Lunar Eclipses and Mad Men: My List Continues

dark-side-and-wish — “The Dark Side of the Moon” meets “Wish You Were Here”

Post #2 In My Favorite 10 Albums Challenge List.

A friend recently asked me what musical groups were still on my list of “bands I had never seen but would like to.” I don’t have such a list, but if I did Pink Floyd would be on it. That being said, I know I will never see them because 1) they are no longer a band, and 2) Roger Waters holds strong anti-Israel, pro-BDS beliefs (if you don’t know what that is, email me at les.raff@post.com) that would keep me from attending any concert he performed in. So though I will never see “The Floyd,” their music still hits my top ten album list. The question is, which album?

The easy answer is “The Dark Side of the Moon,” the 1973 Pink Floyd album that sold 46 trillion copies and spent nearly 7 decades on the Billboard 200, a record matched only by Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and Weird Al Yankovic’s “Polka Party!” But perhaps familiarity does breed contempt, as I now shudder every time the cash register rings at the beginning of “Money,” reminding me of the perpetual cash machine the album provides for Waters, Mason, Gilmour, and Wright.

So what is eclipsing “Dark Side” for me? It has to be Pink Floyd’s 1975 follow up, “Wish You Were Here.” It is only five tracks long, though track one, “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” has many, many parts divided over both sides of the LP. SOYCD, like the title track, is a love song. But neither composition is aimed at a spouse, a girlfriend, or a mistress. The two pieces are a paean to Syd Barrett, the band’s long-gone, drug-addled founding member. Syd died in 2006, amazing all who had assumed he had already been dead for at least twenty years.

The album also includes”Welcome to the Machine” and “Have a Cigar,” darkly humorous condemnations of the music/recording business. The latter features the prophetic lyric “By the way, which one’s Pink.” This was many years before Alicia Beth Moore raised her glass and claimed the title. Maybe all those drugs gave the bandmates a peek into the future.

And that’s it. Five tracks. Blink and you miss it. But don’t worry. As long as WDRV, 97.1 The Drive, is still playing Classic Rock you don’t have to wish, this album will always be here.
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Can This “Terrorist” Be a Therapy Dog?

milo-at-rest — Milo contemplates his future as a therapy dog.

Barb loves dogs. And as an Occupational Therapist, she loves treating her patients. So is it any surprise that she has always wanted to have a therapy dog? No, not the ones wearing the vests that wind up in front of you on your trans-oceanic flight, those are service dogs. Her ambition is to have a dog she can take to hospitals, therapy centers, nursing homes or schools, to provide comfort and a more tranquil environment for those in need.

She tried it first with our previous dog Max, the gentle giant. In his puppyhood, we took him for an evaluation and were discouraged to learn the odds were stacked against his having the demeanor and learning the skills that would be needed in a therapy setting. Barb was crushed at that failure, but we had many happy years with our lovable Mini Irish Wolfhound.

Milo our pomeranian-rat terrier rescue dog joined us in November, and Barb has been committed to the challenge of creating the first Raff Animal Therapist (R.A.T.) We began with basic obedience training in group lessons at a training center not far from home. And what a group it was. Some big, some little, some furry, some hairless, some friendly, some not-so. And the dogs were a mixed bag as well!

We were led by four different instructors who tried hard but weren’t always on the same page. Milo at times appeared confused, as did Barb and I, but the pup passed his “Good Citizen” test on his first attempt. Unfortunately, his coterie of instructors wasn’t quite as impressed as we were and recommended that we reregister him in the basic course, which of course we did. “He is a terrier, or as I like to call them, a terrorist,” one of them repeatedly told us. “Smart, but with a mind of his own. He can do it, but this will take time!”

This past spring Milo finally took a leap forward and matriculated into a class preparing show dogs for their time in the ring. We have no idea why this was recommended to us, as Milo will never be on the contest circuit. Have you seen the movie “Best in Show”? After a few weeks of this training, I can tell you it only begins to scratch the surface of what that show world must be like.

Speaking of movies, do you remember Alex Baldwin in “Glengarry Glen Ross”? His motto: ABC–always be closing. Our instructors have that down pat, as they have sold us four leashes and three collars. But they have been generous with their treats, for which Milo is eternally grateful.

So where are we now? Milo just began a class to prep him for the entrance exam into Therapy Training. It’s like taking a Kaplan course for the LSAT, only the stakes here are higher. Will he make the cut and become a rat terrorist R.A.T? It is too soon to tell, but Barb and I have agreed, this will be our last attempt. If we can’t teach a dog to do therapy, I’ll just train our next one in pathology. And does anyone need a leash?

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Anti-American? Who Gets To Say?

nfl-flag-transparent — Do the NFL’s new rules tell us what an American is?

“The NFL is being anti-American.” That’s the email subject line on the David Leonhardt newsletter I received Thursday. David is a columnist for the New York Times and I subscribe to his daily newsletter, generally going along with his somewhat left-leaning views. And I concur with the premise of this one, too. He strongly disagrees with the new National Football League rule that penalizes and fines teams whose players decide to “take a knee” during the playing of the National Anthem. He feels the rules violate the player’s right of self-expression. I agree with him–it’s just that subject line (which he may not have written) that I have a hard time with. I immediately thought of an incident from about 10 years ago.

I was still a member of the Board of Education of Stevenson High School in Lincolnshire, though no longer President. The Board, the District, and the School had all been running smoothly for many years, and the public comment portion of our meetings was typically short and non-controversial. We were able to spend our meeting time discussing educational issues and celebrating the successes of our students.

Until our agendas weren’t quite so smooth. A more conservative segment of the population became vocal, attending Board meetings and questioning the guiding philosophy and practices at the high school. Suddenly the biological sciences we had been instructing our students in became subject to dispute. Creationism started staring us in the face. And the patriotism of our Board members was also called into question. Were we failing in making America great?

The Board held firm on the most important issues, the curricular ones. But we did “cave” in one regard, one of the few times in my 16-year tenure in which I disagreed with a Board decision. We decided that all future Board meetings would begin with our facing the American flag, putting our hands on our hearts, and saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

I have no problem with the Pledge. I respect the American Flag and would never do anything to dishonor it. But I have an extreme distaste for being dictated to by a group of “patriots” as to what I have to do to display my own patriotism. I have always felt that being a law-abiding, voting citizen, who volunteered much of his time to serve his community, was proof enough of my love of country.

Not wanting to be disruptive, I didn’t take the “protest” approach. I stood at the beginning of each meeting and recited the Pledge with my colleagues. But I always felt like a phony. And each time, I knew I would never impose my idea of patriotism on anyone else.

So if some football players take a knee, that’s ok with me. And if the NFL wants to prohibit it, well, I think that is wrong. I just am careful as to who I call anti-American!
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Favorite Album Forum: My List Begins with the Beatles and the Stones

stones-beatles — This Beatles, Stones combo would make a smash double album!

Roger Marcus, a friend, fellow traveler, game show enthusiast, and trivialogist, has invited me to join the Facebook Favorite Album Forum. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be spouting on about ten different albums and what they mean to me. In addition, I will be inviting other friends to contribute their favorites.

I’ll be mixing these posts in with the usual collection of blogs. Since this is a Facebook project, if you want to contribute your ten, please do so on Facebook and be sure to “Friend” me. If you are not on Facebook, you can either sign up (another victim for Mark Z.) or just email me (les.raff@post.com) your ten favorites and I will post them for you.

Enough housekeeping! For my first entry, I plunge into the Beatles vs Stones debate. Although I was always more of a Beatles fan, I can greatly appreciate the rock’n’roll mastery of the Rolling Stones 1971 album, Sticky Fingers. The album cover, with a real live zipper, was notorious, but it was the music that rocked. Brown Sugar got things galloping, Wild Horses slowed things down. For me, the real treats were the guitar riff on Bitch, and the fantastic jam at the end of Can’t You Hear Me Knocking, the best four and a half minutes of Stones vinyl anywhere.

Beatles anyone? While most rock critics would choose Rubber Soul or Sgt. Pepper as their most iconic, trend-setting, albums, I delight in A Hard Day’s Night (1964). A soundtrack to the movie of the same name, side one starts out with a ringing guitar chord that always makes me stop and listen. And so many of the songs just fill my mind with their related movie scenes. Side two (on the UK version) is a collection of non-movie songs that work great too!

Beatles or Stones-either way it’s a great choice, a choice that is still relevant 50 years later. Any thoughts on these two top albums? Let me hear from you! And look out for more great sounds in the weeks to come.

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10 for 15: Ten Observations On Our 15th Annual Roadtrip

15 seasons ago a gang of six forty-somethings, with ties from back in high school and earlier, took in some spring training games in Arizona. It was a mix of planned activities and spur of the moment fun. We didn’t anticipate it would be the inaugural event in a string of annual weekends that has continued non-stop. This past weekend, we marked our 15th consecutive year with a drive across Indiana to the banks of the Ohio River and the Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati. The weather was a challenge, but the fellowship was even stronger than on that first voyage to Scottsdale, AZ.

Some Random Thoughts From Trip Number 15:

A casino that only has slot machines isn’t worth a visit. Table games are where it’s at.
A baseball game watched on a beautiful night from the cheap seats is a lot more fun than a game watched in a downpour from the premium ones.
The poorer the home team is playing, the easier it is to be one of the first 20,000 guests through the turnstile to grab the evening’s give away. As a corollary, probably 15,000 Cubs fans went home with a Cincinnati Reds Garden Gnome. (see example above.)
What is the point of a local noise ordinance that cancels postgame fireworks shows when the ballpark is in a commercial/industrial area?
It is possible for a sixsome to back up an entire miniature golf course on a dreary Saturday morning. Same for a KFC buffet line. (Only the first of those two was worth the price of admission.)
You can usually find enough to fill your stomach at a hotel breakfast buffet, but neither the fruit nor the bagels will necessarily be fresh.
Playing “Password” until 3 a.m. will make the next day as miserable as if you had spent that time in a bar or club, even without the hangover. Also, it takes a certain type of deranged mind to play “Password” until 3 a.m.
Putting chili on spaghetti, the sine qua non of Cincinnati dining, makes as much sense as pouring a serving of hot fudge on a Lou Malnati’s Pizza. Who in their right mind would do such a thing?
There is a comfort in hearing the same apocryphal story told for the 15th year in a row. It’s like reading “Goodnight Moon” to your grandchildren over and over again. You can always do it one more time.
I predict that within another year or two ALL of the six of us will be UroPartners patients. Even the guy who lives in San Francisco.

So a “way to go” and an “attaboy” to my traveling companions. Let’s start planning #16 real soon.

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Dear Evan Hansen: Why Don’t I Love You?

Dear Evan Hansen:

I know your therapist wants you to write self-affirming letters to yourself to help you improve your self-image and cope better in interactions with the people around you. And I know you won a whole bunch of Tony Awards last year and that you inspire lots of people. But does that mean I have to love you?

Barb and I booked our tickets to see your show at The Music Box Theater in New York City months ago. Last Sunday, travel umbrellas held high, we sloshed the mile and a half to the theater to see the matinee. We weren’t quite sure what your story was, and we weren’t familiar with the music, but that never prevents us from enjoying a really great show. We didn’t know much about “Hamilton” before we saw that either…

Anyway, umbrellas securely tucked out of the way, we settled in for what we hoped would be two and a half hours of being swept away. The stage was hung with giant Twitter feeds and highlights from other social media, so we knew the show would be hip and au courant. And we had pretty good seats, eighth row, a bit left of center, just like my politics. We were ready!

And then your tale began. You were a good kid, but like all high school kids you had some problems. Then one of those damn self-affirming letters you wrote wound up in the wrong place. Misinterpreted, it put you into a “situation” that you exaggerated, and eventually outright lied about. First good things happened, then bad things happened, and then we fast forwarded a year and things looked brighter. The end.

During the course of your story, you sang some songs and everyone else sang a few too. I wish I could remember even one melody! And I can’t put my finger on it, but all the actors seemed just a beat or two off. Maybe it was because that show was the last performance for one of your costars, the guy who transforms from your early nemesis to your post hoc best friend. But the curtain call was great, as we got to see the cast bid him a tearful farewell. That was true emotion!

The playbill compared your story to the likes of previous Broadway teen romps like “Hairspray,” “Grease” and “Next to Normal.” But the first two rocked, and the latter was more about adult mental illness than teenage angst. I’m sorry Evan, I think you just have a bad case of Young Adult Fiction Syndrome. Painful, but it won’t last forever.

I know you are coming to Chicago next year. I recommend you look up Ferris Beuler and spend some quality time at Wrigley Field with him. I promise you that you’ll feel a whole lot better. No self-affirming confessions required!

Sincerely,

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Does This Pillbox Make Me Old? 10 Reasons Why I Don’t Think It Does!

Last Father’s Day Weekend we celebrated Laury and Alex’s wedding in Downtown Chicago. This Mother’s Day Weekend we traveled with Michael, Becca and their girls to New York City for Becca’s brother’s wedding. A hectic but fun weekend. At some point during the festivities, Michael noticed my “day of the week” pillbox. After a bit of an eye roll, he said: “You really don’t have one of those, do you?” Sorry to say, yes I do! Actually, I have two; one for first thing in the morning, one for dinner time. But please, my son, realize that though that kind of pillbox may be most closely associated with our senior citizens, having one, or two, doesn’t make me old at all. And I have proof!

10 Ways You Can Know I Am Still Young

I have a day of the week pillboxes, but I am able to keep them filled myself.
I can still do our Saturday Morning Boot Camp, even if my Burpees now look a lot like jumping jacks.
I’ll still run the SeaBlue 5K, even if I finish only a few minutes ahead of the walkers.
I still listen to (some) current music, even if I like the old stuff better.
I can still cover a doubles court in tennis, even if I can’t serve any aces.
I can still adapt to most technological advances, even if I stopped writing my own code years ago.
I still read the Sunday comics and watch some Saturday Night Live, I just don’t always “get” them.
I have a Kindle or two, even if I still would rather lug around a 5-pound book on the flight to New York.
I’m wearing a smartwatch, even if it is a Fitbit instead of the Apple Watch you and Laury gave me for Father’s Day.
I can still get down on the ground to play with the grandkids, even if I sometimes need a helping hand to get back up.

So don’t worry. I plan to feel young and to be around for a long time to come. But I promise I won’t tell you if I get a third pillbox. Wouldn’t want to worry you!

Milo

An observation about my last post. Barb assures me that Milo is the perfect dog and absolutely NOT the middle of the night monster I made him out to be. I stand corrected.

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Deadlier Than “The Quiet Place.” You Better Not Make A Move.

Rat terrier-Pomeranian mix — Milo makes up for his lost sleep.

“Don’t move a muscle!” I think to myself at about 4:00 each morning.

By now you’ve seen or heard about the John Krasinski-Emily Blunt end of the world thriller “A Quiet Place.” Make a sound and skinny aliens with ginormous ears will have you for lunch. But at least the Krasinski family had the freedom of mobility. They could go and do what they pleased, as long as they were quiet about the whole thing. Seems to me to be a tricky, but survivable, situation!

We have a different alien creature haunting our bed overnight, with its activity peaking about 4:00 every morning. Yes, our monster also has big, insanely sensitive ears, and a good sense of smell as well. But what puts it a cut above the movie creature is its incredible motion detector. One twitch, one leg kicked out from under the blanket, or just one raised eyebrow, and the attack can begin.

It starts out with a massive tongue swiping across my forehead, down my cheek, into my neck. Then the head-butting starts, followed by nipping at the blanket, and finally shoves in the back. Who would have believed a 19-pound rat terrier-pomeranian mix could have so much power and determination?

Yes, our non-human life form is our adoptee Milo, who somehow earned the honor of worming into our bed every night. Bedtime begins with Milo on the comforter in a staring contest with Princess Phoebe the cat. Most often there is a canine over feline victory. Milo then burrows under the covers and makes himself at home at our feet. A few restful hours of sleep usually follow. But once that 4 a.m. witching hour is upon us, waking up for a moment can mean certain attack.

Raise my head to look at the bedside clock and I am doomed to a frontal assault. Instead of looking at the clock to k now the time, I have learned to turn my wrist ever so slowly to illuminate the face of my Fitbit. If I want to stretch out to relieve a kink in my back? Forget about it, unless I want to spend my last potential hours of sleep swept away by a dog on the prowl. And any necessary trips to the bathroom better be before 4:00 a.m. — before the monster has arisen.

So if I seem a bit cranky today, if my eyelids are drooping, or if I am walking a little more slowly and hunched over than usual, just remember that it’s just one more thing that I blame on the dog.

But maybe some good can come out of it. if I write a screenplay called “The Stillness Place,”do you think I can sell the movie rights? I know a dog that would be just right for the starring role…

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Don’t Be Afraid to Call Your Pathologist. It Might Make Both of You Happy!

“Mr. Michaelis wants you to call him,” said KB, my administrative manager.

“Who is Mr. Michaelis?” I asked.

“He is a patient. He wants to talk to you about a report that…”

At this point, most pathologists complexion changes to a deathly pallor. Their heart starts sprinting, a line of sweat breaks out on their upper lip and tremors extend from their shoulders to their fingertips. Four years of residency, a couple of years in a fellowship, an office in a dark office at the end of a faded linoleum-lined corridor, all so that they will never hear the words “a patient wants to talk to you.” We have made ourselves the “doctor’s doctor,” not the patient’s doctor.

For the most part, it is a successful maneuver. There aren’t many patients, or families of patients, who think of calling the pathologist when they don’t understand a Surgical Pathology report, or need an explanation of a Prolaris® or Oncotype Dx® test on a malignant prostate biopsy.

And that is OK. As pathologists, we send our blood test results or biopsy report out to the treating physician, and they do the heavy lifting with the patient. It makes sense since usually those providers have the best handle on what is going on with their patients and can best fit the test results into the entire health picture. But these days, with the advent of the (much hated) Electronic Medical Record, we pathologists, way off down the hall, can get a pretty good idea of what is going on with a patient’s medical care.

I will let you in on a secret. Despite my being an otherwise typical, pocket-protector toting, smeared glasses wearing pathologist, I enjoy talking with patients. I don’t mind explaining what I have seen under the microscope or what a particular change in blood PSA levels means. I try to use understandable words and remain professional, even in the face of patients who are upset with their diagnosis (or their bill) and really just want to vent.

There is one thing I tell patients upfront that I will not do, and that is advise them on their therapy. There are many choices, the evidence-based recommendations change daily, or at least monthly, and the patient’s urologist is really the place to go for proper guidance. Therefore I lay low on that issue, though when asked “Doc, what would you do if it was YOUR prostate,” I might give an answer.

So I listened without shivering as KB told me what Mr. Michaelis was upset about. I did a quick check of his report and of the Electronic Medical Record, and recognized he had a very good question about a blood level value referenced in the biopsy report. I gave him a call, explained who I was, and told him we would issue a corrected report. We then chatted for a few minutes about about his medical condition – but not his best therapeutic choices – and chatted for even longer about the weather on a cloudless, sunny, spring afternoon.

And for a few minutes I felt like a “real” doctor again!

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The above is the opinion of the author and not of UroPartners LLC.

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What Do Autopsies, Prostate Cancer and Carson Pirie Scott Have in Common? Three Awarded Posts in the Last Three Months!

Writing for ChicagoNow is a lot of fun, and always a challenge. It is a pleasure to have my thoughts and musings share digital space with a wide variety of writing talent. My companions cover topics ranging from sports to politics, from cooking to pets, and from the adventures to the misadventures of life.

Each month Matty Schwerha, the Manager of the ChicagoNow Digital Circus, chooses a number of blog posts as”Best in Class.” Criteria are quality of content, quality of writing, overall creativity, quality of headline and presentation. I am proud to say that for the 3rd consecutive month, Matty has chosen one of my blog posts for his stamp of approval. So if you haven’t been keeping up with your “More from Les” posts for the last few months, here are those 3 to start with! (You may need to skip below that pesky inserted advertising video. Sorry!)

I discover a unique culprit during an autopsy.

A change in prostate cancer terminology to help patients make decisions.

Saying goodbye to Chicago’s second fiddle.

Happy reading! Plenty of great new content coming next week. If you are a new reader, don’t forget to subscribe. Use the easy form below. No spam, I promise!

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