I was really surprised to read that the WHO were deciding what to name each new strain of the coronavirus. I loved the WHO, they were one of my very favorite bands, although I had trouble both times I went to see them in person.

The first time was at the Flushing Meadows in the Queens, New York outdoor arena, when they opened for The Doors. I had asked a high school friend to join me and I promised her mother that it would be safe to attend a rock concert.

When the Who finished the first set, the curtain closed and the stage went dark. After about twenty minutes, the curtain reopened and the spotlight showed Jim Morrison sliding toward the audience on his stomach, beckoning the band to join him on stage.

The crowd started to rush toward him and all hell broke loose, as the rent-a-cops formed a human wall to keep the fans away from the stage. I took my date’s hand and headed out the back way to honor my pledge to her mother.

Years later I told my musician son the story and he informed me, “Dad, you missed a great concert. They came back on stage after the riot settled down and played for hours!” Oy vey!

My second misadventure was in New York City when they played their rock opera “Tommy” at the Fillmore East. I went with my college roommate, who I was now living with in NYC while he went to medical school at Columbia University and I was a cub reporter for Newsday.

I was the designated driver because I didn’t do drugs, but my med school buddies loved to. They insisted that I take a toke of what I thought was hashish in a pipe and, stupidly, I agreed.

When the curtain opened at the Fillmore East, we could hear the overture to “Tommy” and it sounded WAY too loud for me. I got up and asked one of the ushers to please turn down the volume. He rolled his eyes. I sat back down and my head lifted off my body and looked down at the crowd and I realized I had to get out of there.

I deserted my friends and got in my car and drove to our apartment in Washington Heights. When they got home, I was sitting in a dark room and they gave me some meds that sobered me up. Oy vey!

Fade out, fade in. So why are the WHO now managing COVID-19?. It turns out it was not the rock group but the World Health Organization deciding to choose different letters of the Greek alphabet to name the strains. Not very smart of me and I ain’t even smoking weed.

Speaking of rock groups, one of my favorites is coming to a local casino, the Blood Sweat and Tears. I first saw Al Kooper when I was working a summer job in a record store in Greenwich Village and he would come in, not say a word, shuffle through all of the albums, beat his hands like a drummer and leave.

When he quit the band, he was replaced by David Clayton Thomas. I was very excited to check out how many members of the original band were playing and found the answer is NONE.

I am pissed. How can it still be called that if there are no original members? Shouldn’t it be designated as a cover band? Can another bunch of guys call themselves the Beatles?

Calm down Mel. Go see them play. And don’t smoke weed before you drive down there.