I’d planned to go get a haircut today, but various events intervened: neighbors, the threat of rain, kids coming home from school with report cards and a dazed and confused teenager (but I repeat myself) who can’t read a map.

This, however, has me thinking about haircuts and my favorite places to get a haircut. In the USA, your choices are barber shops and stylists. Barber shops are primarily about sports, wisdom and life lessons–as one barber told me when he heard I was in Air Force ROTC: stupid, brain dead and moronic is no way to go through life, son. (Something like that. I can’t remember if he’d been a Marine or a soldier). Stylists shampoo your hair and then teach you about the transience of life and physical possessions by sculpting your hair into a shape you will never, ever, no matter how hard you try, be able to replicate on your own.

Albania, though, was an experience. For about 50 cents (if you were really splurging) you got a disturbingly fast dry haircut followed by a shave with a straight razor. That was followed by the application of a burning aftershave that was apparently the acidic by product of some sort of chemical weapons test and then the barber rubbed some sort of lotion on your face as part of a face and scalp massage. After days of extreme culture shock, it was better than drinking (well, it was cheaper than drinking) and better than visiting the Peace Corps nurse for counseling. Even the women in the Peace Corps were interested in getting a haircut at a men-only local place.

In Japan, as of late, you have a choice: therapy or a haircut.

Therapy: When I was in Nou-machi, my barber was Barber Ishii, an older woman of no determinable age whose hobby was taiko drumming. A haircut and shave from her involved first a pile of hot towels on your face for several minutes, followed by hot shaving cream and then a shave and a short face massage. Then came the haircut itself and then a shoulder and scalp massage. That’s when the taiko drumming skills and strong arms took over. By the time you’re done, the world is a great place and all your problems are just insignificant little things you don’t even need to ponder. All this for about 35 dollars, complimentary cup of coffee included. (And, usually, because I was a regular, free food of some sort to take home.)

Haircut: The last several years, the more expensive stylists have been competing with “Ten Dollar/Ten Minute” barber shops that promise a haircut cheap and fast. (In some stations, you can even get a haircut while you’re waiting for the train.) You get to give a few basic directions and the barbers go to town. If you time it right, you can sneak in a few extra minutes, and if you don’t like the results–they usually leave your hair too long, I suspect to keep you coming back regularly–they will take extra time and fix it. All that for 1,000 yen. I switched to them, partly because younger stylists have dropped the massage portion of the haircut but kept the price the same.

Still, whenever I get back to Nou-machi, if it’s not a national holiday, I head down to Barber Ishii for a haircut and some therapy.

Besides my odd pronunciation of “wh-” words, one of my other oddities is that I have no sense of smell. Although some people lose their sense of smell, usually temporarily, I don’t ever remember having smelled anything. I am, and always have been, 100% anosmic.

The causes could be many. It can be caused by head injuries and I took a trip down the stairs and smacked my head pretty hard when I was only two years old or so. Also, I was allergic to pretty much every animal and every form of pollen that flies in the air and sinus inflammation can effect the sense of smell.

The funny part is I didn’t realize this until I was almost in my teens. I used to play along. When people said things like “smell that baking bread” I inhaled and said “Yeah, smell’s great” partly because I didn’t know any better. I did the same when there was a skunk near our house. That, however, was the first time I remember my reaction being significantly less dramatic than everyone else’s and that got me thinking.

Finally, I went to a Boy Scout camp and part of the fun was a game called “What Miserable Disgusting Stink is This You Fools?” (something like that). The object of the game was to identify, by smell alone, the contents of several paper bags. I tried them all and couldn’t detect any scent from any of them. They all smelled the same as the gym we were sleeping in. After a while, and it wasn’t easy, I convinced my mother that I couldn’t smell

Part of the problem is that people who can smell believe you lose your sense of taste when you can’t smell. Because I could taste food, my mother was convinced I had to be able to smell. In fact, from what I’ve read, much of what people consider taste is in fact sense of smell confusing taste. People who could smell who suddenly become anosmic perceive a loss in the sense of taste. For me, perhaps because it’s been so long, no matter how stuffed up I get, food always has flavor. I do not know if it tastes different to me than others, but it always has flavor, and I’ve been told I’m a pretty good cook (By people who can smell, for the record.)

On the other hand, my reaction to entering a restaurant is the same that someone watching a restaurant on TV has. it’s all visual.

There are advantages and disadvantages to having no sense of smell. I’ve never smelled body odor, which makes me great on long trips. My travel mates hand me a shirt and say “do you think I can still wear this? ” I inhale and say “smells great to me.” I have not problem using public toilets or cleaning up after infants. In church I never had to smell a TURPF (Toxic Unattributed Reverberating Pew Fart) although it is, ahem, entirely possible that I delivered a couple, which was, of course, not a nice thing to do but the consequences were not my problem.

It’s not necessary to gussy yourself up with cologne or perfume to impress me. Hell, with me you don’t even need deodorant or a shower.

On the other hand, I’m always worried about the olfactory signals I’m sending out. I’m always overstocked with deodorant–especially in Japan where deodorant is of questionable quality. I also don’t wear cologne and try to get scentless shampoo, conditioner and soap.

I’m not able to smell gas leaks until the gas makes me dizzy and about to pass out so I’m very diligent about making sure the gas is off and the gas lines well maintained. I make sure our gas leak sensor is working. I also can’t smell smoke, although that messes with my eyes and nose, so I keep the batteries in our smoke detectors fresh. I have to be careful about food, especially milk, for which I use a visual check and the TV detective pinky drug taste test.

The worse part is, I can’t stop and smell the roses. I can only watch them. The world around me is basically a movie because a field of roses in front of me and a field of roses on a movie screen smell exactly the same to me. I’ve never smelled baking bread or the air after a rain storm. I don’t know what my own wife and children smell like.

I once tried getting treatment, but nothing took and for various reasons I wasn’t able to continue with a second or third round. Someday, if I can get enough set aside, I’d like to go back in for treatment. Oddly, I can probably earn the money for that by selling myself as a guinea pig to psychologists who study the influence of scent on communications.

Until then, let me just say, you smell marvelous. Then again, so does spoiled milk.

(On a side note: This New York Times video gives you sense of what anosmia is like. My experience is more like the guy who can’t smell popcorn. Unlike what one man says, I CAN distinguish ice cream flavors.)

About a hundred years ago I was on my way to being in the US Air Force. I still don’t really understand why but I’m kind of glad I almost did.

A friend and fraternity brother of mine, Greg, was in Air Force ROTC and he persuaded me it would be a good idea to join. There was the guaranteed job (more or less) when you graduated and, once you got the job, you wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear for eight years. I pretty much told him to take a look at me: I already don’t worry about what I wear.

I signed up for the courses, got fitted for a uniform and spent the better part of a year studying the history of the Air Force, learning to march and giving orders to others while marching. I had a Pilot’s slot, which meant that when and if I graduated, I would have a good chance at studying to be a pilot. Please note it was “good chance” not “guaranteed chance”. At one point, during the official physical, I was told to sit in a chair and then measured to see if I would fit inside a fighter cockpit with a helmet on. I passed, but with little room to spare.

The only thing that could qualify as a funny moment is when I took the Air Force Officer’s Qualifying Test. I seem to remember that the rules were such that if I did badly, I couldn’t take it again for a while. As soon as I arrived at the test site, however, I got my migraine aura, which is a bright spot that looks a lot like the coiled filament in an incandescent light bulb. The presence of the aura meant I had about 45 minutes before a migraine set in.

The test begins with the test proctor, a senior officer in the local program, reading a blurb about how if we felt sick and thus felt we were physically unable to take the test we could opt out “without prejudice” and take the test again at the soonest possible date. My hand shot up and there was an awkward exchange as I explained I was about to be sick. The officer found the blurb he was supposed to read and I left to find a dark, cool place to suffer.

The officer later told me that was the first time he’d seen anyone ask to leave. I took the test later and did surprisingly well.

I then went to a six-week Officer Training School where I got sick with something strange and ended up hospitalized with a tube in a place most men would be very surprised to discover a tube would fit and very few would want a tube fitted. After 10 days, I was out-processed and given a “medical discharge without prejudice” which mean I could come back the following year for a four-week OTS.

Fortunately for the Air Force, a lot happened that next year.

First, I was inducted into Arnold Air Society which is an honorary organization that, at least until I got there, was for elite cadets. That took me to a conference in Boston where much of the time was spent debating where the next conference would be. It all proceeded with a shallowness that was surprisingly annoying and that was the first time I realized: I’m going to have to work with these folks for eight years. I still believe if I hadn’t gone to Boston, I’d have overlooked almost everything that came next.

The next thing that happened was an officer change that put in place an officer I didn’t like. That was the first time I realized that I couldn’t respect the rank if I didn’t respect the person wearing it. I couldn’t just say “I prefer not to because you’re an arrogant ass” or “You’re not the king of Dwayne”; I had to say “Yes, sir. and then do what I was told.” That made me seriously reconsider that guaranteed job.

Finally, there was national politics which, for a while, made it appear as if K-State’s program was doomed and we’d have to travel to KU to continue with ROTC. That ended up not happening, but my entire year, except I think one person, said “see ya” and left the program. At least one of my younger fraternity brothers stayed in and got F-16s.

However, despite all that, the final truth is I was never fully committed to joining the Air Force in the first place. It was just something to do that, at the time, seemed like a good idea. I learned a lot, and still believe everyone should do a stint of national service, which is why I later joined the Peace Corps (another long series of posts that).

That said, if you’re considering military service, “it’s a job when you graduate” is not a good reason to join. If you can take it or leave it; leave.

Because yesterday (well, this morning actually) I talked about drinking too much, this evening I should talk about one of the immediate consequences of drinking too much: eating pizza.

Once, a couple hundred years ago, after I started at K-State, I tried eating Swannie’s donuts after drinking. I never made that mistake again. Sweet and beer go together like raisins and grated carrots. Since then I’ve been a pizza man.

Now, there are countries where people get drunk and eat bowls of ramen or other types of noodle soup or go out for a curry. But those places, and the people in them, are evil and have no souls.

For me, the place to go after bars closed was Falsetto’s pizza in Aggieville. The pizza was greasy and the people in line of questionable character (i.e. my fraternity brothers) and no one ate there when they were sober. In fact, I’m the only person I know who ate there while sober and there are still people who don’t believe me. As for the pizza, let’s just say it lost something in sobriety.

The snobbish and soulless opted for Pyramid pizza, which was mostly famous for it’s thick crust and side order of honey. (See previous comment about “sweet and beer”.) Pyramid was sober pizza. It was not acceptable to eat it at closing time. If your only option was Pyramid, you should opt for a Red Barron pizza toasted at home or Frito Pie from 7-11.

That said, I’ve eaten pizza in several countries on three continents in two hemispheres and I’ve been shocked by the endless abominations offered as “pizza” by otherwise civilized countries. Italy was decent but never order “pepperoni” as you get “peperoni” and lots of peppers, not salami. I still pine for a slice of veggie pizza at the Shawarma Orient in London but, at the time, all they had was veggie pizza (more on that later). Albania and Greece had truly gruesome concoctions involving single, whole eggs cracked in random locations on the pizza.

Japan, however, excels at ruining pizza. Flaked tuna and mayonnaise are popular toppings and corn is a must have. Tonight, to celebrate my last day of classes (it’s all preparation now) we ordered pizza from a nearby Pizza Hut. We opted NOT to eat Teriyaki Chicken, or Seafood Mix or Potato Gratin and instead chose the only appropriate toppings for pizza: tomato sauce, cheese and dead animal flesh in the form of sausage, hamburger or bacon.

This wouldn’t bother me so much except I worked at The Scheme in Salina for one summer before heading off to Japan. I therefore consider myself a professional pizza chef. (I do and I was paid to do it so shut up.) Here in Japan, I tried to teach my adult students in Nou-Machi to make pizza properly, but realized I’d failed when some admitted to slipping squid or octopus on a pie when they were cooking at home.

Finally, I’ve tried to teach my girls the importance of saving energy by eating leftover pizza cold. Oddly, this has met resistance. In fact, many Japanese tell me how gross the idea of eating cold pizza is, right before they eat rotting beans on rice.

Clearly, I still have a lot of work to do.

I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly. A quarrel, but nothing wherefore. Oh, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! That we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! —Othello Act 2, Scene 3.

Well, I’ve missed a day already (it’s 12:09 a.m. on the 18th here in Japan.) In my defense, I decided to wait until I was drunk.

I just got home because today was the farewell party for a good friend and colleague who’s not only proposed to his longtime girlfriend but is moving on to a job with more work and less pay but more stability. Now, given that background, I could use this post to talk about friendship, marriage or ambition; I also could have written this before I went out, but since I thought I’d be home earlier–until we went to a place that had good food and cheap beer–and since I’m less than sober, let’s talk about drinking too much.

Many years ago I dated a recovering alcoholic. On occasion, we would go to places where I would drink wine or beer. She was impressed that I could stop after only a couple drinks.

I told her that I learned to do that the hard way. Back in my fraternity days I discovered the temporary joys involved in drinking a lot and immediately rushed out to drink a lot. I could usually control it but that was mostly a matter of not having much money. One year, for reasons that border on laughable, I was appointed Chaplain of my fraternity. This is one of the easiest jobs in the house because you’re only responsible for organizing ceremonies, which don’t happen very often. Instead, I instituted a regime of Spiritual Demerits for those house members who didn’t live up to whatever ideals I decided were necessary at the time.

One Thursday, as was our tradition, we had an L.A. Law party, which amounted to buying a six-pack of Corona Beer and drinking while the tv show was on because that seemed a very yuppie thing to do and we really didn’t need much of  pretense to start drinking. (Okay, I drank Corona. So what?) After that, we decided to go drinking and, for various reason, I didn’t have to buy any. I then met my friend Steve who guided me to a new bar where I consumed more free beer and something called a Kamikaze, which is a shot consisting of tequila, triple sec and lime juice.

To make a long story short, there was some evacuation of stomach contents involved at the bar and, on the way home, a toilet break in a clump of trees that somehow involved me falling over and smacking my head on a rock. I managed to get home, beat on the door rather than trying the combination lock and shocked my fraternity “pseudo little brother” (long story) by having blood all over my face. When he asked what had happened I explained “The rock flew up and behold the rock was hard” which actually made a kind of profound sense at the time.

What happened next is fuzzy. I remember sitting down to evacuate other parts of my body. I remember laying down on the floor in the stall. I remember getting up and going to bed. I didn’t realize that over two hours had passed between the time I sat down and the time I got up and that there’d been a discussion about taking me to the hospital or not.

I missed school the next day and was sick for three days. None of it was very pleasant, but I learned how to turn off the drinking once I got started. I learned at which point I should switch to water. I also learned to eat more to help slow down my drinking. I no longer felt the need to match people drink for drink. As a result, I’ve not been sick from drinking since then and have managed to remember everything I did, for better and for worse. Unfortunately, I even remember that time after I first came to Japan when I sang “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” with my boss at a karaoke bar. But that’s fodder for another post.)

You think you can out drink me? Really? Really? You’re right. You win. Drink up.