How Has Your TV Watching Changed Through The Years?

Wednesday night was Barb’s book club night–a return to in-person book chat after pandemic-driven Zoom sessions. With Barb out of the house, I settled into my favorite chair, Cooper at my side, to watch the next few episodes of Slow Horses, my new favorite TV streamer on Apple TV+.

After maneuvering the proper remote controls (it takes three for us to get to Apple TV+) I prepared to click on Episode 4 of this series about the characters who swim in the bottom of the barrel of the British Intelligence service.

“What the F,” I exclaimed, as the TV screen informed me the episode would be available starting FRIDAY. “I want my Slow Horses now!”

How the times have changed. If you are from my generation, or from the Greatest Generation before me, your TV viewing was rigid. You had your TV Guide, you knew what nights your favorite shows were on, and you were satisfied with one episode of Bonanza, Mission: Impossible, or The Dick Van Dyke Show a week. Miss it, and you could hope to catch it during the summer rerun season. Otherwise, it was gone until, like I Love Lucy, syndication would immortalize it.

The video-cassette recorder was the start of an evolution. Whether you were into VHS or Betamax, you could now go bowling on Thursday night and still catch that week’s episode of Hill Street Blues during some free time over the weekend. No need to ever miss Furillo and Davenport getting hot under the sheets.

That technique served our family well for us for many years. Even in the early 2000s, when some people discovered TiVo and began to record their favorite show digitally, I still loaded a cassette into the old VCR every Sunday night to tape Tony Soprano and friends, praying the cassette wouldn’t break.

Finally, in about 2013, Barb and I discovered streaming. We had started watching Parenthood on NBC during its 4th season. Barb wanted to know how the Braverman family had gotten to where they were. We discovered we could find the old shows on Netflix, and began a ritual of watching an episode of our current favorite show every night. After Parenthood came Breaking Bad, and the Sons of Anarchy, and on and on— through Offspring and many more to our current favorite Yellowstone. (We are on Season 2 while you may be watching Season 4. )

So with the very few exceptions of the shows that we keep up with on a weekly basis (This is Us, The Walking Dead), I expect to have episode after episode of a show available to me–a full season at my fingertips. No stewing through seven long days waiting to find out what is going to happen next.

Thus my frustration with Apple TV+ and Slow Horses. I want to know how these lovable losers are going to screw up next–and I want to know!

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A Prostate Pathologist Pencil Pusher. Making a Better Diagnosis.

Using a pencil in the laboratory? Absolutely verboten. If you write down something in the lab, make sure it’s in indelible ink, magic marker, or perhaps blood. Something, anything, that can’t be erased.

Does a tech need to make a change in what they see on an instrument printout? Our accreditation regulations (courtesy of the College of American Pathologists) are pretty strict:

Original (erroneous) entries must be visible (ie, erasures and correction fluid or tape are unacceptable) or accessible (eg, audit trail for electronic records).
Corrected data, including the identity of the person changing the record and when the record was changed, must be accessible to audit.

In layman’s terms, that means carefully drawing a line through your mistake, initialing, and then dating your correction.

So what am I doing wearing pencil after pencil down to its nub? I am making sure I am the best pathologist I can be.

Through this part of my career, looking at multitudes of prostate biopsies, I have developed, inaugurated, and continuously improved a printed, unofficial worksheet that I use for every prostate case. At the top of each sheet our laboratory information system prints the patient’s name, age, medical record number, and pathology case number. I then search the medical record and add in relevant clinical history, such as previous biopsy findings, PSA values, and results from imaging studies.

The sheet then contains a row for every biopsy location. After looking at each slide I can quickly pencil in whether I think the biopsy is benign or malignant, what the Gleason Grade is, the extent of tumor, and any special studies I want to perform. It is really a very efficient way for me to work.

And I do it in pencil. Why? Because diagnostic pathology is not all ink–it is an art as well as a science. Cancer cells don’t actually have a big “C” on them under the microscope. Malignant changes can be striking, but they can also be subtle, and first impressions can sometimes be misleading.

Sometimes looking at the 7th core in a patient’s biopsy series can affect how I view what I saw on the 3rd biopsy. Sometimes special stains are going to nudge me to call a biopsy malignant that I had originally noodled in as “atypical.” Sometimes viewing a core the next morning will clarify my thinking, or a word from my associates will lead me in a better direction. When any of those things happen I grab my worksheet and out comes my pencil, eraser end first. And I mark down my new, improved, diagnosis.

Eventually, the worksheets get turned into our administrative team, entered into a digital pathology report, and following my electronic signature, become very official. Corrections can still be made, but only through a very regimented procedure, with documentation of every step. No more pencils, no more erasers.

But rest assured, the next morning I will be at the sharpener, getting my favorite diagnostic tool ready for another busy day.

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I Want to Join a Posse. Got Room for Me on Yellowstone?

With a confirmed date for retiring from my pathology practice firmly set in crumbling concrete the questions as to what I will do with my time in my post-doc life have become more frequent.

My previous post on the topic dealt with the obvious; become a speaker, a pharmacy rep, an IT specialist, or a medical writer. Those all sounded like possibilities when I wrote that blog a few years ago. But recently someone dubbed me (and Cooper the loyal pooch) a posse and now I know–that is what I want to be!

I am not going to tell you about the incident that led to my being anointed with the moniker, but as soon as I heard about it, I knew that occupation fit. I just love the way it is going to look on my future business card. “Les Raff Medical Consultant/Posse Guy.”

Now I know “posse” has a few definitions. It may mean someone’s “crew,” or a bunch of rappers getting together to cut or track or two. But that’s not the kind of posse I want to be.

Nope, I am going for the classic definition: a body of persons summoned by a sheriff to assist in preserving the public peace usually in an emergency. I want to go back to the Wild West…or at least to the Yellowstone Ranch.

I can see it now. The Yellowstone brand on my chest, over my heart. The theme music streams through my head. Dutton gets out the word that rustlers are headed towards our town. I kiss my ranch-wife goodbye, pack my pistols in their holsters, saddle up Peacekeeper my trusty stallion, and head towards my destiny.

Sadly, my fantasy ends right there. I just don’t know what happens next. I have never sat through The Good the Bad and the Ugly, or The Magnificent Seven, and am only on season one of Yellowstone. I’m not sure what crimes rustlers actually commit. And to be honest and transparent, I can barely ride a pony — and if I ever had to use a firearm I would undoubtedly shoot my own face off. But damn, I think I look good in a cowboy hat.

So I may not chase the dream. It is most likely that my retirement life will be very full and rewarding but a little less thrilling than being a posse. But I am warning you–don’t go rustling on my front lawn or the Raff Posse is gonna get you!

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My Day At Jeopardy! It Was Long Ago, But Feels Like Yesterday.

Linda, Neil, and I battle it out on Jeopardy!

I went on a treasure hunt and struck gold! Or at least a second-place silver.

Frequent blog readers know of my past Jeopardy! experience as a contestant in 1988 and how my single videotape of the airing was eviscerated by a hungry VCR machine. I had thought my defeat was lost to future generations, but a few months ago I made another try to locate a copy.

A wonderful Jeopardy! resource exists at the J! Archive, a fan site with details of almost every Jeopardy! ever telecast, including players, answers, questions, a variety of statistics, and even a lexicon of Jeopardy! jargon. It was at this site that I began my search.

I was able to locate the episode I appeared in, #893, and noted the name of my two opponents, Neil L, an engineer from El Cerrito, California, and returning champion Linda M, a substitute teacher from Elizaville, New York.

I took my info and ran with it to Facebook, private messaging anyone I found who might possibly have been one of my opponents. I asked each contact if they could have been my Jeopardy! nemesis, and if they had a copy of our show.

Weeks went by with no return messages, and I had given up hope when last week I got a response from one of many Neil Ls I had contacted:

“Sorry for the delay, but I just saw the message. Yes, that was me. And that was you too. Strangely, yesterday I stumbled across a flash drive with recording of the game. We were young. Hope you are well.”

Success! We exchanged a few more messages, and by the end of the day Neil L of El Cerrito had come through with a WMV file of our episode. And transfixed, I watched my (much) younger self “perform.”

A few observations:

I made a poor choice of sportcoats
I never was much of a speller–no wonder I misspelled Dan “Akroyd.”
It was nice having a full head of hair.
Were Harry Caray size eyeglasses really in style?
The technology, with banks of CRT monitors, was light years behind what we witness on Jeopardy! now.
Eugene Finnerman, where are you now?
Alex was young, healthy, and helped me out when he pushed Linda M to overbid on a Daily Double she was sure to get wrong.
Despite the claims of my son, at no point did Alex say “Wrong again, Les.” However, he did appear amazed that I got Final Jeopardy correct–just after he had chastised me for “not making it a closer game.”

For those of you wondering, the final score had Neil at $12,100, while I rode my Final Jeopardy success to a grand total of $2,100. But it was $2,100 of fun. I am looking forward to sharing the whole experience with my family.

And to never again be taunted “Wrong again, Les.”

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South Korea Does What the USA Has Struggled To Do. We Should be Embarrassed and Ashamed.

Future South Korean President Yoon, former US President Trump. — South Korean President-to-be Yoon; US President-that-was-Trump

According to the New York Times, the presidential election was “so plagued by a series of scandals and marred by mudslinging between the parties that some in the electorate took to calling it a contest between two “unlikables.”

Conservative vs. liberal, experience vs political neophyte. Soaring housing prices, gender issues, a resurgent virus. dirty tricks. It was politics at its dirtiest.

But when the votes (over 31 million in a country of 51 million) were counted earlier this week, one candidate in South Korea’s presidential election, Mr. Yoon Suk-yeol of the People Power Party, held a minuscule lead of about 0.8 percentage points. And at 4 o’clock in the morning, his major opponent, Mr. Lee Jae-myung of the ruling Democratic Party, did something that in the present-day US feels remarkable. Mr. Lee conceded the election.

Yes, you read that correctly. Not only did Mr. Lee concede to Mr. Yoon, as of today no one has called the election fake, fraudulent, corrupt, or a big lie.

Mr. Yoon will take office on May 10. At this time there are no lawsuits to deny him the presidency, no insane press conferences scheduled at Four Seasons Landscaping of Seoul, and the loser, Mr. Lee, has not been ignominiously banned from Twitter.

I lack in-depth knowledge of the politics of South Korea and know even less about the policies Mr. Yoon will favor. I suppose the talking heads on CNN and on Fox News will disagree about whether his victory is good or bad for the US. Not many people here will watch or care.

But what is most notable to me is that even in this day and age of social networking and misinformation, even with (or perhaps because of) a lunatic with a bad haircut staring at it from across its northern border, a country can still figure out how to do this most important part of democracy, the peaceful transition of power, and how to do it right.

And those of you in our country who don’t get that should be thoroughly ashamed.

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In Memorium: Duvall Hecht, The Man Who Let Me Listen

Duvall Hecht (1930-2022) Founder of Books on Tape.

The man who has helped keep me sane and happy over the last 17 years passed away last month in Costa Mesa, California, at the age of 91. His name was Duvall Hecht and though I had never met him his creation has been my daily companion on my long commute to the lab. In 1975 Mr. Hecht and his wife Sigrid invented Books on Tape.

Mr. Hecht founded B-o-T because wanted more things to listen to when he traveled. And once I started driving from the north suburbs to Westchester every day, I realized that I did too.

Barb actually tried audiobooks before I did, listening during her long drives to Joliet for a part-time hand therapy position. It was in her car that I had my first taste, catching a snippet of the Richard Russo novel “Empire Falls” while on a day trip. And I thought, “this could work for me, too.”

Thus began my long love affair with books on my car CD player. My passenger seat is never without a hard-plastic encased set of discs in their filmy envelopes. I have become adept at using one hand to fish the next CD out when the current chapter ends while driving at 80 75 65 mph on the Tri-State. Only once has a disc somehow found its way into the innards of the dashboard and disappeared for good.

And what a marvelous and varied bunch of novels I have listened to. I started with “East of Eden,” still one of my all-time favorite books. Of course, I had to listen to all of “Empire Falls,” and a whole bunch of other Russo books as well.

Oh, the places I have visited during my daily commute! I have traveled through Europe via Hemingway, explored Westeros and The Seven Kingdoms with George R. R. Martin, and ridden on the Underground Railway and to a reform school in Florida with Colson Whitehead. I have listened to Jack Reacher escape from dozens of impossible situations and heard Stephen King create dozens more. I heard Patti Smith tell her own rock’n’roll story in “The Kids are Alright,” and listened while Keith Richard shared the narration of “Life” with fellow mumbler Johnny Depp. And I laughed and cried while listening to “The Book Thief” and “All the Light We Cannot See.”

Lately, my car CD player has gotten squirrely. Every time I turn the car on, the CD backtracks, anywhere from 3 seconds to 3 minutes. I spend precious listening time figuring out where I am. And I know my next car won’t even have a CD player. Just one more reason to retire and say goodbye to my long commute.

But before I do, I want to bid Mr. Hecht a fond farewell. You powered me through the last 17 years, and for that, I am ever grateful.

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Hotel California. A Classic or a Nightmare–What Do You Think?

Hey boomers–any idea of how many “classic rock” radio stations are in the USA? Wikipedia lists 496 stations using some variation of that moniker. Assuming all are 24-hour a day broadcasters, that is 496 X 24 X 60 = 714,240 minutes of air time per day that these stations have to fill. Let’s guess that 214,20 minutes of that is filled with commercials, news, and DJ jabber. That leaves about half a million minutes a day for music.

And how do most classic rock radio stations fill that time? They play the Eagles “Hotel California.” And then they play it again.

You can travel anywhere in the country (we just spend a lovely week in Phoenix) and the results will be the same. The ethereal images, the dueling guitars, the Steely Dan reference, the never-ending fade, all those will follow you coast to coast. And you won’t escape it at 30,000 feet as ‘Hotel California” is certainly on your airline’s in-flight song menu as well.

It is quite possible that if you stacked up a new 45 rpm disc for each radio play in the last 45 years, you would end up with a pile 4.3 light-years tall, high enough to reach the star Alpha Centauri. And when you got there, some intergalactic radio station would be probably be playing the intro to “Hotel California.”

This isn’t to say some radio stations don’t occasionally get creative. If you listen long enough you may hear the rare playing of some other song from the Hotel California album. “New Kid in Town” frequently makes the cut. There is also a dictum that one out of every ten plays of “Hotel California” must be the live acoustic version from the “Hell Freezes Over” CD.

So whether you are in the fast lane, takin’ it easy, or taking it to the limit, you can be sure that when you check in to Hotel California, you can never leave.

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Can We Use This Word? The New York Times and Wordle Say No But I Say We Must.

A lot of people are unhappy with the New York Times acquiring Wordle, the trendy daily word game. My great ChicagoNow fellow blogger Howard Moore reminds us that this is just a game, and not to get too worked up about how difficult the words seem to have become.

I ran into a different issue the other day. As one of my five-letter guesses, I entered the word “Slave.” The omnipotent Wordle moderator immediately informed me that my attempt was Not in the Word List.

Excuse me? The word is present in Merriam-Webster, with multiple definitions including “a person held in forced servitude.” Other definitions include the use of the word in tech environments.

But a little research indicates that certain words, deemed by the Times as offensive, have now been removed from the Wordle word list. “Slave” is apparently on the offensive list. Thou shalt not use it.

And in this case, I don’t get it. Which just shows my ignorance. Apparently, there has been a debate for years about whether the word should no longer be used. Former Trib columnist Eric Zorn devoted a column to the controversy in 2021. The word is a “needlessly dehumanizing word to describe a person who was in bondage.”

But isn’t that the point? Calling a slave a slave exactly points out the dehumanization that slavery was. Euphemistically dancing around it with terms such as “enslaved person” just doesn’t convey the horror of the stain on our history.

I have a second point of reference. Next month, I will be celebrating Passover. I will lead my family’s Seder, in which we will read from the Haggadah. After a few blessings, we will read (and chant) Avadim Hayenu. “We were slaves to Pharoah in Egypt.”

The harsh words are blunt and are used with other symbols (charoseth–a chopped nuts and apple mixture representing the mortar used during forced construction work, maror–bitter herbs to remind us of the bitterness of slave life) because we never want to forget. Indeed, the theme running throughout the Seder is to pass the history from generation to generation.

Just as the more recent ancestors of many of us who died in World War II concentration camps were not “people ensnared by a Nazi policy,” but rather murder victims, slaves were slaves. Let the horror of the word speak on our behalf, and may we never forget.

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A Morning Moon Prayer

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The Morning Moon Glows Through the Clouds

On Mobile phone or Tablet, scroll down please!


















The morning moon glimmers so low in the West,
 Before the sun rises, the sky to contest.
 What will the day bring, the moon seems to say.
 As all ‘cross the world, do the herky-jerky ballet.

 Will Covid come lurking, waiting behind all our masks,
 And make us think twice before every day tasks?
 Or have all our jabs, and Ivermectin convinced us,
 That our worries are gone, no need for this fear fuss.

 Which Russian will step up, to grab our attention?
 The leader? The skater? It’s beyond comprehension.
 That a fifteen year old girl who’s charged with drug doping,
 Distracts us from Putin, while the Ukraine he’s groping.

 I read Trump’s finances might go down the toilet,
 We can savor the moment, and really enjoy it.
 But what does it matter when millions adore him,
 I’ll go look for a cave, to hide and explore in.

 The Senate and House, the foundations of Congress,
 Are masters of nothing, they really could care less,
 About all the aspects in which the country is lacking,
 They just want your dollars, they just want your backing.

 The Super Bowl’s over, the Rams are the winners,
 While the Bears here in town, just hire beginners.
 The half-time display was all hip-hop and glamour,
 Love Snoop Dog, Love Fifty, but where’s Kanye and Hammer?

 And baseball is stranded with no games approaching,
 The negotiating teams could sure use some coaching.
 When zillionaires squabble over dividing the big bucks,
 It’s paying fans in the stands who feel like the stiffed schmucks.

 We Wordle our way to achieve adulation,
 When our score is the lowest we post the citation.
 Do you start with "arise" or do you start with some other?
The Times of New York can now track like Big Brother.
 

 Well, the climate's still heating, there’s no easy solution.
 We’ve got crime, we’ve got hate, we’ve got water pollution.
 But the moon as it shines, on today’s early morning
 Says the sun will rise soon, let's pray a good day's aborning.

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A Valentine’s Day List So That I Always Remember

I celebrate my Valentine’s Day with…

A dog whisperer who can turn a 40 lb Labradoodle into a lap dog.
A friend who charges nothing for interior design advice.
A volunteer who can’t leave the healthcare environment behind.
A chef who knows how to complement a delicious meal with a colorful plate.
A Neil Diamond super fan, even if I am the only one who ever wears a Neil Diamond concert tee shirt.
A community leader, always striving for improvement and beautification of the world around her.
A needle-pointer extraordinaire, for whom the photographs of her handiwork above cannot begin to demonstrate the exquisite quality and magnificence of her work, or the love she pours into each canvas, each embellishment, and each and every stitch. (The hearts are from me!)
A Nana whose grandchildren adore her.
A mother who will drop everything to help her kids.
The woman who is my wife of 43 years, the love of my life, my soulmate, my duet-partner. The woman who shares my brain.

Just remember, through it all, I Got You, Babe.

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	Les Raff on Ending It With An Old Fri…
	SACHIN KALE on Ending It With An Old Fri…
	Nancy M on Ending It With An Old Fri…
	John Petru on Interchangeable Choices
	J. P. Karlinsky on 24 and Me