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...

Strolling Down Memory Lane

 As I remain happily seated in the twilight of a mediocre career, as my friend Norman likes to quote, often my thoughts and discussions tend towards the nostalgic. There were many good times and riches and son of a bitches, to quote Buffet, to recall.

But a friend was telling me of a recent deposition where opposing counsel acted the total asshole -- interrupting, misrepresenting, and just making everyone uncomfortable. This triggered, of course, MANY memories of these types -- which, I am told, are less common these days given the supposably (Miami spelling) crack down on "unprofessionalism."

Back in the day, though, intimidation, bullying, and other less than savory tactics ruled the day, and my late boss Ed was a master. He was a genius -- a true engineer's mind -- and was savvy enough to know when to do his bad behavior OFF the record. Back then, nobody had camera phones, and Ed's stable of court reporters knew when "let's go off the record here" truly had meaning.

I recall one particularly heinous act -- a Labor Law attorney named Susan was defending an ERISA claim we brought for a client seeking a kidney/pancreas transplant, and his wife's employer refused the pancreas part, saying it was "experimental." The case turned up a true smoking gun piece of evidence -- a letter where the company wrote to a medical consultant saying, really, "We KNOW this should be covered -- do whatever you can to give us reason to deny." Ed and I ultimately tried the case in Federal Court before a long dead judge - Lenore Nesbitt, a Reagan pick who today would be considered a centrist Democrat. We won, and after years of appeals, including a denial of certiorari by the Supremes, we got the client his money, and earned a comically small fee. The client, Tom, who I am sure is long gone, had borrowed the money from his family friends in Pittsburgh, the Rooneys, who owned the Steelers. I got to travel there and meet some of them.

But back to the pre trial skirmishing. Susan had been hospitalized with an awful headache, and asked for an extension to answer some discovery. I agreed. She called for a second extension. This time, I told her, even though I had brought the case in, she needed to talk to my boss. She explained her plight, and Ed said "Young lady, I'm only sorry you were in the hospital for headaches, and not ovarian cancer, so that you could die a horrible, slow death, rotting from the inside out like the rotten (See You Next Tuesday) you are."

Wow. Ed really didn't like to give extensions. Susan called me a few minutes later, shaken. "Should I call the police? The Bar? I've NEVER been spoken to that way -- and I'm from Cleveland!" I told her all I had heard was Ed saying no extension -- I was a loyal soldier, of course. And there's a surprise coda...

We stayed friends, and probably 10 years later, Paul and I referred her a Labor case, and she had agreed to pay us a 1/3 co-counsel. Since she was a "friend" we put nothing in writing -- and sort of forgot about the case. The client called a year later, to thank me for referring him to Susan -- she had done a great job. He showed me his closing statement, and sure enough, had paid a $150K fee. Great -- I called Susan to ask about the $50K coming to us.

She said "Um, David, I can't pay. My husband and I are in big financial trouble, and sorry to skunk you, but that's reality -- and we both know you trusted me and without a contract -- you have no real claim." I told her no rush -- when they regained their footing, she could pay then. Nope, she replied -- she knew she had stolen, but NOW was being honest -- she got away with our $50K and that was that.

I signed off the call telling her Ed was right. Another 10 years later, I got a mass email to all members of the local Bar advertising her starting a new firm, and asking for referrals. I responded: "Susan accepted a referral from me and owed me $50K. She told me she wasn't going to pay, and, so sad, too bad. If you are an idiot, you will trust her with a referral. Contact me for more details."

I pondered hitting "Reply All" and ended up just replying to her. I think it was a Tuesday. I told her how close I had come to exposing her character to everyone she had emailed, but unlike her, I had at least SOME character. That was the last of her.I looked her up -- she still practices in Broward. She's probably 74 or so. I don't wish her cancer, like Ed did -- but hopefully she got screwed out of lots of money over the years.

Ah, the stories and memories. I sure am glad I sit on the sidelines, mostly. I acted as Guardian ad litem for my friend Dave on a few cases -- to keep my pro bono chops active. Since the hearing was Zoom, no big deal.

And my friend Michelle was just selected as a judge -- investiture is November -- she invited me to attend. I asked whether I could wear a guyabara. She said Si. She speaks perfect Spanish -- Argentinian Jewish Dad; garden variety Brooklyn Jewish Mom. Michelle's great -- she'll be a terrific judge. I guess it'll give me a chance to see the new Miami Dade Courthouse.

Maybe some new stories will be told, or have origin. 

It's a Sad Man, My Friend, Who's Livin' in His Own Skin, And Can't Stand The Company

 Ah, the days get hotter as Miami Summer draws nigh. So far, it's been less than brutal -- I've been able to get in my 7500 steps without breaking much of a sweat. That will change soon.

Some good local news on the Village front: a friend of ours, Shannon, was elected the next Mayor of Pinecrest. Actually, no one opposed her, so she automatically gets the job -- replacing Mayor Joe, who lives in our 'hood. Shannon's terrific -- lawyer, Mom, wife, and whip smart. She also happens to be VERY easy on the eyes. She emailed today, along with our friends Kenny and Joelle, who introduced us, and we plan to go to dinner this Fall and celebrate her victory.

Other than that, we've been taking stock lately. What to leave in; what to leave out. I was chatting at length with a friend about the stages of parenthood. Wifey and I are in the second to last stage -- grown kids and grandkids. We just want to enjoy them all. The last stage, when WE need the care -- ain't nobody looking forward to that.

My Dad never got that far. He checked out at 63. My Mom started needing a lot of care at 89. We still trace the beginning of her end to a car crash where she wrecked 3 cars -- luckily no injuries. From 89 until her death, at 93, things weren't great, though Rabbi Yossi would say that questioning the quality of even one moment of her life is sinful. Whatever. I still maintain that Dad died too young, and Sunny too old.

I just know, as Dylan sang in "Key West," that I've always tried to do what is good, tried to do what is right. Whether that proves to be true, I guess I leave to others to decide.

Meanwhile, the grandsons are due over tomorrow, and that brings joy to Wifey and me. Those boys -- so full of life and energy. The older one is whip smart and hilarious. The other day he asked Wifey if she would buy him Pokemon cards. Wifey responded she would, as soon as her visiting friend Giselle left. He sweetly went to Giselle: "Will you be staying long?" We corrected his rudeness, but barely hid our laughter. 

Paul and Patricia are back from a fortnight in Europe -- would we meet for dinner? We would -- and so tonight we're headed to Sra. Martinez -- a place we've enjoyed with Joelle and Kenny. Giralda Street has a new art installation -- it should be lovely to post dinner stroll beneath it -- maybe peek in on the NBA Finals game at one of the many bars there.

Next Sunday is FD -- MD's po relation. We have reservations at Platea -- Barry, Donna, and Josh will join us. Not sure yet about July 4 -- I kind of want to do SOMETHING, since it's our 250th birthday.

Man -- I am so old I still clearly recall the Bicentennial. We were 15, and had fake IDs, which got us into Beefsteak Charlies where we drank beer and sangria, before hiking down to Eisenhower Park to see fireworks. I recall walking across Hempstead TPK to Modell's after the show, to call my Dad from a payphone for a ride home, and all of us packing into his large sedan. "I don't smell alcohol, do I ?" he asked. "No Dad -- Gerry uses a lot of cologne." Pretty sure he knew we were less than truthful.

Turns out, a lot happened in the following half a century. I finished high school, worked hard at Rite-Aid , and moved to Miami the day after graduation in June of '79. Dad got 3 more years. Mom got 31 more.

I went to law school, and practiced for about 6 months before realizing I didn't like being a lawyer. But it was a decent gig, I learned that he who gets business makes the shekels, and focused there.

I also realized, beginning in 1988 and again in 1992 that being a Dad was my main identity. It still is.

So maybe I WILL celebrate myself next Sunday.

To get back to the Boss: "These are better days, baby."