A Mental Snapshot

I am truly one of the luckiest sons of bitches I know. Whenever I call myself that, I recall Jack Nicholson's observation that his mother never got the irony when she called HIM that. Sunny was surely no bitch...but I still love the term. Bastard, too, and it's great Yiddish twin, momzer...

Anyway -- years ago, Paul and I sued a locally based manufacturing company, over our idiot client's blatant misuse of one of its products which terribly hurt her child. Such is my business -- car runs into a tree -- if the tree has insurance, we sue the tree. The case ended up settling, but Paul took a long deposition of the CEO -- a power-type Jewish guy who ran a tight ship, and totally got the absurdity of our claim -- his company was hugely insured, and so he was philosophical about the loss.

During breaks, I would pull my "good cop" routine, and chat him up in a friendly way. I asked him about his family -- he said he had two grown kids. I asked where they lived, and he replied, matter of fact, "in South Florida, of course. They are REQUIRED to live no farther North than Palm Beach County."

That resonated with me. Here was a powerful guy -- patriarch of his family, clearly -- and that was a rule apparently his kids followed -- they would damn sure live close to him.

Well -- I never felt I had that power, but through some confluence of luck and maybe intervention of the Big Man, my Ds and their men are all living together in the 305. And Wifey and I love and savor it.

Joey has instituted a great tradition -- Friday night dinners every other week. And last night was one of them.  Wifey and I met at D2 and Jonathan's in the Grove, and drove up to NE Miami -- the "Upper Eastside," as it is now called. We met D1 and Joey at Cafe Roval, a place Wifey and I had only been to for lunch. It's owned by Mark Soyka, a Hungarian Israeli American guy who is a pioneer in gentrifying the 'hood. Roval is gorgeous -- coral rock former water pump station and a beautiful garden. The outside seats were packed, and so we were seated inside -- a rustic room with open beam, high ceilings, and industrial accents.

We ordered drinks and apps. We toasted. I sat at the end of the table, and keenly observed the two Latin Jewish sons in law happily chatting, and the Ds laughing with Wifey about a childhood memory -- or some charming faus pax Wifey had committed during a recent get together.

And I took a good, long, mental picture of the scene. It was exquisite.

As Carly Simon sang, these ARE the good old days. Changes will come -- there will be difficulties and challenges. There will be loss -- though my mother in law, chronologically next in line to slip the surly bonds of earthly existence, looks nowhere near ready to leave -- even though she's a few weeks from 95. But there will be tears -- always are.

Not last night. I looked over my family -- my Ds the proudest accomplishment, by far, I have had in this life. And their wonderful life partners. And Wifey -- who has endured my foibles and difficulties over three and a half decades -- and stays happily by my side.

I felt like the richest man in the world, because I am.  Or, at least, the luckiest son of a bitch I know.