New Canes Coach Miami AF

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Golden Children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oy Vas I Toisty!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Investing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Packing A Lot Of Living In

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Moving Meeting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Big Ask

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rabbit Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen's Mother Lies Beastly Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of these days...

My Mother in Law Keeps on Rolling Along

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now nearly 2 decades have passed...

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

Art For Art's Sake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Night of Chickee Huts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh Dad -- You Make Everything Sound So FUN!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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