So today is Veteran's Day, and it's been three days since Donald Trump won the presidency. Dr. Barry is so smart -- he and I were drinking at 94th AeroSquadron, watching the planes come and go, and he remarked how concerned he was that Hillary was campaigning in Michigan -- shouldn't that be a gimme state for the Dems? Turned out it wasn't, and the Donald pulled off the big upset win.
Wifey is still upset. I have moved on. Ever the optimist, I see things this way: I'm a rich white guy who was willing to have a President whose policies would cost me more in taxes, to have a more fair and just country for minorities and the poor. Well, many of the minorities couldn't be bothered to go vote for their interests, and many of the poor whites were dumb enough to think that a billionaire who was born a millionaire will be the guy to act in their interests. So my family will just have to "suffer" with lower taxes, probably, and cuts in social services we don't even use. The electorate has spoken...
D2 got caught up in the absurd protests Wednesday night, in NYC. She voted for HRC and despises Trump, but realizes it's over, and works many hours, and just wants to be allowed to make it home after long work hours without annoyance.
My true Leftie friends, especially on FaceBook (tm) , can't seem to move on. Whatever. Life goes on whether you win or lose, and to dwell on the negative seems silly to me.
Meanwhile, a day honoring those who truly deserve it goes on with little notice, except for closing schools and the stock market.
It's funny how my generation is so non military. I have only two friends, Kenny and John, who served -- in the Navy and Air Force. Kenny is actually a war veteran -- he was the flight surgeon on an aircraft carrier during the Gulf War. But these fellows are in the minority -- the result of the end of the draft.
When my parents used to gather with their contemporaries, almost all of the men were veterans -- WW II, like my Dad. So Veteran's Day for my generation is a thankful time, but we don't intimately relate.
I always think about my Dad's history. He was pushing dress delivery carts in lower Manhattan, in December of 1941, when everything stopped and everyone gathered around radios to hear FDR announce the attack on Pearl Harbor. He knew immediately he'd be drafted, and he was, a few months later. He was 22. He served nearly four years, and returned from the Service to start his life with my Mom, back in the Bronx.
When I was 22, I started law school, an annoyance, but not anything like the army. At 25 I started my life with Wifey, and we'll be married thirty years, come January. My life wouldn't be possible without the Service of my Dad and his generation. I never forget that.
Meanwhile, closer to home, we have D1's fiance Joey and his family coming over tonight. We're going to host them, and get to meet Joey's aunt and uncle, and their spouses -- Joey says they've been like other sets of parents to him.
Wifey set a beautiful table, and we have food coming in from Lots of Lox. Wifey asked Miriam, our long time housekeeper, to come over to serve.
Joey's aunt gave him and D1 a bottle of champagne for their engagement -- it's over 40 years old. We plan to pop the cork, in honor of Joey and D1. I'll pour martinis. It ought to be a grand night.
Again, made possible by the service of men like my Dad. As for Trump, lately I can't care less...
Friday, November 11, 2016
Monday, November 7, 2016
Better Aging Through Chemistry
Wifey's biggest life stressor, by far, has been her ancient mother, particularly in the nearly a year since her Dad died. And, since I live with Wifey, and she shares everything with me, including the stress, my mother in law has been a 200 lb burr under my saddle, too.
The woman is physically an ox. Her young doctor reported that she has the heart and breathing of a thirty year old. But she has become more obnoxious, offensive, and downright nasty to be with -- sanctimonious and victimized, awful, you name it. The depth of this occurred a few weeks ago, when she barked orders at me in our local deli, Lots of Lox, and I called her on her behavior, which just made things worse. Instead of simply apologizing, she went on a tirade -- "All of a sudden you so SENSITIVE???!!!" was her response.
Well, there may be a light at the end of this nasty tunnel. Wifey took her to her doctor's appointment last week, and the doc put the old crone on Selexa, a mood stabilizer. My mother in law agreed to take it to deal with her "anxiety." Whatever. The damn pills may be working!
Yesterday, we took her out, and on an annoyance scale of 1-10, where 10 is normal for her, she probably came in at a more tolerable 7. While she typically protests at the restaurant that she is "not hungry" and goes on and on about it, before wolfing down her food like a fraternity boy denied a day's feeding, yesterday she only announced she was not hungry once, before scarfing down a world class sized hot dog. When the bill came, she was almost classy in the way she announced she was paying. OK -- never really classy, but not obstreperous, at least.
It may have been that my mood was elevated by the Fins exciting win over the Jets, so I can't really trust these observations, but the visit with her seemed, well, less odious than usual. Hopefully this is the start of greater tolerability.
When we returned to our condo, the weather was gorgeous. I suggested we go sit by the pool, which is surrounded by lovely tropical vegetation. We had some comical relief, as her attempt to sit on a deck lounge nearly resulted in a Three Stooges-like teeter totter, before Wifey and I grabbed her and plopped her into the seat built into her walker.
But we sat there for awhile, actually enjoying the delightful breeze, before she announced brusquely that she "vas cold" and "vanted to go in."
So go Selexa! If this wonder drug can even out this tough old, um, woman -- I'll be most grateful.
The woman is physically an ox. Her young doctor reported that she has the heart and breathing of a thirty year old. But she has become more obnoxious, offensive, and downright nasty to be with -- sanctimonious and victimized, awful, you name it. The depth of this occurred a few weeks ago, when she barked orders at me in our local deli, Lots of Lox, and I called her on her behavior, which just made things worse. Instead of simply apologizing, she went on a tirade -- "All of a sudden you so SENSITIVE???!!!" was her response.
Well, there may be a light at the end of this nasty tunnel. Wifey took her to her doctor's appointment last week, and the doc put the old crone on Selexa, a mood stabilizer. My mother in law agreed to take it to deal with her "anxiety." Whatever. The damn pills may be working!
Yesterday, we took her out, and on an annoyance scale of 1-10, where 10 is normal for her, she probably came in at a more tolerable 7. While she typically protests at the restaurant that she is "not hungry" and goes on and on about it, before wolfing down her food like a fraternity boy denied a day's feeding, yesterday she only announced she was not hungry once, before scarfing down a world class sized hot dog. When the bill came, she was almost classy in the way she announced she was paying. OK -- never really classy, but not obstreperous, at least.
It may have been that my mood was elevated by the Fins exciting win over the Jets, so I can't really trust these observations, but the visit with her seemed, well, less odious than usual. Hopefully this is the start of greater tolerability.
When we returned to our condo, the weather was gorgeous. I suggested we go sit by the pool, which is surrounded by lovely tropical vegetation. We had some comical relief, as her attempt to sit on a deck lounge nearly resulted in a Three Stooges-like teeter totter, before Wifey and I grabbed her and plopped her into the seat built into her walker.
But we sat there for awhile, actually enjoying the delightful breeze, before she announced brusquely that she "vas cold" and "vanted to go in."
So go Selexa! If this wonder drug can even out this tough old, um, woman -- I'll be most grateful.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Tailgates Winding Down
So yesterday Mirta, my sister of another mister, came by bright and early, and, supplied with guava pastelitos and cookies from Pinecrest Bakery, got into my little girlie Caddy, and tooled up the Palmetto to Joe Robbie. It was the second to last Canes home game.
The weather was gorgeous, though as the party proceeded, some rain blew in, as it did throughout the game. But it was warm, and no one much cared.
Norman and HIS sister of another mister Maria were grilling away. Actually, Maria's husband Ramon was at the fire -- turning out burgers and dogs and shish kebab, and some of the most delicious sausages ever.
It was homecoming, and several of our friends wore their silly Indian jackets, the mark of Iron Arrow, the oldest UM honor society. Dr. Barry was tapped in a few years ago, but he left his jacket at home -- he's too much of a populist and hater of BS to take it seriously. Dr. Eric and his sister Elissa are members, and asked why Barry wasn't participating. I wise ass joked that it was simple: when Eric was tapped in, Iron Arrow excluded women, and so Eric refused his entry. The next year they went co-ed, and Eric joined. I surmised that Barry was not protesting: he would only actually use his membership when Iron Arrow admitted regular schleppers...
The tailgate ended in the rain -- several of us huddled under the UM canopy, until the storm passed. Then Barry, his sister of another mister Debbie (lot of this dynamic going around lately), Mirta, and I made our way to our seats. As we entered the Club, there was a sad scene: an older man, on the floor outside of a skybox, in full cardiac arrest -- several Miami Dade cops and paramedics engaged in full on CPR.
Barry and Debbie walked in, telling a cop they were a doctor and nurse. The cop brusquely asked for their licenses, but before Barry and Debbie could produce them, the group stretchered the man away. It was of course an unsettling scene -- especially for me. It brought back awful memories of my Dad in the barber shop where he died -- paramedics taking over from my futile attempts at CPS.
But as I thought about it, I became philosophical: for a Canes fan, there are worse places to die. I told Barry that if that happened to me, please dispense with the violent and usually futile CPR -- just carry my corpse to my seat, and let it experience my final Canes game -- then let the ambulance carry me away...
The game was fine -- Canes won big, although they played sloppily. They have a long, long way to go before they become even near elite again. But we joked, and laughed. The game ended, and Barry and Debbie, and Mirta and I lingered awhile as the stadium emptied. None of us had any pressing places to be -- it was lovely just to drink in the scene.
Mirta and I called Wifey, to plan dinner. Wifey was busy setting the table for next Friday -- D1's future family is coming over for a shabbat dinner. Wifey asked to bring in food instead, so Mirta and I stopped at DiNapoli, and did just that. We ate, and talked of Mirta's awesome grandkids, and how much pleasure they bring her. We hope to join that club sooner than later.
There's one home game left this season -- T Day Saturday. I've asked D2 if she wanted to go with me. She'll decide later on -- if she opts out, I told Mirta she can have my tickets to take whoever she wants. Precious time with D2 trumps all.
Speaking of Trumps -- the election is two days away. It really amazes me that a cartoon character like Trump might actually win. But hey -- that's democracy -- there is no constitutional prohibition against being a dumb ass, and if that's what our population wants, so be it.
As a rich white guy, a Trump presidency will mean I'll have to suffer through lower taxes, and a return to a time when rich white guys were the only important members of American society. Screw the poor...
I guess we'll know soon enough.
Either way, the Canes will play on, and my friends and I will gather to enjoy our time together.
The weather was gorgeous, though as the party proceeded, some rain blew in, as it did throughout the game. But it was warm, and no one much cared.
Norman and HIS sister of another mister Maria were grilling away. Actually, Maria's husband Ramon was at the fire -- turning out burgers and dogs and shish kebab, and some of the most delicious sausages ever.
It was homecoming, and several of our friends wore their silly Indian jackets, the mark of Iron Arrow, the oldest UM honor society. Dr. Barry was tapped in a few years ago, but he left his jacket at home -- he's too much of a populist and hater of BS to take it seriously. Dr. Eric and his sister Elissa are members, and asked why Barry wasn't participating. I wise ass joked that it was simple: when Eric was tapped in, Iron Arrow excluded women, and so Eric refused his entry. The next year they went co-ed, and Eric joined. I surmised that Barry was not protesting: he would only actually use his membership when Iron Arrow admitted regular schleppers...
The tailgate ended in the rain -- several of us huddled under the UM canopy, until the storm passed. Then Barry, his sister of another mister Debbie (lot of this dynamic going around lately), Mirta, and I made our way to our seats. As we entered the Club, there was a sad scene: an older man, on the floor outside of a skybox, in full cardiac arrest -- several Miami Dade cops and paramedics engaged in full on CPR.
Barry and Debbie walked in, telling a cop they were a doctor and nurse. The cop brusquely asked for their licenses, but before Barry and Debbie could produce them, the group stretchered the man away. It was of course an unsettling scene -- especially for me. It brought back awful memories of my Dad in the barber shop where he died -- paramedics taking over from my futile attempts at CPS.
But as I thought about it, I became philosophical: for a Canes fan, there are worse places to die. I told Barry that if that happened to me, please dispense with the violent and usually futile CPR -- just carry my corpse to my seat, and let it experience my final Canes game -- then let the ambulance carry me away...
The game was fine -- Canes won big, although they played sloppily. They have a long, long way to go before they become even near elite again. But we joked, and laughed. The game ended, and Barry and Debbie, and Mirta and I lingered awhile as the stadium emptied. None of us had any pressing places to be -- it was lovely just to drink in the scene.
Mirta and I called Wifey, to plan dinner. Wifey was busy setting the table for next Friday -- D1's future family is coming over for a shabbat dinner. Wifey asked to bring in food instead, so Mirta and I stopped at DiNapoli, and did just that. We ate, and talked of Mirta's awesome grandkids, and how much pleasure they bring her. We hope to join that club sooner than later.
There's one home game left this season -- T Day Saturday. I've asked D2 if she wanted to go with me. She'll decide later on -- if she opts out, I told Mirta she can have my tickets to take whoever she wants. Precious time with D2 trumps all.
Speaking of Trumps -- the election is two days away. It really amazes me that a cartoon character like Trump might actually win. But hey -- that's democracy -- there is no constitutional prohibition against being a dumb ass, and if that's what our population wants, so be it.
As a rich white guy, a Trump presidency will mean I'll have to suffer through lower taxes, and a return to a time when rich white guys were the only important members of American society. Screw the poor...
I guess we'll know soon enough.
Either way, the Canes will play on, and my friends and I will gather to enjoy our time together.
Friday, November 4, 2016
Big Numbers
My first full time lawyer job, in 1986, paid $29K per year. I left that gig as the firm, led by a jerk of an anti semite, was failing, for a gig with an aviation defense firm in the Grove -- they paid me $34K. My third spot, where I went right before D1 was born, paid a whopping $45K per year. From there I was off to the races...
If you're lucky, as I was, your standard of living increases over the years. Most people live above their means -- we have been fortunate to only have had to do that briefly -- when Wifey quit to have D1 -- until my income caught up. Wifey still likes to grind me over an incident in 1989. I was very pressured and stressed about making things a go on my salary, and I came home to see that Wifey and my sister had bought a new bedding and curtain set for D1. I think it cost about $150. I freaked -- take it back -- that's a luxury we can't afford! My sister had already hung the curtains, and the bedroom set had to stay. Wifey wasn't worried at all -- she didn't need to. I had taken on the responsibility of all our finances.
Well -- what a difference several decades can make. Today I stroked checks for our real estate taxes, property insurance, a healthy AMEX bill, and, finally, funds to open D1's wedding account.
The Big Man has a good sense of humor. Yesterday I had my yearly physical exam, and until I hear the results of the lab tests, and the EKG, and all the rest, I simply assume I'm going to be told the end is near. I plan on leaving the doc's office, going by Publix, and realizing I shouldn't buy any green bananas -- I won't be around to have them ripen.
Well -- once again, I was told I was fat but strong. Actually, I made up the first part -- my doc is a rather zaftig woman herself, so calling me fat would be hilarious. But the one, newfangled blood test the concierge company does, some kind of peroxidase deal, claims to be the best predictor of impending death from stroke or heart attack, and mine was "very low." Of course, the predictor is only 6 months...
Still, I was being told by the Big Man to savor and enjoy, which I plan to do.
Wifey provides no support at all. I moped to her about these huge checks, and she reminded me that it was my choice to buy this big ass house, and my decision to offer D1 a wedding costing more than four years of private college. She's right, of course.
If I had to do it again, I would DEFINITELY decide to be born rich. Like really, really rich, like Trump's kids. Then I could simply start a charitable foundation and spend my financial worry time on deciding which charities are most worthy.
I went to college and law school with some of those kids. One pair in particular sticks in my memory -- they got married in law school. The girl was the daughter of a very big developer, as was the guy. I think they took the Bar, but never practiced. That ain't workin' -- that's the way you do it.
Nah. If I was given big money when I was a teen, I'd have become, probably, a total douche bag -- one of those South Beach, buy a table at the club kinds of guys.
Now I simply get to pay huge property taxes and throw huge weddings.
It could be worse...
If you're lucky, as I was, your standard of living increases over the years. Most people live above their means -- we have been fortunate to only have had to do that briefly -- when Wifey quit to have D1 -- until my income caught up. Wifey still likes to grind me over an incident in 1989. I was very pressured and stressed about making things a go on my salary, and I came home to see that Wifey and my sister had bought a new bedding and curtain set for D1. I think it cost about $150. I freaked -- take it back -- that's a luxury we can't afford! My sister had already hung the curtains, and the bedroom set had to stay. Wifey wasn't worried at all -- she didn't need to. I had taken on the responsibility of all our finances.
Well -- what a difference several decades can make. Today I stroked checks for our real estate taxes, property insurance, a healthy AMEX bill, and, finally, funds to open D1's wedding account.
The Big Man has a good sense of humor. Yesterday I had my yearly physical exam, and until I hear the results of the lab tests, and the EKG, and all the rest, I simply assume I'm going to be told the end is near. I plan on leaving the doc's office, going by Publix, and realizing I shouldn't buy any green bananas -- I won't be around to have them ripen.
Well -- once again, I was told I was fat but strong. Actually, I made up the first part -- my doc is a rather zaftig woman herself, so calling me fat would be hilarious. But the one, newfangled blood test the concierge company does, some kind of peroxidase deal, claims to be the best predictor of impending death from stroke or heart attack, and mine was "very low." Of course, the predictor is only 6 months...
Still, I was being told by the Big Man to savor and enjoy, which I plan to do.
Wifey provides no support at all. I moped to her about these huge checks, and she reminded me that it was my choice to buy this big ass house, and my decision to offer D1 a wedding costing more than four years of private college. She's right, of course.
If I had to do it again, I would DEFINITELY decide to be born rich. Like really, really rich, like Trump's kids. Then I could simply start a charitable foundation and spend my financial worry time on deciding which charities are most worthy.
I went to college and law school with some of those kids. One pair in particular sticks in my memory -- they got married in law school. The girl was the daughter of a very big developer, as was the guy. I think they took the Bar, but never practiced. That ain't workin' -- that's the way you do it.
Nah. If I was given big money when I was a teen, I'd have become, probably, a total douche bag -- one of those South Beach, buy a table at the club kinds of guys.
Now I simply get to pay huge property taxes and throw huge weddings.
It could be worse...
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Fat But Healthy
So Wifey and I belong to a company called MDVIP, which is a concierge medical practice. You pay an annual fee, and in return get primary medical care the way it used to be -- immediate appointments, always talk to the doc, if you travel you can use another MDVIP doc.
We joined when our friend and family doc Dave became a member. Dave would waive our fee in exchange for free legal work I 'd do for him. In return, I'd use the service as little as possible, including the annual physical, which checks many vials of your blood for any hint or illness or disease.
Three years ago, Dave retired, and Dr. Mary came in from Texas. She gave us the first year free, too, to make sure we liked her. We did, and continued the plan. But since I pay full freight, I DO use the benefits, and today was my annual physical exam.
A few weeks ago, I saw Nurse Nancy, who took 5 vials of blood. Today I went over the report in detail with Dr. Mary, after she did a complete, old school exam. I was with her over an hour. The good news was that, despite being a fat pig, I'm surprisingly healthy. Last year I had flirted with "pre diabetes," but this year the flirting ended, thankfully. Even my PSA, which measures for prostate stuff, was within normal ranges.
It's so pleasant in the office. Dr. Mary has a friendly, large Doodle dog, who follows her around. I always take her photo and sent it to the Ds.
Dr. Mary's husband writes for Major League Baseball, and moved here to cover the Marlins. So a lot of our visit was dissecting the Cubs, even though Dr. Mary, as a native Missourian, is a Royals fan.
I celebrated the good health news with a carb-less breakfast at Bagel Emporium. Actually, it came with a bagel, which I bagged and gave to Bill, Stuart's Dad, in our office. He's 83 and not too worried about blood values anymore...
So all I have to do is lose about 40 lbs, and I'll be good to go for D1's wedding next September. It could be worse...
We joined when our friend and family doc Dave became a member. Dave would waive our fee in exchange for free legal work I 'd do for him. In return, I'd use the service as little as possible, including the annual physical, which checks many vials of your blood for any hint or illness or disease.
Three years ago, Dave retired, and Dr. Mary came in from Texas. She gave us the first year free, too, to make sure we liked her. We did, and continued the plan. But since I pay full freight, I DO use the benefits, and today was my annual physical exam.
A few weeks ago, I saw Nurse Nancy, who took 5 vials of blood. Today I went over the report in detail with Dr. Mary, after she did a complete, old school exam. I was with her over an hour. The good news was that, despite being a fat pig, I'm surprisingly healthy. Last year I had flirted with "pre diabetes," but this year the flirting ended, thankfully. Even my PSA, which measures for prostate stuff, was within normal ranges.
It's so pleasant in the office. Dr. Mary has a friendly, large Doodle dog, who follows her around. I always take her photo and sent it to the Ds.
Dr. Mary's husband writes for Major League Baseball, and moved here to cover the Marlins. So a lot of our visit was dissecting the Cubs, even though Dr. Mary, as a native Missourian, is a Royals fan.
I celebrated the good health news with a carb-less breakfast at Bagel Emporium. Actually, it came with a bagel, which I bagged and gave to Bill, Stuart's Dad, in our office. He's 83 and not too worried about blood values anymore...
So all I have to do is lose about 40 lbs, and I'll be good to go for D1's wedding next September. It could be worse...
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Sweet Home South Bend
So Wifey and I drove to MIA, and headed to the Centurion Lounge, for some breakfast before the weekend to Canes football. We ate, and watched the planes come and go -- the Lounge has an awesome view of one of the runways, and I never outgrew my boyhood fascination with aircraft, so I watched for quite some time.
On the way to the gate, we met a fellow named Jim, also dressed in orange and green. He was headed to the game, too, as were most of the people on the huge triple 7. At O'Hare, I stopped to ask directions to the taxi stand, and was grabbed by a shuttle driver -- trip Downtown with his company would be half price, with just a few stops. Wifey and I agreed, bought a $50 ticket, and climbed onto the vehicle. A few more folks came aboard, including a late 60s lady who had NEW YORKER written all over her. She started right away asking and complaining why we hadn't left.
Although she looked like a LI type, she acted like a neurosurgeon late for an emergency surgery -- so obnoxious that it became funny. She kept asking, in her whining way "What's the ETA???" until finally I turned around and told her the shuttle rule was that whoever asked more than once got dropped off LAST. The driver, though, dropped her first, and as she de-vanned, I turned to the others and said "Boy --I'm gonna miss her." Everyone laughed, and we happily chatted as each one got dropped off.
We arrived at the Drake, the historic great hotel on MM (Miracle Mile). The 'hood looked safe -- even though Chicago kids are killing themselves at a record pace -- 18 died over last weekend alone. But not in the ritzy areas -- as we walked Michigan Avenue, each corner had 2-3 cops.
We went to the Drake bar, where the famous have partaken, and sat in front of the initials JD and MM carved by The Yankee Clipper. I had 3 martinis, and we chatted with a Canes couple from Okhahoma, of all places. Our friend Rob joined us, and we cabbed to Geno's, where we had two huge tables.
We drank more, and laughed, and watched the Cubs lose. The pizza was mediocre. Mike ordered a tequila shot for Wifey, but an already inebriated Darriel leaned in to observe what would have been a historic event, and knocked the glass over, onto Wifey. So the shot got done TO her...
Next early am, we walked to the Raffaelo Hotel, where Eric and his crew were staying, and boarded a bus to South Bend. Wifey slept, from the effects of the non consumed tequila, and I caught up with Norman and his boy Benji, and Norman's good friend/client Maria. We got to South Bend early, and enjoyed several hours walking the campus, hearing the famous bagpipers, and taking silly photos in front of the Knute Rockne statue. It was a warm and glorious Midwestern Fall day.
From there, we went to the Alumni Association BBQ, and had our pre game meal, and watched Canes propaganda, including the comically accented new president of the U, who did a great Chico Escuela impersonation as he tried to rile up the 1000 alumni there.
Then we walked into the stadium. The team forgot to -- we were down 20-0, and it looked like a long afternoon. But then the young troops rallied -- and made it a nailbiter -- before we lost as time expired. Still, we yelled and screamed and had a great time.
We met with Norman and Benji for the ride back to Chicago. They planned to get a late Italian meal, and we said we'd go, but then nearly fell asleep. We begged off, and then shared a sandwich back at the Drake, as the Cubs lost again. I think I brought bad team luck to Chicago...
Sunday, we Ubered to Rosemont, near O'Hare, and met my old friend Jeff and his Chicago native wife Myndee, and their daughter Elizabeth. Elizabeth had just passed her CPA exam, and was to start work the next day. We bored her (and Wifey and Myndee) with tales of our LI childhoods. Jeff has become Mr. Chicago -- loves his Cubs and Blackhawks. He actually unfriended an old high school buddy for making fun of his teams...
They dropped us at the airport, and we had a nice smooth flight home. Mission accomplished, except for the result of the game.
As for the Cubs, well, they're hanging on. My favorite line about them: every team is entitled to a bad century...
Hopefully the Canes can win two more games and go to a bowl. And then next year...
On the way to the gate, we met a fellow named Jim, also dressed in orange and green. He was headed to the game, too, as were most of the people on the huge triple 7. At O'Hare, I stopped to ask directions to the taxi stand, and was grabbed by a shuttle driver -- trip Downtown with his company would be half price, with just a few stops. Wifey and I agreed, bought a $50 ticket, and climbed onto the vehicle. A few more folks came aboard, including a late 60s lady who had NEW YORKER written all over her. She started right away asking and complaining why we hadn't left.
Although she looked like a LI type, she acted like a neurosurgeon late for an emergency surgery -- so obnoxious that it became funny. She kept asking, in her whining way "What's the ETA???" until finally I turned around and told her the shuttle rule was that whoever asked more than once got dropped off LAST. The driver, though, dropped her first, and as she de-vanned, I turned to the others and said "Boy --I'm gonna miss her." Everyone laughed, and we happily chatted as each one got dropped off.
We arrived at the Drake, the historic great hotel on MM (Miracle Mile). The 'hood looked safe -- even though Chicago kids are killing themselves at a record pace -- 18 died over last weekend alone. But not in the ritzy areas -- as we walked Michigan Avenue, each corner had 2-3 cops.
We went to the Drake bar, where the famous have partaken, and sat in front of the initials JD and MM carved by The Yankee Clipper. I had 3 martinis, and we chatted with a Canes couple from Okhahoma, of all places. Our friend Rob joined us, and we cabbed to Geno's, where we had two huge tables.
We drank more, and laughed, and watched the Cubs lose. The pizza was mediocre. Mike ordered a tequila shot for Wifey, but an already inebriated Darriel leaned in to observe what would have been a historic event, and knocked the glass over, onto Wifey. So the shot got done TO her...
Next early am, we walked to the Raffaelo Hotel, where Eric and his crew were staying, and boarded a bus to South Bend. Wifey slept, from the effects of the non consumed tequila, and I caught up with Norman and his boy Benji, and Norman's good friend/client Maria. We got to South Bend early, and enjoyed several hours walking the campus, hearing the famous bagpipers, and taking silly photos in front of the Knute Rockne statue. It was a warm and glorious Midwestern Fall day.
From there, we went to the Alumni Association BBQ, and had our pre game meal, and watched Canes propaganda, including the comically accented new president of the U, who did a great Chico Escuela impersonation as he tried to rile up the 1000 alumni there.
Then we walked into the stadium. The team forgot to -- we were down 20-0, and it looked like a long afternoon. But then the young troops rallied -- and made it a nailbiter -- before we lost as time expired. Still, we yelled and screamed and had a great time.
We met with Norman and Benji for the ride back to Chicago. They planned to get a late Italian meal, and we said we'd go, but then nearly fell asleep. We begged off, and then shared a sandwich back at the Drake, as the Cubs lost again. I think I brought bad team luck to Chicago...
Sunday, we Ubered to Rosemont, near O'Hare, and met my old friend Jeff and his Chicago native wife Myndee, and their daughter Elizabeth. Elizabeth had just passed her CPA exam, and was to start work the next day. We bored her (and Wifey and Myndee) with tales of our LI childhoods. Jeff has become Mr. Chicago -- loves his Cubs and Blackhawks. He actually unfriended an old high school buddy for making fun of his teams...
They dropped us at the airport, and we had a nice smooth flight home. Mission accomplished, except for the result of the game.
As for the Cubs, well, they're hanging on. My favorite line about them: every team is entitled to a bad century...
Hopefully the Canes can win two more games and go to a bowl. And then next year...
Thursday, October 27, 2016
C'mon...Baby Don't Ya Wanna Go.
So the traveling continues, for Wifey and me. Tomorrow we head to MIA and aboard a triple 7 to ORD . We'll be meeting more than 30 Canes friends for a football weekend -- at Notre Dame, in South Bend.
I was surprised Wifey wanted to go, but I think the thought of seeing a piece of real Americana -- and Notre Dame's campus is that, appealed to her. Plus, even though she's not a real football fan, she does have a great time with many of the football friends. So it's off we go.
It's funny -- back in the 80s and 90s, Canes/Irish games were a big deal. Both teams were top rated, and the rivalry was fierce. This year ND is BAD -- 2-5, and the Canes are a mediocre 4-3. Still, for me, beating ND will make it a great season. I hope we do.
Back in the 90s, my friends and I planned a guys' trip to South Bend. As legal fate had it, my law firm had depos set in Indiana and Michigan the summer before, so I got to visit South Bend. I had a magic marker with me, and actually grafiti-ed a men's room stall -- "Beware the Canes." I looked so forward to the trip, and that very same case got bizarre, and I ended up having to testify in Federal Court in Ft. Myers the very day all my friends flew to Chicago.
To my boss Ed's credit, and my forever gratitude, as soon as the hearing ended, he had his driver rush me to the Southwest Florida Airport, and I caught a late flight to Chicago. I got to the hotel to see boxes of pizza stacked up. Our friend Mike had insisted each man get his OWN pizza, and the leftovers were legion. I ate cold pizza and the next day we drove to the game. Alas, the Canes lost on a controversial fumble call...
Three years ago, we again played Notre Dame, in Chicago. Wifey sat it out, but I flew to Chicago, and we had a great dinner at Gene and Georghetti's, the venerable steakhouse. The meal was mediocre, but the Canes took over the entire second floor of the restaurant, and we had a blast. The game, at frigid Soldier Field, was also awful -- the Irish shellacked us. We owe them this weekend.
Making the weekend even more attractive is the Cubs in the Series. Game three is tomorrow night, and the buzz in the city -- first Series visit for the Cubbies since 1945 --ought to be tremendous. We're staying at the Drake, and I told Wifey the bar still preserves the initials Dimaggio carved in the bar -- his and Marilyn's. I plan to toast their eternal love...
Also today, I booked what may be our next trip -- NYC in early February. D2 turns 25 the Day the Music Died, and is planning a nice party for her friends and her. D1 is going, too -- we may visit Sammy's Romanian, for vodka, chopped liver, and the schmalty humor of the hilarious Israeli DJ.
The other day I passed a shopping center in West Kendall where we had a movie birthday for D2 -- she was probably 8 or so. And now she's turning a quarter century. Ah, I am old...
Speaking of old, the ancient suegra has been quiet this week. Hopefully she'll stay that way while we're gone -- giving Wifey a nice respite from her antics.
So it's go Canes! And go Chicago pizza. Since D1 announced her engagement, I've been going light on the carbs so I can be a svelte rockin' Daddy in the USA and salsa at her wedding. But the pizza ban ends, temporarily. D1 reminded me I could have a slice or two. Not happening. But hopefully the Canes will be in fine shape.
I was surprised Wifey wanted to go, but I think the thought of seeing a piece of real Americana -- and Notre Dame's campus is that, appealed to her. Plus, even though she's not a real football fan, she does have a great time with many of the football friends. So it's off we go.
It's funny -- back in the 80s and 90s, Canes/Irish games were a big deal. Both teams were top rated, and the rivalry was fierce. This year ND is BAD -- 2-5, and the Canes are a mediocre 4-3. Still, for me, beating ND will make it a great season. I hope we do.
Back in the 90s, my friends and I planned a guys' trip to South Bend. As legal fate had it, my law firm had depos set in Indiana and Michigan the summer before, so I got to visit South Bend. I had a magic marker with me, and actually grafiti-ed a men's room stall -- "Beware the Canes." I looked so forward to the trip, and that very same case got bizarre, and I ended up having to testify in Federal Court in Ft. Myers the very day all my friends flew to Chicago.
To my boss Ed's credit, and my forever gratitude, as soon as the hearing ended, he had his driver rush me to the Southwest Florida Airport, and I caught a late flight to Chicago. I got to the hotel to see boxes of pizza stacked up. Our friend Mike had insisted each man get his OWN pizza, and the leftovers were legion. I ate cold pizza and the next day we drove to the game. Alas, the Canes lost on a controversial fumble call...
Three years ago, we again played Notre Dame, in Chicago. Wifey sat it out, but I flew to Chicago, and we had a great dinner at Gene and Georghetti's, the venerable steakhouse. The meal was mediocre, but the Canes took over the entire second floor of the restaurant, and we had a blast. The game, at frigid Soldier Field, was also awful -- the Irish shellacked us. We owe them this weekend.
Making the weekend even more attractive is the Cubs in the Series. Game three is tomorrow night, and the buzz in the city -- first Series visit for the Cubbies since 1945 --ought to be tremendous. We're staying at the Drake, and I told Wifey the bar still preserves the initials Dimaggio carved in the bar -- his and Marilyn's. I plan to toast their eternal love...
Also today, I booked what may be our next trip -- NYC in early February. D2 turns 25 the Day the Music Died, and is planning a nice party for her friends and her. D1 is going, too -- we may visit Sammy's Romanian, for vodka, chopped liver, and the schmalty humor of the hilarious Israeli DJ.
The other day I passed a shopping center in West Kendall where we had a movie birthday for D2 -- she was probably 8 or so. And now she's turning a quarter century. Ah, I am old...
Speaking of old, the ancient suegra has been quiet this week. Hopefully she'll stay that way while we're gone -- giving Wifey a nice respite from her antics.
So it's go Canes! And go Chicago pizza. Since D1 announced her engagement, I've been going light on the carbs so I can be a svelte rockin' Daddy in the USA and salsa at her wedding. But the pizza ban ends, temporarily. D1 reminded me I could have a slice or two. Not happening. But hopefully the Canes will be in fine shape.
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