NOT The Most Wonderful Time Of the Year

 So school's out, and all the relatives bring their bacteria and viruses to the kids' homes from far and wide, and then school resumes and within the week, sure enough, begins the sick season. Alas, it hit D1 and Joey's house like a tsunami.

Sunday we had a lovely day planned -- Jonathan dropped off D2 here and went back to the Shores to work -- the plan was for D1 and family to visit, order in Anthony's (Little Man calls it Anfony's) and then drop Tia D2 and Betsy back home. All was fine -- the boys went about their usual busy Sunday am activities, but then Little Man took a nap. He rarely naps. Sure enough, he woke up with fever and a headache, and his adorable Spanish description of "pain behind his eyes."

I kind of knew that something that came on so fast was flu, and an at home test confirmed it. His Baby brother was ok -- for the time being -- until D1 got a call from his Temple pre school to fetch him Monday -- he was under the weather, too. So this week D1 and Joey have been dealing with the worst part of being a loving parent -- watching your kids sick. Hey -- it's part of the plan.

You truly have to be a parent to understand this. I recall years ago having a talk with Diana, to use the now politically incorrect term favored by Barry's UF Med School mentor, a "spinster-type woman." She was telling me how she adored her nephew. But the rest of us around the table knew that if you learned a nephew needed a transplant, and you loved him, you would PROBABLY donate a kidney. If a doc told you your kid needed one, you grab the scalpel out of his hand and slice it out yourself before he finishes the request.

And so, when they're sick, it's the worst. The recently passed great Miamian Sam Moore sang it well, though he was singing about his lady: "When something is wrong with my baby...something is wrong with me."

When the Ds were probably 3 and 6, Wifey was down hard with the flu. I was in the middle of an expert deposition and simply couldn't get home, and it was after dark, and so her parents couldn't make the trip to Kendall from Pembroke Pines. I still recall opening the door -- Wifey had a pillow and blanket in the middle of the family room, and the Ds were climbing over, essentially, a corpse -- she was keeping an eye on them, but they ate what they wanted, and opened what they wanted.

D1 has it easier -- Joey came home -- and Little Man perked up -- he ADORES his Daddy. D1 has a nanny to help, too. Hopefully the viruses pass soon -- they have a Disney trip with another family set for Friday. 

Yesterday, Wifey went to D2's house, and would typically go by for a boys' dinner -- usually with me. But we knew flu and people of a certain age ( I remain steadfastly prohibited from mentioning Wifey's age, or the fact that she was born during the Eisenhower Administration while I was born under Kennedy) are a witches' brew -- so instead she just fetched the D1 family dog, Lemon, the skittish Spaniel. He loves it here -- no little boys bothering him -- and hopped around all evening as the aging, special needs Spaniel, Bo, napped on the couch.

So hopefully the trip to Orlando is a go. We had a Disney cruise planned for last year, but Covid put the kibbosh on that one -- so my grandsons remain Disney naive. 

Meanwhile, I have a friends' dinner tonight at Christy's -- one of my favorites -- and a couples' dinner tomorrow night at Salvatore D -- another favorite. Friday we have shabbat with Patricia and  Paul, and Sunday we're touring the old NIKE missile site in the Everglades with Joelle and Kenny. Who ARE these socialites?

But most importantly -- here's to a quick recovery for our grandsons -- and their first Disney trip!

Different Childhoods With Same Parents

 So yesterday I spoke with my California sister, and she made a comment about telling the dentist she was "sleeping there until he helped her." I said she was just like Dad, when he did that at the hotel in LA in 1971. She had zero idea what I was talking about, even though the tale is deep family lore, and she was THERE a bit later...

It occurred to me that our varied memories of our family are such that we might as well have had different parents. Now, some of that is due to the fact that my sisters are 13 and 16 years older than I, but with my Florida sister, the only different memories are indeed because of stuff that happened before I was old enough to remember them.

My parents and I had flown from NY to visit my sister, who the year before had taken the hippie express to California. My Dad booked a Sheraton near Universal Studios, and my sister was the meet us there the following day. I was 10, but recall all of this with crystal clarity.

We got out of the rental car (I even recall it was a forest green Ford Galaxy) and the bellhop took in our bags. The snooty front desk clerk frowned, and told my Dad "So sorry -- but we can't accommodate you. We had a convention of dentists, and many decided to stay an extra day or so -- we are all sold out." My Dad replied he had made the reservations months ago, we had just flown across the country, and where else should we go? Another Sheraton, perhaps? "No," said the snooty clerk "everything is sold out. Good day," and he turned and walked away.

My Dad, a true character, didn't miss a beat. He had my Mom and me move our bags to a sofa and chairs in the lobby, opened the suitcase, and started unpacking -- putting his underwear and socks into the coffee table drawer. The clerk came over, and my Dad said "No problem. The lobby is lovely -- we'll just sleep here -- I'm sure you have a lobby bathroom, and probably showers by the pool. Dave -- open that other suitcase!" He was makin' a scene, as the Ds used to say.

The manager came out, and invited us to the back office. My Mom sat with the stuff. Miraculously, there WAS an opening, in a nicer Sheraton, in Pasadena -- the Huntington Sheraton. Of course, said the manager, we would have it at the same price, even though it was a much more expensive property.

We drove over, and as we got onto the premises, my parents started to laugh. They had MARRIED at this very hotel -- known then only as the Huntington -- back in 1944! It was indeed beautiful -- years later I took the Ds and Wifey -- it was a Ritz Carlton. I took my California sister, too, for lunch, when my Mom was 85 -- her final trip before we realized travel was no longer for her.

Somehow, my sister had zero memory of this. She DID, in fact, have a severe allergic reaction to apricots -- the hotel doc had to come and give her a shot. So maybe she sort of blocked out the great tale of my Dad -- no one was going to treat him disrespectfully.

Meanwhile, our lovely Sunday plans were felled by...the flu. D2 and Jonathan came back from Islamorada, and Jonathan left D2 and Betsy here -- D1 and Joey would drive her home after our family visit at Villa Wifey.

Alas, Little Man fell asleep and woke up with a headache and fever. Sure enough, an at home test this am confirmed flu, and as sure as viruses spread, D1 got a call from Baby Man's preschool -- he was sick, too. Both our guys will get Tamiflu, and hopefully get well soon -- a Disney trip is planned for Friday!

Meanwhile, we were stuck with a Miami Shores D and dog. D2 had Jonathan meet us at a food hall in the Design District, which was terrific. I joked that several GQ looking shoppers asked me where I got my ensemble -- wrinkled WDNA t shirt and vintage Canes hoodie -- with worn gray gym shorts. Hey -- I was wearing Bombas socks...

After a martini with a never before sampled vodka -- Truman -- from Austria, and some delicious pizza, Wifey and I left for home -- and the younguns left for the Shores.

So hopefully the flu passes quickly, and leaves the Little Man and Baby Man's parents alone. Dr. Barry says this year's flu vax is only 50-60% effective, though it may well prevent serious illness...

Still, nothing sadder than sick little kids. As I told D1 -- the worst part of parenting...

We'll see in many years who recalls what...

City of Burned Angels

 Man - those poor bastards in LA -- today has been nearly a week since historically awful wildfires have turned a lot of that beautiful part of our country into a hellscape. For me, Southern Cal is where my family's modern history began, and I always feel an affinity with the place -- bolstered by my probably close to 20 visits there over the years, most recently just a few months ago.

Fire season has passed, but terrible Santa Ana winds have fueled the worst devastation ever. I think of beautiful Malibu, and a day I spent there when I was 40 -- Paul and I and his now late friend Frank walking the beach when a soccer ball rolled by. I picked it up to return it to the beautiful blonde Mom who was playing with her kids, and she thanked me in an Aussie accent. Frank pointed out it was Olivia Newton-John. Frank also pointed out Johnny Carson's house. After, we had lunch at Geoffrey's, a famous restaurant. I saw immediately why the rich and famous were drawn to that beach town. Sadly, a lot of it is now rubble.

The fire has also shown, again, why journalism in the US is now a laughingstock. When you read the stories in lefty papers, like the NYT, the focus is how climate change is to blame -- we've brought this upon ourselves by driving cars and flying jets. The righty papers, like the NY Post, emphasize that the real blame is incompetent Democratic government in Cali and Southern California. Indeed, the mayor seems clownish -- she was at a state inauguration in Ghana when the fire started, and seems to be leading less efficiently than a pre school teacher with no control over her kids.

Probably both takes are correct.

The closest person to us is Amanda, and her new husband Daniel, whose wedding we attended with D2 and Jonathan. Fortunately, they're fine, although there will be long term consequences. Probably any attempts to buy a house in the coming years will be over -- there's a mad scramble to buy whatever hasn't been turned to ash, and apparently rental rates for available apartments are also through the roof. Jonathan's family in LA is fine, too, though I think one Tia had to evacuate.  A huge mess...

My nephew is there, too, but he lives far from the center of the problems -- near Downtown. He's fine, too.

Miami has hurricanes, of course, but they're MUCH less scary than fires and earthquakes. We have plenty of notice they're coming -- someone once noted that waiting for a bad storm to hit in Miami is like being stalked by a tortoise.

Andrew taught us how serious they are, of course -- essentially culling out most of our stuff along with our poorly built house. Fortunately, insurance then was truly easy to navigate -- we made a LOT of profit from Andrew -- paid off the mortgage and ended up with a rental house to boot. I also paid off my student loans.

Now, of course, the insurance party is over -- I can't even buy hurricane insurance anymore unless I replace my still watertight roof. I'm sure buying fire coverage in California is about to become impossible, too -- the entire casualty industry is going to have to change.

The other good news about hurricanes is they typically move west to east or vice versa -- so we can pack up 3 SUVs and decamp north to like Orlando if a storm threatens. An exception was Irma, in 2017, which came up the Florida peninsula like a bowling ball in a lane -- so escape was much tougher -- crazy traffic. We fled to Atlanta -- the usual 11 hour trip took closer to 20.

We thought about getting a whole house generator -- probably for D2 and Jonathan's house -- to have one refuge -- but I thought about it, and would rather just spend the money on a nice refugee vacation for the family, if needed.

Part of me is spooked by Norman's experience in Irma -- had a state of the art, whole house job, and it went on the Fritz on day 2 of no power, I think. And no one was coming out to repair it in the days right after the storm hit.

Yeah -- wildfires are far scarier, and I feel for LA. But they'll rebuild -- maybe this time even fix an infrastructure that left the hydrants dry.

Ironically, we're in my favorite part of the Miami climate year -- cool out -- haven't turned on the AC in weeks.

Today D2 and Jonathan are returning from Islamorada and yet another friends' wedding -- taking the 97 pound Betsy home. D1 and Joey are bringing their kids over -- pizza, wings, and maybe a cocktail or two.

I ended my dry January Friday night -- a FaceTime martini with Paul, and a second while Wifey sipped some seltzer. The buzz was nice. It was great to feel "up" to adult beverages again -- I always think about the Dean Martin line about feeling bad for those who do NOT drink. "When you wake up in the am -- that's the best you're going to feel all day!"

If we do toast today, one will be for the poor folks in LA. May they endure and rebuild.

Recovery From The Nights Of Coughing

 So after our wedding anniversary passed, and it was night 6 with barely any sleep, I called my doc, Rigoberto, even though the office was closed. When you pay per year, you get to do that. He thought I had a viral bronchitis, and I just needed to tough it out, and so I did -- with honey -- and little sleep. Finally day 8 I had enough, and made an appointment for UHealth Urgent Care in Cutler Bay.

The night before, Drs. Eric and Barry and I made fun of bad medical training hospitals -- top of the list being Larkin Hospital in South Miami, which has used residency programs as a profit center for years, with little quality control. So of course, the doc who say me, though Board Certified in Family Medicine, was, of course, a Larkin grad.

She listened to my lungs -- no pneumonia. But she asked how long I was feeling poorly, and noted she could see it in my eyes. "Nah -- too long -- we're starting you on antibiotics." I realized her advice was probably not evidence based, but I needed SOMETHING. She prescribed Levoquin, which is mighty powerful. She asked if I was a runner.  I pointed to my ample belly and asked if I LOOKED like I ran. She laughed, and said she was asking, because Levoquin had a bad side effect -- caused Achilles Tendon tears, especially in runners over 60. Now, as I told her, I had yet another reason NOT to run.

Walgreens filled the scrip fast, and I took the pills for 5 days. By day 3, I was sleeping normally. I fully realize my recovery could well have been coincidental, and not caused by, the antibiotic. But if I had plague or anthrax lurking, this Levoquin killed it off.

Now I'm thankfully back to normal health -- I walked my usual 3 miles today, and will walk more with our dog sitting client Betsy. So far, my gut biome hasn't seem to have suffered -- another complication of Levoquin. Hopefully that stays ok.

And it occurred to me: I've had a dry January. I simply have NOT felt like taking a sip of alcohol since NYE. I know it's only a third into the month, but we'll see...

Meanwhile, a wise person asked what Wifey and I had done for our 38th. I told her nothing -- I was feeling poorly -- and was it really such a big deal? She reminded me that not too many people stay married for so long -- and so last night, we brought in Med food, and drank our seltzers out of the nice glasses. Wifey lit a candle, and I played Sam Cooke's "You Send Me" on the Sonos -- that was out wedding song. So mission accomplished.

D2 and Jonathan ordered Pura Vida for lunch, and brought Betsy over. They're on their way to yet another wedding at Cheeca Lodge in Islamorada -- and Betsy is with us. Hopefully Sunday D1 and Joey will bring their kids -- Lemon the Spaniel and Little Man and Baby Man, and we'll have an afternoon of "Anfony's" as Little Man calls it and maybe even a few adult beverages. D2 and Jonathan can stop by on their way back from the Keys -- to fetch Betsy enjoy with us.

But the week of feeling poorly was instructive -- when you feel bad -- ain't nothing much fun. I realize how minor was my ailment, compared to what friends have suffered with far worse diseases and conditions. But it reinforced you MUST celebrate the milestones when you feel up to it.

Next up for us is D2's 33rd birthday. She was born "the Day the Music Died," but since D1 and Joey will be in Panama for a wedding then, we'll hopefully celebrate the following Friday. D2's birthday is the last event on our annual holiday season, which begins with T Day and D1's birthday.

I WILL toast the Big Man that night -- giving thanks for the manifold blessings. And also for the hope that the rest of 2025 turns out more pleasant than the first week of it!

38 -- Not Feeling Great

 Well NYE was lovely -- first we drove to the Gables and met Barry, Donna, Scott, and Sam. The men were tux shopping, and decided to go upscale with an old school shop in the high rent district. Sam noted they "Said yes to the tux!," a reference that went WAY over reality TV averse Barry -- but we all laughed.

We had a few pops, and then they headed to Motek for a 615 dinner. Wifey drove us to Joelle and Kenny, where a nice, eclectic group of professors, scientists, and musicians were gathered, drinking and chatting. After my second martini I thought about saying "Ya know -- Trump is actually starting to grow on me," but then realized it was probably better to start off 2025 alive instead of dead. These were NO red state folks -- one lady, an artist, was telling me she was seriously considering moving to Colorado to get away from the climate here (political, not weather). Promblem is, he husband has one of the cushiest jobs known to modern academia -- law professor. They stay on forever, and I think the fellow kind of likes his gig at UM. I was laughing with him that there are still a few profs there from MY  years -- and I began law school 41 years ago! 

Anyway, we left around 930 as the vodka was having a soporific effect on me, and  I was well asleep before the ball dropped in Times Square and the Big Orange rose in Downtown Miami. The latter has become the better show over the years -- salsa and hip hop artists instead of Ryan Seacrest. But that's just my opinion.

Alas, I was up coughing most of the night. When we had Little Man sleep over the 2 nights before WifeyMas, HE was coughing at night, and I think I picked up his bronchitis, but with my 63 year old immune system, it;s worse. I actually called my dog Rigo NY Day, and asked about him sending in a scrip for a Z pack, to zap this thing, but he correctly noted it was probably viral and Z packs are worthless -- and he opposes prescribing too many antibiotics lest they lose effectiveness.

I get it, but it's now 8 nights of suffering -- I figure I'll call Monday if the cough persists and ramp up the intervention.

I'm lucky -- bronchitis, among the most annoying non fatal conditions, rarely affects me. Probably 20 years ago it did, and Dave, my then doc, prescribed an inhaler to open up my lungs and it worked like a charm. For some reason, it is fated that I begin the year with a nasty bout.

And that had an effect on another milestone: yesterday Wifey and I celebrated our 38th anniversary. By celebrate, I mean that Wifey went to Whole Foods and fetched me a Zak the Baker challah and chicken soup -- I sat on the couch most of the day resting. But we did walk back down Memory Lane -- just a couple of kids, as Patti Smith wrote, at a big party required by Wifey's parents since they had attended MANY affairs for their Survivor friends' kids and their only child was having nothing less.

And it WAS a fine night -- our friend Pat Travers, who had 3 gold records, actually got up and jammed with the very South Palm Beach Jewish party band -- Harry Frank and his Mirthmakers I think they were called. OK, so maybe I stole the "Mirthmakers" part from a Norman Lear comedy -- but Pat jamming with them was something to see. Wifey's FSU friend Eileen was VERY lit and she decided to join the pros as well, but sang "Good Lovin'" as Pat led the band in "Gimme Some Lovin'" and I watched how the true pro Pat sort of led her back to the right song.

Afterwards, Wifey and I retired to the Hyatt's honeymoon suite, and Wifey donned lingerie for the first and only time in her life. We got into the marital bed, and began the age-old ritual of Jewish couples that truly solemnizes a marriage: we opened all the gift envelopes to see who had given us what.

The Survivor crowds' checks were VERY generous -- some like $500, and this was 1987. My aunts and uncles' and my mother's American friends' checks were comically cheap -- one family, who I'll call the Schwartzes, since that's their name, gave a gift of $25 -- and 10 of them attended! My late Aunt Florence had pulled me aside and solemnly told me she had a special gift for me -- kept all these years from my grandmother for each of her grandkids' weddings. It was a savings bond for $20. I like to imagine Anna walking into the bank in either Spring Valley or Miami Beach (she was a snowbird) and laying out the $10 to buy this bond for her youngest grandchild (me) as the clerk (Italian or Jewish in Spring Valley, probably Cuban in Miami Beach) rolled her eyes.

But luckily Wifey and I both knew the marriage thing was a game best played long. We spoke the other night -- I asked her of the 38 years , how many were negative, sort of cumulative. She asked me and I said 2. No -- she said -- more like 4. OK, the epigenetic Survivor trauma wins out in understanding negativity better than my more benign, Woody Allen-type non Survivor Jewish anxiety, and so she's probably more accurate.

Still -- the long game has brought us to literal afternoons in the golden sun -- sitting at Greer Park in Pinecrest while our probably illegally adorable grandson plays with such joy. And his little brother is coming along, too -- from mute to loquacious, as Dr. Barry has noted.

So hopefully this virus or bacteria in my lungs leaves sooner than later, whether naturally or with some meds, and I can get about the business of savoring 2025. To steal from my idol The Chairman, let it be a very good year.

Who By Fire? Who By Water?

 So the dark side of my soul, often overpowered by the lighter side, was inspired today to prepare for the coming New Year by listening to Leonard Cohen's "Who By Fire?" Of course, his masterpiece is written based on the Rosh Hashonah prayers, where Jews are asked to ponder who shall live in the coming year, and who shall not be included in the Book of Life. And the prayer is kind enough to further question the method of death for those whose destiny will be to no longer join us on this mortal coil.

The song is terrific, but very different in tone from the typical Anglo Saxon Auld Lang Syne we sing on New Year's Day. But both are, of course, reflective -- questioning loss as well as gain.

I've been dealing with a night cough, courtesy of Little Man, who we slept with last Monday and Tuesday nights. Friday night I had it, too, but luckily it's one of those "sounds worse than it is" viruses -- I did a Covid test yesterday just to insure I can be around people -- it was clearly negative. It's definitely going around, my trainer Jonathan told me he's been battling it for nearly 2 weeks, and son in law Jonathan had it for awhile before he finally called his doc and got a Z pack -- it cleared up. Of course, Dr. Barry, detester of un-needed antibiotics, would opine that Jonathan's recovery was coincidental to the Z pack. He's probably correct -- but if the cough is still around Friday, I'll probably call Dr. Rigo for one as well -- no fun waking up from a sleep for this stuff.

So as I'm typing, a hard rain's a-fallin outside -- hopefully bringing another cold front to give us some firepit weather early in 2025. I so enjoy sitting outside at night -- martini or hot herbal tea in hand, looking skyward and letting the Big Man's gloried existence fall down upon me.

There was a great photo that came up on FaceBook (tm) memories of last year -- a group of us together. Since then, one of those included is in a nursing home fighting to walk again, a few others have aged past wanting to travel anymore, and others have had major life changes, too. Yep -- life moves pretty darned fast.

Our plan is to leave here early for Wifey to pick up some prescriptions she "as always left for the last minute." She is SO quirky -- when I have a scrip due, I order at least a month in advance -- but that's not the way Wifey rolls. I have a feeling the pharmacies may close early, and she'll have to survive until January 2.

From there, we're headed to the Gables to meet Barry, Scott, Donna, and Sam -- for a cocktail before dinner. Their younguns are headed to a get together in Broward, and the old-uns are having dinner at the Gables Motek. Wifey and I are off to Joelle and Kenny for dinner -- and likely home well before 2025 is upon the Eastern US time zone.

I think we have tentative plans to see the grandkids and their parents and tia and tio on Friday -- also Wifey and my 38th anniversary. I can't think of a better way to celebrate what the plan was back in January of 1987 -- build a life together with kids and grandkids.

Wifey and I are both orphans for quite awhile now, so thankfully the efforts are to the young. I joke all the time that I am openly anti-old people. It's wrong, I know, especially since we're nearly there.

We got a call from Wifey's friend Sheryl from Boston -- Wifey's friends, with one exception, all call ME, since Wifey rarely answers her calls or texts. Sheryl suggested we meet for dinner Thursday -- were we up for it? Of course. And then she strategically mentioned that her 90 year old mother was coming along!

Now, the lady is nice enough, but I kind of feel like I served my time in the caring for oldsters army -- Sheryl knew if she proposed dinner with the nonogenarian, we might have had a conflict. Classic Sheryl -- backed us into a corner. I'm sure it will be a lovely evening -- but I much prefer the young to the old.

So I'm already preparing crankiness for the new year. That's a bad sign -- but maybe good. 5 years ago, using my English 101 level skills for symbolism, I thought that 2020 was going to be the "year of perfect vision." And then came Covid! So maybe planning for less than stellar can be a positive thing.

Regardless -- here's to a 2025 of great health and laughter. And may the answer be NONE BY Fire, and NONE by water...

Slouching Towards 2025

 So Friday night we met Dr. Barry and family in Doral -- to celebrate Scott's 28th birthday, at Basilico, which is precisely halfway between our 2 houses. It was a lovely night -- all aglow with excitement about the upcoming March Big, Fat, D.C. Media Wedding, as I have labeled their nuptials. Scott and Sam were leaving early Saturday to watch the Canes in the silly Pop Tarts Bowl in Orlando, which they lost in a very silly way...

When Little Man was with us Mon- Wed, I noticed he had a night cough, and, sure enough, now Grandpa Dev has the cough. No biggie -- one of those URIs where I sound worse than I feel -- but hopefully it clears up by the end of this year -- no fun coughing into martinis.

I spent yesterday dodging our cleaning lady Miriam, here on Saturday instead of Wednesday since she was visiting family in Nicaragua for the Navidad holiday. I watched the game alone up above the garage, and then Wifey and I ordered Publix Instacart with delicious Pub Subs for dinner -- but they did NOT bring them, and so Wifey and I were forced to tear apart a rotisserie chicken like hungry hyenas. 

Today it's raining, and the Ds and their men are busy, and so the day holds home errands for me -- changing AC filters and flushing out/chlorinating the drain lines, and then probably the last Dolphins game at 4. They're still technically alive for the playoffs, in the way Karen Ann Quinlan was alive -- but Tua the QB looks unable to play, and the Fins should go down in Cleveland.

I still check FaceBook, but no longer comment on it, on account of a scare with mentally ill former relative I mistakenly contacted, and the memories came up today --a bunch of fellows last year at Gulfstream drinking martinis as we lost at horses, and 2 years ago Barry, Norman, Donna, and Deb with Wifey and me at Joe's. It struck me how much changes in a mere 2 years.

Also, it's Eric's birthday, and one of our all time favorite pics popped up -- from December of 1986. Wifey's bridal shower was at packed Victoria's Station in Dadeland, a restaurant located in old railroad cars, an in attendance were 3 groups of ladies: Wifey's mother's friends, all Holocaust Survivors, my mother's friends, all American Jewesses out of "The Nanny,", and Wifey's friends, modern (ish)20 and 30 somethings.

For reasons still unexplored by therapy, I got the inspiration to crash said party with most of my groomsmen -- in drag. Dr. Barry was up at UF Med school and was spared, but Eric, Mike, Jeff, and Mark all took part. The event was the source of MANY funny anecdotes -- like Mike and I, in our new lawyer suits, walking into the McCrory's on Flagler Street and asking the middle aged Cuban clerk for bras and panty hose for ourselves, and the clerk saying, deadpan, "Oh -- you need Queen Sized," which we bought, realizing we were not the first men to buy this stuff.

Eric took the lead, wearing one of his mother's dresses from 50s Brooklyn, which kind of looked like drapes, and I had borrowed a T shirt from my moot court partner Donna, a Wellesley grad whose shirt said "A Wellesley Woman is MORE Than a Woman." We invaded the outside patio party, falsetto voiced, and the reaction was truly tri-partate. Wifey and my mother's friends fell over laughing -- my suegra's crew were shocked -- was Wifey marrying some kind of deviant? Of course, listening to the rapid Yiddish explanations added to the hilarity.

Anyway, today I sent Eric a pic of the two of us in drag, and he noted that DEI really DOES work --2 ugly transvestites from the 80s ended up successful fathers and grandpas.

I like to take stock at the turn of the year -- both Rosh Hashonah and the secular one. What to leave in, as Bob Seger sang, what to leave out.

As the decline and disease of people we care about rear their heads, I figure the only thing to reasonably do is double down on what I love: sharing great times with my sacred family and friends. Those not inner circle get courtesy, but nothing more -- not enough mental real estate, to use a new term, to let them exist there.

So the plan for NYE involves again the Big, Fat, D.C Media Wedding prep. Barry and Scott have a tux fitting on Miracle Mile, followed by dinner at 6 at Motek. I plan to Uber over and have a few cocktails with them, and then Wifey can fetch me there to head to Joelle and Kenny's, $150 gift bottle of wine from broker friend Pat in tow.

We'll toast, and hopefully laugh, and make it home to go to sleep on faith -- that 2025 indeed comes while we're out. Or maybe we'll watch the Big Orange raise -- the Miami  party at Bayfront Park tends to be cooler than the one in Times Square.

But the time grows short -- to another milestone. Hopefully I get to pass many more of them.