As I age, I pay more attention to, and am far more sensitive of, sounds. Like most children of the 70s, I used to love very loud music, and probably did a bit of damage to my hearing by standing too close to loudspeakers at concerts and clubs.
Now, when I come into a room at the house, Wifey typically has the TV blasting. She's always been more hard of hearing than I. I march over to the remote and turn it down -- it affects me right away.
We have a funny side to sound, these days. My mother in law has gone completely deaf, but not at all dumb. Her voice is now VERY loud -- leaf blower loud. She is a true freak of physiology, this woman -- 92, very obese, and a power to her voice like a 40 year old opera singer, but without the melody. Often Wifey sits near her, and all of a sudden the suegra just belts out some complaint or another -- Wifey grips her ears like a little child at a car horn. This never gets old for me...
I always laugh, and the suegra says "Oh -- so you tink I so funny????!!!! Vy you lauging????!!!!" This just makes it worse -- then Wifey and I both crack up...
But turning to a much more pleasant aural topic -- the little crippled Spaniel Bo. In the am I bring him his food. When D2 had him in Gville, she would feed him like a normal dog -- putting his kibble in a bowl, and he would stand by it and eat. Wifey decided that was too much for his spindly and crooked legs, so she started bringing his food to the couch, where he eats while lying next to it -- like a caricature of a spoiled prince.
When my nephew Henry visited, he was amazed. Henry and his lovely wife Val have a very spoiled dog, Rocco, but he is a real dog -- eats at a bowl, goes for runs on the beach. Henry was taken aback at Bo and his royal treatment.
But the sound is lovely. Bo crunches away, happily, at his kibble mixed with some fresh chicken. He is dainty, and as I read the paper, or type on the keyboard, the noise is pleasant and subtle. Vienna, the much more street, badass rescue, waits patiently on the floor. When Bo finishes, and gets down from the sofa, Vienna pounces -- to polish off any remaining food.
I enjoy this daily pup ballet. I find Bo's quiet and happy crunching so soothing.
Meanwhile, it's back to the office today. Two of our young troops are off to battle -- a trial against the County, in which they're accusing a bus driver of waving a 15 year old to cross, whereupon he was killed by a passing pickup truck. The bus driver denies this -- says the boy walked into traffic on his own.
It's the first civil trial for Vince and Michelle -- they're both veteran prosecutors, though. It'll be interesting to see how they do.
As for me, I have some mail to open, and strategizing to do with John about an upcoming trial for one of our clients. It could be the largest jury verdict in a good long while.
Either way, I look forward to the daily sound of the crippled Spaniel -- the little man, Bo. Regardless of the activities of humans, he just keeps crunching away...
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Monday, May 29, 2017
It's a Nice Day For a White Wedding
So Sunday Wifey and I said adios to the dogs, and left for the new land of our people: Boca Raton. We cruised up the Sawgrass to Deerfield, and I had a small walk down memory lane. I spent summers in college with my parents in Delray, and worked at Jordan Marsh in the Town Center Mall, and two much better summers at Boca Hospital. The staff and I would hang out at places in Deerfield -- we went past an apartment complex on Hillsboro that brought back happy thoughts...
We were greeted at the very large and very pink Boca Hotel and Club, or Club and Hotel -- I forget. A very charming desk man named Brad checked us in -- he loved the place -- had been working there since he was 17. He gave us a double upgrade -- a suite in the newly renovated building with a view of the 18th hole of the course.
We took the elevator in the renovated 1926 building to a VERY long corridor -- it was a little Shining-esque -- but the room was gorgeous. Wifey "couldn't make it" until the dinner -- 2 hours later -- so made her way to a restaurant for an emergency chicken salad. I admired the view -- it was SO hot I preferred the indoors -- of golfers leaving the course. We dressed and WAZE took us the the synagogue on time -- early, in fact.
We caught up with long time friends Steve and Janet -- like us, uber parents. One girl is a budding eye doc, the other two are lawyers and marketers -- all U grads. Then Pete and Memory came -- one friend's wife's name I can never forget. And then it was 5 -- start time.
We were led to a party room, and the apps and drinks flowed. Eric had a vodka luge, and Barry and I made sure it worked properly. It did. As we ate and drank, the bridal party came in for a Bidecken -- an old tradition where they are greeted by guests. And then we all filed in to the sanctuary.
It was dramatic. The rabbi is VERY liberal -- Barry and I remember his sermon from Jenn's Bat Mitzvah -- "shabbos is a frame of mind -- you can golf if you want -- just always keep it in mind that it is the sacred day of rest." Like most reform rabbis -- he had a LOT to say - but the cantor, a woman, had a truly heavenly voice. The couple came in to a Hebrew version of Leonard Cohen's "Halleluja" -- and it was fine. And then, after one miss from the groom Ben, the glass was broken, and we all erupted in cheer.
From there, it was back to the party room, now formally decorated. The band played and played and played -- they were the hardest working group on the wedding circuit. During the Hora, Eric gathered we old guard and we dropped and did the worm -- an homage to our college days. Wifey asked if it was hard for me to do in my mid 50s -- I told her dropping was as easy as always -- getting up a bit harder.
Eric and Dana were joyous, and it was our true privilege to share it with them. Josh, the brother of the bride -- was moved to tears several times as he saw his best friend and sister enter her life's next stage.
Eric spoke beautifully -- about family, about Jenn and her "life decisions" and about his new son Ben.
Uncharacteristically, Wifey had a few drinks -- actually three -- and like the Don Henley song, all she wanted to do was dance. I kept up mostly, although it was a very hot room, and eventually my sweating sent me to the sidelines.
There was a lot of hugging, and mazel tovs, and saluds...It was awesome. It was a banner night for my brother and his family.
At 11, the band played "Last Dance," and it was. We walked to the VERY hot and humid night -- the weather app said it felt like 93. We drove back the the Club/Hotel/Club and I fell asleep to the Godfather -- Wifey asking me how many times I had seen it. Many.
In the am I woke first, and headed down for the included breakfast, in a beautiful room with a glass roof. I read the "Times" and listened to a woman talking, non stop, at the table behind me. I thought of my friend Joel, a lovable scoundrel, and imagined him saying to her "You know -- you seem like a nice lady, but you talk SO MUCH..."
I brought Wifey coffee and she dressed and then we returned for breakfast part II. We checked out, and there was Brad. He told me I had $70 left of a 100 resort credit, from AMEX, and sent me to not waste it. Wifey took to the hunt like a trained hound, and found a pair of sunglasses for one of the Ds...
We thanked Brad, and drove home, talking to each of the Ds about the wedding. They were invited but both had conflicts. But we all know that three months hence, we have our own wedding.
As I hugged Eric I reminded him -- we are lucky, rocking Daddies in the USA...
We were greeted at the very large and very pink Boca Hotel and Club, or Club and Hotel -- I forget. A very charming desk man named Brad checked us in -- he loved the place -- had been working there since he was 17. He gave us a double upgrade -- a suite in the newly renovated building with a view of the 18th hole of the course.
We took the elevator in the renovated 1926 building to a VERY long corridor -- it was a little Shining-esque -- but the room was gorgeous. Wifey "couldn't make it" until the dinner -- 2 hours later -- so made her way to a restaurant for an emergency chicken salad. I admired the view -- it was SO hot I preferred the indoors -- of golfers leaving the course. We dressed and WAZE took us the the synagogue on time -- early, in fact.
We caught up with long time friends Steve and Janet -- like us, uber parents. One girl is a budding eye doc, the other two are lawyers and marketers -- all U grads. Then Pete and Memory came -- one friend's wife's name I can never forget. And then it was 5 -- start time.
We were led to a party room, and the apps and drinks flowed. Eric had a vodka luge, and Barry and I made sure it worked properly. It did. As we ate and drank, the bridal party came in for a Bidecken -- an old tradition where they are greeted by guests. And then we all filed in to the sanctuary.
It was dramatic. The rabbi is VERY liberal -- Barry and I remember his sermon from Jenn's Bat Mitzvah -- "shabbos is a frame of mind -- you can golf if you want -- just always keep it in mind that it is the sacred day of rest." Like most reform rabbis -- he had a LOT to say - but the cantor, a woman, had a truly heavenly voice. The couple came in to a Hebrew version of Leonard Cohen's "Halleluja" -- and it was fine. And then, after one miss from the groom Ben, the glass was broken, and we all erupted in cheer.
From there, it was back to the party room, now formally decorated. The band played and played and played -- they were the hardest working group on the wedding circuit. During the Hora, Eric gathered we old guard and we dropped and did the worm -- an homage to our college days. Wifey asked if it was hard for me to do in my mid 50s -- I told her dropping was as easy as always -- getting up a bit harder.
Eric and Dana were joyous, and it was our true privilege to share it with them. Josh, the brother of the bride -- was moved to tears several times as he saw his best friend and sister enter her life's next stage.
Eric spoke beautifully -- about family, about Jenn and her "life decisions" and about his new son Ben.
Uncharacteristically, Wifey had a few drinks -- actually three -- and like the Don Henley song, all she wanted to do was dance. I kept up mostly, although it was a very hot room, and eventually my sweating sent me to the sidelines.
There was a lot of hugging, and mazel tovs, and saluds...It was awesome. It was a banner night for my brother and his family.
At 11, the band played "Last Dance," and it was. We walked to the VERY hot and humid night -- the weather app said it felt like 93. We drove back the the Club/Hotel/Club and I fell asleep to the Godfather -- Wifey asking me how many times I had seen it. Many.
In the am I woke first, and headed down for the included breakfast, in a beautiful room with a glass roof. I read the "Times" and listened to a woman talking, non stop, at the table behind me. I thought of my friend Joel, a lovable scoundrel, and imagined him saying to her "You know -- you seem like a nice lady, but you talk SO MUCH..."
I brought Wifey coffee and she dressed and then we returned for breakfast part II. We checked out, and there was Brad. He told me I had $70 left of a 100 resort credit, from AMEX, and sent me to not waste it. Wifey took to the hunt like a trained hound, and found a pair of sunglasses for one of the Ds...
We thanked Brad, and drove home, talking to each of the Ds about the wedding. They were invited but both had conflicts. But we all know that three months hence, we have our own wedding.
As I hugged Eric I reminded him -- we are lucky, rocking Daddies in the USA...
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Tough to Peel Away
So it's Memorial Day in Miami, and there's a ton going on. The notorious Urban Beach Weekend is taking place, and this year, though the city denies it, they've added a US military airshow and some kind of gay olympics to , um, dilute the urbanity of the weekend. It seems to have worked -- so far only one shooting, and not even fatal.
I prefer to stay home on holiday weekends. I'm very much like my Dad, but a key thing I inherited from my Mom is absolutely falling in love with my home. My Mom did, and at a cracker box condo in one of the ugliest developments I ever visited: Kings Point. KP was essentially a huge parking lot with small islands of concrete block garden apartments. The design was post War Soviet. My Dad used to meet fellow residents, and ask which cell block they were from.
But Mom LOVED her little unit, 145. After Dad died, she traveled the world -- China twice, Israel, Europe a few times, and all over the Caribbean, but then she preferred to stay home -- her cocoon, she called it. She'd sit in her small "Florida Room" watching a small black and white TV, and then read in bed, and avoid, as much as she could, going too far. Even when the Ds were little, and I'd fetch her and bring her to our big, happy house, after a few days she wanted to return to her home in the cell block.
I'm lucky -- my house is, at least to me, quite a bit nicer. We're on an acre of tropical hammock, and so I can hear neighbors as they go by, but don't have to see them. We have zero curtains -- each window looks out on the property -- quite a contrast to Mom's view of cars in a parking lot -- that drove me nuts whenever I'd peek outside at her place.
Mornings here are so peaceful -- I drink coffee and read the Herald, next to a pool and patio dappled with sun rays shining though the foliage. I really don't want to leave.
Yesterday, I never got farther than out mailbox. Wifey visited her mother, and I stayed home and watched "Walk the Line" in Public television, the great biopic about Johnny Cash.
Today I have one of the few events that would peel me away -- Eric and Dana's girl's wedding. We're leaving in the afternoon, and checking into a pink Boca hotel, and then driving west for the 5 pm ceremony.
And of course we WILL travel. We booked a Pacific Northwest week, in late July, and there are always NYC trips to go see D2.
So I guess it's a blessing and curse to truly love where you live. Wifey wants to move -- be closer to the city -- drive less than we do now. I'm not sure what that means, as I just checked the odometer on her more than year old SUV and it shows less than 4K miles. But there's no winning an argument with a wife's logic, as I've discovered. And I guess change is necessary.
In truth, Wifey is the engine behind most, of our trips, and I end up savoring them when I'm away, and thanking her for dragging my lazy ass out of Miami.
Maybe that's what the future holds, when we finally decamp from my beloved abode.
For now, though, I'm going to enjoy staying put...
I prefer to stay home on holiday weekends. I'm very much like my Dad, but a key thing I inherited from my Mom is absolutely falling in love with my home. My Mom did, and at a cracker box condo in one of the ugliest developments I ever visited: Kings Point. KP was essentially a huge parking lot with small islands of concrete block garden apartments. The design was post War Soviet. My Dad used to meet fellow residents, and ask which cell block they were from.
But Mom LOVED her little unit, 145. After Dad died, she traveled the world -- China twice, Israel, Europe a few times, and all over the Caribbean, but then she preferred to stay home -- her cocoon, she called it. She'd sit in her small "Florida Room" watching a small black and white TV, and then read in bed, and avoid, as much as she could, going too far. Even when the Ds were little, and I'd fetch her and bring her to our big, happy house, after a few days she wanted to return to her home in the cell block.
I'm lucky -- my house is, at least to me, quite a bit nicer. We're on an acre of tropical hammock, and so I can hear neighbors as they go by, but don't have to see them. We have zero curtains -- each window looks out on the property -- quite a contrast to Mom's view of cars in a parking lot -- that drove me nuts whenever I'd peek outside at her place.
Mornings here are so peaceful -- I drink coffee and read the Herald, next to a pool and patio dappled with sun rays shining though the foliage. I really don't want to leave.
Yesterday, I never got farther than out mailbox. Wifey visited her mother, and I stayed home and watched "Walk the Line" in Public television, the great biopic about Johnny Cash.
Today I have one of the few events that would peel me away -- Eric and Dana's girl's wedding. We're leaving in the afternoon, and checking into a pink Boca hotel, and then driving west for the 5 pm ceremony.
And of course we WILL travel. We booked a Pacific Northwest week, in late July, and there are always NYC trips to go see D2.
So I guess it's a blessing and curse to truly love where you live. Wifey wants to move -- be closer to the city -- drive less than we do now. I'm not sure what that means, as I just checked the odometer on her more than year old SUV and it shows less than 4K miles. But there's no winning an argument with a wife's logic, as I've discovered. And I guess change is necessary.
In truth, Wifey is the engine behind most, of our trips, and I end up savoring them when I'm away, and thanking her for dragging my lazy ass out of Miami.
Maybe that's what the future holds, when we finally decamp from my beloved abode.
For now, though, I'm going to enjoy staying put...
Saturday, May 27, 2017
Everything's Quiet on Memorial Day
So yesterday I followed the lead of all the other lawyers in my shop and started the long weekend early. They were all busy in places ranging from Brazil to Sarasota to Aventura , and I didn't see the point in being the only fool there. The secretaries, or assistants as apparently they must now be called, love it when left totally to their own devices...
Besides, Wifey and I had some driving and celebrating to do...we did the 1.2 hour rush hour run to Pembroke Pines, and went to Donna and Barry's house. My nephews of a different brother waited to greet us -- Scott is home after completing 1/2 of his college run at Maryland, and young brother Josh is busy about his phone fixing ways...their cousin Gabs was visiting, and the three had plans to meet Gabs' friends in Wilton Manors...but first we caught up a bit, and promised to meet soon for some breakfast or maybe a corned beef sandwich at Stephen's restaurant.
From there we cruised up the road to Boca, where Eric and Dana hosted a Friday pre wedding party for their girl Jenn and Ben -- the REAL Bennifer, as the sign said. They picked a place called Maggiono's, and as we arrived at the valet, a woman was walking in who positively shouted BOCA. She was probably 70, or nearly, dressed like the Ds friends. She had a slim figure, and from a distance passed for late 20s, but when she turned to us we saw the truth, under the blonde hair. We all got a good laugh.
Inside, beer and wine were poured, and 40 or so folks gathered. Eric and Dana led the shabbat candle lighting. We caught up with their extended family, including Dana's brother Steve, who has been a favorite of mine since we met in '83.
The place serves family style Italian, and I broke my low carbs diet for the night, with ravioli, eggplant parm, and ziti.
I met Ben's parents -- interesting folks now living in New Jersey. His dad is a retired Army Colonel -- he was a chaplain, and he's a West Point grad. They have three kids -- one born in Ohio, one in the southwest, and one in Germany. I thanked them in advance for the martinis I planned to consume at the wedding -- I think part of their wedding contribution is paying for the booze...
We left around 11, and retraced our route, this time with minimal traffic. After dropping Donna and Barry in the Pines, Wifey and I cruised back home, to happy puppies.
Today we may see Loni and Mike. Yesterday Mike had his best day as a lawyer, in his entire 31 year career. He represented a Uruguayan steakhouse breaking a lease on Brickell. He got them an excellent settlement, but the owners want to stay in South America for awhile. So they told him to go to the restaurant and load up with as much premium steak and cases of wine he could carry. Mike enlisted a young, strapping associate to help, paid the fellow in steak and wine as well, and then happily carted off quite a bounty. He plans to grill some later today.
When I told him Wifey and I were headed to the Northwest for a mid summer trip, he consulted Loni, and it appears they'll be joining us. We're thrilled -- Mike's the guy who plans VERY well for trips -- he knows where every largest ball of twine is located. And we always laugh heartily, as do our wives, at our expense. So that ought to be an awesome trip.
We fell asleep around midnight, and then at 6:30 Wifey's phone went off. It was the Palace. I figured it might be the news that I'd have to miss the wedding, but it was just a standard notification that my suegra was found on the floor by the morning nurse. She's fine - just a turtle on its shell that needs to be flipped over so it can keep schlepping along...The Palace tells you when this happens. Wifey seemed none too concerned -- she fell back fast asleep. I guess she'll go over later to check on the now righted turtle...
And tomorrow we leave the dogs in the care of two lovely neighbor girls, and we head off to Boca again -- for the real Bennifer wedding. I look forward to sharing this joyous night with my brothers Eric and Barry. As Eric reminded everyone, I was his best man nearly 31 years ago, and now we're blessed to come together again for the next generation. And, of course, we have our own big, fat, Colombian wedding just three months away.
One of the old friends last night was Sherra, who we went to college with. She and Barry actually go all the way back to high school in Broward. Sherra and I hugged, and agreed to meet only for joyous times -- weddings and Canes games. And let it so be...
Besides, Wifey and I had some driving and celebrating to do...we did the 1.2 hour rush hour run to Pembroke Pines, and went to Donna and Barry's house. My nephews of a different brother waited to greet us -- Scott is home after completing 1/2 of his college run at Maryland, and young brother Josh is busy about his phone fixing ways...their cousin Gabs was visiting, and the three had plans to meet Gabs' friends in Wilton Manors...but first we caught up a bit, and promised to meet soon for some breakfast or maybe a corned beef sandwich at Stephen's restaurant.
From there we cruised up the road to Boca, where Eric and Dana hosted a Friday pre wedding party for their girl Jenn and Ben -- the REAL Bennifer, as the sign said. They picked a place called Maggiono's, and as we arrived at the valet, a woman was walking in who positively shouted BOCA. She was probably 70, or nearly, dressed like the Ds friends. She had a slim figure, and from a distance passed for late 20s, but when she turned to us we saw the truth, under the blonde hair. We all got a good laugh.
Inside, beer and wine were poured, and 40 or so folks gathered. Eric and Dana led the shabbat candle lighting. We caught up with their extended family, including Dana's brother Steve, who has been a favorite of mine since we met in '83.
The place serves family style Italian, and I broke my low carbs diet for the night, with ravioli, eggplant parm, and ziti.
I met Ben's parents -- interesting folks now living in New Jersey. His dad is a retired Army Colonel -- he was a chaplain, and he's a West Point grad. They have three kids -- one born in Ohio, one in the southwest, and one in Germany. I thanked them in advance for the martinis I planned to consume at the wedding -- I think part of their wedding contribution is paying for the booze...
We left around 11, and retraced our route, this time with minimal traffic. After dropping Donna and Barry in the Pines, Wifey and I cruised back home, to happy puppies.
Today we may see Loni and Mike. Yesterday Mike had his best day as a lawyer, in his entire 31 year career. He represented a Uruguayan steakhouse breaking a lease on Brickell. He got them an excellent settlement, but the owners want to stay in South America for awhile. So they told him to go to the restaurant and load up with as much premium steak and cases of wine he could carry. Mike enlisted a young, strapping associate to help, paid the fellow in steak and wine as well, and then happily carted off quite a bounty. He plans to grill some later today.
When I told him Wifey and I were headed to the Northwest for a mid summer trip, he consulted Loni, and it appears they'll be joining us. We're thrilled -- Mike's the guy who plans VERY well for trips -- he knows where every largest ball of twine is located. And we always laugh heartily, as do our wives, at our expense. So that ought to be an awesome trip.
We fell asleep around midnight, and then at 6:30 Wifey's phone went off. It was the Palace. I figured it might be the news that I'd have to miss the wedding, but it was just a standard notification that my suegra was found on the floor by the morning nurse. She's fine - just a turtle on its shell that needs to be flipped over so it can keep schlepping along...The Palace tells you when this happens. Wifey seemed none too concerned -- she fell back fast asleep. I guess she'll go over later to check on the now righted turtle...
And tomorrow we leave the dogs in the care of two lovely neighbor girls, and we head off to Boca again -- for the real Bennifer wedding. I look forward to sharing this joyous night with my brothers Eric and Barry. As Eric reminded everyone, I was his best man nearly 31 years ago, and now we're blessed to come together again for the next generation. And, of course, we have our own big, fat, Colombian wedding just three months away.
One of the old friends last night was Sherra, who we went to college with. She and Barry actually go all the way back to high school in Broward. Sherra and I hugged, and agreed to meet only for joyous times -- weddings and Canes games. And let it so be...
Friday, May 26, 2017
Cheech and Chong
So, Dr. Barry keeps me up on developments at our common alma mater, since it also happens to be his current employer. He shared an email from a fellow with a VERY Asian name, and I asked what the fellow's nickname was.
We always used to get a kick out of the fact that our fellow classmates would have long, foreign names, like Indian fellows named Havnagoodtime Vishnuhere, but they'd say "Call me Skip." So he knew right away.
And then, my mind went back in time to the year before I met Barry, when I first moved into a now mythical place called Building 22, long since demolished to make room for a parking lot.
In late 1979 I got word from the Honors Director Barbara Clark that Building 22 had an opening. It was in the "Apartment Area," a gathering of WW II era three story buildings, which contained 2 bedroom/one bathroom units, each building a specialized dorm. The football team had their own, as did the swimmers, and Building 22 was the Honors Dorm. It was superior accommodations, since the "Towers" where I lived was a high rise where 44 guys were packed into cracker box sized rooms, with a communal bathroom.
It was fine to live there, and my roommate from Pakistan taught this Long Island Jew a LOT about a culture entirely foreign to me, but Ahmjed was going to transfer, anyway, to Auburn and their Aerospace Engineering Program, and the opportunity to move to Honors was a great one. I took it.
Well, when I told my mentor Joe, the President of the Honors Association that I was going to Apartment Z, he laughed. My roommies were both named Mark, therefore the Marks Brothers, and they were the Cheech and Chong of the Building.
And so they were. One Mark, from Ohio, was pre med. The other, from Indiana, was pre vet. They were on full academic scholarship, but paid the balance of their expenses by selling weed. And they smoked PRODIGIOUS amounts of it, to comical effect.
Indiana Mark looked like Sean Penn's character Jeff Spicoli, before Jeff Spicoli. Ohio Mark was more clean cut -- he ended up with a girlfriend from Colombia, related to one of his dealers.
These guys would listen to Pink Floyd's "The Wall" over and over -- I mean like 10 times per day. And they had a side kick -- Carl the Swimmer -- a tall blonde guy from Minnesota who somehow kept his athletic scholarship while still smoking huge amounts of weed.
Carl had a roommate, also a swimmer, and he despised him. I assumed the guy was a true jock, who resented having such a druggie roommie and teammate. The guy had a comical Greek name, like Nick Papadopolis, or something, and one recurring theme among Carl and the Marks Bros was making fun of the roommie.
They would smoke, with "The Wall" playing, and come up with increasingly absurd version of the hated roommie's name. I seem to remember Ohio Mark saying "So Carl, how's your asshole roommie Dick ZinVanThropolis doing today?" Then the three would keel over in uncontrollable laughter. I'd look on like an Anthropologist observing a primitive tribe.
Later in the Spring, my LI girlfriend Alison came to visit. We were asleep on night, around 2 am, and there was a knock on the door (I had my own room -- the fellow assigned to me was kicked out for dropping his Honors course). At the door was Ohio Mark, smiling but stoned. I asked him what the hell he wanted. He smiled and pointed outside. "Dude! It's been raining all night. There's a filed in Hialeah where the magic mushrooms grow. We NEED your car to get there to harvest them!" I told him he was too wasted to drive, and went to close the door. He put his foot in the way. "I'm afraid I MUST insist, Dave. I will stand here and disturb you and your lady friend until you comply. These shrooms are really magic."
I gave over the keys and went back to sleep. Later that am, the Marks Bros sat at the formica dining table, with full buckets. My car looked like they had entered it into a mud race. They DID have it washed.
I lost touch with the Marks Bros, but in the late 90s, one surfaced. Barry's father was in the hospital in Weston, and the radiologist doing the procedure was Ohio Mark. Barry knew all about him, and made the connection -- I was their common roommie, a year apart. "Yeah -- I heard Dave was doing great as a lawyer." Barry's Dad Sy joked with Barry that he had found a great guy to treat him -- "that stoner guy from UM."
I reached out to Ohio Mark, but he never returned my calls. I guess, as a big shot doc now, he preferred to keep guys who knew his past out of the picture.
But I savor the memories. And it's funny how a small reference can bring the mind back, to a time over three decades past.
Rock on, Marks Bros.
We always used to get a kick out of the fact that our fellow classmates would have long, foreign names, like Indian fellows named Havnagoodtime Vishnuhere, but they'd say "Call me Skip." So he knew right away.
And then, my mind went back in time to the year before I met Barry, when I first moved into a now mythical place called Building 22, long since demolished to make room for a parking lot.
In late 1979 I got word from the Honors Director Barbara Clark that Building 22 had an opening. It was in the "Apartment Area," a gathering of WW II era three story buildings, which contained 2 bedroom/one bathroom units, each building a specialized dorm. The football team had their own, as did the swimmers, and Building 22 was the Honors Dorm. It was superior accommodations, since the "Towers" where I lived was a high rise where 44 guys were packed into cracker box sized rooms, with a communal bathroom.
It was fine to live there, and my roommate from Pakistan taught this Long Island Jew a LOT about a culture entirely foreign to me, but Ahmjed was going to transfer, anyway, to Auburn and their Aerospace Engineering Program, and the opportunity to move to Honors was a great one. I took it.
Well, when I told my mentor Joe, the President of the Honors Association that I was going to Apartment Z, he laughed. My roommies were both named Mark, therefore the Marks Brothers, and they were the Cheech and Chong of the Building.
And so they were. One Mark, from Ohio, was pre med. The other, from Indiana, was pre vet. They were on full academic scholarship, but paid the balance of their expenses by selling weed. And they smoked PRODIGIOUS amounts of it, to comical effect.
Indiana Mark looked like Sean Penn's character Jeff Spicoli, before Jeff Spicoli. Ohio Mark was more clean cut -- he ended up with a girlfriend from Colombia, related to one of his dealers.
These guys would listen to Pink Floyd's "The Wall" over and over -- I mean like 10 times per day. And they had a side kick -- Carl the Swimmer -- a tall blonde guy from Minnesota who somehow kept his athletic scholarship while still smoking huge amounts of weed.
Carl had a roommate, also a swimmer, and he despised him. I assumed the guy was a true jock, who resented having such a druggie roommie and teammate. The guy had a comical Greek name, like Nick Papadopolis, or something, and one recurring theme among Carl and the Marks Bros was making fun of the roommie.
They would smoke, with "The Wall" playing, and come up with increasingly absurd version of the hated roommie's name. I seem to remember Ohio Mark saying "So Carl, how's your asshole roommie Dick ZinVanThropolis doing today?" Then the three would keel over in uncontrollable laughter. I'd look on like an Anthropologist observing a primitive tribe.
Later in the Spring, my LI girlfriend Alison came to visit. We were asleep on night, around 2 am, and there was a knock on the door (I had my own room -- the fellow assigned to me was kicked out for dropping his Honors course). At the door was Ohio Mark, smiling but stoned. I asked him what the hell he wanted. He smiled and pointed outside. "Dude! It's been raining all night. There's a filed in Hialeah where the magic mushrooms grow. We NEED your car to get there to harvest them!" I told him he was too wasted to drive, and went to close the door. He put his foot in the way. "I'm afraid I MUST insist, Dave. I will stand here and disturb you and your lady friend until you comply. These shrooms are really magic."
I gave over the keys and went back to sleep. Later that am, the Marks Bros sat at the formica dining table, with full buckets. My car looked like they had entered it into a mud race. They DID have it washed.
I lost touch with the Marks Bros, but in the late 90s, one surfaced. Barry's father was in the hospital in Weston, and the radiologist doing the procedure was Ohio Mark. Barry knew all about him, and made the connection -- I was their common roommie, a year apart. "Yeah -- I heard Dave was doing great as a lawyer." Barry's Dad Sy joked with Barry that he had found a great guy to treat him -- "that stoner guy from UM."
I reached out to Ohio Mark, but he never returned my calls. I guess, as a big shot doc now, he preferred to keep guys who knew his past out of the picture.
But I savor the memories. And it's funny how a small reference can bring the mind back, to a time over three decades past.
Rock on, Marks Bros.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Vacation -- All We Ever Wanted...
One of our nicknames for D1 is "rain man," since she has a strange capacity to recall odd dates and events. We'll typically get a message telling us that a particular dog is "four and a half today." It's actually pretty charming. So yesterday she sent us some photos, and recalled that exactly two years ago, we were in Switzerland -- following Israel. It was a terrific trip for all of us, but it reminded us that, other than weekends in NYC, and a long weekend in the Bay Area, Wifey and I haven't been away in quite awhile. Wait -- there WAS the week long cruise to the Maritimes...
It's mostly my fault. No -- it's totally my fault. I have little desire to travel, on account of the fact that I really love where I live. Plus, with the Big, Fat, Colombian wedding a few months away, the thought of planning a trip has been even farther from my mind.
Alas -- a few weeks ago, we were on a staycation with Eric and Dana, in Wynwood, and they told us how much they loved their visits to Oregon. Wifey pronounces it, like any proper former Brooklyn-ite, ÄRE -o Gon. I've never been there, and it appeals to me, too, so yesterday I booked us some American tickets for the final week of July.
We'll fly to Portland, kick around the Oregon Wine Country, maybe stop at the coast, and then drive to Seattle. I was there for a few days and really dug the place. We'll visit Pike's Market, the Chihully exhibit, and the new museum founded by Paul Allen, the Microsoft guy. They have a great exhibit on late American culture, with, of course, an entire section of Kurt Cobain. I learned a lot when I was there.
July and August are my favorite times to leave Miami -- the summer heat seems to really get to me by then -- and the cool Pacific Northwest ought to be a nice change.
As Wifey enjoys reminding me, almost all of the time, our vacations are her idea, I go a bit reluctantly, and end up having a great time. I anticipate this will be the experience this time, as well.
Before then, though, we have local business: Eric and Dana's girl Jenn is getting married this weekend. Friday night we're carpooling with Barry and Donna to Boca, for an Italian Shabbos at a restaurant near their house. Then Sunday we get a reprise trip up the Turnpike, for the big event itself -- after which we're spending the night at a Boca hotel. We host some friends there Monday am, and then head home.
Wifey wants to stop by Urban Beach Weekend on Miami Beach, but I explained most of the events will be over by the time we return to the 305. Now she has to return the spandex pants she was hoping to wear.
I'm looking very forward to the balance of '17, if I don't say so myself...
It's mostly my fault. No -- it's totally my fault. I have little desire to travel, on account of the fact that I really love where I live. Plus, with the Big, Fat, Colombian wedding a few months away, the thought of planning a trip has been even farther from my mind.
Alas -- a few weeks ago, we were on a staycation with Eric and Dana, in Wynwood, and they told us how much they loved their visits to Oregon. Wifey pronounces it, like any proper former Brooklyn-ite, ÄRE -o Gon. I've never been there, and it appeals to me, too, so yesterday I booked us some American tickets for the final week of July.
We'll fly to Portland, kick around the Oregon Wine Country, maybe stop at the coast, and then drive to Seattle. I was there for a few days and really dug the place. We'll visit Pike's Market, the Chihully exhibit, and the new museum founded by Paul Allen, the Microsoft guy. They have a great exhibit on late American culture, with, of course, an entire section of Kurt Cobain. I learned a lot when I was there.
July and August are my favorite times to leave Miami -- the summer heat seems to really get to me by then -- and the cool Pacific Northwest ought to be a nice change.
As Wifey enjoys reminding me, almost all of the time, our vacations are her idea, I go a bit reluctantly, and end up having a great time. I anticipate this will be the experience this time, as well.
Before then, though, we have local business: Eric and Dana's girl Jenn is getting married this weekend. Friday night we're carpooling with Barry and Donna to Boca, for an Italian Shabbos at a restaurant near their house. Then Sunday we get a reprise trip up the Turnpike, for the big event itself -- after which we're spending the night at a Boca hotel. We host some friends there Monday am, and then head home.
Wifey wants to stop by Urban Beach Weekend on Miami Beach, but I explained most of the events will be over by the time we return to the 305. Now she has to return the spandex pants she was hoping to wear.
I'm looking very forward to the balance of '17, if I don't say so myself...
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
So Now They Target Teenybobbers
Wifey and I came home from an early dinner, and she set about watering the newly planted landscaping, while I came inside to watch the news. It was bad -- a terrorist attack at a Manchester arena, during a concert by Ariana Grande, of all things.
The attack at the Paris concert was awful, of course, but that performance, Eagles of Death Metal, at least drew grown ups, or sort of. Ariana Grande fans tend to be pre teen to barely post teen girls. Really?
We have friends who live in Stoke, near Manchester, and the new son in law Young Dave (our friend is Old Dave now) is an EMT in Manchester. Luckily, D1 had spoken with her friends, and they were not directly involved, though Young Dave will be working overtime shifts to cover for his poor colleagues who had to deal with, so far, 22 deaths and over 50 injuries.
Our friend Sandra has already posted on FaceBook (tm) -- that she and her fellow Brits will endure, as they did when the Luftwaffe came -- drinking a cup of tea and soldiering on. And they shall, of course,
But teeny bobbers?
Of course, it brought back memories of the Ds at that age, now over a decade in the past. I won Dad of the Year when I scored some excellent Usher tix for D2 at the UM arena, and treated several of her friends as well. I told my friend Jim about it, and at Canes games following the show we'd make believe, well, not really, that we were so unhip that we called the singer Butler. D2 rolled her eyes in that way young girls can. It was exquisite.
Our species has always faced mortal dangers. In another age, I guess parents worried that their children would get eaten by animals. Not much has changed, though the animals now don't have fur -- they have guns and IEDs...
So here's to the Mancs today and tomorrow, to endure. The rest of us, too.
The attack at the Paris concert was awful, of course, but that performance, Eagles of Death Metal, at least drew grown ups, or sort of. Ariana Grande fans tend to be pre teen to barely post teen girls. Really?
We have friends who live in Stoke, near Manchester, and the new son in law Young Dave (our friend is Old Dave now) is an EMT in Manchester. Luckily, D1 had spoken with her friends, and they were not directly involved, though Young Dave will be working overtime shifts to cover for his poor colleagues who had to deal with, so far, 22 deaths and over 50 injuries.
Our friend Sandra has already posted on FaceBook (tm) -- that she and her fellow Brits will endure, as they did when the Luftwaffe came -- drinking a cup of tea and soldiering on. And they shall, of course,
But teeny bobbers?
Of course, it brought back memories of the Ds at that age, now over a decade in the past. I won Dad of the Year when I scored some excellent Usher tix for D2 at the UM arena, and treated several of her friends as well. I told my friend Jim about it, and at Canes games following the show we'd make believe, well, not really, that we were so unhip that we called the singer Butler. D2 rolled her eyes in that way young girls can. It was exquisite.
Our species has always faced mortal dangers. In another age, I guess parents worried that their children would get eaten by animals. Not much has changed, though the animals now don't have fur -- they have guns and IEDs...
So here's to the Mancs today and tomorrow, to endure. The rest of us, too.
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Time Passages
So Wifey and I hosted my dear friend Alex yesterday, with his wonderful kids and mom Joanne. We shared lunch and laughter -- Alex's Dad is my partner and brother Paul, who is 11 years older than I. After they left, Wifey said she too wanted grand kids -- she was ready to supplement the furry grand dogs with some human types...hopefully this will come sooner than later.
D1 and Joey came over this am, with a late MD and early FD gift. They got us a Nest thermostat, so we could join the 21st century and program our A/C, or at least one of them, from our phones. Joey is FAR handier than I -- he loves putting things together, and with me holding the screws, he had the thing installed in no time. We joked that D2 and her man Jonathan will be needing his services, soon -- when they move there'll be furniture to assemble. They had a chair or two in their Murray Hill place that sat in boxes until Joey did the job. Among all his awesomeness as a son in law, having a handy fellow around is an added benefit...
Then I fielded a call from Dr. Barry -- on his way home from a fetch college kid for the summer trip. Scott is now 1/2 done with his stint at College Park, MD -- he has a great internship in the 954, very close to home.
I did my last college or grad school schlep home 2 years ago. I really savored those years, but it's nice to be past them. Living vicariously through Barry is good enough for me.
Time passages get mixed up these days, via multiple marriages. Our next door neighbor Alfredo is my age, and has two grown kids -- and a grand daughter, too. He is now married to a wife about 30 years his junior, and there are 4 little ones and another on the way. They built an awesome playground, and I told Alfredo I hoped someday to bring my grandkids over. "Grandkids? You're MY age -- have some more kids of your own!"
All I could think of was my old boss Ed's great expression for showing distaste: I'd rather drink Drano. About the LAST thing I'd want now is more kids -- the kind that come with built in parents are what I'd like to have.
So it's nice to have these time passages. Joey's brother and sister in law are buying their first house, and D1 and Joey are having those first discussions in that arena, too. They really dig the 'hood of Morningside, a gated in area just north of Downtown. I've been there once, and really liked it, too.
I guess the coming time will tell -- it always does.
D1 and Joey came over this am, with a late MD and early FD gift. They got us a Nest thermostat, so we could join the 21st century and program our A/C, or at least one of them, from our phones. Joey is FAR handier than I -- he loves putting things together, and with me holding the screws, he had the thing installed in no time. We joked that D2 and her man Jonathan will be needing his services, soon -- when they move there'll be furniture to assemble. They had a chair or two in their Murray Hill place that sat in boxes until Joey did the job. Among all his awesomeness as a son in law, having a handy fellow around is an added benefit...
Then I fielded a call from Dr. Barry -- on his way home from a fetch college kid for the summer trip. Scott is now 1/2 done with his stint at College Park, MD -- he has a great internship in the 954, very close to home.
I did my last college or grad school schlep home 2 years ago. I really savored those years, but it's nice to be past them. Living vicariously through Barry is good enough for me.
Time passages get mixed up these days, via multiple marriages. Our next door neighbor Alfredo is my age, and has two grown kids -- and a grand daughter, too. He is now married to a wife about 30 years his junior, and there are 4 little ones and another on the way. They built an awesome playground, and I told Alfredo I hoped someday to bring my grandkids over. "Grandkids? You're MY age -- have some more kids of your own!"
All I could think of was my old boss Ed's great expression for showing distaste: I'd rather drink Drano. About the LAST thing I'd want now is more kids -- the kind that come with built in parents are what I'd like to have.
So it's nice to have these time passages. Joey's brother and sister in law are buying their first house, and D1 and Joey are having those first discussions in that arena, too. They really dig the 'hood of Morningside, a gated in area just north of Downtown. I've been there once, and really liked it, too.
I guess the coming time will tell -- it always does.
Friday, May 19, 2017
Psycho
I just finished an article in this month's "Atlantic" which profiles young psychopaths, and attempts to treat them and return them to society before they kill and maim, or at least before they kill and maim LOTS of people.
The latest research is that about 1% of children simply have brains wired differently -- parts of grey matter are missing -- and it leaves them unable to feel empathy to others, and in some cases only get pleasure from causing pain.
The article brought back chilling memories of my lone encounter with a young psychopath -- at least one that I KNEW was seriously off. Dr. Eric was a big shot at the local JCC, and he ran the inter-session camp. This was a program for kids during Winter Break -- they would take the kids on trips, so that working parents had something for the kids to do while school was out. Eric invited me to be a counselor during the '82-'83 session -- I think it paid a few hundred dollars, and it was stay in Miami with Eric and his family and do this or head up to Delray Beach and spend days on the shore and nights at Boston's on AIA, meeting tourists. Eric really needed an extra counselor, and I took the gig.
Since I was a young college guy, they gave me older kids -- I think 10-12 year olds. I was in charge of a group of maybe 8-10, including the "most troubled" camper, Kenny. I was warned that Kenny was always in trouble -- he and his brother had been adopted by a nice couple who couldn't have biological kids -- and while the younger brother was fine, Kenny was not.
I still remember him with great clarity -- good looking, thin, athletic, and smart. But his dark eyes always seemed empty. The first trip out, Kenny, in front of me, pushed a younger girl to the floor, and the girl started to wail. I grabbed Kenny and asked why the hell he had done that. He calmly told me "I like it when I can make the girls cry."
Of course, I heard spooky music in my head, and I kept close supervision on Kenny the rest of the camp session. After it ended, I got my check, went on to finish my senior year, had a great post college summer working as a pharmacy tech at Boca Hospital, and that Fall started law school -- Eric as my roommie in med school, met a pretty girl upstairs who is still hanging around 34 years later...life was good.
And then one day after class there was a big news story. A young teen in Kendall had hidden in a closet with his father's gun, shot and killed his younger brother, and then ambushed and killed his mother when she came home from work. He spared his adoptive father. When he was taken away, the news showed him. He smiled at the camera and shrugged.
I followed Kenny's story for awhile. Apparently the state agreed to ship him to an experimental mental health center in, I think, Virginia. He graduated, and I think went to college. I guess he'd be in his mid 40s now, if he's still alive.
According to the article, psychopaths don't respond to punishment. But they do respond to rewards -- and they can try to train their brains to sort of fake empathy and sympathy -- but the faulty wiring remains.
The other day the news had a story about a young teen in Hialeah, who had killed his neighbor's cat -- hung the thing on a fence for the neighbors to see. He was let out of juvenile detention, and he killed another cat. The boy was interviewed -- his explanation was that he thought the cats were strays -- not owned by his neighbors. His eyes reminded me of Kenny's -- nothing really there.
These are, to me, the scariest people among us. May my encounter with Kenny be my only close one...
The latest research is that about 1% of children simply have brains wired differently -- parts of grey matter are missing -- and it leaves them unable to feel empathy to others, and in some cases only get pleasure from causing pain.
The article brought back chilling memories of my lone encounter with a young psychopath -- at least one that I KNEW was seriously off. Dr. Eric was a big shot at the local JCC, and he ran the inter-session camp. This was a program for kids during Winter Break -- they would take the kids on trips, so that working parents had something for the kids to do while school was out. Eric invited me to be a counselor during the '82-'83 session -- I think it paid a few hundred dollars, and it was stay in Miami with Eric and his family and do this or head up to Delray Beach and spend days on the shore and nights at Boston's on AIA, meeting tourists. Eric really needed an extra counselor, and I took the gig.
Since I was a young college guy, they gave me older kids -- I think 10-12 year olds. I was in charge of a group of maybe 8-10, including the "most troubled" camper, Kenny. I was warned that Kenny was always in trouble -- he and his brother had been adopted by a nice couple who couldn't have biological kids -- and while the younger brother was fine, Kenny was not.
I still remember him with great clarity -- good looking, thin, athletic, and smart. But his dark eyes always seemed empty. The first trip out, Kenny, in front of me, pushed a younger girl to the floor, and the girl started to wail. I grabbed Kenny and asked why the hell he had done that. He calmly told me "I like it when I can make the girls cry."
Of course, I heard spooky music in my head, and I kept close supervision on Kenny the rest of the camp session. After it ended, I got my check, went on to finish my senior year, had a great post college summer working as a pharmacy tech at Boca Hospital, and that Fall started law school -- Eric as my roommie in med school, met a pretty girl upstairs who is still hanging around 34 years later...life was good.
And then one day after class there was a big news story. A young teen in Kendall had hidden in a closet with his father's gun, shot and killed his younger brother, and then ambushed and killed his mother when she came home from work. He spared his adoptive father. When he was taken away, the news showed him. He smiled at the camera and shrugged.
I followed Kenny's story for awhile. Apparently the state agreed to ship him to an experimental mental health center in, I think, Virginia. He graduated, and I think went to college. I guess he'd be in his mid 40s now, if he's still alive.
According to the article, psychopaths don't respond to punishment. But they do respond to rewards -- and they can try to train their brains to sort of fake empathy and sympathy -- but the faulty wiring remains.
The other day the news had a story about a young teen in Hialeah, who had killed his neighbor's cat -- hung the thing on a fence for the neighbors to see. He was let out of juvenile detention, and he killed another cat. The boy was interviewed -- his explanation was that he thought the cats were strays -- not owned by his neighbors. His eyes reminded me of Kenny's -- nothing really there.
These are, to me, the scariest people among us. May my encounter with Kenny be my only close one...
Thursday, May 18, 2017
Another Rocker Gone
So this am I awoke to the news that Chris Cornell was dead. He was the founder of the Seattle grunge band Soundgarden. He was 52. Wifey and I have been on a tear recently, to see music acts before they die, but we figured bands like The Who, whose players are in their 70s, and Paul McCartney, a PRE Baby Boomer, were ripe subjects. Cornell was much younger.
In my typical fashion, I was late to know and appreciate Grunge. I grew up on LI, close to the birth city of Punk and New Age, and I ignored it all until it was 10 years old. When I was a teen, I was convinced that, to be any good, a band had to have been around awhile, and so I dug acts that were more my sister's vintage (she's 13 years older than I) than mine.
I think I first appreciated Grunge in the early aughts. D2 would wake up for school, reluctantly, and turn on VH1 while she got ready. I developed an annoying habit (to her) of standing next to her bed watching the channel. It played a lot of grunge, including a song by Cornell and Soundgarden I really dug -- Blackhole Sun. D2 would emerge from the bathroom to find me standing there, watching. A few young teen girl facial expressions of disgust later, I would leave.
But to this day, I associate Soundgarden with D2. She was a cooler kid than I was -- getting into music of her day as it came out, rather than years later. She's still the family source for any info on Hip Hop, which she and her boyfriend Jonathan enjoy. Every once in awhile, I'll pick up a Hip Hop expression, and surprise her with it. When she told me years ago about Kendrick Lamar, I replied "West Coast -- represent!" Even though she's now 25, I still excel at making D2 roll her eyes...
Anyway, Cornell died after a concert in Detroit, apparently. No cause of death has been reported yet, but in his honor, I've been playing Soundgarden and Audioslave in his memory.
And Wifey and I are set to see Hall and Oates (Tears for Fears opening act), U2, and Paul McCartney all within a 30 day spread, beginning next month. I'm glad we are.
Who knows when they will, contrary to Buddy Holly's hope, fade away?
In my typical fashion, I was late to know and appreciate Grunge. I grew up on LI, close to the birth city of Punk and New Age, and I ignored it all until it was 10 years old. When I was a teen, I was convinced that, to be any good, a band had to have been around awhile, and so I dug acts that were more my sister's vintage (she's 13 years older than I) than mine.
I think I first appreciated Grunge in the early aughts. D2 would wake up for school, reluctantly, and turn on VH1 while she got ready. I developed an annoying habit (to her) of standing next to her bed watching the channel. It played a lot of grunge, including a song by Cornell and Soundgarden I really dug -- Blackhole Sun. D2 would emerge from the bathroom to find me standing there, watching. A few young teen girl facial expressions of disgust later, I would leave.
But to this day, I associate Soundgarden with D2. She was a cooler kid than I was -- getting into music of her day as it came out, rather than years later. She's still the family source for any info on Hip Hop, which she and her boyfriend Jonathan enjoy. Every once in awhile, I'll pick up a Hip Hop expression, and surprise her with it. When she told me years ago about Kendrick Lamar, I replied "West Coast -- represent!" Even though she's now 25, I still excel at making D2 roll her eyes...
Anyway, Cornell died after a concert in Detroit, apparently. No cause of death has been reported yet, but in his honor, I've been playing Soundgarden and Audioslave in his memory.
And Wifey and I are set to see Hall and Oates (Tears for Fears opening act), U2, and Paul McCartney all within a 30 day spread, beginning next month. I'm glad we are.
Who knows when they will, contrary to Buddy Holly's hope, fade away?
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Investment Advice and Tragedy
So yesterday I drove up to Aventura, called Aventorture by some because of the untenable traffic. I had a business lunch, which turned out quite fruitful. But, as usual, I got there way early, and decided to kill the time at the Aventura Mall.
I generally don't like malls. I did, as a teenager and young adult, but now that I've developed a stunning allergy to owning stuff, there's little to recommend them. But Aventura is something to see -- dripping with the scent of money -- and an interesting mix of local, upper middle class black folks, and tons of South Americans, along with a smattering of ladies who lunch, many with classic Five Towns Long Island looks and accents.
I strolled into the Apple store, and was taken aback. It was PACKED -- in the middle of a weekday, and people were waiting on line to make appointments to see the "geniuses" who would fix or adjust their IPhones and other devices.
In the early aughts, when Apple was still coming of age, my friend and broker Pat suggested I invest -- at a level higher than I typically did for a single stock. Well, I'm surely not alone, but my returns over the past 15 years have been about 300%. I gifted sums to the Ds, and kept plenty for ourselves. Seeing the sight in the store yesterday confirmed the decision.
Of course, it's no guarantee. When the Ds were in Middle School, I bought stock in a clothes company after the Ds made me wait on line for 15 minutes to buy $40 T shirts. I figured that was a no brainer, too, and for awhile the stock rose, but now Abercrombie and Fitch is near bankruptcy. I guess the trick is knowing when to bold.
In contrast to Apple, I walked through Sears, to get to the only part of the mall I could find parking. It was dead there. It took a long time to find a salesperson so I could be directed outside. I finally found one fellow, helping a couple with appliances, and the fellow was annoyed at my question. I 'm pretty sure Sears will be done as a company pretty soon. I'm no Warren Buffet, but I'm confident in my prediction.
And then I got to the car and checked my emails, and there was a forwarded message from Dr. Barry -- a university wide post from our old friend Pat Whitely, who has risen to Dean of Students. She was reporting about an utter tragedy.
A brand new Cane, and young woman named Ellie Goldenberg, had graduated summa cum laude on Friday, in the Drama Department. She had won all awards, and had starred for y ears in Ring Theater productions. Her family had come down from western PA for her graduation, and they took an Everglades airboat ride on Saturday. There was a crash. The parents and sister were hurt, and Ellie was killed.
All deaths of young achievers are awful, but this one seemed acutely so. Exactly following a family triumph, a college graduation, a family must plan a funeral instead of a move to a first job city. The Big Man is truly inscrutable, I guess.
So Barry's email shocked me back to reality -- investing money, Trump, Korea -- stuff people get so worked up about -- and in an Everglades minute, everything can change.
I don't know Ellie's parents, of course, but I hurt for them. May they somehow find peace in the memory of their lost beautiful daughter.
I generally don't like malls. I did, as a teenager and young adult, but now that I've developed a stunning allergy to owning stuff, there's little to recommend them. But Aventura is something to see -- dripping with the scent of money -- and an interesting mix of local, upper middle class black folks, and tons of South Americans, along with a smattering of ladies who lunch, many with classic Five Towns Long Island looks and accents.
I strolled into the Apple store, and was taken aback. It was PACKED -- in the middle of a weekday, and people were waiting on line to make appointments to see the "geniuses" who would fix or adjust their IPhones and other devices.
In the early aughts, when Apple was still coming of age, my friend and broker Pat suggested I invest -- at a level higher than I typically did for a single stock. Well, I'm surely not alone, but my returns over the past 15 years have been about 300%. I gifted sums to the Ds, and kept plenty for ourselves. Seeing the sight in the store yesterday confirmed the decision.
Of course, it's no guarantee. When the Ds were in Middle School, I bought stock in a clothes company after the Ds made me wait on line for 15 minutes to buy $40 T shirts. I figured that was a no brainer, too, and for awhile the stock rose, but now Abercrombie and Fitch is near bankruptcy. I guess the trick is knowing when to bold.
In contrast to Apple, I walked through Sears, to get to the only part of the mall I could find parking. It was dead there. It took a long time to find a salesperson so I could be directed outside. I finally found one fellow, helping a couple with appliances, and the fellow was annoyed at my question. I 'm pretty sure Sears will be done as a company pretty soon. I'm no Warren Buffet, but I'm confident in my prediction.
And then I got to the car and checked my emails, and there was a forwarded message from Dr. Barry -- a university wide post from our old friend Pat Whitely, who has risen to Dean of Students. She was reporting about an utter tragedy.
A brand new Cane, and young woman named Ellie Goldenberg, had graduated summa cum laude on Friday, in the Drama Department. She had won all awards, and had starred for y ears in Ring Theater productions. Her family had come down from western PA for her graduation, and they took an Everglades airboat ride on Saturday. There was a crash. The parents and sister were hurt, and Ellie was killed.
All deaths of young achievers are awful, but this one seemed acutely so. Exactly following a family triumph, a college graduation, a family must plan a funeral instead of a move to a first job city. The Big Man is truly inscrutable, I guess.
So Barry's email shocked me back to reality -- investing money, Trump, Korea -- stuff people get so worked up about -- and in an Everglades minute, everything can change.
I don't know Ellie's parents, of course, but I hurt for them. May they somehow find peace in the memory of their lost beautiful daughter.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Talking About a Fried Gone By
When you buy or sell a residential property in Miami, a few weeks after the closing, the sale details get reported in the Herald. Sure enough, this am, in the Neighbor's Section, I saw the details of our closing on the Palmetto Bay condo -- a testament to my real estate investing acumen. I bought the place in '06 for $232.5 and sold it 11 years later for $155K.
But two spots above the listing, there was another report from the same condo -- the sale of my former friend's unit -- he was the bigger loser -- he paid $242.5 (his unit faced the pool) and sold the unit for $149K -- to his daughter and her new husband.
And it made me reflect on my friendship with Vince, a friendship that started in 1980, and died a few years ago. He was the reason I bought the place. Back in 2005, Miami real estate was soaring in value. Vince called me, and said he was worried -- our kids, then in late high school, wouldn't be able to afford to live in Miami after college. He told me about a preview sale of an apartment complex that was becoming condo -- and said we ought to take advantage.
I went with him, and the model was packed, like they were selling cheap burgers. I looked around, and thought to myself, this is a unit that should sell for the low 100s -- it was a small 2 bedroom unit, in the sort of complex I lived in after college. Like an idiot, I got caught up in the hype, and plunked down essentially double what I should have. Sure enough, the crash came the next year -- at one point, following a fire that destroyed 1/3 of the complex, you were lucky to get $75K for the place I paid so much more for.
Vince plunked his son into his unit -- and he was there for years. Sadly, the young man had drug addiction issues, and had relapsed. While Wifey and I were cleaning out our unit, I saw Vince's daughter and ex wife -- he had sold the unit to his daughter for the remaining mortgage balance -- $149K. His girl and her new husband planned to renovate the unit, live there for a few years, and then flip it -- hopefully making enough to buy a house. I wish them well.
Our friendship began in college -- we actually met in a Math class, staring from each side at the ample bosom of a young co-ed from the Midwest. Our Dads went to the same high school in the Bronx -- his Dad was Italian, mine Jewish. Over the years, we grew up together. He met his first wife at a party at my on campus apartment, and was with her while he attended medical school and Barbara was in law school. He sent her papers to end the marriage the week before he got his first paying doctor's job.
His second wife was his baby mama -- but he left her when the kids were young teens, for wife number three. Number three became divorce number three, but then, later, wife number 4.
As we grew up, we were there for each other -- one of the worst nights of my life was supporting him through the legal kidnap of his son -- taken before he tuned 18 to a Western drug rehab program. I stayed on the phone as the beefy guys removed his son -- we cried together.
And he helped me when my D needed a procedure -- telling me which surgeon was the best, and assuring me all would be fine. It was.
Well, after he paid a HUGE alimony settlement, he came to me for a loan -- for a pain clinic he wanted to buy. I said no -- I had been badly burned when another friend borrowed money for a donut business -- that lead to strains in a friendship that never healed. Vince was shocked -- how could I refuse him? I suggested maybe his then ex-wife, now current, might be a better candidate -- she would be financially intertwined with him. He said no.
Years later, he told me my refusal was the reason he had stopped taking my calls. The business failed, but he did fine -- going back to work at a local hospital at a very healthy salary.
So the friendship died, and it's just as well. A few months ago, I had a reunion with another of his former friends, who was friends since grade school. Vince dropped him, too, and never even called him when his wife died.
I wish him well, of course, and have buried the friendship and moved on. It's funny, though, how sometimes dry legal records can pop up and remind you of times gone by...
But two spots above the listing, there was another report from the same condo -- the sale of my former friend's unit -- he was the bigger loser -- he paid $242.5 (his unit faced the pool) and sold the unit for $149K -- to his daughter and her new husband.
And it made me reflect on my friendship with Vince, a friendship that started in 1980, and died a few years ago. He was the reason I bought the place. Back in 2005, Miami real estate was soaring in value. Vince called me, and said he was worried -- our kids, then in late high school, wouldn't be able to afford to live in Miami after college. He told me about a preview sale of an apartment complex that was becoming condo -- and said we ought to take advantage.
I went with him, and the model was packed, like they were selling cheap burgers. I looked around, and thought to myself, this is a unit that should sell for the low 100s -- it was a small 2 bedroom unit, in the sort of complex I lived in after college. Like an idiot, I got caught up in the hype, and plunked down essentially double what I should have. Sure enough, the crash came the next year -- at one point, following a fire that destroyed 1/3 of the complex, you were lucky to get $75K for the place I paid so much more for.
Vince plunked his son into his unit -- and he was there for years. Sadly, the young man had drug addiction issues, and had relapsed. While Wifey and I were cleaning out our unit, I saw Vince's daughter and ex wife -- he had sold the unit to his daughter for the remaining mortgage balance -- $149K. His girl and her new husband planned to renovate the unit, live there for a few years, and then flip it -- hopefully making enough to buy a house. I wish them well.
Our friendship began in college -- we actually met in a Math class, staring from each side at the ample bosom of a young co-ed from the Midwest. Our Dads went to the same high school in the Bronx -- his Dad was Italian, mine Jewish. Over the years, we grew up together. He met his first wife at a party at my on campus apartment, and was with her while he attended medical school and Barbara was in law school. He sent her papers to end the marriage the week before he got his first paying doctor's job.
His second wife was his baby mama -- but he left her when the kids were young teens, for wife number three. Number three became divorce number three, but then, later, wife number 4.
As we grew up, we were there for each other -- one of the worst nights of my life was supporting him through the legal kidnap of his son -- taken before he tuned 18 to a Western drug rehab program. I stayed on the phone as the beefy guys removed his son -- we cried together.
And he helped me when my D needed a procedure -- telling me which surgeon was the best, and assuring me all would be fine. It was.
Well, after he paid a HUGE alimony settlement, he came to me for a loan -- for a pain clinic he wanted to buy. I said no -- I had been badly burned when another friend borrowed money for a donut business -- that lead to strains in a friendship that never healed. Vince was shocked -- how could I refuse him? I suggested maybe his then ex-wife, now current, might be a better candidate -- she would be financially intertwined with him. He said no.
Years later, he told me my refusal was the reason he had stopped taking my calls. The business failed, but he did fine -- going back to work at a local hospital at a very healthy salary.
So the friendship died, and it's just as well. A few months ago, I had a reunion with another of his former friends, who was friends since grade school. Vince dropped him, too, and never even called him when his wife died.
I wish him well, of course, and have buried the friendship and moved on. It's funny, though, how sometimes dry legal records can pop up and remind you of times gone by...
Saturday, May 13, 2017
Everything's Quiet on Mother's Day
So tomorrow is MD, a kind of sad day for me, as I ain't got no living mother no more. Tomorrow is the 4th anniversary of spreading Mom's ashes in Biscayne Bay -she had died in late April, and the ashes arrived in my house Saturday afternoon. I placed the wooden box on top of a desk, and when Wifey and the Ds returned (D2 was already home from UF) I asked why they rudely ignored Grandma. They looked puzzled, and I pointed at the box containing the cremains ( I love that word). They shrieked, and to keep peace and the creepy factor in my house low, we decided that MD would be the right time to spread the ashes. We did.
Of course, being married to my baby momma, attention must still be paid to MD. We were invited to a brunch at Geoff and Renee's, in Lauderdale. Wifey really likes them, as does D1, and so we'll fetch D1 early tomorrow PM and cruise up to East Lauderdale. D2 will send greetings from NYC, and Joey is spending the day with his mom Jackie. Last time I was at Geoff and Renee's, for post Yom Kippur break fast, I pulled quite a stunt: I swung at a glass filled with red wine with the velocity of the King, from the King and his Court, and sent a good amount of Pino onto a rug and chair. I was horrified and chastened -- they were gracious and forgiving. Of course I paid for the cleaning, and sent Renee a certificate to the family jewelry store. Still, I plan to bring a couple bottles of white wine tomorrow...
There is also another remaining mother in the family: my suegra. Thankfully, for scheduling purposes, the Palace is having a celebration today, at 12:30. Wifey and I will attend the event, and then spend some time at the Palace's gazebo -- our go-to hang out place. My mother in law finds some stuff to complain about, of course, since in her tradition when you stop complaining, you die, but we rest very well with the care she gets there.
Years ago, I visited my maternal grandmother in the hospital. She was in her mid 90s. I spent a childhood never understanding Anna well -- the combination of the heavy Yiddish accent and the fact that she mumbled always baffled me. But that last time I saw her, she looked me clear in the eye, and said, clearly, "It's no good, David...no good. It's no good to get this old." She was wise, of course, and we see it with my mother in law. She has outlived essentially everyone important to her life, except for Wifey and my Ds. She just sort of goes on and on. Keeping her well cared for is the best and only thing to do, and I'm sworn to do it until we place her next to her beloved husband.
Last week we took her to the cemetery for the first time since we buried my father in law. We placed stones on his marker, as is tradition, and Rachel sat on a stone bench and wept, asking why he had to leave "so soon."
We have plans later to see the new movie "Norman," with Deb and Norman, so we have an evening planned of synchronicity. And all is quiet on Mother's Day.
Of course, being married to my baby momma, attention must still be paid to MD. We were invited to a brunch at Geoff and Renee's, in Lauderdale. Wifey really likes them, as does D1, and so we'll fetch D1 early tomorrow PM and cruise up to East Lauderdale. D2 will send greetings from NYC, and Joey is spending the day with his mom Jackie. Last time I was at Geoff and Renee's, for post Yom Kippur break fast, I pulled quite a stunt: I swung at a glass filled with red wine with the velocity of the King, from the King and his Court, and sent a good amount of Pino onto a rug and chair. I was horrified and chastened -- they were gracious and forgiving. Of course I paid for the cleaning, and sent Renee a certificate to the family jewelry store. Still, I plan to bring a couple bottles of white wine tomorrow...
There is also another remaining mother in the family: my suegra. Thankfully, for scheduling purposes, the Palace is having a celebration today, at 12:30. Wifey and I will attend the event, and then spend some time at the Palace's gazebo -- our go-to hang out place. My mother in law finds some stuff to complain about, of course, since in her tradition when you stop complaining, you die, but we rest very well with the care she gets there.
Years ago, I visited my maternal grandmother in the hospital. She was in her mid 90s. I spent a childhood never understanding Anna well -- the combination of the heavy Yiddish accent and the fact that she mumbled always baffled me. But that last time I saw her, she looked me clear in the eye, and said, clearly, "It's no good, David...no good. It's no good to get this old." She was wise, of course, and we see it with my mother in law. She has outlived essentially everyone important to her life, except for Wifey and my Ds. She just sort of goes on and on. Keeping her well cared for is the best and only thing to do, and I'm sworn to do it until we place her next to her beloved husband.
Last week we took her to the cemetery for the first time since we buried my father in law. We placed stones on his marker, as is tradition, and Rachel sat on a stone bench and wept, asking why he had to leave "so soon."
We have plans later to see the new movie "Norman," with Deb and Norman, so we have an evening planned of synchronicity. And all is quiet on Mother's Day.
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Adventures in Tickets -- First World Problems
So my friend Mike convinced me that now is the time to see the aging rock acts -- music groups we really dig or dug are fading fast. Other acts, too -- like Barbra. I scored nice tix to her show and took Wifey last year.
When I was young, I was content to merely have a ticket. But now I'm old and spoiled -- I only want to go if I get great seats -- preferably Club, in an arena. So in the coming month or so, we're seeing Hall and Oates and Paul McCartney at the AAA, and Wifey's favorite, U2, at Joe Robbie.
Of course, the stadium has had 10 names since Joe Robbie built it, in the 80s, but old timers like me continue to call it after the dude who built it with no public money. These days, I think it's SunRock, or something.
Anyway -- in January U2 announced they'd play there, and I decided to buy "pre sale" tix. To do so, though, I had to join a U2 fan club, for $50. I'm nearly 56 and NEVER joined a single fan club in my life. I guess it was time...So after I joined, I was given the privilege of buying 4 seats -- upper deck, but ok. We invited Norman and Deb, and decided we were going to get a limo and avoid the parking hassle, plus drink the whole way there. We were all set...until...
Yesterday I got an email from the Canes Club. They had a "special offer" - you could, through them, buy Club Seats for U2. I jumped on it -- seemed wrong to take a limo to a show to sit in the upper deck -- and went online and bought 4 seats. With the "facility fee" and other charges, well, let's just say the 4 tickets cost more than a luxury cruise of a week's duration. I justified it by realizing that there would be no vacations this year, at least until after D1's wedding. So we're set to cruise to Joe Robbie in style and eat and drink well as Bono belts out "Where the Streets Have No Name..."
Then, I went back on the Ticket Master site, where I knew you could re sell you unwanted tickets. Not so fast! Turns out the earlier tickets I bought, through the stupid fan club, were "credit card entry," meaning I had to be there with my card and ID and whole party to get in. And they were not transferable, or saleable. And it got worse -- I bought the tix with an AMEX card in January that had since been replaced, so I had to send Ticketmaster my old statement, plus a new one, and they would re-jigger their system to allow use of the no longer wanted tickets at Joe Robbie!
Young Vince of my firm, of Irish background, said he was duty bound to take the tix off my hands. So I strategized we'd all go together (Vince and his TWO friends -- I needed to be the fourth) -- we'd get them in, and then I'd join my party in the Club. I had Amanda of my office scan in an old January statement, I emailed it to TicketMaster, and all seemed set.
But then...I got another email from TicketMaster saying that my January statement didn't have enough info -- I needed to send them more. No way. Now I called Amex Platinum, and played the spoiled rich guy card. Cynthia, in the Plantation office, agreed -- I had AMEX since 1989, and was a "valued Platinum customer." She said forget it -- they'd fight with TicketMaster and get me a credit for the first tickets. I'll tell Vince today he's out of the party. Since he has a Brazil trip planned with a James Bond girl-type escort, I think he'll get over the disappointment...
I hung up, and looked skyward -- thanking the Big Man that this was the type of "problem" I had to deal with.
So let the music begin...
When I was young, I was content to merely have a ticket. But now I'm old and spoiled -- I only want to go if I get great seats -- preferably Club, in an arena. So in the coming month or so, we're seeing Hall and Oates and Paul McCartney at the AAA, and Wifey's favorite, U2, at Joe Robbie.
Of course, the stadium has had 10 names since Joe Robbie built it, in the 80s, but old timers like me continue to call it after the dude who built it with no public money. These days, I think it's SunRock, or something.
Anyway -- in January U2 announced they'd play there, and I decided to buy "pre sale" tix. To do so, though, I had to join a U2 fan club, for $50. I'm nearly 56 and NEVER joined a single fan club in my life. I guess it was time...So after I joined, I was given the privilege of buying 4 seats -- upper deck, but ok. We invited Norman and Deb, and decided we were going to get a limo and avoid the parking hassle, plus drink the whole way there. We were all set...until...
Yesterday I got an email from the Canes Club. They had a "special offer" - you could, through them, buy Club Seats for U2. I jumped on it -- seemed wrong to take a limo to a show to sit in the upper deck -- and went online and bought 4 seats. With the "facility fee" and other charges, well, let's just say the 4 tickets cost more than a luxury cruise of a week's duration. I justified it by realizing that there would be no vacations this year, at least until after D1's wedding. So we're set to cruise to Joe Robbie in style and eat and drink well as Bono belts out "Where the Streets Have No Name..."
Then, I went back on the Ticket Master site, where I knew you could re sell you unwanted tickets. Not so fast! Turns out the earlier tickets I bought, through the stupid fan club, were "credit card entry," meaning I had to be there with my card and ID and whole party to get in. And they were not transferable, or saleable. And it got worse -- I bought the tix with an AMEX card in January that had since been replaced, so I had to send Ticketmaster my old statement, plus a new one, and they would re-jigger their system to allow use of the no longer wanted tickets at Joe Robbie!
Young Vince of my firm, of Irish background, said he was duty bound to take the tix off my hands. So I strategized we'd all go together (Vince and his TWO friends -- I needed to be the fourth) -- we'd get them in, and then I'd join my party in the Club. I had Amanda of my office scan in an old January statement, I emailed it to TicketMaster, and all seemed set.
But then...I got another email from TicketMaster saying that my January statement didn't have enough info -- I needed to send them more. No way. Now I called Amex Platinum, and played the spoiled rich guy card. Cynthia, in the Plantation office, agreed -- I had AMEX since 1989, and was a "valued Platinum customer." She said forget it -- they'd fight with TicketMaster and get me a credit for the first tickets. I'll tell Vince today he's out of the party. Since he has a Brazil trip planned with a James Bond girl-type escort, I think he'll get over the disappointment...
I hung up, and looked skyward -- thanking the Big Man that this was the type of "problem" I had to deal with.
So let the music begin...
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Movin' on Down
I definitely live some of my missed life vicariously through my Ds. D1 took her true passion, food and nutrition, and turned it into her life's work. I so admire her for that -- for me, law was a great business, but never a passion for me.
Another thing I always wished I had done was live in NYC for a time -- preferably after college. Alas, it wasn't in the cards for me, as my widowed mom needed help figuring out life after my Dad died young, and so law school was to be spent at the U. Turned out great, of course, but I always wondered what the City may have held for a 22 year old version of me.
So I got to do it through D2, who moved there a year and a half ago. She and her man Jonathan moved into a "one bedroom" apartment in Murray Hill, a nice residential part of town. They soon found that most of their socializing was in Lower Manhattan, Tribeca, SoHo, and Greenwich Village, or as I call it using MY era's nickname, "The Village." Apparently there is now West Village and Greenwich Village. But really who can keep up with 'hood nicknames? Miami is doing it now, too -- I just heard about WOW (West of Wynwood) and even boring South Miami is trying to market itself as SoMI.
Anyway, Greenwich Village always had a magical place in my heart, mostly because my Dad thought it was the coolest place of all. Even though Dad was a classic WW II man in the gray flannel suit, he admired the fact that GW was the place that artists, writers, folk singers, and all Bohemians gathered. I have very warm childhood memories of walking there, pre Yuppie days, and my father just really feeling at home there.
Well, D2 told us yesterday that she and Jonathan got an apartment they applied for -- on 11th street and 6th ave, right in the heart of that beloved neighborhood. It's very close to the Stonewall monument, site of the first gay rights event, back in the late 60s. Apparently they 'hood retains a lot of those residents, and their younger version.
It's a prewar building, which means bigger apartment, but laundry and trash in the basement. But the building DOES have a doorman, something this protective Dad insisted on. I just like the idea of having someone there when you come home at night, to watch over you.
So I guess it'll be adios to the Affinia Dumond and Gansevoort Park Avenue, the go-to hotels blocks from D2's Murray Hill apartment, and hello to whatever hotels are close to the new digs.
All I know is I'm thrilled for her and Jonathan, and for me, too. Something my Dad dreamed of doing, living in "the Village," is finally happening, just two generations later. I plan to toast his memory, with D2 and Jonathan, first visit I make.
Another thing I always wished I had done was live in NYC for a time -- preferably after college. Alas, it wasn't in the cards for me, as my widowed mom needed help figuring out life after my Dad died young, and so law school was to be spent at the U. Turned out great, of course, but I always wondered what the City may have held for a 22 year old version of me.
So I got to do it through D2, who moved there a year and a half ago. She and her man Jonathan moved into a "one bedroom" apartment in Murray Hill, a nice residential part of town. They soon found that most of their socializing was in Lower Manhattan, Tribeca, SoHo, and Greenwich Village, or as I call it using MY era's nickname, "The Village." Apparently there is now West Village and Greenwich Village. But really who can keep up with 'hood nicknames? Miami is doing it now, too -- I just heard about WOW (West of Wynwood) and even boring South Miami is trying to market itself as SoMI.
Anyway, Greenwich Village always had a magical place in my heart, mostly because my Dad thought it was the coolest place of all. Even though Dad was a classic WW II man in the gray flannel suit, he admired the fact that GW was the place that artists, writers, folk singers, and all Bohemians gathered. I have very warm childhood memories of walking there, pre Yuppie days, and my father just really feeling at home there.
Well, D2 told us yesterday that she and Jonathan got an apartment they applied for -- on 11th street and 6th ave, right in the heart of that beloved neighborhood. It's very close to the Stonewall monument, site of the first gay rights event, back in the late 60s. Apparently they 'hood retains a lot of those residents, and their younger version.
It's a prewar building, which means bigger apartment, but laundry and trash in the basement. But the building DOES have a doorman, something this protective Dad insisted on. I just like the idea of having someone there when you come home at night, to watch over you.
So I guess it'll be adios to the Affinia Dumond and Gansevoort Park Avenue, the go-to hotels blocks from D2's Murray Hill apartment, and hello to whatever hotels are close to the new digs.
All I know is I'm thrilled for her and Jonathan, and for me, too. Something my Dad dreamed of doing, living in "the Village," is finally happening, just two generations later. I plan to toast his memory, with D2 and Jonathan, first visit I make.
Monday, May 8, 2017
Every Junkie's Like A Setting Sun
Wifey and I met Lois when she and her UM Art Professor Carlos moved across the street after Manny and Lujean sold their post Andrew renovated house. Carlos was a proud Peruvian artist, and Lois was a LA girl -- Stanford educated. Their two boys were close in age to the Ds.
The two moved here from Champaigne, IL. Carlos was offered a position teaching Art, and Lois became Chair of English at Palmer, a private school in South Dade. We became good neighbors quickly -- I've always dug teachers and university professors, and when a now estranged family member was looking for his first teaching job, Lois hired him.
Two students entered Palmer, and had some troubles. Their Dad happened to be a very well known basketball coach, a Tony Soprano -like guy who gets stuff done. He first hired Lois to privately tutor his kids, and they thrived. So the coach made Lois an offer she couldn't refuse -- he convinced her to leave her job at the school, doubling or tripling her salary, I forget, to tutor the kids full time at her house. She did this for awhile, banking the money all the while.
When the coaches kids graduated, Lois took her gains and started an academy -- to fill a niche. Turns out there wasn't a good local alternative for local rich kids who got booted from the known array of private schools, like Palmer, Ransom, and Gulliver. These kids had to be home schooled, or sent off to boarding places. Lois saw the opportunity and grabbed it -- starting an academy in Palmetto Bay. It thrived.
Most of the students were behavioral problems or drug addicts. Lois and her staff got most of them back on track. She and Carlos divorced, and Lois remarried a very nice fellow, who taught at her school -- he was a retired military man. Wifey and I had them over once -- we planned to get together again, but Lois sold the school and moved to Orlando. Her oldest son had gotten a great gig as a musician with a touring company, and they were based near Disney. Plus, by selling her Miami house and business, and moving North, she was able to greatly increase her lifestyle. Miami has gotten so damn expensive.
Anyway, Lois and I follow each other on FaceBook. Over the weekend, she had a very sad post -- saying she was heartbroken. One of her former students, a young man, now 25 named Eric, had died. It wasn't clear how, but it was either suicide or drug overdose.
The young fellow's name was familiar to Wifey and me, but we didn't know them well. I went to his FaceBook page. He was handsome. His posts were those of a bright and articulate young fellow. He attended and then dropped out of UCF. In January, he moved to Delray Beach. That was telling -- young people tend to move to Delray and the area for a sad reason: it has become a center for drug addicts. Over the past 15 years or so, a bunch of group homes have opened in the older part of town -- away from the ocean, but near booming Atlantic Avenue.
I noticed this during my Mom's final years there. When we'd go to a restaurant, there would be a lot of young folks crowding the local coffee shops -- many tatooed and pierced. Years ago, a friend who has been in recovery for a long while told me if one ever wants to meet local addicts -- go to the coffee houses. Nicotine and caffeine are the only drugs addicts are allowed to have -- so if you see a young, tatooed person smoking and drinking coffee at one of these places, you wouldn't likely lose money betting they had a substance issue -- unless they were heavy metal musicians, and then you'd be certain they had one.
So the move to Delray was telling. But just last week, Eric posted lovely photos, of himself on a cliff. And now he is gone.
I just thought about the pain his family must suffer. It's awful. Such a waste and tragedy. The sun really set on them.
The two moved here from Champaigne, IL. Carlos was offered a position teaching Art, and Lois became Chair of English at Palmer, a private school in South Dade. We became good neighbors quickly -- I've always dug teachers and university professors, and when a now estranged family member was looking for his first teaching job, Lois hired him.
Two students entered Palmer, and had some troubles. Their Dad happened to be a very well known basketball coach, a Tony Soprano -like guy who gets stuff done. He first hired Lois to privately tutor his kids, and they thrived. So the coach made Lois an offer she couldn't refuse -- he convinced her to leave her job at the school, doubling or tripling her salary, I forget, to tutor the kids full time at her house. She did this for awhile, banking the money all the while.
When the coaches kids graduated, Lois took her gains and started an academy -- to fill a niche. Turns out there wasn't a good local alternative for local rich kids who got booted from the known array of private schools, like Palmer, Ransom, and Gulliver. These kids had to be home schooled, or sent off to boarding places. Lois saw the opportunity and grabbed it -- starting an academy in Palmetto Bay. It thrived.
Most of the students were behavioral problems or drug addicts. Lois and her staff got most of them back on track. She and Carlos divorced, and Lois remarried a very nice fellow, who taught at her school -- he was a retired military man. Wifey and I had them over once -- we planned to get together again, but Lois sold the school and moved to Orlando. Her oldest son had gotten a great gig as a musician with a touring company, and they were based near Disney. Plus, by selling her Miami house and business, and moving North, she was able to greatly increase her lifestyle. Miami has gotten so damn expensive.
Anyway, Lois and I follow each other on FaceBook. Over the weekend, she had a very sad post -- saying she was heartbroken. One of her former students, a young man, now 25 named Eric, had died. It wasn't clear how, but it was either suicide or drug overdose.
The young fellow's name was familiar to Wifey and me, but we didn't know them well. I went to his FaceBook page. He was handsome. His posts were those of a bright and articulate young fellow. He attended and then dropped out of UCF. In January, he moved to Delray Beach. That was telling -- young people tend to move to Delray and the area for a sad reason: it has become a center for drug addicts. Over the past 15 years or so, a bunch of group homes have opened in the older part of town -- away from the ocean, but near booming Atlantic Avenue.
I noticed this during my Mom's final years there. When we'd go to a restaurant, there would be a lot of young folks crowding the local coffee shops -- many tatooed and pierced. Years ago, a friend who has been in recovery for a long while told me if one ever wants to meet local addicts -- go to the coffee houses. Nicotine and caffeine are the only drugs addicts are allowed to have -- so if you see a young, tatooed person smoking and drinking coffee at one of these places, you wouldn't likely lose money betting they had a substance issue -- unless they were heavy metal musicians, and then you'd be certain they had one.
So the move to Delray was telling. But just last week, Eric posted lovely photos, of himself on a cliff. And now he is gone.
I just thought about the pain his family must suffer. It's awful. Such a waste and tragedy. The sun really set on them.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
Wynwood Saturday
So Friday night Mike and Loni hosted a Cinco de Mayo party, and Wifey and I joined the fun. They catered with, no kidding, Taco Bell -- individually wrapped tacos of undetermined filling...Mike manned the margarita machine, but I stuck to vodka -- I figured since it's a fake holiday anyway, at least one person ought to celebrate the murder of the Russian Trotsky in Mexico, and that person was me. Of course, the vodka was Tito's, which is from Texas, but it all seemed to make sense.
We talked a lot of Canes game trips past, and whether we'd make an away game trip this year. Mike advocated for the Arkansas State game -- we laughed. That's not exactly the kind of historic college we want to visit -- like Nebraska or Notre Dame, but Mike insisted the campus is "only 4 hours from Memphis." The UNC game is being played during the height of Fall leaf season -- maybe that will be our trip.
Saturday am I was drinking coffee with a spoiled Spaniel at my feet when Eric called. He pointed out that the weather was gorgeous -- unseasonably cool -- and would we like to meet him and Dana in Wynwood. Wifey arose to my room service coffee and said she would. So we got into the little girlie Caddy and drove to the former warehouse area, now arguably the nation's art hub.
We met Dana and Eric at Panther Coffee, which clearly contains crack cocaine, as it is the best coffee anywhere. I had told D1 we'd be in her 'hood, and she said she and Joey were having lunch at Enriquetta's, a local (her 'hood) Cuban place. We decided to walk over to meet them -- a bit less than a mile. As we arrived, I saw D1's text "it's a pretty far walk," but we had made it easily in the gorgeous Miami sunshine.
We sat at a large table in the back. Dana and Eric had never met Joey. They welcomed him to the family with warm hugs. Dana is a Zumba lover, and that's Joey's company, so they instantly hit it off. We ate well and cheaply, and then said adios to the young folks, and headed back to Wynwood.
The place is really something -- packed with locals and tourists, all taking non stop photos of the colorful murals and colorful people. We headed to a craft brewery, and sampled their wares, and then to an even bigger one -- called Concrete Beach. Wifey found a trivia card game, and peppered us with questions as we drank our beers. We then took photos and laughed at the years.
Eric and I met in '79, and Dana came along in early '83. I met Wifey 7 months later, but at the time it seemed Eric and Dana had been dating forever, given that 7 months to early 20 somethings is equal to years to older folks. And now decades later, we are about to see our kids get married -- Jennifer's date is three weeks away, and D1's big fat Colombian wedding is in September.
After the brewery , we walked some more -- Wifey stepped into a Botero gallery, which turned out to only have one Botero, and we went to the Wynwood Walls - an outside gallery of truly amazing art. I took a photo of Eric, the cardiologist, standing in front of a painting of a guy with his heart outside of his chest. It made for a nice FaceBook post...
Dana and Eric love coming to Wynwood. We're among the older people there, but where they live, in Palm Beach County, they're typically the youngest, when they visit local attractions. Miami really is no longer a city for old men, or women. I guess that's why we love it here.
Today the weather remains gorgeous, but we have plans for a far sadder event. We're going to fetch my suegra, and take her to visit my father in law's grave. It'll be the first time she's been there since his funeral -- 16 months ago. I'm planning for some tears.
Still, I savor days like yesterday. I plan to have many more of them.
We talked a lot of Canes game trips past, and whether we'd make an away game trip this year. Mike advocated for the Arkansas State game -- we laughed. That's not exactly the kind of historic college we want to visit -- like Nebraska or Notre Dame, but Mike insisted the campus is "only 4 hours from Memphis." The UNC game is being played during the height of Fall leaf season -- maybe that will be our trip.
Saturday am I was drinking coffee with a spoiled Spaniel at my feet when Eric called. He pointed out that the weather was gorgeous -- unseasonably cool -- and would we like to meet him and Dana in Wynwood. Wifey arose to my room service coffee and said she would. So we got into the little girlie Caddy and drove to the former warehouse area, now arguably the nation's art hub.
We met Dana and Eric at Panther Coffee, which clearly contains crack cocaine, as it is the best coffee anywhere. I had told D1 we'd be in her 'hood, and she said she and Joey were having lunch at Enriquetta's, a local (her 'hood) Cuban place. We decided to walk over to meet them -- a bit less than a mile. As we arrived, I saw D1's text "it's a pretty far walk," but we had made it easily in the gorgeous Miami sunshine.
We sat at a large table in the back. Dana and Eric had never met Joey. They welcomed him to the family with warm hugs. Dana is a Zumba lover, and that's Joey's company, so they instantly hit it off. We ate well and cheaply, and then said adios to the young folks, and headed back to Wynwood.
The place is really something -- packed with locals and tourists, all taking non stop photos of the colorful murals and colorful people. We headed to a craft brewery, and sampled their wares, and then to an even bigger one -- called Concrete Beach. Wifey found a trivia card game, and peppered us with questions as we drank our beers. We then took photos and laughed at the years.
Eric and I met in '79, and Dana came along in early '83. I met Wifey 7 months later, but at the time it seemed Eric and Dana had been dating forever, given that 7 months to early 20 somethings is equal to years to older folks. And now decades later, we are about to see our kids get married -- Jennifer's date is three weeks away, and D1's big fat Colombian wedding is in September.
After the brewery , we walked some more -- Wifey stepped into a Botero gallery, which turned out to only have one Botero, and we went to the Wynwood Walls - an outside gallery of truly amazing art. I took a photo of Eric, the cardiologist, standing in front of a painting of a guy with his heart outside of his chest. It made for a nice FaceBook post...
Dana and Eric love coming to Wynwood. We're among the older people there, but where they live, in Palm Beach County, they're typically the youngest, when they visit local attractions. Miami really is no longer a city for old men, or women. I guess that's why we love it here.
Today the weather remains gorgeous, but we have plans for a far sadder event. We're going to fetch my suegra, and take her to visit my father in law's grave. It'll be the first time she's been there since his funeral -- 16 months ago. I'm planning for some tears.
Still, I savor days like yesterday. I plan to have many more of them.
Friday, May 5, 2017
When FaceBook (tm) Works the Right Way
D2 has me pegged -- I'm a bit too addicted to FaceBook. I have a great curiosity about people, too much time on my hands, and, probably worst of all, I'm a frustrated comedian, and FB gives me an outlet. I'm the second funniest poster I know -- Norman is funniest.
Sometimes FB is annoying, like the time I posted about a bunch of idiots I saw on US 1 passionately against circumcision. I made a smarmy comment, but made the setting "open," and one of my FB "friends" shared it, with ultra Lib morons, and next thing I knew there were a slew of comments from strangers saying I was, essentially, advocating child abuse. I have a feeling I know the culprit -- the ultra lefty son of an old lawyer friend -- a kid who despite being Jewish is very anti Israel -- but I can't be sure it's him. In the end, it was actually a funny episode, although D2 fears one of these zealots might try to come find me.
But at its best, FB lets old friends connect, and maybe renew friendships, and so it was yesterday. I've known Kathy since we were 5 -- quiet and smart pretty Irish girl -- and we were classmates all through junior high and high school. She was VERY shy later on, and I really only knew her to say hello, but she did go to prom with my brilliant but socially uneasy buddy Ken -- I think it was a one off date.
We met at our 20th reunion, and I learned she had gone to Dartmouth Med School, and was a Peds professor at U Va. I was impressed -- not too many MacArthur High alums had done that well -- we had lots of sweat hogs, as the 70s show Kotter called us, and the typical alum went to a little college if at all and ended up working at Grumman or maybe as a cop or fireman. Medical professors were rare as hens' teeth.
But FB connected us, and the other day she messaged me -- she was coming to Delray to visit her 90 year old father, and could we meet for lunch? We could, and as she had become a "rural girl" living in Virginia, could we meet in the middle, rather than have her negotiate Miami. I picked a place on Las Olas called Mango's. I'm so NOT a 954 guy -- I learned it closed quite a while ago. So I remembered a place called YOLO -- I met my California friend Cheryl there years ago, and we set the date.
It was delightful. Kathy lives near UVA, where her husband is a Psych professor. She has a boy and girl -- a senior and rising sophomore at William and Mary. I told her an old friend of mine from the U was Provost there -- she was going to have her daughter look him up. Kathy left the academic world after growing disgusted at the dysfunction -- apparently even the prestigious school of Tom Jefferson is a hotbed of silliness and pettiness.
Now she's in private practice -- a mostly poor patient population -- and she loves it. She told me about a new tick borne disease she's been seeing -- the toxin makes patients fatally allergic to meat. Really. I told her if I got so bitten, I might as well just take some propofol with my final NY Strip and say goodbye...she said she understands.
We compared family notes -- her mom died young, of cancer, and her Dad remarried. He lives with his younger wife, 85, and had quite a burden for many years. Her sister, one year older, was drug addict and mental patient, and Kathy's Dad lived to care for her. She got arrested often, and then decided 5 years ago, she needed a gun, and, this being Florida, bought one legally despite her mental illness. Kathy's oldest brother is a retired LI cop, and the family had a madcap tale about getting the sister to give up her guy.
Last year, her sister ended the misery -- she stepped in front of a Tri Rail train. Kathy said she picked Kathy's birthday to do it. Kathy said her sister taught her that just because someone is psychotic, it doesn't mean they can't also be a selfish asshole, and so her sister was...
But most of our shared tales and wisdom was happy -- her kids seemed destined for good, but varied futures -- her daughter is a passionate environmentalist, who LOVES plants. To Kathy, all plants look alike. Her son is studying business and physics.
She told me another classmate, Debbie, who attended Cornell with Kathy (turns out there were three from our class who went to Cornell), had done the best. She moved to SF, and was working for hotels when she met a nice fellow who went on to found Travelocity. They're now living a rather charmed life in the Bay Area.
So there was a reason for Cornell, Kathy said. Back in the day, they had an Agriculture School, which was much easier to get into than the typical Ivy League college. Kathy and the other two applied and got in, and then transferred to the "regular" Cornell. All of these machinations escaped me back in '78 when I applied to college -- for me it was Stony Brook, or Hofstra, and then, at my Dad's urging, a place still sort of known as Sun Tan U. I'm so happy I chose the last.
Anyway, we're going to keep in touch. Kathy invited Wifey and me to VA -- she says there are tons of cool things to see in Charlotesville, and she promises to NOT make us take long hikes -- she and her husband are outdoors types. Likewise, I told her next time she visits her Dad, bring her professor husband along, and let me be tour guide to the 305. Hopefully she'll do it.
She attended the last reunion -- year 35 -- but I opted out. The 20th turned me off -- most of the classmates I found onerous. I keep in touch with those I like -- many of the others are sort of like the minor players on the "Sopranos."
But my friend Kenny really wants to attend our 40th -- coming up in two years. I told Kathy we'd go -- maybe make a Hamptons weekend out of it, and go to whatever crappy hall or restaurant they hold the thing in. I guess when you have a solidly Long Island past, to steal from Arthur Miller, attention must be paid.
Sometimes FB is annoying, like the time I posted about a bunch of idiots I saw on US 1 passionately against circumcision. I made a smarmy comment, but made the setting "open," and one of my FB "friends" shared it, with ultra Lib morons, and next thing I knew there were a slew of comments from strangers saying I was, essentially, advocating child abuse. I have a feeling I know the culprit -- the ultra lefty son of an old lawyer friend -- a kid who despite being Jewish is very anti Israel -- but I can't be sure it's him. In the end, it was actually a funny episode, although D2 fears one of these zealots might try to come find me.
But at its best, FB lets old friends connect, and maybe renew friendships, and so it was yesterday. I've known Kathy since we were 5 -- quiet and smart pretty Irish girl -- and we were classmates all through junior high and high school. She was VERY shy later on, and I really only knew her to say hello, but she did go to prom with my brilliant but socially uneasy buddy Ken -- I think it was a one off date.
We met at our 20th reunion, and I learned she had gone to Dartmouth Med School, and was a Peds professor at U Va. I was impressed -- not too many MacArthur High alums had done that well -- we had lots of sweat hogs, as the 70s show Kotter called us, and the typical alum went to a little college if at all and ended up working at Grumman or maybe as a cop or fireman. Medical professors were rare as hens' teeth.
But FB connected us, and the other day she messaged me -- she was coming to Delray to visit her 90 year old father, and could we meet for lunch? We could, and as she had become a "rural girl" living in Virginia, could we meet in the middle, rather than have her negotiate Miami. I picked a place on Las Olas called Mango's. I'm so NOT a 954 guy -- I learned it closed quite a while ago. So I remembered a place called YOLO -- I met my California friend Cheryl there years ago, and we set the date.
It was delightful. Kathy lives near UVA, where her husband is a Psych professor. She has a boy and girl -- a senior and rising sophomore at William and Mary. I told her an old friend of mine from the U was Provost there -- she was going to have her daughter look him up. Kathy left the academic world after growing disgusted at the dysfunction -- apparently even the prestigious school of Tom Jefferson is a hotbed of silliness and pettiness.
Now she's in private practice -- a mostly poor patient population -- and she loves it. She told me about a new tick borne disease she's been seeing -- the toxin makes patients fatally allergic to meat. Really. I told her if I got so bitten, I might as well just take some propofol with my final NY Strip and say goodbye...she said she understands.
We compared family notes -- her mom died young, of cancer, and her Dad remarried. He lives with his younger wife, 85, and had quite a burden for many years. Her sister, one year older, was drug addict and mental patient, and Kathy's Dad lived to care for her. She got arrested often, and then decided 5 years ago, she needed a gun, and, this being Florida, bought one legally despite her mental illness. Kathy's oldest brother is a retired LI cop, and the family had a madcap tale about getting the sister to give up her guy.
Last year, her sister ended the misery -- she stepped in front of a Tri Rail train. Kathy said she picked Kathy's birthday to do it. Kathy said her sister taught her that just because someone is psychotic, it doesn't mean they can't also be a selfish asshole, and so her sister was...
But most of our shared tales and wisdom was happy -- her kids seemed destined for good, but varied futures -- her daughter is a passionate environmentalist, who LOVES plants. To Kathy, all plants look alike. Her son is studying business and physics.
She told me another classmate, Debbie, who attended Cornell with Kathy (turns out there were three from our class who went to Cornell), had done the best. She moved to SF, and was working for hotels when she met a nice fellow who went on to found Travelocity. They're now living a rather charmed life in the Bay Area.
So there was a reason for Cornell, Kathy said. Back in the day, they had an Agriculture School, which was much easier to get into than the typical Ivy League college. Kathy and the other two applied and got in, and then transferred to the "regular" Cornell. All of these machinations escaped me back in '78 when I applied to college -- for me it was Stony Brook, or Hofstra, and then, at my Dad's urging, a place still sort of known as Sun Tan U. I'm so happy I chose the last.
Anyway, we're going to keep in touch. Kathy invited Wifey and me to VA -- she says there are tons of cool things to see in Charlotesville, and she promises to NOT make us take long hikes -- she and her husband are outdoors types. Likewise, I told her next time she visits her Dad, bring her professor husband along, and let me be tour guide to the 305. Hopefully she'll do it.
She attended the last reunion -- year 35 -- but I opted out. The 20th turned me off -- most of the classmates I found onerous. I keep in touch with those I like -- many of the others are sort of like the minor players on the "Sopranos."
But my friend Kenny really wants to attend our 40th -- coming up in two years. I told Kathy we'd go -- maybe make a Hamptons weekend out of it, and go to whatever crappy hall or restaurant they hold the thing in. I guess when you have a solidly Long Island past, to steal from Arthur Miller, attention must be paid.
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Keeping House and Garden
We bought Villa Wifey almost 17 years ago, and at the time it was a nearly new house -- just three years. Well, even the arithmetic challenged like me can tell that the house is now close to two decades old -- time for some repairs and upgrades.
Despite three hurricanes and a few nasty unnamed storms, we were free from roof leaks -- at least indoor ones. There was a pesky leak onto one of the front porches, or loggia as the builder called them. But I ignored that one -- would just sweep off the puddled water after a major rain. Then, a month or so ago, our burglar alarm went off, at 2 am, even though I hadn't set it. The company called, I struggled to remember the password, and then the agent said a smoke detector had tripped.
I went downstairs, to the curious look of two sleepy dogs, and saw a puddle by the pool door. I figured the wind had blown in rain, and then I felt some dripping -- from the smoke detector. Sure enough, the roof had leaked around a dryer vent, and the water came in through the detector -- shorting it out and making it cause the alarm.
My good friend Norman had THE roofer -- sure enough, Infinity came out, gave an estimate, and the following week, over three days, fixed the leaks and restored some rotted wood. A few weeks later, the manager called to tell me to pay the company $1000 LESS -- they used fewer materials than they budgeted for. They now have a customer and referral source for life.
We've also had to replace 3 of 4 a/c units -- apparently after 14 years, you CAN stop a Trane. Again, Norman was the man -- referring me to Danny, the best a/c guy around. He suggested I go with the cheaper Carrier units -- just as good as Tranes, and much easier to get parts. Sure enough, last month a lizard decided to end his reptilian life by electrocuting himself on a condenser. Danny fixed it with a part he had in his truck. Had it been a Trane, he said, we'd have been hot for at least a week...
Yesterday Wifey's project was 2/3 completed. She's wanted to upgrade the landscaping, but got too involved with issues of her dying father, and then peripatetic 92 year old Mom to focus. She finally did -- hiring Sara -- the IT landscaper in our 'hood. Sara is very impressive -- came to the US as a migrant worker, learned the trade, and now owns a company that does major projects -- many of the $5 M plus mansions use her. She really beautified the grounds -- lots of rocks, and xeriscaped plants -- I told Wifey my days of dealing with constant sprinkler system repairs are in my past.
We are now the proud non owners of grass -- it never grew well in our back yard, on account of the heavy shade trees, and it's been replaced by pea rock. I approve heartily -- the dogs haven't reached their decisions about the change yet.
And we got lucky -- 3 hours after Sara's crew left, we were blessed with a torrential rain -- lasted several hours. This am as I was checking the work out front, our neighbor Ben walked by, and I told him about the lucky rain. No, he said -- I had to thank him. He added water to his pool, and now it overflowed. So the rain came via Murphy's Law at his house.
So the joys of owning a house continue. Wifey still wants to move, but I have her at bay, for now. We've agreed to see where D1 and her man buy their place -- and then relocate close by. If we're fortunate enough to get grandkids, we can be the type of grandparents Wifey's parents were -- ALWAYS available to babysit, and send the young parents out on date nights. My inlaws were wildy annoying -- my suegra continues to be so, but I always agree they WERE kick ass grandparents.
Of course, when (and I say when and not if) D2 comes home, and she chooses a part of town far from her sister, well, we might have an issue then. But I think the two Ds would also like to live close to each other.
Anyway, given what I have been up to for the past 31 years - owning property - it might be time to rent. As we learned, there's no guarantee real estate appreciates, and renting might be the way to go.
For now, though, the repairs and remodels will continue --the so called privilege of ownership.
Despite three hurricanes and a few nasty unnamed storms, we were free from roof leaks -- at least indoor ones. There was a pesky leak onto one of the front porches, or loggia as the builder called them. But I ignored that one -- would just sweep off the puddled water after a major rain. Then, a month or so ago, our burglar alarm went off, at 2 am, even though I hadn't set it. The company called, I struggled to remember the password, and then the agent said a smoke detector had tripped.
I went downstairs, to the curious look of two sleepy dogs, and saw a puddle by the pool door. I figured the wind had blown in rain, and then I felt some dripping -- from the smoke detector. Sure enough, the roof had leaked around a dryer vent, and the water came in through the detector -- shorting it out and making it cause the alarm.
My good friend Norman had THE roofer -- sure enough, Infinity came out, gave an estimate, and the following week, over three days, fixed the leaks and restored some rotted wood. A few weeks later, the manager called to tell me to pay the company $1000 LESS -- they used fewer materials than they budgeted for. They now have a customer and referral source for life.
We've also had to replace 3 of 4 a/c units -- apparently after 14 years, you CAN stop a Trane. Again, Norman was the man -- referring me to Danny, the best a/c guy around. He suggested I go with the cheaper Carrier units -- just as good as Tranes, and much easier to get parts. Sure enough, last month a lizard decided to end his reptilian life by electrocuting himself on a condenser. Danny fixed it with a part he had in his truck. Had it been a Trane, he said, we'd have been hot for at least a week...
Yesterday Wifey's project was 2/3 completed. She's wanted to upgrade the landscaping, but got too involved with issues of her dying father, and then peripatetic 92 year old Mom to focus. She finally did -- hiring Sara -- the IT landscaper in our 'hood. Sara is very impressive -- came to the US as a migrant worker, learned the trade, and now owns a company that does major projects -- many of the $5 M plus mansions use her. She really beautified the grounds -- lots of rocks, and xeriscaped plants -- I told Wifey my days of dealing with constant sprinkler system repairs are in my past.
We are now the proud non owners of grass -- it never grew well in our back yard, on account of the heavy shade trees, and it's been replaced by pea rock. I approve heartily -- the dogs haven't reached their decisions about the change yet.
And we got lucky -- 3 hours after Sara's crew left, we were blessed with a torrential rain -- lasted several hours. This am as I was checking the work out front, our neighbor Ben walked by, and I told him about the lucky rain. No, he said -- I had to thank him. He added water to his pool, and now it overflowed. So the rain came via Murphy's Law at his house.
So the joys of owning a house continue. Wifey still wants to move, but I have her at bay, for now. We've agreed to see where D1 and her man buy their place -- and then relocate close by. If we're fortunate enough to get grandkids, we can be the type of grandparents Wifey's parents were -- ALWAYS available to babysit, and send the young parents out on date nights. My inlaws were wildy annoying -- my suegra continues to be so, but I always agree they WERE kick ass grandparents.
Of course, when (and I say when and not if) D2 comes home, and she chooses a part of town far from her sister, well, we might have an issue then. But I think the two Ds would also like to live close to each other.
Anyway, given what I have been up to for the past 31 years - owning property - it might be time to rent. As we learned, there's no guarantee real estate appreciates, and renting might be the way to go.
For now, though, the repairs and remodels will continue --the so called privilege of ownership.
Monday, May 1, 2017
Go Panthers
My friend John and I were talking last week, ahead of his trip to Gville to watch his only child graduate from UF. He asked me if I cried at any of the Ds college or grad school graduations, and I told him I did one of four times, but it really didn't have to do with the Ds.
D2 got 2 degrees from UF, and it was an awesome day. But UF, being the elite Florida school, has most kids being parents of college grads. All were proud, but the college thing seemed a given for most of our kids. In fact, of the Ds friends growing up, they can count on one hand the kids who DIDN'T get at least a bachelor's degree. And UF reflected that -- same thing when D1 graduated.
But FIU is the true immigrant families' U. At D1's MS ceremony, it seemed a majority of the families there were cheering on their first in the family college grads. Indeed, the featured kids told of overcoming the Haitian earthquake, and political prison in Cuba and Venezuela. Being around that ceremony brought tears to my eyes -- getting the degrees seemed sacred to these people, not just a pleasant, but assumed rite of passage.
So I really dig FIU. Indeed, Wifey is an alumna -- she the daughter from first generation immigrants herself.
When I was first to start making some nice coin, the first thing I did was put away money for the Ds' educations -- assuming both would go to pricey private places. They both went to UF on full scholarships -- D2 even earned a healthy academic for her Master's tuition. D1, more the princess, seemed headed to private grad school, but she opted for FIU, too.
It was 2010, and the firm had a nice year. So when D1 was accepted, I met with her program chair and asked how much the total tuition would cost. It was about a third of what a private program would have been. So I made a gift to the FIU School of Public Health -- essentially agreeing to pay for a student's tuition who couldn't afford it. To me, I was still paying only 2/3 of what I had expected, and I'd get a nice tax deduction, and, hell -- it was just the right thing to do.
It wasn't huge money, but FIU made a big deal out of it. Turned out, no one had funded a scholarship in that school before -- except a partial one, and that was born of tragedy. A young student named Medina came out as gay in college, and her parents rejected her on account of their religion, and the student ended up killing herself. The School funded a partial scholarship in her memory. So our gift was the only one born out of happiness.
The Director, an awesome lady born in Turkey, took me for lunch. She explained that rather than just pay for one student, they were going to invest the money until it got to a certain level, and then use it to help deserving Dietetics and Nutrition students who were great academically, and with true need. This was 7 years ago.
Well, earlier this year, the money had achieved the level they sought, and, being an academic institution, they formed a committee to pick the scholarship recipients. They asked D1 to be a member. They chose two young women who had completed their studies, but needed to do unpaid internships to get their certifications. Both came from working class families who couldn't afford to subsidize them. Yesterday was the School's graduation, and they invited us to the post graduation ceremony.
Students from other areas in the Public Health School were recognized. We were blown away. One young man, from Ethiopia, who looked to be about 15, was getting his PhD in Epidemiology. He had already published 5 papers in peer reviewed journals. He didn't smile much. You could just SEE his smarts -- he was headed back to Africa to help with disease control. Other students, from South America, were likewise amazing -- advanced degrees, volunteering to stop human trafficking -- that sort of thing. I got those familiar tears again.
Then the Dean put up a poster with our family name, and told the tale of our scholarship. We were asked to stand and the room applauded. One of the recipients, a Central American girl, wasn't there -- her best friend was being married in Tally, and she attended that. But the other was -- at our table.
She was born in India -- her parents were there, too. They live in Coral Springs. Dad spoke only Hindi -- he worked in a factory. Mom was a nurse at a Broward Hospital. "Our" student had graduated with a 4/0 in her MS program, and was beginning her internship at the Miami VA. She commuted each day from Coral Springs. She was delightful, and thanked us profusely for how this scholarship was truly letting her do it -- her younger brother was a computer science student at FAU, and the family's finances were totally strapped.
D1 spoke to her at length -- they will keep in touch, though it appears "our" girl is headed to academics --she wants a PhD and to become a professor.
The Dean and I chatted. He's a Miami bred, Cuban born guy -- Gables High, UF, and spent the last decades as an assistant Dean at Johns Hopkins and Columbia. He studies brain trauma in football players. I could tell he was quite a "get" for FIU -- bringing his Ivy League and arguably best med school in the US experience to West Miami Dade is impressive. He told me Miami has always been home -- his parents live 10 minutes from his new house. I told him I look forward to continuing to interact with him.
So Wifey and I left the campus beaming. I looked skyward -- endowing something like that, with his name, would have made my Dad pretty proud.
The night before, we were out with some friends -- Wifey's bud, and her retired doctor husband. He's a real toy guy -- just bought a boat, does other expensive hobbies, and has a tv and stereo system that cost well more than the amount of the scholarship money we gave. He really loves his stuff, and I applaud his happiness with them.
But Wifey and I talked about it -- I really can't stand stuff. When I hear someone buys a boat, my first thought is having to deal with it in an approaching hurricane.
Nah -- to me, enjoying days like yesterday is my true luxury. And FIU is a fine place to do it.
D2 got 2 degrees from UF, and it was an awesome day. But UF, being the elite Florida school, has most kids being parents of college grads. All were proud, but the college thing seemed a given for most of our kids. In fact, of the Ds friends growing up, they can count on one hand the kids who DIDN'T get at least a bachelor's degree. And UF reflected that -- same thing when D1 graduated.
But FIU is the true immigrant families' U. At D1's MS ceremony, it seemed a majority of the families there were cheering on their first in the family college grads. Indeed, the featured kids told of overcoming the Haitian earthquake, and political prison in Cuba and Venezuela. Being around that ceremony brought tears to my eyes -- getting the degrees seemed sacred to these people, not just a pleasant, but assumed rite of passage.
So I really dig FIU. Indeed, Wifey is an alumna -- she the daughter from first generation immigrants herself.
When I was first to start making some nice coin, the first thing I did was put away money for the Ds' educations -- assuming both would go to pricey private places. They both went to UF on full scholarships -- D2 even earned a healthy academic for her Master's tuition. D1, more the princess, seemed headed to private grad school, but she opted for FIU, too.
It was 2010, and the firm had a nice year. So when D1 was accepted, I met with her program chair and asked how much the total tuition would cost. It was about a third of what a private program would have been. So I made a gift to the FIU School of Public Health -- essentially agreeing to pay for a student's tuition who couldn't afford it. To me, I was still paying only 2/3 of what I had expected, and I'd get a nice tax deduction, and, hell -- it was just the right thing to do.
It wasn't huge money, but FIU made a big deal out of it. Turned out, no one had funded a scholarship in that school before -- except a partial one, and that was born of tragedy. A young student named Medina came out as gay in college, and her parents rejected her on account of their religion, and the student ended up killing herself. The School funded a partial scholarship in her memory. So our gift was the only one born out of happiness.
The Director, an awesome lady born in Turkey, took me for lunch. She explained that rather than just pay for one student, they were going to invest the money until it got to a certain level, and then use it to help deserving Dietetics and Nutrition students who were great academically, and with true need. This was 7 years ago.
Well, earlier this year, the money had achieved the level they sought, and, being an academic institution, they formed a committee to pick the scholarship recipients. They asked D1 to be a member. They chose two young women who had completed their studies, but needed to do unpaid internships to get their certifications. Both came from working class families who couldn't afford to subsidize them. Yesterday was the School's graduation, and they invited us to the post graduation ceremony.
Students from other areas in the Public Health School were recognized. We were blown away. One young man, from Ethiopia, who looked to be about 15, was getting his PhD in Epidemiology. He had already published 5 papers in peer reviewed journals. He didn't smile much. You could just SEE his smarts -- he was headed back to Africa to help with disease control. Other students, from South America, were likewise amazing -- advanced degrees, volunteering to stop human trafficking -- that sort of thing. I got those familiar tears again.
Then the Dean put up a poster with our family name, and told the tale of our scholarship. We were asked to stand and the room applauded. One of the recipients, a Central American girl, wasn't there -- her best friend was being married in Tally, and she attended that. But the other was -- at our table.
She was born in India -- her parents were there, too. They live in Coral Springs. Dad spoke only Hindi -- he worked in a factory. Mom was a nurse at a Broward Hospital. "Our" student had graduated with a 4/0 in her MS program, and was beginning her internship at the Miami VA. She commuted each day from Coral Springs. She was delightful, and thanked us profusely for how this scholarship was truly letting her do it -- her younger brother was a computer science student at FAU, and the family's finances were totally strapped.
D1 spoke to her at length -- they will keep in touch, though it appears "our" girl is headed to academics --she wants a PhD and to become a professor.
The Dean and I chatted. He's a Miami bred, Cuban born guy -- Gables High, UF, and spent the last decades as an assistant Dean at Johns Hopkins and Columbia. He studies brain trauma in football players. I could tell he was quite a "get" for FIU -- bringing his Ivy League and arguably best med school in the US experience to West Miami Dade is impressive. He told me Miami has always been home -- his parents live 10 minutes from his new house. I told him I look forward to continuing to interact with him.
So Wifey and I left the campus beaming. I looked skyward -- endowing something like that, with his name, would have made my Dad pretty proud.
The night before, we were out with some friends -- Wifey's bud, and her retired doctor husband. He's a real toy guy -- just bought a boat, does other expensive hobbies, and has a tv and stereo system that cost well more than the amount of the scholarship money we gave. He really loves his stuff, and I applaud his happiness with them.
But Wifey and I talked about it -- I really can't stand stuff. When I hear someone buys a boat, my first thought is having to deal with it in an approaching hurricane.
Nah -- to me, enjoying days like yesterday is my true luxury. And FIU is a fine place to do it.
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