A quiet Chicago night in a hotel lobby while my girls sing “Sweet Caroline” next door

I’m sitting by myself in the entry lounge of a downtown Chicago hotel. The atmosphere is restrained, with only a valet behind his desk sharing the space with me. I’m not sure if he can see me; in any case, he pays me no mind.

Music from the bar one flight up filters down—disco, soul, a bit of ’80s pop. The music is blotted out whenever the sliding front door opens and the wind, followed by overcoated, chattering guests, howls its way into the foyer.

Tonight I am a designated driver. Barb and our two oldest granddaughters are at the theater next door, enjoying A Beautiful Noise, a musical that I have seen twice before and have no desire to see a third time. Barb has been eager to see it again and to experience it through the girl’s eyes.

Earlier this evening, traffic flowed well on our drive into the city. We arrived downtown with time to spare, parked at a garage near the theater, and walked to JoJo’s Shake Bar, a fun and funky diner across the river. Burgers, sandwiches, salads, and milkshakes—big, creative milkshakes— left us all sated and sugar-buzzed for our trek back to the theater district.

So now the girls are enjoying the show while I watch the minutes pass by in the hotel lobby. I begin to read the novel I have brought with me, the newest Dan Brown thriller. I can already picture Tom Hanks playing Robert Langdon once again in the inevitable Netflix adaptation.

I’d been resourceful enough to grab my earpods when we left the house earlier. So after a while, I use my phone to access our home network and watch today’s episode of Jeopardy! The sound is a bit out of sync, the contestants’ responses a bit delayed, but the current champ continues his streak, crushing two more victims and moving over $300,000 in winnings.

Barb texts me at intermission. She tells me everyone is enjoying the show, though the audience is subdued. Unusual for this show—usually the musical numbers have people dancing in the aisles. I guess Tuesday nights don’t bring out the Neil Diamond party animals.

I’ve got about an hour before the show is over, so I stroll a bit through the hotel. No one questions me as I walk through several lounges in search of a Diet Coke. I finally find a counter selling soda and snacks at minibar prices. But $5 for the three hours of shelter while I wait for the girls is a pretty low price to pay.

I return to the front lounge. The valet and a custodian are discussing their NFL favorites and what prop bets to make for the coming weekend’s games. A woman in skin-tight leather pants consults her phone before heading upstairs to an assignation. And through the window of the hotel, I see the first people leaving the theater.

Just like that, my quiet little night as a chauffeur-in-waiting ends. The best part? Seeing my girls spill out of the theater, thrilled and chattering as they walk toward me for our late-night drive back home.

3 Generations of my family couldn’t disagree more.

When Erin White confessed in her New York Times essay that she “made dinner for my family because I wanted to and because the world told me I had to — and then, three years ago, I just stopped,” I nearly dropped my fork. Stopped? Dinner? The family dinner? The sacred nightly ritual that has kept generations fed, sane, and mildly annoyed but still talking to one another?

White goes on to reassure readers that “your family will remain connected and whole; your kids will still grow up to be well-adjusted humans” even if you skip the nightly sit-down. That may be true in her house, but I will defend every family dinner we have ever had.

I grew up with family dinners as a non-negotiable part of the day. Every evening, no matter what chaos life had thrown at us, we gathered around the table. The television was never on. I may have missed out on hearing about the day’s events from Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley, or David Brinkley, but it gave me time with Mom, Dad, and my sister Linda. We were our own nightly news.

When Barb and I started our own family, we didn’t even have to discuss it. Family dinner was just what we did. And I kept my rule: no television. Vanna White was turned on after we were done. Instead of Wheel of Fortune, we talked, we laughed, we argued, and we invited friends over for Taco Tuesday. No one got a free pass; no one wanted one.

In her opinion piece, White worries that the pressure to produce nightly family dinners is overblown, writing, “The messaging on family dinner is intense! Family dinner will make your children smart! It will keep your children off drugs!” Sure, that’s a lot to ask of one Chicken Kiev. But she’s missing the point. It’s not about the meal’s miracle powers. It’s about the moment.

Dinner was our family’s daily reboot before rebooting was a thing. It might not have lasted more than twenty minutes, but it was where the kids learned to tell stories, disagree politely (mostly), and learn our family history and our ethos. Sometimes it ended in laughter, sometimes in frustration. But it always ended together and resumed the next day.

Did it matter? Here’s the kicker: our grown kids now do the same thing. Both our son and daughter have carried on the tradition with their own families. Dinner together. No screens, no exceptions. I take that as proof that something about those dinners stuck, maybe even meant something.

So, with all due respect to Erin White, I’m for keeping the family dinner alive and well. It’s not a performance. It’s not a punishment. It’s just the one time of day we all show up, sit down, and actually see each other.

And if sometimes the chicken’s a little dry or the mood a little dark, that’s family. And Vanna White is still hanging around.

Jet lag, creativity, and what to do with one extra hour

Spring ahead, fall back.

“It’s great,” they say. “Get an extra hour of sleep.”

That sounds like it would be invaluable to me, my body still grappling with 17 hours of jet lag that won’t let go. I crave an extra hour of deep REM sleep.

But I know that if I stay in bed, instead of softly snoring while dreaming of sushi and samurai, I will be tossing and turning, tugging at bed covers, disturbing Barb’s sleep, and annoying the kitten sleeping at her side.

There are so many things I can do with that extra hour. I can continue the revisions to my latest play, newly inspired by the informative comments at last week’s online reading. I could complete the blog about family dinners that I started yesterday, sitting half-completed on my computer monitor.

I could use the hour relocating the patio furniture to the garage—though that would be best put off till later in the morning, just before the Bears game. On a more relaxing note, the extra time could be spent trying to move from “Expert” level to “Genius” on today’s Spelling Bee, or tackling Sports Connections, freshly inspired by last night’s Dodgers World Series victory.

And I know Cooper will be rising soon, unaware of any time change, eager to get out of his crate and have his first morning walk. I can’t keep the big fellow waiting.

The sun is rising now, and I’ve chosen to use these last few spare minutes to write this short post and wish you all a happy extra hour. Use it wisely, use it well, and be refreshed for the day ahead.

Reflections on a journey through Tokyo, Hakone, Osaka, Kyoto, and Hiroshima — where ancient grace meets modern precision.

After a 38-hour journey home, the jet lag has finally lifted enough for me to make sense of our two-week adventure through Tokyo, Hakone, Osaka, Kyoto, and Hiroshima. What lingers most are the contrasts — between noise and calm, ancient and modern, the intensely busy and the perfectly polite.

Japan’s cities hum with energy: crowded, colorful, sometimes chaotic. Yet amid all that motion, one sound was curiously absent — car horns. In two weeks, I heard maybe five. And no one jaywalks. The quiet civility of Japanese drivers and pedestrians mirrors a deeper courtesy that runs through the culture.

On our tour, we were thrilled by a samurai demonstration, entranced by a geisha performance, learned the rituals of the Japanese tea ceremony, and even got our hands dirty making fresh sushi. Experiences like these are what make travel truly memorable.

Shrines and temples seem to appear at every corner, though that may partly reflect our tour itinerary. Shinto and Buddhist traditions coexist gracefully, overlapping in a way that suggests spiritual harmony rather than competition.

Traveling by high-speed train was effortless, though the trains felt slightly slower and less dramatic than those we rode in Germany two years ago. What they lacked in speed, they made up for in punctuality and comfort.

Service workers in Japan deserve their global reputation for warmth and attentiveness. They anticipate needs almost before you’re aware of them. Tipping, I learned, is rarely expected and sometimes politely refused — a reminder that good service is viewed as duty, not transaction.

Department stores are vast, immaculate, and fully staffed, evoking the long-lost glory of Chicago’s Marshall Fields. Each features an astonishing basement food hall, filled with beautifully packaged meals to go. It made us wonder if many Japanese families ever cook dinner at home.

Eating gluten-free proved challenging in a land where miso and soy sauce find their way into nearly every dish. Thanks to our wonderful tour guide, I was able to enjoy modified versions of local favorites — including a specially made gluten-free okonomiyaki in Osaka, crispy and delicious in a city that takes food seriously.

The visit to Hiroshima’s Peace Museum and Dome was deeply affecting. Standing at ground zero of the first atomic bombing, we learned why Hiroshima is fully habitable today — and were struck by the absence of bitterness among the Japanese people we met. Their grace left us humbled.

A good tour company and a great guide can turn a complex trip into pure discovery. I won’t name ours publicly, but you can reach me at lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com if you’d like details.

Japan left me with more impressions than I can neatly summarize — but perhaps the clearest is this: in a country where trains run on time, horns stay silent, and courtesies are instinctive, it’s hard not to feel both a little awe and just a little envy.

You can always reach me at lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com. I love hearing from you.

An End and A Beginning

Diane Keaton’s death hit me harder than I expected. Not because I followed her career closely. I couldn’t even name many of her movies. I had to be reminded that she played Michael Corleone’s wife in The Godfather. But I’ll never need reminding that she was Annie Hall.

What made Annie Hall so special to me wasn’t just that it was a glorious, funny movie with Woody Allen at his creative (and spider-killing) best. It wasn’t the men’s ties or floppy hats that Annie made famous. It was the time in my life when I first saw it.

In the spring of 1977, I was a medical student at the University of Illinois in Chicago. Though I lived on campus, I spent most of my free time with friends in Rogers Park. We’d hang out, hear some music, go to the movies.

One night, a movie-loving friend called to say he wanted to see the new Woody Allen flick, Annie Hall. I picked him up in my beat-up Mercury Comet, and we headed to suburbia for the 8:00 show.

I loved the movie, without realizing it would be a kind of ending. Annie Hall was the last film I’d see before a new part of my life began.

Annie Hall was the last movie I saw without Barb. We’ve been sharing coming attractions, armrests, and Raisinets ever since that spring of 1977. She may not be much of a Woody Allen fan (who is these days), and we don’t always agree on what deserves two thumbs up, but she’s a damn good movie partner.

So, Miss Keaton, I’m sure Annie Hall will be streaming again soon. Maybe I’ll talk Barb into watching it with me — or maybe I’ll call one of those old friends instead. We can kill a spider or two. No big deal.

Or as Diane Keaton’s Annie would say, “la dee dah, la dee dah.”

AI Can Wait

“I don’t see why anyone should even care about teaching cursive handwriting anymore. That time would be better spent teaching kids how to use AI.”

It is no surprise that the friend saying this to me was a technologically proficient 30-something woman with an East Coast background. She was quite confident in her pronouncement. And I am confident she is wrong. Swapping cursive for AI is a trade I’m not interested in making.

I am aware of the arguments against teaching cursive. Who needs it? After all, who really writes anymore in a world of keyboarding, thumb-typing, and voice recognition?

The “technical” answer is that learning handwriting helps with other skills: fine motor skill development, hand-eye coordination, memory retention, and the ability to read historical documents.

Besides those “hard” reasons, there are “soft” ones, too. Handwriting is an opportunity for creativity. Calligraphy is a true art. And the little flowers and hearts that dot i’s and j’s have so much more personality than emojis chosen from the same list as everyone else uses.

If we applied a similar logic, the argument against teaching cursive could extend beyond the handwriting issue. Art, literature, music— for most students, none of those will lead to lucrative careers in medicine, technology, or the law. Why expose a second-grader to them at all?

“Let them learn how to use AI instead,” she said.

I am quite fond of AI. I frequently use it in its various forms. But I began using them after I had learned how to think critically, how to frame an argument, and how to write an essay (or a blog post).

If I were still involved in education and designing a curriculum, cursive would remain a primary-grade staple. AI can wait. Kids don’t need to meet ChatGPT until they know how to live and learn without it.

It’s not all about football.

I rarely spend time on online videos. But the other day, a Facebook reel titled Eight Minutes of Ridiculous caught my eye. I clicked and spent the next eight minutes enjoying perfection.

The video was a compilation of kick-off and punt returns by Football Hall of Famer Devin Hester, the return man who electrified Bears fans for almost a decade.

You don’t need to be a football fan to appreciate the flawlessness of those plays. Hester would field a kick, glance at the eleven angry men charging at him, and in an instant make his choice. Sometimes he’d hesitate, other times he’d surge forward, or when it seemed prudent, cut back or dart to the side.

He could slip past tacklers or simply outrun them, with bursts of speed that left defenders gasping. You could feel his joy, as well as that of the teammates who threw their bodies into blocks to clear his path. For the man who returned more kicks for touchdowns than anyone else in NFL history, his end-zone celebrations were strikingly modest.

The videos also capture the amazement in the voices of countless announcers. Even neutral broadcasters couldn’t help but sound awed. But it was Jeff Joniak, the Bears’ radio voice, who immortalized Hester with his call: “Devin Hester, you are ridiculous.” Ever since, in Chicago, “Hester” and “ridiculous” have been synonymous.

Perfection is rare: Nadia Comăneci’s perfect 10 in 1976. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. The first iPhone design. Some say perfection is the enemy of good. But for eight minutes in my office, perfection in motion brought me joy at a time when joy can be hard to find.

Thank you, Devin Hester. You are, indeed, ridiculous.

I Missed Out On Jury Duty, But My Perry Mason Dream Lives On.

The benefits of aging are numerous: a Senior property tax exemption, healthcare from Medicare, and an income stream from Social Security. But I recently learned of a new “benefit”, and I find it bittersweet. I will soon lose the opportunity to be a juror.

I thought I had a chance. I had received a summons to be available for jury duty at the county courthouse next week. I kept my schedule clear, and Friday night was set to visit the county website to find out which days I should report to the courthouse. But the county beat me to it. I received a text telling me that my service would not be needed at all.

And that probably ends my prospects for being a juror. In less than four months, I will hit the magic age after which compliance with a summons to jury duty is no longer compulsory. My birthdate will become an automatic “Get Out of Jury Duty Free Card.” I doubt the county will bother to summon me again.

I am disappointed. Jurisprudence runs in the family. Barb has sat on a jury for a pair of trials. My mother served on the jury for the infamous Mirage Bar trial in the 1970s. But I’ve never taken a juror’s oath. On my only previous summons, I made the drive north to the county seat, but never saw the inside of a courtroom.

Why do I want to sit in the jury box? It’s a childhood dream. I want to be there when the music plays and Perry Mason, attorney for the defense, strides into the courtroom.

I grew up watching Mason humiliate prosecutor Hamilton Burger every Sunday night, week after week, year after year. I admired investigator Paul Drake and was smitten with legal secretary Della Street. I waited along with the rest of America until the turning point in each episode. I knew that under Mason’s intense questioning, a witness would break down and admit to the crime Mason’s client was accused of. Mason never lost, and justice always prevailed.

TV law shows today are too muddy and indecisive. The Lincoln Lawyer has some tricks up his sleeve, but compared to Mason, he’s barely passed the bar. Has he ever terrified a witness into confessing on the stand? Jurors at his trials must be nodding off to sleep out of boredom.

Which makes it just as well that my only jury duty will be in my imagination. I may never serve on a real jury, but I’ll keep my Perry Mason fantasy intact. And my Della Street one, too. That verdict is final!

If you want to send me a message without going through Substack, email me directly at lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com

From the Microscope to Life’s Bigger Picture

Some pathologists are balkers. They dither and debate, unable to decide until every morsel of information has been individually processed, every unlikely diagnosis ruled out. When they hear hoof beats, they don’t just think of zebras; they think of zebras that have been extinct for 100,000 years. You cannot run a pathology department with a batch of balkers.

Michael Kaufman, MD, who passed away last month, was not a balker. If he had a motto, it was “Let’s get this done. Now.”

Mike was one of the attending physicians during my pathology residency at Evanston Hospital in Chicago’s northern suburbs. I was at Evanston for four years. He was there for almost 40.

There were many outstanding pathologists at the hospital during my training. But none were better than Mike in evaluating the big picture. The answer to a diagnosis on a biopsy wasn’t necessarily in the minute details of each slide, but rather, as he put it, in the gestalt. The moment the first field of a slide hit the microscope stage, he had an impression of the diagnosis and knew what he wanted to do to confirm it.

Mike was rarely wrong, and even less often inefficient. With caffeine as his fuel, he would glance at a stack of slide trays, calculate the number of slides they contained, and set a time limit for completing that afternoon’s work. When a rafter of residents was slow, Mike pushed them along like a golf ranger urging a slow foursome to pick up their pace.

He needed to be that efficient. Mike was the master of the side hustle before the term even existed. He always had some place else he needed to get to, or a case he had to study for his sideline medico-legal consulting services.

He was happy to spread the wealth, hooking the residents up with Medical Records gigs, and even ear-piercing at the local Carson, Pirie, Scott’s Department Store. We were also his off-site autopsy service, performing post-mortem exams at other North Shore hospitals. If not for Mike, I never would have driven around town with formalin-fixed body parts in the trunk of my car—something I never did mention to Barb.

I learned how to be a better pathologist, time manager, and entrepreneur from Mike. Those lessons guided my career. But my most vivid memory is of him walking through the lab with little Jamie on his shoulders—showing us all that joy belongs alongside work.

Mike was never a balker, in medicine or in life. May his memory be a blessing.

It’s Hard To Resist When Artificial Intelligence Offers to Write Your Blog Post

I came close to caving in. But I’m not ready to do it yet…

Today, an old marketing tagline popped into my head. It was from the 1960s, an era when I was watching plenty of Huckleberry Hound and Yogi Bear on TV, and Kellogg’s Cereal was the superstar advertiser of all those cartoon shows. Each ad for their sugar-sweetened apple-flavored crunchy cereal ended with “Apple Jacks will not be sold to bullies.”

I thought that line, nostalgia for the 60s, and commentary for the current day would make a nice amalgamation for a 500-word blog post. It should have been easy. But then I checked my files and saw that in the past year, I have written two posts about bullies, beginning with a holy terror from my high school days and concluding with the unholy Donald Trump. I didn’t see how I could drink from that well a third time.

But we are in 2025, not 1965, so I decided to see what AI would say. I clicked ChatGPT’s tab on my toolbar and gave the program the following instructions:

Create a blog post relevant to today, recalling the old tag line of Apple Jacks cereal that “Apple Jacks will not be sold to bullies.”

In less time than it took for me to type the prompt, the chatbot produced a well-executed, near publishable version of what it thought I wanted to say on the subject.

It wasn’t perfect; for one thing, it was loaded with em-dashes, the trademark of AI. And the first version was too preachy. But with a few rounds of suggestions and responses, I had a piece that met my standards to deliver to the Substack world.

I could have justified the post as the best of both worlds, a plug-in hybrid, combining my gas with the website’s electricity. But unlike Oscar Wilde, I can (sometimes) resist temptation.

So I’m not using the Frankensteinish creation. This is my post, all my own words, that you are reading. Every mistake, cliché, and bad simile is mine and mine alone.

Maybe someday I’ll discover something new I want to say about bullies. Until then, just keep eating your Apple Jacks. A bowl a day might keep Presidents and AI away.