Heavy Drinking

My beloved late mother Sunny once remarked to my father in law that he REALLY seemed to be enjoying his meal -- probably Canton's "Special Steak" -- a staple when we all went to dinner. His reply: "Ven I eat, I EAT. Ven I don't eat, I don't eat." And so it is with me and alcohol. I can go weeks without a drink, but when I do, I enjoy getting a bit, well, loose...This happens at social events, and, in particular, Canes tailgate parties. I never drive afterwards, especially after a scare some years ago, following an evening at Capital Grille with Big Daddy G and Jorge the judge. I ran a light in the Gables, and was pulled over. After I gave my license and registration, another Gables squad car arrived. I called my friend Steve the cop, sure I was being taken in. I wasn't drunk, but did have a couple of large martinis. Instead, the nice young cop apologetically said he HAD to give me a ticket for running the light, and I needed to be more careful. I graciously accepted the ticket -- so relieved, and swore off ever putting myself in that situation again. Steve called back -- I told him to stand down -- no need for his help. He called his buddy in the Department, and somehow the speeding ticket got lost, too. It's great to have friends in the right places. Speaking of friends, following the FSU game, where we had an awesome tailgate, even though host Norman was out of town, Dr. Eric casually mentioned that maybe I ought to drink less -- Barry's boys looked up to me, and what example was I setting for them? I adore Eric, but he has a difficult time letting go, though I know he meant well. So, at the next game, I drank not at all, and it was sort of , well, boring. At the party Eric had for Dana, even though they had Stoli for me, I took 2 sips of the toasting champagne -- nothing more. It was a nice time, but not a GREAT time. At last weekend's Fins game, I drank not at all. It was terrific to be with Big Daddy G and his wife and sons, but, well -- football games are much better with a little ethyl alcohol. So I've decided to make an early New Year's resolution -- to drink MORE in '15. Not too often, but at celebratory times, I shall NOT be moderate. Ven I drink, I vill drink! First up -- NYE at Salvatore's with Norman and Deb and Wifey -- with teetotaler Wifey driving. Here's to a great '15. L'Chaim!

Sunday at the Stadium

So Norman gave some Club seats to Dr. Barry, to see his beloved Jersey Jets play the Fins, and Barry asked me if I wished to tag along. By the way, D1 informed us that his medical residents refer to him as "Big Daddy G," which from this point forward will be his name for me, too. Anyway, BDG said if his wife Donna wanted out, I would be in, and I planned to go watch the wacky King Mango Strut in the Grove with visiting Boston friends Sheryl and Mark. But BDG went ahead and bought an extra Club Seat, and I wasn't about to pass up an afternoon spent with my nephews of another brother, Scott and Josh. So I fired up the mid sized Caddy and coasted up to Aventura, to meet at Mo's Bagels. Mo's is great -- co owned by a guy named Mohammed, who figured correctly that using his full name wouldn't sell too much deli in heavily Jewish Aventura. The place is co owned by Paul, a Venezuelan Jew, and the place is always loud and rocking. Yesterday was no exception. I charmed my way to a table even though my "party wasn't all here," and soon BDG, Donna, and large sons Scott and Josh arrived. And they ARE large -- Scott especially so, and now even little brother Josh is well over 6 feet, and SOLID. I hugged him and realized he has the shoulders and arms to play football, though he prefers music and computers... We feasted, and then sat in some traffic to the stadium. It was a hot, sunny afternoon, and the game, though meaningless (both teams finished out of the playoffs) was entertaining -- a former Cane, Lamar Miller, broke off a 97 yard run, and the Jets pulled off a great fake field goal that sealed the game for them. BDG and sons enjoyed it, and Donna enjoyed being with her troop of very large men. It was terrific. They dropped me off at the Mo's lot, and checked out my new whip, as D2 taught me the rappers now call cars. Wifey was enjoying a birthday movie and dinner with some of her friends, and the Ds had a sister night planned -- also a movie, and then dinner in South Miami. Today I'll hit the office for some end of the year paperwork, and also to fetch a new computer D2 ordered -- using AMEX points, happily. The one I bought her lasted through college and 1/2 of her Master's program, and is now slowing down. Meanwhile, D2 got all As again. She only told me when I asked. My girl has simply torn up academics at UF... I got a FaceBook message that a long lost friend, Jeff, wants to come by and visit, while they're in Miami to get on a cruise ship. We were close in college, and then, for reasons still unknown, he cut off contact with me and our group of boys... Anyway, he was one of my groomsmen, and is coming to visit Saturday, which is Wifey and my 28th wedding anniversary. It'll be nice to catch up.

I'd Like to See Both of Us Fall Deeply in Love...

As usual, it's been a lovely time of year in Miami. Dr. Barry met us and the Ds and their boyfriends at Tropical, for Nochebuena para los judios. We feasted on fine food, and drank a bit, and had a memorable funny moment. D1's boyfriend Adam bought Wifey an orchid for her birthday, and D1 placed it for a moment on the welcome podium. The hostess took it and placed it on a table, thinking it was one of the restuarant's. D1 had to go fetch it, explaining to the diners at the now orchid-less table that it was a gift... Afterwards, as we drove home, D2's boyfriend Jonathan wondered aloud whether there was any place to get ice cream on Xmas Eve. There was -- the Farmstore drive through -- open always. We pulled up, and got 2 half gallons, along with chocolate syrup, and I tipped the Latina on duty on Nochebuena. We came home and dove in -- Xmas Day, also known as Wifey's birthday, I awoke and drove to House of Bagels, thinking they might be open. They were, and a line snaked into the parking lot. I bought a dozen, and some cream cheese and nova, and when D2 and Jonathan awoke at the crack of noon, we feasted again. Later, D1 popped over after her shift at Jackson, and we drove to Pembroke Pines to take out my mother in law. Wifey found a Japanese place open, and as we entered D1 recognized it as a former Brickell sushi place, evicted because of the high rents, and relocated to much cheaper Broward...My mother in law remarked that in her 90 years, it was the first time she had been in a Japanese place. We got her chicken teriyaki and vegetable soup --not even bothering to try to explain raw fish -- but we nearly had a fatal incident. They only had green tea, which she didn't like, and nearly expired because of eating without a hot liquid...fortunately she made due with the hot soup, which she drank from a cup. I gave her some saki, for the comic effect I knew it would produce when she made a disguested face. It worked like a charm. We took her home, and realized that, like my mother when she turned 90, the decline was in. Her A/C was broken, and she never even knew. The place smelled musty. The floors, wet with condensation, were slick. She produced some thawed out, sugar free bobka, which the Ds knew she'd insist they eat. When her back was turned, we snuck out and tossed it into the bushes. As my mother in law puttered, we speculated on the ducks finding the stuff, and getting the diarhea sugar free, old cake causes, causing US to laugh uproariously at the mental picture of these ducks with the runs desparately waddling toward the lake... So we had some laughs, even upon the substrate of sad aging... Yesterday my nephew of another brother Scott turned 18, and decided to make a pilgrimmage to his favorite restaurant, LOL. Donna called and she, brother Josh, and friend Tyler stopped by. We reminisced about Scott's birth and bris, the latter being an occasion that, years later, I discovered nearly caused D2's first fainting episode. Barry had given me the honor of holding Scott when the mohel did the cut. D2, nearly 5, wandered into the bedroom in search of her father -- me. I guess I never explained what really happens at a bris, and when she spied some blood, nearly passed out. Scott is no worse for the wear, as he's grown into quite a strapping young man. And his little brother is now over six feet, as well. They left for home, and Wifey and I napped in the gray afternoon... Today, more of the olds...we're headed to MJH to visit my father in law, whose brother Lou is visiting as well. Lou and his wife Sally are bringing Wifey's cousin Sandy, his wife, and 3 kids. We'll bring some dessert and sit in the former gazebo. Mirta called last night and said she'd be there, too, visiting Edna's Dad. So it ought to be quite the party, though I plan to cut it short to be able to watch the Canes play in their crappy bowl game, in the afternoon. Yes, we move towards a new year, which will bring some expected and unexpected events. I'm looking forward to all of them...

Ho Ho Hoachhh ptooey

And so it is again this year: people hang colored lights on their houses and unconsenting shrubbery, bring evergreen trees (some made of crappy plastic) into their living rooms, and gather to eat festive meals -- all in honor of the birth of one person: Wifey! Yes, Wifey's birthday is December 25th, and I know for several of us, she is our own personal savior... D2 made it home safely from Gville, adorable Bo the special needs Spaniel in tow. D1 dropped her spoiled Spaniel here, and we've been enjoying a much more bustling house. I worked some today -- helping Stu and John get out some end of the year correspondence -- to hopefully bring all some more shekels in 2015. Tonight we're heading to Tropical Chinese -- the Ds, boyfriends, maybe Dr. Barry, if he can get away from the PICU for a few hours, Wifey, and me. It'll be the 5th year in a row for Noche Buena para los Judios, or Christmas Eve for the Jews. The food is great, and we always see folks from the 'hood -- Tropical is THE Chinese place for South Miami Dade. We'll toast Wifey's birthday, although the number shall not be spoken, under strict orders from the birthday girl. Tomorrow, the actual Wifey Birthday, we'll fetch D1 after work (she is working this Christmas) and then head to Pembroke Pines, so Wifey can visit with her mother. I think Wifey found a Japanese restaurant in the Pines where we can all meet. It's really a terrific time of the year. Another blessed cool front is due in, and if all goes to plan, I will light a fire tomorrow night in the fire pit, and Wifey and I can toast her birthday with some steaming hot herbal tea. I plan to mostly hang around during the week -- D2 is here -- and then comes New Year's Eve. We have plans to hit Salvatore, the Italian place we love, with Norman and Deb, and then maybe a party at my old high school friend Kenny's house -- although many of the guests will be his wife's colleagues -- law school professors. If there's a group of professionals I don't really dig, it's law school professors -- but many of these folks are ok... And so 2014 slouches to a close. It'll now be two years, come April, that I've been an orphan. In that regard, my sister of another mother Mirta called yesterday -- to tell me she's starting a business for her elder care activities -- and calling it "Sunny Companions" after my mother. She really brightened my day with that news. So happy birthday, Wifey! We all love and savor you -- wrecked cars and all. And Merry Wifey's Birthday to all!

I Defy You to Find a Single Cloud In This Morning's Impossibly Blue Sky

It was a crisp 59 at 7 this am, and after I fed her, I swear the strange rescue dog spoke to me. I simply opened the door to let her out, but she stayed and pleased me to take her for a walk. It was simply too gorgeous to be confined to our yard, she made me understand. So off we went, after noticing the Herald hadn't been delivered. I've been a loyal subscriber for over 30 years, and I think in that time, over the 6 different addresses we've had, maybe the paper was late or missing a total of 10 times. In the past year, I've already hit that total. I think maybe the Herald wants to do away with print versions -- online is cheaper and easier -- or maybe the latest guy just isn't up to the job of getting up so early. Anyway, Vienna and I set off. She was so happy to be walking in the chill air -- I guess fur coats are made for cooler weather than we usually have here. All of our dogs seemed to perk up on cold mornings -- except maybe my Ds two spoiled Spaniels -- warm works well for them. Anyway, I soon came upon Irv, my spry 90 something neighbor, waiting at his curb. He was annoyed that there was no Herald as well -- like me he's a news addict. But it was lucky there was a late delivery -- IRv and I caught up on the state of our beloved Canes, and the city in general. He told me he started at the U in '46, and has been a "Golden Cane" since the program started. Irv is an outlier among the very old -- sharp as a tack, and still enjoying his life. I joked that the key is a hot young wife -- Kay is probably 20 years younger than he is -- and he said I may be right. As we chatted, the old Buick rumbled up, and the carrier handed Irv his paper --with a Spanish accented "sorry I'm late." The strange dog and I said goodbye, and Go Canes, and continued on. Around the bend she started to whimper -- she spotted a Cavalier Spaniel just like her sister Madeleine -- but this one spoke Spanish -- Peca -- which means freckle. Her owner/Dad Dan was walking her, and he and I caught up as well. Dan is a Mexican Jew, and his best childhood friend, Jose, also lives in our 'hood -- he's a prominent neurologist and professor at the U. Dan is a real estate developer, and his business is lately booming. We talked about our kids -- his son goes to Cornell, and his daughter is in high school, and he shared excitedly that his wife's father is taking the whole family to Argentina for an awesome trip. Monica, his wife, has sisters, and her Dad is paying full fare for 20 people -- great meals in Buenos Aires (Airees, Wifey pronounces it) and a trip to Patagonia. I told him Argentina is the one place in South America I want to visit. As we chatted, Bailey the pug ambled over to join our little group. Bill, her owner, was in tow. Bill is an Irish guy from Boston, whose wife is an international businesswoman, and so the talk turned to Argentina. Bill is headed to Colorado with his kids, but home in time for New Years Eve, so he can "fall asleep in his own bed at midnight." We soon parted, and the strnange sausage rescue dog led me home. The sky was surreally beautiful. I'm glad I listened this am to the dog.

The 352

It's funny -- sometimes when you visit a place when you're young, you can't imagine you'll be coming back many, many times. So it has been with Gainesville. I first visited in, I guess 1981. Some friends from college wanted to visit their UF student friends, and I tagged along. It was Spring, and we watched our baseball Canes beat the baseball Gators. We slept on the floor of my friend Mark's friend Debbie, and went to a country and western bar as well as Skeeters, a legendary 24 hour diner, long closed. Apparently I also spent an evening with my high school friend Sheila. We went out, talked of LI, and drank beer. When I became her Facebook friend last year, I told her I forgot any Levittowners went to UF for college. She reminded me of our evening together, and I felt quite senile for forgetting... After my first trip, I went up again for some football games, and also on an academic spy mission. The director of our Honors Program, Jim Ash, had requested UF and FSU's Honors Programs to give him info about their course offerings. They refused, for some silly reason, so Ash deputized me to make believe I wanted to transfer to each of the schools, and fly up on a mission to get their classes. It worked! I never transferred to either school, of course... Anyway, I would have figured I was done with visits other than football games. Then I tried a 2 week case with my old boss Frank, and ate in every single decent restaurant there was -- 3 times! OK -- after that trial, about, I guess 1990, that would be it. No it would not. Both Ds would end up going to college there, and in D2's case, getting a Master's degree as well. So this is now my ninth consecutinve year of multiple trips to Gainesville! I just booked a one way flight home in early January, and a one night hotel stay. D2 is driving down next week, after her boyfriend graduates with his MS, and then spends 2 weeks before returning for D2's final semester. I told her I'd drive with her. I really, really enjoy the long car ride with the Ds. Wifey misses out -- her back has prevented her from doing this for years -- but I savor it. We'll leave January 4 -- drive up, move D2 into her subleased apartment, and then have a final semester kickoff dinner. I'll fly back on the commuter jet the next day -- there used to be 2 daily flights, but it's down to one now. And if all goes well, we'll be there in May for D2's graduation. Maybe that will be it for Gville travel for awhile...you never know. In hindsight, it would have been nice if the kids chose college in Asheville, or Key West...

Guardian No More

So it's been just over a year since I was trained and certified to be a Guardian Ad Litem. I never could stand bureaucracy, and this program has one that would make the Byzantines jealous. At one point, on a conference call, nine paid "professionals"prattled on for a solid hour, with none of them doing a thing for the ward. When I pointed this out -- they suggested that I do a site visit!!!! Anyway, my ward turned 17 a few months ago, and I committed to staying on until she was 18. She had a baby a few months ago, and my supervisor in the program asked me to be the baby's GAL as well. I declined -- first, it was clear to me there was a clear conflict -- I was advocating for the teen mother, and what would happen if, for example, she wanted to keep the baby, but it wasn't in the baby's best interest? Plus, I don't relate to infants, and didn't wish to obligate myself for another 18 years. No, I told my handler, as I call him -- I'll stay in my volunteer role for the teen Mom, and you can get someone to be GAL for the baby. Not so fast! The program decided to show me for being uppity -- they convinced the judge that my ward no longer needed a GAL, but her baby did, so I was "discharged." The good news is that my severance package was 10 times my salary -- and 10 times zero is zero, so I have nothing to report to the government as income. The bad news is that my ward could surely have benefitted from my counsel for another 10 months or so, and I told her in a text she was free to seek my advice if she wished. She won't. I made clear to her my thoughts about her life -- keep grades up, stay focused, and get a scholarship to an Ivy League college. Instead, she failed most classes and got pregnant at 16. As Tony S says, what are ya gonna do? My brother of another mother Paul has far more patience than I do with the program. He continues to volunteer avidly, and has several GAL kids as clients -- a few of whom are past 18 and who he still mentors. He refuses to let the absurdity of the program bog him down -- choosing instead to simply refuse to follow the ridiculous rules, and getting the state monkeys to do his required reports for him. I applaud him, and admire him for this service. But as John Fogarty sang, It ain't me." So I wish my ward well, and hope somehow she uses her superior intelligence for greatness -- for herself, her baby, and her community. And maybe the year I spent with her will have some result. I'm now free of the program, and truth be told, rather happy about it.

90 Year Old Birthday

So Edna treated us all to a great dinner at Christy's -- Wifey, D1, her husband Marc, and 2 daughters Lauren and Erica. Our favorite Gables spot was packed, and we drank and laughed -- especially savoring how D1 and Edna's girls chatted like sisters. I tried to include D2 via FaceTime (tm), but the dim lighting made it tough. Afterwards we walked next door, where Erica's best friend Emerald lives. Emerald came to UM Law, and met her husband Aaron there, and the two now have a baby boy and bull dog...The men drank single malt and watched FSU beat Tech, while the ladies all talked intensely about the love lives of Edna's daughters -- do Moms know best? Anyway, Sunday we all met again at Miami Jewish, for Edna's Dad's 90th. Edna brought in pizza from Mario The Baker, and I decided to suspend my low carb diet for the day. Wifey's parents were wheeled over, and we gathered in the former gazebo, my Mom's favorite spot during the last 11 months of her life. The weather was glorious, and Edna's father was in great spirits. His beautiful granddaughters were there -- he hadn't seen them in quite awhile -- and even his wife's dour moor didn't seem to dampen his. My sister of another mother Mirta came by -- Wifey and Edna have hired her for weekly visits to their fathers -- and she delighted in catching up with D1 and Edna. Edna's father was funny -- he wished, he said, to attend MY 90th birthday party, as well. I guess you never know... The sunlight through the ancient trees dimmed, and Stephen and Marcia, who drive my mother in law from Broward, said their goodbyes as the returned my father in law to his room, and we took the leftover food up to Edna's parents' floor. Marc and his stepdaughters left for MIA, and Wifey and Edna and I for home --Edna is staying a few more days, to decompress, and spend quality time with her bff Wifey... Those of our younger generation all agreed we don't wish to be 90. We have seen the future, and don't care for it -- at least extreme aging. I shared with Edna the lesson of the frog -- put a frog in boiling water and he hops out, but put him in cold water and heat it to boiling and he boils to death. Subtle changes for frogs, like humans, are tougher to detect than abrupt ones. So as we go from 50s, to 60s, to 70s, we seem to accept the gradual decline and decripitude -- until we make late 80s and 90 and have adapted. I guess time will tell, but for Edna's father, marking the beginning of his 91st year on the planet was a pleasant afternoon.

Guest Season

Wifey and I have always enjoyed hosting house guests, even when we had a one bedroom apartment. Typically, high season for guests is T Day through New Years, and we're at the height of it now. Back when we lived in Les Chalet, a place whose name was classier than it was, our living room would often be littered with northerners here to escape the cold. We'd usually host New Years Eve parties, and having overnihght guests made it more festive. I remember one year -- my high school friends Kenny, Eric, and Jeannie stayed, along with Kenny's beautiful in a spooky way Albanian girlfriend. We attended a NYE party hosted by Mark and Steve, two brothers who allowed their father Norman, a donut shop owner, to realize his dream of saying "My son the lawyer, and my son the doctor." It was a great party, but my friend Jeff and I wandered over to some law school mates' apartment, and lost track of the time. This was pre cell phone. Wifey took my friends home, and when I showed around 3 am, was MIGHTY angry. She had every right to be, and I feel bad about that night to this day... When we bought our first house, a 1400 square foot place in Kendall, our tradition continued -- hosting my sisters and their families when we got married, and many friends thereafter. The year after we got married, my high school friend Eric stayed, as well as Wifey's cousin Sandy and his wife Felicity. Elizabeth was married to a rock and roll singer, and at the NYE party he took out his Stratocaster and played for us. It was one awesome, kick ass party, and Wifey and I hosted. Now, at our oversized house, the tradition continues. This year Elizabeth was back for TDay, and this weekend we have Edna, Marc, and Edna's awesome daughters. Last night we hosted a sushi party, and D1 brought her new boyfriend. We drank vodka and wine, and ate, and laughed. It was a terrific night, sitting around out dining room table, trading tales of old and new. D1 and her man left, taking Lauren with them. Lauren was in search of Art Basel fun, and will stay here tonight, along with her sister Erica. Edna and Marc are hosting us all at Christy's -- our favorite Gables restaurant. Tomorrow there's a 90th birthday party for Edna's father, and Mirta, my sister of another mother, is joining us all. Mirta and I met for coffee the other afternoon, and we compared notes about thus hosting thing. Mirta, like us, always has a son or friend or grandchild or two, living with her. She savors it, as we do. She told me about a friend of hers who keeps a lovely house, and never lets anyone stay over, for fear of damaging her pretty knickknacks. Mirta laughed at the thought -- collectibles over grandkids! Edna and family are leaving tomorrow, for Atlanta and, in Lauren's case, NYC. Our next registered guests are Sheryl and HER man Mark, coming from Boston. They'll help us ring in 2015. It's good to have people in our house...

More Than Just a Sport

So last night D2 came with me to the final Canes regular season game. The Canes got blown away by a team inferior in talent. We had an awesome time. It was the penultimate event of a banner T Day holiday. In the am, houseguest Elizabeth and I took 2/3 of our dog infestation out for a walk around Devonwood -- little man Bo sat this one out with Wifey. Then D1 fetched D2 and took her to Nicole's house, where Missy hosted her annual brunch for her kids' returning friends. D2 was dropped off, and we drove the man sized Buick to Miami Jewish, where D2 visited with her aging and declining (well, one of them, anyway) grandparents. On the way out, we stopped and greeted Mirta, who Wifey and her BFF Edna have hired to spend time with their two fathers. Mirta was leading Meyer, who turns 90 next week, into another session of singing his favorite song "Those Were the Days," which seems particularly poignant for a man his age, who has gone through so much... D2 and I then learned one can get to Joe Robbie from MJH in a very short time, so we arrived as the first in the lot. Soon after Paul drove up in his girlie sized Mercedes, step son in tow, and then Norman and Mike arrived in their tailgate bulging vehicles, and the party was in full swing. And there was the point: standing around, eating and drinking, and basking in the love of your oldest and closest friends. I met most of these people when I was still a kid -- 18 and starting college -- and now, 35 years on, the memories we share, and the laughs we've caused each other, are sacred. I really am a fan of the Canes. When they soar, I find my week is happier, and when they disappoint, as they have this season, my mood darkens. But that's NOT really the point. Earlier this year, a bunch of us traveled to Lincoln, Nebraska, to watch the team play in a true cathedral of the sport. The game was close at first, and a Husker fan in front of me was ribbing me about our formerly great and now mediocre team. And then he added, "But what's awesome is being at a game with your closest friends, and making memories over the years." He was dead on, of course. And last night was even more special, in that my friends' kids were there, now all or mostly grown up. Mike's Amanda and Chris were in from LA. 1/3 of Norman's crop of outstanding sons, Benji, was there, too. Eric and Dana's Josh and Jen, visiting from Atlanta and NYC, wore matching jerseys, and helped celebrate their parents' 28th anniversary. Paul's son Alex, like D2 a life long Cane and now a father himself, was there with his brother in law. And Barry's VLS (very large sons), were happily there, too, along with their Mom Donna, who wanted to see Scott in his element for the last time before he goes off to college next Fall... So we gathered, in the fading daylight, and ate, and drank (Mike did some college level tequila shots and was hugging and kissing everyone in sight), and reminisced, and shared our time. We were there to watch a game, of course, but we were really there to share a unique kind of love. And to have D2 there for me, was, well, as good as it gets.

That Most Wonderful Time of the Year

So the happiest part of the year is upon us. Canes are still playing football, the weather is absurdly gorgeous, and the Ds are both under our roof at the same time. Yesterday we got into the man sized Buick, because Wifey's SUV is out for repairs...don't even get me started...and headed to Key Biscayne. D2's boyfriend Jonathan, his Mom Lizbeth, and sister Elisa were already at the hotel. We gathered and went to our table -- outside and bathed in the refracted sunlight from Biscayne Bay. The staff brought us mimosas and bellinis, and we toasted: D1's 26th birthday, great health, and being together. The array of food at the buffet was something a visitor from another country might think was a made up Hollywood set. A gorgeous fresh turkey, an enormous prime rib just being sliced as we got to the carving table -- tables of seafood and smoked fish and meats, and an entire room filled with gourmet desserts. We all ate ourselves nearly into, as the Ds call it, food comas, as we sat and chatted about our childhoods in Miami, Brooklyn (Wifey), and Caracas. Wifey and Lizbeth shared Lucy Ricardo inspired tales about car mishaps. At this brunch, the two of them really bonded, and D2 and Jonathan seemed to enjoy that. Afterwards we walked to the Bay, and took photos, and then found a gazebo to sit under. That's the thing about the hotel on Key Biscayne -- they have so many different spaces you WANT to hang out. On the way inside, we plopped down on some leather sofas in the bar, and I glanced at the football game. Thanksgiving was thereby complete. The Ds headed out to some parties, of their high school friends returned to the 305 for the holidays. And then Wifey's old college pal Elizabeth came over -- she stays with us during T Day although sees a lot of her sister. She was dead tired from the long drive from Orlando, and headed up for much needed sleep. I fell into a deep sleep, too, as the cool breezes caressed our bedroom. And then I heard the happy sound of a car on our gravel driveway -- the Ds had come home. Today -- more of the same. Dinner with the Ds, and then tomorrow the last Canes tailgate and game. It's the best time of the year, and I savor it greatly.

You've Got To Be Thoughtful...You've Got To Be Thankful

Well, it's been quite a week here in paradise. The Big Man has put me through quite a range of emotions in a very short time. First, my hypochondria was tweaked by another high PSA score on my annual blood test. Although my prostate biopsy 2 years ago was negative, the very careful Dr. Robert, after probing me with his longshoreman sized finger, said that a lot can happen in 2 years, and I ought to undergo a MRI. No problem -- I showed up Monday at Baptist, and was slid into the machine. The tech forgot to tell me one thing: a pelvic MRI lasts twice as long as other types -- like the head MRI I had last year. After an hour of staring at the tube inches from my face, I asked how much longer. Something about the tech's uncertainty set me off -- full blown claustrophobic panic attack. "Let me out, now!" my adrenaline shouted. She did, and I left. As Bette Midler sang, "you gotta have friends," and I'm blessed that I do. My old bud Kenny is a radiologist on staff at Baptist, and said over post panic cordaditos at the cafeteria he would get my results later that day. He texted me less than an our later: enlarged prostate, but nothing else! I was ELATED -- I had, in my anxiety addled mind, cheated death again! The elation led me to sign a check to UM Peds, to send young GI docs to a seminar about Crohns and Colitis, as I've been doing since 2007. And then I thought -- I'm leasing a new car. An email from GM said I could "Move Ahead," and end my lease 2 months early. So I took the man sized Buick in for the free oil change, and sat down with Rick, the NY Rican salesman I had 2 years ago -- best I've even encountered. The guy reminds me of my cousin Barry, who could, and has, sold beds to people who sleep standing up... Rick and I did a deal on a Cadillac -- an ATS sedan -- for only one dollar more per month than I pay for the man sized Buick. I was to pick up the car the next day -- Wednesday. And then Wifey called... At first she started talking about her Lexus having a problem, and she spun in a parking lot, and there was another car that she DIDN'T hit, but the mom had called 911 to have her daughter checked out... I raced to her location, just a mile away but at 5:30 a traffic choked 20 minutes, and by the time I arrived I saw that she had gunned the car in reverse, by accident, and made a backwards U turn into a parked VW. The paramedics had come and gone -- thanks to the Big Man, the little girl, 4 year old Zoe -- was fine. Her mother Jessica was lovely, and I went into concerned lawyer mode as the Miami Dade cop drew up the crash report. Wifey was fine, too, except nervous. She did, in fact, hit the car -- hard. The rear bumper of the victims' VW was bashed, and the trunk barely opened. I told Jessica I would pay all damages -- please don't report to my insurer, as my rates would soar -- and she agreed. I showed Zoe I was a magic man -- pulling a $20 out of her ear -- and while Wifey waited inside the thrift store her friend owned, I got to know Zoe, her mother, and grandma. Jessica called me yessterday, and I plan to meet her at the body shop in Doral, to leave my credit card. The range of the repair is $1500 to $4000 -- depending on what they find when they remove the bumper. Plus, I told her, I'd rent her a car. Back to the emotion swing...after Wifey and I returned, well, let's just say we didn't see eye to eye on my reaction to her escapade. The day after, I was despondent. I called Rick, and canceled the Caddy. I lost any desire for it -- I'll keep the man sized Buick until February. We also had dinner plans -- I had to cancel those, too. I thought seriously about sending Wifey and the Ds for Thanksgiving without me. I just planned to stew in my anger and sadness for awhile -- fixating on how that lovely Zoe could have been seriously hurt, and it would have been all our fault. But then the magic happened. I fetched D2 from Brickell, along with her adorable spaniel Bo, and D1's adorable spaniel Mads. The happiness returned -- like a decanter being filled with fine wine. The Ds and I went out last night to the Falls -- D2 had to return some boots to Macy's. We bought Teavanna tea, and sat and watched little children frolic in a big globe filled with fake snow. We talked about life, about our history, about days to come. And then, this am, I awoke to an unbeliavably gorgeous day -- cool, sunny -- bright like a movie set. And it's D1's 26th birthday! I drank coffee out front, and the three dogs reveled in the cool weather -- trotting happily all over the yard, and playing. We have reservations for our early T Day brunch on Key Biscayne -- D2's boyfriend Jonathan's mother and sister are late additions -- D2 told us their Dad is in Venezuela on business, so I called Lisbeth and insisted she join us. As I age, I believe more and more in the Big Man. It just seems this world is too awesome and intricate to have just happened to be. And I thank Him -- for the challenges, and the contrasts. Steve Miller sang "You know you've got to go through Hell before you get to Heaven," and he's dead on. I'm thankful my "Hell" was most manageable. And I'm thankful for the Heaven all around me.

The Worst Part Of The Trip --And That's Really Saying Something

My in laws have endured so much in their lives, which is an understatement. They were both taken from their families as young teens, and imprisoned by the Nazis in concentration and slave labor camps -- emerging years later to learn that most of their families were killed. They're difficult people, also to say the least, but as Dr. Barry always reminds me, what they have gone through really gives them a life time pass for any social or other faux pas. Over the three decades I've known them, they've shared pieces of their stories, and much of the fill ins were provided by their few surviving relatives and friends. But yesterday we learned a previously untold chapter: their voyage from Germany, after the War, to Israel. Wifey and I made our weekly trip to Miami Jewish Home, taking with us the strange rescue dog. We met my mother in law in my father in law's room, and schlepped them outside -- it was a lovely, breezy afternoon. Our usual stop, the aviary, was a non starter -- the staff had placed tarps over the cages because of a coming cold front -- so we walked a bit farther to the site of the old gazebo -- my Mom's favorite spot. They removed the roof of the old gazebo a few weeks after my Mom died, but a nice circular deck remains there, with tables and chairs, and in the late afternoon it was pleasantly shady. My mother in law held forth: after a time in a Displaced Persons camp called Feldafing, she was taken to Munich, and placed on a transport ship. These trips were of course dramatized in the Paul Newman movie "Exodus," and according to my MIL, the movie was mostly accurate. Her trip took 12 long days, on a crowded Greek ship, whose name she now forgets. The water was "bad," and she came down with an awful "gastritis acute," which brought her weight below 80 lbs. She said the trip was awful -- worse than her time in the camps -- probably because she and the other refugees figured that once the War was over, and Hitler was dead, things would get better. They didn't -- at least not right away. She remembered my father in law's ship -- the Pan York, which Wifey promptly googled, and learned of its history. Anyway, after arriving at Haifa, as an "illegal" -- they took her for rehab at a hospital, where she regained her health. She said she gained 30 pounds in less than a month -- and grew strong as she got nursing training for the military. She recalls eating "ten slices of bread for breakfast." Ironically, the time set in motion a lifetime battle with zaftigness that continues even now, as she approaches 90. The day ended, as we wheeled my father in law back to his room, and Stephen, the happy Jamaican driver Wifey found for her Mom, loaded the old lady into his front seat and left for Pembroke Pines. As I drove home, Wifey read about the "Pan York" from her smartphone. I wasn't really listening, though. I was thinking about how hard my in laws had it compared to my family, whose struggles, during and after WW II, were essentially only financial. As we left the gazebo, my mother in law remarked that there was a reason the German government still paid reparations all these years later. It wasn't just a bad thing they did -- it was the ruination, or attempted ruination, of an entire people. The pain continues 7 decades later. So we all have our challenges and struggles. But I'd like to think that my Ds, grandchildren of true Survivors, in the purest sense of the word, have inherited that strength. I revel in making life easy for them, but I hope they have some inherent vitality to get them through the hard times as well.

Happiness on Give Miami Day

So Wifey and I keep talking about the lessons from our class "How Happiness Thinks," which is not really revelatory, but rather more common sense. Another of the precepts of happiness is charity. The class taught us about studies that show charitable people really are happier, and live longer without as many health problems. It's nice to know, but charity just feels like the right thing, deep in our hearts. So last year some local folks came up with a nice idea, "Give Miami Day." They invited a bunch of charitable foundations to come together, online, and ask for a blitz of donations in a 24 hour period. Then they got some really big foundations, like the one started by the news magnate James L Knight, to agree to reward the foundations based on how they do. In reading about it, I learned for the first time that Kerri Heiken's family had started a foundation in her memory. Kerri, who would now be in her early 30s, was killed as a UF freshman, along with some of her Miami classmates, when the driver of the car she was in ran off the Turnpike on the way back to Gville after a weekend visit home. The incident has starred in my nightmares over the past 9 years, as the Ds traverse back and forth to UF. I'll hold my breath until next May, when D2 is set to graduate with her MS degree, and those hated trips will cease. Hated to me, by the way...the drive isn't so bad for the Ds... Anyway, Kerri's parents raise money and give away a scholarship each year to a South Florida high school grad who did well academically, but really soared in community service, like their beloved daughter did. So I was proud to help that effort yesterday, during the 24 hour push. Wifey found out, and added that we HAD to also give to Paws4You, a dog rescue outfit in South Dade. As we are a dog-philic and dog infested family, I complied. And then I gave one final gift, to Junior League of Miami. D1 joined a few years ago, and now is a leader. They do service, mostly for poor and abused women, and D1 leads the therapy dog section. She calls it her "WASPy" charity, as Junior League was traditionally the charity old "Miamuh" ladies did. D1 also volunteers in a Jewish charity -- just to keep balance. I received an email last night from the chapter president, who had a Hispanic rather than WASPy name, thanking me for the donation, and singing D1's praises. Her words were very charitable. And so this giving thing really works -- a bunch of us were made most happy yesterday, and hopefully some folks were helped.

Happiness and the Bad Guest

So last night Wifey and I attended the third class on gratitude, taught by our friend and Rabbi Yossi. We've been enjoying it -- our temporary Wednesday night routine is dinner at Wagon's West, a local diner, followed by the short drive west of US 1 to the Chabad Center. The topic discussed last night was gratitude -- and how it's an essential part of happiness. We talked about studies that showed, over the years , how people who appreciate what they have do better in objective health ways, and live longer. We also discussed the falseness, or temporariness, of happiness bought by material possessions. When we yearn for something, and get it, we're happy -- but soon whatever we get becomes routine, and we take it for granted. This is why kids raised wealthy so often find it difficult to appreciate things -- they simply expect all they desire to come their way. The Rabbi shared a tale about liking fast cars -- and a few years past, a congregant lent him his Audi A7 for a few weeks. For the first week, the Rabbi loved the car, but within a few days afterwards, it was a vehicle like any other. He shared with us the Chasidic belief that gratitude is essential in Judaism. The earliest Jews following deliverance from Egypt were instructed to give the first fruits of the harvest as a sacrifice at the Temple -- to show the Big Man they appreciated everything that would follow. And there are prayers to be said all day that express thanks. Wifey loved the fact that there's a prayer to be said each time one has a succesful bathroom visit. The woman next to her said she has that prayer on her bathroom door -- to remind her that we MUST be thankful for this. And then the lesson was about the Bad Guest. The parable is that 2 guests were invited for dinner. The first thanked his host for having him, and marveled that he was given a meal and wine. The second mocked the simple and easily prepared food -- and noted the host had to prepare a meal for his own family, so it was no big deal having him over. The Rabbi shared how one of his relatives used to make fun of the fact that they brought in prepared meals for some holidays -- whereas the relative always provided "home cooked." So he had a bad guest in his own family! The point is, we must appreciate all we are given. And how appropriate this lesson was -- with T Day just around the corner. D2 is due in, and we plan to gather at the hotel where we've spent the last 7 years together -- to feast, and sit on the Bay and be together. Wifey and I share the gratitude thing...and plan to have it full blast next week. Now if I can just remember that bathroom prayer...

Welcome, Comrades, to Soviet America

OK, so forget about my being a Democrat, and in favor of government helping the poor. First of all, the poor were too damn lazy to get out and vote, so the GOP won huge anyway, both nationally and here in Florida. So if the poor don't care... And then today I had an experience with our banking system that made me want to find Rand Paul and support his campaign -- especially now that he's pandering to pro Israel groups... My mother in law got a bonus reparation payment from the German government. They didn't give out rings in the Holocaust, as we learned in "The Hangover," but if your survive and live long enough, different programs emerge through Survivors who know about these things, and my mother in law got some money. She decided to gift it to the Ds. The check from Germany was direct deposited into her account at Bank of Amerika (k is intentional -- I'm making Soviet references), and she wanted to get the funds out right away. She has to keep her balance below a certain level so that Medicaid eligibility for my father in law isn't jeopardized, so she asked Wifey to simply withdraw the money as cash, and have me gift it to the Ds. Wifey waited her usual 45 minutes at B of A, which has the worst customer service ever. Even though they know her there, for her monthly visits to do her mother's bank business, each time they examine her signature and driver's license like her name was Wifey Atta. No -- bad analogy -- Mohammed Atta had a much easier time of it navigating (bad word) our country before he led the 9/11 attacks... Anyway, I met Wifey and took the cash, lest she get jacked by one of the Norwegians who jack Pinecrest homemakers as they drive around town in their Lexus SUVs...The bank was short of $100 bills, so I walked out of B of A with an envelope stuffed comically full -- like some idiot weed dealer from a Cheech and Chong movie. So now, all I needed to do was walk down the Sunniland Center to SunTrust, where the Ds have accounts, and deposit the cash. Not so fast! First, I asked the not nice Jamaican teller for their account numbers. She told me, even though I gave her my ID and the Ds birthdates, that they "no longer give numbers." Alvaro at the Brickell branch does, I protested, but the Jamaican wasn't having none of it! Worse, hers was the only teller line open, and a group of about 10 angry folks were behind me. Jamaican lady would have just let them stew -- I said maybe I ought to take this up with a manager. I called D1, and she pulled over and gave me her account number. D2 was in a UF prof meeting. I called my "personal banker" who no longer exists, but luckily longtime assistant Rosa answered -- from Coral Gables, no longer Brickell, and she told me the new policy about not giving out account numbers. "Rosa -- you've known me for 25 years! Remember I always used to joke that if anyone wanted to DEPOSIT money in my account -- let them!!!???" She laughed and broke the high rules of SunTrust -- she gave me D2's account number. So I got back in line with the right numbers and my absurdly bulging wad. Ha. Now they had opened two other lines, and a young Latina took my deposits, and then told me it "would have to be reported." Whatever. By now the system had beaten me -- any logic about trying to be a regular citizen and being able to deposit money from a grandmother to grandkids was gone. I meekly said "I thought you reported deposits of more than $10K." Yes, she said, that was the IRS rule, but the SUNTRUST rule was that since both deposits, though to different customers, exceeded $10K COMBINED, they needed to report. So I told them what D1 does for a living, that D2 is a student, and that I deal weed. I actually said that, but she had my lawyer business card, and actually laughed. Then she asked "Do you daughters have plans for the money?" I knew she was asking because SunTrust is trolling for brokerage clients, but instead I said "Yes. They're each buying mail order husbands -- the older one is buying a Moldovan, and the younger an Indonesian. Imagine what our grandkids will look like." So it is with our fine country. Criminals steal billions, drug dealers make millions, and I'm treated like one of them simply being the conduit for a grandchild gift. It would have been easier if my mother in law simply gave the Ds rings -- though not rings from the Holocaust...

Three Deaths

My mother used to believe the old adage that bad things came in threes. When she'd hear about a death, she'd be a bit on edge until she heard of two more -- even if they were remote from our family, they'd count towards easing the curse. Two weeks ago, D2's good friend Ben lost his grandfather. He was in his 80s. I met him a few times, and he was a very nice man -- devoted to his family. His widow is a very youthful lady, who was born and raised on Miami Beach, and still says "Miamuh." Southerners and old school 305 folks use that pronunciation -- they're a dying breed. Wifey stopped by the shiva call with some cookies that D2 and her friends wanted to send. Death number two was another 80 something parent -- my friend Lew's mother. Lew is a hand surgeon, who used to live in the apartment complex where Wifey and I met. He went to Brooklyn for his residency, and we lost touch, to reunite years later when he returned to Miami to open a practice, and I had just become a plaintiff's lawyer. Our kids got schlepped to the Zoo and parks together, and now we're all empty nesters. Lew's father died last year, and he told me his Mom was declining. She died, and Lew flew her body to her native PA for burial. So that made number 2. Then last week we got the call from Wifey's close friend Linda. Her Dad Lou died, at 88. Lou was a Miami native, whose family came here from Key West -- a small but prominent group of Jewish Conchs whose numbers included a man who became a beloved federal Judge -- Sidney Aronovitz, and after whom the Key West Federal Court is named. Lou met Diane, a Philly native, and the two had a classic, post WW II suburban Miami life. They raised 2 girls, now 60 and 58, in a heavily Jewish West Miami neighborhood. Lou was a CPA -- and he worked until the end. Diane died about 3 years ago, but Lou stayed in the house. The neighborhood had become completely Cuban American, and the neighbors loved Lou and he loved them. But his daughter Karen prevailed upon him to move closer to her and Linda, and he bought a place in Aventura, with a gorgeous view of the Intracoastal and Atlantic. He bought a wheelchair, but never used it. Instead, he simply collapsed into his beloved caregivers arms and died. He had, second to Nelson Rockefeller, the best death I know of. Wifey and I went to his funeral at an old Jewish cemetery west of MIA. The president of his still surviving synagogue was there. It's off SW 8th Street, and somehow is still in existence. The president was a courtly lady who also said "Miamuh." She reminded me of the grandma in "Driving Miss Daisy." There's something uniquely charming about Southern Jews... Afterwards, we drove to Mystic Pointe for Lou's shiva. There were happy tales -- no real tears -- the sign of a man who died later after a life well lived. So that was the scary three...may their number NOT increase, for a long while...

Biblical Happiness

So my Rabbi friend Yossi puts on adult ed classes sponsored by the Chabad Home Office, and Wifey and I decided to take one together. Dr. Barry and I took one on Bioethics last year, and we both enjoyed it. This one is about happiness. Wifey jokes that I, eternally happy, due mostly to my Mom's genes, could teach the PhD level... Anyway, we met for dinner at Wagon's West, and then headed to Chabad, on SW 112th Street. My partner Paul and I gave the rabbi an interest free loan to buy the property back in 2000, and it's great to see how the center has grown and prospered over the years. Now they have a bustling Hebrew School, as well as countless programs which draw folks from all over South Miami Dade. Whenever I walk inside, I pass the mezuzah Paul and I helped nail to the doorpost, and I smile a bit... The class mixes mainstream psychology with Jewish tradition. It turns out that, according to Chasidic tradition, one MUST be joyful to properly connect with God. God mirrors the happiness of His people, we were taught. Also, true happiness comes from having neither a low self image nor arrogance. Rather, a balance must be struck between the two...and that leads to true humility. We discussed how when one is truly in a "zone" of serving others, we forget about ourselves. When we lose the self consciousness, that leads to happiness... Wifey really enjoyed the class -- scribbling notes on the handouts like the A student she is. In the parking lot, Wifey told me excitedly she had bought me a gift, and produced a nice Canes shirt. She proudly told me it cost $2.50 at the Goodwill Store. It seems that well off women like Wifey and her friends enjoy finding things there -- buying dresses that cost $500 in Nordstrom for $10.50 on the rack at Goodwill. I begged off. Something creeps me out about wearing used clothes, even if they're "like new." I have no problem buying stuff at discount stores, but I want to be the first person to wear stuff. Maybe I always see visions of my grandparents as immigrants on the Lower East Side of NY, dressed in hand me downs and making their way in the new world, but used clothes don't work for me... So despite that difference, Wifey and I look forward to our class together. It runs for 5 more weeks -- no exam. Now if only the Torah could teach me how to be better in math...

I'm In The Wrong Business

Having good Jewish style deli restuarants nearby is, to me, an essential part of a good lifestyle. We have fewer than we used to, but fortunately there are still four in pretty close driving distance. My favorite is Lots of Lox, which is owned by Greeks, but does an excellent job with deli, at a reasonably good price. For years, the local go-to place was Roasters and Toasters. But, alas, their prices have gotten absurd. Today, D1 texted that she was sick with the virus going around (I caught it from a banker friend, and then Wifey fought it off a week later). I told D1 I would bring her rescue chicken soup -- the gold standard treatment for a bad cold. I was lazy and didn't want to drive south to LOL, and thought parking might be tough at Bagel Emporium, my 2nd choice. I always forget about Mitch's Westside, even though they've very close -- so I chose Roasters. They messed up Wifey's phone order, which was ok, as Wifey called R and T -- their Roasters' owned sandwich shop next store, which doesn't open until 11. So I went to Roasters and ordered a quart of chicken soup, a tuna sandwich, and some rugelach to keep D1's energy up and sweet tooth happy. The bill came -- nearly $34! I leaned in to the counter lady, and asked how people pay those prices. She said she couldn't afford to eat there, but then gestured to the nearly full dining room. I guess the combination of being in upscale Pinecrest and proximity to the Dadeland office district is a winner . That did it for me. A got a call from a very large lawyer I'll call Glenn, since that's his name. He was hitting me up for money for the Crist campaign -- I told him I had already given too much. He checked the records and saw I had. But Glenn, a Roasters regular, said we ought to meet for breakfast. I told him I went to a different shul -- Roasters was too dear for me. He agreed -- he said it occurred to him he was spending nearly $20 for breakfast each day -- and he switched to the Emporium. Well, I said, he was welcome to meet Norman and me at LOL, where we were regulars. He said he would, after election day. So that's it for me at Roasters -- they toppled my tipping point. The soup was good -- D1 texted to tell me how much she appreciated it. But next pickups will come from LOL, the Emporium, or Mitch's Westside. Roasters -- you priced yourself out of my comfort zone, even for great comfort food.

A Banner Homecoming

So this is the U's homecoming weekend, which, for me, is silly, as I never went away. Still, it was fun to see the Iron Arrow members wearing their silly Indian jackets at the game, including their newest initiate, Dr. Barry. Iron Arrow is the highest service society at the U, and inducts, typically, student leaders. Dr. Eric was tapped in college, and in act showing his moral strength, declined to join, as the group excluded women. They voted to end that prohibition, and Dr. Eric joined. Well, years later, they got Barry -- to recognize his years of service to the med school. His closest colleague, Dr. Patti, got him in, and last week some somber folks banging a drum accosted him and smacked him with a fake iron arrow, and then paraded him around the med school. Barry greatly dislikes this type of attention, but being a good sport, went along. Next weekend he has to go do some secret ritual in the Everglades. The whole thing reminded us about how much we made fun of stuff like this back in the day -- but he'll go along with it. Anyway, so my sister of another mother Mirta and I cruised the man Buick up to Joe Robbie, and savored a gorgeous day tailgating. It was nice to see some old friends -- those other than the usual Canes game crowd. Then the Canes played like they did in days of yore, and beat up UNC. After all these years, I still don't know what the hell a tar heel is... Afterwards, Wifey and I went to Norman's firm's Halloween party, at his partner Glenn's house. It was something to see -- awesomely decorated and catered -- probably over 250 folks were there. We hung with Norm and Deb, and Wifey and I dressed as Bill and Hillary. My costume was a reguular blue suit and red tie, with a Clinto campaign button. Wifey did a wig, fake pearls, and an ancient pants suit she fished out of the bowels of her closet. Most people got it -- althoug typically only people of color think I look like Dollar Bill... Today the chill is in the air -- along with a semi annual annoyance -- Daylight Savings Time. I got all ready to head to Home Depot at their opening, to fetch some light bulbs, and then realized it was only 6 am, not 7. Whatever. It really is the most wonderful time of the year in the 305. Football is in full swing, and the weather is perfect. There's an art festival in South Miami, but Wifey now inherited my last week's cold, so we may skip. IF we do, the strange rescue dog and I will take some long walks around the 'hood, and then see if the Dolphins can win, making for a perfect Joe Robbie weekend.

Halloween on LI

MY California sister and her S2 just finished a great stay at our house, and her presence, along with the coincidental happening of my high school's 35th reunion has had me, in my mind, going back to Lawn Guyland. I skipped the reunion, largely due to the convenience of FaceBook (tm). I'm able to keep up with those old friends I wish to , and any morbid curiousity I have about others is easily satisfied by social media. Speaking of morbid curiousity, I did look at all the pictures from the reunion, which was held at the Jones Beach Hotel, a place that defined seedy when I was living in Wantagh. It's located on the mainland north of Jones Beach, and was a den of hookers and bikers in the late 70s. Some of my friends went there to make illicit purchases. Now, apparently, it's been gentrified, and was the venue for the reunion. The pictures were depressing. The years have not been kind to most of the participants -- to say the least. A few of the cute girls I recall were, well, no longer cute. They were matronly and gray. The best looking was a guy I'll call Scott, since that's his name, who came out as gay soon after high school, and now lives in North Broward. He looked awesome. Maybe not having kids does preserve one's looks... Anyway, so Halloween is approaching, and it brings back wonderful childhood and adolescent memories. As a kid, my friends and I ran home from school, put on costumes, and trick or treated until dark. Since vandalism was part of the holiday, at nightfall my Dad parked a chair out front, with a cane and our dog Missy in hand, as the older, scarier kids came by for candy. His guarding was successful -- no eggings or shaving creamings at 527 Charles Lane, as far as I new. When I became a teen, or near, my friends and I became the vandals. We'd buy our stash of eggs in early October, so as not to raise suspicion at the Pathmark. We'd also get a few cans of shaving cream -- which we used on girls we liked if we came across them while out on our night raids. Junior high really is the worst time of life. I was one of a gang of 6: Mark, Fitz, John, Mike, Eric, and me. We walk ALL over Levittown, Wantagh, and Seaford, it seemed -- hitting the targets of nasty neighbors or jerky kids. Of the group, one is a retired CIA agent, three are engineers, one's a lawyer, and one is an unemployed printer. Mike, the retired printer, has been happily living on NY's generous worker's comp benefits for the past 20 years . He fishes every day and looks, by far, the youngest of all of us. One year, when we were about 14, we stalked down the street, I think in Seaford, where a really mean teacher lived. I heard "Chickee" which was the mid 70s code that the cops were coming. The cops would confront kids, and slap their pants, to break any hidden eggs. I was too smart to become a victim of that: I looked to see a street lamp was missing a steel cover at its base. I placed my eggs inside until the cops passed. When I retrieved them, I got an electric shock that knocked me back at least 5 feet, but miraculously lived. I learned empirically that touching live electrical stuff wasn't a good idea. I figure the damage done has kept me out of the US Supreme Court... My last LI Halloween, in 1978, was less destructive and life threatening. A friend had, as I recall, once of those kick ass Levittown parties, with a keg of beer, and great costumes. My friends and I toasted with beer, feeling nearly grown up, and sensing that our easy adolescences were coming to an end. I remember that night well. By the next Halloween, I was in Miami, and Mark was in Key West. A year after that, John and Eric would leave, too -- never to return. None of us attended the reunion, but plan to get together one of these years. I don't think there will be any eggs.

Comings and Goings

So it's been a happily hectic time here at Villa Wifey. D2 has been here for a week, enjoying her Fall Break from UF. I took a lot of time off to catch up with her and her adorable dog Bo -- getting Dad/daughter errands done, watching some Canes football, and even taking her clothing shopping for her upcoming corporate job interviews. She came with me Friday night to fetch my sister Sue and nephew Henry from MIA -- they flew in for a few days as well. Henry has a "work cation" -- doing some video work for a client over on Miami Beach, and he paid for his mother to fly here, too -- first time Sue has been in the 305 in two years. That Henry -- what can I say? He's about to turn 30, and has, as the saying goes, got it all going on. He started his own business, and its soaring. His beautiful wife is graduating with a Master's degree soon, and we hope they supplement their dog child with a human one soon. The pressure on Henry is that he and his wife are both so attractive -- they need to have a baby. Even Wifey's friend Laurie, who stopped by yesterday and met him and saw pictures of his wife, remarked "Wow -- the two of you need to breed!" So Wifey, Sue, Henry, D2 and I spent a lovely Saturday -- breakfast at LOL, and then a trip to Matheson Hammock so Sue could visit the spot where I spread our Mom's ashes. The day was stunning -- brilliant sunshine, and not too hot. We stood at the spot and told Grandma Sunny stories. It was exactly why my father and mother opposed funerals in cemeteries -- they wanted to be remembered at the sea -- not the sadness of a graveyard. We walked around the park, and settled on a picnic table where we kept talking for hours. The breeze was delicious. Mom would have loved to see us all gathered there together. After some afternoon naps, we continued our family visit -- this time Henry treated us to Thai and sushi at Sea Siam, our local place for that. And then we wowed them with Chill-In --our new local hot Ha! ice cream spot. Today, D2 will leave for Gville, with Bo sleeping the entire trip. New classes start tomorrow, and I'm missing her already. But she's due back in only a month -- for Thanksgiving. D1 made reservations already -- it'll be our 8th year at the hotel on Key Biscayne, minus one year missed to go to Coconut Grove. And D1 is coming home -- after 5 days in Atlanta for a Peds Nutrition Conference. The plan is to fetch her at MIA, with her dog in tow, and have dinner together before dropping her off at her apartment. Henry will either stay here an extra night, or we'll run him to the Beach. Tomorrow we'll bring Sue to my partner Paul's -- he's hosting us all at his club in Aventura -- and my other sister Trudy and bro in law Dennis will take Sue up to their place for a few nights. So it's been nice -- real nice. And all of a sudden, I've gotten busy at work. In the space of the last two months, we've received no fewer than 4 wrongful death cases -- the latest just last Thursday. So I have stuff to keep me off the streets for awhile. As to my family -- well, Godspeed to all in their travels. It's great to have them here for awhile.

Should We Talk About the Weather?

So Wifey came home yesterday, after 2 weeks at back camp, and it was a lovely reunion. I fetched her at MIA, and she was happy to be back. The strange rescue dog greeted her excitedly, too. We took an evening walk in the gorgeous Fall Miami weather, which has turned blissfully cooler. Our welcome home dinner was at Canton, the place we frequented when we first dated, 31 years ago. Since I'm eschewing carbs for awhile, we had their "Special Steak," which comes to the table sizzling. We talked about how much her father in law loved that dish. Canton was out go to place for years, since it's so loud and therefore compatible with my mother in law's not exactly whispering speaking voice. Anyway, Wifey is here to stay, as is the nice weather, we hope. When I was younger, I never cared so much about the climate. I preferred hot to cold, for the simple reason that too hot is uncomfortable, while too cold is painful. My mother hated winters, which is why, when she was 59, she made the decision that my father would retire and move to Florida. My Mom was never the one to drive family decisions, but she was the reason for that major move. Wifey can't stand the cold, but the last few years is bothered by Miami's summer heat. I wasn't until this year. I guess cruising into my mid 50s has done the trick. So we talked about next summer, maybe renting a place in Asheville, which we both love. I don't want to buy anything -- as I age, I want to own less (except dividend paying stocks and high quality tax free municipal bonds), but renting a place for a month or two might be ok. D2 is set to graduate with her MS in May, and D1 is enjoying an awesome life, with an interesting though underpaying job, great friends, and more charitable work than any 25 year old I know. So maybe it's time for Wifey and I to keep the nice weather around us, even when things get too hot around here. We'll see.

Fleet Manager

So now that the Ds are all grown up and own their own vehicles, with their own insurance policies, my old duties as fleet manager are much simpler. Ha. As if. It is the job of the Dad of even grown daugters, apparently, to maintain their cars. Last Wednesday, D1 drove her '09 to the body shop, to leave it for a repair from a fellow parker at JMH who decided to dent her door and scrape the paint. Of course, a note was left, in broken English, saying the guy was sorry, and offering to pay. Unfortunately, the note was then handed to the Easter Bunny, who failed to deliver it to us, as both are figments of my imagination... I gave D1 my man sized Buick to drive while her car was being fixed, and I drove Wifey's SUV, since she's in Orlando also getting fixed, hopefully. On Friday I fetched the car, took it for an oil change and tire rotation, and then left it for D1 to pick up at the house on Saturday, while I was at the Canes game. I'll service D2's car over Thanksgiving break. And Wifey's 10 month old SUV also has a nice bumper smash -- which she claims was done by an anonymous fellow parker in Kendall. Since Wifey has damaged no fewer than 10 of our cars, and our friend Maureen's, too, I have my doubts about the genesis of her vehicle's damage. Nonetheless, I will take it for repair this week, as well. My Ds and Wifey are not unique. I have a friend, nearly 50, who founded and owns a multimillion dollar business. She's an only child, and her father still takes her car for repairs, too. Her husband is happy to abdicate this responsibility to his father in law. I never had that option... A lawyer I'll call Michelle, since that's her name, is 43, married, and mother of two. She told me the other day that HER father, still a practicing doctor, takes care of her car repairs, as well. And, just last year, she took herself off of her parents' AAA acccount, and got her own, with her husband. So this is the lot of some dads and husbands... As one of my heros, Sidney Poitier said, the measure of a man is how he takes care of his family. I've long since done that. At this point, I guess giving concierge service is in the cards, too.

Point of View

So I was tooling up Bayshore Drive this am, blasting "Do You Know What I Mean" on the satellite radio in Wifey's Lexus suv, which I'm enjoying driving while she's in Orlando, and I came to the red light at the entrance of Grove Isle. Grove Isle was THE luxury development in the 80s -- three buildings built on an island a short bridge ride away from Coconut Grove. I've always loved visiting there, and plenty of Miami machers still live there. The speed limit on the bridge is 19 miles per hour, and the legend is the developer, then in his 50s, so designated it that because of his 19 year old mistress. Anyway, the car that pulled in front of me was a sleek, Mercedes convertible. The fellow driving looked so well groomed and relaxed -- wearing a gold watch and designer sunglasses. Wow, I thought, how nice; a fellow in his mid 60s, living in a great place and all right with his world. And then I recognized him: a disbarred lawyer who I'll call Al, since that's his name. Al is an old friend of my partner Paul, and had a very succesful practice. Unfortunately, he had a gambling addiction, which he fed with clients' trust fund money, and somehow the bar and local judge who heard his case weren't too understanding. They took away his ticket, as we say in the trade. Al went to work for his former associate. He has, as expected, continuing money troubles, but when you meet him you'd never know. He has no assets except the lone apartment he was able to keep, and somehow finagled the Benz people into leasing him his car despite horrific credit. And there he was, this sunny morning, commuting to work -- looking like the world was his oyster. Many of my friends have plenty of money, and prestige in the community, and we all stress. How much is enough? How will we live in retirement? Can we send grandkids to college? What if? What if? And then there's Al, broke ass, as the rappers sing, and yet looking so dapper, tanned, and happy. My partner and I have lunch with him, and it's always enjoyable. He still has tales of adventures that old married guys like me savor. Despite his many trials in life, he's smiling. A man happy with his lot, which, as the Good Book teaches, is the real definition of wealth. So rock on, Al. This morning, at least, you looked mighty cool leaving your presitigous island, in that fine ride. It really made my day.

The Quiet House

So Wifey left yesterday for Orlando, and a physical therapist she hopes will finally heal her painful back. It worked once before -- maybe. 7 years ago, during a flare of pain I've teken to calling back intifadehs, she saw this same woman, and came back better. But -- it may have just been coincidental that the intifadeh was ending anyway. Either way, I'm hoping it works. When Wifey's home, she always likes to have at least one tv on. I'm the opposite -- I DISLIKE background noise -- particularly as I get older. The silence is, to me, so lovely, and increasingly hard to find in our world of clutter and constant stimuli. So I awoke early, and gave the strange rescue dog breakfast. When the sun rises, I'll take her for a walk around the 'hood, as we are enjoying our first "cool front" of the season. The temps are still in the 70s, but the humidity has taken leave. Wifey called last night -- proud of herself for renting a car and finding her way to her friend's house. I really have spoiled her: whenever we go away, I deal with all of those things, and Wifey gets to just admire the view. She called from the rental counter -- not sure whether to reject the rip off daily rental insurance they try to sell. She made it with to dinner with her friend Elizabeth, and Elizabeth, by necessity much more independent, actually caravanned to the hotel, so Wifey wouldn't get stressed by getting lost. Wifey's evaluation and twice daily treatments start today. She's lamented being away so long, and last Saturday my know it all mother in law, during a visit to the MJH, told me I "SHOULD drive to Orlando to visit" while Wifey was there. It's funny -- when someone tells me I SHOULD do something, I tend to passionately oppose it. I explained to my mother in law that, as the poets say, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and then I told Wifey no fewer than 20 times to make sure her mother calls her CELL phone while Wifey is away. If anything can work to disrupt the exquisite silence of an empty house, it's my mother in law's less than subtle voice. So I shall embrace some solitude for the next less than fortnight. I really hope Wifey gets better -- we're at a stage in our lives where the world is truly our oyster -- and it's the height of sadness to be unable to savor that. But meanwhile, the silence calls, and I silently answer.

RIP to a Good Man

Among my colorful cast of college friends, there's one fellow who's cut off all contact with us. I'll call him Jeff, since that's his name. Dr. Eric and I met Jeff when he transferred back to UM from Tulane, after a semester lost due to mononucleosis. Jeff was hilarious, in an extremely self deprecating sort of way, and quickly joined our band of merry pre meds. Dr. Barry really took a shine to him. Jeff's Dad was David, a man who always welcomed us warmly into his West Kendall house. David owned a succesful printing business, which he started after returning from Korea and then attending UM on the GI bill. He married Faith, and they had Jeff and his younger brother Bernie. David was classic old school Jewish Dad. He adored his sons, and pushed the envelope to be able to say "My son the doctor; my son the lawyer." Bernie went to UF and UF Law, reluctantly. His Dad pushed him, but at the end, Bernie never took the Bar exam. He followed his love of science fiction, and ultimately ended up managing his brother's medical practice. Jeff DID want to become a doc, but it was a tough path. He got rejected by several med schools, but then went up to UF for a year program where you take science classes to show you can handle them at a graduate level. It paid off; he was accepted to UM Med school a year later. He married a nursing student he met in Gainesville, and they were married in South Carolina, where Jeff was doing a residency. Wifey and I drove to Charleston for the wedding, with a nearly 3 year old D1 in the car seat, singing songs the entire trip. Wifey was pregnant with D2, and from my Mazda 626's primitive car phone, learned that D2 was, in fact, fated to be D2, instead of S1. Jeff settled North of ORlando, where he started a succesful GI practice. In an exquisite twist, this one friend who had the lowest pre med and probably med school grades ended up the richest of my doctor friends. Through some snooping a few years back, I learned he has substantial real estate holdings up in Central Florida. For reasons none of us is really sure of, he completely cut off contact with all of us. Did he feel slighted by Eric and Barry's superior academic success? That wouldn't account for me -- I got Cs in the sciences, and took a path to the Humanities. Jeff and MArilyn had a son who is now a junior in an Ivy League college, and a second son, who was born with an awful genetic disorder. But other than holiday cards -- no contact from Jeff. I was a customer of his Dad's, though. Even though he charged three times the going rate, I proudly used Dave for my law firms's printing, back in those stone ages where law firms needed a printer. David moved to Central Florida, though, and that was my opportunity to switch to the cheaper Cuban printer... Well, through the wonder of FaceBook (tm), I kept indirectly in touch. Jeff's wife, mother, and brother all friended me, so I saw the family's growth and accomplishments. And then, last night, Faith messaged me to tell me David had died. I'm guessing he was in his mid 80s. I thought back to the pool parties and barbecues he hosted for us. I remembered graduation from college. Eric and his family, and Jeff and his family and my mother and some date all went to Steak and Ale on 97th Avenue. None of us was wealthy enough for a higher level restaurant, but I remember how proud the 5 parents were. I was annoyed at my mother that she brought a date. My father was the one who should have been there -- he had died a year before. But my Mom didn't want to be alone, I guess. David G led a toast. He was beaming. His boy Jeff had graduated college, his alma mater, no less, and his younger son was on the path. He was a good man. A good Dad. RIP, David.

Volunteering Blues

A few months past, I ran into my colorful, courtly neighbor Doc. As usual, the retired dermatologist was out walking before the sun rose, with his friendly Boxer Sam. Doc stopped working as, I believe, the oldest practicing doc in Miami Dade. I always enjoy our chats -- he has an old world gentility about him, with ZERO political correctness. He has mutton chop sideburns, and an appearance that makes him look like a character out of an old Western movie. I was shocked to learn he was Jewish -- he even has a WASPy sounding last name. Anyway, he was lamenting that retirement left him bored. I asked him about teaching, and he was thinking about it, but didn't want to commute Downtown to Jackson Memorial. Maybe fledgling FIU -- where he could teach at local Baptist Hospital. Then I asked him about volunteering. His face screwed up. "Never! Volunteers aren't valued! I used to do it, and they treated me like a slave, and never thanked me. No -- in our society, people don't value you unless you charge." His words resonated with me last week. I volunteer as a Guardian Ad Litem, and I have one ward -- a pregnant teen. I meet with her monthly and report on her "well being." Each time I try to see her, it's a chore. For my last visit, I texted her I was coming by. She used to live in a group home way out in casa carajo, as the Cubans say, and now she's moved to one ever FURTHER away -- East Naples, just about. We texted, and I fought traffic on Coral Reef Drive to get to her place. When I was close, her text was dismissive. "Not home yet. Stopped at the dentist. Be home in a few hours." I texted back that I'd come meet her at the Dentist's office -- she wasn't a patient, a fellow teen was. OK, she replied -- the office was in Southland Mall -- another 45 minutes SOUTH. No, it didn't make sense -- we'd simply reschedule. I have a most fastidious sense of time with other people's time. I abhor being late, let alone canceling appointments. I know all we have, ultimately, is our time, and if someone is sharing theirs with me, I treat it sacredly. I realize this it an unrealistic burden to place on a 17 year old who grew up as my Ward client did, but still... I remembered the other day I've been volunteering nearly 40 years. When I was 15, I was a once a week "candy striper" without the cute dress, at Mid Island Hospital on LI. I did it to get a sense of medicine, and whether I wanted to do it. The staff had me carry records around, and help bathe patients -- typically elderly men dying of lung cancer after decades of smoking while working at Grumman or other LI industries. I had almost forgotten my stint there -- it ended nicely, with a certificate, and an award as a high school senior from the Levittown Optimist's Club -- something Wifey always chuckles at, as she finds me humorously optimistic... D2 volunteers through her sorority, and used to in high school as well. I remember one bad experience: D1 came home from UF, and we went to the local Petsmart, where D2 was helping with an adoption day. D2 was crying with the dogs -- the director of the program, not ironically a super bitch, had made her feel bad. We rescued D2 from the dog rescue, and cheered her by explaining that that very same woman had upset our friend Loni by deeming her, an upstanding community teacher and loving mother of 2, as unworthy of adopting a stray dog! D1 seems to have the best volunteer experiences -- junior league, where her Spaniel Mads is a therapy dog, and work for the elderly Jews in Miami. I'm extrememly proud of my Ds, and the work they do for others. And I guess I'll keep at my GAL duties -- even with the lack of appreciation for my time. At a recent conference call, the issue came into focus. NINE state workers involved in my Ward's case talked at each other on the phone, espousing theory about her care. It was a wake up call about the absurd waste in our government. At the end of the call, it was clear to me that no one was going to actually DO any of the things discussed -- like go out to Homestead to see whether the Baby Daddy's home might be suitable for the coming baby. I spoke up and pointed this out. One of the bureaucrats actually said "Well, as GAL YOU can do that!" I replied "So NINE of you are paid by the State and County to watch after this girl, and you want to one guy working for FREE to do this?" Finally, a social worker, or case worker, or some such spoke up and said she would make the visit. Again, the volunteer is the red headed stepchild. That's ok -- the work is sometimes its own reward.

The Pedicure

So D2 flew in Friday for the weekend. Her boyfriend's brother got engaged, and we're all invited to a big Parillada party tonight in Aventura -- sacred home to Latin Jews. D2 and I had a great breakfast at Bagel Emporium, and caught up about her MS studies, and Gainesville news. Friday night, D1 joined us in the Gables, and we ate sushi together in our version of Rosh Hashanah dinner. Afterwards we all went to Books and Books, and D1 bought her sister an early Chanukah gift -- a pair of vintage sunglasses which supposedly have some literary connection. Saturday, despite the still burdening heat, I asked D2 to help me clean out our garage. The floor of it is filled with stuff dating to D1's college graduation in '10, as well as D2's move back from 2 years at Yellow House, the idyllic but ill maintained house she and 3 sorority sisters shared for half of college. D2 offered a deal: if I agreed to get a pedicure, she would help, and even go with me to the hardware store or Home Depot, a place I used to drag her to when she was a little girl, in exchange for a trip to Toys R Us and Dairy Queen. I agreed. My feet, like one would expect of a non Metro 53 year old, are, well, gross. I inherited my Dad's athlete's foot condition, and since bending over isn't as easy as it was for a young man, I tend to forego clipping toenails until ALL three of my ladies loudly protest. Early in the am, as we were on the couch reading the Saturday paper, one of my feet brushed against D2, and she reacted as if it was a poisonous viper. So it was time to do something anyway... We cleaned out most of the garage -- Wifey fought back her rat pack tendencies, and acutally consented to things like flower pots with cracks from the Bush administration being allowed into the trash bin. We teased out some stuff for Goodwill, and D1 showed up after a Saturday shift at the hospital to cheer us on. We sweated and got it mostly done -- agreeing to reconvene in cooler weather when we would actually open some of the bins holding the Ds' grade school work, and further de cluttering. D1 went in for a nap, and D2 and I showered off the sweat and left. We stopped by the local transfer station, and then went to Goodwill, where we got ride of some clothes, dishes, lamps, and an unopened S'Mores making machine. Then it was off the the nail spa... The Vietnamese folks were happily working and, in their language, making huge fun of the "cows" they attended. D2 took charge -- this was clearly her bailiwick. She set me up in a massage chair, and my nail tech went to work. It was great -- I received a fine chair massage while she clipped nails, scraped off old skin, and buffed and shined. D2 got hers done, as well as a manicure to look spiffy for an employment fair coming in Gainesville on Tuesday. The techs let me stay in the chair watching college football on a flat screen while D2 was worked upon. MY feet do look terrific. We celebrated with a trip next door to the yogurt shop. Then we stopped by Ace Hardware, where I bought some water seal for my annual spraying of our primitive front door, to keep it intact. All in all, it was a lovely Saturday. The Ds went out for dinner, and I stayed home to watch the Canes anemically beat Duke. D2 made it home for the 4th quarter. Today we're setching D1 on Brickell, and hitting Miami Jewish Home to see their grandparents. Then to the Latin Jewish party, then to MIA to drop off D2 for a late flight back to Gville. She's due home again in less than a month, for the "Fall break" grad students get in October. And as for my feet" Well, they're feeling rather fly...

On, Nebraska!

Well, that's not the Cornhusker cheer, but it's close enough. I just returned from a great visit to the most Midwestern parts of the Midwest. My fellow Canes fanatics and I try to go to an away game each year, and this year the most appealing was a trip to Lincoln, NE, to take in a classic college venue. So last Friday am I fetched Mike at 5 am, and we headed to MIA for our voyage via Atlanta. We got packed into a small jet, and Mike and I aren't tiny men, and we agreed a coach seat on a Delta MD 88 is no way for grown men to fly. Still, we made it without incident, and headed to Hertz, where Mike had reserved a van. Not so fast -- they gave us an Infiniti SUV, which meant even more squeezing in for our group. So it would be... Mike and I headed to Downtown Omaha, which is a clean, boring city. We stopped into a place called "Ingredient," where the counter guy gave us some grief about our Canes shirts. But the manager came over, said "I LOVE MIAMI," and ordered our lunch to be half price. As we chowed down, he came and sat with us. His name is Greg, and he has a daughter who went to UM and UM Law. Affable fellow, he was, and was a harbinger of the warm welcome we'd get in Nebraska. We've heard of Minnesota nice. I've been there, and can now conclude they were taught to be nice by Nebraskans. Everywhere we went, decked out in our invading colors, the people would welcome us and wish us luck. Dr. Barry and Scott, grizzled New Yorkers, even though Scott was born at South Miami Hospital, found this eerie. They're Jets fans, and expect to be shouted that their teams suck. It wasn't happening in the Heartland... We went back to the airport and fetched Barry and Scott, and then headed to the Old Market section of the city, which is converted warehouses now housing restaurants and galleries. We drank beer, and met a street sax player, who treated us to a somewhat varied version of the Canes fight song. We stopped back to the airport and fetched Chris, Mike's boy in from LA and his USC days, and headed to the hotel. There we met PAul, Alex, and Alex's bro in law Derek. From there we caravanned to the Drover Steakhouse, there since 1968, with a salad bar and steaks soaked in whiskey. We toasted our Canes, and our friendship. We left at 10, and the place was DESERTED. A waitress told us everything in Omaha closes at 10. I thought that was much better matched for me than Miami, where some places don't open until after midnight... The next am we trucked to Lincoln, past farms and more farms. We hoped for crisp weather, but it was as hot as home. We stopped into a Costco -like place, and shopped for essential tailgate supplies. Alex, now joined by his other brother in law Dean, in from NYC, went to a Home Depot and scored a grill. We found a lot near the NU softball field, and set up our tailgate. Although we missed Norman's touch, we put together a serviceable party -- grilling Brats, in homage to being in the Midwest. Even health consciuous Paul and Alex scarfed down hot dogs and burgers... From there we went to Downtown Lincoln, which was packed with Husker fans, and partied with them. Again -- only nice folks, and a wonderful atmosphere. I ran into D1's friend Irena and her boyfriend and his friend, and we took a photo to send back to Brickell. We packed into Memorial Stadium along with close to0 95,000 others, and watched our Canes stink. Badly. We still think of the powerhouse teams of the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s, but those days are long gone. We crawled back to Omaha, and everyone except Mike and I left early. Mike and I boarded our planes, and I met a nice fellow who lives in Miami, where he works for a Fortune 500 company, but was born and raised in small town Nebraska. We chatted about the game, and our kids, and next thing I knew he told me to have D2 send him a resume. You never know...it's all about connections in life. On the final leg, the flight attendant was an affable GErman lady, who usually works Delta's international routes, but was covering ATL-MIA for a friend. She took a liking to my seatmate and me -- he was a nuclear engineer who consulted for FPL and was a big Clemson fan. She gave us each some small JAck Daniels bottles for the road -- the first time I got anything extra in coach. So all in all, it was a stellar weekend. As for our team...

That's The Reason That I Gotta Get Out of Here -- NY's Not My Home

So fate and American Airlines carried me to NYC for a quick visit. I had to have some papers signed by a grateful client who agreed to meet me there rather than outside Troy, NY, which is not the easiest place to get to from Miami. I stayed for the first time at the Gramercy Park Hotel, which is surprisingly situated right next to Gramercy Park. GP is much more honest and actual than Central Park. You have to be very rich to get inside its iron gates. The park was built in the 1800s as apartment houses went up around it, and the charter said only those living in the immediate neighborhood or staying in the GP Hotel can get inside. Apparently, lost keys cost like $500, and you need them to get both into and out of the park. I asked to go, and a valet walked me over and gave me a number to call to be let out. After guests lost too many keys, the hotel decided it was easier to simply accompany them there. I felt a little like a mental patient allowed in and then out for a visit. But, the park was lovely. The plantings were gorgeous, and the stately ancient trees were awesome. I sat by a statue of someone and pondered the situation. As Springsteen sang, there are winners and losers, and don't find yourself on the wrong side of that line. This park had rich, Gossip Girl looking moms with strollers that looked like they cost more than my Buick, and some quirky older folks who also had that look of old, or at least older, money. Regular folks peered in through the wrought iron fence, as those of us who either lived there or had $500 per night to stay at the hotel sat on the benches. The hotel was romantic and historic. Babe Ruth used to go to the bar, and Blondie and Madonna stayed for long periods -- as did Steinbeck. Teddy Roosevelt was born and raised in the 'hood. I sat at the Jade Bar and had a martini. The bartender told me the hotel was owned by Ian Schrager's group, who also own the Delano in South Beach, and the waiter sometimes worked there. I told him I was born just a few miles to the East of where we were --in Queens -- and he said he was from Nebraska. Funny -- I'm headed there Friday to watch my Canes play the Huskers. He said he didn't like the Canes. Yesterday the light rain fell, and it reminded me of so many gray skied NY days of my childhood. The cab came -- a new hybrid job with a sunroof and a nice Haitian driver, and we talked about Little Haiti, where my father in law now lives. He had stayed there with relatives, and had no idea there was a huge Jewish nurising home there, painted pink to boot. So I'm back in the land of heat and humidity -- but off again in 2 days. Wow -- Northeast, Southeast, and Midwest in one week. I'm a regular Johnny Cash...or Jim Croce.

A Date That Will Live in Infamy

So today is 9/11, the 13th anniversary of the terrorist attacks in NYC, D.C., and PA. A lot has happened in the past 13 years, but sadly the constant has been the threat from Islamic terrorists. Back then it was Bin Ladin and his losers, and now it's ISIS and ISIL. It was a beautiful but warm morning in Miami, and I was, as usual, commuting in traffic on US 1. Wifey called me and joked that she was glad my office was on the ground floor of my building, as some dumb pilot just crashed into the World Trade Center in NY. I continued to the office, where Paul and I had a big day: the closing of a major fire case we had settled along with our old boss Ed. The clients came in, and we went over the papers, as glimpses at the office TV told us Wifey's report was no ordinary accident. I called her and she was already on the same page: headed to Pslmetto Middle and Leewood Elementary to fetch the Ds. By early afternoon, we knew that the attacks, awful as they were, were confined to the Northeast, and our families were all home safe. So Ed, ever the pragmatist, suggested Paul and I join him at Morton's Steakhouse, where we had a martini or two to mark the conclusion of the fire case, and then ate great steaks. I felt a bit like a Roman emperor, feasting while the outside world burned, but I kept constant contact with Wifey and the Ds. Fortunately, we didn't know any of the victims. I didn't even know anyone who knew any victims. In a few weeks, things returned to normal -- the Yankees even won the World Series, and the stock market came back. About 5 years ago, I visited Ground Zero. I had visited the Towers as a teen, and the shock to the perspective, to see a huge pit where enormous buildings had been, was a shock. But NYC is NYC -- and commerce ruled. My favorite waa a cart selling halaal food right where the people lined up. So the psychos pulled a very tragic but succesful stunt. That's all it was -- a stunt, using box cutters and the naivete of Americans. My father in law, not a deep thinker, but a man who made it through the Nazi camps, and fought for Israeli independence, has a very simple take on dealing with the terrorists. He says you kill them, and scare them, and you buy yourself a few years of peace, and then they come again. I think he gets it better than much of our State Department, and surely my sweet but simple minded liberal friends, who wonder why the terrorists hate us. I just hope that in the Ds' lifetimes, there will never be another date like 9/11.

The Paranoid Dad --It's Always Something

I worry incessantly about my Ds. I'm my Dad's son in this regard -- he was ALWAYS worried about my sisters and me -- and I've pledged to try to deal with my anxiety better than he did. My mother was convinced that his short life was at least partly because of the stress that came from worry. So I try... When the Ds fly, I follow their progress on flightaware.com. When D1 left for a summer in France, her flight disappeared from the status updates. Before I learned that trans Atlantic flights can't be tracked once they're 3 hours off the US coast, and her plane did NOT nosedive into the ocean, I aged a bit. It's a bad mental sickness to have, I know. I battle it daily. So what could be better for an anxious father than a predator on the loose on and around a college campus? Not too much. So sure enough, Gainesville has one -- some creep has grabbed 4 UF students -- fortunately not raping them -- 3 escaped without injury -- one was beaten. There's the expected media circus, and a huge increase in police protection. But, I mean -- really??? We ordered D2 some mace online -- it's sold out in Gainesville stores. She's very aware and safe. She'll follow the Broadway song advice, and never walk alone. Hopefully they'll nab this animal, or he'll move on. My friends have daughters who live in NYC. There's a whole cast of creeps there, of course. My favorite is the guy who throws young women in front of oncoming subway trains. Whenever the Ds visit NYC, or Chicago, or Philly, I get to deal with this diverse array of dangers. Wifey is blessed to be without my brand of anxiety and worry. She just knows the Ds will be fine. I truly envy her attitude, and try to emulate it. Maybe it's time for our adorable Spaniel grand dog Bo to welcome a Rotweiller brother...

Game Day

Tonight the Canes play their first home game of the year, and I'm one happy Daddy in the USA. The team looks mediocre at best, but that's fine. I get to see my crew, well -- most of them -- Dr. Barry and family are up on LI attending a friend's kid's Bar Mitzvah -- and that's the important thing. For me, Canes football was love at first trip to the old Orange Bowl. It was September of 1979, and I had never been to a college football game. A bunch of us from the 1968 dorm boarded a bus, and it deposited us into the parking lot of the creaky old stadium. There was grain alcohol punch on the way, I seem to recall. There was laughter and togetherness. That team went 5-6, but ended on a high note -- beating the hated Gators, who went 0-10-1. I was hooked. As the undergraduate years passed, my friends and I tailgated. The team got better, under Coach Schnellenberger. In 1981 they went 9-2, and almost went undefeated but for s penalties against Texas and Miss State. But they were denied a bowl because of a continuing hobgoblin -- NCAA sanctions. Still, the week before law school started, we traveled to Gainesville to watch the hated Gators beat us, and then went on to win the rest of our games. We beat Nebraska in the Orange Bowl game, for the national championship. Now I was REALLY hooked. My friend Mike's father was a fellow UM double alum, and he taught me the fine art of tailgating and hosting away game watch parties. I wanted to emulate him, and I have. And then, I joined the custom of attending away games, too. I went to Notre Dame, Rutgers, Ga Tech, and strangely, Tulsa, where I happened to be for a deposition when the Canes played their "Golden Hurricane." During that trip, my old boss Frank and I visited Oral Roberts University, which remains the most surreal place I've ever seen in my life. So this season is my 35th. The past 5, I have been lucky to be invited to my great friend Norman's tailgates. My close friends Eric, Dana, Barry, and Paul have joined me as we sort of drifted there from the parties Mike hosted, and this year Mike is joining us as well, with his core crew. Wifey's back's ugly head remains reared, so I have a substitute (not prostitute) date -- my sister of another mother, Mirta. She's due over today at 4, and we'll cruise up the Palmetto in my man sized Buick to join the party. Her high school buddy Maria is a close friend of Norman's, and that represents one of the many connections based on the love of our U. So the team may soar or stumble -- and this year it looks like the latter -- but our brotherhood and sisterhood never will.