THE CULTURAL VOID

Written by

Jim Mendrinos

     I was born in 1964.  By the time I arrived on this orb the Beatles had already fired the first salvo in the British invasion, and the Rat Pack ruled the Vegas Strip.

     By the time I came into cultural awareness, the arts were experiencing a cultural void.  It was a time when we put on our bell bottoms and grooved to such super-groups as the Osmonds, The Defranco Family and the Bay City Rollers.

     Every song was sad.  We were playing “Alone Again Naturally,” “Season's In The Sun,” and the “Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald.”  The songs were all sappy and sad.  Want proof?  Michael Jackson, well before he lost his mind, recorded a song called “Ben.”  It was a poignant little ditty between a boy and his rat
.
     Did I mention that cultural void?

     We tuned into one of the thousands of variety shows on TV.  Occasionally Sammy or Frank would pop up on the screen, but not until after we had to hear an opening monologue by the Starland Vocal Band, or see a sketch featuring John Denver and Foster Brooks.  More often then not, we didn't even get to see a member of the Rat Pack, we got to see someone like Lou Rawls or Ben Vereen sing “On Broadway.”

     Kids ate pop rocks and played with click clacks.   Our sisters fell in love with Keith Partridge or Bo Donaldson.  The cool kids knew all the words to “Brandy.”

     There was so much artistic sludge back then that “It's a wonder I can think at all.”

     As the decade came to a close, there was a pop culture rift.  The punk rockers squared off against the disco freaks.  By the time I turned 18 disco was dead and so was Sid Vicious.  Then MTV sprang up and the radio died as well.

     I’m amazed that I was able to make it out of the cultural mine field of the seventies unscathed.  Sometimes Though, I get nostalgic.  So I whip out my Bobby Sherman albums and reminisce fondly about my mood ring. Surprisingly, the cheese of the seventies has turned into some sort of nostalgia comfort food. "Candida" seems fun now -- I can almost see Tony Orlando's tuxedo shirt undone at the top button and his tie untied.

       Instead of dreading "Midnight at the Oasis," or changing the station when "Maude" is on, I scour the oldies station of my radio and check program schedules for all the networks on number 100 and above on the cable. last night I sat through both "Westworld" and the "Towering Inferno."

        I still miss Monty Python, Benny Hill on PBS, and don't even get me started on "Animal House" or "Star Wars." Yes, it was a campy decade in the arts, but it was honest.

     Now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to slip on my white shoes and watch me some Kojak. Who loves ya baby?

HAVEN’T SEEN MY DOCTOR

“HAVEN’T SEEN MY DOCTOR”

Written by

Jim Mendrinos

     I haven’t seen my doctor in years.  No, I’m not saying that I need a check up or have a phobia.  I’m just pointing out that I haven’t seen my personal physician in forever.  I think he may be missing.  Perhaps I should notify the authorities.
     I have health care coverage.  I joined a program, send in an obscene premium each month, and I picked my personal physician.  Problem is whenever I make an appointment with him, he isn’t there.
     It started out well enough.  He saw me the first few times.  We made jokes about my blood work results.  He whistled a happy tune while giving me unspeakable exams.  He even sent me a card letting me know I was overdue for a visit.
     We bonded.
     Not like my dentist.  Oh, there’s an evil lurking in the land and it has a license in dentistry.  See, I have a fear of dentists.  An irrational fear.  My wife has to hold my hand in the dentist’s office.  Not because I’m a coward, but because I’ve hit more then one dentist.  Well they always say to let them know if it hurts, right?
     Back to the doctor.  He and I got along beautifully.  I thought we were buddies.  Then it happened.  The missed visits.
     “Hi, your doctor has been called away.  I’ll be filling in for him.”
     Okay.  How bad could it be.  It’s just 1 time, right?  Wrong.  It’s been 11 times over the past 3 years.  I always make an appointment with my doctor, I always get a different doctor.
     Was it me?  Did I do something wrong?  Wasn’t I a good enough patient to keep him interested?  I did all I could, flu, kidney stones, a refrigerator dropped on my big toe -- varied, interesting maladies, but still he avoids me.  I feel so rejected.
     I’m told that there used to be something called the family doctor.  A person who you saw over and over again for all your medical needs.  You developed a relationship with this doctor.  They knew you and what ailed you.  It was a rock of stability for you at the time when you needed it most, when you were sick.  Not anymore.
     Now you walk into sterile offices where paperwork junkies ask you for proof of insurance before they ask your name.  You go into an exam room where someone who has never laid eyes on you asks you the same medical history questions that the last doctor that never laid eyes on you asked.  If I could get one consistent doctor my visit could be 20 minutes shorter just from eliminating the quiz.
     And above it all I have a nagging feeling that my doctor isn’t seeing me because he’s busy seeing some other doctor’s patients.  It’s like musical chairs.
     I did see my doctor, about a year ago, on the street.  We stopped and chatted for a moment.  I wondered if it was him at all.  After all, it’s been so long, I could be mistaken.
     But then, as we exchanged goodbyes and he walked away, I heard him whistle that familiar happy tune, and I knew it was him.  Keep whistling doc, even if I never get to see you again.