lawyer JB Spence's funeral -- more folks came out for Diane. I guess the relationships you make on an intimate level trump the money and professional accomplishments you make. Of course they do...

So I'm sorry I never got to meet Diane, but I think I still got to know her. She was loved by her family and friends, and lived a good, full life.

Death was all around yesterday. There was a terrible wreck on I-75 south of Gainesville, caused by smoke and fog. 10 people died, and 20 were hurt in the pileup. Thankfully, D2 knew of no students from UF who were involved.

So the sadness we observed will be going on all this week, I'm sure. So here's to life. L'Chaim.

What a Marvelous Night for a Moondance...

Last Thursday was a microcosm of all that I love about living in Miami. Wifey and I drove down to Brickell Village, and met some old friends for dinner at Perricones. Thursday is "Pasta Night," where many entrees at the fairly upscale place are $10, and when we arrived at 730, the place was packed. I'm talking easily 100 folks waiting for a table.

But Darriel and Paul had secured a reservation, and were already sitting when Mike, Loni, Wifey, and I joined them. Mike's siter Jeannine was there -- we hadn't seen her for quite awhile, as she and her husband were in Virginia while Ray worked on a highway engineering project. They're moving back to Stuart now.

The guitarist played and sang, and the good cheer flowed from we old buddies. The food was eh, due, I guess, to the overwhelming crowds, but we were sitting in the beautiful courtyard, the weather was perfect, and the soggy eggplant was no trouble at all.

Jeannine is a Miami native, and hadn't seen up close the development in the Brickell area. She was most impressed to see the crowds of folks strolling the streets, going into and out of the many restaurants and bars.

D1 invited us over to her place, and I stopped and got some dessert from the Perricone market. If the $10 pasta is a loss leader, the market makes up for it --$25 for a few brownies and small cakes.

Jeannine and Mike's Dad was my professional mentor, and, like me, a lover of the City. He couldn't have imagined what would become of a Downtown area that shut up tight after 5, during his day.

D1 and Joel were watching the Indiana Hoosier game, both wearing red IU shirts. D1 made some coffee, and she and Joel graciously hosted the invasion of the oldsters. I don't think anyone in their building is older than 40. It's nice to be around the young and vital for a change.

Wifey dognapped our grand-dog, and we all left for the suburbs. Darriel, Loni, Paul, and Jeannine marvelled at the view from the 36th floor balcony. Miami had truly become a different city.

It's funny -- some folks who lived here 30 years ago can't imagine the changes. I figured it out, though. If you were young and vital in a place, and now find yourself well over the hill, then the hometown will NEVER be the same to you. Ana Menendez, the fine Cuban writer, captured that idea so well in "In Cuba I Was a German Shepard." The old fellows playing dominos in Little Havana go on and on about how much they miss Cuba, but what they truly miss is being young and virile and important, instead of the sad has beens their exile has left them.

The title comes from the observation that for one fellow, in Florida he is a little dog, while in Cuba he was a strong, majestic Shepard dog. Glory days, as The Boss noted -- well they pass you by...

So anyway, it was a magical night. At the dinner table, we toasted to another reunion -- this October, in Chicago. Our beloved Canes travel there to take on hated Notre Dame, and we're planning to take a large contingent of Canes fans there, for deep dish pizza, a great steak, and hopefully a victory over the sanctimonious Irish...

My friend Norman, like me a gourmand, has sampled all the top Chicago steak houses, and determined that the Chop House is superior to Gene and Georgettis...A lot will ride on his choice, but I know he has the wisdom and stomach to have chosen wisely.

So here's to more great times with great friends. It rarely gets better than that...

Mah Jong

One of the benefits of Facebook (tm) is the contact with folks from way back when. I communicate with an old high school friend, Marcy, and it always brings me a smile. Marcy looked 40 when we were 18 -- nice, serious, bespectaled Jewish girl, who went off to one of the SUNY colleges and met a fellow who became a very succesful academic doctor -- pediatric oncologist, I think. Marcy ended up in New Jersey, with 2 daughters, now both in much more prestigious colleges than she and her husband attended (more on that in a moment), and living a more upscale version of the life she had on the South Shore of LI.

When her girls were getting ready to go off to college, Marcy and I chatted about it -- she felt compelled to send them to expensive liberal arts places (I think they go to Smith, or something). I asked Marcy why the SUNY school led to her and her husband's success, but was not good enough for her girls, even though it would save them nearly $100K on yearly tuition (no scholarships at those places unless you're a sought after minority -- like Hispanic). Marcy really didn't know -- she was sort of caught up in what I call "Keeping up with the Ginsbergs." No matter -- her husband will just have to give a few more talks for Big PHarma companies to make the tuition money.

Anyway, Marcy just posted about playing Mah Jong with friends. It cracked me up. To me, that was the province of only "Greatest Generation" women, although I've heard about some of their daughters picking up the baton. It's such a strange game -- my brother in law Dennis long ago noted that no man could ever understand its rules. But Marcy's post kindled my memories...

My mother and her cronies played 2 nights per week, and I think that meant our house hosted a little more frequently than once per month. On "Mah Jong Night" there'd be a big pot of coffe brewed, as well as an assortment of Entenmann's coffee cakes and strudels, and maybe a fruit salad.

I remember all the ladies had Marge Simpson hairdos, and they ALL smoked. Prodigiously. The den where they played was thick with it, and it would waft up to my bedroom as I tried to sleep, causing me top open windows for fresh air. Second hand smoke? During those formative years, I probably inhaled as much toxin as if I was a longshoreman with an endless supply of Marlboros...

It's funny -- my Dad was a militant anti cigarrette man, since the day I was born (he kept his fixes through a professorial looking pipe), but he knew he'd better not mess with Mah Jong Night -- to my mother, that game was sacred.

Mom continued when she moved to Florida. Her condo was filled with Northeastern retirees like her, and they all loved the game. She'd host parties each week, and enjoyed it immensely.

Now, sadly, the game, like baseball to Gehrig after he was diagnosed with his own disease, has passed her by. She lacks the strength to even make coffee for guests, let alone move the chairs around to set up the table. She played awhile at the Club house, but those days are over, as well.

So it's nice to know that another generation of Jewesses is carrying on the tradition. I am quite certain NONE of Marcy's friends smoke, and the food put out is undoubtedly organic, no sugar, no fat, no fun...probably just tasteless granola, I imagine.

And instead of "Arlene --how's Bruce doing at Stony Brook --still dating that shiksa from Patchogue?" the names and colleges reflect the new generation: "Shelly -- is Jason happy he transferred from Emory to Duke -- and how is that lovely Jennifer from Hewlett he is seeing?"

But I'm also sure the cameraderie is as lovely for these ladies as it was for MY mother back in the 60s and 70s on Charles Lane in Wantagh.

Crack! Bam! West! Indeed, an inscrutable game...

Chilling Cheese

So I was on my way home from the office, where things have been a bit busier lately. A case my partner and I brought in and set up came up for mediation last week, and Paul did what he does best: negotiated it for an entire day to a great conclusion.

The case showed that our vision for the law business works: Stuart and Brian did some work on the case, too -- essentially dealt with the paperwork for a year, and we all strategized and then implemented the plan, and then, Viola! -- a settlement.

Anyway, Wifey called and asked what I wanted her to cook for dinner. Ha. No -- did I want to meet somewhere. I was going south on Ludlam, and suggested the Big Cheese. She agreed, as Wifey, like me, can NEVER turn down good pizza.

I always laugh to myself when I enter the BC, since I remember the building's prior incarnation, ironically, as a funeral home. The owners took over in the 80s, and turned the place into a great local pizza place, filled with UM memorabilia. It's a major UM hangout -- they even have dishes named after former players and coaches.

We shared a delicious mushroom pizza, and a calzone, and a couple of salads, in deference to some minor form of healthful eating. All were delicious.

We sat outside, with a view of the gas station and ice cream shop, Walls, across the road, with Canton, Wifey and my courting restaurant, from back in the day, visible on the other side of busy S Dixie Highway.

We used to get take out from the BC when the Ds were small, and Wifey and I spent the rest of the dinner talking about them. I had just dropped off some paperwork outside of D1's apartment, and she told me how she was volunteering for a leader in her field, who she had sought out and followed up with. I told her how proud I was of her -- she truly goes after what she wants in life -- and she had texted me that I was the "best Dad on the planet." Well, she and her sister are in a 2 person club, as far as I'm concerned --"Best kids on the planet."

Wifey left to go pick up some Keurig K cups, while I headed home to take in the trash container, and let the dogs out. Ah -- Keurig. Like most technologies -- Wifey and I are a year or two behind the fads -- but we love this thing, which makes perfect cups of coffee easily. D1 got a maker, and D2 is getting one when she moves into her off campus house next year, so Wifey and I decided to join the Keurig club. We're fans now, having overcome the environmentalist's guilt of using a plastic container each time we have a coffee...Hey -- I recycle!

On my way out of the BC, as I was paying at the register, I asked the young girl if she knew what the building used to hold before the restaurant -- probably 10 years before she was born. She did. I told her if they find any old refrigerators, to leave the doors on them shut -- just in case. She laughed.

Ah. Pizza, calzone, and the laughter of a young lady. What more could you want from a restaurant?

We Grow Old...

When my parents retired and moved to the condo in Delray, my father made fun of the fact that most of the conversation turned around 2 things: CDs and doctors. The first was certificate of deposits, which in those days paid a hefty interest rate, and typically required a deposit of at least $10K. My father was amazed at how much money his fellow retirees seemed to have, as they talked about having "5 in this bank, and 8 in another."

The condo they moved to is decidedly downscale, so I wonder now how much was puffing by the former Northeastern civil servants, teachers, and the like. But the medical part -who found the best urologist and cardiologist -- to my Dad that meant he had become, truly, old. He was 60 at the time, and my mother was 59.

Wifey and I greet new neighbors to our 'hood, with a bottle of wine and the welcome packet. Last night, we went to say hello to our newest resident. His name, or nickname, in Neal, shortened from an apparently complicated and unpronounceable Indian name. Neal and his wife moved recently from Hong Kong.

Neal was charming and affable. He was supervising a major landscape project, and as we spoke, trucks and laborers adjusted lights and planted trees and shrubs. His wife was inside, though Wifey already received reports from other friends that she's an amazingly beautiful lady, originally from Pakistan. Seems like some nice additions to our 'hood.

As we chatted with Neal, and filled him in on local events, like the great peafowl scandal of '11 (he loves the critters and was shocked anyone would want to get rid of them), Wifey volunteered that we'd be happy to tell them which doctors in town were good.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! It's happened. I am become old, to paraphrase an ancient Hindu text...

She was being nice and helpful, of course, as we're friends with many local docs, and Wifey likes to help out friends and neighbors. In an interesting reversal of our natures, I USED to be the one referring everyone to everyone. Lately, I keep my mouth shut, as I've found the axiom no good deed goes unpunished to be true. Wifey, who never was the "connector," has become so -- volunteering service people and jewelers and, now, horrors, DOCTORS to near strangers.

I'm there, of course, at the age of decline and decrepitude. I recently had a urological scare typical of aging men. When I walk around, I hear echoes of my father as he used to grunt through neck and back pain.

But can't we stick to recommending , oh, parks and restaurnants? Maybe great liquor stores. Even Books and Books -- yeah -- that's what I want to talk about.

Not doctors -- the people old folks share, a la Jackie Mason ("My doctor is such a big shot, you can't even get in to see him!").

I'm thnking of resigning my position as Welcome Chair -- to Wifey. She likes people more and more as I like them less and less.

In other words, I AM becoming older and more crochety...

Justice?

So there's a case involving some friends that's been hanging around like a musty old towel, for over 10 years. If I wasn't so lazy, I'd write a Grisham-like treatment of it and become rich. RichER...

A mom from inner city Broward gave birth to a baby, and the child needed her spleen removed. Her pediatricians told her to give the child antibiotics every day, as she was very susceptable to awful infections. Mom didn't do it.

A few years later, Mom took the child to a clinic for a checkup. She was doing well, and the friendly doc decided to order a vaccine to prevent disease. It was given. Months later, the child was in a Broward hospital, dying, literally, of septic shock. The docs told mom she wouldn't last, but in a last ditch effort to save her life, she was sent to my friend's hospital.

The local hospital agreed the child was in dire shape, and told mom to expect the worst. The girl's hands and feet were dead from gangrene, and the necrosis was spreading. A team was assembled, and they knew the one chance the girl had was to amputate all 4 appendages -- even that might not work, but it was her only chance.

They did the surgery, the intensive care was amped up to heroic levels, and a miracle was accomplished: the child lived, and with none of the brain damage that was expected.

So, Mom thanked Jesus, and the doctors, and took her little girl home -- maybe THIS time remembering those antibiotics.

Ha. As if! Mom was directed to a med mal lawyer (how that happens is the better story, which cannot ever be told) and she sued every doctor in 2 counties who had any contact with the little girl. The pharmacy where she was supposed to get the life saving prophylactic antibiotics was not sued, even though, arguably, the friendly CVS pharmacist could have been held liable for failing to call mom to remind her what she should have done.

The case dragged on. The docs in Broward settled, piecemeal, as their insurance carriers understood that a limbless child in front of a jury could mean a bad result --actual fault be damned.

My friend and his colleagues endured a tragically comical experience of inept lawyering, with the case shuttled around less than stellar members of our local defense bar.

And then, years into the case, the plaintiff's lawyer got lucky: through, I guess, a paralegal nurse who deserves a big raise, he learned that the vaccine that was given had expired months before. Now, medically, that had no real impact, as the child got a variety of disease that the vaccine wouldn't have prevented, and, additionally, a few months old vaccine is still just about as effective as a non expired one.

Again...Ha. As if science matters. What matters is that the plaintiff now had a very appealing argument to make to a non sophisticated jury. If I had the case, I'd have said, essentially, "they gave this child spoiled milk, it made her sick, and now they're trying to convince you it's no problem."

Last month, the trial finally began, in front of a judge with not a lot of civil experience. I'll leave it at that.

One of the local attorneys for my friend started to panic. This fellow, not the brightest bulb on the X mas tree, but looking the part of a southern attorney (I didn't know they still made seersucker suits) asked to settle. He got my buddy's hospital to offer substantial money.

But the plaintiff kingpin, now too old to try the case himself, sent 2 pawns to court, determined that this would become one of the largest jury verdicts in state history. And, indeed, the pawns asked the jury to award more than $50 million.

The jury awarded substantially less, and found the mother largely at fault for causing this whole tragic episode. When reductions are made under Florida law, the net result to the plaintiff will be less than half what he could have gotten in settlement.

A lawyer from Atlanta was brought in to try to case, after the hospital's trustees lost confidence in their local counsel. Turned out it was a great move -- the Atlanta guy, who I never met, did one hell of a job. He convinced a jury that the case was more complicated than plaintiff said it was.

And, the true miracle is that the girl is doing well. She's in high school, and, with her prosthesis, on the cheerleading team!

So, is my friend thrilled that his hospital was let off the hook for a fraction of what a jury could have awarded? Of course not. They saved a child's life, heroically, and were still told they had to pay damages.

Had the child died, none of this litigation would have ensued. It's first year law school knowledge that it's cheaper to kill a tort victim than to leave him maimed.

And a quadruple amputation is some serious maiming...

The good news is that the law now protects, or at least limits, future claims like these.

The law doesn't do anything to make moron mothers follow directions.

Still, it could have been worse. And as to the aging plaintiff titan who sent his two pawns to battle for him in court, in hopes, I guess, of a final huge verdict, well, he forgot a lesson well known to those of us in the trade: pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered.

In this case, the relative slaughtering was, I guess, some form of justice.

More Reflections on Mortality

My friend John called the office yesterday, to resolve a case with Stuart. John's a plaintiff's lawyer, but has been taking on uninsured doctors as clients as well. John used to be a young partner of THE MAN in Miami PI law -- someone named JB Spence.

JB died recently, and John attended his funeral. JB's partner Buddy Payne died within days of JB, but his funeral was in Tampa. John was surprised how few folks attended the funeral --maybe 50. We talked about why this was, and concluded that JB was so old, probably most of his contemporaries were already gone, and besides, who truly cares about the life of a lawyer (other than maybe Atticus Finch, and he's fictional).

JB was the first to get huge verdicts. I attended a seminar he gave once, on business development, and he gave me sage advice. The advice was that EVERYONE he met, from gas station attendants (I told you he was old) to dry cleaners, got a business card, and the reminder that he was a lawyer, and should be called for any legal advice.

I did this religiously over the years, and got several multi million dollar cases from friends of friends of friends of friends. Thanks, JB.

When JB and Buddy got older, they went through the cliched problems of white guys with too much money. JB smacked a much younger wife around, and got arrested. Buddy had a Latin mistress, and, when he told her things were over with them, she shot him in the cojones. This latter event turned out less than funny, as she aimed a bit too high, and Buddy nearly died in the hospital.

JB practiced until the end. He hooked up with some guys who had bought the right to use Johnny Cochran's name posthumously, as if old Johnny still ran cases. The firm is actually named for this long dead OJ lawyer. The manager of the firm, who is, like me a white Jewish guy from Long Island, and neither dead, nor black, like Johnny, took JB in and gave him an office.

Talk about marketing! The guy, whose name is Scott, traded off a dead black lawyer and an ancient white one. Ah, the dignity of my profession...

Speaking of dignity...my mentor Ed Perse had it in spades. His funeral was packed to overflowing, back in '94. But the Herald's obit was about 5 lines, as I recall.

So much for immortality for the lawyers --I guess unless you're a Ponzi schemer like Scott Rothstein. When that guy goes, either naturally or through a hit, it'll be front page news.

Ancient Mom called at 3 this am. I'm visiting her later, and she was confused --I was due there at noon, and was 3 hours late, in her senile mind.

Mom's friends are mostly gone, too. She was never famous like JB Spence, and wants NO funeral --just her ashes spread in the Atlantic, like my father's were in 1982.

In the end, of course, we all end up dead. Even the big shots. If you live too long, the funerals are sparsely attended.

Adios, Wolfies Man

The Herald reported the owner of Wolfies, Miami Beach's most famous deli, died last weekend at 94. His daughter was quoted in the obit about how he "found" a healthy lifestyle after bypass surgery at 82, going daily to the gym and eating a much better diet. Wow -- he got to make it from 82 to 94 eating salads and hanging at the gym. And he ended up...dead!

My family started going to Wolfies in the early 70s, when we'd vacation in Miami Beach so my mother could visit my grandmother. Grandma lived at the Edward Hotel (she pronounced it "Ed Vard") on Collins and 10th Street, and we'd always take her to the Wolfies on Lincoln Road for Jewish soul food, as my Dad liked to call it.

You'd get into a line depending on the number in your party, and sit at a formica table, where rolls and cole slaw and pickles were immediately put down. The running joke is that the old folks always "stole" the rolls and packets of artificial sweetener.

One year, my parents let me bring my friend Michael Monahan along on trip. We were, I think 14. Michael had never been on an airplane before, so the whole experience was wondrous for him. He LOVED Wolfies -- I think we went 3 times during our 10 day visit, and had the same waiter each time. He was a courtly older fellow named Herbert --he greeted us with "I'm Herbert, rhymes with sorbet, but I'm from Brooklyn, not France."

His brother was a NYC fireman, like Michael's Dad, and when the two made the connection, they became bonded for life. The things I can still remember...

Years later, after I moved to Miami full time, and my father died, I'd still take my mother to Wolfies when she visited her lifelong friend Rose, who lived on Venetian Causeway. By then, the Lincoln Road location had closed, and the remaining restaurant was located on 21st Street and Collins. By the late 80s, the crowd had become more Euro tourist and gay than Borscht Belt, but the food was still the same. Mom loved it, as did Rose.

Ah, Rose. She and my mother were best friends since the late 20s, in the Bronx. Rose was married to Harry, and they never had kids, just a mean dog named Stormy -- who used to try to bite me. When Stormy died, Rose and Harry divorced.

Rose then met another guy and moved to Vegas, but he died. Then there was a "rich" older guy, and she moved to Miami Beach with him. He died, too, leaving Rose a life estate in her condo. She and my mother enjoyed their shared widowhood -- Rose would house sit with Mom when Wifey and I went on vacation, and share rooms at the Lido Spa before it became the uppity Standard.

Rose sadly descended into dementia, and Mom "has no idea if she's alive or dead." Truth is, in my mother's self contained, snow globe life, I don't think she deeply cares --and this for a friend of over 80 years. Springsteen said it best: "In the end what you don't surrender, well the world just strips away."

Wolfies closed years ago -- I'm sure the old Lincoln Road location is some overpriced pasta restaurant.

But the delicious corned beef remains, in my stomach memory...

Fire in the 'hood

Wifey and I enjoyed a lovely winter weekend. Saturday we rode our bikes over to the Pinecrest Art Fair, and walked around our beloved old Parrot Jungle. It became a city park several years ago, when each of us was surtaxed a few thousand dollars, so we go whenever we can to get our municipal money's worth.

When the Ds were little, we bought an annual pass to the place. The Ds never tired of the glorious birds, and amazing foliage, and kitschy shows in the "Parrot Bowl" consisting of birds riding bicycles and doing magic tricks. It was pure Miami...

Now, there are are shows and jazz concerts there, and the city has done a nice job of keeping the place up. We enjoyed our time there...

And then Saturday night, Wifey's friend Cara invited us to dinner at her Venetian Isle condo, to meet her boyfriend Teddy. I love the term "boyfriend" when it applies to a 79 year old "boy," and we had a nice time meeting him. Teddy's daughter was there, with her fiance, a Bronx guy who does health care consulting, and the 3 couples got along well. Cara set a great table, and poured Absolut generously...

Yesterday I napped well to the AFC playoff game, and enjoyed watching the match between former Canes players, one of whom, Ed Reed, clinched the victory for his Ravens. And then Wifey and I went to dinner with Paul and Patricia, at an Argentinian steakhouse in the Gables, which we all enjoyed.

We got home, and the phone rang, around 1030. We rarely get calls that late. It was our neighbor Gloria, the association president, telling us a house was on fire!

I walked down the street, and sure enough, there was a scene with 3 fire trucks, and a couple of police cars. The off duty FHP troopers we pay $2000 per year per house for were nowhere to be found -- they rarely patrol on Sunday nights, I've observed.

Anyway, I asked the policeman, and he told me no one was hurt, but that the fire started in our late neighbor Greg's house. Greg died a few months ago, from pancreatic cancer, and his young son lives in California. We assume he's going to sell the house at some point, but luckily no one was in it this weekend.

I walked home, and it occurred to me how lucky we are to live in a hood where this sort of non event is the big news -- a fire that took out a tree or two, and maybe a kitchen.

Today is Martin Luther King Day. I plan to celebrate by exercising some of the freedoms MLK espoused . In my case, that means the freedom to head over to Brands Mart to buy a new house phone...

And tonight I plan to light a fire, but in the pit by my pool.

Back to Work, Sort Of

A case we've been working on for the past several years is being mediated tomorrow, and I'll be in the office today to help "strategize." This is funny to me, since the strategy is ALWAYS to get as much money for the client and the lawyers as possible, failing which, prepare to take the case to trial.

Little changes in the handling of injury cases. The fundamentals are that each side tries to use the uncertainty of a potential jury verdice to leverage its position. The plaintiff has, usually, sympathy, and the defense has the logic of "not wanting to turn a misfortune into a fortune" as the well worn defense playbook states.

Dr. Barry emailed me about another old case against his department -- a claim no decent med mal lawyer I know would have even sneezed at. Still, one of his partners is being sued for caring for a deeply involved patient (ventilator dependent, terminally ill) accused, I guess, of acting in a way that somehow shortened the pathetic child's life.

The defense lawyer this time is competent, an old timer I'll call Jack, since that's his name, and I'm hoping he mounts a vigorous defense, unlike the insubstantial lawyers the department is usually saddled with, whom I'll call Chris and Helen.

On the other hand, Jack is getting old -- mid 60s, which is ANCIENT for a trial lawyer, and that may play a factor. Years ago I read that the prime age for a trial lawyer is 35-55. Before 35, the young puppy is just too green; after 55, his reactions and judgments and ability to relate to a jury suffer.

Good thing I choose to semi retire now. In another 5 years, I'd be washed up anyway.

I truly have to find some other line of work. I enjoy the cameraderie of the old firm, but not its mission.

If only someone would pay me for reading the news all day, or watching football on tv...

Still, I'll make the trek into the office, and listen to my fellow lawyers reinvent the wheel several times. So much time is wasted in the handling of cases on the anxiety of the lawyers -- their deep fear of looking stupid to their colleagues, which almost always proves unfounded, since no matter how dumb a lawyer is, someone can be found who is dumber.

I hope this case settles tomorrow...

In the Navy...

My friend Kenny had the second coolest professional experience of anyone from my hometown on LI. He was a flight surgeon in the Navy, and spent time of the carrier Saratoga during the Persian Gulf War. My friend John's experience was coolest: in the CIA when he helped capture and interrogate Saddam Hussein.

Still, Kenny stayed in the Navy Reserves, and retired a full captain, which is a big deal in the Navy --like a colonel in the Army or Air Force. He's kept in touch with some of his old friends, and invited one to Miami yesterday to give "Grand Rounds" (a lecture at a hospital) to his colleagues at Baptist.

The friend was Captain John Cutting, who is one of the highest ranking medical officers in the Navy. Captain/Doctor Cutting gave a talk about the history of the Navy, and its use of "soft power," which is essentially humanitarian aid versus "hard power," which is blowing stuff up.

Like most professionals I meet at the top of their game, like transplant surgeons and the like, John was extremely cool, nice, and down to earth. Here's a guy who commands major medical missions worldwide, and I watched him asking a couple of first year med students from FIU about their experiences.

There are exceptions, of course, but it seems the wannabees are the ones with the big egos and attitudes in life. When you truly make it to the top, like Captain Cutting has, your accomplishments speak for you -- you don't have to tell everyone how great you are.

Anyway, he explained all of the ships and planes and helocopters the Navy has, and how they're deployed. The 9 year old in me, still playing with my GI Joe dolls, was transfixed.

And then he told us about his experiences in Haiti, after the earthquake, and seeing injuries he'd not thought possible. Although the Navy treated a few thousand victims, out of more than 300,000, the symbolism was there : the US gives a damn, and was there to help.

After the lecture, I headed over to Crazy Steve the cop's house to watch the BCS game. Yawn. It was one of the most boring games I've ever watched. The lecture was far more interesting, and even, exciting.

Kenny asked my thoughts about the talk, as I was the only complete civilian (neither military nor medical professional) there. I told him that, at least for the night, I felt less bad about paying the huge income taxes I pay. With the funds going towards missions like the Navy's soft power, I was proud to be an American.

Pretty Young Cousins

Wifey's father has one surviving brother, Lou, who is near 90 and still very full of life. Lou and his wife Sally have 2 sons, Wifey's cousins, Sandy and Mark.

We like Sandy and Mark and their families a lot, but usually see them just once a year, even though Sandy and Felicity and their 3 kids live in Weston. Mark and Sue live on LI.

Well, Saturday night was the double Bat Mitzvah (Mitzvot) of Sandy and Felicity's twins: Hannah and Rachel. We fetched my father in law, who, to our surprise, was up to the event. He's very slowed by age, and rarely goes out, but I guess decided he was NOT going to miss his brother's major simcha...

It was D2's final night in town, before leaving for UF, and after we picked up D1 we sort of questioned whether we wanted to spend the evening at a kids' party. It turned out fine.

After circling in the dark wilds of Weston, we found the Reform Temple. D1 and I got ourselves a few cocktails, and we greeted the family. Mark and Susan's three sons are all grown and fine young men, living and working in the NYC area in various jobs. It was a lovely reunion for the Ds and them -- they chatted and planned to get together in the future. They're close in age and interests -- the boys and D1 aqre recent college grads, and D2 not far behind...

Sandy and Felicity's boy Jeremy is a junior in high school, and in a simple bit of Jewish geography I learned that he's known D2's boyfriend and his younger brother for years. We truly live in a tropical schtetl...

We danced and ate and caught up. The party was mostly the girls' friends, and the DJ and dancers kept them busy and happy. The boys all had Justin Beber haircuts, and the girls mostly towered over them.

The Ds probably attended nearly a hundred of these parties in Middle School -- they playfully tried to recall who went to more -- who was more popular...

My father in law sat, and ate, and talked with his brother. He is too vain for a walker, which he clearly needs, and I made sure Wifey stood near him to prevent a fall. Still, his eyes sparkled as he and his brother shared the evening.

Mark and Sandy and I shared a toast -- between us we produced 8 great kids -- and as all are descended from Holocaust Survivors, we realized what a terrific answer they are to Hitler's evil attempt.

Finally, the long holidays are over. D2 drove back to UF, and learned a lesson about police. She was pulled over on the Turnpike, doing the speed limit, for "driving in the left lane." The macho asshole FHP Trooper "let her go with a warning," but wanted her to know that when a cop is behind you, you'd better get out of the way. D2 was upset, but wiser for the encounter. I wish the jerk and his clearly under endowed manhood the worst...

Wifey and I pulled a chair out to the middle of our front porch area, drank some hot herbal tea, and admired the gorgeous full moon. I toasted our anniversary, her birthday, and our Ds.

The sad backdrop of my nephew in a hospital remains. I've been praying more than I usually do on that front.

Tortured Soul

My poor nephew in California. He's 29, tall and handsome, bright and artistic. He's also a tortured soul.

He was born in March of 1982, and my parents flew out to see their third grandchild. He was blonde and beautiful. His father was not much of a father, and my Dad returned to Florida worried about his latest: how would he be supported? My father died 4 months later, that July.

PJ grew up, and laughed and played like all kids. He grew tall and strong. After high school, he tried college, but he never thrived in a place where he was told what to do. Despite that, he applied to the US Air Force, which was at that time fairly selective. He got in.

His mother and the rest of the family were wildly proud of him, even though my sister's hippie politics and sensibility ran counter to the idea of military service. PJ got through the very tough training, though, and graduated. My sister flew to Texas to attend the ceremony. It seemed my nephew was on a great path.

He lasted a year, and then got out. Thereafter, his life took a downward turn, with a nomadic existence that ended in Boise, Idaho, with a call to my sister. She fetched him and took him home. Things got harder for him, over time.

It seemed each step forward led to two steps back. There were many words and dreams and plans, none of which led amounted to much. Still, he laughed and lived and shared his time with friends and my sister.

Last week, a most tragic event put him in the hospital, in a deep coma, with multiple fractures. His prognosis is uncertain.

We're all praying for my sister, for the unbelievable heartache she is enduring. She has been by his side, and plans to stay there, for as long as it takes.

PJ's brother Henry and his wife Valerie are there, for support and help. Ah, Henry...27 and already quite the man. He's succesful in his career and his marriage. Unfortunately, he's now called upon, like I was at age 20, to deal with things other than his own life: his mother and brother need his help, and he's been there for them.

PJ's road has been bumpy, to say the least. The one ahead promises to be even more challenging.

We still have hope. As terrible as his situation is, maybe he can emerge from it and head down a brighter path.

Maybe he can escape his own head, and start to drink in the exquisite nectar life can bring, especially to a young man.

In the meantime, he's in my thoughts.

Yesterday, the Ds and I spent a magical afternoon together. We walked the path around Brickell Key, with grand dog Mads in tow. The sky was impossibly blue. The weather perfect. We looked at the majestic cruise ships in the Port, and marvelled at the yachts that sailed by the seawall.

I showed them where we lived after Hurricane Andrew, a building where D2 took her first steps, which turned into runs, with peals of toddler laughter, as she discovered her ability to scoot down the hallways. D1 was far more cautious...

I also showed them a secluded bench, where I sometimes sat, and still sit, when I need to reflect. It overlooks Key Biscayne far across the Bay. It's a beautiful place.

Still, my nephew was in my thoughts...unconscious in a hospital bed in Fresno, with my sister there, rubbing his feet.

May he rise again.

Silver Day

25 years ago today, Wifey and I were married. I remember it well. We checked into the Downtown Hyatt, a place we chose because, of the 170 guests, one was Glatt kosher: Wifey's Uncle Alter. Since my in laws were paying for the wedding, and since my mother in law adored her brother, the meals of the many turned on the religion of one...

It was a fine choice, mostly. The hotel was less than 10 years old, and they did a nice job, except for charging guests to valet park after we had prepaid that, and forgetting to serve the wedding cake.

Still, our relief rabbi, Norman Lipson, did a serviceable job. Dr. Eric's mother Norma found him for us after our "spiritual partner," who I'll call Mark Kram, since that's his name, abandoned us at the last moment to take a free trip to Israel. Kram came to symbolize to Wifey and I everything we abhorred about organized religion: he was sanctimonious, greedy, and, it turned out, a complete hypocrite. What he did to us took years to undue; we never joined a synagogue until after the Ds were born. But again, Rabbi Lipson did his job, and well read the vows we had written, borrowing from Bob Dylan's "Shelter From the Storm."

My father in law took out several flower arrangements as he made his way down the aisle, and in a moment that's become family lore, my mother in law grabbed Wifey and kissed her after I broke the glass, before I had the chance to. Ah, Wifey: the benefits and perils of being an only child...

The party was fine. We had chosen my mother's favorite bandleader, Harry Frank, because he was right out of the 40s. Harry was a classic Catskills style tummeler, and he cracked wise and warmly, as he lead his band. And then, our friend Elizabeth's husband Pat Travers, in a rare move for a fellow who had a few rock and roll gold records, joined the band and played some songs.

This was made even more memorable because Wifey's friend Eileen, a local actress, having consumed heavily, decided to summon her inner Chrissie Hynde and join Pat, but sang "Good Lovin" while Pat played and led tha band to "Gimme Some Lovin."

Small matter. We danced, and the young folks who knew Pat's "Boom Boom" and "Snortin' Whiskey, Drinkin' Cocaine" danced and sang along, while the older guests wondered who this fellow with the blue satin jacket and purple streak in his hair was, and why he was playing rock and roll with a Borscht Belt band.

We haven't spoken to Pat in many, many years (we're still close with Elizabeth), but we're forever in his debt for giving us that most precious musical gift.

And the band played on. We were all having such a great time, that my mother agreed to pay for Harry Frank's overtime. What a night!

Much later, the guests left, and Wifey and I retired to our honeymoon suite. Our families stayed at the hotel, too. Wifey and I disrobed, (this may have been the first and last time Wifey put on lingerie), we got into bed, and performed the traditional ritual of a Jewish couple on their honeymoon night.

We opened the gift envelopes and added up the value of the checks. My in laws' friend and families wrote large ones; my mother's relatives and friends, not so much. I seem to recall getting like several $500 checks from the Holocaust Survivor groups. My mother's sister, still my mother's only surviving sibling, gave a card "from all of us." I think her clan numbered about 8. The check was for $25. At least they had to pay for their own parking, which probably exceeded the gift.

The next morning, we walked the streets of pre construction boom Downtown Miami, and found a small breakfast place that was open, on SE First Street, I think. OUr families left, and Wifey and I headed for home, on SW 125 Terrace, the first house we bought as a couple, 3 months before the wedding. The house was about 1200 square feet, and it was our first of several shelters from the storms of life. We loved that house, especially the open beam, Dade County Pine ceilings, which my mother in law's cousin, who I'll call Dobka, since that's her name, thought was unfinished constuction. When we invited her over, beaming with pride at our first home, Dobka looked up and said, in her great Polish, Yidish accent: "Vell you a lawyer. Mebbe someday you make a lot of gelt and buy a house vith finished ceilings..."

Wifey and I left for our honeymoon, in Jamaica. It was high season, and we could only afford to stay 4 nights, as I recall. We had a blast --Dunn's River Falls, getting lost for about an hour in a simple roundabout in Falmouth, while Village kids laughed their heads off at my inability to escape, rafting down the Martha Brae River, being offered spleefs the size of tree trunks.

And, of course, back at the beachside hotel, called Half Moon Bay, where we engaged in the traditional activity of newlywed Jewish couples: fighting over the one novel we brought to read on the beach: Steinbeck's "East of Eden." This became a small tradition for us on future vacations. We fought over Tom Wolfe's "Bonfire of the Vanities" in Wisconsin...

And so, we're still happily married, 25 years later. My parents made it to 39 years, before my Dad checked out. My in laws have passed 60 years, and no one's going anywhere.

My father's only advice to me about a future bride was "marry someone pleasant." He didn't care about religion, or anything else, just amiability. Of course, my Mom, Sunny, lives up to her name in that regard. And Wifey, though many points higher on the IQ scale than my beloved Mom, is usually very pleasant. My father would have approved; he would have loved her.

Dear Uncle Alter died just this past year. He was a truly sweet and generous man. Several years ago, he gave my Ds a $10K gift, which I tried to return -- he wouldn't hear of it. He was a very rich man, but lived absurdly simply: he owned, I think, 2 pairs of pants, and a TV that my in laws had given him in the 70s. Still, he died, according to the Torah, fabulously wealthy -- far more than happy with his lot in life. Looking back, it was an honor to honor this one guest with our fully kosher wedding.

And Wifey and I move on. D1 is due home tonight from Indiana, and we plan to fetch her at MIA and head over to our favorite restuarant, Christy's, for an 8 pm dinner -- for us, that's VERY late. Christy's isn't kosher, but it is delicious.

So happy 25th Wifey. Here's to looking back, on almost all great memories, and looking ahead to, dare I wish, weddings for our Ds? They're both brilliant, beautiful, and (mostly) pleasant young women...

Adios Once...

We rang our 2011 rather well, in my humble opinion. Wifey and I fetched out of town guests Sheryl and Mark from a local hotel, and I promptly told Sheryl, she of unbridled optimism and always packing tons of activities into a single day, that we didn't have time for BOTH dim sum lunch AND the King Mango Parade. "Nonsense!" she proclaimed. "Just drive, David!" And so I did.

We ate dim sum, and were joined by some old friends of Sheryl's. Although she's Boston born and bred, Miami is clearly her home still, as she keeps in touch with more folks than Wifey and I know. We ate, and then left for the Grove, and got there in plenty of time. I apologized for being an old fuddy duddy. Sheryl, my age, scolded me for becoming an old codger at 50. She is completely correct.

The parade was fun, though a bit disjointed, with the usual satire. I had to translate for Sheryl and Mark, because many local stories, like the invasion of giant land snails, and drunk and partying Miami Beach police are purely local tales that were lampooned by the Mango Strut folks. We dropped our guests off, and headed for home.

Round two: great friends Norman and Deb came by, and we were off to the Gables, for a great meal at Ortanique, which I think is French for "Little Ortan." We feasted in the packed and festive restaurant, and found our conversation drowned out by 2 ladies at the next table. We playfully told them to keep it down, and the husband of one turned around, and it was a pediatric GI doc I know, who had moved to NYC. The doc, who I'll call John, since that's his name, laughed and said we were right: his wife and her friend WERE loud.

Norman's partner Scott and his fiancee Liz came by, with another couple visiting from D.C., and we chatted with them for awhile before heading back to the house for some champagne. As we drank and listened to my up to date music collection (up to date as of about 1997), Kenny and Joelle came by, with their boy Adam, and then Jeff and Lili, with their girl Alana. We drank more, and chatted, and shared each other's good spirits.

Norman and I were happy to kiss 2011 goodbye, for various reasons. We pledged to make the coming year the best ever.

And then, right before midnight, Sheryl and Mark and their friends Dave and Stacy joined us. Good thing: we had sort of forgotten it was nearing midnight. So we turned on the TV and had the count down, and kissed on the stroke of the year change.

The Ds were off doing their own things, with their boyfriends, one in Indiana, and the other in Weston. Wifey and I cleaned up to the sounds of my old CDs, watched by our two dogs and one grand dog...

In few hours, I'm heading to Joe Robbie Stadium, to ring in the New Year with a Dolphins-Jets game. Dr. Eric's birthday was last week, as was my nephew-by-choice Scott's. Eric was 50; Scott, 15. Dr. Barry is coming as well, so the 4 men will watch the game, courtesy of SunTrust Bank's corporate largesse. Their seats are 50 yard line, 25 rows up, so Scott and Barry can watch their guys in green, and Eric and I can cheer for and make fun of our Fins...

And the celebration is not done, yet. Wifey and I have our 25th anniversary on Tuesday. We plan to pick up D1 at MIA, and head over to our favorite restaurant, Christy's, to look back on days B.D. (before Ds), and days yet to come.

I wish I had great epiphanies of wisdom as the year changes, but I think the only one is to keep on keepin' on. Norman, Deb, Wifey, and I drove home from the restaurant through an almost mystical looking fog last night. We agreed that one way to live the best is to avoid negative folks to the extent one can.

Life throws us crap, and we have to deal. With the time we get to spend, give me the pleasant, the nice, the laid back --I plan to avoid, even more, those who seem to revel in the tempests in their little teapots.

It's a damn grand new year!