Welcome Back Mr. Kotter

My wife is turning me into a hippie, and this is my cry for help.

It all started last November, when she made a rather bold announcement. “I’m no longer cutting your hair…” she boasted, then paused for dramatic effect. And with a look of derisive self-assurance, she concluded her thought, “…until I get good and ready.” She went on to explain that she was fed up with the same old haircut that I’ve been sporting for the past 11 years. Technically, I’ve had this ‘do since the Reagan years, but I didn’t feel that was a correction worth making at the time. Instead, I retreated into the deep recesses of my mind, in a little place I call my ‘inner war room’, where I began devising a strategy with which to combat this new evil that had just befallen me.

Now I know what you’re thinking. I could just go out and pay a professional to do the job for me. But my shrewd wife knows that I’m too stubborn to fold so easily. (Not to mention cheap.) No sir, this is a battle of wills – mine against hers. And while she’s out to convert me into one of those Hollywood pretty boys with their flowing hair and their manicured nails, I’m playing my hand in typical passive aggressive fashion as I grab the reigns of this hair-growth stagecoach and steer it into the bowels of the forgotten era of the 1970s. If it’s hair she wants, then by God I’ll give it to her… in spades. I’ll make her eat her words and loath the day she suggested a new ‘do for me. I’ll dig up the styles of the Disco days and prove to her that short hair is where it's at.

If you haven’t already guessed, hair is my Achilles’ heel, much as it was for Samson. Only, his deal was that his could never be cut. Mine, on the other hand, has to be trimmed religiously every other week, like a well manicured lawn. When Samson’s hair was finally hacked off, he became physically weak and was thrown into prison. When my hair goes untrimmed, my contagiously sunny disposition becomes eclipsed by a sadness that cannot be expressed in words, while those who've come to depend on my humor are imprisoned in the truest sense of the word. Ultimately, it was a woman who undid poor Samson, and now there's one nipping at my heels.

I am 64 days into ‘battle hair’, and while the urge to throw in the towel and solicit the help of a barber is stronger than when my journey began, I’m confident that I can morph my mane into the great white afro of Gabe Kaplan, if I can just stay the course.

Yet, like Rome, the ‘Mr. Kotter look’ can’t be built in a day. These things take time. That’s why my plan includes a 5 phase implementation process. Stage 1 – the Einstein: not much explanation needed here – long hair with no place in particular to go. Stage 2 - the Patrick Swayze: a little less harried with a distinct wave now noticeable (see also ‘the Danny Bonaduce’). Stage 3 – the Billy Ray Cyrus: also known as ‘the mullet’, ‘hockey hair’ and ‘business up front and a party in the back’. Stage 4 – the Willie Nelson: braiding is now necessary to avoid looking like that goof ball tenor from the Oak Ridge Boys. Stage 5 – the Gabe Kaplan (we also would have accepted ‘the Epstein’): to perfect this look, I’ll rely on lots of hairspray and a ‘fro pick. When I’m done, I’ll be oozing with sex appeal.

Of course, this plan of mine just might backfire. I could actually start a new retro-hair fad, and then we'd all be in trouble.

Rub A Dub Dub, Six Men in a Tub

Last fall, I discovered banya – the Russian sauna. I was in a tiny village about 5 hours north of the city of Perm. It was late September, and the first snow of the season had already fallen and still covered the ground. I was in Russia on a mission’s trip, and the group I was with had just made the lengthy trek to this little village. Our accommodations were somewhat Spartan. There was no central heat, and there were no beds for any of us, nor was there a shower. I didn’t complain. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in missions, and so I’ve learned to be grateful for what I have in such circumstances. After eating a hearty dinner, I was told that the men would all go out to the sauna for a bath.

The idea didn’t exactly excite me. It’s not that I have a problem with corporate nudity. I don’t. After all, I was an athlete in high school. So I know what it’s like to de-robe and shower off in the presence of other guys. And while it may have been awkward after 6^th grade gym class, by the time my senior year rolled around, it was as normal as breathing. But this was different. This wasn’t a quick rinse and reach for the towel kind of bath. This was a sauna… in a tiny little outhouse of a building. The 6 of us were going in there… naked. And there we would stew for hours, knee-deep in our own nudity. Filling out my tax return sounded like a better option to me.

I remember a Seinfeld episode in which Jerry dated a woman who insisted on going nude while in his apartment. While he first liked the idea, he quickly discovered that not all nudity is good. Jerry coined the phrase ‘bad naked’ when he described such activities as coughing, crouching or straining to open a jar of pickles. And as the 6 of us marched off to the little shanty of a banya out behind our house, I remember thinking to myself, ‘this is definitely going to be bad naked’.

But something happened as I sat there in that steamy little shack. I actually enjoyed the experience, despite the nudity.

Now, for those of you who are not wise in the ways of the sauna, let me explain what goes on. You don’t really do anything. You just sit there. It’s about 120 to 125 degrees, and every now and then, someone throws a mixture of water and eucalyptus oil onto super-heated rocks. As the water hits the rocks, it instantly turns to vapor, which is trapped in the room. The steamy moisture just seems to wrap around you like a wet blanket, causing you to sweat, which is quite good for you. On top of the sweating, the aromatic eucalyptus causes your sinus cavities to dilate until they’re the size of small melons. The sweating and the aromas and the heat all combine to bring about a euphoric sense of relaxation. And just when the heat gets to be a bit too much, you rinse off with very cold water, which carries all the subtlety of a swift kick to the groin. Despite its severity, however, it is extremely rejuvenating. Conceivably, you could stay in the banya for an hour or so, constantly alternating between hot and cold.

By the end of the night, I was completely and utterly relaxed. For a brief shining moment, I was able to relate to Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. I was naked, and so were the other 5 who occupied the tiny building. But nudity was the furthest thing from our minds. Oh sure, there were awkward moments. Like when I returned to the sauna from a cold rinse only to find that my seat was taken by someone else. I sat down elsewhere only to find that elsewhere was covered in a puddle of someone else’s bodily juices. There’s no telling what manner of infestation might have been passed from person to person that night. But one sniff of the eucalyptus oil, and all was well.

My parents, who are alternative health nuts, have an infrared sauna at their house. Upon my return to the states, I became a regular visitor to this Americanized banya. A couple weeks ago, they were shocked to discover that I had been using their sauna in my birthday suit. But thanks to banya, I’m now more comfortable with my nudity than I’ve ever been.

In Memory of the Darrell Porter

In 1982, the St. Louis Cardinals defeated the Milwaukee Brewers in game 7 of the World Series. I remember this well, as the Cards had humiliated my Atlanta Braves in the NLCS to make it into the Fall Classi. I was pulling for the redbirds despite the fact that most of my friends wanted the Brewers to extract revenge on the team that had beaten our beloved Braves. The reasoning behind my newfound loyalty was simple: getting beat by the World Champs is much more palatable than losing to the runners up (see Genius blog below). So I watched each game with great interest.

In the 8th inning of the final game, the Cards, who had put on quite an offensive display throughout the series, asked their ace reliever, Bruce Sutter, to preserve their 6-3 lead. He did just that, punctuating the victory with the strikeout of Brewers’ outfielder Gorman Thomas to end the game. What happened next will forever be etched into the fabric of my impressionable young mind. Cardinals’ catcher, Darrell Porter, who incidentally was the series MVP, tore off his mask and sprinted towards Sutter. When he was a few feet away from the ace, he did something I had never seen a dude do to another dude. He jumped off of the ground and into the arms of Sutter, where the 2 shared the kind of man on man embrace that is only acceptable in the world of sports and San Francisco’s Castro district. There was nothing sexual about the hug, mind you. It was 2 guys who suddenly found themselves at the pinnacle of success in their chosen careers. In such situations, what can be more natural than a hug… even if the recipient is “not your type”? Even as a kid, I recognized the asexual beauty of the moment.

Ever since then, I’ve wanted to Darrell Porter someone. I, too, want to know what it’s like to ride the kind of emotional wave that would result in such a shame-free, yet otherwise awkward embrace. Sadly, the years have passed, and I’ve never been afforded the right opportunity.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you’ll recollect that I recently decided that life was too precious… too fleeting… for me to leave anything undone. I have adopted a “carpe diem” approach to living, and I’ve begun to take the initiative in fulfilling a laundry list of “to do’s”. The top item on today’s list – the Darrell Porter.

It was lunch time. I had just come home from work to enjoy some light refreshments and a visit with my wife and youngest daughter. It happened in the kitchen. I was snacking on something when I turned to find my wife walking towards me in a loving way. I leapt, only to rethink things in mid-air. The sheer weight of my 195 lb body would cause her delicate frame to snap in two. I tried to stop, but it was too late. I salvaged the situation as best as I could, given the complexity of the moment. I planted one foot safely on the ground, while half Portering my wife with the other leg. I landed awkwardly on the ground leg. When I did, I was thrown off balance. My Porter leg smacked my two year old daughter right on the forehead. As Doc Marten met flesh, my baby girl let out a howl that could be heard in neighboring counties. Her only crime was standing too close to a fool. For that, she paid dearly.

What began as a dream ended as a nightmare. My wife, who half expects this type of behavior from me at this point, just rolled her eyes. Unaware of the story behind my actions, she picked up our daughter and whisked her off to a safe place. I, on the other hand, was left to stew in a new type of humiliation.

The Darrell Porter is a tricky celebratory hug. And while I’ve not yet mastered it’s technique, I’m experienced enough to know that it’s probably best left to professional athletes.

Hello Anger, My Old Friend

Through the years, I’ve done some pretty boneheaded things. Like the time I drove my brother’s new scooter into the side of my Dad’s truck. At 12, I was relatively new to driving motorized, two-wheeled vehicles, and on my first go ‘round, I wasn’t 100% confident in my ability to distinguish between throttle and brake, both of which were conveniently located on the right handlebar. Looking back, I probably should have solidified that in my mind before assuming the reigns. But I didn’t. So, as I sped towards the side of the parked truck, I reached for the brake, but instead choked down on the throttle. The little red Toyota never saw what hit it. In a flash, I had lodged the scooter securely into the truck’s rear quarter panel, ripping it in two. That was boneheaded.


But of all my ridiculously dumb moves, the worst, by a country mile, are the ones committed while under the influence of anger. I once was conscripted by the Mrs. into attaching sun screens to our windows in our Arizona home. Her desire, which I have to admit was a noble one, was to provide us with the means to save on our electric bill. However, her timing couldn’t have been worse. It was the middle of a Arizonan summer’s afternoon. It was hot. Hellish hot. On top of that, it was Sunday – or as I like to call it – nap day. I would have gladly done it after my nap… after it had cooled down a bit. But that wasn’t good enough, and she let me know it. So I relented, but I did so under the influence of anger.


A funny thing happens when you’re angry – you lose all ability to think rationally. Such was the case with me, anyways. In my rush to get the screens up, I made several costly mistakes. Mistake #1- I measured incorrectly. You see, the windows ended up being about a half inch wider and a half inch longer than the hastily made screens. But I was not about to make my mistake the focal point of the afternoon. No way, in pig-headed determination, I pressed on, thinking I could somehow screw the screen into the window frame at an angle and miss the glazing entirely. Which leads us to mistake #2 – I tried to correct a previous mistake with another one. As I drilled through the frame of the screen, I heard distinct pop. It wasn’t a pleasant sounding pop, such as the sound of pop corn or rice kispies. This was an ominous sounding pop, like the sound of a blood vessel exploding in one’s head. I rushed inside to assess the damage from another angle. From the outside, it looked as if the window was in 7 different pieces. Hopefully , it would look better from the inside. As I walked into our bedroom, I found my wife lying on our bed. I was furious. I couldn’t take my anger out on her – I hadn’t hit her once in the 7 years we had been married, and I wasn’t about to start today. Instead, I quickly rushed to mistake #3 – I tried to kick one of my son’s toys, which was lying innocently on the floor of my bedroom. Notice the word ‘tried’. In my state of anger, I completely missed the toy. As I whiffed on the toy, I heard another pop. This, too, was not a pleasant pop. This one came from my knee as I hyper-extended it by about 90 degrees. I walked with a limp for days, and sometimes, when it’s really cold, I can still feel the pain in my knee.


Last night, my old friend anger dropped in at the worst possible moment. We were in bed. I was exhausted. I came very close to falling asleep. Then Heather tossed. Now, I must clarify something here. My wife does nothing half-way. It’s all or nothing, even when she’s tossing and turning in the bed. As she inexplicably levitated off the bed, rolled over in mid-air and then allowed her body to come crashing down on the mattress with a loud THUD, I was awakened. “No matter,” I thought to myself. “I’ll just drift off again.” A few minutes later, it happened again. Then again. Then again. I finally lost count of just how many times we replayed this dreadful scene, but with each deafening thud, I got a little bit angrier. I politely asked Heather to stop moving, but it turns out, she was asleep the entire time. So after an hour and a half of angry frustration, I got up out of bed and headed into the den to sleep on my loveseat-sized couch. As I made my way through the hall in the darkness, I heard another pop. Like so many that have gone before, this was not a pleasant sounding pop. This was the pop of my ring toe smacking against the tire of my daughter's tricycle which, for some unknown reason, we keep in the house. I bit my tongue as the pain shot through my foot, up my leg and rattled around in my head. But like that sunny day in Arizona a few years before, I was too proud to stop and see about my wound. No sir, I went straight to the couch and slept like a baby – literally… I had to, because I’m in the fetal position, I won’t fit on our couch. I woke up the next morning, to the sight of a battered toe. Thinking I had just jammed it real good, I decided to give it a good yank, so as to pop it back into place (there’s that word again). This was mistake #2. The throbbing finally quit around lunch time.


I’ve heard you can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps. Those of us who keep company with Anger… often walk with a limp.

My Ruben Bender

I'm coming off a 3-day Ruben binge, so I apologize in advance for the words I am about to type. I'm cranky, and I cannot be sure that I will be very cordial as I pontificate. For days, I've been living, moving and breathing under the intoxicating influence of my favorite sandwich. But as Newton taught us, what goes up must come down, and I'm well on my way to a fiery crash. Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.

It all started on Saturday, when my wife returned from the market with a large bag of thinly-sliced, perfectly-cooked corned beef, 2 loaves of Jewish rye, a large bag of sauerkraut, a bag of deliciously delightful deli Swiss cheese and a bottle of Thousand Island dressing. I wept as I opened the grocery bags and caressed what would soon be breakfast, lunch and dinner over the next few days. With one seemingly innocuous purchase, she had made me a happy man, though she would live to regret her decision and soon found herself in the midst of an intervention.

It had been years since my last Ruben bender. So long, in fact, that I had convinced myself that I had tamed my cravings for this succulent sandwich. Wickenburg, AZ, was where it all began, which in itself is an irony. You see, Wickenburg is the treatment center capital of the US. Folks come from all over the world to get cleaned up from their addictions in Wickenburg, and yet it was here that I developed my first serious addiction.

Frank's Deli had just opened up. I was young and impressionable. I had never eaten a Ruben - never even heard of 'em, actually. I know it may seem strange to you, but although many wonderful culinary creations have hailed from the Southeast over the years, sandwiches are not chief among them. In my home town, your sandwich options were ham and cheese, pimento cheese, or on rare occasions, banana and mayonnaise. Corned beef was not an orthodox food item in my house, and I was 24 before I discovered the magical mystery tour that is sauerkraut. On a wild hare, I decided to expand my horizons, so I ordered up a Ruben. I think it was the name that first drew me in. Ruben. It's ethnic... it's edgy... and it's downright fun to say. While my wife was busy ordering an entree with a side of this and a side of that, but not too heavy on the this-that-and-the-other, I just winked at the waitress and said, 'give me a Ruben, sweetheart.' When my order arrived, I was intrigued. Though promising with its beef, dripping melted cheese and kraut, I was taken aback by the 2 thick slabs of marble rye bread that flanked my inner sandwich goody. My previous encounters with rye bread had all ended badly, as the mediciney taste of caraway seed sometimes triggers my gag reflexes. But I had come too far to back down at this point. The last thing I remember, as I picked up the massive sandwich, was the feeling of melted butter running down my arms as I lunged face-first into the steamy layers of beef, cheese, kraut and dressing. Instantly, I was transported to a time and a place that transcended all that I had previously known. The room began to spin as I saw colors never before seen by the human eye. Ethereal, melodious sounds began to woo me as my body shivered with delight. I had become one with the Ruben, and like so many junkies who had gone before me, I was hooked.

That first Ruben led to another... then another. Pretty soon, I was a regular at Frank’s. In a month’s time, our ‘Dining Out’ budget was shot to hell. When the money ran out, I looked for new ways to fund my addiction. Armed robbery, prostitution, dealing… I would have pursued any of them had I not had such generous friends who willingly supported my habit. Fortunately, my wife loved me enough then to intervene and get me the help that I needed. Thanks to her, I’m alive today. What possessed her to dangle the forbidden fruit in front of my face once more, I may never know.

As for me, I’m thinking a trip to Wickenburg may be in order. Somehow, I’ve got to get the help that I need. And if the plethora of treatment centers can’t give me the solution to my problem, there’s always Frank’s Deli.