There we were, straddling cushioned seats on South Beach, maybe 50 feet from the shore: Snyder, Mandel and …. me! One of the trendiest spots on the eastern seaboard and three Rowland School alums sat solving the problems of the world. Sort of like the trailer for TNT’s new show “Men Of A Certain Age.”
Bob was in the midst of a soliloque when I leaned over to Bruce and pronounced: “Implants are not as important as friendships.”
(He begged me to explain).
A half hour earlier I’d been sitting ten feet away when a reasonably attractive, bikinied blonde perched herself adjacent our group. As my eyes caught Bob’s he exclaimed (across twenty feet of sand) “I’m WAY ahead of you, B….and they’re fake.”
I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t care. #1, Bob has always known more about women than me. #2, he was probably the only one in the State of Florida that could have thought that IF he was single this 30-something in sunglasses would give him the time of day. And 3, most importantly, I’m sick of the phony, the plastic…sick of…implants.
After six road days socializing with a panorama of persons stemming from true, life-long friends and others whose bond has come in adult years….to the plateful that feign friendship—well, it makes me appreciate the real. It compels me to embrace the true and nauseate from the ….bullshit.
Am I being too negative? I don’t think so.
We’re all born with certain antennae. Some people can smell money; others have gaydar. Me? Perhaps as a defense mechanism from my propensity to overtrust, I’m developing a profound appreciation for those that treat me without pretense. Really! I don’t care if you don’t like me. Just be real about it—I’ll survive.
And so it was in this week of travel that highs and lows were defined not so much by the activities but by the company. And interestingly, my two premier moments came from those not lucky enough to grow up on the Mean Streets Of South Euclid.
The front end of my journey was serene. Fun with Linda and Jeff.
Linda met me at the airport and the ensuing days were wonderful. Still, for me, the tone was set that first night when we caught up with Jeff at The Creek. The two of us hugged, as guys do—but it was more. We didn’t talk about it, but the hug was just a bit longer than the typical guy thing. There was that pregnant pause to it…that extra warmth of two FRIENDS truly glad to be together again. It was there for me…that unspoken communication that spoke volumes.
Four nights at Chez Yankow in Boca: We caught up a bit; Linda and I even bickered. But it was all good. I got to sleep on their couch with the lights and TV on; no one stood on ceremony. Heck, even her dogs preferred me to the other house guest (showing impeccable taste).
There was no babysitting each other as we sometimes went separate ways. Jeff gave me his car and I even got to run down to Lauderdale to see nephew Marc. There was extraordinary honesty to our talk at the Hard Rock; he’s a good kid.
And there was something special…something so pure…about the weekend itself.
Imagine! Sixty years after Morris Feinstein of Mt. Clemons, Michigan wed Shirley Zane a hundred family and friends crossed the continent in celebration of their grandchild’s marriage. Nothing phony about that. (It’s one thing to hop in a car, drive five minutes to Landerhaven and smile for an hour or two). No one, but no one, was at the wedding by mistake. We all wanted to be there—and that too was real.
Oh, I saw some people I could have lived without… (and I’m sure they me)…available in two delicious flavors:
First there were the Clevelanders, some of whom (back home) would absolutely cross the street to avoid acknowledging me.
”Bruce Bogart!” I was greeted on Friday, (a clear indication that they didn’t know what else to say).
Then there were some former Clevelanders. Of that crowd, those compelled to interact with me seemed to have the same opening line:
“You still in Cleveland?”
(Like they didn’t know the answer. These are college graduates; couldn’t they come up with something better?)
“No, asshole, I’m in D.C. now.” (I wanted to say).
Don’t get me wrong. I can be superficial if I have to…but I’m not good at it. And at this point…Why? I know it’s been said that once you learn to fake sincerity everything else is easy…but I’d like to think my game is different. I’m capable of just saying “Hello.” How difficult is that?
No greater example of authenticity’s beauty could be found than at the reception. They were trying to quiet the room for the Motzi, but no one at our table could tone down The World’s Oldest Teenager. After all our travail, Brother Ermine stepped up to the plate:
“Bobby,” he reprimanded, “Use your ‘inside voice’!”
Only a true friends could have GIVEN and RECEIVED the message.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Sitting in Miami International Airport, awaiting return to my home turf I am grateful for the week of sun, and, more importantly, grateful for the chance to spend quality time with those that honor me with not only their friendships, but the purity of their behaviors.
Bradley pulled me aside at the rehearsal dinner, asking that I witness his Ketubah. The gesture resonates as my favorite piece of the trip. In one fell swoop he gave honor not only to me, but to the bond between our parents, siblings, spouses and children. He showed appreciation for the sustained friendship that was borne a half century earlier between Stuart and Bruce—
—two guys with a lot of similarities and G/d knows a lot of differences. Two guys, though, that always kept it real.
Thanks, B! Magical weekend for me; every important person to me was there….still can’t believe it. Thanks to you, Bobby, Mark et all. Friends and Family are everything! In that context, we are wealthy beyond comprehension.
Great Weekend! Loved seeing B, Bobby and Stuart. I hate to say it but it was almost like being a kid again back in Rowland/Greenview/Brush. We need to all get together more often………………look how young it has kept Bobby, he’s still a kid or is that child? LOL.
Just Bobby being Bobby!!!