So it's Friday, and I've been running all week from pillar to post, as the old adage goes. Weeks like this were the norm for me for many, many decades, but rare as I exist in the beginning of old age. And for that I am most grateful.
Monday I spent the entire day in the office with my men Paul and Stu, reviewing the paperwork for our ongoing fee dispute with the TV lawyer and our betraying former partner who stole the case. We ended up finding a true smoking guy -- a handwritten note from Fredo which directly contradicts his testimony about what happened while we had the case. I look forward to showing that to the judge when the matter comes up for a fee hearing.
I also had another interesting discovery. I was asked for emails about the matter, and, since I routinely delete gmails from my account, had none. But then a light bulb went off: I had AOL, not Gmail, up until about 2017, when Wifey while in Atlanta, angrily contacted AOL and canceled her account, which also canceled mine! This was a top 5 angry moment for me against her -- no lighthearted "Lucy and Ricky" moment when she carelessly deleted my electronic life. But, eventually I got AOL back, and, sure enough, there were the emails from 2016 through 2017 which provide proof of the work I keep telling everyone I did. It was a productive Monday.
Tuesday was an old man day -- two separate doc appointments. The first was a glaucoma specialist I jokingly told everyone was African. He is -- from Capetown. Apparently SOUTH Africans don't count when you're seeking diversity cred. In fact, this fellow was delightful -- young, handsome guy with a Hugh Grant manner of speaking. Some friends wonder if my orientation may be changing as I age, but it's just like Homer Simpson asked: "Who DOESN'T prefer the company of men?"
In his waiting room, I struck up a conversation with a nice, 70 something lady, about the coolest medical test I had just been given. They hand you a button and you press it each time you see a white light flash around the periphery of your vision. It was like playing Space Invaders, I noted.
She agreed, and told me she lived in Homestead, and moved from Albany NY 12 years ago. She didn't seem the type to live in Homestead, and I asked her what brought her to Miami. She told me her daughter was a Monroe County Deputy killed in the line of duty -- she and her husband moved here to help raise the motherless kids. Oh boy. I told her I related to her pain -- did she notice how much the stock market had been dropping the past week? My losses were HUGE.
As if. Of course I told her how awful, how tragic, and she thanked me and said the good news was the oldest granddaughter was a star student, at MAST Academy, and headed to UF in the Fall. I cheered that -- my Ds thrived there, of course, and I told her about the experiences of being a parent there -- most notably Embers Steakhouse and Dragonfly sushi. But when you think you have problems...
Later in the afternoon, my lawyer Scott came over to prep me for my deposition, and being who I am, made sure the meeting included cocktails -- gin for him, vodka for me. He only had a 3 block drive to see his girlfriend after the meeting, and so was fine -- though I offered to let him keep his top drawer Jaguar here and have Wifey drive him. I was hoping he agreed, and I got to drive the Jag the next day -- used to love driving mine in the mid 90s back when I cared about cars, before settling into satisfaction with the girlie Lexus mid size sedan that's essentially a plush Camry.
While we met, the call came in from Dr. Shah -- a telemed appointment. He was my band camp director a few years ago (hemorhoid banding) and I asked if he could become my regular GI, and do my scoping next year, as my regular guy, Dr. Neal, had retired. He said he could. Of course, Miami being the schtetl it is, my lawyer Scott and Dr. Neal were classmates at Beach High. We concluded that the shit Neal dealt with was far more profitable than the shit Scott still deals with -- hence, Scott still working late nights while Neal is retired. Oh also -- Scott's record expensive divorce...
Wednesday I had a late workout with Juan, and was prepped for my coming closeup -- this am. After my session, I will be interviewed as a client of my beloved gym for their new social media content. I told the owner Enrique that I planned to testify that being around all the buff men has awakened in my new and unusual feelings. There's that new homoerotic thing again! Enrique knew, of course, that my real enjoyment is watching the hot Moms, in their early 40s, as they keep their figures. I guess that remains my wheelhouse after all -- jokes aside.
And then yesterday I drove to Datran for my 9 am deposition. It was more annoying than anything else. But our opponents bought us lunch -- a delicious tuna melt from Roasters -- and I decided I like them now after greatly disliking them. I am SO easily swayed.
Indeed, my questioner's demeanor changed quite a bit when I handed her the handwritten note from her star witness and partner in case stealing crime, which totally contradicted all he said. He boss, who I call Saul Goodman, seemed a bit fazed, too. I was under strict orders from Scott to keep my big mouth shut, other than answering questions -- but I so wanted to say to Robert: "Welcome to the club, man. Fredo scammed you, too."
I thought I did pretty good keeping my humor in, except when asked about a case I listed that I handled in Oklahoma. "Oklahoma?" the questioning lawyer asked. "Yes -- where the wind comes sweeping down the plain." Scott was REALLY pissed, but he'll get over it.
So I was nearly done, and then Scott announced he had to leave -- a dental emergency. His tuna melt caused a temporary cap to fall off, leaving the suave and debonair man about town looking like a MAGA man from a trailer park. So he bolted -- I guess my completion will be scheduled after I get back from France -- that's only a few weeks away.
And the case will continue to crawl like Jarndyce and Jarndyce -- the mythical case that never ends from Dickens' "Bleak House," a reference NO ONE seems to get anymore.
Dr. Mathew, my handsome young glaucoma doc, told me he's an opthamology nerd -- I guess I remain a literature one.
Today I have the workout, followed by my commercial shoot. The sweet assistant manager, a 25 year old Palmetto High and UCF grad, is coordinating it. When she texted to confirm last night, I told her I would be showing up in a Speedo, as Enrique had requested. Poor thing -- she thought I was serious, and probably saw the whole project going to hell because of my lack of a Speedo appropriate body. Enrique texted me 30 minutes later -- clearly after explaining to the young girl I was just a wise ass who would NOT be Speedo-ing around -- and telling me how much HE appreciated my humor.
In honor of my lawyer's LACK of humor, I have titled tonight's Zoom with Eric, Dana, Barry, and Donna "I hate lawyers cocktail party." And so it will hopefully be -- the end of a busy week for this aging but still cool rocking Daddy in the USA.
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