New Canes Coach Miami AF

I've said this for years about myself, as a somewhat educated guy: I really wished my passions ran towards opera, and theater, and maybe literary lectures...But the really true passion I have about any avocation is my beloved Miami Hurricanes.

I fell in love in 1979. My new college buddies and I took a provided bus to the creaky Orange Bowl. We drank beer. We cheered. The Canes went 5-6 under new coach Schnellenberger.

I used to look to teams like Penn State, and Alabama, and wonder what it was like to cheer for a team that was the best. And then Howard delivered on his absurd promise: we had a champion within 5 years -- crowned at the Orange Bowl game in January of '84, against an overwhelming favorite, Nebraska. The narrative was set in my heart.

Well, life happened, and as it turned out, it involved my Canes. My closest friends were all alums or fans, and Wifey joined, and we created sacred memories on game trips and at tailgate parties.

We won FOUR more championships, under three different coaches, and after the team slumped in the mid 90s, we came back as the best ever -- a 2001 Championship team that many experts say may be the best college team of all time.

We were robbed of a 6th ring by an Ohio State ref, and then the team started to falter again. They knocked down the Orange Bowl, and we moved to the more plush but far less soulful Joe Robbie Stadium.

The tailgates got better, and I learned to drink even more prodigious amounts (now vodka instead of beer) to lose myself in the exquisiteness of being surrounded by my closest people in an afternoon or night of total escape.

Wifey admitted she was over going so often. My sister of another mister, Mirta, became my game wife -- enjoying the bonhomie, and making her own friends.

And the games, with rare exceptions, like beating Oklahoma, and the Gators, were never as good as they were in the old days. Until...

We hired a fellow alum, Mark Richt, who had been fired after a solid but unspectacular career at Georgia. I was happy. But deep down, I had my doubts. Although he had grown up in Boca, and attended UM, he wasn't a Miami guy. He was a southern buy -- taught by Bobby Bowden to be nice, and pray a lot. His accent reduced over his three years, but so did his passion -- by the last game, he looked, though he's only 58, very old.

But -- he gave us glimpses of glory. Last season, we beat FSU, and Va Tech, and most importantly, Notre Dame. Joe Robbie was electric -- as loud as the Orange Bowl. My friends and I cried at the end of the game -- and we had sobered up by then.

Well, in a move more shocking than any I've seen in my nearly 4 decades as a fan -- yesterday Richt quit. He has plenty of money, and realized he was going to have to do a total rebuild. He needed to fire his son, an assistant, whose ineptitude as the core of the team's problems. The game had left him, as the sportswriters say.

But Richt had done one excellent hire: Manny Diaz. He was born and raised here, and is a true Miami guy -- Miami AF, as I love to say, and my favorite hat says. Manny invented the takeover chain -- given to a player who makes a pick or recovers a fumble. It brought national attention and copycats everywhere.

He accepted the head coach job at Temple on 12/12. But when Richt quit, he left Philly as quickly as anyone who has been there in February, as I have been, would leave. He said sorry, Owls, but my dream job awaits. He was announced last night as the new Coach. I'm thrilled.

Manny reminds me of my dear friend Alex, who is 40 and born and raised here, and despite going to college and grad school at Michigan and Northwestern, bleeds orange and green. It is in his DNA to love Miami football. Manny Diaz is the same.

His father was the Miami mayor, and the true father of modern Miami -- seeing the need to change zoning to make it a huger, and yet walkable city. I met Manny one night -- we talked Canes football. I can't imagine any Dad is prouder today than he is -- his prodigal son has his dream job.

So --- passion for my passion is renewed. I had said I was going to skip next year's opener --in Orlando, against the hated Gators. Nah -- I'm going. We may lose, but my team is coming back -- hard and flashier this time.

We have a real Miami guy back in Miami. I'm thrilled.

Golden Children

So my brother Barry's been spending Xmas week in the ICU, which he still does several weeks per year. His experience this year brought to mind an anecdote I just saw on CNN's History of Comedy, told by Mike Myers.

Apparently Jon Lovitz, the chubby Basset Hound looking guy, is , to many of the greatest comics, the really funny guy. Myers was attending a double funeral with Lovitz: another great comedian, Phil Hartman, had been shot dead by his wife Brynn, who then killed herself. Myers was shaking his head, and said to Lovitz "I just can't believe Brynn killed Phil, and then herself." Lovitz responded "Oh Mike -- you make it sound MUCH worse than it is..."

So is is with my brother's job. The stuff he deals with ...

But on Wednesday, his oldest turned 22, and he came to the 305 with his brother Josh, Mom Donna, and girlfriend Samantha. We all met for a birthday lunch at LOL, followed by some coffee at Brewing Buddha, our local coffeehouse owned by Cassady, who indeed looks like a Buddha.

We then walked around the 'hood, and got to know Samantha, who is bright and lovely, as we expected. She works for CNN and had a phone interview in the waiting, for a promotion. She took the call and it went well. We were thrilled for her.

And after they all left, I reflected on our kids, and how they're seen by outsiders. None of them were raised in poverty -- the opposite, in fact. If they struggled at school, there was a tutor. The kids are all bright and good looking -- people gravitate to them. They have it soooo easy.

Ha. As if. EVERYONE has their own demons, and often the higher achieving one is, the greater the demons.

I thought about last year's two suicides close to home: a hot shot lawyer, and the best surgeon in Miami. Both of those men had it all -- loving families, wealth, careers that soared, and yet their demons brought them to awful ends -- one literally at the end of his rope, and the other inside his luxury car inside his mansion.

Yesterday I met Josh at Shula's. We sat at the bar watching the Canes play the worst I've seen in a long while. And we had the same conversation -- life is a struggle.

I told him I didn't want him to succeed for any reason other than to be able to have "F You" rights in life. That is, when one is supported by and beholden to others, the supporters get to call the tune. When you make it on your own, you get to tell those who would constrain you to toss off. That to me is true freedom.

So the end of 2018 approaches rapidly. After the last weeks, I'm happy to say adios.

Tonight D2 is headed to her fiance's family house in Aventura for shabbat dinner, and then will spend the night with D1 and Joey. D1 got her final clean bill of health today. We sighed relief.

Wifey and I are headed to meet her friend Sheryl and her man Mark for dinner at Il Gabbianno, Italian for "extremely expensive Italian food and worth every lira."  Between them, they have a couple of kids who have battled major demons, and have had some awful repercussions.

I plan to chill well this weekend -- enjoying the final days of D2 in Miami. We opened her wedding account yesterday -- the planning shall now begin. I think it'll be a far smaller wedding than her sister had -- D2 is the type to want to bank much of the money rather than spend it on a party. But it's her call.

I told her that my in laws threw the wedding for Wifey and me that THEY wanted. Wifey and I wanted an informal lunch, maybe at a park. Ha. As if. After years of attending Saturday night affairs of their fellow Survivor family and friends, my in laws were damn sure going to have the same thing for their only child.

We had a fine and memorable time. Pat Travers playing with the wedding band is something we'll always treasure. But it was what Wifey's parents chose.

I told D2 I vowed to never do that -- she and her man need to make themselves happy. I'm sure it'll be easier said than done.

But for today, I'm happy and thankful. The kids are all right. Hey -- that could be an album...

White Christmas

The Ds and Wifey make fun of my fierce pride in the accomplishments of my pride -- the funniest of which is that Jews wrote all the best Christmas music. It's uncanny -- I was in the waiting room of my dentist the other day, and 5 songs played -- 4 really good, and one silly (Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer). Sure enough, all 4 of the great ones were written by guys who don't celebrate the holiday, but do, as do their generations of progenitors, celebrate the royalties...

To me, the best and most classic song for the holiday is Berlin's "White Christmas." It is so hopeful and wistful and sad at the same time. It always makes me think of American GIs singing it during WW II -- far from their homes, and far from their innocent youths.

My father had a beautiful tenor voice, and recorded that song for my mother in a studio in LA.  Apparently those were plentiful at the time, and Dad went in, sang the song, and at the end added "I love you Sunny."

The record was a small one, played at 78 rpm. I listened to it several times when I was a boy, and was amazed -- an actual tunnel back 30 something years into my family's history. Alas, the record was long gone -- my Mom wasn't sentimental, and disliked clutter more than she wanted stuff, and for all I know the record didn't make the move to Florida in June of '79. But I can still hear it in my mind.

As I write, D2 and Jonathan are at 34K feet, about an hour out of MIA. I'm still fighting this damn infection -- today is day 6. I'm fairly certain it's an acute viral sinusitis, and I am getting better, but still fatigued and feeling the dull headache of inflamed sinuses -- so much that I took some Mucinex. I tend to avoid medications that don't come in martini glasses...

So Dadber is grounded today. Momber stands at the ready. I have a feeling she can acquit herself rather well -- unlike the time she drove D2 to Gville and D2 called me when they were halfway across the Everglades...That was before WAZE...

My friend Joel called -- we've spent the last few Christmas Eves at their stately mansion in the Grove. Joel's Italian and Courtney is Italian/Irish -- she grew up on LI like I did. My Ds and their men have a great time -- Joel is a wonderful raconteur, but I think this year we're taking a pass. I'm pretty sure I'm no longer contagious, but feel most like sitting on a couch with Wifey, D2, and a couple of happy dogs.

Tomorrow we're set for a movie in Merrick Park, an early dinner at Ariete, and great place in the Grove. I'm hoping to have my strength back -- otherwise it'll be a Mom'Daughter birthday celebration.

Still, deep in the memory of my life, I hear Dad singing to his beloved, of a time and place he longed to return to . A great song will do that...

Oy Vas I Toisty!

EB White wrote that analyzing humor is like dissecting a from. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it.

Still, several years ago a Canadian novelist and sociologist wrote "Born to Kvetch," a great study of Jewish (particularly Yiddish based) humor. His keystone joke example was an old lady who annoyed a fellow train passenger about wanting a glass of water on an overnight trip --  the young man goes to heroic lengths to find her a glass of water so the old biddy would finally stop complaining and allow him to get some sleep. At the end, with the old lady gratefully drinking, and the young man drifting off, he hears one final lament: "Oy -- VAS I toisty!"  In other words, the kvetching/complaining wasn't properly completed until its history was explored.

Wifey and I get that joke very well. Her mother, who just turned 94, was the Michael Tilson Thomas of conducting complaints. It's not enough you know how miserable she is -- you need to fully understand how bad things WERE.

And so it was for me this week. I'm a very lucky guy -- I have never spent the night in the hospital. I've had diagnostic tests that COULD have sent me down the green mile, but instead were the launch pad for appreciative celebrations of life.

So Monday, I started feeling bad at the office, following a cool and rainy weekend in NYC. I called my doc, Mary, thinking it might be early flu, even though I got my vaccination. Mary ordered Tamiful, and I took a pill, but that night had a nasty reaction -- insomnia and awful, jarring dreams. I felt better, so stored the pills, and actually went to the office Tuesday and Wednesday.

Thursday the low grade fever returned, and I started coughing up prodigious amounts of green silly putty. My head hurt. The coughing of the viscous stuff would wake me in a panic -- I was drowning.

Wednesday night I jumped up, unable to get my breath. Wifey, who sleeps wonderfully when she sleeps, never stirred. I thought -- this is the way it will end. She will wake up hours later, nudge me with her foot, realize I was a cold,lump of man, and immediately Wifey would have to start making plans for wealthy widowhood.

I texted Dr. Mary yesterday, and she called in a scrip for a Z pack -- just in case my sinusitis and bronchitis was bacterial. I took the loading dose -- knowing that sometimes it was a miracle cure. It was not --I felt the worst I can recall feeling -- tired, cranky, vaguely in pain.

The wracking cough had caused my chest to hurt, but if I didn't cough up the awful material, it would just pool.

At 6 pm, it hit its zenith. The low level fever had returned, just over 100 degrees, and I self diagnosed as viral sinusitis.

I'd nod off, and then wake violently coughing. I new my viral condition was beyond medical treatment, but I thought about driving over to the Baptist ER for something -- maybe an IV where they could knock me out.

Instead, I popped a xanax pill -- an entire one, instead of the half I sometimes take when bad turbulence starts on an airplane flight. 4 hours later, I took another. And I slept --not well, but mostly without jumping up as if I was drowning.

I knew my week was nothing compared to what D1 had gone through -- hers was truly a life threatening condition. I was just miserable and uncomfortable.

And this am, as the light came in, it had LIGHTENED. The green slime was still there, but the stuffiness was gone.  I have the real sense that by tomorrow I'll be back to near normal -- just in time to welcome D2 and Jonathan from NYC.

I have stone crabs to order -- we're hosting 4 dear friends, and the Ds and their men will spend NYE together up in Shorecrest.

And, just hopefully, in a bit over a week, we can look back on 2018, and say "Oy -- vas VE Toisty!"

Investing

My Dad was lucky to make a really nice salary, eventually. When he returned from WW II, he had three jobs to support his family -- and barely made it. By the late 50s, though, things looked up -- he had become a very skilled salesman in the gift industry, and the money was nice, especially from those commissions from recurring clients, like Alexanders, and Al's Pottery.

In the years before I was born, my family lived in a nice part of Queens, Glen Oaks, and rented a lovely "garden apartment." They actually took a step that probably seemed out of the question years before: they joined a country club! It was the Roslyn Country Club, a place right out of "Flamingo Kid" and "Goodbye, Columbus," and my Dad told me they were probably the poorest members. But my parents thought it would be nice to have a pool for their daughters, and maybe my sisters would meet nice Jewish boys there. Ha. As if! Didn't work out that way...

In 1961 I came along, and the two bedroom apartment was cramped, so my Dad went to his boss, Mr. Katz, and asked to borrow $2000 for the down payment on a house. Mr. Katz agreed -- buying, essentially, my father's complete loyalty to him and his company for the rest of Dad's career.

Things got better financially for our family. We took our first airplane trip in 1969 -- a dream trip to my parents -- Israel. I was 8 years old and mostly remember trying to find Mets scores from news stands in Tel Aviv, and of course the highlight was watching Neil Armstrong take his historic steps. I still recall it clearly -- we gathered around a TV shop near Dizengoff Square, and all the Israelis cheered wildly -- their brothers had done it. Years later, I remembered that in contrast to the Palestinians cheering wildly after 9/11. And still plenty of Americans take up the Palis cause...oh well.

Anyway, my Dad was never one for investing in the stock market. He had a few muni bonds -- I remember going to the bank with him to clip coupons -- and did buy a few companies -- I recall a Dennison Mines, from Canada, and Airlift, a Miami cargo company. Both went bankrupt.

When Dad retired, in May of '79, he did so with about $250K, from savings and a profit sharing plan at his company. Interest rates neared 20%. I recall Dad opening different certificates of deposit with local Delray banks. Between the interest income and his social security, my parents lived very comfortably, without invading their principal. After Dad died, just three years later, I thought about investing some of Mom's money in the stock market, as interest rates declined, but I was chicken. She wasn't going to work, and things hummed along fine.

Mom traveled -- China twice, Europe, Israel twice, and many cruises and junkets to South Florida hotels. She gifted money to us -- the $10K she gave Wifey and I in '86 went to our down payment for our first house -- we always were grateful for that.

She "lent" my sister and brother in law $3K to build a pool at their LI house. She forgave the debt.

But the point was, she didn't need to mess with the stock market. When she went to the nursing home, she still had over $70K of savings left, plus her comically bad investment of a condo. She paid $39K for it in '79. When it was sold 34 years later, her three kids each netted $14K. The savings went into a pooled trust so that she got Medicaid, and they covered the $6K per month for nursing care. The remaining money went back to the state, to pay the liens.

As far as investments go, I am NOT my father's son. Although I have only a minority of savings invested in the stock market, it's not a little money. And lately, things have been crashing. We have lost more money than I would have ever thought we would have in total when I was a man in my late 20s.

And it's ok.  I think that over time, the losses will rebound, and we don't need the money right now. My broker friends who laughed at how much I keep in cash and muni bonds aren't laughing so much now.

Years ago, I read that well off people of a certain level (say assets above $5M but less than $50M) all said they would feel "rich" if they had 40% more than they did. That is, someone with $10M "needs" $14M to feel comfortable. Someone with $1M needs $1.4M.

Not me. I look at the plunging investment statements and just sort of chuckle. I imagine the expression on my Dad's face if he saw them. "You lost HOW MUCH????!!!!"

Years ago, my friend and broker Pat thought we ought to invest heavily in Apple -- three times the amount of my typical investment. I went ahead with him. It paid off -- my Ds have significant shares which we have gifted them, and we do, too.

And yet, owning the shares brings no joy. Paying for the life experiences does -- helping with first houses, wonderful meals, extravagant parties..

We plan to have some dear friends over for NYE. Even with the plunging markets, we'll serve bountiful amounts of stone crabs, and champagne. I told the Ds, who will be spending NYE together, that I was paying for THEIR get together in NE Miami, too.

I guess if the market continues to crash over the next 9 days, I can revise that and switch to pizza. Nah -- I'll come up with the funds regardless.

Packing A Lot Of Living In

My friend Kenny noted that with the bad health scare followed by the joyous Big Ask weekend, I was sure packing in a lot of living lately. And, per usual, he's right.

I also managed to bring home an unwanted souvenir from NYC -- a lousy cold. I started feeling poorly Monday afternoon, with a fever and chills, and feared it might be flu, even though I took the vaccine. I texted Dr. Mary, and, since we have concierge medicine, she replied right away and called in a prescription for Tamiflu, which shortens the course of the disease.

Wifey fetched the scrip, and I took the first pill, which resulted in the worse insomnia and awful, jarring nightmares I ever had. By Tuesday am the fever was lighter, and I self diagnosed that it was NOT the flu -- just a nasty cold, and I stockpiled the Tamiflu for another time.

I canceled a Canes roundball date tonight with Norman, and plan to take it easy and hydrate.

Meanwhile, Stuart texted me a report from the local business paper. Fredo, the betraying lawyer and former friend, tried and lost his first case for the TV firm I call Better Call Saul. I must admit I enjoyed some schadenfreude over the news, which Norman immediately corrected to Schaden-Fredo! I'm blessed with very sharp witted friends.

Seems no one is much in the mood to work -- Christmas fast approaches. D2 and Jonathan are due in Monday night -- Noche buena, and Joel and Courtney are throwing their annual get together -- we've gone the past few years. We're letting D2 make the call about attendance -- I guess it'll depend on her arrival time.

And then the 25th, the world hangs lights, decorates trees, and sings -- in honor of Wifey's birthday. I think we're going to go see a movie and a late lunch at Merrick Park -- she'll love having both Ds here.

So we'll coast into '19 . Best time of the year.

A Moving Meeting

So Saturday morning, Jonathan was all set to come to the Gramercy Park Hotel, have a bellman grant him and D2 access to the Park, and then pop the question. But, alas, it was wet out, and the Park closes when it's wet.

So Barry, Donna, Wifey, and I were scrambling to find alternatives for Jonathan. Things turned out fine -- he took her to Washington Square Park, but before then there was a bit of , as my late friend used to say, tensosity.

A gentleman overheard the conversation, and politely chimed in that he had an idea. He suggested Jonathan might propose at the National Arts Building on the North side of the park, a famous space where Woody Allen shot many of his classic NYC scenes.

We ended up walking to the corner so that the fellow, who introduced himself as Alan, could point out the building.  He was walking an adorable little dog. He lived in a building right next to the park, he said, and asked where we were all from.

We told him Miami, and he said he spends his winters in Longboat Key, and was in the City for a very bad reason.

We all had an instant connection with him. He was so smart and kind. Before we knew it, he was telling us about his grown kids, a radiologist, and a son who was a lawyer, Alan was a retired CPA and business consultant. He asked about us, and thought my name was familiar -- he had some very rich Miami clients. I joked that I didn't swim in those ponds...

Eventually it came out that the bad reason he was in NYC had three words: Memorial Sloan Kettering. His beloved wife, Barbara, was there. She was terminally ill with pancreatic cancer.

Barry, Donna, Wifey and I were shocked and saddened. I launched into my "well, hopefully she's on the right side of that bell curve," but Alan waved me off. It was truly the end. He had cried his eyes out, he said, and was just hoping she would make it another 10 days for his granddaughter's Bat Mitzvah. She wouldn't be able to attend, but knowing about it would bring Barbara joy.

Barry, who deals with palliative care, offered better advice -- about how it was critical to keep patients like Alan's wife comfortable and pain free. Alan said he understood, and was insuring that very thing.

We parted, and told Alan we would keep him in our thoughts. He was truly happy for our D2 and Jonathan, and wished them all the happiness in the world.

Alan left with his dog, and we four retreated out of the cool drizzle to the GH Hotel lobby. It struck us how we had seen the very cycle of life. One young woman about to embark on the beginning of married life, and another, somehow not a stranger though we had never met, was at the end of her time.

Donna observed that our meeting was bashert -- destined. She noted how Alan really needed to share his story with people, and at the same time offer help to a young couple starting out.

Wifey, ever the practical one, immediately thought Alan ought to meet our friend Diane, a very eligible divorcee.  Of course, Barry found great black humor in that -- poor Alan's wife was still alive, and Wifey was already replacing her. But Wifey said no, not right away, maybe in a year...

And, true to Wifey form, she looked Alan up, and found he indeed lived in a luxury condo on Longboat Key, and that he and Barbara were very active in their local synagogue.

Well, the afternoon unfolded joyously. We partied for the rest of the day, and Sunday Jonathan hosted a lovely brunch.

As we Ubered from the hotel to West 11th Street, the suv stopped, and sure enough, there was Alan walking his dog. I put down the window, and shouted out to him. He smiled, and asked "How did it go???!!!" I told him it went well, and we would think of him, and...who knows -- maybe cross paths again.

I truly hope we do. We all dug him right away, and he is now a part of a sacred weekend in my family's history.

In the mean time, I wish Alan peace as he deals with the end of life of his beloved Barbara.

The Big Ask

So last June Wifey and I traveled to NYC to attend a big NJ wedding -- D2's boyfriend Jonathan's sister Eva was marrying the man she met in Israel, Yoni. It was a lovely party, at an old estate in Livingston, and near the end of the evening Jonathan approached me.

Could Wifey and I make plans to return to NYC in December, for a special reason?  Why -- I asked him -- we typically don't enjoy the City in the cold weather, and had already seen the Rocketts and the Rockefeller tree more times than we cared to count. No, he said, it was because he wished to ask our precious D2 to marry him, in a surprise proposal.

We were thrilled, but also convinced his surprise couldn't happen. D2, like her father, notices if someone moves her coffee cup 1/2 inch on a table. It seemed highly unlikely Jonathan could keep this mission a secret for half a year.

He came to Miami to "visit his parents," but actually to buy the ring from our family friend Derek -- under the close supervision of D1. Jonathan's parents and Wifey and I had a secret celebratory dinner at Capital Grille, where Lizbeth shared some photos of Jonathan as a child which Wifey mistakenly forwarded to D2. Still, D2 remained in the dark.

Last month, Barry and Donna attended a Bat Mitzvah for our friend Stuart's girl. We ran into Jonathan's mom and grandmother Judy at the shul. Judy is the true family matriarch -- she would be hosting the dinner after the big ask. She invited Donna and Barry to attend. I told Barry not to make a special trip, but he decided they were indeed going. He reminded me that he always wanted daughters, and the Ds are his, too.

Later, Wifey told BFF Edna about the trip. Well, if Barry were coming, she was, too, and so made plans. Paul and Patricia always go to the City to visit Tracy -- Paul's girl, and her family. We asked Judy -- of course they could come as well, she said.

So Friday, after what seemed like longer than 6 months, Wifey and I Ubered to MIA. Sure enough, Jonathan's family was on our flight, along with Judge David, one of my favorite local jurists. I told him we were staying at the Gramercy Park Hotel -- he married his husband Scott there.

We checked in and left for Broadway. D2 had no idea we were in her city -- staying blocks away. I scored some tickets to "Dear Evan Hansen" by taking out a mortgage on our house. But, it was worth it -- I'm a tough critic of Broadway musicals, and this one was Rogers and Hammerstein caliber -- wonderful tale, and gorgeous music.

And the weather was classic, crappy NY late Fall -- rainy and chilly. But we had expected that.

Saturday we had breakfast with Edna and Barry and Donna -- Marc slept in. And then we prepared for the big event.

The plan was Jonathan was going to tell D2 that he had a friend staying at the GP Hotel, which gave access to the private park. And then, he would walk over to the Rose Bar, where the guest would hide.

One problem: it was wet, and the private park closes -- fear of litigation. So via a series of frantic texts, Jonathan called an audible -- the ask would be at the public Washington Square Park near their apartment in Greenwich Village -- it doesn't close when the streets are wet.

We gathered in the bar, and learned that though it was to open at 2, no bartender showed. Paul stepped in -- getting aggressive with the concierge. Eventually three bottles of champagne were delivered -- I signed the bill for over $700, but new it would be compromised.

Paul and I also did something I'm thinking only drunk rock stars had done at the hotel -- we helped ourselves to alcohol from the empty bar. I poured Barry a glass of Japanese whiskey they'd have charged $60 for. It was deliciously mischievous, but the snooty incompetence of the overpriced hotel gave us justification.

And then in walked D2. She was beaming from getting asked. She was, indeed, shocked to see us all gathered there. Judy broke out into a mazel tov song. We all sang along.

D2 keeps her words concise, and emotions inside. Not Saturday. She beamed. She clutched her intended tightly. She had melted.

We popped the champagne and toasted. Jonathan welcomed us. I said how lucky our family was to blend with theirs. Judy, the queen, who has a background out of a movie (survived the Holocaust as a young girl by being hidden in a Czech convent) said that when she met D2 5  years ago, she knew the "exotic beauty" was her beloved grandson's besheret. 

We Ubered over to Pepe Giallo, an Italian place near Chelsea Market, and there was a private terrace room where we feasted. More friends were there. Old acquaintances became closer friends. It was delightful.

There was then an "after party" at the Tippler Bar, in Chelsea Market. It was another surprise -- more of D2 and Jonathan's friends were waiting. Jonathan brought us tequila shots -- my first taste of the devil's drink since an unfortunate incident at a Dolphins/Pats Monday night game in the mid 80s. I survived.

Yesterday am, Jonathan hosted a brunch at La Contenta, Spanish for the happy, which we all were. His brother and sister in law in from LA had to miss it for their flight home, but his sister Natalie and 2/3 of her adorable sons were there -- from Toronto. The boys like me -- I greeted them with "Go Leafs!", indeed their team.

We hugged goodbye on West 11th street in a cold rain, but with warmest of hearts. Jonathan and D2 were beaming.  There was preliminary talk of the wedding. It'll be smaller than the 300 person deal D1 had. But there's time for that in 2019.

Wifey and I flew home two happy, grateful parents. I reminded D2 that you don't get too many weekends like she had -- where people who love and adore you plan amazing events, to surprise and honor you, and to talk countless mental pictures.

She got it. So did we. I am one exceptionally lucky Daddy in the USA.

When Life Looks Like Easy Street There Is Danger At Your Door

As we age and hopefully acquire wisdom, a key lesson is to savor all the days. Or, as Warren Zevon said, when diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and asked for his life advice, enjoy every sandwich.

Things can coast along happily, and then a crisis comes, often in the form of a medical complication of a simple procedure. And when you really really love someone, and watch them suffer, well, there is nothing worse.

And so it came to pass for us -- the details aren't important, except to note that last Sunday was the second worst day of my life -- following the worst, July 14, 1982, when my beloved father died in my arms.

But the Big Man smiled, and the dark storm clouds parted, leaving a bright, bright, sunshiny day.

My close friends circled the wagons. One I told about things was angry I hadn't included him sooner. He was right -- we spent a lot of time closer to his home, and he knows I would have been there for him.

My friends checked after me, and one I brought onto the ledge with me, and, as he is wont to do, stayed there with me with calm, and keen intelligence, and love, and walked me off the ledge.

And my inner circle is there because, like me, they realize that "being there when your friend is down" is NOT the true essence of friendship -- that's just being a decent human being. No -- they love when I soar, as I love when THEY soar, with no jealousies, or thoughts of "Why does THAT bastard have it so good?"

So I guess it's possible to go through life without close friends. In fact, I know it is -- I see plenty of people who sort of slouch along, walling themselves up inside, and thinking they can go it alone. For me -- I wonder why anyone would choose that, though building true friendships takes decades.

Two of my wolf pack were there for me on my life's worst day. Over three and a half decades later, they still are. I'll have their backs until the day I die.

So the crisis is stilled. And who knows -- maybe the Big Man even has some truly joyous moments still in store for me -- sooner than later.

All I know is, we all have some of our personal hells within us. Some, like me, belie them with a cheery, joking manner. Others simply LOOK like Eyeores all the time.

But those with true friends, those who love you and take pleasure in joining you on this life journey -- well, those are the richest of all.

And this early morning in Miami, I am, by far, the richest man I know.

Rabbit Adventure

So for the past few nights, when I let the strange rescue dog and special needs Spaniel out, they've made a dogline for the SW corner of our property. The rescue, much more of an actual dog, was obsessed with the space between an old ficus tree trunk and the neighbor's fence -- so much so that I had to back her out to get her back inside.

I figured it was a squirrel, or maybe a rat, both of which are ubiquitous in our jungle 'hood.

Then last night, around 8:30, as I pulled in, I saw a creature hop across the driveway -- sort of cat-like, but not exactly. I went to investigate, and saw it was a rather plump bunny rabbit -- white and black, and clearly not feral. It was too tame appearing, and the feral rabbits are either gray or straw colored...

It hopped around happily, but hopped away when I got too close. I decided it must be a lost pet. Wifey went to the next door neighbors, and found a darkened house, but indeed there was a plastic bin of food. I offered some to the bunny -- it ate it happily.

So Wifey texted our neighbors, who are a 30 something wife and late 50 something husband. Wifey thinks it's offensive that I refer to the wife as "the stripper," but since my humor is often as sophisticated as Adam Sandler's, I persist.

Both the stripper and husband answered the text. Indeed, it was their pet rabbit, and not to worry -- it lived outside, along with their tortoise. Wifey wrote that it WAS to worry, as we had dogs, one of whom would indeed eat the sweet, plump rabbit. The wife wrote back that she was already in bed (it was by now 8:40 p.m.) and her husband was on crutches, so he couldn't deal.

Wifey was worried. Would the sweet pet get otherwise eaten? We have feral cats, and possums, and all manner of snakes. I once saw an 8 foot boa perched on a tree in our back yard, close to the sweet, scrumptious looking rodent.

I convinced Wifey to wait until morning -- keeping our dogs at bay. Maybe the rabbit would find its way back through the fence.

Well, early this am, I went to fetch the paper, and there was the bunny -- looking at me sweetly. I tried to catch her (turned out it was a female) and fortunately no videos were around to record my attempts. I was, in essence, unsuccessful.

I would get near the bunny, and she would hop away, and I would chase her. The rabbit was, like Bugs, very rascally.

I then tried to shoo her back around the fence, to her home. No rabbit dice. She would stop about halfway to the street, and then double back, while I stupidly gave chase.

I went next door, and knocked hard on the front door. A nice Jamaican housekeeper answered. I told her about the rabbit. "No problem, sir," she said. The rabbit lives outside. Yes, problem, I explained. The bunny doesn't live where my dogs could, and would, turn her into breakfast.

So the housekeeper came outside, followed me next door, and I led her to the pet. The rabbit happily hopped over to the Jamaican -- she fed her regularly, it turned out. She nabbed her, and took her back home, to live happily with Mr. Tortoise.

Wifey returned from a dog walk, where out pups went after a dozen teenager peafowl who gathered on the other side of the house. I love that a bunch, or flock, or peafowl, is known as an ostentation of them.

I told Wifey, and the dogs, that we were now rabbit free. Wifey tore her favorite shirt trying to block up the corner where the little bunny made her way in.

So now we know who to NEVER ask to pet sit for us. I could just imagine a call "Hi -- we have little Bo, your special needs Spaniel here, and we have three huge Rotweillers looking to eat him." Next door neighbors "Wow. Ouch."  Adios, Bo.

For now, our property is bunny-free, and the dogs are back to chasing lizards. They're nobody's pets...

Stephen's Mother Lies Beastly Dead

I have an ex friend, and I use the term accurately. We were close since we met in college, in a most comical, pre "Me Too" sort of way. I was in Calculus class, knowing from the start that I couldn't grasp it, and I sat next to a young student named Christina, a Marine Science student from the Midwest. She was, in that pre implant era, extremely well endowed.

So as the professor droned on about max/min problems, my 19 year old gaze drifted to Christina, sitting next to me and paying rapt attention to the professor. One day I looked up, and sitting on her other side was a funny face with glasses and a big nose. We caught each other looking at the same parabolas, as it were, and he gave me the thumbs up sign. After class, he approached me and said "We're both men of excellent taste." And a friendship was born.

Well, sadly it died about 4 years ago. We shared growing up, and his making a fortune and losing it to three divorces, while I took the tortoise approach, luckily sticking the whole time with Wifey. He had a troubled son, partially so, I thought, since his guilt at the divorces made him try to be his son's fun buddy instead of the strict father he needed, and I cried with him the night he had to hire some beefy men to kidnap his 17 year old and spirit him off to a rehab camp in rural Utah...

Afterwards, things looked up for him, but he asked me for a loan for a business I knew would fail and might invite criminal investigation: a private pain clinic. I said no. Later, he said he was so hurt that I would refuse him, he could no longer be my friend.

I felt a bit guilty, until I happened to reunite with an even older friend of his -- boyhood next door neighbor from North Miami. Al told me that while his wife was dying, of ovarian cancer, our mutual friend had abandoned him, too.

Our fathers were cut from the same cloth -- Bronx born self taught intellectuals. His was a Korean vet, mine a WW II guy. His Dad fled NY and his business when threatened by the Mafia, and opened a factory in Hialeah. After my Dad died, my friend's Dad acted as a mentor to me -- on matters of the heart. He died young, like my Dad did.

But my friend's Mom lived on -- moving to Central Florida with her daughter, who had come out and had a partner. The two younger women took fine care of the Mom, and she suffered from bad health, mostly intractable back pain that left her a sad shut in for the final decade of her life.

My ex friend rarely visited. I used to try to share with him the sage words of my brother Paul -- that taking care of elderly parents is not only in the Ten Commandments -- it's in the Top 5! But there were excuses...

I became FaceBook (tm) friends with the sister, as well as one of my ex friend's ex wives. I learned the other day that the mom had died -- she was in her mid 80s.

I messaged the sister and sent a note. She replied with thanks, and told me her brother hadn't bothered to see their mother before she died.

I immediately thought of Joyce, and his line in the great "Ulysses" about his hero Stephen. Stephen has become an apostate Catholic, and refused to pray at his dying mother's bedside. So later his tough buddies remark that his mother lies "beastly dead" - she died like an animal, without the spiritual comfort she sought of her son.

My ex friend was a Catholic, too, and also half Italian. I would have thought these things would have meant something as the woman who gave him life was passing away. I would have been wrong.

As I age, I proclaim to try to judge less, but I judge more. It comes with the years -- we see more of life, and the consequences of so many actions of people, and can't help but apply them.

My brother Barry and I were talking the other night. He told me that as a fellow in the PICU, he thought he had control over sick children. Give one medicine, they go to sleep. Give another, they wake up, or breathe heavier, or fight infection, or stop having seizures.  One quarter century later, he tells me, he's much smarter: he realizes he has very LITTLE control over their fates. Often therapies fail. Sometimes there are miracle cures.

So I feel for my former friend, and what he has failed to do. I know guilt will tear at him, in some form or another. I see it often in adults who shirk their responsibilities to dying or declining parents. They justify their actions, but their hearts, and souls, if they have them, betray them anyhow.

I wrote back my ex friend's sister, and praised her for the care she gave her mother all these years. She's much poorer financially than her brother -- I hope if any money was left, she gets it, and not him.

But she is, I told her, already much richer in soul. May her mother's memory be a blessing. I reminded her that's the highest Jewish blessing we can offer for the dead. She said that as a lapsed Catholic, lesbian woman, it was one of the nicest things she had ever heard.

One of These Days I'm Gonna Sit Down and Write a Long Letter

I love learning about words, and recently I read something wonderful: the Greek root of "nostalgia" means "pain from the past."

It's funny, as I always thought of nostalgia as a positive -- as a guy blessed with a mostly happy past. But I guess the deeper meaning is that avoiding pain means looking to the future, which is so difficult.

I mentor a young lawyer at the firm, Vince. He's a great guy -- just turned 40, is from LA. Like me, he lost his beloved father when he was young. But he comes from a big Irish family -- he's the  youngest - and his holiday trips are to the Mid Atlantic states where his family have all moved now.  He loves to hear tales of the olden days (80s and early 90s), about cases Paul and I took to creative heights.  He loves looking back to learn how to handle the present. He's a wise young fellow.

When I was 25, Bruce warned me about nostalgia with his song "Glory Days," which warns that time passes and "leaves you nothing, mister, but boring stories of (your past)."

But that's the nature of our species -- the older tell tales to the younger. How else will they learn?

In the cool loaming of this December morning, I listened to Neil Young sing about writing letters to all his old friends to tell them how much they meant to him.

I've done that -- it typically falls flat. I started a project -- probably 20 years ago, where I wrote letters to people who have taught me important life lessons. I was inspired to do it after the premature death of my friend Roger Howard.

Roger was a partner at my second law firm, a Dick Cavett look-alike, who had had several careers before becoming a lawyer. All his degrees were from Harvard, and he was Midwestern nice. He left being a partner at a defense firm to open a little plaintiff's practice -- he'd handle small cases and co-counsel the more complex ones -- with the firm I had joined.

He died in his 40s, from cancer, before I got to tell him how many wonderful life lessons he taught me -- including the fact that the most interesting people are those who have had a variety of careers.

So I wrote to Bill and Larry -- two consultants to our law firm who I admired. I recall the effort sort of fell flat -- they thanked me, but the efforts seemed to make them more uncomfortable than anything else. I also wrote to Frank, a former boss, to tell him how he was a role model as a husband and father. It turned out he left his wife for his long time secretary, and his wife ended up with a woman lover. So much for my keen insight into the human condition.

Though there may be pain in looking back, we're in the high season for it -- the waning days of a year. Hell -- in a few weeks we'll be singing a Scottish song talking about "auld acquaintances..."

Years ago I was at a seminar, and asked if I knew how to battle anxiety. It occurred to me that so much of it comes from a failure to live in the moment. My anxious mind is always a few steps ahead -- what negative things await my beloved family and friends around the next corner. If I could live in the moment -- savor it -- and leave the past behind as well.

One of these days...

My Mother in Law Keeps on Rolling Along

So yesterday was the first night of Chanukah, and Wifey and I celebrated by an early dinner at LOL. We did share some latkes...I turned on the electric menorah, and that was it. When you don't have kids at home, Chanukah loses a lot of luster...

Anyway, after LOL I listened to the Fins win one on radio. The Fins' announcer, Jimmy Cefalo, is a comically poor play by play man. On the final play of the game, the Bills tight end dropped the winning touchdown. Cefalo was yelling, and never said what happened. I only found out that the Fins had won via texts from Mike and Norman.

We drove to the Palace, and I waited outside in the cool evening air. Wifey plucked her mother from her room and brought her out. I heard her from inside -- her voice is so loud everyone in the place hears when she speaks. She's deaf, which is a reason why, but it's an anatomical mystery how a nearly 94 year old has the strength to project as she does.

We got through her repeat questions: is D1 pregnant, and is D2 engaged? She asked 6 times. Am I still in business with my partner Paul? Is he still with the pretty "Spanish girl?"

I typed out a happy Chanukah greeting. She read it and said she was sorry she couldn't make her latkes. Wifey and I laughed -- a running joke was that she used to make the second best latkes -- her rival, a Survivor named Genia, made the best.

At a party years ago, I tried Genia's latkes, and whispered to her that they were better than my mother in law's. Genia liked me from that time on...

The time went on,and my mother in law repeated how happy she was with our visit. I typed out that her birthday was near -- on December 15, she would be turning 94.

My Mom turned 93 and was fading fast. Indeed, she died two weeks later.

I think my suegra will be here for a lot longer...she shows no weakening at all. She is quite overweight -- no wasting away, whatsoever.

In other sports news, the Canes were NOT selected for the Gator Bowl. Instead, they'll be headed to NYC on 12/27 to play in the Pinstripe Bowl, in Yankee Stadium. D2 will be here then, so no bowl trip for us.

The kickoff is on a Thursday at 5:15. I'm thinking it might be appropriate to watch at Trulucks, during happy hour. I think Victor will enjoy the company.

And so we'll be here for NYE.  2019 is less than a month away.

I still remember well being a boy, and thinking the year 2000 was WAY into the future. My Dad reminded me I would be younger than 40 when that came around.

And now nearly 2 decades have passed...

My suegra has seen MANY turns of the year...and it appears she'll see several more.

Art For Art's Sake

When I moved to Miami in '79, I kept hearing it referred to as a "cultural wasteland." There was plenty of stuff to do and see, it seemed to me, like a bunch of art movie theaters, and some museums, but I guess compared to Northern cities it was the provinces...

Somehow, over the past 20 years, our city has evolved to a major art capital, hosting the world famous Basel show each year, and tons of galleries and new museums. I few years ago, during an art walk, I met an impressive young dealer, who had moved here from Boston. She told me that Miami, along with NYC and LA, is considered one of the major art cities, at least as far as contemporary art is concerned.

I really wish I appreciated art. I don't, largely. I mean, I guess I really like photography, and realism. But when I visited Art Basel a few years back, as the guest of a neighbor who is an exec with the fair, I felt like an idiot. Some of the stuff, which was selling for TONS of money, was well beyond my ken....or even Barbie...

I guess it's good for the city -- tourism spikes, and all the hotels sell out. And they're not cruise ship type tourists who buy t shirts and eat at Hooters -- these are international wealthy art collectors.

Wifey and I are planning to attend one event. Since I'm a member of the Miami Book Fair, an event I DO care about, we got invited to a brunch at Miami Dade College on Friday am as part of one of the satellite fairs.  It ought to be a nice morning -- we'll park in my office and take the People Mover to the event. But that will be it for us.

Apparently for top art galleries, they do more business during Art Basel Week in Miami than they do the rest of the year. Good for them. I hope they get plenty of billionaires who want replicas of ocean waste on a fake beach in their mansions. That was actually a display I saw when I visited the PAMM, or Perez Art Museum of Miami a few years back.

Still, it's nice to live in a place where lots of stuff goes on -- in case we decide to participate.

Last weekend we had dinner with some nice folks -- they have a house near the Villages north of Orlando, and were saying they hoped to move there in a few years. Wifey asked what there was to do, and the answer was, basically, some decent restaurants.

Wifey and I don't get it. When you have more time, near or at retirement, it seems to us THAT'S the time to live where there is a lot to do, not the opposite.  But to each his own, as the expression goes.

So I'll give the art thing another try on Friday. Maybe there'll be a beach scene all in black, since that's how the artist sees it.

Either way, maybe the food will be good...

A Night of Chickee Huts

So Mike and Loni invited us over for adult beverages in the Molokai Room, the authentic tiki bar Mike has actually built attached to his house. It's really something to see -- bars stools inside and out, tvs playing, and tons of memorabilia.  Wifey is amazed each time she sees it.

There's also a chickee hut -- palm fronds as a roof. Mike made rum drinks, and even Wifey drank -- some rose sparkling wine I brought for her and Loni.

Donna and Jack were also invited -- husband and wife defense lawyers -- I went to law school with Donna's brother Scott who died tragically young from cancer. I always think of Donna as the little sister we were warned away from at law school parties -- she's now a 54 year old empty nest mother -- her boys are up at UF.

We had a good time watching the SEC game -- especially when the cameras would show the Southern Belles mouthing the F word when their teams would falter.

In an unusual twist, I was the designated driver, and navigated Mike's enormous Ford Expedition south to Golden Rule.

Golden Rule is an old school seafood market and restaurant, and this year they opened an outdoor space under an enormous chickee hut. We joked with Mike that he had chickee envy...

It was a lovely night -- 6 empty nesters with many connections laughing heartily. A woman who used to run the copy room at Palmetto High was at another table, and through the game of telephone somehow she was described as a craven hussy who slept with the toner delivery man. You had to be there , but it was a very funny time.

I drove the huge vehicle home -- it was a nice change to be the most sober guy at the party for a change -- I'll gladly volunteer to repeat that if Wifey drinks wine -- but I don't see that becoming a new thing...

Oh Dad -- You Make Everything Sound So FUN!

One of our favorite pieces of family lore started when D1 was probably 7, and her sister a bit younger than 4. I would routinely have man-type errands to do on weekends, and I enjoyed having them accompany me.

But by that age, staying home and staging dress up, and Broadway type musicals where D1 was the director and star and D2 the various props, outweighed their desire to go with me to the likes of Home Depot.

So one day I came in and invited them, and said "Girls -- come with me to Home Depot, and then we'll go to the McDonalds with the big play area, and maybe stop off at Dairy Queen on the way home."  D2 immediately looked up to her big sister, who scrunched her face, initially not wanting to go, but realizing maybe it was ok.

She said, exasperatedly, "Oh Dad -- why do you always have to make things SO FUN???!!!!"

So that stuck, and now years later, Wifey tends to be the reluctant participant to my constant efforts to inject a bit of romance and excitement into our quotidian lives...

I want to see a band from my youth,  Hot Tuna, in Key West in January. Wifey doesn't really dig them, but I told her we'd stay at the Pier House, eat at Bagatelle on Duval Street, and breakfast at My Blue Heaven...She agreed, recapitulating the "Oh Dad!" refrain.

Same thing about New Year's Eve. I always have and continue to like to do something special on that night. Starting in college, my friends and I would celebrate, although a week after January 1, when we returned from vacation. Someone learned that in Serbia, they celebrated NYE late, and so we adopted Serbian New Year's, which was a huge, blow out party. The Ds would have called it lit.

When Wifey and I moved in together, we would always host as well -- first in our apartment near Dadeland, which is now a high rise, and then our succession of houses. For NYE '87-88, we probably packed 75 people into our 1400 square foot house, and overnight guests included friends Elizabeth and Pat. Pat was a well known rock and roller, with three gold records, and to our astonishment, took out his pink Stratocaster and a small amp and played for all of us, inviting me to do a speaking duet of "Rocky Raccoon." It was quite a night.

For the turn of the century, we hosted a huge party at our last house. This was the Y2K fearful year, when everyone worried what would happen to all the computers, since they were designed to date only in the 20th century. When midnight came, I sneaked to the garage and shut off the breakers, so guests would think that in fact bad stuff was upon us. But I snapped them back, and the 60 guests or so laughed, and then D2 and others joined me in jumping in the pool.

Last year we hosted a nice, sedate event -- Norman and Deb and Mike and Loni came over for stone crabs. I listened to Captain's Tavern and was a bit light on the crabs, but Wifey and I practiced FHB (family hold back) and there was plenty to eat.

Anyway, this year Mike and I are awaiting the news of the Canes bowl selection. One of the possibilities in the Gator Bowl, in JVille. It's played on NYE, at 7:30.

Last night, I broached the possibility with Wifey. Her expression said she was underwhelmed about a football game, along with a 5 hour car ride. So I sprung into Dad-action, telling her we would have a blast with Loni and Mike, and stay the night in a luxury place in St. Augustine, and the Ds were doing their own thing NYE anyway...

She smiled, and said those words of yore: "Oh Dad -- you always make things sound so FUN!"

So we'll learn later today if indeed the Canes play there. If not, I'll be taking a Pasadena on bowl games -- the others would all cut into D2 visit time, and places like Shreveport and Detroit and Annapolis in December hold no attraction.

If there's no Gator Bowl, we'll probably host another small gathering, of fellow empty nesters, like last year.

Regardless, I full intend to make it sound, and be, so much fun.

My Clean Well Lighted Place

I've always liked Hemingway's theory about that -- a place where a man could go for a cocktail and seek out his small bit of sanity in an otherwise crazy world. And last night I was there.

I spent the day at the office, working on cases with Stu and Vince, coming up with strategies for obtaining justice for our clients while getting paid for our efforts. Around 5:30 I told them I missed Victor, our barkeep at Trulucks downstairs, and wished to visit him. Convincing my co workers to join me didn't take much of my persuasive skill.

The western corner of the bar was open, and Vince and I grabbed some stools. We ordered. Victor beamed -- I hadn't seen him in some weeks. As we drank our adult beverages, I realized something -- Victor may not have heard about Alan's death. Alan romanced many a lady there at Trulucks, and Victor was his man.

So I asked Victor if he had heard about Alan -- he said he hadn't been in in weeks. I told Victor he would be in no more, and his face dropped. He grabbed his water glass, and we toasted to our fallen friend.

Stuart joined us, and by then Mike the pianist had arrived. He's been there for years, and we dig each other -- I always tip him well, and he plays the Sam Cooke I request. Stuart asked him to play Bill Withers' "Sunny Day," and Mike did, though the lady singer didn't really know the song. No wonder -- it came out 30 years before the millennial was born.

Vince and I shared some bar food, and we talked. The place filled up, as it always does. We saw some young SunTrust bankers at the bar -- the next generation of patrons.

My office has been at that building for 22 years now. Changes are coming -- SunTrust sold its interest to a group of Brazilians called, mysteriously, "The Brothers." We had early negotiations about staying -- they want to raise the rent to high market rates, and initially everyone refused.

Stu and Joel, the true stakeholders, have been looking to buy office condos Downtown. But now Joel has asked me to sit in on a meeting with the Brothers realtors -- Joel has an idea about bringing in new tenants, including a hot shot lawyer originally from Italy, and see if it can be a go. Politically incorrect Joel told me I'll love this new guy: "He's VERY Italian and VERY New York -- the kind of guy who made you love guineas when you grew up on Long Island."

So we'll see. Over the years, my other haunts, like Tobacco Road, and Fox's, have, like Joe Dimaggio, left and gone away.

Trulucks remains. It's wonderful to have it in the building where I still work, at least some of the time.

Victor is my age, and not retiring any time soon. He still has alimony to pay, to a "beautiful Midwestern girl" who married him for her financial future.

We laugh about that, as we do other foibles about being a man. I really, really dig the place...

Taking the Hint

I have an old friend, someone I've known since I lived in NY many, many years before. We were close, sharing each other's tales of life, but over the years we grew apart.

Part of it was we had less and less in common --my kids dominate importance in my life -- not so much for my friend. And we were also close with each other's parents, and now they're all gone.

Still, I kept up with the friend -- cheerleading through seemingly never ending rough patches. Our talks became more and more surface -- about weather, and current events.

It occurred to me that the friend had stopped calling me -- the last several calls I initiated, and some were not returned. When we did speak I had the sense that the friend wanted to hurriedly end the call. I obliged.

I guess one of my last remaining areas of naivete involves friendship. I used to think close friends lasted forever. The years have taught me otherwise -- most friendships are situational -- you have things in common, and enjoy each other's company and counsel, but when people move, or change jobs, or no longer have the same people in common, the friendships fade.

I had one close friend since college -- he had a pattern: when he was married, he'd sort of blow me off, but when his 3 marriages ended, he'd follow after me like a puppy dog.  After paying major alimony for his third time, he asked me for a loan, for a business that I knew would fail, if not attract criminal investigation, and so I refused.  He ended up re-marrying his third wife, and I figured we hadn't spoken since he was focused on her. But it turned out, he was so hurt that I wouldn't loan him the money (as I expected, the business failed) he could no longer be my friend. Oh well...

I have another friend, also from college, who always had an air of superiority about him, and he rose high in our legal profession. But he pulled some bad stuff, including an infamous case where he took advantage of some working class people whose interests he was supposed to protect, and I sort of decided I didn't want him in my life anymore.

So I know a little something about the end of friendships, and I guess it's happening again.

I never harbor ill will -- I always wish people well. Well, not always -- a former friend who screwed us in business will forever be known as Fredo, after the treacherous brother in II. I don't wish him well -- in fact, I fully expect he'll get fired from the new legal job he wrangled himself into, and I won't feel at all bad when that happens...

But the latest -- I indeed do know how to take a hint, and I'll let the friendship fade away.

It's just part of life.

So This Is 30

Being a child groom, as I was, has advantages. D1 just turned 30, and I'm still relatively young. 

The big 3-oh. D1 didn't want a party, but Joey and I encouraged her -- it's nice to mark the decades. So Wifey and I gave her the gift of paying for her party -- and she had it the night before T Day, so D2 and Jonathan could attend.

Wifey and I and D1's suegros Ricardo and Jacqui were the only older guests, and we were supposed to leave early. Joey's folks did, but I enjoyed catching up with D1's lifelong friends too much, so we stayed a bit longer. D2 and Jonathan stayed over -- in the room called D2's room. They had a fine time.

Yesterday D1 was a bit under the weather, and I joked it was a good thing she got the party out of the way early. Still, we talked, and I wrote her a long email, which is my custom each year.

The decades truly fly by. I still clearly remember the day she was born. Wifey went into labor early -- it was a Sunday, and didn't progress for a long time. Her doc and I watched the Jets beat the Fins in one of those classic Dan Marino - Ken O'Brien shootouts, and watched the west coast game, too -- it might have been the Chargers. After there was no more football to occupy us, Dr. Strassbourg and Dr. Kenward went ahead with a C Section, and a petite baby girl was placed in my arms and I fell in love.

The only regret I ever had about D1 was that my beloved Dad never got to meet her -- he would have savored her intelligence and humor. When D1 was about 4, she had already heard a LOT about her late grandfather. One early weekend morning, she sat next to me on the couch as I read the paper. All of a sudden she looked up at me with her doe eyes, and asked "Daddy -- would Grandpa Hy have loved me?"  I grabbed her and told her through my tears that indeed he would have...

Meanwhile, D2 and Jonathan made it home to chilly NYC. It was sad to see them off, but happy they're due back in less than a month. Still, this am Wifey and I sat on the couch and realized we missed D2 sitting there with us. We really dig our kids.

Tonight the weather is blissfully cool -- per my weather app, it "feels like" 50. I lit my first fire of the season in my firepit, and sat with the dogs, contemplating the cosmos. I gave a hearty thanks to the Big Man.

I recently heard a saying that resonated with me: the days are long, but the decades are short. It's certainly true.

So I wish a hearty happy three decades to my beloved D1. I am one extremely lucky Daddy in the USA.

The Busy Innkeeper

I really enjoy being an innkeeper, at least temporarily. I always have. Back when I was at the U, I loved having friends visit, even if they just sleeping bagged it on my campus apartment floor, or crashed on the naugahyde couch.

Later, in my first apartment, I was always a frequent host, though Wifey, who was dating me, often objected to my being so gracious -- especially then the guests were also single women. But afterwards, when we got together, we'd often have a crowded living room in our Kendall apartment -- especially at holiday times.

This T Day D2 and Jonathan were here, along with Ashley and Kyle. They came Friday -- there was a big Gator wedding last night at Temple Beth Am, right up the road. So yesterday am I was up early fetching bagels, and nova, and croissants for the guests.. They loved it.

T Day was grand, although it started off with a visit by the Avenue Q "Bad Idea Bears." I felt we ought to have my ancient suegra, and volunteered to get her at the Palace, while Wifey was finishing with the table prep  My suegra is a true freak of nature -- nearly 94, and still wildly obese. Wrangling her into my car was quite a chore. I had her wheelchair, but it's useless at my house -- too many stairs from the front driveway.  Somehow I got her to the front porch, and I recovered from the massive schlep with a martini. The guests came and we got her to the table.

T Day was delightful. Joey's brother and sister in law came last minute, with their beautiful baby girl. Everyone ate heartily, and I made sure they drank well, too. The hours flew by as we repeatedly laughed and gave thanks for being together.

Everyone left but D2, and she helped me with her Sabta, and we returned her to the Palace. The old lady did have a grand time -- she was beaming when we dropped her off.

Friday D2 and Jonathan and Kyle had happy hour with me -- I turned Kyle onto Middleton, the fine Irish whiskey. I really dig him -- he's a patent lawyer in SF, and Ashley is returning there from NYC to live with him. I hope they end up together.

Then Elizabeth came over -- fresh from T Day at her sister's in the Grove. We talked about how some folks host T Day and somehow it's more miserable than joyful -- there's lots of tensosity, to use my late friend Alan's neologism.  But we went out for salads, and came home to some wine on our porch -- I told Elizabeth I would buy tickets for the final Rolling Stones concert next April -- the tour starts in Miami. She's going to come back and join us.

Saturday I was up as the innkeeper, and the young folks left after bagels and coffee, and at noon Mirta came -- the final Canes game. I brought a LOT of leftovers -- Mike was hosting the tailgate -- Norman decided, wonderfully, to take his Dad Max to the game, and so would miss a tailgate -- and Mike entertained us by deep frying a turkey.

That, along with the 6 lbs of leftover Shorty's brisket, and Sephardic side dishes, made for a nice spread.

My nephews from other parents were there  -- Scott is a senior at Maryland, and we were a bit misty eyed that his 4 college years flew by. He's interviewing for big boy jobs now, and enjoying his life, with a girlfriend we'll get to meet over Christmas break.

The game was boring -- though the Canes won handily, on amazing defense. But Pitt was the Coastal champion, which we should have been, so there was teeth gnashing about the season that could have happened for the Canes...

We drove home, and Mirta left to be with her boyfriend Jay, here for a few more days, and Wifey was watching TV. I had hoped to fetch D2 and Jonathan and Ashley and Kyle after the wedding, but my eyes grew tired, and I texted that Dadber was turning in -- maybe Momber would get them? She would not -- she was also tired, and they took regular Uber home -- I was up, though, and greeted them with my whiporwill whistle, which D2 laughed at -- it was from her youth.

Today the foursome has a post wedding brunch, and Wifey is seeing "Hello Dolly" with Cara and Linda, for Cara's birthday. They had made the plans a while back. I'm off to a lunch in the Gables, to celebrate Norman's 57th.

Ashley and Kyle will leave, and Jonathan will head back to Aventura for his last night with his family.

I get D2 for another morning -- I'll squire her around for some appointments, before I drop her at MIA where she'll meet Jonathan for their return to LGA.

It's always sad when we part, but less so this time, as she'll be coming back here in less than a month -- she already has her overpriced tickets for Xmas break -- she's coming 12/24, which is famous for being Wifey's birthday Eve. She'll stay until the second day of 2019.

I have a feeling the Inn at Villa Wifey might be in operation again -- their friends kind of dig being in Miami for New Year's.

It'll be my pleasure -- bagels and coffee and happy hours are my specialty -- with bell service and usually Dadber provided, at no extra charge.

Just Be Thankful For What You Got

So Tuesday night I swooped in to fetch D2 at MIA. Well, I was swooping, after midnight, when the Dolphin stopped me. I naively thought construction was finished, as it's been going on there at least since I moved here in '79, but I was wrong -- they funneled the four lanes to one before the new MIA exit, and so my pick was a bit late.

But there was my girl, with Jonathan who waited with her until his Uber to Aventura showed up. Thanksgiving week had begun.

We slept in, and then I took her to the optometrist. I enjoy driving her around for her Miami errands -- we get to catch up on our lives. From there we fetched a Nothing But Bundt cake for the feast today, and then headed to LOL for lunch. Wifey met us.

We got home, and D2 wanted to see, first hand, some of this fitness thing I've been crowing about, so we put on sneaks, and did a run/walk of three and a third miles though our 'hood. She ran more than I did -- my running is on a treadmill with Enrique threatening me, but I acquitted myself well -- D2 was happy her Dad is at least on the path to hopefully not dropping too soon...

Afterwards I took her for mani/pedis -- I got my first pedicure in six months, and we ran into Makenzie , the little sister of D2's old friend Harley. Makenzie had graduated UF, and was applying to grad school for PT. D2 felt very old, all of a sudden -- she remembered Mak as a grade schooler tagging along with her and Harley.

We got a call from D1, who was hosting an early 30th birthday -- there had been a cake miscommunication. Could we bring something? We could -- Milam's was right next door, and though the didn't have any dulce de leche huge sheet cakes just waiting purchase, I bought 3 nice looking cakes, and we fetched Wifey and headed to Shorecrest.

The new casa D1 and Joey was sparkling. D2 was led to the spare room named after her. Guests arrived. A bartender served in the back. Wifey and I and Joey's parents Jacqui and Ricardo were the only old folks invited, and we loved it, though Jacqui and Ricardo bolted much earlier than we did.

I loved catching up with D1's friends -- lifelong ones like Alyssa, and Nicole, and Hannah, and the ones she's met as a grown up. The weather was gorgeous, and the happy guests flowed inside and out.

Alex and Danielle came -- friends who are like older siblings to the Ds. Alex looked around and joked that it was clear Joey was always the Colombian drug dealer he suspected. We laughed heartily -- I almost spilled my Tito's, and Alex his mezcal...

I was chatting with Mikaela, a young lawyer who works for my friend Mike, and Sari, an audiologist, when Wifey lowered the boom -- we had stayed longer than the old folks were supposed to, and we said our goodbyes and left. D1's actual 30th isn't for another 6 days.

I told Ricardo his son had married a woman with an inconvenient birthday -- her whole life we have to fit in a celebration around T Day. He said it should be their biggest problem. Wise man.

Wifey drove us home, like in Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight," and indeed Wifey did look wonderful. She had the glow of being around her beloved Ds, and the comfort that comes with their having chosen wonderful men.

We know from too close experience how a woman's life can really go to the dumpster with the wrong man. Our girls have chosen well.

Today we'll be welcoming our United Nations of guests. It occurred to me we'll have my ancient suegra, born in Poland, and Wifey and David, Jonathan's Dad, both born in Israel to Holocaust Survivors. Jonathan's Mom Lizbeth and her daughter Elisa were born in Caracas, and Joey and his parents Ricardo and Jacqui were born in Bogota. The Ds, of course, were born right up the street, in South Miami Hospital. Oh year, I'm the only native New Yorker...

The Big Man has blessed us wonderfully, and today we intend to celebrate that.  I always reflect on one of my friend Stuart's sayings -- if Bill Gates woke up tomorrow with ONLY Oprah's money, he'd have to jump out of a window. In other words, if we measure ourselves against what we lack, it's a depressing enterprise.

Today, and truly all days, I thank the Big Man for all he has given us. And today, with a big feast, we get to truly celebrate that grandest of all blessings.

One Full Saturday

I slept in yesterday, all the way up to 8:30. For me, that's the equivalent of a teenager sleeping until 2 p.m. I was awakened by Paul, who was on his way with Alex and the kids -- where would be a good venue to meet?  I suggested the Falls -- we could have lunch, and the kids could run around.

I got there and they were at American Girl, the doll store. Alex's little girl was loving it. I took a photo of Paul sitting her on a shelf at a tea party display -- Wifey saw it and thought they were ALL dolls.  I noticed a lot of activity at the Falls, and then figured it out: they were setting up for their annual Holiday Parade, which they call the Miracle on 136th Street.

We retired to Brito, and ate as the parade started. The kids loved it -- we did, too, especially the Junkanoo Band from the Bahamian consul. Guys on stilts performed stunts.

I felt wistful. When the Ds were small, we'd take them to the parade. The Falls were the social center of our old lives. It's the first public place I took D1, when she was only about 3 weeks old. We had cabin fever, and I put her in a Dad baby carrier. I still remember her wide eyes as we passed all the holiday display lights.

The parade featured local dance groups, and adorable little girls marched past. I remember one year D2 was in their number, and we yelled her name as she passed, and she blushed.

After the parade ended, we parted, and I came home to find Wifey happily working the yard -- cleaning the beds, and rearranging the rocks.

I came inside to watch the Canes, along with my crew, all on a text group. The earlier game was Ohio State/Maryland, as as my nephew of another brother is a Terrapin, watched with great enthusiasm. The Terps nearly upset OSU, but fell short. Still, our witty comments made it enjoyable.

The Canes finally won big, insuring a bowl game after the season. Still, they were a major disappointment -- supposed to fight for the championship, and instead only mediocre. There's always next year...

When the game ended, Wifey and I left for another space where we frequented with the Ds -- now Pinecrest Gardens, formerly the Parrot Jungle. We used to buy annual passes, and the Ds would walk the paths, and enjoy the playgrounds. Years ago, we agreed to tax ourselves and make it a Village Park.

We were in the former Parrot Bowl, now the Banyan Bowl, a lovely geodesic dome amphitheater. It seats about 1000, and was packed to see David Sanborn, the great sax player.

We were among the youngest folks there -- a rarity these days in Miami, where we tend to be among the oldest -- especially when we meet D1 and Joey in Midtown or Wynwood or Brickell.

Sanborn was excellent -- his band was very "tight," as Wifey noted.

He was also Midwestern charming -- noting he came to Miami a lot, and loved that we preserved the gorgeous venue where he was playing. He said he was so old, FDR was president when he was born. I checked -- it was actually Harry Truman, but he was among many of his 70 something contemporaries...

The show ended, and we got a final treat -- another night without A/C. The breezes blew though our room, and we slept like royalty.

It was truly a full, delightful day.

Enjoying the Weather

So I left for the office yesterday and asked Wifey about maybe having dinner outdoors -- it was too lovely to stay in. She loves Black Point Marina, and so do I -- it reminds me of Monty's in the Grove back in the day, before the Grove became so upscale.

She called Deb, but she and Norman were busy entertaining out of town family, and I called Jeff, who typically doesn't do things last minute. But, alas, Lili had told him they'd BETTER start going out more, lest they become that couple who people suspect are shut ins, and so they were ON.

We fetched them at 6:30 and crawled down Old Cutler, but in about 20 minutes we arrived. We parked far from the restaurant, and sat down by the water. It was lovely. A cool breeze blew, and Lili was glad she had brought a sweater. Wifey, always concerned about my physical fitness, purposely forgot one, so that I would get the benefit of walking the 1/4 mile back to the car to fetch the emergency sweater I keep in the trunk.

Now Wifey was comfortable, and so I enjoyed the double Titos they offer -- only $6.75. We toasted our families -- Jeff and Lili's oldest is getting married in January, and we recalled the more than 30 years we've sailed through life together.

Lili is one of our funniest and wittiest friends, and she gave us some laugh out loud moments last night. She was raised Catholic and converted to the Tribe, but admits she still misses having a Christmas tree. Their daughters, growing up, asked for one, and she gaily told them "When Dad dies, we can have our tree."  So we all agreed THAT'S something to look forward to.

Black Point has live music, but it didn't start until 9, and we finished our dinners at 8:30. We said adios to our waitress and left.

We chatted a bit outside of their house, which is 4 houses from Villa Wifey, and then headed home. I sat outside awhile in the cool evening, under what the Boss poetically called "the evening trees."

The pre T Day fun continues. I bought the last two tickets for tonight's show at the old Parrot Jungle -- in the geodesic dome they still call the Parrot Bowl. The sax man David Sanborn is playing, and I happened to see an ad in the Herald -- I called and got the last two tickets. I'll be sure to bring a sweater for Wifey tonight right from the start.

We endure the summer heat for this time of year. D2 can't wait for her visit home -- NYC has already had wet snow and chill temps. She's a tropical girl on an extended sabbatical, as I always say.

Tomorrow we'll visit ancient Suegra. The Palace is hosting an early Thanksgiving, so it will be packed with relatives waiting on line for turkey. I may just sneak outside to the lovely gazebo while Wifey and her mom eat.

The weather is just too delightful...

Like A Breath of Fresh Air

I think it's been about 7 months since Miami temperatures have dropped to the 60s. I'm not complaining, of course, as I love living in the Tropics, but it's still a lovely change when it cools off. This morning, as I write, it's a lovely 61 degrees in Pinecrest.

Last night it was transitioning from muggy to lovely, and I cooled down our upstairs bedroom, but then realized it was cooler outside than inside. I shut off the A/C and opened the windows, as cool night air blew through. I slept the sleep of kings.

I chatted with both Ds last night, and we're all excited about the upcoming week. D1 got some nice news: her biggest client renewed her for another year. The client made the news by unveiling a new design for their uniforms, with no mention of D1, but for us it means I 'll keep cheering for them, even when they play my childhood team.

D1 called while trudging through sleet in Hoboken, on her way to the train that takes her home. She'd prefer classic Miami heat for her trip -- and it's slated to warm up a bit next week, but is thrilled to get out of the early wintry weather.

I'm headed to the office today. We actually had a few nice cases come in, and I get involved in their early set up and strategy. I also like to remind the folks that we don't get paid until the case ends, so maybe the correct way to handle them is to prosecute them aggressively.

It should be a quiet weekend, though we'll probably host Paul and Alex and Alex's two kids, and then the Canes are on TV. Sunday I'll visit ancient Suegra with Wifey. We're going to bring her over for TDay, though last time we took her out of the Palace things got dicey fast -- she made a scene while stopping for a bathroom break, and I had to convince nice bystanders that she would be fine -- no need to call 911.

We'll see -- the Palace is close enough that I can return her there if TDay proves to be too much for her, but I have a feeling she'll be so overjoyed being with her daughter and beloved grandkids that she'll be ok.

All I know is, I thank the Big Man for my family's doing well, and we even get an official feast in six days to raise our glasses with our close ones to do it together. And for today, well, the exquisite weather is a fitting prelude.

Seeing Results

So yesterday I had my old school-type annual physical exam. Wifey and I pay a yearly fee to be members of MDVIP, which essentially gives us the level of medical care everyone used to get in like the 70s. In other words, a doctor we can call, appointments the next day, blood draws without having to go to a lab, etc...

And one of the things they do is take like 6 vials of blood and give you absurd amounts of information -- the Cleveland Clinic does it.

So yesterday I wandered over to Dr. Mary, and had my 2.5 hour exam. The EKG was fine, as were my hearing and vision tests. Neuro -- good. My lung capacity was ABOVE average. But the best part:  all of the blood markers for pre diabetes and inflammation were in the LOW risk category. Turns out the exercise had actual, objective benefits.

Of course, the warranty, such as it is, is only for one year. That means the predictors of my low risk of dropping only last for a year. And, of course, the physical findings do not take into account such things as being hit by a truck, or being in a group where a loser psychopath decides to start shooting...

Still, it was good news, and I shared it with Enrique, my training guru. He was very happy to hear.

So I plan to keep it up, and try to stick around awhile.

Last evening, Stuart called -- he was signing up a new client who was referred to us. It was out kind of case-- commercial truck totally at fault caused a crash. He was in the 'hood, and so we met for dinner at Shula's.

We sat at the bar and were taken care of by Melissa, the young bartender who has been at Shula's for years. Stuart and I toasted his daughter, who had a Bat Mitzvah the past Saturday, and we toasted to our lives -- just the exquisiteness of being around.

The Canes had played, and won big over a Texas team. Coach L was at Shula's, as he is many post games. I walked to his table and congratulated him. He wished me a Happy Thanksgiving.

I plan to keep giving Thanks. Good news with the blood tests is a fine way to start.

Veteran's Day

So today the government celebrated Veteran's Day, which my parents were old enough to remember, used to be called Armistice Day. I remember it's celebrated on the 11th day of the 11th month (at the 11th hour) and that in the 70s the US government made it a 3 day weekend by calling the closest Monday the holiday.

I tell the tale each year, but I guess that's what holidays are about -- remembering and retelling our tales and stories of our culture. And for me, that recalls my Dad.

I wasn't born until decades later, of course, but I envision a 22 year old Bronx boy named Hy pushing dress carts through Lower Manhattan on December 7, 1941. Some time before then, my father was actually excited about a new, potential career. He had watched a young fellow decorate one of the fancy store windows in Midtown, and thought he wanted to do that, too. Unlike me, my Dad had artistic abilities -- he could draw, and had a keen eye for the visual.

He chatted up the fellow, and learned there was a union to join -- he ought to, according to the designer, go to the union hall, pay dues, get a card, and then he would be assigned as an apprentice. After a year or so, he would be a full on designer -- and the fellow told my Dad it paid REAL well.

That night, at the dinner table, he told his father, in Yiddish, of his plans. My grandpa Simon, who died years before I was born, beckoned my Dad closer, and my Dad complied. Then came a zetz, or smack, to the head, and Simon reminded my Dad he had a perfectly good job at the factory where Simon was a respected pattern maker, and how dare my Dad think about doing anything else.

So, as a dutiful son, my Dad kept on schlepping the dress carts, singing as he worked, until that day...he told me it was like a movie -- the city went silent, and my Dad ran to a store front radio. FDR gave his famous address "A Day that will live in INFAMY..." and my Dad knew his draft papers would come soon. They did -- in April, and off he went --nearly 4 years in the US Army.

While he was away, my Mom gave birth to my sister, and Dad didn't meet her until she was well over a year old. But he came home, and started a life that brought me into the world at the tail end of the baby boom.

And yet WW II was central to the tale. For Wifey, too, though her parents were in Poland, and the camps. Everything that shaped who they were came from those same WW II years.

So today I think of Dad, and I thank him, and all the others. I've been lucky. I owe it to them.

The Circle of Life

So on my way home yesterday, I called Mari, Alan's long time sort of girlfriend, who has been by his side during his final days. She said he was even more out of it, but seemed to be waiting for his daughter Ali before moving on. Sure enough, I got a text early this morning from Rabbi Yossi -- Alan had died at half past midnight. He was 69.

His body is being flown to Scranton, his hometown, even though he's lived here for 50 years. A few friends, including Paul, plan to go to NYC and drive the 2 hours to PA for the burial.

But on the happier side of things, my dear friend Stuart is hosting his daughter's Bat Mitzvah tomorrow. Stu got married later, and Ava was born when he was 45. His son came when he was 42, the age my Dad was when I was born. Stu had asked me what it was like to have an older father. I told him my Dad was my best friend, a combination father and grandfather who meant the world to me. Any downside, Stu asked. Yes, I replied -- you ever meet my father?

But hopefully Stu will have a much longer life than Hy did, and tomorrow we celebrate with a service at Aventura/Turnberry, where the rabbi grew up in Pittsburgh, and just returned from a visit to his hometown tragedy, followed by a lunch at Williams Island.

It'll be nice to celebrate a ritual of youth after all the death that seems to be hanging around lately.

Also this week, I texted with my brother in law Dennis about my law firm's taxes, and spoke with personal CPA Mark about personal taxes.  Given all the death around, I guess it was appropriate to deal with the only OTHER inevitability...

But on a happier note, a week from Tuesday D2 and Jonathan are due in from NYC, and Dadber will be at MIA. It's a jam packed week -- Wednesday night we celebrate, early, D1's 30th birthday, Thursday we're hosing T Day, Friday the Ds have a rehearsal dinner for a wedding at a local Reform synagogue on Saturday. Since the Ds will be busy, I plan to attend the last regular season Canes game of the year, and then Sunday get to celebrate my dear friend Norman's birthday.

T Day time always starts the most hectic time for us, and we don't even celebrate Christmas. D2 is coming back on 12/24 to celebrate her Mom's birthday, and leaving right after NYE. Then Wifey and I celebrate our wedding anniversary. By the time the first week in January is done, I'm ready for a vacation.

So we get to plan, and act, and savor the moments on the planet. Warren Zevon died of cancer, and gave as his final advice that we should enjoy every sandwich -- in other words, even the most mundane things in life.

I do, and am thankful I can. And adios, Alan...I'll think of him tomorrow as sparkle eyed Ava becomes a young woman...

The Vigil

I've known a fellow for 30 years named Alan, who I met through Paul. I call him the lovable scoundrel, and most who know him agree with my description. I once told Alan that's what I called him, and his eyes sparkled and he said to me "You're right!" Alan is dying.

Alan's from Scranton, and after Penn State went to UM Law. He built up a successful accident and injury practice using Yellow Pages advertising -- he always had the second or third big ad, and back in pre social media days, Yellow Pages were where folks found lawyers. A few years after I met him, he hired David as his associate. David is a real Queens guy who went to law school at Nova. David became Alan's little brother.

Well, Alan had a gambling problem, and used his trust account as his bank. He would replace lost funds with the next settlement, but like all Ponzi schemes, this one ended. He lost his ticket, as we call it, in 2000.

He then went to work for David, who took over the firm.

Alan had issues with women, and as a father, but when he threw a party -- you WANTED to be there. Back in the days before he lost his ticket, he'd host holiday parties at Mezzanote in the Grove. They were legendary affairs. When Alan turned 50, now 19 years ago, he threw himself a party at his Grove Isle condo. His girlfriend at the time was a stripper who looked just like Pamela Lee Anderson. Her friends were all there, very skimpily dressed.

One of the young ladies remarked to Wifey that she was cold. Wifey said "You know, you might try wearing some clothes."  Alan liked Wifey, but stopped inviting her to parties...

Some years ago, Alan was diagnosed with small intestine cancer. He was treated and recovered. He though he had beaten it. But last year, while Paul and I were having lunch with him, he lacked his typically ravenous appetite. He was worried. Sure enough, the cancer had recurred.

He went through a year of chemo, and was doing fine -- dating wildly inappropriate women, working at David's firm. But a few weeks ago he was hospitalized, and they tried surgery. The cancer had spread too much. He crashed, and was sent home with hospice care.

His son Max, who was living in Israel but moved back to Miami, reached out to Paul. He wanted his father to see a rabbi. So we reached out to Yossi -- he had met Alan years ago.

Monday night, we met the Rabbi at Alan's house. Alan was out of it -- the morphine had him drifting away. Still, he hummed along with the Shema, the Jewish version of last rites. Paul held his hand.

After we left Alan's bedside, we sat with Max, and talked about the challenges of being Alan's son. The rabbi was wise and helpful.

I can't imagine Alan will be on this mortal coil more than a few more days. It was pathetic to see him in bed helpless -- he was a big man, with a strong gait, who always looked like he had the world on a string, even when the world had him.

So I drove home from Grove Isle, once again firm in my life's philosophy. Our time is so limited here -- grasp the best you can.

The bell has tolled for Alan. It tolls for us all.

Another Shooting

It happened again yesterday in Tallahassee -- a loser with a gun and a grudge walked into a studio and killed two women and then himself. More are in the hospital, and a hero who tacked him got severely pistol whipped. It seems like every week lately. Springsteen's "Cover Me" lyrics play in my brain "I've seen enough I don't wanna see anymore."

Tally police released the dead victims' names. One was Wifey's age, a doctor in town and professor at FSU Med School. The other was 21 -- a Seminole undergrad.

I looked up the young victim on FaceBook. She was beautiful -- a Southern, WASPy version of the Ds. She was from Dunwoody, Ga, where Wifey's bff Edna lives, and where we've spent a lot of time. And she was taking a yoga class -- something the Ds do all the time.

I don't want to imagine the call the girl's parents got in the Atlanta suburb. Their lives instantly ruined.

My trainer Enrique and I were talking about the mass shootings the other day. I told him that statistically, it's the safest time to be a human being. Social media and constant news instantly report tragedies that 15 years ago we might not have even heard about, and it seems like there are far more of them.

Living has always been a dangerous activity. Our ancestors got eaten by animals -- frequently. In our society, the animals have been replaced by loser psychopaths with guns.

Of course guns are a problem -- mass shootings are uniquely American among supposedly civilized societies. Maybe the Dems will return to power, kiss off the NRA and its influence on simple minded Republicans, and there'll be fewer shootings. That's my hope.

But the loss, in the mean time, stings.

They had the funerals for the Pittsburgh synagogue victims last week. Last night, as Wifey and I drove home, past Bet Shira, the synagogue across from Palmetto High, we noticed there was a Pinecrest police car out front, with lights -- for a regular Shabbat service. I guess more security will be the thing of the future.

So I feel for people I don't know -- Tally victims' families. As time goes on, the loser's "motives" will come out, I'm sure. Early reports was that it was domestic. As a good friend of mine noted, it's too bad that murder/suicides can't instead be suicide/murders...

Well, today is Canes game day. Mirta will be here at 4, and we'll cruise up to Joe Robbie to meet our crew. We play Duke at 7 -- should be an easy game, but with our disappointing team, anything can happen.

But I plan to savor the time with my friends -- laughing, drinking, telling tales of yore. It's homecoming weekend, and yesterday my brother Norman returned to WVUM as Stormin' Norman, to perform as alumni DJ. He was terrific -- played tunes from our college years -- got to my request for Iggy Pop, which I appreciated.

They posted FB pix of him and his crew from the station. Wise guy Wifey said she wanted to see "Before/After" pictures. Funny, Wifey is...

So we'll hoist a few, and celebrate our friendships. For at least some Noles, today, there'll be no celebrating...