I started to compose this chapter in my head while I was sitting in the ER roughly two weeks ago (early August 2026).

I have made no secret about the fact that my kidneys are sliding towards complete failure. Nor have I forgotten to mention that I have made drastic changes to my diet to prolong the viable use I have left in my kidneys.

WTHeck are you talking about Mark!!

Since being released from the hospital after a long week back in December 2022, I have feared seeing blood in my urine. Why? Because due to my high pain tolerance, I have been told that it will most likely be the sign that one or both of my kidneys have failed.

Fast forward to August 5, 2026, I did what almost every human does soon after they wake up. Some people sit down to do this, while others stand and hope their aim is good before that first cup of liquid energy, be it in the form of coffee, Coke Zero Sugar, Dr. Pepper, Mt Dew, or whatever, you get the point.

So there I am, half awake, and when I eventually look down, I see some very faint, pinkish liquid. NOT red, PINK! I knew it was most likely diluted blood, yet nothing red was in the bowl; I wasn't awake enough to mentally handle it.

I know what blood in a toilet bowl looks like. I’m a natural blonde, but I’m not stupid. Trembling, I immediately used a catheter and was relieved that there wasn’t any VISIBLE evidence of blood. But I decided to go to the ER and get checked out. I arrived around 7:45 am.

I realize the irony that some of my long-time readers will have in my choice of choosing AdventHealth (sponsored by the 7th Day Adventist Church), because I profess to being staunchly agnostic. I wasn’t around over 2,000 years ago, so who am I to say whether Jesus Christ existed or not? I am spiritual, in my own ways. I also have no issue with what religion others are, as long as their beliefs do not infringe on my ability to live my life as I wish.

Get back on track, Mark. So, after maybe a 20 minute wait, I was interviewed by a triage nurse, and my vitals (but not my temp) were taken, and in return, a specimen cup to use as soon as possible.

After roughly a half hour had passed, the specimen cup had been used and the lid tightly secured. Next thing I knew, I was put in a wheelchair and taken to radiology for a CAT scan. I was wheeled down several hallways packed with people on gurneys in the hallway. From what I could tell, every room had patients in them. The point being is that the ER was swamped.

My heart started to race because I knew there was really no way this was going to be a short visit. After the CAT scan, I was wheeled back through the hallways packed with all sorts of patients and attentive medical professionals. Two were washing a gurney’s mattress with what smelled like rubbing alcohol. I mentioned to my wheelchair driver that looks like someone was about to be called back. Guess who the hell got the gurney? Yep, yours truly. Literally as I was getting out of the wheelchair in the waiting room, someone else came in with another wheelchair and asked if I was Mark. I was the only person besides staff in the waiting room.

That gurney, officially designated “Hallway 9 between rooms blah blah and blah blah”, became my home for roughly eight hours. During multiple blood draws, pokes, prods, and blood pressure checks. I was right in front of the main nurse’s station. They took as good of care of me as they could.

For my paid subscribers, this is where the paywall was located, so now you will see the rest of the chapter, complete with photos of my numerous IV, meals, and views out of windows.

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I do not remember how old I was when I was finally “allowed” to go to Grand Cayman, I might have been 12 or 13, but several events helped shape my life due to that “family trip”.

I remember staying at the best hotel on the island, the Holiday Inn. YES, a 70s circa Holiday Inn. Check out this article in the Cayman Compass, and you will see what I mean.

I think in the early days we would fly to Miami and then board a puddle jumper over Cuba to get to Cayman. Southern flights did not even mention flying over Cuba. Heading North, BIG difference. Intercom announcement regarding absolutely NO PHOTOGRAPHY while over the island. Um, why would it be ok going South, but verboten going North? Hey, that’s just how Cayman Airways was. So, being the devious kid I was, I would take photos with my Ricoh 35mm SLR until my mom scolded me. Sometimes I had film in the camera, sometimes I didn’t. I just wanted to see her freak out because “you know the rules!”. Yeah, I was a tad precocious when I figured I could get away with it in public. But knew that later on, I wouldn’t be so lucky behind closed doors.

As a kid, the worst part of the Holiday Inn, was that the rooms did not have TVs. BUT, we almost always got a room facing the pool, and I lived in the pool, walked on the beach, snorkeled with dreams of grandeur that Jacques Cousteau himself would show up and offer me a position aboard the Calypso. I think I have been to Cayman six or seven times in my life. The last time was 14 years ago.

I LOVED snorkeling, but one day I decided to try something new and talked my Dad into renting me a windsurfer for an hour. Mind you, I HATED sailing (love the concept of sailing, but have a HUGE fear of capsizing) and never really learned how to sail. We owned a sailboat growing up on Lake Maitland, but I think I went out in it maybe a couple of times. My Dad attempted to show me the ropes of sailing, but yeah, nope, to this day, I do not understand the science of sailing in a straight line and tacking.

OH CRAP, I sorta just gave away one huge memory that stands out. So, my Dad paid the money to rent me the windsurfer. I don’t remember if I was wearing a lifevest ot not. Hey, Cayman was laid back. I knew how to surf, I was born to surf, and ever since I was knee-high to a tadpole, I was a blond-haired beach bum surfing kid. I LOVE surfing, so, really, how hard could windsurfing really be?

Well, REALLY FRIGGIN’ HARD, especially after falling off the board a couple of times. I wasn’t that tall, and though I had muscles, I was still pretty thin. So yeah, imagine this skrawny kid trying to pull the damn sail out of the water a few times. Those things don’t sink due to a styrofoam ball on top of the mast, but still, fall off a few times, and you get tired FAST. At one point, the clouds parted, rays of sun were showing off my building muscles, and I was booking, BACKWARDS, as in further and further from shore. WHAT THE FUCK!! Does that prove my level of frustration? HA! But being determined, I tried my best to go forward, TOWARDS the beach, but nooooo, the gearshift was stuck in reverse. I was pissed with myself. I lived on a lake for gosh sakes, I should know how to do this!! I tried a few more times, falling off each time. Oh, this is probably a good place to mention that I have had balancing issues my entire life.

I decided to just relax, not panic, and lay out on the board. There was a moment that I thought about just paddling in, but if I tell you I was a mile offshore, I probably was. There was a slight breeze pushing me towards Cuba. Close enough that Fidel’s Navy spotted me with binoculars. No, not really, but seriously, the Holiday Inn was getting smaller and smaller by the minute.

WARNING: PAYWALL AHEAD!
I have been putting my plea for help moving back closer to be with my two children at the end of my chapters, but someone smacked me on the head saying, “DUDE! Only your PAID subscribers get the entire chapter! Your readers are already used to seeing photos every couple of paragraphs (unless you are a FREE subscriber, then you only see two).” OK, fine, I admit it, the head smacker was moi, but you get the point.

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Hello everyone, I am quite sorry that this chapter took me so long to get out of my head. I went off the rails several times, and deleted multiple paragraphs over the past few weeks. I appreciate every one of you, and the time you devote to reading my chapters. Even the free subscribers (who I would love to become actual paid subscribers, hint, hint), because you want to learn why I have been #adoptingweirdness since a child as a coping mechanism.

Quick backstory to my life of being adopted (aka purchased) by a Jewish husband and wife. MARK! Why the hell do you say such a thing! You were NOT purchased, but adopted into a (as Fran Lepow would love for you to always believe) “loving” family being created by Neil and Fran Lepow. For one thing, Fran and Neil Lepow paid the medical and legal bills surrounding my birth and, of course, the legal bill for my adoption. So, you tell me how I wasn’t a mere business transaction.

I’m not even going to delve into the hell I lived for decades at the hands and mouths of the Lepows, I have typed about that already, with more details to come, eventually.

No, today is going to be about how someone who was raised to believe they were the most chosen of the chosen people views “No Other Land”.

I have been to Israel three times in my adult life, and my views of Israel dramatically changed when I witnessed the bullshit that modern Israel is doing under the promises made via that ever-popular refrain “Never Forget, Never Again”.

It is probably the best time for me to add that this is NOT a movie review. After a couple of years of not finding a distributor in the States, the producers announced on October 23, 2025, that they would take a unique approach in the States and self-distribute (Deadline article about this). You have to remember that when No Other Land was shown at a theater in Miami Beach, the mayor threatened to close the place down (NPR story about this), referring to the documentary as anti-Semitic.

To make it REALLY easy for you to do the most basic research for No Other Land, if you click HERE or on the caption below, you will be able to download the press kit used to promote No Other Land at the 2024 Berlin Film Festival.

What is it about this documentary that was stirring the proverbial pot that is America, which supposedly is the “Melting Pot” of the world? Here is a huge hint: it proves what Palestinians have been saying for years, though many in the States refuse to believe it, because they do not see the footage due to one reason or another. Notice how I’m not saying “the Jews” prevented you from seeing this, but, well, do your own research and you will see why we were not easily able to view this until late 2025.

I grew up watching movies about the birth of Israel, including the building of collectives known as Kibbutzim (plural for kibbutz). It was as if all these kibbutzim had a role to play in keeping Israel alive. There were ones that grew citrus, others were farms, others were dairy, some industrial so that Israel could start exporting items to raise cash. They all had a role to play.

One of my dad’s cousins moved to Israel decades ago, and his kibbutz is located in the Golan Heights. Their main source of income was from sports and hospitality. I visited Kfar Blum for a day and was constantly reminded about how close we were to Lebanon, and shown where to go if we heard sirens going off. Yep, welcome to the vaunted land of milk and honey y’all. Kfar Blum sits less than six miles from the nearest border with Lebanon.

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Then, for our safety, we needed to head back to Haifa before nightfall. Luckily, no rockets were launched that evening, but were the next day, and sadly it was a common occurrence.

I also have a cousin who is a couple years younger than me, who immigrated to Israel, and over time became quite religious. He divorced, remarried, and has a large and deeply religious family. Since I am all but cut off from most of the Lepow/Gottlieb family, I think my cousin has moved his family back to the States, but am not sure.

During one of my trips to Israel, he boasted about how he was provided with housing in a new settlement, which, post-October 7th, I found out was roughly 5km from the Nova Music Festival. As told by a relative who still speaks with me, my cousin’s settlement was close enough that it was supposedly going to be attacked, but for whatever reason wasn’t. Most likely that was his “final straw” that helped him decide to move back to the States. Again, I have not talked to him or members of his family since October 9th, when I was trying to get an update post October 7th, when the Gottleibs were in Israel for another wedding. Whose wedding, I have no clue.

OK Mark, get back on track dude.

So, you know how we all have seen photos and videos of what German soldiers did during WWII? I’m not talking about the mass murder of people here folks, but the dehumanizing actions towards various groups of people by another. One group of people just wanting to live their lives and be left alone, and another, which is a much larger and well-armed group wanting everything they own, and at times, to eradicate them from their land. I say “various” because we all also know that while the Jews of Europe suffered the most under Hitler, they were not the only ones who suffered his wrath for not being up to Aryan standards.

Imagine a government that said your home, screw it, your entire community, one that your grandparents and probably their grandparents nurtured was now needed for a tank training facility. Now imagine the military, who already see themselves as superior to you, given orders to get you off the land by any means necessary. Without telling you where to go because there is no place to go.

Though you protest and march, the military still arrives to destroy your homes and property, forcing you to live in caves, on YOUR land, just like your ancestors did. Israeli settlers eventually become your neighbors (which blows holes into the lie about needing the land for live-fire military training, but not in a “do you have a cup of sugar” way, but in the “we have guns, get the hell off OUR land, land that our God promised us in the torah” kind of way. The IDF eventually goes as far as to pour cement into your sole water well. Why? Because according to Israel, the well is unpermitted, yet, according to the villagers, Israel won’t provide them with permits.

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So, yes, it is hard to watch No Over Land because there are videos of the IDF doing crap to people for no other reason than to torment them. Yes, it is also a very vivid story told by two friends, one Israeli and the other Palestinian.

Note to my friends and family who are Israeli flag wavers. YES, Israel was born from the ashes of the Holocaust, yes, Israel has flourished for many years, with financial aid from America and other countries. Our taxes fund Israel. So, here is my challenge to you, watch No Other Land at least TWICE, and then tell me that what the IDF is doing is morally sound. How would Moses or Rabbi Akebah view the actions as presented? You know damn well the IDF is not behaving morally. Of course, the murder of six million is used as the precursor for a perverse style of defense. Israel treating anyone who is not of the Jewish faith, people who systimaticaly area viewed and treated worse than dirt, is exactly how groups like Hamas can get Gazans to sign up for missions similar to October 7th.

The main camera work portion of No Other Land was complete just prior to October 7th. So, spare me the tears that the IDF was trying to “secure” Israel.

Palestinians have said for years, decades even, that they have faced persecution from the government of Israel and citizens who know that they can get away with it.

Israel uses moments in history as their excuse for attacking those who they claim are complicit in violence against Israel. It is hard for most of the “Western” world to understand being raised in what amounts to refugee camps under the thumb of authoritarian regimes who think they know better than you.

Fast forward to October 7th, 2023, we all know what took place, beginning at the Nova Music Festival. Having grown up in the music industry and having attended many music festivals, yes, I did see myself as being part of that festival, and imagined how I would have reacted. Yes, Hamas admitted to being behind the attack that has become known as the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust.

Though it was 11:30pm on October 6th US East Coast time when the attacks started, I really do not remember what I was doing when I saw the first reports via both social media posts/stories and news notifications, but I knew that this wasn’t going to end well, and most likely that the festival was the target. I was wrong, this was an estimated 6,000 person strong attack on Israel.

So, again, we all know about the stories that broke over the next few days, and how officially over the next 20 days Israel had amassed 350k soldiers and began their retaliation attacks on Hamas.

Israel had the world’s empathy for what happened on October 7th. But within a few weeks, they had pretty much flushed it down the toilet. That is when they started their counter-attacks on Gaza with the guise of getting rid of every last Hamas terrorist. It was stated that anyone living in Gaza approved of Hamas and would be dealt with accordingly. That is like saying that just because you live in Sicily, Italy, you approve of the mafia. Or, simply because you live in the States, you approve of what Donald J. Trump, aka Mango Mussolini, is doing.

Anyone remember seeing the footage of those miles and miles of tunnels built under Gaza? Or the terrorist HQs, as Israel likes to refer to them, hidden under hospitals? Don’t you remember proof of the tunnels? Yeah, neither do I BEYOND a couple of days after people started to question that line being fed to us by Israel. The terrorist HQs turned out to be a few caches of guns, not bazooka, etc, but pistols, and the like. Sure, they are weapons of death, but to Israel they were wayyy more.

Israel has used what took place during the Holocaust as justification for their genocide of people based on where they live. In this case, the people of Gaza, regardless of the age of the person, which to me is sickening. I am NOT stating that Israel, prior to October 7th didn’t do it, but October 7th, the Holocaust took a back seat. In their defense, they told Americans that it would be like 41,000 people dying in one attack here in the States.

SPOLIER ALERT: It was NEVER about creating a live-fire practice area for the military but setting aside land for future Jewish settlements.

Until chapter 63, which will be something lighter in tone. Why? This chapter took me weeks to get out of my head without going completely off the rails, so to speak. Remember, I’m the blonde-haired kid with blue eyes who somehow was ALWAYS selected to portray either the entire Nazi regime, or, with a painted-on rectangular moustache, Hitler himself. OY VEY!

Before I close out this chapter, there are two items not related to the subject that I want to share. My dear friend Laura Sands is battling cancer and could use your help. She is just a few hundred dollars away from her GoFundMe goal, so please, if you can…

Then there is my personal goal, on both GoFundMe and SpotFund. I’m asking for help to move closer to my kids. They need me in their life, and I want to be with them.

Until chapter 63, which I promise will be back to being filled with original photos of mine, and who knows, maybe an update to the music I’ve been listening to, or something completely different.

I appreciate every one of you, and am very grateful you are here.
Mark

For the record, I honestly can count on one finger, and NO, not my middle one, how many times I saw my Dad get pissed in public. OK, actually, three times, but one was an argument with Fran, and the other was when he literally threw everything out of a rental car searching for a god damn mint lifesaver that Fran swore she had passed back. But yet none of us had minty breath. I had asked for mine when she said I already got one.

As much as I should vilify him, and I have typed about SOME of what he did to me, though not in graphic detail, yes, he apologized and I accepted it. David never did, and Fran, well, Fran refuses to admit anything happened. I focus on Fran so much, not because she is my mom, but because she was so vicious in her ways.

Fran became upset in public one day when someone was a split second or so off in serving her needs.

Seriously Mark? Yep! But the best part is that it happened during a “business expense write-off” meal with several optical industry leaders.

The meal in question took place during the American Academy of Ophthalmology Annual Meeting in Orlando in 1999. My dad loved showing off the finer dining places around Orlando, and ever since I can remember, learning “how to behave” at nice restaurants (or get taken outside, which was the preamble to getting roughed up or all out tripping over my own feet heading to the door.

For my Central Florida natives, does Freddy’s, the Villa Nova, “Mason Jar” which was the nickname for Maison et Jardin which was THE FINEST in Central Florida dining for years, and a few other places. I always “behaved” at those places because even back then, I knew food. LOL.

OK, OK, I’ll put the ladle down and get back on track.

So, around this large round table, situated near the middle of the room, were the Lepows, and several owners of the companies we bought products from. We are talking people my parents watched grow up to eventually run the company THEIR parents built. Gee, sound familar. Also in the restaurant, but not sitting at our table, other familiar optical industry leaders. A tidbit of business advice that my Dad instilled in me, never allow any one company be responsible for more than 10% of your bottom line. Of course FOSCO was responible for at least 50% of several companies bottom line, and abused that to the hilt. At one point while I was the marketing director, we were by far the highhest by dollar amout, advertiser in the optical industry. Tipping in our 48 page catalogue into several publications didn’t hurt in getting us that

A very quick backstory about Franel Optical Supply, my parents built the company from scratch. They started it in the 1960s, clawing every inch of the way. Dad was the face of the company, for many years the sole salesman on the road, etc, and my mom “ran” the company. Though she never admitted it, think of Fran Lepow as someone

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Many years ago, back when a new generation was rediscovering swing dancing, ok, Gen-X, I was part of a group that hung out at Disney’s Atlantic Dance Hall when they hosted their 2x (or 3x) a week swing nights. My Nikons and I captured the entertainers, including Michael Andrew. Who, BTW, portrayed Jerry Lewis on Broadway in “The Nutty Professor”, directed by Jerry Lewis. That little show is but one of Michael’s many credits.

OK, Mark, you are barely a paragraph in, and you are already going down a road not related to the title of this chapter. Am I really? Are you sure? Of course not, because you are not in my head, and well, awesome memories are flooding back, and I have to fight them (as I add them to my list of chapter ideas, or at least a paragraph or two mention in my phone’s Notes app.

So, to get back on track, here I am, in a very small group of people, several of whom I know from other clubs, or professionally, and a couple of Atlantic Dance Hall staff. This exclusive afterhours little get-together started a few weeks prior to my being invited in. Of course, copious amounts of alcohol were provided via “the Mouse”. That night, we were test subjects for some potentially new cocktails. After a few rounds, I mentioned how I wouldn’t be able to drive home soon, and one of my friends (who worked for “the Mouse”) told me not to worry about it, she could get us a room. Ummm, ooookkkk. Eventually, the taste testing descended into a place where the bartender was just mixing liquor that we mentioned, “I wonder how this and that would taste...” Our taste buds were, of course, trashed by that point.

Sorry, one quick detour down memory lane, one of my many haunts back then was the Hard Rock Cafe. It was me and my laptop, and I preferred to have my meal upstairs, next to the railing. Had a great view of the entire main floor, and I was sorta out of the tumult. I would wait for one of those tables by sitting at the bar. For whatever reason, back then, I liked double shots of Jägermeister and a shot of actual grapefruit juice. In

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Back in January, I sent a very short “Happy Birthday” text to Fran Lepow, aka my adopted mom. She replied, “Thank You”. I wrote about it in Chapter 50, and to this day, I am still amazed that she replied after years of no response.

This year, for Mother’s Day, I broke with tradition and only sent her a text. Why? Well, I actually forgot it was Mother’s Day until after dinner when someone asked me if I had contacted Fran yet.

Knowing that Fran was most likely at home and not out having dinner with loved ones, I decided not to call her for the same reason I refuse to talk with her over the phone in general; no transcript of the call would exist. At least in texts, there is clear and concise proof of what was said. As you can see, she did not acknowledge it. Am I hurt? NOPE! I sorta expected it.

Before all you super sleuths start dissecting my text and then ask why I included Jan in the text, well, without getting into some murky legal water, Fran and Jan have become quite close over the past year, and I am sure Fran would share the text with her. Why not text Jan directly? She blocked me long ago for standing up to her during a family meal when she went ballistic over cousins who were laughing outside, while, oh hell nah, but acting like, drum roll please, KIDS! LIKE KIDS DO WHEN THEY ARE OUTSIDE!

Hey Mark, why are you being so coy all of a sudden? Well, to steal a lyric from Phil Collins’ song, “In the Air Tonight”, “…Well, I was there and I saw what you did, I saw it with my own two eyes…” WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN MARK!! Well, have you not read my entire substack, I mention several episodes where based on parenting statistics, I should have turned into a total multiple-disciplined abuser and narcissist at the very least.

If you have no idea what song I am typing about, check out this video from the first episode of Miami Vice.

I admit that I yelled at my children a couple of times, and was because they were screaming at each other so I had to bellow to be heard. But I NEVER punished them in ANY actual physical fashion that resembled how Fran or Neil Lepow punished me.

To keep this chapter short, I am not going to do a deep dive into the methods used by Fran Lepow or Neil Lepow, plus, if you have read my previous chapters, you have read about some of the horrors.

I know my brother David was severely physically and to a point, mentally abused by both Fran and Neil. I really wish he were here to back up my claims of abuse. But even if he was, I don’t know if he would, due to the abuse he did to me or allowed his friends to do to me. Need a hint, I NEVER bought the “official” backstory about how David received a nasty burn on his shoulder as a baby. I will talk about that in a future chapter. The scars were not in the form of a water heater, but more like hot water poured on him. I wasn’t born yet, so I have no idea.

I always felt that David’s aversion to not wanting kids of his own was because he was too scared to become the monsters that Neil and Fran were.

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HEY MARK, this chapter ain’t so short anymore. Yeah, I know, but I’m about to wrap it up. UPDATE: Well, that was the hope as I was typing this out, but as you will soon find out, there are eight more paragraphs ahead.

So, why the fuck did I just type out this chapter? Because I fully grasp that eventually I might have to give a deposition about how I was raised, possibly have portions of this substack read into the record so to speak, and with my own words, while I am slowly destorying one person’s public reputation by exposing deep dark family secrets (but I also have it from several reliable sources that my stay at 3 West is being used against me as an excuse to not beleive anything I say), it plays into helping someone else explain why they became what they did, and that totally pisses me off.

I BROKE THE CYCLE, SO I KNOW IT CAN BE DONE! AS MESSED UP AS FRAN AND NEIL LEPOW WERE AS PARENTS, they tried in their own sick way to teach us right from wrong.

BTW, before any of the friends and or relatives that Fran or Jan’s have left choose to possibly defend either Fran’s or Jan’s activities over the past 18 months or so, sure, I will freely admit I would have appreciated $125k worth of financial aid via an insurance trust that was set up by Neil Lepow well before he died.

But instead, I have to create a GoFundMe and a SpotFund campaign in hopes of raising the money I need to move back to Winter Garden, FL, and several medical issues prevent me from working outside the home, yet I do not qualify for SSI. I DO APPLY FOR WORK DAILY, but the rejection letters come in as fast as I apply.

Sure, I wasn’t the son who made Neil and Fran proud because I wasn’t the son who served his country via military service (though I did serve my country in other ways), nor did I provide them with their first Jewish grandchild. I know that they WERE proud when people saw my name in the photo credit for an article in USA Today or other media outlets.

In closing, hey, hey, hey, stop with the applause, for the readers who just found out about this substack, welcome. As you can see, I do not mince words, and while I am off of my weekly publication goal, in the background, I have dozens of chapters waiting to be finished.

If you enjoyed this FREE chapter, please consider becoming a PAID subscriber. Right now, TopSurveys (affiliate link) and this substack are my main sources of income. Combined, they help me pay a bill or two monthly, or put food on my plate when SNAP runs out.

Thank you for your interest in how I’ve been #adoptingweirdness throughout my life. Is it a defense mechanism, of course it is.

Until my next chapter, which is also my age, 60, I’ll be the one fretting over which chapter to finish so that y’all don’t think I don’t appreciate you.

Mark

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PS, Trivia time:
Q: Which letter does not appear in any of the names that make up the fifty United States of America?

A: The letter is “Q”.

Unless otherwise noted, all photos in this chapter are by Mark Lepow, all rights reserved.

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Part 1: Mark’s most “Only You Mark” day in court:
Yes, this man who proudly drives like a grandpa nowadays, actually, ever since my first child was on their way, used to collect speeding tickets like paper collecting, well, you know how the cliché goes.

The worst speeding ticket I received was a day or two before my 20th birthday, when I was on my way to DC for my friend who talked me into auditioning for Disney earlier that Summer. (Read Chapter 24 to refresh your memory on how we met.) I was attending Florida Institute of Technology’s Jensen Beach campus, and Miami International Airport was 120 miles away, give or take a few feet. So, I hopped into my VW Scirocco and headed south via I-95. I decided that since there wasn’t that much traffic, it was a great time to floor it. I was cruising along at 120mph when the flashing blue lights started flashing in the distance behind me. I just assumed they were coming for me, so being the polite idiot that I am, I just pulled over.

The FHP officer asked me why I was doing 120mph as I handed him my driver’s license and registration without him asking for the items. I told him I was on the way to MIA to fly to DC to cover an event. PS, Princess Di and Charles visiting DC was all over the news. For the record, I NEVER SAID I WAS COVERING THEIR VISIT. He asked me to prove it, and I showed him my tickets. He still wrote me a ticket, but severely below what it should have been. Of course, he told me to keep it UNDER the speed limit for now on.

If you read Chapter 54, you already know that during a road trip to see the Pacific Ocean (via Steamboat Springs, Colorado) that I took a few months later, I collected two more tickets.

Mark, for the love of all that is German engineering, what the hell does this have to do with your day in court? Get back on track, please!

So, a few tickets later, ok, a dozen or so over maybe the next decade, and yes, I lost my DL for a few months in my mid 20s, which sucked big time, and sorta what helped me become the Carl (think the guy in UP!) type of driver that I am today.

One of those tickets caused me to go before the judge. I do not remember why, but my Dad drove me to court. For my international readers, in Florida, and most of the States, county courthouse judges oversee a mighty wide gamut as far as offenses are concerned. Sure, there are the judges that only deal with people in jail, and their trials are via video, but the in-person judges, well, name it, and they probably sat in a hearing for it.

My morning was spent with roughly 100 other people with cases before the judge. Many were traffic infractions, ranging from speeding, ignoring a traffic control device (running a red light/stop sign, etc), up to pretty serious “alleged” criminal activity. Your charge(s) did not dictate when you were called, nor did they call us in alphabetical or any type of predictable order.

It was obvious from the start that the judge did not take traffic infractions lightly. One of the first people called was fighting a speeding ticket. We will just say they were doing 60 in a 55. The defendant’s plea was that they were within the “grace area” or whatever the mythical speeding range was. The judge asked if they knew that they were going faster than 55mph. They said yes, he found them guilty. The ticket stood PLUS; now they owed court costs. Other traffic cases ended like this.

During downtime between cases, or maybe during early cases, I really do not remember, but I struck up a conversation with the woman sitting next to me. At first, we were just writing on a piece of paper back and forth. Then we barely whispered, and only between cases. We were bored, and it helped pass the time. This went on for maybe 45 minutes here and there.

But then, as the field of defendants dwindled, one of the bailiffs and my Dad appeared next to me. The bailiff motioned for me to come with him. So I did, out of the courtroom and into the hallway. He pretty much said, “Look, I realize you are bored, but do you know who is sitting next to you?” No, sir, why? “Well, I just need you to

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Hello everyone. Roughly a year ago, I posted a chapter about my desire to take one last major trip, to finally make it to New Zealand (NZ). I created a GoFundMe (GFM) campaign knowing that it was going to be very hard to convince people as to why I was leaving my life here in Florida, which includes the two most important people in my life, my son and daughter, and take what most likely could have been a one-way flight to NZ.

As all of you know, unless you haven’t read my Substack profile, I’m battling against stage five kidney failure, which means I will be on dialysis. Kidneys DO NOT “GET BETTER”; I can merely slow the progress towards complete kidney failure.

Over the last year, my energy level has decreased, leaving me quite drained, both mentally and physically. One VERY easy way to see this in action is this substack. Yes, these chapters take me a few days to mentally compose and tap out on my keyboard. Plus, find the images that I feature throughout the chapter.

However, I also know that if I stop watching what I eat and start eating real red meat (like steaks, not ground beef), most seafood, green leafy vegetables, and drinking glasses of wine or stronger adult beverages, my kidneys will fail very soon after. Think within a couple of weeks or months.

I know you might be thinking, “Hey Mark, why haven’t they failed yet?” Well, I made radical changes to my diet. That means my urologist told me to reduce my potassium intake to a mere 900mg a day. That is 78% less potassium than the recommended daily allowance. BTW, a slice of decent cheese is anywhere from 60-90mg. A bagel starts around 90mg. Add roughly 50mg if cream cheese is involved. It adds up fast. Toss in that I am anemic and need all the iron I can get, and because I no longer have a gallbladder, fatty food (good or bad) isn’t always my friend.

I drink plenty of water, coffee, and a chai that I created, and to me has helped keep the yucky numbers in check, though UTIs have been happening more frequently once again. In a small ceramic crock or whatever this thing is called, after adding 600ml of water, I put in 6 cinnamon sticks, roughly 30 whole cloves, a small cap full or two of pure vanilla extract, and then either mint extract or peppermint extract. The mint/peppermint is solely so that as the chai boils the kitchen and other immediate areas smell so good.

The cinnamon sticks and whole cloves are wonderful antioxidants and help fight inflammation. I forget when I first started doing this, maybe three years ago when all my bad numbers were starting to rapidly get worse after plateauing in the middle range.

Now my eGFR numbers skate in the low stage four, (lower the number the closer to stage five and complete kidney failure) and it is mostly related to my diet. However,, the eGFR and other markers are very close to if not worse than they were when I found out in November 2022.

Over the years, I have met people who were fighting kidney failure, and almost every one of them, after they began dialysis, their body changed (and not always for the positive), their facial features changed, and while YES, their life was prolonged, what type of life is being wiped out after having dialysis, then hopefully recouping the next day, having a good day, and then another procedure. Sometimes it is dialysis, recoup day, dialysis, repeat.

I still do not want my daughter and son to see me like that. I will not go into why, those suffice part of it is that they have had multiple deaths of loved ones over the past couple of years, and to me, it would have just been easier on them if I went away providing them the luxury of seeing me as healthy as I would be, instead of seeing me after a few months on dialysis.

YES, I know for most people, kidney disease is not a life sentence. However, in my case, my kidneys are damaged enough that while dialysis might prolong my life a year or two, and yes, I would be on the kidney transplant list, and hoping for a miracle.

Then, in July 2025, while the three of us were at Disney, a massive frying pan hit me upside the head. My kids really do need me, their Dad. BTW, this trip was a gift from their mom while she was celebrating her birthday on a trip with a friend. She arranged for discounted tickets and a room via one of my son’s friends’ mom, who is a career-long Disney Cast Member.

My daughter got serious one night while the three of us were walking around a resort, and she told me, while holding my hand, that she didn’t want me to go to NZ to die. Gut ounch anyone. She told me how I didn’t know anyone there, and I would die alone. She knows that is one of my worst nightmares.

I tried to explain how I actually did know people there, and through several of them, I had built a medical support team in case I had to go to the hospital. DAD! Me and Bro-Bro (her nickname for her brother, in case you couldn’t figure it out) need you here! I rebutted with how their mom was an incredible person, and they would be fine. DAD! WE WANT YOU TO STAY! I got her point loud and clear.

My daughter reiterated this over our mutual birthday celebration in November. She asked me if I had found a place to live near them. I told her it was nearly impossible to find a place without a job and income. We left it at that. She asked me again over Christmas.

My son and I FaceTime daily, and while at times it may only be for a few minutes, often it is an hour or more. Especially if we are playing certain video games together. Unfortunately, my contact with my daughter is less, however, like me (and maybe to some degree because of me) she is huge into many sports so we watch them on our tvs respectively and joke around. Unless it is NASCAR/F1, then the three of us are joking around while we watch the race.

They both know I am quite proud of them and love them deeply.

Living back near them will also provide their mom and grandma (who lives with them) some relief, and allow them to have more personal time. Their mom and I are civil. We were married for 17 years, and I have explained the majority of my role in the divorce in several previous chapters.

In late November 2022, I was hospitalized with stage five renal failure. Through aggressive hydration and lots of medications over the next week, they were able to get my blood levels to a safe range, yet still quite serious. I left the hospital with two kidney drainage tubes directly attached to my kidneys. Not only did the tubes prevent me from performing physical work, including photography, because I had to be extremely careful about not sweating, but the urine in the collection bags had to be emptied every hour or so.

So what happened when I cannot afford to help pay the rent or bills? I moved in with my step-sister who lives SW of Jacksonville. I became her nanny, handyman, and uncle to her two granddaughters and their mom, all of whom lived with her. I sleep upright on the couch, cook their dinner, do the grocery shopping, clean the house, etc instead of paying rent. YES, I have looked up and down, far and wide, for a job up here. At one point I had applied to over 500 places, both for onsite and working from home, and YES, there were times when I applied at let’s just say 3pm, and at 3:01pm received the “thank you, however we are moving forward in our search and appreciate the time it took for you to apply. Blah, blah blah, Good luck in landing your dream position. Blah, Blah, Blah.”

That all being said, it is time for me to find the way to make moving back to being closer to my kids happen. That means goodbye to New Zealand, and revamping my GFM campaign (and after a recent tragedy, starting a SpotFund campaign).

The main difference between the two companies is that GFM charges not only the standard transactional fees, but also takes a percentage of the actual amount donated. SF only charges the transactional fees, with 100% of the donation going to the recipent.

By the time you have read this, that will have happened. PLEASE, any amount will help. Yes, after a lifetime spent helping others with no expectation of acknowledgement in return, I know I was being selfish in attempting to go to New Zealand, but my kids need me in their lives. No, this will not help my kidneys, however, I am much less stressed around my kids than I am up here. I fully appreciate what my step-sister has done for me, but my kids need me and I need them.

The short term goal is to rent a place for six weeks to get me back to Winter Garden and then find a job near the Plant Street area of WG.

The GoFundMe URL is: https://gofund.me/9d8f56048
The SpotFund URL is: http://spot.fund/hgr8wwxsc

A monthly subscription to my substack (MarkLepow.substack.com) is $5.00, with the yearly rate being $50.00.

For every $5.00 you donate, regardless of which URL, I will comp you a month of my substack, which will grant you access to my archives, as well as non-paywalled access to future chapters for as many months as you have donated.

For donations over $55.00, I will provide you with a year of complementary reading. Not only will you also have access to the archives, but non-paywalled access to future chapters for a year.

My immediate plan is to find an Airbnb for six weeks near the West Orange Trail so that I can ride my bike to be with my kids. Quick searches have shown me they run from $2,000-$2,400 a month. The West Orange Trail offers safe (and vehicle-free) access to downtown Winter Garden, where I WILL find a job. I also have feelers out for space to start teaching photography as I did a decade ago when I was an instructor for Crealdé School of Art.

So please, at the very least, can you spare $5.00 to help me get back closer to my son and daughter?

Humbly and appreciative,
Mark

Unless otherwise mentioned, all photos in this chapter were created by Mark Lepow, and he retains all rights to these images.

Hello everyone, the last month or so has been almost pure hell for me. Actually, since mid-October. How do I know “mid-October”? Because that is when John McDougall took his life. I think the number of people I have considered friends or loved ones who have committed suicide is right around 13 now. Lucky me. This does not include people I have known who OD’d, for that is harder to create a statistic around unless it is quite obvious (empty rx bottles nearby, needle in their vein, that kind of stuff).

NOTE: This chapter has taken me multiple months to get out of my head.

My youth, read that as the single-digit years, was spent figuring that if a family member told me that they loved me, I was about to be sexually assaulted or beaten the shit out of. Or they said it soon after they were done doing their harm to me. Sometimes with tears in their eyes.

So please forgive me when I tell you that when my teachers said that they loved me, I recoiled. I probably recoiled from ANYONE who told me that, but I really only remember my teachers telling me that they loved me. Of course, Neil, Fran, and David Lepow all told me they loved me. Yes, Uncles, Aunts, Cousins, Grandparents, etc told me as well, and no, I did not recoil when they did.

I was in fifth or sixth grade when, during a Mother’s Day band concert with several Orange County Elementary Schools, a friend, Michelle Berman, told me that Robin Kramer (RIP) thought I was cute. I had absolutely no reference for what to do next. What was being shown on TV at that time was not exactly the best role model.

Hell, at first I didn’t even believe Michelle. I was confused as to why Robin wouldn’t tell me herself (I found out later from her that she was just as introverted and nervous about all this as I was). It wasn’t like I was going to bite her. I didn’t know it at the time, but the two of them were close friends. The three of us hung out most of that Summer, which was easy because we saw each other daily during Summer Camp at the JCC in Maitland. True, I could have told her how I felt first, but well, this chapter hopefully might just explain why I couldn’t do that.

Yes, Robin and I eventually had a label, albeit, though it didn’t last long. She said the L word first and sensed that I was confused or scared, but not for the reason she thought. I figured that the proverbial shoe was about to fall, and I was going to get massively hurt. Hearing her say “I love you” was totally confusing. BUT I wanted to keep it as innocent as possible because maybe this was what people called “puppy love”. Plus, this was the first relationship I had where, sadly, I knew things that young teens really shouldn’t know, and in that confusion, I forced myself to pretend not to know how to kiss or how to touch someone beyond friends.

Sadly, Robin accused me of dating someone else because how would I know about those just hinted at things unless someone had shown me! Yes, thanks, Mom, for all that info. Seriously, there is no way to prove that I was innocent. One thing I have told every woman I have dated is that the majority, ok, pretty much ALL of my friends are females. Even when Kathy and I were raising the kids in the suburbs of Winter Garden, I was an “honorary mom” in the eyes of many of our neighbors. To the point that when the moms needed someone to talk with for advice or just an ear to get stuff off their chest, they admitted to calling me. They knew I was a judgment-free zone, and whatever they told me stayed between us.

Fran Lepow, aka my adopted mom, used to proclaim how I couldn’t keep a secret. Really? I kept the secrets of the locked away from public view, a tome called the “Secrets of the Lepow Family” for many decades. I could have had my worthless check felony charge dropped had I provided information about Franel and several employees, but I didn’t want our family name to be dragged through the dirt like how the Williams family was (Google search “Champ Williams Tax Evasion Case”). The two biggest differences were that the skimming of Franel profits by my parents was not in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, nor did they bury large sums of money in the backyard. Though I’m pretty sure that is why we travelled to Grand Cayman multiple times as a family, or Fran and Neil by themselves. Heck, I wouldn’t put it past Fran to have asked Jan to “make a delivery” while on her honeymoon to the island.

Of course, I could be wrong, sure, they could have been simple family vacations to deliver ophthalmic equipment to the one and only eyecare professional on the island, but, as a kid, I found the bankbooks, which were hidden in Mom and Dad’s dresser drawers.

Now I couldn't care less about the tome called “Secrets of the Lepow Family”. But Fran, I know you have at least one friend as a subscriber. Don’t worry, I’m not ready to

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Hello everyone, no, this is NOT a deep and meaningful memory, but one that reminds me that you can NEVER judge someone by their accent.

So, for my new readers, my adopted parents, Fran and Neil Lepow were from Newark, NJ, and Brooklyn, NY respectively. Fran doesn’t have a “Jersey” accent, but my Dad, oy, did he cross off so many stereotypes as soon as he spoke. Of course, over the years he lost most of his accent, until we would go back to “The City” for industry trade shows, then he was back home and a typical New Yorker.

My accent is a mixture of New York, Surfer Dude, and well, “American”. I REFUSE TO TALK LOUD, and try very hard to do “Speak softly” though the big stick thing, ehh, not so much, but I never over state my abilities. I don’t make threats/promises I can’t keep. BUT I REFUSE TO SOUND LIKE OR COME OFF AS A BULLY. Far from it. But yell/scream at me, and join the list of MAYBE a half dozen people who have heard my voice turned to ten. Then I’ll lower it knowing that you will need to shut the hell up to understand what I am saying.

Several decades ago, I dated a woman twice my age, (I talked about this relationship in Chapter 15), and at some point we started to investigate buying a home together (to have that level of wealth again), and one of the locations we liked was Heathrow, FL (the town built by Jeno Paulucci with money he made from selling Chun King and Jeno’s Pizza Rolls).

So, one sunny day we drove from Palm Harbour (where she lived) to Lake Mary (a mere 124 mile trip) to go look at homes. We had planned on it being a day trip of sorts.

Finding the main real estate office was easy enough. After the realtor offered us complimentary mimosas, we were being driven around in his Mercedes Benz Sedan while he bragged about the amenities that Heathrow offered to the residents.

Shirley and I both made sure to state that we did not want a stick built home. This did not seem to be an issue for Ronny the Realtor (ficticous name). However the first few homes he drove us to were clearly stick built.

As we drove to yet another home under construction, I asked him why so many of the homes in Heathrow were stick built. His nearly verbatim response was, “Well Mark, here in Florida, between the humidity during the Summer accompanied with the high

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Hello friends,
As many of you already know, I LOVE to drive, yes, I really love to drive. Given enough leeway on the timeframe, I would 100% rather drive somewhere instead of flying.

In early 1986, after my roommate and I finished watching the weather report showing fresh snow in NW Colorado, I looked at her and mentioned how I may not be there in the morning. I wrote her a check for the next month’s rent and a guesstimate of what my portion of the utilities was going to be. She was confused, so I told her I miss snow-skiing, and in the morning, I was going to call the resort my former boarding school is located in and find out what the forecast was for in two days. For my new readers, I graduated from high school after attending the Lowell Whiteman School in Steamboat Springs, CO. The school is now called the Steamboat Mountain School. Same location.

I made that call way too early the next morning for Colorado, but by 8:30am Orlando time, I was on the road to Colorado in my 1984 VW Scirocco, manual transmission, black leather seats, and I do not remember at this point if it had a sunroof or not.

At 3pm, I was on the outskirts of New Orleans. Twelve hours later, I was on Lincoln Avenue in downtown Steamboat Springs, CO. Yes, I had done a bit more than the speed limit in parts, and yes, just south of the TX-OK border made a small donation to the State of Texas. As the officer told me, I was lucky he stopped me and not just over the border; he pointed out the OK patrol officer sitting on the side of the road a few hundred yards ahead. The OK highway patrol officer followed me across the panhandle. Even stopped for gas when I did.

Long story short, after spending a few days in Steamboat, I decided to go see some friends in Salt Lake City, because, why not, right? After a few days of powder skiing in Sundance and Park City, loaded the Scirocco and aimed it for the Pacific Ocean, well, Southern California to be sorta exact. That drive took a day. Only stayed there for a couple of days before I started to head back to Steamboat for a few more days of fresh (I hoped) powder.

Well, it wasn’t meant to be because as soon as I got back to school, they told me my Dad had called the day after I left, but since they had no clear idea where I was heading after Salt Lake City, just that I was planning to come back to the school on my way back.

Called my Dad from the hotel, and he told me in no uncertain terms to get my ass back home immediately because my Grandma was on her deathbed. I offered to leave the car at school, and if he paid for the ticket, I would fly back since it was an emergency. NOPE! Just get your ass back here immediately. You drove out there, drive back.

So, I aimed my car towards St. Louis, and when I got to I-75, I hung a right. LOL. I wish it were that easy. By the time I saw the Arch, the miles were taking a toll on me. I was washing down Vivarin pills with Mountain Dew to the point that when I got stopped for speeding in the middle of a straight arrow roadway for miles and miles in Kansas, the officer, who spent some time talking with me, and I told him I was on caffeine and why, he could see my hand shaking, and ripped up the ticket. He told me that he was going to follow me to the next exit and watch me check in to a motel. He would give me back my driver’s license at that point.

I thanked him and did as he instructed. I took a quick “disco nap”, yes, I was full of caffeine but still able to sleep, some.

Took a quick swim in the indoor pool and then checked out a little while later.

Nightfall found me somewhere in Kentucky. I did not like how my body was feeling, so I checked into a room that would be called “vintage” nowadays and crashed, in a good way. The next morning, I had my first experience dining at a Cracker Barrel.

To wrap this “why the hell am I writing this” portion of the chapter, no, my Grandma was not on her deathbed, but my Dad was super pissed that I drove to Colorado and

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Franel Optical Supply exhibited at many optical industry trade shows around the country, as well as in Milan, Italy. Hey, when you own a business, you used to be able to expense away family vacations as a “business expense”. We did a major trade show every couple of months. This did two things: getting our products in front of the people who use them daily, eye care professionals at all levels, and built upon my Dad Neil’s gift of schmoozing with everyone.

There are several things that I have to give Neil Lepow credit for. One, having the ability to convince his wife Fran to move from NJ & NY to late 1950s Florida on a hope and a dream. In the non-existent book called the Official History of the Lepow Family (as declared by Fran and Neil Lepow), it is written that my Dad’s Uncle Nathan, an eyeglass manufacturer in New York or New Jersey, gave my Dad a sample case of his company’s frames and told him you can move to California, Texas, or Florida, but he could not stay in the Tri-State Area. They chose Central Florida for several reasons, with the main one being that my Dad’s sister Miriam and her family lived here.

From the beginning, Fran ran the day-to-day portion of the business, and Dad was the salesman, throwing out his back every few months while carrying two American Tourister suitcases full of product to entice the doctors and office staff into buying. From the smallest of screws to high-end Italian porcelain statues of eye care professionals. They created this segment and pretty much owned it for many decades. Even our competition bought some of their items from Franel. We shipped our products around the world, and when Russia was starting to open up to capitalism, Franel was the wholesaler that the founder of the largest optical shops chose.

Walk with me as I tell you a quick story. We would load an airplane cargo unit with our shipping boxes, like dozens of these 3-4’ long at a minimum, and of course, we numbered the exterior of the boxes 1/__, 2/__, and so on. It was not unheard of for us to ship 30 of these at a time. We did this once a month or so for several years. Russia was corrupt as hell, and baksheesh was pretty much the norm. It was not unheard of for one of our boxes to grow legs and walk away after landing in Estonia or Moscow. Life magazine ran an article about how capitalism was doing well, and that flea markets were popping up on the weekends. Well, one of the photos showed a woman selling eyewear and other items. Behind her was a VERY familiar-looking carton. If you guessed it was one of our missing cartons, yep, give yourself a pat on the back. I showed it to my Dad, and we sorta chuckled about it.

As it became very obvious that Putin and Co were going to be the leaders, bribery got worse, stores started shutting down, and many capitalists wound up getting shot in elevators (we knew several of them). It was like EVERYONE was expected to pay “protection” money, and if you didn’t, well, say good night.

OK Mark, get back on track. To say my Dad was stereotyped as a New York Jew as soon as he spoke would be an understatement. However, he had the ability to sell ice to people in Alaska by explaining why they needed his type of ice.

One of the other talents my Dad developed over the years was being plugged into the best places to eat. Whether it was some backwater town in rural Florida or a village in Hong Kong’s New Territories. Or Milan, Tel Aviv, Petra, or New York City, my Dad knew where to go for a decent meal. Sure, some of his info came from factory reps who lived in those areas, but most of it was just instinct. I LOVED the places our factory reps chose. Why? Because they almost always shared places where the three of us were the only ones who spoke English. When it was just my Dad and I, we would take the waiter on a walk around the dining room and look at what others were having. I have yet to find a real night market that made the hairs on my neck stand up.

Uh, Mark, what does this have to do with Billy Crystal? Oh yeah, sorry. Have I mentioned I grew up in a Kosher home? No? Are you sure? Did you sleep and read through Chapter 5? The one titled, “Passover, Easter, & Me.” Yep, the one I talk about asking my orthodox Jewish Grandmother, who lived in Miami of all places, in a condo overlooking Biscayne Bay of all places, for a ham and cheese sandwich?

For “Jewish Soul Food” Orlando had Ronnie’s, Miami had Wolfie’s, Pumpernik’s, and Rascal House. NYC had the Stage Deli, the Carnegie Deli, and a place called Triplet’s. Most of these are now closed for various reasons. Oh, yeah, let’s pay homage to Katz’s, and yes, it is still alive and kicking, and no, you can’t get your corn beef lean! Actually, you probably can, but don’t be a whiny Goy and complain that it is “too dry”.

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Hello Friends,
Whether you have been part of my life for decades or just stumbled across this substack, you know that my life has not had the arc that most people have. Do I think that NO ONE has suffered at the hands of their loved ones as I have? NO. Do I think that means my abuse at the hands of others is 100% unique? Absolutely NOT! We all have our own struggles and victories. I just decided a couple of years ago to actually start putting my life, warts and all, online.

A few months ago, my step-sister asked me to pick her up some red and black flannel pants for herself, her daughter, and two granddaughters. She sent me a photo from the store’s website.

Look, y’all, I don’t buy new clothing until the current stuff rips. The last time I can remember buying clothing is maybe five years ago, when West Marine was having a sale on my favorite Hook & Tackle Beer Can shorts. Beyond that, I replace my sandals, which I pretty much live in, every six months.

To say I was getting flustered looking for the pants, as the PA was reminding me that the store was closing soon, was stressing me the fuck out. An employee came over and offered some much-appreciated help. Yes, we found what I was looking for, and as we did, we struck up a conversation. For once, it was me blabbering on about life, but this woman just started to unload. I DID NOT SAY WORD ONE ABOUT MY LIFE, but she was telling me some stuff that, umm, probably did not need to be told to a shopper. But there I was in the women’s clothing department listening to this elderly woman in front of me tell me about how she lived with her ex, had a dog, tried to live with her daughter after the divorce, but they didn’t get along, so she knocked on her ex’s front door. The front door she used to co-own.

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Hello friends,

My first roommate in boarding school, John, killed himself a few months ago, and while he is not even close to the first person I have personally known to commit suicide, John’s death has hit me in a way I can not easily speak about.

One of the things that all my shrinks told me is to write a letter to someone that you are no longer able to easily communicate with. So, I present to you my letter to John. Because we have chatted in my dreams, I am not typing about things we have talked about, because, well, he already knows them.

Dear John, after a rather off the wall facebook post, even for you, I sent you a text message that went unanswered for maybe half an hour or so, so I went to bed. I started to wonder why your response wasn’t your normal, nearly immediate one this time.

I was falling asleep when the idea of calling you crossed my mind. I selfishly did not call you since I had been awake for over 36 hours (with at least half of them on a single call to a friend overseas, yes, I know, I should have been a shrink, but c’est la vie).

Woke up in the morning, and the most current notification on my phone was about a post that Cara had made. I had a lump in my throat and really did not want to click and open the post.

John, you are the fourteenth or so person I know who has left this earth due to suicide. I cannot imagine what was going on in your life that you chose this way. I am not pissed at you; however, I am hurt. Granted, we had not contacted each other for nearly a year, well, beyond “likes”, etc on the socials, no actual D&M (deep and meaningful) exchanges took place.

Though you have come to visit me in my dreams since you left, I can only hope you have done the same to Cara and your two daughters. As well as found peace with the daughter you lost as a baby and hoped to be reunited with.

Due to your involvement in motorcycle racing, I can envision you doing what Jax did during the final scene of Sons of Anarchy. Quick, painless, yet a mess to clean up. A mess that Cara and your two daughters will have to live with for the rest of their lives.

Sincerely,
Mark

Thank you for taking a moment to read this chapter on how I have been adopting weirdness throughout my life.

I appreciate you.
Mark

Hello everyone, you are in luck, for this is going to be my shortest chapter ever, and one huge reason it is free for everyone.

Back in Chapter 36 I talked about my failing health and how I wanted to live out my life once I go on dialysis. To do this, I needed her to release funds that are legally due me via a trust fund (via insurance payout) that my Dad, Neil Lepow, created over two decades ago before he died.

For many years, I had a dream of exploring New Zealand, and a portion of my half of that trust would pay for my trip, which, yes, could be done, and yes, as I explained in the chapter, I had researched the next steps after that would happen.

My main reason for this trip was that I really do not want my kids to see their Dad to go through dialysis. Again, please read chapter 36, because I explain it all.

Uh Mark, um, you are pushing up against that claim that this will be your shortest chapter ever…

For years, I have sent a text and made a call to Fran Lepow on Mother’s Day and her birthday. The call was always later in the day or evening, knowing I would get her voicemail. Originally, I only made the call, but with no acknowledgement, I started to do both. BTW, I stopped hoping for her to reciprocate on my birthday.

The exchange was all of five words, but holy crap, she acknowledged my happy birthday text. I screencapped it as soon as I caught my breath. BTW, the text is from the other day, regardless that the timestamp says “today”.

However, I doubt, even as I change the focus of my GoFundMe, that Fran Lepow will release the funds I need to even live on when I finally move closer to my son and daughter. More on that later.

Thank you for your interest in how I’ve been Adopting Weirdness my entire life.
Mark

I will be the first person to admit that, minus the horrors, I have had one hell of a life. On the surface, I had experiences that many people can only dream of. Some of this was born out of a desire to just fucking enjoy life. As much as I would love to say that the success I have had as a photographer was the easy part, far from it. Really, the easiest part was requesting media credentials for events I wanted to attend, and if approved, hustle my ass off to find a place to license the images I created.

Sadly, many of the images I share here are NOT the “money” shots, but ones that I have randomly scanned in, and right now, I am approximately five years behind in my scanning, and where I currently live is not conducive for me to set up my scanning area.

Sure, I could have given up my own dreams and, like so many of my friends whose parents owned highly successful/profitable businesses, joined my adopted mom and dad at Franel Optical Supply. It would have, at least it was TOLD TO ME, that it would be a smooth transition. My Dad was VERY Pro “go to college and get the diploma”. I did that to a point, but due to my total lack of trust in all things Neil and Fran Lepow, and the fact that ALL of my therapists, including the one I wound up having an affair with (which I wrote about that in Chapter 25) told me to RUN from my parents, and the first few might have had ideas that I had been severely abused, I never talked about it, I always had one leg out the door via my photography.

There are two parades that I remember that amazed the hell out of me growing up. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade and the Rose Bowl Parade.

I’ve made it to Pasadena twice. With parade and game credentials. Two credentials each year, in fact. But I was never provided a parking pass. I always requested ONE photo pass per event and a parking pass.

Uh, why do you think we give a crap about you not having a parking pass to the Rose Bowl? Well, friends, buckle up and enjoy this chapter of my adopting weirdness throughout my life.

My first Rose Bowl was in 1991. Bob Newhart was the parade’s Grand Marshal, and the game featured the Washington Huskies and the Iowa Hawkeyes.

In a perfect world, I would have flown to LA on the 29th or even the 30th. But nope, I had gigs in Orlando to photograph for Dick Clark Productions. What? Don’t tell me you think those NYE shows are actually happening live. PORTIONS of them are live, but many of the musical performances are “previously recorded”.

After driving to Pasadena from LAX, I had finally made it to the Wrigley Mansion, aka Tournament House, which serves as HQ for all things Rose Bowl. Ok, granted, “all things” might be hyperbole, but concerning the parade, it was.

I found the area where they were handing out the media kits containing our credentials and other stuff. After receiving my large manila envelope, I found the two photo passes per event, but not a parking pass. Something was said, and a woman introduced herself as a media volunteer. She was curious about why someone from Florida wanted to cover the parade and game. I don’t even remember at this point if there was even a Florida presence at all in the parade.

I told her that the parade and game were always something I wanted to photograph, and would be helpful when a Florida-based team made it to Pasadena in the future. About that time, she told me how she asked if I needed the second credential, and I told her no, because I actually only requested one, and added how maybe my lack of a parking pass was an oversight.

She said no, it was not an oversight, that she actually packed my envelope earlier in the day. I was confused, ok, I asked for one photo pass for the parade and one for the game. Which I now have, but instead of the parking pass, you gave me two photo passes and no parking pass. Why?

She told me that because she was an intern, she was ineligible to receive a media pass to either event (even though she was a journalism major), BUT she had a coveted parking pass (her words, not mine) and was I willing to make a deal. HUH?? is probably what my contorted face was screaming at her. She said something about her giving me the parking pass if I trade her a pair of the photo passes. I said OK.

We walked over to where she was staying with other interns/volunteers. As we passed people huddled together for warmth along Colorado Blvd, I asked if the fireworks

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3 years ago this week, I was at an AdventHealth CentraCare office hoping to get a refill of the antibiotics that they had prescribed to me a week and a half earlier for a painful case of cellulitis.

The vampires drew four or five viles of blood. A little bit later the doctor came in and as she sat down she said how my cellulitis was doing much better. After she sat down, and YES, it is important that I mention she sat down, because seriously, how often does a doctor sit down to give you good news? She said she needed to inform me that my kidneys were failing and I needed more medical care then then clinic could provide.

According to the person I was with, the doctor actually said stage five (which means they are already shutting down). I do not remember it that way, just that my kidneys were failing. The doctor was ready to transport me to the hospital. I asked some questions, mentioned how I didn’t want to be in the hospital with Thanksgiving in a couple of days, and that I was going to Orlando to be with my kids that weekend.

The doctor looked me in the eyes (BTW, when I am talking with someone, I am almost ALWAYS looking them in their eyes) and said that if I don’t go to the hospital soon I may not be around to see my kids. I thought she was being a tad bit overly dramatic. It was just based on my blood results and she wasn’t showing me the results or where the “get them to the hospital asap” line was.

Suddenly I felt the urge to pee. So I got up and went to the restroom across the hall. As I was leaving the exam room I repeated that Thursday was Thanksgiving and I was going to see my kids, as I did every weekend.

I didn’t piss blood (which had been happening here and there while at work, but I didn’t think much about it because the next time my urine was visually blood free).

Washed my hands and went back to the exam room where the Dr was talking with my girlfriend. Later on, my girlfriend informed me that the doctor wanted to smack some sense into me. She wanted to know if I was always this careless. I came back and sat back on the exam table. The Dr repeated her suggestion that I get admitted and reminded me that I may not live to see my kids that weekend without medical attention. After a pause I told her I have had a good life, thigh Covid decimated my career as an endurance sports photographer and will take my chances.

Her tone ramped up to almost pissed off because how dare I not listen to her advice. She asked when was I planning to return to Port Orange. Sunday night. Ok. What are you planning to do Monday? Go to the emergency room so I can be admitted. Call me when you are on the way there and I will let them know. Unfortunately, the place was packed when I got there Monday morning and while yes, they knew I was arriving, they did not have a spare bed. It was later that evening that I was finally rolled into my room.

Unfortunately, the person who was waiting with me for the bed to finally open had to leave because she has her own life and has to be home by 7:30 almost nightly. Yep, you heard that right, I got to spend the final couple of hours waiting for the bed to finally open and then get rolled to the room solo.

I was once again alone, in a hospital room, and it started to hit me how serious this could be. CRAP! What if I harmed my kidneys even more over the past few days? Was having Thanksgiving with my girlfriend’s family at our house worth it? Yes, but no as well. MARK! What the hell, make up your mind. Was it or was it not worth it?

Well, my girlfriend is from a traditional Italian family, and while I could call my girlfriend’s mom either Mom or by her first name, when we sat down at the table, she

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Though I was adopted at birth into a Jewish family, whenever I asked Fran Lepow (my adopted mom, and whom I have always considered as my mom) about my biological mother, I was curtly told that she was Jewish. That snide reply always created confusion because how could she say on one hand she knew 100% that she was Jewish, while having no other information about her.

I would NEVER accuse my parents of lying, because that goes against the commandment about honoring thy mother and father.

Many years later, I found out via a DNA test that I do not have what is referred to as the Ashkenazi gene. Not even a trace. So, now I have scientific proof supporting my hunch about how I never considered myself an actual “member of the tribe”. This is seriously rooted in the severe abuse that was dished out to me by Neil and Fran Lepow, who, via their generous financial donations and a facade of a loving family on the outside, were as Jewish as you can get without being Orthodox.

During the DCF interviews that my bio mom had with her case manager (both before and after giving birth to me), either she was not asked, or her religion was not recorded.

My parents had already adopted one son, and a few years later, I was purchased, opps, I mean adopted and joined the family. David Alan Lepow (because, just like there are multiple Mark and Jan Lepows, there is a David Lepow on the West Coast of Florida) is not blood-related to either me or Jan Lepow Stern.

Neil and Fran Lepow raised us with such a solid Jewish upbringing that David would simply make up Jewish holidays as an excuse to get out of school work or to explain why he missed an after-school practice. He was attending Trinity Prep (an Episcopalian private school), and they seemed to believe in him so much, plus their soccer team was desperate enough for a decent goalie, that they looked the other way regarding the “Jewish holidays” and his utter lack of academic grades to make the team. Yes, my brother was an incredible goalie, and had received several nearly “full-ride” college scholarships, until he did something truly stupid and announced that he and his friend David Waugh were skipping school to go surfing by doing donuts and “shooting the bird” for all to see, in the school parking lot while in David Waugh’s convertible muscle car.

Out of several fears, I followed in David’s shadow at Trinity Prep, a couple of years later, because it had a great reputation as far as education went. The sports program was well respected, as any nearly all white private religious school could be expected to have.

Little tidbit, our mom used to throw a shit fit because all of the pre-event prayers ended in something similar to, “the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost”. She complained loud enough that it was quite embarrassing. It wasn’t like we HAD to attend the school. Of course, there was a vocal group fighting hard to keep certain religions from muddying up the student population.

Eventually, several millionaires in the Orlando area opened their wallets enough to create the Hebrew Day School of Greater Orlando. Not sure what they call it now, but yeah, it was meant to be the answer to where all the Jewish kids could go and not be brainwashed with, as some parents defiantly called “all that Jesus crap”. Yep, can you tell I really did not like being around a group of people who claim to be peace-loving and tolerant of all, yet, close the door, and Jews become quite racist and name-calling. It is almost like they truly believe they are the chosen people, yet spew equality for all.

By the time I showed up, maybe a dozen Jewish students were attending, but beyond my brother, only a couple of the others admitted to being Jewish. I didn’t really have a choice since my brother was pretty much the self-appointed ambassador of Judaism and all the faux holidays based around the religion.

I won’t get into the crap I survived while attending this particular private school, that is for a future post or two.

Back to how well our parents raised us in the teachings of the Torah.

Yes, both of my siblings were bar/bat mitzvahed (that time-honored tradition when a 13-year-old becomes a man or woman in the eyes of the Torah). Of course, we kept a Kosher home, yep, we went to as many Shabbat services as humanly possible based on our busy schedules. Heck, I have even been to Israel a few times (yet another future post or two). I even have relatives who have immigrated to Israel. More power to them, and I’m glad they followed their heart.

NOTE: I ORIGINALLY WROTE CHAPTER 5 IN THE MIDDLE OF 2024, AND MY VIEWS OF ISRAEL HAVE NOW VASTLY CHANGED. HOW ISRAEL HAS DESTROYED GAZA POST OCTOBER 7TH IS SIMPLY VINDICTIVE GENOCIDE TO ME. CALL ME NAIVE, I DON’T GIVE A SHIT. AS I GO THROUGH THIS CHAPTER, MANGO MUSSOLINI IS BRAGGING ABOUT HOW HE ENDED THE WAR IN GAZA (HEY BUB, WHEN THE FAUX PEACE YOU ARE BRAGGING ABOUT BECOMES A LASTING PEACE, THEN AND ONLY THEN CAN YOU STATE HOW YOU ACHIEVED THE IMPOSSIBLE. SUPPOSEDLY, ALL THE HOSTAGES, LIVING AND DEAD, WILL BE RELEASED BY HAMAS. WE SHALL SEE.

BTW, no, my children were not bar/bat mitzvahed, and one, after asking if it was ok, chose to be baptized.

So, back to how we were raised. For me, I never really understood the hypocrisy of keeping kosher at home, then dining on lobster or shrimp outside the home (neither is kosher). I was the kid who went to the JCC Summer Camp because the Lepows were one of the founding families. Then a couple of summers later, I was shipped off to a nearly all-Jewish Summer camp for six or seven years near Cleveland, GA, that was sponsored by the Atlanta JCC.

At the Maitland JCC, there used to be a really cool plaque on a major donor wall, not sure what happened to it once that building was demolished to make way for a newer, shinier building. Same thing for our temple, though my parents didn’t move to the Orlando area until the late 50s, the temple they joined was the most orthodox one possible at the time.

Mark, dude, what does this have to do with Passover or even remotely Easter? I will explain the Passover portion in a minute, but to find out why I hold Easter holy, please become a paying subscriber.

For those of you out there who have never attended a Passover Seder, it is a long as hell religious service disguised as a meal. You can find Passover Seders happening in private homes, hotels, social halls, etc. The narrative is how the Jewish people were led out of the land of Egypt by Moses and into the land of milk and honey. The trek through the desert took 40 years.

We know this because the Torah tells us this, plus we have a Passover guide called the Haggadah, and well, just believe everything you are being told because that is how we were raised. Our parents and elders (teachers, rabbis, etc) would neeeevvvveeeerr flat out lie, right? More on that in future posts.

So, I attended Sunday School until I was 15ish or so. Hebrew School was in the rearview mirror after my bar mitzvah, but then I graduated to Hebrew High. Oh baby, oh baby. This was a combined effort of the three temples in the greater Orlando area, and it taught us, or in my case, attempted to, in a more contemporary class structure. We met at night, after dinner. So, let me draw you a picture, mid-teens, trying to fit in, can’t attend school functions because of “Hebrew High” while trying real hard to suppress that I was Jewish. Come on, people, how many Jews do you know who are naturally blonde with blue eyes? Plus, I’ll try to look past the concept that every time we had a play at the JCC or temple dealing with the Holocaust, I all but automatically knew my role was either representing the entire Nazi regime, Hitler himself, or

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Hello friends,
I am very open about attending boarding school, The Whiteman School, located in Steamboat Springs, CO, in the mid-80s. A few years ago, the school decided to change the name, which had been named after the founder, Lowell Whiteman, was not exactly politically correct. Some of the alumni, myself included, have our thoughts regarding the actual reason(s) the name was changed. Officially, it was something to do with being able to better market the school. Well, the new name (after I am sure paying consultants big bucks) is Steamboat Mountain School. When I attended, we had maybe a dozen day students and 60 or so boarding students. My graduating class consisted of 13 or 14 people. Now enrollment seems to have flipped, according to the school’s website.

Whiteman in the mid-80s was a special kind of place. After the nearly three years of therapy I had received, first in Winter Park, and then in the middle of bum-fuck Texas, ok, Franklin, Texas, I knew I couldn’t deal with the public high school that I was supposed to attend.

Trinity Prep, where I had been attending before the first round of therapy, and which had become a living hell for me (I was severely hazed, bullied, etc) even an option. My parents pretty much said, and yes, while this is not a verbatim quote, out of frustration, they told me, “Just tell us where to send the damn check.”

Part of the discharge process from DiscoveryLand in Bryan, Texas (which used the slogan “a hospital without walls” in their promotional material), patients with any hope of attending high school were required to make a solid effort to find a suitable educational institution. Because my staying in Texas was totally out of the question, to this day, I cannot stand Texas in general. Yes, there are some beautiful areas, but the majority of native Texans I have met in my life have been total egotistical jerks.

For me, my transition back to any resemblance of a high school career meant finding a boarding school I WANTED to attend. Mind you, none of my choices were located in Florida. I wanted to get as far away from Florida as I could.

I made a list of requirements that I was looking for; it had to be co-ed, non-denominational, as outdoors-based as possible, and absolutely NO MILITARY academies. There were a dozen things to check off on my list.

In the first round of applications, I was accepted to the UN Academy, now known as the United Nations International School (until they realized my family had absolutely nothing to do with the United Nations), Stowe School in Vermont (which was really too granola even for me), and some place called Exeter in New Hampshire (hey, I liked the old school charm of the place, however I did NOT realize it was one of the bluest blue blood schools in the country). I narrowed it down to a couple of places between Ojai in Southern California, another school just outside of Sedona, Arizona, and one in Steamboat Springs, CO.

So, after a road trip with my dad to visit Sedona and Steamboat, I was accepted and began my own Whiteman Experience (think Outward Bound, but as a school). Due to timing, I did not start with the rest of my class in the fall, but after Christmas break. Yes, I stood out like a blond, well-tanned thumb.

Fresh beginning, total dweeb, nerd, whatever. Did I mention I have HUGE trust issues? Plus, the majority of the students were from either the Hills of Beverly, the Palisades, or Orange County, CA, in general. I’m from Central Florida (no one else was from Florida that school year) and I think it was the second day of school when someone heard me whistling “hi ho, hi ho, la dee dee da”. They thought I was whistling my last name, which is pronounced Lee-poe, as in Edgar Alan Poe, which does not rhyme with “hi ho, hi ho”, and NOT Lé-poe, which does. Again, I’m from Florida, and had watched Snow White at least once by that time of my life.

So that night, as I was getting in line for dinner, a couple of jr’s and sr’s started to sing “Lépo, Lépo, la dee dee dee da” repeatedly. More as a hazing thing than anything. By the time I was getting on the bus to town (how we did our laundry back in the day), the jeer had become a quasi chant.

It got worse, much worse. To find out how much worse, please become a paid subscriber. Yes, I kept this line in because this is where the original public version ended.

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I was born in early November 1965 at a hospital in Central Florida, which did not have daily deliveries. My bio-mom didn’t want to see me or even frigging hold me after I was born. “Welcome to the world soon to be soon-to-be-named baby Mark, your own mother doesn’t even want to hang out with you for even a minute.” No, no one actually said that, but as you will see in future chapters, someone seriously could have.

Yes, I have always known I was adopted, well, ever since that night I was rummaging in Fran Lepow’s desk as a curious 6-year-old and found the invoice from their attorney for what I equate to the purchase of me.

Over the years, I have had it pounded into my head how I was loved so much by my bio-mom that she gave me up for a better life. In future chapters, you will see how that was a line of total bullshit.

In Chapter 20, I discuss in more detail how I wound up as a guest of Florida Hospital Orlando’s psychiatric ward, not just a ward, but think One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest right out of the late 70s locked ward. Obviously, I survived my 30-day stay. Anyone wanna guess how my insurance coverage lasted?

On the first day or so, one of the nurses recognized me as a neighbor from across the street back in the late 60s/early 70s. She knew of some of the tortures I experienced while we lived there. As soon as the pleasantries and catching-up chat were over, it became very clear I might have an ally in her. Through her, other nurses became aware of what happened (yes, she asked if she could share, and I said yes). Within a day or so, I was moved from a room with four beds to a room with two beds and a much better view, though the window was still protected by heavy steel grates. I had one roommate in those 30 days, an inmate from the local county jail, and he was handcuffed to the bed. He was gone the next morning.

I remember March Madness being shown in the TV room, which was connected to a larger rec room, and people lighting their cigarettes via a cigarette lighter built into the wall. They had to practically kiss the wall to get their cigarette in far enough to ignite the tip. Think old school lighters like in cars, but without the push-in thingy. Here, they had to push a button that would heat the element. It was gross. Saliva around the hole, and who knows what else.

My former neighbor made sure I was busy, and I did what I could to keep occupied. She led many of the PT/OT classes, so I became her helper.

One night during dinner, she asked for a favor. There was a new female patient, who once pointed out to me looked to be in her 40s, but I suck at age guessing, so who knows. My neighbor explained how she was refusing to eat unless I sat with her. Huh? Mark, please sit with her. So I did.

We spoke for a few minutes about life at 3 West. She had been told I ran the place. I laughed and told her, hardly. I’m just a patient like you with parents who bought the BS my shrink was spewing about how I needed to be here for observation.

We talked some more, and then she went on to tell me how, in November 1965, she gave birth to a son and immediately gave him up for adoption. She never saw her son after the delivery, nor held him. She told me some other info, about how she had other children, but not their gender (at first), and that her son was unplanned. The date she gave birth on at the same hospital where I was born was the day before what is listed on my birth certificate. Back-to-back births didn’t happen like this back then. But doing the math, bio-mom and dad probably had a fun Valentine’s Day that year. At least I would like to believe I was created with love and not rape.

I told my shrink the next day, and he sorta led me to believe he knew something he couldn’t share. Found out later that he was her shrink as well.

Then, in one of the very rare times my parents answered the phone while I was at 3 West, I excitedly told my adopted mom (aka Fran Lepow) that I might have actually met my bio-mom! She was nonchalant about it, and more concerned that news I was in an insane asylum would get out and her life would crash and burn.

The call lasted a couple of minutes at the most. The only visitors I had were the parents of my best childhood friend, who I still keep in touch with (thank you, Facebook). My friend has made a profession out of painting bathroom gender icons in bright, bold colors and putting them in various situations. You might know him from his viral video of the remains of a crystal balloon dog during Art Basel Miami after someone knocked it over. Check out his website HERE

Sorry, I digressed again. Heed my advice, just buy a program, and try to keep up, ok?

Before that short call with Fran, my possible bio-mom and I spent every meal talking. It was as if she knew more about me than she was admitting to. I can’t pinpoint the moments that freaked me out, because we talked about so much.

She had two older daughters; she told me their names but regrettably forgot them soon after. We spent a ton of time together. Then one morning, she didn’t show up for breakfast. Figuring she had slept in, I went to her room. An employee was changing out the bedding. Her personal items had been removed from the room. I asked what happened to her, and she said she had been discharged. Wow, no c’ya later, goodbye hug, nada. I soon found out that she had been transferred to the state hospital. My shrink told me not to believe a word they had told me and that she was not my bio-mom. She knew waaayyy too much about me not to somehow know my adopted parents. Maybe she was a family friend, but I eventually told myself that this woman was delusional and no way she could have been my bio-mom.

Fast forward to my 50th birthday. I have always wondered if this lady was my bio-mom or not. The shrink who supposedly treated both of us committed suicide before I turned 18. The OB/Gyn who delivered me, according to my birth certificate, which also lists my adopted at birth parents as my actual parents, had mentioned to me growing up (our families were close friends) that when I turned 18, he would help me find my bio-parents. He died, if I recall correctly, in a car wreck a few months shy of my 18th birthday.

So, as I approached half a century of life, my then-wife sent a request to Tallahassee for all the info they could provide me with regarding my bio-parents. I had no idea ahead of time that she had done this. Figured it out when an envelope addressed to me arrived, telling me that there was no information found. This just fed my belief that I was a backdoor baby sold on the black market. Was my birth certificate even authentic?

I showed the letter to Kathy, who admitted she sent the request because she knew it had always bothered me about not knowing a damn thing about my bio-parents.

Then, a week or so later, another envelope arrived. This time it begins (paraphrasing because the actual letter is in storage) “Dear Mark, I was able to find your file and this is what I can reveal without a court order….”

In short, I was an unplanned pregnancy. I have two sisters who are older than me by

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