Gratitude

So last night I was out with an old friend who well knows one of my former employees. The employee was with us when we started the firm, and was a single mother under a load of credit card debt. Paul had an idea, and I went along:  we paid off the entire debt, which was, as I recall, in the thousands, and gave her ONE card, telling her if she went into debt again, that would be it for her. But we wanted her full attention, and knew if she worried about all she owed, she would be unfocused.

She cried, with thanks to us. I mean -- who else would do that for an employee as a firm was starting out?  And as the years went by, we bonused her -- a LOT. She was a person who could barely write a sentence in English, but was good with the clients. I remember our accountant, my brother in law, gathering for our year end meeting, and asking Paul and I if we had lost our minds or were sleeping with this employee -- given the huge bonus we gave her. Neither, we said -- we had promised her if the firm did well, so would she, and we kept our word.

Well -- those days came up with our friend and the employee. The employee said -- no -- we never really paid her that well. Her salary was below average.  Yes -- the firm did very well, but we weren't really so generous. My friend knew this was complete malarkey -- the employee did so well with us, she was able to retire early and start her own business.

I've been seeing this more and more lately. In the words of the great Pete Townshend -- people forget.

So I guess the point is, it's folly to be generous if you expect gratitude. You rarely get it.

Years ago, I gave a young family an annual pass for a local aquarium, since the little girl had expressed an interest in marine biology. Months later, I asked if they were using it. The girl's Dad said "Yeah -- we go all the time, but the pass you bought didn't include the dolphin swim, and we had to pay that on our own, and it was a LOT of money."

I was floored. Ain't no one ever bought my kids a membership like that, and the very last thing I would have done if they had was even a peep about the gift's shortcomings.

No matter. Those who believe in the Big Man tell us that ultimately, all gratitude must go only to God.

And I indeed thank the Big Man daily -- even several times per day -- and ask him for continued blessings for my family and friends.

I get no joy from buying material things. Wifey was kidding me last night about a new Keurig I bought online -- and only because the 7 year old one we had had begun letting some of the coffee particles get into the mug.  Wifey asked if I had shopped around for the machine -- I had not -- just went on Jet.com and ordered it. I reminded Wifey I shop so little in a year, other than meals and travel, that if I overpaid $20 for the Keurig it was really no big deal.

Earlier in the evening, I had stopped at a local Walgreen's, to buy some travel sized contact lens solution for our upcoming trip to Texas. I noticed a sunburned homeless guy on the corner -- holding a sign begging for money.

I walked over to him, and handed him some money, and shook his hand. He asked my name, and I told him "Dave." We was "Thomas," he said in what sounded like a Kentucky accent, "Thomas Grayson Junior." I wished him luck, and told him to stay safe on the streets. And he asked God to bless me.

And for that, I felt genuine gratitude, and was honestly very thankful to him.

Modern American Medical Adventure

Like many men of a certain age (old) I have to keep an eye on my prostate gland. Of course, I don't mean that literally, but I have to let my tall, handsome urologist do it.  His name is Bob.

I've been going to Bob for 6 years, ever since a routine blood test showed a high PSA. Fortunately, usually high PSAs mean only a benign enlargement, which I had, but Bob did a biopsy and sees me once or twice per year.

Wifey once visited Bob, and he reported to her that "I really like your husband." At first, hearing those emotions from a man who does to me what Bob does was disconcerting, but I realized he meant no harm.

I was to see Bob Monday, and Friday I happened to see him at Shula's in South Miami. We hugged, which my friend Carole thought was adorable. I told him I was due to see him, and maybe we could be more efficient and just do the exam in the men's room. Bob thought that was hilarious. He likes me.

When his office called to confirm the appointment, the staff member noted I hadn't yet gotten my 4K score. She was right -- I forgot to go for the blood test. 4K is the latest arrow in the urological quiver -- it tells whether you have the genetics for really BAD prostate cancer, or just the normal, friendly type. This latter version is the kind most men WILL get, and I mean WILL. Turns out that if you autopsied 100 dead 95 year olds, 95 % would have prostate cancer -- though none may have died from it. But there's a lethal variety that will indeed spread and kill you. Just ask the widows, of Dan Fogelberg, Frank Zappa, and Joey Ramone. Maybe you have to be a successful musician to have it.

Anyway, this am I went to the special lab to get the 4 K test. Usually I go to my regular doc's nurse, Nancy, for blood draws, but Opko, the pharma company that does 4 K,  makes you use their own labs. Phil Frost didn't become a billionaire and give away hundreds of millions by letting any profits from his companies slip away.

The lab was right next to the Miami office of Mark, my CPA. For some reason, I chuckled to myself about that. I walked in, and there were two pregnant women waiting in the lobby. I announced I was there for a 4 K test, and the receptionist asked for my paperwork. I didn't have any -- Bob's office said to simply go over.

Nope -- no tickey, no test-y. So we both called Bob's office and got placed on 20 minute holds. Finally the staff member answered, and transferred me to another 5 minute hold. The pregnant ladies started eyeing me suspiciously -- and their looks were a bit scary.

I couldn't help myself, and said "Look -- I know you both have men in your lives, and they're probably younger than I am, but in 20 years or so, they'll be dealing with stuff like this." They both laughed, and agreed. Then I realized, wait -- this is Miami -- a pregnant woman could well have a boyfriend or husband in his late 50s, like me, or even older. I really have to keep my thoughts private.

Finally the assistant came back on. "Oh, Dave -- you have Av-Med, and they won't pay for the 4K. You can pay yourself if you want -- it's $500."

Normally I'd have said -- the hell with it and just paid, but my monthly premiums to Av-Med are near $2 thousand dollars -- the least they could do is pay for this.  So I bid the receptionist and the pregnant ladies good day, and left.

I'll likely have a different insurer come January -- maybe they'll pay.  As my very smart friend Ken said -- most screening tests are a waste. They don't lead to decreased mortality. Exceptions are colonoscopies and skin cancer screening. I can well do without the fancy 4 K.

Ah -- the joy of American medicine.  It truly is best to avoid it as much as you can.

Beware Young Men Who Never Smile

So it was a lazy day yesterday at Villa Wifey -- got up and fed the dogs and read the Sunday paper. I was going to have breakfast with Norman's boys, but plans got complicated, so I just hung around. The only plans were to visit my ancient suegra -- I haven't seen her in several weeks.

A news flash came across my phone -- another multiple shooting, this one at a gamers' meeting in Jacksonville. Really -- the holy bastion of nerds? It was true, and by later evening, they identified the shooter as 24 year old David Katz from Baltimore -- he was a known Madden football gamer who had won the tournament a few years ago, was losing yesterday, and so decided the thing to do was kill two fellow players and then himself.

By today, they had video interviews of him from years back. He was sullen faced as he discussed his video wins. He could have been a twin of the nut who shot up the Colorado movie theater a few years ago, or the loser who killed the kids in Sandy Hook.

I fear young men who never smile. The world is so rich for them -- opportunities for their lives are like mushrooms -- just there for the taking. And yet their demons instead summon blackness, evil, and never joy.

We visited the Palace, and my suegra was in full voice. She's deaf, and so doesn't realize how loud she is, but it's truly remarkable that a nearly 94 year old has the strength to project as she does. Even the rest of the mostly hard of hearing group winces when she yell-talks.

Our usual move is to take her outside, under a gazebo, but yesterday was prohibitively hot and humid, so we stayed inside. An acquaintance of Wifey's was there with HER 95 year old mother -- she moved in a few months ago after a series of falls. Her husband is a retired doctor, and the guy loves to talk and talk -- about his education and career. He never comes up for air, and after about 20 minutes of being on the receiving end of this, I feigned a cell call and got up.

I returned, and he started right up again -- actually discussing the science classes he took in high school in the late 50s. I told Wifey our next visit needs to be after dinner -- or I need to run away.

But the fellow is harmless, is the point -- unlike these young male shooters. How are their hears and souls so empty that they need to be filled with violence?

The world is so crazy and unsafe -- even a space seemingly a bastion of nerdy fun -- gaming -- can get you killed.

I guess the only answer is to live your life...and hope. Hope the truck doesn't cross the median and take you out. Hope the lightning doesn't strike. Hope the blood test results don't come back in a way that's going to insure that the long term muni bonds you bought will be claimed by someone else when they mature...

And hope that some nerdy loser doesn't pick up a gun and start shooting.

When Is It Time?

When I reflect on my life's mentors, I realize the ones I always admired most are those who have had varied and different careers. Roger Howard was the prime example.

I met Roger when he was a young partner at my second law job. He had come from Harvard Law and a federal clerkship. He had been a neuroscientist, and professor of music. He came to law in his 40s, and after a few years as a partner doing mostly aviation defense, decided his talents were wasted. He left the firm with his secretary Ann, and opened a small shop handling small PI cases.

He referred several more complex matters to me at the firm I had joined -- including my first and only ERISA matter -- a case that outlived Roger and another mentor Ed -- they both worked on the case and died of cancer as the case made its way up the federal appeals chain.

Roger lied of leukemia far too young -- in his 50s. I spoke at his funeral, which was in 1995 -- and mentioned his varied and full professional life.

And yet, I'm still in the law business -- 32 years after I passed the Florida Bar. I dabbled in teaching and a bit of writing -- but the only real career has been law.

My partner and I pledged to give the firm our all -- for TEN years. In November we turn 24 as a firm. We learned that in June of '19, our very long term lease as subtenants of SunTrust Bank comes to an end. 5 months after that, we'll have our 25th anniversary.

I never planned to be a lawyer nearly this long. In 1982, when I was a college senior, I was profiled in the yearbook -- headed the next year for law school. I said I wanted to practice long enough to become "financially stable," and then do something else -- maybe teaching.

The best laid plans...

For now, we still have clean up to do -- especially in light of Fredo's defection. I guess there is ALWAYS an excuse to stay in a job, or at a career.

I admire Roger, may he rest in peace, for having a type of courage for change I have never shown.

Maybe the winds of 2019 will bring in some changes. Or not.

I know for a fact the Big Man is in charge -- we'll see what plans HE has for this getting long in the tooth lawyer.

August 24, 1992 -- A Day We Always Remember

I guess that even or significant numbered anniversaries get the most press, and last year, 8/24/16, was the TWENTY FIFTH anniversary of a life changing event for us. This year it's been 26 years gone by -- and passed with much less notice.

But I remembered. Yesterday was the anniversary of Hurricane Andrew, at the time the costliest natural disaster in US history, and for us, the scariest.

I had moved to Miami in '79 and heard about storms, but never went through one. I remember leaving UM and heading to Delray as a few threatened in the early 80s -- we'd put masking tape on the windows like the other NY transplants at the condo, not understanding that was a completely useless task. A piece of debris hurtling at your plate glass at over 100 mph doesn't care much about your masking tape...

In college, we had hurricane parties, which involved heavy drinking as the storm skirted us. So I had no real experience with these dangerous storms.  I barely paid attention to Andrew as it came towards us, other than to make a decision. My 72 year old Mom was with us -- she seemed SO elderly at the time, less so as I slog towards that age -- and we had to decide whether to return her to Delray Beach or keep her with us in South Dade. The storm appeared to be jogging north, so we kept her with us.

Our house, built in 1980, was a classic piece of crap built, developer paid off inspectors to get it passed, structure. The thing looked nice -- all sharp white lines and an indoor atrium -- but the roof decking was stapled on, not properly nailed.

And then came the cyclone.  We huddled in baby D2's room -- it was on the NW side of the house, away from the winds. D2 was 6 months old, and D1 was three.  I recall sitting next to a wall, by an electric outlet, and feeling a rush of air -- sort of like being in a swimming pool near the outlet from the filter pump. It was air rushing down through the studs and out through the outlet.  The wind increased, and we heard the infamous screech -- like animals fighting on the roof, with a freight train passing-like rumble. The animal sound was the roof decking being peeled off.

The ceiling above us bowed with water. I led us all through the dark to the car in the garage -- I figured if that ceiling collapsed, at least we'd have the car roof to give us some protection.  I got in the driver's seat, and put D1 in the passenger seat. Wifey and Mom were in the back -- Wifey holding D2. We left the dogs -- a huge Lab and small cocker, outside. They weren't having it, and somehow leapt though the open window to join us.

I was scared. Not for myself, but for the Ds and elderly Mom. I watched Bryan Norcross, the voice in the darkness for many of us, on a battery powered TV I had. He was amazing -- literally talked us through it ("If you're near the Falls, the eye just passed -- do NOT go out -- it's going to get worse soon.").  Hours passed. The house flooded. Entire structures were ripped off and blown away. The glass atrium IMPLODED. A huge high window in the master bedroom shattered from a part of the neighbor's house that sailed through like a battering ram. Staying in the master would have been deadly.

Finally, as the sun came up, the winds subsided. I got out -- went outside. My street was gone, mostly. It truly looked as if a bomb had directly hit. I saw some neighbors -- it appeared that no one was hurt. But Manny, across the street, was crying -- he had paid off his mortgage a few months before, and forgotten to renew his insurance. He'd have to pay all the losses.

Mom, Wifey, and the Ds were intact. I got on a bicycle to ride to my in law's house, a mile and a half north, in Kendale. I was able to navigate the obstacle course that was 107 Ave, past buzzing downed power lines, and people walking around dazed and confused -- and not from weed.

I found Rachel and Richard fine -- they had stayed in a closet. And their house -- built well in the 50s, with Dade County pine tongue and groove roof, had exactly one broken window. Their total damage ended up being about $5000.

I biked back home, helped the women get packed, and piled into my car. We caravaned up to my Mom's condo, and stayed a few days -- blissfully with power. My in laws returned home -- they camped out in their house for a month. They had survived the Nazi concentration camps -- living without electric was no big deal.

Wifey's friend Linda lived on Brickell Key -- relatively untouched by the storm. She KNEW we were wrecked -- and ran to the rental office and snagged the second to last open apartment for us. It was an act of kindness and savvy I will always be thankful for.  We moved the Ds and 2 dogs into the Island Club -- it would be our home until New Year's Eve, when we would move into my in law's house -- they had decamped to Century Village in Pembroke Pines.  But that's another, of many, Andrew related stories.

The point is, for any of us living in South Dade in August of '92, the term "before or after" is instantly recognizable.

1992, looking back, turned out to be an excellent year for us. D2 was born in February, I settled and got paid for my first multi million dollar case, and Andrew converted so much of our crap into money -- money I invested, and which provides security to us even today.

So it was 26 years ago.  I don't think I'll ever forget.

Football Season

In the hottest and dampest part of Miami summer, excitement awaits just over a week away: the start of Cane's football season. It almost makes up for putting up with the sweltering weather.

The Herald has been ramping up coverage, and my close circle of friends and I have been ramping up emails and texts. Most of us are flying to Dallas next week to watch the first game -- our boys open the season against LSU, and we're planning a great football weekend in the Big D -- actually, in the smaller Fort Worth, where, I am told, the hipper part of town, the Stockyards, lies.

Last night I met my old friend and banker Carole at Shula's. When I walked in the door, my friend Eddy was at the bar -- he's heading to Dallas, and we compared notes about restaurants and tailgate parties.  We're all teenagers with more money, and now that we're empty nesters, these trips loom large in our lives.

Carole arrived and said "So are you ready for football, or what?" Yes, there was no "or what?" Carole was born and raised here -- the daughter of a rabid Canes fan who passed away a few years back. Carole is a 'Nole, but has a special place in her heart for my team, as well. The big game between our schools is here this season, and I told Carole to come join our tailgate party.

The big game for the Noles at home this year is Notre Dame, and Carole is planning to attend -- two of her nephews attend school in Tally.  The spirit of the game is among us.

I told Carole about the betrayal of Fredo from our firm. She was shocked -- she remembers my trying to have her bank give him a line of credit years ago. She told me he never sent back his financial statement -- so obviously he had major money issues even three years ago. He knew he wasn't credit worthy then, but hoped a bank would lend him money based on a big case we had given him to work on -- one he ended up stealing from our firm.

Carole was just happy she didn't involve her bank with this loser. He would have taken advantage of friendship through me, and nastiness would have resulted.  Hey -- as I told her, he's Saul Goodman's problem now.

Carole's about my age, and we talked about long careers. She started in banking right out of FSU, and is amazed at how her job went from true customer service to essentially being an agent of the US government.  When clients of over 20 years want to do simple transactions, Carole is stymied when they're foreign nationals, which are a majority of banking customers in Miami. Carole used to have "sweet retirees" with big accounts, but they've all moved on to Palm Beach County or Naples. Or, they've died. The young, vigorous go getters have to constantly explain themselves to the government -- and rich folks don't do that happily.

I told Carole I was ready for a change -- if something exciting or interesting came my way, I'd happily say adios to the law business. I told Carole that as a young man, those mentors I admired most had done several things with their work lives. Law has been mostly it for me for over three decades -- it would be terrific to try something else.

Who knows -- Dave's Funny Tavern?

In the mean time, tonight we get to see D1 and Joey. Joey's parents have shabbat each Friday, and we've settled into a nice routine -- every other week we have our non shabbat, shabbat at a local restaurant with them. Tonight we're meeting in the Grove. Wifey and I savor these times.

Next weekend, the whole family will be traveling. D2 and Jonathan are spending a night down the Jersey Shore, as they say -- one of D2's work friends is getting married in Long Beach Island. D1 and Joey are off to Utah for another friend's wedding. And Wifey and I are headed to Texas, for good steaks, laughter, and, of course, Canes football.

The days of Awe draw happily nigh...

Deponent

So yesterday Wifey and I did something together we only did once before, and it was back in 1989: we sat for depositions.

The one nearly 30 years ago was much funnier.  When D1 was born, my Mom brought her then friend Mae and Mae's sister Ettie (Mom loved to call her E.T.) to visit the baby. Actually, Mae was the bringer -- Mom would never drive all the way from Delray to our Kendall home.  Wifey brought in sandwiches, and Ettie was walking with hers, and our beloved Labrador, Midnight, was overcome with food lust, as was typical, and decided to share Ettie's sandwich. His 95 pounds of retriever ebullience knocked the old lady down, and she ended up breaking her ankle.

By the time I returned from work, the three old ladies had left, and I called Ettie to see how she was. She was ok, but had indeed broken an ankle. I told her to get a lawyer, as we had homeowner's coverage, and it would be unethical of me, a lawyer, to represent her against ourselves. She did, and the lawyer tried to settle with our carrier, State Farm. State Farm tried to shortchange Ettie, and so suit was filed. I got to pick my defense lawyer, and I choose a fellow I had become buddies with -- Richard.

Ettie's lawyer came to depose Wifey and I -- he merely had to establish we lacked a "Bad Dog" sign, which would have given State Farm a defense.  Midnight was no bad dog -- he was, well, just a bit too wild, which was indeed our fault.  Midnight slinked around our feet as the depo went forward -- he seemed to know he had caused trouble. After we were done, State Farm did the right think and paid Ettie and her lawyer. 

Miami being the small town/big city it is, Richard is about to become the father in law of one of D1's closest friends. He's become very successful, and I love reminding everyone that he started out representing a black Lab named Midnight...

Well, State Farm hasn't changed their claim practices in nearly 30 years. In April of '15, their insured, and ancient but sweet man , also named Richard (the parallels amaze) pulled out his SUV in Coral Gables and crashed into Wifey's SUV. Wifey had a broken wrist.

After she finished treatment, I wrote to State Farm and asked to settle. Some nasty adjuster in Lakeland acknowledged that Wifey's treating doctor, Lew, an old friend, was indeed very conservative, and if he said Wifey had a permanent injury, she was inclined to believe it. Also, her insured was totally at fault, so they would offer to settle for LESS than the medical bills.

Ha. As if. We put the thing into suit, as we say in the biz, and last week our young Turk Vince deposed the ancient man. He was sweet -- from Oklahoma, now living in Guatemala with his Latina wife. He recalled events a bit differently than they occurred -- thought Wifey was speeding, and that a cop who saw the whole thing blamed her. But he couldn't explain why that cop gave HIM the ticket. Also, and this was the best part for me -- he remembered that Wifey's SON came to the scene.

Of course, it was me. The court reporter said "You'd better not tell your wife that" and I replied that I planned to tell her that very night.

Anyway, yesterday came our turn, and the defense lawyer, a nice enough native Jewish Miami guy who went to Norland High in the 70s when they had Jews there, took a very courteous and thorough depo of us.  Wifey's lasted over three hours -- mine was under an hour.

We have a mediation next week. I think State Farm might come up with some more shekels. If not, the case will be an excellent training case for Vince -- Stu would have to pay money to send him to civil trial school, and this case could train him while getting us the fair deal.

Last night, Wifey asked why they needed all of the details about her bad back, which has nothing to do with her broken wrist. I explained they would try to show that her wrist issues are minimal in her life compared to her years of fighting back pain.

We're just both grateful the bad back no longer rears its ugly head.

So State Farm is, as all of us in the business know, no one's good neighbor. That's ok. 20 years past, I gave them the opportunity to settle a case for $10,000.00. They hedged, claiming the quadriplegic child I represented wasn't entitled to the money, as she lived in the same house as her bad driver aunt, who had caused the injury.

We filed suit, and they paid in the millions. The child passed away some months after the settlement.

I don't think Wifey's case is worth in the millions, but with the right Miami Dade jury, you never know.  I guess we'll find out in the coming months...

FDOS

So today is the First Day of School in Miami -- a day I used to truly savor when I had school aged Ds.

Wifey and I made it a big deal -- I'd take a picture of the girls in front of a tree -- to show how much more the tree would grow each year. And then, when they went to Leewood Elementary, I'd walk them in and meet the teachers for the year.

I loved the atmosphere -- reminded me of Opening Day in baseball. In MLB, every team is undefeated that day -- no one has struck out -- no errors committed. At FDOS, the dunces haven't yet failed any tests, no feelings have been hurt by cliques, and all is grand.

D1 skipped from first to second grade, so was 4 grades ahead of D2. A memory we cherish is Wifey making it crystal clear to D1 that she would hold her sister's hand outside the door, and then make sure D2 got inside. Of course, Wifey stayed to watch.  D1 put her sister right in front of the door and clearly instructed her to wait. And then she walked off to chat with her third degree friends -- D2 stood motionless, waiting for the door to open like a religious Jew awaits the opening of the Ark.

That night, we came down hard on D1 -- safety issues were huge in our house. I recall her being in awe that parents seemed to be an all seeing eye...

Of course, once the Ds got to Middle and High School, FDOS became all theirs. We weren't allowed to walk them into the building, but they prepped and primped to look just right for that first day. The house buzzed with excitement.

After high school, things got even better -- I was treated to one of the best parts of being a Dad -- dropping the Ds off at college. There was the long drive to Gville, and helping carry in the tons of clothes, and the shopping trips to Target and Wal-Mart out on Archer Road, and the bittersweet goodbye when Wifey and I realized we had young women on our hands instead of girls...

I'll drive by the schools today and smile -- the FDOS excitement will be all around them. And who knows -- maybe there'll be grandkids, and I can actually take part in FDOS again.

When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time

I had a terrific morning/late afternoon yesterday. I met Scott and Josh at Greenstreet's in the Grove, and we caught up before Scott heads back for his senior college year at Maryland. Afterwards, we walked down to the water, and I taught them about some Grove history, including the sad (disappearance of Amy Billig) and the insane (what went on at the Mutiny Hotel in the 70s and 80s).

From there, we went to Panther coffee and enjoyed the blissful A/C, and then into Books and Books, which opened a Grove outpost a few months ago. I bought a couple of books for their Dad -- I always try to support B and B whenever I visit.

I went home, took a dog company nap, and was awakened by Stuart, who reported that Fredo had completed the move from our office. The cancer had been cut out.

I fetched Wifey at MIA, and admitted to her that despite my playing at a bachelor for a week, I was truly happy to have her home. I thought back to my Dad's advice about choosing a wife.

Growing up, marrying someone Jewish was never emphasized in my house. My sister married an Irish Catholic guy, and my other sister married a Jew, and their marriage lasted barely a few years. My friends and I never gave it a thought. But then I met my Miami brothers, Barry and Eric, whose families taught that they MUST marry in the religion.

So I consulted Dad. He thought, and then said it was probably better to marry a Jewess, since her culture and values would likely be attuned to mine. But then he thought about the many shrewish women he knew, and concluded religions wasn't too important. His advice: marry someone pleasant.

And Wifey is. We have our quarrels, of course, but both of us are typically good natured and chill. We love to laugh together.

After Wifey went downstairs to let the dogs out for their final nocturnal pees, I reflected about the passing of time. Scott and Josh are the age I was when my Dad died. I thought how lucky they are that their beloved father isn't going anywhere for awhile.

I think of my Dad daily, and he's gone closer to 4 decades than 3.  Even my Mom, who lived so long, has been gone over half a decade now.

The years fly by, and the generations are replaced. D1's sister in law just had a beautiful baby girl, and my son in law's family is rejoicing -- first in her new generation.  That new baby, Layla, will learn far more than I'll ever know, to steal Armstrong's lyric.

We're in the dog days of a Miami August, and yet as the boys and I walked by the Bay yesterday, there was a lovely, cooling breeze. A hint of the future, hopefully.

All I know is, when I was finishing college, I saw life as a huge buffet line, and hoped to pick and choose and then devour the finest of the items there.

Now that I'm well past the halfway point in the buffet line, I admit to myself that I've done well in that regard, so far.

Winding Down of Bachelerhood

So after a week in Atlanta, with a 3 day intra-vacation trip to Hilton Head, Wifey is headed home tonight.  Against very small odds, I survived being a single dude rather well...

It was a busy week at the office, dealing with the aftermath of Fredo's departure, and having to reach agreements with Saul. I call these two those names since John is a loser who betrayed us for money, and has now gone to work for our local version of the excellent "Breaking Bad" character Saul Goodman, a TV lawyer known as "Better Call Saul."  I keep saying I won't mention Fredo any longer, but the exquisiteness of his situation keeps popping up.

He ALWAYS made fun of and denigrated advertising lawyers.  One of his UF classmates is one of the most successful in the country in that arena: John Morgan, and Fredo would lament that he, too, could have become rich had he lowered himself to the level of cheap ads. And now, at 66, when any lawyer worth his salt should be , or at least be able to, consider retiring, Fredo has to become the errand boy for our local Better Call Saul. 

Later today, Fredo is due in to move out his furniture and files, and I'll be nowhere near the office. Stu was annoyed he had to give up a Saturday to oversee the move. Saul said "Well, stay home -- Fredo can do the move without you -- you can trust him." Stu retorted that Fredo stole two and tried to steal 3 cases -- he can't trust him as far as he could throw Fredo's bloated body.  Ok -- enough.

So Thursday night I planned to sit at the bar at Shula's and eat while watching Sports Center, my signature bachelor move, but Stuart instead invited me to try a new Asian place, Katsuya, that opened a half a block away.  We went, and the sushi was fine, and VERY expensive. The waiter brought a roll I ordered and flame torched the fish on top, to give it a charred flavor.  The place was packed, in the way of all new Miami restaurants, and Stu and I shared a gentlemen's dinner -- talking of our kids, and futures in the office.

And last night, fittingly, I met Mirta, my sister of another mister, at Titanic.  She has become a true biker chick -- she just returned from Sturgis, SD on a trip with her boyfriend Jay. It's a huge biker meet up near the Badlands, and this Cubana, who had never seen the American West, was blown away by the mountains and towns of those states. It was a fitting final evening for me...

This am I have plans to see my nephews of another brother, Scott and Josh. Scott's due to head back to Maryland for his senior college year. Talk about the flight of time! It truly seems like yesterday that we had a farewell breakfast at LOL to send him off.

The boys asked about bringing their parents, and I said to leave them at home, so they could skinny dip in the family pool while their sons were away. I may have painted an image to destroy their appetites this morning, but the French toast at Greenstreets should overcome any psychic damage I caused.

So the dogs and I welcome home Wifey tonight. It'll be fine to have her back in the 305. We leave in two weeks for Dallas, and the Canes kickoff classic at Jerry's World. Mike and I spoke about the trip last night -- the anticipation for it is building. The Days of Awe, Canes football, approach...

Big Day at the Office

So yesterday my posse and I met and prepared for an evening meeting with the TV Guy, who took on the lawyer who betrayed us.  We went out to lunch and then had a sit com-like moment: the receptionist told us that a process server had come, looking for the leper. The receptionist told the server the Defendant was no longer among us, but got the case information and passed it to a secretary, who looked it up.

It was a lawsuit from a credit card company asking for the $85,000.00 in unpaid bills. The dude was truly circling the drain. Now he'll go down someone else's drain.

The meeting went well -- the TV Guy was sharp and nice, and impressive. He's a former hippie, as he told us, who hails from Canada. That explained his niceness, which combined with his acumen, made him an impressive guy.  The four of us had an amicable discussion about how to handle the cases the leper stole from us.  Perhaps things will work out, or we'll let the courts decide. Either way, we now move on.

But then came the important part of the night: dinner. My two Aventurans rarely venture to the South part of the County -- I suggested Salvatore, a go-to Italian place. I arrived first to see they are very closed on Monday. But I looked up and saw signs for Cafe Catula, a place I've long wanted to try, on the other side of Sunset Drive.

I parked, and the place was buzzing, with a large party of kids from Belen High, the place many rich Cubans send their kids. I took a seat at the bar and waited for Stu and Paul. A friendly couple struck up a conversation -- they worked for the Social Security Administration, and I joked that I would soon be a client.

My crew arrived, and we were soon into deep conversation about the meeting. My new friend Eddy tapped me on the shoulder -- did I recognize who was standing behind me? It was Emilio Estefan -- wife of Gloria, and a real big shot here in town. I joked I had met him years ago -- backstage at Broward Theater, at a Bernadette Peters' show. Some former clients were good friends with the diminutive Queens Broadway and movie star, and I met Gloria and Emilio. They were very diminutive -- and charming.

We retired to a table, and ate delicious food. Stu got the osso bucco, and it may have been better than the one at Il Gabbiano, which always has the best.  We toasted our brotherhood, and the fact that the leper and his huge debts were no longer associated with us. We bet on how long he'd last with the TV Guy. I bet less than a year -- his act will soon wear thin, and his excuses to cover his laziness will be exposed. But again -- no longer our problem.

We got up to leave, and Emilio was emerging from the restroom. I said hello, and he stopped, saying I looked familiar. I told him we had met at the Bernadette Peters' show, and he said he remembered -- he was being charming, but said Gloria had just left. She is so small and typically Miami looking, we hadn't even noticed her. They were celebrating a niece's birthday. I joked that I hoped he picked up the tab.

Paul took a few photos of us with Stu, and off he went, "back to work in the studio." It was 10:30 p.m. and he said they had a huge new project in Brazil. Clearly you don't rise to the top of the music biz without crazy effort -- and he's in his mid 60s...

So it was a fine day and evening. And at some point, the process server will be showing up at the TV Guy's office. I can imagine he'll be a bit dismayed when he realizes the dude he hired to run part of his law practice is even more in debt than he probably let on. Again -- no longer our problem.

Time wounds all heels...

Take Me Out to the

So I dropped Wifey at MIA, she flew up to ATL, and I put on some home improvement show to nap to. I really dig those shows -- I do few, if any projects myself, but I like to watch dudes knocking down walls and installing plumbing. And then I drift off...

Eric called. Would I like to go to the Marlins game? I would. He also asked Barry, but he begged off, so I drove up US 1 to the surrounding area of the stadium and parked on a front lawn. I enjoy that -- it brings me back, in my mind, to the glorious days of the Orange Bowl...

We met outside of the Clevelander, where the party was in full swing. It was Dominican Night, and they gave away probably 15K cool Hawaiian shirts, that advertised the DR. We didn't wait in line.

But it was a party atmosphere there.  Probably 40% of the crowd were Mets' fans, the team of my childhood.  And there was dancing, everywhere, much of it by non appearance challenged women.

Marlins Park really is a very cool stadium -- colorful, and filled with art. The sight lines are excellent, and with the roof and side windows closed, it was lovely on a hot an humid night.

Our seats were terrific -- behind the Mets dugout, and we three chatted about our kids. Of the four, two are married, and the other two living with terrific mates. We talked about how lucky we were in that regard -- a toxic boyfriend or girlfriend, or worse, spouse, can ruin a family. I know from experience...

We thought we'd stay for most of the game, but it turned out to be a great one --3-3 and into extra innings.  We watched as Bryan Holoday hit a walk off double in the bottom of the 11th. It was a great celebration -- the Marlins are in last place, locked in a cellar battle with the Mets, but the dugout cleared and everyone swarmed the hero.

It was the most fun I've had at a game in a good long while. I plan to go back -- often.

And it's a lovely, quiet Sunday here. I went to my workout class -- I was the oldest by at least 20 years, and proudly, mostly kept up. I asked the trainer, Jonathan, if he watched the Sopranos. He hadn't. I told him about a scene where Tony comes upon the corpulent Bobby and Vito at a party, and says "Hey -- you guys look like gym ad -- "Before," and "WAY Before."  Jonathan loved it.

I'm seeing him tomorrow as well -- my main man, Enrique, is away in Italy, and made me promise to hit the gym 3 times per week in his absence. I cannot disappoint my guru...

After class, I used some of my new found energy to schlep tree branches to my neighbors' pile. I emailed them first asking permission -- our local Gladys Kravetz, Riva, sent everyone an email saying that using someone's trash pile without permission was equivalent to, I guess, terrorism.

Bob and Elizabeth laughed at it -- they told me to pile away. Bob's a Notre Dame alum and fan, and I couldn't help asking if he bought a Turnover Chain. He smirked -- but as a native, he likes the Canes, too.

So it's one...two,,,three strikes you're out, or, as they said last night, un, dos, tres...It was a ton of fun...

La La How The Life Goes On...

So yesterday my posse and I spent dealing with the departure of he whose name I plan to no longer say. Paul, Vince, Stu, and I figured stuff out, and spoke to the boss at the firm where the leper went.  Details are irrelevant, but one thing struck out:  we all laughed -- a lot.

We share an amazing brotherhood -- the crap piece who left was never really part of it, and that shone through yesterday. Sure, the money is important, and everyone wants to maximize their piece of a pie, but the togetherness was supreme. Of course, my words would be, as a wise person once noticed, spoken like that of a true rich man.

Anyway, afterwards I drove through a classic Miami summer downpour to the Gables, where I was meeting Wifey, Joey, and D1 at Fratellino's.  It's been there 4 years, and I felt like the only dufus who didn't know about it. I met the owner, Beto, and loved him right away -- Miami guy, originally from the Bronx -- lifelong restaurant guy.  He greeted Wifey and D1 with hugs, and Joey in Spanish, as his background is Argentinian Italian.  After he came by to ask after the food, and we all were delighted, he said "There's an old Sician saying for that: 'Boruch Hashem."  I have a feeling I'll be going to his place quite a lot.

D1 and Joey are getting close to moving into their new home.  We talked about the fact that though it's expensive, it has no garage -- just car ports. They explained that garages tend to only get filled up with crap you're too lazy to throw away.  They SO get it...

We got home to a hive of FPL activity -- a line had been knocked down in the storm, and the crew was out in force trimming away branches and putting up new wires. I sneaked in, and lit some candles. Wifey made her way inside, too, and started packing for her trip by candlelight.  An hour or later, the power was restored, and all systems were again go.

I fell asleep as an ad played for the firm we're meeting with Monday. It was a young lawyer saying that accident victims should REPORT attorneys that contact them -- only hire lawyers you see on TV!  I chuckled to myself -- this guy is fine with stealing our clients, and advertises his morality.  I'm often so befuddled about why people hate lawyers so much...

Today Wifey was up and chirpy.  I drove her to MIA as she related to me a tale of her friend from Iowa -- she learned at nearly age 60 she had a brother. Their reunion started out well, but ran into rough waters.

I dropped her at the AA departures and called Paul. Would we meet at Mo's for breakfast?  We would not -- Paul had grandpa duties this am. So I pointed the SUV south, and strode into Wagon's West. I chatted with Walter, who's owned the place for over 30 years. I asked him how the boss was. He replied that though he was called Chief, he really felt like he was working for the Indians.  I totally dig his political incorrectness...

And I returned a blissfully quiet house. I can last a week, I think...

John, You're Nothing To Me Now...

Ah, the Godfather -- I and II are two of the greatest movies of all time, and III is ok, though it took three viewings for me to really like it.  I think about scenes all the time -- Coppola's masterpiece resonates so well with all critical themes of human nature.

Of course, one of the saddest it the fraternal betrayal. Michael had become the leader of the family, and his loser older brother Fredo was envious and marginalized. So he betrayed Michael to rival Hyman Roth and his crew, and nearly got his brother killed. Michael, back in Nevada, confronts Fredo and Fredo admits his treachery, but tries to justify it on the basis that he was grabbing his own glory. Michael disowns him, and, after their mother dies, has Fredo shot on a boat in Lake Meade, and his body dropped to the bottom.

I met a fellow in '84 and we became friends. He was a young lawyer at the firm where I was a clerk, and we bonded over our quirky senses of humor. Over the years, we did some business -- I'd refer him cases that my firm didn't want -- and we made some nice money together.

He had a checkered work history -- left 4 firms on bad terms, but several years ago was looking for a new place to work. Now, I SHOULD have been objective and said that any lawyer who was 62 and nearly broke should be avoided, but, since he was a friend, I put a halo on him. This is, or has been, one of my flaws -- friends of mine get imbued with qualities they often do not truly possess...

So we brought him in, and gave him control of some cases. At first, things worked out -- he settled some can of corn matters, though the financial problems persisted. He missed many rent payments, but Stu, the boss of the operation, let him slide. When a case settled, they evened up.

But over time, he grew lazy. Cases sat. No money was made. All he had to do was work the cases, and he wouldn't -- for reasons we couldn't figure out.  He complained that he wasn't getting new cases, and I'd patiently explain that once he completed the ones he WAS given, there'd be more. Months, then years, passed. Cases sat.

Other members grew disgusted. When one partner would confront him about the lack of effort, John would whine "Well the staff doesn't follow my instructions." That was a laughable excuse.

But still, I hoped he would complete several key cases --including one set for trial next month. I naively thought the money from that case would solve things.

In the mean time, I helped him. A lot. His daughter was wait listed at college. I used my connections with major alums to assist her application -- she got in and graduated. I got John into medical appointments he'd never have gotten on his own. One day I drove him to the hospital and wasted an entire day waiting for him -- he was afraid to drive following surgery. I thought we were friends.

Well -- turned out we weren't. His failure to work continued, and he grew deeper into debt. A secretary told us his house was in foreclosure -- he tried pathetically explaining to his bank he couldn't pay because of damage from Hurricane Irma.  I don't think the bank bought that.

Last week, John disappeared. He said goodbye on Friday, and then went into hiding. We called and emailed. Nothing in response, except for texts to one secretary.

I grew worried. His daughter was no longer close to him -- she lives in Texas and seems to want less and less to do with him. He's single. Given his desperation, I started to worry he might kill himself.  I was about to sent the cops out to check, when the secretary got another text -- no, he said, he was fine. But he ignored my and the rest of our groups calls and emails.

Turns out I didn't need to worry about his welfare. In the same way cockroaches, they say, will survive a nuclear war -- John was scheming. He convinced another firm to hire him -- a job I knew about from years back -- basically managing cases for a big TV advertising firm.  He bullshitted his way in there the same way he did with us and the three firms before he left.  No one contacted to ask about his tenure with us. I'm certain they didn't know he was on the brink of bankruptcy.

I found out via a terse email.  I'm assuming he plans to try to take several of our group's cases with him. This is a common thing among the scoundrels in our profession -- ultimately a court works out which firm is entitled to how much of the fee.

The money won't make a bit of difference to me. My partner will be the one to fight it out.  But I feel responsible for being the one who brought what turned out to be a cancer to our group.

He'll last probably less than a year at the new shop. They'll figure out he's drawing a salary and is lazy. He doesn't close cases. He'll figure out a way to blame others -- make himself the victim -- and then he'll move on to another  firm that ought to know better. Or maybe he'll be dead by then.

He already is to me. I emailed those close to me to tell them he no longer exists. The responses were "But after all you did for him..."  The lesson, especially for my Ds, is that just because you know someone a long time doesn't mean you can trust them.

So other than this blog entry, I plan to never speak of or think about this piece of crap again. I treasure my friends -- we truly work together on handshakes. I feel like taking a shower that I ever shook John's hand. I never shall again...

World Class Family Dysfunction

Wifey and I were talking over the weekend, as she went through old family photos, of the sad state of our extended family. The photos showed visits with siblings and cousins, and through a Tolstoyan set of varied circumstances, we have nothing to do with most of them now.  I remarked that if my parents were alive, they wouldn't have believed it -- that we somehow went from a family that got together often to one so permanently fractured.

But then I read two articles, and concluded we're barely minor league in the dysfunction department.  One tale was in the current New Yorker, about a Dutch crime family. Somehow I had never heard about them, but a big brother was involved with the successful kidnapping of the Heinekken patriarch, and how that vaulted him to John Gotti status in the Netherlands. His younger sister became a lawyer, and defended him and his cronies, including a brother in law, but then turned state's evidence and is testifying against her brother in a trial lasting years. The sister lives undercover, like Rushdie after the fatwa, because she knows her brother wants to have her killed, and has the resources, even from jail, to do it.

Apparently there was a movie made about the kidnapping, and several movies are in the works about this Dutch version of The Sopranos. Now that I know about this, I plan to learn more. Tolstoy was right: happy families are all alike, and unhappy ones unique in their suffering. The latter are, sadly, far more interesting.

And then this am, I read an essay in the Times by a writer named Rachel Abramson, about her father, who was a distant and absent man. He was himself raised in an unloving home, and was the same in raising Rachel. After her parents divorced, she had barely any contact with him, but he remarried and became father of the year to his new stepkids. The writer thinks it was because they were already grown, and he didn't have to raise them, just be their buddy.

But get this: the Dad lived in Palm Beach Gardens, and was found murdered in a field -- single gunshot to the chest, and no weapon found. But after an extensive investigation, the cops figured out the fellow killed himself -- with a gun he strapped to a weather balloon that floated high over the ocean after he pulled the trigger. Imagine that. The father wanted to, apparently, save his new family the guilt of having him commit suicide -- somehow being murdered by unknown assailants in some field in rural Palm Beach would be easier to take.  Again -- world class dysfunction.

So there's always a worse tale for anything that saddens you. And truly nutty people set the bar pretty low for what it is to be a bad parent.

Meanwhile, D1 and Joey stopped by Saturday, to pick up some boxes at the local post office. D1 has been an ordering fiend for their new house -- hopefully to be completed in September. Our garage has been turned into a true warehouse.

I really can't stand being a storage facility, but I told D1 and Joey -- the ONLY exception to that is for my two Ds and their two men. I will store anything they wish. Anytime anyone else asks me -- I refuse vehemently. I'm looking to get rid of my own crap -- I don't plan to hold anyone else's...

Joey installed a Nest thermostat for our master bedroom -- it was one his brother Alan had used, and moved away from his rental apartment. Joey is wonderfully mechanically inclined -- he put the thing in amazingly fast, and now I get to tell my bedroom to get cool from anywhere I happen to be.  In that way, D1 married a man very unlike her father -- I am all thumbs when it comes to assembling things or installing them.

We enjoyed our time together, and will meet again Friday at an Italian place in the Gables I've been wanting to try ever since Dr. Barry and Mike have raved about it.

The Ds and their men are sacred to Wifey and me. We shall never be estranged.  As for extended family -- well, that you never know. But compared to testifying against gangster brothers, and faked murders with guns and helium balloons -- things can always be worse.

The Fake Single Life

It's nice being married, and in January for Wifey and me that'll be 32 years. But alone time is great, too, and Wifey and I are on the same page there -- we probably spend more time on our own than most couples without so called commuter marriages.

She's headed to Atlanta for a week in the coming days -- her BFF Edna misses her -- and I'm happy for her. It'll also give me the chance to have a bunch of evenings I enjoy -- playing the role of the Miami bachelor.

Last night was a preview -- sort of. Wifey was out doing errands, and I headed over to Sea Siam, despite the warnings and advice of D2. Sea Siam was closed a few weeks ago for insect stuff, and instead of posting a sign on the door about it, said they were "on vacation."  Well, they cleaned up the problem, apparently, and the DOH let them open again,  and I figure maybe some of the delicious Thai flavor comes from our six legged friends. So I went in.

They have two rooms -- the main dining area, and an old fashioned, go through a swinging door, bar. I sat at the bar, and ordered a martini. The young Asian bartender asked "Anyone else joining you?" and I replied -- "No -- just a lonely old guy." She gave a sad face, but I assured her I was solo and thrilled about it.

I drank my martini, and watched the ESPN on the TV, and ate my delicious curry and chicken.  I really enjoy that, from time to time -- just focusing on my thoughts, and the flavor of the food, and listening to the conversations of my fellow diners without having to participate.

There was a couple a few bar stools away -- pretty blonde lady, in her 40s, with a man. They were very affectionate, and then left for the restroom for quite awhile. They returned, the man left, and the woman ordered take out. A-ha! I immediately decided it was a tryst, and the poor cuckholded husband was waiting at home for his warm sushi.

Turned out I was dead wrong -- the staff knew her, and she was single -- the fellow was a new boyfriend. The take out was for her aging parents, who she lived with.  So much for my keen sense of human nature.

Wifey texted, asking my wherabouts, and I told her I was at Stir Crazy, our Village's one gentleman's club. She knew I was joking. I told her the truth, and she joined me.

I offered to buy her dinner, but she already had "peanut butter," so she was the ultimate cheap date.

Tonight we're going to a more traditional dinner on Brickell, with some old friends.  And I enjoy my dinners with Wifey.

But now in my 58th year, dinner alone at a restaurant bar, watching TV, and then going home to a quiet house and grateful dogs -- well, for me it's one of life's simple pleasures...

Wifey versus the Bureaucracy

So for over six months now, Wifey has been trying to get her ancient mother on Medicaid. We thought she had succeeded -- calls came in, and even a letter came from Governor Rick Scott that said, essentially, "Even though you're now on Medicaid, don't think you're a complete loser."

Not so fast. Wifey got a call yesterday, saying her mother was NOT qualified.  Either they improperly counted her Holocaust reparations as income, which state law clearly says should not be, OR Wifey applied for the wrong kind of Medicaid.  She's in the process of figuring it out now.

I told Wifey her sense that if you ask many questions and follow directions things come out correct does NOT apply to government bureaucracy.  Wifey even went to the DCF office to file some papers.  She handed the clerk, who I'll call an angry woman, the law showing Holocaust money doesn't count. The woman sneered at Wifey and said "Uhh HUUUUUh." Wifey's pretty sure the woman trashed the pages of legal support.

It'll eventually happen. I deal with this crap all the time.

Even worse than Medicaid is Medicare.  When we settle a case, we have to pay back Medicare for any benefits they paid out related to the accident or incident.  It used to be you called a central office up in Jacksonville, and worked out the lien.  Last time I did it, or tried, they went to a system where you are not allowed to speak to the same person -- your call goes all over the country, and you have to start anew with whichever bored and apathetic clerk has the case.

So Wifey will persevere, and my suegra WILL get her benefits.  I guess it remains to be seen, however, whether that takes place while she's still alive...

Below One's Means

Wifey and I have always been on the same page about finances:  we live very well within our means.  When I met her, she was 26 and paid off her credit card bill monthly. I didn't HAVE a credit card.  For the first years of our marriage, we made conservative choices -- we could have afforded a first house of up to $125K, but chose one for $86K.  We bought Mazdas when our friends were getting their first BMWs...One minor argument we had was over a car: Wifey wanted a Mazda RX7, because she loved the hidden headlights, and I convinced her to settle for the much cheaper Nissan Pulsar, which turned out to be the one Japanese car we ever owned that was a piece of crap.

As the years went on, we became very fortunate, financially. The big change came in 1992 -- I made a huge fee on a case I brought in, and the homeowner's insurance paid us off extremely handsomely after Hurricane Andrew.  D2 was  born in 1992 -- I like to think she brought us the financial luck.

We're blessed to live very, very nicely, but still buy far less than we could.  I lease a car -- a Lexus, and really prefer the 400 series. But the monthly price tag is now close to $1000 -- the smaller 300 for just about half that amount suits me very well.

Today I got a call from a business acquaintance -- someone who consults with our firm. He has made a very, very nice living over the years, and has decided to move to North Florida.  He has his house sold at a nice profit, and wanted to buy a new one worth about the same. I have to think that a $1M house in Miami equals a palace up near the Georgia line, but the man's wife wasn't having it -- she fell in love with a $2M place.

The couple believes they will inherit a lot of money when an ailing relative dies -- and the man said he was "freaking out" because the bank wouldn't approve him for the jumbo mortgage he needed to buy his wife's dream house. Would I consider a bridge loan to let them make the purchase -- to be paid out of their inheritance.

I would not, I quickly told him. In the first place, I will never loan money to friends or family again. If I can make a gift, and choose to, I shall, but no loans.  Secondly -- I believe strongly in living well below my means -- the last thing I would ever do is loan someone money to live above theirs.

The fellow understood.  His wife was raised very wealthy, and he has spent three decades trying to make her feel she didn't "marry down" since he has no college degree.  His wife is apparently driving him crazy -- she "dreams" about the new $2M place. 

Maybe, I told him, he ought to tell his wife he doesn't want to take away her dreams...if they have to rough it for awhile in the little $1M cottage, she can continue to aspire to greatness.

I wish him well as he enters the new stage of his life.  Our conversation ended with him asking me whether I thought about moving to North Florida.  I chuckled -- if I couldn't live in Miami-Dade, or possibly Monroe County, I wouldn't live in Florida.

But hey -- to each his own, whether they can afford it or not...