The Trip They Call the City of New Orleans

D1 has a friend from UF named Lauren, and she's long been one of our favorites. In 2009, when D1 was living with Lauren, and another Lauren, she broke her hand in a car wreck, and Wifey went to live with D1 to help her get around for a few weeks. Wifey grew very close to Lauren during that trip. I'm convinced we seek those in life we were either denied or went missing. I've always enjoyed spending time with men of my Dad's generation or close to it, since I lost Dad in 1982. For this reason, I thoroughly enjoy my time with my friend Norman's Dad Max, and my friend Mike's father Ed was my mentor as a lawyer. Lauren's Mom took off when she was a baby, leaving her Dad Rich to raise her and her sister. I think this is why she bonded so much with Wifey. In any event, after she graduated, she moved to Philly to get a MS, and a few years ago met Michael. They decided to wed in New Orleans last weekend, and we received an invite, along with D1 and her boyfriend Joey. So off we went, after a great sendoff from my friend Steve the cop, who works at MIA, and came by in a golf cart with his brother Alan, who was off to Mobile. We checked into our Quarter hotel, and walked around a bit. I ended up at the Desire Oyster Bar, at the Royal Sonesta, and ate some of the best oysters ever, along with three Titos martinis. D1 and Joey joined me, as we watched the Canes in their Sweet 16 game, which turned sour as Villanova knocked them out of the tournament. Still, we had more eating to do, and we walked next door to R'volution, for what turned out to be a Top 5 meal of all time. They were sold out, but had a cancellation at the Chef's table -- would we want it? We would. Joey and I shared a 90 oz hangar steak, while Wifey and D1 shared a "visiting fish." The food was exquisite, and the service likewise. We had an awesome time. We walked, or waddled, down to the River, for beignets and chickoree coffee at Cafe Dumond -- packed as always, even at 11 pm. This was D1 and Joey's first time in NOLA, so we had some required stops to make. Friday D1 was busy helping with pre wedding drama, so Wifey, Joey, and I walked to the National WW II Museum -- tremendous. We spent 5 hours there, and barely scratched the surface. Since my Dad was a WWII vet, that has always been my favorite part of US history, and the museum tells the story from many faceted viewpoints. We shared a Po Boy sandwich at the Canteen there, with a hostess dressed like an Andrews Sister, and then ubered back to the hotel, where we returned to Desire Oysters for a plate of shellfish. You eat a LOT in NOLA. We then went to the wedding, which was to start at 5:30. We arrived at 5:35, and were LATE -- the service had begun, in a cool warehouse setting, conducted by a life coach Lauren had met. There was no religion to the ceremony -- Michael was raised Irish Catholic, and Lauren Jewish -- but at the end, without explanation, Michael broke a glass, and half the guests shouted Mazel Tov. The Philly Catholics wondered what the hell had happened... And then a first...a Dixieland Jazz band appeared, and led us all outside on a parade -- with a police escort. We waved white flags, and it was awesome. We circled the block, in gorgeous weather, with bright, afternoon sun. It struck me, as it had before, that NOLA is my kind of town -- I could certainly live there, with its great food, architecture, art, and seamy sided partying. But, alas, there are no football Hurricanes, nor my brothers and sisters of other mothers, so Miami will remain for me. The wedding was one of the most fun ever. The party band was a Zydeco outfit, though all white, and the singer was an Italian PHilly girl transplanted to NOLA. She LOVE having her homies as guests, and all danced, and drank heavily. I had a nice time catching up with D1's friends from UF days, and being amazed that these girls all started college 10 years ago! We met Lauren's Dad's best friends, and learned he was a Southern Jew -- from Gastonia, NC. I told him my Dad's best childhood friend had moved there after WW II, and married a local girl. Well, Mark knew Harry well -- their families were close, and we marveled at the cool game of Jewish geography. Wifey said I danced as much as she's ever seen me dance at a wedding. I complemented the band -- I told the leader they were the best all white band ever. The leader laughed heartily. Saturday we woke up late, ran into the groom's parents at breakfast, and confirmed what I had thought: Lauren has truly found her mother. Her new mother in law LOVES her -- Lauren and Michael bought a house 4 doors down in South Jersey. I joked that if the marriage ended, Michael's mother would keep Lauren. I know I'm right. Joey, D1, Wifey and I walked to the Mississippi, and saw the City's Holocaust Memorial. We then decided to really play tourist, and went to the Aquarium. It was lovely -- otters, and penguins, and a neat exhibit about what lives in the Mississippi, under the paddle wheel boats and John Fogarty... We walked to the Butcher for lunch -- a famous sandwich place, and I had a muffalletta, along the the Po Boy, the signature NOLA samich. We then ubered back to the hotel and all enjoyed serious naps. We had all eaten so much, that was it. Ha! As if! Uber came, in the form of the jocular Lionel, and he took us to the Garden District, where we walked on Magazine Street, and then the awesome mansions of the District. And then there was the Last Meal, in Commanders Palace. It was awesome as always -- scallops, martinis, fresh tuna, and bread pudding and strawberry shortcake for dessert. We had an absurdly early (6 am) flight home, and slept a few hours and then met Lionel, who asked to drive us to Louis Armstrong. Sure enough, he was there at 0400 hours, and drove us there. I told him my friend Steve the Cop would be in NOLA soon, and I would give him Lionel's number. Lionel was happy -- he's supporting a bunch of kids, and a wife... At the airport, the gate agent called my name. I figured my first time ever using my phone instead of a paper boarding pass had gone awry, but instead the fellow, Michael, asked if D1 and Wifey and I would consider moving to separate seats -- a young Mom with her 2 kids wished to sit together. Of course -- I told the agent I had my little girl with me, bus since she was 27, she could stand a 2 hour flight by herself -- a booking error had left Joey by himself anyway. Michael was appreciative, as was the Mom, whose adorable son,about 4, was dressed up for Easter, in a spiffy suit. I asked Michael if we could board together, since I'm the only one with Priority boarding, and these days you want to be on the plane fast, lest the overhead bins be too full, and you have to check your carry on. Michael said to wait -- he had a BETTER deal, and then upgraded us to First Class! D1 offered Joey her spot, but being the consummate gentleman, he laughed. I offered Joey too, but D1 reminded me I look like Shrek in a coach seat. It was a fitting end to a magical four day weekend in NOLA. So congratulations to the happy couple! And we thank them for giving us the privilege of an invite to their delightful celebration.

Changing Career Priorities

So last week was Match Day, the day senior medical students find out where they will get their REAL medical training -- the places they'll become family docs, or pediatricians, or start out on even more training --to become cardiologists, or orthopedists. I remember the day well when my friends went through it -- and how excited Eric was when he was accepted at a Harvard program, and Barry at one run at the time by Cornell. The Ds now have friends at that age -- and D1 was happy to learn that one friend, who went to UF and then Miami medical school, would be staying right here and learning pediatrics with Dr. Barry. But oh, how times have changed. My generation is probably the last one where it was considered a really great thing to get into medical school. Changes in the profession, like managed care for instance, have taken the luster off. NONE of my doctor friends have kids who went into medicine. They would have discouraged them. The amount of school required just isn't worth it -- 4 years of school, maybe another 6 of residency and fellowship, and the salaries just no longer justify it. The Ds have lots of friends who became PAs, nurse practitioners, and other types of therapists. The number of those actually wanting medical school is small, compared to my college mates. Law school is much easier, but that has changed as well. I openly discouraged my Ds from going that route. Three years of torture with no guaranteed job at the end just don't seem to make sense. And, though it's sexist -- female friends who have practiced law full time the same length of time as my male friends just seem much worse for the wear...not something I'd choose for my Ds... I expect the pendulum will swing back. It will probably have to. As fewer young people seek medical school, and we end up with doctor shortages, something will give. But for now -- taking on huge debt without the old promises of a great paying, satisfying career discourage most. It's sad, but it's true. D1's boyfriend Joey gets it. He sees the web as the way to go. He realizes that when you own an internet company, you make money while you sleep. None of the early computer nerds I knew in college became billionaires, as far as I know, but they've had nice, low impact careers. So congratulations to the newly matched medical trainees. I wish them well. I'm happy my Ds aren't among their number...

St. Paddy's Day in the Tropics

So today is the sort of Irish holiday St. Patrick's day. Since I grew up in working class Long Island, and three of my best friends were named Monahan, Fitzgerald, and Nixon (Irish Catholic, not a WASP like the Prez), I always was invited along to celebrate the holiday -- at least the drinking part. In college and law school it was a great excuse to drink more than usual, as if we needed an excuse. I remember on St. Paddy's Day in law school, going to Bananas, which used to be in the same building as the now shuttered Coconut Grove Theatre, and drinking daquiris -- not very Celtic, but still a great afternoon. Our neighbor is a very feisty 95 year old lady named Bobbe Dooley. Several years back she had a fine St. Paddy's Day party -- top shelf Irish whiskey, and unlimited Guiness, poured by a skilled bartender. It was a fine time. My most memorable day was one I spent in NYC -- probably 15 years ago. I was there for a deposition, and stayed in the Plaza Hotel on 5th Avenue. The depo ended early, and I made it back to the hotel to watch the parade. I was truly shocked by how many NYC Firemen and Cops there were -- all represented by a miles long procession down the avenue. The only problem was that, after a few hours, I grew to HATE the sound of bagpipes. I knew right away Oscar Wilde's line was true: the bagpipes were a practical joke the Scottish played on the Irish, which the Irish never got. I followed one group of revelers into a bar off of Times Square, and learned that there were firemen bars and cop bars, and never the twain shall meet. I made fast friends, and talked about baseball and football, and Miami and New York. It was an awesome day. Last year I learned a fun fact, the supposedly Irish dish of corned beef and cabbage isn't Irish at all -- no one in the old sod eats it. Rather, it's a tradition started by Irish Americans, who borrowed the corned beef part from their fellow immigrants -- the Jews -- but combined the meat with cabbage instead of rye bread. Tonight Wifey and I have plans to go out with our friends Diane and John. Diane is always tons of fun, but, alas, not Irish. Her ancestry is Dutch. But John is the real deal -- Boston Irish working class -- he may even be a Southie. He went to an Ivy League college, and then had a great career in construction management. Now semi retired, he works for a great family of highest level contractors -- also Irish -- who still get the cherry jobs in Miami, typically a Cuban contractor sort of place. And though John is a rich fellow, he still has that great self deprecation and humility I remember from my LI friends. And, like me, he enjoys tossing a few back and laughing a lot. We're going to a new place that just opened in a park in Coconut Grove. Maybe afterwards we'll walk among the revelers -- it's a treat in Miami to see the scantily dressed Latinas all walking around in green... Yes, Erin go bragh...we're out soon to hoist a few and be happy.

Stupid Real Estate Investing

So the time was 2005, and real estate prices in Miami were soaring. My then friend Vince called -- he was going to a "preview sale" of a pre construction of a condo conversion of a complex in Palmetto Bay. They were taking a run of the mill garden apartment complex and turning the units into condos, naming the place the Italian romantic Villaggio at Palmetto Bay. I was reluctant, as I didn't know anything about real estate investment, but Vince pointed out that our kids would need places to live, and since prices were approaching those of NY, after college they'd learn they couldn't afford anything...we could rent the units, etc... So I went with him, and got caught up in the frenzy, like a true idiot. There was a model, and I walked in, and saw a standard 2/2 like the type Wifey and I moved into when I was in grad school, though this had nice wooden kitchen cabinets and a granite countertop, and stainless steel appliances. I thought to myself, wow -- these are probably going to sell for about $100K. Nope -- the units were going for $230K, and with 2 parking spaces, it would cost $234K. Vince immediately wrote a check -- for a unit whose tiny balcony overlooked the pool -- his cost nearly $250K. I took a step back, realized that Vince handled finances like a coke head handles coke, and this was a patently stupid idea. Ha. As if! I joined the frenzy and bought a unit across from his -- for $234K. I gave a deposit, and waited the 9 months for completion. After the unit closed, I hired old realtor friend Joyce Leach to find a tenant, and she did -- a nice Burmese doctor and his family, relocating from NYC. They paid $1000 per month and stayed a year. Next came Lenny -- he stayed 9 years, and I never raised his rent -- and he never bothered me with repair requests. Later, I learned my friend John bought a 1/1 right next to mine -- for his ailing Dad to live in. Sadly, his father died in the hospital without ever moving in. When D1 finished college, I reminded her that there was a great, clean 2/2 waiting her. No -- living in boring suburbia wasn't doing it for her -- she rented a place on Brickell, and has been there 6 years, recently moving to Midtown. Withing a year of owning the ripoff place, it became clear that things were worse -- plumbing leaks everywhere, requiring a whole dig up of the walkways. And then some white trash clients started a fire, which destroyed 1/3 of the complex, and the rebuilding took over 2 years. Still, Lenny stayed, and at least the place didn't further drain finances. Until now. We've decided to move my mother in law into the unit. Wifey hired Nestor, our friendly handyman, to make the necessary repairs. Lenny, a 55 year old man, lived without a kitchen light for years -- it required 2 flourescent tubes, which I was able to replace. And one of the toilets is missing a tank cover -- it broke, and he never replaced it or asked us to. So Wifey and I went over to Home Depot Friday, and bought a new toilet, lamp for the dining room ceiling, and other supplies. Nestor came today to begin work. He called to tell me that when he took out the existing toilet, he couldn't believe it. IT was simply glued with caulk to the tile floor -- they never bothered to connect the toilet to the sewer line. The flange is all corroded, and now Nestor will have to literally dig up the bathroom concrete floor to install the new toilet. He was amazed waste never flowed out around the bottom of the toilet -- maybe it did. So all told, it'll cost us thousands of dollars to fix the unit now -- to have my lovely mother in law there. Last I checked, the units were selling for about $120K. The Ds would have to keep the unit into THEIR middle age to ever get back what I paid... As the great Clint Eastwood said in Dirty Harry, a man's gotta know his limitations. I definitely know mine now, as a real estate investor. I'll leave that arena to those who know...

Pastrami Pilgrimmage

Among my father's loves in life, not too far behind my mother and his kids, was a good corned beef sandwich. He LOVED good corned beef, always on rye, and with good deli mustard. Our go-to place on Long Island was a place in Plainedge called Mil-Jays, and I still treasure memories of eating there many nights when my Mom was in South Florida moving her ancient mother from an apartment in Miami Beach to a nursing home in West Palm... I am my father's son, and also love a good corned beef sandwich, although I have evolved somewhat, and also love pastrami. Miami has a few decent places for this delicacy, but I have never been able to duplicate the essence of the true NY version of a true sandwich. Last week, at lunch, several of us were debating the best place to get good pastrami, and the usual suspects were mentioned: Sage Deli in Hollywood, Mo's in Aventura, and Bagel Emporium, Roasters, and LOL in Miami. Roasters comes closest to NY in one way: the prices. Last time I checked, they charged nearly $20 for a sandwich. I avoid Roasters... Our newest roommate, a fellow I'll call John, since that's his name, leaned into the conversation and smiled the smile of a man who knew what others did not. John is in his 70s, has had a successful career as a litigator, and had a good trial lawyer's sense of the dramatic. He smiled again, and said simply "Stephens in Hialeah." We all laughed. Hialeah. As if! The place is more Cuban than Havana -- industrial, workaday, as UN-Jewish as any place in Miami. John was pulling our legs. No, he explained -- in the 50s and 60s Hialeah had lots of textile factories, and the owners were Jews from NY. Stephens opened to service this trade, and somehow stayed open, and still, to this day, served the best deli sandwiches. John was dead serious, as any man of gravitas must be when discussing important sandwiches. In the years before he died, my Dad and I went to the beach together. One day, I pointed out a stunner in a tiny bikini. He looked, and then said "At my age, if she had a corned beef on rye in her cleavage, THAT would excite me." These sandwiches are indeed serious business. I returned to the office and googled Stephens. Sure enough, they had a web site, and were smack dab in Hialeah. I knew I must lead a pilgrimage there. I emailed Dr. Barry, Norman, Mike, and Jorge. Mike and Jorge are not Jewish, but might as well be. They have the sense of humor, and live in a very Ashkenazi world. And Jorge grew up in Miami Lakes -- the spiffy part of Hialeah. It was agreed -- we would go the following Wednesday, and try for ourselves. Well, life got in the way, and Mike,Jorge, and Norman begged off for dumb reasons like firm meetings and depositions. Barry remained true to the cause, and, just an hour before I fired up the little Caddy for the trip, I got a text from Dr. Kenny, asking if I was free for lunch. It was his day off. I texted excitedly that if he had the time, I had a surprise, and he was in. So I fetched him at his temporary house, where he's dorming while Chinese drywall is removed from his regular house, and we drove to JMH and fetched Dr. Barry. The two of them caught up on matters pediatric during the drive to Hialeah, and then we arrived. Sure enough, it was a corner place. One side of the street was classic Hialeah residential -- small houses with front fences and burglar bars, and the other was industrial. We parked and went inside. We stepped into the mid-50s. They had wood paneling on the walls! And a cooler full of Dr. Browns... Our waitress brought cole slaw and pickles. Ken liked the place immediately. And they were great, too. Barry and I ordered lentil soup, and the combo corned beef/pastrami on rye. The table had ketchup and brown mustard, No mayo. This was real. Sure enough, the meat was awesome. The rye bread was soft. We had found true corned beef and pastrami. The owner came over, a Jewish guy from Jersey. He was about our age. He told us he sold a company at 45, went to the cooking school in North Miami, and bought Stephen's 5 years before. He told us a classic Borscht Belt joke. I asked him about the meat, and he explained it was all in the cutting. It had to be hand cut. His cutter was "Junior," now 70, and the cutter here for over 45 years. Junior didn't have to work -- his grandson had hit it big -- he was Udonis Haslem of the Heat. But Junior loved the place. Plus, we were lucky -- today Junior had made his rice pudding, with raisins. We ordered it. We were indeed lucky. Three Circuit Judges I know came in. Now I felt like a total schmuck -- was I the LAST guy to learn about Stephen's of Hialeah? Judge Shapiro told me the turkey was the best in the city. Maybe next visit. So the pilgrimmage was a success. Stephens is awesome. Any anyone I fetch at MIA on a weekday, before 5 pm, can expect an awesome welcome home treat...

The End of the Dog Drama -- Or Is IT???????

So Wifey and I spent an entire Sunday in service of she who we really don't like -- my mother in law -- but nonetheless must be taken care of. We met Lenny, our nine year tenant, and fetched back the keys and gate clickers, and thanked Lenny for being a fine steward of the absurdly overpriced condo I bought during the pre crash frenzy, and will probably have to keep in to the 2030s to get back what I paid. Lenny thanked us for keeping his rent at 2006 levels. I think the unit looks fine, but Wifey wants it painted and fixed up, and this is her deal, so she will now undertake that project. From there, we traveled to Century Village and after lunch at the "Hello Ladies -- is ANYthing Ok? Cafe," we went to my mother in laws and continued with the schlepping-like job of hauling stuff to the dumpster, and separating out what Goodwill might take. We do share an inside joke. My mother in law, years ago, read about the need to shred old bills and papers. So she has stored, no kidding, maybe 3 huge trash bags worth of papers dating back to the George Bush administration. She handed them to Wifey, and directed her "SCHVED them." So, one by one, I removed them, telling her I was taking them to the car, to be returned to Miami and the "shredding place," and instead tossed them whole into the dumpster. If someone wants to steal my mother in law's identity, I welcome them. They'd have to be less annoying and a burden than she is -- I'll happily support some Eastern European hacker instead... We returned home, and awaited Deb, who was picking us up in her classic late 50s Ford Fairlaine, to meet Norman in the Roads, a neighborhood where Norman grew up. The Roads was mostly Jewish and Greek, and then became almost completely Cuban, and now is returning to non Latin, as the younger first time home buyers have been priced out of the Gables and Grove, and are buying "back" some of their grandparent's houses. We had a great dinner, and Wifey received the response from the crazy dog program lady. As I read her email, my feelings toward her shifted from anger to pity. She actually said that one of Wifey's many misdeeds was bringing stuffed animals to the library for the kids, in violation of "Ellen's rules." Her complaints and responses to Wifey's letter to the Library Committee woman were well written, and showed that Ellen really has no other life. So I decided to let it go...although now Wifey is hopping angry, and may "take this to the top." I plan to ask Bo the crippled Spaniel what HE thinks, and add that to the discussion. So it's Monday, and back to the office. We have some cases nearing completion, and I plan to shepherd them along, to keep us all in high kibble. Life, as Paul Simon sang -- I love you... all is groovy.

Junior High Continued

So the real life version of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" continued, as Wifey decided she would NOT quietly accept being fired from her volunteer job by the bully Ellen. She texted her to ask specifically what rules she had broken, and then called using my phone so Ellen would answer. She did, and we put her on speaker, telling her I was part of the conversation. The woman was exquisitely hilarious -- the classic condo commando, because I said so, I make the rules --type of person. When Wifey asked her for details about Wifey's misdeeds, Ellen hesitated. She said that the observer from the Library Committee reported that Wifey gave "inaccurate information" about the program. Wifey disputed this -- Cindy, the observer, and she got along nicely, and all Cindy did was praise Wifey and the program. Then Ellen said Wifey was...wait for it...TEXTING while the kids were reading! This was an inexcusable crime, apparently. Wifey made it clear she knew Ellen didn't like her, and Wifey was no longer in her dog club, but Wifey planned to continue to volunteer on her own. Ellen said she could, but NOT WHEN ELLEN WAS THERE!!!!! This is when I took over the conversation -- asking Ellen if she planned to have Wifey arrested or something. No, but Ellen "would lose all respect for Wifey" if Wifey defied her order! I tried to talk logically, asking Ellen if it was acceptable for me to tell her when she could or could not attend a local restaurant, just because I had made up that rule. Ellen took on the tone of an annoyed teacher to misbehaving pre schoolers. I had a flashback, to an experience I had with my Mom's former best friend, Mae Yates, who, after a flood, accused my mother of fraud -- as if my mother caused the water heater in the unit above to leak. Why? Because Mae was the boss, was why, and she didn't approve of the Kings Point insurance having to pay the claim. In fact, Mae had messed up by failing to require the unit owner to have coverage, but now it was my Mom's fault. I'm pretty sure I called the then 80 something a "See You Next Tuesday,", among other epithets. I felt the same way about this latest bully, but I refrained. Ellen hung up, again vaguely threatening Wifey against showing up. It was like an old western -- "this dog program at Pinecrest Library ain't big enough for the two of us." But Ellen tried to bully the wrong victim. Wifey got a hold of Cindy, the observer, and asked her thoughts. Cindy loved Wifey, and was horrified by Ellen's behavior and actions -- agreeing volunteers should be ENCOURAGED and not bullied away. And Cindy has power -- she's on the committee that advises the County Commission about all matters library -- and Cindy is also a long time librarian at South Miami High. She knew exactly Ellen's type of petty dictator -- and she planned to have Ellen censured! So the tempest in the dog teapot rages on. I've always taught the Ds you can't give in to bullies -- unless they're armed. If Ellen shows up at our house with a 9mm -- Wifey will definitely stay away from the library on the first and third Saturdays of the month. But I think that unlikely. Rather, she'll blow her own gasket. Bo WILL do his work -- bullies aside. And Wifey will be free to go to our Village's library whenever she chooses -- Ellen's wishes or not!

We Never Leave Junior High School

So Wifey has been volunteering at Pinecrest Library since the school year began, with our sweet, crippled granddog Bo. Bo is a certified therapy dog, and probably the sweetest little Spaniel of all time, and Wifey brings him to the library on Saturday mornings, and along with a few other therapy dogs and their owners, sits and lets little children read to the dogs. Apparently studies have shown that reluctant young readers more avidly do so to dogs, as the dogs generally don't correct them or judge them, except maybe for those really smart Australian Sheepdogs, who are smarter than most 4th graders. Although Wifey can go on her own, she joined the group that services (ha) Pinecrest Library, led by a woman who I'll call Ellen Mirowitz, since that's her name. Ellen is of a certain age (67) and retired long time teacher, and she takes her volunteer position VERY VERY seriously. The dog reads begin at 10:30, and she criticized Wifey for not being there promptly at 10:15, so they "can march in as a group." Ellen also went on and on about how she blames the fall of a local synagogue on their terrible Rabbi, a woman I'll call Jaimie, since that's her name and if the Rabbi were different, the synagogue would prosper...We don't go there, so we have no dog in that fight, but the fact that Ellen bashes a member of the clergy to Wifey, who she barely knows, tells me all I need to know about this malcontented, angry at the world, probably barren and bitter woman -- who has assumed a comical position of power. So last night, Ellen left Wifey a voicemail, telling her she was, as The Donald liked to say FIRED. The message made clear that Bo the crippled dog was great -- the problem was Wifey, about whom Ellen has "received several complaints." Ha! As if! Although Wifey laughed this off, and started reconstructing what she could have possibly done wrong, I knew right away: Ellen was the president of, essentially, the junior high dog club, and she just didn't like Wifey, and was going to kick her out. I volunteered to fix Ellen's wagon. I would, if so set loose, ask Ellen shouldn't there be MORE rules -- for instance, maybe ALL of "her" volunteers should be fingerprinted, to weed out possible pedophiles. Matter of fact, the dogs ought to be PAW PRINTED, too, lest they have checkered pasts, like we know out strange rescue dog Vienna does, though she never spilled the details to us. As it is, Wifey appears to be content to let this pass. She can take Bo to the library or nursing homes on her own -- without Ellen's approval. I'm happy to never have to cross paths with Ellen. I never met her, but I know her. I'd bet she's very involved in her condo association -- making sure ALL rules are followed by everyone. In fact, people precisely like her are why I never want to leave our one acre property -- and come, in any way, under their make believe power. So Wifey volunteers her time, and gets criticized for it. Seems to me people who want to give back should be made welcome, not made to feel like petty criminals. Yes, so the junior high cliques remain -- even into the late 60s, for people like Ellen. And I guess the moral is to avoid bitches who take control of dog related activities...

People Come; People Go

I've been fortunate to be able to contribute money to charitable causes over the years -- my synagogue, the Ds' and Wifey's causes, and mostly to the U. I guess I originally learned this from my parents, mostly my mother, who would always make modest donations to Israel related causes, her beloved Cleveland Clinic (where they treated her like royalty when they replaced a hip), and animal causes (each year $10 would go to a Long Island shelter where she visited in the 70s). My father was less into charity -- he knew it began at home, and bestowed his generosity on his family. Plus, though he was a staunch Democrat, he had a Conservative's sense of humor regarding socialism. I remember one beautiful Spring day in the 70s -- my mother suggested maybe he take the day off, and go on a picnic. He replied "Hey -- I don't just support you and our family. I pay taxes to support at least 10 blacks and Puerto Ricans in the City who don't want to work --I can't stay home -- those people DEPEND on me!" Hmmm...I wonder where my politically incorrect sense of humor comes from? Anyway, in becoming involved in charity, you encounter "development people" whose job it is to make you feel good about giving, and of course, to give more. They take you to lunch, and invite you to nice events (at UM, great seats to see music performances, the Dali Llama, Bill Clinton, etc...). And they all tell you how deeply committed to the institution they are. Ha. As if! They're just employees, like everyone else. UM Pediatrics, where we each year sponsor a group of young doctors to attend a conference on Inflammatory Bowel Disease, has gone through 5 different people in the years we've been involved. The most impressive is a young man I'll call Dan, since that's his name. I met him last Fall, introduced by Dr. Barry. He took me to lunch and invited me to a Peds night at a Marlins game. He was charming and impressive -- recruited away from the American Heart Association in Palm Beach County. He told me he was still commuting from Boca, where his wife loved their church and the school it provided for his kids. Dan shared with me his vision for the U, and asked me to put him in contact with friends who might bring this vision to reality -- a Peds Department and Children's Hospital second to none. We already had the docs and nurses, he said, but needed a better physical plant. Dan spoke like a preacher, but classier and more quietly. He told me with a proselyte's vigor that he had his dream job, he was in his late 30s, and his life work would be UM Pediatrics. I didn't buy too much of his spiel, but wondered -- was he truly different than the previous development people? Would the Department have found their Development Bobby Bowden -- a true lifer who would be transformative? Dr. Barry told me last night he left -- some church based hospital in North Carolina. I guess Jesus called him away from Holtz. The point strengthened is to never take these people seriously. I first learned this in the early 90s -- when I met similar types raising money for the College of Arts and Sciences. They showed up at my office all festooned in Orange and Green -- looking more like true Canes than my friends and I, who attended the U for 7 or 8 years -- and some of whom were second or even third generation Canes. And then they'd go -- to better paying jobs, typically, where they'd have to buy different colored ties or scarves... So the philanthropy is great. My Ds have inherited the bug -- and it makes me so proud. I just need to make sure they know to never take the bureaucrats too seriously...