Beatles Quiz: Program from Beatles concert at Carnegie Hall 1964: Spot the Error!
Auditioning for a Liberty Mutual Ad
Capitalism’s Answer to Anxiety and Depression in Today’s Society
Plaque on Park Avenue and 37th Street honoring Mary Lindley Murray, a Revolutionary War Hero who served tea to General Howe’s troops, delaying their pursuit of George Washington’s troops and saving the nation. Why don’t we drink tea honoring this beverage that saved the Union?
The first piano from 18th century Italy (Pianoforte, Bartolemeo Cristofori 1655-1731). Marked the beginning of the decline of the Harpsichord Industry.
As the holiday season approaches, my thoughts turn to memories of childhood adventures with Lionel trains. As a young boy growing up in proximity to Penn and Grand Central Stations I was fascinated by trains and the intricate and detailed world of these miniature marvels slaked my interest. My uncle, an avid collector and enthusiast who worked for the New York Subway system, had inherited a treasure trove of Lionel memorabilia. One of my favorite memories was a vintage Lionel locomotive from 1940, a rare and valuable piece that he had always coveted. The locomotive was intricately detailed and had the ability to blow smoke when using special pellets in the smokestack, adding an extra layer of realism to our adventures.
As a faux conductor and engineer, the enterprise did not alway run smoothly. As my brother was fixing a track, I couldn’t resist the temptation to engage the transformer and send the trains chugging around the tracks. However, in my excitement, I didn’t realize that my brother’s hand was still on the tracks and he was shocked by the sudden jolt of electricity. “Ow! What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, as he jumped back in pain. My penance was removal from any electrical equipment and I was delegated to the mundane task of snapping together the plastic diner and signs that lined the train route.
A nod to NASA was a rocket launching car, a special edition released in the wake of the Soviet Union’s successful launch of Sputnik. As a child, I was worried about falling behind the Soviets in the race to space, and this little train offered a glimpse into a future filled with endless possibilities
I remember grinning at a later addition to our Lionel train set – a cattle car filled with plastic cows vibrating on platform, mimicking the movement of live cattle being transported across the country. “This is going to be the best train adventure yet!” I had mused, as I placed the cows carefully in the car.
As we sounded the train whistle and the locomotive chugged around the tracks, our terrier mix dog, Domino, started barking at the cattle car and shivering with excitement. Whether it was setting up intricate tracks and scenarios, or simply watching the trains chug along, there was something timeless and special about the world of Lionel trains. And as we spent the afternoon lost in the world of these tiny locomotives, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the memories and adventures that these beloved trains had given us.
It was moments like these that brought our whole family together, united by a shared love for these miniature marvels.
The second hand swept past twelve midnight on the operating room clock as the retractor dug into the palm of my hand and my biceps lactate level soared. “Hmm, you’re choosing Internal medicine?”, intoned Dr. G, as he directed the surgical resident to place catgut sutures into a human gut that was defiled by a stab wound in the heat of a gang altercation in East Los Angeles in 1977. I pulled on the retractor as Dr. G. sermoned his soliloquy on the superiority of surgical practice. “Who is going to save the patient with appendicitis or peritonitis from certain death? The surgeon!”, he emphatically answered.
Morning arrived quickly and surgical rounds began as a retinue of visiting professors, fellows, residents, interns, social workers, case workers, physical and occupational therapists and finally third year medical students filed in behind Dr. G. In my sleep deprived mind, I saw his surgical cap as a tri-cornered hat, his pocketed stethoscope as a sword and his entry through the door of the large L.A. County Hospital ward as passing under a faux Arc de Triomphe after his conquests at Austerlitz. Moments later, he transmogrified into a fusion Perry Mason and Clarence Darrow, as he interrogated a profusely sweating surgical resident who had the misfortune of a post cholecystectomy wound infection.
Many decades later, playing “where are they now?,” I did the perspicacious detective work of finding out what accolades Dr. G. had received in the 21st century. In other words, I had googled his name. Up came the answer: He had retired to a South Pacific Island to manage a greenhouse and take care of plants and trees on the island. He had become a plant and tree doctor! The head of Los Angeles County Trauma Response who had mended miles of injured intestines, cauterized thousands of bleeding blood vessels, and drained an ocean of abscesses had become a tree and plant caretaker. I was gobsmacked to say the least.
Trees were meant to be cut down to make way for McDonalds’ parking lots, inspire insipid poems that 4th graders needed to memorize, and knock down errant golf balls. (Dwight Eisenhower, the Supreme Commander of D- Day and former U. S. President, urged Augusta National Golf Club to cut down a tree on the 17th hole that consistently stymied his tee shot).
As the years peeled away and I grew more gray, I learned respect for green. Peripatetic journeys with my botany-wise spouse and selected artificial intelligence plant apps opened up the world of beauty and ecological necessities of our flora. The mountain ash leaves feeding an army of tadpoles, our Red Osier Dogwood stabilizing our topsoil and preventing erosion, sunflowers blooming in summer and providing sustenance for bees, the Oregon Crabapple providing shelter and food for the Bluebird and Cardinal, and the joyful human stroll under the elevated tunnel of American Elms lining the Literary Walk at Central Park, are fine examples of the edification and beauty I had discovered in my new-found hobby of tree identification and exploration.
Dr. G had seen decades of turmoil and tragedy mending the human body in East LA. He found tranquility and peace tending the South Pacific flora thousands of miles from the mainland. His time spent caring for trees, I would like to think, was like a healing tonic for a soul undoubtedly troubled and fractured from the many toils and challenges of practicing medicine and surgery for decades. In a sense, he was finding his humanity and giving back to the planet what we have taken for granted for so long: the life-giving beauty of the Kingdom Plantae. I have to admit, I completely understood.
It has been 40 years that I have perambulated Balboa Park and admired its variety of museums. The Hall of Champions was one of my favorites given my obsession with all things sports. It was bittersweet looking at the exhibits knowing that San Diego had an acute shortage of victors in professional sports. The AFL Chargers of Lance Alworth fame from the early 1960’s, way before the NFL merger, were an exception. The Padres, losers of two World Series, Dennis Conner, who lost America’s Cup Yachting race after 132 years of successful American defense and the loss of two NBA franchises were reminders of San Diego’s “snake bitten” past.
In 2017 the Hall ceased operation and a new museum was to take its place. Inspired by the summer Comic Con Convention, its mission was to educate and entertain the public with comic and popular art forms. It vision, summarized on the website:
Thrive as a world-class attraction and gateway to popular art, culture, and life-long learning for San Diego residents and visiting tourists.
Serve as a pop culture focal point, enhancing the ways San Diego celebrates its unique place in the popular culture landscape.
Enhance the economic strength of the community.
Become a sustainable model for equitable and environmentally-sound community service through our practices and offerings.
The hard opening of the museum on July 1st featured the Marvel Universe, Spiderman and all his glories and Ernest Hemingway in comics. I strolled up to the entrance and asked a spokesperson about the details of the Superman exhibit. “Oh we don’t have a Superman exhibit yet,” she said. “But we are in negotiations with DC Comics.” “How could this be?“, I mused as the 12 year old inside of me tried to cope with this disappointment. My formative years were shaped by Action and Superman Comics. I learned about inflation (10 cents/copy in 1960, 12 cents a few years later), toxicology (green, gold and red kryptonite), journalism (The Daily Planet and its staff) and infatuation (I had a crush on Linda Lee Danvers, Supergirl’s alias).
I had pressing 21st century questions for the Superman franchise: How had climate change affected the Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic? Did the Daily Planet survive and gain a digital footprint? Superman is faster than a locomotive but is he faster than a Saturn Rocket?
I respect all of the Gen Xers, Millennials and pre-baby boomers who revere Marvel and will flock to San Diego in the coming days to attend Comic Con and its new museum. But I implore all baby boomers and supporters to take action. The “Man of Steel” who stands for “Truth, Justice and the American Way” is needed now more than ever.
It was time to travel despite a war in Eastern Europe, runaway inflation, political turmoil and exploding Omicron SARS-CoV2 variants. With a KN-95 mask, COVID antigen tests and $50 worth of digital guidebooks in hand, we boarded a river boat to glide upstream down the Rhine, Mein and Danube, from Amsterdam to Budapest to find history, fine spirits and the origins of ancestor’s past.
We were going to the edge of civilization, as the Romans had defined it circa 2000 years ago. The Rhine and Danube were the North and Eastern boundaries of the empire, warding off the barbarians, the Goths, Vandals, Visigoths and Franks. The Franks had plundered Eastern and Western Europe, united under Charlemagne and eventually (?with the help of intermarriage and French wine) settled down in France so their ancestors could appreciate fine architecture, food and Jerry Lewis.
The tragedies of history were retold by guides, museums and historical plaques as the craft dodged buoys and passed feudal castles. In Amsterdam, Cologne, Regensburg, Vienna, Rothenburg, Bratislava and Budapest were military monuments, holocaust memorials, mass graves, ramparts and moats, museum artifacts, artillery and ballistic impacts on stone walls that testified to perpetual war and oppression from the Middle Ages onward. The grievances are engraved in our schoolbooks: Romans v. Barbarians, Christians v. Arabs (Crusades 1-4), Protestants v. Catholics (30 Years War and others), Ottoman Empire v. “Civilized” Europe, Habsburgs v. National Uprisings in the mid nineteenth Century, Prussian Wars of the late 19th century. The 20th century brought us World Wars I and II ending the Holy Roman and Ottoman Empires and Hitler and the Third Reich at the expense of over 60 million lives.
As we headed South and East along the Rivers, I encountered glimpses of my Jewish heritage. The Jewish Diaspora from antiquity forced migration from Western to Eastern Europe along the Rhine and Danube. Jews were multilingual merchants, bridging the Arab and European divide and helping to create the trade routes from Asia, Africa and Europe. They were artisans in the pre-industrial world and creators of the financial world that allowed the development of city-states. Judaism financed the release of Richard the Lion Hearted of England’s release from captivity and paid for the defense of Vienna against Ottoman Invasion in the 17th century. Yet, each town’s history was marked by the same recurring theme: Jewish expulsion and persecution.
Tragedy often begets opportunity. Science, medicine and art blossomed along these European river tributaries. Booerhaave, the Dutch physician, organized hospital divisions, defined pathology and described his eponymous esophageal rupture syndrome. Dicke, an Amsterdam physician, recognized abdominal pain and diarrhea in Dutch children reintroduced to bread following privations of World War II and described celiac disease. Down the Rhine at Erlangen, Germany, Demling and Classen devised a modified electrified wire passed through an endoscope and allowed non surgical removal of bile duct stones in a jaundiced nurse in 1973, introducing therapeutic biliary endoscopy to the world. Wilhelm Conrad Rontgen, discoverer of X rays, taught on the Mein River at Wurzburg in the late 19th century. Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalysis treatise and practice was a part of 1890’s Vienna. Laszlo Biro from Budapest, invented the ballpoint pen and freed the world from fountain pen leakage.
Music flourished along the river, providing the world with the classics from Mahler, Mozart, Beethoven and Liszt.
History was infused in everything we saw and consumed. I ate herring in Amsterdam as the Dutch West India Company sailors did before traveling to Nieuw Amsterdam and quaffed Riesling from The Rhine Valley from Middle Age monastery vineyards. A McDonalds and statues of Ronald Reagan and George Bush in Budapest were symbols of who won the Cold War.
The realities of the past portend the fragility of peace for the future. The murmurs from these ancient rivers give us pause to respect and cherish our freedoms.
Mozart’s Piano Budapest MarketRhine WineVineyard Rudesheim GermanyRembrandt’s StudioFlowers in AmsterdamOn the Amsterdam CanalChildren on Margaret Island Budapest
“You’re out,” shouted Matt. Matt was the second baseman and bonafide schoolyard bully whose underlying goal was to win every game. “Fielder’s choice and I get to decide,” he declared as if he was a major league umpire. With sweat dripping from my brow, I dutifully left 2nd base in the sweltering summer of the mid ’60’s in Queens. After the game, I consulted a higher authority (my dad) who informed me that fielder’s choice did not give infielders the right to choose who is or is not out. It would be a conflict of interest, he told me. I brought this enlightened info back to my stickball overlord and was greeted by scorn and a subtle threat of possible physical harm in the future.
While learning about truth, honesty, civility and camaraderie in school, the real world of hidden agendas creeped in. New and improved Fruit Loops tasted exactly the same as the old Fruit Loops. Two box tops and $2.00 did not get you “life sized action figures” but ant sized plastic toy soldiers. Reality only accelerated with age. “This VCR is state of the art and will remain a standard for years,” the Circuit City salesman told me with a straight face in 1982 as I drained my bank account of $1,200. Obviously, the advertising on cereal boxes and a stereo salesman suffered from hidden agendas or conflicts of interest.
The world of medicine brought its own litany of hidden agendas. Pharmaceutical representatives extolling the virtue of their brand name products when a generic and a lower cost substitute achieved the same goals. I entered the profession during the era of drug sponsored free Caribbean vacations, five star restaurant outings, and “free” basketball playoff tickets. Was there a potential for bias in prescribing habits when you’re cutting into a filet mignon paid for by an acid reducer you haven’t used before? One would have to think so.
Transparency in medicine became clearer when government edicts regulated Pharma’s gifts to the medical profession. The trips, five star restaurants, and sporting event tickets disappeared. Finally, even complementary pens and trackpads were forbidden. Quite rightly, transparency in prescribing was demanded by consumers. Today, the consumer can check on their provider’s lunch reimbursements, Medicare payments, and Big Pharma consultant fees. A simple internet search will quickly reveal the truth regarding your doctors financial ties—if any— to pharmaceutical companies and the like.
Regretfully, most of the world operates with hidden agendas and conflicts of interest unbeknownst to the consumer or general public. However, to the world of medicine’s credit, regulatory agents have collectively required physicians to publicly reveal conflicts of interest. For example, if you are a physician presenting a paper at a meeting regarding your research on a drug, you must disclose any conflict you have with the company making or marketing said drug. Furthermore, your research paper must cite any conflict you have as well.
Certain areas of the field of medicine have escaped transparency and issues of reporting conflicts of interest. Lobbying has produced the DSHEA Act of 1994 which stripped regulation and FDA oversight from over-the-counter pharmaceuticals. Many over-the-counter medicines have not been subjected to vigorous oversight or proof of efficacy. Billions of dollars of products are bought that may have little or no assurance that they help or improve what it professes to do on the package information. Fortunes have been made from this lack of transparency to the patient slash consumer. It would seem, in the public’s interest, that a warning indicating that a product that has not been rigorously tested and proven in its stated efficacy, should be placed on the product packaging.
It seems that physicians and some areas of medicine are leaders in self-reporting conflicts of interest and public available transparency of these conflicts should be the standard applied to all businesses that interface with the public at large. For example, politics operates in the world of dark money facilitated by Citizen’s United and the death of campaign reform. So when a politician publicly espouses a certain political opinion, why do they not have to disclose any influence or conflicts of interest they might have that would benefit from their political stance on an issue? Doesn’t the American citizen need this transparency to be an educated voter?
Furthering this argument, Journalists in a variety of communication forums report information in the public’s best interest. Under their by-line in a newspaper or in a chyron on the bottom your television screen there should be a clear statement of any conflict of interest the journalist might have. If you own stock in a company that spilled oil into the ocean, I’d like to know that when you present information on the oil-spill.
A rational world should apply the rules that govern conflicts of interest or hidden agendas in a schoolyard playground the same as they should in the world of medicine, politics and journalism to name a few. Self-reporting, fairness, and truthfulness should be a minimal requirement for all who interface with the public who are purportedly looking out for your best interest.
