My dear, remarkable father of blessed memory was no mere a musician. He was a Harvard-trained composer and arranger, played that complicated organ at his temple for fifty years, and was very, very serious about music.
In fact, he was so serious that only “serious” music could be played in our household. After all, he was a classmate of Leonard Bernstein, and studied under Aaron Copland and was one of the few fellowship students allowed to attend lectures by the great Stravinsky.
Now THAT’S serious!
As such, I missed out on popular music while growing up. I was not allowed “American Bandstand” after school. I was not give Beatles records. We didn’t even watch Elvis on Ed Sullivan.
Here are some phrases that you might not expect to hear sweet, friendly Dr. G use very often:
“No, there is no way in hell I am going to renew that prescription as written.”
“Read my lips. No more oxycodone. We gotta get you into a rehab, sweetie.”
“Sure, you can see another doctor. I don’t know how long it will take to get an appointment. If I am your doctor, you go on a tapering schedule. Today.”
“If I did what you want, I could kiss my license goodbye. I am not prescribing outside my specialty and certainly not this crap. Yes it is crap. I am sorry you don’t like how I talk, but it is crap. I can start getting you off it.”
These are all things I have actually said. Usually loud, yelling over the patient. Read more on Pill Mills Are Death Traps — Marginally Legal…