Everyone’s a “health expert” now (a growing profession). Last week, I randomly came across a Baltimore Sun article, “Is your teen skipping doctor visits? Hopkins researchers says it happens, increasing health risks.” Working off a press release from a Johns Hopkins pediatrician, reporter Karl Hille went along with the vaguely authoritarian tone of Arik V. Marcell, quoting him: “Attending yearly wellness visits is an opportunity to screen and provide care for risky or dangerous behavior, including drug use.” Hille added, “They say transitioning to college presented a significant hurdle, as parents often stop making appointments for their teens.”
I’ll grudgingly accept the words “wellness visits” and “transitioning to college,” only because the English language evolves, even though “transitioning” is inserted in so many “expert” studies about health, that my head spins. It strikes me as creepy that a Hopkins doctor is suggesting that teens need to piss in a cup at physical check-ups to satisfy parents that Young Lucas or Olivia aren’t smoking pot or taking a nip of the house brandy on occasion.
In the 1960s, my brothers and I went to the neighborhood doctor, Mr. Kertzner, who lived a few houses away, every year for a “wellness” exercise, which lasted about five minutes and consisted of a stethoscope to the heart, a look at the ears, and lowering your drawers so he could check the balls by asking you to cough. In and out. Once, playing baseball at my friend Bobby Ringler’s house, I was distracted and took a hardball to the face, which resulted in a nifty shiner, but not a hospital visit. In fact, Bobby’s dad was a doctor, and he examined my eye, and said, “No big deal, Rusty, put some ice on it for a half hour and then resume the game.”
As a teen, I never had a physical after I was 13—trips to the dentist and optometrist took precedence—and skipped it when I “transitioned” to college. My mom, seeing I was fit (if sometimes glassy-eyed), didn’t even suggest it. I had one visit to a doctor at 25, when my stomach was acting up, got a barium milkshake, a two-page list of diet guidelines (which I mostly ignored, especially the “allowance” of two beers a week), and am not proud that I let the modest bill sit on the desk for nine months. Couldn’t help it, I was always broke. As I wended into my mid-30s, I sensibly saw a physician every year.
I’m aware of the various difficulties the Millennials and Gen Z face today—scarcity of jobs, insane college curriculums, too much time on phones and apparently “intimacy” issues but I don’t think parents-scheduled physicals ought to be included, unless there’s a severe illness or knock-down depression exhibited.
Switching topics, I see social media posts about the Beatles have exploded this year, and can’t figure out why. Wasn’t the 60th anniversary of the band’s first Ed Sullivan appearance two years ago an ample commemoration? I was nine when the Beatles exploded—a word that doesn’t do justice to the phenomenon—and can remember every minute of Beatlemania (which has never been replicated in my lifetime). I think about that exhilarating time and am still astounded at their energy: single after single hitting Number One, constant touring, the merchandising of Beatles boots, wigs, dolls, trading cards, posters and then that August the band starring in A Hard Day’s Night.
The other day I heard their song “All My Lovin’” and was taken aback (anew) at how exuberant Paul McCartney’s vocal was, even though the lyrics were—typical back then—pretty stupid. It didn’t work with his later saccharine songs like “The Long and Winding Road” and “Another Day,” unlistenable now, but “All My Lovin’” “What You’re Doing” and “For No One” aren’t played out, so many decades later.
Earlier this month, my friend C.T. May deftly skewered Matthew Continetti’s silly article about the Beatles in The Wall Street Journal. Continetti, an older Millennial, offered mind-numbing, and unnecessary advice on how to make sure kids keep faithful to the band. One excerpt: “If you feel didactic, point out that the Beatles are great because they incorporate all previous music, from classical to doo-wop, while prefiguring genres such as punk and indie rock. It was a radical achievement.” Are young people who love (or even casually like) music, including the Beatles, so stupid they can’t do their own research?
In the accompanying picture I’m helping my mom and dad stow luggage in the Dodge station wagon, as they prepared to drive to the airport. While they anticipated a trip overseas, I thought about the money given to an older brother for the 10-day interval. We lived like kings: pizza or Chinese every night, Cokes (not store-brand cola), deli sandwiches and heroes, and Devil Dogs.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: a J.D. Salinger novella consumes most of a New Yorker issue; J.K. Rowling is born and Shirley Jackson dies; Frank D. Gilroy wins the Drama Pulitzer; Dean Acheson’s Morning and Dawn, Ralph Nader’s Unsafe at Any Speed, Pauline Kael’s I Lost It at the Movies, Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Gladys Mitchell’s Pageant of Murder are published; the Animals’ concert at the Apollo in NYC is nixed after immigration officials escort the band away; Mick Jagger, Bill Wyman and Brian Jones are fined five pounds each for pissing on a petrol station wall; the Supremes score with “I Hear A Symphony”; the 13th Floor Elevators are formed; and Dave Marr wins the PGA Championship.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023