When the Ds were small, we'd travel quite a bit. Wifey was mostly the reason -- when we had the money for it, and even before we had the money for it, she'd plan trips for us -- several times to Europe, Alaska, many US states. But then she developed a bad back, and travel took a hike for awhile.
She had a trip planned for our 25th wedding anniversary -- Paris and Normandy. Paris would be romantic, and Normandy historical -- as the son of a WWII vet, I've always had a deep interest in The Big One. We had to cancel, and several years later, I took the Ds to Europe without her -- a Danube River cruise followed by several days in the City of Light. Wifey always wanted to go back.
I haven't really wanted to travel far over the past few years -- at least out of the US. We did a Maritimes cruise for Wifey and her BFF Edna's major birthday -- a number I'm not allowed to publicize was their 60th. But Canada has always seemed, to me, sort of like part of the US.
Well, the traveling days have returned. Wednesday we're going with D1 and Joey to our son in law's native land, Colombia. We fly to Bogota, and the next day D2 and her man Jonathan will join us from NYC. Jonathan's native land is Venezuela -- next to Colombia, but he's never visited the newly peaceful neighboring country either.
We're all excited. We'll meet some of Joey's family who didn't make it here for the Big, Fat Colombian wedding. Joey has a full itinerary planned -- after Shabbat dinner with his family Friday, our sextet flies to Cartegena. I'll get to watch the Super Bowl there -- assuming I can find a TV on not showing the OTHER kind of football...
We'll celebrate D2's 26th -- she was born the Day the Music Died, per Don McLean. We always try to be all together of the Ds' birthdays -- and it warms me to be able to do it on another continent this year.
And there's still Paris out there. I think we're finally going to go -- this Spring. Last summer we had a great time in the US Northwest with Loni and Mike, and I mentioned the France trip to them. They've never been. So if we can jibe our schedules, sometime after the English AP exams Loni's kids take, we may plan our trip.
Last night, out to a late dinner at a local Thai place, the idea seemed to gain traction. Our other friends Darriel and Paul were there, and they had visited last year with their beloved granddaughter. Darriel loved the city, but wants to someday return without and kids in tow. She was thrilled we may get to go together.
Truth is, I really loved Paris. The Ds and I sat in the Tulieres, drinking hot chocolate, and bathing in the beautiful light. There have been a handful of places I've visited where I truly felt a spirit of the place -- Paris was one of them.
So I think it may come to pass this Spring. Paris in the Spring. A cliche I hope to live out with Wifey.
But first, the land of Magical Realism beckons. And the Ds and their awesome men. Now where did I leave those passports?
Sunday, January 28, 2018
Friday, January 26, 2018
Taking It Seriously
Yesterday am I met my friend Kenny for breakfast. I've known him since junior high, and he's always been one of my smartest, if not smartest, friends. Back when we all took the SATs, in the era before tutoring, most of us scored in the 1200s -- at least those in the top 10% of our class in the mostly blue collar high school. I still recall Kenny's score was above 1500 --he grasped both Math and English. And he loved to learn and experience -- he still does. He retired as a full Navy captain and flight surgeon, and works as a Radiologist locally. Whenever I meet with him, I learn something.
Yesterday it was about politics. Kenny and his wife, a Law professor, are very liberal, and take it seriously. We watched the last presidential election returns at their house, and some of Kenny's wife's friends took things comically bad when Trump's victory was announced. One woman, who sat quietly and watched the PBS commentator spoke, erupted into a tirade of curses, some I had never heard before, when PBS, of all things, called the election.
But anyway, Kenny told me he was committed to spending significant money this coming year on various elections trying to get Democrats back in office. He sees it as the duty of any right thinking American who has the ability to do it. He's probably correct.
I'm too jaded. When Trump won, it struck me that a sizeable minority of my countrymen are simply morons. And as the comedian Ron Wright noted, you can't fix stupid. If I needed any more evidence, it came in the Alabama Senate race, where a world class creep nearly won. I think that, nationally, things are, in the military acronym, FUBAR -- beyond all repair.
As I age, I've begun adopting Hemingway's philosophy -- the world is so messed up, the best a man can hope to do is stake out a small oasis of sanity around himself. This flies in the face of altruism. I think it comes with wisdom.
Even on a micro level --I've undertaken a spring cleaning of toxic people. I take a good, hard look at those I no longer want as part of my oasis, and though I'm not rude to them, I make it clear that any relationships will be surface only.
A friend once described me as Shel Silverstein's "Giving Tree." Well, the stump is now gone, other than for a very small, select circle.
I hope Kenny's quest is successful -- I really do. But I'll keep my giving activities to actual charities -- groups that heal others, body and soul. I figure the big boys can buy the politicians -- on either side.
Locally, there was a candidate for Miami Beach Commission who held himself out as a man of the people. No more being bought by the big developers, he said. Well, he got caught setting up what he thought was an anonymous pay for play group -- and his bag men went around collecting lots of money. It's just the nature of the beast.
Besides...if we've learned anything, it's that politics is a pendulum -- it will swing back on its own, after enough of Trumpism. I'm holding my money this time around.
Yesterday it was about politics. Kenny and his wife, a Law professor, are very liberal, and take it seriously. We watched the last presidential election returns at their house, and some of Kenny's wife's friends took things comically bad when Trump's victory was announced. One woman, who sat quietly and watched the PBS commentator spoke, erupted into a tirade of curses, some I had never heard before, when PBS, of all things, called the election.
But anyway, Kenny told me he was committed to spending significant money this coming year on various elections trying to get Democrats back in office. He sees it as the duty of any right thinking American who has the ability to do it. He's probably correct.
I'm too jaded. When Trump won, it struck me that a sizeable minority of my countrymen are simply morons. And as the comedian Ron Wright noted, you can't fix stupid. If I needed any more evidence, it came in the Alabama Senate race, where a world class creep nearly won. I think that, nationally, things are, in the military acronym, FUBAR -- beyond all repair.
As I age, I've begun adopting Hemingway's philosophy -- the world is so messed up, the best a man can hope to do is stake out a small oasis of sanity around himself. This flies in the face of altruism. I think it comes with wisdom.
Even on a micro level --I've undertaken a spring cleaning of toxic people. I take a good, hard look at those I no longer want as part of my oasis, and though I'm not rude to them, I make it clear that any relationships will be surface only.
A friend once described me as Shel Silverstein's "Giving Tree." Well, the stump is now gone, other than for a very small, select circle.
I hope Kenny's quest is successful -- I really do. But I'll keep my giving activities to actual charities -- groups that heal others, body and soul. I figure the big boys can buy the politicians -- on either side.
Locally, there was a candidate for Miami Beach Commission who held himself out as a man of the people. No more being bought by the big developers, he said. Well, he got caught setting up what he thought was an anonymous pay for play group -- and his bag men went around collecting lots of money. It's just the nature of the beast.
Besides...if we've learned anything, it's that politics is a pendulum -- it will swing back on its own, after enough of Trumpism. I'm holding my money this time around.
Thursday, January 25, 2018
Hey --Ya Gotta Eat
Yesterday one of my partners, John, was about to leave for lunch with me, when he realized he had a bunch of stressful tasks he needed to complete first. But then he decided to have lunch first, because, he said to me with a laugh, "Ya gotta eat."
That phrase has special meaning to me, because of the context I heard it uttered, years ago. Paul and I were both working for a firm run by Ed, one of our life's mentors. Ed had made TONS of money, and lived very well. He was a true gourmand -- he loved his fine meals -- and each day he treated all of us to lavish lunches. We didn't run to the local cafeteria -- no -- Ed took us to the area's finest places. Anytime someone suggested we venture even farther afield -- maybe the Gables or Grove -- Ed smiled and happily complied.
He would also treat the whole firm to extravagant Christmas parties. Each year, he'd put on a Santa suit, and give out gifts to all of the staff, after they sat on his lap. Of course, this was long pre-Weinstein days, and although this sort of thing would never pass muster today, it wasn't creepy, somehow. Ed was into planes, yachts, luxury travel, and fishing and hunting -- he never was a womanizer, so his little Xmas fantasies seemed harmless enough. Plus, the bonuses and gifts were very generous.
After the gift exchange, we'd go out to some top flight lunch. Typically the venue was Vinton's in the Gables, or maybe St. Michel -- always awesome, with top drawer champagne, and delicious food.
Well...one year, the firm wasn't doing very well, and we lawyers and the business manager Dolores had a meeting -- probably late November. Dolores announced somberly that maybe the major lunch party that year wasn't in the cards.
Ed's minority partner Frank had an idea. Maybe the secretaries could each bring a covered dish, and the holiday party would be thus. Paul pointed out what bad taste that was -- the "girls," as we called them, had to work for us -- now, on a holiday they celebrated, Christmas, they should cook, too?
Paul had a simple solution: maybe for the coming month, we'd dispense with the luxury daily lunches -- we could brown bag it -- and with the savings there, the big Xmas lunch could still go on.
To this day, I remember the look on Ed's face. Paul was suggesting to our gourmand boss that a major daily pleasure of his should be curtailed? But what Ed said, simply, was "Hey -- ya gotta eat."
We laughed, because we understood quickly he was saying -- hey -- maybe YOU can do without the daily great lunch, but not me, buster.
Years later, whenever Paul and I would discuss maybe foregoing some luxury, the other would say "Hey -- but ya gotta eat." And we'd laugh, but we'd also remember the wisdom of Ed.
Paul recalled a trip to New Orleans, where Ed had the finest hotels and restaurants, in that finest restaurant city. Paul asked Ed about affording all the luxury, and Ed replied "Paul -- you can't afford to NOT live like this."
In other words, life is short and precious, and if you don't go for the best you can afford, you're a fool.
Well, yesterday we DID go to the cafeteria. But John had his lunch, and so fortified, went about his tasks.
I think about the wisdom of Ed all the time.
That phrase has special meaning to me, because of the context I heard it uttered, years ago. Paul and I were both working for a firm run by Ed, one of our life's mentors. Ed had made TONS of money, and lived very well. He was a true gourmand -- he loved his fine meals -- and each day he treated all of us to lavish lunches. We didn't run to the local cafeteria -- no -- Ed took us to the area's finest places. Anytime someone suggested we venture even farther afield -- maybe the Gables or Grove -- Ed smiled and happily complied.
He would also treat the whole firm to extravagant Christmas parties. Each year, he'd put on a Santa suit, and give out gifts to all of the staff, after they sat on his lap. Of course, this was long pre-Weinstein days, and although this sort of thing would never pass muster today, it wasn't creepy, somehow. Ed was into planes, yachts, luxury travel, and fishing and hunting -- he never was a womanizer, so his little Xmas fantasies seemed harmless enough. Plus, the bonuses and gifts were very generous.
After the gift exchange, we'd go out to some top flight lunch. Typically the venue was Vinton's in the Gables, or maybe St. Michel -- always awesome, with top drawer champagne, and delicious food.
Well...one year, the firm wasn't doing very well, and we lawyers and the business manager Dolores had a meeting -- probably late November. Dolores announced somberly that maybe the major lunch party that year wasn't in the cards.
Ed's minority partner Frank had an idea. Maybe the secretaries could each bring a covered dish, and the holiday party would be thus. Paul pointed out what bad taste that was -- the "girls," as we called them, had to work for us -- now, on a holiday they celebrated, Christmas, they should cook, too?
Paul had a simple solution: maybe for the coming month, we'd dispense with the luxury daily lunches -- we could brown bag it -- and with the savings there, the big Xmas lunch could still go on.
To this day, I remember the look on Ed's face. Paul was suggesting to our gourmand boss that a major daily pleasure of his should be curtailed? But what Ed said, simply, was "Hey -- ya gotta eat."
We laughed, because we understood quickly he was saying -- hey -- maybe YOU can do without the daily great lunch, but not me, buster.
Years later, whenever Paul and I would discuss maybe foregoing some luxury, the other would say "Hey -- but ya gotta eat." And we'd laugh, but we'd also remember the wisdom of Ed.
Paul recalled a trip to New Orleans, where Ed had the finest hotels and restaurants, in that finest restaurant city. Paul asked Ed about affording all the luxury, and Ed replied "Paul -- you can't afford to NOT live like this."
In other words, life is short and precious, and if you don't go for the best you can afford, you're a fool.
Well, yesterday we DID go to the cafeteria. But John had his lunch, and so fortified, went about his tasks.
I think about the wisdom of Ed all the time.
Monday, January 22, 2018
Sunrise, Sunset
So Wifey and I stopped for lunch yesterday in the old Kendall Mall -- not really a mall, but an old style strip shopping center - and we sat outside having our salads. The place is under construction, and kind of tough to navigate, but it was the shopping center of Wifey's adolescence -- she moved to the neighborhood in 1971.
She pointed to a store under construction and recalled there was a movie theater there -- it's where she saw "Saturday Night Fever" with her friend Rosie. I reminded her that was over 40! years ago.
It's really funny how time seems to arc towards brevity as we age. When I was in high school, and would buy a concert ticket for a show a few months away, it seemed like FOREVER before the date came. Now -- two months is like a day to me.
Of course, when you're 15 and have lived precious few days, each one is monumental. In my mid 50s, I've acquired quite a few of them -- a single day flashes by.
After lunch, we headed to the Palace for the visit with my ancient suegra. She's surfacing lately -- as she porpoises into her final fate. We took her outside, and showed her pictures of D1's wedding. We could tell she really didn't have a memory of being there -- she looked on as if we were showing her an affair held out of state. But still, the days go on for her -- one after the other.
As a parent, once the Ds got to college, time really flew by. Lately I'm experiencing that again with Scott, my nephew of another mister. A week ago or so, we had breakfast at LOL before he headed off for his freshman year at Maryland. Now he's headed back to College Park for the Spring Semester of his junior year -- in a wink, he'll be 3/4 done with college. I implored him to savor it. He is, and that makes me happy.
I always try to mark the time, to mark the milestones. If I don't, my mind becomes too elastic. Was something truly last year, or in the 80s?
On Saturday, Paul and Alex met Wifey and me at the old Parrot Jungle, with Paul's grandkids Roger and Enid in tow. I brought sandwiches from Joanna's, and we picnicked overlooking the lake there. Wifey took Enid to the petting zoo, and the men stood with Roger on the swing. I allowed myself to drift back in my mind to when I was preschool -- my parents taking me on swings. I actually found a memory -- the swings at Jones Beach-- and the memory warmed me. I remember my Dad smoking a pipe and pushing me -- it was a late Fall day, and the sun was brilliant. Over a half century has passed, and that moment in time is still in my mind...
So I plan to continue to enjoy the days -- as many as I'm given, and as fast as they fly.
She pointed to a store under construction and recalled there was a movie theater there -- it's where she saw "Saturday Night Fever" with her friend Rosie. I reminded her that was over 40! years ago.
It's really funny how time seems to arc towards brevity as we age. When I was in high school, and would buy a concert ticket for a show a few months away, it seemed like FOREVER before the date came. Now -- two months is like a day to me.
Of course, when you're 15 and have lived precious few days, each one is monumental. In my mid 50s, I've acquired quite a few of them -- a single day flashes by.
After lunch, we headed to the Palace for the visit with my ancient suegra. She's surfacing lately -- as she porpoises into her final fate. We took her outside, and showed her pictures of D1's wedding. We could tell she really didn't have a memory of being there -- she looked on as if we were showing her an affair held out of state. But still, the days go on for her -- one after the other.
As a parent, once the Ds got to college, time really flew by. Lately I'm experiencing that again with Scott, my nephew of another mister. A week ago or so, we had breakfast at LOL before he headed off for his freshman year at Maryland. Now he's headed back to College Park for the Spring Semester of his junior year -- in a wink, he'll be 3/4 done with college. I implored him to savor it. He is, and that makes me happy.
I always try to mark the time, to mark the milestones. If I don't, my mind becomes too elastic. Was something truly last year, or in the 80s?
On Saturday, Paul and Alex met Wifey and me at the old Parrot Jungle, with Paul's grandkids Roger and Enid in tow. I brought sandwiches from Joanna's, and we picnicked overlooking the lake there. Wifey took Enid to the petting zoo, and the men stood with Roger on the swing. I allowed myself to drift back in my mind to when I was preschool -- my parents taking me on swings. I actually found a memory -- the swings at Jones Beach-- and the memory warmed me. I remember my Dad smoking a pipe and pushing me -- it was a late Fall day, and the sun was brilliant. Over a half century has passed, and that moment in time is still in my mind...
So I plan to continue to enjoy the days -- as many as I'm given, and as fast as they fly.
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Young Team
So I acknowledged MLK Day yesterday by staying home and reflecting. Honestly, not so much about MLK, but about life in general. I did two laps around the 'hood, and Wifey left for a doc's appointment, and she returned in time for us to leave for the Canes basketball game. We were hosting Duke.
I can't stand Duke. I have a few friends who attended, but by and large, I find the school to be a second tier college that has had tremendous marketing, and alumni support, and acts as if it's Ivy League. It's not. Lots of rich, spoiled kids go there, and a few years ago a magazine awarded them the "Douchiest College Award." Truth is, their rival, the University of North Carolina is a better school, but Duke is a "hot college."
Plus, years ago, D2 applied there. She only applied to a few colleges, since she knew she wanted to attend UF, but got into Michigan, Maryland, and I think North Carolina. Duke rejected her, which would have been fine, but the way they did it stuck in my craw. They wrote a letter saying, in effect, you're a great student, but not THAT great, and since we're the greatest college in the history of higher education, well, you're just below the cut. Yeah, right. Meanwhile, kids with inferior grades and SATs got into Duke because they were Hispanic.
I think I actually wrote them, to D2's annoyance -- a very sarcastic "thank you for your consideration" in which I made clear that they are, in fact, well inferior to the Ivies, and Stanford, and even Michigan.
Anyway -- there was a great buzz at the Canes arena, and the Canes, mostly freshman and sophomores, gave Duke a nice game, but eventually lost to the better players and better coaching. I yelled and screamed -- to Wifey's amusement, mostly. I think it better that I attend future Canes games only with my brethren who really get it -- like Mike and Norman and Rob and Mirta. Wifey's too ironic to really understand being a Canes fan.
So we lost, but during the game I got a text that brightened me: D1 had been on a local news segment featuring her company. She was poised and impressive. Earlier in the day she told me she had the tryout, and I told her that she might not get the gig -- and if she didn't, the station was full of losers.
D1 called me a Tiger Dad, and she's right. I'm fiercely protective of my Ds. A meaningless slight by some random admissions officer in North Carolina, 9 years on, still irks me. A few summers back, D2 applied for internships at two Miami companies. One, Royal Caribbean, accepted her. The other did not. To this day, when I pass the headquarters of the company that didn't offer her the job, I flick it the bird. I can't help it -- it's the way I'm put together.
My friend Joel, who is Italian and the same way, credits it to the small amount of Italian DNA I was found to have.
Also -- Duke really is a douchey college. We'll beat them in the ACC tournament. I hope.
I can't stand Duke. I have a few friends who attended, but by and large, I find the school to be a second tier college that has had tremendous marketing, and alumni support, and acts as if it's Ivy League. It's not. Lots of rich, spoiled kids go there, and a few years ago a magazine awarded them the "Douchiest College Award." Truth is, their rival, the University of North Carolina is a better school, but Duke is a "hot college."
Plus, years ago, D2 applied there. She only applied to a few colleges, since she knew she wanted to attend UF, but got into Michigan, Maryland, and I think North Carolina. Duke rejected her, which would have been fine, but the way they did it stuck in my craw. They wrote a letter saying, in effect, you're a great student, but not THAT great, and since we're the greatest college in the history of higher education, well, you're just below the cut. Yeah, right. Meanwhile, kids with inferior grades and SATs got into Duke because they were Hispanic.
I think I actually wrote them, to D2's annoyance -- a very sarcastic "thank you for your consideration" in which I made clear that they are, in fact, well inferior to the Ivies, and Stanford, and even Michigan.
Anyway -- there was a great buzz at the Canes arena, and the Canes, mostly freshman and sophomores, gave Duke a nice game, but eventually lost to the better players and better coaching. I yelled and screamed -- to Wifey's amusement, mostly. I think it better that I attend future Canes games only with my brethren who really get it -- like Mike and Norman and Rob and Mirta. Wifey's too ironic to really understand being a Canes fan.
So we lost, but during the game I got a text that brightened me: D1 had been on a local news segment featuring her company. She was poised and impressive. Earlier in the day she told me she had the tryout, and I told her that she might not get the gig -- and if she didn't, the station was full of losers.
D1 called me a Tiger Dad, and she's right. I'm fiercely protective of my Ds. A meaningless slight by some random admissions officer in North Carolina, 9 years on, still irks me. A few summers back, D2 applied for internships at two Miami companies. One, Royal Caribbean, accepted her. The other did not. To this day, when I pass the headquarters of the company that didn't offer her the job, I flick it the bird. I can't help it -- it's the way I'm put together.
My friend Joel, who is Italian and the same way, credits it to the small amount of Italian DNA I was found to have.
Also -- Duke really is a douchey college. We'll beat them in the ACC tournament. I hope.
Monday, January 15, 2018
Lucky To Have Seen That One
So Wifey and I headed to the Palace, and found my ancient suegra just finished with lunch. We asked if she felt well enough to go to the cemetery, and she did, so I pulled the car up front and we loaded her into the rear seat. Then the oying started...
Poor thing is in a lot of pain. It's mostly arthritic. She said she didn't want to complain, but then proceeded to moan for the entire, mercifully short drive to the graveyard. Wifey plans to get on her doc this week -- they seem averse to give her the powerful stuff, since that makes her, I guess, harder to handle with her activities of daily living, but this pain is ridiculous for a 93 year old. We all agree becoming addicted to opium based drugs, like maybe morphine, is perfectly ok now.
We unloaded her at the grave site, and we gave her a stone to place on the marker. Wifey and I did the same. Next week marks two years since Richard died. While Wifey and her Mom sat, I wandered a bit, taking in the various other mostly Ashkenazi surnames. I saw the Epstein section -- Murray, a former PI lawyer, who died young after his beloved son Alan died in a tragic car wreck during his freshman year at UF. His widow Cheryl is there now, too, also died young.
And then I saw the marker of a fellow named Leo -- he died at 67. His marker had the great line "You only go around once." I took a photo of that, and sent it to my man Paul, who is 67, and like me, always contemplating his own death.
We re loaded the suegra into the car, and the oying started again. Wifey took her back inside -- I waited in the car -- and got her situated with some coffee, and chocolate in front of an old movie with subtitles. The oying stopped, and Wifey slipped out. In the car, she told me the coffee, chocolate, and old movie would work for her, too, and if I was ever tending to her at a facility, to remember that. I made a mental note.
From there we drove to UM, and parked behind the Science Building, and walked to Beaux Arts Festival. They had moved the location -- massive new dorm construction is taking place along the lake where the festival is usually held, so they relocated it to the Green -- the area where I graduated on a steamy May day in 1983. We walked around, and ran into Ruby -- our friend Elizabeth's sister, and her long time man Harris. I took a photo and messaged it to Elizabeth in Orlando.
And then we ran into Mike and Loni and Chris and his lady Rachel. We walked with them a bit, and Loni went off to fetch her Mom, who was waiting post Uber at the Lowe Museum. And then we all walked, and saw some art, and ran into Susan, who used to sing at all the kids birthday parties -- Rachel's included. She told us her brother was a photographer and was selling his photos of classic Miami scenes. We found the booth, and I almost bought a shot of the old Tobacco Road, my long time watering hole, but then remembered I'm on an anti crap in the house crusade. I walked away.
Then we saw the second friend-sister -- Karen. She was there with her tiny dog, and a friend from Aventura. We walked, and talked, and I learned the friend was born in Switzerland, to a German Jewish Dad, post War, and raised in Miami. She was married about the same amount of time as Wifey and I, had two great sons, and then her husband dropped suddenly of a stroke. He was in fine health, she said -- played tennis daily. Her sons, now late 20s, were in college when they lost their Dad. I told her I feel for them -- same fate befell me.
And then Karen asked if I was going to Miami-Duke basketball, and I told her I was too lazy to buy tickets. "Well, then it's a sign from above," she said. She had her two tickets, but had a conflict -- a neighbor was premiering a Holocaust film in Aventura, and she committed to go. She brought the tickets to the UM campus thinking maybe someone wanted them. She was right -- Wifey and I took them -- we'll have an early dinner at Titanic and then go see the Canes take on the Deuchiest College in America...
We headed home, and I turned on the last of the late NFL playoff game -- Saints at Vikings. I happen to like both NOLA and the Twin Cities -- though I haven't been to Minneapolis in many years -- so I was rooting for both teams. And I'm glad I watched -- the Vikings won as time expired on a long, improbable pass that will hopefully further dim and memory of what that gnome Doug Flutie did to my Canes in '84...
It was something to see. The Vikes go to Philly, to play the Eagles next Sunday. My friend Stu grew up an Eagles fan, as is his Dad Bill. Stu promised his teen son Val that if the Eagles win, he'll take him to Minneapolis for the Super Bowl. So now Stu, like the protagonist in "Paradise By the Dashboard Light," is praying the Eagles lose. Twin Cities in February is awful weather, especially for the converted sun worshiper Stu. And the tix and trip will probably set him back north of $10K.
All I know is, today is MLK Day, and I plan to stay off the road. The last few years some knuckleheads have taken a nice idea, "Wheels Up/Guns Down" and turned MLK Day into a Mad Max type scene with packs of ATVs and other non legal vehicles roving through Dade and Broward as the cops helplessly watch. Hopefully they'll be done by the time we head out to UM.
And maybe a terrific end of the game, in favor of the Canes, of course, awaits us.
Poor thing is in a lot of pain. It's mostly arthritic. She said she didn't want to complain, but then proceeded to moan for the entire, mercifully short drive to the graveyard. Wifey plans to get on her doc this week -- they seem averse to give her the powerful stuff, since that makes her, I guess, harder to handle with her activities of daily living, but this pain is ridiculous for a 93 year old. We all agree becoming addicted to opium based drugs, like maybe morphine, is perfectly ok now.
We unloaded her at the grave site, and we gave her a stone to place on the marker. Wifey and I did the same. Next week marks two years since Richard died. While Wifey and her Mom sat, I wandered a bit, taking in the various other mostly Ashkenazi surnames. I saw the Epstein section -- Murray, a former PI lawyer, who died young after his beloved son Alan died in a tragic car wreck during his freshman year at UF. His widow Cheryl is there now, too, also died young.
And then I saw the marker of a fellow named Leo -- he died at 67. His marker had the great line "You only go around once." I took a photo of that, and sent it to my man Paul, who is 67, and like me, always contemplating his own death.
We re loaded the suegra into the car, and the oying started again. Wifey took her back inside -- I waited in the car -- and got her situated with some coffee, and chocolate in front of an old movie with subtitles. The oying stopped, and Wifey slipped out. In the car, she told me the coffee, chocolate, and old movie would work for her, too, and if I was ever tending to her at a facility, to remember that. I made a mental note.
From there we drove to UM, and parked behind the Science Building, and walked to Beaux Arts Festival. They had moved the location -- massive new dorm construction is taking place along the lake where the festival is usually held, so they relocated it to the Green -- the area where I graduated on a steamy May day in 1983. We walked around, and ran into Ruby -- our friend Elizabeth's sister, and her long time man Harris. I took a photo and messaged it to Elizabeth in Orlando.
And then we ran into Mike and Loni and Chris and his lady Rachel. We walked with them a bit, and Loni went off to fetch her Mom, who was waiting post Uber at the Lowe Museum. And then we all walked, and saw some art, and ran into Susan, who used to sing at all the kids birthday parties -- Rachel's included. She told us her brother was a photographer and was selling his photos of classic Miami scenes. We found the booth, and I almost bought a shot of the old Tobacco Road, my long time watering hole, but then remembered I'm on an anti crap in the house crusade. I walked away.
Then we saw the second friend-sister -- Karen. She was there with her tiny dog, and a friend from Aventura. We walked, and talked, and I learned the friend was born in Switzerland, to a German Jewish Dad, post War, and raised in Miami. She was married about the same amount of time as Wifey and I, had two great sons, and then her husband dropped suddenly of a stroke. He was in fine health, she said -- played tennis daily. Her sons, now late 20s, were in college when they lost their Dad. I told her I feel for them -- same fate befell me.
And then Karen asked if I was going to Miami-Duke basketball, and I told her I was too lazy to buy tickets. "Well, then it's a sign from above," she said. She had her two tickets, but had a conflict -- a neighbor was premiering a Holocaust film in Aventura, and she committed to go. She brought the tickets to the UM campus thinking maybe someone wanted them. She was right -- Wifey and I took them -- we'll have an early dinner at Titanic and then go see the Canes take on the Deuchiest College in America...
We headed home, and I turned on the last of the late NFL playoff game -- Saints at Vikings. I happen to like both NOLA and the Twin Cities -- though I haven't been to Minneapolis in many years -- so I was rooting for both teams. And I'm glad I watched -- the Vikings won as time expired on a long, improbable pass that will hopefully further dim and memory of what that gnome Doug Flutie did to my Canes in '84...
It was something to see. The Vikes go to Philly, to play the Eagles next Sunday. My friend Stu grew up an Eagles fan, as is his Dad Bill. Stu promised his teen son Val that if the Eagles win, he'll take him to Minneapolis for the Super Bowl. So now Stu, like the protagonist in "Paradise By the Dashboard Light," is praying the Eagles lose. Twin Cities in February is awful weather, especially for the converted sun worshiper Stu. And the tix and trip will probably set him back north of $10K.
All I know is, today is MLK Day, and I plan to stay off the road. The last few years some knuckleheads have taken a nice idea, "Wheels Up/Guns Down" and turned MLK Day into a Mad Max type scene with packs of ATVs and other non legal vehicles roving through Dade and Broward as the cops helplessly watch. Hopefully they'll be done by the time we head out to UM.
And maybe a terrific end of the game, in favor of the Canes, of course, awaits us.
Sunday, January 14, 2018
Spectacular Weather
Years ago, I remember visiting my parents' in Delray over Winter Break. They started out getting the Herald, but my Dad switched to the Sun Sentinel, for more local (to South Palm Beach) news. Back then, the Herald had the excellent Tropic Sunday magazine, while the Sun Sentinel had the crappy "Parade." Well, Parade is still around, while Tropic is long gone.
Anyway, I remember one puff Parade piece -- the top locations for weather all year. It was a guide for Americans wanting to get the finest weather depending on city. January was, and I remember the copy "Not surprisingly, Miami, Florida." And so it is. It's spectacular this time of year.
Last night Wifey and I went with long time friends Jeff and Lili for dinner at the Falls, at a place called Los Ranchos, which is Spanish for "The Ranchos." It's a Nicaraguan place, owned by the Somoza family (really) and last year it moved from its long time spot at the outdoor mall to newer, nicer digs. Wifey and I shared a seafood parrillada (Wifey told the waiter she wanted a Paradaba) and Jeff and Lili had churasscos, their signature dish.
We then saw "The Post," the new Spielberg flick about Katherine Graham and Ben Bradley. Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks were fine -- the movie dragged a bit, and sure enough there was a John Williams score that soared at points of "high drama." Eh. 2.5 stars...
We came home, and the temperatures were dropping, and during the night, reached optimal sleeping levels -- the high 50s. I fell asleep to a cool breeze across the bed. Wifey came up later and closed the window. She doesn't like the cold...
This am the day broke almost comically gorgeous. I fed the dogs and read the Herald outside on the front loggio, which the fellow who build our house, Richard, told me Villa style porches are called. Poor Richard. Yesterday was 4th anniversary of his unspeakable tragedy. His ex wife Jennifer killed their two teens and then herself. Richard has somehow carried on -- he raises money now for his late kids' arts school in West Palm.
I recently posted on his FaceBook page about how much my family has appreciated the house he built. He wrote me back that that meant a lot to him...
Anyway, the dogs happily chased lizards while I savored the morning. Wifey came down, and I made us an omelette to share, and then we walked the 1.1 mile loop around our 'hood. We ran into Mia, the Pinecrest mayor's wife, and her daughter, a freshman at Villanova, near Philly. They had their two Spaniels in tow, I took photos of the Cavalier meet up and sent them to the Ds.
We're leaving soon to visit the ancient suegra. I'll offer to take her to the cemetery to visit my father in law, but she'll probably decline. Moving anywhere is quite a chore for her these days.
After that, Wifey and I will head to Beaux Arts Festival at UM. We go each year -- it's a delightful event, and the fact that it takes place on the Miami campus, holy ground for me, makes it that much better.
Yes --these are the best weather days there are. And we enjoy them immensely.
Anyway, I remember one puff Parade piece -- the top locations for weather all year. It was a guide for Americans wanting to get the finest weather depending on city. January was, and I remember the copy "Not surprisingly, Miami, Florida." And so it is. It's spectacular this time of year.
Last night Wifey and I went with long time friends Jeff and Lili for dinner at the Falls, at a place called Los Ranchos, which is Spanish for "The Ranchos." It's a Nicaraguan place, owned by the Somoza family (really) and last year it moved from its long time spot at the outdoor mall to newer, nicer digs. Wifey and I shared a seafood parrillada (Wifey told the waiter she wanted a Paradaba) and Jeff and Lili had churasscos, their signature dish.
We then saw "The Post," the new Spielberg flick about Katherine Graham and Ben Bradley. Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks were fine -- the movie dragged a bit, and sure enough there was a John Williams score that soared at points of "high drama." Eh. 2.5 stars...
We came home, and the temperatures were dropping, and during the night, reached optimal sleeping levels -- the high 50s. I fell asleep to a cool breeze across the bed. Wifey came up later and closed the window. She doesn't like the cold...
This am the day broke almost comically gorgeous. I fed the dogs and read the Herald outside on the front loggio, which the fellow who build our house, Richard, told me Villa style porches are called. Poor Richard. Yesterday was 4th anniversary of his unspeakable tragedy. His ex wife Jennifer killed their two teens and then herself. Richard has somehow carried on -- he raises money now for his late kids' arts school in West Palm.
I recently posted on his FaceBook page about how much my family has appreciated the house he built. He wrote me back that that meant a lot to him...
Anyway, the dogs happily chased lizards while I savored the morning. Wifey came down, and I made us an omelette to share, and then we walked the 1.1 mile loop around our 'hood. We ran into Mia, the Pinecrest mayor's wife, and her daughter, a freshman at Villanova, near Philly. They had their two Spaniels in tow, I took photos of the Cavalier meet up and sent them to the Ds.
We're leaving soon to visit the ancient suegra. I'll offer to take her to the cemetery to visit my father in law, but she'll probably decline. Moving anywhere is quite a chore for her these days.
After that, Wifey and I will head to Beaux Arts Festival at UM. We go each year -- it's a delightful event, and the fact that it takes place on the Miami campus, holy ground for me, makes it that much better.
Yes --these are the best weather days there are. And we enjoy them immensely.
Saturday, January 13, 2018
Ain't No Secrets on the Web
So now I'm FaceBook (tm) friends with someone I'll call Allie, since that's her name, after she found me through a blog post about her late father. These days, there are no secrets on the internet.
D1 has an awesome newsletter and blog. Everyone who meets me kvells about it -- they actually learn about nutrition, and are so proud of her professional accomplishments. Well, not everyone...
Wifey is the manager of her web page, and spends a good deal of time following who subscribes, and who unsubscribes. In a comic turn, a professional my close friends and I refer to with the C word -- not a word we use casually, unsubscribed. This woman has a daughter who is, to put it charitably, well, a loser. She worked briefly with D1, and my theory is that daughter envy caused her to unsubscribe.
The other "high profile" cancellation came from a former relative. She not only unsubscribed, she reported the newsletter as "spam." Apparently, according to Wifey, if you get enough "spam" reports, it can affect your web presence. Thankfully, this former relative was the only "spam" report.
I have a pretty thick skin myself. I actually reveled in the fact that a friend's wife called me an asshole a few years ago -- as it turned out, for false pretenses. She apologized, but I told her that I probably deserved to be called an asshole more frequently.
But when it comes to my Ds, my thin isn't very thick at all. I have taught them they need to be able to accept criticism, and to allow the "haterade" of detractors to be as water off a duck's back. But when someone takes any sort of shot at my Ds -- well -- not a very good thing to do with someone as exquisitely passively aggressive as I am. I don't get even; I get ahead -- sometimes years later, in subtle ways.
No matter. I delight in my Ds' accomplishments. I delight in the accomplishments of all my friends' kids. To me -- that's a hallmark of being a good father -- and someone who isn't a good father will never be in my inner circle.
Yesterday I visited with a friend who was badly hurt in a skiing accident in Aspen. A young kid was jumping, and crashed into my friend at full speed, in mid air. My buddy Joel broke three ribs, his scapula, and had a nasty concussion. Thankfully, he's going to be ok, after a lengthy recovery.
We poured a couple of Ketels, to ease his pain. We caught up. His two oldest sons came home (the little guy was off in Naples with Mom on a soccer trip). The boys are blonde, movie star handsome. They excel in school. They're athletes. They each greeted me with a handshake and a look in my eye. They then hugged and kissed their Dad.
I left, and told Joel I was sorry about the accident, but he had won the lottery. He was an awesome Dad to three amazing sons. They loved him and always would. A couple of fractures weren't anything to such a lucky man. He agreed.
D2 finished her business trip to Arkansas and flew to Atlanta. She called last night as I was on my way home from dinner with Dr. Barry and HIS awesome, large sons. D2 had a three day weekend with her three closest friends. The last to arrive, Ali, was going to be picked up from her late flight. Catherine, the host, has a wonderful boyfriend -- an Atlanta dentist. He wisely decamped to HIS buddy's place in Jville -- to allow his lady her sista bonding.
D2 is learning a lot about corporate America, and is in a true growth area -- online retail. D1 continues to amaze -- Monday she has a visit to a local TV station for an interview -- with a strong chance they'll put her on a local weekly segment.
I am one proud, rocking Daddy in the USA. Call my D spam? Cue Lurch from the Addams Family: huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh.....
D1 has an awesome newsletter and blog. Everyone who meets me kvells about it -- they actually learn about nutrition, and are so proud of her professional accomplishments. Well, not everyone...
Wifey is the manager of her web page, and spends a good deal of time following who subscribes, and who unsubscribes. In a comic turn, a professional my close friends and I refer to with the C word -- not a word we use casually, unsubscribed. This woman has a daughter who is, to put it charitably, well, a loser. She worked briefly with D1, and my theory is that daughter envy caused her to unsubscribe.
The other "high profile" cancellation came from a former relative. She not only unsubscribed, she reported the newsletter as "spam." Apparently, according to Wifey, if you get enough "spam" reports, it can affect your web presence. Thankfully, this former relative was the only "spam" report.
I have a pretty thick skin myself. I actually reveled in the fact that a friend's wife called me an asshole a few years ago -- as it turned out, for false pretenses. She apologized, but I told her that I probably deserved to be called an asshole more frequently.
But when it comes to my Ds, my thin isn't very thick at all. I have taught them they need to be able to accept criticism, and to allow the "haterade" of detractors to be as water off a duck's back. But when someone takes any sort of shot at my Ds -- well -- not a very good thing to do with someone as exquisitely passively aggressive as I am. I don't get even; I get ahead -- sometimes years later, in subtle ways.
No matter. I delight in my Ds' accomplishments. I delight in the accomplishments of all my friends' kids. To me -- that's a hallmark of being a good father -- and someone who isn't a good father will never be in my inner circle.
Yesterday I visited with a friend who was badly hurt in a skiing accident in Aspen. A young kid was jumping, and crashed into my friend at full speed, in mid air. My buddy Joel broke three ribs, his scapula, and had a nasty concussion. Thankfully, he's going to be ok, after a lengthy recovery.
We poured a couple of Ketels, to ease his pain. We caught up. His two oldest sons came home (the little guy was off in Naples with Mom on a soccer trip). The boys are blonde, movie star handsome. They excel in school. They're athletes. They each greeted me with a handshake and a look in my eye. They then hugged and kissed their Dad.
I left, and told Joel I was sorry about the accident, but he had won the lottery. He was an awesome Dad to three amazing sons. They loved him and always would. A couple of fractures weren't anything to such a lucky man. He agreed.
D2 finished her business trip to Arkansas and flew to Atlanta. She called last night as I was on my way home from dinner with Dr. Barry and HIS awesome, large sons. D2 had a three day weekend with her three closest friends. The last to arrive, Ali, was going to be picked up from her late flight. Catherine, the host, has a wonderful boyfriend -- an Atlanta dentist. He wisely decamped to HIS buddy's place in Jville -- to allow his lady her sista bonding.
D2 is learning a lot about corporate America, and is in a true growth area -- online retail. D1 continues to amaze -- Monday she has a visit to a local TV station for an interview -- with a strong chance they'll put her on a local weekly segment.
I am one proud, rocking Daddy in the USA. Call my D spam? Cue Lurch from the Addams Family: huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh.....
Friday, January 12, 2018
Goodbye, Palindromic Phone Number
Wifey and I are late to most tech developments, but today a worker from our alarm company is due over to make an update which will cause a major change: we're getting rid of our land line.
A few months ago, we noticed that, while you could call out, our home phones didn't ring. We had an ATT man over, and he couldn't figure it out -- he concluded that the problem was "internal" -- somehow our new in 1997 system wasn't working.
I stopped answering our land line years ago. Typically the only calls on it are junk, or to Wifey from her BFF Edna when Wifey ignores her cell phone, or my mother in law. Well, my suegra is now phone-less -- the ALF calls when we're needed, and Edna only uses the cell.
The only reason we even kept the landline was because of our alarm. But the cheerful Arresco man came by, and said we could switch to an all cell system -- the alarm, which we rarely use, anyway, would go only to our cell phones.
I guess another reason I kept the landline was because of something I had read -- when the power goes out, old school landlines can keep working. No more. ALL phone service is now, essentially, electronic, and when the power goes, your landline is as worthless as a teat on a bull.
So it'll be adios to 6693966. My friend Jim, upon learning of that number in 2000, when we got it, immediately saw it was a palindrome. Not really, since the company went to 10 digit dialing, and you also need to use 305. But still -- it served us well.
If all goes to plan, we'll be up and running with the new system today. Then Wifey can perform a task she dreads -- contacting ATT. They'll try to keep us on the landline plan -- they get $40 per month for it, but we'll opt out.
$40 per month is 5 martinis at Trulucks during happy hour. That will be money much better spent than we currently waste on a dinosaur technology.
A few months ago, we noticed that, while you could call out, our home phones didn't ring. We had an ATT man over, and he couldn't figure it out -- he concluded that the problem was "internal" -- somehow our new in 1997 system wasn't working.
I stopped answering our land line years ago. Typically the only calls on it are junk, or to Wifey from her BFF Edna when Wifey ignores her cell phone, or my mother in law. Well, my suegra is now phone-less -- the ALF calls when we're needed, and Edna only uses the cell.
The only reason we even kept the landline was because of our alarm. But the cheerful Arresco man came by, and said we could switch to an all cell system -- the alarm, which we rarely use, anyway, would go only to our cell phones.
I guess another reason I kept the landline was because of something I had read -- when the power goes out, old school landlines can keep working. No more. ALL phone service is now, essentially, electronic, and when the power goes, your landline is as worthless as a teat on a bull.
So it'll be adios to 6693966. My friend Jim, upon learning of that number in 2000, when we got it, immediately saw it was a palindrome. Not really, since the company went to 10 digit dialing, and you also need to use 305. But still -- it served us well.
If all goes to plan, we'll be up and running with the new system today. Then Wifey can perform a task she dreads -- contacting ATT. They'll try to keep us on the landline plan -- they get $40 per month for it, but we'll opt out.
$40 per month is 5 martinis at Trulucks during happy hour. That will be money much better spent than we currently waste on a dinosaur technology.
Thursday, January 11, 2018
DFC -Investigative Journalism
I rarely go to the "dashboard" of my blog, if that's what it's called, but I did yesterday, in order to change the email setting from the comically funny AOL address to the "might be a young person" Gmail one. As I perused the section, I checked the "comments" section. Most of them were over two years old, and were left by my estranged sister, who I haven't spoken to in nearly a year. But there was a recent one, from someone who read a post about her late father -- and she asked me to contact her.
Alas -- she didn't leave an email address or phone number, but I did some cyber snooping. I went to Link'd In, or whatever it's called, and found her. I left her my email address. She responded. Last night we had a delightful conversation.
Speaking of estranged relatives, she hadn't spoken to her father in well over 20 years, and would check the Herald obits to see if he had died. Then she'd Google his name. In doing that, she came upon my blog, of all things, and through that had learned he had died, in November.
She's a delightful woman, about my age, who now lives in North Florida. We spoke happily about her Dad, a man I admired greatly. We spoke about the Miami of her youth -- the crazy 70s and 80s, and we spoke about family estrangement -- a very sad but nowadays prevalent thing.
She thanked me and thanked me. My silly blog had given her information she doesn't know she'd have otherwise gleaned. And I thanked her -- for the wisdom her father shared with me, and those around him.
The Boss sang, sagely, that "Don't make no difference what nobody says...ain't nobody wants to be alone." We crave connection. I have met a few people who go through this life without close friends. I'm not sure how they do. To me, it'd be like going without oxygen.
In that vein, I'm thrilled for D2. She's currently in Arkansas, of all places, for business. I told her she might well be the first of our family who ever found herself in that state. But tomorrow she's flying to Atlanta, for a reunion with her three closest friends -- they lived together for three years in college -- the first in the sorority house, and the final two in a delightful place called Yellow House, so named because it was a house painted Yellow.
These young gone Gators are now a pair of budding business execs, a dog sporting child life specialist at a major NYC children's hospital, and a corporate lawyer in Atlanta. I'm sure they'll have a MLK weekend reunion filled with laughter and the sharing of life wisdom.
And I can guarantee -- there will be NO estrangement with D2 and her father. When I leave this mortal coil -- hopefully in many years in the future -- she will know first hand -- not by having to find out in some silly blog.
Alas -- she didn't leave an email address or phone number, but I did some cyber snooping. I went to Link'd In, or whatever it's called, and found her. I left her my email address. She responded. Last night we had a delightful conversation.
Speaking of estranged relatives, she hadn't spoken to her father in well over 20 years, and would check the Herald obits to see if he had died. Then she'd Google his name. In doing that, she came upon my blog, of all things, and through that had learned he had died, in November.
She's a delightful woman, about my age, who now lives in North Florida. We spoke happily about her Dad, a man I admired greatly. We spoke about the Miami of her youth -- the crazy 70s and 80s, and we spoke about family estrangement -- a very sad but nowadays prevalent thing.
She thanked me and thanked me. My silly blog had given her information she doesn't know she'd have otherwise gleaned. And I thanked her -- for the wisdom her father shared with me, and those around him.
The Boss sang, sagely, that "Don't make no difference what nobody says...ain't nobody wants to be alone." We crave connection. I have met a few people who go through this life without close friends. I'm not sure how they do. To me, it'd be like going without oxygen.
In that vein, I'm thrilled for D2. She's currently in Arkansas, of all places, for business. I told her she might well be the first of our family who ever found herself in that state. But tomorrow she's flying to Atlanta, for a reunion with her three closest friends -- they lived together for three years in college -- the first in the sorority house, and the final two in a delightful place called Yellow House, so named because it was a house painted Yellow.
These young gone Gators are now a pair of budding business execs, a dog sporting child life specialist at a major NYC children's hospital, and a corporate lawyer in Atlanta. I'm sure they'll have a MLK weekend reunion filled with laughter and the sharing of life wisdom.
And I can guarantee -- there will be NO estrangement with D2 and her father. When I leave this mortal coil -- hopefully in many years in the future -- she will know first hand -- not by having to find out in some silly blog.
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Doctors and Certificates of Deposit
The setting: the pool at Kings Point, the condo in Delray where my parents retired. The time: probably Fall of 1979. The participants: my newly retired, 60 year old Dad, and me, an 18 year old college freshman.
I remember it well. I was happily living in my dorm tower in Coral Gables, and would visit once per month or so. My Dad and I were talking -- he mostly wanted to know about my life. He was a self taught intellectual who always regretted never attending college. He lived vicariously through me -- he even took a first time ever interest in college football, and would watch the Canes when they were on TV. But this day I asked about his life at Kings Point, and whether he was making any friends. His reply "Ah -- all the guys want to talk about is doctors and CD rates. It gets boring quickly."
And indeed, during my Dad's brief retirement of three years, before he left this mortal coil, he made precious few friends. He'd socialize with my Mom's family, and liked one fellow, Harold. Harold was a retired NYC cop. I recently learned he's still alive -- nearing 100, I guess. Dad also liked Sam, a retired Mathematics Professor. Sam and my Dad used to signal each other from down the condo hall -- alerting each other when the mail had come.
Well, this week I thought of Dad -- and not for CD rates. Those are all very low -- much to my chagrin, as I would LOVE to have the option of guaranteed savings vehicles that pay close to 20%! No -- for me, this week was about doctors -- I had two back to back (actually back to front) appointments.
First was Dr. Neal -- my GI fellow. His office texted I needed to come in, and so I did. The cheerful, diminutive Neal greeted me -- and asked why I had come in. I was asked, I said. Well -- he looked at my records and said that since my last colonoscopy was clear, and I am under 60 -- I wasn't due for another screening one until 2023. I told Neal that was great -- I might well get run over by a truck before then, and not even need one. "God forbid," he said. We caught up about his three kids and my two, and I was happily out the door.
Yesterday was Dr. Robert -- the urologist. I last saw him January of '17. 5 years before, a high PSA reading sent me to Dr. Robert, and although his DRE (don't ask) was normal, he set me up for a biopsy. Thankfully, it was negative. But Dr. Robert is very careful -- and gave me some kind of DNA urine test. Also negative. A few years later, he ordered a MRI. I made it through 30 minutes when I got very claustrophobic, and asked out. Fortunately, the radiologist my friend Kenny knew said all was ok.
Still, Dr. Robert tells me there is a new arrow in the prostate quiver -- a so-called "4K" test, which tells you if you are prone to the BAD prostate cancer -- the one that spreads and kills you -- or just the regular kind that most men will die WITH, not OF. He told me to have my regular doc order it next time I got a blood test. If I have a high 4K, he'll aggressively check me. If it's low, I can be pretty confident of dying of something else -- maybe the truck I mentioned to Neal.
But the point was -- I spent too much time with doctors. I am become my Dad. But thankfully I don't hang around the Kings Point pool -- I still darken the door of a Brickell Law firm...
And, to make things come full circle -- one of my financial folks called today. CD rates are up -- you can get 2% interest. The more things change...
I remember it well. I was happily living in my dorm tower in Coral Gables, and would visit once per month or so. My Dad and I were talking -- he mostly wanted to know about my life. He was a self taught intellectual who always regretted never attending college. He lived vicariously through me -- he even took a first time ever interest in college football, and would watch the Canes when they were on TV. But this day I asked about his life at Kings Point, and whether he was making any friends. His reply "Ah -- all the guys want to talk about is doctors and CD rates. It gets boring quickly."
And indeed, during my Dad's brief retirement of three years, before he left this mortal coil, he made precious few friends. He'd socialize with my Mom's family, and liked one fellow, Harold. Harold was a retired NYC cop. I recently learned he's still alive -- nearing 100, I guess. Dad also liked Sam, a retired Mathematics Professor. Sam and my Dad used to signal each other from down the condo hall -- alerting each other when the mail had come.
Well, this week I thought of Dad -- and not for CD rates. Those are all very low -- much to my chagrin, as I would LOVE to have the option of guaranteed savings vehicles that pay close to 20%! No -- for me, this week was about doctors -- I had two back to back (actually back to front) appointments.
First was Dr. Neal -- my GI fellow. His office texted I needed to come in, and so I did. The cheerful, diminutive Neal greeted me -- and asked why I had come in. I was asked, I said. Well -- he looked at my records and said that since my last colonoscopy was clear, and I am under 60 -- I wasn't due for another screening one until 2023. I told Neal that was great -- I might well get run over by a truck before then, and not even need one. "God forbid," he said. We caught up about his three kids and my two, and I was happily out the door.
Yesterday was Dr. Robert -- the urologist. I last saw him January of '17. 5 years before, a high PSA reading sent me to Dr. Robert, and although his DRE (don't ask) was normal, he set me up for a biopsy. Thankfully, it was negative. But Dr. Robert is very careful -- and gave me some kind of DNA urine test. Also negative. A few years later, he ordered a MRI. I made it through 30 minutes when I got very claustrophobic, and asked out. Fortunately, the radiologist my friend Kenny knew said all was ok.
Still, Dr. Robert tells me there is a new arrow in the prostate quiver -- a so-called "4K" test, which tells you if you are prone to the BAD prostate cancer -- the one that spreads and kills you -- or just the regular kind that most men will die WITH, not OF. He told me to have my regular doc order it next time I got a blood test. If I have a high 4K, he'll aggressively check me. If it's low, I can be pretty confident of dying of something else -- maybe the truck I mentioned to Neal.
But the point was -- I spent too much time with doctors. I am become my Dad. But thankfully I don't hang around the Kings Point pool -- I still darken the door of a Brickell Law firm...
And, to make things come full circle -- one of my financial folks called today. CD rates are up -- you can get 2% interest. The more things change...
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
Not Quitting My Day Job for Gambling
So there's one sport I think I know very well -- college football. I've been a huge Canes fan since my freshman year, 1979, and even when Miami isn't playing, I love to watch and talk about the sport.
Last night was the championship for the '17 season, one in which my beloved Canes had a fine season, and showed they can compete again at the highest level. But the ring was to be fought for by Alabama and Georgia.
I don't like Alabama, for many reasons. First, their coach, Saban, lied when he abandoned the Miami Dolphins to become the best college coach, by far. Also, the fact that the state of Alabama even came close to electing Roy Moore speaks about who they are (though Florida elected Rick Scott, so I guess I can't judge that way).
Georgia -- eh, kind of neutral. I have some friends who are Bulldogs, so I guess that counts a bit. So I decided to pull for Georgia.
But my friend had a suggestion -- bet on the game, and then you'll have a real rooting interest. Alabama was favored by 5 points to win. My head told me they'd dominate Georgia -- so the bet seemed an easy one.
My friend called his friends in Philly, who called their friends, and I placed my bet -- $100 on Alabama to win.
I sat down with Wifey to watch the game -- and sure enough, Georgia took a 13-0 halftime lead. Sleep called more than my desire to see who won, and so I was out before the third quarter began. I awoke this am to read that the WORST possible thing happened for my interests -- Alabama won, but didn't cover the spread. Translation: the team I sort of wanted to win lost, and I also lost the monetary bet...
It sort of figures. My luck gambling, for the little I do, has been nonexistent. My last 4 trips to the horse track, over the past year and a half, have produced only losers...
So as I continue my quest to find a more fulfilling career than law, I now one thing: it won't be in sports gambling...
I feel worse for my buddy Jim. He LOVES sports, and his teams are all the Miami ones, plus his alma mater, Georgia. He was thrilled his boys were going to the 'ship. And they nearly won, too, but then the evil master Saban changed quarterbacks to a kid from Hawaii, of all places, and the Crimson Tide won.
It's funny -- Steely Dan needed sports teams to represent winners and losers for one of their songs in the early 70s. Alabama were the winners, and Wake Forest, a small ACC school, the losers. Little has changed since then.
So the back water state Alabama still has their dynasty to cheer for. Eh. Maybe next year the championship will again be colored orange and green...
Last night was the championship for the '17 season, one in which my beloved Canes had a fine season, and showed they can compete again at the highest level. But the ring was to be fought for by Alabama and Georgia.
I don't like Alabama, for many reasons. First, their coach, Saban, lied when he abandoned the Miami Dolphins to become the best college coach, by far. Also, the fact that the state of Alabama even came close to electing Roy Moore speaks about who they are (though Florida elected Rick Scott, so I guess I can't judge that way).
Georgia -- eh, kind of neutral. I have some friends who are Bulldogs, so I guess that counts a bit. So I decided to pull for Georgia.
But my friend had a suggestion -- bet on the game, and then you'll have a real rooting interest. Alabama was favored by 5 points to win. My head told me they'd dominate Georgia -- so the bet seemed an easy one.
My friend called his friends in Philly, who called their friends, and I placed my bet -- $100 on Alabama to win.
I sat down with Wifey to watch the game -- and sure enough, Georgia took a 13-0 halftime lead. Sleep called more than my desire to see who won, and so I was out before the third quarter began. I awoke this am to read that the WORST possible thing happened for my interests -- Alabama won, but didn't cover the spread. Translation: the team I sort of wanted to win lost, and I also lost the monetary bet...
It sort of figures. My luck gambling, for the little I do, has been nonexistent. My last 4 trips to the horse track, over the past year and a half, have produced only losers...
So as I continue my quest to find a more fulfilling career than law, I now one thing: it won't be in sports gambling...
I feel worse for my buddy Jim. He LOVES sports, and his teams are all the Miami ones, plus his alma mater, Georgia. He was thrilled his boys were going to the 'ship. And they nearly won, too, but then the evil master Saban changed quarterbacks to a kid from Hawaii, of all places, and the Crimson Tide won.
It's funny -- Steely Dan needed sports teams to represent winners and losers for one of their songs in the early 70s. Alabama were the winners, and Wake Forest, a small ACC school, the losers. Little has changed since then.
So the back water state Alabama still has their dynasty to cheer for. Eh. Maybe next year the championship will again be colored orange and green...
Sunday, January 7, 2018
Lemurs Should Be Required
So last night Wifey and I attended he second best wedding of all time. The first, of course, was the Big Fat Colombian wedding we put on for D1 last Fall. Last night was the wedding of Matt to Vanessa, and we had an awesome time.
They held it in historic Walton House, probably 10 acres down in the Redland. It was a tropical garden, with paths that led around monkey cages, and macaws, and cockatoos...When you went around a bend you came face to face with a troop of lemurs, who came up to you and seemed to smile.
We arrived and followed a path to a bar set up among the banyan trees. Wifey had three glasses of champagne. We ran into old friends, and former kids from Palmetto High. Somehow they were all now grown men and women, with careers, and interesting tales to tell of cities far and wide where they live or lived.
Vanessa is a beautiful blonde Cubana, and her family was there -- very warm and affectionate. Matt is a Miami Wasp, and his cousins were there from Louisiana, and Texas, and even Coral Springs.
Bells tolled, and we went to an area where chairs were set up around tropical tree boughs. Lisa was the "minister," -- an old friend of Matt's parents, who is a marketing guru who lived for 25 years in Chelsea and recently moved to Portland. I dug her immediately. She spoke beautifully about these two young people, and when Matt spoke, I got teary eyed -- he is so genuine and warm.
And he used the F word, as in "I love Vanessa SO fucking much!" Real artists who lived in Wynwood and now LA can say that freely, and everyone cheered.
After the ceremony, we wandered the grounds. A fire pit was going full bore, and there were tiki huts with bars, and a big lighted "LOVE" sign where even older folks like Wifey and I could take pictures.
I ran into Ian, a long time Trulucks bartender. He met Matt when both worked at Michael's Genuine. Ian is a Texan, and now with a beautiful Nica lady. He told me she was 4 months pregnant, and they were buying a place in Miramar -- still commutable to Downtown, and affordable, with nice schools. I introduced him to Becky and her family, Matt's Mom. She lives in Dallas now, as do her brother, sister in law, and daughters. They all talked Texan for awhile...
Tables were set up, again in a tropical garden, and we ate. The food was simply the most delicious I ever had at a wedding -- catered by Ghee, and Indian place. I usually don't go much for Indian food, but I will now run, not walk, to Ghee. The flavors were awesome. Wifey and I cleaned our plates.
The crowd left the chilly tables for a next door converted barn, where a DJ played. We danced, and watched the young people dance. It was magical.
When Matt spoke, he reminded everyone that in this time of Blue versus Red, and US versus Them, last night 150 people came together to celebrate what life was really all about: Love.
We were privileged to attend. And I now have a new rule: if I put on any future weddings, there will be at least one lemur...
They held it in historic Walton House, probably 10 acres down in the Redland. It was a tropical garden, with paths that led around monkey cages, and macaws, and cockatoos...When you went around a bend you came face to face with a troop of lemurs, who came up to you and seemed to smile.
We arrived and followed a path to a bar set up among the banyan trees. Wifey had three glasses of champagne. We ran into old friends, and former kids from Palmetto High. Somehow they were all now grown men and women, with careers, and interesting tales to tell of cities far and wide where they live or lived.
Vanessa is a beautiful blonde Cubana, and her family was there -- very warm and affectionate. Matt is a Miami Wasp, and his cousins were there from Louisiana, and Texas, and even Coral Springs.
Bells tolled, and we went to an area where chairs were set up around tropical tree boughs. Lisa was the "minister," -- an old friend of Matt's parents, who is a marketing guru who lived for 25 years in Chelsea and recently moved to Portland. I dug her immediately. She spoke beautifully about these two young people, and when Matt spoke, I got teary eyed -- he is so genuine and warm.
And he used the F word, as in "I love Vanessa SO fucking much!" Real artists who lived in Wynwood and now LA can say that freely, and everyone cheered.
After the ceremony, we wandered the grounds. A fire pit was going full bore, and there were tiki huts with bars, and a big lighted "LOVE" sign where even older folks like Wifey and I could take pictures.
I ran into Ian, a long time Trulucks bartender. He met Matt when both worked at Michael's Genuine. Ian is a Texan, and now with a beautiful Nica lady. He told me she was 4 months pregnant, and they were buying a place in Miramar -- still commutable to Downtown, and affordable, with nice schools. I introduced him to Becky and her family, Matt's Mom. She lives in Dallas now, as do her brother, sister in law, and daughters. They all talked Texan for awhile...
Tables were set up, again in a tropical garden, and we ate. The food was simply the most delicious I ever had at a wedding -- catered by Ghee, and Indian place. I usually don't go much for Indian food, but I will now run, not walk, to Ghee. The flavors were awesome. Wifey and I cleaned our plates.
The crowd left the chilly tables for a next door converted barn, where a DJ played. We danced, and watched the young people dance. It was magical.
When Matt spoke, he reminded everyone that in this time of Blue versus Red, and US versus Them, last night 150 people came together to celebrate what life was really all about: Love.
We were privileged to attend. And I now have a new rule: if I put on any future weddings, there will be at least one lemur...
Saturday, January 6, 2018
Mixed Family Wedding
So later today Wifey and I are headed down to Homestead for the wedding of a fine young man we've known forever. He's an accomplished artist -- born raised in the County of Dade, as the song goes, and marrying a lovely and accomplished fellow Miamian. The couple lives now in LA.
Last night, his Mom had a party for her friends. Her ex husband wasn't there. He lives in Florida, though up the coast a bit, and the two have little to do with each other.
They've been split up nearly a decade, and yet our group of friends still thinks of them as a couple. MOG (Mom of Groom) has had a boyfriend for a few years, an affable Texan who is here for the wedding. But I still think of MOG as married to the artist's Dad...
The groom's younger brother attended last night. What a pleasure. He had a tough adolescence, fueled a bit, I think, by his parents' split, but he's grown into a sterling young man. He lives in Texas, and has a delightful girlfriend. Like his older brother, he's a budding artist. He came up to me, gave me a big bear hug, and told me how great it was to see "the good men from my childhood." I got teary eyed.
The wedding is being held on an estate in the Redlands -- a former farmhouse now converted into an event space. Apparently, there are monkeys and other exotic animals roaming around.
The groom traded one of his original paintings for the wedding's catering -- done by a young Indian fellow who just opened a hot restaurant in town. He and the artist met when both worked at Michael's Genuine, one of the best spots in town. The food promises to be awesome.
I've always really admired the young groom. He went off to college in Orlando, but left after a few years -- truly fueled by his artistic soul. He lived the classic artist life in Wynwood -- tiny loft for living, no car, working as a waiter to supplement his income. And he worked, and worked, and worked, and made it.
He moved to LA to get a different vibe, but his heart is here. And he's really top drawer -- invited to one of the Art Basel satellite shows each December. His paintings sell for north of $20K.
He loves the Canes, too, and travels with us to away games. He's strong and gentle at the same time. He keeps his lifelong friends -- a large buddy from high school was there last night.
I'm truly privileged to be invited to his wedding, and look very forward to this afternoon.
A few weeks ago, I met the groom's Dad for drinks. He wished he could still be friends with his ex. It's not to be. But both of them, though apart, will be beaming tonight. They produced one hell of a son, and today is the huge night of his life.
The weather even cooperated -- warmed up just enough to make the outdoor party perfect.
If there's something better than celebrating young people as they soar, I don't know what it is.
Last night, his Mom had a party for her friends. Her ex husband wasn't there. He lives in Florida, though up the coast a bit, and the two have little to do with each other.
They've been split up nearly a decade, and yet our group of friends still thinks of them as a couple. MOG (Mom of Groom) has had a boyfriend for a few years, an affable Texan who is here for the wedding. But I still think of MOG as married to the artist's Dad...
The groom's younger brother attended last night. What a pleasure. He had a tough adolescence, fueled a bit, I think, by his parents' split, but he's grown into a sterling young man. He lives in Texas, and has a delightful girlfriend. Like his older brother, he's a budding artist. He came up to me, gave me a big bear hug, and told me how great it was to see "the good men from my childhood." I got teary eyed.
The wedding is being held on an estate in the Redlands -- a former farmhouse now converted into an event space. Apparently, there are monkeys and other exotic animals roaming around.
The groom traded one of his original paintings for the wedding's catering -- done by a young Indian fellow who just opened a hot restaurant in town. He and the artist met when both worked at Michael's Genuine, one of the best spots in town. The food promises to be awesome.
I've always really admired the young groom. He went off to college in Orlando, but left after a few years -- truly fueled by his artistic soul. He lived the classic artist life in Wynwood -- tiny loft for living, no car, working as a waiter to supplement his income. And he worked, and worked, and worked, and made it.
He moved to LA to get a different vibe, but his heart is here. And he's really top drawer -- invited to one of the Art Basel satellite shows each December. His paintings sell for north of $20K.
He loves the Canes, too, and travels with us to away games. He's strong and gentle at the same time. He keeps his lifelong friends -- a large buddy from high school was there last night.
I'm truly privileged to be invited to his wedding, and look very forward to this afternoon.
A few weeks ago, I met the groom's Dad for drinks. He wished he could still be friends with his ex. It's not to be. But both of them, though apart, will be beaming tonight. They produced one hell of a son, and today is the huge night of his life.
The weather even cooperated -- warmed up just enough to make the outdoor party perfect.
If there's something better than celebrating young people as they soar, I don't know what it is.
Friday, January 5, 2018
Baby It's Cold Outside
Just a few months ago I was bemoaning the constant parade of too hot days, and now the weather fates have heard me and responded too well. It's cold outside.
I just stepped out to mail a letter, wearing a sweatshirt and socks with my sandals, and it was STILL cold. It was, according to my trusty weather app, 44, but felt like 41. Indeed it did. The dogs enjoy it -- they didn't want to come in to the heat of the house, where we still have yet to try our the reverse cycle heat. The thermostat says 65, which is fine with clothing.
My friend Rob's boy Matt is getting married tomorrow, outside in Homestead. His Mom Becky is in from Dallas, and is a bit worried about the drop in temps. We should be ok, though , with sweaters.
D2 offers no sympathy. She's in NYC which got blasted with snow yesterday, and is awaiting another punch of Arctic air -- may drop to zero this weekend, with wind chill in the minus teens.
Yesterday her boss told her it was fine to work from home, and she did, to avoid the freezing walk from the Path train to her Hoboken office.
The forecast shows next week temps will rise again to the high 70s -- so we'll be sweating soon enough. And at night, it'll dip into the 60s -- decent sleeping weather.
As it warms today, and the brilliant sun shines, the office will NOT beckon to me. I think I'll enjoy a nice three day weekend.
Sunday my old junior high friend Jeff is taking his family and me to a Canes basketball game. Jeff attended Penn and U Chicago, but became a FSU fan, for strange, inscrutable reasons. After the game, I invited him and his family over for pizza.
They're in from Chicago. They're enjoying this weather.
No matter -- nothing to do except bundle up for a few days...and be thankful we're not up North.
I just stepped out to mail a letter, wearing a sweatshirt and socks with my sandals, and it was STILL cold. It was, according to my trusty weather app, 44, but felt like 41. Indeed it did. The dogs enjoy it -- they didn't want to come in to the heat of the house, where we still have yet to try our the reverse cycle heat. The thermostat says 65, which is fine with clothing.
My friend Rob's boy Matt is getting married tomorrow, outside in Homestead. His Mom Becky is in from Dallas, and is a bit worried about the drop in temps. We should be ok, though , with sweaters.
D2 offers no sympathy. She's in NYC which got blasted with snow yesterday, and is awaiting another punch of Arctic air -- may drop to zero this weekend, with wind chill in the minus teens.
Yesterday her boss told her it was fine to work from home, and she did, to avoid the freezing walk from the Path train to her Hoboken office.
The forecast shows next week temps will rise again to the high 70s -- so we'll be sweating soon enough. And at night, it'll dip into the 60s -- decent sleeping weather.
As it warms today, and the brilliant sun shines, the office will NOT beckon to me. I think I'll enjoy a nice three day weekend.
Sunday my old junior high friend Jeff is taking his family and me to a Canes basketball game. Jeff attended Penn and U Chicago, but became a FSU fan, for strange, inscrutable reasons. After the game, I invited him and his family over for pizza.
They're in from Chicago. They're enjoying this weather.
No matter -- nothing to do except bundle up for a few days...and be thankful we're not up North.
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
Baskin Robbins
When I was a kid, there were only a few ice cream places. There was Friendly's, and Jahn's, though Jahn's may have only been in Miami when we visited. Carvel was big -- my favorite -- and then the first really large chain, Baskin-Robbins.
BR claimed to have 31 flavors. I believed them, though I never strayed too far from chocolate and its relatives. It turns out there never WERE 31 flavors -- the number was a marketing gimic. I think they had closer to 20.
But since childhood, the number 31 always recalls Baskin Robbins. I guess the marketing schtick worked. And today, 31 has a deeper meaning -- it's the number of years Wifey and I have been married.
This am, before I left for breakfast, I thumbed through our wedding photo album. What astonished me was how many of the guests are dead. Also astonishing are how many of the guests we no longer have anything to do with. The ravages and changes of time...
But Wifey and I are still standing, as a couple. My hero was my Dad, and I of course asked him for advice on choosing a wife. At the time, a big issue in my life was whether I had to stick to the religion. Both my sisters had married gentiles, and my closest buds, Eric and Barry, would hear of no such thing. I asked my Dad if he cared whether I married a Jewess. He thought for awhile, said though marrying in the faith would make things easier, with no fights about holidays and such, no, it didn't matter to him. "Just marry someone pleasant."
So I did. Wifey is, most of the time, amiable and pleasant. And we've built a life together beyond my dreams -- with 2 daughters who are beyond awesome, and a son in law we couldn't have dared dream we'd have. And the missing piece, a husband for D2 -- well, the leading candidate is awesome, too.
We had planned a really big trip for our 25th -- Paris and Normandy, all first class, but we had to cancel on account of Wifey's back pain. Maybe we'll reschedule the trip soon.
In the mean time, we have dinner tonight with Mike and Loni -- it's Loni's birthday as well. We're heading to our go-to celebration restaurant -- Christy's in the Gables. Mike and I will toast the two ladies who have endured these two 7 year Canes for so long now. It's been a lovely cruise, as Jimmy Buffet sang.
So here's to 31 more. If the Big Man so decides, I'm in.
BR claimed to have 31 flavors. I believed them, though I never strayed too far from chocolate and its relatives. It turns out there never WERE 31 flavors -- the number was a marketing gimic. I think they had closer to 20.
But since childhood, the number 31 always recalls Baskin Robbins. I guess the marketing schtick worked. And today, 31 has a deeper meaning -- it's the number of years Wifey and I have been married.
This am, before I left for breakfast, I thumbed through our wedding photo album. What astonished me was how many of the guests are dead. Also astonishing are how many of the guests we no longer have anything to do with. The ravages and changes of time...
But Wifey and I are still standing, as a couple. My hero was my Dad, and I of course asked him for advice on choosing a wife. At the time, a big issue in my life was whether I had to stick to the religion. Both my sisters had married gentiles, and my closest buds, Eric and Barry, would hear of no such thing. I asked my Dad if he cared whether I married a Jewess. He thought for awhile, said though marrying in the faith would make things easier, with no fights about holidays and such, no, it didn't matter to him. "Just marry someone pleasant."
So I did. Wifey is, most of the time, amiable and pleasant. And we've built a life together beyond my dreams -- with 2 daughters who are beyond awesome, and a son in law we couldn't have dared dream we'd have. And the missing piece, a husband for D2 -- well, the leading candidate is awesome, too.
We had planned a really big trip for our 25th -- Paris and Normandy, all first class, but we had to cancel on account of Wifey's back pain. Maybe we'll reschedule the trip soon.
In the mean time, we have dinner tonight with Mike and Loni -- it's Loni's birthday as well. We're heading to our go-to celebration restaurant -- Christy's in the Gables. Mike and I will toast the two ladies who have endured these two 7 year Canes for so long now. It's been a lovely cruise, as Jimmy Buffet sang.
So here's to 31 more. If the Big Man so decides, I'm in.
Monday, January 1, 2018
So Far, So Good in 20-Chai
For years, Wifey and I hosted New Year's Eve parties. This started when we lived together in a 1/1 apartment called Les Chalet, which I was told is ungrammatical in French. We'd have friends over, and drink, and dance to music over a new fangled thing called a CD player. We'd blast the B-52s and Romantics, and have a great time.
A lingering memory I have from those days is Wifey's friend Eileen. She got wasted, and her boyfriend angrily left her at the party. Wifey and I walked her home to her apartment down the street. Eileen was always steeped in drama with a complicated relationship. 32 years later, she still is -- though now her act plays in an Asheville suburb...
When Wifey and I bought our first house, the parties got bigger and better. NYE of '86-'87 we hosted my Mom and two sisters and their families. The party served as the rehearsal dinner for our wedding. I brought in loads of Chinese food, and there was drama and vomiting performed by my nephew, and a niece, as I recall. But my Mom cleaned up the bathroom, and we had a great time, followed by our wedding two nights later.
The following year, we had over 100 people in our tiny house. Our friend Elizabeth's husband Pat was a well known but by that time fading rock star, and he brought his pink Stratocaster and a small amplifier and performed for us in our living room. It was a terrific party -- Wifey's cousin Sandy and his then new girl Felicity were there -- Sandy told me it was the best party he ever attended. It was really something.
The next house was where we welcomed in Y2K -- the year that was possible going to end it all -- the computers we had come to rely on maybe were all going to fail.
We had a lot of people over -- Wifey's bff Edna and her family stayed from Atlanta. At midnight, the Ds and I and a few other guests jumped into our pool. And the world didn't end.
Last night we decided to reprise our NYE hosting, albeit on a smaller scale. We brought in stone crabs, and sides, and lots of champagne. Mike and Loni and Deb and Norman joined us.
I had my old CD player going, with songs from the eclectic play list dating back to the 70s. We sat at the dining room table -- the doors were open to the delicious cool breeze of Miami in January. We toasted, we six, and affirmed we were 6 of the luckiest people we know.
Mike, Norman, and I have known each other since law school. We have 7 kids among us, each soaring in her own way. And our wives understand and indulge our love for the Canes. In Norman and Mike's cases, it's a generational thing. I'm a first generation fan -- but now almost 40 years going.
The Ds were together, which warmed me. I had dropped D2 with her sister in the Grove -- they were to spend the evening with their awesome husband and boyfriend. When I woke this am, I saw Jonathan's Dad's car here -- so I know he and D2 made it home safely.
It's a gorgeous day. Maybe there'll be a new year's breakfast on the schedule.
Wednesday is Wifey and my 31st wedding anniversary. It's also Loni's birthday, so we'll celebrate the day with her and Mike -- probably in the Gables. January 3 is the official end of the holidays for us.
31 years of marriage. Wow. Somehow those party hosting days of the 80s don't seem so far in the past. But time keeps rolling, as the great song goes, like a river.
It's wondrous to mark it's passing. And as for this brand new year, 2000 plus chai, or 18 -- so far, so good.
A lingering memory I have from those days is Wifey's friend Eileen. She got wasted, and her boyfriend angrily left her at the party. Wifey and I walked her home to her apartment down the street. Eileen was always steeped in drama with a complicated relationship. 32 years later, she still is -- though now her act plays in an Asheville suburb...
When Wifey and I bought our first house, the parties got bigger and better. NYE of '86-'87 we hosted my Mom and two sisters and their families. The party served as the rehearsal dinner for our wedding. I brought in loads of Chinese food, and there was drama and vomiting performed by my nephew, and a niece, as I recall. But my Mom cleaned up the bathroom, and we had a great time, followed by our wedding two nights later.
The following year, we had over 100 people in our tiny house. Our friend Elizabeth's husband Pat was a well known but by that time fading rock star, and he brought his pink Stratocaster and a small amplifier and performed for us in our living room. It was a terrific party -- Wifey's cousin Sandy and his then new girl Felicity were there -- Sandy told me it was the best party he ever attended. It was really something.
The next house was where we welcomed in Y2K -- the year that was possible going to end it all -- the computers we had come to rely on maybe were all going to fail.
We had a lot of people over -- Wifey's bff Edna and her family stayed from Atlanta. At midnight, the Ds and I and a few other guests jumped into our pool. And the world didn't end.
Last night we decided to reprise our NYE hosting, albeit on a smaller scale. We brought in stone crabs, and sides, and lots of champagne. Mike and Loni and Deb and Norman joined us.
I had my old CD player going, with songs from the eclectic play list dating back to the 70s. We sat at the dining room table -- the doors were open to the delicious cool breeze of Miami in January. We toasted, we six, and affirmed we were 6 of the luckiest people we know.
Mike, Norman, and I have known each other since law school. We have 7 kids among us, each soaring in her own way. And our wives understand and indulge our love for the Canes. In Norman and Mike's cases, it's a generational thing. I'm a first generation fan -- but now almost 40 years going.
The Ds were together, which warmed me. I had dropped D2 with her sister in the Grove -- they were to spend the evening with their awesome husband and boyfriend. When I woke this am, I saw Jonathan's Dad's car here -- so I know he and D2 made it home safely.
It's a gorgeous day. Maybe there'll be a new year's breakfast on the schedule.
Wednesday is Wifey and my 31st wedding anniversary. It's also Loni's birthday, so we'll celebrate the day with her and Mike -- probably in the Gables. January 3 is the official end of the holidays for us.
31 years of marriage. Wow. Somehow those party hosting days of the 80s don't seem so far in the past. But time keeps rolling, as the great song goes, like a river.
It's wondrous to mark it's passing. And as for this brand new year, 2000 plus chai, or 18 -- so far, so good.
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