Getting Back To Normal

 Ah -- but for a bit of a lingering cough, the Plague seems mostly gone. I'll keep masking until next week, but it is such a relief to have that nastiness pass. All the cliches come to the forefront -- without good health, you have nothing. Cliches are true.

Meanwhile, I took a short drive with D1 the other night, to drop off packages and pick up dinner, and we faced the fact that she and Jonathan and the enormous puppy are moving next week. It's been a near 9 !! month stay.

We were so happy that there was truly just a minimum of tensosity, to use my late friend's neologism. And truth be known, I've really bonded with the enormous and annoying dog. But I have zero doubt we'll be watching her, a lot, as the millennials always travel. Betsy is very welcome here now.

The kids are planning their honeymoon -- more than 2.5 years after their wedding. Again -- damned Plague. Betsy is already looking forward to a fortnight or so back here in Pinecrest, in July.

Wifey and I were supposed to be getting ready to leave for MIA early this afternoon -- a trip to D.C. Whomp. We have until February to use the credit on the tickets -- hopefully some new strain of the Plague lets us travel again.

So this weekend will be one of tumult here. D1 and Joey are bringing the Little Man Sunday -- they're confident that I'll no longer be a threat by then. And I imagine there'll be a LOT of packing -- Monday is moving day.

They're going to a really cool part of Miami Beach -- Sunset Harbor -- away from the crazy tourist part of South Beach. They have many friends there -- you can walk to food stores and restaurants -- and Lincoln Road and the Beach are within walking distance, too.

Our family friend Mike, budding young superstar lawyer, lives there with his wife Sari, D1's good friend, and their toddler. He told Jonathan that fears of traffic leaving the 'hood to get back to the main land are unfounded -- he commutes daily to Downtown -- and the good thing about being on the west side of the Beach is a quick jump to the causeway.

Wifey is already saying SHE wants to move there, too -- part of the pattern I have noticed of women of a certain age. They don't really have a clear view of what they want -- but they want CHANGE, damn it!

Conversely, we aging men want stuff the same -- familiar like we like it.

Wifey may get some of her wish -- if D2 and Jonathan's Grove townhouse gets finished, there may be a few months left on a lease. I told Wifey she and BFF Edna could move their. The two have fantasized since they were in junior high school that someday they would be old ladies together on the Beach. Maybe they'll get a taste of it now.

In the mean time, I plan to keep savoring the days. It sure feels good to feel good again.

Well THAT Was a Crappy Three Days

 Thursday night, when I got up from my game watching chair and started shivering like I was left on an ice floe, I KNEW I wasn't in for any garden variety cold or flu. And, as it turned out, Covid-19 was as advertised.

It was the worst I've ever felt, from a flu bout I had years ago, compressed into three days. I felt awful -- watching the clock for the next allowable dose of Tylenol, and drinking gallons of tea and soup to stay hydrated.

The wedding I was supposed to officiate for went off beautifully -- I got lovely pix. But by the time of the ceremony, my voice was nearly gone from laryngitis -- so even my offer to do the thing via Zoom would have been worthless. Thankfully, the bride's best friend and cousin performed admirably.

Late last evening, after the Canes blew their game against Kansas, I finally started feeling a tad better. The kids ordered in Akashi, which is Japanese for "good sushi but a cluster of a place to visit -- so only get it on Uber Eats." I ordered the juvenile chicken teriyaki, and it was the first food I enjoyed in awhile. I LOVE to eat, and am always hungry. The fact that this coronavirus took that from me said volumes..

I made it to bed after the Oscars were on, but before Will Smith punched Chris Rock. No big deal -- it'll be replayed for months to come.

Don Rickles was lucky he performed in another time. With his insults, Will Smith would have busted a 9 cap into his tuches. Rock got off easy.

I eschewed the Tylenol PM with a bit of trepidation -- and was still able to sleep. This am I awoke, and heard Gloria Estefan's song "Coming Out of The Dark" playing in my head as I descended the stairs.

I'm still only about 75%, but feel FAR better than I have the last few days.

Turns out that Covid 19 is some pretty serious crap after all.

So I plan to treat Villa Wifey, for the next few days, like one of those old European sanitoriums -- sitting on rocking chairs, drinking tea, and taking the fresh air and sunlight cure.

It sure sucks to be sick. I truly hope this is our family's last dance with the Plague.

I was talking last night with Dr. Eric -- he's still not ready to travel by plane. I totally get it. But Wifey and my tickets to D.C. on AA were non refundable -- so they DID offer us credits. We have until February of 2023 to use them. Hopefully by then we'll be ready to jet off somewhere again.

As for today, I feel like the old Jewish lady in one of Wifey's favorite jokes: in a Pullman car in the 40s, she whines incessantly "Oy am I thoisty!" Finally, her bunkmate gets up, walks through the whole train, and finds her some ice water -- giving it to her so he can finally get some rest. As he is about to finally drift off to slumber, he hears the old lady: "Oy, WAS I toisty!"

And so it is with me -- was I miserable! Thankfully, it seems to have passed.

I'm Late To The Party

 I'm always a bit late to appreciate trends and current events. I only started listening to punk rock/new wave in the late 80s. I didn't dig Seattle Grunge until a solid 10 years after Kurt Cobain died. And so it is with Covid.

D2 woke up sick Tuesday, with bad cold-like symptoms, and Jonathan was sick a day later. Oh well -- both must have caught bad colds -- they're out and about quite a lot, including a surprise engagement party on Miami Beach Saturday attended by more than a hundred guests. They stayed home and worked, and we thought little about it.

Thursday afternoon I had a doctor's visit, to remove a chin wart, and on the way home I felt a bit pro-dromic -- the word my doc friends explained to me that means you feel like you may be coming down with something. I was a bit concerned, as I had a busy weekend and following week planned -- Bob Dylan art show Saturday with Jeff and Jim, officiating at a wedding in Davie Sunday, and Wifey and my first plane trip since 12/19 -- to D.C. -- to see cherry blossoms and our nephew of another mister, Scott, and his lady Sam.

Still -- I felt ok, and we all watched Gonzaga lose, much to D2's chagrin, as she had them winning the championship in her bracket. And then...I stood up, and it was if I were put onto an ice floe. 

I started shaking uncontrollably -- shivering. As the serVER of my family and never serVED, I said nothing to anyone, and just struggled upstairs. I took Tylenol and got to bed. Wifey came to bed and asked why it was shaking -- it was my shivering. Man -- it came on hard.

D1 texted to say that the party D2 and Jonathan attended Saturday night was a superspreader event -- several guests tested positive for Covid. D2 took a rapid test -- one of the boxes Joe Biden sent us -- and it was positive. Friday am I took a test, too -- the red line appeared in record time. I had Covid, too.

I really thought we were past this. Miami Dade has a "low" spread rating. The cases keep dropping. Hospitalizations are record low levels. All I know is,  I felt as bad as I ever did from a flu.

I summoned the energy to call my friends Iris and Jacqui. The Jewish minister was out for Sunday's wedding. I felt awful -- the wedding had already been delayed from January due to the Omicron surge. Jacqui had a nasty bout of Covid -- she was sick for 2 weeks. No worries, they said -- Iris would do the ceremony. I still felt terrible about it -- particularly since Wifey and I  were abandoned by our officient -- though that was due to a free trip for Mark Kram -- not illness.

I also called AA -- actually did a chat. When I told the chat bot I had Covid -- they cancelled our reservations pronto. Next was AMEX, to cancel our hotel. They called back, which was good, since holding the phone while waiting was too draining. The very nice Sub Continent person likewise cancelled without issue.

The rest of Friday sort of slogged by in a fog. I had Tylenol PM, and kept popping it, even though you're only supposed to take it once at night. It let me blissfully sleep for a few hours at a time.

Today, mercifully, I'm better. D2 gave me some regular Tylenol. I still have ZERO appetite, which for me never happens. All I could eat was a banana and an Aloha bar -- and I feel as if I had my usual huge breakfast.

More mercifully, D2 and Jonathan are MUCH better. Wifey, who had Covid in January, never got anything -- she must have super immunity with her 3 jabs and recovery from the actual disease.

As I type, she is holding court with the young-uns about whether or not to pursue their complicated house purchase in the Grove. I'm still too fatigued to take part.

So I guess this is the "new normal." We get vaccines, like for the flu, but still may have to deal with this nasty virus. As long as it's awful for 2-3 days, it's ultimately tolerable -- like the 2 day long Florida Bar exam I endured in July of '86.

Of course, after that event, we got to celebrate at Bern's Steakhouse. I don't have the appetite for that -- as of now.

A Troubled Artist Turns 40

 So today my nephew PJ turns 40. He has led a troubled and turbulent life. He's in a state of unrest again. I truly hope and pray for him that, as he enters his 41st turn around this planet, he finds a peaceful path.

When he was born, I was finishing my junior year of college. My parents flew out to California to help my sister with the new baby. My Dad got to meet his third grandchild -- I have the pictures of him holding the adorable baby boy. 

But my parents returned to Florida far more worried than joyful. The problem wasn't PJ -- it was his father Pat. Pat was, well, opposed to working and supporting his family. Working and supporting one's family was, for my father, the essence of any man. My father was shocked and in disbelief about his son in law, and upon return home, set about planning to go back to work to support my sister and her son.

His concerns didn't last very long -- he died a little over 4 months later, at 63.

PJ grew into an adorable toddler, and got a baby brother when he was 2. His Mom kept things together -- the boys' father set new lows for worthlessness as a human -- at least to my view. But PJ went to school, and grew up -- always a quirky young man, but sweet and artistic.

As a teen, he LOVED to cook. I remember one visit to California, when he was a teen, and he ran the barbecue. He was meticulous about the burgers he prepared -- and justly proud of how delicious they came out.

But after high school, he started community college in pursuit of an architecture degree. He didn't do well -- dropping classes he didn't enjoy, and sort of beginning a pattern of never truly finishing anything he started. Along the way, he wrecked several vehicles, including a used truck I sent him the money to buy. But thankfully no one was hurt.

He was floating along as a young adult, and then, it seemed to me, there was a path! He would join the USAF. I was thrilled for him -- always recalling the sage experience of my friend Kenny, who retired as a US Navy Captain. He often told me that the military was a place where he saw directionless young man enter, and leave with discipline and purpose. Ah, I thought, that would be the deal for PJ.

Also, his other uncle, my brother in law Dennis, was a USAF vet -- the early Vietnam War years. The Air Force let him see the world for the first time -- East Asia -- and he returned far more wise and experienced than when he left for service. He was thrilled for PJ, too.

He got through basic training, and there are pictures of my beaming sister with her handsome son in uniform. Finally, I thought -- he will find a way.

It wasn't to be. I suppose the rigidity and demands of the military clashed with PJ's essence. It was the time of "Don't Ask/Don't Tell," and he told -- of a relationship with a fellow young airman. It was then adios USAF.

After that, things spiraled down for him. He disappeared, and was discovered in Utah, I think, telling people on a bus he was a savior of some sort.

A sad pattern emerged. He would come home, move back with his Mom, and then go again on his walkabouts.

There was a period of hope. His Mom founded and owned an art gallery, and he became artistic director. He painted, and sold some paintings. Maybe there would be some life success as an artist?

It would never last, and then he disappeared for years. My sister and nephew went looking for him -- up the Cali coast, especially in areas that attracted the homeless. They couldn't find him -- until: he turned up in Boise, Idaho -- in the jail there. He was arrested , I think, for trespass, or panhandling, or some homeless-type crime.

His Mom sprung him, and brought him home. Again -- things would be stable for awhile, and then spiral again.

He was diagnosed with schizo- affective disorder. He was also a drug addict -- crystal meth. There were multiple suicide attempts -- chemical, and one Rube Goldberg event, where he rigged a concrete block to fall on his head. That one did some facial nerve damage, I seem to recall.

My sister NEVER gave up on him. She was his champion. She always saw worth and talent when it seemed the rest of the world saw a lost cause. And then, when PJ was, I think, about 30 came the worst.

He jumped off the third story of a parking garage. Probably a taller building would have ended his life, but instead he ended up in a coma and multiple fractures. He had months of hospitalizations and rehab.

This was going on during my Mom, his grandmother's, final year of life. Of course, we told her nothing about this latest tragedy -- she probably couldn't have processed it.

But with his mother's undying love and support -- somehow PJ recovered. But victories would prove short lived.

At his brother's wedding, he made a scene, followed by a vomiting into the circle of the gathered guests.

A few years later, D1 and Joey were to be married, and I told my sister I could not have PJ to the wedding. It was my daughter's big day, and I wanted the focus totally on her. My sister was appalled -- she didn't come, and couldn't believe how heartless I was. But I knew what had to be -- PJ was already showing he didn't do well in the world of the mainstream, and I wasn't going to focus on that at D1's wedding.

After that, he left again -- this time for LA. He was homeless and doing drugs. He was arrested for what would normally be an old timey sort of crime: arson. Unfortunately, in Cali, with the devastating fires, arson is a much bigger deal than it would have been in, say, Florida.

He went to the LA County Jail. It was Covid time. He spent a LOT of time there, but got clean, and after he reached a plea deal -- there was light again for him.

He was placed in a lovely apartment in Hollywood -- all paid by the state. He began to paint -- maniacally -- literally hundreds of colorful works he dashed off. He sold some to friends and family.

My sister and the rest of us were thrilled. Finally -- he was on a good track. He was supported by the state, needed only to keep up his apartment, and keep on painting. Maybe he would even teach art to other released inmates.

Nope. Short lived again -- he wrecked the place, and was tossed out.

His latest iteration is some kind of halfway house in, I think, Long Beach. But last I heard, he painted the walls of his room -- again -- and was placed on suspension. Since he's on probation, I guess the likely course is a trip back to jail if he keeps up with these actions. I hope that doesn't happen.

Man. 40. For me, that age was the height of my powers. I was very lucky in my career. I bought a big ass house for my family. The Ds were tweens -- passing to adulthood themselves.

Paul and I truly felt the world was ours for the taking. If we wanted a case -- we got it. We prosecuted our cases aggressively. We gave charity -- including a large no interest loan that let our friend start his Jewish Center -- which just broke ground to build one of the largest facilities to help special needs kids in the state.

It was a golden age for my Dad, too. At 40 he had the luxury of finally supporting his family with a single job: salesman. At 43 he bought his first house -- and moved his family from Queens to Nassau County -- for a poor son of immigrants who grew up in The Bronx -- he had ARRIVED.

For most of my friends, 40 was a wonderful age, too. No real annoying, chronic health issues, but the wisdom of having lived 4 decades.

I hope against hope that my nephew "comes to himself," to use one of my late Mom's favorite expressions.

His brother Henry has lived a life with successes that are the polar opposite of his brother's failures. He's also a gifted filmmaker, and is nearing completion of a documentary about his brother.

The best documentaries give focus and understanding about their subjects. I have a strong sense that's what Henry's film will provide. He tells us it won't be an easy film to watch.

As his brother turns 40 -- I hope for a miracle. Maybe at 50, he'll have found his footing in life. I truly hope so.

Time Passages

 So it was a lovely Saturday here in Pinecrest. Wifey was gone -- a pajama party at her friend Cara's on Miami Beach, and Joelle and Kenny came by at 6 for a bottle of wine. From there we went to Platea, a newish Peruvian Steakhouse that opened here in Pinecrest.

It's curious -- Pinecrest has a very high earning demographic, and there have always been no or few good restaurants -- you have to go to the Gables or Grove for good eatin'. I mean -- I love Thai and pizza places, but every once in awhile it's nice to go more upscale.

Well, the smart Peruanos must have figured this out, and opened Platea -- prime beef, and great ceviche. We had ordered it in, but I wanted to try it out, and we three were very happy. Joelle knows wine, and couldn't decide among 4 offerings, and so the waiter brought her samples of all. She picked, and we shared a NY Strip that was The Palm level great, and some fine ceviche and sides. The place was lovely -- not at all over decorated, and it was packed. It will definitely become a go-to for me for nice dinners -- and it's all of a 5 minute drive away! Ah -- the things that bring happiness to an aging white guy...

Speaking of aging, I can't get past my visit to my suegra at the nursing home. I have lots of experience in this arena -- my Mom and father in law both spent their final time at Miami Jewish -- but that visit the other day really got to me. 

I always think about the aging maven Mark Agronin -- head guy at Miami Jewish, and an internationally famous geriatrician, and what he once explained to me when I asked him why more people didn't commit suicide rather than decline in a nursing home. It was the theory of the frog, he said.

If you place a frog in cold water,and slowly turn up the heat, it will stay in the water and boil to death. If you toss a frog into boiling water, it will hop out. The point is, it can't sense gradual senses in its environment.

Likewise, the doc explained, it's not like you go from healthy to nursing home, absent a major accident or medical catastrophe. You decline gradually. First you walk slowly, and then with a walker. Your bowels and bladder weaken. Your thinking very slowly goes from sharp to dull, along with vision and hearing. You sort of ease into that final stage -- like the slowly heated frog.

I told Wifey I planned to commit the awful stench of my suegra's roommate's diaper to memory -- and hopefully defeat the theory of the frog. I do NOT wish to exist that way -- with my beloved family having to see me in that state. Hell -- my friends will be dead or crapping in their diapers next to me -- so I don't worry about them.

Like everything, I know it must be left to the Big Man -- but I hope he gives me plenty more years until, when my number is up -- I check out rapidly. Maybe just one final uncontrolled bowel movement...

On the other side of things, at the 6 pm Zoom Friday, Eric and Dana's girl announced she was pregnant again. Now THAT is newsworthy -- my co-hort adding grandkids like orthodox Jews, or classic Catholics! The next generation -- I prefer to look ahead to that, instead of the degradation that awaits we oldsters.

Wifey and I are headed out later to see our Little Man, and then to her friend Crazy Sheryl's son's house on La Gorce -- a very tony part of Miami Beach. Andrew graduated from UM and got into stock trading -- apparently doing quite well. We were going to meet at his place for cocktails and then out to dinner, but he invited his Mom's several Miami friends for dinner -- he loves to cook. I told D2 he raised the bar for hosting Boomers. She has no desire to reach that bar.

But time passages...

Millennials On The Move

 So D2 and Jonathan, our roommates for the past 8 months, truly hoped to be in their Grove townhouse by now. The builder is proving to be a piece of work who would shame a used car salesman, and so they have now realized that closing on the unit will be a long, litigious slog. Likely, the builder is hoping that the buyers who signed contracts last year will walk away -- as he can get probably 25% more for his new units than their contracted sales price. But he picked on a strange demographic to try to rip off -- all of the buyers have plenty of money and resources, and are going to fight him to the end, even if they have to ask a Court to take over his company and appoint a receiver.

In any event, even though I am the best suegro in the history of suegros, and Wifey is a patient, albeit very eccentric suegra -- the kids want to move along with their lives. I certainly don't blame them. So yesterday they signed leases for a rental on Miami Beach -- a 'hood called Sunset Harbor, where several of their friends live. They'll likely move after Wifey and I return from our D.C. trip the first days of April -- so we'll get one last dog sit from them.

In the mean time, D1 was down at Ocean Reef on business, and stopped off at the house on the way home, lest she sit in intractable traffic from our place to NE Miami. It was lovely having the Ds together -- only they truly get what it was like to be raised by their quirky, albeit unconditionally loving parents. They're as close as, well, sisters.

Jonathan came home,and they all ordered in from the healthy place, Carrot Express, that they like. I poured my Friday evening drink and joined Eric and Dana's shabbat, and cooked my traditional Publix meat loaf and pasta. At 7 I opened the Zoom, and it was Josh and Barry for a bit, and then I begged off and retired to the Dining Room with the Ds, Wifey, and Jonathan.

Wifey was in hyper questioning mode -- about a plethora of topics -- and in my 3 drink chill, I actually just sort of observed with a sense of wonderment. She jumped around from Jonathan's job, to her need to travel, to the Ds' upbringings. I suggested to Jonathan that he take the 5th rather than answer some of the interrogation that would later come back to haunt him. We wisely followed his suegro's advice.

Earlier in the day Wifey and I spent time in a way that I know must have set her off. We visited her Mom -- now 97 and a few weeks ago moved to a nursing home from the ALF. The care is fine, and the place is well kept, but as we arrived, my suegra's roommate was having her diaper changed. She's an ancient Cubana -- totally out of it, like Rachel is.

We went to my mother in law's bed, and something happened to me, probably for the first time in my adult life. I nearly vomited from the stench of the roommates excrement. I am NOT a squeamish guy -- it's extremely rare that anything grosses me out. When I was pre med, I observed autopsies at the Dade County ME's office -- the young pathologist reveled in making his work as shocking and splattering as possible -- but I kept it together.

Yesterday the room's odor seemed a combination of rotting dead animal, fetid sewer, rotten eggs, and some other components of stink I never before smelled. Wifey's sense of smell is blunted, and so she was fine, but I felt myself literally gagging.

Thankfully, when the aid was finished, the smell returned to the level of a garage with maybe one dead rat hidden somewhere out of view. It was tolerable.

Meanwhile, my poor suegra had zero idea who Wifey or I was. This was a first -- she always recognized me. Wifey asked the nurse to put her dentures back in (she prefers them out) and Wifey fed her mother pieces of a protein cookie. She was otherwise non conversational.

Still -- she remains physically strong, and may go on in this limbo for months -- even years. I texted my friends that I plan to ask the Big Man for a different kind of exit from this mortal coil.

So maybe that's what set off Wifey's comical hyper activity last night. Either way -- it added to the charm of the evening -- and D1 returned home happy and safely.

Today, Wifey is headed to her friend Cara's condo on Venetian Island for a dinner and pajama party with another friend, Anna. It was supposed to be long time friend Linda, but Linda, poor thing, has shingles. She's anti vaxx, and so avoided Shingrix, the miracle shot that prevents the misery -- so what are ya gonna do? To each her own.

The millennials are off to a surprise party for a friends' engagement, and I plan to head down to the Redland and check out a newly renovated tropical fish farm. I rarely buy fish, but love to see what's newly swimming in that world.

At 6, Joelle and Kenny are coming by for a pregame, and then we have dinner at a new Peruvian steakhouse in Pinecrest. We brought in their food the other night, and it was delicious -- so tonight we'll go to the actual restaurant.

But last night's memory of the Ds together -- talking conspiratorially and laughing -- well that's been a sacred sight for me for the past three decades.

During Wifey's manic phase, she said to the Ds "I'm going to live to 97 like my mother so you'd better figure out what you're going to do with me." Somehow there was talk of a trip to Switzerland...where they have a terminal tourist attraction. I may well sign up for that, as opposed to a toxic smelling nursing home roommate, as well.

St. Purim's Day

 So by a quirk of the calendar, two festive holidays happen this year at the same time: Purim and St. Patrick's Day. Alas, I won't be celebrating either of them, but am happy for those who are.

I grew up on LI with many close friends of Irish extraction -- including my brother in law Dennis. For years I thought that corned beef and cabbage was an old tradition brought from the old sod, and then my first time in Dublin at a pub I ordered it. The pubkeeper looked at me as if I had two heads.

Turns out, corned beef and cabbage is not Irish at all, but an American creation. The Irish immigrants feasted on mutton, which was hard to find in turn of the century America. Their neighbors, the Ashkenazi Jewish immigrants, ate a lot of corned beef, which was a cheap cut of beef made delicious by brining. So the Irish borrowed the Jewish meat, and mixed it with their beloved cabbage, and it became a major tradition. I love that history.

Purim was something we'd celebrate when the Ds were little -- their Hebrew schools would always have them dress up, and tell the tale of the amazing Queen Esther, who used her feminine wiles to save her people from the evil King Hamann. 

When we attended Chabad services, Rabbi Yossi explained that Purim was a holiday where it was assumed we would all get drunk -- drunk enough that we'd confuse the evil Hamann with the heroic Mordecai. I rather liked that tradition, and as the Book of Esther, also called the Megillah, was read, I was "L'chaim Boy," continually filling up shot glasses and toasting. My sister Trudy even made me a L'chaim Boy shirt, which I wore the following year.

Alas -- this year we're skipping out, though I do plan to stop for breakfast this am at LOL after my workout, and bring home some hamentashen, the triangle shaped pastries meant to symbolize evil Haman's tri cornered hat. So at least some of the spirit will be in the house, though our carb averse D2 and Jonathan will likely avoid the sweets. Wifey and I will carry on.

My most memorable St. Paddy's Day was years ago in NYC. I was there on business, and stayed at the Plaza. I finished my meeting early, and wandered onto 5th Avenue to watch the parade. I was truly stunned at home many police and firemen there were in NY -- thousands of them, ruddy faced in the cold drizzle, marching down the avenue.

I popped into a pub on a side street, which was a "Firemen's Pub," and recalled from my childhood how my friend Michael Monahan's Dad Bobby, a NYC firemen, explained to us that though both cops and firemen served the people, there was a tremendous rivalry between the two groups. At his local watering hole in Wantage, the Pin Up Bar ( initials spelled PUB) there were two sections -- one for the cops, and the other for the firemen, and rarely did the twain meet.

Michael's mother was Italian, and a great cook, and so I never turned down an invitation to "eat over." Often we'd have to go to the Pin Up to fetch Mike's Dad for dinner, and this was a place where I began my introduction to political incorrectness.

We'd stroll up to Mr. M, and he'd great us with a hearty "Hey guys -- youse know my son Mike. This is his Jew friend Dave." Everyone would laugh, and many would ask "So Dave -- is your Dad a lawyer or broker or something?" Nah, I'd answer, just a salesman. Everyone would laugh.

I wasn't offended at all -- it was just identity. We all referred to ourselves that way -- Mark the Swede (Swedish Dad, Italian Mom), and Gerry the Mick, and tall John. John was Irish Catholic, too, but his height was more remarkable than his ethnicity.

To this day I don't get people's being offended by this sort of thing -- but I guess I'm just a dinosaur.

So I plan to enjoy the holiday spirit. I'm sure there'll be lots of wearing of the green. I still recall D2 coming home from grade school one year -- we forgot and allowed her to wear orange -- and her teacher Mrs. Cochran pinched her, playfully -- and I think D2 learned to fear the Leprechauns on St. Paddy's Day.

So by now, the revelers at shul ought to be finishing up the reading of the Megillah (hence the great phrase "the WHOLE megillah" when referring to something either told or given in great completeness and detail. And the St. Paddy's celebrants will begin their drinking later today.

May the positive vibes continue.