President Trump told you COVID would be gone by Easter: HE LIED President Trump told you COVID would be gone by Memorial Day: HE LIED
President Trump told you he saved millions of lives from COVID: HE LIED President Trump told you COVID was no worse than the flu: HE LIED President Trump told you there were COVID instant cures and remedies: HE LIED
President Trump told you he knew more about science than scientists: HE LIED President Trump told you COVID was fake news: HE LIED
President Trump told you a COVID vaccine would be available before the presidential election: HE LIED
President Trump told you COVID would disappear after the presidential election: HE LIED
And now he is telling you the presidential election is a fraud: AND YOU BELIEVE HIM?
RIP Alex Trebek — photo courtesy of the Chicago Tribune.
RIP Alex Trebek. Below is a repost of my blog from 2018, before we knew of Mr. Trebek’s illness.
There have only been two hosts ofJeopardy!that mattered. Art Fleming gave the answers on most of the original run, and Alex Trebek has been the man behind the podium on the current version since the show’s reinception in 1984. Mr. Trebek’s current contract expires in 2020, and he has hinted that after 36 years and thousands and thousands of shows, that might be the time for him to retire. He has also suggested two potential replacements, hockey announcer Alex Faust, and broadcaster Laura Coates.
Hogwash! If the answer is “This person would be the ideal next host ofJeopardy!” the question is “Who isME!” Think about it. Appearances on both Jeopardy! and It’s Academichave shown I know what it takes to be tested under those hot TV lights without breaking a sweat. Ok, those were both decades ago, and I didn’t win on either show, but in my opinion, I have only improved with age. Andmy almost appearance with Steve Harvey on Family Feud should be enough to prove I’ve still got that cool under pressure style.
About physical appearance. Fans ofJeopardy!just want a host that won’t make them shudder each time they tune in. I think I can pass that bar. And thanks to Mr. Trebek, the audience has gotten used to a well groomed white-haired host. I have the hair color and style to match. I even have a Bangkok tailor so I can order as many fitted suits as I need for the multiple shows taped on one day.
How about a voice that gets attention and demands and commands respect? I served my six years as Board of Education President and kept those unruly crowds of unhappy parents in check. And I never had to raise my voice. They all just listened. (True confession: The crowds weren’t really unruly or unhappy, they were mostly at our meetings to see their kids get awards and honors.)
Oh, one more thing. Ipromisenot to pretend I know all the questions to all the answers. The players should be the stars of the show. And even if they are not at all brilliant, charming, or funny I promise not to embarrass them. It’s probably their life’s dream to be holding that buzzer! Who wants to crash those dreams?
So Sony Television, give me a call. I won’t let you down.
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John Belushi would have made an excellent neuropathologist!
(Rated SG for Slightly Gross)
Do you remember Friday afternoons when you were a kid in school? The teacher’s voice would drone on and on. The minute hand on the wall clock would move slower and slower. Time would freeze.
You kept staring out the window, at the shining sun, at the park at the end of the block. You couldn’t wait to get outside and play some ball. Or snow was on the other side of the glass — and you were looking forward to an evening with friends at Alpine Mountain to practice some downhill ski runs. In any case, it sure was rough waiting those last few minutes.
No matter how bad you thought you had it on those long-past Friday afternoons, you most likely have nothing to compare to my Fridays in the early 1980s when I was a Resident in Pathology at a teaching hospital just outside Chicago. Because every Friday, at precisely 3:30, was brain-cutting time!
No, that’s not a clever nickname for some devilish oral Q and A the attendings would throw at us, nor was it a dastardly written exam. On Friday afternoons we would literally slice our way through the previous week’s autopsy brains.
I’ve written about autopsies before. But not the secret of brain-cutting. A brain removed at autopsy is a squishy mess. It’s the consistency of that disgusting lemon Jello mold that has been sitting under the hot sun since 11 am at your 4th of July picnic. Trying to examine it fresh is brain salad surgery.
So to prevent brain meltdown at autopsy, the fresh brain is carefully dissected from the cranial cavity (we won’t discuss how you open that up,) wrapped in gauze, and suspended on a network of strings in a large bucket of formalin for at least a week. Put THAT on your bucket list.
But eventually, we had to look at those brains. So every Friday afternoons Dr. D, our visiting samurai neuropathologist, would join the residents in the autopsy suite. One by one the brains from the previous week’s post-mortems, now solid enough to be cut, would be set before him. Though each had been soaking in running water for several hours in preparation for his attention, the formalin odor was still overpowering to the assembled residents. But the miasma didn’t seem to bother the Master.
Brandishing a long, glistening, and oh-so-sharp two-foot-long stainless steel knife he would approach each brain and go chop-chop-chop. He would then bow slightly and present us with thin slices of sashimied brain laid out in precise rows on a cafeteria tray. With the tip of his blade, he would point out the abnormalities–the tumors, the infarcts, the paleness of the substantia nigra in Parkinson’s Disease. He guided me through the pink blush of increased vessels in Moyamoya Disease, a rare vascular disease whose name — “puff of smoke” in Japanese — memorialized the appearance of increased blood vessels in an angiogram.
Dr. D had seen it all and explained it all.
Our residents may not have been happy to be in that autopsy suite late on a Friday afternoon. Maybe the good neuropathologist didn’t want to be there either. So many other places we all could have been. But no matter how much we hated it, we learned our neuropathology — at the point of a sword.
But it is a shame that I never did learn how to ski!
Use your very functional brain–VOTE!
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The debate was like a two care pileup of aging vehicles.
I have been conflicted.
Should I post about last Tuesday’s debate between President Trump and Vice-President Biden, or should I let more informed and more politically savvy writers carry the load? Barb was surprised that I didn’t have my two cents in print yesterday, and I am still not sure what I can say today.
Barb and I sat in our comfy chairs Tuesday night, the cat on the ottoman in between, watching our habitual news station, NBC. Not CNBC or MSNBC, just plain old NBC. We watched every minute, absolutely incredulous. We weren’t silent, but we managed to keep our outbursts to a minimum. I hurled out one “Asshole” at Trump’s “Pocahontas” reference, but other than that, I pretty much sat there taking it.
And when the hallucinatory experience was over, when the talking heads at the debate podia were replaced by the shaking, visibly shaken, heads at NBC Studio, I realized that I was drenched in sweat, as soaked as if I had run a 10K rather than sitting in my own home office. My body had responded — in fear, in anger, in frustration, even as my brain tried to process what we had just watched.
I feel like I have been in a humongous gaper’s block. America drives by the accident slowly, turning our collective heads to stare at the two-car wreckage in the other lane; one of the involved drivers calmly talking on his cell phone while the other screams at the highway patrol officer, gesticulating wildly, foam coming from his mouth.
Two days later I don’t feel much better. My Facebook account is filled with “Riden’ with Biden” messages, but I still have a couple of Trump loyalists on my Friends list. I keep them around to see what poison is being posted in the effort to Keep America Great. I no longer respond–what would be the point?–but I fact check their claims, just to make sure I am looking at both sides. And then I realize that for someone with my values, there is only one side.
So get out the tow trucks. Get this wreck off the road. And go out and vote. Because this really matters.
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Not at all Chuck. You know we are up at the crack of dawn here in Kentucky. Mountain men! How is the lad from New York doing today?
Just fine Mitch, but I have to ask you. Are you going to go through with this…this selection to the Court? Do you really think it is the best thing for the country?
Well you know Chuckie, it’s what the President wants. And I didn’t get where I am snubbing the most powerful man in the country. Besides, it’s what I always planned to do. Get the Court right…I mean tilted to the Right.
So all that talk in 2016 about the people having a choice…not having a hearing for Merrick Garland. What was that?
Politics my young man, politics. Haven’t you learned anything in all your years in the Senate? You knew I was lying, my lips were moving.
Your moving lips is not a sight I want to see at 6 a.m. But tell me, are you a betting man, Mitchie?
I’ve been known to drop a few dollars on a Derby bet or two. My Old Kentucky Home and all that. Why do you ask?
Because I think you are making a big losing bet. I think if you have this vote on Trump’s nomination, the Dems are going to roar. We’ll beat the Pumpkin Head in the popular AND the electoral vote. We’ll take the Senate back. We’ll hold the House.
And then the dominos are going to fall. Your Conservative Supreme Court? Gone when we pack the court with a few juicy liberal judges that WE name and confirm. Your competitiveness in the Electoral College? Gone when DC and Puerto Rico become states. Your dreams of everlasting white power supremacy? Gone, Gone, Gone.
Now if you have a change of heart and put off your confirmation of Judge Barrett or whoever it might be, you might have a chance in the November elections. If you win, you get Barrett. And even if you lose, maybe we won’t have to come at you so hard next year. Maybe we can work together and accomplish something.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Did he fire six shots or only five?” Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I’ve kinda lost track myself. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do you, punk?
Oh Chuck, I love it when you do that Clint Eastwood impersonation. Can you talk to an empty chair too? C’mon and make my day.
OK Mitch, you and your Red Robbers have been warned. Confirm a Supreme Court Judge before the election–and this whole thing is going to blow. And not even Clint will save you.
C’mon Chuck. Make that call!!
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It’s getting old. We haven’t left the Chicago area since February–and no plans to go anywhere. So Chicago songs are in my head. I was going to list ten of them, but in the great Chicago tradition, my late grandmother voted for an eleventh. So in no particular order, here are
The Les is More Sounds of Chicago
Let’s start with the schlock! Paper Lace’s The Night Chicago Died imagined Chicago’s own most-wanted, Al Capone, in a shoot-out with the Chicago Police Department. Incredibly, this hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100, making Englands’s Paper Lace a true USA one-hit-wonder.
And talking about bad Chicago dudes, who can forget Jim Croce’s Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown from the South Side of Chicago. What’s the only thing wrong with this #1 hit? It was a poor knock-off of Croce’s own You Don’t Mess Around With Jim. If Croce had lived longer, maybe he would have sued himself.
Another slickster to move through Chicago, traveling from L.A. to Key Largo was Sade’s Smooth Operator. Ladies beware, this dude was only out to break your heart. As far as I know, Sade never sang about such a cool villain, or Chicago, again.
Someone else just passing through Chitown? Good ole boy Lido in Boz Scaggs’ Lido Shuffle. Another drifter looking for a big score in the City of Big Shoulders (and easy marks?)
Listen carefully or you’ll miss the reference to the “city by the lake” in the Smashing Pumpkin’s Tonight, Tonight. For a Chicago born boy like Billy Corgan, what other city or what other lake could there ever be?
With the end of the Democratic National Convention, and as we await the beginning of the Republican’s revver, let’s not forget Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s Chicago, love-song to our fair city (not)–forever memorializing the battles in the streets during the Democratic Convention of 1968 and its courtroom aftermath. “Won’t you please come to Chicago for the help that we can bring.”
Then there is the sweet little number also titled Chicago, by the slightly unusual Sufjan Stevens. The number is on his album Illinoise which as you might have guessed is all about the 21st state to enter the Union. Does any radio station in town besides ‘XRT play this song?
Who remembers the Ides of March? Their biggest hit was certainly Vehicle but for my listening pleasure, their best song was the under-appreciated L.A. Goodbye with beautiful harmonies on the lyric “from the West side of Chicago,” perhaps a salute to the town of Berwyn, the birthplace of the band.
While we have vehicles on our mind, a shout out to Aliotta Haynes Jeremiah’s classic Lake Shore Drive. No, there is no name-check of Chicago, but there is no doubt what this song is about.
When should you come to Chicago? When the Levee Breaks, of course. An old blues number about the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, but Led Zeppelin made it their own.
The only choice with which to wrap up this list? Its got to be My Kind of Town (Chicago Is.) Did Frank Sinatra care a whit about Chicago? Who cares! At least he isn’t singing New York, New York.
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I look forward, and am hopeful for, another well-orchestrated roll-out, just as you did with the rectal culture workflow.
Thank you for your professionalism and leadership!
KC”
Wow.
It has been a tough few months for all of us. Pandemic, social unrest, product shortages, political nihilism. It’s not the best time to be rolling out a major change in a necessary product line to our “client” offices. But the move to the exciting field of molecular microbiology was something that we had begun before the world had heard of COVID-19. Significant financial investments had been made. The administration wanted us to push on.
Our lab staff did a tremendous job of finding workarounds for supplies that proved absolutely impossible to obtain. Procedures that had been previously validated needed to be reanalyzed and revalidated to take into account changes in technique.
We devised new strategies for informing our offices about the new procedure, and the not insignificant changes in office workflow that would be needed. We made a video and emailed FAQs and asked the group’s nurse coordinator to schedule face-to-face training where possible. Hundreds of supply kits were sent via courier to each office and our IT team made the necessary changes to our ordering and reporting paradigms.
Of course, there were grumbles. Why this? Why now? Do we HAVE to? But we responded, “Yes you do!” in as nice and as polite and as firm a way as possible. We set a date for when the old test would no longer be orderable.
Over the course of seven days, we watched as the percentage of testing using the new method increased. When the cut-off day arrived we told IT to flip the switch. As far as we were concerned the old method no longer existed.
We are now working on Phase 2 of our molecular microbiology project. That’s what prompted the email above from KC, the Practice Manager at one of our offices. I thanked him for the props and told him he had made my day.
And it’s true. A kind word, a word of support, a word of praise, can truly make my day.
What makes yours?
The above are the opinions of the author and not necessarily UroPartners LLC.
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We have been inundated with the news that Donald Trump successfully remembered for a few minutes the sequence “person, woman, man, camera, TV” as part of his recent cognitive skills test. Well, I can remember five words with a similar cadence, and they are from a lot more than a few minutes ago. In fact, they are from the 1960s. I first heard the words in 1961 when I was five years old. My cognitive skills must be pretty good because I have no trouble remembering “Man, Woman, Birth, Death, Infinity.”
A memorable moment in John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s inauguration speech? No way. The recitation was the introduction to each week’s episode of Ben Casey, the TV drama about earnest young physician Dr. Casey (Vince Edwards) and his older mentor, Dr. Zorba. Each week the two docs would battle deadly diseases on ABC, while also waging a ratings battle with much more handsome, but much less broody, James Kildare (a pre-Thorn Birds Richard Chamberlain) on rival NBC’s Dr. Kildare.
Being the curious sort, I decided to see how Dr. Casey would compare with President Trump. Let’s see how they stack up!
Dr. Ben Casey Vs President Trump
For me, Dr. Ben has it nailed. And hey, I just remembered another 5 words I want you to remember: Vote for Biden in November!
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“You can’t separate the person from the career. It doesn’t matter that there are good cops.” So says Aneesah Shealey, a student at DePaul University, quoted in Tuesday’s Tribune. Fortunately, the administration at Depaul recognizes that part of a college education is learning that not everything is black in white, not every position should be absolute.
What is this all about? Some students at Depaul object to DePaul offering educational programs to–Oh My God– officers of the Chicago Police Department! These programs include a Master of Jurisprudence Degree in Criminal Law, a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Business Administration, and a Writing Fellows Program. The courses are taught at the Police Academy, not on the DePaul Lincoln Park campus.
It would seem to me that officers familiar with the law would be more likely than more legally naive ones to treat the citizens of Chicago fairly and respect their rights. It would seem to me that those officers who are schooled in the nuances of management would eventually rise in the ranks and provide positive leadership. It would seem to me that officers enrolled in a writing program would be open to the world of literature and the arts, and be most likely to embrace the diversity of humanity.
And it seems to me that Shealey and friends, instead of trying to get the programs banned, could fight for the programs to be as good as they can be. The students could insist that the curriculum includes an emphasis on diversity, the recognition of human rights, and the danger of bias. They could advocate that the courses could be on one of DePaul’s campuses so that students and officers could mingle and try to understand what makes their opposite numbers tick.
But according to Shealey, the goals and all the positive aspects of the program are irrelevant. If you are a cop you are tainted with the sins of the hierarchy and your fellow officers, and a university should have nothing to do with you. Talk about the arrogance of youth!
DePaul, via an announcement from Provost Salma Ghanem has made the right decision by refusing to discontinue the academic program for the Chicago Police Department, by not bowing to “cancel culture.” Yes, the Police Department needs to change, but it is not going to go away. What better way to improve it than educating the women and men whom we should expect to preserve and protect all of us?
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Things come together; things come apart. The most infamous break-up in the music world was the end of the Beatles. I know that I can’t pick any one song as my favorite Beatle hit, but can I pick a bestie from each of John, Paul, George, and Ringo’s solo careers?
Let’s get the easiest one out of the way first. Mr. Starr has recorded a few numbers that have stayed with me. It Don’t Come Easy is a song that sends out a message in these trying times. Oh My My and No No Song are nice and whimsical. So is Bang on the Drum. What, you say? That isn’t Ringo, that’s Todd Rundgren? Well, shouldn’t it be a Ringo tune?
What wins the Ringo Round-Up for me? Hands down, it’s Photograph, a warm-but-sad ode to a lost lover. George Harrison helped write and produce, but this is Ringo’s shining moment.
Speaking of George, what’s my favorite song from the guy who always seemed like the most morose Beatle? What is Life? Too questiony. Bangladesh? Too rooted in the 70s. My Sweet Lord? Bingo. Despite issues with the lyrics (too religious) and the melody (too much of a Chiffon’s rip-off,) I’ll always stop and listen when this comes up on my Pandora stream. Hallelujah, Hare Hare, Hare Krishna!
Then there is John. Yeah, most of you would vote for Imagine. Greatest song of all time and all that crap. I’m sorry, it is just too preachy and solemn for me. Even in COVID-19 times. When I want to hear Lennon get in people’s faces, I’ll make my pick Instant Karma. It’s gonna get you! Gotta love the real John, the snarky John.
Paul. The longest solo career, the most hits. The basic question? Is the song solo if it was with Linda? Or if it was with Wings? Sure–any post-Beatle Paul is Solo Paul. So I could choose something from McCartney or from Ram but I am going to give my favorite nod to the title song from the Wings album Band on the Run. Honorable mentions go to Live and Let Die and Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey. I’ve always wanted to know what a butter pie tastes like.
I’m sure you disagree with some, or likely all, of my choices. Send me your favorites and I’ll take another listen. Now is the time to share.
For the “Worst” part of today’s double feature click here.
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President Trump told you COVID would be gone by Easter: HE LIED
Just Like Starting Over 