Organized Minds, Glorious Nerds

My grandson is at it again. He’s ticking off African nations — all 54 of them — with the focused serenity of a monk counting prayer beads.

Yesterday it was the counties of Texas. Before that, American presidents in reverse chronological order, which he performed at dinner with the calm confidence of a kid who has seen things. He lives in Washington, D.C., which I suspect is less a geographic choice than a spiritual one: he wants to be near the material.

I recognize him completely. I am him, sixty years earlier, haunting the mailbox in October waiting for the Information Please Almanac to arrive. When it did, I did not read it so much as inhale it — population densities, Olympic records, the gross national products of countries most Americans couldn’t locate on a globe.

Meanwhile, the World Book Encyclopedia sat on the shelf like a cathedral, and I was its most devoted worshipper. Volume P alone — Population, Planets, Presidents, Portugal — could sustain me through a dull February weekend.

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who make lists… and those who pretend they don’t.

I come from a proud lineage of list-makers. Not casual, jot-it-on-a-napkin types—but the kind who would alphabetize their anxieties if given a quiet afternoon and a sharpened pencil.

My grandson, at the ripe old age of four, has already joined the guild. He ticks off countries in Africa like a seasoned diplomat, names U.S. states with the confidence of a campaign manager, and is working his way through presidents as if he has a clearance badge to the White House.

The List Gene

I blame genetics. Or perhaps nostalgia.

In my day—back when hair was longer and attention spans were shorter—we didn’t have YouTube serenading us with “Top 50 Rivers of Europe” set to a catchy beat.

We had the annual unveiling of the Information Please Almanac, which arrived with all the fanfare of a new iPhone launch, minus the line outside. And then there was the majestic World Book Encyclopedia—a 26-volume monument to curiosity and back strain.

You didn’t “Google” things. You hunted them. You earned them. You cross-referenced Mongolia like it owed you money—and if you wanted an update, you waited a year and hoped Mongolia hadn’t moved.

Surgical Precision, Trivial Pursuits

There is nothing quite like standing in an operating room, where a vascular surgeon is calmly repairing an aortic aneurysm while casually listing the ten tallest buildings in the world. (“Burj Khalifa, Shanghai Tower… suction please…”)

Meanwhile, a family practice colleague—clearly underutilized—recites the La Marseillaise backwards. Not clinically useful, but impressive enough to make you question your own hobbies.

We were supposed to be saving lives. Instead, we were mentally indexing them.

The Ken Jennings Ideal

And then there is the patron saint of us all: Ken Jennings. Seventy-four consecutive Jeopardy! victories. A human being who appeared to have simply agreed to remember everything, on the off chance someone would someday ask. When Ken Jennings walked onto that stage, he wasn’t showing off. He was reporting for duty.

Every one of us who ever memorized the order of the planets, the presidents, the periodic table, or the airports of Europe by IATA code contains a small Ken Jennings. A tiny, extremely well-organized Ken, sitting in the library of our hippocampus, cross-referencing, updating, waiting for his moment. We are all, in our hearts, training for Jeopardy!.

I suspect this is, at its core, a love of order in a disordered world. The universe tends toward entropy; the list-maker pushes back. You cannot control geopolitics, but you can, by God, know all the landlocked countries of Africa in alphabetical order.

You cannot cure mortality, but you can tell me the ten longest rivers on every continent, and for a moment — just a moment — the world is knowable, mappable, tamed.

The Sports Lists (Where It Gets Serious)

This is where list-making graduates from hobby to religion.

The Mickey Mantle File

Every self-respecting sports fan of a certain vintage has this memorized:

536 home runs
3 MVP awards
Triple Crown (1956)
Switch-hitter with tape-measure power from both sides
Knees held together by willpower and clubhouse tape

We didn’t just admire Mantle—we archived him.

The Los Angeles Lakers Pantheon

You can start an argument at any dinner table with this one:

Magic Johnson – ran Showtime like a jazz conductor who never missed a beat
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar – the skyhook: medicine’s answer to the unstoppable procedure
Kobe Bryant – relentless, surgical, occasionally terrifying
Shaquille O’Neal – less a player, more a controlled demolition
Jerry West – the logo, before branding departments existed

Ranking them is like choosing your favorite child—except everyone is louder about it.

The Tiger Woods Ledger

This one borders on scripture:

15 major championships
The “Tiger Slam” (holding all four majors at once, 2000–2001)
Masters wins: 1997, 2001, 2002, 2005, 2019
U.S. Opens: 2000, 2002, 2008
The Open Championship: 2000, 2005, 2006
PGA Championships: 1999, 2000, 2006, 2007

If you play golf, you don’t just watch Tiger—you audit him.

The Modern Evolution: Musical Lists

Today’s children have upgraded tools.

My grandson doesn’t flip through encyclopedias—he watches YouTube videos where animated characters sing the capitals of Europe in a rhythm that gets stuck in your head for three days. I now know more about Slovenia than I ever intended, entirely due to a chorus line of cartoon goats.

It’s hard to compete with that. My generation had mnemonics. His has choreography—and better production values.

Why Lists Matter (or at Least Why We Think They Do)

There’s something deeply satisfying about a list:

It imposes order on chaos
It gives the illusion of mastery
It turns the infinite into something you can check off before dinner

Lists are how we convince ourselves we understand the world. If we can name all 50 states, surely we’ve conquered geography. If we know the presidents in order, history must be under control.

The Family Tradition Continues

And so I watch the next generation.

My grandson, sitting on the floor, confidently announcing: “I know all the countries in Africa.”

I don’t correct him—not because I’m generous, but because he’s usually right. Sudan and South Sudan? That update didn’t make it into my edition of the encyclopedia.

It’s a humbling experience to be outmatched in geopolitical awareness by someone who still needs help tying his shoes.

Final Entry

Somewhere along the way, I traded my encyclopedias for Google and my almanacs for apps. But the instinct remains.

To categorize. To rank. To recall.

And occasionally, to wonder—usually late at night—whether I could still name the ten tallest buildings in the world if someone handed me a scalpel.

Probably not.

But give me a list… and I’ll give it a shot.

A PARTIAL TAXONOMY OF LIST ENTHUSIASTS
1. The Completionist — Cannot rest until every African country, every Texas county, every U.S. president is accounted for. Sleep is optional. Gaps are not.
2. The Performance Lister — Deploys their lists at precisely the right moment. Dinner parties. Operating rooms. Elevators.
3. The Almanac Archaeologist — Keeps a 1965 World Almanac specifically because the 1965 data is still technically accurate for historical purposes.
4. The Trivia Athlete — Trains daily. Has a vision board. Watches Jeopardy! in the way most people watch playoff games.
5. The Backwards Reciter — A rare and specialized subspecies. Requires no further explanation.
6. The YouTube Mnemonist — Has learned 195 countries through earworm. Is unstoppable at parties.

WHAT WE KNOW FOR CERTAIN
1. Lists are not a quirk. They are a calling.
2. The almanac was the internet before the internet, and it had better binding.
3. YouTube trivia songs are a legitimate branch of classical education.
4. Any surgeon who can name the world’s tallest skyscrapers while operating has simply found an efficient use of bandwidth.
5. The Marseillaise backwards is probably not useful. It is nonetheless impressive.
6. A grandson who ticks off countries is not wasting time. He is building a mind.
7. Ken Jennings is proof that there is a God, and that God rewards those who pay attention.

March 4, 2026March 4, 2026

The Colonoscope in the Park

Seven years into retirement, I assumed I had successfully left gastroenterology behind.

Apparently my subconscious did not get the memo.

The dream began normally enough. I was back in an endoscopy suite performing a colonoscopy—something I had done thousands of times over the course of my career. The setting felt completely authentic: the soft hum of equipment, the glowing monitor, the familiar choreography of scope, suction, insufflation, and gentle navigation through the turns of the colon.

Then I saw it.

A polyp.

Even in my dream I was pleased. Muscle memory kicked in immediately. The snare went out, the polyp was captured cleanly, and I dropped it neatly into the retrieval basket. A textbook polypectomy.

At that point I looked up.

I was no longer in the endoscopy center.

I was standing in a park.

The colonoscope was still in my hands. The basket still contained the polyp. But the patient had completely vanished, as had the endoscopy suite. No nurse, no monitor, no stretcher—just me, the scope, and what appeared to be a perfectly pleasant public park.

Dream logic, as usual, provided no explanation.

I remember thinking: Well, this is unusual.

The next scene shifted again. Now I was back in the endoscopy center, but the situation had somehow become worse. The patient had apparently gotten up and left. The room was empty. I was standing there holding a colonoscope and a specimen basket with a polyp that seemed to belong to no one.

And I was thinking: What exactly am I supposed to do now?

Do I call pathology?

Do I track down the patient?

Do I go back to the park and see if he’s still there?

This was the precise moment I woke up.

Later that same day I spoke with a 90-year-old retired radiologist. He practiced for decades and read thousands upon thousands of studies during his career.

He told me something interesting.

He still dreams about radiology.

Not just occasionally—frequently. In his dreams he’s interpreting films, attending departmental meetings, or planning new hospital ventures. He hasn’t practiced in years, but the machinery of the profession keeps running somewhere in the back of his mind.

Apparently the professional brain never fully powers down.

The whole thing reminded me of another type of dream that many of us have had since our student days.

The classic academic nightmare.

You’re suddenly sitting in a final exam. The room is silent. The test is handed out. And then you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you never attended the class all semester. You don’t recognize the material. You don’t know the subject. You may not even know what course you’re taking.

Yet somehow you are expected to pass the final.

For decades that dream would occasionally pop up in my sleep. It’s the brain’s way of replaying the anxiety of responsibility long after the actual responsibility has disappeared.

My colonoscopy-in-the-park dream felt like the medical version of that exam nightmare.

Somewhere in my subconscious I am still responsible for the polyp.

Medicine leaves deep grooves in the brain. When you spend forty years making decisions, solving problems, and being responsible for other people’s outcomes, those patterns become part of the architecture of the mind.

You may retire.

But the brain occasionally clocks back in.

Sometimes that means interpreting radiology films at age ninety. Sometimes it means taking an exam for a class you never attended.

And sometimes it means standing in a park holding a colonoscope and a very nicely retrieved polyp—wondering where the patient went.

February 25, 2026February 25, 2026

The Lost Language of the Chart-Toppers: Why Bad Bunny Frustrates a Monolingual America

If you scroll through the comments of any major music publication today, you’ll find a recurring grievance: “Why is the biggest artist in the world singing in a language I don’t understand?” Bad Bunny’s refusal to “crossover” into English has become a cultural flashpoint. To some, it’s a triumphant display of Latino pride; to others, it’s a barrier to entry that feels alienating. But if we look back sixty or seventy years, the American listener was actually far more comfortable with a polyglot playlist than we are today.

What changed? It might be that we’ve lost the “shared trauma” that once forced us to look outward.

When the World Was on the Radio

In the 1950s and 60s, Americans didn’t just tolerate foreign-language hits; they celebrated them. Consider the landscape:

• Domenico Modugno’s “Volare” (1958): An Italian ballad that spent five weeks at #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and won the first-ever Grammy for Record of the Year.

• Kyu Sakamoto’s “Sukiyaki” (1963): A Japanese torch song that reached #1 despite the fact that most listeners had no idea it was actually a melancholy poem about walking to keep from crying.

• Ritchie Valens’ “La Bamba”: A traditional Mexican huapango that became an indelible part of the early rock-and-roll DNA.

Even Doris Day’s “Que Sera, Sera,” while primarily English, leaned into its Spanish title as a universal mantra. Back then, the American ear was conditioned to find beauty in the melody, even when the vocabulary remained a mystery.

The Military Connection: A Global Perspective

There is a compelling argument that this mid-century musical tolerance was forged in the fires of World War II. After a global conflict that left 60 million dead, the world was irrevocably interconnected.

Millions of young American GIs were deployed to Europe and the Pacific. They weren’t just tourists; they were young people living in German villages, Italian cities, and Japanese occupied territories. They ate the food, heard the radio, and brought those sounds home in their kit bags.

This created a “globalized” generation. They had seen the wreckage of isolationism and, through sheer military exposure, developed a cultural elasticity. To a veteran who had spent two years in Naples, an Italian ballad on the radio didn’t feel like a “foreign intrusion”—it felt like a memory.

The Modern Divide: No Shared Experience

Contrast that with the environment that greets Bad Bunny today. Today’s United States lacks that unifying, outward-facing experience. We are more “connected” via the internet, but more “siloed” in our consumption.

• Algorithmic Bubbles: We only hear what we already like.

• The Lack of National Service: There is no longer a massive, cross-cultural “melting pot” experience like the draft to force diverse groups of Americans to live and work together.

• Language as Politics: In the current climate, Spanish isn’t just a language; it’s often treated as a political statement, making Bad Bunny’s success feel like a “takeover” to those who prefer an English-only status quo.

Final Thoughts

The criticism of Bad Bunny often stems from a feeling of being “left out.” But if the 1950s taught us anything, it’s that you don’t need to know the lyrics to feel the soul of a song.

Perhaps the reason we struggle with foreign-language hits today isn’t a lack of talent on the artist’s part, but a lack of curiosity on ours. We no longer have the grim necessity of global war to force us to see the world; now, we have to choose to look.

⭐ The True Foreign-Language #1 Hits in the U.S.

These were fully or predominantly non-English and went all the way:

Volare – Domenico Modugno (Italian) – 1958
Sukiyaki – Kyu Sakamoto (Japanese) – 1963
Dominique – The Singing Nun (French) – 1963

That’s it — only three in the entire two decades reached #1 in their original languages.

📊 By Language

🇮🇹 Italian

Volare – Modugno
Al Di Là – Pericoli
O Dio Mio – Annette
Quando, Quando, Quando – Pat Boone

➡ Italian was the dominant foreign language on U.S. radio in the late ’50s/early ’60s (Sanremo effect + Italian-American audience).

🇪🇸 Spanish

La Bamba – Ritchie Valens
Guantanamera – The Sandpipers
El Watusi – Ray Barretto

➡ Spanish entered via rock & Latin dance crazes.

🇫🇷 French

Dominique – The Singing Nun
➡ The most unlikely #1 of the rock era.

🇯🇵 Japanese

Sukiyaki – Kyu Sakamoto
➡ Still the only Japanese-language U.S. Hot 100 #1 in history.

February 18, 2025February 18, 2025

The Quest for the Perfect Black-and-White Cookie

Some people chase fame, fortune, or adventure. Me? I chase black-and-white cookies. Not just any black-and-white cookie, but the best black-and-white cookie. It’s a mission of love, nostalgia, and a deep appreciation for this perfect half-vanilla, half-chocolate confection. My journey has taken me from my childhood favorites to long-lost bakeries and, most recently, to a packed market in Florida where I came agonizingly close to my prize but left empty-handed.

A Love Letter to the Black-and-White Cookie

If you’ve ever bitten into a true black-and-white cookie, you know there’s something magical about it. It’s not really a cookie at all—it’s more of a cake, soft and slightly domed, with a smooth glaze of half-vanilla, half-chocolate icing. The beauty is in its simplicity and balance. There’s no need for fillings, sprinkles, or any unnecessary embellishments. It’s just pure harmony in dessert form.

For me, black-and-white cookies are more than just a treat. They are nostalgia. They are childhood. They are a connection to the past, to bakeries that no longer exist, to neighborhoods that have changed, and to a time when every bite felt like an event. Finding a truly great black-and-white cookie is like recapturing those moments, and that’s why I continue my quest.

A Bite of History: Where Did the Black-and-White Cookie Come From?

The black-and-white cookie has roots that stretch back over a century. While often associated with New York, its origins are debated. Some trace it back to Bavarian immigrants who brought over similar glazed cookies. Others attribute its rise to Glaser’s Bake Shop, a German bakery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan that opened in 1902 and sadly closed in 2018.

The cookie was popularized in Jewish bakeries throughout New York, and its fame only grew as delis and diners embraced it. The perfect black-and-white has a thin layer of fondant-like icing, not thick frosting. The vanilla side should be bright and smooth, while the chocolate side should have a rich cocoa depth—not just a sugary smear of brown. The cookie itself must be tender but sturdy enough to hold the glaze.

Seinfeld fans may remember the famous “Look to the cookie!” episode, where Jerry and Elaine discuss the black-and-white cookie as a symbol of racial harmony. And while I appreciate the cultural commentary, my love for black-and-whites isn’t political. It’s deeply personal.

The Double-Decker Black-and-White of Adventurers Inn

One of the greatest black-and-white cookies I ever encountered wasn’t a standard one at all. It was a double-decker black-and-white cookie from the bakery counter at Adventurers Inn in Queens.

Adventurers Inn was an amusement park, and like all great childhood memories, it felt larger-than-life at the time. They had games, rides, and, most importantly, an unbelievable black-and-white cookie. This wasn’t just any black-and-white. It was a two-layered marvel—double the cake, double the icing, double the joy.

The first time I saw it, I was in awe. It was as if someone had looked at a standard black-and-white and said, “This is great, but what if we made it even better?” The bottom layer had the classic glaze, and the top was a second cookie stacked on top, creating the ultimate black-and-white experience.

Sadly, Adventurers Inn closed long ago, and with it went my beloved double-decker black-and-white cookie. It remains a ghost of my childhood, an unattainable dream. But like any true black-and-white enthusiast, I refuse to believe that was the last of its kind. Maybe, just maybe, someone out there is still making them.

My Frustrating Visit to Boy’s Market in Delray Beach

Recently, my search for the best black-and-white cookie took me to Boy’s Market in Delray Beach, Florida. Word had spread that they had a truly excellent version—one worth the journey. And so, filled with anticipation, I made my way there, eager to see if it could compare to the legends of my past.

The moment I stepped into Boy’s Market, I knew I was in trouble. The bakery counter was five people thick—five people thick. It wasn’t just crowded; it was a full-on mob scene. People were jostling for position, shouting orders, and clutching their precious baked goods like they had just won the lottery.

I tried. I really did. I stood there, waiting for an opening, hoping for a moment where I could slip in, point at the black-and-white, and secure my prize. But it was hopeless. The counter was a battlefield, and I wasn’t willing to engage in open combat for a cookie.

So I left. Defeated. No black-and-white in hand. But I didn’t leave without hope. Because if a bakery counter is that crowded, it means the cookies must be that good. It means my journey is not over. It means that someday—maybe on a quieter day, in a less frenzied moment—I’ll make it back and finally get my hands on what might be one of the great black-and-white cookies of my time.

The Search Continues

My quest for the perfect black-and-white cookie is never-ending. It’s a pursuit of taste, texture, and nostalgia. I seek out bakeries, I listen to recommendations, and I remain ever hopeful that somewhere, out there, the best black-and-white cookie still awaits me.

Maybe it’s in a hidden gem of a bakery I have yet to discover. Maybe it’s tucked away in a deli where the owners have been making them the same way for 50 years. Or maybe, just maybe, someone out there is making a double-decker black-and-white, waiting to be found.

Until then, I’ll keep looking. Because some things in life are worth the chase. And for me, the black-and-white cookie is one of them.

November 17, 2024November 17, 2024

From Venom to Vitality—The Remarkable Story of GLP-1 Agonists

Medical breakthroughs often emerge from unexpected sources, but few are as extraordinary as the discovery of GLP-1 agonists, compounds derived from the venom of the Gila monster. These molecules have revolutionized the treatment of diabetes and obesity, offering patients life-changing therapies like semaglutide and tirzepatide. With 75% of adults and 50% of teens classified as overweight or obese, these medications hold significant potential to impact public health outcomes.

As a gastroenterologist, I’m profoundly inspired by the journey that led to this discovery. It’s a story of curiosity, collaboration, and the transformative power of nature. It also underscores the critical importance of exploring venomous species for medical research and utilizing advanced techniques like chromatography to uncover therapeutic compounds.

The Gila Monster: A Surprising Source of Healing

Native to the deserts of the American Southwest, the Gila monster is a slow-moving, venomous lizard known for its tenacious bite. While its venom evolved as a defense mechanism, scientists saw potential beyond its lethality. The venom contains exendin-4, a compound remarkably similar to GLP-1, a gut hormone that regulates blood sugar and appetite.

GLP-1 plays a central role in metabolism, signaling the pancreas to release insulin and the brain to reduce hunger. This discovery was a turning point. By isolating and modifying the Gila monster’s exendin-4, researchers created the first GLP-1 receptor agonist, exenatide, paving the way for more advanced therapies like semaglutide and tirzepatide.

Chromatography: Unlocking Nature’s Secrets

The breakthrough required cutting-edge technology and meticulous research. Chromatography, a technique used to separate complex mixtures, was instrumental in analyzing the venom. Despite working with minuscule samples, scientists isolated and identified exendin-4 among a multitude of bioactive compounds.

This success highlights the power of chromatography in venom research, enabling scientists to uncover molecules with potential therapeutic benefits. It also demonstrates how even the smallest discoveries in nature can lead to monumental advances in medicine.

Collaboration: The Key to Progress

The discovery of GLP-1 agonists was a collaborative effort, bringing together experts in endocrinology, pharmacology, and gastroenterology. The interdisciplinary approach allowed the team to connect the dots between a venomous lizard and the human gut’s metabolic pathways.

This kind of collaboration is essential for modern medical research. By combining knowledge from diverse fields, we can tackle complex problems and open new frontiers in treatment.

The Value of Venom in Medicine

Venomous species, from snakes to scorpions to marine snails, are increasingly recognized as treasure troves of medicinal compounds. Their venoms contain molecules finely tuned by evolution to target specific biological pathways—making them ideal candidates for drug development.

The Gila monster’s role in modern medicine is a testament to the untapped potential of venomous species. It reinforces the need to protect biodiversity and invest in research that explores the medical applications of venom.

A Florida Perspective

As a retired gastroenterologist in Florida, I now spend more time dodging iguanas and geckos on the golf course than in the lab. Still, the allure of discovery lingers. I sometimes joke that I should stash an Erlenmeyer flask and a portable liquid chromatograph in my golf bag—just in case I stumble upon the next venomous breakthrough mid-round. Who knows? A particularly curious reptile encounter might even inspire an NIH grant application. Florida’s ecosystem is a constant reminder of the untapped potential in the natural world, from the fairways to the mangroves.

Conclusion

The story of GLP-1 agonists is more than a medical milestone—it’s a reminder of the importance of curiosity and collaboration. It challenges us to look beyond the surface and explore the natural world with an open mind, knowing that the next breakthrough could come from the most unlikely source.

By harnessing the power of venom and embracing the wonders of nature, we’re not just advancing medicine; we’re honoring the interconnectedness of life itself. And as a gastroenterologist, I’m proud to celebrate the scientific ingenuity that transformed a venomous lizard into a symbol of hope and healing.

May 8, 2024May 8, 2024

Pictures and Musings from New York City

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.

December 30, 2022

Holidays, Families and Lionel Trains

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.

September 19, 2022

Tree Surgeon

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.

July 7, 2022

Message to Comic-Con Museum: Add Superman ASAP

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.

June 25, 2022

Peering into the Past and Future: Riding Down the Rhine and Danube

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.