An Awful Phone Call

 I met my banker friend Carole back in 1988, when I was working for my first Plaintiff's firm. She was the private banker at SunBank for my bosses and Paul, who would become my banker.

We hit it off right away -- she was born and raised in Miami, to Irish American parents originally from PA. She was a proud Nole, like I was a proud Cane, but she was also a Cane since her parents were UM grads, too.

I have never seen Carole anything but very UP. People say I'm optimistic and upbeat -- Carole makes me seem like a total Eeyore. When Paul and I started our firm, Carole stayed our banker, and when we moved into the now SunTrust building, we would see each other often -- often lunching or enjoying happy hours afterwards.

Back then, Paul and I were prized clients, and Carole got us very nice perks. I used to joke that I wanted a toaster each time we made a sizeable deposit -- she got us tickets to U2, and, if I remember correctly, Pink Floyd. The U2 show was great -- we rented a limo and went to Joe Robbie Stadium in style. It was a delightful evening.

Carole left SunTrust, and I always followed her -- usually with certificates of deposit -- just to keep our relationship going. I think I followed Carole to 7 different banks. A few years ago, though near retirement age, she went to a new bank, and I opened some CDs, there. I would typically keep accounts at her ex banks, too -- one was First Horizon. When I go to the branch, the old timers all ask after Carole.

We've shared many happy hours. When we open a new account, Carole typically would stop by here for a few bourbons as I had vodka. Wifey and I would chat for hours. She went to Israel pre Covid with her church group -- and she wanted a primer from us about things to see other than the Catholic stuff. I joked with her that I had been to Ireland twice -- and she -- never. That would change this Fall.

When each of the Ds were planning their weddings, we opened separate accounts -- they got to know Carole, too, and were always amazed at her happiness and attitude. Carole never married, or had kids, and that was one part of her life that's remained a mystery.

Her niece and nephews are like kids to her. Her niece Colleen is a journalist in St. Pete -- already winning awards there. Years ago she worked for the Herald, and I took her and Carole to a night of dinner and drinks at Captain's Tavern -- we had a terrific time talking about Carl Hiassen and the strangeness of Miami.

I really, really, dig Carole. She told me she was FINALLY going to Ireland -- to watch her beloved Noles play Ga Tech in Dublin. We talked about must sees -- I told her to NOT waste hours for the Book of Kells, and why. She was thankful.

I watched some of the game on TV at a deli as I had lunch with my grandson -- smiling that my friend was there. And then I hadn't heard from her for awhile -- I thought she was embarrassed by her team's historically bad season -- 0-3. But lots of times months would go by and then we'd catch up -- often a cocktail at Christy's or The Tavern or at Villa Wifey.

She called last night. I was home from lunch with my nephews of another mister -- Scott is hear visiting with his grandmother in a rehab/nursing home facility -- probably her last stop here on Earth. So I was already a bit down.

She sounded up, but not as much as usual. I asked about the Old Sod, and she said she had bad news --while there, she had awful pain in her ribs -- she thought she might have somehow fallen and not remembered. She went to the hospital and learned the truth -- the ribs WERE cracked, from a cancer that had been eating away at them. They wanted to keep her in Ireland, but she insisted on coming home -- they gave her pain meds and she did come. It took a few weeks to get into Miami Cancer Institute, even though she has very rich clients who helped -- and finally this week it all came into focus.

She has Stage IV breast cancer -- spread ALL over. Typical Carole -- upbeat about the fact that chemotherapy wasn't to be -- they're going to treat her with immunotherapy and, I guess, Radiation. She's already been needing her chest drained, and is on pain meds.

I've learned that when a friend shares tough news, the best approach is to listen -- not pepper with questions like whether she had mammograms, etc... And so I did, and she told me more details. She was prepared to do what her Indian born oncologist said -- he told her she was in for a rough ride.

And I googled her condition -- some women can indeed make it years after a Stage IV treatment. May that be Carole's course.

The Ds called me -- on their way home from some dinner at a restaurant that takes 5 months to get a reservation -- they took one from a friend whose husband didn't wish to go. They could tell I was down. They reminded me that a friend of theirs had Stage IV, and in fact lived 6 years -- cutting and styling hair up until nearly the end. I know the state of the art improves, it seems, monthly.

I said a prayer for Carole to the Big Man. She had asked for one from "my team" - she had already been to her Catholic church a few times. She is the primary caregiver for her 90 something Mom -- lives in a nursing home in South Dade. I guess her brother will have to step up now.

I hope to see her again. I told her to ask her doc -- but hopefully a few Makers can only help. She would let me know next week -- the time for that would be before she starts the more intensive meds.

Oh man -- that book from decades ago said it best, trying to explain when bad things happen to good people.

May my banker for decades rock on, for many more years.

After 50, It's One Thing After Another

 Eleven years ago, when Paul's second grandchild was born at Baptist Hospital in Kendall, I fetched him for a visit to have dinner at Salvatore D's. We ran into JL, a former Miami Commissioner and father in law of our old boss's boy Bobby. We always liked the affable "Miamuh" guy, and we chatted with him about aging -- Paul was battling chronic back pain. JL said "After 50, every day you wake up and SOMETHING is bothering you. Hopefully not something that'll kill you right away."

JL was right, of course, and he died a few years back at 85. Now that I'm 63, I think of his words each day.

So after an exam and CT scan, I was diagnosed with what I called OMN, for Old Man Neck -- tingling down my arm, and some decent intensity shoulder pain. Luckily, with good PT, my symptoms resolved, and I was fine...until I wasn't!

When I saw my affable doc Rigo, we talked about my tests, and he saw my last colonoscopy was 11 years ago -- I was supposed to have it last year and missed it. I ought to get it, he said, but also try Cologard, where you poop into a plastic bucket and send it off to Wisconsin. He set it up for me, and I got the box.

I did the test, and thought to myself that whoever receives these samples from all over has a really, really bad job. And sure enough, on Saturday, I got my result: the dreaded POSITIVE. Now, Dr. Rigo said not to worry, as I have lots of bleeding issues from an unfortunate inheritance from my Dad -- bad 'rhoids. But of course I need to have the colonoscopy, which I planned on anyway.

I'm so old the GI who did my last two, Neil, retired and moved to Boca, where I guess he meets other retired Miami docs and they grouse about their former careers and how awful they were except for the fact that they got rich doing it. Neil had a 7 figure watch collection, as I recall.

I had seen Dr. Shah for what I called Band Camp -- he placed some bands on my 'rhoids 3 years ago that helped a lot. I had decided to switch to him when Neil retired. Last year, I had a telehealth appointment with him when I thought some NSAIDS I was prescribed for shoulder pain had caused stomach ulcers. I NEVER have stomach pain, but did after these pain pills. Luckily I was better by the time we spoke, and I forgot to follow up with the endoscopy appointment. 

I told all this to Wifey, and she was her usual comforting self. Ha. As if! She said "Wow -- you NEVER forget to follow up with medical stuff. This is unlike you!" I told her that if in fact I have metastatic colon cancer, I guess she gets the ultimate "I told you so!" She didn't mean to make me feel worse, of course, but she did...

Anyway, I have a telehealth with Dr. Shah today, and then hopefully the scoping set up soon. I'm told there's now pills to take for the prep, instead of that awful gallons' worth of horrible tasting liquid -- it made me think I was drinking seawater.

Until I get the test, my anxious brain will take me to the darkest corners of cancer treatments. It's a major mental flaw I have -- don't worry about my health too much, until there's a symptom or two, and then I'm convinced it's all over.

Years ago, I had headaches, which I rarely have. I was convinced it was glioblastoma, and I'd have a year or so left -- I was already deciding whether or not to have treatment or just enjoy the time I had. My neighbor and now UM Chair of Neurology Jose ordered an MRI. I joked with him he CURED me -- it was normal. Also, he's Sephardic, and never heard the Borsht Belt joke about them examining my head and finding nothing. He liked it.

11 years ago, I had burping, and was convinced it was pancreatic cancer -- also a short life expectance diagnosis. I had the colonoscopy PLUS an upper -- and I DID have a real thing: h.Pylori. Fortunately Neil cured me with 3 meds, and confirmed the cure with a breath test to show the offending bacteria were gone.

And then there was the high PSA, also about 12 years ago. Back then, the standard called for a biopsy, which was negative. I then had another test -- an MRI. I knew the wait for those results would be another chance to plan my funeral, until Kenny called his Radiologist colleague (some woman is the prostate expert, funnily enough) and told me all was well on my drive back to the office.

And now so it is with my colon...

If my whistling past the graveyard finally fails -- well -- I'll simply deal with it. Since 4 days before I turned 21, I have been very aware that life is a fatal disease -- just hopefully not for awhile.

And there is something to look forward to -- propofol. I had it for my biopsy and second scoping -- milk of amnesia, Dr. Barry says they call it. For me, along with knocking me out like a light, it had an amazing side effect: when I awoke, I was totally anxiety free. I joked at the time they could have told me there was a shooter on the UF campus (D2 was in college then) and I would have said "Oh I'm sure she's ok."

The effects wore off in an hour or so, and I went back to worrying about my family and friends, but that post procedure period was sublime...

So I ask the Big Man to make this all fine. And then move onto the next insult to youth...

Successful Sleepover

 So our oldest grandson turns 5 in December, and had yet to have a sleepover with us. His parents have gone out of town, and a nanny PLUS family member stayed at the house, but the traditional sleepover never happened, on account of D1 and Joey are, well, a bit overprotective. Also, I worried that if the Little Guy got homesick, there would be a 35 minute midnight drive to re-home him from our house in Pinecrest.

As usual, D2 came up with a splendid solution. Her man was away at a bachelor's retreat in South Carolina -- why not have Little Man, and Wifey and me, stay over at HER house. This way, if there were any issues, we would be a four minute drive away.

So yesterday Wifey, the special needs Spaniel Bo, and I headed to D1's house -- and D2 came over with her enormous dog, Betsy. I wanted to watch the Canes game -- I had given my tickets to my consuegros, who love to go. Sure enough, the game was delayed 2.5 hours by lightning in the area -- but my consuegros hung out in the Club, having a great time.

Joey found the game for me on his smart tv, which is necessary since I am a dumb user. We poured a few cocktails, and brought in Pinch Kitchen for dinner. We left at halftime.

Well, the evening went wonderfully. Little Man never once mentioned his parents. Wifey and I popped him in between us on the guest king sized bed, along with the Spaniel Bo. He got to stay up way later than usual, and as I told him stories like I used to tell his Mother and Aunt, he fell deeply asleep. Wifey soon followed, but I was restless.

Around 130 am, I decamped to the living room couch, and Betsy was happy to have the company. I think I slept around 3 hours, tops. At 530, I heard talking and laughter from upstairs. Little Man had awoken, got into Wifey's face, and asked my whereabouts. She told him, and he turned to his IPad.

I knew that Bagel Barn East, our chosen provider, opened at 630. I called at 615 and they answered -- there WOULD be bagels. Little Man decided to accompany me, and spent the time looking over all of the delicious desserts, planning which ones he would have on future visits. The boy is VERY into his food.

We brought home the bagels, nova, cream cheese, and some cookies, along with a quart of chicken soup for D1 to fight a cold she picked up, and ate happily. The boy has non stop energy -- I always wonder how older guys marry younger women and become Dads again in their 50s and 60s. Actually, as I think about it, I get sweaty hands...

There was a walk down the hot, humid street. We met the nice neighbor D2 calls "Betsy's treat dealer," since she always has snacks for the dogs of the 'hood. We went to another neighbor who has a koi pond out front -- Little Man knew this -- and he fed them. Then it was back home, where his Tia D2 brought him a large Home Depot empty box so he could play "Evil Robot." He told me he was "Stealing all my power." On such little sleep, it was already gone.

Around 930, we drove home -- I played Santa Claus with the bagels and nova. Joey took Baby Man for a bike ride, and the Ds took Little Man to a Padel lesson. Wifey and I begged off -- we made it home in a half hour's drive, and I found my way to the sofa for a 1.5 hour nap. Wifey took one afterwards.

So now, we know we CAN have Little Man at our house. The following am, there WILL be bagels again -- though likely at LOL.

The Dolphins didn't lose today, as they didn't play, and so it was a fine football watching day for me. And Dr. Barry's team, the Jets, DID win, and I was happy for that -- he needs some cheering lately.

A new week awaits. Grandparenting is a lovely gig.

A Triggering Town

 My friends and I, all proudly anti-woke, love to make fun of the term "triggering." Whenever someone says something the other doesn't like, the faux plea is "Stop triggering me!"

If there is a place in South Florida that DOES trigger me, though, it's Delray Beach, particularly the western part of it. And yesterday I went up to Delray Hospital to be with close friends dealing with a very sick Mom.

I took the Turnpike, and exited Atlantic Avenue. As I drove East, I looked for the Publix in what used to be called the Oriole Shopping Plaza. Sure enough, there it was. The barber shop down one of the perpendicular sides of the Plaza was where my Dad died, in my arms, in July of 1982. Strike One.

I made my way down Jog Road to Delray Hospital, and three incidents there came flowing back from memory. The first was probably 1989 -- my Mom was with her friend Rose, and had some type of attack -- she forgot to take down her pants on the toilet, and couldn't recall how to use a spoon to eat yogurt. Rose called 911. They got me late in the office, and I drove up -- to find my Mom completely confused -- she thought FDR was president. I thought that was it -- she was just 70 or so, and I was convinced that was the end.

After a few days there, no one had any clues about her condition, so I signed her out against medical advice and took her back to Miami, and a visit to a neurologist my firm worked with, Alan Wagshul. Wifey took Mom to the visit -- I was at work -- and Alan said it was just a TIA, or transient ischemic attack. He was a Brooklyn boy, and told Mom she was just vermished, Yiddish for confused. And she in fact recovered completely -- but Delray Hospital was a bad experience.

Fast forward to 2009. D1 and her friend Lindsey drove from UF in a surprise visit. D1 lost control of her Volvo and smashed into the concrete barrier in the median. I got a call from D1's cell, and it wasn't her -- it was a panicked Lindsey -- she had already called 911. Lindsey was fine, and I did a quick triage about D1 -- she was able to move all toes and fingers, wasn't bleeding, and hadn't passed out. 

I calmly left the office -- later Mirta was shocked at how sanguine I appeared -- I tend to do well in crises. By then, our dear friend Eric was a senior doc at the hospital, and I called him and he met us in the ED. D1 had a broken hand, and the ortho who saw her said she'd need surgery when the swelling subsided. She was about to be discharged, and they called her back -- she also had a cracked vertebrae.

Turned out she did NOT need surgery, our hand surgeon friend Lew casted her and said she'd be fine with PT -- Wifey accompanied her back to UF and moved in with D1 and her roomies, the Laurens, on account that both were Lauren. Comical episodes ensued, as one of the Laurens was OCD, and Wifey kept undoing her OCD things, like opening or closing blinds. Thankfully D1 recovered -- but again -- a negative Delray memory.

The final one was in May of 2012 -- Mom was taken there after another fall. Eric said she was starving to death. I flew to UF, and drove back with D2 -- with a plan to drive Mom to Miami Jewish, her final home. We loaded her into the front seat, and D2 got in the back, working on her lap top. As we got on I-95, Mom slumped over. I was sure she was dead. Great -- I had now visited misery upon my daughter like I had -- a 3 county car ride with a corpse. There was nothing to do but push on -- I figured when we got to Little Haiti, the staff would deal with the aborted admission.

Around Hollywood she woke up. Ah -- gracias to the Big Man! D2 was none the wiser, and in fact we got her grandma settled in to Miami Jewish, where she lived her final 11 months.

Anyway, I steeled myself and spent several hours with my people -- sure enough -- Mom was to be transferred and WAS transferred today to a Boca rehab hospital, and then either home or to their nursing home. 

After the tensosity filled day, we went to an Italian place on Jog, and I came to a realization. Eric and Barry and I have been there for each other for the loss of just about all of our parents. Barry's Mom and Dana's Dad are the only survivors among the three couples' prior generation.

We toasted them, and realized how lucky we were to have the love and support of each other as the parents decline and pass away. The circle of life.

If I don't have to go to Delray any more, I won't be very sad. Too many ghosts there for me.

Easier To Give Than Receive

 One of my brothers is a true angel on earth -- gives so much to so many. He is a never ending source of wisdom and direction -- particularly on matters medical. When Wifey had her stroke, he was, of course, a star member of the Team Wifey I put together, who, along with our amazing neighbor and friend Jose, who happens to be a nationally recognized stroke expert, got Wifey through with flying colors.

But this brother has a flaw I see often with true givers: when the time comes to receive, they're not nearly so good at it.

Well, lately he's dealing with a family health crisis -- his mother, long suffering from a degenerative disease, has taken a turn for the worse. They're trying to tweak her meds, hoping for a hail mary kind of result, but likely he's about to enter the world where Wifey and I have a LOT of experience: long term care for declining parents.

My brother was even a bit reluctant to call upon fellow members of our inner circle, one of whom is the head honcho at a hospital where Mom is getting care! Fortunately he relented, and our man is overseeing things for her.

Of course, I shared what I knew, and reached out to others for connections to the current world of long term care. One friend has a connection to the leading geriatrician around, a fellow I met during my Mom and father in law's long tenure (well, for my father in law) at Miami Jewish. Hopefully this fellow can help.

And then this am I had a thought: our Rabbi friend deals a LOT with very old Jews! Sure enough, Rabbi had a light come on in his kup -- another Rabbi my brother knows runs a non profit with a case worker who is expert at knowing everything about every facility in South Florida -- which are great, which to avoid.

I'm hoping this woman ends up a female, frum version of Winston Wolf. Man, wouldn't that be grand? A true fixer who can get the tough transition from living at home to living with nursing assistance done, and done smoothly.

Wifey and I, after a lovely afternoon with the grandsons, and drive home through a late night storm, sat on the sofa last night, before the debate started, remembering those days when we were in the elder care business.

Ha. The debate. I don't particularly dig Harris, but to think anyone could vote for deranged Trump? A guy who claims that migrants are eating dogs in Ohio? That's for another time.

Anyway, we both know what a long slog it is. My Dad, of course, had the decency to drop at 63. No fuss, no muss for the family -- just checked out during a haircut, and other than setting me up for a lifetime of psychological issues stemming from that day -- all was cool.

But my Mom's decline was 4 years, from the time she was 89 and wrecked her car until she drifted off in a morphine sedated death 2 weeks after turning 93. My father in law had nearly 5 years in nursing care, after his Alzheimers got too involved for him to be cared for at home.

And my suegra? She got to torture Wifey for a lot longer -- all the years she stayed in her condo alone while Richard was in Miami Jewish, until he died and she insisted she needed to move RIGHT THEN, and NOT to an AFL. Wifey scrambled to ready an investment condo we owned ready -- after a comical goodbye with the schlumpy long term tenant we had, Lenny.

I charged Lenny $1K per month, with the proviso that he leave us alone for any minor repairs. I never raised his rent, even though at the end it should have doubled. And he did NOT bother us -- he just let stuff like missing toilet tank covers exist -- like a fraternity bro. We had agreed that either of us would give the other one month notice if we needed to end the tenancy.

I gave him 3, telling him we needed the place back for my ancient suegra. The guy nearly cried -- how could I? This was his HOME! He of course knew his rent was going to at least double elsewhere. He did move, however, and Wifey and I were stunned that a grown man could live like he was living.

$5K later, with dutiful handyman Nestor, the place was restored. My suegra lived there, with an aid during the day, and complained the entire time about being so lonely. Really? Ya think? Wifey took her, and hired a series of drivers to take her, to the casino and other events -- but no dice.

Finally Wifey realized she could no longer cater to her Mom's feelings -- Wifey and I were da captains, now. And so we got her into the Palace ALF, where she lived well for years, until "graduating" across the parking lot to nursing care.

Yep -- we were in that business for the 3 of them for a lot of years. I truly feel for my brother, though he is part of a loving, dedicated team with his sister.

I hope he can in fact accept help as well as he gives it. These times require it.

As for Wifey and me and the Ds? I already have a plan. If by some twist of fate, Wifey should go first, I plan to hire a series of Sofia Vergara looking aids to care for me -- cost be damned. Hopefully I'll have the sense to prevent one of them from becoming Wifey numero dos.

If I go first -- well then -- it'll suck to be the Ds. Hopefully there'll be plenty of money left.

Even if there is, I learned something in caring for the 3 Olds at the end. Plenty of people offer loving words -- but someone has to change the diapers. That's truly love, not just "Oh I feel so bad -- share your feelings with me."

I ask the Big Man to bring peace for my man and his family. These are NOT the fun parts of life.

Got A Call From An Old Friend, We Used to Be Real Close...

 So the capybara experience turned out to be a non starter. We met D1 and her men at Jungle Island, and she had pre-registered, giving all of our dates of birth. The surprisingly sharp young man at the ticket booth realized that Little Man was 4. You have to be 6 to experience the world's largest rodents, and despite the fact that Little Man is indeed the size of many 6 year olds, we were turned down. We got fat refunds, which was fine, and saw the attraction without the capys.

The boys saw the other animals and enjoyed the inflatable splash park. The place closed at 5, and we had told Little Man they had sloths. A very lovely park ranger, if that's what they're called, gave us a quick guided tour of the sloths, who were on branches acting, well, slothful. But it made for a nice end to the afternoon.

Wifey and I left, and stopped off at Titanic on our way home -- I've been cutting carbs the last 3 weeks in an attempt to go from circus-like to zaftig, and wanted their great chef's salad and chili. It was, all in all, a fine weekend.

And then this am I had a long call from a dear friend, about someone who used to be very close to him, but they haven't spoken in most of the year, on account of some sour business dealings. What did I think of the situation?

Well, I answered, I like to think I am first an empiricist, and in my experience, the analysis is whether your life is better, or worse, without the person. A third option is your life is no better or worse, and to me, that counts as a negative -- not worth the effort of reviving a friendship.

I've lost several along the way -- either acutely, or by chronic decay. The latter happens when we had many similar interests, or lived close by, and then that changed. The former is when either I or the other guy did something friendship ending.

One very close college and after friend asked me for a $50K loan to start what I thought was a questionable business. I refused, especially since I knew he had divorced and then remarried his wife, and had paid her serious 7 figures -- why not just get the money from her? "Oh no -- she says she'll never trust me -- she is holding the whole settlement."

I explained that a business loan I had given to another old college friend had gone bad, and I learned the friend was living a very high life, with a home in Coral Gables and private school for his kid, on, essentially, my dime. I pledged there would never be another family or friend loan -- only a gift -- with the exception of nuclear family members only -- since if they borrow money and don't pay it back, they just lose later on in Probate Court...

The friend said he always felt I was closer than a brother, and when I refused the loan, it was something he could never get past. I told him I was sorry he felt that way, wished him the best, and that, as they say, was that.

And now years later, is my life better or worse without this fellow? I'd have to say neutral, and that's ok.

Such was my morning advice, which I can dispense freely these days.

In any event, thankfully not much more going on, and as my Dad used to say, that's just the way I like it. Now if the Canes just keep winning...

Stadium Disorientation

 Man, I still miss the old Orange Bowl. First, it was the greatest place to watch big football games, after tailgating in the lots where many guests would arrive after negotiating parking prices for "no blockee " spots with the local Cubans. But also, as a semi circle, I always knew where I was -- the open end was to the East, and from there, I never got lost.

When the Canes moved to Joe Robbie, it was a different animal. The stadium is a rectangle, and oriented SE to NW. I always had a tough time figuring out the tailgate lots, despite overhead flag signs. And, a few years ago, they put in tunnels and bridges to prevent cars and pedestrians from meeting, and so often you have to walk up stairs, then down, and then up again.

For years, we would all meet in the Orange lot, typically Norman and Mike a few spots apart, providing great tailgate spots. That ended last year. Truth is, Joe Robbie, as I will always call it, has evolved into probably the premier venue for sports and entertainment in the US. They host F1, which is huge, built a new tennis stadium for the big Miami Open, and host concerts like the coming Taylor Swift. Wifey and I saw the Stones there in '17, the final show with drummer Charlie Watts before he went off into that great Paradiddle in the Sky.

Anyway, now the attendants direct you to where they want, and it's tough to pull up by your buddies. This year, I changed from Orange to Green, since the Green lot lets me exit onto 199 Street, and then I go west to 27th Avenue, driving through Carol City and singing Rick Ross's "Everyday I'm Hustling" as I make my way to the Palmetto. From the Orange Lot, you have to get on the Turnpike, go north for an exit, and then west. Not a big deal -- adds about 15 minutes to the drive home, but I change so little in my life, I figured Canes parking was a good exception. Yesterday was the first game of my new era.

I had a rare companion for the game: Wifey. She really doesn't like the heat, but agreed to go since kickoff was 6 pm. That didn't much matter -- we were hot as hell until nearly half time. She also went since we thought Donna was attending, and they sit in front of us. Alas, Dr. Barry and Donna couldn't come -- health issues with Beverly, Barry's Mom.

Anyway, we arrived at the gate just before 5, and the attendant directed me to the right, a row of spots just north of 199 Street. Mike and Jeannine and Chris were hosting a small tailgate, and Wifey and I hoofed it around the perimeter of the inner lots to find them. I was aided by my healthy red cup of Absolut Elyxx and ice. As the walk progressed, I got happier. We happened upon our friends.

Wifey chowed down -- Mike had brought Popeye's chicken, which Wifey would never buy herself, but found a guilty pleasure. I abstained from eating -- I'm cutting carbs and calories before Mike and Loni's girl Amanda's wedding, and figured I'd score an expensive bunless hot dog in the Club. I didn't -- we just bought Wifey an $8 water. On the way out, I gave $20 to a high school football player fundraising for Booker T High -- I figured the hot dog fee might as well go to a good cause.

Anyway, we made our way to our seats. Eric and Dana's kids Josh and Jenn were in our section in their parents' seats -- they were up in NY. Wifey and I went over to say hello to them and the 2 oldest grandkids, and I sent a video to the greatgrandparents of their loved ones.

And then the game -- a yawner, as expected. The Canes dominated. They truly look the best they have in over a decade, with our one year QB Cam Ward the best since Ken Dorsey, who won us a ring. We'll see.

I actually thought about leaving in the second quarter, but Wifey noticed it had gotten cooler, and so we stayed until the third. I thought the great FAMU band would perform -- they did not, just the anemic UM Band of the Hour, which seems more, these days, the band of the 15 minutes.

When we left, it was through the SE gate, which was close to Green. Still, we wandered around, despite directions from attendants. When we finally got to our row, Wifey asked if she could just sit and have me pick her up. I lied and told her the road was one way -- I feared some attendant wouldn't let me back track. Wifey joked how she had become my Mom, who famously LOATHED walking. But we slowed down, and Wifey made it.

We agreed she had served her football sentence for the season -- maybe for all time. We'll see next year.

So the Canes are great, and we had a fine time. Next Saturday we host Ball State, famous only for being David Letterman's alma mater. Ought to be another yawner. Hopefully Mirta will be my date -- she's letting me know this week.

Today, we're off in the afternoon to meet D1 and her men -- for the capybara experience. Hopefully for Wifey, there'll be less walking...

Outlive Day

 Yes, I'm morbid -- "Obituary Dave" I'm called on my Canes football text chat, as I'm usually the one telling people of a death of someone we know. Actually, Norman has been giving me  quite a run for my no money in that regard -- he's typically first with a celebrity death notice.

But last July, I turned 63, which was the last birthday my Dad ever celebrated, and I actually went to the calendar and calculated how many days PAST his 63rd birthday he lived. The same date for me was last Labor Day. I have now outlived my father by nearly 2 weeks.

Of course, I hope my lifespan is closer to my Mom's -- 93 instead of 63. But I never saw the point in pondering these ultimate questions -- when will this great party called my life end?

Paul and I discuss this ad nauseum. He told me for years that given his lifestyle, there was "no way" he'd live to 50, then 60, and absolutely NOT 70. Well, he turns 74 soon, and is off to a driving tour of Europe to celebrate, so his fatal predictions have been thankfully completely wrong.

All I know is what I've seen. With precious few outliers, people who live long seem to have a nice quality of life until the very late 80s -- then it goes to crap.

That was the case with my Mom -- at 89 she crashed her car, and thus began a long, tough descent until the final 11 months in a nursing home. Wifey's Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimers in his mid 80s, and went to a nursing home at 86 -- he lived there for 4 years, with the porpoising we often see -- he'd decline, sometimes to the point of ICU visits at Mt. Sinal Hospital, where they happily did "wallet biopsies"  with his Medicare AND Medicaid coverages, until he finally passed.

My mother in law was pretty together into her early 90s, but spent her final years in an ALF and then nursing home -- passing at 96.

So my less than stellar observation techniques tell me to savor the RIGHT NOW, and I do, each day.

And that doesn't mean actually doing that much -- I could take or leave travel, for example. But savoring walks, and time with friends, and good shows and reading -- and, of course, the sacred time with the Ds and their 4 men.

This am I got the Covid shot from Walgreens -- covered by my Obama Care PPO. I joked with the pharmacist -- asked her if I should get Gardasil -- the anti HPV shot given to pre sexual girls and boys to prevent cervical cancer. At first she couldn't tell if I was an idiot or joking, but when I let on, she doubled over in laughter -- and then told me that probably a Hep B jab was coming by next year for 65 plus. As a pro-vaxxer, I'll be in line for that one.

Tomorrow is the Canes home opener -- hopefully a yawner against FAMU. I recall, my freshman year, when they beat the Canes in Tally -- that was the last time 45 seasons ago. 

Since the game is at 6, Wifey is going! I know Mike is tailgating, and I have to see if Norman is -- but most of my beloved crew will be there. I bought a bottle of Absolut Elyx -- their premium brand. Hopefully there can be some early season shots.

And Sunday -- off with the grandsons to see the capybara experience at Jungle Island. So a fine weekend awaits.

Yes, I thank the Big Man for the days -- hopefully MANY more than Dad got. Boy, do I wish he could have met my family...

Tragedy of the Old Drivers

 So Monday there was a tragedy near MIA that really got to me: a 92 year old lady hit the gas instead of brake in her SUV and hit a mother and her 7 year old daughter, who were walking out of a pharmacy.

It was, of course, and accident -- the lady was given a ticket, but nothing criminal. The Mom was hurt, but the little girl was rushed to Dr. Barry's hospital. As of this am, per the Miami PD spokesman, it appears she won't survive, or if she does, maybe it would have been better she didn't.

I got angry -- why the hell is a 92 year old driving, particularly in this era or ride sharing. Probably for what the old lady pays for her car, she could have Uber or Lyft or even the free services many cities and villages here have. In Pinecrest, we have the FreeBee, which comes to fetch you anywhere and takes you anywhere in Pinecrest. You can truly do fine without a car in Miami-Dade County now, but I'm sure plenty of stubborn old folks simply don't want to give up "their freedom."

Of course, plenty of young, particularly teens and young 20s folks, are awful drivers and cause tragedies daily. But a person needs to know when to give up the keys.

Our family came close to tragedy in 2009. My Mom was 89, and still driving, but "only close to home." She was in a parking lot indeed close to Kings Point, where she lived, and put the car into reverse instead of drive, and described a semi circle around the lot, in which she crashed into 3 separate cars.

The Big Man was watching. No people were hurt -- just some old Buicks, I assumed, dented badly. A Palm Beach Sheriff's Deputy came, and got on the phone with me. He said he was taking Mom's license. I was so relieved no one was hurt, I didn't think to protest -- indeed it was a pain getting her a Florida ID to take the place of the license.

He also gave her a ticket, and I hired a ticket lawyer who handled that. Allstate, I think, paid all the damages to the other people, and offered her fair value on her car. Her driving days were over.

Our dear friend's Dad still drives at 93 -- and lives on D2 and Jonathan's street. They joke that when they see the Jaguar a-coming, they run inside.

Personally, if the day comes when I shouldn't drive, I'll welcome it. As it is, I take Uber more and more. If there's a dinner where Wifey doesn't want to drive home -- Uber is my ticket to that nice, healthy sized second martini.

The old lady near MIA wasn't drunk. Just too damn old. May the Big Man watch over the poor little girl and her family.