Rest In Peace, Cousin Steve

 I'm the youngest first cousin on both my mother and father's side, and I'm old, so the inevitable is that my Boomer cousins more frequently leave this mortal coil. Both my parents were Greatest Generation types, and their kids Boomers, raging from a 1943 birth (my cousin Arlyne, now gone years) to me, in 1961.

Dad was one of 3, and so fewer cousins there. Anne was the oldest, who died at 99 in, I think, 2015, then my Dad, and the youngest, Uncle Harry. Harry died in his 40s, and his 2 sons Russ and Gary became Smiths, when adopted by my Aunt Elayne's second husband Ben. My Dad's 3 of us remain. And Aunt Anne had a single son, Steve, who turned 74 in March. Alas, he had seen his final Independence Day last year -- my sister Sue shared the news that Steve died yesterday morning.

He was an odd duck. Today we all know he's on the autism spectrum, but back in the day there was never such a diagnosis. Rather, he was just shy, and strange, and not social, though he did get a college degree and work for years as an accountant.

My years as a boy, when we would visit Jackson Heights and the building my grandmother lived one floor below Steven and his parents Anne and Jordan, were not sunny memories. Steve was 9 years older than I, but always seemed socially younger -- even as a late teen more concerned with model airplanes and HAM radio than talking to us.

His father Jordan, a Caspar Milquetoast if ever there was one in our family, repaired vending machines, and was so quiet and humble, he never shared his part in history. One day, on a visit, he was showing some WW II pix, and sure enough, there he was on an island in front of a plane, with his fellow mechanics. The island was Tinian, and the plane the Enola Gay! My Dad was shocked. "Jordan -- you were part of the Hiroshima Mission?!!!" He was, but had never mentioned it.

Poor Jordan dropped dead of a heart attack on Miami Beach, while attending a convention for his company. I was 8 and I recall Anne calling Dad and asking him to come over when she broke the news to Steve -- Dad said the 17 year old took the news terribly. An early memory is Jordan's funeral -- his Knights of Pythias provided service had an officiant who kept calling him "Gordon" with Anne loudly and angrily correcting him. Yep -- early "Curb" in my family.

Anyway, Anne and Steve lived together in their co-op the rest of Anne's life. When she died, of pneumonia, Steve called to ask me if we could sue the hospital. I said "Steve -- she was 99." He replied, in his high pitched, Queens accented voice, "Well she COULD have made 100!"

We kept in touch over the years, but weren't close. He would come to Miami for cruises, and sometimes I would see him. We were pretty sure he wasn't gay, but never dated that we knew. This led to my having an inspiration -- maybe my sister of another mister was right for him! Mirta was single, and struggling a bit financially -- her sons were grown. I romanticized maybe the Cubana and strange Jewish bachelor were besheret.

So I fetched him at the cruise port, and Mirta, Wifey, Steve, and I spend one of the most uncomfortable 7 hours ever. We went to Tropical Chinese. Steve had ZERO interest in Mirta, and soon she felt the same way. We went back to our house. I suggested coffee. "I don't DRINK coffee," said Steve. Tea? "No -- how about ice cream?" So we went to Wall's, then Matheson Hammock to kill time. I tried to talk with Steve -- he just wanted to complain about how Trump had reclaimed his model airplane runway for a new golf course, and the gay guys in his co-op harassed him about taking down his HAM antenna.

Finally, it was time to leave for MIA. On the way, he called Delta -- it appeared his flight was canceled. We were horrified -- zero chance I was bringing him back to my house for the night, I assured him Delta would put him up at a hotel. Thankfully the flight went on, and after we dropped him Wifey and Mirta asked what the hell I was thinking, attempting that love connection. It went down as a Top 5 dumbest idea I ever had.

Anyway, when D2 and Jonathan lived in NYC, I called Steven and Ubered to Queens to meet him at his favored cheap Chinese place in a strip center near LGA. He dropped me at the terminal, and I asked him if he wished me to call him more often -- he never called me unless he wanted free legal advice (several car wrecks, all his fault, and the continuing harassment from the gays in his building who clearly wanted the weird old Jewish guy out). He said he would.

All during Covid, I called him every few months and struggled through our talks, typically as I walked the 'hood in anxiety about whether the Plague would take our first born grandson.

His conversations were always complaints about how much things cost, and how he had been taught by Anne not to give away money or let people rip him off. Once, he complained that Carnival wanted to charge him an extra few hundred dollars for a balcony room. I suggested maybe he pay -- he had plenty of money, and no one to care for but himself -- live a little. He reacted as if I suggested he give up an organ.

Which he did. He was diabetic and got a kidney transplant about 4 years ago. I thought they stopped giving organs to 70 year olds, but apparently the criteria changed to medical need alone. He never really fully recovered -- still needed dialysis, I think, and refused to pay for it on cruise ships, so only took short cruises.

But last year he did travel to LA to see the sights -- like the docked Queen Mary, which he reported was a lousy hotel.

We last spoke a few months ago, when he wanted me to call his auto carrier and tell them to NOT settle with 2 claimants he rear-ended and were claiming serious injury. I took the time to explain that it was a good thing his company settled, and his premiums would increase based on his fault, anyway.

My sister Sue kept in closer touch with him -- she spoke to him just last week after he got out of the hospital for an infection. She also met , on the phone, a cousin from Jordan's side, a fellow named Stewart who was closer -- he traveled to Queens to help Steve out after hospitalizations. Stewart was the one who told Sue Steve died.

Sue said she was thinking of sending flowers. I reminded her we were all Jews and we didn't send flowers -- food, for a shiva, yes, or a charitable contribution. I can't imagine anyone is sitting shiva -- probably just an Eleanor Rigby-like funeral in New Jersey -- with a Rabbi instead of Father McKenzie...

Early this am, Wifey and I shared insomnia, and talked about Cousin Steve. He never hurt anyone. He lived a quiet life -- friends, if you could call them that, in the HAM radio community and Model Planes. He DID travel. He loved driving to my old town on LI, to visit Kwong Ming, the locally famous Chinese place -- and he would send me pics of him dining alone at a table there -- I guess he had some warm memories of being with my family on LI.

My Dad used to joke that once Anne died, he would "come out of his shell," get silk shirts and coke spoons and acquire a persona like Budd Love in Jerry Lewis's "Nutty Professor" movie. Never happened -- just Dad's absurdist humor, which he passed down to me.

I said a prayer to the Big Man -- for Steven's soul to be comforted, and reunited with the souls of Anne and Jordan -- his people, as the saying goes.

Rest in peace, my first cousin Steven Greenbaum.

Erev Independence Day

 So there was a highlight this week -- on July 1 - my first Medicare Day! My hope is to use very few of the benefits -- in fact, to be the opposite of the old Jewish curse: "May you make a million dollars and spend all of it on doctors."

So at 330, Norman, not yet on Medicare on account of he doesn't turn 65 until November and even when he does will keep his insurance from his law firm, rolled up to Villa Cipora, and I walked out, after the required questioning my Miriam, our long time housekeeper, about where I was going.

We had 5 pm reservations at Anthony's Runway, and good thing we left early, since a wreck on the Turnpike delayed us, but we arrived, and left the car for the valet even though he said they weren't open yet. The meal was grand. I had a couple of dirty martinis -- poor Norman had to abstain on account of medical stuff -- and we shared sausage, meatballs, chicken parm, and linguine and clams. Classic red sauce, done right. They are a supper club now, but we had to leave before the 7 pm Sinatra started.

Norman got us an Uber Enormous --yuuuuuge SUV -- and we arrived at Parker Playhouse. I thought I had been there before -- I had not -- I confused it with the War Memorial Auditorium next door. Norman scored us 2nd row tickets, strategically by stage right, where he knew Joe Jackson would be sitting at his keyboard.

The show was sold out. It was all OLD people -- like 60s and 70s! The prettiest girl was on those arm crutches. Our seatmate, a large fellow, warned us he would visit the men's room multiple times -- and he wasn't kidding -- I counted 5 during the show.

But Jackson was terrific. I knew all his old music, though I had forgotten the Latin vibe he had after his hit record in the 80s. The band was tight, as they say -- most of them had played with him since the early 80s. And I dug his new stuff, too, particularly a song called "Made God Laugh" based on the old Jewish saying about the Big Man not heeding the plans of Man -- or his demands, for that matter.

His ballads were beautiful -- particularly his ode to mistresses -- "Be My Number 2." Terrific show in all regards.

We had to Uber back to Anthony's, and walked down US 1 to a Courtyard. This driver was hilariously MAGA -- telling us right away that they were building a new YMCA but they couldn't use "Christian" anymore. I gently prodded the guy -- he wasn't buying my humor. Maybe angry older guy isn't the best gig for an Uber driver. But he did get us back, and we were off for home -- listening to the US beat, um, I forget now, in soccer.

And today is the eve of July 4th. I have friends who prefer to ignore it, on account of Trump. Not me -- I am still proud of the best country in the world -- the one where my grandparents fled the Tsar in the early 1900s to come to. The place has truly been our American Dream -- especially for this 3rd generation American.

Yeah -- plenty sucks -- but as Bill Maher reminded us about the Bicentennial 50 years ago -- Nixon had just left office, New York City was headed to near collapse, and we were much poorer and crime ridden than we are now. But still -- he wore his Bicentennial T shirt all Summer. I had one, too -- and 50 years later, we endure.

July 4 memories for me are teenaged, then college, then young parents. Teenaged highlight was '78, when my buddies and I took our surgically altered NY State licenses, made ourselves 18 instead of 17, "dressed up," which meant swapping out long sleeved shirts for Grateful Dead T shirts, and went to Beefsteak Charlies, where we consumed all the beer, wine, and sangria we could -- walking to Eisenhower Park afterwards to meet foxes and watch fireworks.

College will always be July 4, 1981 -- my friend Vince's parents' house in North Miami. His parents had decamped to the Keys, and we threw the party to end all parties -- I had made friends from Boca Hospital, and they drove down having never been to a rager (to use a later term) like we threw.

Vince and his childhood buddies, all local Italian guys, danced a hilarious choreographed piece to Springsteen's "Born to Run," in their Speedos, which weren't gross then as 20 year old guys. I still see the vision in my head whenever I hear that Boss anthem.

And then, fast forward to the age of the Ds. Early on, our JCC had a parade up SW 107 Avenue, and afterwards we would attend local fireworks. For years later, we got a room and cabana at The Biltmore where the grownups floated poolside with frozen drinks, and we saw the fireworks later.

Ah -- almost forgot a major attraction as I wander down Memory Lane -- July 4, 1984. Wifey and I had become "excluuuuuusive," as the Ds love to lampoon, and we spent the night of the 3rd at her friend Yvonne's South Beach apartment, the better to secure a spot on the beach for a yuuuuuuge Beach Boys concert. I think the day still holds the record for most fans for a band -- the Boys played in D.C. early, then flew to Miami for the evening -- more than 1 M in total, I believe. 

Our show, which I saw after an entire day of drinking wine on the beach in the scorching sun, also had Ringo Starr and a few of the Moody Blues. Our friend Jeannette and her cousin Dennis were with us, and when Ringo appeared, Jeannette, a lifelong Beatles fan, ran maniacally to the stage. In my VERY inebriated state, I thought -- oh well -- we'll have to tell Bob, her husband back in NYC, what happened, as she was lost in the maw. But she turned up, we all got on with our lives, including 4 Ds among us, and 6 grandkids, so far.

Sadly, Bob died last year, barely past 70.

So yeah, I really dig July 4th. This year, I overcame Wifey's inertia, reminding her SHE was an immigrant and so had less say than I, a native born citizen (wow -- Trump must be wearing off on me), and we WOULD do something.

So I invited our neighbor Gloria, and we're meeting Barry, Donna, and their boy Josh, who, sadly, doesn't have a Vince friend equivalent to spend a much crazier July 4th than he will have with us, at Bahia Honda -- Cuban owned and run seafood place on 8th Street near FIU.

They have a Spanish guitar guy. Will he play any US songs? TBD.

Either way -- happy birthday, America, as D2 used to gleefully shout when she was in kindergarten.

I plan to enjoy my pride.

It Went On Too Long

 So Wifey isn't shall we say, the best driver. Over the years, there have been many incidents -- only 2 of which were nearly tragic. The rest were of the hitting poles variety (twice in the Brickell condo -- same pole!) and hitting curb too hard after she asked to drive my Jaguar home ($1200 repair back in the late 90s). But since the second of the near tragedies -- a few years ago -- I kind of knew this good run wouldn't last. It didn't.

Sunday she called me on her way home from a beach stay with her BFF and headed to Aventura Mall for lunch with lower level Fs. I greeted her with a cheerful Go-Gos line "Was it all you ever wanted?" But she was dour, and calling me IRT from the scene of her latest incident -- she took a wide right while on the phone with her friend searching for the restaurant, and side-swiped a Camry driven by a nerdy, mama's boy Jamaican man. I asked to speak to him.

I offered to pay his damages. He was a bit shaken, as 34 year old men still living home and driving they mama car tend to get when dealing with small issues. "I have to call my Mom," said Randy, and I heard a West Indian accent in the background. "No way! Call de police! Let dem handle it. Don't trust him!"

I tried to calmly explain that he could get Wifey's information, photo her license tag, look me up online to see I was a Florida lawyer, and, if we reneged on the offer to pay -- make a claim then. Mom, who Wifey later learned was a Broward nurse living in a $750K Cooper City house, wasn't having it -- even though I tried to explain that THEIR premiums might rise, too, since all crashes were comparative fault.

So Randy called the Aventura cop, and they sent out a PSA. Again, I was listening IRT (I am SO proud I get these newfangled abbreviations). When Wifey said she wasn't sure how the scrape happened, and Randy was, the PSA, clearly a budding Dick Tracy, said he would go check the security camera! My Lord! When Paul and I had wrongful death traffic cases often the investigation was less thorough, but so be it.

The PSA came back and said a tree had blocked the view. Well, I knew from my 4 decades of handling cases -- that meant no ticket -- the cop either has to see the crash or have clear evidence -- not conflicting statements. Nope -- Wifey got the ticket -- canceled lunch, and met us at D1's. The Ds thought I would be PISSED, as my long time strategy of paying off Wifey's damages, to keep our auto insurance premiums low, was now ended. But I was philosophical -- Aventura is full of old folks on walkers, and Orthodox Moms pushing strollers with multiple kids. Indeed, Wifey's distraction could have been tragic, not merely financially annoying.

Yesterday I called a traffic lawyer I use -- the younger brother of Dr. Eric's long time friend Howard. He answered my call in Macho Pichu, about to fly to Lima. He had time to kill, and had me email the citation. He noticed Wifey was 4.5 years older than I was (since I'm the same age as his older brother). He was kind enough to share that HIS wife was much younger than he is -- and she handles all the tech in his office. That's nice, as the Southerners say...

He would handle the case for $125, and essentially guaranteed he would get it dismissed, even if the Dick Tracy PSA or aggrieved Jamaican man-boy show up at the hearing. Ok -- first phase of cleaning up the mess was done.

Next I called our new insurance carrier to report the claim. The intake lady said "Oh yeah, a VERY angry woman with an accent called to report this at 9:02 am." I knew THAT was coming. She said an adjuster would call us later, which Kathy from Indianapolis did, and took Wifey's info, and had me send photos of the minimal damages.

But now the angry Mom was going to see what's what. I went online and put in a claim against THEIR carrier -- Geico. The two carriers will coordinate liability, and then assess damages. Wifey's SUV damage is a few hundred dollars -- probably the Camry a bit more than $1K.

Then again, I tend to apply 20 year old costs to things -- so let's see. I'd also be curious if the man-boy, at Mom's prodding, claims he was injured, even though he told the PSA he was fine and the impact was comically light -- less than a typical bump in a parking lot -- the kind we've all seen sometimes.

So I plan to have more fodder for humor here. I had a long talk with Wifey, and she promised to be honest about focusing when she drives. There'll come a time, likely sooner than later, where it will be time to be a one vehicle household and rely on Ride Sharing. That has been a game changer -- I wish it was around when our parents were aging -- Wifey spent a LOT of time arranging rides for her mother to visit her Dad in the nursing home, and MY Mom stopped driving at 89, and needed ad hoc rides until she became a Miami resident at 92.

Happily, this is one of those problems identified by my dear friend Norman's amazing, late Dad Max: "A problem that can be fixed with money isn't really a problem." Of course, Mirta used to add a coda, that such was true for people who HAD money.

On a more serious level, my consuegro David is doing fine in Caracas, and will hopefully return home this week. Jonathan's birthday is today, and we want to celebrate with him -- he wants to hold off until everyone is home safe and sound. What a mentsch he is!

As for Wifey's latest "project," nothing more to do than wait. Maybe I'll get a livid call from the boy/man Mom after Geico contacts her to advise that she got her wish -- 2 insurance companies will now process what I offered to do simply. I won't speak with her -- just tell her to contact either of the companies...

Temporary Bachelorhood

 So Wifey left me, as she does from time to time. She fetched "her person" Tuesday at FLL and drove to a beach resort in Highland Beach. There was an incident. As she was walking back to the hotel from beachside, a crab got ahold of her toe and pinched. She fell back into the (luckily) soft sand, and screamed and kicked her legs maniacally trying to dislodge the crustacean. She is fine, and likely the nocturnal arthropod is traumatized.

D2 and I fetched Baby Man from preschool, and then fetched some newfangled yogurt that uses allulose as a sweetener. Gross details left out -- but that will be my final time consuming allulose, and Little Man will be instructed to pull my finger  less vigorously next time...

Other than that crappiness -- it was a lovely grandpa, mommy, and tia visit -- with dogs there as well.

Wednesday I drove back to D1's, and we collected D2 -- Jonathan was out of town -- and we headed to Fooq's for dinner with Patricia and Paul. It was delicious -- over in the gentrifying Little River -- and as we left, D2 saw her phone was blowing up, as they say. Her suegro was in Venezuela on business for the first time in years, and sure enough, 2 huge earthquakes hit. Thankfully, my consuegro is just fine -- his hotel has power and food, and hopefully they reopen the airport next week.

I went on the Global Empowerment web page -- a favorite non profit -- and donated towards the recovery. Those poor folks. Venezuela was in turmoil before -- they needed this like the proverbial hole in the head.

Yesterday was a total chill day -- capped with a FaceTime cocktail or 3 with Barry and Scott. Today I ordered Publix InstaCart, remembering to get Wifey's Diet Ginger Ale, and have some more walking in store before another Zoom.

Wifey's due back Sunday evening.

My desire to do something July 4 seems to have an answer -- meeting Donna and Barry for an early dinner at Bahia Honda -- a real find, thanks for Kenny. We've been there several times for dinner -- always the only gringos. The owner loves us -- amazingly fresh fish at most reasonable prices. It'll be an early dinner -- Donna wants to get home before the fireworks to calm Sally, who despises July 4, like most dogs. Our old man Bo is mostly deaf -- for him it'll be anouther quiet night.

So more chill in the heat awaits. I kind of like these stay -cations...

What a Difference A Dave Makes

 So my oldest grandson adorably remarks, often: "That's a GOOD idea!" As Norman said last night about my notion to buy 5 tickets for some of my mates (ok -- the Scottish words are already seeping in) and me to go to the Marlins game to meet The Tartan Army: "That was a GREAT idea!"

We fetched Benji at his Kendall condo and made it to Marlins Park in about 25 minutes -- once again reminding us how much we miss Canes games at the old Orange Bowl. As I tried to pull into the city lot off NW 14th Avenue, we encountered the only jerk of the night -- an off duty Hialeah Gardens cop, rather gordo, who nastily wouldn't let me go around a cone, and instead had me back up, tying up traffic, to keep going. Luckily, another city lot was open just to the South, and I pulled in there, asking the young attendant if she knew if the Scottsmen wore anything under their kilts. Yes, I am that viejo verde... She said she didn't know, but laughed.

It was  over an hour before first pitch, and already crowded with the Army -- playing bagpipes, and chanting, to the Strokes tune, "No Scotland...No Party." Turns out -- it's true. 

We got our seats and I was the only one who was going to drink -- partly because of medical reasons for my geriatric friends, and the young ones just, I guess, for health. But put me with thousands of partying fans, drinking a lot, and I WILL partake...

I got on line with a fellow my age, full kilt, and a large feather in his cap. I thought that was just an expression. He was with a younger fellow, and I struck up a convo. They were from Glasgow. "Ah -- Glasswegians!" They were impressed I knew the proper term -- I had been there nearly 20 years ago. They were in front of me in line, but when it was our turn, I stepped ahead, telling them "You need to learn how rude we Miamians are." They said it was fine, but of course I had an ulterior motive -- I put their 2 Stellas on my tab. That was it -- friends forever.

"And what is your name, then?" "Dave." "Well, we're BOTH Daves!" And then he sang, to the tune of the Eydie Gorme/Dinah Washington, and many others song: "What a difference a DAVE makes!" My jaw dropped. I told them I was turning 65 next month, and never heard that -- I now had a new and creative way to annoy my family and friends!

Father Dave shook my hand. Son Dave pulled me in and kissed me on the cheek. He was a handsome, strapping lad -- had I had proclivities in that direction... Later I saw they were a few rows in front, and I went down and said "You DO owe me for the Stellas -- a picture."  They gladly complied.

Sitting next to Benji was a Phil Collins looking fellow, also in full gear. His name: Scott Andrew -- sort of like being Juan Garcia in Miami, or Moshe Ginsberg in Boca. Benji explained to him some of the finer points of baseball -- and Scott was loving every moment. When it was time for a refill of my Titos, I brought him a Stella, too. Another lifelong friend was made. He asked for my Marlins cap -- I handed it over. He pinned on it a beautiful Scottish flag -- metal. I now have a favorite ball cap.

Next to me was a woman with an accent, too, and so I assumed she was a Scott. She said to her husband: "They should walk this guy." I leaned over and asked how she knew baseball so well. "We live in the Grove." Ah -- but was she American? "No -- Dutch -- but I LOVE soccer and knew to NOT miss the Tartan Army."

Turned out, she was a PhD AIDS researcher at UM -- she and Barry knew many of the same folks. I asked her husband if he were Dutch. "No -- from Chicago -- but my family is from The Bronx." I told him my parents went to James Monroe High -- so did his. And his were classmates with The World's Most Interesting Man! I knew that despite that great commercial character's Ricardo Montalban accent -- was was in fact Jonathan Goodman -- from the Bronx. I told my new paisan my Dad went to school with Hank Greenberg.

Only in Miami. Historical Jewish Geography amongst a Scottish invasion.

It was bottom of the 8th, and the Marlins trailed by one. Scott Andrew scolded us. "Get up and yell! Your team is fighing! This isn't a freaking opera!" He was right, of course -- even though there are 162 regular season baseball games and last night's, despite the Marlins great June record, wasn't truly crucial.

But at that moment I GOT the Tartan Army. At a sporting event -- you drink, and laugh, and sing, and SAVOR being with yer (see that spelling?) mates. Scott Andrew properly guilted all of we American stiffs...

On the way out, after the Marlins lost, we got stuck behind hundreds of Army partiers, singing and dancing to, I think, a song about other soccer teams fearing their team. Talk about happy noise. We lost Josh and Barry in the mayhem -- but I met Norman and Benji and we drove home through old Miami -- Flagler Street -- boring Benji with tales of our law school days and graduation at the Dade County Auditorium. Wow -- 40 years gone by now.

So indeed it WAS a great idea. And I woke up to read the news that the Heat got their latest whale -- the Greek Freak. The godfather Pat Riley, now 80, has one more run in him. If I attend a Heat game, I WILL go nuts. I learned from the Scots -- to do less is an insult to fandom.

And what a difference a Dave makes...

Everything's Quiet On Father's Day

 The last FD I got to thank my Dad for all he meant to me was in June of '82 -- now 44 years gone by. He was, I think, still in the hospital having suffered a pretty serious MI -- back in those days, once the cath showed the damage, there wasn't much more to do. He was released right around July 4, and it seemed he would recover, but on July 14th he had a fatal heart attack, and that was, as they say, that.

Wifey's Dad got his final one more than a decade ago, though he got to meet and know his granddaughters, my Ds.

Back when the Ds were little, their Summer Day Camp at the JCC always held the welcome on Father's Day. We'd all gather in the large gym, the kids would meet their counselors and learn their "bunks," and we would learn that Summer's camp theme -- always some clever lyrics set to a famous tune.

It was such a happy day -- from there -- we would go have FD lunch either with my suegros, or at a restaurant. Man, those days of being a father to actual children seems so far in the past. I guess it was. As I remind D1, to her annoyance, she creeps perilously close to middle age herself -- she turns 38 this November. Sunrise; sunset indeed.

Chris Rock had a great routine comparing MD to FD -- MD was the real holiday, and FD the po relation. All HIS Dad got was the bigger piece of chicken.

Tomorrow, THIS Dad will get some prime beef and martinis at Platea -- we have 2 pm reservations for all grownups, including Barry, Donna, and Josh. It should be a lovely day.

D2 already sent me a heart felt email, and told me to accept it as my FD note. I did. And it turns out, though I KNOW I'm a top Dad, I DID make plenty of mistakes along the way. And that's fine.

My Dad didn't have too much time, in my view, to make lots of mistakes with me -- certainly as an adult son of his. He was loving, and supportive, and SO proud of me. Since he was 42 when I was born, he was a sort of Dad/Grandad combo -- I always felt extremely lucky to have had him, but bereft to have NOT had him for so long. But as Robert Hunter wrote in  his great song about the death of HIS Dad: "Such a long, long time to be gone, and a short time to be there."

So I plan to savor tomorrow. And reflect on my Dad, too -- the barely more than 2 decades I had him in my life.

And Monday, I got Marlins tickets -- to attend the game with the Tartan Army -- the visiting Scottish soccer fans in town for Wednesday's match with Brazil. That ought to be lots of laughs -- they drank Fenway Park dry, and are known for singing and laughter and putting traffic cones on the heads of statues -- also giving charity to kids' hospitals and cleaning up after themselves.

And Tuesday, Wifey is set to drive up to FLL and fetch her BFF for 5 nights at a beach resort in Highland Beach, though today she tells me that possible rainy conditions might cause them to cancel. Either way -- I plan to see my boys Tuesday after THEIR camp -- Ds, too.

My Dad loved to sing the jingle about my Mom's life "Everyday is Mother's Day for You." The same is true for me and FD.

Stupid Environmentalists!

 So over the past year we dealt with the brouhaha (a favorite word of Wifey's) about the gas versus electric leaf blowers. Pinecrest outlawed the gas ones, and we got a warning that the next time we used one, both we and our lawn guys would get fined $500, and then $1000, up to the gross national product of Pinecrest.

Our lawn guy HATED the electric blowers, on account of they suck, and won't hold a charge for more than one house. After reaching out to our Councilwoman Shannon, who is about to become our not hard on the eyes mayor, we settled on a solution. Wifey bought a $450 unit at Home Depot, and told the lawn guy to keep it here, and plug it in after each use, so we would be compliant with the law. I think he reluctantly used it one time.

And then...Republicans. DeSantis and his minions decided that outlawing gas powered blowers was almost as bad as outlawing automatic weapons -- not in our "free state of Florida." So ALL local municipalities that outlawed them were, pardon the expression, trumped by state law. Gas blowers are now free to noise pollute away, in Jesus's name.

So our Home Depot electric unit sad sadly on a front porch bench -- pathetic looking like a Prius that lost its charge. It only took Wifey asking me like 10 times before I moved it to the garage today -- clearing away some shelf space.

Wifey thinks maybe I'll use it to clear out our front entrance area on the day of my birthday party in July. Yeah, no, as we say in Miami -- not happening. I am indeed spoiled and entitled, and between the cleaning lady who does a poor job and the lawn guy Wifey greatly dislikes, both way overpaid -- I ain't blowing no leaves myself.

Meanwhile, an event presented itself that appealed to me enough to actually overcome my inertia to attend. It seems Scotland is in the World Cup for the first time in 3 decades, and tens of thousands of Scots are in the US to watch their team. They were in Boston last week, and took over Fenway in a party way -- singing and literally drinking all the beer available. They then cleaned up after themselves. Indeed, as I recall from 2006, Scotland IS a tidy place...even the underground in Glasgow where grave robbers used to store their bounty.

They're coming to Miami this weekend, for a match Wednesday night against Brazil, and Monday plan on packing Marlins Park like they did Fenway. They will start at Ball and Chain in Little Havana, probably dance clumsily to the salsa there, and then parade up 12th avenue to the stadium. I decided I wish to be in that number.

Norman and Benji agree. Josh says yes, tentatively. Big Daddy G hasn't responded yet, but I bought him a $45 ticket -- if he dips, we can give it to a bonnie lass.

Strangely, Eric and Dana were to be returning from Scotland after a 2 week tour, but their BA flight was cancelled and the next available was 3 days later -- so they canceled and drove to see the grandkids in Atlanta instead. I thought it might be a nice consolation prize for them to attend, but Monday is Eric's first day back listening to kvetchting South Palm Beach cardiac patients, and so cannot make it. We'll send him some videos of the Scots and their comical accents. GET IN MA BELLY! Apparently Mike Myers copied his Scots-Canadian father's accent with all those great characters...

But before then, Mother's Day's po relation, Father's Day, is upon us -- Sunday. The Ds made clear I should choose how to celebrate, and I said let's bring in sandwiches and I would make martinis. Fine, but...D2 wished me to know that the steakhouse Platea was ALSO an option. Fine. I love that, too, and invited Barry, Donna, and Josh -- so now we have 8 of us for lunch. It should be grand.

And then to Loch Lomond in Little Havana. Fun awaits...