The Very Angry Fan

Among my hopes is that, as I age, I don't become a cranky old man. Alas, despite my best efforts, it may be happening. Last Saturday my beloved Canes hosted Virginia Tech, and in a rare occurrence, Wifey accompanied me to the game. She hasn't been in years -- can't stand the heat, and doesn't really like football enough to commit hours to going, but my usual companion, Mirta, had a wedding, and Wifey decided to attend. Our usual tailgate host, Norman, begged off, as his great tailgate companions had a medical issue, but nonetheless Mike filled in nicely, and grilled hot dogs and provided margaritas. It was a nice time, and the cloudy skies kept the temperature down. I didn't partake in my usual vodka -- had a few beers instead. It was a lovely, nice time, and then... Wifey and I went to the gate, and the gate attendant gave Wifey grief for having too big of a handbag (the thing was not big at all). Wifey stepped into an adjacent line, and gained access. My attendant kept scanning my ticket over and over -- not getting the beep he wanted. My ticket is a cardboard, old school one -- with my name on it, for heaven's sakes. Nope -- five minutes went by, and the young man continued to fiddle with his machine. Kickoff was approaching, so five minutes seemed much longer. The young man called over his supervisor -- a guy in his 40s, graying hair -- looked like he might have been a cop in the past. The fellow took my ticket and fiddled with HIS machine for another several minutes, before handing me my ticket back and saying "No --there's a problem. You need to walk to the other side of the stadium and find a line where they can reprint your ticket. Nothing more to do." I took my ticket back, and simply said no -- I WAS going into the stadium, and I stepped around the turnstyle. The man stopped me by stepping in front, and asserting his authority. I asked him if he would accompany Wifey to her seat -- as she was already inside and didn't know her way around. He said no, but that I could NOT enter. I told him directly I WAS entering. He told me he would call the police, and told him to go right ahead -- if they ordered me to leave, I would, but was not listening to an idiot employed by "Elite Services." The dude was NOT backing down. Neither was I. He grabbed my ticket, and wrote down the seat location, telling me "Police will be coming to get you, and you will be escorted out and arrested." I told him that would be fine, as I quickly calculated the $50K or so I would settle for in a civil case of false arrest against "Elite Services," in exchange for being led out of my Club Section in cuffs. I also made a mental not of my friend Steve the cop's number -- knowing if Miami Dade Police really DID come, a call to him would get me sprung. Wifey and I got on the escalator to the club. She was impressed and maybe a little turned on by her man's showing of machismo -- he wasn't letting some idiot tell him what to do. Ha! As if! Wifey promptly lectured me on my anger, and how mean I sound when I speak to people who cross me, etc... Whatever. Wifey's Canes season is over, anyway -- that was her last game. She was concerned that the police were coming -- maybe we should sit in another section. Nothing doing. I took my seat, and told my friends what happened. Dr. Barry's friend John offered to give me his hat and sunglasses. A discussion of "Spartacus" ensued -- would we ALL say we were the resistor, if the police came? Dana reminisced about a similar incident back in '84 -- Eric and I came to the Canes-Gator game early, to get prime student seats, and minutes before kickoff, the Orange Bowl staff decided we really weren't in the student section -- we could go toss off. Eric and I got livid -- Eric more so -- and was led out to calm down. But we kept our seats! The Gators won, though, as I recall... Our game played on, and by the second quarter I figured I was in the clear -- though everyone laughed whenever a cop appeared in our section. The Canes won, and Wifey admitted as how it "wasn't too bad" being there. Next week, Norman is due back, and Mirta is excited to go. The game is early -- noon -- but we'll eat lox and drink at 10 am. Hopefully I'll be admitted without incident. If not, I won't press my luck -- I'll simply call for my liason in the Canes office, and see if he can get me in with my legal tickets. And if the Canes somehow upset Clemson, I won't be the grouchy old man after all -- just a happy one.

D2 In The City

So D2 is an official, working, living in a small apartment, new New Yorker. She started her job two weeks ago, and she and her man Jonathan are full fledged yuppies. Wifey moved her in over a month ago, and we're planning a big Thanksgiving family trip there, but in the interim Dr. Barry had an idea. His beloved Mets, also my childhood team, were going to be in the NL playoffs, and why don't he and I fly up to catch a game at Citi Field. His boy Scott would join us, training it up from Maryland, where he's a freshman, and we'd have a great weekend. The problem was, the schedule wasn't set, and the Mets would either start the series at home or in LA. As the flights got more expensive closer to the weekend, I pulled the trigger and bought a ticket. Barry waited, and it was a good thing. The Mets choked, and lost the home field advantage. They ended up winning, anyway, and now face the Cubs for the NL championship, starting tonight. But I was committed, and so it was off the the City alone... Wifey dropped me at MIA, and I checked out the new Centurion Lounge, which is for AMEX customers. It was awesome -- gourmet food, planned by celeb chef Michelle Bernstein, and they even offer free massages and mani/pedis. Finally -- my family will stop hassling me about getting to the airport too early -- hanging in this place is a fine start of a vacation. After getting on the crowded bus now known as a jet plane, we glided into LGA. I cabbed it to my hotel, at 34th and 3rd Avenue, and headed out for a bite. I found an Irish pub on Third, and took a seat at the bar. The red headed young lady took my order in a lovely lilt, and asked for my beer choice. I replied that based on her accent, it would surely be Guiness, and he drew me a pint. We chatted -- she said she was from a county in Ireland I'd never heard of -- Cavan. I told her not only had I heard, I had BEEN there -- with my brother in law Dennis when we took a men's trip back in '97. After my beer and snack, ok, maybe a mushroom burger is more than a snack, I walked around the 'hood. As fate had it, Eric and Dana were coming back from a Vermont trip, one Wifey decided against, as we had done one just a few years earlier, and were staying in the same hotel -- their girl Jenn lives blocks from D2. I waited in the lobby as the Affinia wine hour was ending, and, like the good friend I am, secured a few glasses of pinot for Eric and Dana who arrived late. As they checked in and drank, their girl Jen arrived, and then the doors opened up, and I heard Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" in my head, as I saw my beloved D2 -- wearing the color of new yorkers -- black -- and looking very much like the grown up junior executive she is. We had a great reunion, and then D2 and I shared an umbrella, brella, hey, hey...as we walked to her place and greeted Jonathan. The place is terrific -- small, but out of the window, a post card-like view of the Empire State Building. We met the next door neighbor, an Israeli guy who owns a bake shop and has a wild Labrador puppy. Good all around... We met Eric, Dana, Jen, and her rhyming boyfriend Ben, in a bar called the Hill. We toasted our awesome kids, though D1 and Josh were sadly not in attendance. I invited our friends to Sammy's, where we had dinner reservations, but they declined, for some finer fare. D2, Jonathan, and I ubered it to the Lower East side, to a capital of Ashkenazi culture. Since it was the City of the World, it was fitting that our driver was from Pakistan, and I chatted with him about Ahmjed, my long lost roommie from UM... Sammy's was, well, truly back to the future. The DJ, an Israeli, is a classic tummler, as good as any the Catskills produced. As we ate chopped liver, deep fried kreplach, skirt steak, and chicken, washed down with healthy amounts of frozen Stoli vodka, the DJ had us laughing and dancing. The rest of the crowd was all 20 somethings -- enjoying the best part of their great grandparents' culture -- the food, music, and laughter, without the guilt and recrimination about who they date, their jobs, etc... Saturday D2 and I met at her place, and as she came out of her door, dear friend Ali and her Mom Sharon walked literally right by. We decided to meet them for breakfast (though I already had a bagel waiting for D2), and we went to the Moonstruck Diner. Ali's fine boyfriend Blake met us, and we talked of UF years, and NY years to come. We then rejoined Jonathan, and walked to Union Square, where we visited the Strand -- best bookstore in the US. Jonathan left to meet some friends, and Ashley, another of D2's sisters of other mothers, joined us. We walked to the Village, and I bored the girls with tales of Bob Dylan, Village connections to Miami's Coconut Grove, etc... We found a lovely cafe, and drank wine, beer, and shared some fish and chips and cheese. It was delightful -- the weather was perfect, and the beautiful ladies at my table were just awesome company. We walked Ashley home to her street, and then spent time at the apartment, before heading over to Brother Jimmy's an "Canes Bar" nearby. It was PACKED with Canes fans, and we watched the Canes blow the first quarter to the Seminoles. We watched the rest of the half at D2's apartment, and then I went back to the hotel, and watched them nearly pull off the upset with Eric and Dana. Alas, they blew it... Sunday am D2 and I cabbed it again to Houston Street, and visited Russ and Daughters. I thought we could eat there, but it's just a shop -- with the best smoked fish in the world. Our nice Asian counterman spent a full 15 minutes slicing our nova and belly lox, with what looked like a diatome. We bought cream cheese, bagels, and rugelach, and returned to the apartment, where we enjoyed the best nova and lox we had ever tasted, looking out at the great Empire State Building. We then decided to walk the hood, and we did -- trying to see if we could make it to the East River by walking to the end of 30th Street. We could not -- it ends at the FDR Drive, and we saw the interesting gentlemen sitting in a garden outside of Bellevue... We walked to a small park, where we watched some young fathers playing with their little children, and D2 and I got all emotional and nostalgic. She told me she was so happy. I cried some tears of gratitude, which she didn't see. Hearing her tell me that -- well, it made the whole trip worthwhile. From there I cabbed it to Laguardia, and though I rarely talk on planes anymore, I sat next to a very nice Cuban woman, a longtime administrator from FIU, who was with her liberal Coral Gables church on a trip to watch a preview of the new Broadway musical about Gloria and Emilio Estefan -- "On Your Feet." The flight was extremely quick, with her enlightening conversation. So D2 is happy in the City, and I really think about 2-3 years there will be enough, and she'll come back to Miami, hopefully to bless Wifey and me with grandkids. Her sister, D1, is the very busy caterpillar, working a LOT on the opening of her Dietetics practice -- set for early 2016. And I am one happy, rocking Daddy in the USA.

Going Into Business

So D1 has passed the two year point of employment at our public hospital, and is going forward with plans to start her own Dietetics practice. I'm proud she's lasted as long as she has, and am still in wonder that my brother Dr. Barry has been able to. The docs and many of the nurses there are top drawer -- but the bureaucracy is as pathologic as any of the rare diseases they treat. Despite having better financial years than they have in a long while, the staffing is short, and D1 has been asked to do the work of three. It's been a tremendous learning experience, though. Last week she asked me to go with her to check out potential office space. We met with her friend Eli, the husband of a fellow dietitian who does health care consulting. I liked him right away. He's from Canada, and attended medical school to placate his parents, but when it came time to do a residency, he escaped to the world of health care consulting. He's helping D2 get started, and not charging, because he thinks his fiance and D1 might well end up in business together. The space is an examining room in the office of a concierge family doctor in Coral Gables. We were going to meet for a half hour -- and the meeting stretched to an hour and a half. We had many Miami people in common, and all of us bonded immediately. The doc will refer D1 some of his patients, and that much more than makes up for the larger than market square foot price he's asking for the space. I think D1 will fit right in -- the two will be complementary. D1 is putting in, and has put in, a tremendous amount of preparation work, even as she's kept her full time job. She's written patient materials, and forms, and has spread sheets done by her friends who do them for multi million dollar companies. She's negotiating to hire a web marketing team -- apparently these days, you get your clients that way, instead of the old fashioned word of mouth my partner Paul and I used 21 years ago. I reminded her that the majority of small businesses fail in the first few years, and she ought to count that as a possibility. She won't hear of it -- she has big plans for her fledgling company -- branding, tie ins with healthy food, tie ins with corporate training, etc... She has, fortunately, an angel investor, and the guy already loaned seed money, and is now getting ready to provide the second round of funding. When it comes to venture capital, the terms are usually best when you're dealing with the Bank of Dad. So now things are running at full speed. After she signs her lease (the doc had originally wanted only month to month, but after meeting D1 is willing to go to a full year), she'll have our fine handyman, Nestor, do the small construction the space needs -- removing a medical sink, and replacing some floor tiles. She'll paint, and get some modest office furniture, and then have a soft opening, and a real one after the year turns. She figures post holidays is a great time for people to want to try to get healthier. I'm already immensely proud of D1 for the person she is -- a loving and loyal daughter and friend and dog mommy. She is always charitable, and is the connector -- puts people together, and they do better than they did before. Everyone I know at her job always sings her praises. And now she's focusing that all into her own career... So Wifey and I look forward to helping her, as she asks us. When my partner and I started, 21 years ago, we pledged to do whatever it takes to succeed. We were so blessed. I see the same in D1, and wish her the same, but maybe with a bit less alcohol...

It's In The Genes, and Jeans

So D1 signed us up for Ancestry.Com's DNA testing -- you get a neat kit, spit in a vial, and they tell you about your ehtnicity and race, according to your DNA. My results were the first to come back, appropriately, on the most holy of Jewish Holidays, as I'm, like, totally Jew. When I was in third grade, or maybe fourth, we read about African tribes -- the Masai and Pygmies. The Pygmies were tiny, of course, but the Masai grew to nearly NBA Center sixe, and drank cow's blood for strength. They'd just cut the cow's neck and drain some blood -- without killing the animal. I always thought this was the coolest thing -- after they'd drink the blood, they'd go hunt lions. My people, Ashkenazi Jews who were third and fourth generation Americans, only hunted bargains and good corned beef sandwiches. To use the great joke, the true meaning of a Bar Mitzvah for a Jewish boy is the realization, by age 13, that he's far more likely to someday own a NBA team than play for one. So I hoped maybe somewhere I had some Masai in me. It could have happened! Jews traveled all over in ancient times, and maybe one of my great-great-greats impregnated a Masai woman, and brought the baby back to Bialystok with him... Nah! It wasn't to be. My DNA is solidly Ashkenazi -- with traces of Italian and Greek. Clearly this accounts for my nearly inborn love of Italian food, and to a lesser degree, Greek. But I also love Chinese, and there ain't none of that in my genes, apparently. A few years back, a dermatologist told Wifey that she had "Sephardic skin." The doc, who I'll call Michael, since that's his name, is a garden variety Ashkenazi, like us, but likes to dabble in genealogy as well, at least as he observes dermises (dermi?). So now Wifey is convinced she's more exotic than I am, genetic-wise, though her parents are straight out of the Polish-Jewish comic books...We'll see, soon enough. Also, D2's results will be in soon. D1 didn't partake -- she assumed her DNA and her sister's would be the same, so why spend more money. Of course, I know one can never assume these things. I once read a study on cuckholdry -- the name for situations where the child's Daddy ain't his Daddy but his Daddy don't know, to quote a great Reggae song. In middle class America, the rate is apparently like 7%. So I like to smile when I see pictures of, say, three classes at my Ds' Elementary School -- 100 kids, 7 aren't who they think they are. So if D2's DNA comes back and she's partly Masai, well, Wifey will have some 'splainin' to do. Many of us American Jews, still yearning for assimilation, want to be "not too Jewish." It's why Jackie Mason is beloved by so many, but lots of Reform Jews find he makes them uncomfortable -- he talks like their grandparents on the Lower East Side. I used to have some of these feelings, too, but any remaining ones left when I moved to Miami. See -- Latin chicks think Jewish guys are Da Bomb! We're seen as good providers, who treat our women like queens. When a working class Miami Latina scores a Jewish husband, it's like she won a major prize. So I rep my Ashkenazi genes! Plus, it's nice to know that Mom, may she rest in peace, didn't step out on Dad, may he rest in peace, back in 1960, when I was conceived. Or if she did, it wasn't with anyone from Asia or Africa...

So This is Yom Kippur...And What Have You Done?

So Wifey and I, like last year, are sitting out the Shul thing. I'm fasting, and she's not, and we fetch D1 later to take her to her friends Sari and Mike's place for a break fast. My "last supper" was a big sushi platter at Sukura... I was reading a lot about the holiday, and learned, for the first time, a crucial thing: the pleas for forgiveness during the prayers are plural, not individual. The congregation asks God to forgive US, not me. I guess that's why the rabbis want everyone in the community there. Well, I went by my fish pond and tossed in the sins, and spoke to the Big Man, as I do several times per day. If He decides to smite me for missing the fashion show at a Reform place, or the group of guys at the Orthodox one, so be it. Yesterday I went to the office to personally apologize to my partner Stuart, for always riding him about his work habits -- he rarely arrives at the office before 11. I was unsuccesful -- he didn't arrive to the office until 11:30. But forgiveness IS essential -- and so hard for some people. My mother in law and her best friend, Dobka, aren't speaking, over failures to visit (my mother in law skipped Dobka's husband's funeral, and Dobka hasn't visited my father in law in the nursing home). Both of these women are 90, and survived the Holocaust together, as well as the pioneer days of Israel, but can't forgive social slights, and so will live their final years apart. I was just fetching the mail, and a fellow had a truck blocking my driveway. He apologized, and asked if I needed to get out --no, I told him, block away. I asked what he was doing, and he was in the final stages of removing our neighbor's huge banyan tree. It had rotted from the outside of the manifold trunks, and was a danger of toppling over. The arborist told me it was well over 100 years old -- here before Miami was Miami, just about, and surely before our tropical hammock hood had any people (the first house, still standing, was built in 1925). So even the mighty, ancient trees must die, and move on. We are of course even more fragile. I guess that's what the Big Man wishes -- a day for us to take that to heart, to forgive, to realize we won't be here too long, and therefore to give and to love. A big T Storm is rolling in -- I feel badly for the orthodox who will be walking home soon, before walking back for the evening prayers and the blast of the shofar, to mark the end of the holiday. I sure hope my family, friends, and I made it to the final, greatest of all Year Books, the Book of Life, for another good year. This is the time of year my Peeps reflect, and repent, and try to figure out how to have better lives. I'm in for that, even though I'm out of the synagogue...

The Nobility of the Notary

It was another banner weekend in the 305, the last one of Summer, although the heat doesn't appear to be fading any time soon. Friday night, Wifey and I drove through quite a squall, to meet my sister of another mother Mirta at Canton, our longtime Chinese place. For old time's sake, I ordered the "Special Steak," which comes out sizzling. My father in law used to love that dish, saying in his heavily accented English "Dis steak is SOFT. I only like SOFT meat!" As we chowed down, an old friend came in -- Darren -- a former Canes OL and now Miami Dade Police higher up. His wife Yoli was with him -- she's a 30 year public school teacher, who has been kind enough to refer some clients to us. I pulled my special deal -- had the waitress bring over their check, so Darren felt like the MAN. He already is. We chatted with them outside, and caught up -- I hadn't seen him in too long... Saturday, bowing to the need for diversity in all walks of life, I invited my inveterate GATOR friend Pat to come to the Canes game. Norman hosted, as always, an awesome tailgate, and Mike parked right next to him, so it was a great reunion of all stripes. I saw Amy and George, two friends I last saw in 1983. Amy lives up in Broward somewhere (I always confuse all of those casa caracho towns), and George was in Houston, Atlanta, and now back in the 305. He's an editor of the local business paper -- I hope to see more of him, The game was great for awhile -- Canes dominated Nebraska, and then we let a 23 point, mid 4th quarter lead slip away. We won in OT, but as we filed out of the stadium, we acted as if we lost -- major systemic problems with the coaching. Still, a great Saturday night and afternoon. Yesterday Wifey and I met my ancient in laws, and I got to once again notarize my father in law's affidavit to Germany to keep up his Holocaust reparation pension. It used to be a yearly task -- damn Germans and their efficiency realize the old Jews are dying off fast, so now they make you prove you're alive every 6 months. Still, he eked out, with help, a scratchy signature, and I notarized it. Each time I do it, it's my personal FU to the Nazis and their offspring -- now 3 generations later. I wouldn't bet there will be another affidavit, but who knows? I thought the old fellow was heading to that great Ashkenazi resort in the sky several months ago, and he's still here... Afterwards, we took my mother in law to a diner -- Jimmy's Eastside. Since Wifey messed up, and neglected to tell her mother we were going for lunch, my mother in law made it crystal clear she "VAS NOT EATING a TING!" -- so maybe next time her daughter would be better at planning -- and then promptly wolfed down half of Wifey's omelette. "Vell, I VASN'T GOING to eat, but I love eggs!" My friends are right -- there's a special place in heaven awaiting one who has such a suegra... But I did get to give another one to the Nazis... Afterwards, since Wifey DID plan poorly, we had to kill some time before dinner at her friend Cara's place on Venetian Causeway. We drove to Wynwood, and went to Panther Coffee -- a place that somehow makes coffee with a mouth feel like ice cream. We drank, and then I took a picture of Wifey with some Wynwood art behind her, which she appreciated so much she made me take down the post because she found the photo unflattering. Still, the dinner was nice -- Cara and her man grilled NY Strips... FU, Adolph!

The Wisdom of the Snow Bird

For years, I made fun of the snowbirds, the typically middle class, Jewish Northeasterners who wintered in South Florida, and went North for the hot months. I now get their wisdom. Today is Rosh Hashonah, and Wifey and I are taking a pass at going to services. I did, religiously -ha!-for several years, but the truth is, I am so much my father's son -- not a religous guy. Wifey likewise grew up proud to be Jewish, but never attending services, and now that we completed the mandatory educations of the Ds, we revert to our default position. I honor my landsmen and landswomen by not working today, and I won't eat or experience pleasure on Yom Kippur either. But sitting for hours in a shul -- sorry -- it just ain't me -- at least for now. So, out of the air conditioned shul, Wifey directed me to replace some flower pots the tree trimmers had moved. There weren't many -- about 10, but simply schlepping them across the pool area, I became soaked in sweat. It's 92 degrees out, and 150% humidity. Meanwhile, D2 called from the streets of NY, where it was 70 and clear and dry. Autumn in NY -- the best weather there of the year. So maybe someday we'll do what we now wish -- have at least a month in North Carolina from June through September -- probably earlier than later so as not to miss Canes games. We got invited to a few Rosh Hashonah dinners, but politely declined. Instead, we took my mother in law to Soyka's yesterday -- she loved the matzah ball soup, and roast chicken. Soyka is very loud during Sunday brunch, so my mother in law's voice, not exactly of the soft, nightingale variety, was tolerated well. Tonight we'll head to Lots of Lox, probably, for some Ashkenazi soul food -- maybe brisket and good soup. Wifey finally had a breakthough with her stubborn mother -- she will at least consider a move to a local ALF. The Ds volunteer at a great place on Miami Beach -- it's positively crawling with Holocaust Survivors -- and they think their grandmother would love it there. Wifey called, and will follow up post Yom Kippur. Her mother really needs to no longer live alone. Today the PT told Wifey the a/c wasn't working, and when Wifey spoke to her mother about it -- was rebuked: "I'm fine! I let you know ven I get too hot!" So maybe the new year will bring some positive changes on the front of the too old... In the mean time, I plan to stay inside, where it's cool, and hope for an early cool front. We had one after Hurrican Wilma, 10 years ago. The nights were positively delicious -- the lack of electricity and a/c wasn't a problem. We ate some apples dipped in honey last night, and toasted with them for a sweet new year. May it be so, and cooler soon, too.