Since When Is It Part of the American Dream?

 After D1 gave birth to our first grandson, and she basked in the love and support of both sets of grandparents, she hosted a friend visiting Miami with HER new baby girl. The friends parents are neighbors of ours, and D1 and the friend met in Middle School and remained friends through college. The friend was sad at the end of her visit -- returning to Chicago and going to miss her parents.

D1 was reflective, and asked "Since when is it part of the American Dream that you live far from your parents after college?" She totally understood living elsewhere during young adulthood, but when it came to crunch time in life (having babies), why wouldn't you, if you could, choose to live close to your support system? I totally agree.

It's funny -- for my parents, though they loved their grandkids on LI, staying close once they retired wasn't on the top of their list. My Mom had developed an intense aversion to Winter, and so contrived to get my Dad to retire to Delray Beach. I tagged along after my Dad contrived to get me to pick U Miami (there was a lot of contrivance back then), and later on, my older sister and her family moved to South Florida, anyway. But my younger sister left for California after a short, failed marriage, and that has been her home since the early 70s. I wonder how things may have been different if the family all stayed closer.

Wifey and I realize how lucky we are to have both Ds and their men all in the 305. Yesterday we hosted D2 and Jonathan and the enormous puppy - they had a wedding nearby in Deering Estate. D1 had forgotten about those plans, and when her plans changed, asked to get together. Nope, I said cavalierly -- we busy. I'll see your boys later in the week. And I realized I had that luxury -- if D1 was a plane ride away, I would never have missed the chance to be with them.

Other than a year at FSU, Wifey never lived far from her parents. And sure enough, when the Ds came, they were an integral part of our lives -- sometimes to my great annoyance. My Mom would help, too, though she was older and getting her to Miami was a chore -- though made easier when TriRail began. She would get a ride to the Delray station, and I or Wifey would fetch her by MIA. She LOVED the train -- she would always meet someone during the hour or so trip. One time, on Halloween, she got off the train wearing a clown mask, to the delight of the young Ds. Nice memories.

My Florida sister and brother in law moved last year to the Tampa area, to be closer to their daughter and her family. I was thrilled for them -- their grandkids are grown, but as they need more and more support, it'll be so much easier to be close by to their family.

Sometimes there's no choice. Careers might be out of town, or an adult child ends up with a partner who is close to THEIR parents, and won't come back close to live with theirs. I understand that.

But when you have the choice -- boy -- it's nice to all be in the same area.

I used to joke that I had an "evil plan"  -- sending the Ds to UF, as opposed to college out of state. I figured they'd meet boys there, probably from South Florida, thereby increasing the chance they'd settle here. It worked for D2 -- met Jonathan at UF and married him, and after a 4 year sabbatical, moved home to Miami for good.

D1 came home for grad school, and met Joey here. As a Latin Jew, he is prohibited by Federal law from living outside of South Florida -- so that worked out great, too.

I plan to toast this exquisiteness of being together Friday night -- at D2's 31st birthday dinner. We have reservations at Il Gabbiano, which is Italian for "expensive but worth it." Actually, seagull.

I am one extremely lucky son of a bitch. I never forget that. And having my family all together -- well -- that's at the top of the list. For me, it is INDEED the American Dream.

A Day At The Races

 So traditionally Paul and I would have a year end meeting with our firm's comptroller Dennis, who happens to be my brother in law. He and my sister are newlyweds -- I believe they married in 1967.

We would typically meet at Christine Lee's at Gulfstream Park, eat Chinese and bet the ponies, along with Lou, Paul and now our Philly friend, who is a professional race handicapper. That professionalism means that typically we lose money more slowly over the course of the day. But it was a fun way to recap the following year and discuss new business.

Last year Dennis and my sister moved to the Tampa area to be closer to their daughter and her family, and I wasn't sure the annual meets would happen, but Dennis said he was willing to make the drive, and so we planned on our meet. Alas, Covid got him and my sister on a Xmas cruise, so the meet was off. But we rescheduled for yesterday.

It was to be a two part day: the track, and then to D1's where Dennis would get to finally meet my grandsons, which never happened before the move mostly because of Covid precautions. I had reservations for a nice Italian place near D1, would drop Wifey off at D1's to hang while we were at the track, and then a lovely family reunion and dinner.

Alas, the three year old caught a norovirus early in the week, and got over it in a day, but passed it to D1. She woke up yesterday with the identical gastrointestinal symptoms, and so the second part of the day was cancelled -- Wifey stayed home, and I headed directly to the track.

Paul thought it might be fun to also include our man Stu and his Dad Bill, who turns 89 in March. It was indeed a great time and a great idea, and an inspiration. Though Bill is physically slowed with age, he remains sharp as a tack and it was great to catch up with him. He's a Philly guy through and through, like Lou, and so Dennis and I, native NYers, found ourselves outnumbered 4-2 by Iggles fans, as they pronounce their team.

Dennis brought a fine bottle of Cab, and we shared it with the cocktails and classic old school Chinese. Dennis read the description from Stag's Leap, about its subtle fruit hints and tannins, and said "Pairs excellently with spare ribs and egg rolls." We all got a laugh.

Lou picked our horses, and, true to form, lost money slowly and not too much of it. I put in $125 and got back, I think, about $80 -- so it was a good financial day. And the track was abuzz -- today is their huge Pegasus Stakes, the biggest race in Florida, and they were setting up for it. The seats we occupied for the entire afternoon would have cost $250 today, and glitz would have been everywhere. We preferred the duck sauce.

But the real story for me was Dennis. He just turned 80, and looks and is amazing. He moves fast and talks fast -- the years have been his friend. I was sorry there was no later meet, as was D1 who I spoke to on the way home -- she didn't sound nearly as sprite as her uncle. Hopefully we get to reprise the day sooner than later.

Stu's Dad lives blocks from Dennis's hotel, so they dropped him back there, and I dropped off Paul at his place. I WAZED my way home, and my route went through very frum neighborhoods of North Miami Beach -- it was a hive of pre shabbos activity, with lots of wigged ladies and strollers.

I called Barry, since I figured we were both stuck in traffic on the Palmetto, which we were, going in opposite directions. Since my dinner plans were cancelled, he suggested we go ahead with the Zoom, which I set up upon arriving home. Alas, he had to bartend for himself, as Josh was in Orlando.

We chatted, and Wifey was happy -- she doesn't want to appear on camera, and I figured out a way to give my Zooms a background -- a lovely beach with palm trees waving in the breeze. It was a lovely end to our day at the track.

Truist Bank Is The Worstest

 Back in the day, I'm talking late 80s/early 90s, once you had $50K in a bank, you got a "private banker." This person greased the wheels for you on routine banking matters, got you perks like sports tickets and invites to cool events like lectures (SunTrust sent me to see PJ O'Roarke one afternoon), and make you feel richer than you were. They did it because they wanted to sell you other, more profitable products, like securities they would manage for a fee, or, in the case of lawyers, trust accounts where they would charge large fees.

When Paul and I started our firm, we had been customers of SunBank, a local place later to become SunTrust. Our banker was Carole, still a friend and still in banking at 65, though at probably the 10th different bank since she started, on account of the fact that most of them suck. I always followed Carole with some business, like CDs, and we meet socially. In the big days, she would get us tickets to Pink Floyd, and U2 and each year  50 yard line seats to Fins/Jets. One year, when Paul and I referred the bank 8 figures of money to manage for our clients, they sent us Super Bowl tickets. Since the teams were not the Fins, we sold the tickets and donated the money to charity. Heady times.

Well, our firm never left SunTrust, on account of it was too difficult to disconnect all the auto debits and deposits, like from the IRS and health insurance carriers and car lease companies. Our "private bankers" would come and go with the frequency of whores at a Vegas sales convention -- we'd meet, be taken to lunch, they would try to lend us money, which we never, thankfully, needed, and go on and on about how they had unique benefits to offer -- like they were "law firm specialists."

I remember a few of the probably 20, only because they were very pretty women. We would always say we just needed competent banking services -- nothing more -- don't bother trying to sell us other financial products, as we were up to our ears in brokers and financial planners already.

Well, about 4 years ago, we were assigned a new flunky, Erik Alexander, who I never met in person, since he wasn't one of the aforementioned pretty women. He went on and on about how HE was going to capture much more law firm business in town, as it was his specialty. He promptly allowed our trust account to be debited for a monthly fee -- a no no. I called him screaming -- some law firm specialist who messed up the most basic thing law firms need -- keeping trust accounts perfect. It was only a few dollars, and not clients' money, so there were no repurcussions, but I made a mental note that Erik Alexander was the stupidest private banker yet in a line of stupid private bankers.

But years passed, and our banking went on routinely, until the other week. We got in a sizable check from another firm -- a case worked on long ago, involving asbestos, which finally paid off. The lawyer offered to wire in the funds, which I should have done, but told him to send me a check -- seeing large checks excites Paul and so I took a picture of it and sent it to him.

I took the check to my local Falls branch to deposit it, and the angry Black woman teller handed me the deposit slip saying "It won't clear for a WEEK because of it being big." I often try to resist quoting speech in a politically incorrect way, and I fail. That's ok -- I ain't no Academic nor running for office.

I replied it was ridiculous to put a hold on a local check from a well known firm, to MY firm, which was a client of the bank for nearly 3 decades. She just shrugged and gave me the classic "Uh huh." I left.

SunTrust was bought be another bank and became Truist, which is based, I have no idea. A lot of the long time staff left, like friends of Carole who were long timers, since Truist is apparently known for crappy service, especially in the "private banker" sector. Erik stayed, which probably ought to have told me he had no or few prospects elsewhere. But again, I required little. Until... (dramatic elipsis).

Yesterday our comptroller/brother in law called. He told me to write checks, and that his assistant Conni had arranged for the IRS to take their piece. But wait -- I needed to confirm the hold had been lifted, lest we bounce a check to the IRS, essentially. I went online. The hold was still on! Apparently, though, Conni missed the message of "Be ready to make the IRS payment" as "Immediately, TODAY, make the IRS payment." Rut roh, as Scooby says. I immediately called my private banker .

The referring lawyer, Angel, confirmed that Truist took the money as of January 16 -- so now a full 8 days had passed where they knew the check was good. Erik didn't answer, but his VM said if I needed immediate help, call his assistant Sharda in Orlando. She didn't answer either -- so much for "immediate help."

I figured I would just go to the Falls branch and have the manager there take care of lifting the hold before I bounced the check to the Government. Angry Black Teller (ABT) was there -- in no mood for me or anyone else. I told her I needed to speak to the manager, what was his or her name? I probably should have included "Their." She looked at her fellow teller nervously. "Um -- don't know." What? You don't know your branch manager's name? This is a bank -- not Walmart! "There's a lot of turnaround, and I done forgot it."

Whatever -- please tell the Wizard of Truist I need an audience. In the meantime, Sharda called me back. I explained the situation. She told me Erik and his boss were on a "whole day meeting with a HUGE client and couldn't be reached for several hours." Now I escalated into angry Dave mode, saying loud enough for everyone in the branch to hear. "I don't care if they're with their hedge fund guy on his yacht with cocaine and hookers -- I need someone to release a now 11 day hold on a local check!"

ABT came back. "The manager says he (aha!) can't help you. You a PRIVATE client -- only your PRIVATE banker can release the hold."

I stormed out, went home, emailed, texted, and called. Erik finally called me, all corporate speak "David, I will circle back to my supervisor and see if there can't be an accommodation reached to rectify this situation." I went into mean Dad/lawyer mode, as the Ds call it. "Erik. Stop. Release my funds. That's all. Sharda said you have the power to do it."

Nope -- he didn't or wouldn't. I got a call from Orlando from someone I assumed was a Truist lawyer. Nope -- he was just an Anglo version of Erik -- trying to placate me. Same corporate speak, about "aligning our interests" here. No -- just release my damned money NOW. He said "Well the hold is due to come off tomorrow, so there should be no problem. I called Dennis back -- the Orlando ninny was also wrong -- IRS payments over $100K go the same day -- the Government wants its float, same as any bank.

I then spent another hour transferring in funds to cover the IRS payment. It was a royal pain in the ass -- essentially giving our firm a single day loan. 

I needed to vent more, and I called my banker friend Carole, recovering at home from a new hip implant, since my friends, like me, are all old now. She said Erik ought to teach a class on how NOT to be a private banker. At the least, Carole noted, he should have released the amount the IRS was going to pluck from our account. That never occurred to this functionary.

Anyway, as of this am, I went online and, sure enough, the fee funds had cleared. The IRS took their money. Now Paul and I will take some of OUR money. I reversed the emergency transfer.

Erik had promised to call me back yesterday. He never did. I just got a call from Truist -- the banker calling to close the financial barn door now that all animals have fled. Putzes. I plan to ignore them.

If there are any other checks of any size, they WILL Be wired in. I would leave Truist, but for all those connections for auto withdrawals. Plus, getting Paul to travel to Brickell for an in person meeting is no easy feat these days. Screw it -- Truist remains. Or rather, I remain, like a victim of domestic abuse.

I will close out all my personal accounts -- they aren't linked to anything. At least that will stop Erik's quarterly calls trying to get me to "invest wisely" with their in house brokerage.

So I had an epic First World, rich guy problem. Some of the money from the case WILL Go to premium alcohol -- to toast and make further fun of this epic example of modern banks are the worst.

I have a feeling there's better customer service in Venezuela.

Dinner By The Numbers

 So Wifey and I discussed our attendance at the 11 person dinner Saturday night in Boca, and, since we have more time on our hands than problems to solve, thankfully, we did an analysis.

Dinner parties are, of course, an art, best lampooned in "Curb" by the conclusion that you need a "great middle." Larry David meant that if  you have a line of diners on one side of the table, if the person in the middle isn't particularly friendly or a raconteur, the party fails. I am a VERY good middle.

But, Wifey and I concluded something. If you go to dinner with more than 6 people, it's kind of a waste, especially if you don't have a round table. We had a nice enough time Saturday, but Kenny and Joelle, at one end with Kenny's brother Larry, spoke mostly with him. At the other end, Paul and Patricia chatted mostly with Barry and Donna, and Eric, Dana, Wifey and I were the middles -- and caught up.

It was lovely, but if you think about it, kind of pointless. We really had dinner with Eric and Dana, which is nice, but the other 7 might as well have been at another table.

If you host a party, it's different. Guests mingle, and chat as they walk around. Also, sometimes the dinner has a focus -- like someone's birthday, or retirement, and then multiple people are all there for one person's reason.

But for a casual, no real purpose dinner, it seems 6 ought to be the upper number.

We're lucky in our family. Joey labled us "Full Squad," and their are 6 of us. Of course, now 2 more little men have joined the band, but aren't up to coming out to dinner yet.

D2 turns 31 in two Fridays, and the Full Squad has reservations for us to celebrate. The 6 of us always have a lovely time.

I think back to my parents at my age a lot. At 61, my Dad was retired and living in Delray. My Mom was surrounded by her family, and they went to dinner very often. My Dad soon realized that he didn't enjoy the evenings that much -- my uncles were not exactly academics or particularly well read or informed, and soon my Dad began to stay home. He preferred an evening of reading or watching public television to the small talk about CD rates and urologists/cardiolgists.

In a way, that period turned out to be good widow training for my Mom -- learing to socialize, which she very much enjoyed, without my Dad.

It's funny -- I savor my friends, and my Dad was a person with very few friends. He liked one neighbor, Sam, a retired Math professor and fellow WW II veteran. He said he always learned something from Sam.

My Dad also loved going out with my friends and me when we would visit their condo, or he would come to UM to visit. He always regretted not being able to go to college and he lived vicariously through me.

Meanwhile, on the dinner front, we have a busy week coming. Thursday Deb and Norman scored some tickets to a candlelight performance of music -- I forget whether it's Queen or Abba -- I just know that I opted out of Adele -- not a big fan. Afterwards, or maybe before, we're meeting for dinner in the Gables.

Friday my brother in law Dennis is driving in from near Tampa, and we have an afternoon at Gulfstream planned, with Paul and his Philly man Lou. Lou LOVES the track -- we form a partnership, eat Chinese food at Christine Lee's, and lose our money. Later that evening, I'll take Dennis to D1 and Joey's house -- he'll finally get to meet our grandsons. And then we're taking him to dinner at an Italian place right by their house -- D2 and Jonathan can't make it -- they have a pre wedding dinner.

So these will all be smaller dinner parties. I think they make the most sense. Now -- for something else not that critical to give a lot of thought to...

Livin' La Vida Boca

 I really have become that crusty old guy -- the one who seldom sees the need to leave my own County, Miami Dade. Well while Wifey and I were in France with Kenny and Joelle, Paul and Eric conspired to plan a dinner for several of us, that would include wine, since it was presumed I would return from France liking wine more. I didn't.

Anyway, originally we were going to meet in Broward, as 3 of the 5 couples live in Miami Dade, Barry and Donna in Broward, and only Eric and Dana in Palm Beach. Somehow Eric contrived to get us all up to his neck of the woods, and got reservations at a trendy Atlantic Avenue place called Dada.

Kenny's brother Larry, a Mainline cardiologist, happened to be in town visiting their ALF living parents, and he was invited, too. Joelle saw that the Boca Raton Museum of Art, located as part of a luxe shopping center called Mizner Park, was having an exhibit on Hollywood back drops -- exactly Wifey's wheelhouse. Maybe we could meet there at 4, and then head up the 20 more minutes to Delray for dinner. We could.

I have always understood D.H. Lawrence's idea of spirit of place. Locales speak to us, uniquely, and we either feel we belong, or we don't. For him, he belonged to New Mexico later in his life, though he was from much colder and wetter UK. Something about Taos pulled him in.

Well, since I started visiting Boca in 1979, when my parents and I moved to Delray, it has always had the opposite effect on me. Mizner Park is a perfectly lovely place -- upscale shopping, bars, restaurants. But as Wifey walked around, and I went into Subculture Coffee, I had such negative vibes.

A patron in front of me, about my age and with a cute granddaughter, was arguing with the barista about the size of "expresso" she ordered. She was loud, and had a classic Five Towns accent, and was annoyed at the young man helping her because "For what ya charge for KAWFEE heah, at least get my orduh right!"

Maybe my dislike in the demographic dates back to my childhood as a "blue collar Jew" from Levittown, as my friend Joel calls me, and just not digging the arriviste members of my tribe. It's absurd -- I'm a rich guy who lives in an upscale area -- and raised my Ds very privileged. But at least many of the spoiled people here speak in Spanish, and I don't have to understand their words of privilege.

Wifey and I met at the museum, and a tad late Kenny and Joelle joined us. Wifey dug the exhibit -- it was ok, but after a visit to the Lumiere Museum in Lyon, it was underwhelming. There was a "Strawberry Festival" going on outside, and though it was near closing, they wouldn't let us in, even to walk around. It was just as well -- I was happy to beat a quick retreat from the bad vibing Mizner Park.

We convened at Dada off Atlantic -- 11 of us. I had my usual vodka martinis, though I had brought a nice bottle of Pinot Noir I had bought 10 years before in Napa. Paul and Eric also bought bottles -- I think Joelle, the wine expert, enjoyed them. We feasted and laughed, and caught up, and the bill was a good 30% cheaper than a trendy Miami restaurant would have been.

Also, it was nice for a change to NOT be the oldest patrons at a restaurant, which happens any time we go out in a trendy Miami area. I totally get why aging Miami people prefer Palm Beach County -- especially appearance caring women. It can't be easy for a woman aging to have to go out surrounded by 20 and 30 somethings all the time.

We actually had neighbors, Anne and Mark, and Anne, formerly an "it girl" when she was young, demanded they move to Raleigh after a lunch in the Grove where she looked like her fellow patrons' grandmother. Wifey is much more self confident -- and enjoys actually BEING a grandma of our two wonderful grandsons.

We sent the Ds a photo, and D1 remarked that she and her husband were going to sleep while we were still out and about -- and we had a 1.5 hour drive home ahead of us.

We made it fine, with debriefing about our friends and their situations keeping our conversation going . I exaggeratedly called out the towns and cities as we passed them. "We're in Pompano Beach now. We're passing Miami Lakes now." It was a lovely, late drive.

I think next time we all meet, it will be in the about to reopen Anthony's Runway 84 -- great red sauce place near FLL. That's some eatin' worth crossing ONE county border for.

Pillowcase POS

 So it was December of 1983, and Mike was over my apartment studying for our 1L Finals. I had begun dating Wifey, but she had broken up with me since I told her I planned to spend the post Finals week off snowmobiling in Wisconsin with Mike and our friend Dave instead of hanging with her. She had a point!

She had moved into an apartment on Edgewater Drive with her friend Carole -- they met when Carole was Wifey's boss at an early post college job. Carole was thin and blonde and Midwestern nice and stoic. Wifey had gone out with friends, and returned to find cop cars and detectives in her apartment. Carole had been raped by a notorious criminal known as the "Pillowcase Rapist."

The creep was big news then -- his victims spanned South Dade to Pompano Beach. They tended to be blonde professional women. He would enter their apartments through an open sliding glass door, cover his face with a shirt or pillowcase, and rape them at knifepoint. Thankfully none of the victims were killed or beaten up -- the violation was more than enough for this sicko.

Wifey called me, in tears. Mike and I drove over to the apartment. The lead detective was there -- we met. He was Dave Simmons. Carole was composed as usual -- they took her to the hospital for the awful "rape kit." She was going to spend the night at her parents' up in Broward. Mike and I drove Wifey to her parents' in Kendall. Wifey moved back to her parents' house afterwards -- Carole never left. As I said, she was stoic.

She moved on with her life. There was a civil suit against the apartment -- the night of the crime, the security guard was off duty. She took her settlement and applied to law school -- she moved to East Lansing to attend Cooley Law. I visited her there in the 90s when I was on a deposition in that gray city.

I don't think Carole ever practiced law. She moved back to Miami, and we were neighbors on Brickell after Hurricane Andrew. But she and Wifey grew apart, and lost touch. I reconnected a few years ago on FaceBook -- she was now managing Broken Sound CC up in Boca. I guess she's probably 70 now.

The investigation into the creep went cold. I met Dave Simmons years later through a mutual friend, Pat. Pat had left Metro Dade Police and was a lawyer. He sent us cases. We were out to drinks, and he introduced us to "Spiffy," his detective friend, so nicknamed because he was a sharp dresser. It was Dave -- and we talked about the case. He assumed, along with most of his colleagues, that the rapist had either died or moved away. The attacks stopped in the early 90s, and the task force to find him had disbanded.

But technology changed -- that little thing called DNA. A few years ago, there was a match with a convicted sex offender from Palm Bay, Florida. They surveilled him, and got a sample from a wipe he had thrown away. He was the piece of shit! The DNA linked him to 25 rapes in Miami Dade and Broward!

Well, yesterday his trial of the first victim started in Miami Dade Circuit Court. They wheeled him in -- he suffers from some kind of disability now. He has a young public defender, whose defense is that the whole thing was a conspiracy -- in the 80s, corrupt cops tortured him and extracted semen, to be able to set him up wrongfully for these crimes. I don't think she explained why they waited 4 decades!

I get it. When your client is SO scientifically guilty, you might as well make stuff up that's wild -- maybe the argument will stick like fresh manure thrown against a wall.

The creep will get convicted. My hope is that he goes to prison in a wheelchair, and each and every day gets knocked out of it -- to the point it becomes comical, like a Wayan Brothers routine. Let him lie helpless on a feces and urine covered prison floor each day until the guards get around to lifting him up. That seems like an appropriate punishment for someone who victimized so many women.

I assume Carole knows about the arrest. We're no longer close enough for me to ask her about it -- just the occasional FaceBook (tm) comment.

But man -- that DNA!!! It's remarkable how it can bring closure to crime victims decades and decades later.

Here's to the Pillowcase rapist sleeping without pillowcases -- in a hellish existence he more than deserves.

It's A Nice Day For A Frum Wedding

 So years ago, the County build several cultural centers, in order to have venues for people who didn't live close to Downtown or the Beach. They put them in Cutler Bay, Aventura, West Miami, and Hialeah. To raise revenue, they lease them out for events, and hilariously, the Hialeah Center, named after Henry Milander, is often used by Chabad families for their weddings, on account of the place is lovely, and 1/3 the price of a decent hotel.

Milander was the forever mayor of Hialeah before it became 90% Cuban born. Really. He was old school and beloved. My favorite tale involving him is the Herald investigating an allegation that he fixed traffic tickets for constituents to get votes. The reporter said "Mr. Mayor -- is it true you fixed over 100 tickets for Hialeahans?" He responded: "I resent that. I fixed well over A THOUSAND!" Ah -- my kind of politician.

Anyway, Waze got Wifey and I there via a cut through Miami Springs -- it only took about 40 minutes, even during rush hour. I parked, walked in, and realized I was underdressed -- I forgot my kippah! Luckily Stu was there waiting with a spare. I left Wifey on the women's side, and joined my boys. The chuppah was beautiful, and the ceremony lovely and FAR shorter than a typical Reform ceremony -- those rabbis seem to love to hear themselves speak much more than the orthodox guys -- they let the Torah do the talking!

The ceremony was outside, on the rooftop. I had a few Ketels. I saw some friends from way back when, including Craig, who I call the luckiest man in the world on account of his girlfriend is a VERY rich divorcee. Paul chatted with them, and asked Francine if she intended to marry. No way, she said, because of two words: "Permanent alimony." I mean, Craig is great, but probably not $15K per month great!

We stayed awhile, and then everyone went downstairs to the banquet hall. I had enough, and even through the fog of the Ketels, realized maybe being inside with 500 revelers during this Covid surge wasn't the greatest idea. So we left -- Wifey drove home. But we were hungry!

I had an idea -- it was 930, and so our local Flanagans, open late, would be a great place to get a bite -- it's always too packed to get in quicker than an hour wait. So we walked in, and indeed it was STILL packed -- but there were openings in the bar. So we sat and ate dinner hours after I'm typically asleep.

I slept in today, but got up in time for my workout. I bench pressed 20 reps of 300 lbs! Ok -- it was 95 lbs -- but I could have lifter heavier! My trainer Juan was impressed -- I'm fat but strong. He videoed me, and sent it tonight -- I forwarded the shots to my Ds to show their Dad is NOT a total slug -- just a partial one.

A frum wedding in Hialeah. Hialeah Frum would be a great name for a Klezmer/Reggaeton band. Maybe they'll have one for the next wedding.

WalMart Hack And The Local Referendum

 So the other day I got a typical email from Walmart.com, my main outlet for commerce. I buy everything there, from household goods to firewood. I get free delivery, and often the stuff comes comically quickly -- like the fiber pills and vitamin C I ordered at 10 and had delivered by noon. 

The email said my new Keurig single cup coffee maker would arrive in a few days. I hadn't ordered it, but figured Wifey had -- she likes to keep working coffee makers in our guest rooms, and Edna and Marc are coming in late February. So I said nothing about the $55 purchase.

And then another email came -- 4 metal folding chairs I also didn't order, but figured Wifey had, in advance of our next gathering. Our existing metal folding chairs are looking a bit worse for the wear. So this time I asked her -- and she had ordered NEITHER the chairs NOR the coffee maker. 

I checked the website, and sure enough, the delivery address had been changed -- to Haines City, which I think is somewhere near Tampa. So I called Walmart to report this trespass against my discount e-commerce honor, and got a nice lady with a heavy sub continent accent. She was "veddy veddy sorry" and worked to fix it, but told me that one of the orders was "too far along" to stop. I would have to report that to my Amex people for a credit. I was going to ask her if too far along was like a prohibited abortion in a red state, but figured it might get me canceled.  

I switched my account to a two step sign on, to prevent future miscreants, hopefully, and then I wondered: what kind of a loser looks to steal a total of $102 worth of stuff? I mean, if I was a cyber crook -- I would have ordered, at least, a Nespresso machine, and some good furniture. Maybe they figured small amounts would be ignored. Ha. As if. I check stuff!

In other news, the zoning referendum is heating up in Pinecrest. Our non appearance challenged Comissioner, Anna Hochkammer, texted me to ask if she could put a "Vote No" sign out front. As a viejo verde, I would have allowed her to put a "Trump in '24" sign -- but luckily she's a Democrat. Most of my 'hood is going to vote No, but I was stopped by two Republicans to talk about it.

One, who I'll call Denie, since that's her name, is a lifelong Miami WASPy Republican, but not a Trumper. She asked me to explain the issue, and afterwards said "Yes -- you're correct -- I'm voting No as well."

Our across the street neighbor is Steve -- nice fellow born in Miami, but raised in North Florida, before returning to the 305 to run his several family businesses. He IS a Trumper, and asked me about my thoughts.

He said Anna came by to talk to him, and though he voted for her, told her he was going to vote YES. I asked him why. He answered that our Council was "all on the take," and that the referendum would take power away from them, which was a good thing. I told him I know our mayor and several commission members personally, and they're independently rich -- why would they risk prison for the levels of graft that seem to be paid to get zoning changed -- typically WELL south of $100K. He didn't know.

But our talk was instructive. Many Trumpers -- probably most -- are conspiracy believers. They KNOW that the hoofbeats they hear belong to Zebras, not horses. There are always dark forces working -- and the less we let government do, the better.

The truth is, our lives won't change much regardless of the referendum's result. The deeper issue is ever electing politicians in a nation where a large minority believe as Steve does. 

I had said I would stay off the neighborhood chats, but couldn't help myself. I commented that my first complaint was that it was SO hard to lose weight in Miami with all the wonderful restaurants we have. I then noted that most of the people advocating a vote of NO write well -- correct spelling, diction, and grammar, in contrast to the Yes crowd, who write like grade school dropouts. Did this mean anything? I left that for others to conclude.

I got several laugh emojis. I'm waiting for the attacks against my "elite" status. I already thought of a response. Anyone calling me an "Elite" merely needs to see me out on the street. I dress one level above homeless -- a stranger would probably to buy me a sandwich.

Whatever. It's a strange world, as the Dude noted, with lots on ins, lots of outs, lots of what-have-yous.

Hopefully, at least, my Walmart account is now safe.

I Have A Dream

 So today is MLK Day, and as I walked my 'hood I got my yearly chuckle, in the "everyone's a little bit racist -- sometimes." Department. I LOVE that Avenue Q song -- it is so poignant.

Years ago, as an OCD homeowner, I memorized the garbage pickup schedule. In Miami Dade County, there are 3 no pickup holidays: Christmas, July 4, and MLK Day. Clearly the majority Black union so negotiated, and it gives me a soft chuckle each year. There's ALWAYS pickup on Yom Kippur -- or even Good Friday.

I circulated my politically incorrect text with my fellow non woke friends, and one pointed out that there IS pickup in Broward today. Interestingly, Miami Dade County is 18% Black, while Broward is 28% Black, but many of the latter are of Caribbean descent. I guess MLK is not as big a deal to someone from Trinidad, or Jamaica.

Anyway, it was a beautiful day, and I did indeed reflect on the great leader. Many of his top advisors were Jews -- he had a very close relationship with many synagogues. Sadly, after his murder, it seems many of his disciples in the Black community related more with Nation of Islam types, who were not, well, Jew-philic. Farrakkan and his like were, and are, downright antisemitic.

I wonder how the arc of our country's history may have been different had Blacks and Jews been mostly allies, instead of antagonists. Black Lives Matter. Ha. They relate more with Hamas than they do with B'nai Brith. And it's a shame.

As I was walking home, I passed a house for sale -- just 3 down from us. The Millers lived there many years, but suffered a tragedy. Their handsome son, a longtime drug addict, killed himself. I met him several times -- he was a server at local restaurants -- and always pleasant and well mannered. Sadly, his demons won out. The Millers moved upstate, to escape, I'm sure, the memories.

The house was bought by the retired director of United Way -- an older fellow with a younger wife and young son. I only met them once -- not sure why they're out -- but economics may play a role. They paid just over $1.2M for the house right before Covid, and are now listing it for $2.75M. Wifey and I were inside once -- funky split level place built in the early 60s -- very nice 1/2 acre lot.

Anyway, a beautiful Corvette was cruising by, and the driver asked if I lived in the 'hood. He was with his wife, and they were house hunting. Did I like the neighborhood, he asked? Boy -- did he pick the right guy!

We chatted for about 20 minutes. He and his family moved here from Chicago last year -- he's an exec at Citadel, the huge private equity firm. They have 3 girls -- 8-12 in age. I felt like the president  of a fraternity who immediately wanted these folks as members.

I gave them chapter and verse about how wonderful a community we have. Their kids are in private school -- I explained how the public schools are just fine around here -- our Ds soared at Palmetto.

The wife said they missed their old area -- Highland Park. Their street had family get togethers. So do we!, I told her -- one for grownups and one family oriented. I told them the place was crawling with kids their daughters' age -- and we really wanted new, younger neighbors to go along with dinosaurs like Wifey and me.

We exchanged information, and I looked him up. Harvard undergrad and U Chicago MBA. Not a slouch of a guy. Plus his Corvette was way cool. I hope they decide to buy the house -- although it seems expensive, a guy in his position could probably easily afford a much more expensive place.

I shared my adventure with the Ds -- I know they're chuckling. They used to call me Caspar the Friendly Dad, and I guess I still am. Usually.

On the other side of the social spectrum, though, as I was walking in, I heard my name -- called out by my LEAST favorite neighbor. She was telling me to put up more signs urging a vote against an issue on our local ballot. After 2 minutes, I faked a call to get away. See? I'm still capable of being a mean guy when needed.

Wifey ordered Publix delivery, so I have some schlepping to do. We also have, by our standards, a busy week ahead.

Wednesday night, Rabbi Yossi and Nechama's son is getting married. They pick the 4th night of the week for luck -- plus -- it's January 18, another lucky number. The wedding is at a Hialeah Community Center which is apparently very nice and has hosted several Chabad weddings. So we'll attend -- sitting apart. I get to dance with dudes, which is fine, assuming there is sufficient vodka.

Saturday 11 of us are convening for dinner up in Delray. My man Paul put this together while Wifey and I were in France. Kenny and Joelle are going -- and Kenny's brother Larry is a late addition -- in town to visit their parents in Boynton. I haven't seen Larry in person since 1979 -- I look forward to it. He's a cardiologist on the Mainline in Philly.

Wifey suggested maybe we stay in a Delray hotel, but I told her Delray triggers me -- reminds me of many unpleasant trips when I was caring for my Mom. I love the fact that these days you can say something triggers you and get out of doing it.

Being woke isn't all bad.

Baby It's Cold Outside

 So the Arctic fronts of Winter finally made their way here to the 305, and this am it's 43 with a "feels like" of 39. Wow. The strange rescue dog barely wanted to go outside, and the special needs Spaniel looks up at me with a WTF expression. I imagine Mads, the spoiled Spaniel, is acting the same. Maybe only Betsy, half Great Pyranees and therefore a cold weather breed, is happy to be trotting around by the Bay -- but we haven't heard from her temporary single Dad Jonathan -- D2 is in the Turks and Caicos at a hen party until tomorrow.

We had a lovely time last night, with Joelle and Kenny. They had never been to Salvatore Ds before, even though they've been in Miami 15 years and Salvatore's has been open 13. I told them our history with the restaurant -- especially a poignant moment. Years ago, I was at the bar waiting for my still friend Vince, and a call came in from Stu -- telling me the awful news that James Gandolfini had died. I was struck -- he's my age, and one of my favorite all time actors -- especially as Tony Soprano.

I called Salvatore over -- he's from Naples, and shared the sad headline. He poured himself a whiskey, and we both toasted to the soul of Gandolfini -- teary eyed.

Anyway, the rest of the memories of that place have been joyful. It's my second favorite Italian place -- Il Gabbiano is first, but you don't need to take out a second mortgage to eat at Salvatore's.

We used to take our dear friend Elizabeth there when she stayed with us -- last night I recalled her beautiful face laughing over a glass of red wine. We rang in  New Year's one year with Deb and Norman -- Salvatore made it festive with a disco ball and music being played. And the Ds and their men have been there several times for various dinners.

Last night, I self suggested to myself what to order -- thinking about Detective McClusky in I: "Order the veal, Mike -- best in the city." So I had veal marsala, as did Joelle -- Wifey and Kenny went with fish.

Today, our wonderful grandsons are coming over, with their parents. D1, ever efficient, has already taken lunch orders from Roasters, which will be Uber-eated over. I prefer to avoid crowded delis on Sunday mornings -- well worth it to pay the Uber dude to fetch and deliver.

We'll probably take the 3 year old next door, to our neighbor's wonderful playground. Maybe a search for pavo royal (peafowl) and iguanas is in order, too, as well as feeding our pond fish. D1 and Joey so love coming here -- D1 calls it the family's "country house," and indeed it is.

The Dolphins are in their first playoff game in 7 years, but are expected to lose big. I'll check the score in between chasing the toddler, or playing with the 6 month old.

So it is indeed my favorite weather time of the year in Miami -- perfect sleeping weather at night, as we give the hard working AC units some time off.

Time to carry out that reluctant Spaniel...

Two Years Since A Scary Time

 January's weather is best in Miami -- lovely cool (er) days and nights, low humidity, and even the ability to use my beloved fire pit at night. Two years ago was typical, and on January 15, 2021, I was walking the 'hood outside, when Wifey called my cell phone -- she needed help.

I came into D2's old room, where she was in bed. She told me she had gotten up early, and "couldn't use my phone keys." She figured she was just tired, and went back to sleep, but when she tried to get to the bathroom upon waking again, she fell. She made her way back to bed and called me. She was totally with it, no pain anywhere, but I asked her to raise her arms. One dropped immediately. I knew she was having a stroke.

I called 911 and went to open the front gate. Comically fast -- like 2 minutes, three paramedics came -- wearing masks, as we were still in intense early Covid times. They were out of central casting -- physically fit and handsome, like they stepped off the ladies' favorite calendars. They assessed Wifey and came to my same conclusion. They started an IV, and walked her out --our driveway is gravel -- actually granite chips -- and not conducive to wheeling stretchers. They got her to the front, put her into the rescue truck, and apologized to me that backing it in, they had crushed some of the brick border. Ay, por favor, I replied, and thanked them -- they were taking her to Baptist in Kendall.

By the time I got there, and got a Covid time exception for visiting, they had her seen in the ED and a neurologist decided it was too late after symptom onset to do the clot busting therapy. But the neuro knew quickly is seemed to not be a devastating stroke, which the MRI done later that am confirmed.

Still, they admitted her, and she was in Baptist for 4 days. They figured out the cause. Wifey always had low blood pressure, and years before a cardiologist who long since had lost his license on account of medicare billing issues had put her on high sodium and a drug to increase her BP. Well, weight gain and time raised her BP more, and it became dangerously high -- not picked up by the docs Wifey had decided to switch to. But the good news is that it wasn't cardiac caused, via a rhythm disorder, and would likely not have another stroke so long as she kept the BP down.

Still -- those nights were scary. I was also convinced she WOULD get Covid, which we had both successfully avoided -- vaccines were about to become available -- in fact, she had an appointment for one the week she was at Baptist.

Anyway, after 4 days, she was to be discharged to Rehab. We decided on the sparkling new facility at Jackson -- the Lynn Center -- just opened within the year. I drove her there, she was admitted, and spent 3 weeks -- visited daily by the Ds and me - per Covid protocol.

In the meantime, I had assembled Team Wifey -- my dear friends Barry, Eric, and Kenny -- who were my amazing advisors. Our neighbor Jose, conveniently, is Chief of Stroke Treatment at UM, and he was her doc, along with the Rehab guys. He was amazing as well, patiently explaining  everything, and assuring us Wifey would recover well. Plus, as a fellow Sephardic Jew to our son in law Joey, I chuckled each time we met -- he clearly shares ancestors with our beloved son in law -- they even speak similarly -- though Jose in a Mexican born Jew and Joey hails from Colombia.

Anyway -- the time went by. Joelle, Kenny's wife, went next level on with me -- not just saying "If you need anything" but ordering me, military like, to have dinner with her and Kenny and their sons. I tend to be fine alone, but Joelle wouldn't allow it -- and for that I will always remember her kindness and mentschiness -- I tearfully thanked her over cocktails on NYE at their apartment.

Tonight, coincidentally, we're going to dinner at Salvatore D's with them, and I will toast that again.

So after Wifey was discharged, it remained a long slog, complicated by the Plague. A PT came to the house several times per week, and then she started outpatient at Baptist. Our routine became a familiar one, as Wifey couldn't drive. I would drop her at PT, walk around the Baptist lake or sometimes see Kenny for coffee, and then fetch her -- whereupon we would visit my Suegra at The Palace. She never knew about the stroke -- she was by then pretty far gone -- couldn't have processed the news about her beloved only child.

One day, as we drove to The Palace, Wifey got a call that changed our lives -- it was Ruby, our dear friend Elizabeth's sister, telling us that our beautiful friend had died on a hiking trip in Utah. I had to pull the car over in a lot next to Kendall Drive. We were shocked and still don't have our heads wrapped around that awful loss. We put a placque outside in an area Elizabeth used to plant shrubs during her visit -- "Elizabeth's Garden." We pass it and think of her multiple times each day.

But time flowed on, and Wifey recovered -- she probably reached maximum improvement by the Fall of 2021. She can do better -- more exercise and better eating -- but our recent trip to France saw her walking several miles --so she has reached a decent plateau.

So now 2 years have passed. The sage words of the Grateful Dead are so apt: "When life looks like Easy Street, there is danger at your door." And so there was -- but with the Big Man's help, through our amazing friends and Ds -- Wifey is back from a scary precipice.

And we shall be thankful and celebrate that daily.

Not Sure How You Do This Life Thing Without Laughter

 So Wifey and I just passed the 36 year mark, and folks ask us how we do it. The answer is -- we both have senses of humor. Without the ability to laugh, especially at oneself, I'm really not sure how one moves through this life.

I love to laugh. I love to be surrounded by friends who I can make laugh, and who make me laugh. I'm particularly blessed in that regard -- some of my friends are frustrated writers for publications like "National Lampoon" or "The Onion." Our text threads are pillars of sharp wit -- typically peppered with "too soon" humor -- making fun of tragedies almost as soon as they occur.

Apparently the "Too soon" thing was begun by the late Gilbert Gottfried, who appeared at a Friar's Club roast shortly after 9/11. He said his flight was late, since it made a stop at the Empire State Building. The crowd booed and shouted "Too Soon!" I guess that's true -- time has to pass before tragedy can be lampooned.

Yesterday, at the gym, I made several people laugh hard. My trainer Juan had me schlepping a heavy sachel back and forth, and asked me to run between sets. I don't run. I hate to run -- have since I was forced to on the MacArthur High baseball team in 1977 and never got over that awful feeling that comes, to me, for running. I never "Broke the wall" and likely never will. I fast walk.

To try to change it, Juan yelled "C'mon Dave -- make believe you just drove home having to take the worst dump of your life, and you have to run to the bathroom!" I calmly responded "Well, if that happened -- it'd be time to turn the car in anyway." Belly laughs resulted. It was a fine morning for me.

Years ago, I was at a lunch, with Paul, our friend Allison, and Paul's law school friend Abbey -- now my dear friend Mike's longtime law partner. Allison was asking why Abbey had decided to marry his wife. Abbey said he made a list -- positives and negatives -- and the positives were numerous, and only one negative. Of course, I asked what the negative was, and he responded that his wife had "Zero sense of humor." Woah. Hold the phone! For me, that would have killed the deal.

Sometimes laughs are so intense, I nearly pass out. This typically happens with my oldest friends, after several drinks. I truly can't catch my breath, as we relate tales from the decades. Oh how exquisite those laughs are. Who knows -- we're Zooming tonight with cocktails -- maybe it'll happen.

Meanwhile, we're in the midst of the best weather of the year. Cool evenings and mornings and gorgeous days. Tonight there may be a firepit!

D2 is off to the Turks and Caicos for her friend's bridal shower -- several ladies off for a long weekend together. D1 and Joey and the little men are due over Sunday -- it's a happy reason for me to only get glimpses of the Dolphins playoff game -- they're likely to lose, anyway.

Tomorrow night we're meeting Joelle and Kenny for dinner -- so a fine weekend is in store.

Maybe some of those elusive belly laughs await. They are so sweet.

NFL Game

 So Mike's boy Chris, a third generation Cane lawyer, bought Dolphins season tickets last year. He shares 4 of them with a friend of his from law school, and I went to a game with him and Mike last year.

The Fins are my favorite NFL team, but I don't live and die with them like I unfortunately do with the Canes. I enjoy when the Fins win, which has been spotty the past years, but don't fall into a funk when they lose. But this season, there was late drama: if they beat the rival Jets the last game, and the Bills beat the Pats -- the Fins would make the playoffs for the first time in 7 years.

I planned to watch the game on TV with Dr. Barry and Josh, but Chris threw a wrench into the plans: he was going to London during an inter-job break, and wanted Mike and I to attend the game. I protested that it was a hot ticket -- selling them with his parking pass would pay his airfare across the pond. But he was insistent.

Then came another wrinkle -- Mike offered ME both tickets, as he was to go to D.C. for his suegro's honor day -- Don is a retired Redskin, or whatever they call the team now. I begged off -- no -- THEN Chris ought to sell the tickets. But the D.C. trip fell through, and Mike announced our date was a go. And so I fetched him yesterday am and off we drove to Joe Robbie.

We parked in the Yellow lot across from the stadium, and located old friends Jim and Doug. THEY are huge Fins' fans -- they were tailgating with Jim's boy Jacob and a friend. Mike and I added vodka and tequila to the party, and we had a blast. 

A classic Jets fan wearing a too tight Kleck jersey walked by. I greeted him and could tell instantly he was from Queens. Indeed, he said, Woodside. Could I take his picture with my friend Jim, who was wearing a Fins jersey. "Sua!" he said. "But Gastineau is here with me!"

And so I took a shot of Jim in the middle of the former NY Sack Exchange -- which caused great laughter. They were the kind of guys I grew up with -- likely living in Broward or South Palm Beach County now.

Alas -- Jim and Doug only had subs for themselves, so Mike and I got some, appropriately, Shula burgers, which were quite good. We got to our seats, and the game began. We laughed -- in the 80s and 90s, the Fins had Marino and the Jets Ken O'Brien, 2 amazing QBs, and the scores were like 45-42. No more -- both teams had their 3rd stringers in, and no TDs were scored -- but the Fins out field goaled the Jets, followed by a last second safety as the Jets tried a Hail Flacco, and won 11-6. A baseball score.

But soon after, the jumbotrons showed the Bills vanquished the Pats, and so the Fins were in the playoffs. It was lovely walking out of the packed stadium with a mostly (except for the Jets fans) crowd.

We made our way to the lot...and waited. And waited. We got stuck there a good 45 minutes. But it was ok -- we rehydrated with Gatorade bought from a young man in the parking lot, and sat in the AC. Finally we drove home.

I texted Chris in London to thank him, and look forward to watching the playoff game with him upon his return.

A good day with your NFL team is indeed fun. I actually felt bad for Jets fans Barry and Scott -- their Jets now have the longest playoff drought of any team. I guess there's nobility in that -- sort of like being a Cubs fan. Not for me, though -- if the Fins lose a lot, I ignore them until they're better.

Other than the Canes, I look to sports to raise my spirits. I might as watch news of natural disasters as watch a losing team I care at all about -- or visit a nursing home.

So the Fins season will most likely end after one playoff game. They're playing the much better Bills, in Buffalo, and their star QB is still out.

Still -- there'll be next year...

First Frum Shabbat In Awhile

 So our dear friends Rabbi Yossi and Nechama invited Wifey and me for Friday night dinner. It had been quite awhile, and we were able, and so attended. What a lovely evening.

Their oldest lives in Brickell, and next in line is married and living on Miami Beach with her 2 kids. There are 9 kids in total -- the second oldest son is marrying in 2 weeks -- we plan to attend -- and there were only 2 of the kids home last night, including the adorable youngest, a 9 year old girl. I asked Yossi is she was the youngest -- "So far," he answered, but since Nechama is not biblical Sarah, I'm pretty sure they've switched to the grandchild business now.

Stu and his family were also invited, and I got a chance to catch up with Val, who is 20 and started an APP, which now has 750K users. He's a terrific young man -- decided to skip out on college to do his tech career, and it's working out just fine. Ava is a high school senior who has truly blossomed into a sweet young woman -- she's awaiting news from local schools, but already has SEC acceptances -- to Alabama and Ole Miss. I joked that she got in as a minority applicant for being Jewish. Stu's wife proudly reported she is now 2 years sober, and we all applauded her. That's a long, tough road.

Our old friend Jane was there -- hadn't seen her in years. Her girls are the Ds age, and one is married and the other engaged -- both living in the 305. Jane divorced in her later 30s and went back to school at 40 -- she's an accupuncturist now -- she got the point! I never tire of saying that. Jane gets tired of my saying it -- but it was a lovely back to the future time -- catching up with old friends who met when kids were preschool and are now in their 30s.

Speaking of which, another young man attended -- Daniel. His older sister was in D1's Bat Mitzvah Club. He told a remarkable life path story. He graduated Columbia with an English degree, and moved to San Francisco to become an artist, and to undergo a transformation. I was tempted to ask if that meant changing from a Dolphins fan to 49ers, but kept quiet. Indeed he lived as a woman, but realized he wanted to transition back. He returned to Miami, and of all places, ran into Rabbi Yossi on MetroRail, which Yossi rarely takes. Now he's back into the fold, and attending services.

He spoke openly of his challenges, and one might think he would be rejected by the frum folks. One would be wrong -- he is welcomed, and learning Torah. Yossi said a special prayer for him.

Nechama explained about the new Friendship Circle, under construction, and how it has helped hundreds of special needs kids. Tracy asked how many, and Yossi told a tale.

A cop in SF, coincidentally, investigated all of the suicides off the Golden Gate Bridge. In one, he found a note from a jumper: "If you're reading this, it means from the time I walked from my apartment to the bridge, NO ONE said hello or acknowledged me -- proving I'm invisible." The point was if a single person had spoken to that desperate person, a life may have been saved -- so the answer is that if even ONE child is helped, the endeavor is according to the Big Man's plan.

We toasted with the Stoli Elit and Johnny Walker Black Stu and I brought. We ate. And we experienced the beauty of shabbos, which is no social media, or electronics -- just family and friends gathered to pray, reflect, and enjoy each other's company.

I bragged about Wifey's passion -- a FaceBook page about film noir, and the many wonderful comments she gets, including those from people thanking her for brightening dark times in their lives with vintage photos or amazing facts about the movies and actors. Yossi and Nechama said that was exactly the point of the week's Torah portion -- about Joseph -- and how he brightened the lives of others despite deprivation to himself. Luckily, Wifey is an only child so no siblings sold her into slavery -- but she has challenges and demons to slay like everyone else.

Meanwhile, the gorgeous Miami winter weather is back, and we're off this afternoon to the Children's Museum on Watson Island to meet the Ds and grandsons. The venue reminds me of when the Goodyear blimp lived there, along with the Chalks Airlines seaplanes. The Museum is awesome for little kids -- we've been before.

When D1 beats her retreat, we're seeing Lili and Jeff, who live 4 houses away but somehow we rarely socialize with. We'll make up for that this evening.

So last night was reflective and relaxing and thoughtful. Just like shabbos ought to be.

First World Problems Are The Best Problems

 So the other day I ran into an old acquaintance -- hadn't seen him in years. I asked what was up, and he volunteered "Well today I am six months sober!" I congratulated him, and told him I had no idea he had a problem with drugs or alcohol. It was alcohol. He then proceeded to tell me that his doctor wife had told him his drinking as an empty nester Dad was too much, and he was to move out and get it straight before moving ahead with life.

So he got an apartment, and did the whole recovery thing -- AA, therapy, psychiatry. He even got a scrip for that drug that you take and if you even get a hint of alcohol, it makes you violently ill. I couldn't imagine, short of chemotherapy, a more horrible pill to swallow. But it worked, and he was happy with his life without alcohol. The only unintended consequence: he realized he was FAR happier without his wife, after half a year of living without her -- and told her he wanted a divorce!

They have grown kids, and she earns probably more than he does -- so she'll probably get the house in Aventura and they'll just split the investment accounts. And he seemed quite happy, though a divorce after a 25 year marriage is stressful. Alas -- a first world problem.

I've been hearing about more and more of these lately -- probably because I live in the First World. Everyone I know has, as my late mother in law said, "what to eat," and shelter, and a car. There are grown kids with serious issues -- one of my dear friends' daughter married, unknowingly, a Nazi. Big problem -- but still a solveable one -- they're working on getting the young man to move back to Kentucky or Georgia or wherever he's from -- he despises living in Broward County, surrounded by unreal Americans (Jews and Hispanics). Of course, his wife is the daughter of two Cubans -- but somehow she was Qanon-ed in.

I always recall a long ago interview with Springsteen -- back when "Born in the USA" came out, and he went from star to superstar. Wifey and I saw him in the Summer of 1985 in the Orange Bowl -- greatest concert I had ever seen. I was reading about him in Rolling Stone, which we subscribed to for a few years when we were trying to keep non Yuppie cred, and the Boss was asked how he dealt with all the "pressure" of his career. I still recall his answer, which was that a man working in a coal mine supporting a wife and 4 kids who gets laid off has PRESSURE -- Bruce just writes and sings songs each day. The minor has pressure -- Bruce has fun.

He said it later on in another favorite line, where he called himself "A rich man in a poor man's shirt." I love that.

So I don't wish problems for my circle, but if they are to come, let them be of the First World type -- the kind that can be solved without the worry of basic necessities of life. They're the best problems to have.

Return to the Quotidian

 So Wifey and I agreed -- no going out for our 36th anniversary. We stayed in and she put on some "Making of the Sopranos" for me -- she does know my entertainment wheelhouse.

We got FaceTimes from the Ds, and the adorable 3 year old asked for us by name and threw kisses. It was delightful.

Today I stopped at Bagel Emporium on the way to the office. I picked a table in the back, thinking it would be quiet. As I was enjoying my eggs and reading the local Gables paper, a woman, who looked and sounded like a Temple Judea Sisterhood member took the table behind me, and began a VERY loud conversation with who I assumed was her daughter in another city -- about how they needed to do Pilates together, and how much she couldn't stand her son's girlfriend. It made for a good excuse to beat a hasty retreat -- next time I'll pick an outside table.

I'm on Brickell today, warming up Stu's chair, writing this and checking emails. Stu's on his way in -- maybe we'll have a salad together later, as non macho, hetero as that sounds.

The office looks out onto the corner of Brickell and SE 10th Street. The sidewalks are as busy with pedestrians as any part of NYC. And they're people who LIVE here -- workout clothes, dogs being walked, babies in strollers.

I'm always reminded how much this city has changed. Even when Paul and I opened our office on Brickell in 1995, it was just that -- offices. People lived on the very Southern part of Brickell, and that was it -- in a few bayside condos. Now it's a true neighborhood, not just office park. It's nice to see.

And to my left, on a bench on the North side of 10th, sure enough is the same homeless guy. He sits on that bench every single day watching the world go by. He looks about my age -- always dressed in khaki shorts and sneaks, with a backpack. When I wave hello or say hello, he does the same. I guess he truly embodies John Lennon's "Watching The Wheels." Just sitting there doing time.

I saw in the Gables paper that two events are coming up -- the King Mango Strut, and the Beaux Arts Festival. Maybe I'll get Wifey up early-ish this weekend for the King Mango -- always a fun time.

I texted the Ds about a family outing to UM for the Beaux Arts Festival -- D1 said her 3 year old would destroy the art. Ha -- we can distract him!

So 2023 is upon us. I just told Stu's secretary Carla I have zero predictions. I was convinced 2020 would be a banner year -- turn of the decade, the symbolism of perfect vision. Instead we got the Plague. I guess it did give us clear vision -- but of a world that's not so great.

Our next family event is early February -- D2 turns 31. Wow. How'd THAT happen? She was just recently a difficult but adorable toddler. Then she was a way cool high schooler, and like a week later a Phi Beta Kappa UF student. Now 31? Nah -- time must really warp.

So let's see what you have, 2023. Hopefully far more laughter than tears.

Double Chai

 I wasn't raised with much Jewish religion -- just a strong Zionist sense of who I was, from my proud parents, children of immigrants who fled pogroms in Eastern Europe, but retained great senses of humor. "A pogrom is a pogrom" was one of my Dad's favorite off color, politically incorrect jokes.

Anyway -- I knew that 18 was the number represented by the Hebrew letter Chai, and it stood for life, and therefore good luck -- hence the toast "L'Chaim!" -- To Life. But my friend Yossi the Rabbi has taught me a lot, including the lovely tradition of giving gifts in multiples of Chai.

Of course, with that same wise ass Ashkenazi humor, he tells me about the "L chaim" club -- congregants who give gifts of $18 and act as if they're major machers, or benefactors. Fortunately, over the years I was able to transcend being on of the L Chaim club.

Still, anyone who studies any Torah and Talmud knows that numbers have great significance -- from the number of mitzvot, or commandments for daily life (613) to places of certain letters in the Torah. I'm no scholar, but I DO notice when numbers are multiples of chai, and today is Wifey and my Double Chai anniversary.

Wow. 36 years. When I married I was 25, and I felt like a full grown ass man -- lawyer making money, mortgage on a suburban house -- the whole deal. Of course, a year and half later D1 would come, followed a bit over 3 years later by D2, and I truly learned, through my love and care of them, what being a real man was.

Men. Ha -- on a FaceBook (tm) memory, a corny photo of me and my groomsmen came up. It's funny to think about -- they were a snapshot of my most important dudes. A good amount has changed in more than three and a half decades -- but luckily much has stayed the same.

The youngest of the group was just 14 -- a fellow I call my former nephew, on account of he is. He was more like a little brother, to me and my close friends, from the days he stayed over at our college apartment. I recall well one night Ted Koeppel's "Nightline" was broadcast from Miami -- in the very same building as my wedding -- the adjacent Knight Center. We brought the young fellow -- and he fell asleep on my shoulder -- a cute scene that got me some good chick cred in the following days.

Well, sadly, he cut off all contact with me and the rest of the family, for reasons unclear and no longer important, and it will be permanent. He was my dear Mom's favorite -- and broke her heart in the last months of her life at the nursing home by failing to visit even a single time -- supposedly because seeing her in decline was too painful for him. Whatever. May he have a good life -- just kind of funny how closeness can turn to coldness and absence.

The group had two other fellows, Mark and Jeff, who went on to become very rich and successful doctors, on Long Island and North of Orlando. We keep in distant touch -- several years back Jeff and his wife and sons visited on our very anniversary -- but the closeness is over.

But as for Barry, Eric, Jeff and Mike -- well, they never left my inner circle and for that I am one lucky sonofabitch. Jeff no longer tailgates with us, but Barry, Eric, Mike and I still carry on most Fall Saturdays exactly as we did as young men -- and the three of them have sons who have carried on the tradition!

So time passes. People come; people go, as the classic line from "The Grand Hotel" teaches. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, true friends remain through the passing decades -- there to cry and laugh with you.

So happy double chai, Wifey. I spent all evening decorating the house with candles and rose petals, and have Barry White playing on the Sonos. Ha! That's young people stuff!

Wifey is sleeping in, and I am leaving soon for a session with Juan, my trainer. After the orgy of eating from T Day though NYE, we'll probably skip any sort of celebratory meal. Maybe a couple of coffees outside by the pool later -- dogs at our feet, and maybe a FaceTime from our Ds and their families. That'd be just fine.