Professional Advice

Since I've been fortunate enough to accumulate a few shekels, I've been privileged to deal with "Money Managers" and "Financial Analysts." They used to be called stockbrokers, back in the day. In 2000, a dear friend convinced me I needed to have some of my money "under management," which means the broker buys and sells stocks and bonds, for a yearly fee, and you don't pay commisions on the trades. Wifey and I chose Northern Trust, and they had us to their wood paneled office on Brickell, and we met our manager, a Michigan Business grad who previously worked for the World Bank. I wrote her a 7 figure check, and told her to grow the money, as I planned to work for many more years... Thereafter, I rarely looked at the monthly statements, and the tech crash happened. Of course, much of the money was invested in high tech stocks, but when I looked closely in 2002, the account was worth half of what I had put in. I met with the financial genius, and asked why I was paying her a fee ($11,000 per year) to let her watch stocks drop without doing anything. She mumbled something about Northern's models. I withdrew the money, and thought about suing, but realized that as a person who dealt with large sums for my clients, I didn't want to admit in court that I was completely unaware of my own financial person losing huge amounts of my own money. Since then, I generally keep control, though I do use three different brokers. I met with one the other night, who "manages" a small amount of my money, and works for a large NY investment bank. We discussed the recent downturn in the market. When I opened the account, I bought, at this broker's suggestion, a mutual fund attached to the energy production. With the crash of oil, that fund is now down 40%. I expected the broker would say "Look -- it appeared to be a good investment, but it turned out bad. You took a risk -- what are ya gonna do?" Ha. As if! Instead, she told me the thing was poised to take off again! And, two years ago, because I invest like an old man, I kept much of the account in cash. This same broker said "OUR decision to stay in cash turned out to be a great one." OUR???? The day after our meeting, I was having lunch at LOL, and ran into a CPA I know from the 'hood. He is semi retired, and told me unabashedly he has "plenty of money." He early on made the excellent professional choice of marrying a woman who practiced medicine full time, and brought to him her very nice salary. Some guys are just smarter than others...Anyway, the man who I'll call Scott, since that's his name, was singing the praised of his broker, a Mormon in Texas. He said the guy has made him tons of money, and has 9 kids. Red flag, I thought. Anyone with 9 kids may become financially desperate, and pull a Mormon Madoff... I laughed, and was just happy I keep things in perspective. Brokers are typically salespeople who simply push the products their higher ups tout. Any scholarly study worthwhile concludes that over time, no one beats the market itself, and the best investments are simply index funds. Still, it's hilarious to watch experts take credit for when things go well, and avoid blame when investments lose... I guess it's human nature. Last year, I gave some free legal advice to someone about an injury matter. The client was considering settling a case for a small amount, and I strongly suggested that he get more data first -- was the injury serious, and provable? Their lawyer was, like many, a lazy one, and probably headed towards the easy way out. Well, the client learned the injury was real, and a six figure settlement resulted. I spoke to the client's relative, and was REFUSED due credit for my advice -- "Oh no, they NEVER would have settled that cheap." Again, as Tony S says, what are ya gonna do? So maybe my brokers feel unloved as well -- I don't praise enough when my accounts go north. But hey, I pay them, so too damn bad! I guess the only explanation is aging crochety syndrome...I become more of a nasty SOB as I get older. On Friday, I had dinner with my sister of another mother, Mirta, and we discussed this -- all of the many, many people who now annoy the hell out of us, as opposed to liking them in the past. Mirta says she's ALWAYS been a grouch -- and I'm one of the few people she really likes being around -- for my support and sage advice. And, of course, I can never thank her enough for all she meant for my mother in the final year of her life -- truly loving and caring for her, and making Mom's last 11 months so much better... But back to the money people. I've reached out to all three about D1's new business, seeking referrals and introductions for her. If they come through, they keep my accounts. If they don't, I will do what I probably should have done a long time ago, anyway, and switch everything to cheap, online accounts. So far, one has come through -- big. D1 is meeting with several prominent members of a leading Gables Country Club, which will hopefully lead to clients. The other two have spoken with D1, but nothing has materialized. So we'll see who comes through, and who doesn't. In the meanwhile, hopefully the market is on the upswing, and I'll be hearing from the success's many parents. Of course, the failures are orphans...

Dead President

When I started at The U, before it was known as The U, the President was an affable Southern fellow named Henry King Stanford. He was courtly and charming, and seemed content to keep UM going on its course -- nice place, of course, but not one that attracted too many top students. When I was a junior, and Henry retired, the Board decided to bring in a new prez tasked with greatly improving academics and student quality, and they hired the Dean of the Wash U Law School, Tad Foote. Our main supervisor, as Honors Students, was James Lee Ash, the Director. He was a Texan with a Yale doctorate, and his vision for UM was to make it smaller and smarter -- sort of taking the credentials of the Honors Program, with higher SAT scores and grades, and making the rest of the U more like Honors. Dr. Ash, as we always called him, called me into his office, as I was president of the Honors Students Association, and gave me an important task: he wanted to bring the new president over to our apartment, to show him the Honors housing. I came back to 22Z and told my roommies a major visit was planned. Dr. Barry, Mike, and Jorge and I all started cleaning in the way of college guys -- grabbing piles of stuff and stuffing it into closets and drawers. One of us might have dragged a rag over some furniture, but I doubt it. Mike, now the head of Infectious Diseases at Arkansas, hid his extensive beer supply, even though in those days we were all past 18 and legal drinkers. There was a knock, and an entourage came in. We met President Foote. He was, by a factor of 10, the WASPiest man I ever met. He was in his 40s but looked older, silver haired and regal of bearing. He shook our hands, asked a few pleasant questions, and looked around. Jim Ash told him about the WW II history of our shabby building. The Prez seemed impressed. We had "passed the inspection," and the President left, and, sure enough, did what he said: improved the U greatly. Of course, our football team had something to do with raising our profile. We won 5 rings while Foote was president, and applications soared. Americans love winners, and no one was winning more than the University of Miami. The team was pretty inner city, and many of the greatest players behaved in ways not suitable for, say Yale dining clubs. So there was a frisson between Foote and the team, but still the Canes won, and still the U got smaller and smarter. Fast forward to 2001. I got a law degree, earned a nice stash of sheckels, and moved into a big ass house. The acting Dean of the Arts and Sciences College, Dan Pals, came for a visit. As he looked around, he had a request: could the College hold its farewell to Foote ceremony at our house? Although we had just moved in, Wifey agreed, and so 20 years after I had to clean up my dorm, I had to help straighten up my mansion. We had moved in February, and in March we'd have over 100 guests at a formal cocktail party. Wifey and the Ds scrambled, the caterers and pianist arrived, the College supplied valet parking, and the party was on. Tad was delighted when I told him of the symmetry --welcoming him to the U as an undergrad, and now hosting a farewell 20 years later as a successful alum. My mother was at the party, 81 then, and Tad acknowledged her and thanked her for "sending her boy to the University of Miami." My Mom, not one for quick wit, pointed at her surroundings and said "Looks like it was a good choice." Everyone laughed heartily. After Tad retired, our next president was a very high profile former Clinton Cabinet member, Donna Shalala. She served 14 years, and did, by objective standards,a good job. She raised lots of money, and increased academic standards even more -- The U now competes with top places like Duke and Emory for top students. But I met Shalala several times, and never got to like her. She was abrupt and lacking in charm. She used her many connections very well, but she was never a person I would have wanted to host at my house. She was, well, a strange little fat woman. I haven't met her replacement yet, Julio Frenk. He's a Mexican Jew -- and certainly more reflective of Miami's diversity than the out of central casting Midwestern WASP Tad Foote. I'm sure I'll cross paths with the new president eventually, in my role as an academic groupie... So it's adios to Tad Foote. He died yesterday at 78, of Parkinson's disease. I thank him for his service to my beloved alma mater -- he did a hell of a job.

Simplifying or Not

As I slouch towards fitty fi, as some of my clients would say, I truly wish to simplify. I dig dogs, but would probably no longer have any -- pet sitting for grand dogs is plenty for me. Unfortunately for my desire, the woman I live with, who owns half of everything and gets about 75% say in things, says there always WILL be dogs, and more than one. So I lose on the issue. Last week, the strange rescue dog wasn't her usual chipper self. She barely moved, wouldn't eat, and little by little, had breathing problems. I assumed she had gotten some of Wifey's pills, which make their way sometimes to the kitchen floor, and Wifey called the vet. Our usual one wasn't in town, and so Susan, the friend who "fostered" the dog before helping to manipulate me into taking her (they set up a scene with D1 pleading)suggested her vet, a kindly octogenarian fellow. That vet said the dog was critically ill, and so Wifey took her to the Pet Emergency Room, a hospital near our house we're too familiar with -- the place the Bassett Hound was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and the place where the spoiled rescue Cavalier Bo got his orthopedic surgery... After a LOT of money for tests (I told Wifey to not even tell me the amount, but I know it's in the thousands) they diagnosed rat poisoning. The vet asked if our exterminator had put out "pet proof"traps. He had. Turns out at least once a month the vet gets a similar case -- either the rats drop the poison and the dog finds it, or the dog eats the poisoned rat. Since Vienna is part Dachshund, and these are notorious rodent killers and eaters, the vet suspected the latter. Either way, he drained lots of fluid from her belly, and gave her a Vitamin K antidote, and Vienna is recovering nicely. So much for simplifying. But in other news, Wifey is moving her ancient mother to Palmetto Bay, closer to us. She showed the 91 year old the unit we own, a condo conversion I overpaid by a factor of 100% 10 years ago, and Rachel wants to move there. So yesterday we traveled to Century Village in Pembroke Pines and listed the unit we bought there for my in laws in 2000. The salesman was the same fellow who sold us the unit --jovial New York guy. He REALLY knows Century Village, although he lives in Boca. He keeps a print out of Red Buttons'obit above his desk... We paid $120K for the unit, and I anticipated it wouldn't be a good investment, as most condos aren't. The salesman is listing the place for $169K, which is higher than I anticipated. We told my mother in law, who said a unit just sold near hers for $175K, and we "shouldn't take a penny less." Of course, I'd bet that unit was updated, and didn't have the peeling wallpaper and worn kitchen and bathrooms of our unit. I'll be happy to consolidate my real estate holdings. The salesman thinks he'll sell the unit in about three months. The good news for sellers is that buyers are now over 50% Hispanic and Caribbean. Lots of retired Cubans and Jamaicans are moving in. Mark the salesman told us the scores of retiring elderly Jews are now moving to Boynton Beach -- their new mecca, unless they have LOTS of money, and go to Aventura. We just hope to sell, and sell soon. So we get to simplify on the real estate front, but not on the dog. At least Vienna is happy about that.

Vastness

I've always prided myself on keeping perspective about life's problems. I guess it's a gift I inherited from my Mom, who let most things roll off her back, duck-like, and it only increased after the Summer of 1982, when my Dad died in my arms. I remember a year later, when my classmates at UM Law were fretting about posted grades, I walked around thinking Hey --we're alive, and young, and healthy. We're all going to get jobs someday, somehow. What's the point of treating a C in Contracts like a cancer diagnosis? Of course, as life got more complicated, and I had children, the perspective thing changed. Now I was responsible for others, not just myself, and the anxiety about being a man, and taking care of my family increased. Even now, that the Ds are grown, the proper perspective sometimes suffers -- small problems seem big, soluble issues seem daunting. Yesterday was filled with annoyances at the office -- cases handled poorly, answers not forthcoming. I found myself obsessed with the negative. I heard from a close friend about another nasty thing -- she was insulted again, as she had been many times, by a person who takes joy in putting others down. It weighed me down, too... And then I came home from a dinner with friends, and went out back, and put to use my favorite possession -- my fire pit. It was cool but not cold, and I got a roaring one going. I love lighting fires because it brings out the primitive in me -- I imagine I'm an ancient man, in the woods, sitting next to a fire, to keep the wolves at bay. And then I looked up into a clear, star filled sky, or at least as star filled as the lights of Miami allow one to see. And I reflected on the obvious -- being truly less than a speck in the cosmos. I never met my paternal grandfather, and barely knew my maternal one. I'm sure their lives had some drama -- events and issues that seemed so huge to them at the time, and now they're long gone, and my one connection to them, my parents, are long gone, too. And so it is for the billions who lived before -- what -- at most 20 years after their deaths, they're essentially forgotten, unless they achieve some type of fame. Most pass anonymously into the reaches of time. By the turn of the next century, 84 years from now, it'll be as if I never even lived. If I'm blessed with grandkids, hopefully they'll still be on the planet, maybe they'll talk a bit to THEIR kids about the tribe of us who lived in Pinecrest back in '16, but by the next generation, that'll be it. Just bits of stardust and starlight, or atoms in the ocean. So the perspective MUST be kept...like Arthur Miller wrote that attention must be paid. And if you don't get the clear message that life is to be savored, and regrets simply become meaningless in a few short years after you die, and fear to live, and savor, and really walk through that great buffet line of existence, picking and choosing the best of the spread...well, than it's truly a shame. I need to spend more and more time by the fire at night. I bought plenty of firewood, and the temps the coming evenings are forecast to be cool and cold. I look forward to it.

Moth Balls

They say the sense of smell is the most primitive, and most capable of inducing memories. To this day I love the smell of burning wood, in a fireplace. It makes me think of walking home from friends' houses on Long Island, in late Fall and Winter, with that smell from all of the Levitt houses equipped with fireplaces. I love the smell of a deli -- that mixture of corned beef, pastrami, pickles, and pickled and smoked fish. I thin of my Dad, and going with him to MilJay's, or favorite place in Plainedge...and the time my Mom went to South Florida to move her mother into a nursing home and Dad and I were bachelors for 10 days -- we went to MilJay's three of those nights. And there are the bad smells, the ones that still make me wince. Whenever we visited my Grandmother and Aunt's places in Jackson Heights, there would be that smell -- moth balls. To this day, when I smell them, I think of VERY old people, and that's not a pleasant aroma or memory. Fast forward to my current life, in a big house with a gate in front. We like having the gate, as we can let the dogs out to roam, and even though there's not much crime in our 'hood, I figure the gates make my house less of a target to any miscreants driving by. But every 5 months to a year, the gates fail. I'm on familiar name basis with Ron, the gate guy. Typically, the electronic box stops working, emits a high pitched tone, and I know it is because of the ANTS. Damn things get inside the box, even though it is waterproof. Typically this happens after a cool or cold spell, when the little critters seek warmth. Ron comes, opens the box, clears away the little bastards, and resets the electronics. The bill is around $100. When I call his company, he's there the next day, and always regales me with tales of even stranger stuff he removes from electronic boxes -- lizards, snakes, and once, sadly, a tiny kitten that got into a big box in the Keys. Ron tells me that my ant prevention measures -- sprinkling ant powder all around, works for awhile, and then wears off. He told me to try -- moth balls. He said his customers have reported they work -- keep ants away just like they work on moths. He said most people under 85 would rather have ants than the stink of the moth balls, but outside... And so today, while Wifey was at Pinecrest Library volunteering herself and D2's special needs Spaniel as a reading dog (the kids like to read to dogs...the dogs generally don't know how to read), I made a trip to my local Home Depot. I always love going there, for several reasons. The first is that I enjoy being around stuff that lets you build a complete house. I'm not handy at all, but I still like the idea of being so, in the way I enjoy watching "This Old House" on PBS. I would never attempt a bathroom renovation, or putting in my own floors, but it's cool to see it done, and know how it gets done. Secondly, one thing I CAN do well is replace lightbulbs, and I am in the process of the third phase of that project. When we moved in, in 2000, "halogen" incadescants were in the house, to be replaced afterwards by mini flourescents -- the ugly coils that used less energy, but whose contents will apparently kill all of us when they escape in our landfills. Now, we're in the LED age -- things last years, use a fraction of the energy of the incandescants and flourescents, but are still way expensive. But sometimes I see them relatively cheaply, at Home Depot, and enjoy getting the bargains. Finally, Home Depot is my largest investment holding, thanks to my friend and broker Pat having me buy it 12 years ago, and so I figure spending money there helps our family finances. So I bought a 75 watt bulb, some replacement vanity bulbs for my mother in law, a new A/C filter for the football room, a new hose for a spigot on the side of the house, and, moth balls. And I learned something, as I placed them around and between the electronic boxes...they sort of melt in your hands, and the scent is impossible to wash off. I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands with soap and even an abrasive pad, and I could not remove the scent of my late, paternal grandmother. So a mystery of my childhood was solved -- moth balls, once used, really stick around you, at least the smell. I take this as a sign from my Dad. To replace the olfactory memory assault, I need to visit Lots of Lox later this week -- for a corned beef on rye. Ah, the scent of that should do the trick...

Obligatory

So Wifey is dealing with the aftermath of her Dad's passing, and even though we knew it was imminent, it's not been any easier on her mother. We dropped my mother in law off last Sunday, and she's been calling Wifey several times a day, to share how sad she is. It takes a toll on Wifey, of course. When my mother was on the decline, acutely from age 89 on, I simply took control over her life. My mother not only didn't resist; she welcomed the release from tasks like paying bills or deciding about medical care. It was tough, as I lived 1.5 hours away, but it was my obligation, and I did it. Later, I realized what an honor it was, and how bad I felt for those who avoid those obligations. They think they're getting away with avoiding unpleasantness, but really they're just being less of a decent human being. My mother in law is a far tougher case. She remains stubborn, and resists giving up control. I told Wifey she has to give the old woman no choice -- she will do what is best, as a loving parent does for a toddler. Just because the toddler has a tantrum when you prevent her from running into a busy street doesn't mean you let the toddler go... Wifey has set up a temporary schedule of visiting her mother -- every Sunday, and have the old woman driven to our house on Wednesdays. I told Wifey of course I'd drive her each week. Wifey said I didn't have to, and she was amazed I visited her parents as often as I did. I told her it was my obligation -- to see her mother to the end of her life. It's pretty simple to me. I have a close friend whose mother died years ago. She has two brothers, but somehow my friend was the one who did EVERYTHING for her mother. The brothers begged off with simpering excuses -- too busy with their own families, squeamish about seeing their beloved mother in such a decrepit state. My friend just shrugged her shoulders and soldiered on. I admire her so. I have no desire to even drink a beer with her brothers. Sometimes I envy those who avoid unpleasant obligations -- letting others carry the load, letting others change the diapers. Words are easy, proclaiming love, and care, for a failing relative. I learned long ago that true love, other than the young, romantic kind, is about changing the shitty diapers. That's love. For now, thankfully, my mother in law remains quite continent. But I still feel for Wifey for the bumpy road ahead. She's all in. I wouldn't have any other kind of woman as my life companion.