Shorter of Breath...One Day Closer to Death

 I prefer to think those sage lyrics are David Gilmour's, and not the anti-semite Waters. It's still an awesome song and album.

Meanwhile, the lead up to my birthday has made my insufferably happy self even MORE insufferable. It's funny -- I always expect the worst, but when that doesn't materialize, I get ebullient. There must be a DSM diagnosis for me.

So yesterday Paul asked me to meet him at His Holiness's office, and he presented the Rabbi with a fat check in honor of my birthday. Yossi showed me a check from Dr. Barry, too, and Young Rabbi Moshe told me Norman had made a nice contribution, too. I was really moved. If charity is done in my name -- well -- that's as good as it gets. And then things got hilarious.

Paul asked the Rabbis and Rebetzin what to do now that our firm seemed to be limping to the finish line. Yossi skipped no beats: "There's always time to include us in your will." Spectacular! It certainly never hurts to ask, and they didn't build the multi million facility they have by being meek.

We then went to lunch, and I got a call from the Dermatologist's office. I had prepared myself for the dreaded message: "You have melanoma," and strategized telling no one at my getty, but knowing I would be entering oncology world on Monday. The Big Man smiled. "My favorite patient -- biopsy is negative -- but DO use sunscreen." This time I was scared straight -- after 2 basals and a squamous -- time to protect before my walks additionally to my hat.

Last night, Larry David finally made me laugh with his new Series. The first 2 episodes -- eh. But last night he played Jonas Salk's VERY proud Queens Jewish mother, and it was LOL for me. "My son doesn't care about clothing -- he cares about HUMANITY!" Funny stuff.

This am, Wifey and I coffee toasted on our balcony, overlooking our amazing home, before the heat and humidity chased us back inside. I opened my email, and was brought to tears by probably the most beautiful email from anyone not my blood relation, ever. I responded to the young man that the weather folks were wrong -- the Canadian smoke DID come to Miami -- which explained my tears. I was moved -- especially when he said he bought a brick at UM and hoped someday my grandsons would show it to their Canes friends. Like Linda Richman, I fanned myself and got ready to go for ice.

But then -- Norman called. He had violated my request for no gifts other than tzedekah, and dropped off a large bottle of Stoli Elit AND a T shirt that said "What A Difference A Dave Makes," which I first heard at the Tartan Army game we attended. I told him both gifts fit perfectly, and gave the ulitmate complement: we could be faygellahs. Straight guys give crappy gifts to each other -- these 2 gifts were ON POINT. Again, I was moved.

I went to our local Kwik-E -Mart with a large cooler, to get a piece of ice (pun never leaves my head since probably 1976). The clerk wasn't the usual Arab guy, but a Cubano -- I told him I needed 10 bags and 5 Lotto tickets. I gave him my credit card, and learned 2 things. First, Lotto is cash only, and second, tickets are now $2 instead of $1. Change happened behind my back! I don't recall the last time I bought Lotto tickets.

Anyway, I popped the $3 change into his tip jar, and told him it was my cumpleanos. He brightened. I walked to the freezer to start the schlepping process, and he said "Senor --esperate!" And he rolled up with a wheeled cart, and insisted on helping me load and unload the ice!

I got Publix/Milam's service from the Kwik-E-Mart. I thought of a Brady Bunch episode where the kids recorded a "Sunny Day" song, in perfect 70s colors and saccharine lyrics.

The song basically summed up my mood. I will be totally UNsurprised if my Lotto numbers come in -- then it will be time to take charity seriously -- like as in full time job.

The Total Wine and Costco deliveries came -- an affable Venezuelan young man and happy Cubano -- I tipped them both as they brought in supplies for a party of 100. We expect 30. Hey -- soda and booze keeps -- T Day isn't too far off...

So each time I get news OTHER than bad, about my beloveds or myself, I savor it. And this 65th birthday is such a time. Hey -- I may even make 66 -- when I can get my kicks...

Virtue Signaling

 The Ds are SO right -- I spend far too much time on FaceBook -- by which I mean any time at all. A mentally ill, angry, former nephew scared me off it for awhile, when he reacted verbally violently to an in inadvertent friend request, but after a year's hiatus, my frustrated inner Onion writer and hunger for chisme brought me back. And one of the many annoyances is the birthday virtual signaling -- "For my birthday this year, I'm asking everyone to give to..."

Of course it's noble, and I also kind of enjoy seeing how popular folks are. If they mean a lot to people, their "goal" for the charity is quickly reached. If not, you see the poor, pathetic scale stuck on like $25 or so. Yeah -- I wish I were a better person...

I DID have the Ds put on the invite for my getty tomorrow No Gifts -- Please Give To the Charity of Your Choice" on account of I want NO more stuff, with the exception of booze, which I always welcome. In fact, my bro in law Dennis sent me a nice bottle of Ketel -- one of my go-to vodkas, which will be enjoyed in short order.

And leave it to Paul -- he takes things to heart. He wrote a nice check to Rabbi Yossi in my honor, and later we actually have a short time with His Holiness so Paul can hand deliver it. I joked that Yossi is so big now that he doesn't see givers of less than high 5 figure checks -- but for old time's sake, he'll still see schleppers like us. He got mine this year, too, in the form of a Mitzvah Kitchen birthday I'm sponsoring Sunday for Little Man -- supposably (Miami spelling) about the same cost as a Chuck E Cheese's event but turns out, close to double. But hearing my grandsons say "We're baking cookies for poor kids" shows its true value.

Anyway, for my birthday, I hope everyone I care about drinks. Heavily. If they don't drink, may they indulge in their inebriant of choice. If they're in "recovery," I think it's called, well then follow the advice of Professor Stills: "If you can't be with the one you love; love the one you're with. And if they're with no one, then comes the advice of Professor Allman: "Go on Downtown, baby,and find somebody to love."

Recovery. I always think of a T shirt popular in Key West years ago: "Rehab is For Quitters." I shouldn't make fun -- I know it's serious. I've seen lives ruined -- hell -- in my own family crystal meth has steered a tall, handsome man to a life of jail, homelessness, and MANY stints in rehab.

I've been lucky. My addictions, such as they are, have been functional.

So today, I have an early haircut with Dania, so's I can look pretty for the getty tomorrow. I've been going to Dania for nearly 30 years, exclusively except for one brief affair with a male barber, when Dania annoyed me and wouldn't squeeze me in before an event I had. Sure enough -- the older Cuban guy made me look like a character from "Que Pasa, USA?" and I came crawling back to Dania. 

During Covid, she even came to the house and cut my hair outside. We met when D2 and her girl were in early Elementary School. Now we're both grandparents. Life has a way of slipping by that way.

After the haircut -- the aforementioned meeting with His Holiness. My friend Jeff ritually bathed in the mikveh before HIS 65th, and asked me if I planned on doing the same. I told him I asked Yossi if I could bring a geisha into the pool with me, and upon hearing a refusal, took a pasadena...

Tomorrow I have an early ice run -- to the same Quick-E-Mart on SW 124th Street I ALWAYS visit for ice. It's more than Publix, but I can back my vehicle right up to the door and load up the coolers. Plus -- it's tradition! And turns out tradition is important.

After that, the Ds tell me to be home to sign for the Total Wine and Costco deliveries. The caterers are coming at 430 to set up. The party is called for 630.

And then, I plan to immerse myself in the Sonos playlist my family came up with -- Jonathan is charged with running that as he has the App on his phone from the 9 months he and D2 bunked with us.

I plan to eat the Dave chosen foods -- pigs in blankets, coconut shrimp, skewers, maybe like ONE sort of healthy choice. D2 said basically Tailgate Food. She is correct.

And D1's young friends Harley and Alexis have been charged with bartending. I will help there since I have ALWAYS been and remain the guy who wants everyone at a party to drink.

This began in high school, with stolen Southern Comfort in syrup bottles, and beer bought by older siblings, continued through college and law school, and goes on to this very day.

I will be surrounded by most of the most important folks in my life, and I INSIST they all be in great moods to savor each other's company, since, as Tom Petty sang in his lullaby: "We're all right...for now."

So nearly adios, 65th year on this planet. A big part of me never really thought I'd live longer than my beloved Dad did, and I reached that milestone at 63 and  2 months.

As my brilliant friend Kenny used to say about his Dad -- living decades after a major heart surgery -- it's all playing with the House's money now.

I hope to keep playing a good, long while...

All Those Years Ago

 Ah, July 14th. My dear friend Mike's birthday. Bastille Day, which is apparently celebrated at Chik-Fil-et via a "Let Them Eat Chicken" promotion. But for me, it is the anniversary of the worst day of my life -- the day my Dad died in my arms.

It's funny -- Paul and I were discussing this am about how life is grand until it isn't. And it can be awful until it isn't. As Ecclesiastes, Pete Seeger, and The Byrds teach us: "To everything there is a season." My adorable Little Man, who is named after my Dad, was putting away his toys yesterday and remarked "Everything has its place." That kid...

So July 14, 1982 was a bright, sunny day. Dad was a week out of the hospital after a pretty serious MI. I was working at Jordan Marsh in the Town Center Mall in Boca, and had plans to spend a beach day with some Delray girls I worked with, and their cousins from rural Wisconsin. My life was amazing. I had switched to English as a major, and gotten my first 4.0 the previous Spring semester. Dad was SO proud of me. My job at Jordan Marsh was selling glassware, which was Dad's job, and it tickled him, but only because I would NOT make sales a career -- Law School was in the future, where I could "hang out a shingle and be my own boss." That was his only wish for me, professionally.

All was well, and then Dad came to me. He had an appointment with Jules Heller, a chubby, not too bright Family Doc, for his post hospital checkup. Dad was concerned -- if Heller put him back in the hospital, would I please go along so my Mom wouldn't have to deal with that herself? I NEVER refused my Dad, though missing out on the beach with some girls who thought I was IT annoyed me. Sure I would go. Turned out he must have had a premonition.

We went into the exam room, and Heller listened to his heart, reminding him he had survived a big scare. He was already thin after giving up sweets following a Type II diabetes scare, but all looked fine. What about diet? "Eh -- maybe eat more fish and less meat," was Heller's reply.

We drove to Morrison's Cafeteria, and sure enough, while I picked the brisket, Dad said "Might as well start now," and ordered the fish, which he ate with little enthusiasm. To this day, I NEVER avoid the steak at a steak place -- MY last meal won't be "healthy" unless I choose it. After lunch, Dad wanted a haircut, and we drove to Oriole Plaza, where they had a place.

Mom walked to Publix, and Dad settled in with the one haircutter -- a blue haired punk girl about my age. She started her work, and I sat behind reading SI, and all was fine, until I heard "Sir! Sir!" Dad had slumped over and was out.

I guess I was always good in a crisis, and told her "Call 911." She did, and knew CPR like I did -- she compressed his chest while I did the breathing. I smelled the onions on his breath from lunch. Delray EMT was there in just a few minutes, and took over -- put Dad on a thumper for chest compressions.

I KNEW he was gone. Mom walked into the scene of horror for her husband of 39 years. She started to shake and cry, and I held her tight, lying that "it will be ok." The lead paramedic said they were going to Bethesda Hospital, and we followed in Dad's forest green, 1975 Olds 98 Regency.

We parked, and a nurse led us into a private room. A doc came in -- young guy - a few years older than I was, and I asked how Dad was. He looked around nervously and stammered, and said "Uh -- he have to wait for a social worker." I was polite for a few minutes, and finally said "Look -- just tell me my Dad is dead, ok? I don't really care about your protocols."

He nodded affirmatively -- he was clearly new at the "telling next of kin" game. The social worker came in, a zaftig Jewish lady, and starting speaking platitudes, and finally asked "Do you want to see him?"

Neither my Mom nor I had any desire, since we weren't religious, and both knew we wanted our last memories to be joking about eating fish at a diner. I told the zaftig lady he had prepaid with Neptune Society -- she said they would contact them.

I walked Mom to the car, and left for home. I knew everything had changed, and it did.

Well, turns out, lots happened in the ensuing 4.2 decades. Good times and riches and son of a bitches, as Buffet sang. An a (pause) mazing life for this blue collar Jew from Levittown Schools.

I still miss Hy terribly. I joke that he died too young, whereas my Mom died too old (93 but the final 4 years -- eh).

But  I will honor him as I do The Big Man -- with boundless thanks for the life he gave me. And hopefully we get to celebrate a much happier birthday in 2026, this Saturday, than I did in 1982.

Lots of water flowing to the sea. Lots of years...

Good 'Ole Sunday Morning, Jazz is Playing Right Here

 It's funny -- I was never much of a jazz fan. I appreciate it, and have been to several performances -- Mel Torme at Gusman years ago, with George Shearing -- tix I bought for my mentor Ed and his wife Joyce and Wifey and me. And several shows at UM, which, I am told, has a top Jazz program in the US.

But Sunday am, it is my preferred background music. I put WDNA on the Sonos, low, and really dig it. They have different shows -- traditional Jazz, Latin Jazz. Monday I listen to their Blues, which I really dig. But something about Sunday seems appropriate for jazz -- goes back to my early days with Wifey, when we would put on WDNA and read the Sunday Herald and, later when we could afford the luxury, the Sunday NY Times.

I find the music sets the tone for a lovely day. And today one is planned. Norman is due over after noon, and we will then fetch his boy Benji, and head to see our Marlins. Up to a 2 loss streak this weekend, they've been the best team in MLB since June -- I think this will make my 6th game this year. Dr. Barry is meeting us there -- like me -- overcoming the inertia that keeps our ample tucheses at home on weekends.

We're likely going to a post game dinner, too, and Norman suggested a place near the stadium called Jon and Vinny's -- an LA pizza place that opened in yet another gentrifying 'hood near JMH -- Allapattah. The Ds have, of course, been, and both report it is good. Pizza with my boys after a Marlins game? Yeah -- smart money says it'll be good.

Tomorrow the plan is to fetch Baby Man at camp, and spend the evening with the boys. Tuesday I think we may see Mike for HIS birthday -- 4 days older than I. It's also my Dad's yahrzeit -- so nice to have the happy occasion of Mike's day to balance out the sadness. Dad's gone 44 years now -- much of my adult life -- and yet he's with me daily -- especially with Little Man -- who has his name.

Later in the week, I have a supply run to Total Wine, to provision for my birthday gathering -- looking to be around 30, which is nice. My best college friends, law school friends, and lawyer friends are all due -- with one exception -- Joelle and Kenny, who are enjoying the cooler climes of Maine.

Jeff and Lili and Loni and Mike were supposed to be away at their Summer retreats -- but the former couple pops home once a month while in Connecticut, and made it this week, and the latter are back from Western NC awaiting the birth of their second grandchild.

I really didn't wish anyone to schlep here, but my nephew of another mother, Scott, and Sam, are flying in from D.C. Scott loves an excuse to come home for a few days, and as he told me, "You are MORE than an excuse." So I'm honored they're coming here in the hottest time -- though I think D.C. has been pretty tropical this Summer, too. And Scott knows the martinis here will be cold -- like my Chicago bartender Marc said, in classic Chicago accent: "Colder than my ex-wife's heart."

So the Jazz plays. They just announced, on WDNA, they're having their Summer fundraising drive. I donate a few times per year -- and they give NICE swag -- hats and T Shirts. During Covid, the shirt said "Alone Together," and I just wore that one the other day.

Apparently I'm a member, which entitles me to see live shows at their studios on Coral Way. We used to go -- lots of fun. Maybe I'll drag Wifey out of her recliner in the coming weeks and attend one. It becomes SO easy to just stay home -- other than for grandkids and events. We must overcome. 

Right now James Suggs is playing -- some nice Sax. Sax on a Sunday am is lovely.

The Blessing of Baby Man

 When our first grandson was born, 6.5 years ago, I was given strict instructions: ZERO social media! I have thus followed orders, and never mention his name or post photos of him of his little brother, calling them just Little Man and Baby Man. I think the prohibition is lifted, as I see photos and names on D1's Instagram page of her boys, but until I am explicitly given the go ahead, I shall keep them unidentified.

But today -- well -- it's a big day! Baby Man turns 4! He is celebrating well -- up in Disney with his big brother and Dad, and a pretty nanny -- a person I never grew up with nor had for the Ds.

We're getting  pix of them enjoying the HECK out of the place. Hmm...maybe the expression "like a kid at Disneyworld" has true meaning.

We get to celebrate with him next Sunday -- I reserved the Mitzvah Kitchen at Chabad -- there'll be activities for Baby Man and other kids, and they bake cookies, some to consume, and many to be brought to homeless shelters, in Baby Man's honor.

When Rabbi Yossi called me about the event, he asked if I realized what it would cost, and I answered "I don't know -- a few K?" "More than that -- $3300." I agreed and added $300 to bring the gift to a Chai multiple, and then was told by Jeff that when his other congregation's Brotherhood had an event, they got a "non profit" discount and it was $2500. I chuckled to myself -- my friend Rabbi Yossi always gets the financial edge!

But back to Baby Man. He is a delight -- sparkling personality, and adorable way of speaking. He has learned quite well to NOT be a shrinking violet, lest he be always in the shadow of his big brother, who happens to be, as his Mom calls him. "The most interesting 6 year old in the world."

Baby Man never becomes a background child, as Wifey says, and is joyful and fun. His friends at preschool and camp adore him -- we will fetch him there on Monday - and hear him adorably describe his day.

We'll then reunite with Little Man and watch the two brothers be brothers -- FAR more physical with each other than the Ds were. Jonathan and I predict Baby Man will turn out to be the tougher of the 2 -- the one big brother calls upon if he needs muscle in navigating life. We'll see.

I was gullible when Baby Man was born -- I was told that everyone with a 7/11 birthday got free lifetime Slurpees at the 7-11 store. Turns out everyone who visits on 7-11 gets them. We haven't taken advantage of this yet.

All I know is, a child is an indescribable blessing to a family. I have told Wifey that I love her most when I see her on the floor playing with Little Man and Baby Man -- she has more patience for that than I.

And when we get in the car to drive home -- Wifey is on a high -- asking me repeatedly how wonderful are our grandsons. The answer is infinitely wonderful.

So I wish for Baby Man another 116 years of great health, and laughter, and ask the Big Man to give me the years to be around to see how his life plays out.

For now -- well -- Disney and the following weekend of cookies are not too shabby. Boy do we love that little boy.

Travelin' Man

 I really feel little need to travel much anymore. Like Johnny Cash, I've been everywhere, man --Istanbul to Colombia. Wifey, on the other hand, always has wanderlust, so as is often the case in a long marriage -- we travel a lot, still.

But Wifey is savvy. She knows I always agree to go on trips with great friends. Joelle and Kenny are probably our best couple partners -- we've been with them to Wine Country to celebrate their 25th anniversary, several times to Maine - both their lovely lake house and coastal inn trips, a wonderful Rhone River cruise from Lyon to Avignon, and a Barbados to Miami cruise on Explora - a luxury line they discovered.

We became Explora fans right away - and last December (in fairness, this trip was MY doing) we went with Donna, Loni, Mike and Barry on a wonderful NYE cruise from San Juan to Miami -- watching the Canes beat Ohio State right before the clock struck 2026.

Donna and Barry now caught the Explora bug, and the next voyage is December -- to celebrate a milestone birthday for Wifey whose number cannot be revealed, or any reference points like her being born while Eisenhower was President being shared either. It's also our 40th anniversary in January -- so the next (our third) Explora cruise celebrates lots of stuff. We go from Barcelona to  Lisbon, with 2 days in Casablanca, where I can bore my friends with endless references to the great Bogart/Bergman lines.

We had hoped to include more of our couple friends, but, as befit successful folks in the twilights of their careers, they have other travel/grandparent/kid commitments. 

Dana and Eric, who we Danube River-ed with last Spring, on Tauk, want in on the Explora thing, too, and found a trip for September of 2027 - from Istanbul to Athens. I applauded his optimism that we'll all be grossly intact 14 months from now, and I set about trying to recruit our friends.

Mike and Loni, alas, will be celebrating THEIR 40th then, with some other Northern European cruise - taking advantage of the fact that their boy Chris is a lawyer for MSC, which owns Explora, and they get a a friends and family discount.

We really wanted Joelle and Kenny to join us, but September is a bad travel time for them, as they enjoy the beauty of Maine Fall. I don't blame them -- it IS the best time of year to be there. They suggested other trips -- October into November. But, alas, we have a close friend's daughter's wedding 10/27 -- our first ever lesbian affair, in Orlando, as well as another friend's son's wedding, also in Orlando -- that one a garden variety hetero affair. And I'm not a fan of later November trips myself -- T Day is by far my favorite holiday, and we get to spend it with the Ds and their men.

But in an unexpected development, Barry and Donna want in for September of 2027. It will be their THIRD Explora voyage -- they're like me -- when they find something they really like -- they repeat it. So yesterday, enjoying a big discount for early booking, D2's friend Dara, the travel agent who owns Dara the Explorer, booked all of us. And then...

Patricia finally prevailed upon Paul to overcome his distaste for cruising. He's been on them, and felt claustrophobic -- but understands Explora is a much smaller ship, and maybe it won't be so bad. So as of yesterday afternoon, they were looking into booking, too -- so it would be 8 Miamians flying to Istanbul (not Constantinople). We'll see if that happens -- I sure hope it does.

Either way, the good natured ball busting on the text chat has begun - about Eric having to keep Paul alive for the next 14 months, and wondering whether he can make a claim under travel insurance for any medical care rendered.

These are amazingly wonderful First World Problems to deal with -- just wish Joelle and Kenny were free -- they would love this group of wacky funsters on the Bosphorus River. Hopefully we get to travel with them soon, too.

Meanwhile, today is another first -- first medical visit under Medicare. I see my man crush, Dr. Green, the Dermatologist, who Wifey and the Ds long crushed for, and then I met him and have the biggest of all. Most of his patients are women there for cosmetic stuff, but he is a HUGE Canes fan, and we talk football. I referred Mike to him, and he does the same. Often the PA will remind him he has other patients as we dissect the upcoming season's offensive line -- he just shrugs -- and then goes about the rest of the day.

I set other appointments for AFTER my birthday on the 18th, figuring if I had any dread disease, as our old Torts Professor and Dean Claude Sowle used to say -- better to not ruin the mood for the party.

And if that comes to pass -- well -- travel insurance! In younger years, I laughed that off. Once life got more moving parts, particularly declining parents, we always took it. Hopefully that remains claim free.

For now, have to hunker down in the heat and humidity, which is ok. The Marlins are looking like a playoff team, and Norman scored us tix for Sunday - it'll be my 5th game this season, and I plan to get to double figures.

And then come late in the year -- I get to sing, off key to Wifey, Come Fly With Me...

A Life Changing Gift From Beyond

 So cousin Steve died last week, and I keep thinking of Eleanor Rigby -- he was sort of a Queens Jewish male version of her. My new friend Stuart, of Bethesda, Steve's cousin on his father's side, said maybe 2 or 3 folks will attend his funeral. Stuart is the one handling Steve's affairs, and he is a mentsch. Even though Steve's strange personality was VERY tough to live with (never asked about you -- it was always about what HE was doing), Stuart and one of his daughters were there for our mutual cousin -- after his kidney transplant, and up until the end. Stuart was the one who told my Cali sister Sue of Steve's passing.

Sue was the only one of we 3 siblings who kept up a long relationship with Anne, our paternal aunt. Anne was a self taught intellectual, and would write beautiful letters to Sue, in old world penmanship, using great period words like "gal" and "dustup."

It's funny -- my last visit to Anne was with D1 and her 2 English friends, Sorrel and Esther. After we left Anne's apartment, they remarked she was very much like an old English woman, in manner and style. Funny -- the daughter of immigrants from Romania had effected that mien.

Anyway, when Anne died, Susan took it upon herself to sort of adopt a relationship with Steven. His mother was everything to him, and Sue took that to heart. She would call him at least monthly, and always answer his calls. I kept in touch for a bit, and even had him here in a harebrained attempt to fix him up with my sister of another mister Mirta, but truthfully Sue was the champion with Steve -- though he never said so.

Well -- turns out Steve DID have some deep feelings about other humans, and through a phone call Monday from Stuart of Maryland, Sue was floored. Stuart is sending Sue a copy of Steve's will, and it bequeaths her Steve's car, an impeccably maintained and low mileage Accura, which Sue definitely needs, plus a SIX FIGURE cash award!

She called me speechless about it. I was overjoyed for her -- she always struggled financially, and this is life changing money. Wifey and I felt we had won a lottery WITH her.

Steve also left $100K to Stuart's daughter, who, like Sue, kept up as much of a relationship with him as she could. His other daughter was not remembered in the will, which was fair -- she couldn't be bothered with the strange cousin.

He left his co-op to Stuart, and significant gifts to NYC area medical facilities. He left all of his HAM equipment to the HAM Society, if that's what it's called -- his true avocation.

Stuart told me that the gay gentrified neighbors called him PROMPTLY -- they wanted Steve's HAM antenna removed forthwith. They also wanted the odd old Jewish guy out of their now trendy building -- they got that wish, too.

But the happy thing is that in death, Steve connected with the few people who truly cared about him, much more easily than he ever could have in life. He was comically cheap -- the times we were together, I always picked up the tab. My Dad used to joke that Anne still had lunch money saved from James Monroe High School from 1930. Steve probably had it, too.

All I know is, sometimes Karma works the correct way. Sue's kindness, with no real assurance it would be rewarded, WAS rewarded, in a big way.

Steve was giving in death in a way he never could have been in life. And my sister benefits.

Some terrific news for early July.

July 4, 2026 Is A Wrap

 So for most of the day yesterday, I exercised my freedom, guaranteed by The Constitution, by impersonating a sloth. I never even ventured out of the blissful AC until it was time to leave for dinner -- just before 6 pm.

We fetched our friend and neighbor Gloria, and headed to Bahia Honda -- the great and inexpensive fish place near FIU. I started the evening like the opening line of a joke, when I introduced Donna and Barry to Gloria: "So these 4 Bridge and Tunnel Born people, along with an exotic Israeli born woman walk into a Cuban place on July 4th..."  Wifey quickly corrected me, as she is wont to do, that "I was born in Haifa but I am totally culturally Brooklyn, Long Island, and Miami." No one would argue.

I always thought Gloria was a Bronx girl, since she went to Bronx Science High School, but turns out she was, like Barry, an Astoria person. Gloria's late husband's family are all Miamians, and so she LOVED hearing terms like "Grand Concourse, Garden Apartment, and Greek Diner..." We all got along famously.

At 9, we decamped for home, talking to Gloria about life and how the LAST thing she expected was to be an empty nester without Ben -- gone 7.5 years now. I told her my Mom was the same -- she expected to live for years with my Dad, but ended up only getting 3 years of retirement. Turns out - ya never know.

Wifey and I hugged in the kitchen, realizing this was the 42nd July 4 we'd spent together. The first was MOST memorable. Unlike these days, where I sometimes get inebriated at parties and events, THAT day I got very inebriated, though on wine and beer during an entire day on South Beach, instead of my preferred vodka. It was, last time I checked, still a record day for a band: the Beach boys played to nearly 1 million people on a single day -- half on the D.C. Mall early in the day, and on South Beach at night.

Wifey noted we're still the same people we were 4.2 decades ago, but with "many more wrinkles, much more gray hair, and many more pounds." Well yeah, plus, our 3 parents are long gone, we have 2 awesome girls and son in law, and 2 amazing grandsons. Oh yeah, too, my net worth then was MINUS probably $10K. These days it's on the positive ledger...

We always think about a lovely, warm scene from the end of Fargo, where Margie and Norm are in bed, following the drama of the kidnapping and murder. They're expecting their first baby, and Margie comforts Norm's disappointment that his drawing for a new stamp only won third place. She says "Ya know, Norm, things are going pretty good for us now."

Indeed, Big Man thanks, they are for us, too.

So today hopefully we get to see BOTH Ds and their men and OUR men -- the grandsons. Hopefully both granddogs come, too -- to perk up our elderly Spaniel, who mostly sleeps these days.

We can UberEats in some good food, and maybe I squeeze a few Mandarins into some vodka. 

These are my favorite types of Sunday.

Next up big event -- my 65th, on the 18th. It's looking like fewer than 30, which gladdens Wifey, whose motto is "the fewer; the merrier." The Ds seem to have all in hand. I have to make a trip to Total Wine -- going top drawer for the drinkers -- Stoli Elit, and maybe some Johnnie Walker Blue. There'll be fake beer for the teetotalers who USED to drink. 

I always loved July. It meant Little League -- later beach days with my crew. July 4th, and my birthday a fortnight later. Lazy and languid -- and that was on Long Island -- the Tropics of Miami are even more so.

Nice to be a slow moving, but still rockin' Daddy and Grandaddy in the USA.

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...

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."

Boomer Dinosaurs

 So last night we had a terrific dinner with very close friends, and were joined by their younger son, with whom we are also very close. He recently started his first real job -- a position he found himself with no nepo help, and we're thrilled for him. Important for his parents, he finally has health coverage, and so his Dad can cease the huge Obama care monthly premiums...

We asked him all about it, and he mentioned that he was still planning a trip to Europe in late September -- although he gets no vacation time with this start up until he's there a year, he had told them during the application process that he already had plans and would miss that week. The company agreed.

Wifey, who like her late mother says what's on her mind, starting questioning him -- why did he need to take that trip, shouldn't he be more concerned with impressing his boss with his commitment than leaving so soon for what is truly frivolous, why wouldn't he put it off? He's already been to Europe a few times, so this isn't some "dream of a lifetime" excursion -- and it's funny to note his parents, hard working for decades, have NEVER been to Europe.

Our young man was polite but steadfast -- no -- he WAS taking the trip -- it's what he wanted, had gotten an early pass, and that was that. Hopefully all turns out well -- his millennial boss gets it, and his budding career with the start up doesn't get quickly abridged.

On the way home, Wifey and I talked about it -- I told her things really HAVE changed. D2, during her tenure as a "People" officer with a company, what we used to call "Personnel" or later "Human Resources," explained that a long tenure with an employer was a liability. In our day, it was impressive to hear someone had been with a company for decades. Now, apparently, if someone stays more than a few years without some sort of equity in the operation, they're frowned upon -- not aggressive enough about advancing their own career such that it's harder to get a new job. Wow.

I thought back on my first lawyer job -- enduring blatant anti-semitism from my boss, and simply accepting it since Wifey and I had a mortgage, I wasn't a top of the class guy, and was happy to have the paycheck. Wifey's jobs were also rife with issues -- but it seemed like such a privilege to get paid for what we did, we stayed and got the pay check.

We ARE so out of touch, as Mick Jagger sang when he was still a young man. Now in his 80s, he's REALLY out of touch. In matters of careers, it seems, we are, too.

And it's not just jobs. The WSJ, which I finally broke down and subscribed to, electronically of course, had an article about Boomers giving more to their adult kids while they were alive, as opposed to waiting until estate time. Wifey and I always did that -- the Ds chose public schools throughout, and the money I would have paid in tuition towards Ransom, and Emory, and whatever, I invested for them -- and given the rise of the markets over the past decades, made them, in the words of Hall and Oates, rich girls.

Maybe that was folly. When I started making money, maybe I should have turned to cocaine, and exotic sports cars, and expensive escorts. Ha -- I'm SUCH a Walter Mitty -- a reference the youngins won't get.

Wifey and I and the Ds have enjoyed an amazing life -- yeah, due to my work efforts, it turned out, and I never took it for granted. We've lived in a house for nearly 26 years now where EACH time I pull into the driveway, beyond the gates, I can't believe I live here.

Back when I used to go to the street to fetch the Herald, I always expected to hear "Hey kid -- what the hell are you doing here -- get the hell out!" I still feel that way -- we are SO lucky and blessed.

When Wifey and I were first married, if we needed a new AC unit for our 1200 square foot house, it would have freaked us out. Last week I happily Zelled Danny the AC guy nearly $8K for a new bedroom unit, and was happy that we ought to be good for another decade or so with the Rheem/Rudd (they've merged, it seems).

So we Boomers probably would be most helpful getting the hell out of the way. Paul and I sure have in the law business. We still have a firm, but other than referring cases that still come our way, and Paul grinding the guys who take over about the results -- we're pretty irrelevant. The other day Paul mentioned a statute of limitations question. I reminded him those changed like 7 years ago!

I guess every generation, as they age into decrepitude, defaults to the "In my day" mode. Jeff and Lili's girl is a rising 3 L in Chicago. Turns out, they no longer torture law students with the socratic method. I wonder how that will play out when some client has his lawyer come under pressure in a major case.

My doctor friends are always flummoxed at how soft the new Residents and Fellows are. I guess we'll all find out how that turns out as we need more and more medical care from young doctors. 

Who knows? Maybe AI will render much of that moot, anyway.

So I chose MY path, and it will NOT include cocaine, luxury sports cars, or escorts. Even though Wifey was initially turned off by my lease of a Buick, last night she saw, for the first time, the LED strip lights and said "Wow -- this looks like a limo."

I WILL splurge on better vodka. I plan to have Stoli Elit and Zyr for my 65th. And then the best all of us Boomers can do is watch and listen.

Our old ways are passing into history.

Grandkids

 So Wifey and I both grew up with loving parents, but no real involvement with grandparents. For Wifey, it's on account of the Nazis killing all 4 of hers, along with most of the rest of my late suegros' families. For me, my Dad's Dad was gone 6 years before I was born, my Mom's Dad died when I was just a little boy (I have a single memory of visiting him in a hospital bed) and I wasn't close with my grandmothers.

Jennie, my Dad's Mom, always seemed SO ancient to me, and our bi-monthly visits to her apartment in Jackson Heights were most memorable to my child self for the strong stench of urine, due to her incontinence. My Dad would bring her some groceries, and the daily Forward, the Yiddish paper she preferred, and then we would go upstairs and see my Aunt and Cousin -- also not close -- but no urine smell.

Wifey got to meet Jennie once, and it led to a humorous misunderstanding. We were in NY, and I wanted to have Wifey meet my Aunt, but she had other plans that day (there was a reason my Mom only barely tolerated her sister in law) but she told me which nursing home "Mama" was in. It was funny, I always recalled Jennie as cold and mean, but in her final time of dementia, she had become a ray of sunshine -- smiling and giggling.

I told her hello, and that I was her grandson, and she said no -- she only had Steve. I said I was Hy's son, and she insisted Hy had Trudy and Susan. I guess the memory banks ended in the 40s or 50s, and my 1961 birth didn't make the cut. But then I introduced Wifey, and decided to use the Yiddish version of her name,  Faye, since I figured the Hebrew name would be confusing. They met, and that was the last time we saw her, but then came the funny part.

Weeks later, Anne called my Mom and said she had no idea I was gay. What? "Mama said David came to visit with his faygellah (Yiddish slang for gay). So I had no real relationship with Jennie, but at least the final event was hilarious.

Anna, my Mom's Mom, DID spend time with us on LI, but between her mumbling and heavy Yiddish accent, I never understood a single word she said. She had so many grandkids and great grandkids, and so I treated her with respect, and she was nice enough (though inscrutable to me) but I recall zero meaningful encounters. My Mom would tell me snippets of her folk wisdom, but I never got them first hand.

Wifey got to meet her, too, once -- at a nursing home in West Palm Beach. She was indeed ancient -- I think she made it to 97, and for me, that was a woman who seemed old world ancient in her 60s.

Wifey's parents and my Mom were indeed close with the Ds. Since Wifey is an only child, the Ds were kind of a big deal to the two Holocaust Survivors. And MY Mom was a hoot to them -- her quirkiness was the seed of warm memories, like the time she broke the silence in our mini van to sigh and say "Ah -- it's 430." The Ds asked -- so what? Was she expecting a call, or was there a show on? "Oh now, I just looked at my watch. To this day, 430 is Grandma Sunny time...

And now...well...we kind of cotton to D1's boys. Friday was Baby Man's last day of preschool 3 performance, and Wifey actually made it into the car at 730 am for the trip to North Miami! Wifey no longer does mornings. It was a delightful scene -- Little Man mad a sign for his brother, and sang and danced along to the songs the little ones performed.

There's lots of exotic Jews there -- South American, European, along with the garden variety ones like us. One little girl looked Asian -- sure enough -- Jewish Dad and Asian Mom. I asked D1 if she was accepted to MIT yet...

We decamped to Bagel Bar East, and D2 met up with us. She and Jonathan are working hard at bringing a new member to the Band as well. Big Man willing -- we're hoping that's the news of 2027.

The boys left for Naples with their Dad -- soccer tonight, and some time at Wolf Lodge, which they love. The Ds, Wifey, and I went to D2's house and spent quality time with Betsy the enormous puppy, and Lemon, the skittish Spaniel. Lemon came home with us since D1 has a friends' reunion in Chicago.

One of her group is Caroline, a delightful and brilliant young woman, now a doc there. Her father Michael was an amazing man -- top surgeon in Miami -- the kind of guy who went to patients' houses to check on them, and had yearly charity trips to Haiti. He was a Richard Corry -- had it all -- but also demons -- he killed himself in 2018. As I saw the photo of Caroline , it struck me how sad her Dad will never meet his grandkids. 

So today, the skittish Spaniel will get a walky walk soon, and then a chill Saturday until this evening -- we're meeting Barry and Donna for dinner in Doral at Basilico -- precisely 20 minutes from each or our houses. Donna jokes that she will be an OLD grandma -- Scott, who is married, doesn't seem too close to having kids with Sam, and Josh is finding his path professionally now.

I hope they get this supreme blessing. I've heard it a lot, but now I know for myself -- grandkids are pretty, pretty, pretty wonderful. What I missed out on as a grandchild, I am MORE than gifted with as a Grandpa. And I dig it.

If You See Her, Say Hello

 So for me, it was a busy am. I awoke late, near 9 am, and spoke to Paul in Provence -- enjoying the beauty of the place but able to do without the French. It reminded me of an old friend Vince, Sr. who was there during WW II. He said Paris was the most beautiful city he ever visited -- if only Italians lived there, instead of French.

I began my constitution and called lawyer Tom in Michigan, who referred us a client -- his daughter's friend. She lost a finger tip in a bar in Key West. Who hasn't? We referred the claim to young Michael, and he go another absurdly positive result -- settling for probably 4 times what I thought the case was worth. Tom was thrilled, of course, and we talked football. His son in law, from upstate NY, is, strangely, a huge Dolphins fan -- likely since he resented the local Bills for their omnipresence there. We agreed his son in law would NOT be celebrating this year, or for many seasons...

I then ran into neighbor Oscar, whose son is serving decades in Federal prison. I tried to refer the son to my friend Joel, but the young man's ex wife picked his lawyer -- a move I never understood. Oscar told me they're appealing -- using a guy Joel respects. Oscar is a sweet man -- late 70s, Muslim from Guyana -- served the US Army in Vietnam. He's none too pleased with the government these days.

I came home and made a call I've been Jonesing to make -- to Florida Blue. I told them I had made my final payment of $2200 for my ObamaCare plan, with its high deductibles. First, I shut off Auto pay, and then called the company -- telling them my Medicare begins July 1. I figured they'd try to sell me one of their inferior Medicare Supplement Plans, but the agent did not -- just confirmed the dates, and that was it.

Young Josh called to ask if I was free tonight -- I told him other than bartending for Lili during Mah Jong, I was. He may stop by -- and if he does there'll be pizza along with a martini or two. His parents' 35th anniversary is today -- I plan to make him nauseous by telling him maybe go home REAL late -- lest he catch them cavorting naked in the swimming pool. I know how to sicken adult kids...

Meanwhile, I got to feeling nostalgic, and put "Blood On The Tracks" on Sonos -- hence the title of this entry. I guess 65 drawing close hits hard that far more years are behind me than ahead. And that's ok. There have been good times. DAMN good times as David Lee Roth sang.

Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of our law school graduation. They were heady times. I was clerking for Dan Schwartz, an insurance defense lawyer and avowed anti-semite who I though was Jewish. He thought I was NOT. "I wouldn't have hired you if I knew you were a fucking Jew," he said. I needed the job, wasn't exactly top of my class, and so I just laughed him off. I only stayed until August of '87 -- his biggest clients fired him when they realized he had left control of the firm in the hands of Vanessa, his name only partner who spent more time doing cocaine than working the cases.

Dan died young -- my friend Pat told me he had become a pariah at Riviera CC for cheating at golf. Yeah -- I didn't mourn his loss, and, in fact, appreciate the strange tales that first job gave me. As for the anti-semitism, he sort of beat the Christmas rush, so to speak. I wonder if he'd send money to the likes of Tucker Carlson, AOC, and Platner in Maine if he was alive...

So the days flow on and on, and it's nice to enjoy them. And if you see her, say hello...

All Cool in the 305

 So Jorge and his boy Marlon, a Music student at Miami Dade College, arrived bright and early Friday, to remove our old (11 years) bedroom AC unit and replace it with a new one. Wifey and I left around noon for North Miami -- Marlon said they had about an hour to go.

Danny had assured me they were fine to trust in the house. I laughed. I got nothing much to steal! I have one hidden safe with cash and some gold coins, and I guess Wifey's jewelry, but the rest of the stuff? We returned home late, and the bedroom was nicely cooled -- the fellows did their work.

We found our way to the Scott Galvin Center, named for the first openly gay mayor of North Miami who secured the funding for the lovely facility. And as we watched the kindergartners parade in, it struck me why Barry and Kenny chose Pediatrics -- children are precious. They performed, and got their diplomas, and the cuteness level was immeasurable. Little Man beamed -- he's off to the First Grade Gifted Program in the Fall, and had LOTS of questions about whether that meant it would be more work. It would.

Wifey and I decamped to Temple Beth Moshe to fetch Baby Man, and take him to D2's house where Tio Jonathan was working from home. Baby Man is a delight -- so much more mellow without his hurricane older brother, and we enjoyed him, too, before all re-locating to D1's for Uber Eats Turkish food and a cocktail for Jonathan and me -- toasting the first of what will hopefully be many more graduations.

We packed Little Man into the car, and before we hit I-95 he was fully PTFO. We got him home, and he wanted to collapse onto the couch, but I shepherded him upstairs and the deepest of 6.5 year old sleeps. It had been quite the day.

Saturday, D1 suggested we take him to see a new kids' movie out, but he instead decided to enjoy the privilege we provide here: doing nothing. D1 has a multitude of activities when he is home -- here he can watch shows, play on his IPad, build with blocks...

I took him to the Falls Roasters, and got the news that they were closing -- the rent had become untenable. But, most of the staff was simply relocating 1.5 miles north to the Dadeland location. Little Man was given a going away black and white, and I was given a $25 gift certificate. That'll pay for one breakfast with Trump era prices -- assuming I avoid the lox!

Later, we visited Chick-Fil-A for a takeout order, and then I FaceTimed with Dr. Barry as I squeezed orange juice --Little Man loves it in a cup, as his Grandpa Dave drank his with some vodka, and we toasted the graduate. No one advised him about "plastics." I guess these days it would be "AI."

Sunday we were up early, to House of Bagels, where we got chocolate chip bagel and cookie for Baby Man, and chocolate chip bagel and a B and W for Little Man. I dropped him with D1, who had plans to take them to a Balloon Museum pop up (Ha!) at Wynwood and a birthday party afterwards. I came home and napped.

I cut a check for Baby Man's 4th -- to be held at Mitzvah Kitchen the am after MY birthday -- since D1 will be in Cali on his actual birthday. Rabbi Yossi and Nechama run it -- the kids get to play in the activities they have for the special needs kids, and bake cookies for themselves and to box off for food challenged folks. It's become quite an operation -- corporations have team building sessions there, and Camillus House gets thousands of meals -- glatt kosher -- though they don't care about that.

This am I was back at the gym, and then Danny emailed me the new warranty info and invoice for the new AC -- nearly double what it cost 11 years ago. But, apparently I can get a tax credit -- so there's at least SOMETHNG good for the rich white man.

But most importantly -- the new unit works -- WELL. No AC -- we would be heading elsewhere to live -- especially in the Summer. 

Each time I feel its refreshment -- I give thanks. This cool, rockin' Daddy and Granddaddy in the USA needs to actually be cool...

Friends Lost Along The Way

 When I turned 40, I threw myself a BIG party at Villa Wifey. Loffler's Caterers presented a clam bake -- tons of delicious seafood everywhere -- and a VERY busy bartender. Back then, Paul and I were at the height of our law biz, and I invited referral lawyers, doctors, and our whole staff.

The staff surprised me -- told me to come outside and look up -- there was an airplane flying with a banner that said "Happy 40, Dave." It was the first and only time I had been so honored -- as important as Coppertone!

At the cake cutting, my sister Trudy gave me a beautiful complement which was SO accurate. She said she and her husband, like many, collected things in life -- like antiques, but I collected PEOPLE. It's true. Among things I'm proudest of, it's my long term friendships -- the closest dating back 4 and a half decades. I treasure them.

But alas, some folks (the Ds love when I use that old term -- particularly when referring to someone's parents) fall out of your life -- and that's ok, too. In my case, when I got close to someone, I tended to put a halo above their heads -- imbuing them with qualities that were often not there. And that's ok, too.

In college, I grew close to Vince. We met in the most comical way of any of my friends -- staring at the same girl's ample bosom from either side of her -- in Calculus class (I was still pre-med). I looked up and saw a guy with glasses and huge nose. He looked at me and gave me the thumbs up sign. We instantly knew we were fellow connoisseurs...

He was a few years ahead of me -- grew up in North Miami, Irish Mom, Italian Dad. His father was an Italian version of mine -- same high school in The Bronx, even -- self taught intellectual. Vince, Sr. owned a schmata factory in NYC and ran afoul of some bad hombres -- and Vince recalled being about 9 and being rushed into the family station wagon to drive to Miami for a new life -- his Dad opened a factory in Hialeah. Vince went to FSU and partied too much -- his Dad brought him back from Tally with an ultimatum: bring up your grades, or come be my janitor in the factory. Vince picked Door #1 and did well enough to get into med school.

He met his first wife in my apartment -- Barbara was headed to law school -- lovely and smart young woman from Chicago. The marriage only lasted a few years on account of -- well -- that's not important -- but Vince ended up marrying the nurse with whom he was having an affair -- and having his kids with her. That marriage ended when a prettier and more exotic nurse crossed his path -- separated from an angry Persian man.

The story of our friendship is long and varied, with the loss of all 4 of our parents -- but nurse number 2 ended up being wife #3 AND #4. Our friendship ended when Vince asked me for a big loan to start a pain clinic -- and having been burned by a donut investment from another college friend, and knowing he had paid millions to wife #3, I said no -- maybe ask now wife #4. He said, straight faced "Oh no -- she'll never trust me with money again."

Turned out, Vince was so disappointed in me, he ended the friendship. I found out later, at a lunch with his even older friend Fred, maybe it was for the best. When Fred's wife was dying young, of cancer, Vince was nowhere to be found -- broke his fellow Italian's heart, And later, through FaceBook (TM), I learned from Vince's sister upstate that he sort of abandoned his dying mother, too -- the sister bore the entire load of her loss alone. So probably not a guy to have in my life, anyway.

Another loss was John, who I met when he was a young lawyer and I a clerk the Summer of '85. He was WAY cool -- Southern guy, former USAF pilot, engineer before going back to law school. The firm didn't hire me, but we kept friends -- he jumped from firm to firm, and we handled a few cases together -- one, a blown tire case, he did VERY well on. He also repped my friend Sandy's step dad against UM after they botched the care of Sandy's Mom, Frances.

Much later, John was looking for a landing spot to re-launch his career after his wife died, and he was leaving another close friend, Curtis. I advocated strongly for him to join our group, on account of Stu was smart but comically lazy and needed someone to take charge of the cases.

Long story short: turned out John was lazy, too, and the relationship soured. John found another landing spot -- with a major TV lawyer I called Saul Goodman after the "Better Call Saul/Breaking Bad" character, and stole a major case from us. John became, forever, Fredo to me -- to this day everyone in our circle calls him that.

We ended up having to sue, and a resulting trial lasted most of a week. We got some of the money back, and could have settled for some more, but, as Paul pointed out, I wanted vengeance for the betrayal more than the money -- and so we got to air our grievances publicly. He's probably correct.

Anyway, Robert/Better Call Saul fired John, too, and last I heard John was up in West Palm -- still working in his mid 70s. He had a fraught relationship with his daughter, who I helped get accepted to UF via a key connection I had there, and I wonder whether it's still fraught. I'd bet it is.

Other friends -- well -- over time we just fade apart. Wifey is more blatant in that regard than I am -- with a single exception, she is no longer close with most of her formerly close friends. One she was close with, Elizabeth, died in her sleep 5 years ago -- we just spoke of that sad anniversary last week. But for most -- she had no drama -- just no longer the energy to keep the relationships going more than a few times per year lunch or so. 

As usual, John Lennon sang it best, about people in his life: "Some forever not for better -- some I've lost, and some have changed."

I'm not looking to add to my people collection anymore. Nice neighbor couples have asked to get together with Wifey and me -- we politely make sure the dates never get set.

Yet my love for those in my true inner circle remains as strong as it ever was -- stronger, even. And that makes me a very blessed man.