So our local neighborhood ended, and a bit sadly. Willie the Bee Man came out to the scene of the downed gumbo limbo (ha ha ha) and found that the hive had been crushed, and, apparently when that happens, the bees must be, well, put down.
Reports came that the bee-icide involved some 10,000 bees, now silenced, and more importantly, no longer polinating our botanical wonders.
But, the road is open again, and the felled gumbo limbo (ha ha ha) sits on the rehabbing in progress property, in all its red bark glory.
I passed our part time FHP security trooper this am, a very nice woman of indeterminate race and ethnicity. She rolled down her window as I walked by, to ask me about the bee business. We both observed a moment of silence.
In other news, the exciting buzz for me is the beginning of Canes season -- now less than a month away. I got an email from fellow fanatic Jeannine this am, inviting the visiting South Florida hordes to her house north of Orlando for a Friday night barbecue.
Wifey is excited, not about the game, but about the dog. Jeannine and her husband Ray have an Australian Shepherd named Apache, the star of many FaceBook entries, and one of those dogs who may be as smart as a human. We've never met him, and Wifey will finally get to do so. My family is truly nuts about dogs...
It looks like tailgating may be a problem at the former Tangerine Bowl -- the lots are all used by corporate sponsors. So I think we'll all meet pre game at Church Street, and drink appropriately. Church Street was a fun hangout for my brothers and I during college -- Rosie O'Grady's was an adult version of Disney, and we spent several fun and memorable nights there. It'll nostalgic to go back.
Of course, back in 1981 we cared passionately about Canes football, drinking together, and laughing, whereas in 2019 we care passionately about Canes football, drinking together, and laughing.
So that's the latest.
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Monday, July 29, 2019
Gumbo Limbo (ha ha ha)
So Wifey and I stopped for some gourmet sandwiches at Joanna's, and then drove to the Grove to see our friend Diane. She brought over her neighbors, a lovely older couple, and the boyfriend was a retired long time producer of radio shows here in town. I loved his stories of working with local greats like Mike Reinieri, Rick Weaver, and Neil Rogers. The ladies talked about more important things -- like decorating colors...
On the way home, around 9, Wifey got a call from Pinecrest Police. It was the community affairs officer -- reporting a serious incident in our neighborhood. A HUGE tree was down, and the officer wanted Wifey to spread the word that the tree couldn't be removed yet -- it had a big active beehive in it, and Wifey needed to warn our neighbors against letting kids or dogs get too close -- lest they be stung.
We drove home, and went to the site -- sure enough it was a hive of activity. Ha. The tree was down from Greg's house -- we still call the houses after the owners we met when we first moved here -- close to 19 years ago.
Greg was a nice fellow -- old Miami real estate money. As far as I could tell, he spent his time rescuing dogs, training them to run alongside his bicycle, and collecting rents from his family's holdings in Hialeah and Medley. Greg was long divorced, had a grown son in California trying to make it as an actor, and always met me with a hearty "Hello Dave!" when we'd see each other, to be returned by my hearty "What's up, Greg?!"
And then there was no more Greg. He died in his mid 50s of pancreatic cancer. His son took over the house and did some remodeling and then rented it out for years. Last year, another neighbor bought it -- also a very nice fellow, from Iran (or as he says, Persia), and set about rehabbing the place.
The problem is the house is located across the street from our neighborhood yenta and gadfly, and word has it she has complained about improper tree removal going on. Our hood takes our trees seriously.
I love trees as much as the next guy, but it seems to me they do pretty well for themselves. Less than two years ago, Hurricane Irma knocked a lot of them down, and today you can't even tell. I know that we should save OLD trees, and native ones, but I can't imagine I would ever rat out a neighbor to the local government about trees...
So Wifey had me dictate an email about the issue. Turns out, it was a gumbo limbo, the red barked trees native to our area. I LOVE saying that name -- I always hear it followed by "ha ha ha" spoken in a deep voice with a Jamaican accent -- like Geoffrey Holder's.
The email, of course, had to end with "... and that's the latest buzz." Wifey even had a bee emoji...
The Pinecrest cop said he would be calling a bee removal company. We suggested Willie the Bee Man, owned by a man named Willie who does bee stuff.
I met Willie about 15 years ago. About 5 years after we moved in, I noticed a gooey, odorless substance on our stairway railing. I thought the stuff was some kind of oil or lubricant -- but there was no machinery in the attic above the staircase. One handyman thought it might be a dead and liquifying iguana -- but it had no smell.
Finally, one of my smarter friends realized it was melted honeycomb -- we had bees! I called Willie, and he came out. Old school Miami guy -- hippie type -- and he knew his bees. He poked around and said I was lucky -- indeed there had been a good sized hive, but the intense heat had killed the bees, and the comb was largely gone -- melted stuff seeping through a hole where the chandelier was hung. Nothing to do, said Willie, and the goo stopped.
A few years later, I saw a bunch of bees outside that same area of the roof, and I called Willie again. This time he sent out his protege -- a nice, young, Jamaican fellow. I don't recall if I asked him to say "gumbo limbo" for me. He said I was lucky again -- these were scout bees, looking to return to where they had set up their community before. He caulked off some openings, sprayed anti-bee potion, and that was it. I really dig Willie and his company.
So hopefully I referred him a job, and they can remove the hive, and then the tree. I walked past it today during my morning constitutional -- indeed the tree was a good 75 feet tall, and completely blocking the street. Adios, gumbo limbo (ha ha ha).
I'm happy these are the kinds of things we deal with in our 'hood. And that's the latest buzz...
On the way home, around 9, Wifey got a call from Pinecrest Police. It was the community affairs officer -- reporting a serious incident in our neighborhood. A HUGE tree was down, and the officer wanted Wifey to spread the word that the tree couldn't be removed yet -- it had a big active beehive in it, and Wifey needed to warn our neighbors against letting kids or dogs get too close -- lest they be stung.
We drove home, and went to the site -- sure enough it was a hive of activity. Ha. The tree was down from Greg's house -- we still call the houses after the owners we met when we first moved here -- close to 19 years ago.
Greg was a nice fellow -- old Miami real estate money. As far as I could tell, he spent his time rescuing dogs, training them to run alongside his bicycle, and collecting rents from his family's holdings in Hialeah and Medley. Greg was long divorced, had a grown son in California trying to make it as an actor, and always met me with a hearty "Hello Dave!" when we'd see each other, to be returned by my hearty "What's up, Greg?!"
And then there was no more Greg. He died in his mid 50s of pancreatic cancer. His son took over the house and did some remodeling and then rented it out for years. Last year, another neighbor bought it -- also a very nice fellow, from Iran (or as he says, Persia), and set about rehabbing the place.
The problem is the house is located across the street from our neighborhood yenta and gadfly, and word has it she has complained about improper tree removal going on. Our hood takes our trees seriously.
I love trees as much as the next guy, but it seems to me they do pretty well for themselves. Less than two years ago, Hurricane Irma knocked a lot of them down, and today you can't even tell. I know that we should save OLD trees, and native ones, but I can't imagine I would ever rat out a neighbor to the local government about trees...
So Wifey had me dictate an email about the issue. Turns out, it was a gumbo limbo, the red barked trees native to our area. I LOVE saying that name -- I always hear it followed by "ha ha ha" spoken in a deep voice with a Jamaican accent -- like Geoffrey Holder's.
The email, of course, had to end with "... and that's the latest buzz." Wifey even had a bee emoji...
The Pinecrest cop said he would be calling a bee removal company. We suggested Willie the Bee Man, owned by a man named Willie who does bee stuff.
I met Willie about 15 years ago. About 5 years after we moved in, I noticed a gooey, odorless substance on our stairway railing. I thought the stuff was some kind of oil or lubricant -- but there was no machinery in the attic above the staircase. One handyman thought it might be a dead and liquifying iguana -- but it had no smell.
Finally, one of my smarter friends realized it was melted honeycomb -- we had bees! I called Willie, and he came out. Old school Miami guy -- hippie type -- and he knew his bees. He poked around and said I was lucky -- indeed there had been a good sized hive, but the intense heat had killed the bees, and the comb was largely gone -- melted stuff seeping through a hole where the chandelier was hung. Nothing to do, said Willie, and the goo stopped.
A few years later, I saw a bunch of bees outside that same area of the roof, and I called Willie again. This time he sent out his protege -- a nice, young, Jamaican fellow. I don't recall if I asked him to say "gumbo limbo" for me. He said I was lucky again -- these were scout bees, looking to return to where they had set up their community before. He caulked off some openings, sprayed anti-bee potion, and that was it. I really dig Willie and his company.
So hopefully I referred him a job, and they can remove the hive, and then the tree. I walked past it today during my morning constitutional -- indeed the tree was a good 75 feet tall, and completely blocking the street. Adios, gumbo limbo (ha ha ha).
I'm happy these are the kinds of things we deal with in our 'hood. And that's the latest buzz...
Sunday, July 28, 2019
Crossing the Line
I joke that I've become that curmudgeonly old guy who never wants to drive north of the Miami Dade line. It's actually true -- I rarely drive that far anymore. But I make an exception for a fun night out at a great place, and that was last night.
Friday Wifey and I met D1 and Joey -- after they returned from a corporate convention in Orlando, where D1 spoke to a huge crowd of fitness devotees. We went to Michael's Genuine, which has, to my opinion, the best roasted chicken in Florida. It was great to catch up with them, and talk of things to come.
Saturday was hot as hell, and seemed a good day for napping -- after I walked my 2.5 miles through the 'hood. Wifey had on some old classics --- one was "Anatomy of a Murder," and it proved excellent background for a rather long nap.
When I awoke, Wifey had on her case manager hat -- putting together paperwork to send to the state to keep her mom on Medicaid. They pay $1250 per month towards my suegra's ALF, and so we never blow past the deadlines. We got ready to go north, and stopped at the post office to send off the precious documents.
We walked into Anthony's Runway, and ran into some old friends, Justin and Natalie. Natalie was a young girl who used to babysit the Ds -- she's now 40, with three kids of her own. She married Justin, who was a student in Natalie's grandmother's class at Leewood, when they met on a plane returning from Tampa. Turns out they love Runway, too, and had stopped for dinner on their way to a concert at the Hard Rock.
Paul and Patricia were at the bar, and Paul handed me martini #1. And a few minutes later, my sister and brother in law came in -- we joked because Dennis is always the first to arrive, and last night he was stymied by an accident on the highway. But we were all still on time, and we snaked though the packed place to a wonderful corner table.
The martinis flowed, and food was bounteous and delicious, and the server a lovely young woman from Ukraine. She actually liked it when I quoted the Beatles line about the Ukraine girls really knock me out...or at least she pretended to.
We hadn't seen Trudy and Dennis together in nearly two years -- somehow the time slips away. We laughed a lot and talked of times past.
The men drank, and the women mostly didn't, and at the end of the night they drove us all home.
Wifey and I were both up at 4 am, laughing and lamenting at how hard it has become for us to sleep the night as we age -- but, hey -- what are ya gonna do?
Today we're headed to the Grove to see our old friend and neighbor Diane, and from there will swing back to Kendall to see the suegra.
But last night we crossed the line, and it was well worth it.
Friday Wifey and I met D1 and Joey -- after they returned from a corporate convention in Orlando, where D1 spoke to a huge crowd of fitness devotees. We went to Michael's Genuine, which has, to my opinion, the best roasted chicken in Florida. It was great to catch up with them, and talk of things to come.
Saturday was hot as hell, and seemed a good day for napping -- after I walked my 2.5 miles through the 'hood. Wifey had on some old classics --- one was "Anatomy of a Murder," and it proved excellent background for a rather long nap.
When I awoke, Wifey had on her case manager hat -- putting together paperwork to send to the state to keep her mom on Medicaid. They pay $1250 per month towards my suegra's ALF, and so we never blow past the deadlines. We got ready to go north, and stopped at the post office to send off the precious documents.
We walked into Anthony's Runway, and ran into some old friends, Justin and Natalie. Natalie was a young girl who used to babysit the Ds -- she's now 40, with three kids of her own. She married Justin, who was a student in Natalie's grandmother's class at Leewood, when they met on a plane returning from Tampa. Turns out they love Runway, too, and had stopped for dinner on their way to a concert at the Hard Rock.
Paul and Patricia were at the bar, and Paul handed me martini #1. And a few minutes later, my sister and brother in law came in -- we joked because Dennis is always the first to arrive, and last night he was stymied by an accident on the highway. But we were all still on time, and we snaked though the packed place to a wonderful corner table.
The martinis flowed, and food was bounteous and delicious, and the server a lovely young woman from Ukraine. She actually liked it when I quoted the Beatles line about the Ukraine girls really knock me out...or at least she pretended to.
We hadn't seen Trudy and Dennis together in nearly two years -- somehow the time slips away. We laughed a lot and talked of times past.
The men drank, and the women mostly didn't, and at the end of the night they drove us all home.
Wifey and I were both up at 4 am, laughing and lamenting at how hard it has become for us to sleep the night as we age -- but, hey -- what are ya gonna do?
Today we're headed to the Grove to see our old friend and neighbor Diane, and from there will swing back to Kendall to see the suegra.
But last night we crossed the line, and it was well worth it.
Friday, July 26, 2019
Pre Work Errands
I decided to come to the office today -- meeting Mirta for lunch. Mirta is the keeper of all of our computer files, from '94 through '08, and is bringing them to the office today, so we can use some of our preparation files as a template.
It's a very quiet time here. Stu is in NYC for the week, and young Vince is in and out. The new office has a nice vibe -- especially when it's so quiet. D2, a somewhat jaded New Yorker after living and working there for 4 years, says "Nobody really works in Miami." Seeing our office this week, you'd think she was correct.
But, alas, first there were errands. First stop was a specialty lab in Kendall -- a blood draw for a 4K Score test. In the quiver of prostate cancer screening tools, this is the latest arrow. The test shows your genetic predisposition for having a rare, aggressive prostate cancer, if you get it, as opposed to the more common type that most men will die WITH, not from. The reason to do it is that if you are prone to the aggressive type, you monitor more closely. If you're lucky to not have it -- you needn't be as concerned.
So I went to the lab, which happened to be across the hall from the Miami office of my CPA Mark, and waited for the door to open. They took me right in, and an English challenged phlebotomist got right to business. She did an easy draw, and I asked her if my blood was green. She didn't get American humor references, and asked, in a little bit of horror, why it would possibly be green. I told her I always thought I was at least part Vulcan. I ended up explaining my attempt at blood draw humor, and just wished I kept my mouth shut.
Next stop: Coral Gables. My nephew of another brother Josh house and dog sat and picked us up and drove us to MIA last week. I tried to give him cash, and like his father, is unable to gracefully accept any gifts to him. So I got his online brokerage info, and went to the Gables office to deposit a gift instead. I told him to use his tech knowledge to buy the next Alphabet -- and grow the money 100 fold. We'll see...
And then I came to the office. The new receptionist, a non appearance challenged Venezuelan young woman, greeted me. It was very quiet -- anyone with any sense is out of town during the Miami dog days of summer.
I guess Justice gets to take its time this part of the year...
D1 and Joey are coming home from Orlando, where D1 spoke at Joey's company's convention. We saw a clip -- she was awesome. She makes us so proud. Joey suggested next year we come to Orlando to see her in person. It'll be a deal.
We have plans to meet them tonight at Michael's Genuine, a favorite spot in the Design District. I told D1 she was free to cancel if they were too tired from the road. It can be a meal time decision!
So hopefully I get a low 4 K Score. I'll find out in September, when I see Dr. Bob, or his new PA, for a followup.
My friend Mike got his score, and he has to be careful. When I met Mike, we were concerned with law school tests, not medical ones. Ah, aging. But as Tony Soprano used to say, with a sigh -- yeah, but what are ya gonna do?
It's a very quiet time here. Stu is in NYC for the week, and young Vince is in and out. The new office has a nice vibe -- especially when it's so quiet. D2, a somewhat jaded New Yorker after living and working there for 4 years, says "Nobody really works in Miami." Seeing our office this week, you'd think she was correct.
But, alas, first there were errands. First stop was a specialty lab in Kendall -- a blood draw for a 4K Score test. In the quiver of prostate cancer screening tools, this is the latest arrow. The test shows your genetic predisposition for having a rare, aggressive prostate cancer, if you get it, as opposed to the more common type that most men will die WITH, not from. The reason to do it is that if you are prone to the aggressive type, you monitor more closely. If you're lucky to not have it -- you needn't be as concerned.
So I went to the lab, which happened to be across the hall from the Miami office of my CPA Mark, and waited for the door to open. They took me right in, and an English challenged phlebotomist got right to business. She did an easy draw, and I asked her if my blood was green. She didn't get American humor references, and asked, in a little bit of horror, why it would possibly be green. I told her I always thought I was at least part Vulcan. I ended up explaining my attempt at blood draw humor, and just wished I kept my mouth shut.
Next stop: Coral Gables. My nephew of another brother Josh house and dog sat and picked us up and drove us to MIA last week. I tried to give him cash, and like his father, is unable to gracefully accept any gifts to him. So I got his online brokerage info, and went to the Gables office to deposit a gift instead. I told him to use his tech knowledge to buy the next Alphabet -- and grow the money 100 fold. We'll see...
And then I came to the office. The new receptionist, a non appearance challenged Venezuelan young woman, greeted me. It was very quiet -- anyone with any sense is out of town during the Miami dog days of summer.
I guess Justice gets to take its time this part of the year...
D1 and Joey are coming home from Orlando, where D1 spoke at Joey's company's convention. We saw a clip -- she was awesome. She makes us so proud. Joey suggested next year we come to Orlando to see her in person. It'll be a deal.
We have plans to meet them tonight at Michael's Genuine, a favorite spot in the Design District. I told D1 she was free to cancel if they were too tired from the road. It can be a meal time decision!
So hopefully I get a low 4 K Score. I'll find out in September, when I see Dr. Bob, or his new PA, for a followup.
My friend Mike got his score, and he has to be careful. When I met Mike, we were concerned with law school tests, not medical ones. Ah, aging. But as Tony Soprano used to say, with a sigh -- yeah, but what are ya gonna do?
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
Loving Where You Live
So we were out to dinner with our friends, who have lived in Miami for the past 12 years -- the longest tenure at any city in their quarter century marriage. We met another couple at the bar while waiting for a table, and they asked where we were from. My friend replied, instantly, "Maine!"
We talked about it at dinner, since her response was contrary to her job, driver's license, voter's registration, etc...And she replied that, though she's lived in the city 12 years, she never considered herself a Miamian. It got me to thinking...
That's one of the greatest things about living in the US: you can live wherever you wish, and call that place home. Or call a place home without living there...
D2 and Jonathan have been in NYC for 4 years now, and they still have their driver's licenses in Florida, and still vote here. Of course -- they still have to pay those onerous NYC and NY state income taxes, but hey -- what are ya gonna do?
Last night, as I was driving to meet Mirta for dinner at Titanic, it occurred to me that I never wish to live anywhere else. Miami has evolved into a true world city -- whatever you seek is within easy reach. There are manifold problems, of course, but I enjoy all there is to do here.
College football season begins in a month -- with a game in Orlando. I am already truly excited about my Canes -- being together with my closest friends, and sharing laughter, food, and a bit too much alcohol in parking lots in Miami Gardens and other places.
A week later, we see the Rolling Stones, at Joe Robbie -- another night surrounded by my bests, or many of them.
The lake house in Maine was lovely, but isolated. The nearest market is a 15 minute drive. A decent restaurant is 30 minutes away. I see the appeal of that to many people -- those fed up with crowds, and traffic -- but it's not a lifestyle I want, except for short bursts of time.
But again -- the beauty of our country -- choice. As long as you have the shekels, you can be where you wish.
I hope that someday D2 and Jonathan move back home. Dare I wish for grandkids from them, as well as from D1 and Joey -- all of us, the "Full Squad," as Joey has named us on texts, together enjoying life?
In the mean time, I also love where the sabbatical kids are living -- Greenwich Village - my favorite part of the greatest city in the world. Each time I walk onto West 11th Street, with its pre War buildings, I hear Lerner and Loewe's "On the Street Where You Live" playing in my head...So it's not too bad there.
Years ago a friend told me that I would be happy living in Nebraska -- since I'm an annoyingly happy person most of the time -- the kind of guy who would find a favorite steakhouse bar in Omaha and declare that all was right with the world. Indeed -- years ago our group traveled to Nebraska to see the Canes play the Huskers, and Mike found a place called the Drover Steakhouse. Turns out, it's a haunt of Warren Buffet's, though the Oracle wasn't there that night.
And indeed, we had a fine meal, and drinks, and fraternity, and I was quite happy. But, I'm told, Omaha is very bleak in the Winter -- as is Maine.
So I'll stick right here, in the humid, tropical 305. If only the Canes would finally win the ACC...
We talked about it at dinner, since her response was contrary to her job, driver's license, voter's registration, etc...And she replied that, though she's lived in the city 12 years, she never considered herself a Miamian. It got me to thinking...
That's one of the greatest things about living in the US: you can live wherever you wish, and call that place home. Or call a place home without living there...
D2 and Jonathan have been in NYC for 4 years now, and they still have their driver's licenses in Florida, and still vote here. Of course -- they still have to pay those onerous NYC and NY state income taxes, but hey -- what are ya gonna do?
Last night, as I was driving to meet Mirta for dinner at Titanic, it occurred to me that I never wish to live anywhere else. Miami has evolved into a true world city -- whatever you seek is within easy reach. There are manifold problems, of course, but I enjoy all there is to do here.
College football season begins in a month -- with a game in Orlando. I am already truly excited about my Canes -- being together with my closest friends, and sharing laughter, food, and a bit too much alcohol in parking lots in Miami Gardens and other places.
A week later, we see the Rolling Stones, at Joe Robbie -- another night surrounded by my bests, or many of them.
The lake house in Maine was lovely, but isolated. The nearest market is a 15 minute drive. A decent restaurant is 30 minutes away. I see the appeal of that to many people -- those fed up with crowds, and traffic -- but it's not a lifestyle I want, except for short bursts of time.
But again -- the beauty of our country -- choice. As long as you have the shekels, you can be where you wish.
I hope that someday D2 and Jonathan move back home. Dare I wish for grandkids from them, as well as from D1 and Joey -- all of us, the "Full Squad," as Joey has named us on texts, together enjoying life?
In the mean time, I also love where the sabbatical kids are living -- Greenwich Village - my favorite part of the greatest city in the world. Each time I walk onto West 11th Street, with its pre War buildings, I hear Lerner and Loewe's "On the Street Where You Live" playing in my head...So it's not too bad there.
Years ago a friend told me that I would be happy living in Nebraska -- since I'm an annoyingly happy person most of the time -- the kind of guy who would find a favorite steakhouse bar in Omaha and declare that all was right with the world. Indeed -- years ago our group traveled to Nebraska to see the Canes play the Huskers, and Mike found a place called the Drover Steakhouse. Turns out, it's a haunt of Warren Buffet's, though the Oracle wasn't there that night.
And indeed, we had a fine meal, and drinks, and fraternity, and I was quite happy. But, I'm told, Omaha is very bleak in the Winter -- as is Maine.
So I'll stick right here, in the humid, tropical 305. If only the Canes would finally win the ACC...
Monday, July 22, 2019
58 in Maine
So my nephew of another brother Josh agreed to house and dog sit, and came over Monday night -- he insisted on being Joshber and taking Wifey and I to MIA. He's a wonderful young man -- kind, bright, and sweet -- and hilarious in that techie kind of way where he gets a kick out of all of us who are tech idiots. I'm proud he's a big part of our lives...
He dropped us at MIA, we had breakfast at Centurion, and then a flawless flight to LGA, where we sat for a bit and then had an AA Eagle flight to Portland. We arrived, the nice Somali driver took us to the hotel, and we were in Maine.
Portland was depressed when industry left, and is coming back as a nice Asheville-like tourist spot. Wifey and I wandered around the bayfront, singing "Brandy" to ourselves, and found a great old seafood place called Brooke's, which is next to a hot spot called the Porthole. We ate, and we toasted our Ds and their fine men, as we always do.
The next am we strolled around some more, in the HEAT. We had brought with us, it seemed, record temperatures -- hotter the entire trip than it was in Miami, though it cooled off a bit at night. We survived...
We found a venerable diner named Becky's, and then had some hours to kill. We took a Casco Bay cruise -- a lovely trip to the islands off Portland where there are vacation houses and small resorts.
Joelle and Kenny called -- they had finished their Portland errands early, and took us to a newer part of town with craft breweries and distilleries, and I sampled some smokey local vodka. We then had dinner at Fore Street, the best place in Portland, and it was indeed delicious -- fresh fish, some steak, and something I always order -- just for the halibut...
Then it was about an hour trip up to Oxford, with a stop at Hanneford's for supplies. We arrived at their beautiful Lake Thompson house as there was just a sliver of sunlight left, and walked to the dock. Kenny and I sat and caught up -- I saw why he loved it there -- so peaceful, and the almost Hollywood -like sound of a loon crying out.
The next am was kayaking, something I last did about 15 years ago, in Alaska. Turns out you don't forget it -- I took to it well. Wifey begged off -- she had a bad kayak experience in Alaska with D1, and ironically suffered the only injury. As we paddled around a bend, we heard a child scream out. Turned out the child was Wifey, who tangled with a hammock by the lakeshore and lost -- went into the rocks, cut her hand and arm, and sent her phone for a swim. Wifey survived. The phone did not -- that'll be her order of business first day back in town today.
The next few days flew by. We met friends and neighbors -- all of whom are VERY into their houses and preserving the lake. Most of the discussion was about contractors, and local meetings about keeping the lake pristine -- it truly is a treasure.
On Friday night, Ken's old Navy friends, a retired ortho and retired eye doc, brought over fresh lobsters, and other friends, Dave and Claire, brought Mexican street corn, and we feasted. I hadn't had a whole lobster in quite awhile, and it was delicious -- we all tore into the bugs with vigor.
Saturday was out last night, and we went to an old house with a restaurant -- Joelle and Kenny had been a few times -- and had a delicious and memorable farewell feast. Wifey drove home on the dark country roads and did very well.
Yesterday we had the obligatory lobster rolls for lunch, and then Joelle drove Kenny, Wifey, and me to the bus station. Luckily, we caught an earlier bus, as there was massive traffic leaving Maine -- I guess Sunday afternoon Summers brings that. But, we made Logan in plenty of time, hopped another fine flight home, and were met by Josh -- we dropped Kenny in South Miami, and then he looked at Wifey's phone. Alas -- it was beyond revival.
So it was a lovely way to turn 58. I got calls from the kids, and lovely emails and texts.Another year, thanks to the Big Man, to twirl on this mortal coil. And I'm a very happy and lucky guy to do it...
He dropped us at MIA, we had breakfast at Centurion, and then a flawless flight to LGA, where we sat for a bit and then had an AA Eagle flight to Portland. We arrived, the nice Somali driver took us to the hotel, and we were in Maine.
Portland was depressed when industry left, and is coming back as a nice Asheville-like tourist spot. Wifey and I wandered around the bayfront, singing "Brandy" to ourselves, and found a great old seafood place called Brooke's, which is next to a hot spot called the Porthole. We ate, and we toasted our Ds and their fine men, as we always do.
The next am we strolled around some more, in the HEAT. We had brought with us, it seemed, record temperatures -- hotter the entire trip than it was in Miami, though it cooled off a bit at night. We survived...
We found a venerable diner named Becky's, and then had some hours to kill. We took a Casco Bay cruise -- a lovely trip to the islands off Portland where there are vacation houses and small resorts.
Joelle and Kenny called -- they had finished their Portland errands early, and took us to a newer part of town with craft breweries and distilleries, and I sampled some smokey local vodka. We then had dinner at Fore Street, the best place in Portland, and it was indeed delicious -- fresh fish, some steak, and something I always order -- just for the halibut...
Then it was about an hour trip up to Oxford, with a stop at Hanneford's for supplies. We arrived at their beautiful Lake Thompson house as there was just a sliver of sunlight left, and walked to the dock. Kenny and I sat and caught up -- I saw why he loved it there -- so peaceful, and the almost Hollywood -like sound of a loon crying out.
The next am was kayaking, something I last did about 15 years ago, in Alaska. Turns out you don't forget it -- I took to it well. Wifey begged off -- she had a bad kayak experience in Alaska with D1, and ironically suffered the only injury. As we paddled around a bend, we heard a child scream out. Turned out the child was Wifey, who tangled with a hammock by the lakeshore and lost -- went into the rocks, cut her hand and arm, and sent her phone for a swim. Wifey survived. The phone did not -- that'll be her order of business first day back in town today.
The next few days flew by. We met friends and neighbors -- all of whom are VERY into their houses and preserving the lake. Most of the discussion was about contractors, and local meetings about keeping the lake pristine -- it truly is a treasure.
On Friday night, Ken's old Navy friends, a retired ortho and retired eye doc, brought over fresh lobsters, and other friends, Dave and Claire, brought Mexican street corn, and we feasted. I hadn't had a whole lobster in quite awhile, and it was delicious -- we all tore into the bugs with vigor.
Saturday was out last night, and we went to an old house with a restaurant -- Joelle and Kenny had been a few times -- and had a delicious and memorable farewell feast. Wifey drove home on the dark country roads and did very well.
Yesterday we had the obligatory lobster rolls for lunch, and then Joelle drove Kenny, Wifey, and me to the bus station. Luckily, we caught an earlier bus, as there was massive traffic leaving Maine -- I guess Sunday afternoon Summers brings that. But, we made Logan in plenty of time, hopped another fine flight home, and were met by Josh -- we dropped Kenny in South Miami, and then he looked at Wifey's phone. Alas -- it was beyond revival.
So it was a lovely way to turn 58. I got calls from the kids, and lovely emails and texts.Another year, thanks to the Big Man, to twirl on this mortal coil. And I'm a very happy and lucky guy to do it...
Monday, July 15, 2019
A Local Miracle
So last night, as usual, I was spending too much time on FaceBook (tm). Wifey and I had a very lazy weekend, with a throwback component. Saturday night we went to both the Falls and Dadeland, two local malls where we spent a lot of time when the Ds were small, but places I rarely go these days.
At Dadeland, I bought some water shoes for Maine, at Foot Locker, on sale for $19.99. I like when stuff I need is cheap. We then went to the Food Court, where Wifey and I would often eat when we lived at Les Chalet, and apartment building a few blocks away from the mall. Wifey got some Hate Chicken, which is what I call Chick Fi'let, since they're anti LGBTQrstuv. I got some Thai chicken from, as far as I know, a politically inert vendor.
Yesterday we visited my suegra, with the added attraction of D1 and Joey! Rachel was in great spirits having us all there -- Joey marveled at how well she was doing for someone creeping up on 95. And then, to keep things 80s style -- we went to Canton, the Chinese place we often visited when Wifey and I were dating. But, alas, we avoided the honey chicken in favor of skinless chicken, vegetables, and brown rice...
So there I was, reading the latest from the world of social media, when I came across a post on Rabbi Lipskar's page. I call him Handsome Rabbi, since he is -- like movie star good looking underneath the beard. And his wife is a beauty, too. Not that one should notice stuff like that.
Anyway, there was a post called "Help Save Eliana," and it was an appeal for money for a little girl fighting a rare form of muscular dystrophy that will paralyze her without treatment. Well, there IS treatment -- a just FDA approved biologic that must be given BEFORE age 2. And, amazingly, it costs $2.2M for the single dose. To add to the drama, the little girl turns 2 on July 18, and the drug cannot be given after age 2.
The whole thing struck me as fantastical, though Rabbi Lipskar is a legit guy. So I researched both the rare form of the neuromuscular disease, as well as this "miracle cure." Turns out -- it's legitimate! The magic cure was just approved last May, and if the adorable girl, who looks like D2 at age 2, doesn't get it, she never would.
Apparently the family had health insurance, but the carrier balked. Knowing the evil these companies do, it wouldn't surprise me if some bean counter figured they'd deny coverage until payment was moot -- i.e., the girl exceeded the allowable age. I actually had a case like that years ago -- United Health refused to pay for a pancreas/kidney transplant, claiming it was "investigational." My old boss Ed and I tried the case in front of long deceased Judge Lenore Nesbitt, in Federal Court. We won, and won again in the Appellate Court -- bastards were willing to fight forever rather than pay. They ultimately DID pay (the client had borrowed the money for the transplant from friends), and our fee was minimal. The Magistrate, very conservative, didn't think we were entitled to more than about $100 per hour. It was the only ERISSA case I would ever handle.
I made a small donation once I learned the campaign was for real. The total raised was about $800k.
I checked this afternoon -- the campaign was a success! They raised well over the $2.2M needed. Over 23,000 people donated.
The little girl is going to get the miracle drug. Big Man willing, she will do tremendously well.
There is so much negativity and toxicity in the world. Often FaceBook is a vehicle for anger. I know I've "unfriended" a few people for their extreme political views. One very conservative friend "unfriended" me for always making fun of his Fox News made up posts. Interestingly, several of my extreme Lefty friends did the same -- they didn't enjoy my making fun of the likes of the anti semitic Congresswoman Omar.
But social media allowed a true miracle to happen today. It warmed me -- not that we need any warming in Miami in July.
I hope to hear wonderful things from this family -- a local miracle.
At Dadeland, I bought some water shoes for Maine, at Foot Locker, on sale for $19.99. I like when stuff I need is cheap. We then went to the Food Court, where Wifey and I would often eat when we lived at Les Chalet, and apartment building a few blocks away from the mall. Wifey got some Hate Chicken, which is what I call Chick Fi'let, since they're anti LGBTQrstuv. I got some Thai chicken from, as far as I know, a politically inert vendor.
Yesterday we visited my suegra, with the added attraction of D1 and Joey! Rachel was in great spirits having us all there -- Joey marveled at how well she was doing for someone creeping up on 95. And then, to keep things 80s style -- we went to Canton, the Chinese place we often visited when Wifey and I were dating. But, alas, we avoided the honey chicken in favor of skinless chicken, vegetables, and brown rice...
So there I was, reading the latest from the world of social media, when I came across a post on Rabbi Lipskar's page. I call him Handsome Rabbi, since he is -- like movie star good looking underneath the beard. And his wife is a beauty, too. Not that one should notice stuff like that.
Anyway, there was a post called "Help Save Eliana," and it was an appeal for money for a little girl fighting a rare form of muscular dystrophy that will paralyze her without treatment. Well, there IS treatment -- a just FDA approved biologic that must be given BEFORE age 2. And, amazingly, it costs $2.2M for the single dose. To add to the drama, the little girl turns 2 on July 18, and the drug cannot be given after age 2.
The whole thing struck me as fantastical, though Rabbi Lipskar is a legit guy. So I researched both the rare form of the neuromuscular disease, as well as this "miracle cure." Turns out -- it's legitimate! The magic cure was just approved last May, and if the adorable girl, who looks like D2 at age 2, doesn't get it, she never would.
Apparently the family had health insurance, but the carrier balked. Knowing the evil these companies do, it wouldn't surprise me if some bean counter figured they'd deny coverage until payment was moot -- i.e., the girl exceeded the allowable age. I actually had a case like that years ago -- United Health refused to pay for a pancreas/kidney transplant, claiming it was "investigational." My old boss Ed and I tried the case in front of long deceased Judge Lenore Nesbitt, in Federal Court. We won, and won again in the Appellate Court -- bastards were willing to fight forever rather than pay. They ultimately DID pay (the client had borrowed the money for the transplant from friends), and our fee was minimal. The Magistrate, very conservative, didn't think we were entitled to more than about $100 per hour. It was the only ERISSA case I would ever handle.
I made a small donation once I learned the campaign was for real. The total raised was about $800k.
I checked this afternoon -- the campaign was a success! They raised well over the $2.2M needed. Over 23,000 people donated.
The little girl is going to get the miracle drug. Big Man willing, she will do tremendously well.
There is so much negativity and toxicity in the world. Often FaceBook is a vehicle for anger. I know I've "unfriended" a few people for their extreme political views. One very conservative friend "unfriended" me for always making fun of his Fox News made up posts. Interestingly, several of my extreme Lefty friends did the same -- they didn't enjoy my making fun of the likes of the anti semitic Congresswoman Omar.
But social media allowed a true miracle to happen today. It warmed me -- not that we need any warming in Miami in July.
I hope to hear wonderful things from this family -- a local miracle.
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Thirty Seven
Today is my Dad's yahrzeit, the anniversary of his death. Thirty seven years have gone by. My Mom's been gone over 6 years, but she died at 93, instead of 63, and her death seemed far more natural and gentle. Plus, when she died I had a very full life -- beloved kids and Wifey, and a career, and a house, and investments. When Dad died I was still a kid, really.
The years truly do have a way of slipping by. Funny how the time slips away, as the great Willie Nelson wrote.
July 14, 1982 was the worst day of my life. I've been amazingly blessed to have many best days of my life since then.
Dad was a forward thinker, but he'd have been shocked how much has changed since he was here. He'd have called our 5th appendage, cell phones, "Dick Tracy stuff." He would have actually LOVED being able to keep in touch with his wife and kids instantly -- he worried after us so much. If we had them back when he was alive, it may have saved hours pacing in his Florida Room waiting for me to make it home from Miami, and my sisters from their points of origin.
Trump was already famous in '82, as the spoiled rich, con man real estate guy. My Dad was shocked that Ronald Reagan was elected, a "B list actor," he called him. He would have absolutely refused to believe who our president is.
Mostly Dad loved his family, and loved when we were all together. After he died, and I had some means, I really tried to keep us that way -- bringing us all on trips together -- to Las Vegas, and San Francisco, and Key West. Fate had other plans for my extended family -- mostly disparate. Just the other day I reached out to my nephew's ex wife -- her daughter is, per FaceBook (tm) starting grad school at UM soon. I asked if the young lady was moving closer to campus -- she lives up in West Broward, and if so, Wifey and I would get together with her and I would share my Canes tales and connections on campus. Nah -- no response. If nothing else in life, I have learned well how to take a hint.
But my Dad would have absolutely delighted in the Ds, especially their life choices for husbands. Back when my UM friends were insisting on marrying Jewesses, and it never seemed important to me, I had a talk with Dad -- raised Orthodox, and thereafter rebelled. Did he care if I married a Jewish girl? Well -- it would probably make things easier -- you share the same background and values -- but if you had the choice between a not so nice Jewish girl and a gem of a gentile girl -- pick the gentile.
He always thought the luckiest thing he ever did was marry my Mom, and he wanted the same for me. He told me how his family was cold, and had problems showing love, and my Mom's was the opposite -- warm people who loved to be together and laugh.
My Mom made my Dad retire at 60. He only got three years to enjoy it. I so wish he had more.
Dan Fogelberg also died young, of prostate cancer. His song about his father always brings tears to my eyes, especially the line that resonates so clearly with me: "My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man...I'm just a living legacy to the leader of the band."
So Dad is heavily in my thoughts today. If there's an afterlife, I like to think of him enjoying the cosmic equivalent of a corned beef on rye sandwich -- his favorite. More -- maybe his spirit and Mom's are together again. Now that is a nice thought to have...
The years truly do have a way of slipping by. Funny how the time slips away, as the great Willie Nelson wrote.
July 14, 1982 was the worst day of my life. I've been amazingly blessed to have many best days of my life since then.
Dad was a forward thinker, but he'd have been shocked how much has changed since he was here. He'd have called our 5th appendage, cell phones, "Dick Tracy stuff." He would have actually LOVED being able to keep in touch with his wife and kids instantly -- he worried after us so much. If we had them back when he was alive, it may have saved hours pacing in his Florida Room waiting for me to make it home from Miami, and my sisters from their points of origin.
Trump was already famous in '82, as the spoiled rich, con man real estate guy. My Dad was shocked that Ronald Reagan was elected, a "B list actor," he called him. He would have absolutely refused to believe who our president is.
Mostly Dad loved his family, and loved when we were all together. After he died, and I had some means, I really tried to keep us that way -- bringing us all on trips together -- to Las Vegas, and San Francisco, and Key West. Fate had other plans for my extended family -- mostly disparate. Just the other day I reached out to my nephew's ex wife -- her daughter is, per FaceBook (tm) starting grad school at UM soon. I asked if the young lady was moving closer to campus -- she lives up in West Broward, and if so, Wifey and I would get together with her and I would share my Canes tales and connections on campus. Nah -- no response. If nothing else in life, I have learned well how to take a hint.
But my Dad would have absolutely delighted in the Ds, especially their life choices for husbands. Back when my UM friends were insisting on marrying Jewesses, and it never seemed important to me, I had a talk with Dad -- raised Orthodox, and thereafter rebelled. Did he care if I married a Jewish girl? Well -- it would probably make things easier -- you share the same background and values -- but if you had the choice between a not so nice Jewish girl and a gem of a gentile girl -- pick the gentile.
He always thought the luckiest thing he ever did was marry my Mom, and he wanted the same for me. He told me how his family was cold, and had problems showing love, and my Mom's was the opposite -- warm people who loved to be together and laugh.
My Mom made my Dad retire at 60. He only got three years to enjoy it. I so wish he had more.
Dan Fogelberg also died young, of prostate cancer. His song about his father always brings tears to my eyes, especially the line that resonates so clearly with me: "My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man...I'm just a living legacy to the leader of the band."
So Dad is heavily in my thoughts today. If there's an afterlife, I like to think of him enjoying the cosmic equivalent of a corned beef on rye sandwich -- his favorite. More -- maybe his spirit and Mom's are together again. Now that is a nice thought to have...
Saturday, July 13, 2019
It's That Most Very Strange Time of the Year
So tomorrow marks 37 years since the worst day of my life -- July 14, 1982, when my father died in my arms. I was 4 days from turning 21 -- looking forward to starting my college senior year, entertaining some ladies visiting from Wisconsin who were cousins of my co workers at my summer job at Jordan Marsh in Boca -- and then everything changed -- in a Delray minute, to borrow from Don Henley.
The first year after Dad's death I sort of slept walked through life. I remember sitting in class and feeling I was outside myself, literally, looking down on a version of me as I went about my day. Years later I read there was a psychological term for that -- separation something or other -- and I felt it first hand.
Eventually I came to myself, as my Mom would have said, and life went on, though as a man and not a boy. I applied to UM and UF Law, got into both, and was really ready for a change after 4 years in Coral Gables, and UF was much cheaper state tuition. But Mom was still pretty befuddled about things like paying bills and maintaining her car and condo, so I knew leaving for upstate wasn't too practical, and so I took out loans and planned to stay put.
It turned out just fine -- I met some new friends who are still like brothers -- just last night Norman joined an earlier brother Barry, and his boy Josh, and we had an absolute blast at a Marlins game. And most importantly, I met Wifey, who would become my life partner and give me the two most precious gifts of my existence: the Ds.
But there was a strange after affect: I call is seasonal hypochondria. Starting the year following my Dad's death, I developed chest pains. I hadn't been to a doctor during my entire years at college, except for two visits to the Health Center, for a mono check that was negative, and for painkillers after stupidly playing quarterback in a tackle football game we called the Hangover Bowl. But these things felt real -- and I feared I might be leaving my mother both a widow and son-less. I called my friend and mentor Bob, a neurologist at the med school, and he referred me to a Dr. Lerner, a young internist and cardiologist in the Gables. I had my first EKG, and it was, of course negative, and Lerner said it was clearly just anxiety over the anniversary of Dad's death.
It seems I get visited by those demons every few Julys since that time. About 6 years ago I developed strange belly pains and pressures, and convinced myself it was pancreatic cancer. Thankfully it was cured by my scheduled colonoscopy -- the docs say it's a diagnostic test, but I know it chased away the lesion.
Another Summer I had bad headaches -- our wonderful neighbor Jose, a UM Neuro who trained under my previous savior Dr. Bob, saw me at home, watched by an eye rolling D2 who was home from UF, and in an abundance of caution, ordered a MRI. That cured what I suspected was a brain tumor -- and they played Velvet Underground while I was in the tube, which was pretty cool...
Two Summers ago, the day before my birthday and three days after Dad's death anniversary, it was chest pressure -- not pains this time. I called my brother Eric, who told me pressure was more concerning than pain, and had me rush to see his friend Harry, a cardiologist at South Miami. Harry was out of town, and I was seen by the senior guy Yale, who wanted to admit me to South Miami Hospital, since I technically had "unstable angina" -- chest discomfort that came and went without a known trigger. I begged off, but came the next day for a stress test with thallium, followed by a CAT Scan.
I knew I wasn't imminently dying as Dr. Yale let me leave the office, and Wifey and I drove to meet D1 and Joey for dinner at the Capital Grille. But I was concerned he would call with SOME cardiac findings in the next few days. Instead, he called within the hour and said my vessels were ALL clear. I cried -- I would make it to see D1's wedding, two months hence, after all.
This year the demons have returned, in the form of urological symptoms. I've been checked via a biopsy, MRI, and special PSA test, called a PSA3, for prostate cancer, and have been cleared, but I do have BPH, which is a not fatal but annoying condition common among aging men.
But the symptoms have gotten worse recently -- 2 bathroom trips during the stay last week at the ELO concert, and my strange, neurotic brain is convinced that THIS is the beginning of my end. I'm scheduled to see my Urologist, Bob, the day after we return from the Maine escape, and I'm just waiting for him to order new tests that show indeed it's really bad this time -- a combination of prostate, bladder, AND kidney cancer that have all decided to rear their ugly heads at the same time.
Of course -- my hope is he tells me none of those things -- just "hey -- you can take meds or even have surgery if the peeing thing gets too annoying," but such is my defective brain.
As my friend Kenny reminds me, it's all actuary science. As we age, more and more of our cohorts are going to drop off the planet. 455 of us graduated from MacArthur High 40 years ago -- I suspect there are around or fewer than 400 still enjoying the mortal coil.
So one of these times I fear the impending end, I will be correct. It'll be like that famous headstone in the Key West Cemetery inscribed "I TOLD You I was Sick!"
In the mean time, we have some serious vacationing to do. We leave Tuesday am, fly to LGA, and then to Portland, Maine. We'll spend the night, and Wednesday Kenny and Joelle will come to town to have dinner at some hipster restaurant in Portland, and then drive back to their beautiful lake house, for 4 days of pontoon boating, hiking, and great conversation about our kids and lives and politics and world trends.
That's assuming, of course, we're not done in by bears, or those killer psychopaths from all of the teen slasher movies who seem to favor lovely rural houses where people gather to have a good time, only to be killed, one by one, in brutal fashion. Those are a separate set of anxieties I carry - though much more manageable than the health ones.
So we all have demons -- even the luckiest among us, and I am among that number. Hopefully Dr. Bob will send me off on my 59th year on this planet with good news...and someday I can honor my beloved Dad's life unencumbered by these neurotic thoughts.
The first year after Dad's death I sort of slept walked through life. I remember sitting in class and feeling I was outside myself, literally, looking down on a version of me as I went about my day. Years later I read there was a psychological term for that -- separation something or other -- and I felt it first hand.
Eventually I came to myself, as my Mom would have said, and life went on, though as a man and not a boy. I applied to UM and UF Law, got into both, and was really ready for a change after 4 years in Coral Gables, and UF was much cheaper state tuition. But Mom was still pretty befuddled about things like paying bills and maintaining her car and condo, so I knew leaving for upstate wasn't too practical, and so I took out loans and planned to stay put.
It turned out just fine -- I met some new friends who are still like brothers -- just last night Norman joined an earlier brother Barry, and his boy Josh, and we had an absolute blast at a Marlins game. And most importantly, I met Wifey, who would become my life partner and give me the two most precious gifts of my existence: the Ds.
But there was a strange after affect: I call is seasonal hypochondria. Starting the year following my Dad's death, I developed chest pains. I hadn't been to a doctor during my entire years at college, except for two visits to the Health Center, for a mono check that was negative, and for painkillers after stupidly playing quarterback in a tackle football game we called the Hangover Bowl. But these things felt real -- and I feared I might be leaving my mother both a widow and son-less. I called my friend and mentor Bob, a neurologist at the med school, and he referred me to a Dr. Lerner, a young internist and cardiologist in the Gables. I had my first EKG, and it was, of course negative, and Lerner said it was clearly just anxiety over the anniversary of Dad's death.
It seems I get visited by those demons every few Julys since that time. About 6 years ago I developed strange belly pains and pressures, and convinced myself it was pancreatic cancer. Thankfully it was cured by my scheduled colonoscopy -- the docs say it's a diagnostic test, but I know it chased away the lesion.
Another Summer I had bad headaches -- our wonderful neighbor Jose, a UM Neuro who trained under my previous savior Dr. Bob, saw me at home, watched by an eye rolling D2 who was home from UF, and in an abundance of caution, ordered a MRI. That cured what I suspected was a brain tumor -- and they played Velvet Underground while I was in the tube, which was pretty cool...
Two Summers ago, the day before my birthday and three days after Dad's death anniversary, it was chest pressure -- not pains this time. I called my brother Eric, who told me pressure was more concerning than pain, and had me rush to see his friend Harry, a cardiologist at South Miami. Harry was out of town, and I was seen by the senior guy Yale, who wanted to admit me to South Miami Hospital, since I technically had "unstable angina" -- chest discomfort that came and went without a known trigger. I begged off, but came the next day for a stress test with thallium, followed by a CAT Scan.
I knew I wasn't imminently dying as Dr. Yale let me leave the office, and Wifey and I drove to meet D1 and Joey for dinner at the Capital Grille. But I was concerned he would call with SOME cardiac findings in the next few days. Instead, he called within the hour and said my vessels were ALL clear. I cried -- I would make it to see D1's wedding, two months hence, after all.
This year the demons have returned, in the form of urological symptoms. I've been checked via a biopsy, MRI, and special PSA test, called a PSA3, for prostate cancer, and have been cleared, but I do have BPH, which is a not fatal but annoying condition common among aging men.
But the symptoms have gotten worse recently -- 2 bathroom trips during the stay last week at the ELO concert, and my strange, neurotic brain is convinced that THIS is the beginning of my end. I'm scheduled to see my Urologist, Bob, the day after we return from the Maine escape, and I'm just waiting for him to order new tests that show indeed it's really bad this time -- a combination of prostate, bladder, AND kidney cancer that have all decided to rear their ugly heads at the same time.
Of course -- my hope is he tells me none of those things -- just "hey -- you can take meds or even have surgery if the peeing thing gets too annoying," but such is my defective brain.
As my friend Kenny reminds me, it's all actuary science. As we age, more and more of our cohorts are going to drop off the planet. 455 of us graduated from MacArthur High 40 years ago -- I suspect there are around or fewer than 400 still enjoying the mortal coil.
So one of these times I fear the impending end, I will be correct. It'll be like that famous headstone in the Key West Cemetery inscribed "I TOLD You I was Sick!"
In the mean time, we have some serious vacationing to do. We leave Tuesday am, fly to LGA, and then to Portland, Maine. We'll spend the night, and Wednesday Kenny and Joelle will come to town to have dinner at some hipster restaurant in Portland, and then drive back to their beautiful lake house, for 4 days of pontoon boating, hiking, and great conversation about our kids and lives and politics and world trends.
That's assuming, of course, we're not done in by bears, or those killer psychopaths from all of the teen slasher movies who seem to favor lovely rural houses where people gather to have a good time, only to be killed, one by one, in brutal fashion. Those are a separate set of anxieties I carry - though much more manageable than the health ones.
So we all have demons -- even the luckiest among us, and I am among that number. Hopefully Dr. Bob will send me off on my 59th year on this planet with good news...and someday I can honor my beloved Dad's life unencumbered by these neurotic thoughts.
Friday, July 12, 2019
The Wisdom of Professor Schultz
I often recall a statement from an Organic Chemistry professor I had back in 1980 -- Harry Schultz. As of a few years ago, he was still alive -- nearing 100, and living in, I think, Tennessee. Harry was a classic "Greatest Generation" guy, and a true expert in his field. Also, a gifted teacher -- keeping even the likes of me, math and science challenged, somehow interested in the fact that carbon atoms could do so much stuff...
Anyway, the two smartest kids in the big lecture room were my still brother, Eric, now a cardiologist, and Oscar, a Cuban guy who went on to become a big shot plastic surgeon here in town. Harry would greet us each day with "Good morning my fellow students!" and then set about terrorizing and instructing with the Socratic method. At the end of the semester, he opened up the room to general questions, and Oscar, handsome and confident, said "Professor -- you are the expert and we are the students. How come each morning you call us "fellow students''?
Harry gave theatrical pause, and said "My dear Oscar...we are ALL fellow students in the study of human nature!" And so we are...
The Ds and I have been discussing the fact that we are spoiled by our circle of close friends and family. We care about each other. We do stuff for each other. But, as the Ds have learned, that seems to be the minority position in this world -- most people have their own agenda, and look out only for themselves...
The Ds see this often professionally. They think a client or co worker will "do the right thing," and watch them "do the selfish thing."
It took me longer to see that common side of people. I'm glad the Ds are getting the message in their late 20s and early 30s. It won't embitter them, hopefully, but will prevent disappointment when people act selfishly, instead of generously...
I recalled and shared with the Ds a tale of a former employee -- someone I considered a close friend. My partner Paul was even more financially generous than I would have been. When we started the firm, this employee was in serious credit card debt. Before we even settled our first case, Paul convinced me to pay off her bills, and have her surrender all but one of her cards -- to be used for emergencies. She'd pay us back out of bonuses we hoped to give if the firm did well.
Indeed -- the bonuses were very generous. Our CPA and his assistant used to be shocked -- the employee was good with clients, but couldn't write a letter of more than two sentences in English without several revisions. Our financial people couldn't believe the size of the bonuses -- sometimes at Xmas they exceeded $30K.
Anyway, the employee did so well, after 12 years she was able to semi retire, with a new house, and chose to start a business with her husband. Paul was a bit hurt -- he thought she owed us more time. I wasn't -- I was happy for her, and wished her well. She left tearfully, saying she could never truly thank us for all we had done to improve her life. Ha. Not so fast...
A few months later, we had suffered a merry go round of employees. We finally seemed to find one who was ok, Larissa, and we had some major cases coming up for mediation and trial. It was August of '06. I left to embark on one of the best times of being a father -- getting my precious D1 settled into college.
Larissa called me on a Friday afternoon. She was quitting. Right then. I was having a burger and beer at the Gainesville Copper Monkey. I recall this like it was yesterday, and not 13 years in the past. She was so stressed out (in fairness, Paul could be tough to work for back then) she was quitting -- didn't care if we didn't give her good recommendation letters -- she was just letting me know that when I got back Monday, there'd be no secretary.
Sunday, as Wifey and I drove back to Miami, I knew I had a temporary solution. I'd simply call the woman who was taking it easy for awhile, explain to her that after 12 years of making her life great, we finally needed a favor in return. She'd come back for a few weeks, at whatever salary she asked, to get us through the tough period until we found another experienced secretary. I made the call, explained our predicament, and told her I'd bring breakfast on Monday...
Nope. She said she was loving finally sleeping late on weekdays, and living this life. No way she would do it. I clarified -- it was just for a few weeks -- a real favor to her "brothers," as she called us when the bonus checks were handed out. She was resolute. Not going to happen.
We muddled through, somehow, and hired Anna, who was terrific, but only lasted a year. She had a high school senior daughter who dreamed of going to USC, and Anna followed her to LA like any good Cuban Mom -- not sending her daughter across the country alone!
But the lesson hit me hard. People can often suck -- even those you think will help you when you ask, since you helped THEM countless times before.
I shared this with the Ds. They already get it. The lesson also falls under the banner of something I've been telling them since they were in Kindergarten, and protest something they didn't like with "But it's not FAIR!" That's right, I'd tell them -- life is NOT fair...but it can often still be exquisite. And it is.
Anyway, the two smartest kids in the big lecture room were my still brother, Eric, now a cardiologist, and Oscar, a Cuban guy who went on to become a big shot plastic surgeon here in town. Harry would greet us each day with "Good morning my fellow students!" and then set about terrorizing and instructing with the Socratic method. At the end of the semester, he opened up the room to general questions, and Oscar, handsome and confident, said "Professor -- you are the expert and we are the students. How come each morning you call us "fellow students''?
Harry gave theatrical pause, and said "My dear Oscar...we are ALL fellow students in the study of human nature!" And so we are...
The Ds and I have been discussing the fact that we are spoiled by our circle of close friends and family. We care about each other. We do stuff for each other. But, as the Ds have learned, that seems to be the minority position in this world -- most people have their own agenda, and look out only for themselves...
The Ds see this often professionally. They think a client or co worker will "do the right thing," and watch them "do the selfish thing."
It took me longer to see that common side of people. I'm glad the Ds are getting the message in their late 20s and early 30s. It won't embitter them, hopefully, but will prevent disappointment when people act selfishly, instead of generously...
I recalled and shared with the Ds a tale of a former employee -- someone I considered a close friend. My partner Paul was even more financially generous than I would have been. When we started the firm, this employee was in serious credit card debt. Before we even settled our first case, Paul convinced me to pay off her bills, and have her surrender all but one of her cards -- to be used for emergencies. She'd pay us back out of bonuses we hoped to give if the firm did well.
Indeed -- the bonuses were very generous. Our CPA and his assistant used to be shocked -- the employee was good with clients, but couldn't write a letter of more than two sentences in English without several revisions. Our financial people couldn't believe the size of the bonuses -- sometimes at Xmas they exceeded $30K.
Anyway, the employee did so well, after 12 years she was able to semi retire, with a new house, and chose to start a business with her husband. Paul was a bit hurt -- he thought she owed us more time. I wasn't -- I was happy for her, and wished her well. She left tearfully, saying she could never truly thank us for all we had done to improve her life. Ha. Not so fast...
A few months later, we had suffered a merry go round of employees. We finally seemed to find one who was ok, Larissa, and we had some major cases coming up for mediation and trial. It was August of '06. I left to embark on one of the best times of being a father -- getting my precious D1 settled into college.
Larissa called me on a Friday afternoon. She was quitting. Right then. I was having a burger and beer at the Gainesville Copper Monkey. I recall this like it was yesterday, and not 13 years in the past. She was so stressed out (in fairness, Paul could be tough to work for back then) she was quitting -- didn't care if we didn't give her good recommendation letters -- she was just letting me know that when I got back Monday, there'd be no secretary.
Sunday, as Wifey and I drove back to Miami, I knew I had a temporary solution. I'd simply call the woman who was taking it easy for awhile, explain to her that after 12 years of making her life great, we finally needed a favor in return. She'd come back for a few weeks, at whatever salary she asked, to get us through the tough period until we found another experienced secretary. I made the call, explained our predicament, and told her I'd bring breakfast on Monday...
Nope. She said she was loving finally sleeping late on weekdays, and living this life. No way she would do it. I clarified -- it was just for a few weeks -- a real favor to her "brothers," as she called us when the bonus checks were handed out. She was resolute. Not going to happen.
We muddled through, somehow, and hired Anna, who was terrific, but only lasted a year. She had a high school senior daughter who dreamed of going to USC, and Anna followed her to LA like any good Cuban Mom -- not sending her daughter across the country alone!
But the lesson hit me hard. People can often suck -- even those you think will help you when you ask, since you helped THEM countless times before.
I shared this with the Ds. They already get it. The lesson also falls under the banner of something I've been telling them since they were in Kindergarten, and protest something they didn't like with "But it's not FAIR!" That's right, I'd tell them -- life is NOT fair...but it can often still be exquisite. And it is.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
The Escaping Rescue
Years ago, either '11 or '12, D1 showed up at our house on a Tuesday evening. That was unusual -- I think she had a late grad school class, and typically went right home to Brickell. I knew something was up. It was.
A few days before, some of D2's friends were in a car near the Falls. A small brown dog ran into the street. They stopped, and opened the dog. The dog hopped in, like she belonged there. They looked around for a searching owner, and found none. They named her "Brown Dog." Somehow it was decided that WE should "foster" the strange looking mongrel until the owner was found.
Wifey and D1 knew I'd be reluctant. I had subscribed to the wisdom of a bumper sticker I saw: Life Begins When the Kids Move Away and the Dog Dies. Didn't matter -- Wifey was NEVER going to be dogless...
So the furry brown, low riding dog trotted in. D1 put on her puppy dog eyes. The dog could stay.
Wifey put up signs, and checked at the vet for a chip. None was found. The dog was part long haired Dachshund, according to the Vet. Also maybe some Shepherd, and maybe Chow. But she was low to the ground and sausage like, and we named her Vienna, after the sausage. The Vet thought she was 2. She's 10 now.
She is full of personality. Also the smartest dog we ever had. Despite checking for holes in our fences, she always escapes. She generally just ambles around the 'hood, until we find her and lure her into the car with treats.
The running joke is she will ALWAYS jump into a car. The day someone else opens a car door -- adios Sausage.
The escaping had stopped, but recently Wifey reported she's at it again. She finds the smallest of spaces, and takes off -- sometimes looking back at Wifey as if to taunt her.
This am she did it to me. I was walking around with her and Bo, the Special Needs Spaniel, and Vienna slipped under the fence around the pond, and scooted to an opening to the street. I had to put Bo inside, lest he wander, and then went out front. A neighbor was walking a big black and white dog, and said "Hey -- your dog is outside." I said I knew, I was typically not such a negligent owner, and tried to leash the escaped Sausage. She struggled a bit, and then came with me.
I swear she was saying "Ha Ha," like Nelson in "The Simpsons."
So I explained to the adventure seeker that her days allowed out to our large front yard are done. The back is more secure. She can still go there.
We're off to Maine next week, and my nephew of another brother, Josh, will be house and dog sitting. I have to warn him about the wayward strange dog. Then again, he's younger and energetic, and fetching a dog will be easier for him.
Ah ...life begins when...
A few days before, some of D2's friends were in a car near the Falls. A small brown dog ran into the street. They stopped, and opened the dog. The dog hopped in, like she belonged there. They looked around for a searching owner, and found none. They named her "Brown Dog." Somehow it was decided that WE should "foster" the strange looking mongrel until the owner was found.
Wifey and D1 knew I'd be reluctant. I had subscribed to the wisdom of a bumper sticker I saw: Life Begins When the Kids Move Away and the Dog Dies. Didn't matter -- Wifey was NEVER going to be dogless...
So the furry brown, low riding dog trotted in. D1 put on her puppy dog eyes. The dog could stay.
Wifey put up signs, and checked at the vet for a chip. None was found. The dog was part long haired Dachshund, according to the Vet. Also maybe some Shepherd, and maybe Chow. But she was low to the ground and sausage like, and we named her Vienna, after the sausage. The Vet thought she was 2. She's 10 now.
She is full of personality. Also the smartest dog we ever had. Despite checking for holes in our fences, she always escapes. She generally just ambles around the 'hood, until we find her and lure her into the car with treats.
The running joke is she will ALWAYS jump into a car. The day someone else opens a car door -- adios Sausage.
The escaping had stopped, but recently Wifey reported she's at it again. She finds the smallest of spaces, and takes off -- sometimes looking back at Wifey as if to taunt her.
This am she did it to me. I was walking around with her and Bo, the Special Needs Spaniel, and Vienna slipped under the fence around the pond, and scooted to an opening to the street. I had to put Bo inside, lest he wander, and then went out front. A neighbor was walking a big black and white dog, and said "Hey -- your dog is outside." I said I knew, I was typically not such a negligent owner, and tried to leash the escaped Sausage. She struggled a bit, and then came with me.
I swear she was saying "Ha Ha," like Nelson in "The Simpsons."
So I explained to the adventure seeker that her days allowed out to our large front yard are done. The back is more secure. She can still go there.
We're off to Maine next week, and my nephew of another brother, Josh, will be house and dog sitting. I have to warn him about the wayward strange dog. Then again, he's younger and energetic, and fetching a dog will be easier for him.
Ah ...life begins when...
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
ELO
I've dug Jeff Lynne and his bands since I was a teenager -- I always loved the harmonies and mixing of rock and classical music. One of his songs, "Can't Get It Out of My Head," is a favorite of mine.
Lynne is, of course, even a more skilled producer, and has done records for everyone who is anyone. In the 90s he formed a "supergroup" with Petty, Dylan, Orbison, and Harrison, and I loved both of their albums.
ELO, Lynne's group, last toured in South Florida in '77, following the release of a huge record. But last night they were in town, and Wifey and I had tickets.
We fetched Deb, as her man Norman would be coming from Jupiter, where he had meetings. Norman remains the hardest working man in show biz -- the show biz of law. We had a lovely drive together -- Deb and I never knew we both lost our fathers when we were 20 and 21 -- and both of them died in 1982. We talked about having to grow up fast, but if we had to do it over again, we would NOT have had our beloved Dads die so young.
We met Norman at the hockey arena -- he's very familiar with it -- he's a Panthers season ticket holder. We went in and had some surprisingly good arena food -- turkey wraps for Wifey and me.
Our seats were good -- right next to the state. The opening act was Dhani Harrison, George's son, and Norman texted, correctly, that he had his MOTHER'S musical ability. I replied his music was self indulgent. But -- later in the show, Lynne called him to sing and play in a Wilburys song, "Handle Me With Care," and young Harrison redeemed himself there.
The musicians were superb. The light show was terrific -- though it would have been better if I had smoked some weed first.
Jeff Lynne, in his 70s, sort of just stands there and sings while strumming a guitar, but his band and orchestra were wonderful.
The only criticism was, as Norman and I agreed during this am's debriefing, is that the songs were played note for note -- zero improvisation, or story telling to go along with the music, other than a "Hello sunrise -- fantastic to be here."
They ended with a nice cover of "Roll Over Beethoven." And, alas, they did NOT play "Can't Get It Out of My Head." So Wifey sang it to me on the way home -- at least the chorus.
So we continued our project to see all the aging stars while we can. In the past few years we saw Streisand, McCartney, The Who, Hall and Oats, and have tickets for two more shows: The Stones, and Madonna.
That'll be it for awhile, I think, though last night was very entertaining.
Lynne is, of course, even a more skilled producer, and has done records for everyone who is anyone. In the 90s he formed a "supergroup" with Petty, Dylan, Orbison, and Harrison, and I loved both of their albums.
ELO, Lynne's group, last toured in South Florida in '77, following the release of a huge record. But last night they were in town, and Wifey and I had tickets.
We fetched Deb, as her man Norman would be coming from Jupiter, where he had meetings. Norman remains the hardest working man in show biz -- the show biz of law. We had a lovely drive together -- Deb and I never knew we both lost our fathers when we were 20 and 21 -- and both of them died in 1982. We talked about having to grow up fast, but if we had to do it over again, we would NOT have had our beloved Dads die so young.
We met Norman at the hockey arena -- he's very familiar with it -- he's a Panthers season ticket holder. We went in and had some surprisingly good arena food -- turkey wraps for Wifey and me.
Our seats were good -- right next to the state. The opening act was Dhani Harrison, George's son, and Norman texted, correctly, that he had his MOTHER'S musical ability. I replied his music was self indulgent. But -- later in the show, Lynne called him to sing and play in a Wilburys song, "Handle Me With Care," and young Harrison redeemed himself there.
The musicians were superb. The light show was terrific -- though it would have been better if I had smoked some weed first.
Jeff Lynne, in his 70s, sort of just stands there and sings while strumming a guitar, but his band and orchestra were wonderful.
The only criticism was, as Norman and I agreed during this am's debriefing, is that the songs were played note for note -- zero improvisation, or story telling to go along with the music, other than a "Hello sunrise -- fantastic to be here."
They ended with a nice cover of "Roll Over Beethoven." And, alas, they did NOT play "Can't Get It Out of My Head." So Wifey sang it to me on the way home -- at least the chorus.
So we continued our project to see all the aging stars while we can. In the past few years we saw Streisand, McCartney, The Who, Hall and Oats, and have tickets for two more shows: The Stones, and Madonna.
That'll be it for awhile, I think, though last night was very entertaining.
Tuesday, July 9, 2019
Huck Finn in Wantagh and Pinecrest
I had 2 boyhood friends named Eric, Eric G and Eric L. Eric L is part of my family's lore, as I shared with them the tale of Eric and I when we were about 6, being driven home in the back seat of Eric's mother's Dodge. I recall his Mom, Jackie, very well. She smoked a lot and had a big updo, which, other than being blue, resembled the do of Marge Simpson.
Eric and I would play a game in that pre car seat/seatbelt era. When Jackie drove around a curve, we'd push each other to take advantage of the centrifugal force, crashing against the door. As we traversed a large one, I pushed Eric, and, to my horror, watched the door open and him fly out. Jackie, smoking and listening to the radio, drove on. I tapped her on the shoulder, and at first she dismissed me, but then I said Eric had fallen out of the car. She shrieked, stopped, and backed up. He had rolled to the curb and was crying and in shock, but otherwise ok. We stopped playing the game after that.
When we were about 9, in the LI summer doldrums after Little League had ended, we decided to have an adventure day. We didn't live near the mighty Mississippi, but had Wantagh Avenue, the main north-south road that led to our beloved Wantagh Park. So we planned to spend a day walking its length, from Hempstead Turnpike south to the Park, and then back again. I guess the whole round trip was about 10- 12 miles, and back then, in '70, parents let 9 year old boys walk all over suburban towns.
Our preparation was limited to cash -- we each had, I think, $10, so we could buy food along the route and not starve. And we stopped, as I recall, at Wetson's, a McDonalds competitor back in the day, and I think also at a Hardees. There might have been an early Burger King, too, and we had burgers and fries in all three.
I still remember the journey. We talked about sports, of course, and it was a wonderful time to be a NY fan -- the Jets, Mets, and Knicks had all just won championships. We talked about teachers, and friends at school, and the just ended Little League season. I was an above average baseball player and Eric a below average one -- I remember coaching him on blocking ground balls by getting down on a knee...
I think with leftover money we bought a Spalding ball, called a Spaldeen, for use in the stickball we'd play in the street in front of his house -- it only had 2 houses, and minimal traffic interference.
It was a special day, even though we had none of Huck Finn's colorful events. It taught us that you can really find adventure right in your own front yard -- even if you lived in boring suburbs like Wantagh...
I thought of that day from nearly 5 decades ago, because today I had a reprise, of sorts. Wifey's SUV needed an oil change, and I drove it to the Firestone on US 1 and 98 Street. I could have either had Wifey fetch me (though she was fast asleep at my 7 am arrival), or called the FreeBee, the Pinecrest funded Uber-type service I used last time. But instead, I put on my sneaks and shorts and decided to walk home -- a distance my I PHone said is 3.5 miles.
I went west on 98 Street -- mostly empty of traffic as school is out. I never knew there was a tennis center a block north -- several courts barely visible beyond a grove of palms. I loved the sound of tennis balls bouncing and getting hit -- that tell tale thwack sound.
I passed gorgeous houses that usually just go by in a blur. I passed exactly one person -- a man jogging east -- we said good morning at the traffic circle they installed at 72 Avenue.
It was very warm but not too hot -- the sun was up but still shaded by Pinecrest's lovely canopy. I turned south on 67 Ave, and passed a few fellow walkers and joggers, and the traffic was light. An older man was reading his paper while his tiny white dog came up and sniffed me. We waved at each other, and the pup ran back to him.
I solved some of the world's problems in my head, and thought ahead to tonight -- a bunch of us are going to see ELO at the hockey arena. They were last in South Florida in '77, before I moved here. Jeff Lynne is a genius, and Wifey and I love many of his songs.
I entered my 'hood, and Jeff was driving out. He stopped and we chatted -- about aging issues. Oy. Yesterday I saw the eye doc, and found that the retina repair he did 6 months ago was perfectly healed, and I was free to come see him in a year. But after Maine there is the urologist -- who knows what he has in store for an aging man with a prostate the size of a grapefruit, as Dr. Barry reminded me Woody Allen would say.
I had none of those concerns at 9.
And the long walk is still lovely -- Mississippi, Wantagh Avenue, or Ludlam Road...
Eric and I would play a game in that pre car seat/seatbelt era. When Jackie drove around a curve, we'd push each other to take advantage of the centrifugal force, crashing against the door. As we traversed a large one, I pushed Eric, and, to my horror, watched the door open and him fly out. Jackie, smoking and listening to the radio, drove on. I tapped her on the shoulder, and at first she dismissed me, but then I said Eric had fallen out of the car. She shrieked, stopped, and backed up. He had rolled to the curb and was crying and in shock, but otherwise ok. We stopped playing the game after that.
When we were about 9, in the LI summer doldrums after Little League had ended, we decided to have an adventure day. We didn't live near the mighty Mississippi, but had Wantagh Avenue, the main north-south road that led to our beloved Wantagh Park. So we planned to spend a day walking its length, from Hempstead Turnpike south to the Park, and then back again. I guess the whole round trip was about 10- 12 miles, and back then, in '70, parents let 9 year old boys walk all over suburban towns.
Our preparation was limited to cash -- we each had, I think, $10, so we could buy food along the route and not starve. And we stopped, as I recall, at Wetson's, a McDonalds competitor back in the day, and I think also at a Hardees. There might have been an early Burger King, too, and we had burgers and fries in all three.
I still remember the journey. We talked about sports, of course, and it was a wonderful time to be a NY fan -- the Jets, Mets, and Knicks had all just won championships. We talked about teachers, and friends at school, and the just ended Little League season. I was an above average baseball player and Eric a below average one -- I remember coaching him on blocking ground balls by getting down on a knee...
I think with leftover money we bought a Spalding ball, called a Spaldeen, for use in the stickball we'd play in the street in front of his house -- it only had 2 houses, and minimal traffic interference.
It was a special day, even though we had none of Huck Finn's colorful events. It taught us that you can really find adventure right in your own front yard -- even if you lived in boring suburbs like Wantagh...
I thought of that day from nearly 5 decades ago, because today I had a reprise, of sorts. Wifey's SUV needed an oil change, and I drove it to the Firestone on US 1 and 98 Street. I could have either had Wifey fetch me (though she was fast asleep at my 7 am arrival), or called the FreeBee, the Pinecrest funded Uber-type service I used last time. But instead, I put on my sneaks and shorts and decided to walk home -- a distance my I PHone said is 3.5 miles.
I went west on 98 Street -- mostly empty of traffic as school is out. I never knew there was a tennis center a block north -- several courts barely visible beyond a grove of palms. I loved the sound of tennis balls bouncing and getting hit -- that tell tale thwack sound.
I passed gorgeous houses that usually just go by in a blur. I passed exactly one person -- a man jogging east -- we said good morning at the traffic circle they installed at 72 Avenue.
It was very warm but not too hot -- the sun was up but still shaded by Pinecrest's lovely canopy. I turned south on 67 Ave, and passed a few fellow walkers and joggers, and the traffic was light. An older man was reading his paper while his tiny white dog came up and sniffed me. We waved at each other, and the pup ran back to him.
I solved some of the world's problems in my head, and thought ahead to tonight -- a bunch of us are going to see ELO at the hockey arena. They were last in South Florida in '77, before I moved here. Jeff Lynne is a genius, and Wifey and I love many of his songs.
I entered my 'hood, and Jeff was driving out. He stopped and we chatted -- about aging issues. Oy. Yesterday I saw the eye doc, and found that the retina repair he did 6 months ago was perfectly healed, and I was free to come see him in a year. But after Maine there is the urologist -- who knows what he has in store for an aging man with a prostate the size of a grapefruit, as Dr. Barry reminded me Woody Allen would say.
I had none of those concerns at 9.
And the long walk is still lovely -- Mississippi, Wantagh Avenue, or Ludlam Road...
Sunday, July 7, 2019
The F YOU Notary Strikes Again
I became a Florida Notary back in the mid 80s. My friend Sandy, who was Catholic, wanted to marry her long time boyfriend James, who we called Cricket, who was Protestant, and neither wanted the other's clergy. So they pressed me into service, and I presided over their lovely wedding at Villa Vizcaya. The best part was the announcement in their hometown PA paper: it said that "The Reverend Dave" presided...
I've kept my notary current, and married another 10-15 couples over the years. Sometimes they've been secret ceremonies, like some friends who wanted to be married to file their taxes jointly before the end of the year, before having a BIG wedding months later. Sometimes they were bigger affairs. I performed the ceremonies at two weddings of folks I call my former nephew and niece -- the family is permanently estranged. The former niece is still married; the former nephew long divorced.
I've also been useful to friends applying for out of state medical licenses, friends' kids applying to become firefighters or cops -- you name it.
I always joke that being a notary is actually the most useful thing I do.
And I get to use it for great historical purpose: continually thumbing my finger into former Nazi eyes.
My in laws are Holocaust Survivors, and got lifelong pensions from the German government. Each year they had to send in certificates saying they were still alive. I LOVED being the notary for them -- it was my small way of saying F You to the Nazis, decades after they committed their atrocities against Wifey's family.
Germans being nothing if not efficient, years back they switched the notices to twice per year, rather than yearly. Of course that was because the Survivors grew elderly, and by checking more often, the government saved on payments to deceased pensioners.
Well -- my Suegra is still quite alive and if not kicking, at least pushing herself quite well in her wheelchair. And last week we got the bi annual question: are you still alive.
She is indeed, and the grandkids and greatkids of the war criminals have to keep paying. My notary stamp said my suegra is still here.
I actually hear Hativka, the Israeli anthem, in my head as I push down on the stamp. It may be silly, but it is meaningful.
The money isn't huge, but over the years it has added up. I expect the German government will soon switch to inquiries every THREE months. That's ok -- if they do, I'll keep my notary current.
My suegra lives in a luxury facility. We were there last night -- the place is kept beautifully -- everyone there eats well and is well cared for. We always bring my Suegra outside, to a lovely gazebo, so her still VERY loud voice doesn't disturb others.
Between her Social Security, the German Reparation payments, and now a Medicaid Supplement, Wifey and I need only come up with several hundred dollars a month to pay for her rent at the Palace. I joke that at those prices -- she can live as long as she wants.
If she needs to switch over to their nursing home, Medicaid will actually cover all expenses above her Social Security and German payments. But I hope, and have a strong feeling, that won't be the case. She is strong as ever. I predict she'll make 100.
If I'm right, there'll be many more F U notary stamps. Social justice over the generations...
I've kept my notary current, and married another 10-15 couples over the years. Sometimes they've been secret ceremonies, like some friends who wanted to be married to file their taxes jointly before the end of the year, before having a BIG wedding months later. Sometimes they were bigger affairs. I performed the ceremonies at two weddings of folks I call my former nephew and niece -- the family is permanently estranged. The former niece is still married; the former nephew long divorced.
I've also been useful to friends applying for out of state medical licenses, friends' kids applying to become firefighters or cops -- you name it.
I always joke that being a notary is actually the most useful thing I do.
And I get to use it for great historical purpose: continually thumbing my finger into former Nazi eyes.
My in laws are Holocaust Survivors, and got lifelong pensions from the German government. Each year they had to send in certificates saying they were still alive. I LOVED being the notary for them -- it was my small way of saying F You to the Nazis, decades after they committed their atrocities against Wifey's family.
Germans being nothing if not efficient, years back they switched the notices to twice per year, rather than yearly. Of course that was because the Survivors grew elderly, and by checking more often, the government saved on payments to deceased pensioners.
Well -- my Suegra is still quite alive and if not kicking, at least pushing herself quite well in her wheelchair. And last week we got the bi annual question: are you still alive.
She is indeed, and the grandkids and greatkids of the war criminals have to keep paying. My notary stamp said my suegra is still here.
I actually hear Hativka, the Israeli anthem, in my head as I push down on the stamp. It may be silly, but it is meaningful.
The money isn't huge, but over the years it has added up. I expect the German government will soon switch to inquiries every THREE months. That's ok -- if they do, I'll keep my notary current.
My suegra lives in a luxury facility. We were there last night -- the place is kept beautifully -- everyone there eats well and is well cared for. We always bring my Suegra outside, to a lovely gazebo, so her still VERY loud voice doesn't disturb others.
Between her Social Security, the German Reparation payments, and now a Medicaid Supplement, Wifey and I need only come up with several hundred dollars a month to pay for her rent at the Palace. I joke that at those prices -- she can live as long as she wants.
If she needs to switch over to their nursing home, Medicaid will actually cover all expenses above her Social Security and German payments. But I hope, and have a strong feeling, that won't be the case. She is strong as ever. I predict she'll make 100.
If I'm right, there'll be many more F U notary stamps. Social justice over the generations...
Saturday, July 6, 2019
Mean Versus Evil
So Wifey and I had another relaxing day, and then were summoned to Shorecrest for shabbat with D1 and Joey. Joey started this routine, and we love it -- they alternate Friday night dinners with his family and ours.
Last night, D1 lit the candles and said the Friday night prayers -- afterwards we all hugged and wished each other shabbat shalom, or a peaceful sabbath. We don't keep kosher, or follow most of the laws set forth in the Torah, but acknowledging the end of the week in the traditional way is something we greatly enjoy.
I wasn't raised doing it. Wifey was. Her mother always lit candles to end the week and remember and reflect on her many, many lost family members. It's a nice thing to do now.
On the way home, Wifey and talked about meanness in people -- how some just simply chose to say cutting and hurtful things to others. I guess it makes the mean one feel better about themself --but as I age I care less and less -- I just have little to do with the mean ones.
But then we talked about the difference between mean and evil.
Now -- the context is not evil like terrorism, or serial killers, but evil among non violent, "normal" human reactions. A mean person says something spiteful and hurtful. The evil one takes the time to contrive and plan ways to set people against each other.
All we know is, we're giving those folks WIDE berth...
On the realty front, it seems we have reached a conclusion. We're staying in Pinecrest!
The Ds made clear their thoughts -- especially D1 last night, and we agreed that if we moved to NE Miami, we'd end up in a house half the size of the one we own on a small plot of land.
And though Joey wants us closer, in case we're blessed with grandkids, the truth is that the trip is only 30 minutes when its not rush hour -- very manageable for a few times a week drive.
The truth is, Pinecrest is a great place for kids, with the Zoo close, as well as Pinecrest Gardens, and very kid friendly shopping places like the Falls. D1 likes the idea of being able to take kids to "the country house," and I do, too.
So now Wifey is going to undertake some redecoration, which is truly needed. There'll be no major construction projects, but things like painting, and some new furniture, and, most of all, DECLUTTERING.
It's funny. Neither Wifey nor I are collectors of any type, and yet somehow we have accumulated a ton of STUFF. It needs to go.
As I write, I'm looking at a roll top desk Wifey promised to our housekeeper Miriam -- 2 months ago. Somehow Miriam can't get her husband and son to come with a truck and take it. The thing WILL be gone by the end of this month -- even if I hire some guys and it goes to Goodwill...
D1 and Joey's house is a showplace, and my kind. There is virtually zero clutter. They have some art, but your eye is rested there -- no Brooklyn style cabinets crammed with tchokes. It's my kind of place. Wifey will recreate that for us.
So let this be a peaceful shabbos...so far...so good.
Last night, D1 lit the candles and said the Friday night prayers -- afterwards we all hugged and wished each other shabbat shalom, or a peaceful sabbath. We don't keep kosher, or follow most of the laws set forth in the Torah, but acknowledging the end of the week in the traditional way is something we greatly enjoy.
I wasn't raised doing it. Wifey was. Her mother always lit candles to end the week and remember and reflect on her many, many lost family members. It's a nice thing to do now.
On the way home, Wifey and talked about meanness in people -- how some just simply chose to say cutting and hurtful things to others. I guess it makes the mean one feel better about themself --but as I age I care less and less -- I just have little to do with the mean ones.
But then we talked about the difference between mean and evil.
Now -- the context is not evil like terrorism, or serial killers, but evil among non violent, "normal" human reactions. A mean person says something spiteful and hurtful. The evil one takes the time to contrive and plan ways to set people against each other.
All we know is, we're giving those folks WIDE berth...
On the realty front, it seems we have reached a conclusion. We're staying in Pinecrest!
The Ds made clear their thoughts -- especially D1 last night, and we agreed that if we moved to NE Miami, we'd end up in a house half the size of the one we own on a small plot of land.
And though Joey wants us closer, in case we're blessed with grandkids, the truth is that the trip is only 30 minutes when its not rush hour -- very manageable for a few times a week drive.
The truth is, Pinecrest is a great place for kids, with the Zoo close, as well as Pinecrest Gardens, and very kid friendly shopping places like the Falls. D1 likes the idea of being able to take kids to "the country house," and I do, too.
So now Wifey is going to undertake some redecoration, which is truly needed. There'll be no major construction projects, but things like painting, and some new furniture, and, most of all, DECLUTTERING.
It's funny. Neither Wifey nor I are collectors of any type, and yet somehow we have accumulated a ton of STUFF. It needs to go.
As I write, I'm looking at a roll top desk Wifey promised to our housekeeper Miriam -- 2 months ago. Somehow Miriam can't get her husband and son to come with a truck and take it. The thing WILL be gone by the end of this month -- even if I hire some guys and it goes to Goodwill...
D1 and Joey's house is a showplace, and my kind. There is virtually zero clutter. They have some art, but your eye is rested there -- no Brooklyn style cabinets crammed with tchokes. It's my kind of place. Wifey will recreate that for us.
So let this be a peaceful shabbos...so far...so good.
Thursday, July 4, 2019
License to Chill
So our Nation's birthday is upon us, and Wifey and I are exercising one of the Rights not in the Bill of Rights, but ought to be: our license to chill. It's rather hot and yoooomid, as Wifey says, and so we are inside watching patriotic movies. "Destination Tokyo" is playing as I write...
We offered to go visit D1 and Joey, but D1 mercifully suggested that since we had a long drive tonight in the opposite direction, why didn't we pop up to Shorecrest tomorrow instead? That seems a better idea.
Wifey already had her chance to make fun of one of my peculiarities today. I am a stickler about the garbage and recycle pickups. Miami Dade Solid Waste celebrates Christmas, July 4, and MLK Day, and those are the only days without collection. However, recycling pick up is done by a private contractor, and so there WAS indeed recycle pick up today. Wifey finds it funny that I know all this in detail. She's right -- but I figure everyone is entitled to some OCD in their life...
Yesterday was my man Stu's 59th birthday, and I detoured on my way to the office to get him some gifts. First stop was Mega Liquors, now opened in Pinecrest, for huge bottles of Tito's and Maker's Mark. These are truly gifts for all of us, as I enjoy the occasional Tito's at work, after regular hours, of course. And, Dr. Barry is a visitor who likes his Maker's, and the supply was exhausted last time he visited.
The stop had another benefit -- parked outside was a gorgeous canary yellow '59 Corvette. The owner was in the French bakery next door, according to the Mega man. I photo'd the car and posted on FaceBook -- nice ride. I have no desire to own any extra vehicles, but like looking at them.
From there I headed to Hialeah, to fetch some deli sandwiches from newly reopened Stephen's, Stephen's is actually the first NY style deli to open in Florida -- in '54. Back then, Hialeah was the center of Florida's schmata trade, and there were 3 delis accommodating the locals. Stephen's remained -- outliving much more famous places like Wolfie's, Corky's, and Rascal House. A few years ago it was bought by Matt Kushner, a local restaurant owner who has Lokal, Kush, and Spillover -- all terrific. He spent a lot of time and money restoring Stephen's -- giving the famous meat slicer, Junior, a prominent place.
The renovation was superb -- I was back in the 50s. The waitress was a giggly, nice Hialeah girl who worked for Kushner in the Grove, and is now happy to be able to be very close to work.
I brought the sandwiches back to the office. And they were...ok. The rye bread was fine, the meat thick sliced, but not very tender. Lots of Lox, Bagel Emporium, and Mo's all have better sandwiches. Still -- I'll go again -- maybe even a pilgrimage with my boys. But I'll try to turkey or tuna.
Jeff and Lili will be here at 5:15 for the drive to Key Largo. Norman and Deb begged off -- Deb's a bit under the weather. So it'll just be two folks eligible to be elected President, and their two immigrant wives. I've been to the Lucky Lobster twice and loved it both times -- Lili is a foodie -- she'll like it, too.
They have a guitar player/singer who does NOT do Jimmy Buffet. I think that's one of the reasons I dig the place. Buffet is fine, but his music is a cliche for Keys places. It's nice to patronize a maverick...
I posted on FaceBook that I am typically a wise ass -- taking few things seriously, especially, lately, politics. My friends who despise Trump are just as funny to me as those who support him. I'd never vote for the guy, but I 'd never vote for the likes of a Bernie Sanders, either.
But when it comes to patriotism, my feelings are heartfelt. I'm eternally grateful all 4 grandparents fled the Tsar controlled Eastern Europe, and came through Ellis Island to this country, in the very early 1900s. I think we have the greatest nation on this earth -- greatest in history.
I love that my dear friends, and now family, come from all over. The two greatest blessings to my family are my son in law and future son in law -- born in Colombia and Venezuela. Their families' contributions to the US have been immeasurable.
The one shortcoming of the Lazy Lobster is no full bar, so I will be compelled to stick to a few Stellas. I plan to toast our great country tonight -- she's 243!
And I savor our license to chill...
We offered to go visit D1 and Joey, but D1 mercifully suggested that since we had a long drive tonight in the opposite direction, why didn't we pop up to Shorecrest tomorrow instead? That seems a better idea.
Wifey already had her chance to make fun of one of my peculiarities today. I am a stickler about the garbage and recycle pickups. Miami Dade Solid Waste celebrates Christmas, July 4, and MLK Day, and those are the only days without collection. However, recycling pick up is done by a private contractor, and so there WAS indeed recycle pick up today. Wifey finds it funny that I know all this in detail. She's right -- but I figure everyone is entitled to some OCD in their life...
Yesterday was my man Stu's 59th birthday, and I detoured on my way to the office to get him some gifts. First stop was Mega Liquors, now opened in Pinecrest, for huge bottles of Tito's and Maker's Mark. These are truly gifts for all of us, as I enjoy the occasional Tito's at work, after regular hours, of course. And, Dr. Barry is a visitor who likes his Maker's, and the supply was exhausted last time he visited.
The stop had another benefit -- parked outside was a gorgeous canary yellow '59 Corvette. The owner was in the French bakery next door, according to the Mega man. I photo'd the car and posted on FaceBook -- nice ride. I have no desire to own any extra vehicles, but like looking at them.
From there I headed to Hialeah, to fetch some deli sandwiches from newly reopened Stephen's, Stephen's is actually the first NY style deli to open in Florida -- in '54. Back then, Hialeah was the center of Florida's schmata trade, and there were 3 delis accommodating the locals. Stephen's remained -- outliving much more famous places like Wolfie's, Corky's, and Rascal House. A few years ago it was bought by Matt Kushner, a local restaurant owner who has Lokal, Kush, and Spillover -- all terrific. He spent a lot of time and money restoring Stephen's -- giving the famous meat slicer, Junior, a prominent place.
The renovation was superb -- I was back in the 50s. The waitress was a giggly, nice Hialeah girl who worked for Kushner in the Grove, and is now happy to be able to be very close to work.
I brought the sandwiches back to the office. And they were...ok. The rye bread was fine, the meat thick sliced, but not very tender. Lots of Lox, Bagel Emporium, and Mo's all have better sandwiches. Still -- I'll go again -- maybe even a pilgrimage with my boys. But I'll try to turkey or tuna.
Jeff and Lili will be here at 5:15 for the drive to Key Largo. Norman and Deb begged off -- Deb's a bit under the weather. So it'll just be two folks eligible to be elected President, and their two immigrant wives. I've been to the Lucky Lobster twice and loved it both times -- Lili is a foodie -- she'll like it, too.
They have a guitar player/singer who does NOT do Jimmy Buffet. I think that's one of the reasons I dig the place. Buffet is fine, but his music is a cliche for Keys places. It's nice to patronize a maverick...
I posted on FaceBook that I am typically a wise ass -- taking few things seriously, especially, lately, politics. My friends who despise Trump are just as funny to me as those who support him. I'd never vote for the guy, but I 'd never vote for the likes of a Bernie Sanders, either.
But when it comes to patriotism, my feelings are heartfelt. I'm eternally grateful all 4 grandparents fled the Tsar controlled Eastern Europe, and came through Ellis Island to this country, in the very early 1900s. I think we have the greatest nation on this earth -- greatest in history.
I love that my dear friends, and now family, come from all over. The two greatest blessings to my family are my son in law and future son in law -- born in Colombia and Venezuela. Their families' contributions to the US have been immeasurable.
The one shortcoming of the Lazy Lobster is no full bar, so I will be compelled to stick to a few Stellas. I plan to toast our great country tonight -- she's 243!
And I savor our license to chill...
Wednesday, July 3, 2019
Making Stuff Up
I LOVE a good tall tale, and tell them often. I have, apparently, an honest looking face, and can share the blarney in a seriously sounding manner, so people who don't know me often think my BS is true. My closer folks know enough to always ask "For real?" and I tell them when it is, or isn't.
This am I was perusing FaceBook (tm) and I came upon a post from a neighbor I'll call Roberta, since that's her name. She was sharing a post from a young girl in Tampa, who got into the wrong Uber, was being spirited away to either certain death or a fate of being a sex slave, when the REAL Uber driver called to ask where she was, and she then realized she had to make her escape, which she did.
As soon as I read it, my antennae went up, and so I checked it out. Sure enough -- false tale. Apparently the girl DID get into the wrong Uber, and her driver, like many in Miami, only spoke Spanish, so there was some confusion. But there was no death or sex trafficking -- a simple mix up.
The funny thing is, Roberta has a truly unusual life tale. We knew her from back in the old 'hood -- her girls were close in age to our Ds. She was married to a nice CPA. Years back, she announced on FB she was getting a divorce. My spider sense was activated -- she didn't strike me as the type another man was going to woo from the nice CPA. Sure enough, she announced she was marrying a woman, much older, and the two now live happily in our neighborhood. That tale is true.
The first time I sniffed our internet BS was in the late 90s. Edna's then husband Steve, a fellow who always thought himself much smarter than he truly was, sent out a group email warning all of us to boycott Tommy Hilfigger --the fashion designer was a virulent anti semite! Something about that raised my spider sense, too, and I looked into it. Total BS.
I think the fake rumor cost his company, though, and brought home the fact that you really do have to check stuff out.
I believed a fake tale for years -- that the recurring joke in "Young Frankenstein," where the horses neigh each time Cloris Leachmann's character's name, Frau Blucher, is mentioned, is because "blucher" is German for "glue," and so the horses fear being sent to the glue factory, as the old adage goes. Nope -- not true -- but a great tale nonetheless.
There are enough great tales that ARE true going around -- we don't need the fake ones. Just Monday I was having breakfast with my friend Kenny, a fellow Long Islander and former Mets fan. He didn't know the Orioles batter who made the final out in the Miracle season -- a fly to left that Cleon Jones caught, went to one knee, and started a celebration. The batter was Davey Johnson, who would go on to manage the Mets to their only other World Series championship, in '86. How about that?!, as Mel Allen used to say...
I posted on Roberta's page that the Tampa evil Uber tale was false, but there IS indeed a real danger in Tampa: overeating at Bern's Steakhouse, the awesome restaurant and probably only real reason to ever go to Tampa.
It occurred to me the other day, while lunching with Stuart, that I was last there 12 years ago -- maybe 13. Eric and Dana went a few months ago, and were underwhelmed. Maybe I'll go again.
But if I do fly into Tampa Airport, I'll know I needn't fear being kidnapped to be sent somewhere as a sex slave -- even to some compound where Victoria Secret models prepare for their photo shoots. Now THAT would be a great tale.
This am I was perusing FaceBook (tm) and I came upon a post from a neighbor I'll call Roberta, since that's her name. She was sharing a post from a young girl in Tampa, who got into the wrong Uber, was being spirited away to either certain death or a fate of being a sex slave, when the REAL Uber driver called to ask where she was, and she then realized she had to make her escape, which she did.
As soon as I read it, my antennae went up, and so I checked it out. Sure enough -- false tale. Apparently the girl DID get into the wrong Uber, and her driver, like many in Miami, only spoke Spanish, so there was some confusion. But there was no death or sex trafficking -- a simple mix up.
The funny thing is, Roberta has a truly unusual life tale. We knew her from back in the old 'hood -- her girls were close in age to our Ds. She was married to a nice CPA. Years back, she announced on FB she was getting a divorce. My spider sense was activated -- she didn't strike me as the type another man was going to woo from the nice CPA. Sure enough, she announced she was marrying a woman, much older, and the two now live happily in our neighborhood. That tale is true.
The first time I sniffed our internet BS was in the late 90s. Edna's then husband Steve, a fellow who always thought himself much smarter than he truly was, sent out a group email warning all of us to boycott Tommy Hilfigger --the fashion designer was a virulent anti semite! Something about that raised my spider sense, too, and I looked into it. Total BS.
I think the fake rumor cost his company, though, and brought home the fact that you really do have to check stuff out.
I believed a fake tale for years -- that the recurring joke in "Young Frankenstein," where the horses neigh each time Cloris Leachmann's character's name, Frau Blucher, is mentioned, is because "blucher" is German for "glue," and so the horses fear being sent to the glue factory, as the old adage goes. Nope -- not true -- but a great tale nonetheless.
There are enough great tales that ARE true going around -- we don't need the fake ones. Just Monday I was having breakfast with my friend Kenny, a fellow Long Islander and former Mets fan. He didn't know the Orioles batter who made the final out in the Miracle season -- a fly to left that Cleon Jones caught, went to one knee, and started a celebration. The batter was Davey Johnson, who would go on to manage the Mets to their only other World Series championship, in '86. How about that?!, as Mel Allen used to say...
I posted on Roberta's page that the Tampa evil Uber tale was false, but there IS indeed a real danger in Tampa: overeating at Bern's Steakhouse, the awesome restaurant and probably only real reason to ever go to Tampa.
It occurred to me the other day, while lunching with Stuart, that I was last there 12 years ago -- maybe 13. Eric and Dana went a few months ago, and were underwhelmed. Maybe I'll go again.
But if I do fly into Tampa Airport, I'll know I needn't fear being kidnapped to be sent somewhere as a sex slave -- even to some compound where Victoria Secret models prepare for their photo shoots. Now THAT would be a great tale.
Monday, July 1, 2019
A Quirk of the Calendar
So July 4th falls on a Thursday this year, which means essentially no one will be working on July 5, a Friday. Even though it's not a legal holiday, it might as well be.
Years ago, I used that quirk of the calendar to turn a small case into a huge one. I still feel good about it.
Our client sent her beautiful 4 year old girl out for an errand with her sister. The 4 year old's aunt put the child in the front seat --right under the visor sign that said "Don't put children in this seat."
The aunt ran a stop sign and T boned another vehicle. The airbag deployed. The little girl was left a quadriplegic.
The two sisters, originally from Argentina, shared a duplex near the then Orange Bowl, now Marlins Park. The address for each of them ended in "Unit A" and "Unit B."
The negligent aunt had a $10 k liability policy with a major US insurer. Typically, when a carrier learns its insured has so little insurance, and caused such a huge loss, they pay right away. Luckily, corporate greed and incompetence prevented that.
The accident happened in early June. That year, July 4th was on a Thursday. I wrote a letter demanding that the insurer pay the $10K by Friday July 5th, thinking there was a chance the letter would sit on a desk during the long holiday weekend.
And guess what? Our office closed Friday July 5th. But on the Monday, I came in and went through the mail -- no check! So I filed an immediate lawsuit against the aunt -- with her understanding, of course.
I got a "good try, kid" call from an experience lawyer I'll call Dan Draper, since that's his name. He told me he knew I was trying to "set up" his insurance client, but it "wouldn't work."
I feigned naivete -- something I was very good at. I said I had no idea what he meant -- I was merely trying to get what our little 4 year old client deserved. We pressed on.
Several months later, the insurance company's big shot law firm from Sarasota took over. We mediated. They offered $150 k. Nah -- we turned it down, and pressed forward.
A month before trial, where we would have obtained a high 7 figure verdict for the girl, we mediated again, and the company offered a double 7 figure settlement.
I had a lengthy meeting with the child's main treating neurologist -- asking how long he expected the child to live. "Maybe months," he answered. The child was SO injured, infections would likely get her, despite good care.
Based on that, we took the settlement. Sure enough, the child, mercifully, died a few months later. The parents paid back the money insurance had paid out for their daughter, and got the net amount remaining. It was tragic, of course.
But it was, if I don't say so myself, damn good lawyering. And every year July falls on a day NEAR the weekend, but not on it, I recall that case.
This year, we plan to drive to Key Largo with Norman, Deb, Jeff, and Lili. There's a great seafood place called the Lazy Lobster -- we've been there twice with Deb and Norman. Last time I had lionfish, which was delicious. I may have that again -- trusting the chef to keep the poison barbs out of the meal...
I've always love July 4th. As a kid, it meant the Mets were playing, there were fireworks, and my birthday was 2 weeks away.
Those three things still happen -- though I'm a Marlins fan now.
But as I'm celebrating America, I'll say a prayer for the parents of that little 4 year old. I'm sure they never got over that loss.
Years ago, I used that quirk of the calendar to turn a small case into a huge one. I still feel good about it.
Our client sent her beautiful 4 year old girl out for an errand with her sister. The 4 year old's aunt put the child in the front seat --right under the visor sign that said "Don't put children in this seat."
The aunt ran a stop sign and T boned another vehicle. The airbag deployed. The little girl was left a quadriplegic.
The two sisters, originally from Argentina, shared a duplex near the then Orange Bowl, now Marlins Park. The address for each of them ended in "Unit A" and "Unit B."
The negligent aunt had a $10 k liability policy with a major US insurer. Typically, when a carrier learns its insured has so little insurance, and caused such a huge loss, they pay right away. Luckily, corporate greed and incompetence prevented that.
The accident happened in early June. That year, July 4th was on a Thursday. I wrote a letter demanding that the insurer pay the $10K by Friday July 5th, thinking there was a chance the letter would sit on a desk during the long holiday weekend.
And guess what? Our office closed Friday July 5th. But on the Monday, I came in and went through the mail -- no check! So I filed an immediate lawsuit against the aunt -- with her understanding, of course.
I got a "good try, kid" call from an experience lawyer I'll call Dan Draper, since that's his name. He told me he knew I was trying to "set up" his insurance client, but it "wouldn't work."
I feigned naivete -- something I was very good at. I said I had no idea what he meant -- I was merely trying to get what our little 4 year old client deserved. We pressed on.
Several months later, the insurance company's big shot law firm from Sarasota took over. We mediated. They offered $150 k. Nah -- we turned it down, and pressed forward.
A month before trial, where we would have obtained a high 7 figure verdict for the girl, we mediated again, and the company offered a double 7 figure settlement.
I had a lengthy meeting with the child's main treating neurologist -- asking how long he expected the child to live. "Maybe months," he answered. The child was SO injured, infections would likely get her, despite good care.
Based on that, we took the settlement. Sure enough, the child, mercifully, died a few months later. The parents paid back the money insurance had paid out for their daughter, and got the net amount remaining. It was tragic, of course.
But it was, if I don't say so myself, damn good lawyering. And every year July falls on a day NEAR the weekend, but not on it, I recall that case.
This year, we plan to drive to Key Largo with Norman, Deb, Jeff, and Lili. There's a great seafood place called the Lazy Lobster -- we've been there twice with Deb and Norman. Last time I had lionfish, which was delicious. I may have that again -- trusting the chef to keep the poison barbs out of the meal...
I've always love July 4th. As a kid, it meant the Mets were playing, there were fireworks, and my birthday was 2 weeks away.
Those three things still happen -- though I'm a Marlins fan now.
But as I'm celebrating America, I'll say a prayer for the parents of that little 4 year old. I'm sure they never got over that loss.
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