Small Town of a Big City

 The catastrophe in Surfside is still very much among our family. Still no word on Jonathan's cousin, although with the passing days the terrible outcome seems a near certainty.

Last night, my friend Joel texted -- his high school friend Michael Altman was missing, too. They attended Palmetto High together -- my Ds' alma mater. Joel said he was a great guy.

As if on an awful cue, Rabbi Yossi called, to catch up and get some of my humor. He's a Miami Dade Police and Fire Rescue chaplain, and has been on scene since early Thursday morning. I told him about Joel's friend -- Yossi knows Joel, a Catholic who loves hanging with us when we talk Torah. Yossi reported that indeed they had removed Joel's friend from the wreckage just hours earlier. I texted Joel, and he had received the same terrible information from Michael's sister.

Oy, as Yossi said. This has been such a long and painful slog, where the awful relief comes in the form of knowing your loved one is now resting. I guess it was similar, but on an awfully larger scale, during 9/11 in NYC.

Our longtime friend Diane came over Saturday night. We hadn't seen her all year -- she's been having some tough issues with her grown kids. She brought apps and a bottle of champagne, and we brought in food from our Middle Eastern place, Shaddai. It was lovely to catch up, though sadly a lot of the catching up was the sharing of bad news.

She didn't know about the sudden, shocking death of our friend Elizabeth. At D2 and Jonathan's wedding, they had shared a wonderful time together -- ending up in another friend's room, and sharing a bit of the herb neither woman had smoked in decades. Diane recalled how vivacious and young Elizabeth was, and couldn't process that she had died in her sleep. We still can't process it either.

Again, oy! What a couple of years it's been -- a classic "Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse..." type of thing.

The plague is of course the over-arching misery, but thankfully on the retreat. Wifey had a terrible health crises and ensuing 6 months of rehab. I was pressed into service as her butler and chauffer. Then our friend Elizabeth. Now this catastrophe in Surfside, and its effect on our son in law's family.

And then there's our bright ray of sunshine: the chubby grandson. He got his second haircut over the weekend, and is absurdly adorable. D1 sent a video of him eating a mango -- with comical focus and enjoyment. He truly lights all of our lives.

The Ds say I'm a modern Tevye, except I don't get to sing "IF I were a rich man." But they love watching me ponder the nature of existence, and the nature of the Big Man.

So I guess all I can humbly do is ask said Big Man if maybe there hasn't been enough misery and tragedy for awhile? Maybe hold off on the mass casualty events for a bit -- and the health crises?

All I know is, I feel for those with losses in Surfside. You go to sleep with a loved one sleeping peacefully in an oceanfront condo, and wake to learn they're somewhere in a pile of mangled concrete and steel -- hoping maybe they're in a pocket of air, and alive. And over days, your hopes dim. Talk about torture on earth.

May the Big Man bring peace to the families. And may I learn of no more direct connections to the tragedy.

Though given the nature of our small town/big city, I have little doubt I'll learn of more of these links to the affected as time goes by.

Normalcy Under A Cloud

 So little by little we're emerging from the plague, a time of rebirth and happiness, but we're now still under the cloud of the tragedy in Surfside. Today marks day 3 since the rescue began, and it seems less and less likely that there will be any more survivors.

They identified the first 4 victims, and I saw they all lived on the top floors of the building. It terribly stands to reason that those on lower floors have even less chance. It's a gruesome period of waiting -- particularly for our Jonathan's family, who has a cousin still missing -- a delightful young man, just graduated from UF and about to begin his adult life.

The papers have started showing profiles of the missing -- and they're the classic Miami mix: Americans, those from India, and lots of, of course, Latin Americans and those from South America. It's a heavily Jewish neighborhood, but plenty of the victims were typical Miami Catholics and Christians, too -- prayer groups are around of many denominations -- all asking the Big Man for a miracle.

Still -- life goes on -- and last night I was, as usual, easily suggestible. I had read a review of a place on Coral Way, The Mighty, and it had all the markings of a place I liked: good, simple food, and cool drinks, along with a big selection of beers. I don't drink much beer, but enjoy going to a place that sells it.

Anyway -- I put the text out to Norman and Jeff -- would they and their lovely wives care to go? Norman and Deb were sick, and so begged off, but Jeff and Lili were in. So we fetched them and drove over to the Roads -- the area West of Brickell where Wifey's family first settled when they emigrated from Israel and came to Miami.

It used to be mostly Jewish -- the pioneering Beth David was the center -- and over the years the older Jews sold to mostly Cuban families. Now, the older Cubans are selling to mostly gringos again -- the Ds each have friends who have bought older homes and are fixing them up.

And Coral Way has strips just filled with cool bars, restaurants, galleries, and stores. And the Mighty is one of them -- a gastropub, as the description goes. 

Sure enough -- I loved the place. And, Wifey actually ordered cocktails -- two craft jobs with vodka and fruit juice and, I think, activated charcoal. Lili and I had fine burgers -- Jeff and Wifey mahi mahi sandwiches. 

The server was a cheerful young woman -- a rising junior at UM -- from Chicago -- where Jeff's family is from. And Jeff noted the place was Chicago-like -- just a homey local pub.

Wifey was tipsy -- tried to get in the back of the SUV and not understanding why Lili wasn't moving over -- I pointed out she had her own seat in the front. We laughed.

It was a wonderfully normal Saturday night for 4 Boomers.

We got home and I did a dumb thing -- put on the news. Sure enough -- the slog of misery was there -- just the identity of the first 4 victims. Oh boy.

Today we have our homeowner's executive committee meeting -- Wifey is security chair and I am welcoming chair. I need to get the pres and secretary to get me new HOA directories to properly welcome the several new residents who have moved in -- younger families replacing the older ones moving up to North Carolina and Washington State.

At 3:30 we have a Zoom memorial service -- Dana's remarkable grandmother, Trude, who everyone calls Gaga, died at 104. Wow. 104. Tough to even consider living that long -- though my suegra seems to be cruising into 97.

So I'll just savor the good times -- together with people again without masks. But my thoughts about the victims of the collapse will never be far away.

Tragedy By The Sea

 So yesterday am there was news of a terrible event in Surfside, just north of Miami Beach: part of a condo building had collapsed. At first, there was a report of a single death, but as soon as the news photos appeared, it was clear it would be much, much worse.

D2 called -- on her way over to work her for the day. She was with Jonathan, and their family needed a referral for an immigration lawyer. Why? Turns out one of Jonathan's cousins was missing -- had been in the doomed building -- and his parents needed an emergency visa to get here from Venezuela. I called Paul , remembering he had recently reunited with an old friend from law school, and made the connection. Apparently the gears have started to get these, I'm sure, mortified parents here.

As the day wore on, the news got worse. The number of missing now stands at 159, and hope is fading that there'll be more survivors. The news is, of course, international. Buildings in America don't fall down in the absence of terrorist acts.

We had plans to meet Dr. Barry, Donna, and Josh at D1 and Joey's house -- so they could see the beautiful grandson. Afterwards we planned to visit the Palm. We nixed the Palm -- kind of close to the building collapse, and instead made reservations at a local Italian place, Sottosale.

D1 was running late at a work meeting. Joey poured me a Tito's. Barry and Josh arrived. They had a few, too. I kept drinking -- the dark thoughts of Jonathan's family haunted me. I needed an escape.

We had a delightful time. I could tell Donna was reliving the days of having large, adorable toddler sons. They're still large and adorable, but now 23 and 24. When the Little Man went up for his bath and sleep, we left for the restaurant.

The food was delicious. We so enjoyed each other's company. I had slipped the host my credit card when we arrived -- to pay the check. Young Josh saw this and out maneuvered me. When it was time to leave, the waiter handed me back my credit card -- Josh had commandeered the check to pay -- with his Dad's card! Barry laughed uproariously . It was delightful.

This am I spoke with D2. Like me, Jonathan was at dinner and had a few -- several. He was very emotional because of the thought of this terrible loss. His cousin just graduated from UF. He was staying with other cousins -- around his age. All three young men are missing.

A doctor friend of D1's, Brad Cohen, a beloved ortho surgeon at Mt. Sinai, is also missing.

This am I spoke to Jeff. He knows of several relatives or friends of friends who are also missing. 

Miami is, I have found, the biggest city small town there is. I rarely go beyond 2 degrees of separation with anyone who has been here more than 10 years.

And Surfside, largely Jewish and South American, is a true crossroads. The Herald reported that among the missing were relatives of the leaders of Paraguay and some high level Argentine minister. Just awful.

So my prayers to the Big Man today have been for a true miracle -- the alive recovery of many of the missing. May it come to pass.

But it just shows what I know so well. Life is so fragile. We like to think we have control, but we don't. What is safer than going to sleep in your bed at night, to our psyches? No one could believe ending up under a huge pile of rubble.

I spoke to my friend Rabbi Yossi. He's a Miami Dade Police and Fire Department chaplain. He was at the scene all day. He called on his way home -- I asked him to include Jonathan's cousin in his prayers, too. 

And all we can do is savor each day. Each moment. We never know which moment is our last -- which hug of our loved ones the final one.

Sometimes tragedy strikes even in the most beautiful place -- next to the gorgeous sea.

Triggered Sinatra Chicago Memory

So we spent a quiet FD -- FaceTimes from the Ds and the grandson and enormous puppy. And in the evening, after Wifey fetched me some sushi, she found an old documentary about Sinatra in Palm Springs. She knows my wheelhouse -- I love the Chairman of the Board.

A lot of the content was about his favorite bars and restaurants, and the surviving hosts of the places. It was also about how Frank would read the morning paper, learn of some sad tale, and have his lawyer in Beverly Hills send money to the aggrieved, anonymously. The local press knew whenever there was an "anonymous donor" who paid a medical bill, or rebuilt a food server's house, likely it was Frank.

He also paid to construct a synagogue and Catholic church. He treated his Black valet like family -- one of the interviewees was the valet's now grown son, and how he had free run of the Sinatra compound. Yes -- he was the man.

Anyway -- it triggered a nice memory I have -- of two April trips to Chicago several years back. Coincidentally, I was there the day the Cubs opened the season, and so all the restaurants and bars were packed -- even though the first trip, the game was snowed out!

I typically visited Gene and Georghettis, but had some mediocre food when a bunch of us were there for a Canes-Notre Dame game, and so decided to try Gibson's -- which was walking distance to my hotel, The Drake.

I waited for my table, and ordered my usual martini. The bartender was a very tall fellow named Mark -- with a classic "Da Bears" Chicago accent. He asked "You want I should make your drink as cold as my ex-wife's heart?" I had made a new friend.

We chatted a bit -- he had been to Miami many times, and asked about the state of his favorite places, like Joe's, and Tobacco Road. We talked sports -- he actually liked the Marlins for beating the Cubs after the way the fans treated the poor schlemiel Steve Bartman.

My name was called, and I left for my table -- tipping Mark very well, of course, and gave him my cliched Arnold "I'll be baaaack!"

Sure enough, the next year, I was. And Mark was at the bar, and remembered me: "Hey -- Miami dude!" I was impressed.

We caught up, about our grown kids, and his soulless ex-wife, and then I heard my name called for my table. I got up to leave, and he said "You have a little time tonight?" Indeed I did. He told me to wait, have another drink, and he went to talk to the hostess. Twist my arm!

Then my name was called again, and I was led to a small alcove table, under a picture of...Frank. Turns out, as Mark told the tale, Gibson's was near failure in the early 90s, and a visit from Frank and his entourage saved the place. It's been packed since. But then Mark told the great tale. He was a busboy at the time, and saw the whole thing.

The owner instructed his top waiter to greet each of the entourage by name, and ask for their drink orders as soon as they sat down at that alcove table. The scared waiter said, and Mark remembered the entourage was an Irish guy, Italian guy, and Jewish guy -- like a classic joke: Mr. Ginsberg, what can I get you? Mr. O'Brien? Mr. Giammatti? Frank?" There was silence at the table.

The Chairman said "Frank? Frank? Have we met before???" He pulled the server close, by the lapels, and said "Jack on the rocks -- the glass never fucking gets empty." And the chastened waiter of course complied.

The crew laughed -- I guess when Frank made it clear it was ok to do so. And they loved their meal -- so much that Frank came back several times, before he died in '98, at 82.

And I got to hear the tale from an actual eyewitness. 

Needless to say, Gibson's is now THIS devotee's Chicago steakhouse of choice. I hope I get back there sooner than later, and Mark is still behind the bar. I'll toast him, of course, as well as the Chairman of the Board. 

Might As Well Go Full On Mule

 Ah -- Father's Day. The celebration of the mule -- plodding ahead, carrying the burden, and hopefully doing it with a dash of dignity. FD is a po relation to MD -- no drama ever resulted from someone forgetting FD -- and that's ok.

Yesterday I had a terrific one. D1 came early with the beautiful toddler, and aging Spaniel. Wifey had ordered the food from Joanna's, and as she left to go fetch it, D1 and I reminded Wifey she needed to truly focus on her driving, and as she left she asked D1 about a pair of shoes. Much laughter resulted.

D2 and Jonathan and the enormous puppy came, and we ate in the dining room. It was time for a toddler nap, and so I volunteered, and took the little man around the 'hood. He was PTFO in about 10 minutes -- and it was hot and yoooomid, as Wifey says. I stopped for awhile, and sure enough he woke up, so I gave him some agua and resumed the walking. He passed out again.

Joey was finished with golf, and was going to drive down, but I knew that would impair his ability to drink with me, and so I ordered (with D1's tech help), an Uber. He got dropped off in time for a bit more of the nap walk -- and then we all went inside and I poured some cocktails. Jonathan was working, and had to wait.

Eventually, we were all imbibing -- even D2 had some sparkling wine - and I asked everyone to go around and give a brief presentation "What Father's Day means to me." We laughed, but also shared some heartfelt words, and the little man was having a blast getting licked by various dogs and exploring Villa Wifey -- followed by one of his adoring relatives. He is truly absurdly adorable.

The young-uns left -- D2 and Jonathan for a dinner with friends, and the young parents to let their little man have a bath and then to sleep -- and Wifey and I watched some TV and called it a night.

This am, actual FD, I thought there might be breakfast in bed. So I waited a bit. Nothing. Then I got up and walked 4 miles, and came home, and got lovely FaceTime calls from both Ds -- headed to their suegros for a barbecue and lunch at a place in Aventura called Perl's. Still no breakfast.

Then, I figured -- I must have had it confused. Since FD is the celebration of the mule, what is more mule-like than FIXING breakfast in bed for the mule driver. And so I did -- making a mushroom and egg scramble, coffee just the way she likes it, and a perfectly toasted bagel -- and I brought it to Wifey who was just getting up at 11.

When you're a mule -- might as well go full on mule.

But on a happier note, I was reminded of the great line by Chris Rock: they don't give out grades for being a daddy, but if your daughter dances the pole -- you get an F. And so, as on each FD -- feels good to get a passing grade.

Everything's Quiet on Almost Father's Day

 Ah -- FD, the po relation of Mother's Day. But still, it's nice we, the members of the critical mule pack, get recognition with a holiday.

My beloved father used to love to sing the ditty "Every day is Mother's Day for me," from an old song, whenever my Mom would say how lucky she was. And I feel the same way about FD.

My approach to this Daddy thing has been to, first of all, try to emulate as much as I can the way my own beloved Dad was to his kids. He truly lived for us -- returning from WW II and working 3 jobs to provide for my Mom and two sisters. Later, when I came along, money was fortunately less of an issue, and he got to spend a lot of time with me and my sisters and his grandkids.

I was the luckiest. My sisters became grown ass women, and I was finishing high school, and Mom prevailed upon Dad to retire and move to South Florida. Dad then prevailed upon me to follow them to the 305 (back then even Palm Beach County was the 305) and I did, and it turned out to be a wonderful move -- I fell in love first with a university and the city in which it was and made a set of brothers and sisters who have been the base rock of my life. Oh yeah -- it also allowed me to meet the woman who would become my wife, and give me the two most precious gifts I was ever given: my Ds.

I love two sayings about fatherhood. The first is from Sidney Poitier, who, it so happens, was born in Miami: The measure of a man is how he takes care of his children." The second comes from Don Vito Corleone, the fictional Godfather: "A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man." I've lived them both, as well as I can, and being a father, and now grandfather, defines me as a human.

We're celebrating FD today, one day early. D1 is coming with the beautiful boy, and elderly Spaniel. He will toddle through the house, talking like Pebbles Flintstone, as his mother used to. A bit later on D2 is due over with her enormous puppy. 

Wifey, back driving again after the wonderful recovery, will go fetch some food from Joanna's.

I thought my sons in law were going to be busy -- Joey playing golf, and Jonathan working, but they're coming in the afternoon for a celebratory FD cocktail. I think tomorrow they'll get to spend time with their own wonderful Dads.

I'm constantly reminded the need to savor each day. Our dear friend Elizabeth, the picture of health, died in her sleep several weeks ago. Wifey still grieves. Earlier this week I learned the best college friend of a dear friend of mine was diagnosed with brain cancer. He's getting aggressive treatment, and is up beat, but based on every one of those journeys I know, barring a true medical miracle, he won't be walking among us more than 2 years from now.

Just like that! In a New York minute, as Don Henley sang, everything can change.

So today, I will hug my Ds and the beautiful boy close, and tell them how much I love them, and how gratified I am that my life has been focused on them, and seeing my beautiful baby girls grow into beautiful and amazing young women.

Yes, I am one, to borrow from the Boss, very, very blessed rockin' Daddy in the USA.

A Whole New World For Lawyers

 So yesterday I headed over to the office, and decided to sit in with Stu and his young Turk Josh on a Zoom depo. It was a garden variety case -- referred by one of Paul and my lawyer friends -- so I have a rooting interest. The case involves a woman who got a pedicure at a salon with less than stellar hygiene practices, and ended up with a nasty infection. She nearly lost her foot, but it was saved, though she WAS left with nerve damage and other nastiness.

The depo was of Plaintiff's expert, an infectious disease maven from Virginia. Stu found him though a woman I'd been begging him to use for years -- a retired nurse who has a stable of very qualified experts -- she merely makes the referral and steps away. I'll call her Kim, since that's her name.

Stu, the dinosaur who is slow to change, continued to use a beast of a consultant I'll call Ellen, since that's her name. Ellen is a Linda Richman-type woman who in the 80s had a good reputation for finding good experts, but evolved into a money grubbing, nasty creep who supplied flawed consultants, and charged heavily for it.

Paul and I had a terrible experience with her in the late 90s, and I've been asking Stu, to no avail, to stop using her. He finally saw the light after losing a trial because of a turban wearing, radical doctor Ellen supplied him in a med mal case, who wouldn't even leave San Francisco (surprise) because her partner was sick. The jury picked up on this, and totally rejected the Plaintiff's argument, and the defense lawyer, who I'll call Ilisa, since that's her name, beat Stu like a red headed step child, to use one of my favorite, now probably banned phrases, and Stu realized Ellen was taking him for bad, expensive rides.

So now he had a fine expert, and the young, female defense lawyer, named Diana, was deposing him about his opinions in the case. The fellow was well spoken, smart, and very clear in his position -- Stu's client got the bad infection at the nail salon, and not while traveling on a plane, which seems to be the defense's position.

Stu is unfailingly polite to other lawyers, sometimes to a fault. He avoids nastiness. He avoids conflict wherever possible. He objected a few times to the young woman's questions, but as the depo started dragging into hours, I could tell she was getting frustrated. She was making no points with the ID doc, and it was getting to her.

So, as is the way of some less than top of the line lawyers -- she essentially started arguing with the doc. He held up very well, calmly explaining to the young lady how her hypotheticals made zero sense. "Is it your testimony that it was IMPOSSIBLE that the infection came from somewhere other than my client's salon?" "Well no ma'am, we all know nothing is IMPOSSIBLE, but it IS my testimony that in my opinion, more likely than not, she got it there." She was seething.

And so Stu, on the Zoom video record, politely pointed out that she was no longer questioning the witness, but instead trying to insult him and badger him. And then it happened.

She went from regular defense lawyer to a "Me too" victim. "You're being rude to me, and trying to intimidate me into not being able to conduct my job, and I'm about to end this deposition and ask the judge to sanction you, and blah blah blah..."

Wow. I was there. Stu did nothing of the sort. I thought back about my former boss Ed, and how he would have handled the woman -- but in the age before everything was on video tape. He would have gone off the record and truly shown the young lawyer what cutting insults there were -- probably leaving her in tears with no proof of what he had done to take her off her game.

Luckily -- the depo continued. I left before it was over -- my attention span no longer allows me to stick around for this type of silliness.

But I was really disturbed. Has it come to this? A lawyer just pulls the victim card when things aren't going her way, to scare her white male opponent into being afraid to do his job?

I guess it has. I know one thing: if I ran a defense firm, I'd have LOTS of minorities and females on my staff -- the better to scare aggressive plaintiff's lawyers off their game. Or -- I guess I could play the Jewish card, claiming "Your objection, counsel, has micro aggressive anti-semitic overtones that make me uncomfortable as a Jewish man..."

Nah. That wouldn't work.

Anyway, the case is set for trial in August. The defense has already offered some serious money. If this thing plays out like I think it will, the offer will come up quite a bit as the case nears trial, and the case will settle. The young "victim" defense lawyer will have to report back to her claims adjuster that the Plaintiff's expert was compelling -- the jury will like and believe him. The defense expert is a well known jack of all trades whose opinions truly are absurd -- I read his report. He essentially says that no one gets bad infections from nail salons. Yeah, right.

But I'm just glad I no longer do this lawyering thing full time -- especially the deposition part. I don't know that I would have the restraint anymore when encountering this new opposing counsel as victim kind of nonsense. And I am MOST glad that I kept my Ds out of the lawyering biz. It ain't what it used to be.

Slower News Days, Thankfully

 I am and for years have been a news junkie. I check local, national, and international news constantly throughout the day, and often share humorous articles with my friends, many of whom share my addiction.

Lately, there has been a LOT of news -- most of it bad. The plague, gun violence, anti-semitism. So I am relieved that, for the past few days at least, the bad news has been slower in coming.

The last awful shooting was up in Royal Palm Beach, at a Publix. It was chilling -- a grandmother with her nearly 2 year old grandson were killed by a nutcase, randomly, who then killed himself. The Publix was near my friends' kids' house -- could have been anywhere. It was awfully scary -- when a murder happens, you like to get some comfort in thinking that you could have not been the victim.

Humorously, someone from NYC texted me after the mass shooting in NW Miami several weeks back -- which occurred at a hip hop record release party. I responded that I generally avoid hip hop events without security. I was smug; no way I was going to be at a scene like that -- but a suburban Publix?

Yesterday there was a report of one shooting -- in Miami Gardens. This one wasn't seemingly gang related. A young woman killed her boyfriend in their car -- probably after telling him "If you cheat again, Ima kill you" and she did. Of course it's terrible, but somehow a woman losing it on her man seems somehow less tragic than the other way around. Maybe it's because of the "Chicago" song "He Had It Comin."

Other local news tidbits were about the spread of coyotes throughout S Fla. I can deal with that -- though Wifey does let our little special needs Spaniel wander around the front yard. I'll remind her maybe that's no longer such a great idea.

And then there was GREAT news -- for FIU. MacKenzie Scott, Jeff Bezos's wonderful ex-wife, gave FIU $40 million! She's giving away billions, and in the coolest way possible -- no buildings named after her, no restrictions, just "I know you got a worthwhile place going there -- here's huge money to help you along."

Turns out it was the second largest gift to FIU. The biggest was from Mickey Wolfson -- he gave away a ton of his historical tchockes, along with a building on Miami Beach -- but though the value was $75M, FIU has to curate and show the stuff. MacKenzie's gift was unrestricted -- just for use to hire professors and give more scholarships.

I was WAY impressed. Wealth amazes me when it's used that way. Had she bought herself jets and yachts and mansions and bling -- eh. But giving away tons of money to higher education -- and to places that open higher ed to poor kids? That's something.

My nephew of another brother Scott joked on our text thread that he was happy as long as the money didn't go to Duke. Scott's a Maryland grad, and the two schools, basketball rivals, make fun of each other. I assured Scott he needn't worry -- MacKenzie's gifts go to schools that have tons of poor kids -- ain't many of them at a place like Duke.

So even though politicians have warned us of a long, hot Summer, I'm hoping it's not the case. May the plague continue to fade away to an awful memory -- affecting only those too stupid to get jabbed.

Longtime newsman Ralph Rennick used to end his broadcasts with "And may the good news be yours." Indeed.

Michelle Gillen, RIP

 So today I read about the death, at 66, of local and one time national reporter, Michelle Gillen. It brought back a memory and cute tale about her.

It must have been the late 90s, and Paul and I and our firm were flying high. We were plowing through large cases, and settling them well. I wasn't yet 40 and Paul wasn't yet 50. We were at the height of our now greatly diminished powers. We had a credo, "Whatever it takes," and we lived that.

If there was a case we wanted, and had to compete with larger firms for it, we nearly always won -- whether it was Paul's role as alpha male lawyer, or my subtler, firm but gentle and intellectual appeal. Ah -- they were heady days.

We also had tons of fun, and this is what led to the Michelle story.

It was before Valentine's Day, and Wifey had gone back to work in the flower industry -- three days per week. She did marketing consulting for a company that had sprung from a company where she started in the industry -- as a telemarketer of cut flowers from South America. Now she did marketing plans -- and enjoyed getting out of the full time Mom role, but with enough free time to be there for the Ds, who were in grade and middle school.

Paul got a fun idea. Why didn't we buy a TON of fresh roses from Wifey's company, which was out in Doral, and have some of our "little girls" make bouquets of them and deliver them to friends and clients of the firm -- including our mothers, who both lived in Delray. Paul's friend and now mine, Lou, would be the delivery guy.

So we got into my green Jaguar XJ 6, both in our lawyer suits, and drove out to Equaflor. We bought several boxes of roses -- fresh from Ecuador, and joked around with Wifey and her co-workers, many of whom twitted about whether my very single partner might be free to go on dates. I remember wearing my wayfarers, and taking on the persona of a Blues Brother -- feigning the seriousness of our mission.

The flowers were in the trunk, and I headed back to Brickell. Right before the Palmetto, we spotted a Mercedes convertible, hood open, with a thin, tall attractive woman standing next to it. I did my best Jake Elwood: "What seems to be the problem, ma'am?

We pulled over, and learned it was Michelle Gillen, already a well known reporter. "Damn car died, and I have to be at my station to do the noon news!" Paul and I offered her a ride.

After a nervous joke or two about Ted Bundy, she got in the back, and we chatted. We told her we were NOT serial killers, but rather, as Paul said "extremely successful, powerful attorneys." Paul never said "lawyer"  - I did. We chatted, and she was very nice and smart. She was also a good reporter -- she soon learned that I was married and Paul was single. She gave HIM her card -- maybe they could meet sometime -- she lived near Aventura, as I recall.

We pulled up at the station, and she thanked us. "Wait, " I said, "we're not done here yet." I went to the trunk and took out 2 dozen of the beautiful long stemmed roses, and said "Happy Valentine's Day."

She smiled. "So let me get this straight. Two handsome, well dressed men drive around Miami  in a shiny Jaguar looking to rescue damsels in distress, which they do, and then they send us on our way with beautiful roses?"

"Yes, ma'am," I responded, now switching more to Joe Friday than Jake Ellwood. "That's exactly right."

She walked away with the roses. Paul never called her -- back then his taste was to a different demographic -- much younger than Michelle, who was about 5 years his junior.

But whenever I'd see her on TV, I'd smile.

The most chilling thing about the obit is that it said she was 66 and died "of natural causes." I guess I have to get used to that. We're still awaiting the autopsy report on our dear friend Elizabeth, who was 63. I guess it'll be "natural," too.

But I thank Michelle for the memory, and hope the Big Man watches over her soul. May she find more roses in that great TV studio in the sky...

Four Nations

 So last night I started, and early this am finished, an amazing essay on the American condition: How America Fractured Into Four Parts, by George Packer. I had read some of Packer's work before, but this essay nailed it -- we're more than divided in two -- we're cut into 4 portions.

Most of my friends and I identify with what he calls "Smart America" - professional types who believe in meritocracy, and follow science. However, we're guilty of ignoring what Packer calls "Real Americans" - the group of mostly un or undereducated whites who feel their power is ebbing, and vote seemingly against their own interest rather than cede power.

I also know many Packer calls "Just America," mostly ultra left folks who support Black Lives Matter and hate Israel. They claim "We're not anti-semitic, just anti-Zionist." Hilarious. That's like saying "I love Irish folks, but wish Dublin would be depopulated by a neutron bomb.

Members of "Just America" annoy me most -- especially when they're self hating Jews. Lots of Liberal Jews attended Black Lives Matter rallies -- even though leaders like Linda Sarsor are happily anti -Semitic, and yet, recently, at a rally against anti-Semitism on Miami Beach, there were maybe 3 Black folks. One of the speakers even admitted that many of his fellow clergy were afraid to show their faces at the event. And Israel is the problem.

Packer's a true political science genius. He says hope is not lost -- we've been fractured before, and somehow remained a nation.

But another pundit, I think it was Tom Friedman, remarked that a country with millions who oppose wearing masks to keep others from getting sick would have had zero chance winning, say, World War II.

I hope things improve. I know my politics have changed.

When I was young and naive, I was shamelessly liberal. I believed that those who committed crimes did so because of awful childhoods. I also announced I would never drive anything other than a Dodge Omni.

Probably now I'm essentially a liberal Republican. Too bad there's no such party anymore. To be a Republican, you have to embrace complete stupidity, and racism, and anti-science.

Then again, to be a Democrat, you probably have to countenance people like "The Squad," one of whom, I forget which since they all sound alike, just said the US, Israel, Taliban, and Al-queda were all essentially guilty of the same sorts of crimes against the oppressed. Oh boy.

I'm still registered in the party of my grandparents and parents. I'm probably one more anti-Israel message away from becoming a no party guy.

I guess Hemingway was right. The best we can hope to do in this dirty, absurd world is surround ourselves in an oasis of peace and sanity -- a "clean, well lighted place."

Just this am, my blood pressure rose during a discussion about Israel with a fellow Jew -- infantile, moral equivalency garbage, that somehow Israel ought to negotiate with leaders sworn to their annihilation. Lord, as D1 says.

America's birthday is less than a month away. Mine follows 2 weeks later. I hope we both last.

A Karen Encounter

So it was a lovely morning. I had breakfast with 2 fine gentlemen: Michael, my friend Norman's middle son, and Josh, Barry's youngest. Michael is in from Israel, where he operates a genealogy research company, and Josh had some time before his daily errands began. I suggested we meet at Bagel Emporium.

I left my house early, as usual, parked, sat down, and ordered coffee. Before it came, it occurred to me I was in the wrong place -- Roasters! Oy, to get old. Luckily, my typical habit of being early came in handy, and I jumped back in the car and made it to the Emporium just 5 minutes late. The young men were already there.

We had a delightful time -- talking about life, careers, politics, and our hilarious and quirky families. We are all quite excited about being able to attend Canes games again in the Fall, now that the plague is on the retreat. And Michael plans to spend more time in the US -- the better to attend our epic tailgate parties.

It's great to spend time with young people. Little of the talk is about doctors and chronic health conditions. I remember what my Dad said about socializing when he first moved to Delray in '79: "Everyone only talked about their cardiologists, urologists, and which bank paid the highest CD rates." My Dad spent less time at dinners and more home reading and watching Channel 2.

Anyway -- we finished and walked outside. Several feet away, there were 2 Gables firefighters. I noticed their big rescue truck -- it was parked next to my girlie Lexus. An overweight, blonde woman walked toward the door -- maybe around my age. She had an expression on her face that is best described in Yiddish: farbissiner. Closest English translation: sourpuss.

One of the paramedics opened the door for her. She turned and glared at him, and asked, accusingly, "And why aren't you wearing masks???!!!" He answered politely "Well, ma'am, we're outside, and following the CDC guidelines."

"No! No one really knows what the rules are, and you SHOULD wear masks." Typically, I never insert myself into brouhahas that don't involve me, but this woman looked completely physically unthreatening, and I couldn't help myself.

I said "Gentlemen -- what she MEANT to say was 'Thank you both so much for your fine service -- for risking your own lives to save all of us.'" The zaftig farbissiner turned and walked in, disgusted.

The third firefighter came out. He was an Enrique Iglesias look alike, but more fit. I thought to myself, these guys must get CRAZY p, um... thanks from ladies who aren't Karen-like. They chuckled and thanked me and got into their truck -- waving as they left.

Ah -- people. Thankfully this ended well -- no one came back to the scene with automatic weapons and carpeted us with deadly shells. That's been happening a lot, too.

I came home, and a young Wal-Mart delivery fellow was at the front gate. He had pool floats -- I didn't order them. Sure enough -- D2 did. She's planning a pool party to celebrate Jonathan's birthday, and realized we're deficient in the pool float department.

The funny thing is -- she ordered them this morning. They arrived mere hours later!

What a country we have. Entitled Karens giving grief to handsome firefighter/paramedics, and you get your Wal Mart stuff the same day -- for free delivery.

Ah -- what crazy times are these... 

Another Stupid Shooting

 So last week there was a shooting in NW Miami Dade -- a beef involving hip hop lyrics caused some knuckleheads to open fire on a party, killing 3. It was the height of idiocy.

This am, it happened closer to home -- College Park shopping center in Kendall. A graduation party at, apparently, a hookah lounge was winding down at 2 am, and another shooting took place. This time one person, a female corrections officer, was killed, and two people, both shot,crashed into a wall at Miami Dade College across Killian Drive, and were killed. It's not clear yet whether the two in the car were the shooters or not -- they did find a gun in the car.

College Park was a big part of our kids' lives. They took dance lessons at a studio there. College Park Inn was a go-to pizza place. Hungry Bear had the best subs in town. And most importantly, our rabbi friend Yossi had his first shul there -- we attended many events at his store front congregation before he moved to permanent headquarters up the road.

I can understand armed robbery -- even wars over drug turf. Money is involved. I even understand mass shootings done by raving lunatics -- like the Vegas shooting, or Parkland.

But these latest are literally about hip hop lyrics. A rapper disses someone in a song, and the dissed gets a few friends and shows up to rake a crowd with automatic gunfire. Really?

Compounding finding solutions, is, unfortunately, the whole Black Lives Matter movement. They focus on bad cops, and tell we whites we ought to all be sickened by them. I am. Bad cops have to go. But it seems to me more Blacks are killed in a single weekend by Black on Black crime than die in several years at the hands of bad cops.

If I had kids and was Black, they simply wouldn't be allowed to go to gatherings anymore if there was a chance that someone in attendance might be connected to some social media hip hop slight.

It's just terrible. Miami Dade has a well meaning, very liberal mayor. She wants to spend millions on youth job programs to hopefully keep the would be shooters on the straight and narrow. Meanwhile, Kionne McGhee, a Commissioner from a poor Black community, said -- hey --- screw that. Give more funding to police -- get them license plate readers. He's all in favor of anti-poverty programs, but right now wants anti-crime programs. I plan to support Mr. McGhee. He seems to get it.

All I know is, I joked that with the plague in great retreat, it's time to get about the business of dying of something else. I just hope it's not being an innocent bystander when these knuckleheads start shooting.

Ah, as the Wicked Witch said, what a world, what a world...

Remembrance Of Things Past

 So I joined a FaceBook (tm) group called, I think, because I can't exactly remember, "Remembering South Florida." It's a page where old people, typically Boomers or Gen X types, post pictures of long closed restaurants and attractions and everyone posts nostalgia tinged comments about how "Thurmans had the greasiest but best burgers," etc...

Since I've lived here nearly 42 years now, I know and recognize most of the places, and enjoy going down memory lane. Today someone posted about a notorious establishment from the mid 80s, and it brought back a funny recollection.

I had my first lawyer job working for an anti-Semite I'll call Dan Schwartz, since that was his name. That job alone was hilarious in that I assumed he was Jewish, being born in Miami with that name and being a double Cane, and he assumed I was NOT Jewish, but "German like me."

We learned our true identities when he sent me to meet a claims rep in NY named Stu Meyers, and advised "Count your fingers after you shake his hand -- he's your typical NY Jew." I answered, "Oh -- like me." He was shocked. "You're Jewish? Your name is German. I don't think I'd have hired you if I knew." And then he chuckled. I chuckled, too -- I needed the job, as I already owned a house with a mortgage, and I'd just grimace when he made his other Jewish jokes. He hosted a Christmas party at his club, La Gorce, and told me as we walked in: "Remember -- place was long restricted. Don't bring up any Jew stuff."

Anyway, his secretary Marcy WAS Jewish. Very -- from Boston. Years later, when Mike Myers played his character Linda Richman, I was certain it was based on Marcy: big, brassy, bejeweled, smoked, and had a little white dog. I used to ask how she worked so long for an anti-semite. She'd shrug and say as long as her paycheck went through.

Marcy ran the place, and when she told this first year lawyer to do something, I did it. And that led to the tale.

I was covering a hearing in the Broward Courthouse, and after it was over, called the office from the pay phone. This was 1986 or 1987. Marcy said "Whatever you do, do NOT return to the office without donuts!"

And so I left, and figured if I drove south on US 1, I'd find a donut place, and then get on the highway for the drive back Downtown. Sure enough, a few blocks south of Broward Boulevard, I saw a sign in a strip center: R Donuts. I parked and went inside.

Even though I wasn't the top of my class law graduate, I knew immediately this was no Dunkin. It had freaking TOPLESS WAITRESSES!. I felt as if I had wandered onto a Cheech and Chong movie set. There were racks of donuts, and, well, a lot of tits.

I sat at the counter, and a 40 something lady came up to me -- wearing a cowboy hat and pendulous breasts. "What can I get you, sweetie?" I said "I need a dozen to go." She burst out laughing. NO ONE got donuts to go. The entire raison de' etre of the place was to enjoy the view while you ate your donuts!

The cowgirl said "Hey -- this guy just ordered a dozen to go!" The other waitresses as well as maybe 5 other guys at the counter all started laughing hysterically. Making it better, I was in my gray, JC Penny bought suit with the red lawyer tie. The only thing missing was a huge L hat.

"Sorry -- I have a mean office manager, and she wants me to bring her donuts. But I'd love to stay."

The cowgirl smiled, but there was another problem -- no takeout boxes! They went in the back and found a box that I guess coffee had come in, and she plucked a dozen donuts.

Then came the next problem. As typical , I only had $20 of cash on me, and R was a cash only business. The dozen were $24! And they didn't take credit cards! Now I felt like an even bigger schmuck.

But the waitress turned out to be a topless donut barista with a heart of gold, and said "It's ok sweetie -- just give me your little $20 bill. The laughs you gave us more than make up for it."

 I left -- box of R rated donuts in hand -- my face the same color of my tie.

I handed Linda Richman Marcy the donuts. She asked why the funky box -- I told her simply they were out of the regular ones. She said the donuts were fine, as she scarfed down her third one.

I told the truth to my friend Luis, a senior associate whose name was on the firm. I think Luis still practices insurance defense law in Miami -- he must be late 60s by now. He LOVED the tail, and more importantly, said he planned to visit next time HE was in the Broward Courthouse. I reminded him to take cash.