As I've said many times, the worst quality of life problem in living in South Florida is the traffic. When I first moved here, in 1979, it was crime -- especially in the Cocaine Cowboy days of the 80s, and the crack fueled 90s. Now, crime is mostly an inner city problem, with the occasional purse snatching for a woman who ventures too close to the edge of the gentrifying neighborhoods. But the traffic is bad.
How bad? Last Fall, Wifey and I were invited to a break the fast at my brother Paul's sister's house in East Lauderdale. With zero accidents, it took us a full 2.5 hours to drive from our house in Pinecrest to theirs near Pinecrest School. Traffic is so bad I rarely find something worth even venturing outside of the 305 -- exceptions are Panther games with my brother Norman, the occasional concert at the Indian reservation, or the once in awhile party thrown by my brother and sister Eric and Dana. Other than that, I tend to stick close to home.
Yesterday my sister got a VIP, early appointment to see a UHealth specialist, courtesy of Dr. Barry. This specialist was seeing patients in June; Barry got her in within the week. So she called, and asked if we might meet Downtown for dinner, lest she and my brother in law get stuck in awful rush hour traffic. We could, of course.
I got called up to Broward to go over some litigation papers with a client referred by a friend up in that bedroom community. So I took the little girlie Caddy, which is acting up by the way -- shifting from regular auto mode to manual, and then refusing to leave first gear. I'm taking her in this am -- hopefully they'll give me a loaner SUV like last time, which I enjoy driving more, anyway.
Anyway, as I was leaving Cooper City, named for Miami Beach developer Irv Cooper -- few residents know this -- my sister called to tell me she had seen the doc, and might be there awhile. No problem, I said, I'd head back to the office instead of home, and await her arrival. I simply pointed the girlie Caddy East, down the Gratigny, instead of South, down the Palmetto. And I was going against traffic.
I arrived back to shocked partners Vince and Stu, around 5. I NEVER come back to the office that late anymore, but I explained I was awaiting dinner with the sibs...My brother in law called, and said they wanted dinner at home -- the day had tired them out, and they were just heading back to Hypoluxo. I hope by now, 14 hours later, they finally made it, but when I read that a plane had landed on I-75 near their route, I'm still not sure.
Well, plan B. I sure wasn't going to get on the road at 5. Luckily, Vince, Stu, and I got a bit of strategy done on a case, and then Vince left. Stu and I retired to the office bar, and poured ourselves a Tito's and a Makers. And then we chatted, and both talked about an old friend of ours, just past a nasty divorce. We decided to call her.
It was the correct move. For the next 45 minutes, as we sipped out adult beverages, we solved all the world's problems with our friend, a woman who for years happily took the role of little sister to our legal fraternity. We traded tales from the heady days of the mid 90s -- they were both single, and we were in our 30s, and young, and strong.
We talked of kids -- she and Stu have 4 adolescents between them -- my kids are grown -- and she asked my secret to raising awesome kids in this complicated world -- I told her the secret was Wifey.
Anyway, it was delightful. On the way home, she texted me -- thanking me and Stu for really being a bright spot in her week, as well as the rough patch she's been traveling through. We made plans to meet, in person, next week, when her daughters are with their Dad...
I came home and Wifey and I went for a late dinner -- healthy-ish salads -- and she brought me up to date on matters suegra -- her continuing saga. We came home and watched a great documentary from three years ago: "Dressing America -- the History of the Garment Center" about, essentially, my family starting with my paternal grandfather, who was a pattern maker, and my Dad, who used to push dress carts through the streets, before Japan and its aggression changed his life course, on that day that lives in Infamy...
So sometimes changed plans are for the better -- leading to encounters that are treasured.
As for the traffic, well, after I pick up my loaner, I plan to stop for breakfast at the Emporium, across from the U. After I finish, I might have a chance at a quick glide up to Brickell.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Too Short of Too Long
As I sit at the computer this morning, listening to the happy sound of the little special needs Spaniel happily crunching his morning kibble, I put on some Amy Winehouse. Wow. What a once in a generation talent -- and cut far too short, dead at 27.
It occurs to me that the math holds, about peoples' life spans. People rarely leave in a Goldilocks manner -- just right. Often they go far too long, or too short. Of course, my Rabbi friend would correct me -- the Big Man takes us at JUST the right time. I don't know...
We're dealing with the immense hassle of my mother in law these days. She's 92 and seemingly staying on this mortal coil for quite a bit longer -- the better to torture Wifey, her only child. Wifey has the Sisyphean task of trying to make the old woman happy. Ha. As if.
Yesterday we began the process of selling and cleaning out the condo where we housed the suegra for the last year. After my father in law died, suddenly the condo where she lived in Pembroke Pines was to terrible a place for her. She demanded out, but not to assisted living. So we booted our nearly 10 year tenant Lenny, a happy go lucky bachelor who would have stayed there forever, and Wifey had the place painted and decorated it -- for the long haul. I knew there'd be no long haul.
So now, a year later, I'm taking down all the pictures I hung, and carrying out all the crap I helped carry in. A friend took the bedroom set last night -- her brother left his wife and is moving in with her, and the set was a clutch find for her. She asked what we wanted for it -- free to a good home, we replied.
Wifey correctly points out that I'm a Negative Nancy -- I foresee her mother being a new kind of miserable in the ALF. We'll see, I guess. But the point is, as the old bird gets older and meaner, well, you know...
I just re read the awesome final words of a college hero of mine -- Hunter S Thompson. I loved his writing, and his modern, Hemingway-like life -- drugs and hookers instead of African big game. He wrote that 50 years is all any true man should hope to live. By 50, you ought to have done it all -- and after that, it's just a decline into less vitality, and into decrepitude.
He was 67 and wrote he was WELL past the sell by date. He was in chronic pain from hip surgery. Not too much was fun, anymore, even though he had made cool new buddies like Johnny Depp, who played him in a movie. So Thompson wrote he had been "greedy" living so long past 50, and put his shotgun into his mouth. Johnny Depp paid for his going out party -- they erected a tall tower, mixed Thompson's cremains (a terrific word) with gunpowder, and shot him into the sky with powerful fireworks, as Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky" played.
I hope to make it well past 67 -- hopefully the coming joy of grandkids, if I'm so blessed, is something I look most forward to. Plus, the Canes are getting real good again -- maybe another championship or so is in the cards.
As for today, I have a roofer coming early, to patch up the first leak in our 20 year old house (I think it's from a dryer vent), and then I'll head to the office. And the day, and life, will unfold.
The "27 Club" is tragic -- great musicians, like Joplin, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse -- all gone far too soon. And then there are those far too long -- well past most anything worthwhile...
The Big Man will decide, for all of us...
It occurs to me that the math holds, about peoples' life spans. People rarely leave in a Goldilocks manner -- just right. Often they go far too long, or too short. Of course, my Rabbi friend would correct me -- the Big Man takes us at JUST the right time. I don't know...
We're dealing with the immense hassle of my mother in law these days. She's 92 and seemingly staying on this mortal coil for quite a bit longer -- the better to torture Wifey, her only child. Wifey has the Sisyphean task of trying to make the old woman happy. Ha. As if.
Yesterday we began the process of selling and cleaning out the condo where we housed the suegra for the last year. After my father in law died, suddenly the condo where she lived in Pembroke Pines was to terrible a place for her. She demanded out, but not to assisted living. So we booted our nearly 10 year tenant Lenny, a happy go lucky bachelor who would have stayed there forever, and Wifey had the place painted and decorated it -- for the long haul. I knew there'd be no long haul.
So now, a year later, I'm taking down all the pictures I hung, and carrying out all the crap I helped carry in. A friend took the bedroom set last night -- her brother left his wife and is moving in with her, and the set was a clutch find for her. She asked what we wanted for it -- free to a good home, we replied.
Wifey correctly points out that I'm a Negative Nancy -- I foresee her mother being a new kind of miserable in the ALF. We'll see, I guess. But the point is, as the old bird gets older and meaner, well, you know...
I just re read the awesome final words of a college hero of mine -- Hunter S Thompson. I loved his writing, and his modern, Hemingway-like life -- drugs and hookers instead of African big game. He wrote that 50 years is all any true man should hope to live. By 50, you ought to have done it all -- and after that, it's just a decline into less vitality, and into decrepitude.
He was 67 and wrote he was WELL past the sell by date. He was in chronic pain from hip surgery. Not too much was fun, anymore, even though he had made cool new buddies like Johnny Depp, who played him in a movie. So Thompson wrote he had been "greedy" living so long past 50, and put his shotgun into his mouth. Johnny Depp paid for his going out party -- they erected a tall tower, mixed Thompson's cremains (a terrific word) with gunpowder, and shot him into the sky with powerful fireworks, as Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky" played.
I hope to make it well past 67 -- hopefully the coming joy of grandkids, if I'm so blessed, is something I look most forward to. Plus, the Canes are getting real good again -- maybe another championship or so is in the cards.
As for today, I have a roofer coming early, to patch up the first leak in our 20 year old house (I think it's from a dryer vent), and then I'll head to the office. And the day, and life, will unfold.
The "27 Club" is tragic -- great musicians, like Joplin, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse -- all gone far too soon. And then there are those far too long -- well past most anything worthwhile...
The Big Man will decide, for all of us...
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Getting out of Real Estate
Most of the people I know who have made BIG money in Miami have done so with real estate. Often their grandparents bought land when it was strawberry fields and sold to developers who turned the fields into malls. Alas, my in laws were given that opportunity when they moved here in 1972.
A group of the Holocaust Survivor "Card Players"(my father in law was careful to tell me he never considered them "friends") each came up with savings of about 15K, and decided to pool their money to buy land off Kendall Drive which is now near the Florida Turnpike Extension. My father in law, may he rest in peace, was always a man who thought he knew more than the average bear. To him, in 1972, Miami was already over built", and the future lay in Cocoa Beach, where the Space Program was going to turn that area into the next big thing. So the rest of the card players went ahead with their purchase, and my father in law bought two lots, for $10 K each, in Cocoa.
Twenty years hence, the rest of the group sold to a developer. Their $10K investments became about $600K. My father in law asked me to help him sell his lots. We did -- for $12K each. Alas, the Space Coast became full of, well, space...along with a lot of trailer parks. Kendall became Kendall. That was that.
I can't really criticize my in laws' real estate investing prowess, though, as I did a dumb thing, too: I listened to my friend Vince who has been as good with money as a drunken sailor. He convinced me we had to grab a condo conversion lest our kids be priced out of Miami real estate after they went to college, and I bought a unit I knew was worth at most $100K for $235K.
Yesterday we listed it for sale -- for $149.9. The unit DID house my mother in law for nearly a year -- so there's that. But we've decided it's time for us to exit the real estate business -- after we sell, the only thing we'll own is our house.
We already arranged to give away most of the furniture -- my mother in law's bedroom set ought to be hauled away today, and the suegra's aide is taking a lot of her things.
Wifey thought she wanted her parents' break front, but Edna convinced her it's not her style, so Wifey is going to try to sell it at a consignment shop.
The unit is priced to sell fast, and hopefully it will. The fewer properties you have to worry about during Hurricane season, to my opinion, the better.
As for future investments, well, as I told my partner Paul, I will look for experiential" opportunities. First up, the Big, Fat, Colombian Wedding we're throwing in September. That investment won't generate dollar returns, but it ought to be very rich in the memory department.
A group of the Holocaust Survivor "Card Players"(my father in law was careful to tell me he never considered them "friends") each came up with savings of about 15K, and decided to pool their money to buy land off Kendall Drive which is now near the Florida Turnpike Extension. My father in law, may he rest in peace, was always a man who thought he knew more than the average bear. To him, in 1972, Miami was already over built", and the future lay in Cocoa Beach, where the Space Program was going to turn that area into the next big thing. So the rest of the card players went ahead with their purchase, and my father in law bought two lots, for $10 K each, in Cocoa.
Twenty years hence, the rest of the group sold to a developer. Their $10K investments became about $600K. My father in law asked me to help him sell his lots. We did -- for $12K each. Alas, the Space Coast became full of, well, space...along with a lot of trailer parks. Kendall became Kendall. That was that.
I can't really criticize my in laws' real estate investing prowess, though, as I did a dumb thing, too: I listened to my friend Vince who has been as good with money as a drunken sailor. He convinced me we had to grab a condo conversion lest our kids be priced out of Miami real estate after they went to college, and I bought a unit I knew was worth at most $100K for $235K.
Yesterday we listed it for sale -- for $149.9. The unit DID house my mother in law for nearly a year -- so there's that. But we've decided it's time for us to exit the real estate business -- after we sell, the only thing we'll own is our house.
We already arranged to give away most of the furniture -- my mother in law's bedroom set ought to be hauled away today, and the suegra's aide is taking a lot of her things.
Wifey thought she wanted her parents' break front, but Edna convinced her it's not her style, so Wifey is going to try to sell it at a consignment shop.
The unit is priced to sell fast, and hopefully it will. The fewer properties you have to worry about during Hurricane season, to my opinion, the better.
As for future investments, well, as I told my partner Paul, I will look for experiential" opportunities. First up, the Big, Fat, Colombian Wedding we're throwing in September. That investment won't generate dollar returns, but it ought to be very rich in the memory department.
Sunday, March 26, 2017
Movin' Out
Ah, caring for aging and failing parents, a chapter missing from the adult manual they gave to all of us in college. My friends and I used to spend hours in wonderful BS sessions -- talking about the world, and learning, and careers, and the women we might someday marry. But in our early 20s, the thought of caring for the ELDERS never entered into the discussions.
Well, my beloved Dad took himself out of the analysis, dropping dead at 63 before there was anything to do about caring for him as a truly elderly man. My Mom stayed mostly independent until she was 89, and then limped along for three more years, steadfastly refusing to leave her condo, spending hours cleaning up her own "accidents," and keeping her sunny demeanor until the end. Finally, after a fall landed her in Delray Hospital, my dear friend and brother Eric said she was starving -- her albumin levels were consistent with someone not eating enough. So it was "no more monkeys jumping on the bed," and I moved her to Miami Jewish, where she had a pleasant and foggy final 11 months, and actually had a profound effect on my friend Mirta -- sharing her wonderful outlook with someone who tended to the Eyeore...
Next came Richard, my father in law, also fine and independent until Alzheimer's crept in and we took away his car keys. He and my mother in law limped along, too, until his urine incontinence and sheer size called out for a life change: Wifey convinced him to go to Miami Jewish, too, based on not being a burden to his beloved wife. Big, strapping Richard got three and a half more years, content to watch TV in his accidentally private room, and have twice weekly visits from his wife and us. The final months were sad, of course, as he was in and out of Mt. Sinai, but he'd amazingly rally like a dolphin surfacing for more air, until the end came in January, 2016.
Once he died, my mother in law's DREAM -- a condo she manipulated us into buying her "on the vater" where she never looked out at the "vater" had become a too sad place for her. She would never go to a "home" where "de animals" would be in charge of her care (meaning the Caribbean staff at Miami Jewish), and so Wifey and I booted out our regular rent paying tenant Lenny, and renovated a condo we own in Palmetto Bay.
Wifey made it a showplace for her mother, and her mother appreciated it hardly at all. Wifey is an only child, and my suegra simply ASSUMES Wifey will provide and care for her. Wifey found an awesome aide, Gloria, who came to love the old crow. And the old crow complained and complained about every dollar paid to Gloria -- "Vy she gets paid to just sit and vatch TV?"
The familiar pattern of falls began -- and there was a final one where Rachel laid in the bathroom like a turtle on its back for hours until discovered the next am by Gloria. This freaked her out --"VORSE than de camps" according to this Holocaust Survivor, and we knew it was time for my mother in law to go to Assisted Living.
So she went from Baptist Hospital where she got IV antibiotics for a leg infection, now cleared, to the Palace Rehab, in West Kendall, and sometime this week will be moved to a shared room in the Palace ALF. It's funny -- my Mom had visited the Palace years ago, with her friend Rose, and pronounced it "too fancy and swanky" for her. So now my mother in law, less, oh, Audrey Hepburn-like than my Mom, by a factor of 100, gets to move there.
Last night Wifey and I visited her. She's "bored." She's also, all of a sudden, losing her short term memory -- she re told an anecdote about the Polish word for "palace" three times. The move won't go smoothly. Rachel is deaf, and used to Wifey and me and her private aid taking the time to type out everything we need to tell her. I don't think a fellow cranky roommate or staff at the ALF is going to do that, and my mother in law will go into full victim mode again.
I predict she's going to be more miserable old with people she feels don't like her than she was miserable alone with an aide who really DID like her -- but so it shall be.
Meanwhile, Wifey and I stopped by the condo last night and started to pack her stuff. I meet tomorrow with Joyce, our long time realtor. Back in '92, my in laws had listed their Kendale South house with Joyce, and along came Hurricane Andrew. We decided to buy the house, and I asked Joyce if she'd let them out of the contract. She agreed right away and cheerfully.
Joyce is probably now near 70, originally from Kentucky, and one of these awesome Jew-philic Evangelical Christians -- more Zionist than many of my liberal Jewish friends. She's been to Israel many times, and is a big admirer of our friends the Chabad family -- Joyce found them for us as tenants back in '96.
Joyce got the listings to sell two of our houses, and found me all of our tenants. By foregoing what would have been a $5000 commission, tops, in '92, she's earned over $50K in commissions from us over the years. It's a great lesson in doing the right thing for a client and having it come back to you many times over.
Anyway -- we'll list the unit with Joyce, and hope to get maybe $150K for it. I paid $235K in '06. But my CPA friend Mark made me feel better -- I was able to depreciate the unit while it was a rental property, so for tax purposes -- so its "cost basis" is now down to $158K, or so. So the loss isn't as stark.
And, it DID buy us nearly a full year of peace with my mother in law -- a stepping stone to what will hopefully be her final home while still among the living.
Yes, caring for these three 90 somethings wasn't in the manual. But it IS in the bigger manual -- the Ten Commandments, as my brother Paul points out. The one about "Honor Thy Parents" is even a Top 5 Commandment! So we've done it, and will do it, for, like the WW II draft notices read, "the duration."
Well, my beloved Dad took himself out of the analysis, dropping dead at 63 before there was anything to do about caring for him as a truly elderly man. My Mom stayed mostly independent until she was 89, and then limped along for three more years, steadfastly refusing to leave her condo, spending hours cleaning up her own "accidents," and keeping her sunny demeanor until the end. Finally, after a fall landed her in Delray Hospital, my dear friend and brother Eric said she was starving -- her albumin levels were consistent with someone not eating enough. So it was "no more monkeys jumping on the bed," and I moved her to Miami Jewish, where she had a pleasant and foggy final 11 months, and actually had a profound effect on my friend Mirta -- sharing her wonderful outlook with someone who tended to the Eyeore...
Next came Richard, my father in law, also fine and independent until Alzheimer's crept in and we took away his car keys. He and my mother in law limped along, too, until his urine incontinence and sheer size called out for a life change: Wifey convinced him to go to Miami Jewish, too, based on not being a burden to his beloved wife. Big, strapping Richard got three and a half more years, content to watch TV in his accidentally private room, and have twice weekly visits from his wife and us. The final months were sad, of course, as he was in and out of Mt. Sinai, but he'd amazingly rally like a dolphin surfacing for more air, until the end came in January, 2016.
Once he died, my mother in law's DREAM -- a condo she manipulated us into buying her "on the vater" where she never looked out at the "vater" had become a too sad place for her. She would never go to a "home" where "de animals" would be in charge of her care (meaning the Caribbean staff at Miami Jewish), and so Wifey and I booted out our regular rent paying tenant Lenny, and renovated a condo we own in Palmetto Bay.
Wifey made it a showplace for her mother, and her mother appreciated it hardly at all. Wifey is an only child, and my suegra simply ASSUMES Wifey will provide and care for her. Wifey found an awesome aide, Gloria, who came to love the old crow. And the old crow complained and complained about every dollar paid to Gloria -- "Vy she gets paid to just sit and vatch TV?"
The familiar pattern of falls began -- and there was a final one where Rachel laid in the bathroom like a turtle on its back for hours until discovered the next am by Gloria. This freaked her out --"VORSE than de camps" according to this Holocaust Survivor, and we knew it was time for my mother in law to go to Assisted Living.
So she went from Baptist Hospital where she got IV antibiotics for a leg infection, now cleared, to the Palace Rehab, in West Kendall, and sometime this week will be moved to a shared room in the Palace ALF. It's funny -- my Mom had visited the Palace years ago, with her friend Rose, and pronounced it "too fancy and swanky" for her. So now my mother in law, less, oh, Audrey Hepburn-like than my Mom, by a factor of 100, gets to move there.
Last night Wifey and I visited her. She's "bored." She's also, all of a sudden, losing her short term memory -- she re told an anecdote about the Polish word for "palace" three times. The move won't go smoothly. Rachel is deaf, and used to Wifey and me and her private aid taking the time to type out everything we need to tell her. I don't think a fellow cranky roommate or staff at the ALF is going to do that, and my mother in law will go into full victim mode again.
I predict she's going to be more miserable old with people she feels don't like her than she was miserable alone with an aide who really DID like her -- but so it shall be.
Meanwhile, Wifey and I stopped by the condo last night and started to pack her stuff. I meet tomorrow with Joyce, our long time realtor. Back in '92, my in laws had listed their Kendale South house with Joyce, and along came Hurricane Andrew. We decided to buy the house, and I asked Joyce if she'd let them out of the contract. She agreed right away and cheerfully.
Joyce is probably now near 70, originally from Kentucky, and one of these awesome Jew-philic Evangelical Christians -- more Zionist than many of my liberal Jewish friends. She's been to Israel many times, and is a big admirer of our friends the Chabad family -- Joyce found them for us as tenants back in '96.
Joyce got the listings to sell two of our houses, and found me all of our tenants. By foregoing what would have been a $5000 commission, tops, in '92, she's earned over $50K in commissions from us over the years. It's a great lesson in doing the right thing for a client and having it come back to you many times over.
Anyway -- we'll list the unit with Joyce, and hope to get maybe $150K for it. I paid $235K in '06. But my CPA friend Mark made me feel better -- I was able to depreciate the unit while it was a rental property, so for tax purposes -- so its "cost basis" is now down to $158K, or so. So the loss isn't as stark.
And, it DID buy us nearly a full year of peace with my mother in law -- a stepping stone to what will hopefully be her final home while still among the living.
Yes, caring for these three 90 somethings wasn't in the manual. But it IS in the bigger manual -- the Ten Commandments, as my brother Paul points out. The one about "Honor Thy Parents" is even a Top 5 Commandment! So we've done it, and will do it, for, like the WW II draft notices read, "the duration."
Friday, March 24, 2017
Sleep Wasn't In the Cards
So after a great gourmet meal with Mirta, my sista of another mista, I headed home. He ate at Chef Adrianne's, the only gourmet place in West Kendall. They've been open 10 years, and I've heard about it, but last night was our first visit, and it was fine. Adrienne had worked at French Laundry in Napa, and her food was terrific. She also wasn't shy about charging Coral Gables prices even though the restaurant is on SW 147 Ave -- East Naples, as we call it.
I fell into a deep sleep, as the wind and rain pounded outside, and then at about 1 am our alarm went off. I fell out of bed as Wifey slept on like a dead woman, and shut off the alarm (happy I could remember the code, as we never use the thing) and then answered the phone from central station. The happy attendant said a smoke alarm from our south detector has activated -- was everything ok? I didn't smell smoke, so I said it was, but figured I'd better make sure the two dogs weren't roasting.
All seemed well, but there was a puddle of water near the door leading to the pool. As I toweled it up, I was dripped on -- sure enough, from the smoke detector. There had been a roof leak, and the water found its was to the holes I had drilled to mount the detector. I took the thing down, and water poured out. I put a bucket there, and went outside to look.
Sure enough, above the leak area, there is a dryer vent. I'm not handy but I AM good at diagnosing home breaks -- I concluded that, at 20 years old, the caulking around the vent must have cracked, allowing the leak, which found its was through the ceiling into the mounted detector. Hopefully it'll be a $500 repair -- supposedly clay barrel tile roofs last forever, grossly. I guess I'll see.
So I went back to bed, and tried to fall asleep, but heard a faint, loud whine, almost like my mother in law was calling me from another dimension. I closed the windows thinking it was the across the street neighbor's water alarm -- they have a rare Miami basement, and when the sump pumps kick in (we probably had 2 inches of rain during the early am storm), it emits a whine.
No -- the closed windows didn't help -- the whine was coming, like the classic horror tale, from INSIDE THE HOUSE! I came back downstairs, and sure enough, the now dismounted detector was chirping, to remind me I had taken it down. I de batteried it, and it shut up.
I fell back asleep around 4, and then got a call at 7. I got up again, and went downstairs. The dogs had decided to reward me -- two turds and a pee to clean up.
Wifey, of course, slept happily through all of this.
She helpfully added "NOW do you think it's time to move???" No, I told her, I'm about to invest in a roof repair to go along with the thousands of dollars she's spending on landscaping -- I ain't going nowhere.
I could use a nice nap, though...
I fell into a deep sleep, as the wind and rain pounded outside, and then at about 1 am our alarm went off. I fell out of bed as Wifey slept on like a dead woman, and shut off the alarm (happy I could remember the code, as we never use the thing) and then answered the phone from central station. The happy attendant said a smoke alarm from our south detector has activated -- was everything ok? I didn't smell smoke, so I said it was, but figured I'd better make sure the two dogs weren't roasting.
All seemed well, but there was a puddle of water near the door leading to the pool. As I toweled it up, I was dripped on -- sure enough, from the smoke detector. There had been a roof leak, and the water found its was to the holes I had drilled to mount the detector. I took the thing down, and water poured out. I put a bucket there, and went outside to look.
Sure enough, above the leak area, there is a dryer vent. I'm not handy but I AM good at diagnosing home breaks -- I concluded that, at 20 years old, the caulking around the vent must have cracked, allowing the leak, which found its was through the ceiling into the mounted detector. Hopefully it'll be a $500 repair -- supposedly clay barrel tile roofs last forever, grossly. I guess I'll see.
So I went back to bed, and tried to fall asleep, but heard a faint, loud whine, almost like my mother in law was calling me from another dimension. I closed the windows thinking it was the across the street neighbor's water alarm -- they have a rare Miami basement, and when the sump pumps kick in (we probably had 2 inches of rain during the early am storm), it emits a whine.
No -- the closed windows didn't help -- the whine was coming, like the classic horror tale, from INSIDE THE HOUSE! I came back downstairs, and sure enough, the now dismounted detector was chirping, to remind me I had taken it down. I de batteried it, and it shut up.
I fell back asleep around 4, and then got a call at 7. I got up again, and went downstairs. The dogs had decided to reward me -- two turds and a pee to clean up.
Wifey, of course, slept happily through all of this.
She helpfully added "NOW do you think it's time to move???" No, I told her, I'm about to invest in a roof repair to go along with the thousands of dollars she's spending on landscaping -- I ain't going nowhere.
I could use a nice nap, though...
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Da Noive of Some Advice Seekers
So the last two weeks brought two seekers of my expertise, such as it is, and both were pains in the tuches.
Last week, a young man whose mother I know was arrested upstate, and the entire affair was shown on the news. He called, as did his mother (he's a tender child of 35 or so) and I sent them to a lawyer I know in Orlando whose nickname is "Little Ear"on account of the fact that he has one normal sized and one small ear. Little Ear took on the case, giving the charged man a discount since he came from me. Done with that one, or so I thought.
The young fellow than send a lengthy text, asking for more advice, but really he wasn't. He just wished me to know how unfair everything was, and how he was targeted and prosecuted and tormented for no reason. I shared with him the advice I have given my Ds since they were about 4: in fact, life ISN'T fair. Really? The grown man, who in fact doesn't look too innocent on the news video I saw, needs to hear that from me?
The second came from an old acquaintance at the bank -- asking me for advice about divorce lawyers. I agreed to meet her after work, to share who I thought was good, and who wasn't. She canceled the meeting last week, and then insisted we meet this week instead.
Yesterday came, and around three I was done with justice for the day, but I hung around -- I had promised the young banker I would meet after the bank closed. Around 4 -- no word -- so I emailed asking if we were still on. No -- ïn a meeting"-- how about another day? Nah.
I'm a crochety old guy, but two cancels is the limit for me -- particularly if the meeting won't be in some way to my benefit. The young banker can consult others in her quest for a referral -- this dude ain't waiting around no more...
I'm extremely sensitive about wasting others' time. I can be as selfish as anyone, but not at the expense of other people. If I make an appointment, I keep it, assuming no hell or high water.
I last asked a favor of a neighbor who is an ENT doc -- to check on a sore throat that just wouldn't go away. The fellow, Brian, emailed he would see me before his regular office hours. I brought him a couple of bottles of a nice red wine I get from Leon's Liquors -- he appreciated the gesture. How could I not?
The Ds have learned this lesson well. Anyone referring clients to D1 is made to feel very glad they did. When D2 left her last job, she properly thanked her boss for the experience she had been given.
My Ds never want anyone to say about them "Da noive!
Last week, a young man whose mother I know was arrested upstate, and the entire affair was shown on the news. He called, as did his mother (he's a tender child of 35 or so) and I sent them to a lawyer I know in Orlando whose nickname is "Little Ear"on account of the fact that he has one normal sized and one small ear. Little Ear took on the case, giving the charged man a discount since he came from me. Done with that one, or so I thought.
The young fellow than send a lengthy text, asking for more advice, but really he wasn't. He just wished me to know how unfair everything was, and how he was targeted and prosecuted and tormented for no reason. I shared with him the advice I have given my Ds since they were about 4: in fact, life ISN'T fair. Really? The grown man, who in fact doesn't look too innocent on the news video I saw, needs to hear that from me?
The second came from an old acquaintance at the bank -- asking me for advice about divorce lawyers. I agreed to meet her after work, to share who I thought was good, and who wasn't. She canceled the meeting last week, and then insisted we meet this week instead.
Yesterday came, and around three I was done with justice for the day, but I hung around -- I had promised the young banker I would meet after the bank closed. Around 4 -- no word -- so I emailed asking if we were still on. No -- ïn a meeting"-- how about another day? Nah.
I'm a crochety old guy, but two cancels is the limit for me -- particularly if the meeting won't be in some way to my benefit. The young banker can consult others in her quest for a referral -- this dude ain't waiting around no more...
I'm extremely sensitive about wasting others' time. I can be as selfish as anyone, but not at the expense of other people. If I make an appointment, I keep it, assuming no hell or high water.
I last asked a favor of a neighbor who is an ENT doc -- to check on a sore throat that just wouldn't go away. The fellow, Brian, emailed he would see me before his regular office hours. I brought him a couple of bottles of a nice red wine I get from Leon's Liquors -- he appreciated the gesture. How could I not?
The Ds have learned this lesson well. Anyone referring clients to D1 is made to feel very glad they did. When D2 left her last job, she properly thanked her boss for the experience she had been given.
My Ds never want anyone to say about them "Da noive!
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
In My Mind I'm Going Back to Seaford
A combination of things gifted me with the loveliest of dreams last night. I went back in time -- 40 years, to a pleasant and not too meaningful night of my youth, or yout, as Cousin Vinnie would say.
I guess it was the recent trip to NY, and maybe the cool breezes coming through our bedroom windows, that made the setting more Long Island and less Miami. The Benadryl probably didn't hurt, either, and as I give it some thought, I now recall that earlier in the night, when I met Pat and John at Trulucks for an adult beverage, the music playing in the background was from the 70s...
All I know is, I awoke at a most acceptable time of 6:30 (these days, if I can get up after 4 am it's a great night's sleep), and I didn't know where I was. I was, of course, emerging from this dream, not one of deep significance, but oh so delightful.
It must have been 1976 or so. My gang consisted of Eric, Mark, Mike, Gerry, and John. We had all been buddies since kindergarten, and we attended MacArthur High in Levittown. We had happy adolescences, or so I thought at the time. As the years went by, I would learn about cruelty and dysfunction, but at the time we were all content kids. Mark had shoulder length blonde hair and looked like Peter Frampton. Gerry was the philosopher. Mike was the athlete, although he had taken a much greater attraction to weed than the fields. Eric was the electronics whiz and the most clumsy around girls. John was the only one whose parents were college educated, and he rebelled -- getting lousy grades, but would eventually come around, get a couple of Masters degrees and end up a national expert on Iraq. I was the charming, funny, chameleon -- happy to be with this group, but also reaching out to the nerdier, college bound kids. But that night none of this mattered.
Mark and I had been at our local mall -- Sunrise, in Massapequa. We met exotic girls -- from another high school, Seaford, which was from a far richer 'hood than Levittown. I truly have no memory of these girls, except that they invited us to a party that Friday at one of their houses. We accepted -- all of us.
I think it was an early Spring night, probably cool outside. We walked -- it was probably about 4 or 5 miles. And the house WAS nicer and bigger than any of ours -- as I recall, close up to Seaford High. There were other kids there -- all long haired, and wearing Levis. EVERYONE wore Levis. The girls had long, straight hair parted in the middle.
I'm sure there was beer, and probably Southern Comfort, for some reason the booze available to teens on Long Island. And weed, too, in bongs.
But what I remember most was the music -- two albums the girls played over and over: Aerosmith's "Toys in the Attic," a compilation of their greatest hits, and Steve Miller's "Fly Like an Eagle."
I recall Gerry and John and I having an amateur discussion about the music -- John said that with Aerosmith we finally had "our American Zeppelin." It's funny he was already concerned about nations -- he ended up working for the CIA. Gerry said he wanted to become like Steve Miller, because he had read somewhere, probably "Rolling Stone," that Miller was rich and managed his money in very un rockstar ways.
But what I remember most about the night, brought to me, happily, in last night's dream, was the freedom. I had only one person to worry about -- me. No kids, or wife, or aging, failing parents. No business partners...just me. Who was I? What was in my heart and soul? How would I get girls? Where would I go to college, and to study what? These were the only responsibilities -- and it was exquisite.
So I thank my subconscious for last night's excursion -- back across more than 4 decades -- and back past all the people I have met and become a part of me, from Long Island, to Miami, and all points in between.
Dream on. Dream on. Dream until your dreams come true...
I guess it was the recent trip to NY, and maybe the cool breezes coming through our bedroom windows, that made the setting more Long Island and less Miami. The Benadryl probably didn't hurt, either, and as I give it some thought, I now recall that earlier in the night, when I met Pat and John at Trulucks for an adult beverage, the music playing in the background was from the 70s...
All I know is, I awoke at a most acceptable time of 6:30 (these days, if I can get up after 4 am it's a great night's sleep), and I didn't know where I was. I was, of course, emerging from this dream, not one of deep significance, but oh so delightful.
It must have been 1976 or so. My gang consisted of Eric, Mark, Mike, Gerry, and John. We had all been buddies since kindergarten, and we attended MacArthur High in Levittown. We had happy adolescences, or so I thought at the time. As the years went by, I would learn about cruelty and dysfunction, but at the time we were all content kids. Mark had shoulder length blonde hair and looked like Peter Frampton. Gerry was the philosopher. Mike was the athlete, although he had taken a much greater attraction to weed than the fields. Eric was the electronics whiz and the most clumsy around girls. John was the only one whose parents were college educated, and he rebelled -- getting lousy grades, but would eventually come around, get a couple of Masters degrees and end up a national expert on Iraq. I was the charming, funny, chameleon -- happy to be with this group, but also reaching out to the nerdier, college bound kids. But that night none of this mattered.
Mark and I had been at our local mall -- Sunrise, in Massapequa. We met exotic girls -- from another high school, Seaford, which was from a far richer 'hood than Levittown. I truly have no memory of these girls, except that they invited us to a party that Friday at one of their houses. We accepted -- all of us.
I think it was an early Spring night, probably cool outside. We walked -- it was probably about 4 or 5 miles. And the house WAS nicer and bigger than any of ours -- as I recall, close up to Seaford High. There were other kids there -- all long haired, and wearing Levis. EVERYONE wore Levis. The girls had long, straight hair parted in the middle.
I'm sure there was beer, and probably Southern Comfort, for some reason the booze available to teens on Long Island. And weed, too, in bongs.
But what I remember most was the music -- two albums the girls played over and over: Aerosmith's "Toys in the Attic," a compilation of their greatest hits, and Steve Miller's "Fly Like an Eagle."
I recall Gerry and John and I having an amateur discussion about the music -- John said that with Aerosmith we finally had "our American Zeppelin." It's funny he was already concerned about nations -- he ended up working for the CIA. Gerry said he wanted to become like Steve Miller, because he had read somewhere, probably "Rolling Stone," that Miller was rich and managed his money in very un rockstar ways.
But what I remember most about the night, brought to me, happily, in last night's dream, was the freedom. I had only one person to worry about -- me. No kids, or wife, or aging, failing parents. No business partners...just me. Who was I? What was in my heart and soul? How would I get girls? Where would I go to college, and to study what? These were the only responsibilities -- and it was exquisite.
So I thank my subconscious for last night's excursion -- back across more than 4 decades -- and back past all the people I have met and become a part of me, from Long Island, to Miami, and all points in between.
Dream on. Dream on. Dream until your dreams come true...
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
That Ain't Workin'--That's The Way You Do It
I have an old acquaintance who's a lawyer -- almost 10 years older than I am. He never really made it financially -- he's had what we call a "door law"practice, where he took anything that came through his door. He tried to become a judge several times, but never had the political juice to get too far, and the one time he ran for office, he picked a beloved incumbent and lost big. Still, he made a living, married and his wife had two kids, now grown, and then he divorced her. He always had, interestingly, an almost regal air -- he dressed sharp, and carried himself like someone who DID make lots of money. But he lived in a small townhouse, and lived, other than his clothes, frugally.
His kids inherited some of his qualities -- they are hippie-like, and seem to look down on material success. Wifey and I run into them occasionally -- one dropped out of college and is now trying to make it as a musician in a western college town, and the other is underemployed. Both claim they can't live in Miami, since everything here is too shallow and only about the money. I hear that a lot from folks who don't make it here financially -- the same criticism I hear about NYC...
But the dude scored. Big. He became the boyfriend, and, he hopes, will become the husband, or a RICH lady. Her ex is a master of the universe -- hit it huge in business -- and she also has grown kids.
I see my old acquaintance on FaceBook now -- traveling the world, staying in first class places -- living the life! And I think to myself -- good for him.
Whenever I'm asked the best way to become well off, I always answer the same: be born that way. Then you don't have to dirty your hands acquiring the money, or working at the wheel to get it. That wasn't in the cards for me.
When Wifey and I married, my net worth was NEGATIVE $25K, thanks to loans I took out to pay for law school. Wifey had saved about $9000 in her IRA. My late and dear Mom had gifted each of her three kids $10,000 -- she was living large off high interest rates, and decided to start making her estate smaller. Wifey and I took $8600 of that gift and used it as the 10% down payment of our first house. Little by little, we built our nest egg -- always saving and living below our means.
When I started with my third job, I was making $45K per year, and Wifey quit her higher paying job to raise D1. She thought she'd go back to work after a three month maternity leave, but simply couldn't leave her precious little girl. I agreed. Around that time, I was summoned to lunch by my old friend Scott's firm -- I had referred an insurance dispute case to him. The case generated a $40K fee, and I was given $10K. I was floored -- a bonus equal to nearly a quarter of my yearly salary. Wifey and I spent about $1K of it -- I think we splurged on taking D1 to Disney, and actually stayed at an on campus hotel -- and I banked the rest. Even back then, that was more important to us than upgrading our two aging Mazdas...
The year D2 was born things really took off for us. I brought in a huge case to the firm -- a "mortgage lifter,"as the term went, and also that year a tropical cyclone called Andrew coupled with absurdly liberal insurance payments turned our crap into money, and left us in a very different financial place. I was also able to pay off my student loans -- something I thought would take another 10 years or so. We were lucky -- but I worked my ample tuches off for the following 20 years.
But not my acquaintance. He never put in crazy hours, or aggressively hustled for business. He'd make his living, and leave at 5 pm most nights.
So I guess the addendum to my advice about being born rich is...or, marry well. I explored with Wifey the idea of my finding a rich wife. She told me I already had one. But then I thought about the words of Chris Rock -- rich versus wealthy. As he said, Shaq is rich -- the guy who owns the team he plays for is WEALTHY.
So maybe I need a WEALTHY wife. I'm getting tired of picking up tabs, and paying for stuff like the upcoming big, fat, Colombian wedding. If I met the right lonely and WEALTHY divorcee or widow -- I could sit on a charitable board and give money away. Instead of having morning coffee on the porch of my big house, I could have the coffee on the porch of a HUGE one -- and one on Biscayne Bay.
Nah -- ain't happening.
So I admire my old acquaintance and wish him well. His version of the great "Fiddler "song is If I had a rich wife."
That's the way you do it...
His kids inherited some of his qualities -- they are hippie-like, and seem to look down on material success. Wifey and I run into them occasionally -- one dropped out of college and is now trying to make it as a musician in a western college town, and the other is underemployed. Both claim they can't live in Miami, since everything here is too shallow and only about the money. I hear that a lot from folks who don't make it here financially -- the same criticism I hear about NYC...
But the dude scored. Big. He became the boyfriend, and, he hopes, will become the husband, or a RICH lady. Her ex is a master of the universe -- hit it huge in business -- and she also has grown kids.
I see my old acquaintance on FaceBook now -- traveling the world, staying in first class places -- living the life! And I think to myself -- good for him.
Whenever I'm asked the best way to become well off, I always answer the same: be born that way. Then you don't have to dirty your hands acquiring the money, or working at the wheel to get it. That wasn't in the cards for me.
When Wifey and I married, my net worth was NEGATIVE $25K, thanks to loans I took out to pay for law school. Wifey had saved about $9000 in her IRA. My late and dear Mom had gifted each of her three kids $10,000 -- she was living large off high interest rates, and decided to start making her estate smaller. Wifey and I took $8600 of that gift and used it as the 10% down payment of our first house. Little by little, we built our nest egg -- always saving and living below our means.
When I started with my third job, I was making $45K per year, and Wifey quit her higher paying job to raise D1. She thought she'd go back to work after a three month maternity leave, but simply couldn't leave her precious little girl. I agreed. Around that time, I was summoned to lunch by my old friend Scott's firm -- I had referred an insurance dispute case to him. The case generated a $40K fee, and I was given $10K. I was floored -- a bonus equal to nearly a quarter of my yearly salary. Wifey and I spent about $1K of it -- I think we splurged on taking D1 to Disney, and actually stayed at an on campus hotel -- and I banked the rest. Even back then, that was more important to us than upgrading our two aging Mazdas...
The year D2 was born things really took off for us. I brought in a huge case to the firm -- a "mortgage lifter,"as the term went, and also that year a tropical cyclone called Andrew coupled with absurdly liberal insurance payments turned our crap into money, and left us in a very different financial place. I was also able to pay off my student loans -- something I thought would take another 10 years or so. We were lucky -- but I worked my ample tuches off for the following 20 years.
But not my acquaintance. He never put in crazy hours, or aggressively hustled for business. He'd make his living, and leave at 5 pm most nights.
So I guess the addendum to my advice about being born rich is...or, marry well. I explored with Wifey the idea of my finding a rich wife. She told me I already had one. But then I thought about the words of Chris Rock -- rich versus wealthy. As he said, Shaq is rich -- the guy who owns the team he plays for is WEALTHY.
So maybe I need a WEALTHY wife. I'm getting tired of picking up tabs, and paying for stuff like the upcoming big, fat, Colombian wedding. If I met the right lonely and WEALTHY divorcee or widow -- I could sit on a charitable board and give money away. Instead of having morning coffee on the porch of my big house, I could have the coffee on the porch of a HUGE one -- and one on Biscayne Bay.
Nah -- ain't happening.
So I admire my old acquaintance and wish him well. His version of the great "Fiddler "song is If I had a rich wife."
That's the way you do it...
Monday, March 20, 2017
Close Call at LGA
Don Henley sang about how, in a NY minute, everything can change, and Wifey and I got to live through that last Friday. We started the day off early and annoyed, thanks to some last minute toilet issues, but my minimal proficiency with a snake I had bought years before allowed us to leave the house for dog and house sitter Chris in habitable condition. We had our breakfast like Centurions at MIA and were on our way to see D2 and Jonathan, on a bright and beautiful day -- warm in Miami, and cold in NYC.
Wifey slept much of the flight, and we glided in on final approach. I took out my phone to text the Ds we had landed -- a family tradition we all share to let us know we had made it, and the 727 touched the runway, and then ROARED BACK UP. I had twice been on aborted landings -- years ago in SF due to "conflicting runway traffic" and more recently at GNV as the American Eagle jet got close, and then saw a Cessna on that runway, but this time was different -- actual touchdown, and then a violent takeoff.
Wifey asked, on a several second delay as usual, if something had happened, and I cheerily answered, oh, no big deal, but I was worried. The plane shook as it started a fly around Manhattan, at a lower altitude than I had ever been, and of course my thoughts turned to 9/11 -- had OUR deranged Islamic terrorist captain waited until landing to then take off again to go after the new Freedom Tower, with his co pilot dead in the seat next to him???
Thankfully no -- the pilot announced a few minutes later that ATC had us too far down the runway, and so they decided to try again. I explained to Wifey that LGA runways end in the water, so we indeed DID narrowly miss a major problem. Well, we had made it.
We cabbed to MidTown, which took over an hour and a half, as St. Paddy's Day parade traffic had its effect, but eventually checked in to our hotel on 30th, and headed west and north towards the festivities. Young people in green and leprechaun hats were laughing and stumbling over the still snow covered sidewalks, and we found a new steak place on 40th named Benjamins and sat at the bar. I had my celebratory martini, and a grilled chicken sandwich, and Wifey had a salad, and we were happy to be there.
We went back to the hotel, and awaited word from D2 -- she was home from work, and Jonathan was there, too. We caught up and then ubered to an Asian place called Bond Street, located, on, of all streets, Bond Street, and the heavily accented Russian uber driver showed Jonathan -- his name, at least his uber name, was James Bond. Synchronicity had found us.
We met Jonathan's sister in law Melanie, a lovely young lady living with Dan, Jonathan's brother, in Marina Del Rey, and in town for a wedding. The waitress explained the food like a good science teacher, and it was in fact delicious. We ubered back to our hotel, and chatted a bit more, and then the three young folks were off to meet Jonathan's sister Eva and her man Yoni, for some more socializing.
Saturday dawned rainy, and gray, and cold. My friend Rita called -- we had planned to meet her and Mark, but Rita explained in her classic NY accent that Mark and she were both getting over bad colds, and decided a trip to "the City" wasn't in the cards -- we planned to meet in warmer times.
We had lunch at the Second Avenue Deli, a place I go to with some masochistic glee -- the prices are comically and obscenely high. But Jonathan loves the place and I suggested it -- even though a last minute work call from India kept him in the apartment. We had out $30 sandwiches and brought one home to him, and then began a marathon of couch potato-ing -- watching March Madness, all of us reluctant to venture out into the cold and rainy day.
At 7 we ubered south again, this time to a steak place I had found -- Greenwich Steak, in the West Village. Apparently a refugee from Smith and Wollensky had opened it, and it was also terrific -- we even got Wifey to have a craft cocktail, and she got a bit tipsy. Jonathan and I shared a large hangar steak, which was awesome, and we went home happy and very well fed.
Sunday we all slept in, and then met at Ruby's, a new place opened by friendly Australians right across from D2 and Jonathan, on Third Avenue. We had a great breakfast, and then back to the apartment to watch a little more basketball. Uber was surging, so we cabbed it to LGA, and the driver was about 10 and just in from Bangladesh, and he was terrible -- jerking back and forth, and leaving Wifey queasy. And then -- he had no idea where to drop us -- after fumbling, we simply got out at the wrong American terminal, and then took a shuttle to the correct one.
The flight home was, thankfully, uneventful. This time we landed, and stayed on the ground. Our young associate Vince was on our flight -- he's a LA fellow whose family is rooted in NY, and he was in the city for St. Paddy's Day. We dropped him off in South Miami, and returned to happy and healthy dogs.
And, our sitter Chris announced over FaceBook (tm) that he was going to be a third generation Miami Canes lawyer -- so I look forward to congratulating him in person.
So it was a fine weekend, as usual, with the helpful reminder of how thin is the thread we all hang on -- called life. As long as we're here -- I plan to keep on savoring and savoring...
Wifey slept much of the flight, and we glided in on final approach. I took out my phone to text the Ds we had landed -- a family tradition we all share to let us know we had made it, and the 727 touched the runway, and then ROARED BACK UP. I had twice been on aborted landings -- years ago in SF due to "conflicting runway traffic" and more recently at GNV as the American Eagle jet got close, and then saw a Cessna on that runway, but this time was different -- actual touchdown, and then a violent takeoff.
Wifey asked, on a several second delay as usual, if something had happened, and I cheerily answered, oh, no big deal, but I was worried. The plane shook as it started a fly around Manhattan, at a lower altitude than I had ever been, and of course my thoughts turned to 9/11 -- had OUR deranged Islamic terrorist captain waited until landing to then take off again to go after the new Freedom Tower, with his co pilot dead in the seat next to him???
Thankfully no -- the pilot announced a few minutes later that ATC had us too far down the runway, and so they decided to try again. I explained to Wifey that LGA runways end in the water, so we indeed DID narrowly miss a major problem. Well, we had made it.
We cabbed to MidTown, which took over an hour and a half, as St. Paddy's Day parade traffic had its effect, but eventually checked in to our hotel on 30th, and headed west and north towards the festivities. Young people in green and leprechaun hats were laughing and stumbling over the still snow covered sidewalks, and we found a new steak place on 40th named Benjamins and sat at the bar. I had my celebratory martini, and a grilled chicken sandwich, and Wifey had a salad, and we were happy to be there.
We went back to the hotel, and awaited word from D2 -- she was home from work, and Jonathan was there, too. We caught up and then ubered to an Asian place called Bond Street, located, on, of all streets, Bond Street, and the heavily accented Russian uber driver showed Jonathan -- his name, at least his uber name, was James Bond. Synchronicity had found us.
We met Jonathan's sister in law Melanie, a lovely young lady living with Dan, Jonathan's brother, in Marina Del Rey, and in town for a wedding. The waitress explained the food like a good science teacher, and it was in fact delicious. We ubered back to our hotel, and chatted a bit more, and then the three young folks were off to meet Jonathan's sister Eva and her man Yoni, for some more socializing.
Saturday dawned rainy, and gray, and cold. My friend Rita called -- we had planned to meet her and Mark, but Rita explained in her classic NY accent that Mark and she were both getting over bad colds, and decided a trip to "the City" wasn't in the cards -- we planned to meet in warmer times.
We had lunch at the Second Avenue Deli, a place I go to with some masochistic glee -- the prices are comically and obscenely high. But Jonathan loves the place and I suggested it -- even though a last minute work call from India kept him in the apartment. We had out $30 sandwiches and brought one home to him, and then began a marathon of couch potato-ing -- watching March Madness, all of us reluctant to venture out into the cold and rainy day.
At 7 we ubered south again, this time to a steak place I had found -- Greenwich Steak, in the West Village. Apparently a refugee from Smith and Wollensky had opened it, and it was also terrific -- we even got Wifey to have a craft cocktail, and she got a bit tipsy. Jonathan and I shared a large hangar steak, which was awesome, and we went home happy and very well fed.
Sunday we all slept in, and then met at Ruby's, a new place opened by friendly Australians right across from D2 and Jonathan, on Third Avenue. We had a great breakfast, and then back to the apartment to watch a little more basketball. Uber was surging, so we cabbed it to LGA, and the driver was about 10 and just in from Bangladesh, and he was terrible -- jerking back and forth, and leaving Wifey queasy. And then -- he had no idea where to drop us -- after fumbling, we simply got out at the wrong American terminal, and then took a shuttle to the correct one.
The flight home was, thankfully, uneventful. This time we landed, and stayed on the ground. Our young associate Vince was on our flight -- he's a LA fellow whose family is rooted in NY, and he was in the city for St. Paddy's Day. We dropped him off in South Miami, and returned to happy and healthy dogs.
And, our sitter Chris announced over FaceBook (tm) that he was going to be a third generation Miami Canes lawyer -- so I look forward to congratulating him in person.
So it was a fine weekend, as usual, with the helpful reminder of how thin is the thread we all hang on -- called life. As long as we're here -- I plan to keep on savoring and savoring...
Friday, March 17, 2017
Politics -- No Thanks
So Wifey and I are headed off to NYC this am, to see D2 and Jonathan, and maybe drink in, literally, a bit of the St. Patrick's Day spirit. As I was napping on the couch yesterday, post annual meeting with Mark, my CPA, the dogs started barking. Chris, my dear friend Mike's boy, had arrived to house and dog sit -- a day early. It was just as well -- we got a chance to catch up, as he ponders his next move in life -- where to attend law school. Wifey asked to share my take -- I told him my take was that decisions like this, where ALL alternatives are positive and about moving ahead, are the best decisions to have to make...
Speaking of law -- the other night we finished dinner at Wagon's West, our local diner. On the way out, we saw the former Mayor of Pinecrest, Cindy, and her husband, a taciturn veterinarian. He's the son of Holocaust Survivors, and knows Wifey's parents from the 70s, when they moved to Miami. I asked Her Honor if she missed being mayor, and her husband chimed in that they were just discussing that -- the answer was YES. But she shared that she was still working on wonky and liberal issues for the Village...
I told her she has far more patience than I. I was the Welcoming Chair for our 'hood for many years. I sort of decided to step down when a neighbor complained that my protocol of giving each new neighbor a bottle of wine might not be appropriate -- what if the newcomer was a Baptist or Mormon, or maybe recovering alcoholic? The FORMER Chair gave newcomers an orchid...Rather than debate -- what if the newcomers were allergic to orchids, or maybe a pygmy rattlesnake was hiding in the orchid (I actually had that case once, against Wal Mart), I just decided to step down, rather than have to suffer this kind of thing.
I imagine being mayor of a rich community might be the worst gig ever -- probably up there with having an active role in a wealthy church or synagogue, where your constituents are spoiled and entitled...
Oh well...MIA beckons, and then a flight from our awesomely beautiful weather to cold and wet and dreary NYC. Only the love for a daughter could cause a rocking Daddy in the USA to make such a voluntary trip.
D2 made reservations for two nice restaurants -- a seafood place called Bond for tonight, and a new steakhouse called Village Steakhouse in, that's right, Greenwich Village, or "The Village" as we oldtimers call it. Apparently current NY people always say "East Village" or "West Village." All I know is, growing up, my Dad used to tell me it was his favorite part of the city -- all the Bohemians and folk singers and artists and writers. So I always get a warm feeling when I walk around there...
Adios, 305...
Speaking of law -- the other night we finished dinner at Wagon's West, our local diner. On the way out, we saw the former Mayor of Pinecrest, Cindy, and her husband, a taciturn veterinarian. He's the son of Holocaust Survivors, and knows Wifey's parents from the 70s, when they moved to Miami. I asked Her Honor if she missed being mayor, and her husband chimed in that they were just discussing that -- the answer was YES. But she shared that she was still working on wonky and liberal issues for the Village...
I told her she has far more patience than I. I was the Welcoming Chair for our 'hood for many years. I sort of decided to step down when a neighbor complained that my protocol of giving each new neighbor a bottle of wine might not be appropriate -- what if the newcomer was a Baptist or Mormon, or maybe recovering alcoholic? The FORMER Chair gave newcomers an orchid...Rather than debate -- what if the newcomers were allergic to orchids, or maybe a pygmy rattlesnake was hiding in the orchid (I actually had that case once, against Wal Mart), I just decided to step down, rather than have to suffer this kind of thing.
I imagine being mayor of a rich community might be the worst gig ever -- probably up there with having an active role in a wealthy church or synagogue, where your constituents are spoiled and entitled...
Oh well...MIA beckons, and then a flight from our awesomely beautiful weather to cold and wet and dreary NYC. Only the love for a daughter could cause a rocking Daddy in the USA to make such a voluntary trip.
D2 made reservations for two nice restaurants -- a seafood place called Bond for tonight, and a new steakhouse called Village Steakhouse in, that's right, Greenwich Village, or "The Village" as we oldtimers call it. Apparently current NY people always say "East Village" or "West Village." All I know is, growing up, my Dad used to tell me it was his favorite part of the city -- all the Bohemians and folk singers and artists and writers. So I always get a warm feeling when I walk around there...
Adios, 305...
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
The Saudi Billionaire -- Who Cares?
So Wifey and I were watching the news yesterday evening, before leaving for Captain's Tavern. The plan was to take two cars to the restaurant -- we'd enjoy our Tuesday night lobster tails and then Wifey would head off to Baptist Hospital to visit her mother, now admitted with a leg infection.
The old woman fell, and only got a bruise -- so we thought. Turns out she got a cut, and oral antibiotics didn't heal it, so she's consuming some of the expensive health resources all 90 somethings seem to get in their final years. As it turned out, I had two martinis and ended up going with Wifey, and getting some laughs as Wifey simulated putting the pillows over her wildly annoying mother's face, instead of behind her neck.
Her mother's voice, never melodic, has morphed into exactly the same voice as Danny DeVito's mother in "Throw Mother From the Train." I keep hearing the infamous Owen! Owen!" as a bad earworm.
But back to the news...So President The Donald was on, hosting some Saudi Prince, Prince Two Dogs Humping bin Ladin, I think his name was. Wifey googled the guy and learned he was worth FAR more than the Donald -- something like $12 billion. She started reading aloud all about the guy. I cut her off...
I couldn't care less about these Mideast Royals. As I told Wifey, they're simply the luckiest SOBs in the world -- primitive men living in the desert who happened to live above oil reserves. The West came in, cut deals with them, and made them absurdly rich. To me, that doesn't bear study.
Bill Gates created something, and became rich. Warren Buffet, too. Elon Musk. These guys are fascinating and worthwhile. The Saudi dudes? They're as interesting as trailer trashy folks who happen to buy a winning lotto ticket. I admire their luck, but I have zero interest in them. How have they improved the world?
Back to the hospital...the old woman went on and on about how terrible it was in the ER. She called a nurse to use the bathroom, and the woman IGNORED her. Ha. She was probably dealing with a heart attack, or bleeding wound, and didn't come running. Imagine that.
Now my mother in law is in an observation unit, and loves the attention. The Latina nurses think she's adorable." I told each of them she is free to a good home -- or any home. They thought I was kidding.
Dr. Barry texted, asking after her, and wondering what antibiotics she was on. I told him Vancomycin -- he cautioned they need to be careful, as 92 year old kidneys might be sensitive to that. I told him to mind his own patients' business.
Wifey and I are due to go to NYC Friday, and Wifey is concerned about going if the old woman needs surgery for her wound. I think she'll be out of Baptist in a day or so. I hope I'm right -- or I'll be making the second consecutive D2 visit as a single Dad.
Then again, if I had the Saudis money, I could fly Wifey up and back privately. Oh well...
The old woman fell, and only got a bruise -- so we thought. Turns out she got a cut, and oral antibiotics didn't heal it, so she's consuming some of the expensive health resources all 90 somethings seem to get in their final years. As it turned out, I had two martinis and ended up going with Wifey, and getting some laughs as Wifey simulated putting the pillows over her wildly annoying mother's face, instead of behind her neck.
Her mother's voice, never melodic, has morphed into exactly the same voice as Danny DeVito's mother in "Throw Mother From the Train." I keep hearing the infamous Owen! Owen!" as a bad earworm.
But back to the news...So President The Donald was on, hosting some Saudi Prince, Prince Two Dogs Humping bin Ladin, I think his name was. Wifey googled the guy and learned he was worth FAR more than the Donald -- something like $12 billion. She started reading aloud all about the guy. I cut her off...
I couldn't care less about these Mideast Royals. As I told Wifey, they're simply the luckiest SOBs in the world -- primitive men living in the desert who happened to live above oil reserves. The West came in, cut deals with them, and made them absurdly rich. To me, that doesn't bear study.
Bill Gates created something, and became rich. Warren Buffet, too. Elon Musk. These guys are fascinating and worthwhile. The Saudi dudes? They're as interesting as trailer trashy folks who happen to buy a winning lotto ticket. I admire their luck, but I have zero interest in them. How have they improved the world?
Back to the hospital...the old woman went on and on about how terrible it was in the ER. She called a nurse to use the bathroom, and the woman IGNORED her. Ha. She was probably dealing with a heart attack, or bleeding wound, and didn't come running. Imagine that.
Now my mother in law is in an observation unit, and loves the attention. The Latina nurses think she's adorable." I told each of them she is free to a good home -- or any home. They thought I was kidding.
Dr. Barry texted, asking after her, and wondering what antibiotics she was on. I told him Vancomycin -- he cautioned they need to be careful, as 92 year old kidneys might be sensitive to that. I told him to mind his own patients' business.
Wifey and I are due to go to NYC Friday, and Wifey is concerned about going if the old woman needs surgery for her wound. I think she'll be out of Baptist in a day or so. I hope I'm right -- or I'll be making the second consecutive D2 visit as a single Dad.
Then again, if I had the Saudis money, I could fly Wifey up and back privately. Oh well...
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
The Tip of the Circumcision Iceberg, or Turtleneck Trouble
To D2's chagrin, and sometimes worry, I actively post on FaceBook (tm). For a frustrated but lazy writer like me, it's an easy outlet. Plus, the BEST poster I know, Norman, always post hilarious things that keep the otherwise dreary lawyer day moving nicely. So I ain't giving it up. I rarely post about Trump anymore -- I find my lefty friends probably more ponderous than my righty ones -- and there's plenty of bloviating going on politics without my adding to it. I tend to post song lyrics, lines from poetry from my college days, news about my beloved Canes, and local issues.
Yesterday a local issue nearly jumped up at me, or, more accurately, nearly clipped me in the crotch. As I was driving to the office after a breakfast at the Emporium, where I beat a hasty retreat after a very bitter middle aged Latina was venting to her friend about a nasty divorce she was having, I saw a group of about 20 folks at the 27th Avenue intersection shouting sayings and carrying signs, as David Crosby sang. I noticed the men were in white, like ice cream men, but with bright red splattered on the front of their pants. The signs had words like "mutilation" and there were pictures of babies (boys, I soon deduced) crying in agony. I had stumbled upon radical anti circumcisionists!!!!!
Who knew? Apparently Dr. Barry did -- he tells me they typically gather outside of Pediatric medical meetings. Also, D2 sees them regularly in Union Square. But this was a first time Miami moment for me. As I was stopped at the light, a hippie looking chick (although a good 45 years younger than an ACTUAL hippie chick) approached with a brochure saying "Babies Can't Consent" and offered it to me. I responded "No thanks, Sweetie, the ladies in my life prefer unpeeled bananas." She smirked and walked away.
At the office, I immediately FaceBook (tm) posted about this, in my typical smarmy and wise ass way, saying that clearly all major problems in Miami, like crime and traffic, and even the climate change threatening to flood billion dollar Miami Beach real estate, had been solved. I "knew" this since a band of cupcakes had the time and inclination to protest something that ought only be the business of new boy parents, doctors, and, I guess, rabbis.
I then continued with the quotidian business of the day, including lunch. I then got a message from Courtney, an old college friend and active FaceBook friend, saying my post had been hijacked. I went online and saw that about 50 nut jobs, not my FB friends, had read my post and were virulently attacking it.
I gleaned that someone had shared my post with the penis crowd, and since I had made the post "public" instead of "friends only" had, essentially, invited anyone to ring in. And they did! Essentially, I was deemed a penis Nazi.
I shut off the public setting, to stem the circumcision bloodletting, as it were, and my friends all weighed in, hilariously, of course.
And then I researched the anti bris-ites. It has many gay guys and their fellow travelers (not that there's anything wrong with that) as well as "polite, liberal" anti semites (there IS plenty wrong with that).
The end of the story was an opportunity to air out tired old bris jokes (the mohel works for tips; if you hire the wrong mohel, you end up with a goil), and that's always a healthy exercise.
I also learned about my posting habits -- stick to friends only, even though, over time, I have acquired many friends of friends who I don't really know all that well. D2 is right -- better to simply text friends than air publicly.
In other words, maybe trim back my FaceBook (tm) posts...
Yesterday a local issue nearly jumped up at me, or, more accurately, nearly clipped me in the crotch. As I was driving to the office after a breakfast at the Emporium, where I beat a hasty retreat after a very bitter middle aged Latina was venting to her friend about a nasty divorce she was having, I saw a group of about 20 folks at the 27th Avenue intersection shouting sayings and carrying signs, as David Crosby sang. I noticed the men were in white, like ice cream men, but with bright red splattered on the front of their pants. The signs had words like "mutilation" and there were pictures of babies (boys, I soon deduced) crying in agony. I had stumbled upon radical anti circumcisionists!!!!!
Who knew? Apparently Dr. Barry did -- he tells me they typically gather outside of Pediatric medical meetings. Also, D2 sees them regularly in Union Square. But this was a first time Miami moment for me. As I was stopped at the light, a hippie looking chick (although a good 45 years younger than an ACTUAL hippie chick) approached with a brochure saying "Babies Can't Consent" and offered it to me. I responded "No thanks, Sweetie, the ladies in my life prefer unpeeled bananas." She smirked and walked away.
At the office, I immediately FaceBook (tm) posted about this, in my typical smarmy and wise ass way, saying that clearly all major problems in Miami, like crime and traffic, and even the climate change threatening to flood billion dollar Miami Beach real estate, had been solved. I "knew" this since a band of cupcakes had the time and inclination to protest something that ought only be the business of new boy parents, doctors, and, I guess, rabbis.
I then continued with the quotidian business of the day, including lunch. I then got a message from Courtney, an old college friend and active FaceBook friend, saying my post had been hijacked. I went online and saw that about 50 nut jobs, not my FB friends, had read my post and were virulently attacking it.
I gleaned that someone had shared my post with the penis crowd, and since I had made the post "public" instead of "friends only" had, essentially, invited anyone to ring in. And they did! Essentially, I was deemed a penis Nazi.
I shut off the public setting, to stem the circumcision bloodletting, as it were, and my friends all weighed in, hilariously, of course.
And then I researched the anti bris-ites. It has many gay guys and their fellow travelers (not that there's anything wrong with that) as well as "polite, liberal" anti semites (there IS plenty wrong with that).
The end of the story was an opportunity to air out tired old bris jokes (the mohel works for tips; if you hire the wrong mohel, you end up with a goil), and that's always a healthy exercise.
I also learned about my posting habits -- stick to friends only, even though, over time, I have acquired many friends of friends who I don't really know all that well. D2 is right -- better to simply text friends than air publicly.
In other words, maybe trim back my FaceBook (tm) posts...
Monday, March 13, 2017
Finally Our of Miami Dade
We were treated to a nice weekend, with a rare, for us, kind of a long drive.
Saturday D1 came over, as well as Paul, and his boy Alex and grandkids. Paul's lady Patricia came a bit later, and all took turns running after the kids -- with a side trip to the city park-sized playground our neighbors put in. Paul and I exercised senior privilege by having a bit of afternoon vodka with our lunch, making for a peaceful, easy evening. Everyone left, and I took an epic nap as Wifey welcomed Chris, our dear friends' son. He'll be house and dog sitting next weekend, while we go to NYC for a St. Paddy's Day visit to D2.
As an added bonus, we sent Alex home with the Ds' red Radio Flyer wagon, which they loved as kids.It's been sitting in our garage
Yesterday we fired up the little girlie Cadillac and drove all the way up to Palm Beach Gardens, a/k/a Casa Carajo. Dana's grandmother Trude, a/k/a Gaga, turned 100 and they had a party for her at her synagogue. Gaga is remarkable -- she is the best friend to her grandson Steve as well as her great grandson Josh. The family fights for her time and attention. She reminds me of my own, late Mom -- happy disposition, never in the way of anyone's life. It was a privilege to help her celebrate.
From there we drove 25 miles south to my sister and brother in law's townhouse -- they had us over for an early St. Paddy's Day party, complete with corned beef and cabbage. VERY long time family friend Olivia was a surprise addition -- and we sat around the table sharing tales of the past decades and looking forward to good times to come.
It's funny -- we used to travel in the car much more for many years. Yesterday, it occurred to Wifey and me, it might have been our first time north of Broward in a year. I guess part of it was the Ds' combined 9 years in Gainesville --although I flew many of the visits, those long trips back and forth, to move in and move out, got pretty old.
Still, on the way home we got to catch up with D2 and details of her new Hoboken job. The City is preparing for a mid March blizzard tomorrow -- hopefully it'll be cleared out by Friday, so we can glide into LGA.
So today it's back to the office -- moving piles of paper from one to another. But no snow in our forecast...
Saturday D1 came over, as well as Paul, and his boy Alex and grandkids. Paul's lady Patricia came a bit later, and all took turns running after the kids -- with a side trip to the city park-sized playground our neighbors put in. Paul and I exercised senior privilege by having a bit of afternoon vodka with our lunch, making for a peaceful, easy evening. Everyone left, and I took an epic nap as Wifey welcomed Chris, our dear friends' son. He'll be house and dog sitting next weekend, while we go to NYC for a St. Paddy's Day visit to D2.
As an added bonus, we sent Alex home with the Ds' red Radio Flyer wagon, which they loved as kids.It's been sitting in our garage
Yesterday we fired up the little girlie Cadillac and drove all the way up to Palm Beach Gardens, a/k/a Casa Carajo. Dana's grandmother Trude, a/k/a Gaga, turned 100 and they had a party for her at her synagogue. Gaga is remarkable -- she is the best friend to her grandson Steve as well as her great grandson Josh. The family fights for her time and attention. She reminds me of my own, late Mom -- happy disposition, never in the way of anyone's life. It was a privilege to help her celebrate.
From there we drove 25 miles south to my sister and brother in law's townhouse -- they had us over for an early St. Paddy's Day party, complete with corned beef and cabbage. VERY long time family friend Olivia was a surprise addition -- and we sat around the table sharing tales of the past decades and looking forward to good times to come.
It's funny -- we used to travel in the car much more for many years. Yesterday, it occurred to Wifey and me, it might have been our first time north of Broward in a year. I guess part of it was the Ds' combined 9 years in Gainesville --although I flew many of the visits, those long trips back and forth, to move in and move out, got pretty old.
Still, on the way home we got to catch up with D2 and details of her new Hoboken job. The City is preparing for a mid March blizzard tomorrow -- hopefully it'll be cleared out by Friday, so we can glide into LGA.
So today it's back to the office -- moving piles of paper from one to another. But no snow in our forecast...
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Favors and Thanks
I had a nice long talk with an old friend the other day, and the subject turned to favors and thanks. Both of us used to do favors freely, expecting that most people in the world did the same, and also that everyone properly appreciated favors. We've come full circle: now we assume that most people are selfish and have only their own agendas -- until proven otherwise. I guess it's the wisdom of aging...
Sure enough, this week some examples came my way. First was a late evening call from a woman who began her message "I feel like each time I call you it's because I need something." That's because each time she calls me she needs something. This time it was about her troubled young son -- a fellow with a difficult path, including early teen fatherhood, and some things that kept him from getting a government job he craved. Well, things looked up -- he moved upstate, got the great job, and was living nicely with his now teenaged son. Then he got into a car crash, where a young man was slightly hurt, and stayed on scene, exchanged info, and went home to await the rise in insurance premiums. Ha. As if. No -- he left the scene after the cops were slow to arrive, figuring he'd, like Sinatra, do it his way and simply report everything . FHP had other ideas -- they showed up, and arrested him for leaving the scene with injuries. So now he got smart -- went quietly, figuring he'd work out the small dustup. Again -- not so fast -- he called the female trooper a "see you next Tuesday," and kicked and shouted, so he bought himself some nice felony charges.
The mom was desperate. I mean, the young man was 30, and still clearly in need of Mom's help. I gave her the name of a criminal lawyer I know with, conveniently, offices in Miami AND Orlando. Mom wanted more -- would I call her son, and calm him, and explain everything? I would not. Old Dave maybe would have -- wise Dave begged off. I'm sure I'll hear from Mom again next time there's a crisis -- with the same false disclaimer...
Then yesterday came a VERY long email from a young businesswoman who sends her only child to private school. It contained details and details about her son't friendships and non friendships. But then the request -- her husband, a hot headed guy, apparently threatened to beat up the son's bully. I get this. D1 had a bullying incident in Middle School, and I handled it Tony Soprano-like. But I did it in private, with no witnesses -- complete deniability. This dude tried his Soprano act at a party -- with the bully's mom there! So a letter came from a lawyer, clearly a friend of the Bully family, saying, essentially, we're coming after you unless you leave this family be. I was asked whether a lawyer was needed.
My opinion was no -- let the $25K per year private school handle it. Wifey asked where my bottle of Stoli Elite was, from this food services providing Mom.
Nah -- people assume lawyers' advice should be given for free -- it's not TANGIBLE, like maybe that Stoli Elite bottle would be.
I ask for favors as rarely as I can. Last week I emailed a neighbor who is an ENT -- afraid my lingering sore throat was something fatal. Dr. Brian got me in right away, snaked a tube down my nose to my lungs, and pronounced me only "cryptic tonsil" man. Apparently about 30% of us grown ups whose tonsils shrink as we age do it in a way with folds, so we get lots of small infections, like I have. I was relieved.
I thanked Dr. Brian with a nice bottle of Califoria red -- Baby Blue -- a pretty hard to find, very drinkable mix. He was so appreciative -- I guess other neighbors bother him and never show their gratitude. I couldn't think of it.
I used to freely offer my friends for favors -- particularly Dr. Barry. Anyone with a pediatric question got his number. I cut that out like a badly infected cyst some years ago. Now only truly inner circle people get to him through me -- Barry rarely says no, and when he is asked to get involved with a kid, takes it on like a calling. I don't want to be responsible for piling anymore on his already comically full plate.
Bob Seger sang a great song years ago about growing up -- "Against the Wind." He told about needing to learn "what to leave out" and "what to leave in." He says it better than I.
I know I've taught the Ds well in this regard. When someone does them a favor -- they graciously thank the person.
Too bad there ain't that much of that going around...
Sure enough, this week some examples came my way. First was a late evening call from a woman who began her message "I feel like each time I call you it's because I need something." That's because each time she calls me she needs something. This time it was about her troubled young son -- a fellow with a difficult path, including early teen fatherhood, and some things that kept him from getting a government job he craved. Well, things looked up -- he moved upstate, got the great job, and was living nicely with his now teenaged son. Then he got into a car crash, where a young man was slightly hurt, and stayed on scene, exchanged info, and went home to await the rise in insurance premiums. Ha. As if. No -- he left the scene after the cops were slow to arrive, figuring he'd, like Sinatra, do it his way and simply report everything . FHP had other ideas -- they showed up, and arrested him for leaving the scene with injuries. So now he got smart -- went quietly, figuring he'd work out the small dustup. Again -- not so fast -- he called the female trooper a "see you next Tuesday," and kicked and shouted, so he bought himself some nice felony charges.
The mom was desperate. I mean, the young man was 30, and still clearly in need of Mom's help. I gave her the name of a criminal lawyer I know with, conveniently, offices in Miami AND Orlando. Mom wanted more -- would I call her son, and calm him, and explain everything? I would not. Old Dave maybe would have -- wise Dave begged off. I'm sure I'll hear from Mom again next time there's a crisis -- with the same false disclaimer...
Then yesterday came a VERY long email from a young businesswoman who sends her only child to private school. It contained details and details about her son't friendships and non friendships. But then the request -- her husband, a hot headed guy, apparently threatened to beat up the son's bully. I get this. D1 had a bullying incident in Middle School, and I handled it Tony Soprano-like. But I did it in private, with no witnesses -- complete deniability. This dude tried his Soprano act at a party -- with the bully's mom there! So a letter came from a lawyer, clearly a friend of the Bully family, saying, essentially, we're coming after you unless you leave this family be. I was asked whether a lawyer was needed.
My opinion was no -- let the $25K per year private school handle it. Wifey asked where my bottle of Stoli Elite was, from this food services providing Mom.
Nah -- people assume lawyers' advice should be given for free -- it's not TANGIBLE, like maybe that Stoli Elite bottle would be.
I ask for favors as rarely as I can. Last week I emailed a neighbor who is an ENT -- afraid my lingering sore throat was something fatal. Dr. Brian got me in right away, snaked a tube down my nose to my lungs, and pronounced me only "cryptic tonsil" man. Apparently about 30% of us grown ups whose tonsils shrink as we age do it in a way with folds, so we get lots of small infections, like I have. I was relieved.
I thanked Dr. Brian with a nice bottle of Califoria red -- Baby Blue -- a pretty hard to find, very drinkable mix. He was so appreciative -- I guess other neighbors bother him and never show their gratitude. I couldn't think of it.
I used to freely offer my friends for favors -- particularly Dr. Barry. Anyone with a pediatric question got his number. I cut that out like a badly infected cyst some years ago. Now only truly inner circle people get to him through me -- Barry rarely says no, and when he is asked to get involved with a kid, takes it on like a calling. I don't want to be responsible for piling anymore on his already comically full plate.
Bob Seger sang a great song years ago about growing up -- "Against the Wind." He told about needing to learn "what to leave out" and "what to leave in." He says it better than I.
I know I've taught the Ds well in this regard. When someone does them a favor -- they graciously thank the person.
Too bad there ain't that much of that going around...
Sunday, March 5, 2017
The Most Awesome Dad
I'm self deprecating about most things. When it comes to my career, I'm the first to say that the biggest part of my success was luck -- and, I guess, the ability to network well. As to my appearance, I get a certain amount of gratification freely admitting I'm 50 lbs overweight, much to D1's disdain. About my almost fully gray hair, I joke that I still have fully brown hair, but ask my hair cutter to dye my hair gray to make me look more distinguished.
But when it comes to one of my life's roles, I never downplay things: who I am as a father. The truth is I gave my Ds and continue to give them my all --support, advice, availability (everyone knows I ALWAYS drop what I'm doing to answer a call from my Ds), and, most of all, love. And I've been incredibly blessed by the product of this, my true life's work: two amazing young women. I put in my all, and have seen the results. I know things could have turned out differently, but I enjoy reaping the benefits from what I have sown. I always say I'm the world's best Dad.
Wait. Not so fast. I need to admit I may be #2.
Yesterday we were visited by a dear friend and his boy . The young man has two kids -- a three year old boy, with special needs, and a one and a half year old girl, whose personality and charm reminds Wifey and I a LOT of D1 when she was a baby.
Details aren't necessary, but after spending some time with the young man, and talking to him about his life with his two kids, I realize I have to abdicate the throne. He has a never ending job, especially with his three year old, and he excels -- with support, wisdom, patience, and most of all, never ending love.
I've always been a fan of the young man's . I watched him grow -- always having it, as the folks in the 'hood say, all going on. He was a top student, and movie star handsome, and athletic -- I enjoyed watching a game or two when he was the little white point guard on an otherwise all black and tall team at high school.
He excelled at a prestigious college and then Law Review at an even more prestigious law school. He was hired by a top firm, clerked for a federal judge, and then realized he no more wanted to be a lawyer than he wanted to submit to endless root canal procedures. I admired the courage it took to leave a profession he had trained to long and hard to enter.
And then he soared in business -- with his amazing wife and her family. All during this time I admired him, and loved his close friends, and what he meant to them, and how he was as a son, and grandson, and brother.
Well, his boy was born over three years ago, and he took on a new role -- Dad. His challenges have been huge, and he didn't just meet them, he took them on using all of his powers of intelligence, business savvy, and, again, love.
Watching him yesterday, Wifey and I were just blown away. Again -- no details are necessary -- he is just, well, something else.
We hope to see more of him and the kids -- I think that'll happen. If I had a crown, I'd happily hand it over. I set the bar very, very high (just ask the Ds) and the young man has jumped over it.
This gives me such a warm, and admiring, feeling.
Clint Eastwood said a man's gotta know his limitations. I'd add to that he's gotta know, even if he's great at something, that another man might be better.
And so it is...Godspeed to the new, in my estimation, king...
But when it comes to one of my life's roles, I never downplay things: who I am as a father. The truth is I gave my Ds and continue to give them my all --support, advice, availability (everyone knows I ALWAYS drop what I'm doing to answer a call from my Ds), and, most of all, love. And I've been incredibly blessed by the product of this, my true life's work: two amazing young women. I put in my all, and have seen the results. I know things could have turned out differently, but I enjoy reaping the benefits from what I have sown. I always say I'm the world's best Dad.
Wait. Not so fast. I need to admit I may be #2.
Yesterday we were visited by a dear friend and his boy . The young man has two kids -- a three year old boy, with special needs, and a one and a half year old girl, whose personality and charm reminds Wifey and I a LOT of D1 when she was a baby.
Details aren't necessary, but after spending some time with the young man, and talking to him about his life with his two kids, I realize I have to abdicate the throne. He has a never ending job, especially with his three year old, and he excels -- with support, wisdom, patience, and most of all, never ending love.
I've always been a fan of the young man's . I watched him grow -- always having it, as the folks in the 'hood say, all going on. He was a top student, and movie star handsome, and athletic -- I enjoyed watching a game or two when he was the little white point guard on an otherwise all black and tall team at high school.
He excelled at a prestigious college and then Law Review at an even more prestigious law school. He was hired by a top firm, clerked for a federal judge, and then realized he no more wanted to be a lawyer than he wanted to submit to endless root canal procedures. I admired the courage it took to leave a profession he had trained to long and hard to enter.
And then he soared in business -- with his amazing wife and her family. All during this time I admired him, and loved his close friends, and what he meant to them, and how he was as a son, and grandson, and brother.
Well, his boy was born over three years ago, and he took on a new role -- Dad. His challenges have been huge, and he didn't just meet them, he took them on using all of his powers of intelligence, business savvy, and, again, love.
Watching him yesterday, Wifey and I were just blown away. Again -- no details are necessary -- he is just, well, something else.
We hope to see more of him and the kids -- I think that'll happen. If I had a crown, I'd happily hand it over. I set the bar very, very high (just ask the Ds) and the young man has jumped over it.
This gives me such a warm, and admiring, feeling.
Clint Eastwood said a man's gotta know his limitations. I'd add to that he's gotta know, even if he's great at something, that another man might be better.
And so it is...Godspeed to the new, in my estimation, king...
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Reflecting on the Ds
D1 and D2 are VERY different when it comes to publicity -- the older girl loves it, and her younger sister seems happier out of the spotlight. But this week both have given me so much reason to be prideful -- it's here that only a Yiddish word will do: kvell. To kvell means to literally swell up, with pride, in the way one only does when a child soars.
I'll start with D2...after earning both a Bachelors AND Masters degree from UF in a total of 5 years, and being elected to Phi Beta Kappa, she started with Macy's Company, as an executive trainee. She put in very long hours, and often found the analytical nature of her job confounding, but she stuck with it, and received excellent reviews. It would have been easy for her to stay there, and sort of float down the corporate river, but instead D2 struck out on a new adventure, and interviewed with a company called Jet, which was bought by WalMart in order to compete with the mighty giant Amazon.
The Jet position is a newly created one -- D2 will coordinate the recruitment of new hires, and puts her in the area of Human Resources, something my generation called Personnel, an area she really wants to work in, given her psychology background. Many young people would have just stayed put, content to have a job with a major, albeit struggling company, and I admire D2's courage in taking control of her career and striking out.
She now has to commute a bit, to Hoboken, NJ, where the company is, but I LOVE that the young CEO, an Italian from Jersey, has a huge Sinatra poster in the office. I figure anything with the Chairman of the Board's spirit is destined for big things.
As I write, D2 is off having a blast -- what I call her adult Spring break. She's with her three closest friends in Austin, Texas. She and Ali, who is a child life specialist in the City, flew in from JFK. Catherine is graduating Emory Law soon, and she came from Atlanta, and Ashley is coming from SF, where she works for one of those companies no one over 40 can even have a hope of understanding... Two more friends already live in Austin -- Monica, who graduated UF and is a nurse there, and Lauren, who attended Texas and never left. These impressive young women will, I am sure, have a sisterly blast together.
And Wifey and I are going to NYC in two weeks -- for St. Patrick's Day, to see D2. Maybe she'll even give us a tour of Hoboken...
Meanwhile, D1 continues to kick butt in her own business -- she was a finalist at the Miami Chamber of Commerce Hype Awards, and she recently posted an interview a young business site did of her in December.
She somehow finds time for awesome charity work, on top of running her flourishing business, and spending time with her fiance Joey, all while planning the Big, Fat, Colombian wedding now 6 months away.
To that end, yesterday I met with my old haberdasher man Steve, and treated myself to a custom fit tuxedo for the event. I have two tuxes, one will likely NEVER fit again, and the other I can squeeze into, but it's over 16 years old. I told D1 I would honor her big night by not dressing like the schlep I typically dress like.
I thought of having the tux made out of actual penguin, or actual nun, but decided that wouldn't be proper. A light wool will have to do...
So Wifey and I have a couple of stars on our hands, and we truly kvell about them. I'd give anything to have had my Dad know them, and my Mom to see how young adulthood is working out for them, but, as Tony Soprano said, what are ya gonna do?
We'll celebrate them, and love them, and, at least in my case, give continual thanks to the Big Man (no, not the other giant from Jersey's sax player Clemmons, the REAL BIG MAN...
But to refer to the Boss, I am one lucky and proud Daddy in the USA.
I'll start with D2...after earning both a Bachelors AND Masters degree from UF in a total of 5 years, and being elected to Phi Beta Kappa, she started with Macy's Company, as an executive trainee. She put in very long hours, and often found the analytical nature of her job confounding, but she stuck with it, and received excellent reviews. It would have been easy for her to stay there, and sort of float down the corporate river, but instead D2 struck out on a new adventure, and interviewed with a company called Jet, which was bought by WalMart in order to compete with the mighty giant Amazon.
The Jet position is a newly created one -- D2 will coordinate the recruitment of new hires, and puts her in the area of Human Resources, something my generation called Personnel, an area she really wants to work in, given her psychology background. Many young people would have just stayed put, content to have a job with a major, albeit struggling company, and I admire D2's courage in taking control of her career and striking out.
She now has to commute a bit, to Hoboken, NJ, where the company is, but I LOVE that the young CEO, an Italian from Jersey, has a huge Sinatra poster in the office. I figure anything with the Chairman of the Board's spirit is destined for big things.
As I write, D2 is off having a blast -- what I call her adult Spring break. She's with her three closest friends in Austin, Texas. She and Ali, who is a child life specialist in the City, flew in from JFK. Catherine is graduating Emory Law soon, and she came from Atlanta, and Ashley is coming from SF, where she works for one of those companies no one over 40 can even have a hope of understanding... Two more friends already live in Austin -- Monica, who graduated UF and is a nurse there, and Lauren, who attended Texas and never left. These impressive young women will, I am sure, have a sisterly blast together.
And Wifey and I are going to NYC in two weeks -- for St. Patrick's Day, to see D2. Maybe she'll even give us a tour of Hoboken...
Meanwhile, D1 continues to kick butt in her own business -- she was a finalist at the Miami Chamber of Commerce Hype Awards, and she recently posted an interview a young business site did of her in December.
She somehow finds time for awesome charity work, on top of running her flourishing business, and spending time with her fiance Joey, all while planning the Big, Fat, Colombian wedding now 6 months away.
To that end, yesterday I met with my old haberdasher man Steve, and treated myself to a custom fit tuxedo for the event. I have two tuxes, one will likely NEVER fit again, and the other I can squeeze into, but it's over 16 years old. I told D1 I would honor her big night by not dressing like the schlep I typically dress like.
I thought of having the tux made out of actual penguin, or actual nun, but decided that wouldn't be proper. A light wool will have to do...
So Wifey and I have a couple of stars on our hands, and we truly kvell about them. I'd give anything to have had my Dad know them, and my Mom to see how young adulthood is working out for them, but, as Tony Soprano said, what are ya gonna do?
We'll celebrate them, and love them, and, at least in my case, give continual thanks to the Big Man (no, not the other giant from Jersey's sax player Clemmons, the REAL BIG MAN...
But to refer to the Boss, I am one lucky and proud Daddy in the USA.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Pale Moonlight
So it really bothered me that I hadn't seen "Moonlight," the made in Miami movie that just won best picture Oscar. I read awesome reviews in the NY Times and elsewhere, and grew to like and cheer for the ghetto born and raised director and writer. I typically don't like movies much these days -- for every three Wifey drags me to, I might enjoy one, but I figured this one was a sure thing.
Wifey emailed that it was available on our Pay Per View, so I came home and asked her to put it on. She had, of course, already seen it, with her fellow movie loving friend Jodi. Wifey had reported it was "ok." So the strange rescue dog and crippled Spaniel took our places on the couch, and sat back and watched.
Eh. The colors were nice, and the acting natural, but the story was about a young gay boy with a crackhead Mom and no Dad. The boy becomes a sort of ward to a local drug dealer, and grows up to be badly bullied, and even betrayed by his first gay, though ghetto closeted, lover, after they share a blunt and hand job on the beach. The kid gets angry at the bully, busts a chair over his head, and goes to prison. Even though it's clearly a state crime, he gets sent off to prison in Atlanta, where he gets out and becomes, surprise, a drug dealer, just like his non homophobic father figure.
Years later, the crackhead Mom is living in a drug rehab/homeless shelter, and he calls the first lover, who has also gone to jail for drugs (it's clearly implied that that's the fate of most Miami black boys), but is now released and a cook/manager at a local diner. The cook calls the now Atlanta drug dealer, and the hero drives to Miami, sees crackhead Mom, and the two have a meal at the diner and then go to the cook's apartment for sex, or maybe just touching. Oh, and there's a nice, mystical sea breeze.
That's it. I frowned, and told Wifey the Oscar win was Hollywood affirmative action. It was, at best, a mediocre movie. Then again, I have a feeling I would have disliked the other main contender for best picture, La La Land, even more.
I guess I want to see a story about success. Had the boy come out of that terrible childhood, and become, oh, a playwright, I would have liked it better. But this cycle of looserhood? Somehow ok because the loser is gay? Nah -- not my kind of movie.
I ought to stick to books, good magazines, and the occasional quality TV series. We've started watching "Billions," and I really like that -- Paul Giammatti is awesome, and the storylines and characters are terrific.
Of this year's Best Picture movie nominations, I only saw "Hell or High Water," and liked it. Then again, it had Jeff Bridges, so it HAD to be ok.
But as for "Moonlight," well, good for the local fellows who made it. For me, it was a bit Emperor New Clothes-ey...
Wifey emailed that it was available on our Pay Per View, so I came home and asked her to put it on. She had, of course, already seen it, with her fellow movie loving friend Jodi. Wifey had reported it was "ok." So the strange rescue dog and crippled Spaniel took our places on the couch, and sat back and watched.
Eh. The colors were nice, and the acting natural, but the story was about a young gay boy with a crackhead Mom and no Dad. The boy becomes a sort of ward to a local drug dealer, and grows up to be badly bullied, and even betrayed by his first gay, though ghetto closeted, lover, after they share a blunt and hand job on the beach. The kid gets angry at the bully, busts a chair over his head, and goes to prison. Even though it's clearly a state crime, he gets sent off to prison in Atlanta, where he gets out and becomes, surprise, a drug dealer, just like his non homophobic father figure.
Years later, the crackhead Mom is living in a drug rehab/homeless shelter, and he calls the first lover, who has also gone to jail for drugs (it's clearly implied that that's the fate of most Miami black boys), but is now released and a cook/manager at a local diner. The cook calls the now Atlanta drug dealer, and the hero drives to Miami, sees crackhead Mom, and the two have a meal at the diner and then go to the cook's apartment for sex, or maybe just touching. Oh, and there's a nice, mystical sea breeze.
That's it. I frowned, and told Wifey the Oscar win was Hollywood affirmative action. It was, at best, a mediocre movie. Then again, I have a feeling I would have disliked the other main contender for best picture, La La Land, even more.
I guess I want to see a story about success. Had the boy come out of that terrible childhood, and become, oh, a playwright, I would have liked it better. But this cycle of looserhood? Somehow ok because the loser is gay? Nah -- not my kind of movie.
I ought to stick to books, good magazines, and the occasional quality TV series. We've started watching "Billions," and I really like that -- Paul Giammatti is awesome, and the storylines and characters are terrific.
Of this year's Best Picture movie nominations, I only saw "Hell or High Water," and liked it. Then again, it had Jeff Bridges, so it HAD to be ok.
But as for "Moonlight," well, good for the local fellows who made it. For me, it was a bit Emperor New Clothes-ey...
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