The Right to Bear Arms

I hate the bad news. I pretty much hate the news in general. And in the midst of a Republican primary and heading into a November Presidential election? Well, just leave it off.  But I didn't. It was on the other morning in the lounge and so I saw it.

Can someone tell me why we need the right to own hand guns? I've lived in rural and outdoor sporting states enough in my life that I get the rifle. I get the shotgun. I'm not into the hunting thing but, you know, I get it. I get skeet. But hand guns? Or automatic rifles? Hand guns and automatic weapons are designed to kill people. Not deer. Not pheasant. Not to put holes in targets. People. They are designed to put holes in people.

The 2nd Amendment is upheld like it's the principle element of democracy. The right to bear arms. And yet, I can't go out and buy an F-22 Raptor to protect my home and property, even if I had the $150,000,000.00 (yes,150 million dollars per airplane) needed to fly one home from the factory. It's not allowed. And if I had $6 million I still wouldn't be allowed to keep a tank in my driveway either. But I do have the God-given right to go out and buy a semi-automatic pistol to keep on my nightstand. I can keep an automatic rifle in the closet just in case I need to fire off several hundred bullets per minute at something, or someone-- or someones. Praise the Lord and pass the f'ing ammunition!!

A baby asleep on a couch was killed last week in Detroit in a drive-by shooting. A young woman was killed last week in Florida when one man was showing another a gun he had for sale and it accidentally went off-- in church. Death by gunshot-- assault, accidental, suicide-- was estimated at almost 3 every hour in 2007.

We enable this with our tolerance. We enable this with our refusal to mount a campaign in the face of powerful lobbies. We enable this with our television, films, and games that make violence and malignant use of guns routine to the point of being almost invisible. And we payed for it again this past Monday. For the life of me, I cannot understand how we permit this to go on.

Things I Miss

My niece turned me on to a website that features a collection of vintage photographs of all manner. The one above is from a collection of Kodachrome transparencies taken in the 1940's These images were made with slide film that measured 4X5 inches, a size big enough to capture light and color in quality that far surpasses the capabilities of most digital equipment available today.  Kodachrome was one of the first color films, being released in 1935.  It went out of production in 2009 and the last lab able to process the film closed shop in 2010.

Looking at the photo above tells the viewer a lot about both a film type and an America that no longer exists. This photo was certainly posed. The photographer, Alfred Palmer, was photographing workers at the Douglas Aircraft Plant in Long Beach, California in 1942 for the Office of War Information. The idea was to illustrate women at work in support of the war effort during World War II. Although probably hand selected for the shoot, the woman is a real production line worker. Many of these images include the notes identifying the worker, their job, their plant, and so forth.

The thing about the film is, just look at the color. This photograph predates Photoshop by 50+ years yet the film captures the texture of the clothing just as well as it conveys the thick smooth green finish on the lunch pail. Seeing this image done today one would simply pass it off as being a heavily manipulated digital image with a fair amount of post capture modifying.  And while this is a professionally set shot it is the lighting and the film, especially that big pane of Kodachrome, that make the image so rich, textural, and color saturated.

The thing about the worker is, just look at her style. If you look through a dozen or more of these images you see the same characteristics: Great fabrics, concern for appearance, at once practical and appealing-- industrial elegance if you will. A friend of mine recently wrote about this. She talked about how an older generation of women took seriously the need to maintain appearance. My parents were much the same. Church clothes, work clothes, school clothes, play clothes. By today's standards such concern outside of really special events seems needless. Casual has become almost slovenly. Careless has become cool.

While Kodachrome is gone there are still quite a few photographers in the world shooting film. They do so because it's what they know as well as for reasons of image quality. They are concerned that their work has a certain depth of character, a certain elegance-- just like those who still care and dress with an eye toward their appearance to others.

Space. Part 2

I'm not usually one for immediate follow-up but this was just too good. Must be someone at NPR read my blog yesterday and will be doing a follow-up story today. Wow! Am I good or what??

This link will take you to a short story about an author, astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson, and his new book "Space Chronicles." On the possibility you don't take my advice and follow the link to this fascinating short read, I'll give you this one mind-blowing piece of information: In one year-- one year-- the author claims the US military budget exceeds that of the entire 50 year history of NASA. One might come away from Neil deGrasse Tyson thinking he's a little far fetched in his thinking about space, space exploration, and the need to destroy asteroids and I won't give you an argument either way. It's  the economics of the issue that are mind boggling.

I think we need to collectively come to understand what all we are forfeiting by getting up every morning, putting on the uniform of the world's cop, and going to work catching and killing bad guys everywhere on earth. While I think maintaining some type of military ability is still important in this crazy world, I also believe a space program is definitely of value to all of us. But beyond space, I am absolutely dumbfounded to think what other issues could receive needed attention if we could direct our dollars toward research and humanitarian work rather than fighting. Afterall, in just 7 years science and technology took us from John Glenn orbiting the earth to Neil Armstrong stepping onto the surface of the moon.  In 700 years humans have not been able to successfully engineer peace through the use of force. And yet, we continue to pour our money and our sons' and daughters' lives into military action with the hope of finally obtaining a lasting peace. That's crazy by definition.

Once again a man steps forward from the arena of space exploration to inspire us all. This time, however, I believe the greatest challenge offered is to consider, to think and dream of what we can achieve as a nation if we dare to place our military budget in line behind our expenditures for science, education, health, and hunger. Now that would be to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Reach for the Sky

My friend Mike sent a video clip my way recently. It showed footage of the John Glenn Mercury rocket launch which took place 50 years ago this past week. As Mike commented, it is amazing what we, as a nation, were able to accomplish 50 years ago. Likewise, it is sad to realize how little we have to evoke our collective pride and enthusiasm today.

I remember John Glenn's achievement for the hours of play it provided, running around our backyard in Portland, arms out making jet and rocket noises. “I’m John Glenn.” “No. I’m John Glenn! You’re Alan Sheperd.” "I'm Scott Carpenter!" Those astronauts and their space missions, their X-15 rocket planes, their journeys through the sound barrier, those we the heroes and events that brought science fiction to life. Although the Russians had been first into space, with the accomplishments of John Glenn and company we could rest assured we would not have to endure humiliation at the hands of those pinko Commies.

Incredibly, it was only 7 years later that we put a man on the moon. With that feat it seemed the United States had absolutely, without question, conquered the modern world. With that feat it seemed that giant Saturn rocket had lifted all limits on just what we could accomplish as humans and, more importantly, as Americans.

From the perspective of all these years later it’s somewhat disheartening to see just what we haven’t accomplished. Of all the good and great technology mothered by the space program I’m at a loss to explain exactly why we haven’t been able to do more. Electronics today, from computers to cell phones, seem to have been commandeered by commercial interests to provide a constant stream of distractions for an emerging generation. Millions of people are hooked up playing video games. Millions of people are distracted with texting an enormous volume of inane chatter. Millions of people are distracted from real endeavors as they mindlessly surf the internet in search of even more distractions. We are witnessing the rise of an entire generation that is consumed with remote and sterile socializing and entertainment. This end seems rather far removed from the hopes and wonder of those accomplishments between 1962 and 1969. 

From my perspective it's a problem: I just can’t be sure what will inspire my son to run around outside and extend his wings, literally and figuratively. At this point I hope he just continues to run around outside and play rather than sit inside like a mole with an iPad or cell phone. While I like to think I set a pretty good example for my own children,  I have to wonder: Who will be the next John Glenn, the person who will inspire us a nation, our sons and our daughters, to achieve great things?

Whole Food

My wife and son are basking in the Arizona sun while I hold down the fort. That definitely worked to their advantage Friday: A storm moved in and it snowed all day leaving about 4 inches on the ground.  The way things have been this winter, though, I'm sure it will be gone in a day. Or two.

In spite of the weather I had taco salad last night. My own personal fiesta. A great big bowl of it complete with brown rice, tomatoes, "chiken", chips, and a boatload of fresh vegetables. I never go too heavy on the lettuce though. It's pretty but just filler in my life and diet.  But as I stood there and chopped up a few leaves of green leaf lettuce I remembered how my brother Dan told me about riding the train from Los Angeles to Oregon in the late 60's. He told me how he had ordered some kind of lettuce salad just as they were passing through Salinas. As he did, the conductor came walking through the cars announcing the scheduled stop in that small agricultural stronghold by calling out, "Salinas, next stop! Salinas! Lettuce capital of the world!" California seemed like the greatest place on earth in 1968, and it probably was.

The other thing that came to mind while chopping lettuce (there were only a few leaves, really-- my mind just works fast) was the fact that I never buy organic lettuce. Here in Michigan it is hard enough to get any kind of nice looking crisp lettuce in winter, let alone organic. So when I buy lettuce I usually just pick up the best looking head I can find. Anyway, chopping up this bright green, farm raised, chemically infused leafy vegetable got me to thinking: I wonder if the day is coming when a majority of people in the US will look back at non-organic, commercially farmed vegetables with the same disdain most Americans presently have for cigarettes and asbestos?  One day will there personal injury lawyers advertising on TV? "Have you or a loved one suffered illness or injury after eating lettuce raised by... call 1-800-BAD-VEGY" And  I can just hear it now, "Dad, why are you still eating those nasty vegetables?"

I guess that probably wouldn't be all bad.  I think our heavily cultivated and treated vegetables are probably not right on a couple of levels. Then, too, I would hope by that future date in time solicitous personal injury lawyers would be a thing of the past as well.

For now, taco salad was just the thing on a cold and snowy February night.

Bach'n It

A good and faithful servant.

It's been something like 8 or 9 years since I've lived alone. It's been long enough that I don't really remember living alone. Now I'm experiencing a short stent living alone again. Living with family, one often thinks: if only I had more time to myself I could get so much more done! I could do this, that, and the other-- a steady stream of gratifying accomplishments. Thinking that. Distractions and a complete failure of incentive is what I seem to remember of living alone. So far this time around history seems to be repeating itself; although I have managed to collect most of my stuff for taxes, kept the house pretty much as it was left, have the cleaning ready to go in, got the garbage and recycling out on time, and I've cooked a couple of pretty good meals trying out new recipes.

One meal, however, will go unmade. The other evening I did a pot of brown rice and set it aside. Next would be lentils. I wasn't quite sure where I was going with this but I thought I was onto something. Lentils in, water's on, phone rings. (There's that distraction again.) Twenty-five minutes later I'm on the computer and the house is starting to take on the sweet smell of burning sod (it's a Willamette Valley thing). Wow, it really smelled kind of good. And then it hit me-- Crap!! My lentils!!

I'd like to be sharing with you some type of clever recipe for a dish made with lentils, brown rice, and sauteed onion, carrots, and celery. Instead, I can share with you two very valuable pieces of information. First, All-Clad is simply the best cookware ever. I've had mine for probably close to 20 years and it remains the perfect utensil. Hardy and durable, All-Clad stands up to neglect, abuse, and distractions. Second, the best way to clean an All-Clad pan that has a rock-hard mask of lentils burnt to it's floor-- and char extending up to its rim-- is using a Brillo Pad. That, and giving the floor of that pan a generous soak with Bar Keeper's Friend, aka, the bachelor's friend in this case.

Don't worry Tam, the smell is gone and my little 2 quart sauce pan is shiny as new inside. Hurry home! (Hey, nuh uh, the outside looked like that before!)

A Very Good Day

I was asked to see a man in the hospital with a bad hip the other day. He's 96, lives in assisted living, still walks a little, has moderate dementia/Alzheimer's, and couldn't walk for the last 24 hours due to severe right hip pain. The x-rays showed severe, severe, arthritis. No joint left. The round ball of the hip reduced to a flattened mushroom. Far worse than the picture above.

When I walked into his room and said hello he could not say one sensible word. His eyes looked wild and he would yell out in misery about every 20 seconds as spasm would grip his painful hip. He couldn't offer one word of explanation and I couldn't be sure he could understand or hear one word of my questions. The man is in the Fast Pitch Softball Hall of Fame. The big ring still on his right ring finger.

I spoke to his medical doctor and told her there were two options: heavily medicate the man for pain and wait for him to die-- something that looked relatively close at hand-- or take him to surgery and replace his hip in an effort to gain pain relief-- an option that also held the very real possibility of death. She said she felt medication and hospice would be the wishes of his 92 year old brother. She'd check and let me know. His chances with surgery would be poor.

As it turned out, the 92 year old brother saw such misery in his older sibling he opted for surgery. "If he dies,"he said, "it will probably be a blessing." I had to agree based on what I was seeing. Seeing him in such pain was like witnessing the slow death of an animal struck by a car. My partner's eyes popped out when I told him I was taking the man to surgery but he was in such misery I felt it was the only humane option.

I operated him that night and replaced a very nasty old hip with a nice new shiny metal and plastic job. He did okay in surgery and we sent him to the intensive care unit after. At least he made it out of the operating room.

The next morning I go to see him not knowing if I'd find him dead or alive. There he lay: No moaning. No screaming. "How's your hip?" I yell at him. Big, big smile and a thumbs up. I saw him again yesterday, day two after surgery, and this time he says, "I should've had that done a long time ago!" "We'll have you running the bases in no time!" I tell him. "No." he says, raising his arm, "Pitching a no-hitter!" Big smile. Both of us.

That, my friend, is a very, very good day.  And, in a nutshell, that's the best part of my job.

Speeding Violation

Just a little tired today. Far more reliable than any ground hog, spring has nearly sprung judging by the fact those annoying little colds are sweeping the workplace. Mine showed up out of nowhere. Fine and dandy at 7 AM, by 7 PM my frontal and maxillary sinuses are draining into my schnozola like a water feature at a Las Vegas hotel. Enter Advil Cold and Sinus.

I'm not one for medication but enough is enough. After emptying a box or two of tissues, and with bedtime rapidly approaching, I decided I would take an Advil Cold and Sinus in the hope of being able to get to sleep without having to pack tissue in my nostrils. I got it half right. Lying there with a dry nose, tired, fully awake and frustrated at 2 AM, it finally dawned on me that the medicine was probably keeping me awake. After all, pseudoephdrine is the building block of meth. Once I made that connection I was dry nosed, tired, fully awake, frustrated, and peed off at my own stupidity.

Then again, I remember a time when I was a medical student. I was on a family practice rotation and had started to have cold symptoms. My mentor said, "Here, try one of these. They're new on the market and work great." Those didn't keep me awake. Within about 30 minutes of taking one I was so sleepy I almost fell asleep and off my chair while interviewing a patient! I was in Long Beach and was facing a 90 minute rush-hour commute home. I was simultaneously in a panic and falling asleep wondering how I would safely navigate three freeways in my condition.

Fortunately, the drowsiness passed within an hour or so. I was good to go and made it safely home. I think for the remainder of my present misery I'll stay drug free...at least after 5 PM. Until then, I may need a little stimulant today. It was a very short night.

French Toast Tested

whip it, whip it good

We ate breakfast the other morning at a sweet little spot at the Phoenix/Scottsdale boundary. It was a little coffee house that seems to have grown into a breakfast and lunch place. It's staffed with the requisite super tall skinny baristo and the shorter skinny cute register hostess, features the blackboards with multicolored chalk specials, regular items in white, and the mismatched china for service.

As we waited to order at the counter I asked the attractive blonde Arizona type white middle class anglo-saxon protestant woman if she had eaten here before. She hadn't but her tall blonde Arizona type……..woman friend had. She was so effusive with the praise I tried to convince the skinny chick at the resister to give the lady 10% off.

I am old enough to remember the late 60's and early 70's when the Bohemian cafes and restaurants came on the scene. They were counter culture hippie commune politic meets Julia Childs with a bit of the Paula Dean down home excess thrown in for good measure. While the rest of the US was settling into plain vanilla Denny's, these places were serving up mountains of french toast, pancakes loaded with real blueberries, and farm fresh 3 egg omelettes with homemade biscuits to die for. Think best ever home-cooking served up with Earth Shoes and tie-dye.

I'm fairly sure that formula still works some places but in many it does not. Hoping for the best and throwing caution to the wind, I ordered the croissant french toast, served with powdered sugar and real maple syrup. I'm old fashioned enough to think french toast should have nothing to do with a croissant but, what the hell, the tall blonde…….

Long story short: The breakfast was okay and I liked the little place and its sunny patio well enough to return. But here's the deal: First, when the chalkboard says powdered sugar and you don't get any you know someone is either out of practice or not paying attention. Second, when the french toast shows up with those globs of metallic tasting egg-white fried to the surface you know the cook doesn't care. To my palate no amount of Bohemian cool can overcome my disdain for french toast with globs of metallic tasting egg-white fried to the surface. Third, tempting as it may be, trust your instincts, not some tall blonde Arizona type.... Finally, french toast from croissants? No way. Croissants just can't properly absorb the batter. Next time I'll try the granola.

Fighters and Bombers

Terrorist

Show-off

In Arizona over the weekend Tam and I were fortunate enough to have lunch sitting outside. Perfect weather with sunshine and 70 degrees. As I sat there sipping my iced tea I got buzzed by just this littlest show-off of a bird. He brushed right over my head. I swear, if it had been an airliner passing over treetops we'd have been hearing about the event nonstop for the past 18 hours. As it is, it was a bird and not an airliner and so the story remains important only to me. (Don't kid yourself-- that doesn't mean you won't have to read about it.)

The good news is the little guy didn't get scared to the point where he lost the runny white contents of his bowels. While it makes the report less funny, his not crapping on my head did make my lunch that much more enjoyable.  He did, however, freak out Tam.

Tam is not ornithophobic. She just doesn't like the little creeps when they swoop. In Chicago it used to be a problem. There are more than a few areas in that city where those big fat flying rats, aka pigeons, congregate. As you approach on foot they start to weave and cackle, as if trying to determine a collective go or no-go status, and then, swoosh!! (apologies to NIKE) they depart en masse, more often than not flying at you, and all but through you, wings flapping, feathers and crap flying. Tam and I would cover our heads and nearly drop to the pavement. For the life of me I do not understand what's to like about places like St. Mark's Square! While never hit, those bad boys, like seagulls, have the well-earned reputation of owning deadly accuracy when it comes to bombing the unsuspecting pedestrian. It got so that all we had to do was see a flock of pigeons ahead and we'd choose to cross the street if the option existed.

I guess this is just one more thing to like about Arizona: So far no heavy bombers to threaten our patio lunches. Just a few highly maneuverable aerobats showing off their skills. I think we'll be able to handle it.

Healthcare Reform: What About Him?

Sitting in a restaurant the other day I couldn't stop looking at a man at the counter. He was perched there on a stool-- a big man, tall and very over weight. He was noisy, poorly groomed, and he was wearing a C.R.O.W. walker. The latter is a custom boot designed to protect a foot that has been severely damaged by diabetes.

He ate an enormous plate of food, none of which appeared consistent with a diabetic diet, and polished it all off with a strawberry shortcake with whipped cream. Now, granted, I'm sitting 15 feet away and my view is not perfect but I can't take my eyes off this guy. His noisy attenion-getting banter with the kitchen staff was enough that you couldn't ignore him in the first place. His reckless eating was really the thing, however, and I just had to keep looking his way to see what else was going in that pie hole.

Problem is the CROW walking boot. Those are utilized in cases of severe injury to the foot-- injury that almost always stems from diabetic neuropathy, or loss of sensation in the foot. The combination of this man's diet, size, hygiene, and the appliance on his foot made me think: What's it like to take care of a person like this? How much does it cost? Who's paying? I'm guessing he was in his mid-50's going on 80 and, again, just guessing based on the visual evidence, probably on disability as is so common in my neck of the woods. So who pays for this guy? "The government" comes the stock answer. Hello "government," thank you for reading this today.

Let's pretend all of my assumptions above are true: If the cost of healthcare and entitlement programs are going through the roof how do we regain control? How do we reduce the expense of taking care of people who really don't give a rat's ass?

The above scenario is not isolated. I see people like him every single day in my office. They come in with back, knee, or hip pain. They're on disability. They smoke. They're diabetic. They show absolutely no sign of making any investment in their own health and well-being but they want to feel better and they want everything done possible to that end. Everything I can do. They're not usually too keen on hearing about what they should do.

I've thought about this quite a bit since leaving that restaurant and have come to this conclusion: Realistically we're not going to be able to do very much about that man and others like him. A few may respond to education and enlist in their health care. But most won't. Most will simply continue to show-up in the emergency room in crisis, show-up at their doctor's offices wringing their hands about how they try. No, the solution is extinction. Realistically there is very little we will accomplish trying to transform a lifetime of low self-esteem and poor habits into a vigorous healthy individual. What we can accomplish is succeeding in assuring this lifestyle disappears.

Healthcare reform will require education reform. A national healthcare plan will have to be developed to include education that begins in daycare; meaningful education. It will discard cartoon figures pitching the advantages of eating vegetables and, instead, sweep schools and daycares clean of all the prepackaged garbage that still gets served up to our children today. Nutrition education must take place by example.  The hardest part will be financial: McDonald's Corp. may slip off the list of best dividend performers.

Likewise, physical education classes have to become about lifetime activities like yoga, stretching, walking, and weight training. Sports are fine as electives. What I'm talking about is learning that every day starts with self-care in the form of exercise. There was a poster a few years back published by the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons showing a kid sitting in his room at a computer that featured the tag line: "Sure he can run the latest software, but can he run a mile?"

Not taking care of unhealthy people who do nothing to help themselves is not an option. We're stuck taking care of that guy at the lunch counter until he slurps down his last 16 ounce Mountain Dew. Our obligation is transforming healthcare into a system of care that includes the education needed to make certain that patient type disappears entirely. A system that begins in very early childhood and never lets off the gas. Unfortunately, if we can't find a way to commercially exploit the process it will probably never find the support needed to succeed in the good ol' US of A.

Saturday Morning Cartoons

Waking before dawn with Ev out west we often end up eating pancakes while watching vintage cartoons on YouTube. So we tune in to Droopy, Deputy Dog, Mighty Mouse, and Under Dog (and of course, his humble alter ego, shoeshine boy).

Thinking back, without actually looking back, one has a tendency to glamorize the old cartoons of one's youth-- just how funny they were and how wholesome. One has a tendency to think the old cartoons were so much more entertaining and benign than much of the crap available and marketed as kid stuff today. Lest you forget, there are a couple of things you need to remember: First, the old stories are riddled with a steady stream of bombs, dynamite, guns, and full fist punches. Second, they are filled with every fashion of stereotype and prejudice. Third, they are filled with language and gags that soar well over the head of any four year old. Fourth, they are beautifully drawn as opposed to the computer generated anime seen so often today. And finally, the humor is, well, usually very funny. In short, they're much better than the crap that's marketed as kid stuff today.

Where I'm sitting it's Saturday morning. So check out the link below. It's filled with great artwork, loaded with stereotypes and prejudice, and funny. Enjoy. And if one is not enough, Google "Tex Avery" on YouTube and it'll keep you wondering for hours just how it is you turned out so well.

Happy Birthday Bobo

In a  departure from protocol, I'm using this forum to give a shout out to my old friend Neal on his birthday. I'm getting older and so I hope I'm remembering this right because I'm pretty sure this is his birthday and, if not, I'm waisting precious time when I have so many other really important things to say in this space.

Neal and I were transplanted to Los Angeles within about a year of each other and met in 3rd grade. I had  Mrs. Johnston's class and I think he did as well. (Who ever thought of throwing a t into that name?) We fought bugs together working in Panama, wrestled together professionally, ogled at Mrs. Smith's hot bod, and had all manner of other adventures throughout our academic careers at Warner Avenue School. Geographically we parted ways after Emerson Jr. High but somehow, although we currently are in contact only a couple of times a year, somehow we remain good friends.  Funny how a person can grow up in a city the size of Los Angeles and preserve childhood friendships for over 45 years.

He is among the luckiest guys I know. He married well and enjoys a relationship that has held together for over 30 years. In spite of the crazy world in which we live he has managed to raise 2 exceptional kids-- kids with great humor, intelligence and enthusiasm for life-- no small task. Come to think of it, maybe it's Lori I'm writing about!

So, my friend, for the many years of laughs and smiles-- often at my expense; for the many meals shared-- from the Apple Pan to Chasen's; for the many meals destroyed in fits of outrageous humor-- from the Tail 'O the Whale to the Mandarin in San Francisco (and I'll cut the list short there)-- for all the above, I thank you.

So here's a Happy Birthday wish to a friend who always makes me smile and a wish for many more.

p.s. It's nice that when I Google his image I don't get anything from mugshots.com.

A Ship That Passed

I love the subject of restaurants. I love great restaurants that remain today. I mourn the ones that have passed. I love the royalty and the commoner. Ships was among the latter although enthroned among the former. I mentioned it yesterday but couldn't quite let it go.

Ships was a coffee shop in Westwood where I grew up. It was a hangout. Not the type where you sat with friends and had milkshakes or pop. Ships is where you ventured when you were old enough to meet friends for breakfast on a Saturday or Sunday morning. When you were too young perhaps to drive it was still accessible on foot or bike. When you were still building hours as a young driver it was in familiar territory, safe and close to home.

The food was coffee shop good. The memorable element, though, was the toaster located at each table. Every patron had the privilege of making their own toast to just the right degree of doneness.  The only catch being the toasters were not automatic. One had to pay attention and pop the toast up in proper time. We always  enjoyed watching a newcomer sitting there at his table, enjoying his coffee, reading the LA Times, oblivious to the tower of smoke rising from the unwatched small appliance. You felt smug that you knew better.

There are a few coffee shops around still. The Fountain Coffee Shop is one I love for breakfast on a Saturday morning when I'm in LA. Fuller's in Portland is another. They're out there and definitely worth the trip. And the wait.

Yaws and Such

R.I.P. Yaws in Portland

A week or so ago I wrote about committing dietary adultery when I strayed way off course and ordered french fries with gravy. From that little admission of trespass the story has morphed into one concerned with a classic old restaurant in Portland, Oregon called Yaws. Yaws first opened in 1926 and closed in 1982. Subsequently it appears to have attained almost cult status, although I seriously doubt people drive by and leave flowers at the site of the former restaurant as they would at the grave of a rock star or a certain platinum blonde of the 50's. Even so, it seems my family members who grew up in Portland and went to Grant High School all remain loyal in their esteemed memory of this lost icon of food, especially the cruisin' drive-in variety of the 1950's and early 60's.

Among the recollections of Yaws is that of the "Tootsie Roll cop," an off-duty city policeman hired to keep the cruisers under control and who was always quick to hand out one of the many miniature Tootsie Rolls he kept in his pocket. Thick shakes, french fries with gravy, and the Yaw's Top Notch Burger were all bricks in the edifice of this once popular eatery. If you read the link above you'll discover the restaurant owners were equally diligent in providing for both their customers and their employees.

I ate there once, probably in the mid 70's. I went expecting to find a glorious time piece from the 50's and, instead, found an ailing senior on life support. I don't remember much beyond disappointment. I think by then people had moved on, abandoning the old guard of the cruisin' era and moving into the era of the "next thing" where the old was out simply by virtue of age and predictability. I seem to recall a whole slough of fad restaurants in the late 60's and 70's. Restaurants like Yaws were left to atrophy and expire.

This lesson and its subject remind me of many others I've known over the years. Many, like Yaws in Portland and Ships in Westwood, are gone and missed by many. A few remain today. Old restaurants, stalwart institutions, that offer a slice of life and provide a million memories that stretch for several generations every day they're open for business. Some of the old timers have fallen off the mark but others remain true to their original commitment to quality and value.

If you're lucky enough to live within reach of one of the great old restaurants then do yourself a favor: Drop in now and then. With few exceptions, they won't be around forever. And you'll miss them when they're gone.

R.I.P. Ships in Westwood

Toy Box

Shoe hound that I am, I love this old pair of boots. They are what members of my family would have referred to as "clod-hoppers" back in the day. And they are.

These babies a are made by Whites Boots of Spokane, Washington. Hand made in the US of A. They claim that they'll last a lifetime if properly cared for. So far I'm convinced-- especially since I don't get to wear them that often. They're great for photo excursions and for wear in the dirt and grime but not so good for the clinic or OR. These boots are built like indstrial equipment with heavy leather, soft in the right places and tough where needed. The soles are ready for ranch life or logging.

As it turns out they are also built for storage. I was unaware of this handy feature and, once again, have had my eyes opened by the resourcefulness of my 4 year old. As you can see from the photo below, each boot is suitable for providing storage for up to a dozen small vehicles in a well protected and portable housing. It's an expensive toy box but it should last a lifetime. It does require a black-box warning label:

"Caution: Use care when emptying. Ensure complete removal of all contents prior to proceeding with use as footwear. Failing to do so can lead to small parts being suddenly jammed into sensitive areas of the foot causing direct injury or falls resulting in death or injury."

The Very Last One

I read in Wednesday’s paper where Florence Green died.  I didn’t know Florence Green. I don’t even know that I know anyone who knew Florence Green. I'm pretty sure I don't. Nonetheless, I felt a twinge of sadness at her passing. And a twinge of guilt.

Florence was born in London in 1901. Her death was reported as that of the last surviving World War One veteran. She entered the Women’s Royal Air Force in 1918 and enlisted in time to spend the last month of the war serving food.

My guilt stems from an episode my first year in practice as an orthopedic surgeon, 1990. I was fresh out, eager to work, but lacking the robust confidence and pure guts to simply dive into the most difficult cases. And so, wouldn't you know it, first month while on call I get a phone call from one of the really busy and cool family docs. He tells me that one of his patients has broken his hip and he wants me to take care of him. “And take good care of him. He’s a World War One vet. He even has a dent in his forehead where a German soldier hit him with the butt of his rifle. Don’t kill him!” he finished with a laugh. 

As you might not guess, with a lead in like that, I operated him without a problem. Unfortunately, about three or four days later the repair failed after I had already left the state for a beach trip to Oregon. My partners re-operated him a day or so after I had left. When I returned after a week-long trip to the Oregon coast I learned that he had, indeed, died a few days after the second surgery

As awful as that story sounds it is not a bizarre or entirely unexpected outcome. There was nothing lacking in his care. He was in his late eighties, poor quality bone, and the risk of death with hip fracture at that age is not insubstantial—even more so 20 years ago then perhaps now.

The hard part in all of that was the fact that this old barnacle of a veteran, a guy who survived a terrible war and survived getting bashed in the head with a rifle, lived long enough to break his hip and die after this newbie surgeon laid hands on him.  I couldn't help feeling I failed him as well as having failed in my duty. To this day I feel a little sadness in that sorry ending. It’s not an uncommon end for many elderly people but this one was an especially frustrating, sentimental, and sad demise.

I'm over it. Sort of. But reading about the passing of Florence Green kind of brought it all back once more. I wish he'd lived to be 110 as well.

No Apologies

I went and picked up one of those "days of the week" pill boxes last week. Actually, Tam picked it up because she knew I wanted one. I was tired of standing there looking at my Crestor bottle and asking myself, "Did I already take one today?" So, bless her heart, she picked one up for me while out running errands.

The thing is great. It may be an "old person thing" but I can hide it in the privacy of my medicine drawer at home. It's not like those loopy strands one uses to secure their glasses to their necks, those beaded strands that say, "Yep. I'd forget my head if it weren't attached to my neck! Yuk, yuk." And since I've started using it there is no more guess work. The only problem I've encountered is with Tam.  She has gone ahead and stuffed all her vitamin and calcium in along side my little Crestor pill making it a wee bit difficult to retrieve my pill without dumping the whole contents.

The little boxes have proved so useful I'm considering expanding the concept: I'm thinking about creating "days of the week" activity boxes. I envision a five foot by one foot cubby to sit on top of my kitchen bookcase. Each day would have its own compartment and a hinged lid with the day of the week, Monday through Friday. (Sorry. You're on your own for the weekend.) Every morning you just simply open the lid and there's your to do list. Maybe a pink slip that says "doctor at 10." Or a picture of an airplane that says, "Delta flight 1211, 5:30PM." Presto! No more annoying phone calendars and reminders. No. Everyday a concrete reminder of what's to be done that day.  All those sticky notes and scraps of paper like, "exterminator-- thursday 10" would no longer clutter your counter tops. No siree. They all get placed in their proper box. Just open the lid and get to work.

I know. Sheer genius. But don't even think about it. It's my idea. I've already got the call in to Ronco.

No Pills For You

I just want what's best for God and America, ladies.

The recent brouhaha over the Obama Administration's requirement that insurance  cover contraceptives without cost is a classic example of just how far politicians can go to distract, deceive, and defraud the American public. This recent report from NPR highlights just how much is being made out of how little.

The current "outrage" is being generated by those self-serving and self-righteous leaders and special interests who prey on the collective ignorance that infects this country. After all, it shouldn't be that easy to remake old policy, tried and tested in multiple courtrooms, into a red hot issue all these years later. It requires an uninformed public and a manipulative leadership.

The most significant impact of Obama's policy is that it has provided one more load of fuel for the obstructive opposition to the tall, skinny, east coast Ivy League liberal who must be a Muslim and probably wasn't even born in the US negro democrat in the White House who wants to destroy our traditional values and transform our Great Country into a Socialist Empire. That's all. They're just lookin' out for our best interest.

An Emotional Problem

I need to make a flip book of all my posts on this blog so that I can keep track of how many times I repeat myself. That said, one of my favorite gripes is about the downfall of humanity. Not the big theatrical collapse with earthquakes and open drunkenness and orgies like one sees in movies and in college, but the little peeks and snippets I glimpse so often in my practice.

Tuesday was classic: I saw a kid with whom my daughter went to high school.  Actually, I remember this kid from birth because both of his parents have been my patients and he was born with a birth defect requiring orthopedic care. The stunner came when the kid tells me he's on SSI. I ask, "Are you in school or what kind of work are you doing?" He responds, "Oh, I don't work. I'm on SSI," like it's a study abroad program or something. SSI is Social Security Supplemental Income which is provided to those who are disabled from work. "What's the source of your disability?" I have to ask. It might relate to my assessment of his condition. That and I always have just a bit of indignant curiosity as to what precludes a healthy looking young person from ever working. "I have an emotional disorder." Whaaat?? I had to know more. "Well, I have trouble emotionally adjusting to work."

Okay. Can I just stop there?! And you thought I was using hyperbole when I said the downfall of humanity.

More On Aging (Moron Aging??)

I've done it twice now in the past 7 days. I'm beginning to worry. In fact, if it weren't so funny I just might worry.

A few days ago I left the house before dawn and walked up to the hospital. Nothing unusual there: I do it several times a week.  Difference was, I decided to set the house alarm before walking out the door. It's dark at that hour and everyone is sleeping. Perhaps it's unreasonable but sometimes I worry if Evan were to get up unbeknownst to me and try to follow me outside. Not good when it's 20 degrees. So, I set the alarm. That way, should he try to open a door, the alarm goes off. Beep, beep, beep for a minute and then, bam! the big horn and the phone rings, etc, etc.

So I grab my x-rays, grab my little to-go bowl of cereal, bundle up, set the alarm, and head out the door-- the garage door so as not to wake anyone by slamming the front door. Walking up to the hospital I feel really good about leaving my wife and son safely asleep at home and turn into the hospital drive when I stop: My glasses! I left my damn glasses on the dresser in the bedroom. Idiot!

Sooo….I walk back down the hill, open the garage door, enter the house and, Crap!, race like crazy to silence the alarm before it wakes my sleeping wife and child with its staccato beeping. "Sorry. Forgot my glasses." Tam rolls over the other way.

Yesterday morning I once again left the house before dawn. I bundled up, grabbed my scarf--  woops, almost forgot to grab my cereal-- set the alarm and headed out through the garage and on up the hill. I even double checked: Yep. Even with my gloves on I could feel 'em: Glasses in coat pocket.  Arriving at the hospital I went to my locker, changed into scrubs, and grabbed my-- %#@&! Sunglasses!!! Where were my regular glasses?? I was certain I had grabbed them as well as the shades!

After racing to turn off the alarm Evan came walking out of his room, blanket in hand, wanting to know why I had on blue clothes.  "I'm just going to work sweetie. It's still night time. Go back to bed." "But I'm hungry." "Go back to bed, sweetie. I just forgot my glasses!" I was so disgusted with myself by the time I had grabbed my glasses from the counter-- where I had left them while packing up my cereal-- that I was ready to kick the dog (the dog I don't have and, which I should mention, is just one more reason not to have a dog).

I like my glasses. My glasses do good things for me. They look good on me. And, without a doubt, without them I feel really dumb. The worse part of it is I can't be certain: memory issue or distraction issue? If this happens again I'm not sure if I'll get another pair to leave in my locker at the hospital or an MRI to look for gray matter atrophy. For the time being, I'll just file these recent episodes under "humor." But I will have to give just a little thought to worry. If I can spare the gray matter.

Another Reminder

I called an old friend the other day. She and her husband and I go way back to our heady days as interns. We were fresh out of medical school with our eyes firmly fixed on surgical careers while trying to navigate the many threats and obstacles to be found waiting in an inner city hospital. We met feeling all grown up and ready to grab life by the horns, grew more, grew closer, grew older, and grew apart as we followed our work. And yet, we always maintained a bond, even years and many miles apart. It must have been the timing, the shared experience. We were only together for a few years but they were exceptional years of growing and experimenting and learning and playing. And after that I have always had a place for him. A bit of me owned by him.

She told me that she and her husband were getting a divorce. Worse yet, the reason for their demise was related to his addiction to alcohol. He, a bright, fast talking Texan with an easy laugh and a million stories, appears to be slipping away-- socially withdrawn and no longer practicing. I am terribly sad at the news because I fear for my friend and knew him well enough to think, although he may have lived at risk, he didn't have this coming. His humor, intelligence, and animation were an amazing source of energy and pleasure in my life. He and his wife were the closest I've ever come to knowing a real life Nick and Nora Charles.

Great lives and great friendships that run afoul of life's deep mud and sand traps: It makes a sad story for a family, for a beautiful quick-witted intelligent spouse, and for an old friend. For my friend's sake I can always hold out hope that a journey into the abyss will lead to a stairway back to a whole and social life. One never knows. For me the news serves as yet another reminder just how fragile life is, how close one sometimes gets to the edge, and how fortunate I am to have friends to hold close. Life is never so good that I can take it for granted.

Super Fumble

It should have been a harbinger: Out to breakfast late Sunday morning I have the urge to order a side of french fries with gravy on the side. First of all, I don't eat meat anymore and second, it's hard to do worse than order french fries with gravy. In spite of these compelling reasons to steer clear I dive in.

I survived the dietary fumble without any obvious ill-effects, but psychologically I had trouble forgiving myself. French fries with gravy? Seriously??

A few hours later I was back home in the kitchen whipping up queso, (fake) buffalo wing dip, getting stuff together for tacos, and helping cut up veggies for snacks. As it turned out our small party was a visit by one. Just Tam's mom came over and, other than having a refrigerator full of uneaten junk, that turned out to be a good thing. As a result I was finally able to get back on the right track and make a good choice. Free of any self-imposed obligation to watch the Super Bowl, I slipped out of the den and into the office where I actually used my time constructively. It was a great salvage after starting my day eating french fries with gravy, assembling piles of food that would not get eaten, and starting to watch a football game so immersed in hype as to test the depths of human gullibility.  It was nice to reach the moment when I finally said "no" and got something constructive done.

I did check in at halftime to watch Madonna. I should have left after her first number but I like Madonna and wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Turns out I gave her more than she gave me.  Maybe she had french fries with gravy for breakfast as well. And, too, maybe she got something constructive done after halftime as well-- like firing her producer and her wardrobe designer.

I have vowed that next year I will not waste even 1 hour on the so-called-Super Bowl. I will start that Sunday with a bowl of granola, go for a walk, and finish a novel. Unless, of course, the Lions are in.

Pavement Ends 500 Feet

Friday I worked with a 20 something surgical tech. Hers is the position that assists a doc in surgery by managing all the instruments and helping with retractors and such. It's a really important job and doing it well makes all the difference in the world when it comes to getting the case done safely and efficiently.

At some point during the day I asked her if she liked her job. Her answer caught me by surprise as she answered in the negative. In fact, she was emphatic: "I hate it." Her reasons were reasonable enough but surprised me nonetheless because she is quite capable in her work. I guess that just goes to show ya: Just because you hate your job doesn't mean you can't do it well.

The poor girl soon had me and several of the other staff telling her how one cannot afford to waste their life doing something they hate. While she couldn't disagree she could offer no idea of what she would like to be doing instead. In fact she couldn't even describe what she liked to do in her spare time. "Lots of things" she answered but then could only come up with one.

I am beginning to think her dilemma is widespread here in the US. Furthermore, I think it's becoming easy to understand from where I live. It seems to me that we are seeing an entire generation enter adulthood that has never had to think about how they would spend their lives. Here, in the manufacturing region of the US, many of this generation grew up in the model of the their parent's and grandparent's households: Go to school, get a job with the promise of middle class benefits, fall in love, get married, have kids, retire and watch the sun go down. Problem is, the jobs with middle class promise have shrunk or departed. Marriage doesn't seem like such a good idea with divorce statistics what they are. And no one really thought to prepare this generation for anything different. So there they are: Caution, pavement ends after crossing the stage to receive your high school diploma.

It seems we've spent the last 50 years thinking about just how good we have it. We've developed ever greater recreations and distractions but not much to stimulate younger generations to think about what comes after 18. At the same time we have been automating jobs and exporting jobs leaving many of these young workers with few solid options outside of low paying service work. And, for many of those who come from backgrounds where college is not an expectation, the sidewalk ends and the trail disappears. I'm left to wonder: Have we slipped into the great American intellectual depression at the same time we've disemployed the middle class?

World's Most Powerful People

I saw a the cover of Forbes Magazine this morning. It featured the face of Bill Gates under the headline : The World's Most Powerful People. The top five included the leaders of the US, Russia, China, Germany, and Bill Gates in that order. Subtitle: The 70 Who Matter.

At a glance it is pretty awe-inspiring to think of these people who sit in control of resources and policies that impact virtually every person on earth. Incredible power with fleets and armies of staff at their beck and call. In my lifetime I have come to know several of the most powerful people in the world. I guess I'm just lucky that way, you know, move in the right circles. Call me a name dropper but I just have to share just a few.

The first that comes to mind is Mrs. Mcllvaine, my 4th grade teacher at Warner Avenue School. More than anyone else she had the power to make me love going to school for the sake of learning. I don't think there was one child in that class who did not have the same experience. Without a doubt that powerful woman launched hundreds of academic careers. Her influence has enabled me to grow into a professional who helps improve the lives of others on an almost daily basis. Mrs. Mcllvaine was powerful.

Dr. Freeman is one of the most powerful people I've ever known. He was a GP. That's short for general practitioner, a breed of physician that no longer exists. He touched hundreds of lives in his medical practices on both the eastside and the westside of LA back in the day. His caring and compassion for patients provided me with an example that was extremely influential in directing me down the path to a medical career.

Likewise my Dad. He was a living breathing monument to care, concern, and tolerance. He taught me the value of love and respect. He taught me the value of doing for others. His example has helped me navigate my life and career which is a constant parade of people from every walk of life. The caring and tolerance he taught has proved to be an invaluable resource in understanding the many demands and concerns of others.

My brother Dan is one of the most powerful people in the world. He took care of me for many years, providing me with my earliest exposure to life's many pleasures: Bikes, trains, basketball, books, culture, and a sense of the joy to be had in childhood; a joy I continue to cherish to this day and one that serves me well when life's demands become too intrusive.

Finally, there is you. The absurdity of listing the 70 most powerful people in the world is that it directs our attention away from the most powerful person in the world: You. You have the power to create joy regardless of who might be the president of this country or any other. You have the power to inspire. You have the power to bring peace to the lives of others regardless of politics or circumstance. You have the power to advise, instruct, and help others. You have the power to transform someone's crappy day into a pleasure.

That magazine cover should have been a mirror: The good each of us does is the mortar that builds the present and future for all of us. And that is real power.

The Den

The den. Or the family room. I have had the good fortune of having grown up in homes with a den. Most of my homes have had dens. In my parents' home it was almost always "the family room." In my mind "the den" was an L.A. term. West side.

By whatever name you choose for that room it's place remains the same: The den is the room where we can play. The den is the room where it doesn't matter. The den is the room where we can talk about it. The den is the room where we can not talk about it just as well. The den is the room where you can scream at the TV. The den is the room where you can spread out your blocks, build your city, and drive your Matchbox cars from wall to wall--  as long as you pick it all up before All in the Family at 8. The den is the room that is always inbounds for family--  and out of bounds for strangers. And if a visitor found himself visiting in the den he could know he was family, was welcome to search the fridge, wouldn't need to ask the way to the bathroom.

The joy, the heartbreak, the laughter, the sorrow; the private face of the family takes its seat on a comfortable chair in the den. I don't know if a lot of houses these days are still built with a den as I haven't lived in new construction in over 30 years. But this old mid-century ranch has a den. A well used den that is filled with all the noisy baggage of this family and the friends who come to call. Come on over, have a seat, just keep and eye out not to step on a stray toy or two.

The Boxer

NPR recently covered women's boxing on their morning show. It's a subject where I sometimes think I'm in the minority but I really hate the sport. And let me add, lest someone thinks I'm discriminating, I hate the sport whether involving women or men. While we're at it you might as well throw in cage fighting and all manner of mixed marshall art fighting. And let me add, lest someone thinks I'm discriminating, I hate these types of combative sports regardless of species: I have equal disregard for dog and cock fighting.

I'm not sure if I object from a purely scientific/medical perspective or simply from a moral/social perspective. I guess there's something about a competition in which the objective is to inflict a substantial brain injury on your opponent that, well, just leaves me cold. But that is the objective, create a substantial enough concussion to make the entire system shut down. Maybe it's because I grew up in a household where my Father had a severe aversion to physical confrontation. Boxing, wrestling, and all forms of fighting were intolerable to him.  Then again, perhaps it's because I tend to be a social liberal and think encouraging combat in any form is demeaning. Or maybe it's just that I find it somewhat predatory that most of the participants are recruited from disadvantaged backgrounds.

I don't buy the argument that it channels people's violence into acceptable avenues of release. The argument fails on the fact that there is still a substantial injury inflicted on another. Such "channeling" of violence still leaves another person bloodied and unconscious. Instead, such contact sports promote and elevate violence from the evolutionary recesses of human development. These "sports" generate billions of dollars by appealing to the desire to watch two people hurt each other. Elevating that behavior to sport, and promoting that behavior as entertainment is pure exploitation. I would argue both the participant and the observer are the victims.

Arguing that violent sports allows escape from the behavioral boundaries society places on us also falls short in my book: What it is we're escaping from when participating in violent sport is our responsibility to view life as precious and our responsibility to promote and nurture a sense of respect and caring among people.  Just like in raising a child:  It's much easier to simply smack a kid for misbehavior then it is to stay engaged, teach, modify, and correct.  Poor naive me, I still think hitting another person demeans one's humanity-- regardless of whether it's done in the name of discipline or whether in the name of recreation. Regardless of what you get paid to do it or how many want to watch, beating someone up as entertainment is obscene human behavior.

Today's essay question: Why do we tolerate publicly televising the beating of another person to a bloody pulp while at the same time find it intolerable to televise sex?

The Fortunate Son

One of my colleagues and his wife had a baby yesterday. He called the office by late morning to report their little boy had arrived safe and sound and both mother and son were doing well. The office staff broke into applause.

Afterward I was left to think about how intensely personal that moment is, bringing a child into the world. Mother involved with a physical and emotional intensity half the population will never know. The father waiting and anxious, concerned with mother's well-being, baby's health, and realizing his world has forever changed.  It doesn't get more personal than that moment when those two become three.

Then again, it doesn't get more public than that moment either. Suddenly the world has another mouth to feed, another body to shelter and clothe. Suddenly there is another mind to educate, another soul in search of a useful life, another heart in search of love and companionship.

We parents bring these children into the world as "ours." The world, in turn, receives them as "theirs." It's hard enough for many parents today to acknowledge and accept their responsibility to raise a child to be well fed and cared for, let alone educated and responsible. Unfortunately even that's not enough. A parent must also have some perspective that they are bringing a citizen into the world, an individual who will have to assume some role in society. And there can be no mistaking: Every child will assume some role in society, for better or for worse.

Economics, gender, ethnicity, and education all play a part in shaping the child into a citizen. The secret ingredient, however, is love. Love that gives comfort. Love that gives self confidence. Love that demonstrates compassion. Love is the nutrient that enables the child to grow from the selfish dependent infant into the engaged citizen with the understanding they are responsible-- not just for themselves but as a thread in the quality and fabric of the society.

My friend is fortunate in having a healthy baby boy. He is fortunate in having a healthy wife and mother to that boy. We are all fortunate that baby boy is going home to parents that can provide well for him. We are all fortunate that baby boy is going home to a household filled with intelligence, humor, curiosity, and, best of all, love.