It's Halloween, Damn It!

 So last night Mike and Loni had a party, and Wifey and I attended and had fun. We laughed and reminisced with old friends, and ate Big Cheese lasagna and ziti. And then D2, who was in Midtown with Jonathan, sent some happy news: Foxe's is reopening! A girl at the party was working on it. Ah, as the Boss sang, maybe everything that dies someday comes back...

D1 was over earlier, and the Little Man has hand, foot, and mouth disease -- the common illness spreading through preschools. He was fine -- we took him on a walk to watch Betsy the enormous puppy romp with Jagger, her best friend. But still, no trick or treating for the young man -- the disease, though mild, is extremely contagious, and he'll have to skip this year.

Of course, it triggered a memory of a Halloween when I was about 9. I had the flu, and couldn't go out, so my dear Mom gave my neighbor Leigh Ellen a plastic pumpkin that said "David is sick -- trick or treat." I still got to enjoy candy later that night, and thanked Leigh profusely -- I may have even given her my Reese's Peanut Butter Cups -- my favorite.

Last year we were closed down on account of the plague. This year we bought candy, and I just put out the stuffed Frankenstein monster and his friend the friendly ghost.

I had fun with the ghost this am -- popped him outside of D2 and Jonathan's door, and it startled Jonathan -- the thing is the size of a small child.

As of now, the pair, older than D2, will great any trick or treaters we get this year. There are many new kids in the 'hood and the weather is fine -- I assume we'll get a bunch.

My friend Rita recalled a great memory -- she and Mark and Wifey and I attended Fantasy Fest in Key West -- probably 1986 or so. Mark was there for the first one, in '79 when he was a student at Florida Keys College, and always wanted to return. So we did, and Wifey bought me a Monk's costume. The problem was, the cassock was a plastic bag, and as I strolled down Duval Street, everyone who saw me sang the garbage bag song: "Hefty Hefty Hefty..."  We loved it.

I recall that year so well -- the gays do Halloween correctly. Several pregnant brides, nuns, and Girl Scouts, and in homage of the times, a lot of Bernhard Goetz costumes. He was the dude who shot the would be muggers on the subway, and there were many folks with screwdrivers "attacking" the nerdy Goetz. It was all in good fun.

Speaking of Key West: we're set to go in a few weeks. My friend Kenny joins the 60 club near T Day, and his wife Joelle has a birthday the week before, so I scored some tickets to John Fogarty, and we're off to one of my favorite places. I'll play them Dylan's latest song about the magical place as we drive on the Overseas Highway: Key West is on the horizon line...

The Ds were laughing yesterday about the year Wifey proclaimed "I'm not in the mood for Halloween this year," as if her desires would stop the kids from trick or treating. Wifey is often very funny without realizing it.

Looking back, sheer luck on a Halloween is the reason I'm still here. When my friends and I were 13 or so, and restless and bored, we would store up rotten eggs and, like suburban marauders, egg the houses of people who annoyed us.

One night, as we walked down a street in Seaford, a Nassau County cop was coming up the street. Everyone hid their eggs. I spotted a lamp post plate missing from a base, and unloaded my dozen or so there. The cop stopped, got out of the car, and patted us all down -- the clever method of checking for eggs. We passed, and I'm sure I gave the fellow my best Eddie Haskell "Stay safe, Officer. We appreciate all you do for we citizens of Levittown..."

When he was out of sight, I stuck my hand in the lamp post base to retrieve the eggs, and got a shock so powerful it literally knocked me back 5 feet, right onto my ass. It was a miracle, and probably thanks to my rubber sneakers, that I wasn't killed right there. I lived to egg another day.

Looking back -- how immature that was. And yet, fast forward to 1997 or so. My friend Steve the cop told me a fellow Leewood parent talked smack about me, and so we two mid 30s Dads, one a cop, and one a lawyer, went to her house and bombarded it with eggs. The Ds were incredulous when I admitted this to them years later. Hey -- Mellencamp advised we hold onto 16 as long as we can...

So no eggs this year. Maybe Jonathan and I will have a few adult beverages as we give out candy. Or if he's busy, I'll drink tea and do it alone.

Happy Halloween, past Dave and current Dave...

Another Friday Night

 So all throughout the plague, I've been participating in two separate Friday night Zoom rituals. First, at 6, Dana and Eric host a shabbat session, including their extended families, where the prayers are said, babies shown off, and news caught up upon. I sip my first drink of the weekend and hear the latest about new kitchens in Boca and New Jersey, where the best challahs were made or bought, and happy chisme about the group of folks, most originally from South Florida and now in New Jersey and Atlanta.

The best part is seeing the new grandkids -- Eric and Dana's daughter and son have a baby girl and boy -- and watching Dana's father Ron beam over his great grandchildren. That Zoom ends at 6:40.

At 7, I become host, and the drinking gets more serious. Over the course of the pandemic, Norman has made a few guest appearances, as has Kenny, particularly when he and Joelle were in Maine and we looked longingly on the beautiful lake and asked about the cooler temperatures.

But the core is Eric and Dana, who have their dinner with us, Barry and Donna, and Josh -- as well as Scott, who joins when other D.C. events don't pull him away. Wifey attends off camera, except when she saunters over to say hello.

I guess these things are, fortunately, heading to obsolescence, as the Plague lifts and we get back to more normal human interaction. Last Friday I missed the sessions, as our Full Squad was at Christy's having an actual, in person dinner.

Still -- we did it last night, and our houseguests Jonathan and D2 said hello -- pregaming before leaving for a friends' get together. After they left, it was just Barry, Donna, Josh, Wifey and me -- and it was more of a preview for tonight -- we're tailgating and going to see the Canes lose to NC State.

Wifey hasn't been to a game in years. She only goes to night games -- the day ones are too sweltering for her. Norman is dropping by at 5, and out uni racial Mod Squad will drive up to Joe Robbie. I have zero doubt Mike and his crew will be there earlier -- probably with Mike's Margaritaville frozen drink machine whirring in full force, powered by the generator he brings.

Eric and Dana haven't been to a game yet this year -- their family's Covid fears remain in full force, and as Josh and I were saying -- we respect that, of course.

But the science and trends seem to say it's ok to poke our heads out of the Covid holes -- especially those of us TRIPLE vaxxed. Things are starting to feel more normal -- it's much more likely some idiot driver on the Palmetto or Turnpike will kill us on the way to the game than we die from the Plague.

So for now, the Friday Zooms continue, though in truth, I look most forward to their end. That'll mean people are all physically together again . Hopefully D2 and Jonathan's townhouse in the Grove gets completed. As nice as it's been to have us -- they of course want to move on with their lives.

After a squabble recently about an unflushed toilet, D2 shook her head and said "Yeah -- we realy gotta get out of here." She's right.

So here's to a good tailgate tonight. I have zero confidence the Canes will win, and that's ok. Maybe if they're blown out early, we'll retire to Kon Chau for some dim sum, like we did last game we all attended.

Either way -- nice to be together again -- and in person.

It's Why You Gotta Have Friends

 I know it's possible to get through life without close friends, but not for me. My brothers and sisters of other misters have been so precious to me -- sometimes in huge ways, and other in small ways. But I always appreciate it.

So D1 and Joey and the beautiful grandson dropped off the aging Spaniel Mads yesterday on their way to a vacation in Islamorada, hosted by Joey's brother Bob. We got pictures of the baby toddling around the golf course and having a great time -- also in a sand hole he stayed in for over an hour. He's a thoughtful little man.

And then this am, as I was walking, D1 texted -- they were on their way to Fisherman's Hospital. The little guy tripped over a toy and came down hard on his little foot, and couldn't bear weight.

D1 was kind enough to text me information in dribs and drabs -- his ankle "looked funny," and she was getting an appointment with Steve Stricker, a Peds Ortho who followed the Ds for scoliosis and is well known to Dr. Barry. Why? Where was the injury? Was there a fracture?

Joey was in with the little guy -- Covid rules - and D1 called her friend Hannah who said that someone without Peds expertise couldn't be trusted. I just wanted to know the answer to the F word -- fracture -- since that would determine if this was an annoyance or something more serious.

D1 said they had taken the X ray, and were awaiting its reading. But wait! Fisherman's is part of Baptist -- and Kenny is a Peds radiologist there. I hated to bother him, but maybe he could have a look.

So I texted him: "Working today?" The response was immediate: "No fracture." Sure enough -- he was the expert tasked with reading the film of our precious little man.

I realize it was part of Kenny's job, but I still got teary eyed. He has impeccable training -- a fellowship from CHOP, which Barry says is the best children's hospital in America, even though Boston thinks they are. So we knew if we heard "No fracture" it meant "no fracture!"

Ah. So I was relieved, and once again thankful.

Miami New Times published a list this week of Miami's richest billionaires. I posted it and joked that my friends and I are schleppers -- none of us remotely approach the B word.

But of course the truth is, we are the richest guys in town. We all know we're there for each other in a moment.

Kenny's wife Joelle, wise like him, said it best during a dinner where her wonderful sons and she and Kenny kept my mind off Wifey's stroke recovery -- last January. "Everyone needs a friend they can go to and ask for $10K in an emergency and get it -- no questions asked." They know they have that in me.

Hell -- I wouldn't just hide them if they needed to kill someone -- I'd help dispose of the body.

So the little man is walking, with the aid of ibuprofen. This too, shall pass.

Wifey asked on the family text how D1 was doing. She said fine. Grandpa Dave could use a few shots of vodka now -- 6 pm is not too far away.

Years ago Greg Allman sang that with the help of G-d and two friends, he could do most anything. I'm blessed to have more than two. 

And today one of that inner circle brought us all quick comfort.

Back Taxes To The Czar

 Ah -- this DNA testing. It's causing all kinds of mischief -- like people finding out their papa not their papa but their papa don't know, as the great Reggae song goes.

Locally, the funniest tale has been our friend Loni, who found out after a lifetime of Catholic school, marrying in St. Louis, and having both her kids Baptized (I was the equivalent of the shabbos guy -- I helped hold them over the Holy Water)  that she is halachically Jewish. 

Yep -- her mother, child of Polish Jewish WW II refugees, just never mentioned it to anyone, ever. Much hilarity resulted, especially since their boy Chris is marrying a very NON crypto Jewish young woman next year.

Our friend Lili, herself a Cubana who converted to the Tribe, as usual was prescient. "Did anyone ever actually LOOK at Loni's mom? She looks like every JCC Mom who ever picked up a kid at camp there." Lili, who has keen gaydar, also has keen Jewdar.

Yesterday Wifey texted me about a fellow named, I think, Waxenbaum. He is one of her Film Noir FaceBook followers. Wifey has amassed an audience of several thousand who follow her daily posts about her favorite movie genre. Of course, I would love to monetize this new found hobby -- but that doesn't seem to be in the cards.

Still, this fellow reached out and said he thought he was related to us somehow -- I think someone else in the family did one of those 23 and Me things, and this fellow matched. Wifey asked what I wanted to do.

I replied that I barely keep in touch with the cousins I DO know about now -- why in the world would I seek out more? My cousin Barry calls somewhat often for legal advice, and I comply. Years ago he sent my firm a nice case, and so I like to thank him in kind.

The other cousins I have on FaceBook are nice enough, but our lives just seem to have gone in myriad, different ways.

Still, I looked this fellow up, and saw he was an engineer at Sandia Labs, a place in New Mexico I visited and found fascinating -- even though they wouldn't let me into the secret room where they keep the crashed alien.

So I connected with him on Linked In, and said I heard we might be related -- does HE owe the Russian Czar back taxes like I do, for my grandparents skipping out on bills from the turn of the prior century? We'll see if he gets the joke.

But it's true -- I have enough going on with my inner circle. In the past I enjoyed expanding the circle. These days wisdom requires I contract it.

I suspect even funnier tales will emerge with this home DNA testing stuff. All I know is, I was disappointed when mine came back with zero Masai warrior. The Masai don't owe Russian Czars anything.

A Lovely Friday Night

 Well, in a nod to the continuing, hopefully for not much longer, plague, I attended Eric and Dana's Zoom shabbat, and then hosted a truncated version of my own 7 pm virtual cocktail party. But happily, my Zoom was just a pre-game, for a normal night.

Barry and Donna were on at 7, and Josh was in the car with his grandmother, and we chatted as Barry and I toasted. And then at 7:30, we signed off, and Wifey drove D2 and me to our long time,go-to celebratory restaurant, Christy's.

Jonathan was already there, following a nearby happy hour with some work friends, and we rolled inside for the first time since the Plague. It was lovely -- they renovated, a bit, but the same affable staff was there, serving old style, simple great food -- potato skins, Caesar salad, steaks and fish.

D1 and Joey joined the table, and we realized it was the first time the "Full Squad," as Joey has named the 3 couples, were together since our weekend in Key Largo -- back in August. 

It was delightful -- catching up on the young-uns jobs, and my sons in law's families.

We even managed to talk a bit about the beautiful grandson and his upcoming SECOND ! birthday in December.

We reminisced about other times at Christy's. One year Wifey and I hosted Thanksgiving there -- it was lovely.

We celebrated D2's high school graduation there, back before they had a bar, in 2010.  How was that 11 years ago?

Wifey and I shared a steak, and lobster bisque -- old style stuff. Which is my style.

But more significantly, each of us felt so lucky and blessed to be together. Somehow the Big Man decided that this Queens born guy would meet a Haifa born girl, and we would be gifted with 2 amazing girls born in the 305. They'd go on to meet wonderful men born in Bogota and Caracas, and form the aforementioned Full Squad.

Our martini glasses runneth over.

D1 drove home, and Wifey drove D2, Jonathan, and me back home. Today our Pinecrest roomies are headed to Aventura to celebrate Jonathan's Dad's 72nd birthday. Joey's father turns 61 this week. We three suegros are indeed lucky men -- cool rocking grandpas in the USA.

1979

 So my friend Eric, actually the older brother of my friend Mark from LI, is a very active FaceBook 9tm) poster. He's an Architecture Professor at Farmingdale College, mostly retired, and living in the Levittown house his parents owned. He has the downstairs; his sister Laura and her husband and slow to launch daughter have the upstairs.

This am, Eric posted one of a series of "What Happened In..." and the year was 1979. That was a turning point year for me, as I turned 18, graduated high school, and moved to Miami, the tropical place I still call home. Turns out a lot of world stuff also happened in '79 -- the Iran Hostage Crisis, gas shortages, crazy inflation, and the zenith and decline of Disco music.

Also, the CD rom was invented, and the Sony Walkman came out, presaging an era of most of us focused on our own electronic worlds than the one around us. Also, disparate cultural icons died in 1979: Sid Vicious and John Wayne. Wayne's movies, some of them, were better.

Since Eric is still on LI, his posts bring me back to that place, and maybe my most precious memory of that year was in March. Earlier, I needed a warmer winter coat than the one I had, and a few of the kids with a bit of money were buying down parkas. My Dad took me to Sears, when they had them on sale, and I picked one out -- I seem to remember it cost about $75 -- not a small amount then. They also had one in his size, and I said we ought to get matching ones, but in classic Dad style, he picked out another one in the same color but with polyester filling -- half the price.

That was my Dad. His kids got the best -- for him -- ok was fine. But we left the store with warm coats, and a few weeks later, on a Sunday, a day bloomed that was bitter cold but with brilliant sunshine. Dad suggested maybe we go take a walk on the Jones Beach Boardwalk, and get lunch afterwards in the restaurant, which was there before Trump messed things up and they took it away.

So we drove down and parked in the lot near the iconic water tower, and we walked. And walked. And walked. We talked about coming days, and how proud he was that I was going to college -- something never in the cards for him as he worked 3 jobs after WW II to support my Mom and sisters. He always was more impressed by education than money -- and his son was going to be the first in the family to get a 4 year college degree.

We talked about women, and he gave me his sage advice: marry someone pleasant. My Mom Sunny surely was, and he loved her greatly. He knew so many shrill people -- and those were to be avoided as marriage material. He gave no advice about background, or religion -- just marry pleasant.

We ended up back at the restaurant, and had sandwiches and hot chocolate. I felt like I was a man with the greatest man in my life. We walked to the car, with a setting sun and even colder temperatures, and as we waited for the heater to kick in, he said "Well, in a few months we won't be worried about freezing anymore." He looked forward to South Florida.

Just over three years later, he'd die in my arms in a barber shop. A year after that, I would meet Wifey, who was to become my life partner and give me the greatest gifts of all: my Ds. And she's eccentric, and we're, like most couples, sometimes at odds, especially after decades together. But she is indeed pleasant, and when we spend our easy times together, I know Dad would have approved.

Dad was about to turn 60 on the day of that lovely memory -- my age now. Some of my friends like to say that our generation, and all Boomers, are somehow much younger old people than our parents were. Wifey has friends who point out that their mothers had "old lady hairstyles and clothes."

I don't know. This am I have my semi annual checkup with Dr. Puig -- my urologist -- because of an enlarged prostate gland -- classic old man condition.

Just the other day I noted to Wifey that despite walking at least 7000 steps per day, and working with a trainer twice per week, stuff STILL hurts. My joints -- vague headaches that seem to come from neck pain. When I drop something, I debate whether it's really worth it to pick it up.

So much for being a much younger 60 year old than Dad was. But I sure hope I get more than the 63 years the Big Man allotted to him.

1979 was an important year. All of them are.

Another Milestone

 So Wifey was in the highest of spirits, as her BFF of all time Edna jetted into town to celebrate a milestone birthday. I'm not allowed to ever mention the age of Wifey or her friends, even when reaching that age qualifies them for Medicare, so I won't.

But Edna and Marc checked into the W on Miami Beach, and we headed over on Friday. They had a gorgeous suite overlooking the pool and ocean -- at a nightly cost that was far more than the monthly mortgage payments of our first two houses. But the two girls who met in Canarsie, as true children of working class Jews, were most grateful to acknowledge how far they had come.

We drank, and talked, and I FaceTimed some friends so they could share in the birthday greetings -- something Wifey got annoyed with, but it turned out fine. Part of a successful long term marriage is constant annoyance, it turns out -- and after drinks we headed to the lobby to the restaurant creatively named "The Restuarant At The W."

Saturday we had plans for a sail, but threatening weather put the kibbosh on that, and so Wifey hastily arranged a small surprise for Edna -- having their fellow Canarsie met friend Jeannette and Miami friends David and Maureen head over for some sandwiches and wine. I stayed home and had a blissful Saturday -- watching many college football games, where none included the Canes losing, as they had a bye week.

Sunday it was back to the beach. Wifey couldn't find Edna and Marc at the hotel, so as she went on her search, I headed to the bar, called the Living Room. I had one martini -- $26, but, as the tattooed bartender cheerfully said "that includes a service charge."

Wifey and Edna met me, and I tried to make a joke to the bartender about how she signals men at the bar when she senses the women who sit with them appear to bring great danger, but the joke went over like a lead balloon. Oh well.

We headed later to South Pointe, and Smith and Wollensky. It was a magical night, with a bright orange sunset over the City, and cruise ships slicing by through Government Cut, including the Scarlet Lady from Virgin. We feasted, and toasted, and I think Edna appreciated a proper celebration of her birthday.

D2 and Jonathan had hosted a get together, and D2 texted asking our whereabouts -- 10:30 p.m. on a school night. I told her it was the Beach traffic, which it was. Driving there includes dodging tipsy tourists from Atlanta and Detroit. I helped Wifey navigate the drive.

More big meals await. D1 and Joey noted they hadn't seen D2 and Jonathan since August, and so we have plans to meet Friday at Christy's in the Gables. I may pre game with my Zoom crowd before we leave.

And Saturday, our old sister of another mister Allison has invited Wifey, Patricia, Paul, and me to see her house in Cooper City. The plan is for cocktails there, and then an Uber over to the Hard Rock compound not too far away, and a restaurant called Council Oaks -- the steakhouse there.

The Canes are playing away Saturday, and we ought to be able to catch the end of the game from Allison's house -- but Paul and I fully expect them to lose. Such is their disappointing season.

But it's ok. The Plague seems on the decline, at least here, and little by little life seems to be coming back to normal. 

And for Edna, she made it to a wonderful place in life, and we were happy to be along for the ride.

The Sound And The Fury Signifying Nothing

 Years ago, after a pair of cases lasting years that caused great stress and strain in my firm, I knew I was on the path to semi retirement.  I was fortunate to be able to do it, thanks to a simple combination of planning and luck, and three essential tools many in my cohort lacked: staying married, living below my means, and sending my Ds to public school from K- grad school.

Despite that hope, the past years have been a repeat of Pacino in III: just when I thought I was out -- they pulled me right back in! And it's been fine -- more shekels in the investment account to leave someday to the kids and grandson are nice, as is the ability to give charity.

But I always refuse to not allow the career to eat my kishkes out, as the Latin saying goes. Until recently.

A former client referred what seemed to be a huge case: a young father of 6 struck and killed by a truck driven by a construction company executive --with tens of millions of insurance coverage. The first thing we must assess when given a case is pocket size of the defendant -- for the first thing they teach you in plantiff's lawyer school is you can't get blood from a stone. Next is damages -- the "so what" part of any accident. Finally, and easiest for us to deal with, is fault -- proving the rich evil doer was responsible. As my old boss Ed taught -- when your client drives his car into a tree -- sometimes you gotta sue the tree.

Well, this case seemed to have the trifecta we need, and we had our dear friend undertake the lead counsel role, but he got bogged down. From January through early Fall, he seemed to have difficulty getting things going. There were international barriers -- the decedent was from another country -- but still, the delay was not acceptable.

So my partner and I sat down with our man and had a serious talk -- maybe it was time we started referring the complicated cases to a smart, aggressive young lawyer who is a sort of protege of mine. We agreed, but the ensuing discussions about who would do what, and a fair sharing of work and fees took hours and hours, because like many things in life, the surface issue was truly only the visible part of the true issue, and we all had to confront  matters like aging, lack of mental acuity going forward, and good old laziness versus actually working hard.

Well -- we finally, after much tensosity and aforementioned kishkes issues, worked things out -- and our young Turk was ready to roll. I made two trips to the office to get all the new papers signed, and it seemed we were off to the races. Then last night I got the call.

During the months delay, our man never retrieved the traffic homicide report -- and it contained a troublesome fact: our client's decedent was nearly THREE TIMES OVER THE LEGAL LIMIT when he was out on the road and killed. Yes -- a bit of a hindrance to the prosecution of what seemed like a can of corn case.

I hung up the phone and shook my head and had a little self critical laugh. It just proves the absurdity of what we do professionally sometimes. I summoned my best Silvio Dante and said to myself "F-ing clients! They mess up the case!"

But the revelation was bigger -- unless I am ready to truly dive back into the profession fully -- so much of what I do is Macbethian: lots of noise, but like the tale told by an Idiot. And that idiot is me.

Goodbye, "Hare-ible" Portrait

 So before the Plague, Wifey hired some decorators, and they set about telling her what colors to paint, and what tchokches and paintings get to stay, and which to go. 

It seems to me that much of what they did was replace comfortable, clunky furniture with comically uncomfortable, stylish stuff, but what do I know? Our dining room chairs, heavy wood with soft cushions, are now apparently in the Nicaragua home of our painter Errico, along with a huge oak wall unit I called "The Great Wall of Wifey." The new one is laminate, with a workspace for me that barely fits my bulk -- but as the great song "When A Man Loves A Woman" teaches, if she says something gotta be, well, then he does it.

But anyway, after a long delay caused by the fact that the decorators are very busy, one of them was here last week to tell Wifey more stuff to toss. And one of the pieces has a funny history: a portrait of my late mother, along with the Ds.

It dates back to the late 90s. I was making serious money, and like many arrivistes, started spending on stuff I never would have dreamed. Our friends Rob and Becky, now divorced and Rob no longer a friend on account of he's a stupid idiot who exposed us all to Covid, were ALREADY pretty rich. Rob's Dad started a successful insurance business, and Rob was set up -- later to sell it for a small amount because, you know rich Dad and son stories...

But they had found a portrait artist named David Shore, who was a favorite of the Pinecrest and East Kendall set. He would take a picture of your family and use pointillism to create an "heirloom." He did one of Rob and Becky and their kids, and even added a dog who had died months before.

David was a nice guy -- he even took Rob and me out on his boat -- to thank Rob for referring me, and me for referring someone else. But the truth was -- he was no Rembrandt, even by Kendall standards.

He took Wifey, the Ds, and me to Mathesson Hammock for our photo, and then did the painting. It was ok, but had glaring flaws -- Wifey's hair is windblown, but not the Ds. Still, we proudly hung the work, which cost upwards of $1000.00, real money to us in those days, and when we moved to our new house, it came along. Somehow it survived the Decorators' cut, albeit in a more hidden alcove than the prominent Family Room spot it used to live in.

But back to the 90s. I was so smitten with our ability to create heirlooms, I decided to surprise my Mom. I got a picture of her, and asked David to create a smaller portrait of her, along with the Ds. Her birthday was approaching, maybe her 75th, and I thought it would be a lovely gift. I still remember paying $650 for the project, and David delivered.

Wifey, the Ds and I went to Delray to fetch my Mom for dinner, and we were so thrilled. I told her we had a surprise gift, and set up the artwork on her table, covered by a sheet, and unveiled it like at a gallery. We smiled, awaiting her expected "Oh David -- thank you so much -- I LOVE it."

Instead, her expression turned to horror. I might just as well have shown her a pornographic picture of her, or maybe something out of a Brian DePalma movie. "Oh my G-d! That is TERRIBLE. The WORST PICTURE OF ME I HAVE EVER SEEN! TAKE IT OUT NOW!!!!!!"

At first, I thought she was kidding, but she was dead serious. Mom was a beautiful woman, and like many beautiful women, somewhat vain. She was in her 70s, and I guess the portrait reflected that. Plus, one of her boobs was missing (actually hidden by one of the Ds's arms). But her reaction was something I'll never forget.

Wifey and I found it hilarious, and we complied -- taking the David Shore masterpiece away and putting it back in our minivan. We took her to dinner, and she kept bringing it up -- like she had seen a gruesome car wreck on the highway. "I hope you didn't pay much for that piece of shit -- it is the worst thing I have EVER seen!" Yes, Mom, we got the message -- and don't worry what we had paid.

We brought the offending thing home, and hung it anyway. Mom, once she had visited the upstairs of Villa Wifey, would never traverse the stairs again, so we placed the picture on a landing of the stairway. And it sat there for nearly 20 years, making me chuckle to myself whenever I went up the stairs.

Last night Wifey told me the news. It had to go -- unless, of course, I had strong feelings. I did not. I thought about sending it to my California sister, but then thought better of it. She wasn't part of the family joke, and really she would have no reason to keep it -- she is decluttering, anyway.

So Wifey and I will gather later this evening, after I return from the Dolphins game with Mike and Chris. We will say a few words over the green trash container, as I consign the funny portrait to Mt. Trashmore in South Miami Dade -- the tallest point in the County.

But -- like most stuff -- the value was in the tale -- not the thing. I never forget that lesson.