Christine McVie and The Music of My Life.

Christine McVie has died. You all know that by now. Almost every post on my Facebook feed has her picture. I suppose if I ever looked at my Twitter page I would see the same thing. Maybe TikTok not so much…wrong generation.

To me, Ms. McVie’s passing is linked to the death of two other musicians, Walter Becker in 2017 and Glenn Frey in 2016.

Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan, and the Eagles–certainly, this was my soundtrack of the ’70s.

I’ve never quite understood my fascination with Steely Dan–Becker and his buddy Donald Fagen spinning yarns of drugs, death, and deliverance. But I loved their rock-jazz fusion and wore out my copy of Citizen, the 4 CD compilation set encompassing their first 7 studio albums. I was fortunate to see them twice before Becker’s death, first at a rain-soaked outdoor performance in Tinley Park, sharing the bill with their former backup singer Michael McDonald, and lastly in the more intimate setting of the Chicago Theater in 2009. When Becker died, I listened to Aja for days.

With the Eagles, did you take it easy, or take it to the limit. Did you want to live your life in the fast lane, or out on the range with a desperado? Billions of records sold, Hotel California playing non-stop around the world, and lots of reunion tours. We caught them live once, at Allstate Arena three years before Frey’s death. The band sounded great, even when Joe Walsh stole the second half of the show.

But Fleetwood Mac—there was nothing like Fleetwood Mac. Fleetwood Mac and Rumours were the two albums that will forever be the music of my first two years of medical school. Over My Head, Go Your Own Way, Don’t Stop… I may not have known of the trials and tribulations of the band at the time, of the broken romances and the cocaine–I just knew it was the music to which I learned my physiology, my anatomy, and my pharmacology.

By the time I saw Fleetwood Mac live in 2015 the band members were no longer young and spry and gorgeous. Rumor was that a full set of musicians was playing just behind the curtain. But at least the Big 5 (Fleetwood, McVie, McVie, Buckingham, Nicks) were all together. That will never happen again.

So long, Walter. Adios Glenn. And most of all, goodbye, Christine.

A Rhyme and Reminder: Give Today, Peace and Love Always.

As December Approaches…

Thanksgiving Day 
Has bitten the dust,
Like the turkey, 
It's long goner.
I hope your celebtration 
Was robust. 
Unlike the Bear game. 
What a yawner!

Did you shop 
Black Friday's deals
With the crowds, 
The lines, the frenzy?
Or wait for Cyber 
Monday's steals,
To see what you 
Could then see?

But if you can, 
Please do some good
It's Giving Tuesday 
Don't forget it.
There are those with need, 
Right in your 'hood
If you have much, 
Be sure to spread it.

And when the calendar turns 
To December chill,
To the coldest 
Chitown season.
While snow piles up 
On your window sill
Just remember 
While your freezin'.

That Christmas trees 
And Hannukah lights
Santa Clauses 
And bright Menorahs
Will warm even the iciest 
Winter nights
For frigid senoritas 
And senoras.

So to my dear friends 
Who enjoy a good rhyme
Whether our friendship is old 
Or is newish.
May the upcoming month 
Bring a wonderful time
Be you Christian 
Or if  be you Jewish.

Or if it's some other faith 
You celebrate
I do hope that 
The holiday spirit.
Will bring you great joy 
And banish all hate
Peace in your heart, 
Whenever you hear it.

Do You Know My Name? Some Pre-Holiday Music Fun

The holidays are coming. Time to take a short break from sadness, violence, and crazy politicians. Let’s do some music trivia.

Listen to a song a few times and you usually can make a pretty good guess as to what the title of the song is. It can be the first word of the song (think the Beatles Help.) Often it’s a line from the chorus. Bob Dylan chose that route with Like a Rolling Stone. Sometimes, surprise, it’s the last line of the song–The Cure’s Just like Heaven and Chicago’s Questions 67 and 68 are two great examples of that.

But sometimes…you listen and listen and have no idea what the name of the song is. The singer sings their song, but never sings the name of it. The title just isn’t in the lyrics.

Here are clues to 10 songs that fit the “No Title In The Lyrics” category. Can you name the song from the brief description? The answers are below. Also please answer our brief readership questionnaire that follows

Good Luck and Happy Thanksgiving!

You may think the name of the first song on Who’s Next is Teenage Wasteland, but it isn’t. What is it?
Jeff Beck was leading the Yardbirds when they had a hit with a psychedelic anti-war/pro-environment song. What was it named?
Before the Partridge Family, we had the Cowsills. Their first hit was all about the flower girl. What was it called?
Before the Osbourne family were TV stars, Ozzie’s Black Sabbath had a short rocker about going crazy. Can you name it?
Any Led Zeppelin fans? What was their song about Valhalla, a big hit from Zep III, titled?
Was Chris Martin thinking about Gwenyth in this song about a world crumbling down? The song title is also part of the title of Coldplay’s 4th studio album. Do you know it?
Neil Young and Stephen Stills were partners in Buffalo Springfield when they warned us that “paranoia strikes deep.” What was the name of their protest anthem?
Was Curt Cobain sniffing deodorant when he entertained us with this rocker, Nirvana’s breakout grunge song?
A Righteous Brothers hit decades earlier, the movie Ghost brought this tune back to life. Do you remember the name?
Ground Control kept trying to reach Major Tom, but Major Tom wasn’t the name of this early David Bowie interstellar masterpiece. What was the title?

Here are the answers. How many did you know? Send results to chidoc@post.com

LGBTQ Night Club Shooting Gives Me A Chance To Do It Right

In golf, they call it a Mulligan. My tennis buddy used to call it a do-over. It is a chance to make things right, to admit that we can do something better than we did the first time. A tragic event has given me that chance.

On June 12, 2016, James Corden hosted the 70th Tony Awards ceremony. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton had a magnificent evening, winning 11 awards, including Best Musical. As many of you know, Barb and I are big Broadway fans, and I posted a rap blog celebrating the evening. It was fun, well-read, and well-received.

But…Two nights earlier there had been a horrific mass shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida. The tragedy was referred to multiple times during the Tony telecast, but I did not mention it in my blog.

A day later a comment appeared on my blog, calling me homophobic. I denied the accusation, but what I could not deny is that I unthinkingly ignored something that was as much a part of the awards ceremony as the awards themselves. I turned a blind eye.

This weekend there was a mass shooting at Club Q, an LGBTQ club in Colorado Springs. Five people are dead. As of this writing, no motive has been attributed to the gunman, though CNN quotes Colorado Attorney General Phil Weiser saying “I think it’s fair to say — based on the facts — it’s very hard to conceive of a situation where the motive wasn’t generated by hate.”

Last week I wrote of anti-semitism. Today I know it is not enough to speak out about hatred against “my own.” Victimization of any group must be highlighted and defeated. It’s not always easy to do, and not always easy to write about. But no more blind eyes from me. I have used my “ignore it” Mulligan. I pledge to do better in the future.

Dave Chappelle’s Anti-Semitism vs A Dramatist’s Look at the Past

Does Saturday Night Live Matter anymore? Does Broadway theater? This weekend both raised the question of anti-Semitism–what it is, and what it can lead to.

As a bit of background, Barb and I had our first post-Covid trip to New York City this weekend, a quick anniversary celebration in the Big Apple. The city seemed more crowded than ever, probably because of our decision to stay in a Times Square area hotel. It also seemed more redolent than in previous years, the aroma of (legal) marijuana blanketing–and an improvement over–the typical odor of curbside refuse.

We saw two plays; first the fun Neil Diamond bio Beautiful Noise and then the Tom Stoppard drama Leopoldstadt. We also had our room TV turned on long enough to catch the Dave Chappelle monologue on SNL. It is these last two experiences that provide a dramatic, stark lesson.

I don’t really know much about Mr. Chappelle. I know his comedy is considered controversial, but I have never watched his old TV series or any of his specials. I missed his previous two efforts hosting Saturday Night Live.

On this week’s show, Mr. Chappelle, with a wink and a sly grin, put forth the old trope–Jews, or more specifically, THE Jews–run everything, particularly show business. His method was to deny he was saying these things, even as he was saying them. While one or two of his lines were wickedly funny, his remarks, including condemnation/non-condemnations of Kanye West and Kyrie Irving, left a bitter taste in my mouth.

The results of anti-Semitism were clear and horrific in Leopoldstadt, which Barb and I viewed on the following afternoon. The play, set in my mother’s birthplace of Vienna, Austria, follows several generations of a Jewish family from 1900 to 1954. As quiet anti-Semitism is replaced by a virulent hatred of Jews, the Anschluss, and finally the Holocaust, some family members try to assimilate through intermarriage, some try to replace their Jewish identity with Communism, and some try to flee. Virtually all meet with tragedy. There is no escape.

So I will not ignore anti-Semitism, be it cloaked in comedy, or in a just-for-fun atmosphere. It is offensive, it is scary, and I will speak out about it when I can.

What Do YOU Do In The Shower?

When we designed our house on the pond 7 years ago, we spent a lot of time planning the shower off the main bedroom (the en suite, as they say on HGTV.) We made it spacious, with extra jets up front (my request because I like the power) and a handheld spray towards the back (Barb’s request thinking ahead to our golden years.) A bench in the back, a soap-shampoo niche on the side. At our request the architect tried to make it zero-threshold (easier for wheelchair access, again for the golden years) but some design flaws led to the bathroom flooding the first time I took a shower. (Don’t worry future buyer—that has been remedied.)

The only thing we left out of our super shower was the opportunity to include a steam shower. We thought about it, but the price was high, and the likelihood of it getting much use was somewhat less than the likelihood of our winning the lottery. So the steam was vetoed, but every thing else was a go.

And I have enjoyed that shower. It is my morning wake-up, and you need that when you get out of bed at 5 am—the lab world is an early morning world. I enjoy the front jets; I scrupulously squeegee the glass doors and (some of) the tiles after each use; I unclog the drain on a regular basis. The shower is a temple to good hygiene.

But a controversy erupted last week at a neighborhood canasta game. Is there a proper way to face when taking a shower? Some people like the water beating into in their face, others (like Barb) are face-away-from-the-spray people (I am not implying that either method has any psychological implications.) Then there are those with overhead rain shower sprays–well, they have no choice in the matter.

I claimed to be in the face-the-shower spray camp. But when I showered the next morning I made a stunning discovery. I am a “revolver.” I start with that burst of hot water in my face accompanied by a full-frontal body shot from the extra front jets. But when it’s time for soaping up, I pirouette to face the back. Shampoo and conditioner are applied following a quarter-turn to the side wall, while another quarter-turn returns me to facing forward for the final rinse out. I make so many twists and turns in my 5 minute shower, I should be on Dancing with the Stars.

So what do you do in the shower? Well you don’t have to tell me everything…just answer the poll below, results to follow in a future blog. In the meantime, just be careful in there. And all you neighbors—no peaking!

A Vote For Good Service

Sometimes you get a pleasant surprise.

Yesterday was a “free” day, one of the handful of days off I have scheduled myself for between now and the end of the year (and we all know what happens after that…)

I had a few outside errands to run, and some yard clean-up to do, but it was also an excellent day to tackle two things I had been dreading–sorting out the networking electronics on a door lock and on our thermostat. I love connectivity; I hate setting up connectivity.

The door lock was by far the greater challenge. Our original builder’s special south-facing lock set was peeling, chipping, and crying for replacement. We had ordered an Emtech brand lock with a sleek outside touchpad and inside handles to complement our decor. A week ago, with the help of a power tool packing neighbor, I got the lock installed, and functional using the outside keypad. Just two problems. One, it made odd beeping sounds, and two, I could not connect to our home Wi-Fi network.

I was struggling with manuals and Internet videos when Barb decided to call Emtech’s telephone customer support. I inwardly scoffed–do companies even staff those lines anymore? As I expected a long, Muzak-tinged, hold ensued. Eventually, a friendly voice did answer and we described our difficulties.

The tech support person was patient and hardly laughed at my mistakes as we went through the entire procedure step-by-step. We detected one small error in my procedure–yes she said, I needed to remove and then reinsert all four batteries after doing a factory reset, not only the two I was taking out and putting back in to “save time.”

Our support person then transferred us over to customer support for Yale, the company that handled the network connectivity for the lock. Again, the agent was patient and helpful–and this time we uncovered a problem with our original installation of the lock hardware. We called in a local locksmith (showed up in ten minutes, charged us as if we were Powerball winners) and he took care of the necessary drilling and adjusting of the deadbolt.

Another call to Yale, a little tweaking, and Barb and I can now each operate our side door lock remotely. Will we ever use that superpower?

Why was I planning on spending the rest of the day working on our thermostat? Our system relies on wireless remote sensors to feed the main thermostat brain the temperature in various areas of the house. After Cooper chewed up one of the sensors a replacement was necessary. I found the correct gizmo online and it arrived on Sunday–with no information on how to get it to talk to the main thermostat. Yesterday I eschewed all self-attempts to install the device and just called the Honeywell Hotline.

Under the direction of a young man on the phone, I spent five minutes of tapping through items on the thermostat’s touchscreen menu, memorized and punched in one code number, and voila, the sensor was connected.

The only thing we have to do now is to keep it from our very curious dog with a propensity for chewing….

AND IF YOU HAVEN’T YET DONE SO, PLEASE VOTE!

An Ode To Twitter-Whether You Use It Or Not.

When is the last time you tweeted?

We do not Twitter, Elon Musk
We do not tweet, it's not for us.
We stick to Facebook, it's not cool
Neither's Zuckerberg, but he's no fool.

We know that when there's trouble brewing
That Twitter's got wild theories stewing.
And many mistakes will tweets be making
When some outlandish news is breaking.

And now with billions in your pocket
Cash you've made from the SpaceX rocket
You're the bird sites brand new owner
You'll infuse some cash like a red cell donor.

The cranks and loonies, someone banned 'em
But an open portal you will hand 'em
Conspiracy theories and mass confusion
Is what you'll get with their inclusion.

For a little blue check mark you'll be charging
To get your bottom line enlarging.
There will be blowback but you don't care
You'll never admit if you made an err.

'Twas Tesla cars that made you famous
I don't drive one but please don't shame us.
To gasoline I'm still addicted
I am a Green, I'm just conflicted.

If Trump is Social and Ye is nuts,
To stick with Twits will take some guts.
And though I'd rather be a ghost there,
I know this poem I still will post there.

We do not Twitter, Elon Musk
We do not tweet, it's not for us.

The Blonde Leading the Blonde…and more memories for me.

Platinum hair from House of the Dragon to Village of the Damned

A distinctive odor isn’t the only thing that can take me on a trip down memory lane!

An article in the New York Times discussing the striking platinum-blonde hair of the Targaryen clan on the HBO series House of the Dragon included a black and white movie still of a gaggle of young children with similar nearly-white hair and a very strange look in their eyes.

And quickly I was a teenager again, watching Village of the Damned with my high school youth group, a 35 mm projector whirring away.

How many of you remember those Neanderthal days — before you could go to Blockbuster Video on any corner and rent a movie for the weekend; before you could have Netflix send you DVDs in the mail; and decades before online streaming services gave you millions of choices?

In those days we mostly watched movies in a movie theater, quiet and in the dark, or on TV with commercials every 15 minutes. What a treat it was to watch a full-length movie in a private hall with a bunch of friends, uninterrupted and unshushed!

For our youth group, movie night was a once or twice-a-year occurrence. Rows of folding chairs would be set up in the auditorium, a popcorn popper taken down from the shelf, and the Bell and Howell projector focused on a slightly tattered screen at the front of the room. We bubbled with excitement as the film was threaded through the projector sprockets and the lights were lowered.

The movie to be shown on a given night was chosen weeks before the big night by the Youth Advisor. The catalog from a movie rental company was studied and an order form and check were mailed to the company, somewhere in Ohio, or maybe California. With luck, the movie would be available and the large, flat spools in their brown boxes would be sent to us, ours to keep for a week or 10 days. Mimeographed flyers on bright orange paper would be circulated to the group members and posted on the walls announcing the date, time, and of course, the movie title.

I am not sure what criteria the Youth Advisor used to choose the films that were shown. There were classics such as On the Waterfront with Marlon Brando, Karl Malden, and Rod Steiger. Steiger made a repeat appearance in No Way to Treat a Lady, a film with no significant value or staying power.

But the oddest choice for a synagogue youth group was certainly Village of the Damned, a supernatural thriller. In the film, an otherworldly event leads to the birth of platinum-haired, precocious. and very weird children with glowing eyes who (spoiler alert) are eventually destroyed by the father of one of the oddlings. But their eyes float away–undead. And our auditorium was filled with laughter as someone in our crowd cried out “Maybelline makes beautiful eyes!” The highlight of another movie night.

And as far as I can recall–the last of those nights. I suspect the administrators of the temple lost faith in the Youth Advisor’s ability to pick appropriate films for at least a nominally religious youth group. Or maybe the price of film rental became too high. For whatever reason, that was the last time I ever heard a 35 mm projector in a small room with a group of friends.

But I will remember the Children of the Damned long after the last Targaryen has his (or her) head on a spike.

A Lingering Odor Brings Back Memories

The Anatomy Lesson, a 1632 oil by Rembrandt.

I needed to review a bit of anatomy to accurately describe and analyze a complex surgical specimen I had received in the lab. I opened the farthest cabinet in my office and pulled out a slim green volume that I had not touched in years, “ANATOMY A Regional Atlas of the Human Body” by Carmine D. Clemente.

And before I could even open the book I was carried away. The lingering odor of formaldehyde hiding the scent of slight decay filled my nostrils. I was immediately back at the University of Illinois Medical School in Chicago, a very young and raw first-year medical student, riding the elevator to another anatomy dissection.

Prior to medical school, I was ignorant and relatively uninterested in the interiors of the human body. Most of what I knew came from playing the game “Operation,” removing funny bones and Adams Apples while trying not to set off the electro-probe buzzer. If I knew my heart was on the left side of my body, it was only because I was used to placing my hand over it while saying the “Pledge of Allegiance.” It was pretty clear I was not headed for life as a surgeon.

But the anatomy lab was a fascinating place. The elevators took the 400 of us in my class to an enormous room with row upon row of elevated rectangular metal boxes. Within each was a human cadaver, semi-embalmed, semi-decaying. As part of a team of four, I was assigned a corpse, and given nine months to learn what had made her tick.

My squad had a mixed background: Nina, a short-bubbly brunette from the East Coast, Dwight, a downstater from Effingham, Tom from the outer ring of Chicago suburbs, and myself. We showed up for each session in our lab coats and reusable rubber gloves — only the lucky few in our class had access to disposables. In our pockets were small dissection kits in black plastic wallets; scalpels, tiny scissors, a set of forceps. And in my hand, the anatomy atlas, soaking up the odor of the room as I tried to soak up the knowledge.

Our lab section met two times a week. In each session we would focus on a different part of the body: one day dissecting out muscles, tendons, nerves, and arteries from an arm, then a few weeks later analyzing the chambers, valves, and vessels of the heart. Proctors roamed past the metal tanks, answering questions and making morbid comments.

We were expected to learn the position, name, and function of each item we came across. Every few weeks we had a practical exam, each student walking from cadaver to cadaver to identify structures that had been marked by the proctors with a snip of twine. Many times the twine was thicker than the tiny nerve we were asked to identify.

It was a privilege to have had the opportunity to examine, dissect, and come to know those bodies. I do hope I have honored that privilege throughout my career. I’ll always treasure my green anatomy atlas–for the memories and the scent of those earlier days.