I love hearing about and making connections about people, and I happen to live in a very fertile place for it. Miami is the smallest town big city in the US. Particularly when it comes to doctors and lawyers, I never get past ONE degree of separation -- let alone six. But D2 just made a connection decades in the making, and Long Island based.
She and D1 have a friend named Jason -- I believe he went to UM and now lives in NYC. He and D2 work for the same e commerce company. The other day D2 told me that Jason's father Marc is a native Wantagh guy, like I am. I didn't recognize his full name, and apparently he's in his early 60s, so we wouldn't have gone to school together. But I did recognize his last name, and told D2 to ask if his grandfather was named Marty.
Marty owned the local hardware store, on Wantagh Avenue, and was a place I used to love to visit with my Dad. My father was not anyone's idea of a handyman -- the family joke was that he could fix something only if he could be mended with Scotch tape -- but he would still visit Marty's store whenever he needed any sort of supplies.
Marty was a WWII vet like my Dad, and I remembered another thing about him -- he owned his own airplane, a single engine Cessna he kept at nearby Republic Airport. On Summer afternoons Marty would fly low over our neighborhood, and wave his wings. It got so that whenever a small plane flew over, my Dad would wave at it and say, loudly, "Hiya Marty!" It is a very pleasant memory for me.
Well -- the text came today -- in fact Jason is Marty's grandson. Better -- his Dad Marc remembered well my father! Wifey pointed out how nice it was -- grandparents D2 and D1 and Jason had never met were friends.
It also occurred to me how great the names are. Marty is a classic Greatest Generation name, Marc is a classic Boomer name, and, of course, Jason is extremely common among Millenials...
Yesterday's theme was connections over time. I was at my office tavern, Trulucks, attending a farewell party for Michelle, who is leaving law for the medical marijuana business. As I walked towards the restroom, I saw a small, bald fellow I hadn't seen in years -- the former English Department Chair at UM, John Paul Russo.
We hugged, and caught up. He is now 73, and looks exactly as he did when I was in his class 35 years ago. He still teaches a full class load, and still lives in the same Grove apartment he once hosted me after I had won English grad of the year in 1983. He was waiting his dinner companion -- a medical school professor, now retired.
I brought him over to our group, ordered him a Malbec from my bartender Victor, and enjoyed his conversation. My partner Stu, a closet intellectual who was Phi Beta Kappa at Delaware, chatted with him about Philosophy. Michelle, our honoree, has a sister who is a Professor at Bascom Palmer Eye Institute, and when John Paul's guest arrived greatly enjoyed that connection as well.
John Paul and his companion were seated, and I went to David, the nice young manager, and gave him my Amex -- dinner was on me. I figure it was the least I could do for the professor who taught me about Gusto, and the Classics. I also remember a conversation we had when I brought up the Doors -- asking John Paul is he thought Morrison's power and passion rose to the level of true art. He told me he wasn't much into "popular"music -- he always wished to be like a giraffe -- taking only from the tops of the trees...I think about that lesson whenever I can chose between quality and the mundane.
This afternoon I returned to Trulucks, and David told me that the Professor became teary eyed when he was told his student of 3.5 decades past had picked up his bill. Maybe it was that second or third glass of Malbec...
I'm sure I'll be hearing from John Paul. I look forward to it.
But the biggest gift was hearing, albeit indirectly, from someone who knew and well remembered my father Hy...Connections can be awesome.
Friday, June 30, 2017
Thursday, June 29, 2017
Yoomid
As Wifey pointed out, it's been very yoomid...it's that time of year in Miami. Wifey and Edna came back to the house Tuesday night, and it was great to compare weekend tales. I was in NYC with D2, and they visited their friend Linda up in Vero Beach.
They reported Linda's oceanfront condo was lovely, but Vero had little going on. It's a series of gated communities, and the occasional shopping and dining area. Gertrude Stein would have noted that there's no there there.
I'm spoiled with where we live, I guess. I enjoy the quiet of our little Village, but really like the fact that a 20 minute drive later there is more to do than I'll ever get around to doing.
Last night I met Edna and Wifey woke up from post wedding dress shopping naps, and we decided to go out. I poured Edna and myself a few martinis, and Wifey drove us to Titanic, near UM. I shared the history of the place with Edna -- it was the Flick Coffeehouse, the place where David Crosby discovered Joni Mitchell. All of the great singer-songwriters hung in the 305 then -- Coconut Grove was Greenwich Village South, in the winter time. They just happened to decide to go to LA, and that city became the epicenter of the music.
After we ate, we walked around the UM campus -- Edna had never visited. We ended up on some rocking chairs overlooking the intramural field -- Wifey reminisced about watching my law school friends and I play softball in the early to mid 80s.
We came home, and Edna and I went for a swim -- Wifey watched from the sidelines. The water was lovely -- the mosquitoes tolerable. It was a lovely end to a terrific night.
Tonight we have a farewell get together for Michelle, a part time lawyer with the firm. She's been here a few years, and brought us a major case -- a drug addicted teen who drowned while on an outing with a rehab center. We recovered for the young man's mother.
I think we'll just toast her downstairs at Trulucks. I don't plan to stay long -- Wifey and Edna will be joined by long time friend Diane, and I think we're meeting in the Grove for dinner. Lots of ladies and me -- story of much of my life.
Edna will be staying through the weekend, and then decamping to Miami Beach -- the Raleigh Hotel, where her man Marc will join her. We plan to spend the Fourth with them -- we'll probably Uber to and from -- and see the fireworks together...
So Summer drags along, hot and humid...we give thanks to the great invention --air conditioning.
It could be worse.
They reported Linda's oceanfront condo was lovely, but Vero had little going on. It's a series of gated communities, and the occasional shopping and dining area. Gertrude Stein would have noted that there's no there there.
I'm spoiled with where we live, I guess. I enjoy the quiet of our little Village, but really like the fact that a 20 minute drive later there is more to do than I'll ever get around to doing.
Last night I met Edna and Wifey woke up from post wedding dress shopping naps, and we decided to go out. I poured Edna and myself a few martinis, and Wifey drove us to Titanic, near UM. I shared the history of the place with Edna -- it was the Flick Coffeehouse, the place where David Crosby discovered Joni Mitchell. All of the great singer-songwriters hung in the 305 then -- Coconut Grove was Greenwich Village South, in the winter time. They just happened to decide to go to LA, and that city became the epicenter of the music.
After we ate, we walked around the UM campus -- Edna had never visited. We ended up on some rocking chairs overlooking the intramural field -- Wifey reminisced about watching my law school friends and I play softball in the early to mid 80s.
We came home, and Edna and I went for a swim -- Wifey watched from the sidelines. The water was lovely -- the mosquitoes tolerable. It was a lovely end to a terrific night.
Tonight we have a farewell get together for Michelle, a part time lawyer with the firm. She's been here a few years, and brought us a major case -- a drug addicted teen who drowned while on an outing with a rehab center. We recovered for the young man's mother.
I think we'll just toast her downstairs at Trulucks. I don't plan to stay long -- Wifey and Edna will be joined by long time friend Diane, and I think we're meeting in the Grove for dinner. Lots of ladies and me -- story of much of my life.
Edna will be staying through the weekend, and then decamping to Miami Beach -- the Raleigh Hotel, where her man Marc will join her. We plan to spend the Fourth with them -- we'll probably Uber to and from -- and see the fireworks together...
So Summer drags along, hot and humid...we give thanks to the great invention --air conditioning.
It could be worse.
Monday, June 26, 2017
Keep it Gay
So I Ubered to MIA early Friday, with a taciturn driver named Alejandro, and when I got the email bill it was $7.52. Apparently AMEX runs a promotion where they give you a $15 credit. Nice! Every once in awhile there's something good for rich, white men!
The flight to LGA was fine, and then my driver to the City was the opposite of Alejandro. He was Bulgarian, and talked non stop about his knowledge of the true conspiracy in the world -- the evil Catholic Church! He gave me all kinds of examples -- Da Vinci Code type of things. Think about it, he said, America is a Protestant country, and the Supreme Court is 3 liberal Jews (they are ok, he said) and 6 CATHOLICS. Even in Florida -- Jeb Bush converted to Catholicism! Watch, he warned me, you'll see I'm correct.
I checked into the hotel, and realized I needed a nap, which I took, and then walked to D2's new street, 11th, and sat at a corner cafe, French Roast. It was a warm late summer afternoon. I drank an iced coffee, and felt immediately at home -- the way I do in Asheville, Key West, and Coconut Grove here at home. And then D2 appeared -- a vision of lovely in every way. We hugged, and she sat and got an iced coffee as well, and we caught up.
She took me down her street, and showed me the old Sephardic cemetery -- from the oldest synagogue in the City. I told her she had a built in Halloween venue. And then we saw her new apartment -- pre war, nice folks, many living there for decades. Jonathan joined us and shared great news -- he gave notice at his sweat shop, and took a new job with a smaller firm. More money, and hopefully fewer than the 90-100 hours per week he's been putting in.
We walked over to the Strip House, a steak place next to Union Square, and celebrated with a porterhouse and grilled tuna and martinis. Afterwards I walked back to the hotel -- after telling the young couple I might well rent my own apartment in the Village, too. Not really, but fun to scare them.
So it turned out that it was Pride Week in NYC -- a celebration of gay rights, or LGBTQ and whatever other letters they now add. And Greenwich Village is epicenter. So wherever we walked there were tons of young folks -- men with men, women with women, and every combination in between. They were all in a joyful mood, and it was terrific to be around them.
Saturday we met for breakfast, and then Jonathan had to get to work -- final deal analyses before leaving the company. D2 and I walked to the White Horse Tavern, and met 5 others and a friendly tour guide named Justin for a Literary Pub Crawl. It was 1, and we drank Stella.
The tour started slow, and after an emergency pee break I suggested we abandon it, but D2 felt otherwise, and I'm glad she did. Things got more interesting -- we saw where Hart Crane lived, and about Dylan Thomas's 18 whiskeys at the White Horse before he died face down in the snow. And we stood outside a place called Chumley's, right next to the building where the exterior of "Friends" was shot. Chumley's claims connections to 40 Pulitzers, and is the place where F Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald married.
We ended at Marie's Crisis -- a place where Thomas Paine had lived. We also saw the building on Grove Street where John Wilkes Booth began his plan to kill Lincoln -- it's still called the Grove Street Conspiracy. Cool stuff, I thought.
Jonathan rejoined us, and we went to a place called Jefferies. His sister Eva and her man Yoni met us, and we shared some seafood and cheese plates. Yoni, American born but Israeli bred, pointed out that I had been drinking since 1 that afternoon -- sort of like a tailgate party. He was correct.
I took us back to Chumley's -- I wanted to see it, but the exotic hostess said the bar was full. Still, she let us in, and the pony tailed, hippie "on site historian" gave us a quick tour of the place. It was lined with book jackets of all the writers who had been there. I vowed to come back for dinner next trip to NYC.
From there we went to the Happiest Hour, a hipster bar with a tropical decor, where we had craft cocktails. These are not my speed -- I told D2 mine was a salad drink -- but still a nice time. From there we decamped to D2 and Jonathan's apartment --his sister and boyfriend hadn't seen it yet.
I left the younguns, and headed back to the hotel. Sunday am I was up, and went for coffee at the bar. A fellow about my age was there -- already drinking screwdrivers, and schooling the young staff about the movie "Ghost." I said hello, and we immediately clicked -- charming, hilarious guy named Thomas.
He was from Central Jersey, moved to Colorado where he was a realtor, and after a short marriage to an Italian girl realized he was gay. But he wasn't there for the Pride Parade -- he was showing his elderly mother the sites. He looked me over and said "Well YOU'RE not here for the Pride thing." I was a little insulted -- how did he know right away I was NOT gay. D2 arrived and we had a nice chat -- he learned Reiki, or something like it, and gave me a chakra test. We became FaceBook friends and off he went -- I felt I had paid proper homage to Pride Week by making a new gay friend.
I told D2 about being slightly insulted -- I mean, like Thomas I was wearing jeans and an untucked shirt. D2 patiently explained I had the wrong jeans, the wrong shirt -- no -- nothing at all gay about me. I accepted my straight destiny...
We then went back to French Roast, sat outside, and watched the parade of humanity that told us absolutely we were NOT in Kansas anymore. We decided that even the dogs were gay -- as were the grannies.
We brought breakfast back for Jonathan, and watched the parade live on TV.
Finally, it was time for me to leave, and we realized that all of Greenwich Village was closed off to traffic. We walked and walked, and finally at 9th Avenue and 16th Street, Jonathan found me a cab. I was off for LGA.
I took my seat, we took off, and it was pretty rough. The woman in the seat across the aisle screamed and whined the whole time -- demanding her husband get her XANAX -- and it was really too turbulent to get out of his seat. He looked at me and his gaze said "You lucky bastard -- why do you get to travel alone?"
When things smoothed out, I ate me meal and fell fast asleep -- visions of D2 and her new address happily in my dreams.
I landed, and called Mirta. She was free, and fetched me, and we went to Kon Chao for some post trip dim sum. I thanked her for house and dog sitting, and she dropped me home -- the dogs seemed disappointed it was me, and not Mirta and her grandson, who adored the dogs.
Wifey is still away -- hanging with Edna up in Hallandale for some more days. I'm happy to be alone with the dogs-- and happy with an awesome Dad/daughter trip to NYC -- even though I was a straight man in a gay land...
The flight to LGA was fine, and then my driver to the City was the opposite of Alejandro. He was Bulgarian, and talked non stop about his knowledge of the true conspiracy in the world -- the evil Catholic Church! He gave me all kinds of examples -- Da Vinci Code type of things. Think about it, he said, America is a Protestant country, and the Supreme Court is 3 liberal Jews (they are ok, he said) and 6 CATHOLICS. Even in Florida -- Jeb Bush converted to Catholicism! Watch, he warned me, you'll see I'm correct.
I checked into the hotel, and realized I needed a nap, which I took, and then walked to D2's new street, 11th, and sat at a corner cafe, French Roast. It was a warm late summer afternoon. I drank an iced coffee, and felt immediately at home -- the way I do in Asheville, Key West, and Coconut Grove here at home. And then D2 appeared -- a vision of lovely in every way. We hugged, and she sat and got an iced coffee as well, and we caught up.
She took me down her street, and showed me the old Sephardic cemetery -- from the oldest synagogue in the City. I told her she had a built in Halloween venue. And then we saw her new apartment -- pre war, nice folks, many living there for decades. Jonathan joined us and shared great news -- he gave notice at his sweat shop, and took a new job with a smaller firm. More money, and hopefully fewer than the 90-100 hours per week he's been putting in.
We walked over to the Strip House, a steak place next to Union Square, and celebrated with a porterhouse and grilled tuna and martinis. Afterwards I walked back to the hotel -- after telling the young couple I might well rent my own apartment in the Village, too. Not really, but fun to scare them.
So it turned out that it was Pride Week in NYC -- a celebration of gay rights, or LGBTQ and whatever other letters they now add. And Greenwich Village is epicenter. So wherever we walked there were tons of young folks -- men with men, women with women, and every combination in between. They were all in a joyful mood, and it was terrific to be around them.
Saturday we met for breakfast, and then Jonathan had to get to work -- final deal analyses before leaving the company. D2 and I walked to the White Horse Tavern, and met 5 others and a friendly tour guide named Justin for a Literary Pub Crawl. It was 1, and we drank Stella.
The tour started slow, and after an emergency pee break I suggested we abandon it, but D2 felt otherwise, and I'm glad she did. Things got more interesting -- we saw where Hart Crane lived, and about Dylan Thomas's 18 whiskeys at the White Horse before he died face down in the snow. And we stood outside a place called Chumley's, right next to the building where the exterior of "Friends" was shot. Chumley's claims connections to 40 Pulitzers, and is the place where F Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald married.
We ended at Marie's Crisis -- a place where Thomas Paine had lived. We also saw the building on Grove Street where John Wilkes Booth began his plan to kill Lincoln -- it's still called the Grove Street Conspiracy. Cool stuff, I thought.
Jonathan rejoined us, and we went to a place called Jefferies. His sister Eva and her man Yoni met us, and we shared some seafood and cheese plates. Yoni, American born but Israeli bred, pointed out that I had been drinking since 1 that afternoon -- sort of like a tailgate party. He was correct.
I took us back to Chumley's -- I wanted to see it, but the exotic hostess said the bar was full. Still, she let us in, and the pony tailed, hippie "on site historian" gave us a quick tour of the place. It was lined with book jackets of all the writers who had been there. I vowed to come back for dinner next trip to NYC.
From there we went to the Happiest Hour, a hipster bar with a tropical decor, where we had craft cocktails. These are not my speed -- I told D2 mine was a salad drink -- but still a nice time. From there we decamped to D2 and Jonathan's apartment --his sister and boyfriend hadn't seen it yet.
I left the younguns, and headed back to the hotel. Sunday am I was up, and went for coffee at the bar. A fellow about my age was there -- already drinking screwdrivers, and schooling the young staff about the movie "Ghost." I said hello, and we immediately clicked -- charming, hilarious guy named Thomas.
He was from Central Jersey, moved to Colorado where he was a realtor, and after a short marriage to an Italian girl realized he was gay. But he wasn't there for the Pride Parade -- he was showing his elderly mother the sites. He looked me over and said "Well YOU'RE not here for the Pride thing." I was a little insulted -- how did he know right away I was NOT gay. D2 arrived and we had a nice chat -- he learned Reiki, or something like it, and gave me a chakra test. We became FaceBook friends and off he went -- I felt I had paid proper homage to Pride Week by making a new gay friend.
I told D2 about being slightly insulted -- I mean, like Thomas I was wearing jeans and an untucked shirt. D2 patiently explained I had the wrong jeans, the wrong shirt -- no -- nothing at all gay about me. I accepted my straight destiny...
We then went back to French Roast, sat outside, and watched the parade of humanity that told us absolutely we were NOT in Kansas anymore. We decided that even the dogs were gay -- as were the grannies.
We brought breakfast back for Jonathan, and watched the parade live on TV.
Finally, it was time for me to leave, and we realized that all of Greenwich Village was closed off to traffic. We walked and walked, and finally at 9th Avenue and 16th Street, Jonathan found me a cab. I was off for LGA.
I took my seat, we took off, and it was pretty rough. The woman in the seat across the aisle screamed and whined the whole time -- demanding her husband get her XANAX -- and it was really too turbulent to get out of his seat. He looked at me and his gaze said "You lucky bastard -- why do you get to travel alone?"
When things smoothed out, I ate me meal and fell fast asleep -- visions of D2 and her new address happily in my dreams.
I landed, and called Mirta. She was free, and fetched me, and we went to Kon Chao for some post trip dim sum. I thanked her for house and dog sitting, and she dropped me home -- the dogs seemed disappointed it was me, and not Mirta and her grandson, who adored the dogs.
Wifey is still away -- hanging with Edna up in Hallandale for some more days. I'm happy to be alone with the dogs-- and happy with an awesome Dad/daughter trip to NYC -- even though I was a straight man in a gay land...
Friday, June 23, 2017
All My Bag (Are) Packed...
So last night Wifey left to spend the night with her sista of another mista Edna, who's in town for several weeks, visiting her ancient parents at MJH, and celebrating the Fourth at the Raleigh on Miami Beach. Today the two plan to make it a threesome, and go spend the weekend up in Vero Beach, with mutual great friend Linda, who for reasons still not clear to us, moved there.
Actually, we do know why. Linda always dreamed of living on the ocean, and in South Florida that's prohibitively expensive, and after her parents died, she was ready for a change. So she still works, mostly by phone, for the same Miami company, and Wifey and Edna will get the Vero experience first hand.
I decided to get together with MY sista of another mista, and invited Mirta to dinner at Salvatore's. We had a lovely time, talking about life, and people, and kids, and in Mirta's case, grandkids. She gets so much joy from them, and her oldest Karen really adores her grandma. Mirta sees the grandkids several times per week, and is always there to babysit and drive, especially when someone gets sick. Wifey wants to be that kind of grandma, too, should we be so blessed. When the Ds settle into marital and kid houses, Wifey wants to live no more than 10-15 minutes away.
Mirta has never liked too many people. As we age, I see, more and more, the wisdom of her choice.
And after just 4 hours of sleep, I'm ready for my trip today. Ishmael, the narrator of Moby Dick, said that when he realized he was spending too much time attending funerals, and being generally down, he knew it was time to go to sea. For me, when more than a few months passes and I don't see D2, I know it's time to fly to the City.
We talk all the time, of course, but I still miss her. She was hoping to come for the Fourth, but Jonathan's work schedule put a kibosh on that, so I'll call an Uber, get some great food in the Amex Lounge, and then head off to see my little girl.
Wifey was there last weekend, and helped the young couple unpack and organize in their new place in Greenwich Village. She really, really helped. I told the kids that Wifey is VP in charge of helping move, and I am VP in charge of entertainment. We have a table tonight at the Strip House, a steak place just off Union Square. I've been there twice and enjoyed it -- newer version of a classic NY steakhouse.
Tomorrow, I bought tickets to a Literary Pub Crawl in the Village. I thought D2 and Jonathan might have no interest, but I was wrong -- they're looking forward to learning some history of their new 'hood. And to me, being in the haunts of Dylan Thomas, Washington Irving, and others, while imbibing adult beverages sounds like an awesome afternoon.
Years ago, I dragged my brother in law along on one in Dublin. It was great -- the young English professor challenged anyone to try to stump him on a matter of Irish Lit, with the prize being a pint of Guinness. I took his challenge -- asked him where Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" had its US premiere. He guessed, of course, NY. Nope. Boston then? Nope. Then surely Chicago, or Philly? He gave up. I told him I had learned from many visits it was Miami -- the Coconut Grove Playhouse. I proudly quaffed my pint.
It's pretty hot in the City, so I won't get too much respite from Miami dog days, but it DOES drop below 80 in the evenings, so that will be a refreshing break.
So hasta Sunday, 305. I have a little (25) year old girl waiting to spend a bit of quality Dad time...
Actually, we do know why. Linda always dreamed of living on the ocean, and in South Florida that's prohibitively expensive, and after her parents died, she was ready for a change. So she still works, mostly by phone, for the same Miami company, and Wifey and Edna will get the Vero experience first hand.
I decided to get together with MY sista of another mista, and invited Mirta to dinner at Salvatore's. We had a lovely time, talking about life, and people, and kids, and in Mirta's case, grandkids. She gets so much joy from them, and her oldest Karen really adores her grandma. Mirta sees the grandkids several times per week, and is always there to babysit and drive, especially when someone gets sick. Wifey wants to be that kind of grandma, too, should we be so blessed. When the Ds settle into marital and kid houses, Wifey wants to live no more than 10-15 minutes away.
Mirta has never liked too many people. As we age, I see, more and more, the wisdom of her choice.
And after just 4 hours of sleep, I'm ready for my trip today. Ishmael, the narrator of Moby Dick, said that when he realized he was spending too much time attending funerals, and being generally down, he knew it was time to go to sea. For me, when more than a few months passes and I don't see D2, I know it's time to fly to the City.
We talk all the time, of course, but I still miss her. She was hoping to come for the Fourth, but Jonathan's work schedule put a kibosh on that, so I'll call an Uber, get some great food in the Amex Lounge, and then head off to see my little girl.
Wifey was there last weekend, and helped the young couple unpack and organize in their new place in Greenwich Village. She really, really helped. I told the kids that Wifey is VP in charge of helping move, and I am VP in charge of entertainment. We have a table tonight at the Strip House, a steak place just off Union Square. I've been there twice and enjoyed it -- newer version of a classic NY steakhouse.
Tomorrow, I bought tickets to a Literary Pub Crawl in the Village. I thought D2 and Jonathan might have no interest, but I was wrong -- they're looking forward to learning some history of their new 'hood. And to me, being in the haunts of Dylan Thomas, Washington Irving, and others, while imbibing adult beverages sounds like an awesome afternoon.
Years ago, I dragged my brother in law along on one in Dublin. It was great -- the young English professor challenged anyone to try to stump him on a matter of Irish Lit, with the prize being a pint of Guinness. I took his challenge -- asked him where Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" had its US premiere. He guessed, of course, NY. Nope. Boston then? Nope. Then surely Chicago, or Philly? He gave up. I told him I had learned from many visits it was Miami -- the Coconut Grove Playhouse. I proudly quaffed my pint.
It's pretty hot in the City, so I won't get too much respite from Miami dog days, but it DOES drop below 80 in the evenings, so that will be a refreshing break.
So hasta Sunday, 305. I have a little (25) year old girl waiting to spend a bit of quality Dad time...
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Brutal Politics
D2 is right -- I spend far too much time on FaceBook (tm) and let myself get riled up. I really need to read about politics and current affairs, and keep my opinions to only educated friends. It's a no win, otherwise.
The other night my "friend" Arnald got my goat. He's a former neighbor, and I admire much about him. He raised three great girls, and volunteers with his wife's inner city school -- she's a principal. Arnald cleans and paints the places for free. He walks the walk.
But when it comes to politics, well, he's a Fox news retardate. He LOVES Trump. He HATES Obama. He posted an article about the UVA kid who was returned from North Korea in a permanent vegetative state, who died. Arnald used the news as an opportunity to blame Obama -- somehow it was his fault.
When I heard about the kid, honestly, my first thought was nominating him for the Darwin Awards -- the sick contest where it's decided who died the stupidest death. It gets its name because we, as a society, ought to cull out the dumbest before they reproduce. This idiot went to the most brutal dictatorship on earth, and stole a sign? Of course it's tragic he was beaten to near death, but as the Geico commercials say, that's that North Korean officials do...
Still, the proper and decent reaction ought to be sympathy for the parents -- not a vehicle for hating on an ex president of the US. Arnald is on double secret probation with me -- I'm close to unfriending him.
I DID unfriend someone this am. I'll call him Martin, since that's his name. He's an old still hippie who married my psychotic cousin Gloria. He succeeded in shortening the lives of my Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Abe by worrying them no end about their daughter. Martin left a good job as a NYC educator to become some kind of organic farmer. And this was before anyone other than hippies knew what that was. He moved Gloria to rural Massachussets, and now they're in North Carolina.
Anyway, Martin friended me on FaceBook, even though we last met at a wedding years ago. And I found his photos of organic goat farming kind of interesting.
But it turns out Martin's politics are FAR left -- like anti semitic left. Lately he's been posting all sorts of nice things equating Israel with Nazi Germany. And this from a NY Jew!!!
He reminded me of the Woody Allen quip about a Reform Temple: "Our congregation is SO liberal, the rabbi is a Nazi." Martin went on and on.
I try to be tolerant of various points of view, but self hating Jews are the lowest of the low, in my personal book. They are the social media kapos of our time.
So I wish Martin continued existence in his organic goat shit on his farm. But I'm done with him.
My favorite uncle was Abe -- he died years ago. Abe never could stand his weirdo son in law. He'd be proud of me, I know...
Meanwhile, in the real world, yesterday the results came in for the most expensive House election in history. The chunky white Republican beat the skinny Jewish guy. The district is traditionally Republican -- successful white folks in suburban Atlanta -- Wifey's BFF lives there. If the results are predictive of the coming mid term elections, Trumpites will remain in power for a good long time.
I think the only rational response to that was stated by the great comedian Dave Chappelle, asked by his lefty friends if he was leaving the country post Trump. "Nah. I figure I'll hang around and see how these tax cuts work out for me."
And so it shall be. Politically, it's the end of the world as we know it, and like another Georgian sang, I feel fine.
The other night my "friend" Arnald got my goat. He's a former neighbor, and I admire much about him. He raised three great girls, and volunteers with his wife's inner city school -- she's a principal. Arnald cleans and paints the places for free. He walks the walk.
But when it comes to politics, well, he's a Fox news retardate. He LOVES Trump. He HATES Obama. He posted an article about the UVA kid who was returned from North Korea in a permanent vegetative state, who died. Arnald used the news as an opportunity to blame Obama -- somehow it was his fault.
When I heard about the kid, honestly, my first thought was nominating him for the Darwin Awards -- the sick contest where it's decided who died the stupidest death. It gets its name because we, as a society, ought to cull out the dumbest before they reproduce. This idiot went to the most brutal dictatorship on earth, and stole a sign? Of course it's tragic he was beaten to near death, but as the Geico commercials say, that's that North Korean officials do...
Still, the proper and decent reaction ought to be sympathy for the parents -- not a vehicle for hating on an ex president of the US. Arnald is on double secret probation with me -- I'm close to unfriending him.
I DID unfriend someone this am. I'll call him Martin, since that's his name. He's an old still hippie who married my psychotic cousin Gloria. He succeeded in shortening the lives of my Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Abe by worrying them no end about their daughter. Martin left a good job as a NYC educator to become some kind of organic farmer. And this was before anyone other than hippies knew what that was. He moved Gloria to rural Massachussets, and now they're in North Carolina.
Anyway, Martin friended me on FaceBook, even though we last met at a wedding years ago. And I found his photos of organic goat farming kind of interesting.
But it turns out Martin's politics are FAR left -- like anti semitic left. Lately he's been posting all sorts of nice things equating Israel with Nazi Germany. And this from a NY Jew!!!
He reminded me of the Woody Allen quip about a Reform Temple: "Our congregation is SO liberal, the rabbi is a Nazi." Martin went on and on.
I try to be tolerant of various points of view, but self hating Jews are the lowest of the low, in my personal book. They are the social media kapos of our time.
So I wish Martin continued existence in his organic goat shit on his farm. But I'm done with him.
My favorite uncle was Abe -- he died years ago. Abe never could stand his weirdo son in law. He'd be proud of me, I know...
Meanwhile, in the real world, yesterday the results came in for the most expensive House election in history. The chunky white Republican beat the skinny Jewish guy. The district is traditionally Republican -- successful white folks in suburban Atlanta -- Wifey's BFF lives there. If the results are predictive of the coming mid term elections, Trumpites will remain in power for a good long time.
I think the only rational response to that was stated by the great comedian Dave Chappelle, asked by his lefty friends if he was leaving the country post Trump. "Nah. I figure I'll hang around and see how these tax cuts work out for me."
And so it shall be. Politically, it's the end of the world as we know it, and like another Georgian sang, I feel fine.
Monday, June 19, 2017
The Latest Buzz
So I drove the Wifey SUV over to Deb and Norman's house for a lovely FD brunch. Deb puts out quite the spread -- we all ate like kings, and she made sure to invite all Dads to hit the buffet line first. It was like being Dad for a day...
The best part for me was chatting with Max, the patriarch. He's turning 90 the day D1 gets married, and he was sharing with some grandkids the latest photo app -- you can BUY it rather than lease, and it works better than photoshop. The man has the mind of a much younger man -- D2 always remembers how, years ago, he was "jailbreaking" his I Phone. I still don't even know what that means.
So this man, with 4 kids, tons of grandkids, and great grandkids -- asked me about the Ds -- how they were, how D1's practice was going. If I'm somehow blessed with his quantity of years, I hope I have a fraction of the quality of them...
Our families have overlap. Rachel, Norman's niece, is a year ahead of D1 at UF, and turns out they have good friends in common. Rachel is now our family pharmacist, and the mother of 2 adorable kids as well, and I enjoyed her lighting up an already bright room. Her mom Susan was D2's math teacher at Palmetto, and it was great to catch up with her, too.
And the real thrill was watching Norman's boy and his best friend Ramon play dominoes -- on the UM table -- something they do at Canes tailgates, which are precious months away...
Then I came home, and noticed a bunch of bees buzzing by the front gate. And then I saw it -- a moving, dark circle -- large pizza sized. It was a swarm!
We've had bees before. The strangest was when we noticed golden colored goo on a staircase. It was dripping wax from a hive in our attic -- which luckily relocated. Years later, I saw bees again buzzing outside of that part of the roof, and I called Willie the Bee man, our local maven. His man Omar sealed off some openings, and sprayed, and we were bee free.
So I called Willie's number, even though it was FD, and Sunday. He answered and we caught up -- he remembered me because of our friendly talks. He's in his 60s and a hippie type who's made a VERY nice living removing bees -- his biggest client is FPL. In fact, they paid him to remove a hive living inside out security light, that FPL owns.
I apologized for bothering him, but he was fine -- you can "only watch grandkids run around for so long..." He told me to save my money -- a ground swarm would likely leave on its own, but if not, one of his bee men could come by later today and dispatch them.
I texted Wifey and the girls in NYC, and realized I could have simply NOT told Wifey -- she walks around outside at night these days -- and had the best practical joke of all time, as I filmed her running from the disturbed swarm.
D1 noted that it WOULD be a great practical joke, but that they're less funny when they turn fatal. That's not likely for Wifey, even if the bees are "Africanized," or more aggressive, but they could sting one of our hapless dogs to death. Nah -- the bees will either be left alone, or committed to Willie's crew...
Wifey returns tonight -- turns out she was a great help to D2 and Jonathan -- getting them organized, and being the Mom general with unpacking. I really, really despise moving -- I look forward to my visit this Friday sans schlepping.
And by then, this buzzyness should be resolved.
The best part for me was chatting with Max, the patriarch. He's turning 90 the day D1 gets married, and he was sharing with some grandkids the latest photo app -- you can BUY it rather than lease, and it works better than photoshop. The man has the mind of a much younger man -- D2 always remembers how, years ago, he was "jailbreaking" his I Phone. I still don't even know what that means.
So this man, with 4 kids, tons of grandkids, and great grandkids -- asked me about the Ds -- how they were, how D1's practice was going. If I'm somehow blessed with his quantity of years, I hope I have a fraction of the quality of them...
Our families have overlap. Rachel, Norman's niece, is a year ahead of D1 at UF, and turns out they have good friends in common. Rachel is now our family pharmacist, and the mother of 2 adorable kids as well, and I enjoyed her lighting up an already bright room. Her mom Susan was D2's math teacher at Palmetto, and it was great to catch up with her, too.
And the real thrill was watching Norman's boy and his best friend Ramon play dominoes -- on the UM table -- something they do at Canes tailgates, which are precious months away...
Then I came home, and noticed a bunch of bees buzzing by the front gate. And then I saw it -- a moving, dark circle -- large pizza sized. It was a swarm!
We've had bees before. The strangest was when we noticed golden colored goo on a staircase. It was dripping wax from a hive in our attic -- which luckily relocated. Years later, I saw bees again buzzing outside of that part of the roof, and I called Willie the Bee man, our local maven. His man Omar sealed off some openings, and sprayed, and we were bee free.
So I called Willie's number, even though it was FD, and Sunday. He answered and we caught up -- he remembered me because of our friendly talks. He's in his 60s and a hippie type who's made a VERY nice living removing bees -- his biggest client is FPL. In fact, they paid him to remove a hive living inside out security light, that FPL owns.
I apologized for bothering him, but he was fine -- you can "only watch grandkids run around for so long..." He told me to save my money -- a ground swarm would likely leave on its own, but if not, one of his bee men could come by later today and dispatch them.
I texted Wifey and the girls in NYC, and realized I could have simply NOT told Wifey -- she walks around outside at night these days -- and had the best practical joke of all time, as I filmed her running from the disturbed swarm.
D1 noted that it WOULD be a great practical joke, but that they're less funny when they turn fatal. That's not likely for Wifey, even if the bees are "Africanized," or more aggressive, but they could sting one of our hapless dogs to death. Nah -- the bees will either be left alone, or committed to Willie's crew...
Wifey returns tonight -- turns out she was a great help to D2 and Jonathan -- getting them organized, and being the Mom general with unpacking. I really, really despise moving -- I look forward to my visit this Friday sans schlepping.
And by then, this buzzyness should be resolved.
Sunday, June 18, 2017
The Palm for FD
So after a perfectly lazy Saturday, where I accomplished the goal I had set of venturing no farther than the mailbox, I got ready and fired up Wifey's underused SUV. I always try to drive it as often as possible -- the lease allows for 12K miles per year, and a year and a half in, she's gone less than 5K miles.
I arrived too early, as usual, as my confirming call with D1 was a distracted one. I was on the other line with an old acquaintance, asking me about a heart surgeon at Baptist -- had we ever sued him? We had not, and her 75 year old husband is getting something called a Watchmen Device. I wish him well.
So I parked near D1 and Joey's building and watched the young folks walk to and fro...finally my passengers got into the Dadber and off we went -- up Biscayne Boulevard to the causeway to Bay Harbor, and to the Palm.
It's my favorite Miami steakhouse. It's the first satellite one from the NY classic place -- and the crowd might as well by Midtown Manhattan as well, maybe with a slightly more Latin tinge. The waiter with the perfect Queens accent took our orders, and we were off to a fine meal and drinks. D1 and Joey toasted me -- best Dad in the biz, and I toasted them for making that task easy.
The place was so noisy we FaceTimed (tm) D2, and found her in her new apartment with Wifey -- waiting for take out to arrive. I missed having her and Jonathan there, too, but plan on a one week delayed FD next Friday.
I learned from the best. I miss Hy each day.Today marks 34 FDs that I haven't been able to celebrate with him. It really, really sucks. I phoned my friend Jeff on the way to dinner -- this is the first year he has no father on FD -- his Dad Norton died last year. We agreed the only answer was the sage world of Tony Soprano -- yeah -- what are ya gonna do?
After I dropped off D1 and Joey, I reflected about fatherhood on the easy drive home. I never put much emotion into my role as a lawyer. It's lovely to have money, but I couldn't care less about stuff (well, except for the big ass house -- I really like that). I try to be a serviceable husband. But when it comes to being a father -- I pride myself above all. I have given my heart and soul to my Ds, and will do so forever. And the tent will broaden with sons in law, too.
I sent one father's day greeting this am -- to a young man who may be the only better father than I am. I watch this fellow give boundless energy and love to his two young kids -- I beam like a long ball hitter watching the next player come along who will hit even more home runs.
So all is quiet, on Father's Day. Norman and Deb have invited me to a brunch, and I look forward to seeing Max -- also one of the best Dads in the business. He's nearing 90, and his kids, grandkids, and great grandkids all fight for his time -- to share his wisdom, and his love.
I fully do NOT plan on living nearly that long, but if I do, Max will be my role model. He's been in the biz for decades, and just keeps it up year after year, day after day.
When I said goodbye to confirmed bachelor Vince on Friday, I wished him ZERO FD greetings. He agreed.
As for me, I enjoy the day, and many to come.
I arrived too early, as usual, as my confirming call with D1 was a distracted one. I was on the other line with an old acquaintance, asking me about a heart surgeon at Baptist -- had we ever sued him? We had not, and her 75 year old husband is getting something called a Watchmen Device. I wish him well.
So I parked near D1 and Joey's building and watched the young folks walk to and fro...finally my passengers got into the Dadber and off we went -- up Biscayne Boulevard to the causeway to Bay Harbor, and to the Palm.
It's my favorite Miami steakhouse. It's the first satellite one from the NY classic place -- and the crowd might as well by Midtown Manhattan as well, maybe with a slightly more Latin tinge. The waiter with the perfect Queens accent took our orders, and we were off to a fine meal and drinks. D1 and Joey toasted me -- best Dad in the biz, and I toasted them for making that task easy.
The place was so noisy we FaceTimed (tm) D2, and found her in her new apartment with Wifey -- waiting for take out to arrive. I missed having her and Jonathan there, too, but plan on a one week delayed FD next Friday.
I learned from the best. I miss Hy each day.Today marks 34 FDs that I haven't been able to celebrate with him. It really, really sucks. I phoned my friend Jeff on the way to dinner -- this is the first year he has no father on FD -- his Dad Norton died last year. We agreed the only answer was the sage world of Tony Soprano -- yeah -- what are ya gonna do?
After I dropped off D1 and Joey, I reflected about fatherhood on the easy drive home. I never put much emotion into my role as a lawyer. It's lovely to have money, but I couldn't care less about stuff (well, except for the big ass house -- I really like that). I try to be a serviceable husband. But when it comes to being a father -- I pride myself above all. I have given my heart and soul to my Ds, and will do so forever. And the tent will broaden with sons in law, too.
I sent one father's day greeting this am -- to a young man who may be the only better father than I am. I watch this fellow give boundless energy and love to his two young kids -- I beam like a long ball hitter watching the next player come along who will hit even more home runs.
So all is quiet, on Father's Day. Norman and Deb have invited me to a brunch, and I look forward to seeing Max -- also one of the best Dads in the business. He's nearing 90, and his kids, grandkids, and great grandkids all fight for his time -- to share his wisdom, and his love.
I fully do NOT plan on living nearly that long, but if I do, Max will be my role model. He's been in the biz for decades, and just keeps it up year after year, day after day.
When I said goodbye to confirmed bachelor Vince on Friday, I wished him ZERO FD greetings. He agreed.
As for me, I enjoy the day, and many to come.
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Breakin' Balls on a Chill Friday
So I was up early yesterday, and driving Wifey to MIA for a trip to D2 in the City. Her journey was uneventful, and I got some nice photos and later lovely FaceTime (tm) of our new go-to hotel in Greenwich Village (2 blocks away from the new daughter digs) and Wifey and the young couple strolling the lovely and historic streets.
I decamped to LOL, and caught up with Lori, my 20 something year waitress. She went back to nursing school, at advanced age, and in August finally begins work locally. The good news is she plans on staying at LOL weekends, so there will remain life balance in this corner of the 305.
I thought about heading to the office, and then assessed the personnel situation. My partner -- off doing his thing. John -- on a plane to Pensacola, to start FD early. Stu -- continuing the "it takes a village to help an elderly mother" project -- off helping his Mom following hip surgery. So had I been the only one in the office, it would have meant I was a schmuck -- and my Daddy didn't raise no schmuck...
So instead I happily surprised the dogs, and went home, where a lovely late afternoon nap, during the unwatchable POTUS Miami Cuban speech, was in the cards for me. I really don't get it. Trump comes here, says "Castro Si/Cuba No" to the silly old men who have been unable to free Cuba for nearly 60 years now, they cheer, and Trump does actually nothing. He promised to break the "weak" deal Obama made with Cuba. Essentially all he did was make it tougher for individuals to travel there. And morons cheered. Such is our country -- at least a sizeable part of it...
Anyway, I awoke and Ubered to the Grove, where I had plans to meet young Vince and older Joel. We met at Glass and Vine, the preface to a joke: An Italian, Jew, and Irishman walk into a bar...
Vince grew up wealthy in LA, but his parents were working class Irish folks from LI. His Dad hit it big in the record business, and moved the family to the City of Lost Angels. Joel grew up upper middle class in Pinecrest, but likes to think he has street cred since it was the crazy Miami 80s.
Vince is a confirmed bachelor. Coming from his big Irish Catholic family, and seeing all the dysfunction among his siblings and their marriages -- he wants no part of it. He dates exotically gorgeous, mostly Eastern European and South American beauties -- not types to bring home to mom -- and he's happy as a clam at high tide.
Joel is married to an awesome lady -- half Irish and half Italian, also from LI, and they have three handsome sons. Joel sends them to the top private schools in Miami, and I thoroughly enjoyed telling Joel his boys, unlike his school life, were among some of the worst human beings in city -- spoiled, entitled, born on third base and thinking they hit triples...
Joel ground me about certain aspects of my life, and we both made fun of Vince, and so it went...it was exquisite...three men mercilessly making fun of each other -- breaking balls, as we call it.
There was no better way to spend an otherwise uneventful and chill Friday...I enjoyed it immensely.
I decamped to LOL, and caught up with Lori, my 20 something year waitress. She went back to nursing school, at advanced age, and in August finally begins work locally. The good news is she plans on staying at LOL weekends, so there will remain life balance in this corner of the 305.
I thought about heading to the office, and then assessed the personnel situation. My partner -- off doing his thing. John -- on a plane to Pensacola, to start FD early. Stu -- continuing the "it takes a village to help an elderly mother" project -- off helping his Mom following hip surgery. So had I been the only one in the office, it would have meant I was a schmuck -- and my Daddy didn't raise no schmuck...
So instead I happily surprised the dogs, and went home, where a lovely late afternoon nap, during the unwatchable POTUS Miami Cuban speech, was in the cards for me. I really don't get it. Trump comes here, says "Castro Si/Cuba No" to the silly old men who have been unable to free Cuba for nearly 60 years now, they cheer, and Trump does actually nothing. He promised to break the "weak" deal Obama made with Cuba. Essentially all he did was make it tougher for individuals to travel there. And morons cheered. Such is our country -- at least a sizeable part of it...
Anyway, I awoke and Ubered to the Grove, where I had plans to meet young Vince and older Joel. We met at Glass and Vine, the preface to a joke: An Italian, Jew, and Irishman walk into a bar...
Vince grew up wealthy in LA, but his parents were working class Irish folks from LI. His Dad hit it big in the record business, and moved the family to the City of Lost Angels. Joel grew up upper middle class in Pinecrest, but likes to think he has street cred since it was the crazy Miami 80s.
Vince is a confirmed bachelor. Coming from his big Irish Catholic family, and seeing all the dysfunction among his siblings and their marriages -- he wants no part of it. He dates exotically gorgeous, mostly Eastern European and South American beauties -- not types to bring home to mom -- and he's happy as a clam at high tide.
Joel is married to an awesome lady -- half Irish and half Italian, also from LI, and they have three handsome sons. Joel sends them to the top private schools in Miami, and I thoroughly enjoyed telling Joel his boys, unlike his school life, were among some of the worst human beings in city -- spoiled, entitled, born on third base and thinking they hit triples...
Joel ground me about certain aspects of my life, and we both made fun of Vince, and so it went...it was exquisite...three men mercilessly making fun of each other -- breaking balls, as we call it.
There was no better way to spend an otherwise uneventful and chill Friday...I enjoyed it immensely.
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Father's Day Weekend
I'm already over Mother's Day, on account I ain't got no mother no more, and the Ds are old enough to celebrate THEIR mother without my having to intervene. And now the poor relation to MD, Father's Day, is coming up.
Last night my friend Pat and I sat at Shula's talking about fatherhood. We concluded we are two of the luckiest SOBs in town. His two kids are awesome -- Marie is finishing up a MA in Creative Writing from her parents' alma mater, UF, after getting a BA from BC. Lot of initials there. Young Patrick is a rising junior at Michigan, studying engineering, and currently interning for an insurance company in New England.
More than their accomplishments, both are wonderful young people, and Pat and Susan really LIKE them, too -- always rearranging schedules to coordinate visits. I, of course, feel the same way about the Ds.
At my urging, Wifey is leaving HER baby daddy, me, for FD. I drop her tomorrow at MIA for a cruise to LGA and weekend in NYC. D2 is moving tomorrow -- after two years in Murray Hill (actually Kip's Bay, as she lived on the east side of Third Avenue) she and Jonathan are to become Villagers, as in Greenwich. Wifey is going to help D2 unpack and organize her extensive textile collection.
I'm going to dinner FD Eve at my favorite steakhouse, The Palm, with D1 and Joey. Those two got some lovely press yesterday -- an upscale Miami magazine featured them, along with two other couples, in a glitzy wedding spread. And Mads, my spoiled Spaniel granddog, made the picture as well.
Sunday I have an invite to Deb and Norman's, for a FD brunch. Monday I plan to retrieve Wifey at MIA, and then the following Friday I'll jet up to LGA for a later FD weekend with D2 and Jonathan. I booked a literary pub crawl for the three of us -- a nerdy thing I really enjoy -- and we can see first hand where literary history in the Village was was made. Dylan Thomas went very drunk into that good night at a local tavern. I plan to NOT mimic that accomplishment.
Finally, in the time really DOES fly department: A year or so ago, Paul treated us to a banner day at the race track -- Calder. He hosted the Ds and Wifey and me at a day at the races, and asked the Ds to pick numbers for, I think, a Trifecta. They did, and their picks were very long shots, and the payoff was huge. I think each of the Ds, and their friends, and Grant, Paul's nephew, each got around $1000. The joke was we were going to turn them into gambling addicts -- it winning were this easy, why not just gamble all the time.
But the point is, D1 sent over a picture of the event -- she and her sister holding bills like spread out fans. And it was NOT a year or so -- it was EIGHT years ago today. Close to a decade. The time, like money out of a gambler's losing pocket, really does slip away so fast.
Last night my friend Pat and I sat at Shula's talking about fatherhood. We concluded we are two of the luckiest SOBs in town. His two kids are awesome -- Marie is finishing up a MA in Creative Writing from her parents' alma mater, UF, after getting a BA from BC. Lot of initials there. Young Patrick is a rising junior at Michigan, studying engineering, and currently interning for an insurance company in New England.
More than their accomplishments, both are wonderful young people, and Pat and Susan really LIKE them, too -- always rearranging schedules to coordinate visits. I, of course, feel the same way about the Ds.
At my urging, Wifey is leaving HER baby daddy, me, for FD. I drop her tomorrow at MIA for a cruise to LGA and weekend in NYC. D2 is moving tomorrow -- after two years in Murray Hill (actually Kip's Bay, as she lived on the east side of Third Avenue) she and Jonathan are to become Villagers, as in Greenwich. Wifey is going to help D2 unpack and organize her extensive textile collection.
I'm going to dinner FD Eve at my favorite steakhouse, The Palm, with D1 and Joey. Those two got some lovely press yesterday -- an upscale Miami magazine featured them, along with two other couples, in a glitzy wedding spread. And Mads, my spoiled Spaniel granddog, made the picture as well.
Sunday I have an invite to Deb and Norman's, for a FD brunch. Monday I plan to retrieve Wifey at MIA, and then the following Friday I'll jet up to LGA for a later FD weekend with D2 and Jonathan. I booked a literary pub crawl for the three of us -- a nerdy thing I really enjoy -- and we can see first hand where literary history in the Village was was made. Dylan Thomas went very drunk into that good night at a local tavern. I plan to NOT mimic that accomplishment.
Finally, in the time really DOES fly department: A year or so ago, Paul treated us to a banner day at the race track -- Calder. He hosted the Ds and Wifey and me at a day at the races, and asked the Ds to pick numbers for, I think, a Trifecta. They did, and their picks were very long shots, and the payoff was huge. I think each of the Ds, and their friends, and Grant, Paul's nephew, each got around $1000. The joke was we were going to turn them into gambling addicts -- it winning were this easy, why not just gamble all the time.
But the point is, D1 sent over a picture of the event -- she and her sister holding bills like spread out fans. And it was NOT a year or so -- it was EIGHT years ago today. Close to a decade. The time, like money out of a gambler's losing pocket, really does slip away so fast.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
The Life We Have Chosen
I feel a bit guilty about something. Last weekend, some local theaters played the original "Godfather" on account of its 45th release anniversary. Wifey was out doing errands, and I was going to go, tuck myself into a seat in the back, and enjoy the classic on the big screen, for the first time since I saw it as a boy of 10. Alas, laziness won out, and I missed the event.
So many of the quotes have reflected my life. My DNA test showed a larger than expected percentage of Italian blood -- maybe that's a factor. Also, my Dad used to tell me that some of my mother's uncles had close mob connections -- one of her cousins, I think named Sylvia, was a mistress to Lucky Lepke. For whatever reason, I love mob movies, and I and II are at the top of the list.
One of the greatest lines was uttered by Hyman Roth, when he was teaching young Michael Corleone about not taking things personally. "This is the life we have chosen." I adore that simple line -- it's sage wisdom permeates so much.
Yesterday was a fine example. D1 had spent the night, to be able to attend a meeting at a local center where she does consulting. She called me after the meeting to share classic tales of the administrator's talk with her -- about some criticism she heard about D1. The details don't matter, but the hilarious part was that it came from spoiled, entitled, wildly annoying, and sanctimonious women.
After working with mostly poor patients at Jackson Memorial, D1 designed her business to only handle an upscale clientele. Silly complaints are bound to come from this demographic. I reminded her it was the life she had chosen -- she knew and agreed.
I've often thought that being an administrator at a rich private school might be the worst job in the city. People pay a lot and they expect Cadillac treatment. It's a job I could never have -- the first time a spoiled parent complained about something stupid, I'd respond sarcastically, and that would be it. There's a special skill required in dealing with the spoiled among us.
At our law firm, the overwhelming majority of clients have been from poor backgrounds. Generally, the folks we represent appreciate our expertise, and follow directions. I have friends who represent wealthy and powerful clients. That's not a gig I'd ever want, either.
I'm always reminded of the time I told my friend Jeff, who was then involved in his local synagogue, that I was starting a law firm. He encouraged me to get involved in his shul -- to get cases. I laughed and explained that when a middle or upper class Jew in Miami has a personal injury case -- chances are he's already a lawyer, or related to one, or a close friend of one. Probably being on the board wouldn't help. Better to get involved in a community organization from a poorer place -- most of those people have no easy access to lawyers. This has proven correct for our careers...
But D1 wil soldier on. She has built an amazing practice. She donates her time, all the time -- speaking to homeless people in shelters, and lending her expertise to people who can no more afford private consultations than they could afford a private jet. And her bread and butter clients -- well, many will be fine, some will be simply awful human beings. This is the life she has chosen...
So many of the quotes have reflected my life. My DNA test showed a larger than expected percentage of Italian blood -- maybe that's a factor. Also, my Dad used to tell me that some of my mother's uncles had close mob connections -- one of her cousins, I think named Sylvia, was a mistress to Lucky Lepke. For whatever reason, I love mob movies, and I and II are at the top of the list.
One of the greatest lines was uttered by Hyman Roth, when he was teaching young Michael Corleone about not taking things personally. "This is the life we have chosen." I adore that simple line -- it's sage wisdom permeates so much.
Yesterday was a fine example. D1 had spent the night, to be able to attend a meeting at a local center where she does consulting. She called me after the meeting to share classic tales of the administrator's talk with her -- about some criticism she heard about D1. The details don't matter, but the hilarious part was that it came from spoiled, entitled, wildly annoying, and sanctimonious women.
After working with mostly poor patients at Jackson Memorial, D1 designed her business to only handle an upscale clientele. Silly complaints are bound to come from this demographic. I reminded her it was the life she had chosen -- she knew and agreed.
I've often thought that being an administrator at a rich private school might be the worst job in the city. People pay a lot and they expect Cadillac treatment. It's a job I could never have -- the first time a spoiled parent complained about something stupid, I'd respond sarcastically, and that would be it. There's a special skill required in dealing with the spoiled among us.
At our law firm, the overwhelming majority of clients have been from poor backgrounds. Generally, the folks we represent appreciate our expertise, and follow directions. I have friends who represent wealthy and powerful clients. That's not a gig I'd ever want, either.
I'm always reminded of the time I told my friend Jeff, who was then involved in his local synagogue, that I was starting a law firm. He encouraged me to get involved in his shul -- to get cases. I laughed and explained that when a middle or upper class Jew in Miami has a personal injury case -- chances are he's already a lawyer, or related to one, or a close friend of one. Probably being on the board wouldn't help. Better to get involved in a community organization from a poorer place -- most of those people have no easy access to lawyers. This has proven correct for our careers...
But D1 wil soldier on. She has built an amazing practice. She donates her time, all the time -- speaking to homeless people in shelters, and lending her expertise to people who can no more afford private consultations than they could afford a private jet. And her bread and butter clients -- well, many will be fine, some will be simply awful human beings. This is the life she has chosen...
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Is This Switzerland or Miami Dade?
A few years ago, I took my family to Switzerland for a week, after we visited Israel. We loved the place. Every cliche was true -- it was clean, and classy, and extremely well run. If a train schedule said the train left at 3:19, at 3:19 it was rolling.
We loved Israel, of course -- it's our birthright. Wifey was born there, and I was raised by two proud Zionists. But D1 and I share a bit of a secret -- if we left the US and had to move somewhere, Switzerland would certainly appeal to us more. We both appreciate when things work well, and run well.
Saying "Switzerland" has become a family metaphor. Whenever we encounter a clumsy bureaucracy, I say "What do you expect -- this isn't Switzerland, you know!"
Well, every once in awhile, County government can surprise me. It happened yesterday.
On Friday, I went on the County web site, and filled out a report about mosquito activity. Following the much needed rains, our 'hood has become the tropical rainforest it is -- damn things swarming as you walk outside. I made the report after trying to have a catch up talk with our neighbor Elizabeth -- the tri athlete across the street. After comically swatting at the pests, we retreated into our houses.
I figured my report, along with the reports urged by our association president Gloria, might get us an aerial spraying.
Instead, the very next business day after my web inquiry -- a truck from the county pulled up -- with three specialists. They said they were there to spray my yard, and they did. And the crew chief said if there weren't fewer bugs by Wednesday -- simply call 311 and they'd send someone out AGAIN -- and again, until the mosquito situation was tolerable.
I reported this to Gloria, via email, and being very green she asked me what they sprayed. DDT -- I wrote back -- stuff really works! Later I admitted I was kidding -- I had no idea what they used, but they told me to keep the dogs and Wifey inside for a few hours...
Wifey reported last night the bug situation was better. They were still out there, but not as bad.
I figure I'll call back the Swiss/Miami Bug Guard again Wednesday. It's nice when you get real service from your government.
We loved Israel, of course -- it's our birthright. Wifey was born there, and I was raised by two proud Zionists. But D1 and I share a bit of a secret -- if we left the US and had to move somewhere, Switzerland would certainly appeal to us more. We both appreciate when things work well, and run well.
Saying "Switzerland" has become a family metaphor. Whenever we encounter a clumsy bureaucracy, I say "What do you expect -- this isn't Switzerland, you know!"
Well, every once in awhile, County government can surprise me. It happened yesterday.
On Friday, I went on the County web site, and filled out a report about mosquito activity. Following the much needed rains, our 'hood has become the tropical rainforest it is -- damn things swarming as you walk outside. I made the report after trying to have a catch up talk with our neighbor Elizabeth -- the tri athlete across the street. After comically swatting at the pests, we retreated into our houses.
I figured my report, along with the reports urged by our association president Gloria, might get us an aerial spraying.
Instead, the very next business day after my web inquiry -- a truck from the county pulled up -- with three specialists. They said they were there to spray my yard, and they did. And the crew chief said if there weren't fewer bugs by Wednesday -- simply call 311 and they'd send someone out AGAIN -- and again, until the mosquito situation was tolerable.
I reported this to Gloria, via email, and being very green she asked me what they sprayed. DDT -- I wrote back -- stuff really works! Later I admitted I was kidding -- I had no idea what they used, but they told me to keep the dogs and Wifey inside for a few hours...
Wifey reported last night the bug situation was better. They were still out there, but not as bad.
I figure I'll call back the Swiss/Miami Bug Guard again Wednesday. It's nice when you get real service from your government.
Monday, June 12, 2017
We Found What We Were Looking For
So last night was a fine one, for four of us older than 35. After learning that D1 was stuck in Cartegena for a six hour weather and equipment delay, we went outside where a comically large limo was waiting. The driver was cool -- named Ushka --and loaded in the supplies. I came back in and told Wifey -- and she said "Oh -- a beautiful woman driver, with that name?" but I said no -- he was from Ukraine, and I liked him right away.
Deb and Norman drove up, all of two minutes late, and I joked with my fellow time stickler that I thought he'd mistaken the night of the event. Wifey and Deb make fun of our promptness. We just are built that way.
We popped a bottle of champagne, and some vodka and gin, and then sampled awesome food. Deb is a gourmet cook, and she didn't just bring some Publix platters -- we had a wonderful sampling of kebabs, and Greek pastries, and delicious shrimp cocktail...she even made lobster rolls. We feasted as we drove, and arrived -- too early. Even though the concert was sold out -- it only took us 40 minutes to get to Joe Robbie from Pinecrest. So Ushka pulled into a nearby Wal Mart lot, and we continued our feast there.
Luckily Norman noticed the time grew near to the event, and Ushka tried to take us right to the stadium. A stern Miami Dade cop said no -- we needed to disembark outside the perimeter, so we did, and jokingly whined about the insult to our VIP status. I insisted we share a couple of Bourbon Street style frozen margaritas, for decorative effect, and we found out seats.
UM advertised them as Club Seats, but they weren't. Still -- they were very good -- close to the stage and the perfect height. The opening act was One Republic, and they were very good. I liked the lead singer right away -- he said he knew no one had come to see them -- they were just to get us in a good mood -- and they did. The band had many more familiar songs than I knew.
And then, after dark, the familiar strains of U2 started. They played the first two songs behind the curtain, and then came out and set up near a side -- I guess showing their socialist side. And they rocked. They played all the hits from "Joshua Tree" -- the tour was the 30th anniversary of the record's release -- and plenty more. The crowd -- must have been 60K people in the sold out stadium -- sang along the entire night.
In a strange aside, Bono actually praised our local senator, Marco Rubio, for supporting AIDS research. Rubio is such a spineless conservative -- I wouldn't have thought the liberal Bono would have much use for him. But hey -- it was a nice local gesture.
The show ended, and then our adventure began -- finding Ushka. They made all the limos park across Miami Gardens Drive, and a big clot of people were waiting to cross. The cops were clownishly bad at it, and finally we risked getting shot and simply made our way. The young cops just ignored us -- realizing they were being Keystone-like.
We found Ushka, and had a smooth ride back home -- drinking Perrier and helping to polish off the remaining apps. We acquitted ourselves nicely.
I fell asleep with U2's excellent chords playing in my head. It was a stellar night. The third installment of our "See 'em before they die" project is July 7 - Wifey and I are taking D1 and Joey to see Sir Paul McCartney on the kickoff show of his latest tour. And then that'll do it for me with the shows for awhile -- though my friend John in D.C. DID post some video of Joe Jackson, and I think he's coming to Miami Beach soon...
Deb and Norman drove up, all of two minutes late, and I joked with my fellow time stickler that I thought he'd mistaken the night of the event. Wifey and Deb make fun of our promptness. We just are built that way.
We popped a bottle of champagne, and some vodka and gin, and then sampled awesome food. Deb is a gourmet cook, and she didn't just bring some Publix platters -- we had a wonderful sampling of kebabs, and Greek pastries, and delicious shrimp cocktail...she even made lobster rolls. We feasted as we drove, and arrived -- too early. Even though the concert was sold out -- it only took us 40 minutes to get to Joe Robbie from Pinecrest. So Ushka pulled into a nearby Wal Mart lot, and we continued our feast there.
Luckily Norman noticed the time grew near to the event, and Ushka tried to take us right to the stadium. A stern Miami Dade cop said no -- we needed to disembark outside the perimeter, so we did, and jokingly whined about the insult to our VIP status. I insisted we share a couple of Bourbon Street style frozen margaritas, for decorative effect, and we found out seats.
UM advertised them as Club Seats, but they weren't. Still -- they were very good -- close to the stage and the perfect height. The opening act was One Republic, and they were very good. I liked the lead singer right away -- he said he knew no one had come to see them -- they were just to get us in a good mood -- and they did. The band had many more familiar songs than I knew.
And then, after dark, the familiar strains of U2 started. They played the first two songs behind the curtain, and then came out and set up near a side -- I guess showing their socialist side. And they rocked. They played all the hits from "Joshua Tree" -- the tour was the 30th anniversary of the record's release -- and plenty more. The crowd -- must have been 60K people in the sold out stadium -- sang along the entire night.
In a strange aside, Bono actually praised our local senator, Marco Rubio, for supporting AIDS research. Rubio is such a spineless conservative -- I wouldn't have thought the liberal Bono would have much use for him. But hey -- it was a nice local gesture.
The show ended, and then our adventure began -- finding Ushka. They made all the limos park across Miami Gardens Drive, and a big clot of people were waiting to cross. The cops were clownishly bad at it, and finally we risked getting shot and simply made our way. The young cops just ignored us -- realizing they were being Keystone-like.
We found Ushka, and had a smooth ride back home -- drinking Perrier and helping to polish off the remaining apps. We acquitted ourselves nicely.
I fell asleep with U2's excellent chords playing in my head. It was a stellar night. The third installment of our "See 'em before they die" project is July 7 - Wifey and I are taking D1 and Joey to see Sir Paul McCartney on the kickoff show of his latest tour. And then that'll do it for me with the shows for awhile -- though my friend John in D.C. DID post some video of Joe Jackson, and I think he's coming to Miami Beach soon...
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Death By Numbers
So my brother Paul tells me he's been thinking all weekend about the suicide of Ervin -- the 57 year old PI whiz who hung himself on Thursday. I guess it hits close to home -- Paul always identified strongly with being a PI lawyer. For me -- once I got through the obligatory black humor, with my friends ("Not only did Erv make more money than we did, he will permanently be remembered for being better hung") I haven't given him another thought.
Far worse for me was the news shared by Norman -- a 24 year old recent double Cane grad (bachelors and masters in business) died the other day, in NYC. His name was Brett, and Norman had met him. THAT one shocked and haunts me -- finish school, start your adult life, and it's OVER before it begins. That to me is tragedy -- a rich, childless man who decides it's, like the Beatles song, all too much, and hangs himself -- to me that's pathetic, not tragic.
Anyway -- Wifey and I saw the ancient suegra yesterday, and talked about life expectancy on the way over. I encouraged her to look up the Social Security tables -- which she did. For me, a nearly 56 year old male -- I can expect 26.9 more years. Wifey gets 25.8 more. Those cold numbers got to her -- she immediately announced she WAS going to travel more.
Of course, there's a quirk to the statistics. You'd think that the older you lived, the less you have to go, but by living more you also avoided stuff that might have killed you. So my suegra, 92, can still expect 4.5 more years -- to 96!
And anything can happen. I'm headed to Joe Robbie tonight, to see U2. If some loony decides to honor Mohammed and Allah by taking out the Club Section, well, then my life expectancy will be about another 10 hours. In Wifey's case, with a father living until 91 and a mother still quite alive and complaining at 92 --- she may make the 100 club.
To me, it's always been about the quality of years over the quantity. Since my Dad died in my arms when he was 63, I always planned my own life assuming I wouldn't have too many years -- this much to the annoyance of Wifey and the Ds. Of course, I hope I get many, many more, but in case I was correct, I deny myself little.
All I know is, there a pretty rich widow in Coral Gables this weekend, as well as probably inconsolable parents in New Jersey. I pray for peace for them.
As for me -- well, yesterday I stopped by Total Wine and bought a couple bottles of champagne for Wifey tonight -- some gin and tonic for Norman and Deb, and I have some freezing Ketel One for me. I sprung for a limo -- it will be here at 4:30, and we can laugh at the traffic on the way to the stadium. After the Irish guys on stage finish knocking themselves out, we can stumble back to the ride and rehydrate with orange Perrier I also bought.
We're here, for now, and I plan to take freely from this buffet line of life. Sucks to be you, Erv...
Far worse for me was the news shared by Norman -- a 24 year old recent double Cane grad (bachelors and masters in business) died the other day, in NYC. His name was Brett, and Norman had met him. THAT one shocked and haunts me -- finish school, start your adult life, and it's OVER before it begins. That to me is tragedy -- a rich, childless man who decides it's, like the Beatles song, all too much, and hangs himself -- to me that's pathetic, not tragic.
Anyway -- Wifey and I saw the ancient suegra yesterday, and talked about life expectancy on the way over. I encouraged her to look up the Social Security tables -- which she did. For me, a nearly 56 year old male -- I can expect 26.9 more years. Wifey gets 25.8 more. Those cold numbers got to her -- she immediately announced she WAS going to travel more.
Of course, there's a quirk to the statistics. You'd think that the older you lived, the less you have to go, but by living more you also avoided stuff that might have killed you. So my suegra, 92, can still expect 4.5 more years -- to 96!
And anything can happen. I'm headed to Joe Robbie tonight, to see U2. If some loony decides to honor Mohammed and Allah by taking out the Club Section, well, then my life expectancy will be about another 10 hours. In Wifey's case, with a father living until 91 and a mother still quite alive and complaining at 92 --- she may make the 100 club.
To me, it's always been about the quality of years over the quantity. Since my Dad died in my arms when he was 63, I always planned my own life assuming I wouldn't have too many years -- this much to the annoyance of Wifey and the Ds. Of course, I hope I get many, many more, but in case I was correct, I deny myself little.
All I know is, there a pretty rich widow in Coral Gables this weekend, as well as probably inconsolable parents in New Jersey. I pray for peace for them.
As for me -- well, yesterday I stopped by Total Wine and bought a couple bottles of champagne for Wifey tonight -- some gin and tonic for Norman and Deb, and I have some freezing Ketel One for me. I sprung for a limo -- it will be here at 4:30, and we can laugh at the traffic on the way to the stadium. After the Irish guys on stage finish knocking themselves out, we can stumble back to the ride and rehydrate with orange Perrier I also bought.
We're here, for now, and I plan to take freely from this buffet line of life. Sucks to be you, Erv...
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Masochistic Restaurant Patrons
So this am, as I scanned the overnight FaceBook (tm) posts, I came across one from an older Jewish lady I know, who I'll call Marjorie, since that's her name. She's in her 70s, originally from Queens, and a part time estate lawyer. We became FB friends after I contacted her about an old client whose file she inherited. I sent her a new client, she overcharged, and that was the end of our business relationship -- but our FB connection edures.
She had posted a scathing review on Yelp, and shared on her FB page, about Captain's Tavern, one of our local go-to restaurants. She was shocked at the service she got when a lunch time salad came out with an anemic sized piece of fish. The waitress debated her, and the owner blew her off. First, it should be noted that Marjorie isn't , well, svelte, so maybe the staff was trying to help her out. But in truth, they ARE some of the nastiest owners around.
Of course, Seinfeld and the funnier co writer Larry David explored this phenomenon in their famous "Soup Nazi" segments on "Seinfeld." The owners are horribly rude, but the lines at the shop continue because the soup is just so damn good.
It's sort of the same at the Tavern. The owner is a Filipina war wife, who took over when her husband, the "Captain," died. She NEVER smiles. If you show up without your entire party present, and ask to be seated, she looks at you like you farted in her car.
For a few years, our Boston friend Sheryl organized New Years Eve dinners there, and 12 of us were crammed in, and the owner came over and treated us like we were LUCKY to be spending close to $100 per person in her place. When we asked if we could get more room, she said "No!"
And yet Wifey and I keep on going. Their lobster tail special is well priced and always good. They pour a decent sized martini. Their conch chowder is as good as any in the Keys, and the fish is always fresh.
The wait staff varies -- the last few times we had a sarcastic gay man who was fine. Sometimes there are nasty women, who learn from the owner. And it's all ok.
When I arrive, I always scowl at the owner, and put up two fingers, and point to Wifey to show our party is ready. On the way out, I scowl at her, too.
The old, nasty Filipina could teach a class at FIU Hospitality School about how to pack them in while treating them badly. On weekend nights -- forget about it! The wait times exceed an hour, easily.
I assume she owns the property, and the place is a gold mine, despite the angry owner.
So poor, large Marjorie just doesn't get it. She ended her Yelp review by saying that "Over a few dollars worth of fish, the Tavern has lost three long time customers." Ha. As IF they care.
Sometimes you just put up with nasty for a great piece of fish and decent cocktails. Marjorie: NO fish for you!
She had posted a scathing review on Yelp, and shared on her FB page, about Captain's Tavern, one of our local go-to restaurants. She was shocked at the service she got when a lunch time salad came out with an anemic sized piece of fish. The waitress debated her, and the owner blew her off. First, it should be noted that Marjorie isn't , well, svelte, so maybe the staff was trying to help her out. But in truth, they ARE some of the nastiest owners around.
Of course, Seinfeld and the funnier co writer Larry David explored this phenomenon in their famous "Soup Nazi" segments on "Seinfeld." The owners are horribly rude, but the lines at the shop continue because the soup is just so damn good.
It's sort of the same at the Tavern. The owner is a Filipina war wife, who took over when her husband, the "Captain," died. She NEVER smiles. If you show up without your entire party present, and ask to be seated, she looks at you like you farted in her car.
For a few years, our Boston friend Sheryl organized New Years Eve dinners there, and 12 of us were crammed in, and the owner came over and treated us like we were LUCKY to be spending close to $100 per person in her place. When we asked if we could get more room, she said "No!"
And yet Wifey and I keep on going. Their lobster tail special is well priced and always good. They pour a decent sized martini. Their conch chowder is as good as any in the Keys, and the fish is always fresh.
The wait staff varies -- the last few times we had a sarcastic gay man who was fine. Sometimes there are nasty women, who learn from the owner. And it's all ok.
When I arrive, I always scowl at the owner, and put up two fingers, and point to Wifey to show our party is ready. On the way out, I scowl at her, too.
The old, nasty Filipina could teach a class at FIU Hospitality School about how to pack them in while treating them badly. On weekend nights -- forget about it! The wait times exceed an hour, easily.
I assume she owns the property, and the place is a gold mine, despite the angry owner.
So poor, large Marjorie just doesn't get it. She ended her Yelp review by saying that "Over a few dollars worth of fish, the Tavern has lost three long time customers." Ha. As IF they care.
Sometimes you just put up with nasty for a great piece of fish and decent cocktails. Marjorie: NO fish for you!
Friday, June 9, 2017
One Wins and One Hangs
So it's been an eventful couple of days here in the Miami legal world. First the great news: my dear friend and law partner Stu went to trial last week -- on a case I had told him to give up years ago. He represented a 70 year old homeless guy, with no work loss, who was on a bike, probably driving against traffic, when he was hit by a cable tv truck. The man broke his shoulder.
The insurance lawyer offered Stu $50K, and I thought it was probably a decent offer. But Stu had a big medical lien, of $150K, and so really couldn't settle. Instead, he and young Vince went to trial, against a very seasoned opponent, and won. Big. Like $1,030,000 big. It was a major, legal grand slam. I was thrilled for my man -- shows even though we're in our late (er) 50s, we might still have it.
On the other side of things, probably the best and most successful plaintiff's lawyer in town decided he'd had enough of this mortal coil, and hung himself over night. Erv was a year ahead of me at Miami Law, was married, and had no kids. But he had success -- and a lot of it -- getting many multi million dollar verdicts and settlements. He was very active in the lawyers' groups -- really seemed to thing being a PI lawyer was a calling.
Rumor has it that his wife told him she was leaving, and he couldn't handle the news. I assume now there is a very rich widow in town.
I watched a comedian recently, and he said if you're an adult and don't have kids, or no real relationship with them, might as WELL kill yourself. Work colleagues and friends would say "Yeah -- sad" but unless you have kids no one truly grieves.
I suggested to Stu and my other active partner John that they take out an ad in the local legal journal expressing their condolences at the loss of an esteemed colleague, but reminding his clients that they are available for consultation. I mean -- life goes on, right? Can't let a suicide rope stop the whole carnival...
As for Stu, I am truly thrilled for him. I hope this is the start of a very big and new beginning. We've entrusted some significant cases to him, and expect huge things from him now.
I mean, the more I leave for Wifey when I depart this orb -- the better.
The insurance lawyer offered Stu $50K, and I thought it was probably a decent offer. But Stu had a big medical lien, of $150K, and so really couldn't settle. Instead, he and young Vince went to trial, against a very seasoned opponent, and won. Big. Like $1,030,000 big. It was a major, legal grand slam. I was thrilled for my man -- shows even though we're in our late (er) 50s, we might still have it.
On the other side of things, probably the best and most successful plaintiff's lawyer in town decided he'd had enough of this mortal coil, and hung himself over night. Erv was a year ahead of me at Miami Law, was married, and had no kids. But he had success -- and a lot of it -- getting many multi million dollar verdicts and settlements. He was very active in the lawyers' groups -- really seemed to thing being a PI lawyer was a calling.
Rumor has it that his wife told him she was leaving, and he couldn't handle the news. I assume now there is a very rich widow in town.
I watched a comedian recently, and he said if you're an adult and don't have kids, or no real relationship with them, might as WELL kill yourself. Work colleagues and friends would say "Yeah -- sad" but unless you have kids no one truly grieves.
I suggested to Stu and my other active partner John that they take out an ad in the local legal journal expressing their condolences at the loss of an esteemed colleague, but reminding his clients that they are available for consultation. I mean -- life goes on, right? Can't let a suicide rope stop the whole carnival...
As for Stu, I am truly thrilled for him. I hope this is the start of a very big and new beginning. We've entrusted some significant cases to him, and expect huge things from him now.
I mean, the more I leave for Wifey when I depart this orb -- the better.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
A Soaking Great Time
Loni came over and I drove us all to my office. As we parked, it started to rain, but as we summoned an Uber, the rain lightened, so we took the People Mover to Mike's building, and headed to Toro Toro (Spanish for double lawnmover) in the lobby of the InterContinental. Mike joined us, he drank pisco sours, I had martinis, Loni a glass of wine, and Wifey got a contact buzz. We shared steaks and talked of our long time friendship -- I met the three of them all in Fall of '83, and we've really all grown up together.
We walked outside, and it was raining, but we waffled about Uber on packed Biscayne Boulevard, and next we knew it began to monsoon. I mean really, really pour down. We were all soaked -- the most soaked Wifey said she was since she attended Watkins Glenn as a teen. I wasn't born yet...
We ducked into Bayside, and Wifey got a great idea -- we'd buy dry shirts rather than be ripped off at the AAA. Loni and Wifey found theirs, and the very nice and very gay sales guy found exactly TWO XL shirts in the youth oriented (what isn't?) Express store. Mike picked pink and I took salmon.
Then it was a cut through the parking garage,and a sprint up the AAA steps. The metal detectors were unmanned. Our printed paper tickets were mush. The ushers seemed to say -- screw it -- crazy middle aged white folks don't seem to be a threat -- they let us in.
Wifey and Loni decamped to the ladies room to change. Fueled by our combined 7 drinks, I convinced Mike to change right in the promenade. I warned a cool dressed lady to avert her eyes, and we stripped to our white corpulence. The lady may have peed her pants. Mission accomplished.
I bought us 4 glasses of concert champagne, for $100 (I figured the T shirt savings ought to be put to good use) and we found our seats. Tears for Fears was fine -- I had forgotten how many hits they had in the 80s -- they were in fine form.
Wifey had refused her champagne, so I downed it, and then spilled a little on her new shirt. She responded with spilling a LOT of it on me,and we laughed. I don't think I'll be wearing the shirt much -- it's tight fitting, and not belly friendly, as Wifey kept pointing out by patting my martini abdomen...
Then the headliners came on -- Hall and Oates. They were also terrific, and the packed crowd responded. They launched into a few long jams, and everyone danced along. Norman and Deb were on the floor, and we saw them on the video screens a few times.
My favorite moment was when they covered "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" -- everyone sang along. Daryl Hall, 70, is still in excellent voice.
The lights came up, and we walked out -- now into just a drizzle rain. We ran into a former friend's former wife -- with her third husband. The fellow is a pilot and much better looking than her last guy -- I congratulated her on the upgrade.
Mike drove us back to my building, and Wifey piloted the girlie Caddy back home. I had filmed "Rich Girl" for the Ds and sent it, but they were both asleep by 10. It was Mom and Dad's night out.
Norman called on the way home -- we both loved the show. And Sunday, we do it again -- U2 up at Joe Robbie Stadium.
We are blessed with these good times...
We walked outside, and it was raining, but we waffled about Uber on packed Biscayne Boulevard, and next we knew it began to monsoon. I mean really, really pour down. We were all soaked -- the most soaked Wifey said she was since she attended Watkins Glenn as a teen. I wasn't born yet...
We ducked into Bayside, and Wifey got a great idea -- we'd buy dry shirts rather than be ripped off at the AAA. Loni and Wifey found theirs, and the very nice and very gay sales guy found exactly TWO XL shirts in the youth oriented (what isn't?) Express store. Mike picked pink and I took salmon.
Then it was a cut through the parking garage,and a sprint up the AAA steps. The metal detectors were unmanned. Our printed paper tickets were mush. The ushers seemed to say -- screw it -- crazy middle aged white folks don't seem to be a threat -- they let us in.
Wifey and Loni decamped to the ladies room to change. Fueled by our combined 7 drinks, I convinced Mike to change right in the promenade. I warned a cool dressed lady to avert her eyes, and we stripped to our white corpulence. The lady may have peed her pants. Mission accomplished.
I bought us 4 glasses of concert champagne, for $100 (I figured the T shirt savings ought to be put to good use) and we found our seats. Tears for Fears was fine -- I had forgotten how many hits they had in the 80s -- they were in fine form.
Wifey had refused her champagne, so I downed it, and then spilled a little on her new shirt. She responded with spilling a LOT of it on me,and we laughed. I don't think I'll be wearing the shirt much -- it's tight fitting, and not belly friendly, as Wifey kept pointing out by patting my martini abdomen...
Then the headliners came on -- Hall and Oates. They were also terrific, and the packed crowd responded. They launched into a few long jams, and everyone danced along. Norman and Deb were on the floor, and we saw them on the video screens a few times.
My favorite moment was when they covered "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" -- everyone sang along. Daryl Hall, 70, is still in excellent voice.
The lights came up, and we walked out -- now into just a drizzle rain. We ran into a former friend's former wife -- with her third husband. The fellow is a pilot and much better looking than her last guy -- I congratulated her on the upgrade.
Mike drove us back to my building, and Wifey piloted the girlie Caddy back home. I had filmed "Rich Girl" for the Ds and sent it, but they were both asleep by 10. It was Mom and Dad's night out.
Norman called on the way home -- we both loved the show. And Sunday, we do it again -- U2 up at Joe Robbie Stadium.
We are blessed with these good times...
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Smile, Sara!
Tomorrow night Wifey and I begin our three concert visits, on account of all the acts we like are dropping like flies. Greg Allman went to Southern Rock and Roll Heaven just last week. Wifey and Loni will drive Downtown together, and meet up with Mike and me for dinner, and then we'll walk over to the AAA to see Hall and Oates, with Tears for Fears the opening act.
I put on some H and O to get in the mood, and one of my favorite songs, from my high school years, came on: Sara Smile. Unfortunately, it brought back memories of one of the biggest faux pas I ever committed...
I had a classmate named...Sara. She was a nice, quiet, and nerdy girl -- long brown hair, and glasses. We were in a few advanced classes together, and was the type that one of those makeover shows could have had a field day with. But she was always so sad. Not a little sad, but very much so.
I, on the other hand, was blessed/cursed with a very sunny disposition, and I loved to cheer people up -- particularly the girls. So each morning as I met Sara, I'd sing the chorus from the H and O song. At most, I'd get from her a small half grin, and then she'd resume her serious demeanor.
I left for Miami the day after graduation, and since Sara and I had no friends in common, never heard from her or saw her...until the late 90s. The OJ Simpson civil verdict was handed down, and my office roommate Mark called one evening. His then wife Gail was a reporter for Channel 10, and they needed a civil lawyer to go on the news and explain how it was possible that one jury, the criminal one, found him innocent, while the civil jury concluded he did, in fact, kill his ex wife and her friend. It was about 9:45 at night, and the producer called. Would I come the studio, north of Downtown. Nah -- back in those days I worked a lot of hours, and I really didn't care much about getting publicity. No problem, the producer said -- we'll send a news truck to your house in Kendall.
About 45 minutes, there it was -- the old school satellite antenna and all. Mike and Loni came across the street, and the Ds, probably 10 and 7, watched excitedly, and Dwight Lauderdale interviewed me. I guess I acquitted myself ok, as the producer called -- would I come to the studio early in the am, for another segment? Of course, I said -- and did so, with a nice guy named Doug Dunbar. I had my 20 minutes or so of fame.
A day or so later, I started getting calls in the office from old Levittown friends, now living in South Florida, who had seen me. One was Sara -- working as a social worker in Broward. Could we meet for coffee? We could.
Sara came to my office on Brickell, and we caught up on the past 20 years. She had never married, and was getting ready to move to Portland or Seattle -- she always considered herself a hippie, and thought she'd fit in well there. And then she brought up the H and O song.
She said she'd always appreciated how I tried to cheer her up, by singing the Sara Smile song. But it was tough, she said. Her father had sexually abused her from junior high until she moved out at 18 -- to never speak to him again.
I immediately felt like the biggest moron in the world. I was stupidly urging this suffering girl to be happy, and she had a very deep and real reason not to be. She went on to explain that her mother died when she was very young, and sicko Dad dealt with the loss in that unspeakable way.
I apologized and apologized for my emotional tone deafness. Sara wasn't having it -- she had appreciated my efforts those two decades before.
And that was it. We never spoke again, and I have no idea if she ever made the pilgrimage to the land of Grunge. We're headed out there in a few months -- maybe I'll look her up.
In the mean time, tomorrow I know one concert song will remind me that not everyone ought to smile. Sometimes there are deeply poignant reasons not to.
I put on some H and O to get in the mood, and one of my favorite songs, from my high school years, came on: Sara Smile. Unfortunately, it brought back memories of one of the biggest faux pas I ever committed...
I had a classmate named...Sara. She was a nice, quiet, and nerdy girl -- long brown hair, and glasses. We were in a few advanced classes together, and was the type that one of those makeover shows could have had a field day with. But she was always so sad. Not a little sad, but very much so.
I, on the other hand, was blessed/cursed with a very sunny disposition, and I loved to cheer people up -- particularly the girls. So each morning as I met Sara, I'd sing the chorus from the H and O song. At most, I'd get from her a small half grin, and then she'd resume her serious demeanor.
I left for Miami the day after graduation, and since Sara and I had no friends in common, never heard from her or saw her...until the late 90s. The OJ Simpson civil verdict was handed down, and my office roommate Mark called one evening. His then wife Gail was a reporter for Channel 10, and they needed a civil lawyer to go on the news and explain how it was possible that one jury, the criminal one, found him innocent, while the civil jury concluded he did, in fact, kill his ex wife and her friend. It was about 9:45 at night, and the producer called. Would I come the studio, north of Downtown. Nah -- back in those days I worked a lot of hours, and I really didn't care much about getting publicity. No problem, the producer said -- we'll send a news truck to your house in Kendall.
About 45 minutes, there it was -- the old school satellite antenna and all. Mike and Loni came across the street, and the Ds, probably 10 and 7, watched excitedly, and Dwight Lauderdale interviewed me. I guess I acquitted myself ok, as the producer called -- would I come to the studio early in the am, for another segment? Of course, I said -- and did so, with a nice guy named Doug Dunbar. I had my 20 minutes or so of fame.
A day or so later, I started getting calls in the office from old Levittown friends, now living in South Florida, who had seen me. One was Sara -- working as a social worker in Broward. Could we meet for coffee? We could.
Sara came to my office on Brickell, and we caught up on the past 20 years. She had never married, and was getting ready to move to Portland or Seattle -- she always considered herself a hippie, and thought she'd fit in well there. And then she brought up the H and O song.
She said she'd always appreciated how I tried to cheer her up, by singing the Sara Smile song. But it was tough, she said. Her father had sexually abused her from junior high until she moved out at 18 -- to never speak to him again.
I immediately felt like the biggest moron in the world. I was stupidly urging this suffering girl to be happy, and she had a very deep and real reason not to be. She went on to explain that her mother died when she was very young, and sicko Dad dealt with the loss in that unspeakable way.
I apologized and apologized for my emotional tone deafness. Sara wasn't having it -- she had appreciated my efforts those two decades before.
And that was it. We never spoke again, and I have no idea if she ever made the pilgrimage to the land of Grunge. We're headed out there in a few months -- maybe I'll look her up.
In the mean time, tomorrow I know one concert song will remind me that not everyone ought to smile. Sometimes there are deeply poignant reasons not to.
Extensions
So two weeks ago we attended dear friends' daughter's wedding, and something jumped out at Wifey and me: how close their extended family is. Cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and even great grandparents were center stage -- in the bride's life as well as in the party.
My friend Barry has the same dynamic -- his sister LIVES for his two boys. Part of it is she has no kids of her own, but she has always adored her nephews -- and the two young men consult her and speak to her more than weekly.
This Father's Day I'll be attending a brunch at my friend Norman's house. Norman and his siblings and nieces and nephews are likewise very close. The patriarch of the family is nearly 90 year old Max -- one of my favorite people. He is a man whose children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren actively fight for his attention -- and he flies all over the country to visit the newest family addition.
This closeness wasn't in the cards for us. Sadly, after my Mom died, the family fell mostly apart -- the remaining relationships are surface, at best, and non existent in many cases. The causes are manifold -- and I surely take some blame for it -- but the ties that bind many families are frayed permanently.
On Wifey's side -- she's an only child, and her mother, still part of the family, has entered into the stage where she must just be kept ok and alive -- no one is going to her for life advice, in a Norman Rockwell manner.
Maybe it's in our DNA. My mother was one of 5, and each of her siblings' families has glaring examples of people not talking to each other. Often, the breaks came after the parents dies. My closest cousin growing up, Michael, barely speaks to his brother Jeff and sister Janet, and Jeff and Janet are done forever, over disputes following their father's estate.
As for my relationship with my cousins -- things just drifted apart. Years ago, I realized that when something great or awful happened in my life, it wouldn't occur to me to reach out to any of them. They'd call me for free legal advice, as I was the only lawyer in the family, and that led to one great example of broigus -- the great Yiddish word meaning long time family feud.
My cousin Linda and her husband Steve would call me at least a few times per year -- seeking advice about real estate matters, traffic tickets, corporations, etc...They knew I was a one trick pony -- personal injury, but that never prevented them from drinking at the free trough.
At one party, Steve came up and asked me to look over a settlement statement -- Linda had been rear ended by a car, hired some lawyer from the School Board magazine, and settled for $300K. The lawyer charged a $100K fee, but Steve wondered if the litigation costs were too high. I asked, incredulously, why they hadn't come to me for THIS case -- one I would have handled, and charged them a reduced fee. He just shrugged his shoulders. I put my arm around his shoulder, and hissed that I NEVER got involved between a lawyer and his client, and to never ask me a legal question again.
The NOIVE of that guy! I wished my father was alive to share the tale with me. He always made great fun of Linda and her family as being the less than genius side of my Mom's family -- and Steve fit right in. Dad would have laughed with me heartily.
D1's fiance Joey is VERY close with his family. His brothers are closer than brothers to him. Most of the guest at the upcoming wedding are cousins and aunts and uncles all from Bogota. This very weekend, he and D1 are flying to Cartegena to attend the wedding of a friend/distant cousin.
Latin Jewish families seem to be close in the way European Jewish families were when they first emigrated to the US. Over the generations and time, I guess that often gets lost.
Wifey's closest friend Edna has it the same way. She has a sister who is severely mentally ill and now homeless -- living on the streets of Hollywood, Florida. The two were never close, and as her sister developed a deep envy for Edna's easier life, things just went from bad to worse. So she and Wifey make up for their lack of biological siblings with a most intimate friendship. I really dig Edna, and consider her a sister as well.
So, as I age, my "plate" gets smaller. The plate is my mental representation of those I feel very responsible for. My mother in law remains on it, and will until the end.
Such is the state of the modern extended family -- at least in our case.
My friend Barry has the same dynamic -- his sister LIVES for his two boys. Part of it is she has no kids of her own, but she has always adored her nephews -- and the two young men consult her and speak to her more than weekly.
This Father's Day I'll be attending a brunch at my friend Norman's house. Norman and his siblings and nieces and nephews are likewise very close. The patriarch of the family is nearly 90 year old Max -- one of my favorite people. He is a man whose children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren actively fight for his attention -- and he flies all over the country to visit the newest family addition.
This closeness wasn't in the cards for us. Sadly, after my Mom died, the family fell mostly apart -- the remaining relationships are surface, at best, and non existent in many cases. The causes are manifold -- and I surely take some blame for it -- but the ties that bind many families are frayed permanently.
On Wifey's side -- she's an only child, and her mother, still part of the family, has entered into the stage where she must just be kept ok and alive -- no one is going to her for life advice, in a Norman Rockwell manner.
Maybe it's in our DNA. My mother was one of 5, and each of her siblings' families has glaring examples of people not talking to each other. Often, the breaks came after the parents dies. My closest cousin growing up, Michael, barely speaks to his brother Jeff and sister Janet, and Jeff and Janet are done forever, over disputes following their father's estate.
As for my relationship with my cousins -- things just drifted apart. Years ago, I realized that when something great or awful happened in my life, it wouldn't occur to me to reach out to any of them. They'd call me for free legal advice, as I was the only lawyer in the family, and that led to one great example of broigus -- the great Yiddish word meaning long time family feud.
My cousin Linda and her husband Steve would call me at least a few times per year -- seeking advice about real estate matters, traffic tickets, corporations, etc...They knew I was a one trick pony -- personal injury, but that never prevented them from drinking at the free trough.
At one party, Steve came up and asked me to look over a settlement statement -- Linda had been rear ended by a car, hired some lawyer from the School Board magazine, and settled for $300K. The lawyer charged a $100K fee, but Steve wondered if the litigation costs were too high. I asked, incredulously, why they hadn't come to me for THIS case -- one I would have handled, and charged them a reduced fee. He just shrugged his shoulders. I put my arm around his shoulder, and hissed that I NEVER got involved between a lawyer and his client, and to never ask me a legal question again.
The NOIVE of that guy! I wished my father was alive to share the tale with me. He always made great fun of Linda and her family as being the less than genius side of my Mom's family -- and Steve fit right in. Dad would have laughed with me heartily.
D1's fiance Joey is VERY close with his family. His brothers are closer than brothers to him. Most of the guest at the upcoming wedding are cousins and aunts and uncles all from Bogota. This very weekend, he and D1 are flying to Cartegena to attend the wedding of a friend/distant cousin.
Latin Jewish families seem to be close in the way European Jewish families were when they first emigrated to the US. Over the generations and time, I guess that often gets lost.
Wifey's closest friend Edna has it the same way. She has a sister who is severely mentally ill and now homeless -- living on the streets of Hollywood, Florida. The two were never close, and as her sister developed a deep envy for Edna's easier life, things just went from bad to worse. So she and Wifey make up for their lack of biological siblings with a most intimate friendship. I really dig Edna, and consider her a sister as well.
So, as I age, my "plate" gets smaller. The plate is my mental representation of those I feel very responsible for. My mother in law remains on it, and will until the end.
Such is the state of the modern extended family -- at least in our case.
Monday, June 5, 2017
The Loudest Sabta
When I was in college, I remember reading a story by the author and political activist Grace Paley. It was called "The Loudest Voice," and was her autobiographical tale of growing up in the Bronx and being selected for the lead in the Christmas pageant at school, even though she was Jewish. She was chosen Ha! because she had the loudest singing voice, and would be able to project the Christian songs all the way to the back of the auditorium.
Well, as fate would have it, Wifey and I are now blessed with the loudest 92 year old relative.
Rachel lost the hearing in one of her ears when she was in a slave labor camp during the Holocaust. She was under the supervision of a Kapo -- the worst of the characters in the Camps. Kapos were Jews deputized by the Nazis to keep order, in exchange for special privileges. Rachel and another teen girl were told to clean the kitchens, and as it happened the other girl was sleeping with the Kapo. She was given a sleep break but the Kapo ordered Rachel to keep working. When she complained, he struck her very hard across the head, causing permanent hearing loss.
Years later, she saw his picture in a brochure about Survivors. He was living in Australia. Rachel demanded that Wifey have him prosecuted. Wifey took my advice, assured her mother she would "get right on it," and let it pass. This is often the best way to deal with aging parents.
Unfortunately, the hearing in my suegra's other ear went out as well. She never had the voice of a nightingale, but now she has gone full on fog horn.
It's remarkable how loud she speaks -- how a 92 year old musters the strength to activate that buzzing alarm of a voice.
Wifey has taken to recoiling when her mother speaks. It really hurts her ears. She makes dramatic arm movements to her mother, to bring it down a few hundred decibels, and then her mother is insulted and talks even louder.
Last night, I drove Wifey to the Palace, and took up my usual post outside under the gazebo. Wifey went to fetch the old woman from her room. I was able to hear her voice THROUGH the exit door -- she must have been a good 200 feet away. It's truly something to behold.
Wifey kept trying to attenuate the volume, but I egged the old lady on, figuring the more she spoke that loudly, the faster she'd grow tired. No dice. She can go on for hours, and with us she DID go on -- sharing a rash of complaints about the staff, her roommate, and the food ("it's too good and much -- dey VANT to keep your mouth full so you don't complain!").
As my brother Paul noted about my mother in law, she's going down swinging -- she is NOT going quietly into any good night.
She droned on and on -- Wifey once pointed out she sounds a bit like a leaf blower. I began to wax philosophic -- I calculated that, after she died, it would take at least a full year for me to finally expunge the sound of her voice from my head.
It seems that time is far in the future. For now, the Palace staff and fellow residents have to listen. I guess that's why we pay them the big bucks...
Well, as fate would have it, Wifey and I are now blessed with the loudest 92 year old relative.
Rachel lost the hearing in one of her ears when she was in a slave labor camp during the Holocaust. She was under the supervision of a Kapo -- the worst of the characters in the Camps. Kapos were Jews deputized by the Nazis to keep order, in exchange for special privileges. Rachel and another teen girl were told to clean the kitchens, and as it happened the other girl was sleeping with the Kapo. She was given a sleep break but the Kapo ordered Rachel to keep working. When she complained, he struck her very hard across the head, causing permanent hearing loss.
Years later, she saw his picture in a brochure about Survivors. He was living in Australia. Rachel demanded that Wifey have him prosecuted. Wifey took my advice, assured her mother she would "get right on it," and let it pass. This is often the best way to deal with aging parents.
Unfortunately, the hearing in my suegra's other ear went out as well. She never had the voice of a nightingale, but now she has gone full on fog horn.
It's remarkable how loud she speaks -- how a 92 year old musters the strength to activate that buzzing alarm of a voice.
Wifey has taken to recoiling when her mother speaks. It really hurts her ears. She makes dramatic arm movements to her mother, to bring it down a few hundred decibels, and then her mother is insulted and talks even louder.
Last night, I drove Wifey to the Palace, and took up my usual post outside under the gazebo. Wifey went to fetch the old woman from her room. I was able to hear her voice THROUGH the exit door -- she must have been a good 200 feet away. It's truly something to behold.
Wifey kept trying to attenuate the volume, but I egged the old lady on, figuring the more she spoke that loudly, the faster she'd grow tired. No dice. She can go on for hours, and with us she DID go on -- sharing a rash of complaints about the staff, her roommate, and the food ("it's too good and much -- dey VANT to keep your mouth full so you don't complain!").
As my brother Paul noted about my mother in law, she's going down swinging -- she is NOT going quietly into any good night.
She droned on and on -- Wifey once pointed out she sounds a bit like a leaf blower. I began to wax philosophic -- I calculated that, after she died, it would take at least a full year for me to finally expunge the sound of her voice from my head.
It seems that time is far in the future. For now, the Palace staff and fellow residents have to listen. I guess that's why we pay them the big bucks...
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Big Ds Weekend
So we miss D2 -- a lot. Wifey is going to NYC in a few weeks to help her move to her new apartment in Greenwich Village. Helping to move is one activity now OFF my Dad schedule -- I really, really dislike it. For nine years I was the go to parent moving the Ds in and out of college and grad school homes, and I had to assist Wifey as we moved my suegra from Pembroke Pines to Palmetto Bay, and, one year later, to an ALF. So I'm done, for now.
But I really miss D2 as well. Hopefully she'll make it home for July 4. If not, I'll head to NYC last week of June. Her company, being clearly a haven for millennials like her, is having a "Take Your Parents to Work Day." I may attend, to see what fun activities they plan for us codgers -- do we get to operate the computers, or maybe make believe we're handling personnel decisions?
So for now, I got to have a vicarious weekend with my youngest -- she and her man Jonathan attended the Governor's Ball yesterday -- sort of a NY does Ultra thing on Randall's Island. I exchanged some eye rolling "Dad thinks he knows hip hop" texts with the young ones.
Meanwhile, back in the 305, D1 and Joey hosted us in their Midtown apartment for shabbat dinner. Joey really likes to celebrate each week -- a move I love. So we lit candles and broke the challah, which I had bought from D1's friend's bakery -- it was delicious. We caught up with one of Joey's brothers, Alan, who just moved into the building, and their awesome Mom Jackie. Wifey and I drove home afterward with very warm feelings about the man D1 has chosen.
And then yesterday, D1 had her first clubhouse visit to her highest profile client -- the Miami Marlins. She sent photos of her with very large, athletic men. I was able for forward the pix to my nephew of another brother, Scott, a budding sports journalist, and HUGE Fish fan. He identified the players, and I think I falsely impressed D1 with my knowledge.
Anyway, Edinson Volquez went on to pitch the 6th no hitter in team history. So D1 is a good luck charm. Wifey actually turned to me, and said "What does pitching a no hitter mean?" At times like those, I know I did marry a woman with many of my beloved Mom's qualities...that would have been vintage Sunny.
We then met Wifey's friend Cara and her boyfriend Teddy for dinner at Christy's. I love using the term "boyfriend" for Teddy -- he's well into his 80s. Still, we had great conversation punctuated by Cara's wonderful laugh. Wifey drove home as the buzz of the martinis swirled in my brain.
So it was a fine weekend for the Ds. And for the Marlins.
Today, the obligation side of life plops back into our laps -- a visit to the Palace to see my suegra. A call came in at 12:30 this am -- woke me out of a great sleep -- saying she was found on the floor -- again. This is happening with greater frequency. She was fine -- they just get 2 or 3 staff to lift the corpulent woman back to her feet -- but regulations require they call the family to alert them. I think Wifey might amend that with the staff today.
The rain is finally upon us, and mostly all is fine. As one of my life mentors says, I have no just complaints.
But I really miss D2 as well. Hopefully she'll make it home for July 4. If not, I'll head to NYC last week of June. Her company, being clearly a haven for millennials like her, is having a "Take Your Parents to Work Day." I may attend, to see what fun activities they plan for us codgers -- do we get to operate the computers, or maybe make believe we're handling personnel decisions?
So for now, I got to have a vicarious weekend with my youngest -- she and her man Jonathan attended the Governor's Ball yesterday -- sort of a NY does Ultra thing on Randall's Island. I exchanged some eye rolling "Dad thinks he knows hip hop" texts with the young ones.
Meanwhile, back in the 305, D1 and Joey hosted us in their Midtown apartment for shabbat dinner. Joey really likes to celebrate each week -- a move I love. So we lit candles and broke the challah, which I had bought from D1's friend's bakery -- it was delicious. We caught up with one of Joey's brothers, Alan, who just moved into the building, and their awesome Mom Jackie. Wifey and I drove home afterward with very warm feelings about the man D1 has chosen.
And then yesterday, D1 had her first clubhouse visit to her highest profile client -- the Miami Marlins. She sent photos of her with very large, athletic men. I was able for forward the pix to my nephew of another brother, Scott, a budding sports journalist, and HUGE Fish fan. He identified the players, and I think I falsely impressed D1 with my knowledge.
Anyway, Edinson Volquez went on to pitch the 6th no hitter in team history. So D1 is a good luck charm. Wifey actually turned to me, and said "What does pitching a no hitter mean?" At times like those, I know I did marry a woman with many of my beloved Mom's qualities...that would have been vintage Sunny.
We then met Wifey's friend Cara and her boyfriend Teddy for dinner at Christy's. I love using the term "boyfriend" for Teddy -- he's well into his 80s. Still, we had great conversation punctuated by Cara's wonderful laugh. Wifey drove home as the buzz of the martinis swirled in my brain.
So it was a fine weekend for the Ds. And for the Marlins.
Today, the obligation side of life plops back into our laps -- a visit to the Palace to see my suegra. A call came in at 12:30 this am -- woke me out of a great sleep -- saying she was found on the floor -- again. This is happening with greater frequency. She was fine -- they just get 2 or 3 staff to lift the corpulent woman back to her feet -- but regulations require they call the family to alert them. I think Wifey might amend that with the staff today.
The rain is finally upon us, and mostly all is fine. As one of my life mentors says, I have no just complaints.
Thursday, June 1, 2017
No Different Than Car Salesmen
So Paul met Victoria getting their hair cut in a Grove salon -- probably in the late 80s. She was nice and smart and worked for a brokerage house, and Paul started doing business with her, and then referred me.
Over the years, she became the main financial adviser to Wifey and the Ds and me, though I would never trust any one person with our money, and as I made more, opened other accounts as well.
In December, we had out usual end of the year lunch with Victoria, and she told her her company now required all accounts to be switched to "managed" status -- meaning you pay an annual fee in exchange for expert advise, and in return whenever you made a trade, it was free. No thanks -- I said -- I had another fellow, Pat, already earning a fee for that, and, frankly, I knew Victoria was essentially just a saleswoman for her company -- recommending buys and sells according to the bonus plans offered from company headquarters.
But something was worse. The management fee, she said, was over 3% per year. When I balked, she said, ok, she could go to 1%. As supposed long time "friends," this soured us, especially Wifey, who naively thought we'd get treatment better than folks "off the street" since we had done business for nearly three decades.
I switched my accounts to a discount house, and we tried to do the same with the Ds accounts, but then Bank of America made it absurdly tough. They couldn't deal with the fact that D2 had two separate addresses: NYC, which she considers her long time but temporary home, and the 305, which she considers her permanent one.
So, in frustration, I told the Ds to just keep their accounts with Victoria, and I would over see them.
Last week, D1 met with Victoria, fiance in tow. They explained that they were concerned about market volatility, and planned to buy a house in a year, and maybe the portfolio should be changed. Victoria suggested some sales and purchases, and D1 thought these would be presented to her in an email and I could weigh in. Not so fast, or rather, yes so fast. I received confirmation that more than 15% of D1's stock was sold, including companies I thought she should have kept, like GE, and FPL, and Coca Cola.
And the worst part was the HUGE commissions -- equal to about 1/3 of the pay of my first job!
So I emailed Victoria, and followed with a call, saying that there had been a miscommunication, and please just cancel the transactions -- I noticed they weren't due to settle for another two days.
Of course, she replied, as long time customers, I want to keep you happy. Ha. As if! She essentially said -- sucks to be you -- I did what D1 asked, I will NOT reverse the transactions, and besides -- I TOLD you you could have switched to the management model, and the commissions would have been included.
So, now the Ds will do what I should have insisted they do last December -- switch to a discount broker. The ones I started searching online pay nice "welcome" bonuses, and I will then take over the accounts for them -- I basically check them all the time, anyway.
Wifey loves to quote Maya Angelou -- listen when people talk, they'll tell you who they are. We listened last December when Victoria revealed who she was -- I only really half listened.
Financial planners truly ARE the car salesmen of our time, for people with some money to invest.
One of my life heroes, Warren Buffet, said the same thing. He explained that rich people are used to paying more and getting more. A rich guy pays $1000 for a first class ticket while a regular guy flies for $299, and the rich guy correctly expects he'll get the bigger seat and better food. Rich people assume the same about investing -- if they pay more for brokers, or "private bankers," or, worst of all, hedge fund managers, they assume they'll get much huger investment returns.
The problem is, as the Omaha Oracle points, out -- it doesn't work. It'v VERY tough to beat the stock market -- better to simply go with index funds than try to pick stocks.
So -- lesson learned, finally. The Ds will switch, and it'll be adios, in total, to Victoria. I assume she's happy to kiss us off, anyway. A few months ago, one of Wifey asked me about referring someone to her. A neighbor's husband died, and the new widow needed help. I would have referred her to Pat, but she felt more comfortable with a woman. So I sent her to Victoria, and excitedly told Victoria a widow with an account worth millions would be calling her.
The friend reported to Wifey that they spoke briefly, and Victoria never followed up, so she assumed she really didn't want her business too much. When I'm offered a case -- I GO for it. I guess Victoria has a lot of very wealthy clients, and doesn't need to mess with mere millionaires any more.
Of course, ALL of this is a very nice kind of problem to have ---RWPP, as the Ds call them -- rich white peoples' problems. I never for a second forget that. I also need to remember to follow the wisdom of the late, great, Jerry Garcia, and his writing buddy Robert Hunter: cherish well your thoughts, keep a tight grip on your booze...
Over the years, she became the main financial adviser to Wifey and the Ds and me, though I would never trust any one person with our money, and as I made more, opened other accounts as well.
In December, we had out usual end of the year lunch with Victoria, and she told her her company now required all accounts to be switched to "managed" status -- meaning you pay an annual fee in exchange for expert advise, and in return whenever you made a trade, it was free. No thanks -- I said -- I had another fellow, Pat, already earning a fee for that, and, frankly, I knew Victoria was essentially just a saleswoman for her company -- recommending buys and sells according to the bonus plans offered from company headquarters.
But something was worse. The management fee, she said, was over 3% per year. When I balked, she said, ok, she could go to 1%. As supposed long time "friends," this soured us, especially Wifey, who naively thought we'd get treatment better than folks "off the street" since we had done business for nearly three decades.
I switched my accounts to a discount house, and we tried to do the same with the Ds accounts, but then Bank of America made it absurdly tough. They couldn't deal with the fact that D2 had two separate addresses: NYC, which she considers her long time but temporary home, and the 305, which she considers her permanent one.
So, in frustration, I told the Ds to just keep their accounts with Victoria, and I would over see them.
Last week, D1 met with Victoria, fiance in tow. They explained that they were concerned about market volatility, and planned to buy a house in a year, and maybe the portfolio should be changed. Victoria suggested some sales and purchases, and D1 thought these would be presented to her in an email and I could weigh in. Not so fast, or rather, yes so fast. I received confirmation that more than 15% of D1's stock was sold, including companies I thought she should have kept, like GE, and FPL, and Coca Cola.
And the worst part was the HUGE commissions -- equal to about 1/3 of the pay of my first job!
So I emailed Victoria, and followed with a call, saying that there had been a miscommunication, and please just cancel the transactions -- I noticed they weren't due to settle for another two days.
Of course, she replied, as long time customers, I want to keep you happy. Ha. As if! She essentially said -- sucks to be you -- I did what D1 asked, I will NOT reverse the transactions, and besides -- I TOLD you you could have switched to the management model, and the commissions would have been included.
So, now the Ds will do what I should have insisted they do last December -- switch to a discount broker. The ones I started searching online pay nice "welcome" bonuses, and I will then take over the accounts for them -- I basically check them all the time, anyway.
Wifey loves to quote Maya Angelou -- listen when people talk, they'll tell you who they are. We listened last December when Victoria revealed who she was -- I only really half listened.
Financial planners truly ARE the car salesmen of our time, for people with some money to invest.
One of my life heroes, Warren Buffet, said the same thing. He explained that rich people are used to paying more and getting more. A rich guy pays $1000 for a first class ticket while a regular guy flies for $299, and the rich guy correctly expects he'll get the bigger seat and better food. Rich people assume the same about investing -- if they pay more for brokers, or "private bankers," or, worst of all, hedge fund managers, they assume they'll get much huger investment returns.
The problem is, as the Omaha Oracle points, out -- it doesn't work. It'v VERY tough to beat the stock market -- better to simply go with index funds than try to pick stocks.
So -- lesson learned, finally. The Ds will switch, and it'll be adios, in total, to Victoria. I assume she's happy to kiss us off, anyway. A few months ago, one of Wifey asked me about referring someone to her. A neighbor's husband died, and the new widow needed help. I would have referred her to Pat, but she felt more comfortable with a woman. So I sent her to Victoria, and excitedly told Victoria a widow with an account worth millions would be calling her.
The friend reported to Wifey that they spoke briefly, and Victoria never followed up, so she assumed she really didn't want her business too much. When I'm offered a case -- I GO for it. I guess Victoria has a lot of very wealthy clients, and doesn't need to mess with mere millionaires any more.
Of course, ALL of this is a very nice kind of problem to have ---RWPP, as the Ds call them -- rich white peoples' problems. I never for a second forget that. I also need to remember to follow the wisdom of the late, great, Jerry Garcia, and his writing buddy Robert Hunter: cherish well your thoughts, keep a tight grip on your booze...
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