New Canes Coach Miami AF

I've said this for years about myself, as a somewhat educated guy: I really wished my passions ran towards opera, and theater, and maybe literary lectures...But the really true passion I have about any avocation is my beloved Miami Hurricanes.

I fell in love in 1979. My new college buddies and I took a provided bus to the creaky Orange Bowl. We drank beer. We cheered. The Canes went 5-6 under new coach Schnellenberger.

I used to look to teams like Penn State, and Alabama, and wonder what it was like to cheer for a team that was the best. And then Howard delivered on his absurd promise: we had a champion within 5 years -- crowned at the Orange Bowl game in January of '84, against an overwhelming favorite, Nebraska. The narrative was set in my heart.

Well, life happened, and as it turned out, it involved my Canes. My closest friends were all alums or fans, and Wifey joined, and we created sacred memories on game trips and at tailgate parties.

We won FOUR more championships, under three different coaches, and after the team slumped in the mid 90s, we came back as the best ever -- a 2001 Championship team that many experts say may be the best college team of all time.

We were robbed of a 6th ring by an Ohio State ref, and then the team started to falter again. They knocked down the Orange Bowl, and we moved to the more plush but far less soulful Joe Robbie Stadium.

The tailgates got better, and I learned to drink even more prodigious amounts (now vodka instead of beer) to lose myself in the exquisiteness of being surrounded by my closest people in an afternoon or night of total escape.

Wifey admitted she was over going so often. My sister of another mister, Mirta, became my game wife -- enjoying the bonhomie, and making her own friends.

And the games, with rare exceptions, like beating Oklahoma, and the Gators, were never as good as they were in the old days. Until...

We hired a fellow alum, Mark Richt, who had been fired after a solid but unspectacular career at Georgia. I was happy. But deep down, I had my doubts. Although he had grown up in Boca, and attended UM, he wasn't a Miami guy. He was a southern buy -- taught by Bobby Bowden to be nice, and pray a lot. His accent reduced over his three years, but so did his passion -- by the last game, he looked, though he's only 58, very old.

But -- he gave us glimpses of glory. Last season, we beat FSU, and Va Tech, and most importantly, Notre Dame. Joe Robbie was electric -- as loud as the Orange Bowl. My friends and I cried at the end of the game -- and we had sobered up by then.

Well, in a move more shocking than any I've seen in my nearly 4 decades as a fan -- yesterday Richt quit. He has plenty of money, and realized he was going to have to do a total rebuild. He needed to fire his son, an assistant, whose ineptitude as the core of the team's problems. The game had left him, as the sportswriters say.

But Richt had done one excellent hire: Manny Diaz. He was born and raised here, and is a true Miami guy -- Miami AF, as I love to say, and my favorite hat says. Manny invented the takeover chain -- given to a player who makes a pick or recovers a fumble. It brought national attention and copycats everywhere.

He accepted the head coach job at Temple on 12/12. But when Richt quit, he left Philly as quickly as anyone who has been there in February, as I have been, would leave. He said sorry, Owls, but my dream job awaits. He was announced last night as the new Coach. I'm thrilled.

Manny reminds me of my dear friend Alex, who is 40 and born and raised here, and despite going to college and grad school at Michigan and Northwestern, bleeds orange and green. It is in his DNA to love Miami football. Manny Diaz is the same.

His father was the Miami mayor, and the true father of modern Miami -- seeing the need to change zoning to make it a huger, and yet walkable city. I met Manny one night -- we talked Canes football. I can't imagine any Dad is prouder today than he is -- his prodigal son has his dream job.

So --- passion for my passion is renewed. I had said I was going to skip next year's opener --in Orlando, against the hated Gators. Nah -- I'm going. We may lose, but my team is coming back -- hard and flashier this time.

We have a real Miami guy back in Miami. I'm thrilled.

Golden Children

So my brother Barry's been spending Xmas week in the ICU, which he still does several weeks per year. His experience this year brought to mind an anecdote I just saw on CNN's History of Comedy, told by Mike Myers.

Apparently Jon Lovitz, the chubby Basset Hound looking guy, is , to many of the greatest comics, the really funny guy. Myers was attending a double funeral with Lovitz: another great comedian, Phil Hartman, had been shot dead by his wife Brynn, who then killed herself. Myers was shaking his head, and said to Lovitz "I just can't believe Brynn killed Phil, and then herself." Lovitz responded "Oh Mike -- you make it sound MUCH worse than it is..."

So is is with my brother's job. The stuff he deals with ...

But on Wednesday, his oldest turned 22, and he came to the 305 with his brother Josh, Mom Donna, and girlfriend Samantha. We all met for a birthday lunch at LOL, followed by some coffee at Brewing Buddha, our local coffeehouse owned by Cassady, who indeed looks like a Buddha.

We then walked around the 'hood, and got to know Samantha, who is bright and lovely, as we expected. She works for CNN and had a phone interview in the waiting, for a promotion. She took the call and it went well. We were thrilled for her.

And after they all left, I reflected on our kids, and how they're seen by outsiders. None of them were raised in poverty -- the opposite, in fact. If they struggled at school, there was a tutor. The kids are all bright and good looking -- people gravitate to them. They have it soooo easy.

Ha. As if. EVERYONE has their own demons, and often the higher achieving one is, the greater the demons.

I thought about last year's two suicides close to home: a hot shot lawyer, and the best surgeon in Miami. Both of those men had it all -- loving families, wealth, careers that soared, and yet their demons brought them to awful ends -- one literally at the end of his rope, and the other inside his luxury car inside his mansion.

Yesterday I met Josh at Shula's. We sat at the bar watching the Canes play the worst I've seen in a long while. And we had the same conversation -- life is a struggle.

I told him I didn't want him to succeed for any reason other than to be able to have "F You" rights in life. That is, when one is supported by and beholden to others, the supporters get to call the tune. When you make it on your own, you get to tell those who would constrain you to toss off. That to me is true freedom.

So the end of 2018 approaches rapidly. After the last weeks, I'm happy to say adios.

Tonight D2 is headed to her fiance's family house in Aventura for shabbat dinner, and then will spend the night with D1 and Joey. D1 got her final clean bill of health today. We sighed relief.

Wifey and I are headed to meet her friend Sheryl and her man Mark for dinner at Il Gabbianno, Italian for "extremely expensive Italian food and worth every lira."  Between them, they have a couple of kids who have battled major demons, and have had some awful repercussions.

I plan to chill well this weekend -- enjoying the final days of D2 in Miami. We opened her wedding account yesterday -- the planning shall now begin. I think it'll be a far smaller wedding than her sister had -- D2 is the type to want to bank much of the money rather than spend it on a party. But it's her call.

I told her that my in laws threw the wedding for Wifey and me that THEY wanted. Wifey and I wanted an informal lunch, maybe at a park. Ha. As if. After years of attending Saturday night affairs of their fellow Survivor family and friends, my in laws were damn sure going to have the same thing for their only child.

We had a fine and memorable time. Pat Travers playing with the wedding band is something we'll always treasure. But it was what Wifey's parents chose.

I told D2 I vowed to never do that -- she and her man need to make themselves happy. I'm sure it'll be easier said than done.

But for today, I'm happy and thankful. The kids are all right. Hey -- that could be an album...

White Christmas

The Ds and Wifey make fun of my fierce pride in the accomplishments of my pride -- the funniest of which is that Jews wrote all the best Christmas music. It's uncanny -- I was in the waiting room of my dentist the other day, and 5 songs played -- 4 really good, and one silly (Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer). Sure enough, all 4 of the great ones were written by guys who don't celebrate the holiday, but do, as do their generations of progenitors, celebrate the royalties...

To me, the best and most classic song for the holiday is Berlin's "White Christmas." It is so hopeful and wistful and sad at the same time. It always makes me think of American GIs singing it during WW II -- far from their homes, and far from their innocent youths.

My father had a beautiful tenor voice, and recorded that song for my mother in a studio in LA.  Apparently those were plentiful at the time, and Dad went in, sang the song, and at the end added "I love you Sunny."

The record was a small one, played at 78 rpm. I listened to it several times when I was a boy, and was amazed -- an actual tunnel back 30 something years into my family's history. Alas, the record was long gone -- my Mom wasn't sentimental, and disliked clutter more than she wanted stuff, and for all I know the record didn't make the move to Florida in June of '79. But I can still hear it in my mind.

As I write, D2 and Jonathan are at 34K feet, about an hour out of MIA. I'm still fighting this damn infection -- today is day 6. I'm fairly certain it's an acute viral sinusitis, and I am getting better, but still fatigued and feeling the dull headache of inflamed sinuses -- so much that I took some Mucinex. I tend to avoid medications that don't come in martini glasses...

So Dadber is grounded today. Momber stands at the ready. I have a feeling she can acquit herself rather well -- unlike the time she drove D2 to Gville and D2 called me when they were halfway across the Everglades...That was before WAZE...

My friend Joel called -- we've spent the last few Christmas Eves at their stately mansion in the Grove. Joel's Italian and Courtney is Italian/Irish -- she grew up on LI like I did. My Ds and their men have a great time -- Joel is a wonderful raconteur, but I think this year we're taking a pass. I'm pretty sure I'm no longer contagious, but feel most like sitting on a couch with Wifey, D2, and a couple of happy dogs.

Tomorrow we're set for a movie in Merrick Park, an early dinner at Ariete, and great place in the Grove. I'm hoping to have my strength back -- otherwise it'll be a Mom'Daughter birthday celebration.

Still, deep in the memory of my life, I hear Dad singing to his beloved, of a time and place he longed to return to . A great song will do that...

Oy Vas I Toisty!

EB White wrote that analyzing humor is like dissecting a from. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it.

Still, several years ago a Canadian novelist and sociologist wrote "Born to Kvetch," a great study of Jewish (particularly Yiddish based) humor. His keystone joke example was an old lady who annoyed a fellow train passenger about wanting a glass of water on an overnight trip --  the young man goes to heroic lengths to find her a glass of water so the old biddy would finally stop complaining and allow him to get some sleep. At the end, with the old lady gratefully drinking, and the young man drifting off, he hears one final lament: "Oy -- VAS I toisty!"  In other words, the kvetching/complaining wasn't properly completed until its history was explored.

Wifey and I get that joke very well. Her mother, who just turned 94, was the Michael Tilson Thomas of conducting complaints. It's not enough you know how miserable she is -- you need to fully understand how bad things WERE.

And so it was for me this week. I'm a very lucky guy -- I have never spent the night in the hospital. I've had diagnostic tests that COULD have sent me down the green mile, but instead were the launch pad for appreciative celebrations of life.

So Monday, I started feeling bad at the office, following a cool and rainy weekend in NYC. I called my doc, Mary, thinking it might be early flu, even though I got my vaccination. Mary ordered Tamiful, and I took a pill, but that night had a nasty reaction -- insomnia and awful, jarring dreams. I felt better, so stored the pills, and actually went to the office Tuesday and Wednesday.

Thursday the low grade fever returned, and I started coughing up prodigious amounts of green silly putty. My head hurt. The coughing of the viscous stuff would wake me in a panic -- I was drowning.

Wednesday night I jumped up, unable to get my breath. Wifey, who sleeps wonderfully when she sleeps, never stirred. I thought -- this is the way it will end. She will wake up hours later, nudge me with her foot, realize I was a cold,lump of man, and immediately Wifey would have to start making plans for wealthy widowhood.

I texted Dr. Mary yesterday, and she called in a scrip for a Z pack -- just in case my sinusitis and bronchitis was bacterial. I took the loading dose -- knowing that sometimes it was a miracle cure. It was not --I felt the worst I can recall feeling -- tired, cranky, vaguely in pain.

The wracking cough had caused my chest to hurt, but if I didn't cough up the awful material, it would just pool.

At 6 pm, it hit its zenith. The low level fever had returned, just over 100 degrees, and I self diagnosed as viral sinusitis.

I'd nod off, and then wake violently coughing. I new my viral condition was beyond medical treatment, but I thought about driving over to the Baptist ER for something -- maybe an IV where they could knock me out.

Instead, I popped a xanax pill -- an entire one, instead of the half I sometimes take when bad turbulence starts on an airplane flight. 4 hours later, I took another. And I slept --not well, but mostly without jumping up as if I was drowning.

I knew my week was nothing compared to what D1 had gone through -- hers was truly a life threatening condition. I was just miserable and uncomfortable.

And this am, as the light came in, it had LIGHTENED. The green slime was still there, but the stuffiness was gone.  I have the real sense that by tomorrow I'll be back to near normal -- just in time to welcome D2 and Jonathan from NYC.

I have stone crabs to order -- we're hosting 4 dear friends, and the Ds and their men will spend NYE together up in Shorecrest.

And, just hopefully, in a bit over a week, we can look back on 2018, and say "Oy -- vas VE Toisty!"

Investing

My Dad was lucky to make a really nice salary, eventually. When he returned from WW II, he had three jobs to support his family -- and barely made it. By the late 50s, though, things looked up -- he had become a very skilled salesman in the gift industry, and the money was nice, especially from those commissions from recurring clients, like Alexanders, and Al's Pottery.

In the years before I was born, my family lived in a nice part of Queens, Glen Oaks, and rented a lovely "garden apartment." They actually took a step that probably seemed out of the question years before: they joined a country club! It was the Roslyn Country Club, a place right out of "Flamingo Kid" and "Goodbye, Columbus," and my Dad told me they were probably the poorest members. But my parents thought it would be nice to have a pool for their daughters, and maybe my sisters would meet nice Jewish boys there. Ha. As if! Didn't work out that way...

In 1961 I came along, and the two bedroom apartment was cramped, so my Dad went to his boss, Mr. Katz, and asked to borrow $2000 for the down payment on a house. Mr. Katz agreed -- buying, essentially, my father's complete loyalty to him and his company for the rest of Dad's career.

Things got better financially for our family. We took our first airplane trip in 1969 -- a dream trip to my parents -- Israel. I was 8 years old and mostly remember trying to find Mets scores from news stands in Tel Aviv, and of course the highlight was watching Neil Armstrong take his historic steps. I still recall it clearly -- we gathered around a TV shop near Dizengoff Square, and all the Israelis cheered wildly -- their brothers had done it. Years later, I remembered that in contrast to the Palestinians cheering wildly after 9/11. And still plenty of Americans take up the Palis cause...oh well.

Anyway, my Dad was never one for investing in the stock market. He had a few muni bonds -- I remember going to the bank with him to clip coupons -- and did buy a few companies -- I recall a Dennison Mines, from Canada, and Airlift, a Miami cargo company. Both went bankrupt.

When Dad retired, in May of '79, he did so with about $250K, from savings and a profit sharing plan at his company. Interest rates neared 20%. I recall Dad opening different certificates of deposit with local Delray banks. Between the interest income and his social security, my parents lived very comfortably, without invading their principal. After Dad died, just three years later, I thought about investing some of Mom's money in the stock market, as interest rates declined, but I was chicken. She wasn't going to work, and things hummed along fine.

Mom traveled -- China twice, Europe, Israel twice, and many cruises and junkets to South Florida hotels. She gifted money to us -- the $10K she gave Wifey and I in '86 went to our down payment for our first house -- we always were grateful for that.

She "lent" my sister and brother in law $3K to build a pool at their LI house. She forgave the debt.

But the point was, she didn't need to mess with the stock market. When she went to the nursing home, she still had over $70K of savings left, plus her comically bad investment of a condo. She paid $39K for it in '79. When it was sold 34 years later, her three kids each netted $14K. The savings went into a pooled trust so that she got Medicaid, and they covered the $6K per month for nursing care. The remaining money went back to the state, to pay the liens.

As far as investments go, I am NOT my father's son. Although I have only a minority of savings invested in the stock market, it's not a little money. And lately, things have been crashing. We have lost more money than I would have ever thought we would have in total when I was a man in my late 20s.

And it's ok.  I think that over time, the losses will rebound, and we don't need the money right now. My broker friends who laughed at how much I keep in cash and muni bonds aren't laughing so much now.

Years ago, I read that well off people of a certain level (say assets above $5M but less than $50M) all said they would feel "rich" if they had 40% more than they did. That is, someone with $10M "needs" $14M to feel comfortable. Someone with $1M needs $1.4M.

Not me. I look at the plunging investment statements and just sort of chuckle. I imagine the expression on my Dad's face if he saw them. "You lost HOW MUCH????!!!!"

Years ago, my friend and broker Pat thought we ought to invest heavily in Apple -- three times the amount of my typical investment. I went ahead with him. It paid off -- my Ds have significant shares which we have gifted them, and we do, too.

And yet, owning the shares brings no joy. Paying for the life experiences does -- helping with first houses, wonderful meals, extravagant parties..

We plan to have some dear friends over for NYE. Even with the plunging markets, we'll serve bountiful amounts of stone crabs, and champagne. I told the Ds, who will be spending NYE together, that I was paying for THEIR get together in NE Miami, too.

I guess if the market continues to crash over the next 9 days, I can revise that and switch to pizza. Nah -- I'll come up with the funds regardless.

Packing A Lot Of Living In

My friend Kenny noted that with the bad health scare followed by the joyous Big Ask weekend, I was sure packing in a lot of living lately. And, per usual, he's right.

I also managed to bring home an unwanted souvenir from NYC -- a lousy cold. I started feeling poorly Monday afternoon, with a fever and chills, and feared it might be flu, even though I took the vaccine. I texted Dr. Mary, and, since we have concierge medicine, she replied right away and called in a prescription for Tamiflu, which shortens the course of the disease.

Wifey fetched the scrip, and I took the first pill, which resulted in the worse insomnia and awful, jarring nightmares I ever had. By Tuesday am the fever was lighter, and I self diagnosed that it was NOT the flu -- just a nasty cold, and I stockpiled the Tamiflu for another time.

I canceled a Canes roundball date tonight with Norman, and plan to take it easy and hydrate.

Meanwhile, Stuart texted me a report from the local business paper. Fredo, the betraying lawyer and former friend, tried and lost his first case for the TV firm I call Better Call Saul. I must admit I enjoyed some schadenfreude over the news, which Norman immediately corrected to Schaden-Fredo! I'm blessed with very sharp witted friends.

Seems no one is much in the mood to work -- Christmas fast approaches. D2 and Jonathan are due in Monday night -- Noche buena, and Joel and Courtney are throwing their annual get together -- we've gone the past few years. We're letting D2 make the call about attendance -- I guess it'll depend on her arrival time.

And then the 25th, the world hangs lights, decorates trees, and sings -- in honor of Wifey's birthday. I think we're going to go see a movie and a late lunch at Merrick Park -- she'll love having both Ds here.

So we'll coast into '19 . Best time of the year.

A Moving Meeting

So Saturday morning, Jonathan was all set to come to the Gramercy Park Hotel, have a bellman grant him and D2 access to the Park, and then pop the question. But, alas, it was wet out, and the Park closes when it's wet.

So Barry, Donna, Wifey, and I were scrambling to find alternatives for Jonathan. Things turned out fine -- he took her to Washington Square Park, but before then there was a bit of , as my late friend used to say, tensosity.

A gentleman overheard the conversation, and politely chimed in that he had an idea. He suggested Jonathan might propose at the National Arts Building on the North side of the park, a famous space where Woody Allen shot many of his classic NYC scenes.

We ended up walking to the corner so that the fellow, who introduced himself as Alan, could point out the building.  He was walking an adorable little dog. He lived in a building right next to the park, he said, and asked where we were all from.

We told him Miami, and he said he spends his winters in Longboat Key, and was in the City for a very bad reason.

We all had an instant connection with him. He was so smart and kind. Before we knew it, he was telling us about his grown kids, a radiologist, and a son who was a lawyer, Alan was a retired CPA and business consultant. He asked about us, and thought my name was familiar -- he had some very rich Miami clients. I joked that I didn't swim in those ponds...

Eventually it came out that the bad reason he was in NYC had three words: Memorial Sloan Kettering. His beloved wife, Barbara, was there. She was terminally ill with pancreatic cancer.

Barry, Donna, Wifey and I were shocked and saddened. I launched into my "well, hopefully she's on the right side of that bell curve," but Alan waved me off. It was truly the end. He had cried his eyes out, he said, and was just hoping she would make it another 10 days for his granddaughter's Bat Mitzvah. She wouldn't be able to attend, but knowing about it would bring Barbara joy.

Barry, who deals with palliative care, offered better advice -- about how it was critical to keep patients like Alan's wife comfortable and pain free. Alan said he understood, and was insuring that very thing.

We parted, and told Alan we would keep him in our thoughts. He was truly happy for our D2 and Jonathan, and wished them all the happiness in the world.

Alan left with his dog, and we four retreated out of the cool drizzle to the GH Hotel lobby. It struck us how we had seen the very cycle of life. One young woman about to embark on the beginning of married life, and another, somehow not a stranger though we had never met, was at the end of her time.

Donna observed that our meeting was bashert -- destined. She noted how Alan really needed to share his story with people, and at the same time offer help to a young couple starting out.

Wifey, ever the practical one, immediately thought Alan ought to meet our friend Diane, a very eligible divorcee.  Of course, Barry found great black humor in that -- poor Alan's wife was still alive, and Wifey was already replacing her. But Wifey said no, not right away, maybe in a year...

And, true to Wifey form, she looked Alan up, and found he indeed lived in a luxury condo on Longboat Key, and that he and Barbara were very active in their local synagogue.

Well, the afternoon unfolded joyously. We partied for the rest of the day, and Sunday Jonathan hosted a lovely brunch.

As we Ubered from the hotel to West 11th Street, the suv stopped, and sure enough, there was Alan walking his dog. I put down the window, and shouted out to him. He smiled, and asked "How did it go???!!!" I told him it went well, and we would think of him, and...who knows -- maybe cross paths again.

I truly hope we do. We all dug him right away, and he is now a part of a sacred weekend in my family's history.

In the mean time, I wish Alan peace as he deals with the end of life of his beloved Barbara.