Is This The End, My Friend?

 My ancient suegra is 97, and has recently been precipitously declining. Five months ago she moved from the ALF part of The Palace to the nursing home, totally immobile, but still mostly aware. Over the past weeks she barely rouses, and when she does, seems to have zero idea who any of us are.

Yesterday the nurses called to tell Wifey she had stopped drinking or eating the day before. I drove to the Palace after a lunch meeting on Brickell, and met with the nurse. Rachel was deeply asleep. The nurse shook her, almost violently, to attempt to rouse her. Nothing -- just peaceful sleep. Obviously, they can't give her anything by mouth that way, and we do NOT want them to place a feeding tube or IV.

Wifey arrived, and got into bed with her Mom, holding her. She has accepted that the end may well be approaching. She is sad, but dealing with it, of course.

The Ds are visiting today. I told D2 it was still ok to go to Atlanta, since no one knows when the end will come. If need be, she'll come back early. 

I called Rabbi Yossi, just to see if he's in town. He is, but leaving Monday and Tuesday -- to see his ailing father in Crown Heights. He wisely noted that there's truly nothing to do ahead of time -- Rachel already has her funeral arrangements made -- and when Hashem decides the time is at hand, the time is at hand.

Still, I'm OCD, and already have a Relief Rabbi in mind -- young Rabbi Dovi, the Brazilian guy. We met when he was a young assistant at the Shul of Brickell, and now he started his own congregation in Aventura -- mostly catering to Brazilian Jews there. We've kept in touch, and if needed, I will call upon him to come to Kendall.

When we contemplate the death of elderly parents, we recall our other experiences, and today I was remembering what turned out to be a funny memory.

It was May of 2012, and my Mom was to be discharged from Delray Hospital to Miami Jewish Home. I had gone to Gainesville to fetch D2 for the Summer, and the plan was to stop at Delray, fetch Grandma Sunny, and bring her to the nursing home. D2 was keen on spending some quality time with her Grandma, knowing there weren't to be years left. We wheeled Sunny to my car, and put her into the front seat. D2 was in back, playing on her phone.

Shortly after I got on I-95, Sunny was out. I nudged her a bit. Nothing. Oh crap, I thought -- she freaking died right there. 

I immediately recalled how my Dad died in my arms 30 years before, I was STILL messed up about that, and now I was visiting another death upon my darling daughter -- as she happily texted away.

I figured there was nothing to do but keep driving to Miami Jewish -- the staff would help me there -- and it would be a record short stay at that facility for Mom.

I chatted with D2 as if everything was ok -- figuring she'd freak if she knew she was riding behind a corpse.

And then -- around Hollywood -- Mom awoke. "David -- where are we???" Ah -- gracias to the Big Man! She was alive!

We continued on to Little Haiti, got Sunny settled in, and then drove home. There was no trauma to the undergrad!

Sunny would live there 11 more months -- apparently the textbook length of stay at a nursing home for a person at the end of life. We celebrated her 93rd birthday on April 13, 2013, and she was present but not really. She raised her glass of soda and said "Happy New Year, Everyone!" She died 2 weeks later.

So we'll see with my suegra. I did some research, and typically someone lasts no more than 3-4 days without water. But my suegra, a Survivor in every sense, seems to defy odds. She was by far the most obese person in the ALF, and ate almost exclusively sugar. She was no worse for the wear.

Might she keep on living for awhile? She might. Big Man knows. But today the Ds want to say their final words to her -- just in case.

And if this is indeed her end -- drifting from a deep, pain free sleep to the Great Beyond, at 97.5 years old , well, there are far worse ways to go.

Lyft and The Kafkaesque Experience

 So my friend and financial advisor Pat was in town, and asked me to meet for some cocktails before he had dinner with his hosts in the Gables. I agreed, and suggested we two old gringos go to Captain's Tavern, the local headquarters for old gringos. I figured I would Uber over, have a few adult beverages with Pat, and then Wifey would come later and we'd have dinner, and she would drive me home.

Alas, Wifey is in clean out mode, as her decorators are coming Friday to replace our old clutter with new clutter, and so she begged off actually attending dinner, but would in fact fetch me, as long as I brought her her favorite, the lobster tail, in return. Seemed like a plan.

I rarely use Lyft, but thought maybe I'd keep the account active, and their price for the 8 minute drive was $9.99, whereas Uber wanted $11. So I updated my payment info, and summoned Lyft at around 3:35, since they claimed to be 6 minutes away, and it was a short trip. Pat, like I, is VERY prompt, and I knew he would be at the bar at 4 p.m. 

So I walked outside, and followed the driver's progress, and then, nothing. I texted him -- "Are you lost?" No response. So then I called, and got a fellow who spoke ZERO English. This is one of my pet peeves.

When Uber and Lyft petitioned Miami Dade for permission to operate, one of their promises was that, opposed to Miami Dade's comically bad taxis, each driver would speak English. We minority gringos welcomed this. I was once in a taxi with a nice Creole only speaking man, on a trip from MIA to my then Kendall house. It had been a long day, and I dozed off, waking to realize we were in Broward County! I somehow communicated to the man his mistake, and he drove me home, and then said "$150." I laughed, gave him the $40 the trip should have been, and he gave me the finger and drove away. So I figured the English speaking nature of our new service would end that stuff. I figured wrong.

The driver was clearly upset and confused. I tried, in my limited Spanish, to explain how to get to my house. He wouldn't listen -- just excitedly trying to explain to me all he was going through. I have a feeling he may have driven to 66 Street -- in West Kendall. But after 2 tense calls, I realized I was late to the Tavern, and said "Cancel. I'll drive."

I got to the Tavern a few minutes late, and greeted Pat and my Ketel and tonic, and I got the out of state number again -- the driver. Dude was relentless. I told him I was to arrive at the Tavern BEFORE 4, it was now 415, and what part of "Cancel" didn't he understand? I figured that was it. Again, I figured wrong.

The Lyft app chimed again. This moron had handed me off to another driver, Yoel! I texted him that I was already at the Tavern -- cancel the trip. Dude texted back "I am new driver -- you cannot cancel my trip."

Now I'm two drinks in -- it's a full hour past when the Lyft idiots were to have me at the Tavern. So I called the number -- Yoel spoke English -- he said he was 5 minutes from my house. I told him to knock himself out -- I was long at my destination -- maybe he'd like to come to the Tavern for a drink? He hung up, but then I got another text "Yoel will be arriving shortly. Be ready."

So I texted back -- could he water check my mailbox for me while he was there? My need for a ride was now 1.5 hours late. He texted back: "I am new at this. Why you being so mean?"

Then I got the last text -- he had waited for me, and when I failed to arrive (I guess I could have driven home for him) he left. I was being charged $5 for the aborted drive.

Meanwhile, Pat and I caught up nicely, and discussed the markets. We planned strategy. And then Harris and Ruby appeared -- our dear friend Elizabeth, who passed away - Ruby is her sister. They were at the bar, and Ruby texted Wifey that she found me at the bar with a tall Irish person with very attractive hair.

Pat left, and Wifey decided to come by after all -- to see Ruby and Harris. I ordered our dinners at the bar, and Wifey walked over to the table and chatted for a bit. Her lobster tail came, as well as my halibut -- flown in that day and delicious.

Since I abridged my drinking due to Lyft's incompetence, I drove home, as did Wifey. It had been no harm, so no foul.

I checked my Amex, and there was no charge. I had bought Lyft stock after the IPO several years back. It dropped, and never rose to the level I paid. Now I see why -- it's a crappy company -- especially compared to Uber.

Maybe I'll sell my shares today -- I'll take the loss to offset some gains in something else.

I always joke that when I call a ride share, I fantasize I am Thurston Howell III awaiting his chauffer. Not with Lyft -- I feel like the poor guy who can't fit on the overstuffed city bus.

Puck you, Lyft. I'm exclusively an Uber mentsch now.

Letting Go Of the Anger

 So 4 years ago this August, Paul and Stuart and I suffered a betrayal by a man at least I considered a friend. His Christian name is John, but after what he did, stealing cases in the middle of the night, and skipping out owing Stuart thousands in back rent, I renamed him Fredo, after the treacherous, not too bright brother in Godfather. And Fredo he remains.

For awhile, I had a lot of anger towards him, I was a good friend -- I got his daughter into UF through the influence of another friend, Pat. His daughter, who I'll call Elizabeth, since that's her name, was sort of on the bubble as an ok but not stellar student at Palmer Trinity, and Pat, who had some leverage with UF back then, greased the wheels for her.

Later on, Fredo needed back surgery, and found a 6 month wait for the surgeon he wanted. Again, I used my contacts, got him in, and even drove him and spent hours waiting for him at JMH because he had no one else to give him a ride. His daughter Elizabeth isn't a big fan, on account of the fact that he may have raided some of her trust money on account of his being broke ass.

I ought to have known better than to let him into our inner circle. A wise friend, who I discussed this with, asked me how a UF Law grad, in his early 60s, was broke ass after a decades long career as a lawyer. A WASPY UF Law grad at that! Well -- I tend to , or used to, practice the halo effect. When I consider someone a close friend, they become somewhat angelic in my mind -- I put a metaphorical halo on them. I

I answered this wise friend that Fredo's wife was dying of melanoma, and he focused on his daughter, and that's why he suffered professionally. Turned out it was wrong -- at his wife Kim's funeral, none of her relatives or close friends even mentioned Fredo -- it was all about the daughter Elizabeth. Fredo was broke because he was a lazy POS -- and left a trail of failed partnerships because of that laziness. He was a very good con man -- still is. After he left us, he went to a major advertising firm , the principal, Robert, I call Saul Goodman. I predicted he'd last there 2 years until his act wore thin. I was off by 6 months, but damned if he didn't convince another firm, up in West Palm, that he was an asset and they should hire him. He'll be fired there by Spring, I am confident.

Of all the cases he stole from Stu and us, only 2 are left to be worked out. On one of them, Stuart, at my strategy, witheld the back rent Fredo owed instead of paying him the fee agreed to. Fredo was livid, but realized he was stuck -- he DID owe the money.

Now there's one case for us, and one for Stu. Stu tonight sent me a pleading on his case, wherein Fredo claimed that he did all the work, even though it was using Stu's rent free office and Stuart's secretary, and thus Stuart should get none of the fee. Stu sent me Fredo's motion.

I didn't get mad -- I just laughed. Despite being a PI lawyer, Fredo is a died in the wool Republican, and he just showed he was good at alternate facts, like his hero Trump. I suspect ultimately the fee dispute will be settled.

What's really sad is that the firm that got the result is a different one, and my friend Joel's former intern Todd is a partner there. I would hope Todd would take control, realize the right thing is to pay Stuart his money, and move on. But maybe greed will blind the ultra liberal Todd. I have no dog in the fight, but look foward to seeing if Todd values friendship over a few dollars. We'll see.

So no more anger towards Fredo. Rey, a former partner, continues to loathe him. Fredo begged Rey to keep him on long past the time Rey realized he was worthless, and then Fredo sued Rey!

Not me. Fredo is, like the namesake in the movie was to Michael, nothing to me. Not a friend, nothing.

And he's certainly not worth any anger.

Innkeeper Again

 So last weekend we were rained on, not just cats and dogs, but lions and Great Danes. Pinecrest apparently got 13 inches.

Unfortunately, the apartment D2 and Jonathan are renting in Sunset Harbor had a leak -- into the bathroom, but pretty serious. The management company came out and put in big industrial fans and a dehumidifier, but the result was an apartment with noise levels like being on the tarmac at MIA.

D2 and the enormous puppy stayed over after our early FD celebration -- Jonathan was headed to Nashville early Monday, and so just went back to the apartment to sleep.

Wednesday, Jonathan returned from Nashville, and went to his office in the Gables. D2 and I met him for dinner at one of my favorites -- Captain's Tavern. Jonathan got there early and got my favorite table in the corner of the bar. He had never been before -- only had their takeout. He found the place just as musty and gringo as he had thought -- we had a delightful dinner, with martinis and very fresh fish.

Today, around 4, D2 and the puppy left, to fetch Jonathan in the Gables and then head home to a fan-less, and hopefully dried out apartment.

I barely had time to prepare for my next set of guests: Wifey and Edna. Well, Wifey isn't technically a guest, but the two of them are coming from their stay at the Setai on the Beach -- Edna flew in from ATL to see her girl Lauren who was staying there. We're meeting at Platea for dinner -- the new best restaurant in Pinecrest, which, despite demographics a restaurant owner would salivate for, has very few really good restaurants.

I think Edna is spending just one night, and is off to ATL tomorrow.

My innkeeping duties resume Thursday -- but only for a canine client. Betsy is coming back -- D2 and Jonathan are heading to see friends in ATL, taking advantage of the new Juneteenth federal holiday -- and returning Monday. They'll fetch the enormous puppy then. But she won't be away long.

D2 and Jonathan are finally getting to , hopefully, go on their long plague delayed honeymoon late July. We'll dog sit then.

I love having those near and dear stay here, although sometimes the absurdity of our house occurs to me.

Friendly handyman Nestor was over today, to replace the leaking toilet valves and flush flaps -- some are original, from 1997, and look like animals chewed them up.

He does a lot of high level houses -- 8 figure places in the Grove and Miami Beach -- so our house is kind of typical for him.

Still, I realized we have SIX toilets.  I contrast that with most of my friends who grew up on LI in Levittown with large Catholic families -- one bathroom for 9 or 10 people. We had three in our house -- one in my parents' bedroom, one in the hall, and a half bath down by the washer and dryer, which used to regularly flood until we got sewers instead of cesspools.

I had a long talk yesterday with Wifey's friend Cara -- she just put her condo on Venetian Island up for sale. Her late husband bought it in the early 80s for $40K -- she's going to get well north of $1M. She wanted to bounce off options about her next place -- and asked if I ever wanted to move to a condo.

Nah. I'm social, but LOVE being able to NOT see people if I choose.

Plus, if we had a condo, it'd be tougher to be an innkeeper. And then I'd lose one of my jobs.

Friendly Neighborhood See You Next Tuesday

 Probably 10 years ago, I was approached by a location scout as I sat by my pond, and he asked me if I was interested in having Villa Wifey used for a shoot for the then hit show "Burn Notice." I was, and was so excited about it, didn't even negotiate the $4k they offered for the day -- all of it outside. I later learned they'd have paid double, but it was so fun I didn't much care.

They also paid our across the street neighbors Bob and Elizabeth to use their yard for parking, and on the day of the shoot it was something to see. A scene involving a brown van crashing through our front gates, that was on the episode for all of 20 seconds, took an entire day to shoot, with a crew of more than 50 people. D1 was in grad school, and she came by to watch, and they send us a DVD of the episode. Very cool. I hoped they would ask again, and they didn't.

A few years later I got a call from another location scout, referred by the Burn Notice guy. They offered $10K to use our pool, but it was for a hard core porn shoot, and I politely declined. I'm no prude, but didn't want my house so memorialized. Maybe that's why we haven't got more offers.

Anyway -- our neighbor Denie hit the location lottery for today -- a very huge commercial is being shot at her house, inside, and though the star is supposed to be a secret, we learned it's an NFL wide receiver who goes by ODB. We all got an email blast telling us about the event, though Denie lives in the far corner of our 'hood and typically only people who live in those 4 houses would be affected. EXCEPT...

I was walking with my neighbor Ellen today, and she shared the chisme. Every neighborhood has its asshole, most have their bitches, and we have a bona fide, everyone agrees, See You Next Tuesday. I'll say her name rhymes with Rita, but with a different middle consonant, and she is indeed a piece of work.

She lives next to a dead end street that used to be an entrance to our 'hood off busy 136/Old Cutler. Before we moved in, the entrance was cut off, as people would use it to shortcut to Ludlam, and speed through. But the no longer used street, which is now mostly grass, is state property. Rita, and her husband, who I'll call Ray, since his name rhymes with that but with a different first consonant, treat the area as if they own it. They clearly do NOT.

Anyway, the location manager, a lovely Venezuelan who I met named Madeline, knocked on Rita and Ray's door, told them she knew the land was state owned, but as a courtesy was letting them know there would be vehicles parked there for the day. Rita and Ray erupted -- claiming it was THEIR property, and they would call police, the FBI, the CIA, the Mafia, and a strike force from Homestead Air Force Reserve Base if anyone DARED to park there.

Madeline begged off, since getting a state permit to park a few vans was onerous. Ellen told me the tale as I walked past the See You Next Tuesday's house, and sure enough, they had dragged a fallen tree branch across the area, lest someone try to park there.

As a concerned Floridian, wishing to keep state roads and former roads clear, I dragged the limb away. It let me burn off my anger at these 2 creeps who are an embarrassment to the 'hood.

We walked the 3 houses down, and Ellen introduced me to Madeline. She was so nice, and I assured her that we are proud of our neighborhood, pride ourselves on being friendly, and was sorry about her experience with Rita and Ray. She and Ellen started laughing --they had already labeled Rita a Venezuelan Spanish version of See You Next Tuesday -- and Madeline gave me her card.

I would love it if we got another film shoot -- and our surrounding neighbors would welcome it, too.

I truly don't understand people who live in a house probably now worth north of $2.5M, that they paid less than $1M for, with 3 adult kids who are all apparently doing very well, and yet remain fully miserable assholes. They truly only seem to get happiness bullying others over stupid stuff.

Well, as the old cliche goes, the show must go on, and indeed it is. I just walked past, and the location is a hive of activity. I asked the friendly young Pinecrest cop if ODB was there yet -- he had no idea who or what was being filmed, but quickly told me he was a huge football fan and would be asking for an autograph.

The neighbors across the street, newly moved in, were outside, with their toddler and gorgeous baby girl. One of the grips had the toddler moving little traffic cones "to help out the production." My grandson would have been in heaven had he been over. And the little baby girl? I'm already talking with the parents about a possible fix up in years to come with one of my grandkids.

I guess I ought to just ignore the miserable people. I have zero doubt Riv, um Rita is inside her house, looking intently at her security cameras and making sure no one trespasses on her falsely claimed property.

Whatever. Karens are one thing. We have a universally acclaimed See You Next Tuesday. Maybe my neighborhood ought to feel proud.

Another Jazzy Sunday

I appreciate jazz music, but don't often listen to it -- EXCEPT on Sunday mornings. I put on WDNA on my Sonos and enjoy it in the background, as I surf the web and drink coffee. I support the station, too, and wear a nifty WDNA ball cap they sent to say thanks. This year I'm due a T shirt, too.

Yesterday I attended a lovely graduation party. Wifey opted out -- she wasn't in the mood to socialize after moving around some boxes in the garage that got wet from the torrential rains we had. Our garage floor is the only surface that ever floods. Apparently our house was built high up -- an engineer checking it out fof the insurance company told me it was 40% higher than required by code. But the garage sits next to the area where the pool is, and when the pool overflows, the water seeps though the concrete.  An engineer said the problem could be fixed -- excavate around the garage wall, and seal it -- cost would be about $50K. Eh -- I can live with the wet floor that occurs every 3 years or so.

So there was a nice group of folks at Chris and Mary's house. Some of the people brought plastic syringes filled with run shots -- flavored jello infused with rum. You squirt the syringe into your mouth, rather than have to extract the jello from the little plastic shot glasses. I tried one -- tea flavored -- and thought wow -- what'll they think of next?

Marlowe is headed to NYU J school for a master's -- she wants to be a foreign correspondent. Her brother is off to FSU to study Criminology -- and partying. They're two wonderful kids, and I properly complemented Mary and Chris on a job well done.

D1 just texted: she and her men are 25 minutes away. D2 and Jonathan are coming a bit later -- they love to sleep in Sunday mornings.

If it gets late enough, I'll make them martinis with the Beluga vodka I got as a gift. I sampled some Friday night -- it is indeed excellent -- the Johnny Walker Blue of vodka.

The bottle came with a little hammer and brush contraption, and I used the trusty internet to figure out why. Each bottle is sealed in clay, and you use the hammer to break up the seal, and then brush the fragments away. A gimmick, of course, but I DO enjoy the rituals of adult beverages.

My man Stu's Dad Bill, a wonderful octogenarian, once explained why he much prefers a cocktail out at a great bar/restaurant to one at home. "When you hear the bartender shake his shaker, it's Pavlovian. You KNOW a good time is to follow that evening."

It's funny -- my Dad was no drinker. The most he'd ever have was a beer with dinner on occasion. I NEVER saw him drink "hard liquor," even once. He claimed it was bad for his prostate. I guess the fact that he died WITH prostate issues affected me. Plus, he never went to college, which is where alcohol became a much bigger social lubricant.

So we'll see if today's early Father's Day turns into day drinking, or not.

Either way -- when I get my Ds and their men together -- it's a fine day.

Even better than jazz on WDNA playing in the background. 

The Track

 So yesterday Paul and I had some business in Hallandale, and afterwards decided to get some lunch. I know my man so well -- one of his favorite places in the world is Gulfstream Park, where you can gamble on the ponies, and eat great food at Christine Lee's.

He invited the Mrs, and I suggested we call our old friend Allison, who lives in Broward as well. I also invited Wifey, but knew there was zero chance she'd wish to fight Miami traffic -- but she DID want some dinner brought to her. And so it was off to the track.

Paul insists, and I support, a totally 1950s style, patriarchal system at the track. The men put up the money, and the women split any winnings. Curiously, even the most feminist guests we've hosted over the years do not object to this set up. So we funded our day with $100 each, and Allison and Patricia each netted $66 at the end -- the losses were reasonable.

But we had a delightful time. Allison and I were law school classmates -- we just celebrated our 36th anniversary of finishing up that less than fun course of study. We were in our mid 20s. I'm now knocking on 61's door, and a grandpa, to boot. I ran into Allison in 1990, when we tried a case against each other. Her then husband Mark, a kind of a schlumpy guy from LI, represented a homeowner whose dog attacked and bit our client, leaving a facial scar. I won the trial, but the homeowner, who had no insurance, declared bankruptcy, and the client never saw a dime.

A few years later, near Xmas of '94, Paul and I had just started our firm, and were attending the holiday party in our building. Allison was working for her divorce lawyer. We three clicked, sort of like the Mod Squad without a Black guy, and Allison came to work for us. 

Those were heady times, and Paul was with Allison at Capital Grille when he encouraged a well dressed attorney at the bar to ask Allison out. Steven became her husband, and their two girls just graduated high school. Alas, the marriage didn't last, and, for the record, as Wifey likes to say, I NEVER liked Steven. Ha. So there.

Anyway, we talked of days passed and those to come. Allison and I practiced the shoe theory of martini drinking: one's not enough, and you don't need more than two.

I brought home some delicious chicken to Wifey. She loved it.

Today is an Annie Lennox kind of  a day: Here comes the rain again. An early tropical storm, which was a hurricane that crossed Mexico, weakened, and is now again strengthening over the Gulf, is headed our way. Not much wind, but we're supposed to get a total of 7 inches of rain through tomorrow night.

Tomorrow afternoon dear friends Darriel and Paul are hosting a double graduation for their grandkids Marlowe and CJ. Marlowe finished UF's J School, and is off to the City for a Masters at NYU. CJ finished Palmetto High and is off to FSU, which is kind of funny since his parents are both Gators. His sister, too. It happens.

Darriel and Paul had to move to Virginia last year if Paul wished to keep his sales job with the medical supply company. Paul just turned 60,and wasn't keen on finding a new company at his age. So they're in Richmond now, and liking it, but missing Mary and Chris and the kids in Palmetto Bay.

Hopefully we'll be able to ford the puddles ok tomorrow for the open house. Other than that, we plan to stay high and dry.

Meanwhile, I cracked open the Beluga vodka I got as a thank you gift for agreeing to officiate a wedding, even though Covid kept me away. It is delicious -- I plan to make martinis for my sons in law Sunday at our early Father's Day get together. D2 and Jonathan are going to ATL on actual FD, since it's a 3 day weekend with the newly minted Juneteenth. I got a chuckle that they're going to the capital of Black America on that holiday. They didn't find it funny at all, just politically incorrect of me to even note that.

So, as usual, I lost at the track. I embody the old cliche: lucky in love; unlucky at cards.

And that's just fine.