My dear friend and law partner Paul talk about death. A lot. Part of it is because of the nature of what we do -- representing families who've lost relatives -- too often children. And we both are avid readers of the Herald obits -- we joke that we can't start each of our days before making sure we're not listed there.
The other day we met for breakfast in the Gables, after I saw my regular doc Mary for a chronic sore throat. She thinks it's post nasal drip causing the irritation, and also an ear infection. She gave me two rounds of antibiotics, and I still have the annoying symptom, so Tuesday I'm taking my throat in my own hands and seeing my neighbor Brian, an ENT. Assuming nothing much is going on, I can continue the typical academic discussion about death with Paul.
Paul is 11 years older than I, and has 4 grandkids. When we started our firm he was 44 and I was 33, so our death talks were morbid, but far off. Now he's turning 67, and checked the Social Security tables the other day. They say he has 16 years to go. Crap getting real, now...
It's a funny thing about those actuarial tables. I'm 11 years younger, so I should get 27 more years. Not so fast! My number is "only" 25, since the statistics show that the older we get, the more things that could have killed us are surpassed. Even my mother in law, now 92, "gets" 4 more years, according to the tables. Based on our visit with her yesterday, that seems about accurate -- old suegra don't seem close to leaving this mortal coil anytime soon.
Edna is in town, dealing with some nasty sister business (her sister is psychotic and now homeless in Hollywood), and she spent time dealing with that, to the extent her sister will accept help. Friday night Wifey and I drove to her Hallandale condo, and Paul and Patricia met us there with a hefty bottle of Stoli, and some granola and chocolate. We 5 had a nice happy hour, which steeled Edna and I for the next event -- a memorial service for Wifey's friend Linda's boyfriend Jamie -- he killed himself last month. He was only 43, and his demons chased him off the planet even sooner.
Edna and I concluded that Wifey is making a crucial mistake by being a teetotaler -- she would enjoy life more if she drank with us. Wifey says she'd rather waste her calories on chocolate. Not me...
Edna was going to leave today, but we persuaded her to stay. We have reservations to meet Eric and Dana at our local go-to Italian place -- Salvatore D's. They're staying near MIA for an early am flight tomorrow to Cuba -- Eric is going with his photo group, wanting to see Cuba before it becomes Ft. Lauderdale. I assume in many ways it already has.
Still, I plan to celebrate with my dear friends tonight. Wifey will drive, so Edna and I can enjoy a few martinis before our pasta. It will lighten the heaviness of our impending mortality -- those damn cold numbers getting more menacing with each year. For now, though, I choose to focus on the life part of life tables. I think I may order the osso buco tonight...
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Friday, February 24, 2017
Day of Death in the Air
I'm taking off today to drive Wifey up to Dania for a memorial service, for Wifey's friend Linda's boyfriend. The fellow, who I only met once, took his own life after an adulthood of battling addiction.
It's sad, but nothing new. Neil Young sang that every junkie's like a setting sun...and so it is. This fellow was young and strong and handsome, and shared Linda's passion for rescuing special needs dogs. She's taking one of them as hers now. Such a waste...
And then I read today's Herald obit, one of the daily tasks I do that Wifey finds hilarious. Truth is -- I find them more interesting than the People column -- I learn of Miami pioneers, and community leaders who passed on...
Anyway, today there was a young-ish fellow who died --at 53. I recognized him from around town -- his name was Carlos, and he was a commercial lawyer. He was one of the guys my friends and I call "Power Cuban lawyers" -- they always seem to be up to some major commercial case or transaction -- they all send their kids to the local Catholic schools, and if the kids are allowed to leave Miami, they go to Notre Dame, or Georgetown, or maybe Boston College.
The obit said Carlos was a wine expert, and avid skier. He dropped of a heart attack in Colorado, while skiing. He recently remarried and had a blended family -- two kids from his first marriage, and two from his wife. Seemed like an all around regular guy.
But there was a strange catch. The obit mentioned that his sister in law set up a GoFundme.com account -- to "ease the burden of the funeral." Wow. Guy lives high, with the wine and skiing, and his family is asking for help to bury him?
I guess I'm not surprised. Years ago my partner Paul and I met with a private banker on Brickell about our accounts, and Paul interrogated the banker about her other clients -- the "power lawyer" types, who had mansions in the Gables, and vacation homes, and sent their kids to private school. The banker told us that the vast majority of them had little, if any, savings -- they spend their 7 figure salaries each year.
I was knocked back at that news. I couldn't sleep at night unless I lived well below our means. Even when I was starting out, and money was tight, I received a $10k referral fee from a friend's firm. Wifey had thoughts about spending the money -- I set aside what went for taxes, and then took $1000 to burn. The rest went to savings. As I recall, we took D1 to Disney, and stayed in one of the overpriced on campus hotels -- a luxury for us then. But I was happy the rest of the money was put away -- to pay for future dance classes, and trips, and ultimately sorority fees at UF...
The other way of looking at it is that Carlos exits as we all do -- in a pocketless coffin, as my maternal grandmother used to remark, so what difference does it make? Dying with too much money doesn't do much good...
So we'll leave in a few hours, and go pay homage to a nice young fellow. I do NOT plan on contributing to the Carlos fund --there are many other charities that need my help, I figure.
And I never forget the sage observation of Jim Morrison -- no one here gets out alive...
It's sad, but nothing new. Neil Young sang that every junkie's like a setting sun...and so it is. This fellow was young and strong and handsome, and shared Linda's passion for rescuing special needs dogs. She's taking one of them as hers now. Such a waste...
And then I read today's Herald obit, one of the daily tasks I do that Wifey finds hilarious. Truth is -- I find them more interesting than the People column -- I learn of Miami pioneers, and community leaders who passed on...
Anyway, today there was a young-ish fellow who died --at 53. I recognized him from around town -- his name was Carlos, and he was a commercial lawyer. He was one of the guys my friends and I call "Power Cuban lawyers" -- they always seem to be up to some major commercial case or transaction -- they all send their kids to the local Catholic schools, and if the kids are allowed to leave Miami, they go to Notre Dame, or Georgetown, or maybe Boston College.
The obit said Carlos was a wine expert, and avid skier. He dropped of a heart attack in Colorado, while skiing. He recently remarried and had a blended family -- two kids from his first marriage, and two from his wife. Seemed like an all around regular guy.
But there was a strange catch. The obit mentioned that his sister in law set up a GoFundme.com account -- to "ease the burden of the funeral." Wow. Guy lives high, with the wine and skiing, and his family is asking for help to bury him?
I guess I'm not surprised. Years ago my partner Paul and I met with a private banker on Brickell about our accounts, and Paul interrogated the banker about her other clients -- the "power lawyer" types, who had mansions in the Gables, and vacation homes, and sent their kids to private school. The banker told us that the vast majority of them had little, if any, savings -- they spend their 7 figure salaries each year.
I was knocked back at that news. I couldn't sleep at night unless I lived well below our means. Even when I was starting out, and money was tight, I received a $10k referral fee from a friend's firm. Wifey had thoughts about spending the money -- I set aside what went for taxes, and then took $1000 to burn. The rest went to savings. As I recall, we took D1 to Disney, and stayed in one of the overpriced on campus hotels -- a luxury for us then. But I was happy the rest of the money was put away -- to pay for future dance classes, and trips, and ultimately sorority fees at UF...
The other way of looking at it is that Carlos exits as we all do -- in a pocketless coffin, as my maternal grandmother used to remark, so what difference does it make? Dying with too much money doesn't do much good...
So we'll leave in a few hours, and go pay homage to a nice young fellow. I do NOT plan on contributing to the Carlos fund --there are many other charities that need my help, I figure.
And I never forget the sage observation of Jim Morrison -- no one here gets out alive...
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Cool Man Danny
The joys of homeownership never end. Villa Wifey turned 20 years old this year, and along with that comes the need for refurbishment and repair. The front concrete steps crumbled last year, and Wifey was slow to get them fixed, causing D1 to remark that our house looked "like Pompei." I finally found a contractor and got it done...
My friend Norman turned me onto a guy, though, who is the best contractor of all time: Danny the A/C man. He's Argentine Italian, married to an American woman, and Norman's family has used him for quite awhile. I thought Norman was kidding when he said that Danny is so good, their family almost looks forward to an A/C breakdown. He was telling the truth.
Beginning a few years back, Danny replaced one unit, then a second, and then the third main one we have. There is one small unit, in my upstairs "football room," that still hums along. Last month, the unit in the condo where my suegra lives gave up its ghost, and I called Danny. He had his man Ivan there later that day, assessed the job, and just a day after that, had a crane life the new unit up to the condo's roof -- leaving one air conditioned, ancient woman. She never really even noticed the air wasn't working -- she likes it warm now that she's in her 90s...
So Sunday night, I noticed that Wifey had left on the living/dining room a/c, when she decamped there for a marathon phone talk with Edna. But, alas, the rooms weren't cool. I checked, and sure enough, the handler was running, but the compressor wasn't. I called Danny Monday am, told him I knew it was a holiday, but maybe he could get by later in the week -- the unit on the blink is the least important in the house -- only used when, these days, we rarely have get togethers in the living or dining room. Nope -- Danny would be by late that afternoon -- he had another job close by.
He checked, and learned a lizard had killed himself by getting zapped on the fan motor's electronic board. Good news for me, he said, the unit was under a 10 year parts warranty, so the $900 component was covered. He'd just charge for labor.
After he finished, he went around to the other units, cleaned out the water lines with nitrogen, and checked all their coolant levels. He proudly pronounced us ready for the coming summer.
I paid Danny, and off he went. He's a man truly proud of his business. He's fair and honest. He keeps us cool.
Anyone who knows anything about the modern history of Miami knows its development wouldn't have happened without air conditioning -- along with WW II, and later, Fidel Castro.
So we're here, and ready for the coming heat -- hopefully months away. And Danny remains the true Mr. Cool...
My friend Norman turned me onto a guy, though, who is the best contractor of all time: Danny the A/C man. He's Argentine Italian, married to an American woman, and Norman's family has used him for quite awhile. I thought Norman was kidding when he said that Danny is so good, their family almost looks forward to an A/C breakdown. He was telling the truth.
Beginning a few years back, Danny replaced one unit, then a second, and then the third main one we have. There is one small unit, in my upstairs "football room," that still hums along. Last month, the unit in the condo where my suegra lives gave up its ghost, and I called Danny. He had his man Ivan there later that day, assessed the job, and just a day after that, had a crane life the new unit up to the condo's roof -- leaving one air conditioned, ancient woman. She never really even noticed the air wasn't working -- she likes it warm now that she's in her 90s...
So Sunday night, I noticed that Wifey had left on the living/dining room a/c, when she decamped there for a marathon phone talk with Edna. But, alas, the rooms weren't cool. I checked, and sure enough, the handler was running, but the compressor wasn't. I called Danny Monday am, told him I knew it was a holiday, but maybe he could get by later in the week -- the unit on the blink is the least important in the house -- only used when, these days, we rarely have get togethers in the living or dining room. Nope -- Danny would be by late that afternoon -- he had another job close by.
He checked, and learned a lizard had killed himself by getting zapped on the fan motor's electronic board. Good news for me, he said, the unit was under a 10 year parts warranty, so the $900 component was covered. He'd just charge for labor.
After he finished, he went around to the other units, cleaned out the water lines with nitrogen, and checked all their coolant levels. He proudly pronounced us ready for the coming summer.
I paid Danny, and off he went. He's a man truly proud of his business. He's fair and honest. He keeps us cool.
Anyone who knows anything about the modern history of Miami knows its development wouldn't have happened without air conditioning -- along with WW II, and later, Fidel Castro.
So we're here, and ready for the coming heat -- hopefully months away. And Danny remains the true Mr. Cool...
Monday, February 20, 2017
Everything's Quiet on President's Day
So we gave Shula's in South Miami a nice bit of business this weekend. I went Friday night with my buddy John, and the next evening Wifey and I met old friends Diane and a different John there.
John and Diane are engaged to be married, and the poor guy suffered some kind of medical issue last April, and has been fighting to get back to normal since. He still stays at a rehab place and is in a wheelchair, but his mind is sharp, and his humor great as always -- we talked about his grandkids, and the Canes. Although he's a Brown alum, and a Southie, his company has close ties to the U, and he sits on some pretty high level committees, and it's cool to hear about background things I otherwise never would.
After dinner, we walked Diane and John back to the rehab center, just down the street from Shula's, and wished them well. Diane volunteered to let Wifey park in her Grove condo today for the Arts Festival -- an event we always attended until it got, in the great words of Yogi Berra, so crowded that nobody goes anymore. We plan to today, with blue skies and mercifully cooler temps after a few days of record Winter heat.
Yesterday Wifey and I hung around most of the day, watching old movies. I finally got to finish the excellent bio on Warren Buffet I had started to watch in NYC with D2 and Jonathan. Then we caught a late 80s film about the Manhattan Project, "Fat Man and Little Boy," starring Paul Newman. Since I had read Rhodes's fine book about the Project, I enjoyed the movie, and filled in the historical gaps for Wifey, about General Groves, played by Newman, and his attempt to herd cats in the form of super genius Oppenheimer and his band of fellow scary smart colleagues.
In the afternoon we headed over to LOL, for lunch, and then our usual visit to see the ancient mother in law. She's recovering from her latest fall -- last Monday. She got up to go to the bathroom and fell into the shower, and stayed there 12 hours until rescued by Gloria, her aide, the next morning. Wifey came over, and my mother in law proved simply too fat for the two women to lift, so the helpful paramedics came and did the job. No broken bones this time, so it was simply a matter of flipping over the inverted huge tortoise and letting it go on its way.
There was comic relief, as usual. Wifey sits next to her mother on the couch, and when the old woman bellows, it's right into Wifey's ear, and she cringes from the blast. Speaking of blasts, when the suegra stands up from the couch, there's typically a thunderous fart, which also sends Wifey cringing. As Wifey whines, I guffaw, and the old woman asks "Vat's so funny you laugh so much?" which only makes the laughing more profound.
We coerced her to walk to the pool, and sit for awhile, but she's getting to the point where walking is harder and harder. Wifey is ordering a simple cell phone and a lanyard for her mother's neck, so she can call next time there's a late night fall. The old woman is completely deaf, so the typical "I've fallen and can't get up" systems are worthless for her -- a simple cell phone programmed to call Wifey and the aide Gloria might do the trick.
So today beckons -- no ancient suegras on the schedule, at this time. Only the Grove, with its people, and art, and maybe even a sampling of festival food -- I'm sure former Canes great George Mira will be there with his conch ceviche -- a lunch even dietitian daughter D1 would approve of.
John and Diane are engaged to be married, and the poor guy suffered some kind of medical issue last April, and has been fighting to get back to normal since. He still stays at a rehab place and is in a wheelchair, but his mind is sharp, and his humor great as always -- we talked about his grandkids, and the Canes. Although he's a Brown alum, and a Southie, his company has close ties to the U, and he sits on some pretty high level committees, and it's cool to hear about background things I otherwise never would.
After dinner, we walked Diane and John back to the rehab center, just down the street from Shula's, and wished them well. Diane volunteered to let Wifey park in her Grove condo today for the Arts Festival -- an event we always attended until it got, in the great words of Yogi Berra, so crowded that nobody goes anymore. We plan to today, with blue skies and mercifully cooler temps after a few days of record Winter heat.
Yesterday Wifey and I hung around most of the day, watching old movies. I finally got to finish the excellent bio on Warren Buffet I had started to watch in NYC with D2 and Jonathan. Then we caught a late 80s film about the Manhattan Project, "Fat Man and Little Boy," starring Paul Newman. Since I had read Rhodes's fine book about the Project, I enjoyed the movie, and filled in the historical gaps for Wifey, about General Groves, played by Newman, and his attempt to herd cats in the form of super genius Oppenheimer and his band of fellow scary smart colleagues.
In the afternoon we headed over to LOL, for lunch, and then our usual visit to see the ancient mother in law. She's recovering from her latest fall -- last Monday. She got up to go to the bathroom and fell into the shower, and stayed there 12 hours until rescued by Gloria, her aide, the next morning. Wifey came over, and my mother in law proved simply too fat for the two women to lift, so the helpful paramedics came and did the job. No broken bones this time, so it was simply a matter of flipping over the inverted huge tortoise and letting it go on its way.
There was comic relief, as usual. Wifey sits next to her mother on the couch, and when the old woman bellows, it's right into Wifey's ear, and she cringes from the blast. Speaking of blasts, when the suegra stands up from the couch, there's typically a thunderous fart, which also sends Wifey cringing. As Wifey whines, I guffaw, and the old woman asks "Vat's so funny you laugh so much?" which only makes the laughing more profound.
We coerced her to walk to the pool, and sit for awhile, but she's getting to the point where walking is harder and harder. Wifey is ordering a simple cell phone and a lanyard for her mother's neck, so she can call next time there's a late night fall. The old woman is completely deaf, so the typical "I've fallen and can't get up" systems are worthless for her -- a simple cell phone programmed to call Wifey and the aide Gloria might do the trick.
So today beckons -- no ancient suegras on the schedule, at this time. Only the Grove, with its people, and art, and maybe even a sampling of festival food -- I'm sure former Canes great George Mira will be there with his conch ceviche -- a lunch even dietitian daughter D1 would approve of.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Martini Humor
At a tailgate party last year, a wise fellow and I were discussing martinis, a favorite at these get togethers. He told me that one of his mentors once told him that martinis are like shoes: one isn't enough, two are just right, and you don't need three. I think of that advice often.
So last night my friend Captain John and I agreed to meet at Shula's 347 in South Miami. I had come home early, and he was driving from Brickell, through the monumental traffic caused by this weekend's huge events: Grove Arts Festival, Boat Show, and Wynwood Art Fair. It's a weekend that brings in far more tourists than any Super Bowl, and locals tend to stay off the roads.
I invited Wifey, but she begged off -- we're headed to Shula's again tonight to meet Diane and her fiance John anyway.
So John and I sat at the bar, and ate apps and solved the problems of the world. The place grew crowded around us, and we joked with the sweet and zaftig young bartender. John spotted someone he knew sitting at a table near the bar, and couldn't remember the fellow's name -- thought it might be Bruce, and remembered the man was a Pinecrest Commisioner. I didn't know him.
Canes coach Jim Larranaga walked by -- he was having dinner with his wife. I stopped him and shook his hand -- thanking him for what he did for my team. He was gracious and said he and his wife were headed home to watch their son coach at an All Star NBA event -- the young man is an assistant with the Celtics. I introduced him to John, explaining he's a Cavalier and Gator, and Coach said he wouldn't hold that against him.
We continued talking and laughing, and then it was time to go. We planned , if the fellow approached John, to do the old "Do you know my friend Dave?" and I would shake the other dude's hand, asking him his name.
Sure enough, "Bruce" sprang up to greet John, I extended my hand and told my name, and he said he was "John Butler." The place was loud. We chatted about Pinecrest -- the new mayor is our new neighbor, in Devonwood, and "John Butler" said he knew him well and that he would be a great mayor...
We got outside, and I said to John "so the dude's name isn't Bruce -- it's John Butler." John looked puzzled -- no -- that wasn't it. And then, through the slight haze of our two martinis, he blurted out "Jeff Cutler!"
We laughed heartily, in one of those "you had to be there" moments. Sure enough, I DID remember a Pinecrest Commish with that name. Silly, funny mystery was solved.
I came home and Wifey was on the phone with her friend Linda. She handed the call off to me, so I could tell Linda about a friend I wanted her to meet. The night was lovely -- I sat outside and looked at the stars -- realizing, as always, how we are but dust in the wind...
That's a song! Maybe it was written by John Butler...
So last night my friend Captain John and I agreed to meet at Shula's 347 in South Miami. I had come home early, and he was driving from Brickell, through the monumental traffic caused by this weekend's huge events: Grove Arts Festival, Boat Show, and Wynwood Art Fair. It's a weekend that brings in far more tourists than any Super Bowl, and locals tend to stay off the roads.
I invited Wifey, but she begged off -- we're headed to Shula's again tonight to meet Diane and her fiance John anyway.
So John and I sat at the bar, and ate apps and solved the problems of the world. The place grew crowded around us, and we joked with the sweet and zaftig young bartender. John spotted someone he knew sitting at a table near the bar, and couldn't remember the fellow's name -- thought it might be Bruce, and remembered the man was a Pinecrest Commisioner. I didn't know him.
Canes coach Jim Larranaga walked by -- he was having dinner with his wife. I stopped him and shook his hand -- thanking him for what he did for my team. He was gracious and said he and his wife were headed home to watch their son coach at an All Star NBA event -- the young man is an assistant with the Celtics. I introduced him to John, explaining he's a Cavalier and Gator, and Coach said he wouldn't hold that against him.
We continued talking and laughing, and then it was time to go. We planned , if the fellow approached John, to do the old "Do you know my friend Dave?" and I would shake the other dude's hand, asking him his name.
Sure enough, "Bruce" sprang up to greet John, I extended my hand and told my name, and he said he was "John Butler." The place was loud. We chatted about Pinecrest -- the new mayor is our new neighbor, in Devonwood, and "John Butler" said he knew him well and that he would be a great mayor...
We got outside, and I said to John "so the dude's name isn't Bruce -- it's John Butler." John looked puzzled -- no -- that wasn't it. And then, through the slight haze of our two martinis, he blurted out "Jeff Cutler!"
We laughed heartily, in one of those "you had to be there" moments. Sure enough, I DID remember a Pinecrest Commish with that name. Silly, funny mystery was solved.
I came home and Wifey was on the phone with her friend Linda. She handed the call off to me, so I could tell Linda about a friend I wanted her to meet. The night was lovely -- I sat outside and looked at the stars -- realizing, as always, how we are but dust in the wind...
That's a song! Maybe it was written by John Butler...
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
All is Quiet on Valentine's Day
So my birthright, anxiety, reared its ugly head, or throat the past week. I'm generally blessed with good health, but when I get some new symptom, I'm immediately at the Mayoclinic.com web page, figuring out that I have some dread disease.
A few years ago my headaches were surely a tumor, until MRI studies showed otherwise -- burping was pancreatic cancer, which I defeated with an endoscopy that showed it was a touch of h. pylori. Higher back pain last year was surely kidney cancer, until a CT scan done by my friend Kenny showed it was nothing -- and not only that, but my heart vessels were surprisingly clear for a fat older guy.
And don't even let me get started about prostate cancer...
So I read that Michael Douglass had throat cancer which started off as a lingering sore throat, and closer to home, a beloved, now retired judge had it, too. Both men survived, so I figured I would, too, but not without a nightmare's worth of awful treatment and suffering. Well, thankfully, Dr. Mary and her able canine assistant Circe disagreed with my sense of doom, and said I just had a lingering sinusitis, causing some post nasal drip which irritated my throat. A three day course of antibiotics ought to get rid of it...allowing my thoughts to return to those of love, on Valentine's Day...
My Mom, gone nearly 4 years, was romantic -- she always remembered Valentine's Day, and made sure, as a boy, that I had my cards in order when I marched off to East Broadway Elementary School. So in later years, I always sent her flowers -- addressed to my first Valentine. After all, if a boy isn't loved and adored by his mother, he's set on a clear course for "Mommy Issues" which will haunt him and the women in his life forever and ever...
Probably about 15 years ago, Paul and I had settled a nice case in late January, and were feeling a bit jaunty, and so drove out to Wifey's flower company in Doral, on a mission of amor...We bought an entire box of Ecuadorian roses -- I think there were 12 dozen, and set about bringing them to the office, to be sorted and delivered. We were wearing our suits, and driving in my Jaguar, and we came upon a damsel in distress stuck with an overheated car. We stopped to help, and it turned out it was a local news reporter, trying to make it to her Doral TV station in time for the noon news. She climbed into the back and we drove her there. She was probably in her mid 40s, and found it hilarious that two well dressed, handsome men in a Jaguar had rescued her. She asked what we did for a living, and Paul responded that this was it -- we drove around dressed like this in search of ladies needing assistance. We dropped her at the station, and as she was leaving, I said "One moment more, ma'am." I went into the trunk and pulled out a dozen roses for her -- telling her that now she was free to go.
She was overwhelmed. Paul gave her a card and she ended up calling him for a date, but he refused. Back then, his dating market was markedly younger...so he politely begged off. I was bothered by this, figuring that the firm might get some nice publicity...but the romance of the affair was what counted.
Later that day, we set up an impromptu flower arranging center in our dining area, and then had Paul's man Lou come over, and deliver the flowers all over South Florida. Paul's Mom Lillian and my Mom Sunny were the first recipients, and they loved it! Ah, romance for the older ladies...
Today I'm listening to Sinatra, and looking forward to an evening out with Wifey. Our friend Loni is coming over late afternoon, and we will drive her to the Gables, where we'll meet her husband Mike for an early Valentine's dinner. We then have tickets to a chamber music concert at the Gables History Museum...Loni and Mike attended last year, and said it is lovely. Loni's Mom is coming along, too, as her husband tends to stay in their apartment these days.
So I plan to celebrate love, which, after all, is the foundation of life. And hopefully Wifey will still be my Valentine...
A few years ago my headaches were surely a tumor, until MRI studies showed otherwise -- burping was pancreatic cancer, which I defeated with an endoscopy that showed it was a touch of h. pylori. Higher back pain last year was surely kidney cancer, until a CT scan done by my friend Kenny showed it was nothing -- and not only that, but my heart vessels were surprisingly clear for a fat older guy.
And don't even let me get started about prostate cancer...
So I read that Michael Douglass had throat cancer which started off as a lingering sore throat, and closer to home, a beloved, now retired judge had it, too. Both men survived, so I figured I would, too, but not without a nightmare's worth of awful treatment and suffering. Well, thankfully, Dr. Mary and her able canine assistant Circe disagreed with my sense of doom, and said I just had a lingering sinusitis, causing some post nasal drip which irritated my throat. A three day course of antibiotics ought to get rid of it...allowing my thoughts to return to those of love, on Valentine's Day...
My Mom, gone nearly 4 years, was romantic -- she always remembered Valentine's Day, and made sure, as a boy, that I had my cards in order when I marched off to East Broadway Elementary School. So in later years, I always sent her flowers -- addressed to my first Valentine. After all, if a boy isn't loved and adored by his mother, he's set on a clear course for "Mommy Issues" which will haunt him and the women in his life forever and ever...
Probably about 15 years ago, Paul and I had settled a nice case in late January, and were feeling a bit jaunty, and so drove out to Wifey's flower company in Doral, on a mission of amor...We bought an entire box of Ecuadorian roses -- I think there were 12 dozen, and set about bringing them to the office, to be sorted and delivered. We were wearing our suits, and driving in my Jaguar, and we came upon a damsel in distress stuck with an overheated car. We stopped to help, and it turned out it was a local news reporter, trying to make it to her Doral TV station in time for the noon news. She climbed into the back and we drove her there. She was probably in her mid 40s, and found it hilarious that two well dressed, handsome men in a Jaguar had rescued her. She asked what we did for a living, and Paul responded that this was it -- we drove around dressed like this in search of ladies needing assistance. We dropped her at the station, and as she was leaving, I said "One moment more, ma'am." I went into the trunk and pulled out a dozen roses for her -- telling her that now she was free to go.
She was overwhelmed. Paul gave her a card and she ended up calling him for a date, but he refused. Back then, his dating market was markedly younger...so he politely begged off. I was bothered by this, figuring that the firm might get some nice publicity...but the romance of the affair was what counted.
Later that day, we set up an impromptu flower arranging center in our dining area, and then had Paul's man Lou come over, and deliver the flowers all over South Florida. Paul's Mom Lillian and my Mom Sunny were the first recipients, and they loved it! Ah, romance for the older ladies...
Today I'm listening to Sinatra, and looking forward to an evening out with Wifey. Our friend Loni is coming over late afternoon, and we will drive her to the Gables, where we'll meet her husband Mike for an early Valentine's dinner. We then have tickets to a chamber music concert at the Gables History Museum...Loni and Mike attended last year, and said it is lovely. Loni's Mom is coming along, too, as her husband tends to stay in their apartment these days.
So I plan to celebrate love, which, after all, is the foundation of life. And hopefully Wifey will still be my Valentine...
Sunday, February 12, 2017
A Lovely Encounter
So Wifey met D1 in the Grove for a family discounted nutrition consult, and I went to Mike's to watch our Canes battle Louisville. Great game, but the better Cardinals pulled it out late.
We met back at Villa Wifey, and Wifey suggested we enjoy the cool evening breeze and walk the animals. We took Bo the crippled Spaniel for a short walk, and then dropped him back home to take the strange rescue for a longer stroll.
We were walking down our 'hood's nicest street, one that winds and has amazing foliage, and a car waited for us to turn into her driveway. It was Dorothy, a nice widow we've met at meetings, but never really spoke with. She stopped, and we said hello, and then she asked us to come in and see her garden. I reminded her I had a beast with me, but she said that was ok.
Dorothy is from South Africa, and has a lilting, soft voice coupled with that lovely accent. We followed her into the house, and she took us out back -- indeed she had a lovely garden -- staghorn ferns and palms around a small and curvy pool. She said it was planted in the 80s by the terrifically named landscaper Raymond Jungles. I've heard of him -- I actually visited his orchid farm in the Redlands when I was searching for koi and cichlids to buy for my pond. Then we went in, and chatted.
Dorothy is the product of a Polish and German Jewish family who emigrated to South Africa after WW I, stopping on the way in Palestine. Her family has many famous rabbis, and there was a picture of an imposing fellow, all dressed in the Hasid way. It was her grandfather. Dorothy and her husband came to the US in 1978 -- fearing the changes coming in SA after the government changed. She and her husband were both fashion designers -- and he opened a factory in Hialeah, making zippers and mesh nets for industry.
They moved to Devonwood in 1983 -- buying a fixer upper with cedar roof shingles that needed a lot of work. Dorothy joked that they replaced the roof with cedar, and it failed again 10 years later -- cedar roofs need to dry out, which never happens in tropical Miami. She raised her kids here, and her husband died 15 years ago. Clearly the family business left her financially fine...
And then we noticed old maps -- lots of them. Turns out Dorothy collects them, and is also a famous colorist of old maps. She has a studio upstairs -- I'd noticed the skylight when walking past and wondered if an artist used that room -- and it's where Dorothy does her work.
Both Wifey and I loved speaking with her. Since Wifey's from Brooklyn, and the product of parents whose voices are not exactly, well, melodic, she has an appreciation for people who speak well and softly. I do, too, and listening to Dorothy was just lovely.
We walked home and reunited the dogs, and then sat outside to enjoy the glorious full moon -- the "Snow Moon" it's called, even though it was about 69 degrees. Wifey Googled Dorothy and then South Africa Jewry, and chatted away about Dorothy's profiles in Map Journals -- apparently she's something of a big deal in map collecting and coloring. Also, she was profiled in the Wall Street Journal in an article about Jews modernizing their Passover seders -- Dorothy is old school, and has them conducted in Hebrew, and they're long.
That's not surprising -- as Wifey read -- South African Jews tend to be pretty orthodox. We joked that we'd politely beg off if Dorothy ever invited us for Passover...
So -- another point in favor of staying in our delightful hood. Wifey has let up for now on the talk about moving -- she's willing to wait until we see if there are grandkids, and move near them. We both agree that if we are so blessed, we WILL see them several times a week -- like my in laws were with D1. It was sometimes ponderous, but also terrific knowing we had built in babysitters. And when we'd travel later on, when D2 joined the tribe, my in laws happily came from Pembroke Pines to stay with our girls. We hope to do the same.
But for now, I look forward to more lovely encounters. And maybe we'll have our sweet voiced neighbor over for some tea...
We met back at Villa Wifey, and Wifey suggested we enjoy the cool evening breeze and walk the animals. We took Bo the crippled Spaniel for a short walk, and then dropped him back home to take the strange rescue for a longer stroll.
We were walking down our 'hood's nicest street, one that winds and has amazing foliage, and a car waited for us to turn into her driveway. It was Dorothy, a nice widow we've met at meetings, but never really spoke with. She stopped, and we said hello, and then she asked us to come in and see her garden. I reminded her I had a beast with me, but she said that was ok.
Dorothy is from South Africa, and has a lilting, soft voice coupled with that lovely accent. We followed her into the house, and she took us out back -- indeed she had a lovely garden -- staghorn ferns and palms around a small and curvy pool. She said it was planted in the 80s by the terrifically named landscaper Raymond Jungles. I've heard of him -- I actually visited his orchid farm in the Redlands when I was searching for koi and cichlids to buy for my pond. Then we went in, and chatted.
Dorothy is the product of a Polish and German Jewish family who emigrated to South Africa after WW I, stopping on the way in Palestine. Her family has many famous rabbis, and there was a picture of an imposing fellow, all dressed in the Hasid way. It was her grandfather. Dorothy and her husband came to the US in 1978 -- fearing the changes coming in SA after the government changed. She and her husband were both fashion designers -- and he opened a factory in Hialeah, making zippers and mesh nets for industry.
They moved to Devonwood in 1983 -- buying a fixer upper with cedar roof shingles that needed a lot of work. Dorothy joked that they replaced the roof with cedar, and it failed again 10 years later -- cedar roofs need to dry out, which never happens in tropical Miami. She raised her kids here, and her husband died 15 years ago. Clearly the family business left her financially fine...
And then we noticed old maps -- lots of them. Turns out Dorothy collects them, and is also a famous colorist of old maps. She has a studio upstairs -- I'd noticed the skylight when walking past and wondered if an artist used that room -- and it's where Dorothy does her work.
Both Wifey and I loved speaking with her. Since Wifey's from Brooklyn, and the product of parents whose voices are not exactly, well, melodic, she has an appreciation for people who speak well and softly. I do, too, and listening to Dorothy was just lovely.
We walked home and reunited the dogs, and then sat outside to enjoy the glorious full moon -- the "Snow Moon" it's called, even though it was about 69 degrees. Wifey Googled Dorothy and then South Africa Jewry, and chatted away about Dorothy's profiles in Map Journals -- apparently she's something of a big deal in map collecting and coloring. Also, she was profiled in the Wall Street Journal in an article about Jews modernizing their Passover seders -- Dorothy is old school, and has them conducted in Hebrew, and they're long.
That's not surprising -- as Wifey read -- South African Jews tend to be pretty orthodox. We joked that we'd politely beg off if Dorothy ever invited us for Passover...
So -- another point in favor of staying in our delightful hood. Wifey has let up for now on the talk about moving -- she's willing to wait until we see if there are grandkids, and move near them. We both agree that if we are so blessed, we WILL see them several times a week -- like my in laws were with D1. It was sometimes ponderous, but also terrific knowing we had built in babysitters. And when we'd travel later on, when D2 joined the tribe, my in laws happily came from Pembroke Pines to stay with our girls. We hope to do the same.
But for now, I look forward to more lovely encounters. And maybe we'll have our sweet voiced neighbor over for some tea...
Saturday, February 11, 2017
Crime, Sort Of, in the Neighborhood
So it was a pretty full Friday for me. I drove the too small Caddy up to North Miami Beach for a business lunch with my partner Paul and a favorite old client, a fellow we've liked but never got to know well -- we did that yesterday. And then I drove back to Brickell and did some strategy on cases with Stuart and John -- 2017 is shaping up to be a decent year for us, work wise. The wheels of justice move slowly, often, but it's reassuring when they move at all...
Wifey had a girls' night out -- her friend Sheyl from Boston is in town, and always succeeds of getting her old Miami friends to meet. They had dinner at a Dadeland restaurant. I was left to my own devices...
My friend John was also free -- he had plans to leave early this am for a party in Ocala, and so we agreed to meet in the Grove, at Greenstreets. We had a few adult beverages and shared some food, and watched the beautiful full moon rise above the trees. We talked of life and law, and enjoyed the cooling temperatures.
I left for home, and when I got to the entrance to my 'hood, saw no fewer than 5 police cars, blue lights spinning -- both Pinecrest and FHP. I drove home via the alternate street entrance, and walked back to the scene. My neighbor Lori was there, too.
It seems Lori was in front of her house, away from her driveway gate, and she saw a van drive up, no headlights, and stop. A young, skinny white teen got out and started walking in, towards her house. She asked what the hell he was doing. "Oh -- you live here?" he asked. She repeated HER question, and the boy said they were "looking for contributions for their cause." Lori turned around and saw out FHP trooper was parked up the street, and she called him. The van left, headlights still off.
At that point, the trooper called for backup, which, in thankfully crime light Pinecrest, brought every single car in the Department, it seemed, and they stopped the van a few streets away.
Wifey came home after the commotion had ended, and since she's crime watch Chair, called the trooper to get the scoop. Turns out the kids told him the same tale, and gave them the number of their high school principal. The phalanx of cops called, and the principal said there HAD been a charity program, but it ended. So clearly the kids were using it as a ruse.
Still, none had warrants, and they hadn't committed a crime, and so, the Trooper said, they took their names and off they went. Wifey grilled the trooper -- surely the boys were up to no good, probably casing houses to break into, and the trooper said, essentially, there was no way to prove that.
So the security worked as it's supposed to, sort of. The troopers are supposed to challenge all unfamiliar cars, which they never do. Whenever I drive up, they never even look up from their computer screens. Each of the 82 houses in my 'hood now pay close to $3k per year for this protection, and it seems to me a waste. We could get 24 hour private security for less.
It'll never happen. We have a few 80 and 90 something widows who LOVE the FHP guys -- they help them carry in groceries, and act, essentially, as sons to them. So our security, such as it is, will remain.
The good news is that nothing really happened. In theory, having a marked FHP car is a deterrent. It wasn't for the would be burglars last night.
So Wifey will circulate an email, reminding people to keep their garage doors closed, and to report suspicious vehicles. The have nots will always want what the haves have.
I'm just happy this was a near miss, and not an actual break in.
Wifey had a girls' night out -- her friend Sheyl from Boston is in town, and always succeeds of getting her old Miami friends to meet. They had dinner at a Dadeland restaurant. I was left to my own devices...
My friend John was also free -- he had plans to leave early this am for a party in Ocala, and so we agreed to meet in the Grove, at Greenstreets. We had a few adult beverages and shared some food, and watched the beautiful full moon rise above the trees. We talked of life and law, and enjoyed the cooling temperatures.
I left for home, and when I got to the entrance to my 'hood, saw no fewer than 5 police cars, blue lights spinning -- both Pinecrest and FHP. I drove home via the alternate street entrance, and walked back to the scene. My neighbor Lori was there, too.
It seems Lori was in front of her house, away from her driveway gate, and she saw a van drive up, no headlights, and stop. A young, skinny white teen got out and started walking in, towards her house. She asked what the hell he was doing. "Oh -- you live here?" he asked. She repeated HER question, and the boy said they were "looking for contributions for their cause." Lori turned around and saw out FHP trooper was parked up the street, and she called him. The van left, headlights still off.
At that point, the trooper called for backup, which, in thankfully crime light Pinecrest, brought every single car in the Department, it seemed, and they stopped the van a few streets away.
Wifey came home after the commotion had ended, and since she's crime watch Chair, called the trooper to get the scoop. Turns out the kids told him the same tale, and gave them the number of their high school principal. The phalanx of cops called, and the principal said there HAD been a charity program, but it ended. So clearly the kids were using it as a ruse.
Still, none had warrants, and they hadn't committed a crime, and so, the Trooper said, they took their names and off they went. Wifey grilled the trooper -- surely the boys were up to no good, probably casing houses to break into, and the trooper said, essentially, there was no way to prove that.
So the security worked as it's supposed to, sort of. The troopers are supposed to challenge all unfamiliar cars, which they never do. Whenever I drive up, they never even look up from their computer screens. Each of the 82 houses in my 'hood now pay close to $3k per year for this protection, and it seems to me a waste. We could get 24 hour private security for less.
It'll never happen. We have a few 80 and 90 something widows who LOVE the FHP guys -- they help them carry in groceries, and act, essentially, as sons to them. So our security, such as it is, will remain.
The good news is that nothing really happened. In theory, having a marked FHP car is a deterrent. It wasn't for the would be burglars last night.
So Wifey will circulate an email, reminding people to keep their garage doors closed, and to report suspicious vehicles. The have nots will always want what the haves have.
I'm just happy this was a near miss, and not an actual break in.
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Be The Coffee Bean
As an only somewhat interested observer, I enjoy watching the trends on FaceBook (tm) involving Chabad rabbis, including two I consider good friends. Over the past few months, they've begun taking selfie videos, where they share sermons, or just some insights on life. Sometimes I watch them, and the other day Rabbi Yossi shared a tale that resonated with me.
He began by saying he was waiting to speak at a Miami Dade Police event, where he's a chaplain. He was wondering whether any of those gathered even listen to him -- few are Jewish, and cops tend to be personality types who can't be told ANYTHING. But then a major, a Cuban tough guy, turned to him and said "Rabbi --the coffee story -- I use it to train all of the men under my command. Thanks." Yossi then knew it WAS worthwhile to keep the post, and on video he told the tale.
A man came to see a wise teacher, and told him his life was empty. He was a financial failure, his family cared little for him, he doubted the existence of any plan -- what was the point of even living? The teacher took him into his kitchen and put three pots on the stove to boil. In one he placed carrots, the next eggs, and the third coffee beans. They watched as the three cooked for awhile, and then the teacher explained each.
The carrots had become soft, the eggs hard, and the coffee transformed the boiling water completely --into a valued and drinkable beverage. The message was that the challenges in life, as represented by the boiling water, can leave one soft, or hard, of, if one is like the coffee, can allow the world to truly be changed and impacted by the person. It was simple -- be the coffee bean.
The observation is apt. An old friend and I were chatting just the other day. He shares my theory that losers ALWAYS find ways to lose, and winners to often, though not always, win. But losers are superior in one thing -- finding new and creative ways to describe their losses. It's not really needed -- the message from the loser is often the same one uttered by the great Stooge Curly: "I'm just a victim of COICUMSTANCE!" The loser is never the coffee bean -- they're the carrot or the egg.
As I age, I have less patience for this. I used to think hearing tales of missed chances, and loss, was interesting, or insightful. Now it's ponderous. Tell me about the woman who WON lotto and started a charitable foundation. Not the tale about the guy who killed himself because he never won. Often that guy never even bought a ticket.
A dear friend of mine always shares tales of misery and woe. I finally asked him, the other day, whether he has any stories of victory and joy. He said those are boring -- just look at the newspapers. The front page never features the ghetto kid who gets into Harvard -- it features the ghetto kid who gets shot by mistake because the killer was aiming at his bad older brother.
My Mom understood this. About 5 years after she was widowed, she discontinued the daily paper. We ALWAYS got the paper, and it annoyed me when I came to visit, as I was used to reading the news. No, she explained -- she was going to shut out the tales of sadness and loss -- the bulk of each day's news. She wanted to stay happy and upbeat, which she did to the end of her 93 years.
So the boiling water will come. And of course it will harden me, or weaken me, but at heart I wish to remain the coffee bean. Preferably a gourmet one -- like they sell at Panther Coffee...
He began by saying he was waiting to speak at a Miami Dade Police event, where he's a chaplain. He was wondering whether any of those gathered even listen to him -- few are Jewish, and cops tend to be personality types who can't be told ANYTHING. But then a major, a Cuban tough guy, turned to him and said "Rabbi --the coffee story -- I use it to train all of the men under my command. Thanks." Yossi then knew it WAS worthwhile to keep the post, and on video he told the tale.
A man came to see a wise teacher, and told him his life was empty. He was a financial failure, his family cared little for him, he doubted the existence of any plan -- what was the point of even living? The teacher took him into his kitchen and put three pots on the stove to boil. In one he placed carrots, the next eggs, and the third coffee beans. They watched as the three cooked for awhile, and then the teacher explained each.
The carrots had become soft, the eggs hard, and the coffee transformed the boiling water completely --into a valued and drinkable beverage. The message was that the challenges in life, as represented by the boiling water, can leave one soft, or hard, of, if one is like the coffee, can allow the world to truly be changed and impacted by the person. It was simple -- be the coffee bean.
The observation is apt. An old friend and I were chatting just the other day. He shares my theory that losers ALWAYS find ways to lose, and winners to often, though not always, win. But losers are superior in one thing -- finding new and creative ways to describe their losses. It's not really needed -- the message from the loser is often the same one uttered by the great Stooge Curly: "I'm just a victim of COICUMSTANCE!" The loser is never the coffee bean -- they're the carrot or the egg.
As I age, I have less patience for this. I used to think hearing tales of missed chances, and loss, was interesting, or insightful. Now it's ponderous. Tell me about the woman who WON lotto and started a charitable foundation. Not the tale about the guy who killed himself because he never won. Often that guy never even bought a ticket.
A dear friend of mine always shares tales of misery and woe. I finally asked him, the other day, whether he has any stories of victory and joy. He said those are boring -- just look at the newspapers. The front page never features the ghetto kid who gets into Harvard -- it features the ghetto kid who gets shot by mistake because the killer was aiming at his bad older brother.
My Mom understood this. About 5 years after she was widowed, she discontinued the daily paper. We ALWAYS got the paper, and it annoyed me when I came to visit, as I was used to reading the news. No, she explained -- she was going to shut out the tales of sadness and loss -- the bulk of each day's news. She wanted to stay happy and upbeat, which she did to the end of her 93 years.
So the boiling water will come. And of course it will harden me, or weaken me, but at heart I wish to remain the coffee bean. Preferably a gourmet one -- like they sell at Panther Coffee...
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Professional Favors
My default personality setting is that of a nice and helpful guy. When someone asks for a favor, I tend to agree. As I age, this has changed.
An exception is young people. I was fortunate to have excellent mentors in life, beginning with my father. As a young lawyer, one man in particular, my friend Mike's father Ed, truly took me under his wing and taught me invaluable lessons about being a lawyer. Chief among these is the fact that he taught me about martinis...
To honor his memory, whenever one of the Ds'friends needs advice, or a referral for a job, or recommendation for the Bar, I always comply. Sometimes the young person gets it, and thanks me. Often they don't -- just assuming that older lawyers are there to serve at their pleasure. The ones who show gratitude tend to soar. Those who don't often stay in mediocrity. I could graph this relationship...
Yesterday one of the young associates of another lawyer asked my advice. She was handling a nasty matter for her brother, whose wife had committed a felony, and left their business exposed to a major PI case. The lawyer's boss, a shoot from the hip fellow, directed the young lawyer down a path that he thought was simple -- but had the sense to have her speak to me first. I pointed out that, had she taken the path suggested by her boss, a nightmare could easily have resulted for the firm, including Bar charges...The senior lawyer came in today and started crowing about a new case he had. I reminded him he meant to publicly thank me first. He sheepishly did...
Then, today, another young lawyer called from court to ask I do a MAJOR favor by asking a friend in law enforcement to assist him in a case. No, I answered -- the case was too small, and there was no real upside.
People who ought to know better don't often appreciate how significant favors are. I rarely ask them, and when I do, understand what they mean -- particularly in law.
My mentors taught me that representing clients is a serious business. When an opposing lawyer asks for a favor in handling a case -- that's fine -- but you have to ask what there will be for your client in return. Gratuitously allowing the other side favors without getting something in return is the mark of an amateur. It happens all too often.
My mentor Ed gave me a lead for my second job as a lawyer. Wifey and I were struggling financially at the time, but I made sure to take Ed and Joyce, his wife, to a very nice dinner. A year later, Ed gave me another lead for a job -- for a firm owned by his friend, and a place I learned how to make real money as a lawyer.
Four years later, I brought in a case that turned out to be a whopper. Ed shared in the fee, since he did all the firm's trial support. When the case ended, I asked my boss if I could deliver the co counsel check to my mentor. It was substantial -- in excess of $200K. My boss said that was fine.
I remember it like yesterday -- I appeared in his office in the Concord Building on Flagler Street, envelope in hand. I again thanked him for getting me the job, and saying I was happy it worked out all around -- I could now return the favor. I handed him the check, and he looked at the amount. He got teary eyed -- the amount was nice, but Ed was already a pretty wealthy guy. The protege rewarding the mentor was so sweet -- things coming full circle.
We went to Sally Russell's Restaurant, and sat at his reserved table. He ordered us a couple of martinis ('this freaking big") and we toasted.
Favors are significant things...
An exception is young people. I was fortunate to have excellent mentors in life, beginning with my father. As a young lawyer, one man in particular, my friend Mike's father Ed, truly took me under his wing and taught me invaluable lessons about being a lawyer. Chief among these is the fact that he taught me about martinis...
To honor his memory, whenever one of the Ds'friends needs advice, or a referral for a job, or recommendation for the Bar, I always comply. Sometimes the young person gets it, and thanks me. Often they don't -- just assuming that older lawyers are there to serve at their pleasure. The ones who show gratitude tend to soar. Those who don't often stay in mediocrity. I could graph this relationship...
Yesterday one of the young associates of another lawyer asked my advice. She was handling a nasty matter for her brother, whose wife had committed a felony, and left their business exposed to a major PI case. The lawyer's boss, a shoot from the hip fellow, directed the young lawyer down a path that he thought was simple -- but had the sense to have her speak to me first. I pointed out that, had she taken the path suggested by her boss, a nightmare could easily have resulted for the firm, including Bar charges...The senior lawyer came in today and started crowing about a new case he had. I reminded him he meant to publicly thank me first. He sheepishly did...
Then, today, another young lawyer called from court to ask I do a MAJOR favor by asking a friend in law enforcement to assist him in a case. No, I answered -- the case was too small, and there was no real upside.
People who ought to know better don't often appreciate how significant favors are. I rarely ask them, and when I do, understand what they mean -- particularly in law.
My mentors taught me that representing clients is a serious business. When an opposing lawyer asks for a favor in handling a case -- that's fine -- but you have to ask what there will be for your client in return. Gratuitously allowing the other side favors without getting something in return is the mark of an amateur. It happens all too often.
My mentor Ed gave me a lead for my second job as a lawyer. Wifey and I were struggling financially at the time, but I made sure to take Ed and Joyce, his wife, to a very nice dinner. A year later, Ed gave me another lead for a job -- for a firm owned by his friend, and a place I learned how to make real money as a lawyer.
Four years later, I brought in a case that turned out to be a whopper. Ed shared in the fee, since he did all the firm's trial support. When the case ended, I asked my boss if I could deliver the co counsel check to my mentor. It was substantial -- in excess of $200K. My boss said that was fine.
I remember it like yesterday -- I appeared in his office in the Concord Building on Flagler Street, envelope in hand. I again thanked him for getting me the job, and saying I was happy it worked out all around -- I could now return the favor. I handed him the check, and he looked at the amount. He got teary eyed -- the amount was nice, but Ed was already a pretty wealthy guy. The protege rewarding the mentor was so sweet -- things coming full circle.
We went to Sally Russell's Restaurant, and sat at his reserved table. He ordered us a couple of martinis ('this freaking big") and we toasted.
Favors are significant things...
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
The Heat is Backv
Well, so much for our lovely, cooler Miami winter weather. Today and tomorrow record or near record heat is upon us. I guess it's an occupational hazard of living in the tropics.
So all is well in the 305. We're just sort of planning to coast through the Spring and Summer, as we near D1's Big Fat Colombian wedding. She's done most of the preparation already, with the assistance of two fine young planners, who gave her a very fair price.
Since D1 was compelled to be a bride's maid a few times too many, she has dispensed with that whole part of the wedding scene. Only her sister will be her "bridal party," and she's also avoiding the whole shower thing. This is just as well -- Wifey ABHORS bridal and baby showers -- after attending about 10 over the years, she wonders how many silly games the hostesses can come up with.
D1 is planning a get together in April for some close friends and their dogs -- it's apparently called a Barklarette party. I admire her dogged independence...
Wifey's leg is getting better. I came home from the office early today to see her at her usual spot outside -- cleaning up the beds. The strange rescue dog and the spoiled Spaniel were with her -- the rescue was whining at her new friend -- Ernie the tortoise. Out next door neighbors bought him, and the thing is downright FRIENDLY...he comes over and makes funny turtle grunts at Wifey, and the rescue dog wants to get through the fence to hang with him, too. Ernie is a pleasant new addition to the hood.
We have to fight the tendency to act old, though. I saw that the Pretenders are playing Miami Beach in March. I asked Wifey if she wanted to go -- she really digs them, as I do. But the show starts at 9 on a school night -- so Wifey is reluctant. She doesn't need to wake up early the next day, or anything, but still...this is now up for discussion...
I saw Chrissis Hynde being interviewed recently, and she was still in fine voice. When I was in high school, the Pretenders were big -- and I never saw them. I guess now is the time -- before they end up playing gigs in nursing homes.
The other Heat, our NBA team, is making an improbable playoff run. They've won 11 straight. It's nice to follow, but I won't be making the same mistake I made last year -- paying my office roommate an exorbitant premium for his tickets in order to see a playoff game. I was willingly ripped off by the guy, and to this day I can't stand him. Plus, he's proven to be one of the cheapest dudes I've ever been around -- we've all paid for lunch at one time or another -- except him. That's ok --he can see any playoff games this year all by himself...
So back to the weather type of Heat. Cooler temps are due back -- I look forward to evenings with my fire pit. For now, though, that would be silly...
So all is well in the 305. We're just sort of planning to coast through the Spring and Summer, as we near D1's Big Fat Colombian wedding. She's done most of the preparation already, with the assistance of two fine young planners, who gave her a very fair price.
Since D1 was compelled to be a bride's maid a few times too many, she has dispensed with that whole part of the wedding scene. Only her sister will be her "bridal party," and she's also avoiding the whole shower thing. This is just as well -- Wifey ABHORS bridal and baby showers -- after attending about 10 over the years, she wonders how many silly games the hostesses can come up with.
D1 is planning a get together in April for some close friends and their dogs -- it's apparently called a Barklarette party. I admire her dogged independence...
Wifey's leg is getting better. I came home from the office early today to see her at her usual spot outside -- cleaning up the beds. The strange rescue dog and the spoiled Spaniel were with her -- the rescue was whining at her new friend -- Ernie the tortoise. Out next door neighbors bought him, and the thing is downright FRIENDLY...he comes over and makes funny turtle grunts at Wifey, and the rescue dog wants to get through the fence to hang with him, too. Ernie is a pleasant new addition to the hood.
We have to fight the tendency to act old, though. I saw that the Pretenders are playing Miami Beach in March. I asked Wifey if she wanted to go -- she really digs them, as I do. But the show starts at 9 on a school night -- so Wifey is reluctant. She doesn't need to wake up early the next day, or anything, but still...this is now up for discussion...
I saw Chrissis Hynde being interviewed recently, and she was still in fine voice. When I was in high school, the Pretenders were big -- and I never saw them. I guess now is the time -- before they end up playing gigs in nursing homes.
The other Heat, our NBA team, is making an improbable playoff run. They've won 11 straight. It's nice to follow, but I won't be making the same mistake I made last year -- paying my office roommate an exorbitant premium for his tickets in order to see a playoff game. I was willingly ripped off by the guy, and to this day I can't stand him. Plus, he's proven to be one of the cheapest dudes I've ever been around -- we've all paid for lunch at one time or another -- except him. That's ok --he can see any playoff games this year all by himself...
So back to the weather type of Heat. Cooler temps are due back -- I look forward to evenings with my fire pit. For now, though, that would be silly...
Monday, February 6, 2017
25 and Awesome to be Alive
So Wifey had to sit this one out, on account of some sciatica, but drove me to MIA and then made another trip to fetch Edna, who flew to town to keep her company. I met D1 and we had a great breakfast at the lounge, and then were off to LGA.
We landed, and it was cold. Like real cold. D1 was none too happy, but I realized that as I get older and fatter, I sort of like the change. I mean, I prefer cool, but cold doesn't really bother me, even after nearly 4 decades of being a tropical guy. We walked around, got a bite to eat, and then waited for D2 -- the reason for this season. She met us at the hotel, and it was a sweet reunion. First up -- Dad's pick for steak.
We ubered to Pietro's, the last of the Mad Men era non chain steak places in Midtown. I dug the place right away -- old school, no nonsense. D1 asked for some mint in her cocktail, and the waiter, who looked like he had ridden the subway for 40 years, smirked and said "Nah -- not here." I had a NY strip and a couple of martinis, and the three of us talked of life, and jobs. We made it an early night.
Friday D2 took a rare personal day from work. We went to SoHo and met D1's old friend Sidney -- a young lady she met through her buddy Nicole. Sidney comes from a HUGELY wealthy old NY rich family -- Mom's side owns a lot of Manhattan real estate, but Sidney is down to earth and lovely. She's getting a MBA at NYU. We ate at Sadelle's, and had awesome lox and bagels. We then walked around the 'hood, and the ladies found a pop up Italian shoe store. It had a most comfortable Dad/Husband couch, and I happily sat and watched them pick out shoes.
That evening the eating continued -- a sushi place on the Upper East Side, D1 had read about. But before we stopped at a tavern called Whitman and Bloom to meet D2's bud Ben, who was hosting his mom Julie and Julie's Kiwi friend Helen. After a few, we then ubered to the Japanese place. We met Paul and Patricia there, and finally got to see Jonathan. We had the best sushi any of us had ever had, and tore through 5 bottles of saki -- even D1 got a bit buzzed. Jonathan filled us in on the latest in high finance -- Paul is an investing junkie and enjoyed the talk quite a bit. D2 beamed.
Saturday Jonathan took a rare day off, and we Ubered to the Meatpacking District. It was clear and bitter cold. We went to the new Whitney Museum, and ducked in to the cafe. The wait was 30 minutes, so we gave our names, and then went to buy tickets. D2 got two free passes for being a Macy's exec. After we bought the tickets, we realized we had unwittingly cut a 100 person line waiting outside. Oh well -- no one smacked us.
We ate, and Jonathan noticed tennis great John Mcenroe sitting right behind me. I'm not a tennis guy, but briefly thought about asking if he was Jimmy Connors. I didn't.
We loved the museum -- Jasper Johns, Andy Warhol, a great film exhibit. It was packed but we saw the whole place. We headed back to Murray Hill to await the night's next meal.
It was decided that just drinking at the restaurant wasn't enough, so we met Paul, Patricia, Tracy and Jon, and Grant and I met first at the Whitman tavern.
I rarely cry. Paul cries a lot lately. Before I knew it, the two of us were at it like two Italian widows -- crying from the happiness of being with our kids, and celebrating. The two of us are the luckiest law partners I know, and we expressed it at the tavern.
From there, we went to Sammy's, and they ushered us to a second floor room I didn't know existed. We ate, and danced, and drank 6 bottles of vodka (I over did it, but D1 escorted me safely home), and had an evening to remember. D2 proclaimed it a 25th birthday party for the ages, and it was.
Sunday am D1 was shocked to see I wasn't in worse shape from the excess of ETOH, but I explained that having a protective layer of belly fat is sometimes a good thing. Alas -- poor Jonathan hadn't fared as well. D1 met her sorority buddy Jamie for coffee, and D2, Jonathan, and I walked to Ess-a bagel near Stuy Town. Poor Jonathan nearly didn't make it, and when he sat at a table while we ordered, two girls next to him said "Man -- you look like shit." Alas, the bagel and coffee revived him, and we walked back to the apartment, where we caught up with Jamie, a Gainesville native now living in the West Village and working, following a 2 year TFA gig, for the NY City Board of Ed.
We said our goodbyes, and D1 and I headed back to LGA, and had a lovely flight home. Wifey and Edna fetched us, and I drove D1 to her apartment.
We came home and caught some of the Super Bowl -- I fell asleep before Tom Brady led a historic overtime win. I've watched football long enough to see it coming after the Falcons collapsed in the 4th quarter.
All in all, it was a banner weekend. My baby D is now a quarter century old. We celebrated in style, and in a LOT of food and drinking. Viva D2!
We landed, and it was cold. Like real cold. D1 was none too happy, but I realized that as I get older and fatter, I sort of like the change. I mean, I prefer cool, but cold doesn't really bother me, even after nearly 4 decades of being a tropical guy. We walked around, got a bite to eat, and then waited for D2 -- the reason for this season. She met us at the hotel, and it was a sweet reunion. First up -- Dad's pick for steak.
We ubered to Pietro's, the last of the Mad Men era non chain steak places in Midtown. I dug the place right away -- old school, no nonsense. D1 asked for some mint in her cocktail, and the waiter, who looked like he had ridden the subway for 40 years, smirked and said "Nah -- not here." I had a NY strip and a couple of martinis, and the three of us talked of life, and jobs. We made it an early night.
Friday D2 took a rare personal day from work. We went to SoHo and met D1's old friend Sidney -- a young lady she met through her buddy Nicole. Sidney comes from a HUGELY wealthy old NY rich family -- Mom's side owns a lot of Manhattan real estate, but Sidney is down to earth and lovely. She's getting a MBA at NYU. We ate at Sadelle's, and had awesome lox and bagels. We then walked around the 'hood, and the ladies found a pop up Italian shoe store. It had a most comfortable Dad/Husband couch, and I happily sat and watched them pick out shoes.
That evening the eating continued -- a sushi place on the Upper East Side, D1 had read about. But before we stopped at a tavern called Whitman and Bloom to meet D2's bud Ben, who was hosting his mom Julie and Julie's Kiwi friend Helen. After a few, we then ubered to the Japanese place. We met Paul and Patricia there, and finally got to see Jonathan. We had the best sushi any of us had ever had, and tore through 5 bottles of saki -- even D1 got a bit buzzed. Jonathan filled us in on the latest in high finance -- Paul is an investing junkie and enjoyed the talk quite a bit. D2 beamed.
Saturday Jonathan took a rare day off, and we Ubered to the Meatpacking District. It was clear and bitter cold. We went to the new Whitney Museum, and ducked in to the cafe. The wait was 30 minutes, so we gave our names, and then went to buy tickets. D2 got two free passes for being a Macy's exec. After we bought the tickets, we realized we had unwittingly cut a 100 person line waiting outside. Oh well -- no one smacked us.
We ate, and Jonathan noticed tennis great John Mcenroe sitting right behind me. I'm not a tennis guy, but briefly thought about asking if he was Jimmy Connors. I didn't.
We loved the museum -- Jasper Johns, Andy Warhol, a great film exhibit. It was packed but we saw the whole place. We headed back to Murray Hill to await the night's next meal.
It was decided that just drinking at the restaurant wasn't enough, so we met Paul, Patricia, Tracy and Jon, and Grant and I met first at the Whitman tavern.
I rarely cry. Paul cries a lot lately. Before I knew it, the two of us were at it like two Italian widows -- crying from the happiness of being with our kids, and celebrating. The two of us are the luckiest law partners I know, and we expressed it at the tavern.
From there, we went to Sammy's, and they ushered us to a second floor room I didn't know existed. We ate, and danced, and drank 6 bottles of vodka (I over did it, but D1 escorted me safely home), and had an evening to remember. D2 proclaimed it a 25th birthday party for the ages, and it was.
Sunday am D1 was shocked to see I wasn't in worse shape from the excess of ETOH, but I explained that having a protective layer of belly fat is sometimes a good thing. Alas -- poor Jonathan hadn't fared as well. D1 met her sorority buddy Jamie for coffee, and D2, Jonathan, and I walked to Ess-a bagel near Stuy Town. Poor Jonathan nearly didn't make it, and when he sat at a table while we ordered, two girls next to him said "Man -- you look like shit." Alas, the bagel and coffee revived him, and we walked back to the apartment, where we caught up with Jamie, a Gainesville native now living in the West Village and working, following a 2 year TFA gig, for the NY City Board of Ed.
We said our goodbyes, and D1 and I headed back to LGA, and had a lovely flight home. Wifey and Edna fetched us, and I drove D1 to her apartment.
We came home and caught some of the Super Bowl -- I fell asleep before Tom Brady led a historic overtime win. I've watched football long enough to see it coming after the Falcons collapsed in the 4th quarter.
All in all, it was a banner weekend. My baby D is now a quarter century old. We celebrated in style, and in a LOT of food and drinking. Viva D2!
Thursday, February 2, 2017
Headed to The City
It's funny -- growing up on LI, we never said "Manhattan," but rather "The City." Even folks in the 4 outer boroughs called Manhattan that. Later, I learned that Philly folks called it that, too -- referring to their own town, they used directional words, like "Center City," or "The Northeast," or "South Philly." The last is the Italian part of the City of Brotherly Shove, and a place I had one of the most memorable lunches, bought by a local mob boss, of my life...but that's another tale.
D2 turns 25 tomorrow, and we're planning a big birthday weekend. She actually took a day off from work, something the reluctant workaholic has never done in her tenure in retail, and we're going to play tourist -- maybe seeing the new World Trade site, with its observation deck and "Oculus" train station -- maybe the Whitney -- maybe NYC Botanic Garden. But we're doing it without my baby mama -- Wifey.
Poor Wifey. She's had two very difficult periods during our marriage -- I call them the intifadehs, after the tough times Israelis have versus the Palestinians. Hopefully a Third intifadeh is not beginning -- but she hurt her hip -- maybe gardening -- and has some pain in it. Our very careful doctor told her she wouldn't recommend non essential travel -- better to rest the hip and leg -- and so last night Wifey called AA and learned she can get back $400 of the $600 First Class ticket I bought for her -- and maybe with a doctor's note they'll refund the entire amount. Now she had a project to do.
But on the bright side, her BFF Edna was running a bit late in visiting her parents in the nursing home, and now will come today to spend the weekend with her sister of another mister -- so Wifey, while missing The City festivities, will manage just fine.
So I plan to meet D1 at MIA in a few hours, and jet up to LaGuardia, and check into our go-to hotel near D2's Murray Hill (or Kip's Bay, depending on who you ask) apartment. Tonight we're headed to Pietro's for dinner. I read about them in the Times -- the last remaining 44th Street, Mad Men era steakhouse that remains, if you don't count The Palm, which has become a chain.
The big event is Saturday night, at Sammy's Romanian. A bit of Stoli in ice blocks and chopped liver prepared tableside may just be consumed...
The good news for this newly minted weekend single Dad is that my brother Paul will be in the City -- he's there for his grandson's birthday, and is staying, with his lovely fiancee, for the Saturday night party. I think it may be possible to pry him away for a few hours of maybe listening to Blues music, which we both love...
But D2 is the Reason for This Season, and I can't wait to see her. D1 already found her gift -- some kind of designer purse, whose name I can never recall. D2 fetched it a few weeks past and loves it.
And so we mark the time. It's funny -- for many years, I used to think that celebrating birthdays, other than a child's, or maybe a Bar and Bat Mitzvah, was a tad narcissistic, and silly. But then my Rabbi friend Yossi set me straight.
He pointed out that I am NOT an ungrateful man -- in fact, he said, I show more gratitude for each day than just about anyone he knows. I credit this to my Dad's short life -- a lesson I learned as I was just a young man. Anyway, Yossi said, each year is a gift from the Big Man, and when we fail to mark it, and celebrate it, we're showing ingratitude to the Big Man, or, if you don't believe in Him, ingratitude to whomever or whatever you believe gave you life.
His lesson resonated with me, and now I DO celebrate. And since the Ds' lives are even more precious to me than my own -- well, failing to properly celebrate THEIR birthdays is even a worse act of ingratitude.
So off to The City we go today --loud sirens, smells, and all. There's no place on earth I'd rather travel to , and for no better reason.
D2 turns 25 tomorrow, and we're planning a big birthday weekend. She actually took a day off from work, something the reluctant workaholic has never done in her tenure in retail, and we're going to play tourist -- maybe seeing the new World Trade site, with its observation deck and "Oculus" train station -- maybe the Whitney -- maybe NYC Botanic Garden. But we're doing it without my baby mama -- Wifey.
Poor Wifey. She's had two very difficult periods during our marriage -- I call them the intifadehs, after the tough times Israelis have versus the Palestinians. Hopefully a Third intifadeh is not beginning -- but she hurt her hip -- maybe gardening -- and has some pain in it. Our very careful doctor told her she wouldn't recommend non essential travel -- better to rest the hip and leg -- and so last night Wifey called AA and learned she can get back $400 of the $600 First Class ticket I bought for her -- and maybe with a doctor's note they'll refund the entire amount. Now she had a project to do.
But on the bright side, her BFF Edna was running a bit late in visiting her parents in the nursing home, and now will come today to spend the weekend with her sister of another mister -- so Wifey, while missing The City festivities, will manage just fine.
So I plan to meet D1 at MIA in a few hours, and jet up to LaGuardia, and check into our go-to hotel near D2's Murray Hill (or Kip's Bay, depending on who you ask) apartment. Tonight we're headed to Pietro's for dinner. I read about them in the Times -- the last remaining 44th Street, Mad Men era steakhouse that remains, if you don't count The Palm, which has become a chain.
The big event is Saturday night, at Sammy's Romanian. A bit of Stoli in ice blocks and chopped liver prepared tableside may just be consumed...
The good news for this newly minted weekend single Dad is that my brother Paul will be in the City -- he's there for his grandson's birthday, and is staying, with his lovely fiancee, for the Saturday night party. I think it may be possible to pry him away for a few hours of maybe listening to Blues music, which we both love...
But D2 is the Reason for This Season, and I can't wait to see her. D1 already found her gift -- some kind of designer purse, whose name I can never recall. D2 fetched it a few weeks past and loves it.
And so we mark the time. It's funny -- for many years, I used to think that celebrating birthdays, other than a child's, or maybe a Bar and Bat Mitzvah, was a tad narcissistic, and silly. But then my Rabbi friend Yossi set me straight.
He pointed out that I am NOT an ungrateful man -- in fact, he said, I show more gratitude for each day than just about anyone he knows. I credit this to my Dad's short life -- a lesson I learned as I was just a young man. Anyway, Yossi said, each year is a gift from the Big Man, and when we fail to mark it, and celebrate it, we're showing ingratitude to the Big Man, or, if you don't believe in Him, ingratitude to whomever or whatever you believe gave you life.
His lesson resonated with me, and now I DO celebrate. And since the Ds' lives are even more precious to me than my own -- well, failing to properly celebrate THEIR birthdays is even a worse act of ingratitude.
So off to The City we go today --loud sirens, smells, and all. There's no place on earth I'd rather travel to , and for no better reason.
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