Small Town of a Big City

 The catastrophe in Surfside is still very much among our family. Still no word on Jonathan's cousin, although with the passing days the terrible outcome seems a near certainty.

Last night, my friend Joel texted -- his high school friend Michael Altman was missing, too. They attended Palmetto High together -- my Ds' alma mater. Joel said he was a great guy.

As if on an awful cue, Rabbi Yossi called, to catch up and get some of my humor. He's a Miami Dade Police and Fire Rescue chaplain, and has been on scene since early Thursday morning. I told him about Joel's friend -- Yossi knows Joel, a Catholic who loves hanging with us when we talk Torah. Yossi reported that indeed they had removed Joel's friend from the wreckage just hours earlier. I texted Joel, and he had received the same terrible information from Michael's sister.

Oy, as Yossi said. This has been such a long and painful slog, where the awful relief comes in the form of knowing your loved one is now resting. I guess it was similar, but on an awfully larger scale, during 9/11 in NYC.

Our longtime friend Diane came over Saturday night. We hadn't seen her all year -- she's been having some tough issues with her grown kids. She brought apps and a bottle of champagne, and we brought in food from our Middle Eastern place, Shaddai. It was lovely to catch up, though sadly a lot of the catching up was the sharing of bad news.

She didn't know about the sudden, shocking death of our friend Elizabeth. At D2 and Jonathan's wedding, they had shared a wonderful time together -- ending up in another friend's room, and sharing a bit of the herb neither woman had smoked in decades. Diane recalled how vivacious and young Elizabeth was, and couldn't process that she had died in her sleep. We still can't process it either.

Again, oy! What a couple of years it's been -- a classic "Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse..." type of thing.

The plague is of course the over-arching misery, but thankfully on the retreat. Wifey had a terrible health crises and ensuing 6 months of rehab. I was pressed into service as her butler and chauffer. Then our friend Elizabeth. Now this catastrophe in Surfside, and its effect on our son in law's family.

And then there's our bright ray of sunshine: the chubby grandson. He got his second haircut over the weekend, and is absurdly adorable. D1 sent a video of him eating a mango -- with comical focus and enjoyment. He truly lights all of our lives.

The Ds say I'm a modern Tevye, except I don't get to sing "IF I were a rich man." But they love watching me ponder the nature of existence, and the nature of the Big Man.

So I guess all I can humbly do is ask said Big Man if maybe there hasn't been enough misery and tragedy for awhile? Maybe hold off on the mass casualty events for a bit -- and the health crises?

All I know is, I feel for those with losses in Surfside. You go to sleep with a loved one sleeping peacefully in an oceanfront condo, and wake to learn they're somewhere in a pile of mangled concrete and steel -- hoping maybe they're in a pocket of air, and alive. And over days, your hopes dim. Talk about torture on earth.

May the Big Man bring peace to the families. And may I learn of no more direct connections to the tragedy.

Though given the nature of our small town/big city, I have little doubt I'll learn of more of these links to the affected as time goes by.

Normalcy Under A Cloud

 So little by little we're emerging from the plague, a time of rebirth and happiness, but we're now still under the cloud of the tragedy in Surfside. Today marks day 3 since the rescue began, and it seems less and less likely that there will be any more survivors.

They identified the first 4 victims, and I saw they all lived on the top floors of the building. It terribly stands to reason that those on lower floors have even less chance. It's a gruesome period of waiting -- particularly for our Jonathan's family, who has a cousin still missing -- a delightful young man, just graduated from UF and about to begin his adult life.

The papers have started showing profiles of the missing -- and they're the classic Miami mix: Americans, those from India, and lots of, of course, Latin Americans and those from South America. It's a heavily Jewish neighborhood, but plenty of the victims were typical Miami Catholics and Christians, too -- prayer groups are around of many denominations -- all asking the Big Man for a miracle.

Still -- life goes on -- and last night I was, as usual, easily suggestible. I had read a review of a place on Coral Way, The Mighty, and it had all the markings of a place I liked: good, simple food, and cool drinks, along with a big selection of beers. I don't drink much beer, but enjoy going to a place that sells it.

Anyway -- I put the text out to Norman and Jeff -- would they and their lovely wives care to go? Norman and Deb were sick, and so begged off, but Jeff and Lili were in. So we fetched them and drove over to the Roads -- the area West of Brickell where Wifey's family first settled when they emigrated from Israel and came to Miami.

It used to be mostly Jewish -- the pioneering Beth David was the center -- and over the years the older Jews sold to mostly Cuban families. Now, the older Cubans are selling to mostly gringos again -- the Ds each have friends who have bought older homes and are fixing them up.

And Coral Way has strips just filled with cool bars, restaurants, galleries, and stores. And the Mighty is one of them -- a gastropub, as the description goes. 

Sure enough -- I loved the place. And, Wifey actually ordered cocktails -- two craft jobs with vodka and fruit juice and, I think, activated charcoal. Lili and I had fine burgers -- Jeff and Wifey mahi mahi sandwiches. 

The server was a cheerful young woman -- a rising junior at UM -- from Chicago -- where Jeff's family is from. And Jeff noted the place was Chicago-like -- just a homey local pub.

Wifey was tipsy -- tried to get in the back of the SUV and not understanding why Lili wasn't moving over -- I pointed out she had her own seat in the front. We laughed.

It was a wonderfully normal Saturday night for 4 Boomers.

We got home and I did a dumb thing -- put on the news. Sure enough -- the slog of misery was there -- just the identity of the first 4 victims. Oh boy.

Today we have our homeowner's executive committee meeting -- Wifey is security chair and I am welcoming chair. I need to get the pres and secretary to get me new HOA directories to properly welcome the several new residents who have moved in -- younger families replacing the older ones moving up to North Carolina and Washington State.

At 3:30 we have a Zoom memorial service -- Dana's remarkable grandmother, Trude, who everyone calls Gaga, died at 104. Wow. 104. Tough to even consider living that long -- though my suegra seems to be cruising into 97.

So I'll just savor the good times -- together with people again without masks. But my thoughts about the victims of the collapse will never be far away.

Tragedy By The Sea

 So yesterday am there was news of a terrible event in Surfside, just north of Miami Beach: part of a condo building had collapsed. At first, there was a report of a single death, but as soon as the news photos appeared, it was clear it would be much, much worse.

D2 called -- on her way over to work her for the day. She was with Jonathan, and their family needed a referral for an immigration lawyer. Why? Turns out one of Jonathan's cousins was missing -- had been in the doomed building -- and his parents needed an emergency visa to get here from Venezuela. I called Paul , remembering he had recently reunited with an old friend from law school, and made the connection. Apparently the gears have started to get these, I'm sure, mortified parents here.

As the day wore on, the news got worse. The number of missing now stands at 159, and hope is fading that there'll be more survivors. The news is, of course, international. Buildings in America don't fall down in the absence of terrorist acts.

We had plans to meet Dr. Barry, Donna, and Josh at D1 and Joey's house -- so they could see the beautiful grandson. Afterwards we planned to visit the Palm. We nixed the Palm -- kind of close to the building collapse, and instead made reservations at a local Italian place, Sottosale.

D1 was running late at a work meeting. Joey poured me a Tito's. Barry and Josh arrived. They had a few, too. I kept drinking -- the dark thoughts of Jonathan's family haunted me. I needed an escape.

We had a delightful time. I could tell Donna was reliving the days of having large, adorable toddler sons. They're still large and adorable, but now 23 and 24. When the Little Man went up for his bath and sleep, we left for the restaurant.

The food was delicious. We so enjoyed each other's company. I had slipped the host my credit card when we arrived -- to pay the check. Young Josh saw this and out maneuvered me. When it was time to leave, the waiter handed me back my credit card -- Josh had commandeered the check to pay -- with his Dad's card! Barry laughed uproariously . It was delightful.

This am I spoke with D2. Like me, Jonathan was at dinner and had a few -- several. He was very emotional because of the thought of this terrible loss. His cousin just graduated from UF. He was staying with other cousins -- around his age. All three young men are missing.

A doctor friend of D1's, Brad Cohen, a beloved ortho surgeon at Mt. Sinai, is also missing.

This am I spoke to Jeff. He knows of several relatives or friends of friends who are also missing. 

Miami is, I have found, the biggest city small town there is. I rarely go beyond 2 degrees of separation with anyone who has been here more than 10 years.

And Surfside, largely Jewish and South American, is a true crossroads. The Herald reported that among the missing were relatives of the leaders of Paraguay and some high level Argentine minister. Just awful.

So my prayers to the Big Man today have been for a true miracle -- the alive recovery of many of the missing. May it come to pass.

But it just shows what I know so well. Life is so fragile. We like to think we have control, but we don't. What is safer than going to sleep in your bed at night, to our psyches? No one could believe ending up under a huge pile of rubble.

I spoke to my friend Rabbi Yossi. He's a Miami Dade Police and Fire Department chaplain. He was at the scene all day. He called on his way home -- I asked him to include Jonathan's cousin in his prayers, too. 

And all we can do is savor each day. Each moment. We never know which moment is our last -- which hug of our loved ones the final one.

Sometimes tragedy strikes even in the most beautiful place -- next to the gorgeous sea.

Triggered Sinatra Chicago Memory

So we spent a quiet FD -- FaceTimes from the Ds and the grandson and enormous puppy. And in the evening, after Wifey fetched me some sushi, she found an old documentary about Sinatra in Palm Springs. She knows my wheelhouse -- I love the Chairman of the Board.

A lot of the content was about his favorite bars and restaurants, and the surviving hosts of the places. It was also about how Frank would read the morning paper, learn of some sad tale, and have his lawyer in Beverly Hills send money to the aggrieved, anonymously. The local press knew whenever there was an "anonymous donor" who paid a medical bill, or rebuilt a food server's house, likely it was Frank.

He also paid to construct a synagogue and Catholic church. He treated his Black valet like family -- one of the interviewees was the valet's now grown son, and how he had free run of the Sinatra compound. Yes -- he was the man.

Anyway -- it triggered a nice memory I have -- of two April trips to Chicago several years back. Coincidentally, I was there the day the Cubs opened the season, and so all the restaurants and bars were packed -- even though the first trip, the game was snowed out!

I typically visited Gene and Georghettis, but had some mediocre food when a bunch of us were there for a Canes-Notre Dame game, and so decided to try Gibson's -- which was walking distance to my hotel, The Drake.

I waited for my table, and ordered my usual martini. The bartender was a very tall fellow named Mark -- with a classic "Da Bears" Chicago accent. He asked "You want I should make your drink as cold as my ex-wife's heart?" I had made a new friend.

We chatted a bit -- he had been to Miami many times, and asked about the state of his favorite places, like Joe's, and Tobacco Road. We talked sports -- he actually liked the Marlins for beating the Cubs after the way the fans treated the poor schlemiel Steve Bartman.

My name was called, and I left for my table -- tipping Mark very well, of course, and gave him my cliched Arnold "I'll be baaaack!"

Sure enough, the next year, I was. And Mark was at the bar, and remembered me: "Hey -- Miami dude!" I was impressed.

We caught up, about our grown kids, and his soulless ex-wife, and then I heard my name called for my table. I got up to leave, and he said "You have a little time tonight?" Indeed I did. He told me to wait, have another drink, and he went to talk to the hostess. Twist my arm!

Then my name was called again, and I was led to a small alcove table, under a picture of...Frank. Turns out, as Mark told the tale, Gibson's was near failure in the early 90s, and a visit from Frank and his entourage saved the place. It's been packed since. But then Mark told the great tale. He was a busboy at the time, and saw the whole thing.

The owner instructed his top waiter to greet each of the entourage by name, and ask for their drink orders as soon as they sat down at that alcove table. The scared waiter said, and Mark remembered the entourage was an Irish guy, Italian guy, and Jewish guy -- like a classic joke: Mr. Ginsberg, what can I get you? Mr. O'Brien? Mr. Giammatti? Frank?" There was silence at the table.

The Chairman said "Frank? Frank? Have we met before???" He pulled the server close, by the lapels, and said "Jack on the rocks -- the glass never fucking gets empty." And the chastened waiter of course complied.

The crew laughed -- I guess when Frank made it clear it was ok to do so. And they loved their meal -- so much that Frank came back several times, before he died in '98, at 82.

And I got to hear the tale from an actual eyewitness. 

Needless to say, Gibson's is now THIS devotee's Chicago steakhouse of choice. I hope I get back there sooner than later, and Mark is still behind the bar. I'll toast him, of course, as well as the Chairman of the Board. 

Might As Well Go Full On Mule

 Ah -- Father's Day. The celebration of the mule -- plodding ahead, carrying the burden, and hopefully doing it with a dash of dignity. FD is a po relation to MD -- no drama ever resulted from someone forgetting FD -- and that's ok.

Yesterday I had a terrific one. D1 came early with the beautiful toddler, and aging Spaniel. Wifey had ordered the food from Joanna's, and as she left to go fetch it, D1 and I reminded Wifey she needed to truly focus on her driving, and as she left she asked D1 about a pair of shoes. Much laughter resulted.

D2 and Jonathan and the enormous puppy came, and we ate in the dining room. It was time for a toddler nap, and so I volunteered, and took the little man around the 'hood. He was PTFO in about 10 minutes -- and it was hot and yoooomid, as Wifey says. I stopped for awhile, and sure enough he woke up, so I gave him some agua and resumed the walking. He passed out again.

Joey was finished with golf, and was going to drive down, but I knew that would impair his ability to drink with me, and so I ordered (with D1's tech help), an Uber. He got dropped off in time for a bit more of the nap walk -- and then we all went inside and I poured some cocktails. Jonathan was working, and had to wait.

Eventually, we were all imbibing -- even D2 had some sparkling wine - and I asked everyone to go around and give a brief presentation "What Father's Day means to me." We laughed, but also shared some heartfelt words, and the little man was having a blast getting licked by various dogs and exploring Villa Wifey -- followed by one of his adoring relatives. He is truly absurdly adorable.

The young-uns left -- D2 and Jonathan for a dinner with friends, and the young parents to let their little man have a bath and then to sleep -- and Wifey and I watched some TV and called it a night.

This am, actual FD, I thought there might be breakfast in bed. So I waited a bit. Nothing. Then I got up and walked 4 miles, and came home, and got lovely FaceTime calls from both Ds -- headed to their suegros for a barbecue and lunch at a place in Aventura called Perl's. Still no breakfast.

Then, I figured -- I must have had it confused. Since FD is the celebration of the mule, what is more mule-like than FIXING breakfast in bed for the mule driver. And so I did -- making a mushroom and egg scramble, coffee just the way she likes it, and a perfectly toasted bagel -- and I brought it to Wifey who was just getting up at 11.

When you're a mule -- might as well go full on mule.

But on a happier note, I was reminded of the great line by Chris Rock: they don't give out grades for being a daddy, but if your daughter dances the pole -- you get an F. And so, as on each FD -- feels good to get a passing grade.

Everything's Quiet on Almost Father's Day

 Ah -- FD, the po relation of Mother's Day. But still, it's nice we, the members of the critical mule pack, get recognition with a holiday.

My beloved father used to love to sing the ditty "Every day is Mother's Day for me," from an old song, whenever my Mom would say how lucky she was. And I feel the same way about FD.

My approach to this Daddy thing has been to, first of all, try to emulate as much as I can the way my own beloved Dad was to his kids. He truly lived for us -- returning from WW II and working 3 jobs to provide for my Mom and two sisters. Later, when I came along, money was fortunately less of an issue, and he got to spend a lot of time with me and my sisters and his grandkids.

I was the luckiest. My sisters became grown ass women, and I was finishing high school, and Mom prevailed upon Dad to retire and move to South Florida. Dad then prevailed upon me to follow them to the 305 (back then even Palm Beach County was the 305) and I did, and it turned out to be a wonderful move -- I fell in love first with a university and the city in which it was and made a set of brothers and sisters who have been the base rock of my life. Oh yeah -- it also allowed me to meet the woman who would become my wife, and give me the two most precious gifts I was ever given: my Ds.

I love two sayings about fatherhood. The first is from Sidney Poitier, who, it so happens, was born in Miami: The measure of a man is how he takes care of his children." The second comes from Don Vito Corleone, the fictional Godfather: "A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man." I've lived them both, as well as I can, and being a father, and now grandfather, defines me as a human.

We're celebrating FD today, one day early. D1 is coming with the beautiful boy, and elderly Spaniel. He will toddle through the house, talking like Pebbles Flintstone, as his mother used to. A bit later on D2 is due over with her enormous puppy. 

Wifey, back driving again after the wonderful recovery, will go fetch some food from Joanna's.

I thought my sons in law were going to be busy -- Joey playing golf, and Jonathan working, but they're coming in the afternoon for a celebratory FD cocktail. I think tomorrow they'll get to spend time with their own wonderful Dads.

I'm constantly reminded the need to savor each day. Our dear friend Elizabeth, the picture of health, died in her sleep several weeks ago. Wifey still grieves. Earlier this week I learned the best college friend of a dear friend of mine was diagnosed with brain cancer. He's getting aggressive treatment, and is up beat, but based on every one of those journeys I know, barring a true medical miracle, he won't be walking among us more than 2 years from now.

Just like that! In a New York minute, as Don Henley sang, everything can change.

So today, I will hug my Ds and the beautiful boy close, and tell them how much I love them, and how gratified I am that my life has been focused on them, and seeing my beautiful baby girls grow into beautiful and amazing young women.

Yes, I am one, to borrow from the Boss, very, very blessed rockin' Daddy in the USA.

A Whole New World For Lawyers

 So yesterday I headed over to the office, and decided to sit in with Stu and his young Turk Josh on a Zoom depo. It was a garden variety case -- referred by one of Paul and my lawyer friends -- so I have a rooting interest. The case involves a woman who got a pedicure at a salon with less than stellar hygiene practices, and ended up with a nasty infection. She nearly lost her foot, but it was saved, though she WAS left with nerve damage and other nastiness.

The depo was of Plaintiff's expert, an infectious disease maven from Virginia. Stu found him though a woman I'd been begging him to use for years -- a retired nurse who has a stable of very qualified experts -- she merely makes the referral and steps away. I'll call her Kim, since that's her name.

Stu, the dinosaur who is slow to change, continued to use a beast of a consultant I'll call Ellen, since that's her name. Ellen is a Linda Richman-type woman who in the 80s had a good reputation for finding good experts, but evolved into a money grubbing, nasty creep who supplied flawed consultants, and charged heavily for it.

Paul and I had a terrible experience with her in the late 90s, and I've been asking Stu, to no avail, to stop using her. He finally saw the light after losing a trial because of a turban wearing, radical doctor Ellen supplied him in a med mal case, who wouldn't even leave San Francisco (surprise) because her partner was sick. The jury picked up on this, and totally rejected the Plaintiff's argument, and the defense lawyer, who I'll call Ilisa, since that's her name, beat Stu like a red headed step child, to use one of my favorite, now probably banned phrases, and Stu realized Ellen was taking him for bad, expensive rides.

So now he had a fine expert, and the young, female defense lawyer, named Diana, was deposing him about his opinions in the case. The fellow was well spoken, smart, and very clear in his position -- Stu's client got the bad infection at the nail salon, and not while traveling on a plane, which seems to be the defense's position.

Stu is unfailingly polite to other lawyers, sometimes to a fault. He avoids nastiness. He avoids conflict wherever possible. He objected a few times to the young woman's questions, but as the depo started dragging into hours, I could tell she was getting frustrated. She was making no points with the ID doc, and it was getting to her.

So, as is the way of some less than top of the line lawyers -- she essentially started arguing with the doc. He held up very well, calmly explaining to the young lady how her hypotheticals made zero sense. "Is it your testimony that it was IMPOSSIBLE that the infection came from somewhere other than my client's salon?" "Well no ma'am, we all know nothing is IMPOSSIBLE, but it IS my testimony that in my opinion, more likely than not, she got it there." She was seething.

And so Stu, on the Zoom video record, politely pointed out that she was no longer questioning the witness, but instead trying to insult him and badger him. And then it happened.

She went from regular defense lawyer to a "Me too" victim. "You're being rude to me, and trying to intimidate me into not being able to conduct my job, and I'm about to end this deposition and ask the judge to sanction you, and blah blah blah..."

Wow. I was there. Stu did nothing of the sort. I thought back about my former boss Ed, and how he would have handled the woman -- but in the age before everything was on video tape. He would have gone off the record and truly shown the young lawyer what cutting insults there were -- probably leaving her in tears with no proof of what he had done to take her off her game.

Luckily -- the depo continued. I left before it was over -- my attention span no longer allows me to stick around for this type of silliness.

But I was really disturbed. Has it come to this? A lawyer just pulls the victim card when things aren't going her way, to scare her white male opponent into being afraid to do his job?

I guess it has. I know one thing: if I ran a defense firm, I'd have LOTS of minorities and females on my staff -- the better to scare aggressive plaintiff's lawyers off their game. Or -- I guess I could play the Jewish card, claiming "Your objection, counsel, has micro aggressive anti-semitic overtones that make me uncomfortable as a Jewish man..."

Nah. That wouldn't work.

Anyway, the case is set for trial in August. The defense has already offered some serious money. If this thing plays out like I think it will, the offer will come up quite a bit as the case nears trial, and the case will settle. The young "victim" defense lawyer will have to report back to her claims adjuster that the Plaintiff's expert was compelling -- the jury will like and believe him. The defense expert is a well known jack of all trades whose opinions truly are absurd -- I read his report. He essentially says that no one gets bad infections from nail salons. Yeah, right.

But I'm just glad I no longer do this lawyering thing full time -- especially the deposition part. I don't know that I would have the restraint anymore when encountering this new opposing counsel as victim kind of nonsense. And I am MOST glad that I kept my Ds out of the lawyering biz. It ain't what it used to be.