If Hippocrates Were Alive Today He'd Be Spinning in His Grave

At the very least, the father of medicine may be considering putting his child up for adoption. Truth is, we know very little about what Hippocrates really believed, but, having grown up the son of a country doctor, I can tell you that the practice of medicine today ain't what it used to be.
I'm not talking about the marvelous breakthroughs. There are plenty. Rather, I'm focusing on one particular aspect of modern medical practice. And, as the public spirited guy I have proven to be on so many occasions, I've prepared a quiz to help you better appreciate my concern. There is one actual, factual answer provided to each of these multi-choice questions. Are you ready? Here goes:

1) I call a heart specialist, to whom I've been referred by my doctor. The receptionist is setting up my appointment. After a time is set, and directions to the building are provided, she says, "And, yes, please don't forget to..."

A) Bring photos of your family. We want to get to know you.
B) Bring a list of your medications.
C) Bring your insurance card.

2) There is a sign in my doctor's office which reads, "If you are unable to pay for today's visit, you must..."

A) Not worry about it. Your health is all that matters.
B) Sign an agreement accepting liability for today's charges.
C) Make arrangements to return and see your doctor at a time when you can make payment.


3) I call my doctor's office and the recording instructs me to push "ONE" as a priority caller if:

A) You're feeling really sick
B) You're a long-time patient
C) If (you're paying an additional charge and) you are a Priority Patient


4) There is another sign in my doctor's office addressed to the elderly. The sign reads, "As of September 1st,..."

A) We are starting a new program to provide special services to our elderly patients.
B) We will need to see your Medicare card at each visit.
C) We will no longer be honoring Medicare Insurance.

5) You go to a new doctor and are given four forms to fill out. Form one is a medical history, the other forms are...

A) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, and one page on insurance.
B) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, with two pages on insurance.
C) Nothing but insurance and "How in the world will you pay us" forms.


Okay, let's exchange papers and find out how we did.

Answer One is C. And, even if it's just because you know I'm an ornery old man, you've probably guessed two through four are also "C." Yep, that's the sad facts. But, I think you will agree that the time we have spent here, venting together, makes you feel somewhat better.

Do you agree? Good. That will be $25.00. Thanks for visiting.

It's Beginning to Look Like The Most Miserable Time of the Year - Ding Dong Ding Dong

This has to be the absolutely most miserable time of year. It’s not just a matter of crowded streets and jam-packed stores. It’s not just the incessant bell ringing and the strong-armed tactics of the dozens of winos in Santa suits. No, it’s much more than that.
The real problem is that I’m being Burl Ived to death. I hate Burl Ives music. I don’t think he was a good singer. And, thankfully for about 11 months of the year, no radio station will dare play his music. But, starting Thanksgiving day, my favorite radio stations do 24 hour Christmas music. Why?
Even if you’re a big fan of Christmas music do you really want to listen to it non-stop? Now, Delilah is playing it. Why can’t she just go back to her sappy love songs? Someone calls her up and says they want to dedicate a special song to a loved one who has meant so much to them, and has helped them through the hard times, and has stuck by them, and can Delilah please play something very special, and she says, “I have just the perfect song,” and plays Frosty the Snowman.
Stop the insanity. Everybody is getting into the act. Just last night, I was sitting at my keyboard, when the phone rings. You’ll never guess who was phoning. Yes, it was my old friend Lochru, the Druid. I hadn’t heard from Lochru in quite some time. You may remember, he was found frozen at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir a couple of years back, and when he thawed out, he was as good as new. Anyway, he calls, and the conversation went something like this…

ME: Hello

LOCHRU: Hey, big fellow. It’s Lochru

ME: Well, Lochru, how are you? I haven’t heard from you lately. What’s happening?

LOCHRU: Well, I’ve been busy. I’ve started my own business.

ME: (wondering what sort of business a Druid would be starting) Well, you have me wondering. What sort of business would a Druid be starting?

LOCHRU: Amway, my friend. That’s why I’m calling. How would you like a six-figure income without ever leaving home?

ME: I’m not really interested.

LOCHRU: (Laughing) Whoa! Hold on. That’s what I said. But then I took a look, and these folks are amazing. I’m making money so quickly, I have several checks I haven’t even had time to cash yet.

ME: Let me stop you. I really am not interested...at all.

LOCHRU: I thought you’d say that. So, if I can’t interest you in becoming part of my down network…

ME: Down network? What, are you selling ducks now too?

LOCHRU: (Laughing) Steve, my friend, you always did have a keen sense of humor. But, let me continue. The real reason I’m calling is to see if you know anyone at Lite 98.

ME: Well, I have met Bill Bevins. Why?

LOCHRU: I’ve written a song of the season, and I was hoping they would play it.

ME: You’ve written a Christmas song?

LOCHRU: Heavens no. Christmas is so, so, well, it’s so commercialized. We Druids view this as a very sacred season. It’s Alban Arthuan, you know.

ME: No, I didn’t know.

LOCHRU: Well, it’s very special, and for eleven months a year I really miss my homeland, but this time of year, everyone becomes so Druidish, albeit a bit commercialized. Anyway, as I was window shopping at Short Pump Town Center the other day, I got the idea for a beautiful song. Would you like me to sing it to you?

ME: Yeah, go ahead.

LOCHRU: (demonstrating a very beautiful voice, I might add)

It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan,
Everywhere I go
Just when we thought it was dead and done, Here again comes the sun
And so we put up our mistletoe.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
The Father Sky God in every store
But the prettiest sight to see is the old yule log that will be
Burning brightly just inside my own front door

It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
Try and describe it and the words will fail ya
Nothing can be so gay, as when we give each other gifts that day
Oh how much I love the good ol’ Saturnalia.

Da Da Da De Da Da Da Da Da

ME: Are you done?

LOCHRU: It needs a little work, but all in all, what do you think?


ME: It’s lovely.

LOCHRU: Thanks. So, can you help me get it on the air?

ME: Sure, sure. I’ll try.

LOCHRU: You’re a pal. Let’s do lunch one day real soon. Byeee.

Anyway, the truth is, I don’t know Bill Bevins at all. So, I’m hoping you can help out. If you know him or someone else there, can you put me in touch? I’d be so grateful. You know how much I hate to disappoint Druids.

The Patience Of Jobs

As I was standing in the checkout line at Food Lion the other night, a thought hit me. Now, before I go on, I ask, please that you not ridicule me for shopping at Food Lion. It’s almost as good as a grocery store, and it is convenient.
Anyway, I was standing in the checkout lane, and I noticed, standing nearby, a security guard. The guard was an older gentleman, but that didn’t bother me. I’m one of those myself, except, perhaps, for the gentleman part. But, what caught my eye about this guard was the pained look on his face. He was also standing very rigidly. Even that didn’t bother me too much. I didn’t feel his pain, and, since I’m often accused of having a pained look on my face when I’m perfectly fine, his face wasn’t the problem.
Here’s what did bother me…the security guard was bracing himself on a cane. Admittedly, it was one of those fancy modern metal canes, you know the kind that has four little feet instead of just one rubber tipped stick. But it was, still, a cane. Now, I’m sure that this guard is a fine man, probably even a loving great-grandfather. And, I’m sure that if the situation warranted it, he would vigorously hurl his cane in the direction of any intruder. I’m even somewhat impressed that a guy who needs a cane to get around had enough gumption to apply for a job as a security guard.
But, how did he ever get the job? Why did he think he could get hired as a security guard? It’d be like Stephen Hawking applying for a position as a swim coach. Perhaps if Food Lion ever hires swim coaches, there might be a place for Hawking.
But it’s not just crippled security guards that puzzle me. There seem to be any number of positions filled by individuals who are incredibly unqualified, or just downright unsuited for that position. Take the staff at my doctor’s office (please) for example. My doctor is a wonderful man…caring, compassionate, all those things you’d want in a doctor. And, since he’s just one doctor in a huge practice, I doubt he has much influence on personnel hiring. But his staff is composed of the most uncaring, obnoxious, arrogant women I’ve ever met. I’m not being sexist. All of the support staff with whom I’ve dealt are woman and 90% of them are routinely rude to the patients.
While I know my doctor to be a caring sort of guy, I don’t get the impression his staff shares his concerns. In fact, I feel confident that if I were to walk into the office with a gaping whole in my chest and my heart dangling by an artery, the first thing his front desk receptionist would ask is if I have my insurance card on me. Then, after a fifteen minute wait for her to photocopy my insurance card, for the fifteenth time this year, she would sigh and say, “Let me see if we can work you in, you great big imposition, you.”
Why would anyone apply for a job in a doctor’s office if patients are an intrusion to them? I believe these gals are convinced that their main duty is to sit around the office and gossip with their fellow ignorer of patients.
One of these women called me yesterday to tell me that, based on a recent EKG, I need to see a heart specialist. “I’m not dying, am I?” I asked in one of those half-joking, half-really-needing-assurance sort of ways.
“Well, we all have to go sometime,” she says, in one of those half-joking, half-yes-you-are-dying sort of ways. Do you see what I mean about being the right fit for the job?
This is not a new phenomenon. I can remember, even as a kid, wondering why some people had certain jobs. Take Smiley, the milkman, for example. Smiley was our milkman, when I was a child, living in Boones Mill. Smiley was not the guy’s real name, I don’t think. My brothers and I nicknamed him Smiley because he never smiled.
Can you imagine that? Here the guy had one of the greatest jobs of all times…delivering milk both plain and chocolate, right to people’s homes, in cool glass bottles. And, the guy never smiled. We’d yell down at him from our bedroom windows, “Hey Smiley!” He’d look up and grimace. What a horrible fit…Smiley and the dairy business.
Then there was Lonnie Amos. Lonnie was a big man. Not as big as Lonnie, Junior. Lonnie, Junior was about five years older than I. He was a humongous kid. But, word on the street was that he had some sort of metabolic disorder (I think that was the term we fourth graders were using back then) that made him fat. His mom and dad ran a little business right in town…Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop. Now, first of all, speaking of bad fits, a snack bar and a barber shop don’t really go together. When you ate a hamburger at Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop, you knew something was wrong if you didn’t find a hair in your food.
But what really made Lonnie Amos (the dad) a bad fit for the job was his nerve problem. Lonnie would cut our hair with a straight-edge razor. And, on virtually every occasion, he would tell me, “Hold real still today, my hands are shaky.” Lonnie, so they said around town, had nerve problems. Now that I’ve grown and look back on it, I’m thinking Lonnie’s nerves may have come out of a bottle. But, don’t quote me on that. I hate to speak ill of the dead. I’m not sure Lonnie is dead. But if he’s still living, he’d probably be about 105 by now.
Truth be told I’ve had some jobs for which I wasn’t the perfect fit. For about five years, I worked in customer service for Time Life. That was horrible. Every day for five years, I had to listen to other people complain all day long. And even worse than that…I had to be nice.

I Sphinc Therefore I Am

I can't count the number of times people, total strangers, at that, have come up to me and said something like this, "Steve, I love your column, but I'm worried about your gastro-intestinal tract." Finally, after hearing that over and over, and partially because my doctor forced it on me, I decided to schedule a colonoscopy. Let me tell you, if you have never had one, do so today. Before I share all the exciting details of mine, let me share an interesting little tidbit of trivia, I picked up while waiting in the doctor's office. If you, like me, think colonoscopy is a hard word to say, you may be interested in knowing that several years ago, the name was briefly changed to Colon Rectal Area Photo Scan. But the Acronym Sanctioning Society rejected the name. Food for thought?
Although the procedure wasn't done until this afternoon, I enjoyed all the preliminary events starting yesterday. It's kind of like the Superbowl. It's a one-time thing, but in the days preceding it, there are so many festivities. My 2 days of celebration began yesterday morning with a light breakfast. I knew, based on the information the colon guys had sent me, that this was to be my last meal for over 24 hours. So, I cherished each bite. It was a sweet meal, but ended much too soon. At eight yesterday morning, I picked up my plate, licked the last morsels of egg yolk and paid my bill at the Cracker Barrel and left.
Next stop: Walgreen's. I had to pick up my medicine, better known as Go Juice, if you get my drift. And just to make sure that the preliminary celebrations would be a moving event, I also had to purchase some laxative tablets. I took my magic potion home, mixed it with water as well as a flavor packeting the drug store included for the mixture. I chose the lemon-lime flavor. Unfortunately my packet had been mislabeled. In reality I got the duck feces flavoring. Not bad, but not lemon-lime either.
At two yesterday afternoon, my wife blew the whistle. "Let the games begin," she declared. And they did. I started with 2 laxatives. And shortly thereafter I chased them with the first of what would prove to be twelve glasses of the motion potion.
"Ah," I exclaimed after greedily gulping down my first glassful. This is going to be a breeze. I could hardly wait the prescribed twenty minutes, when I was allowed my second 8-oz serving. For some reason, the second glass didn't have the go-down goodness of glass number one. But, I drank it...devoured it, in fact.
My instructions had told me that within the hour, the magic in the mixture would kick in. I won't bore you with the details. I will say that the instructions included the warning, "Stay close to a facility." As I headed to my car, my wife asked, "Where do you think you're going?"
"To Fort Lee," I answered. That was the closest facility I could think of. After she explained the meaning of the term as used on the bottle of my KickaPOO Joy Juice, I stayed home. I have to remember to thank my wife for clarifying that.
Twenty minutes later, I steeled my nerves and poured a third glass of my flush slush. "Only five more after this one," I encouraged myself. (Servings nine through twelve were to be saved for the morning of the big game.)
About the time I was finishing my 24th ounce of this lavoratory licquer, the magic began to work. I headed for the facility. I marveled at the accuracy of whoever had predicted my time schedule.
Glass number four was approached with some trepidation. By this point, my stomach felt as if I might be with child. And while virtually everything I had ever eaten was vividly recalled last night, I am happy to say that I didn't give birth. I finished the fourth glass, but knew by this point, that the festivities were not going to be as festive as I had originally hoped.
Thirty minutes later, I crawled out of the facility, slithered down the stairs and poured my fifth glass of what I had begun to call Poopsie Cola. I gulped and gagged, gulped and gagged. I finally finished it off and headed back upstairs. There was a small white flag on the toilet lid. The Tidy Bowl man had surrendered and gone home.
As I drinking glass number six, I began to see some light at the end of the tunnel. "Thank goodness," I exclaimed, "I'm dying." But before I could enter the light, I had to run back upstairs.
I was down again in twenty minutes. "Only two more glasses," I told myself. "You go Steve." And I did. Twenty minutes after that, I literally rushed down the stairs, flushed with excitement. The end was in sight. Sorry, bad choice of words. Somehow I had finished my Loo Brew. In about two hours, I had consumed sixty-four ounces of some really nasty stuff. It was kind of like spending the entire day at the Shoney's Buffet.
Anyway, come this morning I was up and again on the move. I had one more quart to go and I could hopefully say good-bye to what should have been named Seven UpChuck. I really spent the morning engaged in two primary activities, drinking this stuff being one of them.
At 11:30, I headed to the doctor's office. "I'm here for my portraits," I told the receptionist. She didn't seem to find that as amusing as did I, but, hey, it takes all kinds...one of those kinds being dull and humorless. Actually, the woman was nice enough, she just doesn't enjoy rich-bodied humor. Or, maybe she's heard that joke a hundred times. Who knows?
I was soon escorted to a small examining room and told to take off my shirt and put on a gown. "Just my shirt?" I asked.
"Just your shirt," the nurse told me.
"Are you sure?" I asked in my typical pleasant manner. It's not that I was hoping to get naked, but if I was going to get a colonoscopy without removing my pants, I was ready to praise the marvels of modern medicine. This I had to see.
"You'll take the pants off later," she told me. I guess she just wanted to gaze admiringly at my washboard like body.
Anyway, soon a really nice nurse (In my own sexist way, I call them all "nurses." This lady, Robin, may own the place for all I know, but she was very nurselike, and very pleasant."
She also did a most wonderful thing for me. She gave me drugs. I saw the big monitor sitting there and knew that within minutes my colon was going to be the star of the show. And, while I like TV, this was one program I was hoping to sleep through.
I had had a colonoscopy several years ago, and it was kind of like someone trying to pick your teeth via a rear entry. "The procedures are much more modern nowadays," Robin told me. "But," she said, "you'll probably feel some discomfort."
That was reassuring. At least she didn't tell me I would be writhing in pain. She said I'd be in a somewhat twilight state. She didn't seem too worried, but then again, it wasn't her colon that we were all interested in, was it?
While we waited for the doctor to arrive, Robin asked me if I needed anything. "I was hoping you were going to show the movie, 'I am Joe's Colon,'" I told her. I'd seen that show several years ago and it was fascinating.
Anyway, before we got around to seeing any filmstrips, the good doctor arrives. Robin had me turn on my side and told me, "Here's your favoite cocktail," as she administered the drug.
"Can you put one of those little umbrellas in it?" I asked. I was trying to calm my nerves. I knew that within moments I'd be experiencing unbelieveable pain. "I really don't think this drug is going to work on z z z z z z z."
Next thing I know, Robin is waking me up. "Is he about to start?" I ask her.
"It's over," she told me.
Probably the two most wonderful words I'd ever heard. Anyway to make a really long, boring story, just slightly shorter, the doctor calls me this afternoon and tells me my colon is perfect.
Perfect! Think about that. In all my years, I've never had a perfect anything. And now I have a perfect colon. I'm hoping to get some prints from the doctor and have them framed. If you'd like one to hang in your home, just let me know.

License To Brag - PART I

I heard something fairly interesting on the radio this morning. Seems that, according to a national survey, Virginia leads the nation as far as vanity license plates go. That’s right, there are more of those moronic personalized plates in Virginia (per capita) than any other state in the nation.
I guess that means there are more morons (per capita) in Virginia than any other state. What? They don’t offer personalized plates in California? I’m sure they’d have us beat by a large margin.
Just think how stupid personalized plates are. Are you thinking? First of all, you pay the state more money than you need to. That’s the dumbest part of the deal. Why in the world would anyone try to figure out a way to pay more than they had to in order to drive their car?
Secondly, what do you get for that extra fee? Well, you get a chance to say something that often no one knows what you’re saying. Personalized license plates are kind of like Millard the Mallard on the Alden Aaroe program – about a hundred years ago or so on WRVA.
Millard (actually the voice of the station’s news director, John Harding) would come on the air and in his Donald Duck-like voice engage in conversation with Aaroe. Now keep in mind that by this point, Aaroe was so senile that he would make Paul Harvey appear lucid. Aaroe would joke with the duck, but the listeners could never understand what the duck was saying. So Aaroe would have to translate. It went like this:

AAROE: So Millard did you do anything exciting this weekend?

MILLARD: dwwaaaah sahhhhhh coe disshussh

AAROE: You drank some Cold Delicious, did you? How was it?

MILLARD: Nigh aw ish kwaaadooobie?

AAROE: (Laughing so hard he was gagging on his saliva) Not all it’s quacked up to be, eh? (More laughter)

Well, coming back to the topic at hand, that’s what most personalized plates are like. If you have to translate them for everyone, why bother with them to begin with?

For instance, I have a friend, no make that acquaintance, I don’t choose to have friends who do personalized plates. Anyway this guy’s plate reads GRZ LGT.

Griz Leg it?
Graze light?

Nope. He calls himself “Greased Lightning”

Clever, huh?

Then I had this cousin. His plate read ROD LV T

Yeah, you guessed it. He, (Rodney) loves his wife Terri. That is until Terri ran off with the guy she worked with. Now his plate reads ROD HT T.

At least he didn’t change it to RD SHT TB

Which would be “Rod shot Terri’s Boss.”

Anyway Rod (and I did change names to protect the stupid) keeps changing his plates and paying dearly for it, to tell us who he has the hots for at any given moment.

The plates I hate the most are the real vanity ones…you know, the plates that are there simply to try and impress. I had a fri…oops, an acquaintance who had plates that read MY LEXUS. Gee, I’m impressed. I’m glad you told me what it was. I’m so stupid I thought you were driving a VW.

Get over yourself. If you want to drive a Lexus, go ahead, but don’t rub my nose in it. I could drive a Lexus if I wanted to. Of course, if I did, my plates would be BLNG 2 BK.
You figure it out.

I'm Just Another Tear Jerk

I honestly believe crying has become the national pastime. I'd been thinking about this for some time, and then earlier this week, WRVA's new afternoon guy, Doc Thompson, was having men - that's right, grown men - phone in and tell him which movies and TV shows make them cry.
And, believe it or not, the lines were jammed with MEN admitting they cry over movies. Can you believe that? Men? I know it's true, because I called in and couldn't get through. Okay, I admit it, Mr. Holland's Opus had me crying like a baby. And when Everwood was on TV, I couldn't watch it without a box of Kleenex by my side. I am glad to know that I'm not the only teary-eyed man in the city.
Actually, one caller hit upon something that I think explains the national affinity for crying...old age. The caller admitted that at his age, there weren't many movies he didn't cry over. I can relate. I sniff at the Simpsons sometimes. I think the older you get, the more weepy you become. It's probably some sort of brain deficiency thing going on. I used to laugh at old men who cried. They'd be laughing at me now, except they're all dead. So, i guess I really did get the last laugh, as far as they were concerned.
I think that this Boomer generation, in addition to having chronologically reached a crying stage in life, is also an extra-whiny generation to begin with. It was my generation that made such a point about getting in touch with their feelings. And now, even with our various limbs and other appendages going numb through diabetes, heart troubles and other ills, we're still very much in touch with our emotions.
Think about it. It was the Boomers who gave us the flower children. What a bunch of pansies those folks were. Now they're a bunch of flower geezers...still crying and whining about everything. Take global warming for example. I am so sick of hearing all these aging whiners crying over this warming thing. Hey, even if we are doing it to ourselves, which I doubt, what's so bad about global warming. When most folks go on vacation, they go south, don't they? Hey, with gas prices going up, global warming can save us some money. We can take our winter vacations in the tropics without ever leaving home. So, stop crying about it. Embrace it. Let's call it the New Tropicalism. Isn't that much nicer sounding?
And what about all those misty-eyed super-emotional Californians crying over the forest fires? You know, if you lose a home, yeah, you can probably shed a tear, but it's like each "victim" tried to outdo his fellow-victims by crying. "Oh boo hoo, i lost my house. Sure, my family is okay. No one was hurt, but poor poor me."
I don't actually wish my house would burn down, but if it does, I want to go on the news and say, "Hey. Stuff happens. At least we're all okay." I think I could get voted victim of the year for keeping my multi-chins up in the face of adversity. The only problem is the networks probably wouldn't air my interview. They don't like happy people. Actually, now that I think about it (You can tell I don't do much pre-thinking prior to writing this), I bet it's television and not old age that is really responsible for the over abundance of tears.
Being a victim is cool. Being a victim gets you your fifteen minutes of fame. Women flock to get on Jerry Springer and admit that their husbands were caught in a men's room playing footsie with another guy. I never could understand how those shows could induce so many criars to go public. I guess it's the fame thing.
I guess I'm glad I didn't get through to Doc Thompson. After all, why should I boast about my uncontrollable weeping. In fact, I'm going to try and dry those tears in the future. I'll become one of those iron-jawed guys...you know the type who never cries, even if he just got hit by a car.
I can handle it. I'm a man. I'll single-handedly reverse this trend. Today is the first day of the dry-eyed rest of my life. Just remind me not to listen to Delilah on the radio in the evenings. Talk about emotional. I'm welling up just thinking about it.