Giving Back

 I know I'm becoming more crochety as I age. I don't plan on living to an extreme number, like my ancient suegra, but if somehow I do, I will NOT be that adorable, sweet old man. Instead, I'll likely end up the type who shoots at kids when they refuse his command to get the hell off his lawn.

So more things bother me than they used to. And yesterday's annoyance came in the form of an email from an old acquaintance. The fellow, whose name is, I think, a derivation of Abraham, is a very successful commercial lawyer. He's been one since 1975, and started out, well, chasing ambulances for a living. But then he and a very sharp partner started doing more complex stuff, and built a large firm with a great public relations connection network, and did very, very well. At some point, some of the partners broke off, and then his new form of firm also did well. I've always liked him, and been very happy with his success.

But then came the email. It was sent to, I'm sure, hundreds of members of the Florida Bar, if not more. In it, he reminded us all about his very impressive career, with his wide and varied experience. But then came the hilarious part: he had decided it was time to "give back" by lending his wisdom and abilities to those who needed their cases mediated or arbitrated.

Now -- if he planned to do that as a volunteer: terrific. I'd probably have called him and sent him a nice bottle of an adult beverage saying attaboy. But clearly, he plans to charge -- and a LOT per hour, for this "giving back." And that got my gourd, as the great old saying goes.

There used to be a colorful lawyer in Miami named Ellis Rubin -- became famous for his "TV Addiction Defense," in which he argued that a young thug killed his mugging victim since he had become desensitized to violence by watching violent 70s shows like "Baretta." Well -- he lost -- his client got life, but Rubin still did very well with a variety of cases -- he was a great self promoter.

But each birthday, he would devote a day to setting up a desk outside of his office to give free advice to all comers. Of course he invited publicity for this, but he DID give free advice to the poor for a day. I always thought that was kind of cool. That was giving back.

But -- hey -- in addition to my usual hourly billing -- I'll bill YOUR clients -- not so much. Again -- I know this is crochety.

I also heard something that annoyed me yesterday. An aging woman had some photos taken -- and was proud of their youthful nature. Wifey and I saw them and said she looked like the young rock and roll star she was seeking to be. Well -- she told me she asked someone else about whether they had seen them, and the answer was "Yeah -- from a distance, EVERYONE looks good."

Ha. What a comedian. Except that when it comes to women, especially, that's not at all funny. When I heard the story, she was annoyed -- I think I was angrier than she was -- especially since the comment came from, well -- let's just say NOT George Clooney. Again -- my crochety-ness rises again.

On a happy note, Wifey's birthday was a yuuuuuge, as she would Canarsie speak it, success. We gathered at Peacock Cafe on a gorgeous afternoon, and weren't shy with the cocktails. When the little man fussed, the perfect volume of the music of the place kind of drowned him out. We ate well -- Wagyu steaks, and fish, and oysters and a picnic appetizer with great stuff. The manager came over -- a jovial Portuguese guy -- and told us that Grovites, which D2 and Jonathan hope to become again, get a discount. So we'll be back.

I texted Joelle and Kenny, since they live close by, and invited them to join us. Kenny was working, but Joelle and her visiting son Adam came -- and shared a cocktail as well. Then we all crossed Bayshore Drive to a park where the Little Man played happily. It was delightful.

Wifey had to drive home, and I directed her to the old Dairy Queen -- such a day needed a proper ending. D2 and Jonathan begged off, but I got us some soft serve with Magic Shell, which is truly magic.

It was a lovely birthday for her -- she thoroughly enjoyed it. But poor Wifey -- more crochety=ness from her husband is likely in the coming years.

Maybe I can find a way to give back by earning more money. That would cheer me up...

A Birthday Whose Number Cannot Be Revealed

 So folks the world over gather today with their loved ones, hopefully Covid free (ha. as if) and celebrate the birth of their personal Lord and Savior. Around here, Wifey is the reason for the season. Like the Jesus dude, she was also born driving distance from Jerusalem, but many years later.

She has asked that I stop mentioning her age, and so I must comply, but I DO recall we met when she was 26 and I was 22 and I'm now 60. Also, this month she became eligible for a certain government sponsored health care plan whose name rhymes with Schmedicare. But I know how to keep a secret.

It's funny -- when I think of Wifey's age, one memory sticks out. We were with Jeff and Cheryl, sitting at a beachside bar on Isla Mujeres, in the Yucatan. That proved to be the trip where I KNEW I was in love with Wifey and wanted to make things with her more than friends with benefits.

We were talking about dogs, and Jeff asked about Wifey's beloved Sunshine. She said she got him when she was 16. Without thinking, Jeff said "Wow -- old dog." And that has become part of the now large amount of family lore we have created and collected over the decades.

So yesterday, for Wifey Birthday Eve, our Pinecrest Roomies D2 and Jonathan headed up to Aventura to spend time with Jonathan's family -- especially his absurdly adorable 1 year old niece -- a red head like her Mom and Jonathan. The weather here was lovely, and I Uber Eated some Chinese for Wifey -- from a place called Takee Outee -- it's real name. Now that Canton has become Sushi Maki, with only a limited Chinese menu, Takee Outee has become our local go-to takeout place.

I had made pasta and meatloaf, in honor of Festivus, and we sat outside in the company of the strange rescue dog, the special needs Spaniel, and Betsy, the now nearly 90 lb puppy. A lovely breeze blew. Tom Petty played on my Sonos Roam. It was delightful.

Later, Wifey got the Beatles documentary done by the short Australian Peter Jackson to play on our TV, and we watched until D2 and Jonathan returned. Then they were off to bed and I followed their lead, as D2 knew I would.

With my false positive Covid result, we canceled the lunch we planned at Faena, but I got us a spot at Peacock Cafe in the Grove this afternoon. We've been several times -- all outside, with good food, and across from Peacock Park, where we can hopefully take the Little Man afterwards to roam a bit. That toddler brings us so much joy.

So we're in the very heart of our holiday season. Friday is NYE, and we re-booked our plans -- dinner at Mi'Italia with Kenny, Joelle, and their grad student son Adam, along with Diane. D2 and Jonathan will be hosting some of their friends here, and we may try to stay up to midnight to toast the new year with them.

And then, just days later, Wifey and I have our three and a half decade wedding anniversary. I think we'll forego a meal out for that one -- just enjoy more of the nice weather at Villa Wifey, a place I absolutely savor living.

So my dear Wifey -- happy birthday. As our shared favorite Neil Young sang, long may you run. I love the life we have been privileged to build together -- let's keep on keepin' on.

A Festivus Miracle!

 So since I attended a 25 person indoor event on Sunday, I decided to get Covid tested Wednesday. I did the same last July -- after Paul's wedding came at a bit of a surge time -- and the results were negative. I didn't feel any symptoms, but scheduled anyway, figuring we had some guests coming after Christmas and I wanted to be sure.

My appointment at the Pinecrest drive through was at 9, and there were already 6 cars in front of me when I arrived at 845. I almost aborted the mission and headed to LOL, but I was there -- what the hell? The line moved, and the tech stuck two swabs in my nose -- the shallow poke for the rapid test, and the DEEP one for the PCR. I swear it tickled my brain.

I headed to Brickell, and caught up with Carla, Amanda, and Josh. Amanda said she had a recent scare -- her boyfriend was at a party where there were positive guests -- but she was negative. After a few hours I left -- wishing all a Merry Christmas -- and headed to Broward before a meeting about a wedding ceremony I was to perform January 2. I met my nephew of another mister Josh -- at his hangout,  a "breastaraunt" called Twin Peaks. Get it?

We sat outside and talked a lot about Covid. His brother Scott had arrived from DC and a positive girlfriend -- and hadn't taken off his mask since he arrived. Josh had been to a big football party Sunday -- but outside -- and he is VERY careful about infecting his parents.

As I finished my burger, I got an email from the testing site. The rapid test was POSITIVE. What? Josh was cool, but I knew it had set off a panic in him. He is obsessed with health issues -- particularly Covid. Of all the people I could have been with when I learned I was Typhoid Dave -- he was the second worst. His brother Scott would have been the worst. I left a $100 bill and walked to my car -- beginning a series of phone calls to people warning them of my status.

Oh boy. The Ds and their men immediately set about finding testing appointments -- which have become scarce with this huge omicron surge. Luckily no one attacked D1 for having the Sunday get together -- it turned out there were other possible vectors -- Jonathan's family had a get together Sunday as well -- outside -- but the daughter of his uncle had later tested positive. And Jonathan had been at an office holiday party Friday -- outside as well, but still...

Hell. I was at my gym -- working out maskless. It seems these days EVERYONE is positive or knows someone who is.

I drove home, and D2 and Jonathan scrambled to find testing appointments. They succeeded -- as well as scoring one for Wifey, who would have found doing it too daunting. D1 and the grandson got testing appointments for today as well. The Covid/industrial complex was in full swing.

I kept my mask on, but we realized it was absurd. If I was infected, so were Wifey, D2, and Jonathan. So we decided to begin medical treatment -- cocktails. I poured a few Absoluts and tonics in the shaker -- the quinine in the tonic would work. Jonathan had tequila, and then he and D2 polished off a nice bottle of Cab I had received as a holiday gift.

Wifey watched TV and I retired to my firepit -- feeding the flames the statements of failed investments from decades ago.

I went to sleep, and awoke at 12:30. It was 12/23 -- Festivus. An email had come in from the testing service -- the PCR test was NEGATIVE.

Of course, since the PCR is run by a lab, and the rapid not -- the PCR is considered the accurate one. I had dodged Covid -- at least for now.

I texted my contacts. A burden had lifted. The absurdity of our current state of affairs with the plague was clearly evident.

So -- I guess today we'll figure out whether we want to reschedule our canceled events -- Wifey's birthday lunch at the Faena on the Beach, and our NYE dinner in South Miami. Part of me is saying nah -- just lay low until the surge passes again -- probably February or March. We'll see.

But the Festivus Miracle visited our house. D2 said she has MANY grievances to air this year -- and we didn't get the Festivus pole. But the spirit of silliness, sarcasm, and comedy associated with that ersatz holiday is indeed upon us.

Bonfire Of Failed Investing

 The weather is supposed to finally turn cooler this week, and I will be able to use my fire pit. And the first time I do, I have hundreds of pages of paper to commit to the ash heap of history. The tale begins in 2000.

The firm had several good years, and I had accumulated a sizeable nest egg. I haphazardly invested some of it in stocks through Victoria, our Merrill Lynch broker, whose acumen I never trusted. And then Paul suggested I finally get money "under management," to do better than I was doing myself.

At that time Northern Trust, long a bank for the very rich, decided to bottom feed and seek clients for accounts with a mere $1M in investable assets. They had hired a bunch of people to do this, and went after relative schleppers like me.

Well, Northern Trust always stood for old money. And Midwestern old money at that! So Wifey and I walked across Brickell, and met with our new advisor, a Michigan Biz School grad named Diane. As we drank tea and coffee in fine china, she explained that, since the money wasn't immediately needed, she was going aggressive -- major growth. And, since I was a busy lawyer and Wifey had as much interest in finance as she did in, um, maybe roller derby -- paying 1.5% of the accounts value each year seemed like a bargain.

And sure enough, in that crazy tech boom, the balances zoomed. In 2 months, the account had grown nearly 20%. I stopped looking at the monthly statements, and focused on the law practice, and life. But then I started hearing about the tech bubble bursting -- this was around 2002, and I figured I ought to pay more attention.

The account was worth about half of its high. What? How was this possible? Wasn't I paying these people to know when to sell before the losses got too significant?  I met with Diane, and she shucked and jiived about how it was all an algorithm, computer generated, and that's how it worked. I remember one particular security, which she bought at $100 per share, and was now worth $10. Why hadn't she sold it, I asked, when it lost about 20% of its value, instead of watching it crash to the ground? I mean, losing money was one thing, but PAYING someone to lose your money was another.

Diane shifted to the other benefits of being a Northern customer. In fact, we had watched a few Heat games from their corporate box, and one night was a ton of fun. Their local boss, Sherman, was a VERY buttoned down Black man -- extremely serious at all times. Our friend Allison happened to be at the game, in her brother in law the Heat CFO's box, and came to the Northern box rather lit. She tried to get Sherman to dance, and he held his arms so tightly it was like he was afraid Allison was trying to steal his wallet. "C'mon, Shermy baby -- lighten up and dance." He chose not to.

Other than that, there were no other benefits to being a Northern Trust client -- well, maybe one more. I got to tell people the classic riddle: How do you get a small fortune? Give Northern Trust a LARGE fortune...

Well -- we closed the account, and gave the money to our neighbor and friend Pat for handling. We followed Pat from Prudential Securities, to Oppenheimer, to Northeast, and finally to a platform called Western International. Pat has done very well for us -- and calls me before making any moves, and the moves are all well researched  -- not some stupid computer program.

Pat felt strongly I ought to double my usual stock investment in a fruit company, in '03. Their lead fruit man, Steve Jobs, had returned to take over. Well -- that investment has of course soared over the ensuing 18 years, and has been gifted handsomely to the Ds, the grandson, and our various charities.

But back to the bonfire story. I kept the file of all the statements from Northern in the back of my file cabinet. I had thought about suing them for broker incompetence, but didn't want to admit under oath I was naive enough to have trusted them. So the huge file just sat there clogging up the file drawer.

Until the other day. I plucked it out, and realized it was time to say goodbye. So at the fire pit, it will be tossed on -- a talisman of my learning curve as an investor.

Today, I manage our family's accounts. I had kept a small account with Oui, out of old friendship, but she left her company, Morgan Stanley, and I told her thanks for the memories. Now Pat is my advisor, although he only has a small percentage of our money under his management. I'll never give up full control again -- the thought of having to go back to lawyering full time is not a pleasant one to me.

And the fire pit awaits the fuel from my folly...

Damned Covid

 Just when we thought it was safe to go back into the water...I know I speak for all, or just about all, when I say BASTA! Enough! But our hopes aren't realized just yet.

My whole family is now triple vaxxed, except for the two year old, and our guru and sacred advisor Dr. Barry doesn't think jabs for toddlers are coming anytime soon. The early research shows they don't work so well on tiny kids, and, as Barry reassures, there is little literature and certainly little of his own experience showing young kids getting very sick or Big Man Forbid, dying, from Covid, unless they have serious underlying conditions. So that gives us comfort about the Little Man, as well as our friends' young grandkids.

D1 and Joey planned a party for the Little Man for today, and thought about canceling, but went ahead. 2/3 of the guests begged off, which was fine, as the event space was not at all crowded, and all the guests were fully vaxxed and masked. The only effect was FAR too much food -- everyone will be eating pinwheels, cheese plates, and chicken tenders for the coming days.

I went ahead and scheduled a Covid test for Wednesday, just to be safe. I'm honestly not too concerned about deathly illness or deathly death, but I DO want to know if I'm positive to thereafter quarantine.

We had reservations for Wifey's birthday next Saturday, Christmas Day, at the former Versace Mansion, a place called Gianni's. I joked inappropriately that their bloody Mary was called the Cunanan. Alas -- we canceled -- it's inside, and Jonathan instead booked us at a restaurant at the Faena Hotel that is outside.

NYE is set for a local favorite Italian place, including our very smart friends Kenny and Joelle. I figure I'll have them make the call as to whether we go ahead with the plans, or bag it like last year and just stay home and eat and try to stay awake until midnight.

Other than that, I guess I'll stick close to home. I would have maybe gone to a Heat or Canes basketball game -- I think I'll take a Pasadena on those for now, although Norman points out that there are more people in a local Publix than attend Canes basketball, especially during Winter Break when the kids are home from their dorms.

We're all fortunate, work wise. Jonathan and D2 can work remotely, as can D1 and Joey. My little work can certainly be done by phone, although I was starting to enjoy weekly Wednesday trips to the office to brainstorm with Stuart and his young Turk Josh.

Instacart will continue,and I think tomorrow I'll even order my Publix meatloaf, which was on hiatus for awhile. And, based on the test results this week, my in person workouts may be put on hold -- though I hope to continue the daily minimum of 7000 steps.

Oh what a world, what a world. This damned virus messing things up for the better part of 2 full years now. Hopefully 2022 sees the transition from pandemic to endemic.

As for today, the Little Man SAVORED his cake. May there be more joyful times like these.

It Was Two Years Ago Today

 So D1 was full term, and we knew we might get the call any time. She was under the amazing care of Dr. Yasin, the kindly Middle Eastern OB I called "The Wizard." First -- Barry said he was the best there was -- at the best Children's Hospital in the SE. And second, when D1 was having complications, which turned out to be not horrible, when I met him in her presence he looked at her and said "You belong to me now."

I cried -- he was a fellow father of grown girls, and he got it. D1 and Joey loved him, but as a grandpa to be, I will never forget that comfort he brought me. He retired last year -- long may he enjoy his beautiful family.

Anyway -- my cell rang at, I think, about 2 am. It was D1 -- her water had broken. I woke my brother Barry, and as usual he was sanguine -- no rush. But there was -- there had been mecunium in the water, which meant fast C section lest there be an infection.

Wifey and I flew to Holtz, and met our consuegros. Soon after, Joey came out and told us -- we had a big baby grandson. Mother and baby were doing great.

In D1's room, Barry was there, thankfully looking at a healthy baby instead of his usual critically ill ones. A tall surfer dude looking doc came in, and flipped the baby around -- Joey wasn't used to the fact that newborns are actually less fragile than we'd think.

And a few days later -- they took the boy home -- to a house with a cuddly Spaniel. His life began.

A week later there was a bris at our consuegros house. Eric and Barry stood very close to me. I was moved at their affection. Truth was, they were convinced I was going to pass out at the cut and figured they'd get good purchase. But no -- I held the little guy during the cut -- and he did fine.

Next thing, his Tia Avi (the name he now calls her) and Jonathan got married on Miami Beach. He was there, but secreted away in a room, lest he get ill in his unvaxxed state.

And then things were normal -- oh, except for a worldwide pandemic!!!! Talk about tensosity, as my late friend Alan's neologism says. But D1 was vaxxed, and the hope was the little guy got some of her antibodies. A year later, the plague still raged, but he started pre school anyway -- and is loving it.

And today he turns 2! Wow. The damned plague is still here -- surging again, but far less scary now that we're all vaxxed 3 times, and there are treatments.

We kind of adore the little guy. First -- despite very slim parents, he, well, isn't. At his 2 year checkup yesterday, his doc said he was 65th percentile in height and 90th percentile in weight. She wants D1 to go heavier on the veggies and less on the fruit. I think the pediatrician is fat shaming -- hey -- he used to be 95th percentile! But the boy DOES love to eat.

Last week, his friend Tomas was being fed pancakes at another toddler's house. Our boy looked at them with total lust -- until Tomas's nanny gave him some.

Also -- he has an adorably cute personality and voice. I can't be objective, but I think he's hilarious.

He speaks mostly Spanish, and some English, mostly due to Wifey, who speaks ZERO Spanish. The other day he said he was eating "tomates," and Wifey corrected him to "tomatoes." He'll get it figured out.

We're off in a bit to spend the day with him. School is out for Winter Break, and Wifey and I will play with him and read to him.

Our family has been amazingly blessed by the Big Man. And today we celebrate the biggest blessing of all.

97!

 So today my suegra turns 97. Wow. Although she has declined quite a bit, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she makes the century mark. She's the essence of the word survivor.

Last Sunday, D2 and Jonathan returned from a friends' wedding up in Sanford, which I guess is near Orlando. I say I guess because I have truly become one of those crotchety old guys who rarely goes north of the Miami Dade/Broward line. I used to travel all over the state for business, and of course there were 9 years of visiting Gainesville for the Ds, but that's in the rear view mirror. Now I'm that guy who agrees I absolutely do NOT live in Florida. I live in Miami.

But anyway, the Pinecrest Roomies as Jonathan has named us returned, and Wifey and I were going to the Palace for a visit. D2 wanted to come along, and Jonathan, too, realizing his abuela by marriage may NOT be around much longer.

Given my dark sense of humor, I noted that it would be a mini version of March of the Living -- where Jews visit Poland and the Concentration Camps, to reflect on the horrors of our past, and then fly to Israel, where the celebrate and party in modern cities. I promised after the downer of the visit to the ALF, we'd go have a nice dinner and drinks. As I said -- my dark humor.

So Rachel was awake and in bed, refusing to eat her dinner except for the cake. Diabetes/schmiabetes. She has been living for years essentially on sugar.

The hospice nurse Marta was Colombian and spoke little English, but Jonathan was able to translate. Rachel went in and out -- sometimes she knew who Wifey was, and sometimes she confused her with D2. Strangely, though she has had a fraught relationship with me -- she ALWAYS knows who I am. Funny how the brain works.

After an hour or so, we left, and after our usual squabble about choosing a restaurant, we went to Cafe Catula, a neat place on Galloway off Sunset. It was early, and so mostly empty, but as we ate the crowd arrived. The food was terrific -- great fresh fish and Jonathan and I shared some oysters. I had two Ketels to soften the sadness of the visit, and we enjoyed ourselves.

We returned home to watch the season finale of "Succession," the HBO show we all watch together on Sunday nights. Mission accomplished.

And now we get to enjoy the final days of 2021. I like to be optimistic about the coming year. Lately that's been a fool's errand. As '19 ended, I seized upon the metaphor that 2020 would be a year of "perfect vision.," as we had a new grandchild, and D2 and Jonathan were to be married. Well -- there were great things, of course, but also a deadly pandemic, which caused great anxiety because of our little man and the unknown effects on him.

And then, it was adios to 2020, and a new year of only great things. Ha. As if. On January 15, Wifey had a stroke, and that set the tone for the first half of the year, with manifold doctors and rehab visits, and my unexpected early turn into her medical concierge and butler.

Thanks to the Big Man and Team Wifey, my dear friends who advised so well on her care, she was recovering nicely, and then one of our best friends, Elizabeth, dropped dead on a hiking trip in Utah.

So this coming year, I'll keep my predictions and optimism to myself, thank you very much.

Our plans, though, seem to be set. I DO enjoy celebrating NYE, and last year was a non starter because of the plague. This year, I get to watch the Canes at noon, and then at 8:30 we're meeting Kenny, Joelle, and their returned for the break son Adam, along with friend Diane, at Salvatore D's, an Italian place we love not too far from home.

Maria, Salvatore's wife, told me they have their regular menu, which I appreciate, as they don't rip off diners like many places with "special NYE packages."

Meanwhile, D2 and Jonathan are having some of their friends over the house after they return from a sailing trip on Biscayne Bay. It'll be fun to crash their party after our dinner -- and hopefully ring in '22 with the Millennials. 

But more significantly to our family, our beautiful grandson turns 2 on Friday. Wow. Lots went on while he grew from a peanut to a hilarious toddler. Wifey and I will take him out Friday to a local park -- no preschool that day -- and Sunday D1 is having a party for him.

Somehow 2 turns into dropping off at college faster than you can imagine.

And his great grandma is still here with us. What do you know?

It's A Cane Thing

 Dr. Barry and I have discussed this for close to 40 years now: we care entirely too much about the Miami Hurricanes football team. When we were in college, at least, it was understandable -- we attended school with the players, or some of them, and 18-22 year olds didn't have much else going on.

But as grown ass men, some of us even grandfathers, it's a bit embarrassing that we care so deeply about the exploits of 18-22 year old men, and how well they run around a field and catch, throw, and kick.

Well -- we did something about it. We shifted our passion instead to the drama about who would be the coach! And in that regard we got exciting news: Miami native and double Cane Mario Cristobal was hired to take over the team.

For those of us who attended the U at a certain time and place, the love of our team runs deep. I have a friend I'll call Dave, since that's his name, who was a year behind me in college. He didn't do well enough to attend UM Law, and so went to Harvard instead. From there he clerked for a Federal judge in Miami, but then took a job with a top law firm in Chicago. His family lived outside the Windy City.

Well, and this is true, 5 years later he realized he was sickened each Saturday when all anyone cared about was Notre Dame football. He took the Florida Bar, and came to work for a leading firm in Miami, where he is now the managing partner. He changed the direction of his life and career because of the Canes.

The sad thing is, I totally empathize. I really couldn't imagine moving away and missing the games -- particularly when the plague passes and tailgate parties become normal again.

My closest friends and I all attended UM -- either college, or grad school, or both. And we have so many amazing memories tied up with the team.

On January 2, 1987 the Canes lost to underdog Penn State in the National Championship game. Freaking Vinny Testaverde, who to me will always be a bum, threw 4 picks. The following day was my wedding day. Several of my groomsmen turned to me after that game sealing interception and said "Wedding is off now, right?" They were only partially kidding.

So I'll keep claiming I don't care about the fortunes of the team as much as I used to, but it's not true.

And as Norman and I just said this am, on a call to each other, we are VERY excited about the upcoming season, with Super Mario at the helm.

Ah -- if only I fell in love with opera.

People Want To Be Connected

 So I've noticed an interesting thing about people -- particularly those who reach a certain age and never marry or have kids: they hunger for connection.

Often pets take that role in their lives. We have friends who absolutely treat their pets like their children. I mean, I like our dogs well enough, but they're not the same as my humans. To some -- they are.

A friend passed away last year -- she had been married and divorced, and had some long relationships, but never any children. But one of her boyfriends had 3 kids, and our friend saw herself as their stepmother, particularly to the youngest girl, now about 30.

This girl had a troubled life -- heroin addiction for starters. But she moved to Broward, a capital of recovery centers, and seemed to be on the right trail. Our friend would always make it a point to visit her while she was here -- and I got the sense the young woman was reluctant to continue the relationship.

And then, a few years ago, the young woman got married -- a rather large wedding in West Broward -- and our friend wasn't invited. Wifey and I were heartbroken for her -- after all the attempts we saw our friend make, and the continuous efforts to keep a relationship -- the ultimate snub.

The young woman had a baby, and our friend kept up with her -- and then another snub: a limited invite to the baby's birthday party, which came with a warning that many of the guests would be Trumpers, and our friend was NOT to mention her passionate anti-Trump feelings.

We thought at that point, our friend would get the hint -- let the young, troubled woman be.

And then I learned that, indeed, the rebuffing woman was one of the beneficiaries our our friend's will, along with her two brothers, who likewise had lukewarm feelings towards our friend.

I get it. Even though the feelings weren't mutual, in her mind our friend wished to believe she "had children."

It recalled another similar incident, where an old man I knew had a long term girlfriend. He died, and left his condo to a nephew who had zero to do with his life -- although he was decent enough to leave his long term girlfriend a life estate in the condo so she wouldn't have to move.

Here, too, the fellow wanted to have a "legacy" - some connection to family after he died, even though the beneficiary nephew had about nothing to do with him.

To the nephew and our friend's ersatz stepkids -- I say "Score!" They benefitted financially just based on circumstance -- not because of any truly loving relationship during the decedents' life.

When a person leaves money or gifts in a will -- they do it without having to hear any criticism from those living with them. In our friend's case, had she consulted me, I would have urged her to leave her legacy to charity -- she was a passionate supporter of nature -- instead of an undeserving young woman.

But that would have shattered our friend's fantasy of connection -- even if it was one sided. I hope when the young woman gets her check, she at least thinks warmly of our friend. She's a recovering addict, and won't be toasting with alcohol, I suppose. But maybe a coffee mug skyward -- giving thanks to the generosity she didn't deserve.

Dog Hero

 So one of the nicest parts of D2 and Jonathan and Betsy, the enormous puppy, living with us has been the dog friendship between Betsy and Jagger. Jagger looks like a purebred Yellow Lab, but is half YL and half Golden Retriever, and he's one of those dogs so suffused with personality that the whole neighborhood loves him. Betsy as well.

The two romp together like wild stallions -- leaping and rolling and running together. The sight of it never ceases to make us all laugh, and Betsy, in mornings and evenings, struts up to Jagger's owners' front door, and if the humans are home, gets let out.

Well -- yesterday there was dog drama. Jonathan had Betsy, and Rod was with Jagger, but Jagger was wearing a new type of training collar. As the two rolled together, Betsy's teeth became entangled in the collar, choking her best friend.

Jonathan sprung into action. He was able, despite the twirling, more than 150 pounds combined of dog mass, to get the collar loose. But then, to his and Rod's horror, Jagger lay motionless on the ground, tongue out. He was totally unconscious.

Jonathan pumped on Jagger's chest, and blew into his mouth, and sure enough, Jagger came to. He came home and related the whole affair to D2. It was scary -- but thankfully Jagger is totally fine -- confirmed by a visit to his vet.

I told Jonathan that the Torah says that if one saves a single life, it is as if he saves the whole world. I assume the same applies for dogs Jagger's young owners came by with a nice bottle of wine to thank Jonathan -- with a message "From" Jagger -- with paw prints, and everything. Jonathan, D2, and I shared it last night -- a lovely red, from Napa.

So my son in law is a canine hero, and in my dog crazed family, therefore a hero to us.

Wifey said it's nice to know that if anything happened to HER, Jonathan would jump into action. Well...(insert mother in law joke here).

But horray for Jonathan. Jagger barks in approval.

Nice Health News

 So today I had my yearly physical, with Dr. Mary, who took over the practice of our long time doc, Dr. Dave. Mary is a member of MDVIP, a concierge company that charges a yearly fee to give you old style access to your doc. Wifey dropped out a few years ago -- thought it was a waste of money -- but I am of the belief that if something ain't broke -- don't fix it. So I stayed.

One of the benefits is an old style, executive check up. I was there 2 hours today -- EKG, hearing, grip strength, full scale neuro workup. Also, they do a comically detailed blood analysis -- not only cholesterol, but how big the cholesterol clumps are. My friend Eric says a lot of it is bullshit, but Mary believes in one particular marker -- for inflammation, which she says is predictive of future stroke and heart attack. And thankfully, my results are all either optimal or near optimal. Except...

Somehow I gained 35 pounds since last year. Ha. Somehow. It's called eating like a pig. The first year of the pandemic took away my appetite, and started me on daily 10 mile anxiety walks. And I dropped -- to 220 or so. Well, I'm still walking and exercising, but the appetite came back -- and so there's now 35 more pounds of me. So I have my project for 2022 -- go for the gold -- lose the weight again. I'll do it.

One of the things they do is take your blood pressure in all 4 extremities -- and each side is supposed to match up. Mine did, and amazingly my BP was normal, despite my too large size. I figure I can bring it to low normal with the weight drop.

But speaking of food -- last night was a fun one. Wifey was in the Gables at a birthday dinner, and Jonathan was working late, so I prevailed upon D2 to have dinner with me. I suggested Captain's Tavern, an old school place where the old gringos of our area like to go. D2 doesn't like it, but we compromised on eating in the bar.

Sure enough, after our delicious conch chowders and my martini, D2 got a text from her friend Michael -- asking if her Dad was at the Tavern. Ha. Turns out Michael was there with HIS parents -- giving me instant restaurant cred. We stopped by their table to say hello on the way out -- with Jonathan's takeout meal in tow. He said it was delicious.

And my visit reminded me: we often bring in stone crabs for NYE from either the Tavern or Golden Rule. Last year, at the height of the plague, we made NYE just our family. I'm thinking this year maybe stone crabs again  -- to celebrate the coming in of 2022 and hopefully a year where the plague is on the downside.

Meanwhile, my suegra turns 97 soon. Sadly, she's mostly out of it -- last visit she barely spoke to Wifey. But she somehow trudges on. After her birthday, our amazing grandson turns 2. Wow -- that was fast. D1 and Joey are planning a get together at a party space near their house. 

And then, the following week, the world will recognize a HUGE birthday. Lights will be lit, and festive ornaments will be hung. It's WIFEY'S birthday! It coincides with another Jew's birthday who was born, also, in the Middle East. But Wifey is the reason for our season. She hasn't decided yet how she wishes to celebrate.

After NYE, we have yet another event: our 35th wedding anniversary. Talk about the flying by years -- not sure how 3.5 decades have gone so fast. But they have.

After that, D2 turns 30 on Groundhog Day, and our holiday season will be in the books again.

So it's nice to get good news from the Doc. Nothing is permanent, of course -- like Tom Petty sang in his lullaby: "We're all right...for now."

It Was 33 Years Ago Today

 So today D1 turns 33. Wow -- that was fast. I joke that I was a child groom, which is the only explanation for a young boy like me having a daughter that age. Ha -- I'm, as David Sedaris said, old -- the young part of old, but still old.

Wifey's water broke early in the am in our first house on SW 125 Terrace. We loved it there -- it looked like a Coconut Grove house in the far more affordable part of working class Kendall. We had a 90 lb Lab , Midnight, and an adorable Cocker Spaniel named Alfred. And now a human sister was on the way.

I drove Wifey to South Miami Hospital, and figured she'd give birth within a few hours. Nope. Dr. Strassberg, the laconic Wisconsin Jewish guy, was there, and Wifey didn't progress, despite a lot of labor pain. He and I watched Dolphins/Jets at 1 pm, one of those great shootouts between Dan Marino and Ken O'Brien. The Dolphins lost, which thankfully was the only negative thing that day.

We started watching the 4 pm game -- probably the Chargers -- and then the baby monitor showed some fetal distress. As a PI lawyer who knew the many bad things that can happen if you don't act, I told Dr. S "Just for the record, we are NOT anti- C Section people." An hour later, he called in Debbie Kenward, Wifey's main doc, and the two performed what I called the baby-ectomy.

It was around 530 or so and I fell in love with the dainty, wide eyed baby girl. Wifey did, too, though the following days were a pain filled, tough recovery. She was in labor all day and THEN had the Section. Fortunately the planned section for D2 was a far easier recovery.

But D1 was blissfully unaware. My inlaws met her, and fell in love, too. My Mom in Delray, who didn't drive on highways, was so thrilled. She called her sister Lorraine, my favorite aunt, to share the news, and was met with "Well don't expect Abe and I to drive you to Miami to see the baby!" That was the beginning of extended family rifts that lasted until all the aunts and uncles passed away. But Mom's friend drove her, and she met D1 as well.

I brought a blanket home from the hospital bassinet, to let the dogs sniff their new sibling. When they met her a few days later, there were loving licks -- starting, I am sure, a life long love of dogs for D1 which continues today.

Several days later, I loaded D1 and Wifey into our Mazda 626 and drove them home.

And then life happened -- more than three decades' worth, sometimes unfair, sometimes sad, but often exquisite.

D1 is an amazingly accomplished young woman -- a leader in her field, and founder of a company which improves the health and well being of clients from major league baseball players to folks at homeless shelters. She has an adoring, Bogota born husband, and many, many dear friends.

Today she is headed over for a baby shower for Nicole, a friend since Middle School, being hosted by her Mom a few blocks away.

And Wifey and I will watch D1's greatest accomplishment -- her about to turn 2 year old, absurdly adorable son.

And D1 knows well you have this big bundle of love, blink a few times, and then you're looking back on the decades, too.

So happy birthday, D1. You are so loved. You have been one of the two greatest gifts of my life, by far. The other one turns 30 in February. Oy.

And So It's Thanksgiving...And What Have You Done

 So to get in the mood for the reason for the day -- consuming mass quantities -- on Tuesday night Jonathan returned from a friend's dinner and said he wouldn't mind a cocktail. D2 joined in, and along with teetotaling Wifey, watched the latest episode of "Curb."

Yesterday, Miriam and Isobel were here to clean, and Wifey slept in. D2 was there, not having to work but still doing so, and I got ready. D2 asked where I was going, and I answered I didn't know, but out. Wednesdays the house isn't mine -- and I tend to flee.

I decided to go up to Aventura to Mo's, and texted Paul and my nephew of another mother, Josh, my Waze status. Both were free -- and I fetched Paul at the bank at Aventura Mall, and we sat outside. Josh arrived, and we all continued training for today -- with brisket and pastrami sandwiches. We sat for hours -- it was a lovely, female-less episode. Josh let on how he loves getting wisdom from old guys. He has an old soul himself.

I came home to a sad Wifey. She had visited my ancient suegra, and she was barely responsive. The hospice folks said she would barely take Ensure, and she said a few words. She's taught us, though, that when we think she's going to pass on, she surfaces like a porpoise, and lives on. Her 97th birthday is just over 2 weeks away. The Ds and I will go see her in the next few days.

On the way to Aventura, I spoke to my Florida sister and brother in law. They've moved to Lutz now -- to be close to their daughter and her family. We reminisced about T Days past -- and they were fine ones. My sister would always host, in a lovely house on a lake in West Boynton, on an outside table, and we would eat and laugh -- and enjoy our dear Mom, who would, sometimes unintentionally, provide the biggest laughs, with her hearing issues.

Alas, sometimes the death of a family's matriarch brings extended family closer, but in our case it had the opposite effect -- and T Days over the past decade and a half for us have been here in the 305. Now, with both Ds married into loving South American Jewish families, and Wifey and I being the "Americans," we host -- either at local restaurants, or home, with caterers, on account of we don't cook.

Last year, with the plague raging, we brought in food from a local place, Chef's kitchen, for just the Ds, their men, and the nearly one year old grandson. They sent a whole cooked turkey, and we realized we didn't even have a carving knife! But Joey is VERY good with his hands, and I know how to carve a turkey, and so like an aging Attending doctor and his young resident, actually doing the work, we acquitted ourselves well.

This year, we're able to have back Joey and Jonathan's family, and Catering by Les is up on deck. We used them 2 years ago, and they were awesome -- the server was a large, affable Catracho who mixed a fine martini as he served the food.

We had bought all new appliances, and Bouche, the supplier, said the oven would be in by T Day. The cabinet maker, friendly Israeli fellow, removed the old one and made ready the space -- but -- no oven. No problem, says Les -- warming trays are coming in -- he does lots of TDays at remote places without even electricity. So they're due here at 12:30 and lunch is at 2.

It'll be 14 of us plus an about to turn 2 year old grandson! And, since D1's birthday is Saturday -- we'll celebrate that as well. Somehow that adorable little girl is turning 33. Talk about sunrise; sunset.

So I'm off for my constitutional in blessedly cooler temperatures. I'll put some Sinatra on the Sonos. We'll fend off the dog infestation we have here -- especially the enormous puppy whose head reaches all of the table tops.

And mostly we'll be thankful -- the Big Man has given us another year to enjoy the love we all share so deeply -- and time to talk of years gone by, and years, hopefully, to come.

We'll toast my departed, dear parents. My father would SO have loved meeting my consuegros -- Jews from Colombia and Venezuela, of all things. He thought his friend Harry Binder's wife, born and raised in North Carolina, was an exotic Hebrew! Mom would have been happy just seeing everyone else happy.

And this is what we have done.

The End Of The Line

 So Joelle and Kenny cruised over early, and we parked their car on the side, lest it interfere with the onslaught of millennial vehicles due over on Sunday. We headed to LOL for a hearty breakfast, and then were on the road -- headed to Key West.

I picked Card Sound Road, as I usually do, for the lovely view from the bridge. Kenny and  listened to Blues on the radio as the womenfolk slept, arising for a request for a pee stop in Marathon and another request that we change the sad music. We complied with both.

We rolled into Key West, and dropped our friends at the Marquesa, which was lovely. Wifey and I then drove to my old standby hotel, the Pier House, which was not.

We were greeted by a surly clerk who made me feel stupid for even THINKING I could check in before 4 pm. She took my cell phone and said she'd call when the room was ready. She never did, nor offer to store our bags. Overall, it was a $100 per night hotel experience that cost $750 per night. The Pier House and I are over, kaput, through. Even the Chart Room, where our foursome had some drinks, lacked any special spirit -- it was a dirty dive bar with mediocre cocktails. Oh well -- the Pier House was the only negative part of the trip, and thankfully only affected half of the participants.

We met at Bagatelle for lunch, and our inaugural drink, and then walked around a bit, stopping in at Gallery on Green, a store I always visit. We chatted with the amiable salesman, though the owner, Nance, was off at a dog show in Ocala.

Later, we Ubered to the Coffee Butler Amphitheater, on account of Wifey has a tough time walking distances these days. And it was fine -- dropped off right out front, in plenty of time to top off on some adult beverages.

The venue was awesome, and the feared rain never came. John Fogerty was terrific -- backed by his two sons and some really talented musicians. We sang and danced for hours. And our 4th row seats were great, too -- thanks to a presale whose code I learned from calling the theater and asking the hippie dude what it was: heytonightkw.

We walked out, through the luxury townhouses that used to be Navy housing, and were hungry. Kenny found a pizza place a few blocks away, down an alley off Duval. It was delicious --owned by Serbs. If there's a better meal than pizza after a concert of drinking, I don't know what it is, or didn't, until the following night.

Saturday we walked around a bit, and napped, and then Joelle called an audible -- made us last minute reservations at Lola. It was BYOB, and we were directed to a wine store where the proprietress knew the menu at Lola and suggested a couple of bottles. From there, we went across the street to my new favorite KW bar: the Roost. They had Stoli Elit happy hour drinks for $10. You NEVER see that. I had two, and achieved the perfect alcohol titration.

Afterwards, we made our way to Lola's Bistro. It was a top 5 meal -- delicious and perfectly prepared and served. We toasted Kenny's upcoming 60th, and Joelle's actual birthday -- that Sunday. It was a delightful time.

Sunday Wifey slept in, and I met the birthday couple for breakfast at SaraBeth's. There was a LOT of eating on this trip, and it continued with lunch in Key Largo at Lazy Lobster.

We arrived home, and D2 and Jonathan's Friendsgiving was in full swing -- including D1 and Joey and the grandson. It was lovely to catch up with their long time friends, and eat an arepa or two.

There's a short break from the over consumption, and it resumes Thursday. But as far as the birthday weekend -- it was mission accomplished.

Dog Drama

 So the local law here is that walked dogs must be on a leash, and you are supposed to clean up your dog's poop. My family and I are law abiding, high tax paying citizens. But when it comes to this, we are shameless scofflaws.

I get the poop clean up law in the city. No one wants to step in poop on a street, sidewalk, or curb, but my 'hood is all half acre and acre lots, with lawns that go to the street. I have ZERO issue when dogs poop on my property, and I enjoy the same liberty with my dogs. 

I DO leash them, since one, the strange rescue, would otherwise take off for a new owner. But D2 and Jonathan do NOT leash Betsy -- and she walks well off leash.

All of the neighbors love Betsy. She's huge and friendly, and comically ungainly. Well, one neighbor does NOT love Betsy. I'll call her Riva, since that's her name.

Riva is the neighborhood malcontent. She once called Wifey demanding that security signs be immediately taken down from our 'hood's entrance -- since "my family is coming for Boca and I want those GONE before they see them."

She also routinely calls the Village to complain about various trespasses -- like people who have the temerity to ADD to her trash pile before the County picks it up.

I generally give her wide berth because I think her mean ness has a component of mental illness, and I feel bad for her -- and worse for her husband.

She has a retriever she shows. Early in D2 and Jonathan's stay here, they asked her if maybe her dog wanted to romp with Betsy and Jagger, Betsy's best doggie friend. Riva said that her dog "was inside sleeping." Strange stuff.

Well, things escalated. Yesterday Jonathan was walking past her house, and she came out and demanded to know where Betsy's leash was. Jonathan wisely ignored her. His and D2's 4 year tenure in NYC gave them great skills when it comes to ignoring crazies you meet on the street -- though typically those are in places like Washington Square Park, and not leafy Pinecrest.

Today I was walking with Jonathan, and it was as if Betsy knew: she squatted and left a gift on Riva's lawn. No one was around, but I told Jonathan I had zero doubt that Riva had cameras everywhere. We met up with neighbors Ellen and Evan, and continued our walk.

Sure enough, two streets away, there was an angry woman in a Lexus SUV. It was Riva. Ellen reported that in the 20 plus years she and Riva lived in the 'hood, she NEVER BEFORE saw Riva on her street. She had come looking for us!

She rolled down her window, and asked, angrily, "Did that big dog poop on my lawn?" I answered "Of course not. How absurd!" and we kept walking. I knew things wouldn't end there.

We dropped off Jonathan and the scofflaw dog, and sure enough, when we passed Riva's house, she came up to us -- again demanding I admit the terrible crime my kids' dog committed. I went into lawyer mode, and said "I have to tell you -- I pay no attention to where dogs shit, and so can neither admit or deny guilt on behalf of my granddog. Without admitting guilt, I will aver that if the dog in fact shat on your lawn, then on behalf of my family, we apologize."

She countered with, and I'm not making this up "Well -- we spent THOUSANDS of dollars getting this lawn perfect, and then a dog poop ruins everything!"

By then I was by the next house, and didn't care to ask what she did nightly when the hundreds of cats, raccoons, peafowl, coyotes, foxes, and other woodland creatures we have do their business on said expensive lawn.

Oh boy.

Even when you live far apart, neighbors can be humorously annoying. It does bring home a message for me though -- I can NEVER live in a condo.

Also, I'm thankful that Riva probably doesn't own a firearm. That said, she has told us many times she has "connections" in Village and County government. Hopefully there won't be a tearful scene at my house as Betsy is terribly arrested by a dog catcher -- or worse.

Ah, dog drama.

It Was 27 Years Ago Today

 The province of old men is sentimentality and nostalgia. Springsteen sang, when he was only 35, about glory days -- hoping that when he got old he didn't want to sit around and talk about them -- but he probably would. And so do I.

After I was told about a seat at a plaintiff's firm in 1988 by my mentor Ed Perse, I originally turned down the offer. Wifey was pregnant with D1, I was happy at a boutique defense firm in the Grove, and I figured I had enough going on that a job change wasn't warranted. But then a senior associate at the firm, 11 years older than I and already making big money, called. He wanted me -- needed help at the firm, and saw something in me that told him I was a good fit.

I thanked him for his thoughts, but still said no. He asked what my wife thought -- could he speak to her? Well -- she was in Atlanta on her last pre birth trip -- sure -- here was the number. And he called and kept Wifey on the phone for hours -- arguing that her her nice Jewish boy husband was passing on the greatest opportunity of his young career.

Wifey's ex friend Steve, a successful chiropractor, called me afterwards, and said I could learn a LOT from this guy -- just his aggressiveness, if nothing else. But I was still reluctant, but did figure I would at least use the new offer of more money ($45K per year versus the $36K I was making) to get a raise.

On Monday, I went to see my "boss" Barry, and asked him to match the offer -- Wifey was going to quit when D1 came, and $9K was a lot to us. Barry had no say -- he was a partner in name only -- I had to ask Calvin. Ha. Calvin, a Miami born and raised WASPy type Jew, was one of the most self important, smarmy guys ever. Years later he ended up disbarred because of his hubris in handling a case.

He invited me into his office, praised my work ethic, and laughed off the offer I had received -- saying that plaintiff's lawyers were "bottom feeders" while HIS firm, which represented insurance companies that only existed because of said bottom feeders, was somehow elite. He brushed off my request for a raise -- playing, he thought, on my being an academic dilettante. Would I leave Harvard because Miami Dade College was cheaper? No, of course not. Well, said Calvin, I WAS at Harvard.

I was young but had a keen bullshit detector. I thanked Cal for his time, went back to my office, and called Ed, the firm's owner. Was the offer still there? It was. I gave a shocked Barry the news.

I joined that firm in October of 1988, and within a year or two, realized my real partner was Paul. In 1992 I made a LOT of money on a case I brought in. Maybe we ought to leave, I suggested. Paul rightly said we had it too good there -- sharing in profits, with no risk of firm expenses. But by 1994 things had changed, and the time was right.

So, over lunch at Tobacco Road, our unofficial firm HQ, we plotted our move. Paul would leave first, we'd get things set up, and then I would follow some weeks later. But then I went back to the office and marched right into Ed's office -- I was leaving with Paul. Ed and his then partner Frank tried to talk me into staying -- Frank and I had lunch at an Italian place in South Dade.

But I said I always dreamed of owning my own practice -- and that was never going to happen where I was. To Frank's credit, he saw that and backed off. And to Ed's credit, he made the separation fair and easy -- keeping deals on fees with cases.

We ended up working on many large cases afterwards -- gentlemen who treat each other fairly get stuff done. It was a stark contrast to the way most lawyer divorces go -- stealing files in the middle of the night, as John, a former employee of my friend Stuart, did several years ago.

Anyway, on November 15, 1994, our firm came to be. Paul's ex wife Jeannie, still a friend, found office space for us in the top building of the time -- the old Centrust Tower, which was lit nightly with colored lights. It still is. We got two offices there in an early WeWork type operation.

And then came the time for a partnership agreement -- typically lots of paperwork with buy-sell agreements and complicated contracts. Paul and I went a different route. We poured shots of vodka, shook hands, and recited a pledge that upon the honor and memory of our late fathers, we would treat each other well and fairly. Also -- we would bust ass for 10 years at this endeavor.

Well -- the 10 years went moot in 2004, but the main agreement remains solid. At the time, Paul had 2 high schoolers, and the Ds were in preschool and elementary school. Now all 4 of our kids are married, and there are a combined FIVE grandchildren.

We've provided VERY well for our families -- helping with an apartment on NYC's Upper East Side, a house on Miami's Upper Eastside, and two seven figure houses in Miami Beach and Coconut Grove. We paid for 4 bachelor's degrees, 3 Masters (actually 4 -- I think Tracy has two), and a J.D.

We've given a bunch of charity -- the originating loan to start Chabad of Kendall and the Friendship Circle. Reading charities for Miami's inner city kids. A scholarship fund at FIU. And FAR too much money to our beloved alma mater, U Miami, and it's lately hapless football program.

We've gotten some amazing results for clients, though Paul is wont to second guess those results. I don't.

When D2 was in grade school, and asked what her Dad did for a living, she wrote "He argues with judges and helps people when they fall down." That is NOT a bad way to be described, and it pretty accurately describes our 27 year old law firm.

And mostly, we've shared our lives -- the good and bad, and, as Paul likes to quote from the Eastwood movie, the ugly.

And, there has been laughter -- a LOT. The kind that hurts in the belly -- the only kind of pain to have, if you get the choice.

So there clearly will NOT be another 27 years, but we'll happily settle for several more, Big Man willing.

Glory days, indeed.

This House Sho Gon Crazy

 I generally try to leave Villa Wifey on Wednesdays, mostly because our beloved housekeeper Miriam visits that day, and I like to give her space. Also, she thinks I'm fluent in Spanish, and asks me things about cleaning supplies and such in her native tongue, and I scramble to answer -- sometimes calling upon a friend like Mirta to translate.

Well yesterday the plumbers were coming back to install a new diverter valve in the bathroom D2 and Jonathan have been using. Last week they noticed a dripping faucet, and South End sent out Tom, the 91 year old master plumber, to investigate. He determined a new valve was needed, and the two younger guys came yesterday to do it.

At the same time, the lawn guys were noisily leaf blowing outside, and poor D2 was trying to find a quiet spot to handle Zoom calls. She picked the outside , back steps, but her enormous dog Betsy kept barking to be with her, and then the leaf blowing fellow would come by.

Plus, I told Miriam there was no water, as the plumbers had shut it off to do their work, and in the middle South End called me. It was Tom, checking on his young charges, who were themselves in their 60s. I walked to the truck and handed them the phone -- they assured the very old plumber they were fine.

D2 went to the room above the garage for some quiet, and Miriam puttered around, and the leaf men did their work, and one tried to water a newly potted ficus, and I had to explain, in broken Spanish, why the outside hose would give no water...

I thought of the scene from the Three Stooges movie where the butler, in politically incorrect times, noted the state of things.

Eventually the plumbers returned the water supply, new bathroom fixture in place, and Miriam went upstairs.

I fled the nuttiness -- to meet Stuart on Brickell, for an outside lunch on South Miami Avenue.

It seemed everyone there, on a Manhattan busy street, was 35 or younger. Stuart and I, happily married a combined 56 years, noted that in the hour we were there, more beautiful young women passed by than one might see in several months in just about any other US city -- maybe with the exception of parts of LA.

It was not bad scenery, and I thought about our neighbor Anne, who recently decamped to Raleigh, because the gorgeous young women were, she thought, too much of a distraction to her husband. 

Ha. As if they were going to flock to her guy -- not exactly George Clooney.

Anyway, I drove home to a blissfully quiet house. Miriam was about done, and then left. D2 was at a haircut in South Miami. I sat outside by the pool with a cup of tea -- enjoying the peace and calm.

And then I heard the front door open -- but no car had come up the rocky driveway. Oh well, I thought -- the home invaders are here.

But no -- it was Wifey, who had been home the entire hour I was there, and sort of forgot to greet me -- instead sitting outside and pulling weeds up, or rearranging rocks.

I explained that normal human behavior is acknowledging someone when they return home. She agreed to work on reacquiring these sorts of skills. 

I was annoyed, but she bought my forgiveness by going to pick up Shorty's barbecue, which we shared with D2 when she got home. Jonathan was at a business dinner in the Gables.

Of course, I realize how fortunate I am that this is the kind of turmoil in the house. Yesterday the place indeed gon crazy.

As If A Curtain Had Lifted

 So we're solidly into the great weather time of the year -- actually slept without AC on for the past 2 nights.

D2 and Jonathan left for NYC Thursday -- brought to MIA by Dadber. It's funny -- I absolutely will NOT drop off or fetch folks at the airport -- except the Ds and their men, and Wifey. They had a great time, with Jonathan's two sisters and a bro in law, and close friends from UF and Jonathan's job here in Miami -- decamped to the Big Apple for a few days.

Friday night I had my Zoom cocktails, after Eric and Dana's Zoom shabbat, where the participants showed off their latest challahs. Alas, Wifey ain't no challah back girl, and I have severe challah envy, but a few cocktails eased the angst.

Saturday D1 came over with the beautiful grandson, to spend some time with Wifey. The Little Man was out of school on account of some HFM (hand, foot, mouth) disease that tore through his pre school. Thankfully he now has antibodies against the coxsackievirus. 

As we were playing, Norman came over, with a great gift: a miniature version of an old No Parking sign from the Orange Bowl streets. I shall place it proudly next to my other Canes memorabilia. Norman got the little man to high 5 him a few times, and then we were off to Joe Robbie.

But wait. As we drove north on the Palmetto, the sky was gray. Rain was falling. This wasn't in the forecast. But then, as if in a movie, as we pulled into the lot, the rain stopped. A delicious cool breeze blew. The skies turned blue. It would be an exceptional tailgate.

My nephew of another mister Josh prepared great breakfast food. I had a dozen bagels. Paul came with his lovely wife, son, and two grandkids -- and he brought delicious whitefish salad from Mo's. I had mixed a gallon of absolute and tonic, with bitters -- we tore through it. Barry's long time colleague Debbie, a 38 year career nurse at the PICU, brought some kind of moonshine her son distilled. There were jello shots.

We ate and drank well, and I violated my own rule of tailgating, which is to cut off the drinks when I go inside the stadium. Somehow, it seemed like a good idea to order MORE vodka and tonics (young Josh is a great influence on me), and the buzz continued -- thankfully Norman adhered to the rule, and was well able to drive home.

Sunday the weather was also here, as Jimmy Buffet sang, and I watched the Fins win with all the doors open. After the game, Dadber rode again -- a very smooth "pick" at MIA, where I surprised D2 by having her enormous dog in the SUV with me. She was very happy to see her.

The young-uns and Wifey and I watched "Succession" together, but were too tired to stay up for "Curb." Hopefully we'll watch that later this week.

And the weather remains amazingly beautiful -- my constitutional this am was pushed along by the sweetest of breezes.

The plague seems in solid retreat -- at least in South Florida. And it's a fine thing.

So curtains fall on our lives, and they lift, if we're lucky. And then, like Johnny Nash sang -- we can see clearly now. I hope it continues.

What It's All About

 So last night we were out with Kenny and Joelle, in probably the last visit to their High Pines house. They're moving to a condo in the Grove, and putting up their big place for sale soon -- downsizing since their boys are grown and off living out of state lives, and making it easier to be the true snowbirds they are -- with a gorgeous lakefront house in Maine.

We had cocktails amidst the packed boxes. Some people dawdle in life -- K and J get it done! They're moving the day before we head to Key West to celebrate Kenny's 60th and Joelle's 59th. Kenny poured me a vodka, and then we were off to Pastis, a local great French spot where Wifey and I hadn't been in too long, on account of the plague.

The food, as always, was delicious -- we might as well have been in Provence. We shared a bottle of wine, and Joelle started talking about deeper life meaning -- how to her, it was about being there for her friends, and sharing in their triumphs. I looked at her and said, with great irony, how can you say that -- when you ignored and rejected me during one of the worst low points in my life -- when Wifey was in recovery early this year from her stroke.

Joelle laughed. The opposite was true, of course -- she and Kenny and their boys provided me with amazing support. All friends say "Hey --let me know if you need anything," and send food and flowers, which is lovely. Joelle would say to me, in her law professor voice "You ARE coming over at 7 tonight after you're at the rehab center," and, since law professors still scare me on account of PTSD from my 1L days in '83, I would comply.

That happened several times -- local restaurants, their house for Indian food -- and it was so comforting to me as I dealt with Wifey's scary health issues. Of course, Kenny was also part of "Team Wifey," which included Barry and Eric, my amazing medical brain trust, who shepherded us along.

But on a social level -- Joelle rose above and beyond. And so there, at Pastis, on a rainy Tuesday night, I began to cry. Her words about caring for dear friends, and more importantly her actions -- resonated so deeply with me.

I dried my eyes like the little bitch I was acting, and then we left for their house. D2 and Jonathan arrived -- to see if they wanted to accept as gifts some lovely furniture that wasn't being taken in the move. It was another delightful moment in time.

And so it is. I've toiled, been the family mule, and lucked out amazingly in that regard. And now, for as many more years as the Big Man gives me -- the focus is no longer on acquiring wealth -- it's on family and dear friends -- laughter, support, shared philanthropy, and, when times go South -- being there as best as I can. Cheers, Professor.

The Start of Family Busy Season

 As the happy mule of our family, whenever November rolls around, for me it means the start of our family's busy season. First up is Thanksgiving, our favorite holiday, always within a day or so of D1's birthday! This year we hope to host the Ds' suegros, after a year of just the six of us on account of the plague.

D1 is turning 33, and Wifey asked me what we ought to buy her for her birthday and Chanukah, which is close after. D1 surprised Joey with F1 tickets -- the first Miami Grand Prix is coming in May, and tickets are a bit pricey, and I suggested we give both Ds money for that extravagant expense instead of the usual jewelry. The Ds are happy with that choice.

Then, in mid December, our beautiful grandson turns 2! Wow -- that sure flew by, from the early morning call telling us to head over to Holtz Children's to full on toddlerhood. We can't be objective, of course, but he is absurdly adorable -- something extremely funny about his cute earnestness. D1 and Joey are planning a party at a local venue, with Publix cake -- an event we'll all remember but he only will through photos.

After Little Man, December 25th is close at hand, and of course is the birthday of our Lord and Savior: Wifey. I'm not allowed to mention her age, or the fact that she starts Medicare this year, but we plan to have a bigger than usual celebration, even though our options are limited due to the fact that the OTHER lord and savior gets a big play on December 25, too.

Then, of course, comes New Year's Eve, which we always enjoy. Maybe this year we'll have a few folks over again like we did pre pandemic. And just a few days after that -- Wifey and I will celebrate our THIRTY FIFTH wedding anniversary. Talk about stuff flying by.

Alert reader and nephew Josh Gelman sent me an article last week -- the City is thinking of tearing down the Hyatt where we were married to replace it with something that makes much more money for the wealthy developers who run Miami. Oh well -- it'll be funny when our marriage outlasts the place the ceremony took place, I guess.

We're talking about celebrating Wifey's birthday and our anniversary with our first out of state plane trip in years -- to Sedona, Arizona. Many of our friends have visited and love it, and rave about a hotel called L'auberge. We may go in April, which apparently is the best weather.

But before that -- what I consider the final big event must be celebrated. D2 turns 30! She was born the Day the Music Died, and hopefully she and Jonathan will be comfortably in their Grove townhouse by the time the milestone comes along.

Either way, we'll celebrate that major number.

So for me, the happy mule, it's that most wonderful time of the year -- November though early February. It also coincides with Miami's best weather -- no hurricanes, and blessedly cooler temperatures.

I say bring it on! The Big Man has blessed me so -- I hope He continues to do so.

It's Halloween, Damn It!

 So last night Mike and Loni had a party, and Wifey and I attended and had fun. We laughed and reminisced with old friends, and ate Big Cheese lasagna and ziti. And then D2, who was in Midtown with Jonathan, sent some happy news: Foxe's is reopening! A girl at the party was working on it. Ah, as the Boss sang, maybe everything that dies someday comes back...

D1 was over earlier, and the Little Man has hand, foot, and mouth disease -- the common illness spreading through preschools. He was fine -- we took him on a walk to watch Betsy the enormous puppy romp with Jagger, her best friend. But still, no trick or treating for the young man -- the disease, though mild, is extremely contagious, and he'll have to skip this year.

Of course, it triggered a memory of a Halloween when I was about 9. I had the flu, and couldn't go out, so my dear Mom gave my neighbor Leigh Ellen a plastic pumpkin that said "David is sick -- trick or treat." I still got to enjoy candy later that night, and thanked Leigh profusely -- I may have even given her my Reese's Peanut Butter Cups -- my favorite.

Last year we were closed down on account of the plague. This year we bought candy, and I just put out the stuffed Frankenstein monster and his friend the friendly ghost.

I had fun with the ghost this am -- popped him outside of D2 and Jonathan's door, and it startled Jonathan -- the thing is the size of a small child.

As of now, the pair, older than D2, will great any trick or treaters we get this year. There are many new kids in the 'hood and the weather is fine -- I assume we'll get a bunch.

My friend Rita recalled a great memory -- she and Mark and Wifey and I attended Fantasy Fest in Key West -- probably 1986 or so. Mark was there for the first one, in '79 when he was a student at Florida Keys College, and always wanted to return. So we did, and Wifey bought me a Monk's costume. The problem was, the cassock was a plastic bag, and as I strolled down Duval Street, everyone who saw me sang the garbage bag song: "Hefty Hefty Hefty..."  We loved it.

I recall that year so well -- the gays do Halloween correctly. Several pregnant brides, nuns, and Girl Scouts, and in homage of the times, a lot of Bernhard Goetz costumes. He was the dude who shot the would be muggers on the subway, and there were many folks with screwdrivers "attacking" the nerdy Goetz. It was all in good fun.

Speaking of Key West: we're set to go in a few weeks. My friend Kenny joins the 60 club near T Day, and his wife Joelle has a birthday the week before, so I scored some tickets to John Fogarty, and we're off to one of my favorite places. I'll play them Dylan's latest song about the magical place as we drive on the Overseas Highway: Key West is on the horizon line...

The Ds were laughing yesterday about the year Wifey proclaimed "I'm not in the mood for Halloween this year," as if her desires would stop the kids from trick or treating. Wifey is often very funny without realizing it.

Looking back, sheer luck on a Halloween is the reason I'm still here. When my friends and I were 13 or so, and restless and bored, we would store up rotten eggs and, like suburban marauders, egg the houses of people who annoyed us.

One night, as we walked down a street in Seaford, a Nassau County cop was coming up the street. Everyone hid their eggs. I spotted a lamp post plate missing from a base, and unloaded my dozen or so there. The cop stopped, got out of the car, and patted us all down -- the clever method of checking for eggs. We passed, and I'm sure I gave the fellow my best Eddie Haskell "Stay safe, Officer. We appreciate all you do for we citizens of Levittown..."

When he was out of sight, I stuck my hand in the lamp post base to retrieve the eggs, and got a shock so powerful it literally knocked me back 5 feet, right onto my ass. It was a miracle, and probably thanks to my rubber sneakers, that I wasn't killed right there. I lived to egg another day.

Looking back -- how immature that was. And yet, fast forward to 1997 or so. My friend Steve the cop told me a fellow Leewood parent talked smack about me, and so we two mid 30s Dads, one a cop, and one a lawyer, went to her house and bombarded it with eggs. The Ds were incredulous when I admitted this to them years later. Hey -- Mellencamp advised we hold onto 16 as long as we can...

So no eggs this year. Maybe Jonathan and I will have a few adult beverages as we give out candy. Or if he's busy, I'll drink tea and do it alone.

Happy Halloween, past Dave and current Dave...

Another Friday Night

 So all throughout the plague, I've been participating in two separate Friday night Zoom rituals. First, at 6, Dana and Eric host a shabbat session, including their extended families, where the prayers are said, babies shown off, and news caught up upon. I sip my first drink of the weekend and hear the latest about new kitchens in Boca and New Jersey, where the best challahs were made or bought, and happy chisme about the group of folks, most originally from South Florida and now in New Jersey and Atlanta.

The best part is seeing the new grandkids -- Eric and Dana's daughter and son have a baby girl and boy -- and watching Dana's father Ron beam over his great grandchildren. That Zoom ends at 6:40.

At 7, I become host, and the drinking gets more serious. Over the course of the pandemic, Norman has made a few guest appearances, as has Kenny, particularly when he and Joelle were in Maine and we looked longingly on the beautiful lake and asked about the cooler temperatures.

But the core is Eric and Dana, who have their dinner with us, Barry and Donna, and Josh -- as well as Scott, who joins when other D.C. events don't pull him away. Wifey attends off camera, except when she saunters over to say hello.

I guess these things are, fortunately, heading to obsolescence, as the Plague lifts and we get back to more normal human interaction. Last Friday I missed the sessions, as our Full Squad was at Christy's having an actual, in person dinner.

Still -- we did it last night, and our houseguests Jonathan and D2 said hello -- pregaming before leaving for a friends' get together. After they left, it was just Barry, Donna, Josh, Wifey and me -- and it was more of a preview for tonight -- we're tailgating and going to see the Canes lose to NC State.

Wifey hasn't been to a game in years. She only goes to night games -- the day ones are too sweltering for her. Norman is dropping by at 5, and out uni racial Mod Squad will drive up to Joe Robbie. I have zero doubt Mike and his crew will be there earlier -- probably with Mike's Margaritaville frozen drink machine whirring in full force, powered by the generator he brings.

Eric and Dana haven't been to a game yet this year -- their family's Covid fears remain in full force, and as Josh and I were saying -- we respect that, of course.

But the science and trends seem to say it's ok to poke our heads out of the Covid holes -- especially those of us TRIPLE vaxxed. Things are starting to feel more normal -- it's much more likely some idiot driver on the Palmetto or Turnpike will kill us on the way to the game than we die from the Plague.

So for now, the Friday Zooms continue, though in truth, I look most forward to their end. That'll mean people are all physically together again . Hopefully D2 and Jonathan's townhouse in the Grove gets completed. As nice as it's been to have us -- they of course want to move on with their lives.

After a squabble recently about an unflushed toilet, D2 shook her head and said "Yeah -- we realy gotta get out of here." She's right.

So here's to a good tailgate tonight. I have zero confidence the Canes will win, and that's ok. Maybe if they're blown out early, we'll retire to Kon Chau for some dim sum, like we did last game we all attended.

Either way -- nice to be together again -- and in person.

It's Why You Gotta Have Friends

 I know it's possible to get through life without close friends, but not for me. My brothers and sisters of other misters have been so precious to me -- sometimes in huge ways, and other in small ways. But I always appreciate it.

So D1 and Joey and the beautiful grandson dropped off the aging Spaniel Mads yesterday on their way to a vacation in Islamorada, hosted by Joey's brother Bob. We got pictures of the baby toddling around the golf course and having a great time -- also in a sand hole he stayed in for over an hour. He's a thoughtful little man.

And then this am, as I was walking, D1 texted -- they were on their way to Fisherman's Hospital. The little guy tripped over a toy and came down hard on his little foot, and couldn't bear weight.

D1 was kind enough to text me information in dribs and drabs -- his ankle "looked funny," and she was getting an appointment with Steve Stricker, a Peds Ortho who followed the Ds for scoliosis and is well known to Dr. Barry. Why? Where was the injury? Was there a fracture?

Joey was in with the little guy -- Covid rules - and D1 called her friend Hannah who said that someone without Peds expertise couldn't be trusted. I just wanted to know the answer to the F word -- fracture -- since that would determine if this was an annoyance or something more serious.

D1 said they had taken the X ray, and were awaiting its reading. But wait! Fisherman's is part of Baptist -- and Kenny is a Peds radiologist there. I hated to bother him, but maybe he could have a look.

So I texted him: "Working today?" The response was immediate: "No fracture." Sure enough -- he was the expert tasked with reading the film of our precious little man.

I realize it was part of Kenny's job, but I still got teary eyed. He has impeccable training -- a fellowship from CHOP, which Barry says is the best children's hospital in America, even though Boston thinks they are. So we knew if we heard "No fracture" it meant "no fracture!"

Ah. So I was relieved, and once again thankful.

Miami New Times published a list this week of Miami's richest billionaires. I posted it and joked that my friends and I are schleppers -- none of us remotely approach the B word.

But of course the truth is, we are the richest guys in town. We all know we're there for each other in a moment.

Kenny's wife Joelle, wise like him, said it best during a dinner where her wonderful sons and she and Kenny kept my mind off Wifey's stroke recovery -- last January. "Everyone needs a friend they can go to and ask for $10K in an emergency and get it -- no questions asked." They know they have that in me.

Hell -- I wouldn't just hide them if they needed to kill someone -- I'd help dispose of the body.

So the little man is walking, with the aid of ibuprofen. This too, shall pass.

Wifey asked on the family text how D1 was doing. She said fine. Grandpa Dave could use a few shots of vodka now -- 6 pm is not too far away.

Years ago Greg Allman sang that with the help of G-d and two friends, he could do most anything. I'm blessed to have more than two. 

And today one of that inner circle brought us all quick comfort.

Back Taxes To The Czar

 Ah -- this DNA testing. It's causing all kinds of mischief -- like people finding out their papa not their papa but their papa don't know, as the great Reggae song goes.

Locally, the funniest tale has been our friend Loni, who found out after a lifetime of Catholic school, marrying in St. Louis, and having both her kids Baptized (I was the equivalent of the shabbos guy -- I helped hold them over the Holy Water)  that she is halachically Jewish. 

Yep -- her mother, child of Polish Jewish WW II refugees, just never mentioned it to anyone, ever. Much hilarity resulted, especially since their boy Chris is marrying a very NON crypto Jewish young woman next year.

Our friend Lili, herself a Cubana who converted to the Tribe, as usual was prescient. "Did anyone ever actually LOOK at Loni's mom? She looks like every JCC Mom who ever picked up a kid at camp there." Lili, who has keen gaydar, also has keen Jewdar.

Yesterday Wifey texted me about a fellow named, I think, Waxenbaum. He is one of her Film Noir FaceBook followers. Wifey has amassed an audience of several thousand who follow her daily posts about her favorite movie genre. Of course, I would love to monetize this new found hobby -- but that doesn't seem to be in the cards.

Still, this fellow reached out and said he thought he was related to us somehow -- I think someone else in the family did one of those 23 and Me things, and this fellow matched. Wifey asked what I wanted to do.

I replied that I barely keep in touch with the cousins I DO know about now -- why in the world would I seek out more? My cousin Barry calls somewhat often for legal advice, and I comply. Years ago he sent my firm a nice case, and so I like to thank him in kind.

The other cousins I have on FaceBook are nice enough, but our lives just seem to have gone in myriad, different ways.

Still, I looked this fellow up, and saw he was an engineer at Sandia Labs, a place in New Mexico I visited and found fascinating -- even though they wouldn't let me into the secret room where they keep the crashed alien.

So I connected with him on Linked In, and said I heard we might be related -- does HE owe the Russian Czar back taxes like I do, for my grandparents skipping out on bills from the turn of the prior century? We'll see if he gets the joke.

But it's true -- I have enough going on with my inner circle. In the past I enjoyed expanding the circle. These days wisdom requires I contract it.

I suspect even funnier tales will emerge with this home DNA testing stuff. All I know is, I was disappointed when mine came back with zero Masai warrior. The Masai don't owe Russian Czars anything.

A Lovely Friday Night

 Well, in a nod to the continuing, hopefully for not much longer, plague, I attended Eric and Dana's Zoom shabbat, and then hosted a truncated version of my own 7 pm virtual cocktail party. But happily, my Zoom was just a pre-game, for a normal night.

Barry and Donna were on at 7, and Josh was in the car with his grandmother, and we chatted as Barry and I toasted. And then at 7:30, we signed off, and Wifey drove D2 and me to our long time,go-to celebratory restaurant, Christy's.

Jonathan was already there, following a nearby happy hour with some work friends, and we rolled inside for the first time since the Plague. It was lovely -- they renovated, a bit, but the same affable staff was there, serving old style, simple great food -- potato skins, Caesar salad, steaks and fish.

D1 and Joey joined the table, and we realized it was the first time the "Full Squad," as Joey has named the 3 couples, were together since our weekend in Key Largo -- back in August. 

It was delightful -- catching up on the young-uns jobs, and my sons in law's families.

We even managed to talk a bit about the beautiful grandson and his upcoming SECOND ! birthday in December.

We reminisced about other times at Christy's. One year Wifey and I hosted Thanksgiving there -- it was lovely.

We celebrated D2's high school graduation there, back before they had a bar, in 2010.  How was that 11 years ago?

Wifey and I shared a steak, and lobster bisque -- old style stuff. Which is my style.

But more significantly, each of us felt so lucky and blessed to be together. Somehow the Big Man decided that this Queens born guy would meet a Haifa born girl, and we would be gifted with 2 amazing girls born in the 305. They'd go on to meet wonderful men born in Bogota and Caracas, and form the aforementioned Full Squad.

Our martini glasses runneth over.

D1 drove home, and Wifey drove D2, Jonathan, and me back home. Today our Pinecrest roomies are headed to Aventura to celebrate Jonathan's Dad's 72nd birthday. Joey's father turns 61 this week. We three suegros are indeed lucky men -- cool rocking grandpas in the USA.

1979

 So my friend Eric, actually the older brother of my friend Mark from LI, is a very active FaceBook 9tm) poster. He's an Architecture Professor at Farmingdale College, mostly retired, and living in the Levittown house his parents owned. He has the downstairs; his sister Laura and her husband and slow to launch daughter have the upstairs.

This am, Eric posted one of a series of "What Happened In..." and the year was 1979. That was a turning point year for me, as I turned 18, graduated high school, and moved to Miami, the tropical place I still call home. Turns out a lot of world stuff also happened in '79 -- the Iran Hostage Crisis, gas shortages, crazy inflation, and the zenith and decline of Disco music.

Also, the CD rom was invented, and the Sony Walkman came out, presaging an era of most of us focused on our own electronic worlds than the one around us. Also, disparate cultural icons died in 1979: Sid Vicious and John Wayne. Wayne's movies, some of them, were better.

Since Eric is still on LI, his posts bring me back to that place, and maybe my most precious memory of that year was in March. Earlier, I needed a warmer winter coat than the one I had, and a few of the kids with a bit of money were buying down parkas. My Dad took me to Sears, when they had them on sale, and I picked one out -- I seem to remember it cost about $75 -- not a small amount then. They also had one in his size, and I said we ought to get matching ones, but in classic Dad style, he picked out another one in the same color but with polyester filling -- half the price.

That was my Dad. His kids got the best -- for him -- ok was fine. But we left the store with warm coats, and a few weeks later, on a Sunday, a day bloomed that was bitter cold but with brilliant sunshine. Dad suggested maybe we go take a walk on the Jones Beach Boardwalk, and get lunch afterwards in the restaurant, which was there before Trump messed things up and they took it away.

So we drove down and parked in the lot near the iconic water tower, and we walked. And walked. And walked. We talked about coming days, and how proud he was that I was going to college -- something never in the cards for him as he worked 3 jobs after WW II to support my Mom and sisters. He always was more impressed by education than money -- and his son was going to be the first in the family to get a 4 year college degree.

We talked about women, and he gave me his sage advice: marry someone pleasant. My Mom Sunny surely was, and he loved her greatly. He knew so many shrill people -- and those were to be avoided as marriage material. He gave no advice about background, or religion -- just marry pleasant.

We ended up back at the restaurant, and had sandwiches and hot chocolate. I felt like I was a man with the greatest man in my life. We walked to the car, with a setting sun and even colder temperatures, and as we waited for the heater to kick in, he said "Well, in a few months we won't be worried about freezing anymore." He looked forward to South Florida.

Just over three years later, he'd die in my arms in a barber shop. A year after that, I would meet Wifey, who was to become my life partner and give me the greatest gifts of all: my Ds. And she's eccentric, and we're, like most couples, sometimes at odds, especially after decades together. But she is indeed pleasant, and when we spend our easy times together, I know Dad would have approved.

Dad was about to turn 60 on the day of that lovely memory -- my age now. Some of my friends like to say that our generation, and all Boomers, are somehow much younger old people than our parents were. Wifey has friends who point out that their mothers had "old lady hairstyles and clothes."

I don't know. This am I have my semi annual checkup with Dr. Puig -- my urologist -- because of an enlarged prostate gland -- classic old man condition.

Just the other day I noted to Wifey that despite walking at least 7000 steps per day, and working with a trainer twice per week, stuff STILL hurts. My joints -- vague headaches that seem to come from neck pain. When I drop something, I debate whether it's really worth it to pick it up.

So much for being a much younger 60 year old than Dad was. But I sure hope I get more than the 63 years the Big Man allotted to him.

1979 was an important year. All of them are.

Another Milestone

 So Wifey was in the highest of spirits, as her BFF of all time Edna jetted into town to celebrate a milestone birthday. I'm not allowed to ever mention the age of Wifey or her friends, even when reaching that age qualifies them for Medicare, so I won't.

But Edna and Marc checked into the W on Miami Beach, and we headed over on Friday. They had a gorgeous suite overlooking the pool and ocean -- at a nightly cost that was far more than the monthly mortgage payments of our first two houses. But the two girls who met in Canarsie, as true children of working class Jews, were most grateful to acknowledge how far they had come.

We drank, and talked, and I FaceTimed some friends so they could share in the birthday greetings -- something Wifey got annoyed with, but it turned out fine. Part of a successful long term marriage is constant annoyance, it turns out -- and after drinks we headed to the lobby to the restaurant creatively named "The Restuarant At The W."

Saturday we had plans for a sail, but threatening weather put the kibbosh on that, and so Wifey hastily arranged a small surprise for Edna -- having their fellow Canarsie met friend Jeannette and Miami friends David and Maureen head over for some sandwiches and wine. I stayed home and had a blissful Saturday -- watching many college football games, where none included the Canes losing, as they had a bye week.

Sunday it was back to the beach. Wifey couldn't find Edna and Marc at the hotel, so as she went on her search, I headed to the bar, called the Living Room. I had one martini -- $26, but, as the tattooed bartender cheerfully said "that includes a service charge."

Wifey and Edna met me, and I tried to make a joke to the bartender about how she signals men at the bar when she senses the women who sit with them appear to bring great danger, but the joke went over like a lead balloon. Oh well.

We headed later to South Pointe, and Smith and Wollensky. It was a magical night, with a bright orange sunset over the City, and cruise ships slicing by through Government Cut, including the Scarlet Lady from Virgin. We feasted, and toasted, and I think Edna appreciated a proper celebration of her birthday.

D2 and Jonathan had hosted a get together, and D2 texted asking our whereabouts -- 10:30 p.m. on a school night. I told her it was the Beach traffic, which it was. Driving there includes dodging tipsy tourists from Atlanta and Detroit. I helped Wifey navigate the drive.

More big meals await. D1 and Joey noted they hadn't seen D2 and Jonathan since August, and so we have plans to meet Friday at Christy's in the Gables. I may pre game with my Zoom crowd before we leave.

And Saturday, our old sister of another mister Allison has invited Wifey, Patricia, Paul, and me to see her house in Cooper City. The plan is for cocktails there, and then an Uber over to the Hard Rock compound not too far away, and a restaurant called Council Oaks -- the steakhouse there.

The Canes are playing away Saturday, and we ought to be able to catch the end of the game from Allison's house -- but Paul and I fully expect them to lose. Such is their disappointing season.

But it's ok. The Plague seems on the decline, at least here, and little by little life seems to be coming back to normal. 

And for Edna, she made it to a wonderful place in life, and we were happy to be along for the ride.

The Sound And The Fury Signifying Nothing

 Years ago, after a pair of cases lasting years that caused great stress and strain in my firm, I knew I was on the path to semi retirement.  I was fortunate to be able to do it, thanks to a simple combination of planning and luck, and three essential tools many in my cohort lacked: staying married, living below my means, and sending my Ds to public school from K- grad school.

Despite that hope, the past years have been a repeat of Pacino in III: just when I thought I was out -- they pulled me right back in! And it's been fine -- more shekels in the investment account to leave someday to the kids and grandson are nice, as is the ability to give charity.

But I always refuse to not allow the career to eat my kishkes out, as the Latin saying goes. Until recently.

A former client referred what seemed to be a huge case: a young father of 6 struck and killed by a truck driven by a construction company executive --with tens of millions of insurance coverage. The first thing we must assess when given a case is pocket size of the defendant -- for the first thing they teach you in plantiff's lawyer school is you can't get blood from a stone. Next is damages -- the "so what" part of any accident. Finally, and easiest for us to deal with, is fault -- proving the rich evil doer was responsible. As my old boss Ed taught -- when your client drives his car into a tree -- sometimes you gotta sue the tree.

Well, this case seemed to have the trifecta we need, and we had our dear friend undertake the lead counsel role, but he got bogged down. From January through early Fall, he seemed to have difficulty getting things going. There were international barriers -- the decedent was from another country -- but still, the delay was not acceptable.

So my partner and I sat down with our man and had a serious talk -- maybe it was time we started referring the complicated cases to a smart, aggressive young lawyer who is a sort of protege of mine. We agreed, but the ensuing discussions about who would do what, and a fair sharing of work and fees took hours and hours, because like many things in life, the surface issue was truly only the visible part of the true issue, and we all had to confront  matters like aging, lack of mental acuity going forward, and good old laziness versus actually working hard.

Well -- we finally, after much tensosity and aforementioned kishkes issues, worked things out -- and our young Turk was ready to roll. I made two trips to the office to get all the new papers signed, and it seemed we were off to the races. Then last night I got the call.

During the months delay, our man never retrieved the traffic homicide report -- and it contained a troublesome fact: our client's decedent was nearly THREE TIMES OVER THE LEGAL LIMIT when he was out on the road and killed. Yes -- a bit of a hindrance to the prosecution of what seemed like a can of corn case.

I hung up the phone and shook my head and had a little self critical laugh. It just proves the absurdity of what we do professionally sometimes. I summoned my best Silvio Dante and said to myself "F-ing clients! They mess up the case!"

But the revelation was bigger -- unless I am ready to truly dive back into the profession fully -- so much of what I do is Macbethian: lots of noise, but like the tale told by an Idiot. And that idiot is me.