Dog Sitting on NYE

 So D2 and Jonathan are thankfully, both now COVID negative, and therefore can socially distance with their friends. Today, D2 asked whether we would dog sit for a few hours, while they met for a birthday get together in our 'hood. Of course, I said, as my NYE plans during the day consist of taking a nap.

So Wifey just left to fetch her prescriptions at the Walgreens Drive Through, and I'm here with the Sonor playing Reggae. I've always loved Reggae on NYE -- I guess living in the Tropics, it seems an appropriate music to end the year.

I heard a Toots and the Maytals song for the first time: their cover of the John Denver classic "Take Me Home, Country Roads." Of course, they substituted "West Jamaica" for "West Virginia," and it occurred to me I'd much rather visit Jamaica than WVA. In fact, a trip to Jamaica is on my post Covid list.

Wifey and I honeymooned there in 1987. We could only afford 4 nights at a resort: Half Moon Bay, in Montego Bay. We loved it -- day trips to Ocho Rios, and a very chill pole voyage down the Martha Brae River. We took turns reading Steinbeck's "East of Eden," a novel in the hotel library. It was lovely.

On the trip home to Miami, I sat next to a real cool guy -- retired commodities broker from Chicago. He had spent an entire year in Negril, the resort town on the East Coast. He regaled me with tales of the place. When he learned how much I loved Key West, he said I MUST see Negril. I made a mental note -- a place to visit someday, even though I'm not much of a ganja guy -- I prefer vodka. I'm guessing they have vodka in Negril...

So Betsy, the enormous puppy, is curled up near my feet like a big rug. She whined for her parents for a few moments, but is now fine. The Special Needs Spaniel is sleeping on the couch, and the strange rescue Vienna, is on her bed enjoying the sunlight streaming in through the window. Jonathan accurately calls our house the house of misfit dogs, and he's right. But on this most chill afternoon, it's nice to be infested with canines.

Around 6 we'll head to Kenny and Joelle's -- nice bottle of red in tow. I'm hosting a 9 pm Zoom with our usual Friday night group -- the goal will be to try to stay awake until at least 10. We'll see...

My cheerful mail carrier brought me a late Chanukah gift: D1 had a small painting made of our house, Villa Wifey. She knows how much I love living here, and sent it with a beautiful message of how much love and support I give my family, and how this house is the center of that. I got a little teary eyed.

Speaking of honeymoons -- Wifey and my 34th wedding anniversary is January 3. Negotiations are underway among the Ds about where we get together -- a park near D1, or the park near D2. I'm happy if everyone just comes over here, and let the beautiful grandson and many dogs enjoy the company.

34 years. Wow. We'd only just begun -- two young adults starting a life together. We were absurdly blessed with the best daughters in the world, both of whom married wonderful men. And now there's another generation starting his second year on the planet.

Wifey asked me if I foresaw this. Truth is, I did -- I wanted us to be a foundation for a wonderful family, and we were -- caring for declining parents, helping nephews along, and now enjoying the fruits of our hard work. Each day and each night I give thanks to the Big Man for His manifold blessings.

So 2021 -- c'mon in! Hopefully it'll be a year of healing, instead of infection. And it'll be nice to have dogs around for the ride...

Shpilkes

 Shpilkes is a Yiddish word meaning, essentially, having ants in your pants. My in laws, particularly my mother in law, used it often -- especially when describing bored children.

As we go through the plague, I observe the different people I know, and what shhpilkes they have, and how it manifests in their lives.

Everyone seems to have their own rules about what is acceptable behavior to prevent catching the dread disease.

We chatted with some friends the other week, and mentioned that we have our housekeeper visit bi-weekly. Oh no -- they're not "up to that" at all -- having someone go through the house who has been with, who knows? And yet the same person decided, in the midst of COVID, to undertake a major in house renovation, which involves having multiple construction guys over daily! This has been going on for weeks and weeks. And yet, to her, with that type of shpilkes, it makes total sense. I understand.

For us, seeing the Ds and their men and the grandson is sacred. On Wifey's birthday D1 and her men were over, and while there, D1's dear friend, her husband, and baby girl, newly in from Chicago, came over. We stayed outside and distanced, of course, but it was an act Dr. Fauci, my guru in all of this, would have discouraged.

The next evening, D2 and Jonathan came over. It was a cool evening. Could they have some friends over, staying outside, to gather around my fire pit? Of course they could -- and the 2 young folks snacked and drank and laughed. I served the drinks, masked up of course, and mostly stayed inside watching what turned out to be the most exciting Dolphins game in decades -- Fins won on a last second heave by the relief QB Fitzpatrick.

Again -- would Dr. Fauci have approved? Probably not -- and yet having these people precious to me having a great time was supreme.

The Ds think I've become a bit paranoid about COVID. They may be right, but I like to think I'm a pragmatist. Wifey and I will hopefully get the vaccine by April or so. My doctor friends have already been fortunate to get theirs. With the end likely in sight, I joke that I don't want to be that schmuck who dies in March.

Dying last year would have been acceptable. The Ds could have told our grandson, and hopefully grandkids I never met, "Well, Grandpa Dave died in the early days of the awful pandemic." But telling them "It was a shame -- he died with only a few months or a month to go before he got vaccinated" seems like the height of black humor.

Dr. Barry calls me "Mr. Obituary," for good reason. My dark humor causes me to always share news of death, particularly among guys near our age. My guilty news reading pleasure, the NY Post, had an article about an Israeli guy yesterday. He got his COVID vaccine, and died the next day -- of an unrelated heart attack! Ha. He was the embodiment of my wish -- to become immune to COVID so I can get on with the business of dying of something else!

I don't know. Another friend and I talk all the time about preventing the disease. And yet his lady insists they go out -- daily -- to stores and restaurants. She just took a trip to South America to see her mother! And, he tells me, they made dinner plans for New Year's Eve at a restaurant that will be packed with snowbirds who have descended upon their part of Miami. Again -- shpilkes strikes.

One of my favorite memes says when all of this is over -- we'll sit around, looking back on it, and laughing. Well, not ALL of us.

In the mean time, maybe surviving comes down to shpilkes control. Can we control our urges for a normal life sufficiently to get us to the point where we can safely have a normal life? As the old radio show said: only the Shadow knows.

So 2020 slouches to its end. My friend and broker Pat sent me 2 very fine and expensive bottles of wine -- about damn time! He typically doesn't send gifts, which I forgive since he had me invest relatively heavy in Apple stock back in '03, and investment that has pulled up our portfolio nearly 2 decades later. But this year he did gift, and I appreciate it though I'm a vodka and not wine drinker.

Ken and Joelle have invited us over for NYE for drinks and apps. I'm bringing one of the expensive bottles -- they ARE wine folks and will appreciate it. I'll have a glass, too. We can toast to a better year to come.

I set up a ZOOM cocktail party for 9 pm -- maybe my usual Friday night group of dudes can have a nightcap. Whether we stay up until midnight remains to be seen. But I look forward to toasting with that august order, too.

And the second bottle of 3 figure wine? I'd like to be able to take it to the Palm in July, if the Big Man gets me to my 60th birthday. I'll pay the corkage fee and toast with my family -- sitting around and laughing -- hopefully all of us.

If shpilkes allows.

Wifey -- Our Personal Lord and Savior

 So it's noche buena in Miami, and in year's past we would be invited to some party or another. A favorite is Joel and Courtney -- Joel's Italian, and makes a big tenderloin and great pasta, and we'd drink and eat and laugh. Their parties reminded me of the ones I had on Long Island as an adolescent -- they'd always make room for the stray Jewish kid like me.

This year, with the Plague, no parties. But we're getting ready to celebrate the BIG DAY, December 25 -- Wifey's birthday.

I am forbidden from any longer "for the rest of your life," mentioning her age. I tried to get her to change her view on that. The way I see it, the Big Man gives us each year, and by being ashamed of the number, it's a form of ingratitude. My Dad got few years than Wifey has. But no dice -- she doesn't like the increasing numbers, so it's just "Happy Birthday."

Alas -- no D2 and Jonathan. They're awaiting COVID results, but even if negative, I think will want to sit on this Wifey-mas. But D1 and Joey and the beautiful grandson are coming, along with the Spoiled Spaniel. We'll bring in lunch, and hopefully get to take a long stroller walk with the baby in cool temperatures -- predicted for tomorrow.

I'm proud of a small tech triumph. When I tried to use my library computer, a Lenovo "ThinkCentre," it wouldn't boot up. I texted Carlos, my computer guy, hoping to get him early, but he was already on his way to Mass. I quickly told him to wait until after Christmas -- I have a working desk top in the den.

But then I thought -- hey -- maybe I can fix this. Somehow I uninstalled Windows, reinstalled it, and here I am -- I already tested the printer.

I realize these machines have just gotten easier and easier to operate -- but still -- this is a first for me. Maybe you CAN teach a 59.5 year old new tricks. Wait -- am I not allowed to mention MY age? Nah -- I tell everyone...

So 2020 slouches towards its completion. Last year at this time, I was full of hope for the best year ever. Then there was Trump and Covid. But, there was also our grandson growing, and D2 and Jonathan marrying, and, all in all, a pretty nice ride around the sun.

Big Man willing, 2021 will be more peaceful, and more healing instead of infectious, in many ways.

Our family's holiday season always runs from around T Day though early February. D1's birthday is near T Day, then Wifey's is on Xmas, our wedding anniversary is January 3, and now, of course, the little man's birthday is the week before Xmas. To me, the season ends with D2's birthday on the Day the Music Died. My birthday is July -- I'm an outlier.

So we're right in the midst of things. Wifey's birthday, our anniversary, and then D2's birthday, to end/start the year.

And tomorrow, it's happy (            ) birthday, Wifey!

Cousin Week

 I'm not close to my cousins, and it's a bit sad. FaceBook (tm) has allowed me to keep tabs on some of them, and that's mostly the extent of our connection.

Growing up, I was pretty close to the cousins on my Mom's side of the family. One, Michael, was 5 years older than I, and was a mentor to me from adolescence on -- he was the cool cousin, with the conversion van, and great taste in music. His sister Janet was just a year older than I -- we were the youngest first cousins. They'd throw great parties at their house up in Spring Valley, when my Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Abe were out of town, and I attended several. Some fun times.

Wifey and I invited all of my first cousins to our wedding. The following year, I decided to try to resuscitate the "Cousins Circle" my mother always had. Wifey and I invited about 15 of the cousins, who were all living in South Florida, to our house. They all accepted. Wifey and I bought a few hundred dollars worth of food, a big expense to us at the time, and stocked the bar. At the time of the party, only my cousin Jeff and his wife Lynn showed up. I started calling around, fearing that maybe an entire generation of Goldsmith cousins had been wiped out in some fiery crash on the Turnpike. No -- to the person, they had just blown it off -- each busy with other things that night.

Jeff and I drank a lot of the Absolut, and the four of us had a nice time, but that was my last effort at trying to be the cruise director for a cousin get together. By the time the Ds got married, we invited none of the cousins -- so much time with so little contact had gone by. The parties were filled with Columbian and later Venezuelan cousins from my sons in law. Their families were different.

But this week there was contact -- with two of my primos, Barry and Steven. Barry is my Aunt Dottie's son, now 67 and recently widowed from his beloved English wife Jackie. He called me about a simple legal question -- a fender bender involving a golf cart - but we talked for over an hour. Actually, he did most of the talking -- he's quite the raconteur. 

He told me about the final days of his beloved wife -- she developed Alzheimers Disease in her mid 60s, poor thing. Thankfully, his son and new daughter in law live close by -- they bring him great joy.

Barry told me that he always admired the relationship I had with my father. His Dad, Arthur, a fellow WWII vet, was a good man but not giving with affection. Also, he owned a business and dealt with the mental health issues of my Aunt and Barry's older sister Arlene, now dead. Barry said he always decided that if he had a son, he would be best friends with him, like my Dad and I were. And it worked out that way.

He told me that for the first time in his life, he has no responsibilities to anyone but himself. He's retired, and his son and daughter in law are very independent. When the plague leaves, he plans to get in his car and drive -- visiting casinos all the way to Vegas - and then driving to see his sister in Oregon. Ride on, Barry!

The other call came from Steven, my father's sister's son. He's the polar opposite of the outgoing Barry. Steven is a lifelong bachelor -- living in the Jackson Heights co-op where he was brought home as a baby. He's nearing 70, too.

He's a loner type, and just wants to live his life in peace. Alas, the building is changing, and new neighbors seem out to annoy him -- accusing the very quiet man of playing his TV too loud and moving around furniture.

He's dealing now with the things threatening his quiet life. I gave him some suggestions, but complying with the requests of the new persnickety neighbors will require he spend a bit of money. That is not something he easily does. I wish him peace. I wish him well in the only home he has ever known.

My Ds have 4 first cousins. Two are completely out of their lives. Another has battled major issues of mental illness and drug abuse, and seems back on track. One of the four has contact with the Ds, but lives in California, so the contact is limited. I guess it's just the way life worked out.

My friend Jeff has a comically large cousin presence in his life. Whenever we talk, he tells me about one or the other. I'm not sure I'd prefer that, either.

Our grandson has one first cousin -- a lovely little girl who lives just blocks away. I'm guessing they'll grow up very close -- in the way my son in law Joey is close to his cousins, too. At the one year old birthday party I was looking into the future, as I watched the baby and toddler.

Several months ago, I called my cousin Jeff, who lives in Lauderdale. We talked for quite awhile. He battled and beat leukemia, the disease that took his mother before she turned 70. His daughter is soaring -- a girl who always wanted to be a doctor, and fought hard, and won. She's a GI doc in Broward, married to a cardiologist. They have lovely young daughters.

Jeff's sons are doing well, too. The youngest, who also had some mental health issues (it runs deep in our family) surprised him with a wildly successful business -- a pizza place that has become quite the spot in Lauderdale. Jeff was thrilled talking about it.

Jeff and Barry and I all made plans to get together after the virus eases. I'm not sure we will, but I would enjoy it -- sharing tales of our colorful but deeply flawed shared genetics.

In the mean time, I wish all of them well.

Time Makes You Bolder

 Wifey loves the song "Landslide," by Stevie Nicks. I do, too -- it's such a lovely reflection about a young person realizing that time marches on, for the world and herself. Seems like a lot of that's going on lately.

Of all things, for me the realization is coming from law schools. Our close friends Mike and Loni's boy Chris was always an adorable tow headed, gravelly voiced kid -- happy to tag along with his older sister Amanda and her BFF D2. Often, then D2 and Amanda were doing girlie things, Chris would be off by himself playing with toy soldiers and other boy stuff. That period of his life is etched in my memory.

Well -- he graduated from law school, passed the Florida Bar, and is working as a real ass lawyer. This whole process seemed to take a few months to me.

Also, Rabbi Yossi and Nechama's boy Mendel. When we met the folks who would become our guides back to Judaism, Mendel was a baby -- the first of what became NINE siblings. We figured Mendel would stay in the family business and become a Rabbi, but instead he ended up at UF Law -- and he was just sworn in yesterday as a Florida lawyer. Alas, he doesn't plan to practice -- he's already working in Finance in Ohio, but the fact is somehow another baby became a lawyer -- right before my eyes.

Mendel's classmate at UF happened to be Courtney, the daughter of my friend Darren. According to Mendel, Courtney was the star of the class. She also happens to be a beautiful young Black woman -- I figured she would end up on Wall Street or some other high 6 figure job. Well -- she sailed through the Bar, too, and is working as a Public Defender in Tampa -- she wants a career in public service. I was joking with Darren -- he figured she'd become rich. She will -- rich in her contributions to life.

I remember Courtney, also as a young girl, at a party my friend Steve hosted for many of his cop friends and fellow travelers, like me. That pretty young girl with the braided hair is now also a full grown lawyer.

Meanwhile, a big family day approaches: Wifey's birthday. She's a Xmas baby, and the Ds have taken to calling her day Wifey-mas. This year we won't be doing her usual request -- going to see a movie together, followed by Chinese food. But D1 and Joey and our beautiful grandson will be coming over -- D2 and Jonathan will have to settle for FaceTime on account of Covid, and we'll bring in whatever Wifey chooses.

The truth is, her greatest source of joy lately is that baby grandson. He happens to look an awful lot like his mother, D1, although a much fatter, male version. But he has D1's sparkling eyes, and to Wifey, she gets to play with her beloved first born over three decades later. She never tires of his company -- in fact she can't get enough of him. It's beautiful to see.

So, indeed, as Stevie sang, children get older. And we're getting older, too. Wifey is sensitive about her age, and so I never share it -- except to say it's the subject of a catchy Paul McCartney tune from the Beatles' "Sergeant Peppers" album.

The plague burns on. My doctor friends have all gotten, or soon will, the vaccine. I'm hoping to get the jab sooner than later. Our governor says all Floridians should get it by February. Since he's as accurate and truthful as the outgoing cartoon character president, I don't believe him, but I hope he's correct.

In the mean time, it's wonderful to watch the young grow and mature. Even if they become lawyers.

On the Street Where I Live

 "On the Street Where You Live" is, in my opinion, one of the great songs among the Great American Songbook. It's from Lerner and Loew's "My Fair Lady," and I used to sing it when I visited D2 and Jonathan in the West Village.

I would typically walk South on 5th Avenue from my hotel in the Flatiron District, and when I turned to their street, the amazing Victoria architecture would inspire me to burst into song. When Wifey was with me, she'd sing along. When I was on my own, people would think I was just one of the many crazies extant in NYC anyway. But I didn't care -- I was excited to see my kids, and be on the street where they lived.

Now, thankfully, they're back in Miami, and their street is Bayshore Drive, on Sailboat Bay in Coconut Grove. When their new house is ready, their street will be Coconut Avenue, a street of now modern duplexes where dogs happily walk their owners to the dog parks and Grove Center.

I love the street where I live. On Sunday morning, it was completely quiet, and I imagined I was in Jamaica, in an exclusive part of Montego Bay, with the tropical vegetation and large houses. It was perfect weather, and my only companions were the peafowl and squirrels, competing for the berries that recently fell from the trees. I never want to live anywhere else.

So a lot has gone on lately. Our beautiful grandson turned one, and we celebrated with our consuegros and his two uncles and aunt. D1 bought him a "smash cake," and I thought he'd just play with it, but the not skinny one year old dove in like a Rotweiler with a hunk of raw meat -- he'd have devoured the entire thing if D1 and Joey allowed him. When they took it away, he had a look of true anger on his face.

My suegra used to say you're either a fresser (eater) or you're not a fresser. This boy is a fresser.

Anyway, the only sad part is that D2 and Jonathan had to stay away -- Jonathan tested positive for the virus. Thankfully, he's only had mild symptoms, and D2 tested negative, but they're stuck quarantining for the time being. Looks like they'll have to miss the big holiday coming up Friday.

Of course, that's December 25th, the birth of our personal lord and savior: Wifey. She has asked that I not keep bringing up her age, and so I have thus agreed, even though she's going to be the age sung about by Paul McCartney in a very catchy tune from "Sgt. Peppers."

I'm not at all shy about talking about my age. Big Man willing -- I'll turn the big 6-oh in July. My Dad never got to see 64, so for me, each year is a gift to be proud about. But then, I'm a dude...

My long walks continue. I try to reach 10 miles daily. On the day of my grandson's party, I walked 5 miles in the dark, since I guess it's become a somewhat healthy addiction.

And the walks are, thankfully, all beginning and ending on the street where I live.

LWD Adventure

So it's a lovely December week in the 305. The jabs, as Dr. Barry taught they call vaccines in Europe, have begun. It'd be great to get one, but it appears I'm pretty far down the line. That's ok -- just keep hoping I avoid the plague for the coming months.

The Electoral College met, and made it official: adios to the worst president in my lifetime. Hopefully the nation can set about healing -- from the plague - and the deep divisions the narcissist opened up.

I walked around the 'hood yesterday -- got in nearly 11 miles -- and then we FaceTimed with Wifey's BFF Edna and her man Marc, in Atlanta. It was nice -- a lot of laughter as Edna and I drank -- Marc had some, too, and Wifey was her usual "high on life" without the need for alcohol.

This am I set about my morning constitutional, and as I cleared 4 miles, I happened to see a small poodle sniffing around by the Murphy's house. I've come to know all the dogs in my 'hood, and this one wasn't one. I approached her, and saw she had Xmas ribbons in her ears, and a collar with tags. She trotted right up to me. She had tags, and her name was Luly, and there were 2 phone numbers. I called the first.

A fellow with a Spanish accent answered, and I asked if he was missing a poodle. He seemed mostly annoyed, and asked where I was with the dog. I told him, and he said he lived across busy Ludlum Road. He would look for someone to fetch the dog, and I told him to call my number when he was coming -- I'd carry the little girl home and wait.

She was very sweet -- I'm guessing close to 10 years old, and well cared for. She was a classic LWD, as the Ds call them -- little white dogs - very much in favor among women and girls of means.

I got a water bowl for Luly. She wasn't thirsty. I realized nearly 20 minutes had gone by and I hadn't heard from the owner, so I called the other number on Luly's tag. This time a woman answered, and was far more appreciative and concerned. She was in Orlando, and men were at her house doing work -- the dog must have gotten out. She seemed a bit flummoxed at what to do.

Her name was Ingrid, and she was lovely. I offered to walk Luly home -- I was on my am walk anyway. She said she'd open her gate when I got there.

It turned out their house was directly across Ludlum from the back of ours. It meant Luly had escaped becoming LWD road pizza. That would have been awful.

I walked her up the sidewalk, and called out to a painter. He came over, but was unable to open the gate. I put the poodle down, and she slinked right under the gate. Aha! That explained the wayward dog.

I told Ingrid her puppy was safely returned, and that I lived in the house on the other side of the stone wall. Funny how you get to meet neighbors sometimes.

So my walk had a purpose today -- re-homing a sweet little poodle. I'm not a fan of her dog daddy, though, but that's ok. 

And Leonid Brezhnev Is Dead

 Dr. Barry and I shared 3.5 very formative years -- truly journeying together from teenagers to young men, as roommates in Apartment 22Z in the UM Honors Dorm. It was called that, but was in truth a WW II era three story apartment building. Although old, it was a great place to live -- 4 people shared a living/dining area, kitchen, and 2 bedrooms with one bathroom. We loved it -- it was the scene of deep conversations that truly shaped who we are today as men, as well as laughter so deep it hurt our bellies and took away our breath.

Our roommate Mike was a great guy -- still is. He's a med school professor in Arkansas, which is funny, as Mike is the most classic, LI Italian, Jets/Mets fan of all time. We still chuckle at the thought of him living in Arkansas, of all places, but he's built a beautiful life there, with 2 grown kids, and great career prestige.

Mike shared a bedroom from '81-'82 with Jorge. Jorge was the son of 2 doctors from Hialeah, and we grew very close to him, too, although he had precisely opposite politics from Barry and me garden variety, Queens Jewish early 80s liberalism. Jorge, born in Cuba, was VERY Republican, and more informed about politics than Barry and I were. Each morning he would read the Herald, neatly, refolding the sections, and mutter how it was a Communist publication because it wasn't sufficiently anti-Castro, and then he'd do the same with the Wall Street Journal, which wasn't Communist.

The night of the November of '82 elections, Jorge had a map on the wall which he happily colored red as each state went GOP. Oh -- he had a poster or Reagan on his wall, too.

One late morning in early November of '82, Jorge was walking through the apartment literally skippig and whistling. He had a beatific look on his face. Something was up. Barry and I asked him what was going on -- had he scored with some pretty co-ed the night before? Had he aced a tough Eco exam? I remember like it was yesterday his ebullient response: "The day is beautiful. The sun is shining, the birds are singing. The air smells sweet. Leonid Brezhnev is dead!"

Of course, Barry and I doubled over in laughter. I mean -- we were surely no fans of the Soviet Premier, but his death wasn't that big a deal to us. To Soviet loathing Jorge, of course, it was cause for true celebration. And sure enough, as he explained to us, it was probably the beginning of the end of the USSR -- and Jorge was prescient in that regard. I recalled his words not many years later, when the Berlin Wall fell.

Well, I feel the same way today, but for a firing, not a death. The Electoral College meets today, and will spell the end of the worst president in history, Donald Trump. He's still whining about made up fraud, and how it was unfair, like the spoiled toddler he is. But short of a coup, which I don't see coming, today marks the end of his disaster to us. Like the fake reality show that made him famous, we get to say to him "You're Fired!"

And sure enough, it's a beautiful day in Miami. The weather is perfect. The birds all sing -- both the year round ones and the real snowbirds that stay here for the Winter. I plan to leave soon for my morning constitutional, and I may even whistle, like Uncle Remus. Oh wait -- Uncle Remus is no longer an allowed character in these woke times. Too bad! Zippity do dah.

In the way the Soviet Premier's death augured in a new Springtime for Russia, I hope that jettisoning the narcissist does the same for the USA. There's a beautiful coincidence: the same day the Electors meet, the plague vaccines are starting to be given. Wifey and I eagerly await our jabs, as the Europeans call them, but the end of this horror seems truly in sight.

So adios, Donald. Hopefully within several months, adios COVID. Won't that be grand?

Remembrance of Tailgates Past

 I have so much to be thankful and grateful for. First, my master plan of having the Ds settle in my beloved Miami has come to pass -- we're all together in this beautiful, weird city -- the Ds, and sons in law I like as well as love. Even more so, we're blessed with an absurdly adorable grandson -- a chubbier, male version of D1 who has Wifey over the moon with joy -- more than I've seen since she was, well, mother to our adorable little girls.

Yesterday the little man met my ancient suegra. Rachel has no short term memory, and kept getting confused about who the beautiful baby was, but the two smiled and laughed at each other, and we took videos and pictures. My suegra turns 96 in 3 days, and the little man turns 1 2 days after that. Wow -- 4 generations.

Thus far, the plague has passed over my immediate family, like the Hebrews in Egypt with the Angel of Death. I speak daily with my closest friends, and get to Zoom with them as well.

Just last night, Dana noted that a benefit of COVID was just that -- we have weekly sessions where we compare life tales, and drink together.

And still, today, just one half hour before my beloved Canes kick off in the most important game they've played in years, I am suffused with a bit of melancholy.

I called Maria, one of the prime tailgate hosts, to share my feelings. She understood. Usually by now, I am quite happy on a good or better than good amount of vodka. We're sampled Maria's delicious lechon. Maybe we wandered over to Mike's tailgate, to see what craft cocktails and delicacies he has brought to the stadium.

The sound of dominoes crackles. Music blasts. I'm with my closest friends of decades' duration. The problems of the world fade into great distance.

Often my sister of another mister Mirta is my date. She loves the tailgates and games. She and Maria were Coral Gables High classmates, and have enjoyed reconnecting. Mirta enjoys my friends' company, and they adore her, too. And she isn't a drinker, and so happily is our designated driver after the game.

We typically stop at Pinecrest Bakery, and fetch sandwiches, which we bring home and share with Wifey. Wifey tells me not to, but I bring her something chocolate, too. These are great days.

The best tailgates are for night games, but games that kickoff at 330 are fine, too. And it struck me today that, an hour before kickoff, I was walking through the 'hood, instead of in my happy place.

The other day, my friend Darriel called, sad. Her husband Paul was given a choice: keep his job as a medical instruments salesman, by moving to Virginia, or get laid off. At 58 it can't be too easy to get a new sales job, and so they're putting up the house for sale and looking in Richmond. She's very close to her daughter and son, and will miss them terribly, but they have to follow the career. She'll come to a tailgate or two next year assuming the plague is lifted, but will miss going to more.

Our laughter in the stadium parking lot is with abandon. Somehow our witty comments are sharper. We have so many years of shared tales, it's like being at a Dublin pub. The tales get better with time, as do the great Canes memories of amazing plays, and stunning wins.

About 4 years ago, at a FSU game, I really drank too much. A few days later, Eric called, and said maybe I wasn't being the best role model for the teenaged son of Dr. Barry, who drank too much, too, and puked in the family van on their way to Orlando after the game. I was chastened.

The following week, I abstained. The Canes lost. I had a boring, colorless time. I decided to avoid my very wise friend's counsel, although maybe stopping one or two drinks short. The tailgates and games became wonderful again.

I, like the immediate world, want the damned virus gone. Vaccines have just been approved, and the wizard, Dr. Fauci, thinks by Memorial Day we can be back to near normal.

Tomorrow marks 9 months since we started our quarantine. A full gestation. It appears we're going to need an African elephant's worth of gestation period, at least. We can do it. But that jab, as the Europeans call vaccines, can't come soon enough.

My post plague plans are modest. Maybe a Key West 60th birthday celebration in July. Wifey will want to travel more than I. She'll plan the trip, I'll agree with little enthusiasm, and end up having a wonderful time. That's been our pattern.

And then, next Fall, hopefully the great tailgates can return. Food, and drink, and fraternity and sorority.

Screw you, COVID. May you be long, long gone by next season.

Right now, the couch awaits. If the Canes can win, probably an Orange Bowl berth awaits, and a great springboard to next season. If they lose, it'll be one of those lesser bowls, the ones they play in Tampa and Orlando or Jacksonville. And that'll be ok, too.

So for now, Go Canes! I want the tailgates back.

Chanukah in the Time of Plague

 So night one of our Festival of Lights is in the books, and it was pretty, pretty good given the unsettled nature of the world.

D2 came over early with Betsy, and set up her work area in the dining room. Betsy happily explored the house and yard, though sadly found unrequited desires to play with the special needs Spaniel and weird rescue -- they just wanted to be left alone. Still, Betsy made us laugh -- trying to get in the house with a comically large tree branch she found, for instance. It was a lovely afternoon.

I gave up on my afternoon walk, on account of a strained ankle. I get them every once in awhile, and luckily a few hours of ice and rest gets me back in action by the next day. Thankfully today the pain is gone, and I plan to get to my usual 10 miles before sundown.

I heard D2 chatting with colleagues, and she came into the kitchen and started mixing a cocktail. It was around 4. Turns out it was one of these new fangled "team building" projects, and her fellow employees chatted happily as they shared ingredients. I showed D2 where I kept my cocktail shaker.

Well -- if someone is going to have an adult beverage in my house, it won't be without me, and so I poured a Ketel and tonic water, to take part in my own team building exercise. It was a lovely way to start the Chanukah spirit.

By 5:30 D2 was off another call, in which some of the Jewish company employees shared Chanukah tales with the gentile ones, and it was time for family business.

I FaceTimed D1, Joey, and the grandson, and we lit menorahs together. The baby was in fine spirits for his first menorah lighting -- Joey kept holding him sideways and he would laugh. It was delightful. Alas, Jonathan was still hard at work and missed out, but I sent D2 home with a self contained menorah (a metal boxed one containing a whole Chanukah's supply of candles) and so he'll get to take part tonight.

After we signed off with D1 and company, my Uber Eats order arrived, from Sushi Rock, one of our usual pre pandemic spots. Unfortunately, they don't seem up to their game -- the food was bad - and so they're off our delivery list. It happens.

D2 bought Wifey and me gifts -- some Bombas socks, which I love, and clothes for Wifey. She also got me new shorts and a T shirt, but the company, Lulolemon, runs small, so when I modeled the new duds Wifey and D2 got a laugh -- I looked like Will Ferrell when he wears the too tight T shirt in the famous "More Cowbell" SNL sketch. D2 took the clothes home and will get me bigger sizes...

So all in all, it was a fine Chanukah kick off. And we get 7 more crazy nights, as Adam Sandler noted.

Today, D1 is due here with the baby and her aging, spoiled Spaniel. We'll enjoy each other's company, and then, in the afternoon, have a historic meeting. We're headed to the Palace to have the baby meet his great grandmother for the first time. It'll be non contact, of course, but she's never seen him other than on a screen.

I'm thinking that given her confusion on top of the disorientation of COVID times, my suegra will not get the connection that the beautiful nearly one year old is her great grandson, but we'll see. She turns 96 in just 4 days. If you get to make it that old, in my observation, except in rare occasions, there's not much really left.

Still, 2020 nears its end. What a year -- the true long, strange trip the Dead sang about. Chanukah was started fine. Next year, Big Man willing, it'll get more back to normal.

Bankers and Other Cheap Salesmen

 It used to be that banking was a respected profession. I remember well visiting local banks with my father on LI, and later Delray Beach, and there was an air of respect around the places. They really used to appreciate your business, too -- if you opened a CD with $5K or so, you might get a color TV. Boy have times changed.

When I started making money in the early 90s, I was introduced to the world of "private banking." You had a certain balance, and supposedly got great service, and perks. Our firm scored great Dolphins tickets each year -- SunTrust would give us their 50 yard line seats -- 4 of them. We'd pick the Jets game, and Paul and I would host Dr. Barry and Rabbi Yossi, big Jets fans, and we'd have a great night or afternoon.

Once, I had to park a nice sum, and joked with my banker Michael P that he should at least give me a toaster, as they did in years past. Damned if the next day he didn't show up in my office with one, a new fangled model that had wide slots for bagels. Wifey and I had it for years.

Well, several years ago, when D2 was getting ready to move to NYC, we went to our local Chase branch, to open accounts. Chase was all over the City, and we figured when I needed to transfer money to her it made sense to have access here to a bank she could easily use up North. When the officer learned we had a few shekels, he brought in the "wealth management consultant." and asked us to let Chase manage some of our assets.

I liked the young woman, Natalia, and agreed. We opened savings and checking, too, and Wifey ended up using the accounts for her business -- auto deduct from a household credit card, FPL payment, etc.

After 6 months, I realized Chase's financial wizards weren't doing well. Also, I was leaving my relationship with Victoria, my long time Merrill Lynch broker. So I moved assets to Merrill Edge, and closed out the Chase managed account. But, I told Natalia, I had a deal: if she used D1's company for health seminars, I would bring my business back. She was all excited -- they put on programs for their clients all the time, and D1's seminars were right up their alley. But alas, it never came to pass, and I just kept using the accounts for regular banking.

Last week came a call. Chase had changed their rules -- to stay as a "private client," I needed to have $150K of money with them. That was a bit steep for checking and savings account that paid far below 1% interest. But my new "relationship banker," Ed, asked if I would come to the branch and meet again with him and Natalia -- maybe something could be worked out. I said I wasn't visiting banks during Covid, but would happily Zoom with them. They set it up for yesterday.

So, at 4, there was Natalia, and she gave me the pitch she gives everyone -- I should let them manage money and assets -- I would be given privy to Chase's "special information" that would make me more money than I was making now -- even though I have a financial advisor who actually takes the time to research companies.

I listened politely, and then engaged Natalia in a little pleasant interview -- asking about her thoughts on the future economy both assuming we beat Covid, and assuming we don't. It soon became clear that I knew far more than she did about investing. I would hire myself far quicker than I'd trust her to make financial decisions -- I laughed privately at myself for ever thinking she knew any more than how to sell potential clients.

I reminded her of my offer -- hire D1, and I would move some money back to Chase -- not to manage, for a fee, but to direct in their equivalent of Merrill Edge. She said that things like nutrition were ESSENTIAL for people these days, but it soon became clear she had no power to put on programs like that -- she was a lower level salesperson, trying to get folks with some money aboard -- nothing more.

I told Ed I guess I'd have to close the account, rather than pay $35 per month for the privilege of paying FPL and a credit card through them. Oh no, he said, I could switch to a regular, non "private" account, and have no fees. We agreed it was best that I admit that, to Chase, I was no longer private banking material.

Oh well -- classic First World problems. But it just goes to show how so many professions, that used to be prestigious, really aren't, anymore.

Maybe I'll call Carol, my private banker at Iberia, and ask for a new microwave. The one we have is over 15 years old.

A Date, Not Day, That Will Live in Infamy

 Today is Pearl Harbor Day, and most people get the FDR classic speech wrong: saying it's a Day, not Date, that will live in infamy. The Freshman Comp Professor in me always sees that and hears nails on a blackboard, but what are ya gonna do?

Anyway, as a FaceBook friend, Miles, pointed out, PHD is truly the birthday of the Greatest Generation, which included my parents. I tell the story each year that my Dad shared, but like all holy days, it bears repeating.

I imagine my Dad in his job, which his father got him with a textile company, called the schmata (rag) trades. He was a shipping clerk, which meant he schlepped full dress carts from factory to factory. He used to sing as he worked, and a few taxi driver's actually said "Hey kid, you're pretty good --you should go on Major Bowles' show." He did, and made it a few rounds. Another son of immigrants did better on that talent show -- his name was Sinatra. But that's a different story...

Anyway, all of a sudden, as he recalled it, the city stopped, like in a movie. Everyone ran to the open shops, where all the radios were playing FDR's famous speech. Dad knew right away he'd be drafted, and he was, in April.

He left his girlfriend Sunny back in the Bronx, and they wrote to each other daily. Boy would I love to have those letters, but my Mom, the ANTI hoarder, tossed everything when they moved from NY to Florida. If I would have had baseball cards in a collection, those would have been gone, too.

In 1943, I think it was, Sunny, who had never been out of the Tri State area, got on a transcontinental train and made it all the way to Southern California, where Dad was stationed. He used to joke that no Japanese ships or submarines attacked Pasadena on his watch. They were married, and Mom got a job working for the Dean of Cal Tech. They rented a small bungalow up in the hills above Colorado Boulevard. Mom would have coffee each morning at Owl Drug. As of 2000, the building was still there, but a GAP store.

Anyway, Mom got pregnant, and Dad sent her back to the Bronx to have the baby, since he had no idea if he'd be shipped out, leaving Mom alone. In fact he WAS supposed to go fight in the Battle of the Bulge, but had his life literally saved by a Colonel he met one night at a Texas base. But Mom went back East, and my sister was born there in January of '45. My Dad met her for the first time nearly a year later.

Our family was thus begun. My other sister came along, also in the Bronx, in June of '48, and I was at the tail end of the Baby Boom in July of '61.

But all of our modern history, as well as the modern history of the US,  is easily traced back to that fateful day.

Our nation came together so beautifully to fight the enemies of Japan and Nazi Germany. Italy, though a member of the Axis, was to me always just a hapless accomplice.

I really hope that we come together again, this time to defeat the plague. The science is on our side. I hope the politics let it work. And wouldn't that be just grand?

Car Talk

 So yesterday revolved around things automotive, first during the day, and continuing through Zoom happy hour.

My girlie Lexus is now 6 months old, and has a paltry 1100 miles on it. We never go anywhere. When I first got the car, I downloaded an APP called Lexus Enform, where you can check on your car and start it and lock/unlock it remotely. It only partly worked, and the nice tech woman told me there was a software issue with the car -- the dealer needed to fix it. Nah. Not important enough for me to undertake that, but then the car started having problems starting -- it would just click and display weird dash messages. So I called and made an appointment.

I dropped the car at 7, and walked the 3.3 miles home -- nice to get off the Reservation for a change. SW 112th Street was eerily quiet, with great, new sidewalks, and I checked out all the houses. Pinecrest has a great degree of socioeconomic diversity -- the people range from rich to really, really rich. On the side avenues north of 112th Street there were a few of the former -- little ranches with American flags posted, and older cars. Eventually developers will buy out those "Miamuh" folks and probably build upscale townhouses. Along 112th itself, there are some true mansions.

Anyway, at 2 the dealership called -- could I come in with my cell phone so they could properly link up the system with the car. Wifey dropped me off, and I was led to the actual work area. I joked with the mechanic that it was "where the magic happens." He got it, and soon enough, masks tightly on, Umberto got me all fixed and connected. Did I want the car washed? I did, since last wash was before I got the car in June.

I waited a comically long time, and eventually the car was brought out. Now I can get back to putting on some of the miles I paid for -- no way I'll get to 30K in 3 years.

The truth is, I'm really not that into cars. I was when I was young, and for a few years when the firm was soaring -- it was kind of fun to drive Lexuses (the top of the line ones instead of my boring midsized sedan), big BMWs, Jaguars, and Caddies. Now all I want is a reliable car with a decent sound system. That's it.

So last night, we Zoomed -- just Eric, Dana, Barry and me. As friends of 4 decades, I really thought we knew all of each others' stories. Turns out Barry didn't know one, and it had to do with cars.

Eric was always, and still is, into cars. So his his son the engineer. Eric just got his first Tesla, and showed it to us with his phone camera. It was very impressive, and Eric was justly excited about all its featured -- apparently the thing accelerates like a rocket, despite the huge battery weight. I joked he had come a long was from his used Toyota Celica, which he got painted rather than replace while in Med School. And then I remembered my car tale folly.

I was one of the luckiest boys in my high school. My Dad asked what car I wanted as I was turning 17, the age of Driving in NY if you took Driver's Ed. I was already enrolled at 5 Towns College for private Driver's Ed, as the one offered by my high school was based on age, and I was a younger member of my class. I paid for the private lessons out of lawn mowing money, but Dad, who grew up poor and in the late 70s feeling his financial oats as a successful salesman, went all out.

I wanted a Pontiac Firebird, and Dad bought it. It was $6300, brand new. It was deep red, "Carmine," was the name of the color. It was one of only 3 new cars in my working class high school lot -- one other kid's Dad was a stockbroker, and Chris Keller, who became a pro bowler, had a Dad who owned a big business.

Anyway, I really, really loved that car -- even named her Betsy. I'm not sure why. We moved to South Florida together, and she was my ride all through undergrad. Truth is, Betsy had lots of defects -- mostly electrical. She's fail to start a lot, leaving me stranded. One night, my Dad came to get me in Deerfield Beach, and when no tow operator came, pushed me all the way back to Delray. The following week, Dad's Olds needed a new transmission. Betsy!

I had the Firebird during law school, until... Wifey had moved to North Miami, on account of the fact that I wasn't ready to be "exclusive" with her, and she wanted to get away from, as her friend Linda correctly noted, Dave the creep. Well, we ended up together anyway, and now Wifey lived with her friend Stephanie in a building on a canal on NE 135th Street. 

Stephanie ended up hating me, since she and Wifey had planned to be two single, Mary Tyler Moore types together, or, more accurately Rhoda types, and now Wifey had a boyfriend again. Oh well. Sorry Stephanie.

Anyway, one evening I was driving back to Kendall, and as I crossed Biscayne Blvd on a green light, a young girl tried to beat the red, and we crashed. No one was hurt -- she got the ticket, but my Firebird was pretty well smashed. While it was in the body shop, for a full month, the insurance company provided me with the cheapest car then around: a Dodge Omni.

The Omni was a small box of a car. It was designed to compete with small Toyotas and Mazdas and Hondas. I really liked it.

One night, out in it with Eric, I made a proclamation. No matter how rich I ever got, I would NOT "waste" money on an expensive car. Cars were transport -- as long as they worked, and had AC (a necessity in Miami) and a decent stereo -- that's all anyone needed. I would always be a Dodge Omni, or other cheap car kind of guy. Eric nodded.

Fast forward to 1994. Paul and I started our firm. I was driving a Mitsubishi Diamante -- still one of the best for the money cars I ever had. I was paying $199 per month for it, and felt just great. Paul pointed out, correctly, that I needed to upgrade. We were selling ourselves as big time lawyers, and big time lawyers didn't drive Mitsubishis. So I decided to lease a Jaguar.

Man, I remember that afternoon. I felt like James Bond. I popped in a Grateful Dead CD into the sound system, which was Bose, and was in a magic carpet. I drove home to show Wifey and the Ds, and then right to Eric's house. He was newly returned to Miami from Boston, working as a Doc at Mt. Sinai.

I picked him up, and tossed him the key. He drove. We went up the Palmetto, and Eric put the car though nice paces. When he returned home, he turned to me and said, in perfect Eric sardonic manner "Wow. I really love what they've done to the Dodge Omni."

Bingo! As only a close brother can, he called me on my bullshit. He was completely right.

And so last night, we talked about how the three of us had indeed come a long way. Barry drives a nice Ford -- under his station in life, but he's not into cars much, either. His boy Josh is pushing to get him to upgrade. I don't think he'll be successful.

And I have come full circle -- from the Omni to the Jaguar, and back to , as Lexuses go, a fairly simple one.

As my late mother would have told Eric and Dana about the new Tesla: drive it in GOOD health.

What Kind of 2020 Did You Have?

 So yesterday was absurdly beautiful -- today, too. We got our first real cold front of the year, and it was, like the great SNL skit of B and T women, sweata weatha. I walked with a sweat shirt, and loved every one of the 10 miles. And then I got a call from Mark, my personal CPA.

He had classic good and bad news. The income was much higher than last year -- a combination of some great results from the firm, and nice gains I took when I sold some stocks back in April, thinking that the mix of Trump and the Plague might well get us into another Great Depression, and I figured cash was better than sinking securities.

The bad news, of course, is that I would be writing a big check to the government in April. The amount was twice the gross salary of my first lawyer's job. So much for the Trump tax cuts...

Anyway, I still had a month to take some action -- sell some loser stocks, and bump up the charitable donations. And I got all that done by today. There really was no bad news -- paying taxes should be the worst thing we have to worry about.

Wifey and I drove to Black Point for dinner -- our first since March. In another first, I put on long pants for the first time since March. And, since I've lost 40 lbs, the jeans were all too big -- I had to cinch them up with a belt. Another good problem to have...

And we reflected on something. Looking back on our life together, 1992 stands out. It's the year I made my first big money. Far more significantly, D2 was born. And it was also the year Hurricane Andrew literally blew away our house and many of our possessions.

So in a single year, we survived the greatest natural disaster we'll probably ever face, and yet in more important ways prospered.

It struck us that 2020 is much the same. There was grave political peril, and the virus is still raging, with, thankfully, an end in sight. And yet, in this year, D2 and Jonathan married during a weekend out of fairy tales, surrounded by those most sacred to us. And, a new dog, Betsy joined our pack, as well as a beautiful baby boy, our grandson.

I called Rabbi Yossi to tell him there'd be a few more shekels coming to his wonderful Friendship Circle, an amazing program that provides support and love to special needs kids. And we talked about this concept -- annus horribilis and annus of wonderment.

He said something that truly resonated: in a decade or so, we'll look back and ask each other "What kind of 2020 did you have?" The simple answer will be a year of fear, and sickness, and death. But to those of us who indeed make it through, it will be looked upon as a year of healing, of growth, of blessings.

Today is Dana's birthday. Eric set up a surprise Zoom -- about 30 people joined, and we sang Happy Birthday. Her grandmother was on -- she's turning 103, I think. And Dana's smile said it all -- she felt so lucky and blessed -- even though we all just clicked an icon to join the video chat. Dana gets it -- it's all about gratitude for what we have, and she had the love of family and friends, albeit remotely because of the damned plague.

So we're in the final month of 2020. As the year was beginning, I had my usual optimism and search for easy puns -- I said the year would be the "year of perfect vision." I guess it was -- it's just that I didn't like much of what I saw.

And yet, I did like much of what I saw, and in that way, 2020 is another year in the life. I just hope this plague ends soon, and maybe we'll have another "Roaring 20s." I'll even learn the Charleston.