Confessions of a Presidential Doppelgänger: Why I Need Joe to Hang Up His Hat

Hi Joe,

Remember me? It’s me, Dave. You know, the guy who can fill in for you at a moment’s notice. The dude who looks enough like you behind a pair of Ray-Bans that the Washington press corp gets fooled for a minute or two.

I took the job, with its hefty paycheck and the 24/7 on-call responsibility, with the understanding that it would be all quick hits. You know, things like when I took over for you when you got the stomach flu on the evening you were supposed to meet the Japanese ambassador. Or the time I stepped up to the plate when the Little League champions came to the White House for a photo op and you had a bad case of sniffles. Heck, I even did the teleprompter thing for you at a donor luncheon the day Jill needed you to bring some boxes to her classroom.

But Joe, I’ve got to tell you that I am worried. I’ve watched the debate; I’ve seen the George Stephanopoulos interview. And you know what has me upset? Not that you might lose the election — though that sure looks likely. I’m worried about the small chance that you are going to win!

Here’s the skinny. We know that you are a trooper between 10 am and 4 pm. But what about all the policy breakfasts and state dinners that are outside of those hours? If you are Prez for another four years are you going to need me to substitute for you on all of those appointments? Am I going to have to give up ALL my “Netflix and Chill” nights to pretend to be the “President”? That’s not quite what I took this gig for. After all, before I became your Dave I was retired and loving it.

So please Joe. Think of me and get out of the race. I’m happy to do another five months of fill-ins, wherever you need me. But after that why don’t you retire to sunny beaches, gentle waves, and Tequila Sunrises. And let Kamala or Donald or whoever get their own doppelgangers–this one wants to go home.

With Warmest Regards.

Your friend and imposter,

Dave.

Is the Democratic Party Living in Fantasyland?

Which quote should be the new motto of the Democratic party?

A. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!” The Wizard of Oz

B. “Who ya gonna believe, me or your own eyes?” Duck Soup

C. “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears.” 1984

D. All of the Above

I’m going with “D”. Each one of those lines is an embodiment of what the Democratic Party and President Joe Biden’s inner circle are trying to tell us.

“It was a one-time blip.” “Like everyone he has good days and bad days.” “He had a cold.” Horsefeathers!

I’ll give you one more movie quote.

“I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.” Network

The party of my youth, my middle age, and my retirement, the party whose convention I have planned on volunteering at, the party that was going to save our nation, has gone ostrich, sticking its head in the sand. Do they really think that a few million voters in key states will forget last Thursday?

I read in today’s New York Times that “in a Zoom audio call on Monday with about 500 members of campaign’s National Finance Committee and some other contributors, some of the Biden campaign’s senior-most officials held forth for an hour on a special call, including the chair Jennifer O’Malley Dillon, deputy campaign manager Quentin Fulks and a pollster Molly Murphy.”

Am I the only one who has a problem with that Zoom call? Where was Joe? The ONLY person who can convince me and the masses that Joe Biden can successfully serve four more years in the White House is Joe Biden. If he can’t be allowed to meet with his biggest donors, what message is he sending to them, and to us?

I know that President Biden has served our country well. I understand he has pride and a combative nature. I realize some party bigwigs fear a divided convention while others fret over a Kamala Harris candidacy. There is no crystal ball predicting the future.

But I am fearful and angry when I hear the President plans to stick with this all the way to November.

And so, just as a young White Sox fan once begged Shoeless Joe Jackson over 100 years ago, I am beseeching you to say it ain’t so, Joe.

Do you agree with me? disagree? Leave a comment and let me know.

Related: Jill Help Joe.

Please Dr. Biden. Help Joe Out.

I am worried. I am concerned. I am terrified. What I witnessed last night has left me shaken and fearful.

Half a year ago. I posted a blog asking President Biden to weigh his options and announce that we would not run for re-election in 2024. Heck, I even wrote the speech for him–and a pretty damn good one, if I must say so myself.

Sadly, Good Ole Joe felt in his bones that he had another four years left. And with his State of the Union address, he came close to convincing me. But last night was a different Joe.

All the backroom talk I had heard about his decline took on new vibrancy. From his first moment walking to the podium, until his final summation, I saw that this was not a man our country would choose in November.

Sure, the spin is that he gained momentum as the evening went on. So what? It’s like a drama critic writing that I wrote a terrible play, but the epilogue was OK. By then, it’s just too late, the damage has been done.

I disagree with almost everything Donald Trump says and stands for. He is a liar, a bully, a narcissist. He has the potential to lead us into a nightmare future. But after last night, I see him as our country’s next President. And I quake.

So Dr. Jill Biden, please intervene. Talk to Joe. Tell him not to run. You don’t have to say it’s because of age or fragility. Say it for the sake of you – his wife, or Hunter – his son. Do it for me. Do it for our country. Do it now.

Mommy Vs. Marshall. Who Can Stop A Five-Year-Old’s Tears

A couple of nights ago, Barb and I shared a small nighttime crisis with our grandchildren, 5 1/2-year-old Nat and 2 1/2-year-old Molly.

Our daughter Laury and her family have been living with us recently while their home is being remodeled. Tuesday night, to allow Laury and Alex to celebrate their anniversary with a dinner out, Barb and I took over bedtime duty in our kid-friendly loft.

Getting washed up and into PJs went smoothly. Barb read a chapter from The Wizard of Oz and we followed that by singing our personalized version of the Mickey Mouse Club theme song, a tradition that goes back to when our own two children were young.

“Kids, tomorrow morning I have a special surprise for you, ” I said, as Nat and Molly took our hands and we walked to their Jack and Jill bedrooms.

“What is it?” they asked in unison.

“Tomorrow!” I reminded them.

Final bedtime preparation went swimmingly until Nat’s face scrunched up, and his rapidly blinking blue eyes fought to hold back his tears. We expected to hear him cry for his mommy, but that wasn’t his issue.

Nat had done an inventory of his “stuffies,” the stuffed animals that share his bed at night, and discovered that one of his favorites, Marshall, the Fire Rescue Paw Patrol pup, was missing.

“Where is he???” Nat moaned.

As his tears flowed with worry we searched everywhere–under the soft yellow covers; under the bed; in the bathroom sink. Marshall wasn’t anywhere. He had vanished and Nat was inconsolable.

I quickly realized that finding Marshall was a lost cause and that we needed a good distraction. I struggled to think what might calm the young boy down enough to let him fall asleep. And then I remembered my planned surprise.

“Nat, if I show you tomorrow’s surprise right now, will that help you stop worrying about Marshall and fall asleep?” I asked.

“I think so,” he whispered, wiping his tears. “Maybe.”

“Come sit next to me and we can look inside this box,” I said, gesturing to a pink file box I had unearthed in a cupboard an hour earlier.

We opened the box to find a stack of Laury’s old school photos, craft projects, letters from camp, and more.

As he saw the first picture, Nat exclaimed, “That’s my mommy!” At the thrill of seeing Laury’s memorabilia, Marshall the missing rescue dog was quickly forgotten.

We went through the box, laughing at school pictures from each grade, group shots from Banner Day Camp, and ensembles from Miss Marsha’s Dance Studio. Nat eagerly hunted for Laury in every shot. And where did we find her in each photograph? In the front row, of course!

“Mommy was so little!” Nat declared with surprise and delight.

“Yes, she was–but she grew up, and you will too,” Barb promised Nat as she pulled the covers over his tired body. “And now it’s bedtime. When you wake up, Mommy and Daddy will be home, and we will all get together and find Marshall.”

And that is what we did. It’s so much fun to make new family memories while we remember old ones!

Send In The Swans

Following last year’s brutal coyote stalking of our summertime swan squad, our community decided it was more humane to use only decoy dogs rather than swans to keep our neighborhood relatively goose-free.

The experiment has been successful; the goose population has been almost nil. Yet, we miss watching the graceful swans peacefully gliding across our glistening ponds. In their honor, let me present (with apologies to the late Stephen Sondheim) Send in the Swans.

SEND IN THE SWANS

Time to bewitch
Weather is fair
The hot sun is shining on
The ground everywhere
Send in the swans

Cicadas twitch
Into their groove
Blue trucks from Amazon
And postal trucks too
Where are the swans?
Send in the swans

Now that we’ve swapped
From in to outdoors
Gardens we’re sowing
Doin’ our weeding down on all fours
My knees creak in pain
But no one will care
I look for signs
The swans aren’t there.

Are the geese sparse?
We should all cheer
Last year they were confident
That was last year
But where are the swans?
There ought to be swans.
Quick send in the swans.

As the goose flies
We could agree
This was a wonderful coup
Aren’t we now more carefree?
Isn’t it better to be
With no geese at play?
As the goose flies
Poop goes away.

Time to bewitch
Time to revere
Streets without geese are so great
Looking austere
And where are the swans?
Let's bring back the swans.
Well, maybe, next year.

I Love Cicadas. Here Is Why.

I remember my long-ago childhood in Rogers Park. I’d walk along Farwell, or Greenview, or Pratt Avenues after dinner. My friends and I would stop in a neighborhood park in the early evening as the sunlight faded. We would catch grasshoppers and put them in glass jars with holes punched in the lids. We would chase Monarch butterflies as The Butterfly of Love played on someone’s transistor radio. And we watched as hundreds of fireflies illuminated the darkness.

Most years since then have been pretty uneventful on the insect front. But this year is a special one. Like everyone celebrating a 68th birthday in 2024, I was born in 1956. That year, like 2024, was a 17-year cycle cicada year. And I am as thrilled as a newly hatching nymph in black dirt about my fifth time crossing flight paths with this septendecimal brood.

I know most people can’t stand the little buggers. My family is no exception. They hate the noise; they hate the beady red eyes; they hate the fluttering creatures landing in their hair. Our neighborhood is filled with spasmodic dance moves as both kids and adults do their best to shake them off.

But while the haters hate, hate, hate, I love the little buggers. How can you not respect creatures with such perfectly tuned bodies that in their somnambulant larval state they can accurately tick off 17 years? And how can you not feel empathy for critters whose entire conscious life is limited to a few weeks?

Are they loud? Sure they are. When one became attached to Cooper’s leash and snuck inside our house, its clacking was astonishingly raucous. But the drone of thousands high up in the trees is calming, almost hypnotic. As I walk through the neighborhood, I find the sound a pleasant backdrop to the words of the novel I am listening to through my headphones. The rumblings of school buses and garbage trucks are much more distracting than the insect’s overhead buzz.

I don’t mind when the rapidly beating wings brush against my arms or legs. It’s fine if the creatures settle onto my shirt for a moment. They won’t bite, sting, or spit on me. They will soon flutter away as they choose a mate from among their millions of compatriots. Speeddating at its finest!

I will be 84 the next time this brood of cicadas reappears. Maybe I enjoy them because they remind me of the many years I still have before I greet them again. And maybe, just maybe, they remind me of those simpler days of my youth, when grasshoppers and butterflies were enough to light my way home.

Scalpels to Stage Plays: Autopsies, Case Studies, and Blogging Adventures

Long ago I lost count of the number of blogs I have posted in the last nine years. My best estimate would be that it has been about 700 times that I have asked you to spend a few moments with me. But before I became a blogger, writing for pleasure (mine, if not yours,) I wrote a few articles published in medical journals–not enough articles for me to be considered an academic, but enough to have multiple mentions in Index Medicus, the Yellow Pages of medical articles in reputable journals.

What was I writing about? Much like my current blogs, every scientific paper was different from the last, with a different focus and frequently intended for a different audience. My earliest papers were predominantly case studies, reporting interesting and/or previously undescribed phenomena I encountered while doing my first 100 autopsies as a pathology resident. One of the papers integrated in-utero radiographic findings with autopsy findings in a condition known as polysplenia1. A second case 2 involved detective work à la Quincy, as a colleague and I traced a patient’s history to determine the source of a triangular portion of plastic in their stomach that had caused fatal blood loss. Our investigation and publication earned us our hospital’s Resident Research of the Year award–scant consolation to the family of the deceased.

While still in my residency, my next published paper dealt with the use of frozen sections on needle biopsies of the breast for the diagnosis of breast cancer 3. My paper, based on a series of cases at my hospital, took a position against this practice. This was significant in an era when a malignant diagnosis on a frozen section of a breast biopsy was frequently followed by a modified radical mastectomy. After the paper’s publication a nationally known pathologist asked me to contribute a chapter to his forthcoming book on breast pathology. In a major career faux pas, I passed on the opportunity.

As my residency closed, I was asked to contribute a thought piece to another national journal, discussing the future of pathology 4. 45 years later I don’t remember what I saw in my crystal ball, although I know I failed to predict the world of genomics, digitization, and artificial intelligence, all of which have revolutionized pathology.

Once in my career as a community hospital jack-of-all-trades pathologist, my paper writing tapered off significantly. A short piece on urine cultures 5 (fun stuff) was followed many years later by a detailed description of a simple inking technique to prevent mix-ups of biopsy specimens in the lab 6. Significant in its time, that method is now out-moded with the easy availability of bar-coding and DNA analysis to confirm specimen identity.

Throughout my career, the laboratory data I have provided has been used in countless conference presentations, abstracts, and journal publications. While my name appears on many of those, I don’t feel much personal connection with them. My hands weren’t on the keyboard or posterboard.

In retirement, my medical writing days are past–almost. My as-yet-unproduced play does have a medical aspect. As the saying goes, write what you know, and know what you write. So far, it has worked for me.

For those of you who are curious:

  • 1 Arch Pathol Lab Med. 107:202-203, 1983
  • 2 Southern Medical Journal. 74:900-901, 1981
  • 3 Breast. 8:11-13, 1982
  • 4 Pathologist. 37:1983
  • 5 Laboratory Medicine.1985
  • 6 Arch Pathol Lab Med. 2009;133:295-297

Charles Variety Store vs Amazon. Can You Pick The Winner?

When I was a kid growing up in East Rogers Park, a car ride was a luxury. Spending my weekly allowance meant a walk to Frankfort’s or Mesirow’s, the corner drugstores. I’d buy baseball cards, comic books, candy bars, and the annual Mother’s Day card. When I needed to make a bigger purchase — like a gift to go with the Mother’s Day Cards — I’d walk a little further and spend my money at Charles Variety Store.

Charles Variety was a neighborhood landmark. Set on Morse Avenue, across from the Jewel and just down the street from Ashkenaz, Charles was my Woolworths, Walgreens, and Marshall Fields all rolled into one. At the register, my nickels, dimes, quarters, and crushed dollar bills would tumble out of my pocket as I paid for my necessities and extravagances.

Today when I need something in a hurry it’s a different world. I sit at my desk or at the kitchen counter, log into Amazon, and in five minutes I have placed my order. Simpler, but is it a better way? Let’s compare my purchasing now, to my purchasing way back when.

AMAZON

CHARLES VARIETY

  • Need to create an account
  • Credit card on file
  • Can sit on my butt
  • Same day delivery
  • Lots of packaging
  • Keeps a creepy list of everything I have bought on-line
  • It’s a solitary endeavor
  • Look at pictures of items for sale
  • Lots of phony reviews from influencers
  • Money goes to super-tech company
  • Need to worry about hackers, phishers, and Nigerian Princes
  • I’d just walk in.
  • It was cash only, I was 10 years old!
  • I enjoyed nature on the walk over
  • It was immediate gratification
  • Everything was in one paper bag.
  • Charles didn’t keep tabs on every purchase I made
  • I’d hang out in the store with friends
  • We could touch the merchandise
  • I could learn to make my own decision
  • My money went to a local merchant
  • A clerk accused me of shoplifting-they were wrong!

Who wins? It’s not even close (though I won’t give up my Prime account!)

I haven’t driven down Morse Avenue lately. I don’t know if any of the old stores still exist. But if they do, look in to see if you can find the 10-year-old kid with a quarter in his pocket and a hankering for a piece of Bazooka Bubble Gum.

Challenges in Sports: Why ‘Nice Shot, Les!’ Stings | RaffStuff Blog

I hear it in the morning. I hear it in the evening. I even hear it in my sleep. Three little words said over and over again. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.

What are the words that have that effect on me? What utterance sends shivers down my spine? You might think it is “Wrong again, Les.” That’s the phrase my son claims that the late, great, Alex Trebeck used ruthlessly and repeatedly on my single Jeopardy! appearance. However, my review of the gameshow videotape indicates that Alex never said that, not even once. Therefore those three words don’t bother me a bit. They are just a bit of fiction.

But the phrase that truly gets to me isn’t ‘Wrong again, Les.’ It’s ‘Nice shot, Les!’ My friends say it to me. Casual acquaintances say it too, usually with sincerity but always with a hint of amazement. These folks mean no harm — they believe they are being supportive. So I smile, nod my head, and mumble my response.

An opponent said it yesterday during pickleball. With a slight variation a friend said it while we were bowling. And I know someone in my threesome will say it today by the 4th hole of our nine-hole round of golf.*

Why is this phrase such a dagger to my heart? Whether it’s in pickleball, golf, or tennis, it is usually uttered after I have muffed five or six shots in a row, and then finally hit a semi-decent forehand, tee shot, or lob. That’s when a chorus fills the air, as everyone in shouting distance proclaims “Nice shot, Les!”

I know everyone means well as they chime in. But the goodwill rides on a current of “we know you have trouble playing this game well and we are just a bit surprised you managed to make that shot!”

I really can’t blame anyone for having that sentiment. Despite a love of competition, lessons galore, and practicing whenever I can, I have never excelled at sports. Hand-eye coordination is lacking, as is the ability to shift my weight to get power behind any of my serves or drives. And as my bowling partner has lectured me many times, my follow-throughs aren’t too hot either.

But I’m a blue-eyed optimist. So, I’ll keep swinging, hitting, and rolling, all the while hearing those three infamous words. Maybe one day, they’ll be said without surprise, but with genuine admiration. Until then, keep cheering, and I’ll keep smiling—’Nice shot, Les!'”

*Post-script: I was on the ninth hole before I hit a good one today. However, it was a beauty. I’ll say it for you. “Nice shot, Les!”

A Wise Friend In A Troubling Time

When the world is confusing and not understandable, it helps to look to the words of those who are wiser than us. Today I was struck by a Facebook posting from my friend, lunch buddy, and fellow Bruce Springsteen fan Joel Stern. Joel, a retired attorney, frequently writes eloquently about his personal battle with cancer. Today he has done a marvelous job encapsulating his beliefs on the crisis in the Middle East and on campuses here at home. I echo most of his views, and with his permission, I am printing a lightly edited version of his Facebook remarks.

I am a proud centrist. Proud because centrists bring people together and not apart. Proud because centrists can understand either party’s position and even side with the other party when he/she thinks they are right. I also see the same issues arising globally and if you follow history, this period of time looks very similar to the 1930s and we all know what happened next.

Today, I do feel compelled to write about the college protests going on throughout the United States. Let me start with some high level views. First, I am a great believer in free speech. Second, I am very supportive of peaceful protests done pursuant to the law. Third, I have no issue with people speaking and protesting about views I unequivocally disagree with, Fourth, I want peace in the Middle East. I hate the killing of innocent children (and adults) and the inability for a “real” peace to occur.

What I can’t support is an antisemitic movement masked by a pro-Palestinian protest. What I can’t stand is professional protestors with no allegiance to a cause but only money spearheading these protests. What I have disdain for is many of the protestors on campus are not even students. What I abhor is many protestors not even understanding why they are protesting and who have no idea of the complicated history in the Middle East and no idea what “from the sea to the river means.” What I hate is the brain manipulation that is being done on young college students who have no clue why they are protesting. The “dummying up” of America is happening on college campuses – this is the opposite of what college needs to be about. What I will not accept is protestors hailing Hamas as saviors and the victims and not even understanding the difference between Palestinians and Hamas. What I hate is the ignoring of what happened October 6, 2023. At least be consistent in your views of innocent people dying. To ignore what happened in October is confirmation of your singular purpose. What I don’t like is protests impacting parents’ ability to get their kids from schools or a son trying to fly to another city to see his ailing father but because of protests by the airport is not able to make his plane. What I detest is our children (our future) not being able to get an education because of these protests. If the protestors believe their actions are leading to a change of mind and heart in Americans, they are sorely wrong. It is having the opposite effect. Shame!

I hope and pray for peace. I want Israelis and Palestinians to find a way to live in peace even if that means a separate country for Palestinians. I want colleges to have the balls to protect their universities and students so students can take courses to learn including “free thought.” There is no freaking way protestors should be able to take over buildings. This needs to stop. I want people to first seek to understand and then solve versus ready, fire aim mentality. I want the centrists to force their political parties to represent the majority will and not the crazies on both sides of the party. As said in “Network” – “I’m mad as hell and am not going to take it anymore!”

I couldn’t say it better, so I am glad Joel has said it for me. Readers, let me know your thoughts.