Changes

 So Monday afternoon I headed over to see my longtime family friend and former English professor Judy. It was a delightful 2.5 hour visit. Her house is a time machine -- all, except for an addition put on 5 years ago to house her daughter, grandson, and then newly sick son in law, is the same as it was when I visited in 1980. She led me to a chrome and leather chair, saying, "They don't look comfortable, but they are." I told her she told me that in 1980, and it was and is, true!

Sarah and Jacob joined us, and the talk was of Indiana U, where Jacob is enrolling this Fall -- his grandparents' alma mater. He's a delightful young man -- I only met him at his bris and at his grandfather's funeral -- but he is nice and charming and cool -- he and his best friend since pre school will be roommies at Bloomington. I told him my best friends and I, mostly, met when we were his age, and keeping these brothers was one of my life's biggest gifts.

Judy and I caught up on things past and present. I told her that as I approached 64 I had become insufferable to Wifey, with all of my wisdom and insight -- most of which is that the older wisdom and insight was WAY off. I told her about my CPA Mark's terrific mixed metaphor -- "Life sure does throw you wrinkles," and that I was going to adopt it as a new credo. 

Her son in law was diagnosed in his late 50s with the worst kind of Alzheimers -- Lewy Body Dementia. He has lived in a nursing home for years, and now, at 67, is essentially vegetative. Yes -- Judy knows about the wrinkles life throws you.

Wifey reminded me that Judy is an expert in Medieval Literature, and that D1 has developed quite an interest in those times. I think the two of them would enjoy a talk -- I told Judy I would set up another visit -- as I knew that when Jacob left for college, both Judy and Sarah would get some blues. Hopefully that happens in the Fall.

I had some business in the Grove with my crazy friend Joel, and I was minutes away, and so went to his house in The Moorings -- probably the best 'hood in Miami. He poured a vodka for me and said "Let's go out on my boat." I refused -- there had been a fatal crash earlier in the day that took the lives of 2 sailing campers, and was probably going to take the life of the 3rd. Fine, Joel said, let's just walk, but then using the persuasive powers that makes him a top Miami criminal defense guy, I was shanghaied and we were soon trolling out the canal, past the $40 million mansions of his 'hood. 

It was gorgeous on the Bay. I FaceTimed D2 -- she got a huge kick out of her Dad weekday drinking on a boat. Joel and I talked of life, and cases. He knew well Roy Black, who just died, and we talked of those days of yore when Miami had the top SA in the Country, Richard Gerstein, and top PD, Bennett Brummer. Those offices produced the top criminal lawyers in the US -- Joel's Dad Jack is one of them.

Joel and Courtney have 2 boys in college and one still in high school. I told him I was "only" 13 years away from taking my grandson to college -- and somehow kindergarten turns into college freshman year absurdly quickly.

So it was a real Manic Monday, as Prince wrote -- a great one.

Last night young Michael, the young PI lawyer I have been mentoring for a decade, asked to be inducted into the Fox's club -- our local tavern. We met -- the mentee is FAR smarter and more accomplished than the former mentor. We had a delightful time -- his wife is D1's dear friend and former sorority sister from UF -- and they have 2 boys close in age to our grandsons.

Ah -- the next generation. They'll learn more than I'll ever know, in this wonderful world of changes.

Tropical Birthday

 So my brother of another mother Barry turned 62 on Thursday, and that night went to The Palm with Donna and Josh for his birthday steak. Friday -- would we meet at Tropical Chinese, to keep the celebration going? OF COURSE we would.

I signed on to Eric and Dana's Zoom, and wished Godspeed to Josh and Alex and their kids -- left yesterday for a new start in Atlanta, close to Alex's sister and I think, moving from Boca mother. As Eric and I discussed ad nauseum during our 2 weeks in Central Europe, we can think we set up our lives and the adult lives of our kids a certain way, but then they show the truth of my twisted Billy Joel lyric: You don't care what I say anymore this is YOUR life.

I'm sure they'll soar there. Hell -- if you're otherwise happy with your life, you soar anywhere.

Wifey has a mah jonng friend, second generation Miami girl, whose 90 something mother just died. Karen sold the Grove Isle apartment, and initially decided to move to Williams Island, like many empty nester (and no longer caring for extreme elder parents) types do. But now she told Wifey she has a nephew and niece in, of all places, Birmingham, AL. What, Wifey asked, did I know about that place.

Well, as a Skynnerd fan, I know they love the governor there. Other than that, I see it routinely pops up on the list of "20 most miserable cities in the US," according to those articles based on, well, who knows? I know I would look at a move to Birmingham like a prison sentence. Truth is, I'd look at a move to Atlanta as one, too -- but maybe more of a minimum security, prison-camp type sentence.

But these are not my calls. All I do know is, if you have the means and opportunity -- use them to truly decide where you want to live -- and do it! Often jobs decide, or health issues, or economics. I got a call the other week from a young IT guy who simply couldn't afford South Florida -- he found a gorgeous house in a smaller NC city and is happy as a clam there. So I get that.

As for me -- well -- I spent a lot of time with the thought experiments involved in downsizing to a smaller house in Miami Shores -- hell -- staying in County. And the conclusion of these experiments was -- nah -- I like it just where I am. Wifey is none too pleased -- but she plays the long game -- a rich widowhood will let her go wherever she chooses. She might even pick Atlanta!

Meanwhile, Friday was delightful -- we talked of old times and today, and realized we've been celebrating this birthday thing together for more than 4 and a half decades. Barry ordered some exotic vodka and sake cocktails, and I strayed from my usual vodka only in his honor. I toasted that he make it to 120!

Yesterday, Wifey and I watched Part II of the great Billy Joel bio. We really enjoyed it -- he's a long time favorite, and a true Nassau County blue collar Jew like me. Of course, he couldn't make a permanent go of it with 3 wives, including a super model. I've kept MY super model nearly 39 years...

Another week awaits. Norman noted that there were FAR too many July deaths -- foremost to us, of course, 2 great Dads -- Max and Bill. We're all hoping for this month to end -- and it will, on Thursday. 

Far better to celebrate birthdays than attend funerals. Hopefully that trend stays for awhile...

A Possible Reunion

 So my second semester freshman year at UM, Spring of 1980, was the beginning of transition for me. No -- I had no desire to become a chick, and heaven knows how much easier my life may have been as a gay man, if I could have just stomached the sex part. It was the beginning of a transition from Biology major to English major -- and the transition would take until middle of my junior year.

I was taking freshman Biology and Chemistry and getting Bs in both, but really only loving my Humanities classes -- English and Religion. And my second semester English prof was a woman named Judy, who immediately reminded me of my older sister, since they kind of looked alike and were both Queens Jewish women -- about the same age. But Judy's life path was far different from my sister's -- she was a PhD in Medieval Literature, and married to a doctor scientist, Bob, who was vice chair of Neurology at the med school.

By the end of the semester, we had become close family friends. Bob and Judy had me babysit their kids, Sarah and Ari, and they had me over for dinners in their book infested house in the Gables. I looked up to them -- imagining someday having a house like that -- filled with books and really cool art -- with 2 VERY smart kids, who both, ironically, had learning disorders. They still did fine -- Sarah became a master chef who later opened a catering business, and though her husband has been disabled with Alzheimer's for years, her son is now the age I was when I met her family -- an incoming freshman at his grandparents' alma mater, Indiana U. Ari is an IT guy, who moved with his wife and son, now 12, to North Carolina.

Alas, Bob died a few years back -- a truly accomplished man who always wanted to be a History professor but his immigrant Jewish parents insisted on medical school. And he did fine there -- mentoring many -- including my neighbor Jose, who is the current Neurology Chair and a national stroke expert.

But back to my undergraduate days...Judy encouraged me to stick with pre-med, as she thought I'd be a fine doctor, a closeted humanist like her husband. But sophomore year crap started getting real -- Organic Chem, the classic weed out pre med class, befuddled me. I got Cs both semesters, and figured my chances of med school, at least in the US, were dashed. But Bob hired me as a lab assistant, and I spent the Summer butchering frogs in an attempt to extract their spinal cords for research he and John, his PhD, did on GABA. I ended up making it as a "co-author" of several scientific articles, though in fact I was just a frog butcherer.

Bob assured me he would "get me into med school, despite the Cs in Organic (and Calculus, another class that was screaming to me maybe I had chosen the wrong path)." So I soldiered on, and then first semester junior year, knew it was time to switch, and I did, though I already had enough credits to be a Chemistry minor. Sure enough, that first semester as an English major, I got  a 4.0, and LOVED my classes. I had found myself, at least intellectually. Philosophically, I'm still looking for myself -- especially in the dark.

Now Judy took over as my career mentor, and I still remember a long talk over dinner at her house, where I asked her which PhD programs I should apply to, to become a professor like she was. "None," was her clear reply. She explained that now, at the end of the Baby Boom years, there was a surfeit (a word my Organic Professor Harry Schultz used) of academics, and "Harvard PhDs are waiting tables in Boston."

And then Judy came hard with the emmes: "You're a nice Jewish boy who will someday have a family and want to support them, and you won't be able to as a college professor. Go to law school."

What? I never thought about law school -- the Pre Law guys I knew were all jerks, and the law never particularly interested me. But thankfully I listened to Judy, and followed her advice, and, like the less traveled path of Robert Frost fame, has made all the difference.

I lucked, largely, into a VERY lucrative career, providing for my family beyond my wildest dreams, and living in a house I couldn't have even really considered, let alone taking trips that I never imagined, let alone setting up my kids and grandkids with, as Paul likes to call what HE did for his family, "generational wealth."

I never much did come to love the law stuff, but the business part of it was fine, and at least we made our money on the right side of cases -- like Robin Hoods -- stealing from rich insurers and companies and giving it to the poor, while keeping a third or 40% as our fee...

Anyway, Judy and I reconnected this week. She's had a rough time of it -- decades of a chronic fatigue syndrome that cut short her career. But she's soldiered on as an awesome Mom and grandmother -- her daughter and grandson live with her in an addition to the house completed just before Bob died.

We're trying to work out a reunion -- hopefully next week I can get over in the afternoon, when her energy is highest. I plan to stop at Madruga, the gourmet bakery D1's friend owns and runs, with her Dad, who founded Pollo Tropical, despite being a garden variety American Jew. Hey -- Miami.

Judy and I have a LOT to catch up on, and I plan to mostly listen. Her wisdom helped guide my professional life four and a half decades ago. If I've learned nothing else in my 64 years, I've learned to listen to people who truly know.

Meanwhile, today will be spent with a very close friend who needs some legal consigliere help -- while Wifey re-homes the enormous puppy Betsy and skittish Spaniel Lemon. We'll be back to just the special needs Spaniel Bo -- low energy like we need our dogs to be.

But hopefully I get to reconnect with my old professor -- I'll thank her again for her most sage advice.

Of The Lord and Man

 So Sunday afternoon I headed over to the Gables Club, for Max's shiva. Wifey skipped out on account of she felt she had enough funeral related activities for awhile, but when I arrived I met Eric and Dana -- looking through old Beach High yearbooks where Dana spotted relatives. Sadly, they couldn't stay -- they had a SECOND shiva to attend, for a 50 something nurse who dropped for an aneurism. Eric said it was his first double header shiva -- would he get shiva points? I noted that "Shiva Points" would be a great name for a Death Metal Klezmer band...

Anyway, I was so happy and proud of Eric and Dana -- the drive from Boca to Gables was well over an hour, and they did it to honor our dear friend Norman. Later on, before the service, Paul and Patricia came, too, from Aventura, another monumental schlep -- also to honor our dear friend. Barry and Donna had driven down the night before, from Broward.

And it occurred to me, it's no coincidence that those in my inner circle all did this. Basically, to be in my inner circle, you have to be a great parent. No excuses for not being. And you have to love and be loyal to the other members of said circle -- even at great inconvenience and annoyance to yourself.

I ended up staying 5 hours -- talking with Norman about old times and current, and his amazing siblings and some nieces and nephews. We realized connections -- Norman's niece and nephew Max and Stephanie live blocks away, and share close friends with D1, who are also Devonwood neighbors.

We reflected on the amazing life of an amazing man -- one who gave so much of himself to those he loved, always with total optimism.

I think of his sayings all the time -- a key one being that "a problem that can be solved with money is NOT a real problem." Of course, as my friend Mirta points out, that is spoken by a man WITH money, but even someone without can borrow, beg, or steal money if needed. Some problems surpass what can be solved.

Yesterday our affable Israeli locksmith Kobi came over -- to fix a broken door to the pool and replace the last of the original deadbolt locks on this house of many doors. The house has 20 doors, not counting the garage one. Each has a deadbolt, and amazingly, some of them have lasted nearly 30 years.

It's funny -- we moved into a "new" house -- it was just 3 years old. And then decades happened. As Willie Nelson wrote and sang, it's funny how time slips away...

Speaking of which, the news came about the death of Roy Black, probably the best criminal defense lawyer in the US. He passed today, at 80. I met him several times -- he was truly an amazing lawyer. He referred us a med mal case once, which turned out to NOT be a case, and that was it. The reasons no more referrals came are comical, but for the time being, must be kept out of public view...

The week before, another top lawyer , Bob Josephsberg, died as well. He dropped at a conference table during a deposition -- at 86! I can't decide if his death was better or worse than Nelson Rockefeller's back when I was in high school. I just recall that the former Governor and VP's death didn't make his wife Happy very happy...

The point is, as John Donne knew, we need not worry about for whom the death bell tolls -- it tolls for all of us, eventually.

And if we can have lives like Max -- well -- that's as good as it gets. And for me, having the kind of friends I have, and who they are -- that makes the journey truly exquisite.

A Tale Of Two Funerals

 I keep telling Wifey I know I've become insufferable lately -- claiming to have come to all of these life affirming conclusions -- turning into the Mr. Know it All I always made fun of. Fortunately, the conclusions are that I really thought I WAS Mr. Know it All, but realize I know much less -- particularly about human nature, that most crucial study there is.

Anyway, my birthday dawned, and I put on a suit for only the second time this year -- the last was for my nephew of another brother Scott's wedding. This time Wifey and I drove to Beth David, the old synagogue in The Roads, for my friend Norman's Dad's funeral. The place holds special meaning for us. In 1960 new Israeli immigrants, my in laws, moved to that neighborhood, and my suegra brought 4 year old Wifey over to enroll her in the pre school. Being clueless of all things American, she had no idea that the school year was well under way, and they didn't accept latecomers.

Well, they made an exception, and Wifey began her journey as an American, coming home crying each day as all the other kids only spoke English and she only spoke Hebrew. She came around fast enough, and now, sadly, the Hebrew is mostly gone for her -- some of the Yiddish, which her parents also spoke, remains, though I may actually know more words since I'm such an old soul and think, often, like my parents did.

Years later -- 1992 in fact, our house in Kendall was mistroyed, as adorable D1 noted, by Hurricane Andrew, and we moved to Brickell, too far from the JCC D1 was to attend. Wifey took D1 to Beth David, and they reprised their kindness -- taking in the adorable Andrew refugee. I wrote a letter to the Board thanking them, for their understanding in both 1960 and 1992, and they published it.

Anyway, Max's service was beautiful and moving -- Norman spoke last and from the heart about this true angel on earth who was his Dad -- his many accomplishments, and lessons of love. After, we drove to Mt. Sinai, an old cemetery, and did the mitzvot of helping cover the grave with earth.

Not the way I wished to spend my birthday, but I wouldn't have dreamed of not paying proper respect to a great man -- I'll head over to shiva tonight at his condo at Gables Club --- I think Eric and Dana may come, too.

And then came the epiphany. Of the two funerals of friends' Dads, the men were VERY different. Bill was a wild man -- partied a LOT -- cursed a LOT (especially when his Eagles lost) and engaged in lots of activities Max maybe saw on films but no sooner would have done than drunk Drano, to use my old boss Ed's expression. There would never be a street named after Bill, as there is for Max, for his contributions to business in a growing area. Bill worked for years for his son.

Still, both men were greatly mourned -- Max by a very large family, and Bill by many friends and his only child and 2 grandkids. And so the epiphany is: if you give love to your family unconditionally, as both men did, and make them know how important they are to you, then that life was well lived, whether you were a saint or a sinner. 

Barry met us at the cemetery, and planned to go to D1's house to see the boys, but first we had the business of lunch, and we met at Caracas Bakery in MiMo, which has, arguably, the best sandwiches in town. From there, on to D1, where I poured us some Ketel Oranjes, to toast Max and my birthday and Barry's upcoming 62nd, and spent precious hours with the energetic grandsons.

At 630, Barry left, and Jonathan had come by to toast with us, and the grown up members of the family went to The Palm, where, comically, Paul and Patricia had invited themselves. I said only family, and as Paul noted, they ARE.

The dinner was grand, and as Paul noted, much good natured fun was made of Wifey, who has learned to understand that it is her Ds' "language of love" to point out her many quirks (and there are many). The drive home was joyful, too, as some old anecdotes recalled by D2, who drove, prompted breathless laughter from the rest of us.

Beginning of my 65th year was now accomplished.

Yesterday D1 brought the boys over, and her old friend Macarena came by, too -- we hadn't seen her for over a decade, and we had another lovely day, as Bill Withers sang about.

So on to my next year, with a clear goal in mind: to make it to 65 and finally enjoy some of the Medicare benefits I've been paying for since I had my first taxes withheld in 1976 when I was 15! Bastards OWE me!

I know I'll probably wait until 70 to collect Social Security, but may opt to start at 67, my "full retirement" age. We'll see...

Oh yeah -- I also plan to keep the love coming for those who mean so much to me. Last night crazy Sheryl from Boston called -- to wish me happy birthday and follow up with whether I had contact with a recent widower friend about fixing them up. I had not. Her plans are to build an addition onto her house, and let her only partially launched son and his fiancee live in her main house. Would I ever do this, she asked? I reminded her that we were just 2 generations (in her case 3) from poor immigrants packing entire families into tenements in turn of the century (the LAST one) America -- so I COULD do it -- but --hell nah! I adore my Ds and their families, but enjoy the distance, moderate as it is.

As I noted -- part of being that insufferable aging dude.

Birthday Funeral

 Tomorrow I turn 64, and I'll be spending the better part of the day honoring a man who had his final birthday: my dear friend Norman's Dad Max.

I've met few real patriarchs or matriarchs in my travels. My son in law's grandma Judy is a true matriarch -- ruling over her family with velvet strength, generosity, and love. And Max was a true patriarch, a man who lived a VERY full life.

I met Max at Norman's first wedding, in law school, and got to know him much better decades later. His origin story was like MY Dad's -- Bronx born son of Jewish immigrants, WWII service. But Max moved to Miami Beach, and there met his life's love Barbara, an exotic Jewess from England! Barbara passed years ago, and Max never even considered dating -- Barbara was the gift the Big Man gave him and that was that.

Since I lost My Dad so young, I have gravitated over the years to DOFs (Dads of Friends) and these men have given me so much in my life. I got to spend some fine times with Max -- though he just died at 97, he was still attending Canes basketball games last season, and Norman had just renewed the tickets for the upcoming one. There were meals together, and parties at Norman's house, when those still happened.

I always marveled at how Max's 4 kids, and numerous grandkids and great grandkids, were jealous of his time, and he had time for all of them. There was no hint that he was ever a burden, or tolerated by the  young ones -- exactly the opposite.

When his grandson Benji performed at a local jazz club, D2 and I went, and sat with Norman and Max. IPhones were sort of new, and I was amazed to see Max explaining to D2 how he "jailbreaked" his. D2 still laughs at that.

And as I just reminded Norman, my best memory of Max unfortunately involves pain to Norman -- a literal stick in the eye. Norman had asked if I could give him a ride to Bascom Palmer for an eye procedure, and when I arrived at his house, Max was there -- coming along to support his son, too. There was an hours long delay, and Max and I sat for the time in the patio area of the eye hospital -- talking of life. I treasure that day forever -- it's when Max told me something I take to this day: "A problem that can be solved with money is NOT a real problem." Of course, it's nice to have money, which Max had plenty of -- but it's true. Some things in life are beyond our help -- things you can buy your way out of -- not so much.

Norman finally came out of the procedure, with patched eye, and felt badly I had spent the entire day waiting. Nothing could be farther from the truth -- as an added benefit, we had killed some of the time visiting Dr. Barry at his office. Other than the stick in Norman's eye, it was the most quality Max time I ever had, and it was wonderful.

Max was extremely generous -- giving his family gifts and mortgages so they could buy their first houses and condos. A few years back, the City of Doral honored him by naming a street after him -- he was a pioneer doing business in the now booming city, when it was just farms with MIA bound jets rumbling over it.

So the funeral is at Beth David, a congregation he helped found, and the burial at Mt. Sinai, a VERY old Miami Jewish cemetery -- he'll be reunited with his beloved Barbara. We'll honor and bury a truly great and, as my friend Kenny noted about his father, more importantly GOOD man.

It's funny -- I was once at a Jewish funeral with a gentile friend, and they were horrified at how we all took turns shoveling the earth -- like we were eager to "get rid of the guy." I explained in Jewish tradition it was precisely the opposite -- burying someone is the ultimate mitzvah, or commanded good deed -- it is one the object of can NEVER repay.

There's a shiva at Max's condo afterwards, but we need to miss that. We're gathering at D1's house to late celebrate Baby Man's 3rd birthday -- he was busy last Friday, and we only FaceTimed with him. We haven't seen him or Little Man in a few weeks -- Little Man took his Mom to Chicago and got to have "the best day of his life" at the Field Museum.

After, we have a grown up pregame at D2's house, before my birthday dinner with family, at The Palm. I know Max would approve of celebrating life -- once proper respects to the departed have been paid.

Wifey noted the MANY deaths lately -- since her sister of another mister Elizabeth died in her sleep in May of 2021. Recently Kenny's Dad Manny, Jeannette's husband Bob, Loni's Dad Don, and most recently Bill -- Stu's Dad. We also lost our friend Susan who just turned 64.

As Kenny points out -- it's just a matter of mortality tables -- the longer we live, the more we lose.

Max was a happy outlier -- nearing 98 and really ok until the final weeks. We'll honor him tomorrow, and then I'll get back to the business of living -- the year I become, hopefully, eligible for Medicare. Wow -- how did THAT happen to this UM freshman?

Time, Birthdays, and Yahrzeits

 July 14th -- Bastille Day. It's also my dear friend Mike's birthday -- he's 4 days older than I. I texted him our usual guy ball busting message -- hopefully Loni will role play with him at their NC vacation home.

I also posted Alan Parsons' "Time, " which became Norman and my song years ago on Wifey's 60th birthday cruise. We overpaid dearly for Crystal Lines, but they did have an excellent pianist -- for reasons now foggy Norman and I asked him to play some Parsons, and the only song he knew was the less than festive dirge about the passage of time. Apparently, it's a favorite at British funerals -- along with the song I would have: "Always Look On The Bright Side of Life."

Anyway, the co-writer and lead singer on the song was Eric Woolfson, a Scottish Jew, and I pointed out on our text chat that he died at...that's right! 64! I need to maintain my nickname of "Obituary Dave," and realizing a songwriter died at the age of my cohorts' upcoming birthday is golden!

Saturday was a banner evening -- delicious dinner at Bourbon Steak -- and even finer company. Eric and I go back to 1979, Barry joined the band in 1980, and Paul in 1988. Talk about time flowing like a river...

I acquitted myself with 3 Ketels, and Wifey kindly drove us home, as we debriefed on the lives of our dear friends. Paul turns 75 in September, so he has an additional decade of life experience, but we late stage Boomers seem to be gaining some wisdom as we near Medicare eligibility -- particularly on the nature of our adult kids and now grandkids.

In fact, I have been SO happy lately, that I forgot, for most of the morning, the fact that today also marks the anniversary of the worst day of my life: Hy dying in my arms in the Delray barber shop. D2 reminded me -- she was going to light a candle for him later, a man she never met but knows because of a lifetime of hearing tales of him and what he meant to me.

Man -- what a day. Dad had asked me to go with him and Mom for his post hospital checkup, and I was annoyed. I had met some cool Wisconsin girls through my co-worker at Jordan Marsh in Boca, Donna, and we had a beach day planned. Hadn't I already done enough -- taking care of Mom during Dad's fortnight in the hospital? I mean -- he was fine -- he survived a heart attack -- couldn't he and Mom just go to his appointment and leave me to go back to being a 20 year old young, dumb, and full of ...vitality?

Dad said if if the doc wanted to re-admit him, he wanted me there. FINE. I could never refuse him -- I loved and adored him so, and sure enough the visit with Dr. Heller was routine -- these were days before statins, and Heller said to Dad -- maybe lay off the meat and eat more fish. After that, we went to Morrison's cafeteria, and Dad followed his advice -- getting the fish -- I got, I still remember, the brisket. Given that Dad's last meal was one he did NOT prefer -- I tend to go for the NY Strip when offered...

Anyway, after that he wanted a haircut, and so we drove to a strip center on Atlantic near the Turnpike -- Mom went to the Publix, Dad sat in the chair, and I noticed the fact that his haircutter was kind of cute and punk -- she had purple hair and tatoos. I was sitting behind, reading a magazine, and heard her yell "Sir! Sir!" Dad had slumped over and died.

Oh -- we gave him CPR (I still remember smelling the onions on his breath from that last fish meal) and the paramedics arrived and put him on a "thumper," but I knew he was gone. Mom came in, and I held her as they wheeled him out, and I told her "Everything will be all right" knowing it was a lie -- everything was about to CHANGE -- a lot.

We followed the rescue truck to Bethesda, and went inside, and they led us to a room.  About 20 minutes later a young ED doc came out, and they fumbled to assemble what I assumed was the "bereavement team," with a nurse and social worker. After waiting there like schmucks for these functionaries to arrive, I finally said to the doc "Dad died, right?" He nodded yes, and that was it. Neither Mom nor I needed to see his body -- and I simply told the late arriving social worker to please call The Neptune Society  where he had pre-arranged cremation.

And that, as they say, was that.

I turned 21 and had to become the real man of the family. I slept walked through my senior year of college -- applied to UF and UM Law -- got into both, but knew well Mom needed me close, to Gainesville was out.

And the Big Man must have had a plan and a nice one for me. Within 3 weeks in late Summer of 1983, I met Mike, my friend Jeff, and most significantly the person for whom I would buy a villa and name it after: Wifey.

So 1982 was my worst year -- heartbreak from a girlfriend in January, and the much worse loss of my man in July. But 10 years later? The birth of my precious D2, and making it big in the law biz.

Indeed time keeps flowing -- carrying away lovers and friends and ultimately all of us. In the mean time, this Friday I turn 64 -- and plan to celebrate with yet another NY Strip -- this time at the Palm. Little Man and Baby Man had busy weekends -- in Chicago and Naples, respectively. The plan is to go up early Friday and celebrate Baby Man's birthday late -- he turned 3 7/11 and we just got to FaceTime (tm) with him. A late cake awaits, which his brother will find more important than he will...

And I plan to toast my amazing family and friends -- all of us traveling together on this mortal coil. Life brings sadness, but also exquisiteness. That's the lesson to understand.

A Tale of Two Steaks

 A good steakhouse is probably my favorite kind of restaurant -- I guess it harkens back to my childhood, before I learned to eat more sophisticated fare.

On account of wanting to maybe live a BIT longer, I don't eat steak all the time. That said, my recently departed friend Bill Share "never ordered the chicken" and he enjoyed his life until 90. So who knows?

I do know that Wifey and I are off soon to Aventura, to Bourbon Steak, to meet Drs. Barry and Eric, Donna and Dana, and Paul and Patricia. Bourbon is an elegant place -- the chef has a Michelin star -- we've been before and they are NOT shy about their prices. Tonight, though, since we did a nice job for a client and he thanked us with several generous gift certificates, we have $350 paid for off the top. That's good for maybe 3 steaks.

The main draw, though, is the company. I love being with my brothers and sisters, and tonight we have a lot to celebrate -- especially the fact that we're all standing up, mostly. Barry and Donna are the only non grandparents (Patricia is a step abuela), and we have to solve all of our kids' and grandkids' problems during the allotted few hours. Ha. As if.

As one of my 3 new credos goes, "You don't care what I say anymore...this is YOUR life." Accepting that has given me such inner peace.

Discovery Channel has "Shark Week," and I told Wifey yesterday began "Dave Week," since my birthday is coming up on Friday. Not really, but maybe a little.

Next Friday is ANOTHER steakhouse -- The Palm -- my favorite -- in Bay Harbor. That's just Wifey and the Ds and men -- but Paul included himself and Patricia, too , which if fine, since we have that relationship. Of course, he then suggested other people I might invite -- ain't happening.

If I've learned anything about birthdays in advancing years, it's that you have to do it YOUR WAY, since the time has long passed to worry about pleasing everyone else.

So I'll take an extra Crestor or two -- and enjoy tonight and Friday.

It's that time of year!

The Flood of Texas

 Oh boy, what a tragedy in Texas -- floods that have killed so many -- most horribly summer campers along the main flooded river. Last I saw, the death toll was 200, and will go higher -- lots of people are still missing.

Of course, the tragedy brought out the best in everyone, particularly Liberals known for their good hearts. Ha. As if! One former Houston mayoral aid, a Black woman, dismissed the tragedy since it was mostly "rich, white girls" who were swept away, lamenting that it only got press since it wasn't POC -- people of color affected. Worse, a PEDIATRICIAN, of all professionals, noted that many of the people affected were likely Trump voters (or, I guess, their families -- since scores of those killed were children), and only hoped the "non MAGA" people were saved. They fired her stupid, cruel ass from her practice, fortunately.

But, as Mr. Rogers taught, there are also the helpers, and I was proud to see the Miami Dade Urban Search and Rescue team flew to Texas, with 2 gorgeous Yellow Labs, to assist in the searches. And I finally paid attention to a charity I had heard about, GEM, or Global Empowerment Mission, based here in Doral.

It was founded by Michael Caponni, a former South Beach party boy club promoter who hit it big in real estate, and followed a predictable path: drug addiction and nearly killing himself and a girlfriend in a boat crash. But he got himself together and started GEM, which is non political, and non religious, but specializes in getting critical stuff to disasters around the world. Their first was the Haitian earthquake, where they were lauded for helping so many in that woebegone nation. I made my first donation to GEM today, and think they'll replace FIU on my annual list, as FIU's Public Health School seems to have forgotten about us -- no word from the new "Giving Director" there since last year.

Speaking of FIU, the news reported that the Business School Dean's wife and adult daughter are missing from their riverfront house and presumed dead. Earlier in the week, we learned that David Lawrence, a leading Miami philanthropist and former publisher of the Herald, lost THREE of his granddaughters, who were at the main summer camp affected: Mystic. Twin 8 year olds and an 11 year old.

Lawrence is an awesome guy -- I met him briefly years ago at a UM event -- he founded the Children's Trust, which has given millions to Miami Dade kids' education and health care programs. What a tragic irony that a man who has done so much for kids has lost his own so awfully.

Today starts my birthday week, and I have decided this year I want LOTS of gifts! Ha. I even told D1, who always comes up with creative and lovely gifts, to please stop giving me stuff. When she was in the library the other day, she saw a custom puzzle she had ordered sitting on a table, unused.

I'm not sure why I developed almost an allergy to stuff -- maybe it was losing so much of it in Hurricane Andrew. Maybe it's my growing OCD and my revulsion to clutter. But my family knows -- no more stuff -- though bottles of Stoli Elit, or maybe some Johnny Walker Blue, to keep for sipping with guests on special occasions, is always welcomed!

So instead, I realized what I enjoy most -- giving charity. I LOVE how Sinatra used to do it -- read about a local need in the Deseret News in Palm Springs, and then had his Beverly Hills lawyers anonymously send a donation, telling them "If anyone finds out about this, I'll fire you and hire NEW Jew lawyers!" I also loved Sinatra's lack of political correctness -- especially since he walked the walk of non racism and philo-semitism -- he wouldn't play in a hotel where his Black musicians couldn't stay, and his contributions to the founding of Israel explain why his name is on lots of stuff there.

But I can do it on a small scale, and I do. This week Lotus House got a donation -- an amazing facility started by a rich retired lawyer woman which has grown into the largest facility for homeless women and children in the US -- no asshole abusing men allowed anywhere near the place.

And I gave to Chabad of Texas, for more flood relief -- they do a good job of actually getting stuff to victims -- regardless of their religion.

But the Texas Flood just shows how we are all truly connected -- 2 major Miami families are direct victims of a natural disaster half a country away.

May peace come to the victims' survivors. I always remember my old friend Vince's father Vince, Senior's sage words. "Mother Nature can be one cruel bitch." She sure was in Texas last week.

Taking A Hint

 As Dave Week nears, the make believe narcissistic half a fortnight celebration of my turning 64, I have been reflecting and analyzing more than usual.

And yesterday's theme, after I returned from Band Camp and a going away hug from Belkys, the medical assistant who got to know me more intimately than most women in my life, was taking a hint.

Many people I know never developed that skill. They continue to try to have relationships with others who truly care little or not at all about them -- and keep on and keep on.

I guess I developed the skill early on -- I was always lucky to have different groups of friends, and if one group found me burdensome or annoying -- no whoop -- I'd go to another. 

A family member is a prime example. She's a well meaning person, who for years sent gifts that were, well, a bit off. Either it was clothing that the recipient wouldn't be caught dead in, or trinkets seen as silly. She never received a thank you -- actually -- learned that the recipients made fun of her choices.

Did she take the hint? Nope. Whenever she would see something at a thrift store, or antique shop, she would take the time and effort (usually not great expense) and send another gift. I think she finally got it -- I no longer hear about fun being made of her quirky generosity -- and that's a good thing.

And I get it. She sent a shirt to Little Man, since she saw it and laughed -- imagining him in it looking way cool. The problem is it's half his size. D1 could have rolled her eyes and said "Wow -- you have zero idea how big my son is," but instead thanked her and told her that Baby Man would enjoy it. D1's learned another key lesson -- it's better to be kind than it is to be correct.

Meanwhile, last night I met Pat at Captain's Tavern, and we caught up about the markets, politics, and most importantly his Gators and my Canes. I invited him to come to the game with me in September -- doing my part of the fading DEI initiative by having diversity among fans -- he'll let me know soon.

We shared some great times over the years -- we reminisced about Hurricane Wilma, in 2005, and how our families fled to Orlando and Atlanta lest they live without power for 10 days or so, and how he and I happily cavemanned it -- dinner at his CC Rivieria, and nightcaps at Fox's, and sometimes grilling in the blissfully cool October nights.

We drank our share of Midleton Irish whiskey -- back when it was $100 per bottle. Now: over $300.

His wife Susan is leaving for a month in mid October-mid November for eye surgery by her brother in Sarasota -- overlapping with Wifey's trip to Iberia for 10 days.

We may reprise our temporary bachelorhoods -- this time with some Canes games thrown in.

Pat, like me, knows how to take a hint...

The Final Band Camp Session, Hopefully

 So I was up bright and early and drove to the Grove for my second, and hopefully final, session of band camp. Belkys checked me out, and was teaching a young new medical assistant, to the party around my tuches was going to be better attended this time.

Affable Dr. Shah came in, used the O'Regan gun 2 more times, as I asked him if there WAS a Dr. O'Regan like there was a Dr. Moh and Dr. Apgar, and he didn't know. But before I could tell any prison jokes, he was done. Man -- that is an acquired taste I never acquired...

So with my knee better, and the stitches due out from my basal removal, I'm hopefully done with medical stuff for awhile.

Tonight I'm meeting my friend and financial advisor Pat over at Captain's Tavern. We were going to visit Fox's, but switched venues for the halibut. 

Last night Mirta and I caught up over some great paella at Bulla. Since Wifey's language of love is having food brought to her, I ordered both a paella and an arroz con pollo and brought her generous leftovers.

Mirta and I spoke about the unique challenges of adult kids, and how being an adult was sure a different thing to our generation than it is to our 30 and 40 somethings. And we caused it -- with helicoptering, and spoiling -- so there we are. We adore and love our kids, but they're much less shy about sharing their life issues and problems than we were with OUR parents. But we agreed, so long as they're healthy and on good paths, and we love them as we do -- we got nothing to complain about.

I shared with her that a friend was truncating his vacation since his daughter, a rising 2L making a ton of money and with a boyfriend, "missed" him and his wife. I don't recall EVER missing my parents, except for missing my Dad when he died. I guess stuff is different now.

I bought myself a second early birthday gift. The first was an oil painting of Tony Soprano giving the middle finger, which is in a newly renovated bathroom replacing the last photo I bought -- which I thought was a punk type woman sitting on a toilet in maybe CBGB's. Wifey pointed out that said woman had an Adam's Apple, and though I'm not anti LGBTQRSTUVW, I don't wish to have a photo of such a person -- better Tony, anytime.

The second gift is tickets to see Stevie Nicks at the Hard Rock in September. Wifey really digs her, and I figure we'll eat at Runway, Uber over to the Indian venue, and enjoy the show. Stevie is 77 -- so she fits in with our long procedure of seeing great acts before, well, they follow Tom Petty to that great show in the sky...

D1 is taking Little Man to Chicago early tomorrow am -- I can't wait to hear tales of him enjoying the Second City.

And we're meeting Drs. Eric, Barry, Dana, Donna, and Paul and Patricia for dinner Saturday night -- at Bourbon Steak in Aventura. It should be an epic evening, though there are fewer drinkers among us than in years past. I will do my level best to make up for the shortfall.

And Friday begins Dave Birthday Week -- sort of like Shark Week, but with less blood. I plan to savor each day even more than usual, and I am one world class savorer! 

As a first step, I took care of things at the seat of my powers. Ha. 

Good Ole Sunday Morning

 So after a Saturday of happy tumult, with D1 and both boys and added guests, today is much more chill. You can't be an effective grandparent to 2 boys unless you can tolerate great disorder and loud noise -- and we savor both.

Nicole, D1's forever friend and mother of 2 girls, stopped by -- while doing no child errands. Nicole is going with D1 and Little Man to Chicago Thursday -- for a long weekend of museums and Chicago tourism. And Dr. Hilit stopped by, soo -- our neighbor who D1 met when she worked at Jackson Memorial. She wanted to meet D1's boys -- she was last here about 10 years ago when we hosted a dinner with her and Eric, Dana, Barry, Donna, and Steve and Mary. Steve was all of our Religion professor -- for we Boomers in the 80s, and for the next generation Hilit and Alex in the 90s...

After some Anthony's Coal Fired, D1 took Baby Man home -- in protest. We told him HE was welcome to overnight stays after he was potty trained. He shouted "I use potty NOW!" He's adorable, but we figure staying with us is a good carrot to use in the training process -- he turns 3 next week, and it's really time.

Little Man reminded Wifey and me that WE are the boss when he's here -- not his Mommy or Daddy -- and so OUR rules apply. Sure enough, there was a later bath and bed time than usual. But after that, he WAS knackered, as D1 noted, and he actually fell asleep as I told him my latest tale of the "Night Bird," a heroic avian that flies only at night, rescuing people and animals. The Ds loved it -- and Little Man does, too.

He slept well past first light, 6:15, and then woke me. We were off to House of Bagels, which he now knows is just a bagel shop and not a structure made of actual bagels, and got our usual haul. We had a men's breakfast -- Wifey sleeps in.

She did come down early for her, and suggested we take a "mango walk" so she could enjoy her coffee quietly. We did, with Lemon the Spaniel in tow, and found one useable mango, and one green skinny one. Since I developed a late allergy to the skin, Little Man plopped them into the bag, and we walked off for home -- a 1.5 mile walk. Despite his seemingly endless energy, he announced he preferred when we take the wagon and I pull him. I told him with my newly healed knee -- it was either walk or stay home.

We got back, and Wifey admitted she NEVER cut up a mango, and started off with a knife move towards her thumb that would have probably resulted in a call to Dr. Lew, my hand surgeon friend, for a digit reattachment. I grabbed the fruit, held the skin in a napkin, and did the job. Little Man pronounced the fruit "DELICIOUS."

Now he's chilling, watching a modern "Peanuts" movie, as the young Spaniel and ancient one nap next to him.

In a few hours, we'll head to D1's house, to meet up with her and hopefully D2 and maybe even Tio Jonfin. We're taking Lemon for the week, because of the Chicago sojourn. As much as I prefer no more dogs when Bo, the ancient Spaniel crosses that Rainbow Bridge - Lemon is welcome. Chill guy but still the energy to walk with me.

So even with a grandson, we can have a chill am. I told Little Man I had given it thought -- if he ended up liking Palmetto High in 9 years -- he could move in with us and attend it. He said he'd give it thought, but first thing was passing Kindergarten this Fall.

It's as I predicted -- I knew we'd grow close when he reached the age of language and reason. Like his precocious Mom, he says words like "Actually" and "Literally." Wifey asked him what his Mommy had said about a request. "She didn't respond." Yep -- got another one on our hands -- and we adore him. His brother, too, though as D1 notes, he's basically a cute cartoon character.

Happy Birthday America!

 Wifey and I were reminiscing, about the ebullient D2 as a little girl. Back then, the JCC in Kendall would have a parade, and D2 loved it. She would sing "God Bless America" with the adorably malapropped "From the mountains...to the fairies." She was might adorable.

For years, we'd rent a room and cabana at The Biltmore, and spend the day with some other family and friends swimming in that Gulf of Mexico -- sorry -- Gulf of America-sized pool. The Ds loved ordering virgin frozen drinks, and at night, we'd move to the golf course for the great fireworks. As the crowd grumbled in traffic leaving, we'd go up to our rooms. It was a fine way to celebrate the holiday.

This year, the grandsons are at a parade on Key Biscayne, and after, I think, local fireworks. D1 is bringing them over tomorrow -- the plan is to spend the day, and then leave Little Man overnight, so D1 can bring Baby Man solo to a lunch with friends. Little Man and I have our routine -- he MUST not wake me before the sun starts to rise, and when it does, we're off to House of Bagels.

Knowing this, I eschewed a bagel this am at breakfast at LOL with Norman -- went with the whole wheat toast instead, though we DID share an order of corn bread, blueberry French toast, which the Israeli waitress Orli said is her recipe. I reminded Orli that today is the 49th anniversary of the Entebbe hostage rescue. Back then, Palestinian terrorists were kidnapping Jews and holding them, whereas these days Palestinian terrorists kidnap Jews and hold them. Both times it didn't end well for the Palis...you'd think they'd learn...

Norman was going to do some work today. I plan some napping -- to the wonderful "July 4th Twilight Zone Marathon." Now we're talking -- this may be better to nap to then my usual "Mayday Air Disaster" on Smithsonian.

I still think back to 4ths of yore. In 1984 pre-Wifey and I spent the night before at her friend Yvonne's South Beach efficiency, so we could wake early and stake out a decent spot on South Beach -- the Beach Boys were playing that night. It turned out they played to half a million on the D.C. Mall earlier, and then jetted to Miami for another 400K of us. It may still be the record for most fans seeing a band in a single day.

We drank wine and beer all day, and with the sun baking, were ourselves well baked when the concert started. Jeannette was with us, and when special guest Ringo Starr was introduced, Jeannette ran like a crazy woman towards the stage -- I thought we'd never see her again. John Lodge and Justin Hayward also guested -- it was truly a night to remember, and afterwards Wifey led me back to our car, the 1982 Buick Century Mom had given me for law school.

1981 was huge, too. I was working as a pharmacy tech at Boca Hospital, and my friend Vince was house sitting in North Miami -- his parents and sister were at their Keys condo for the holiday. What a blast that was -- friends came from Boca and were taken aback at the wildness of parties in the 305 compared to Southern Palm Beach.

I spent the night and the next am helped Vince fish all of the patio furniture out of the pool, and clean up the broken beer bottles and liquor bottles. He found $100 in cash -- he used probably $10 of it to treat me to breakfast at the nearby Ham and Eggery. Fun times for a nearly 20 year old me.

This 4th -- no parties. It appears fireworks may be a washout tonight, anyway. 

And snark aside, boy do I love this country. We have lots wrong, but it's still amazing, that maybe 120 years ago my 4 grandparents came here with bupkis, as they say, and 2 generations later their grandson is living the life of Riley.

So Happy birthday, Land of the free and home of the brave -- from the mountains to the fairies...

Again With The Doctors

 So D2 had noticed a mole on my arm, and didn't like the looks of it. Sure enough, it was a basal cell cancer -- the kind that likely won't kill you, but needs a big extraction if you let it grow. So man crush Dr. Green biopsied it, and I was set for removal yesterday, but by a young colleague who goes by Dr. Zand, as she has a hard to pronounce Persian last name.

I got in all my dark humor telling everyone that I was scheduled later in the day for "Cancer surgery," which is technically is, but the Little League version. I arrived early, as usual, and the lovely PA was training a new staffer - would I mind if they used me as a guinea pig? Not at all. I infused the session with humor, and the PA said "Not all the patients are as nice as funny as Mr. A." But I figured I'd give the young Jamaican background beauty queen a nice welcome.

And she was a beauty queen -- everyone who works at that office is noticeably attractive. As my late Mom said when she learned that lithe D1 was becoming a dietitian: "Well she looks the part. Who wants to get eating advice from a fat horse?" And so it is with cosmetic practices -- the patients want to aspire to look like the staff. Not me -- I joked that Mike and I (who I referred) are the outliers -- guys who just want skin cancers detected and removed -- no Botox for us.

Dr. Zand came in, and she was MAYBE 30 -- a year out of Residency at UF, after 8 years at UM. She's from Louisville, and of Persian extraction, and LOVES Miami. She took about 20 minutes to whack off the mole, stitch it up, and tell me to return in 2 weeks for suture removal. Easy, peasey -- and I figured if the incision hurt, it would take my attention from my knee pain, though now a week later that's eased, too.

And so it goes, as Vonnegut said. Everything passes as we live. I happen to be ebullient these days -- resolving some issues that kept me blind, to borrow from the great Johnny Nash song. And I know the ebullience shall pass, and there'll be melancholy, and that will pass, too. The Ds joke the melancholy is good for me -- I lose weight during those times. Nah -- rather be fat and happy, literally.

Wifey and I were getting bored watching the George Clooney play about Edward Murrow -- probably was good live -- on TV just a lot of talking and yelling about Commies. And then around 9, I got a call from my old friend John -- the retired CIA guy whose book was finished filming and will premiere as a series this Fall.

We talked for 1.5 hours, and it was delightful. He's so brilliant and insightful, and while I was bored in law school, he was driving out of the Green Zone in Baghdad, trying to not get shot. He had attended our 45th high school reunion, after I warned him how boring the 20th was, and I had sworn off future gatherings. He told me how right I was -- other than a few old friends -- he realized that just because you sat next to someone in Social Studies half a century past, it doesn't mean you really need to catch up with their lives -- especially in our blue collar Long Island town, where most of the lives changed little since high school -- except for marriages and divorces and kids and grandkids, of course.

John's a film buff, and told me he was headed to NYC in August for the premiere of an older Roman Polanski film -- about the Dreyfuss Affair. It couldn't play earlier on account of the whole Me, Too thing, since Polanski, well, was a little rapey back in the day, and can't return to the US. We talked about today's standards, like what Epstein and P Diddy did - - Polanski was a regular RoseMary's baby in comparison -- but still...

He wanted to hear about the Ds and grandsons -- that path was not for him -- his wife Barbara was always an international worker, and sadly has been down with bad MS for a long time. John is SO devoted to her -- visits daily -- and I really wish peace for him and Barbara.

And we DID have some grand times growing up on that Isle of Long...

Today I'm headed to the bank to make the final deposit into my life insurance trust, to pay the last premium on the last life insurance policy I have. Old friend Rob convinced me to buy the one whole life policy 29 years ago -- while most of the coverage I had was term. I let the term lapse when we no longer needed my income to raise the Ds, and my fantasy of hiring an absurdly hot au pair should Wifey have prematurely left never turned real.

The whole life would pay $175K if I don't make it to next July 18. If I do, I get a premium refund of $77K -- either way -- Wifey wins. I sure hope we get the smaller amount.

But it's funny when annual bills pop up -- for me they're mileposts in life. I think back to 1996 when I took out the policy -- young, dumb, and full of ambition. Paul and my law firm was 2, and we were working day and night to build our practice. The Ds were 4 and 7, and we were living in our post Andrew reconstructed house. I was driving a Jaguar, the better to impress clients and opposing counsel. Wifey was struggling with some mental health issues, but we were, in general MUY happy.

Fast forward -- now I drive an SUV, we live in Villa Wifey, and the Ds are grown ass women -- hell -- D1 is not too far from middle age, though she perishes that thought.

And we have the Little Man and Baby Man and they bring us the joy we may have dreamed about those 3 decades ago.

So I'm happy to have paid these premiums -- and hope to NOT have Wifey collect the claim. And keep those doctors at bay...

A Day To Remember

 So Doc Julio got me in early yesterday, they X rayed my knee, and affable PA Jason came to talk. Sure enough, my diagnosis was spot on: OMK, or Old Man's Knee. Luckily, it was a mild case -- 'no where NEAR needing surgery or replacement," and Jason said he'd prescribe Celebrex, since the NSAIDS hurt my stomach. No PT even needed -- just home exercises -- and Jason predicted I'd be better soon. If not, I could come in for an injection like Wifey gets, since her arthritis is, as she has made clear, "Far more serious and painful" than anything I might get. 

Dr. Julio popped in, and we talked...and talked...and talked. We have lots of folks in common from our days at UM '79-'83, and then his switch from UM to UF Med School where he became friends and classmates with Dr. Barry. He told me how proud he was of Barry and Eric -- how both had become CMOs in their fields. I didn't tell him they were proud of HIM for how rich he had become. As Kenny and I texted earlier in the am: "Not to self: next time buy surgical center."

But the reason for the day was to pay respects to Bill -- Stu's father, who died on Saturday. Wifey and I drove up to the West Hollywood cemetery where her Uncle Lou is buried, as well as other POFs (parents of friends), and where Wifey and I had to visit to sign papers for my suegro when they comically took his body there instead of the Kendall cemetery on account of they all have the same names now, including "Beth David," "Weinstein," and "Memorial."

We made it just in time, hugged Stuart and Val, and took our seats with Allison, her old boyfriend Roy, who I DID not recognize since I hadn't seen him in 3 decades and he has become, well, large enough that I want to sit next to him to appear thinner, Paul and  Patricia, and later Joel and Michelle. Yep -- a lot of the old Brickell crew was back together, to honor our friend.

Rabbi Yossi led the service. Before , I joked about how his work as police chaplain during the Surfside condo collapse made him an international star -- why was he slumming with regular folks? Yes, as he told me, though he is religious and I am not, we are both cut from the same cloth as wise guy, sarcastic, NY Ashkenazim.

Suffice it to say, at day's end, I told Wifey I want the exact same funeral. Stuart spoke beautifully and hilariously about his best friend, and grandkids Val and Ava were heartfelt -- how Popie was a huge presence in their lives -- pick ups from school every Wednesday for activities his parents didn't necessarily approve of. Ava was the only one who cried, as she recalled the love and wisdom shared by her beloved grandfather.

Bill was always a mentor -- I rededicated myself to being the kind of grandpa he was -- it's already taking shape with Little Man -- at 5 and a half, we get each other. Baby Man will get there, too...

Stu ended the service by taking out a flask of vodka, and saying one final "L'Chaim!" to his father! I told Wifey I want a bottle of Stoli Elit and shot glasses passed out graveside should she preside over my final goodbye.

Rabbi Yossi talked about how inspired he was seeing the love in that family -- and it's true. He noted that the Torah commands we RESPECT our parents -- never mentions love -- and indeed, Rabbi noted sometimes parents are so damaging to their children, the adult kids simply cannot love them -- but there is never an excuse for not repecting.

Stu and his family truly LOVED Bill -- it was evident. Even in the final hours, where Bill was still very much alert and said the final prayers -- the love was so clear to Yossi he was moved. We all were.

They asked for pallbearers, and I stepped forward. As a Cohen, Paul is prohibited -- the strange laws about the priestly class and dead bodies. But two of my fellow pallbearers were Steve, Stu's best friend from Emory Law, and his cousin Rich. We had all stood with Stu at his wedding 24 years ago.

The clear circle of life: you stand with a man when he marries, and then you help bury his father. With the life Bill had, it was such an honor for all of us.

Bill loved the son. I used to joke with him that he flicked melanomas off his skin like nothing -- it was actually kind of true. Thankfully, though there were gathering storm clouds, the Big Man let the burial take place in the bright sun.

I thought of a joke Bill loved to share -- why it's good to be friends with a funeral director. Everyone needs that ONE friend who will let you down...

We then dispersed and Wifey and I drove into the great maw of traffic that is Aventura -- for the after party at Stu and Traci's. Stu and I were the only ones drinking -- Allison had a few sips of a vodka and tonic I mixed her -- and Bill would NOT have approved of the teetotaling. But we sat and told warm tales of years gone by. 

I met Stu in 1987 when we were lawyers at Thornton, David -- we became fast friends -- shared a secretary named Karen and a boss named Barry, who was a wildly nerdy Jewish guy who loved hanging with the far less nerdy Stu and me. Stu left to do Plaintiff's work, and a few years later his boss was hit by a car down in Key Largo while drunk walking from the Tiki Bar.

I left to do Plaintiff's work in 1988 and introduced Stu to Paul -- they became fast friends, with even more in common as both were single and would paint the town together. In 1992, when we were living in Hurricane Andrew exile on Brickell Key, Stu called me one evening to say he was thinking about going out on his own -- his firm was run by a brother in law of the now horribly disabled boss. I strongly encouraged him, and told him we would refer business, which we indeed did. Paul and I left in 1994 to start our own gig, and we handled cases together for 3 decades.

Stu was late to the marriage game -- he enjoyed being a single Miami lawyer with money. Who wouldn't? And then he was blessed with his kids -- at about the age my parents were when they had me. Stu asked what it was like having an older father. I told Stu Hy was my Dad, Grandpa, and best friend all in one. Any downside? Well, I answered Stu -- ever get to MEET Hy?

Luckily Stu is here for his kids, and they had Bill in their lives.

We all marveled at how loved Bill was -- by family and friends -- his was truly a life in full.

Wifey was falling asleep, and demanded we leave, which put us back into the worst of the Aventura traffic maw. She slept; I drove the 1/3 hours.

I reflected on Bill the whole time -- a beautiful life he lived the HELL out of. When my time comes, I hope to go out exactly the same way he did -- loved by grandkids and kids -- and with a final toast to my soul.