Yikes. What a tough 2 weeks it's been for me, the typically annoyingly happy and optimistic guy.
Dr. Dave called with my yearly blood test results: my cholesterol was "perfect," but my PSA, a marker for prostate cancer, had more than tripled in a year, from 2.5, already high for a guy my age, to 6.8. Dr. Dave said I had to see a urologist for follow up.
My bud Dr. Vince had the same PSA rise earlier this year. I asked him for advice, and he told me to go see Dr. Rob Puig, a urologist Vince had observed in the OR, and had great technique. Plus, Vince said, he's a nice guy. I called and they had an opening for Friday, which is now 2 weeks past.
I went home and hit the internet. I learned that PSA tests are notoriously innacurate, and that most men die WITH prostate ca than OF it. But my Dad had it at 60, and family history was a major determinant. Plus, a PSA rise like I had could signal a rare form of aggressive and deadly cancer, especially for a relatively young guy like me. I read about Frank Zappa (dead at 52) and Dan Fogelberg (dead at 57).
I'm always a big shot about death. Since my Dad died in my arms at 63, and his father died at 55, I always figured I wouldn't live too long. I hoped and figured that statins would keep my cholesterol down, and maybe get me to 70 or 75, hopefully old enough to become the best grandpa of all time...
But I found myself SCARED. Not so much of dying, but of putting the Ds through the hell of losing their father, something I endured when I was between them in age, just short of 21. It was hell, and I kept seeing them grieving and mourning.
I knew Wifey would take it hard, but she has such a full life with her friends, and the Ds, that I knew she'd be fine, assuming she didn't fall prey to a gigolo who'd swoop in and steal all my hard earned savings...
I slept badly. I was down. I leaned on my brothers, big time: they were great, as usual. I whistled past the grave yard in a more piercing tone than ever.
I didn't tell the Ds, but then Monday night, D1 was in the car when the surgical center called to pre register me. I explained what was going on, and asked that she not tell D2, who had finals and a long drive from UF.
Wednesday am, Wifey frove me to the surgical center. I got undressed and they started an IV. They wheeled me into the room, and started some valium. I felt calm. Then they started the propophol, and I went to another universe.
Next I knew, I woke up, and was completely at ease. I felt a mental acuity and freedom from anxiety unknown to me since I was a teenager. It was amazing.
I see why Michael Jackson became addicted. The stuff is magical, truly other worldly.
I got up to pee, and out came some blood, just as Dr. Puig told me. He said it'd last a day or so.
I called the office, and was told to come in next Thursday. Great. 8 days to learn my fate. My friend Maureen, Dr. Dave's wife and office manager, said she'd call and see if they could let me know sooner. She tried yesterday, but no results were in.
D2 and I had a big cry together. I tried to be strong, but admitted I was afraid. She was, too.
Last night, Rabbi Yossi hosted a meeting at our neighbor's house, a holiday to the Chasidim honoring the Alter Rebbe's release from prison, and his authorship of the Tanya, a book of spiritual thought. Essentially, the message is that we need to love each other's souls, and that our bodies and stations in life are the illusions.
As we drank, Rabbi Yossi said that tradition held that God listened carefully when blessingw were sought during these get togethers. I told him I needed a blessing, and he said a L'Chaim in my honor...
Well, all I know is that it must not have hurt.
Wifey, the Ds and I went to my in laws to take my mother in law out for her birthday. When we returned to the condo, I checked my voicemail and there was a call from Dr. Puig's PA, Jessica (the woman who gave me a DRE (digital rectal exam) with blessedly small fingers). She said the biopsy was normal.
I shouted out loud, waking Wifey, who was napping. I literally danced, and cried with the Ds. I was ecstatic. This may have been as good as the Canes win over Nebraska in '84. Nah, it was better.
So I was given a new dose of happiness and perspective, literally via a poke in the ass. Actually, the biopsy was 12 needles that penetrated my rectum, and stuck my prostate, so 12 pokes in the ass...
Life can be very, very sweet. I hugged Wifey and the Ds, long, hard, and often.
I plan to celebrate BIG. Tomorrow night, Dr. Eric and Dana are hosting a big party at their house, Eric's 50th birthday, and their 25th anniversary. Barry will be there. I think we may have a drink, or two...
I thanked the Big Man. My favorite Atheist, Chris Hitchens, died yesterday, at 62. I'm having doubts about atheism. The joy I felt today, when I learned I'd be around awhile, well, it came from a deeper place, I believe, than simply positive neurochemistry.
I got stuff to do, still, and now it appears I'll have time to do it.
HELL YEAH!!!!!!!
Friday, December 16, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
My Dad's Job
A knit ski cap from the early 70s turned up in my office the other day, emblazoned with the corportate name "Toscany." I smiled --that was my Dad's employer from 1960 to 1999.
My father was a salesman, and Toscany, a start up from a few years before, recruited him. The founder, Morris Katz, was a powerful, big presence of a man, and with 3 partners willed the company into existence and growth. They imported glassware and dinnerware from overseas, mostly Europe, and he needed hard working "outside" salesmen to sell the stuff. My father, a Jewish WWII vet like many of the other partners (one was Italian), fit right in.
The company was the best thing to happen to my Dad, professionally. He developed customers who were booming in the 60s and 70s, like Alexanders Stores, and Al's Pottery. He was also lucky, in many ways. Toscany decided to import flower pots at exactly the time there was a new attention paid to ecology, and EVERYONE wanted house plants in their homes. My Dad sold many of them.
By the early 70s, he had so many "standing orders" from his customers that he made money without having to find new ones. I remember him smiling in his home office, which was just an alcove off of the laundry room in our small, split level house, as he explained to me that he made money for years after developing a client.
His desk was the house's original formica counter top from the kitchen, held up with some wooden dowels installed at the front. It was never very stable, and I was always aware, as I rumbled by with my friends on our way outside to play sports, not to let it topple over.
In the early 70s, the company offered my father a sales/buying manager's position, which paid a LOT. I seem to remember a salary of something like $150 k per year being discussed, but the job required him to travel at least one week per month. I thought he should take it (I had visions of becoming a much richer kid, like some of my classmates who lived in South Wantagh and Seaford (whose fathers had bigger jobs), but he turned it down. He simply loved being home with my Mom and me too much to sacrifice the time.
When I was a teenager, Toscany hired me and a friend to come to the NY Collisseum to help set up the yearly trade show. My friend Kenny, now a retired US Navy Captain and Pediatric Radiologist, still remembers it as the best gig ever. We rode the train to the City with my father, had to wait for union guys to do stuff like roll open carpets, unwrapped some merchandise and put it on tables, and got paid like $50 each. Back then, a new record album was $4.99 and a concert ticket about $7.00, so we were some flush teens...
Mr. Katz loaned my father, I think $2000, for a down payment for my family's first house. My father paid him back promptly, but that one financial gesture propelled us from apartment living in Queens to the true American Dream, with a lawn on our less than 1/4 acre property.
My father feared Mr. Katz' wrath in later years. When a call came in on Dad's business number (PE 1-1679) (I wish I could remember relevant things today like I can remember 50 year old phone numbers), I was instructed to say Dad "wasn't home" even if he was stadning right next to me. In fact, this business of "having a boss" was what inspired my father's one dream for me, professionally: to have a profession where I wouldn't have to answer to a boss... I followed his advice.
Still, Mr. Katz was a legend in our house. He died in, I think, 1977, and I remember my father showing me that his obit warranted several columns in the NY Times, because of his business and philanthropic positions.
My father, coerced by my mother, retired in 1979, as I was graduating high school. My mother had grown to despise the cold weather, and essentially made the family decision to move to Florida. My father, in the best thing he ever did, pressured me into coming, too, by going to the U (before it was the U).
32 years later, and nearly 30 years after my father died only 3 years into retirement, my nearly 92 year old mother is still living on the last of the savings and retirement money my Dad earned at Toscany. Again, there was luck --back then you could get over 15% return on bank CDs, so the principal remained untouched for years... Oh, now that I have savings, how I wish those days would return...
But the point is, Mr. Katz and his partners Sid Glazer, Sonny Pasquale, and Harold Potchtar started a company, and my Dad and my family had a life changing experience.
I went online and did some checking, yesterday. Toscany apparently went out of business over 20 years ago, and its assets were bought by the Anchor Hocking Company of Ohio. Sid Glazer died just last August, at 93. He and my Dad were the same age --since Sid was the boss, I always assumed he was older.
Harold Potchtar died in Boca 10 years ago, at 77. I couldn't find any news about the lone Italian partner, Sonny Pasquale.
My partner Paul and I had similar experiences. At the height of our firm, we changed the lives of some of our employees. Norma and Andrea, our long time secretaries, retired from law with savings more than they ever hoped for. Mirta, our last "tenured" staff member, thanks me constantly for how we changed her life, financially.
So, over 50 years after a new company in NYC hired an honest, hardworking salesman named Hy, who took the anglicized name Henry to better appeal to his non Jewish customers, I thank this Toscany Company.
Although they're long gone, the acts of their owners continue to have good effect.
My father was a salesman, and Toscany, a start up from a few years before, recruited him. The founder, Morris Katz, was a powerful, big presence of a man, and with 3 partners willed the company into existence and growth. They imported glassware and dinnerware from overseas, mostly Europe, and he needed hard working "outside" salesmen to sell the stuff. My father, a Jewish WWII vet like many of the other partners (one was Italian), fit right in.
The company was the best thing to happen to my Dad, professionally. He developed customers who were booming in the 60s and 70s, like Alexanders Stores, and Al's Pottery. He was also lucky, in many ways. Toscany decided to import flower pots at exactly the time there was a new attention paid to ecology, and EVERYONE wanted house plants in their homes. My Dad sold many of them.
By the early 70s, he had so many "standing orders" from his customers that he made money without having to find new ones. I remember him smiling in his home office, which was just an alcove off of the laundry room in our small, split level house, as he explained to me that he made money for years after developing a client.
His desk was the house's original formica counter top from the kitchen, held up with some wooden dowels installed at the front. It was never very stable, and I was always aware, as I rumbled by with my friends on our way outside to play sports, not to let it topple over.
In the early 70s, the company offered my father a sales/buying manager's position, which paid a LOT. I seem to remember a salary of something like $150 k per year being discussed, but the job required him to travel at least one week per month. I thought he should take it (I had visions of becoming a much richer kid, like some of my classmates who lived in South Wantagh and Seaford (whose fathers had bigger jobs), but he turned it down. He simply loved being home with my Mom and me too much to sacrifice the time.
When I was a teenager, Toscany hired me and a friend to come to the NY Collisseum to help set up the yearly trade show. My friend Kenny, now a retired US Navy Captain and Pediatric Radiologist, still remembers it as the best gig ever. We rode the train to the City with my father, had to wait for union guys to do stuff like roll open carpets, unwrapped some merchandise and put it on tables, and got paid like $50 each. Back then, a new record album was $4.99 and a concert ticket about $7.00, so we were some flush teens...
Mr. Katz loaned my father, I think $2000, for a down payment for my family's first house. My father paid him back promptly, but that one financial gesture propelled us from apartment living in Queens to the true American Dream, with a lawn on our less than 1/4 acre property.
My father feared Mr. Katz' wrath in later years. When a call came in on Dad's business number (PE 1-1679) (I wish I could remember relevant things today like I can remember 50 year old phone numbers), I was instructed to say Dad "wasn't home" even if he was stadning right next to me. In fact, this business of "having a boss" was what inspired my father's one dream for me, professionally: to have a profession where I wouldn't have to answer to a boss... I followed his advice.
Still, Mr. Katz was a legend in our house. He died in, I think, 1977, and I remember my father showing me that his obit warranted several columns in the NY Times, because of his business and philanthropic positions.
My father, coerced by my mother, retired in 1979, as I was graduating high school. My mother had grown to despise the cold weather, and essentially made the family decision to move to Florida. My father, in the best thing he ever did, pressured me into coming, too, by going to the U (before it was the U).
32 years later, and nearly 30 years after my father died only 3 years into retirement, my nearly 92 year old mother is still living on the last of the savings and retirement money my Dad earned at Toscany. Again, there was luck --back then you could get over 15% return on bank CDs, so the principal remained untouched for years... Oh, now that I have savings, how I wish those days would return...
But the point is, Mr. Katz and his partners Sid Glazer, Sonny Pasquale, and Harold Potchtar started a company, and my Dad and my family had a life changing experience.
I went online and did some checking, yesterday. Toscany apparently went out of business over 20 years ago, and its assets were bought by the Anchor Hocking Company of Ohio. Sid Glazer died just last August, at 93. He and my Dad were the same age --since Sid was the boss, I always assumed he was older.
Harold Potchtar died in Boca 10 years ago, at 77. I couldn't find any news about the lone Italian partner, Sonny Pasquale.
My partner Paul and I had similar experiences. At the height of our firm, we changed the lives of some of our employees. Norma and Andrea, our long time secretaries, retired from law with savings more than they ever hoped for. Mirta, our last "tenured" staff member, thanks me constantly for how we changed her life, financially.
So, over 50 years after a new company in NYC hired an honest, hardworking salesman named Hy, who took the anglicized name Henry to better appeal to his non Jewish customers, I thank this Toscany Company.
Although they're long gone, the acts of their owners continue to have good effect.
Monday, December 12, 2011
New Job
So I started my new part time job yesterday. My official title is "Family Liason for the Friendship Circle of Miami."
FC is an organization started by Chabad, my friend Rabbi Yossi's homeboys. It pairs teen volunteers with special needs kids, for home visits and events at the local Chabad shul. As I think about it, it's sort of like Andrew Shriver's Best Buddies, but more geared to kids...
Rabbi Yossi and his wife Nechama run the South Dade operation. They started it years ago, and I've visited and known about it, but never got very involved. The Ds just missed it when they went through Chabad's Hebrew School, and I've sort of admired it from afar.
But lately, as I told Yossi I have some free time and lack of productive things going on, he invoked the age old religious adage: idle hands are the Devil's workshop. Not really, but he was thinking that...
So we came up with a job for me. I'm going to reach out to the families of the special needs kids, and get their thoughts about the program, and see what suggestions they have. I'm also going to get involved in designing programs for the parents. Finally, I'll start meeting with pediatricians and other health care providers in the community, to recruit more kids.
Yossi and Nechama want to increase the size of the program. It currently serves about 60 families, and they want to double that number.
The program, though sponsored by an orthodox Jewish group, is not religious. About 90 % of the special needs kids are not from Jewish families. Most of the counselors are, as they get recruited from Chabad and local synagogue youth programs, though that may be changing. Yesterday, Nechama had a training meeting for some new volunteers, and they included beautiful West Indian twin 9th graders, who are volunteering as their younger sister, who has a disability, is part of the program.
So I spent 3 hours at the center yesterday, mostly observing. What I saw was so beautiful, I was forced to stifle some tears. There's no crying in volunteer work, right?
A tall, handsome, teen volunteer in a basketball jersey spent the entire time with his buddy. The younger man had pretty involved autism, and didn't react much, even to the loud music and other activities. But when he looked up at his friend, he smiled so broadly, and the two of them kneaded dough together while making cookies, as the young child beamed.
Scenes like these were common yesterday, and Nechama told me there's even closer connection when the volunteers visit the houses. The sad truth is that the kids with special needs, most of whom have autism, rarely have friends visit. So, while they get great medical care, and of course the love of their families, they miss out on the socialization that comes from friendship. Hence, the very essence of this program.
I stood outside after the baking demonstration (led by a lovely young grad student who was sharing her favorite hobby) and music therapy, and play therapy, and met several of the parents. I introduced myself, and told them I'd be contacting them soon.
Of all the pride I have for my friend and partner Paul, for his legal prowess, I'm proudest of his current gig. He volunteers many hours per week as a guardian ad litem, meeting with kids in foster care and advising Juvenile Court judges on whether the kids should be sent to parents or remain in state care. It's an awesome responsibility, and he treats it as such.
It's funny --when we'd handle an auto crash case, we were sometimes paid very handsomely to get a money recovery for someone who, say, broke an arm. Now, Paul uses his same skills and training to do something far more significant, and the pay is, at least in dollars, zero.
And he'd tell you he's privileged to do the work. I get it, too.
For me, this may be the start of something big.
FC is an organization started by Chabad, my friend Rabbi Yossi's homeboys. It pairs teen volunteers with special needs kids, for home visits and events at the local Chabad shul. As I think about it, it's sort of like Andrew Shriver's Best Buddies, but more geared to kids...
Rabbi Yossi and his wife Nechama run the South Dade operation. They started it years ago, and I've visited and known about it, but never got very involved. The Ds just missed it when they went through Chabad's Hebrew School, and I've sort of admired it from afar.
But lately, as I told Yossi I have some free time and lack of productive things going on, he invoked the age old religious adage: idle hands are the Devil's workshop. Not really, but he was thinking that...
So we came up with a job for me. I'm going to reach out to the families of the special needs kids, and get their thoughts about the program, and see what suggestions they have. I'm also going to get involved in designing programs for the parents. Finally, I'll start meeting with pediatricians and other health care providers in the community, to recruit more kids.
Yossi and Nechama want to increase the size of the program. It currently serves about 60 families, and they want to double that number.
The program, though sponsored by an orthodox Jewish group, is not religious. About 90 % of the special needs kids are not from Jewish families. Most of the counselors are, as they get recruited from Chabad and local synagogue youth programs, though that may be changing. Yesterday, Nechama had a training meeting for some new volunteers, and they included beautiful West Indian twin 9th graders, who are volunteering as their younger sister, who has a disability, is part of the program.
So I spent 3 hours at the center yesterday, mostly observing. What I saw was so beautiful, I was forced to stifle some tears. There's no crying in volunteer work, right?
A tall, handsome, teen volunteer in a basketball jersey spent the entire time with his buddy. The younger man had pretty involved autism, and didn't react much, even to the loud music and other activities. But when he looked up at his friend, he smiled so broadly, and the two of them kneaded dough together while making cookies, as the young child beamed.
Scenes like these were common yesterday, and Nechama told me there's even closer connection when the volunteers visit the houses. The sad truth is that the kids with special needs, most of whom have autism, rarely have friends visit. So, while they get great medical care, and of course the love of their families, they miss out on the socialization that comes from friendship. Hence, the very essence of this program.
I stood outside after the baking demonstration (led by a lovely young grad student who was sharing her favorite hobby) and music therapy, and play therapy, and met several of the parents. I introduced myself, and told them I'd be contacting them soon.
Of all the pride I have for my friend and partner Paul, for his legal prowess, I'm proudest of his current gig. He volunteers many hours per week as a guardian ad litem, meeting with kids in foster care and advising Juvenile Court judges on whether the kids should be sent to parents or remain in state care. It's an awesome responsibility, and he treats it as such.
It's funny --when we'd handle an auto crash case, we were sometimes paid very handsomely to get a money recovery for someone who, say, broke an arm. Now, Paul uses his same skills and training to do something far more significant, and the pay is, at least in dollars, zero.
And he'd tell you he's privileged to do the work. I get it, too.
For me, this may be the start of something big.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Paul Simon, Pearl Harbor Day, Thoughts of Mortality
Wifey and I saw Paul Simon last night, at the Seminole Hard Rock theatre. It was our first show there.
We arrived early (surprise!) after a decent visit to ancient Mom, and a coffee re charge in Boca, and walked around the casino for a bit. I'm not a casino guy, but something about the Hard Rock struck me as even more sad and pathetic than my visits to Vegas casinos...
I guess that in Vegas, most of the patrons are visitors, and they look happy and excited. The lights seem brighter. At the Hard Rock, more locals seem there, and are decidedly more downscale. The light was dim. I noticed 2 Latin guys, dressed in work uniforms playing the slots, and could only think that they were blowing meager paychecks their immigrant families needed.
Plus, Wifey got a slice of pizza from a surly server, and reported that it was one of the worst she's ever eaten. The accompanying stench of cigarette smoke as she chewed couldn't have helped...
Things brightened up in the theatre, which was sold out. A 5 piece band called the Wildfires opened, and they were pretty good --reminded me of the Outlaws or Marshall Tucker bands of my youth.
The crowd was, Wifey and I estimated, about 50 or 55 in average age. Duh! Paul Simon is 70, just barely pre Baby Boomer, and most of his audience grew up in college in the 60s and 70s (and I guess 80s, when he released "Graceland") and so that's who was the audience...
The show was terrific. He had one of the best backing bands I've ever heard, including some of the African guys from the Graceland period. He sang wonderful new songs from his latest (So Beautiful or So What) musing about love, and mortality (One song was great --with lyrics about having to fill out a form and wait in line) and his earliest periods, and the wonderful 70s albums.
He sang "Mother and Child Reuinion" in true reggae form, and brought down the house with "Late in the Evening." What a career he's had! He could have sung all night and just scratched the surface of his songbook...
So today is Pearl Harbor Day, and as always, I think about my Dad. December 7, 1941 was a true "marker day," as the historians call them, for him. He knew his life would change, and it did, with a draft notice soon after and over 4 years in the Army...
I think about him, at 22, and what he was like. And then my memories turn to the man I knew, and how he died at 63. Although that was so young, to me, he was already an old, retired guy...
And worse -- 63 is just a Bar Mitzvah Boy's age away for me! Caramba!
Aging folks always say that age "doesn't matter," it's just a number. Bullshit, I say! Years are all we have, in the way dollars are the only measure of material wealth. And 13 isn't that many, at all...
So I'm hoping to be lucky, like my fellow Queens Ashkenazi Simon. He's 70 and still at the top of his game --creating, contributing, the whole ball of wax.
But as my father learned 70 years ago today, sometimes change and events hit like a sneak attack...
We arrived early (surprise!) after a decent visit to ancient Mom, and a coffee re charge in Boca, and walked around the casino for a bit. I'm not a casino guy, but something about the Hard Rock struck me as even more sad and pathetic than my visits to Vegas casinos...
I guess that in Vegas, most of the patrons are visitors, and they look happy and excited. The lights seem brighter. At the Hard Rock, more locals seem there, and are decidedly more downscale. The light was dim. I noticed 2 Latin guys, dressed in work uniforms playing the slots, and could only think that they were blowing meager paychecks their immigrant families needed.
Plus, Wifey got a slice of pizza from a surly server, and reported that it was one of the worst she's ever eaten. The accompanying stench of cigarette smoke as she chewed couldn't have helped...
Things brightened up in the theatre, which was sold out. A 5 piece band called the Wildfires opened, and they were pretty good --reminded me of the Outlaws or Marshall Tucker bands of my youth.
The crowd was, Wifey and I estimated, about 50 or 55 in average age. Duh! Paul Simon is 70, just barely pre Baby Boomer, and most of his audience grew up in college in the 60s and 70s (and I guess 80s, when he released "Graceland") and so that's who was the audience...
The show was terrific. He had one of the best backing bands I've ever heard, including some of the African guys from the Graceland period. He sang wonderful new songs from his latest (So Beautiful or So What) musing about love, and mortality (One song was great --with lyrics about having to fill out a form and wait in line) and his earliest periods, and the wonderful 70s albums.
He sang "Mother and Child Reuinion" in true reggae form, and brought down the house with "Late in the Evening." What a career he's had! He could have sung all night and just scratched the surface of his songbook...
So today is Pearl Harbor Day, and as always, I think about my Dad. December 7, 1941 was a true "marker day," as the historians call them, for him. He knew his life would change, and it did, with a draft notice soon after and over 4 years in the Army...
I think about him, at 22, and what he was like. And then my memories turn to the man I knew, and how he died at 63. Although that was so young, to me, he was already an old, retired guy...
And worse -- 63 is just a Bar Mitzvah Boy's age away for me! Caramba!
Aging folks always say that age "doesn't matter," it's just a number. Bullshit, I say! Years are all we have, in the way dollars are the only measure of material wealth. And 13 isn't that many, at all...
So I'm hoping to be lucky, like my fellow Queens Ashkenazi Simon. He's 70 and still at the top of his game --creating, contributing, the whole ball of wax.
But as my father learned 70 years ago today, sometimes change and events hit like a sneak attack...
Monday, December 5, 2011
Anti Liberal
Wifey continues to feed my reading habit in a most economical way: she has books sent fromour local library. A few years ago, when her back was so bad that it was tough for her to leave the house, she signed up for a program that lets you order books online, which are then mailed to your house. Our library in Miami Dade is actually quite good and efficient, and the books are very current.
Wifey prides herself on knowing my taste (she really could be a librarian) and is usually very on point. Her latest is David Mamet's confession of moving from being a liberal to conservative. I've been reading it and it resonates with me.
One of his points, which is well known, is that liberals tend to give far less in charity, individually, than conservatives. This is of course because libs think government ought to help the less fortunate, by taxing us all more, while conservatives believe more in self determination and less government. Plus, conservatives tend to believe more in quaint concepts like religion and God, and feel compelled, largely, to help because of those commandments...
Anyway, I do admit to enjoying some liberal friend tweaking...and a small event Saturday was a prime example of this.
D1 was at a local liquor store, doing her part time job of selling a brandy for an importer. We figured that several friends and acquaintances would see her, and they did.
2 folks stopped by, and they happen to be some of our more conservative friends, politically. They said hello, and bought a bottle of the brandy, having no intention, I'm sure, of drinking it. The husband, who I'll call Mike, since that's his name, is a gin and tequila man, and his wife, who I'll call Loni, prefers white wine.
Still, doing what most of us would do, helping out a friend's kid, they happily bought a bottle, and will tuck it away for possible use if, oh, say, the most interesting man in the world comes over, and wants cognac instead of Dos Equis.
Later, another old acauaintance came by. Wifey says I have to stop identifying local folks when they act like assholes or jerks, so I'll just say she is someone we've known for a long, long time. We don't socialize, but keep in touch through other people.
She greeted D1, saw what she was doing, and blithely said "Oh, we don't drink brandy" and trotted off to buy some vodka.
I don't know. I've ALWAYS bought crap from friends and neighbors' kids --even reams of Christmas wrapping paper, much of which sits getting moldy in my garage. To me, it's the decent thing to do -- to help whatever the child is doing, whether fundraising or getting ahead.
Not so the uber liberal...she probably rushed home to drink martinis and read "The New Republic" and catch NPR...
Of course I know I paint with an absurdly broad brush, and the friends who bought the brandy are simply good folks, while the one who ignored D1 is not, at least in my book...
Plus, as a protective papa bear, ANY slight to my Ds, no matter how insignificant (D1 really couldn't have cared less about this --literally shrugged and said "no big deal, or any deal" when I pointed this out to her) is magnified.
All I know is...sending away a friend or neighbor's kid, no matter what, well, that makes you the kind of person I want nothing to do with, to twist grammar.
Back to Mamet's book tonight...he's just getting to the part about apologists for Obama's abysmal performance ('he inherited a mess!") by pointing out that he campaigned preciscly on the principal of fixing the mess...
Interesting times, as the Chinese curse goes, and interesting people...
Wifey prides herself on knowing my taste (she really could be a librarian) and is usually very on point. Her latest is David Mamet's confession of moving from being a liberal to conservative. I've been reading it and it resonates with me.
One of his points, which is well known, is that liberals tend to give far less in charity, individually, than conservatives. This is of course because libs think government ought to help the less fortunate, by taxing us all more, while conservatives believe more in self determination and less government. Plus, conservatives tend to believe more in quaint concepts like religion and God, and feel compelled, largely, to help because of those commandments...
Anyway, I do admit to enjoying some liberal friend tweaking...and a small event Saturday was a prime example of this.
D1 was at a local liquor store, doing her part time job of selling a brandy for an importer. We figured that several friends and acquaintances would see her, and they did.
2 folks stopped by, and they happen to be some of our more conservative friends, politically. They said hello, and bought a bottle of the brandy, having no intention, I'm sure, of drinking it. The husband, who I'll call Mike, since that's his name, is a gin and tequila man, and his wife, who I'll call Loni, prefers white wine.
Still, doing what most of us would do, helping out a friend's kid, they happily bought a bottle, and will tuck it away for possible use if, oh, say, the most interesting man in the world comes over, and wants cognac instead of Dos Equis.
Later, another old acauaintance came by. Wifey says I have to stop identifying local folks when they act like assholes or jerks, so I'll just say she is someone we've known for a long, long time. We don't socialize, but keep in touch through other people.
She greeted D1, saw what she was doing, and blithely said "Oh, we don't drink brandy" and trotted off to buy some vodka.
I don't know. I've ALWAYS bought crap from friends and neighbors' kids --even reams of Christmas wrapping paper, much of which sits getting moldy in my garage. To me, it's the decent thing to do -- to help whatever the child is doing, whether fundraising or getting ahead.
Not so the uber liberal...she probably rushed home to drink martinis and read "The New Republic" and catch NPR...
Of course I know I paint with an absurdly broad brush, and the friends who bought the brandy are simply good folks, while the one who ignored D1 is not, at least in my book...
Plus, as a protective papa bear, ANY slight to my Ds, no matter how insignificant (D1 really couldn't have cared less about this --literally shrugged and said "no big deal, or any deal" when I pointed this out to her) is magnified.
All I know is...sending away a friend or neighbor's kid, no matter what, well, that makes you the kind of person I want nothing to do with, to twist grammar.
Back to Mamet's book tonight...he's just getting to the part about apologists for Obama's abysmal performance ('he inherited a mess!") by pointing out that he campaigned preciscly on the principal of fixing the mess...
Interesting times, as the Chinese curse goes, and interesting people...
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Metro Man
Wifey and the Ds (well, D1 at least) decry the fact that, when it comes to fashion, I am a world class schlump. There were a few periods in my life when I shopped for decent clothes, and actually looked presentable (I recently saw some photos of a holiday party circa 1997 where I wore a smashing gray sweater with a finely tailored blue blazer and khakis), but those periods are past.
These days, I wear a pair of black jeans when we go out for dinner, or a pair of blue jeans when we don't, and several pairs of shorts with varying degrees of bleach stains on them...
On occasion, I still wear a suit, but I consider those days a sartorial failure (either a client meeting or a funeral or bar mitzvah).
Although I am one of the least homophobic guys I know (I DIG fags, really) I dress the least like the stereotype of the gay man. Proudly.
Well, Wifey had finally had it with a pair of topsiders I favor for daily use when I wear shorts. They were worn visibly. So, after dinner at Tony Roma's last night (we pondered why Outback in our 'hood is always packed, while Tony Roma's, with similar food quality, isn't), Wifey demanded I head to Dadeland for some new shoes.
She had several unused Nordstrom gift cards, and I dutifully complied. I actually like that store. The service is terrific, and there are plenty of plush chairs for husbands to sit on while wives and daughters shop. Of course, they USED to have a pianist, too, but those were removed last year, apparently at the demand of some young snot nosed marketer who figured out that the post menopausal target customers wanted "hip" music piped in, instead of the Sinatra standards...
In any event, I quickly found a pair of Sperry Topsiders, on sale for $109, down from $159, and took them. The zaftig young Cubana salesgirl then showed me a pair of Cole Haans (my other favorite shoe) also on sale, and I went crazy and all metro and effiminate, and bought them, too, even though my existing Cole Haans have another solid 6 months before they wear out.
We were done. No, not so fast. Wifey wanted to see what was on sale upstairs as well, for her. I found a great seat near the escalators, and watched the ladies shop, while Wifey found some things she liked. She then fetched me, along with an old acquaintance who now works at Nordstorms. I'll call her Flippy, since that's her nickname -- her girls grew up with the Ds -- and one is now in law school in D.C. while the other is at art college in Boston.
Flippy popped me into a chair in the dressing room, and I watched Wifey emerge with some sweaters and a nice red dress. I felt like Richard Gere in "Pretty Woman," although we were in Kendall instead of Beverly Hillls, and Wifey is not a whore...
Flippy and I chatted about our daughters, and Wifey found some things she liked. We then retreated outside, where Flippy told Wifey to open a Nordstom account, so that my already discounted shoes could be discounted another $20...
We stood at the counter, and it turned into a retail happy hour. First, Flippy's husband came by and said hello (an empty nester like me, he was killing some time walking the mall), and then 2 of Flippy's friends, Elise (whose kids grew up with the Ds, too), and a cardiologist's wife came by, too. The cardiologist's wife, who I'll call Amy, since that's her name, is a long time UNfavorite of Wifey's and mine.
Our kids always crossed paths growing up, and the woman was, almost to a level of caricature, a bitch! Somehow she remained friends with the ladies.
She had been shopping, and was ready to leave. She handed her bag to Flippy, and said "Can you take this home for me and I'll pick it up at your house?" One would have thought she was kidding; one would have been wrong.
Wifey, off in her own world while waiting for the Nordstrom approval of her new credit card, missed this whole exchange. Flippy told her that it was a hassle for employees to bring home packages for customers, even friends, because of store security.
Amy was relentless. Finally, her friend Elise offered to carry the package (we're talking one bag here --probably about 4 pounds worth of shoes and clothes), and the ladies left.
I often say it: I find it funny when people act in ways different from their natures, and also when they act in accordance with them. Amy and her haughtiness and bitchiness made my evening.
So I did my shoe shopping that will last at least until D2 graduates college (2014). My shorts are another issue --I begged off further retail searching. Wifey will now bring a few pairs home, probably from Marshall's, and I'll wear them.
A clothes horse I'm not, to use the great, Yiddishized grammar of my ancestors. Not even a clothes mouse.
Still, as always, trips out of the house lead to human nature lessons. Thanks, Amy.
These days, I wear a pair of black jeans when we go out for dinner, or a pair of blue jeans when we don't, and several pairs of shorts with varying degrees of bleach stains on them...
On occasion, I still wear a suit, but I consider those days a sartorial failure (either a client meeting or a funeral or bar mitzvah).
Although I am one of the least homophobic guys I know (I DIG fags, really) I dress the least like the stereotype of the gay man. Proudly.
Well, Wifey had finally had it with a pair of topsiders I favor for daily use when I wear shorts. They were worn visibly. So, after dinner at Tony Roma's last night (we pondered why Outback in our 'hood is always packed, while Tony Roma's, with similar food quality, isn't), Wifey demanded I head to Dadeland for some new shoes.
She had several unused Nordstrom gift cards, and I dutifully complied. I actually like that store. The service is terrific, and there are plenty of plush chairs for husbands to sit on while wives and daughters shop. Of course, they USED to have a pianist, too, but those were removed last year, apparently at the demand of some young snot nosed marketer who figured out that the post menopausal target customers wanted "hip" music piped in, instead of the Sinatra standards...
In any event, I quickly found a pair of Sperry Topsiders, on sale for $109, down from $159, and took them. The zaftig young Cubana salesgirl then showed me a pair of Cole Haans (my other favorite shoe) also on sale, and I went crazy and all metro and effiminate, and bought them, too, even though my existing Cole Haans have another solid 6 months before they wear out.
We were done. No, not so fast. Wifey wanted to see what was on sale upstairs as well, for her. I found a great seat near the escalators, and watched the ladies shop, while Wifey found some things she liked. She then fetched me, along with an old acquaintance who now works at Nordstorms. I'll call her Flippy, since that's her nickname -- her girls grew up with the Ds -- and one is now in law school in D.C. while the other is at art college in Boston.
Flippy popped me into a chair in the dressing room, and I watched Wifey emerge with some sweaters and a nice red dress. I felt like Richard Gere in "Pretty Woman," although we were in Kendall instead of Beverly Hillls, and Wifey is not a whore...
Flippy and I chatted about our daughters, and Wifey found some things she liked. We then retreated outside, where Flippy told Wifey to open a Nordstom account, so that my already discounted shoes could be discounted another $20...
We stood at the counter, and it turned into a retail happy hour. First, Flippy's husband came by and said hello (an empty nester like me, he was killing some time walking the mall), and then 2 of Flippy's friends, Elise (whose kids grew up with the Ds, too), and a cardiologist's wife came by, too. The cardiologist's wife, who I'll call Amy, since that's her name, is a long time UNfavorite of Wifey's and mine.
Our kids always crossed paths growing up, and the woman was, almost to a level of caricature, a bitch! Somehow she remained friends with the ladies.
She had been shopping, and was ready to leave. She handed her bag to Flippy, and said "Can you take this home for me and I'll pick it up at your house?" One would have thought she was kidding; one would have been wrong.
Wifey, off in her own world while waiting for the Nordstrom approval of her new credit card, missed this whole exchange. Flippy told her that it was a hassle for employees to bring home packages for customers, even friends, because of store security.
Amy was relentless. Finally, her friend Elise offered to carry the package (we're talking one bag here --probably about 4 pounds worth of shoes and clothes), and the ladies left.
I often say it: I find it funny when people act in ways different from their natures, and also when they act in accordance with them. Amy and her haughtiness and bitchiness made my evening.
So I did my shoe shopping that will last at least until D2 graduates college (2014). My shorts are another issue --I begged off further retail searching. Wifey will now bring a few pairs home, probably from Marshall's, and I'll wear them.
A clothes horse I'm not, to use the great, Yiddishized grammar of my ancestors. Not even a clothes mouse.
Still, as always, trips out of the house lead to human nature lessons. Thanks, Amy.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
December Light in Miami
As I drove up Ludlam Road today, on the way to meet my old LI friend Kenny for lunch, I was struck by the pure, golden, beautiful light.
Years ago, I read a book about Miami by David Rieff, and he spoke about how even average buildings in our town look majestic in the amazing light, and also why more and more movies and tv shows are shot here.
It's true, I thought. Especially on a dry, cool, December day, no place is more gorgeous.
The best light on LI, where Ken and I grew up, was during a cold, clear, winter's day. I remember once in high school we had a major ice storm one evening, and walking home the next afternoon from school all of the tree branches and trunks were covered in a layer of clear ice, which slowly melted. It was as if someone had added flood lights to the day. It must have been, oh, '77 or '78, and I still recall the way it looked.
Speaking of light, and vision, last night D1 and her friend Alyssa and I went to the grand opening of Art Basel, on Miami Beach. Our neighbor is an exec on the board, and sent us passes to the VIP opening. Wifey begged off, following a day of errands, but I got to go.
What a scene! We were definitely not in suburbia anymore, as we watched the international glamour and art folks mill about, looking at the absurdly expensive pieces.
D1 noticed a painting which we have in our house. Of course, we have a mere poster of the Botero, but hanging there was the original, from 1982. We didn't ask, but I'm guessing it cost in the millions...
We saw about 1/2 the exhibits, and then admitted to ourselves that we cared more about food than art. The only thing sold at the fair was overpriced sandwiches, so we left and headed to Lincoln Road. On the way, we saw one of the most colorful, literally, puppies. We stopped to talk with its owner, who told us it was some rare mixed breed from Louisiana.
I was skeptical --I thought it was a blue tick hound, like the U Tennessee mascot, but later in the evening D1 sent me a web site about this unusual cur --named Amadeus.
Alyssa took us to a great salad and pizza place, where she and D1 shared a salad and pizza, and I had an antipasto.
They were lovely company -- talking about grad school, and careers, and siblings, and life --all with the vitality of 23 year olds.
I dropped them off a happy man. I mean, I was the happy man --I didn't deliver any to them.
So Kenny and I met at Shorty's, and I bought him lunch in honor of his joining the 50 club. Ken still has high school and middle school aged boys, so he has another 1/2 decade before he's an empty nester.
I drove home with the sun roof open, and that amazing December light streaming in. This time of year, there's no finer place to be.
Years ago, I read a book about Miami by David Rieff, and he spoke about how even average buildings in our town look majestic in the amazing light, and also why more and more movies and tv shows are shot here.
It's true, I thought. Especially on a dry, cool, December day, no place is more gorgeous.
The best light on LI, where Ken and I grew up, was during a cold, clear, winter's day. I remember once in high school we had a major ice storm one evening, and walking home the next afternoon from school all of the tree branches and trunks were covered in a layer of clear ice, which slowly melted. It was as if someone had added flood lights to the day. It must have been, oh, '77 or '78, and I still recall the way it looked.
Speaking of light, and vision, last night D1 and her friend Alyssa and I went to the grand opening of Art Basel, on Miami Beach. Our neighbor is an exec on the board, and sent us passes to the VIP opening. Wifey begged off, following a day of errands, but I got to go.
What a scene! We were definitely not in suburbia anymore, as we watched the international glamour and art folks mill about, looking at the absurdly expensive pieces.
D1 noticed a painting which we have in our house. Of course, we have a mere poster of the Botero, but hanging there was the original, from 1982. We didn't ask, but I'm guessing it cost in the millions...
We saw about 1/2 the exhibits, and then admitted to ourselves that we cared more about food than art. The only thing sold at the fair was overpriced sandwiches, so we left and headed to Lincoln Road. On the way, we saw one of the most colorful, literally, puppies. We stopped to talk with its owner, who told us it was some rare mixed breed from Louisiana.
I was skeptical --I thought it was a blue tick hound, like the U Tennessee mascot, but later in the evening D1 sent me a web site about this unusual cur --named Amadeus.
Alyssa took us to a great salad and pizza place, where she and D1 shared a salad and pizza, and I had an antipasto.
They were lovely company -- talking about grad school, and careers, and siblings, and life --all with the vitality of 23 year olds.
I dropped them off a happy man. I mean, I was the happy man --I didn't deliver any to them.
So Kenny and I met at Shorty's, and I bought him lunch in honor of his joining the 50 club. Ken still has high school and middle school aged boys, so he has another 1/2 decade before he's an empty nester.
I drove home with the sun roof open, and that amazing December light streaming in. This time of year, there's no finer place to be.
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