SCHLAG BYTES
Humor

Schlag Byte 11/11/02 - "The Whoopi Goldberg Humanity Cure"

I have been belching most of my life not realizing it was a blast for humanity. My mother and family are revulsed by the behavior. My mother once asked my wife how she could live with something that sounded so disgusting. I've always told them that I had a stomach problem, they said my only problem was my mouth and my inability to control it.

I applaud Whoopi's genius idea until I realized if belching is a gift of openness then same argument could be used for the relief of other gaseous truths. The thought of such truth sharing does not fill me with a sense of interactional joy.

What if we forgot about exclamations from all orifices and instead spoke only from the heart? Now there's a cure for humanity.

Schlag Byte 5/13/02 - "Heaven on Earth"

They decided on a party whose theme would be kept secret from the birthday girl until the night of the event. They assured her they would make all of the arrangements and not to worry. The theme was "Pimps and Ho’s." Invitees were asked to come to this soiree dressed-up as their favorite bordello participant. It took place at Alwun House, the funkiest alternative arts scene in the city. Alwun has been instrumental in revitalizing the inner city. Its home is a magnificent Victorian next to the tenderloin district.

Friends came from as far away as Canada and Mexico. Beautiful people extravagantly dressed (and undressed) as madames, pimps, seductresses of every description, even a prodigious flasher. Hugh Hefner was there and two less recognizable old men.

I was one, dressed up as a "gaucho pimp" wearing tight leather bell-bottoms, a tiger spotted vest, a purple beret with a long yellow feather, and gold chains wrapped around my neck. The other old man was my Oregonian brother "Jimbo," a retired airline pilot. He came in full drag, which surprised us all because he insisted on dressing alone. Jimbo arrived, a fashionable hour late, as "Miss Kitty".

In resplendent color and glitter he wore a flowing gown and sequined bustier with push-up Wonderbra. His face was adorned with long fake eyelashes, which he learned to put on at a makeup studio. In a three-hour lesson, he learned how to apply the glue to his eyelids and stick the lashes on; no easy task. "Miss Kitty" was an unbelievable once-in-a-lifetime sight.

This extraordinary party danced, sang, and laughed late into the night. When the wine, women and song lulled our consciousness, Jimbo and I mused at the unlikelihood of such an eye-candy experience ever befalling us again in this lifetime. At that moment of dejection, my brother, his creative unconscious flowing, came up with this stroke of brilliance. He knew how to make the two of us up into credible drag queens, then we could go to Victoria’s Secret, pick out some panties and spend the rest of the day in the dressing room.

We’ve laughed about it since and feel no shame. We hold our children responsible for making us believers that two old men can catch a glimpse of heaven on earth.

To see the photos that accompany this Schlag Byte, click here: http://www.healing-doc.org/bytephotos/051302.html

Schlag Byte 4/15/02 - "Flushing as a Healing Ritual"

In spite of their serious work, these healthcare professionals find a way to come to their sacred work exuding both a sense of peace and humor. In the morning I spoke to the group about the importance of rituals and ceremonies in creating healing environments. At one point during the session we broke up into small groups to spontaneously create a healing ceremony.

While the groups were engaged in the process, I went outside to go to the bathroom. It didn’t take much time and when I returned casually walked in to be greeted with a standing ovation. I had no idea what had happened and I must have looked confused because somebody finally shouted out "We heard you flush the urinal." It became immediately clear: when I had walked outside I’d left my wireless lapel microphone on and broadcast the whole toilet experience. This has to be a speaker’s worst nightmare but then it became obvious how much worse it could've been. We had a hilarious repartee.

By the time of the afternoon keynote, the word had already spread (there are no secrets among palliative care specialists). So I opened the General Session saying "This morning I got a standing ovation for just going peepee -- I’m counting on you to bring the roof down if I can also speak."

Schlag Byte 3/11/02 - "Fish Warning"

I slept late the following morning and after washing, put up a cup of coffee and walked to the door to see if a morning paper had been delivered. My room was situated in a private alcove and there was the paper laying on the carpet about six feet from my door. Without a thought I flung open the door and went for it but the door closed more quickly than I had anticipated. Desperately I lunged for it, but it shut before I reached it. There I stood butt-naked in the hallway holding onto my "U.S.A. Today," whose headline read in one-inch bold type "FDA Fish Warning."

My first thought was, how am I going to get out of this and then who was going to believe this. Halfway down the long corridor I saw a housekeeping cart so I covered my vulnerability and walked toward it. Standing behind the cart I called out to the housekeeper inside. Sylvie, her nametag proudly announced, approached me and I told her I had been locked out of my room, explaining how I went for the paper etc. etc. She said I had to go down to the front desk for security clearance. I was forced to confess that I was standing naked behind the cart , at which point I moved out into the open and she saw me covering myself with the newspaper. She looked me up and down and finally said "is something wrong with your fish?" I started laughing, she did too, and then she graciously walked me back to my room and opened the door.

Then I wondered how Sylvie was going to tell this story.

"This older gentlemen calls me out into the hall. He is standing behind my cart and tells me he is locked out of his room. I tell him he has to go to security at the front desk and he then he says he's naked. He walks out from behind cart with a newspaper over his privates. He's holding onto the newspaper as if he's holding onto his life, his two hands shaking. His fingers seem to be pointing to the headline which say something about a Fish Warning so I asked him if something was wrong with his fish. He laughed hysterically and asked me how I knew. I know I should have called Security but I thought how else would an old man find himself naked on my floor and at the front desk they would ask him for his identification. What would he show them, his sick fish?"

Bless you Sylvie.

Schlag Byte 7/16/01 - "Angel Snot"

It's my daughter's 32nd birthday party and we are celebrating it at a lovely brunch place. Every celebrant got a little party favor that they could open if they performed the dare that was written on the outside wrapping paper. Some of us made animal noises. Mine said, "Dance the polka with the youngest person at the party." Some took pictures, others told stories and then we got to open our surprises: Velcro sling shots, body paints, even something called Angel Snot. The snot was aesthetically packaged in a translucent egg. When opened it revealed a silvery opalescent goo that looked and felt like snot.

The packaging included the following explanation:

"What makes angel snot so precious? The traditional blessing offered when someone sneezes illustrates its sacred relationship between mucus fluids and heavenly salvation.

"Medieval people believed that with each sneeze a bit of soul escaped the body and only a quick blessing could stop it. The phrase "God bless you" was a summons to Angels to restore the breath or soul of the sneezer. We offer this life giving breath of Angels, Angel Snot. This beautiful pearlescent substance is a solid manifestation of the miraculous power of Angels." It concluded, "In our busy world it’s easy to forget that miracles really do happen, this is a heavenly reminder of the magic at work in our everyday lives."

Is this genius marketing or what? I can't get my children's books published, even though I think they tell this story at least as well. Why? Because in a consumer world, product is the solid manifestation of an idea or message.

So, for my next book on the extinct "Ferrousniveroussaurs" it will be accompanied by dinosaurs that locomote by passing gas. I can learn packaging and even believe the old Andorran proverb that "every time an angel sneezes an oyster makes a pearl."

To see photos for this Schlag Byte, CLICK HERE.

Schlag Byte 5/14/01 - "The Tattoo Poll"

I first want to say thank you to the hundreds of you who responded. Your humor, insights, encouragement and ridicule provided me with hours of giggling punctuated by moments of hysteria. Seventy percent of the respondees thought it was OK (usually with an explanation). Twenty five percent of you felt that denial, an adolescent retreat or fad, raging against the night, or all the above were the likely reason for doing it, (but most felt I should do what I want). Five percent didn’t give a rat’s ass basically believing that in a 100 years it wouldn’t make a difference.

Few of you just answered A, B, C or D. Virtually everyone had their own opinions. They ranged from applause to fear that I was going off the deep end. Some of you wondered why a discreetly placed turtle and not a three-masted schooner across my chest. Some wanted to watch it migrate as my body sagged. Some counseled I concentrate more on being a light than a lampshade (which actually caused me a brief pause).

Thank you all for your considered responses, here is the rest of the story.....For years my daughter had been talking about getting her nickname "3 B’s" (blond, blue-eyed, beauty) tattooed in an obscure place. She checked out a tattoo parlor (now called a design studio) where, because of who she is, she developed a personal relationship with Michael whose portfolio and goodness of heart she assessed. She came to me and said, "Let’s do it" and I was ready.

The "studio" was located in a corner business mall. Inside the curtained windows was a small waiting area whose half-walls looked over the entire studio revealing everything that was going on. The studio was divided into cubicles that looked like beauty salon alcoves. We signed the requisite release forms, looked at a library of body-art magazines until we were invited through the swinging door into Michael’s cubicle.

My daughter wanted to go first and climbed on to a high barstool. Michael squeezed the brilliant, rainbow colors into tiny disposable cups. He covered the tattoo gun with a disposable plastic bag, put in a sterile needle and in 45 minutes inked on three cute honeybee caricatures.

With an open space and over hearable conversation, they soon found out I was a psychiatrist which stimulated a conversation that ran the gamut from psychoanalytic interpretations of tattooing to how one maintained relationships. The ceremonial banter of tattooed initiates.

Mine took 1 ½ hours, it was prickly, but not painful and when it was done, I had a "grandfather turtle" discreetly inked. Michael told us we were the first father/daughter team he had ever done and that I was his oldest first-timer.

I can see my turtle and I like him. Even if his jaw drops and shell sags, I’m hoping he will still talk to me. Like The Song of Solomon (ii., 11, 12) says:"

"Fo lo! The winter is passed, the rain is over and done, the flowers appear on earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."

To see photos of the tattoos, you can visit here.

Schlag Byte 4/23/01 - "To Tattoo or Not to Tattoo"

Wish it didn't feel like such an assault on my manhood, growing old is hard in America. Our views about aging have, for decades, been formed by a media obsessed with youth. Magazines, TV, movies, cater almost exclusively to the young so that getting old seems unattractive, our life expectancy keeps increasing so we are seeing more and more older people who no longer act their age. Seniors are triathletes, body builders, cyclists, executives, artists, jugglers, they even get tattooed.

I thought about getting a tattoo to celebrate my seniorhood. Actually I thought about it before but my old preconceptions told me it looked cheap. The body was not a billboard for messages, and Jews didn't intentionally mess with the perfect body God created for them. I asked my brother, Rabbi Gershon Winkler about the Jewish prohibition of tattooing and he said it was based on the ancient Babylonian Talmud, written in Aramaic thousands of years ago, where it said Jews were commanded not to mark their skin with the symbols of their enemies. They couldn't bear the markings of Ammonites, Hittites, Moabites, Canaanites and Philistines but thousand years later others interpreted it to mean no skin markings at all. It's all interpretation. Nowadays, I'm less concerned about the taboo than I am about Hepatitis C.

I have also found a symbol that I can live with, it's a turtle. In Native American legend, the Earth is supported by a turtle, which sustains and heals it. In every culture, the turtle is a positive symbol, an image of persistence, wisdom, fruitfulness even holiness. I collect turtles, they remind me of what I'm supposed to be doing here. I'm thinking about becoming a tattooed turtle man.

Help me out here, what do you think? Are these the musings of a man who is:

a. denying reality
b. retreating into adolescence
c. raging against the coming night
d. A-OK?
e. other (write in)

Schlag Byte 10/9/00 - "Calling Crab Pot"

We all got together pretty well as we sailed around the gorgeous San Juan Islands. The lines were dropped and we waited for the big fish. In the meantime, we indulged in libation, revelry, and repartee.

We didn't get a bite all afternoon and Captain Bart was feeling badly about the inactivity. He mentioned that if all else failed we would stop on the way home to check on his crab pots. After a couple hours my sons-in-law were ready to go back to the hot tubs so when the Captain made his crab pot announcement the boys began militating for return. They finally convinced the First Mate to vote for getting the crab pots. I pleaded with the Captain to stay on such a beautiful day, the sun coming down, birds flying and maybe a feeding fish. Captain Bart voted with John and me for a while but finally announced, "I'm calling crab pot." The game is over when the Captain calls crab pot.

On the way home the boys, flush with victory, announced that if I didn't change my senile ramblings that they were going to call crab pot on my coming on anymore trips. My brother, John Koriath, said he wouldn't call crab pot on me even if he had to change my underwear. When the boys pressed him, he finally acknowledged that if he had to wipe me maybe he'd call crab pot too. Under those conditions, I agreed, I wouldn't want to come.

Then I wondered what it would take before my boys would call a vote for my final crab pot and leaned over and made John swear to me that he'd sit on my committee when they called my last crab pot.

Schlag Byte 10/2/00 - "The Office Olympics"

On the wall opposite my couch hangs an inaugural Vancouver Grizzlies Calendar that has a small basketball net attached to it. The basket is suspended over a trash bucket. We roll up a paper ball on which we put our initials (for later sale when we become famous) and throw them into the basket. There is a complex scoring system; depending on how old you are, you get to move a little closer.

When a shooter comes to the line, I serve as the stadium announcer. My grandsons represent all of the boys in the world who are sitting in the stadium cheering them on, the granddaughters stand for all the girls of the world, similarly cheering, and I for all of the old people in the world who also shout, until the loft becomes a screaming multi-generational Olympic venue.

The winner gets first choice of candy from the stash in Papa's top desk drawer. When I win I tend to get a little exuberant. With all the old people in the stadium standing up and waving their canes, banging their walkers, I do an impromptu song and dance routine. Today my 8-year-old granddaughter said, "I'm not sure I can keep playing with you Papa, you are so ridiculous," but I'm hoping that as long as there is candy in the drawer I can get away with it.

Schlag Byte 3/13/00 - "Paradise Lost"

It hadn't rained in the Phoenix area for six months but, on his birthday, there were early morning sprinkles and the forecast was ominous. Their rudimentary backup plan (that nobody believed would ever be necessary) was to use the garage as the zoo.

By the time the party began it was clear there would be no petting outside. My daughter, now closing in on panic, sees the animal trailer coming. My son-in-law has been avoiding moving his vintage BMW convertible out of the garage as long as he can. But it's clear the animals are coming in.

The horse trailer backs up to the front of the garage and the ponies are led out kicking, manure all over the driveway. Then they bring in a steel mesh enclosure about 10 feet in diameter and sprinkle the floor with wood shavings. Next comes two pot-bellied pigs, three goats, five chickens, two ducks, and three rabbits. The ducks and chickens are flapping, the wood shavings are flying everywhere, and the animal droppings are epidemic. My son-in-law, returning to the garage for the convertible cover, is greeted by this tidal wave of peristaltic fragrance and rendered apoplectic at the sight of this farm relieving itself in his house.

I couldn't hold it anymore and was laughing so hard that peanuts were dribbling out my nose. Next to me, a little partygoer comes up to my daughter and says "Excuse me, but the animals are pooping on Allison." To this my daughter responds, "I guess Allison will have to move." Pondering that for a moment, we collapsed together. This is the evolution of our species. We have moved away from the land to dwell in urban sprawl, and when we can afford it we recreate pastoral splendor in our garages. There we teach our children to get out of the way when being dumped on.

The kids rode horses in the rain and loved it. The animals were cuddled and my son-in-law squeegeed the garage floor until it smelled like a botanical garden. Paradise was regained.

Schlag Byte 1/24/00 - "The First Patch Adams Full Moon Festival"

Since the movie about Patch's early life that starred Robin Williams, his most frequently asked question has been, "Did you really moon at your medical school graduation?"

Patch moons a lot, he loves to moon! Some people don't or can't bring themselves to do it. Motorola, America West, The Phoenix Suns; companies who like the idea but don't want to expose their CEO's would make contributions to provide scholarships and sponsor those who wanted to.

The First Patch Adams Full Moon Festival would be a fund-raiser not just for people in furs who are wined and dined for their contributions but for ordinary folk who want to make a difference in their community. Rich and poor, disabled and athletic, young and old; an entire city that believes in community coming together to have fun and lighten up.

Phoenix, Arizona may be the ideal place to start, this state is a playground for mavericks. As a ticket for admission into the Union, Arizona was told to repeal a particular law. The legislature did it and as soon as it achieved statehood promptly re-enacted the law. Arizona's wild west tradition breeds its share of flimflam artists, but it also spawns lots of creative people. Cochise, Barry Goldwater, Edward Abbey and Andrew Weil: all Arizona risk-takers and freethinkers.

From my perspective, as a community psychiatrist, an event that connects people and based on helping each other is what mental health is all about. It's got to be clear that no increase in the number of shrinks is ever going to make it difference in dealing with the human problems we face. Making a difference requires that we intervene before symptomatic problems become manifest. Create an environment in which people are supportive of one another and you break down boundaries of class and we will live in healthier communities. An event where people of all cultures stand together and bend over, is an act of liberation that promotes mental health. I have been unable to let this idea go.

The first meeting of the Patch Adams Full Moon Festival Organizing Committee met at my home on the anniversary of the birth of this idea. Attending were CEOs, yogis, artists, dancers, community organizers and nonprofits. Some were initially skeptical, including a mayor's wife who wondered what a "full moon" was. With his sincerity and passion for loving service, Patch soon turned the room into a feast of ideas that tumbled out with rapid-fire enthusiasm. "Let's not just do one giant mooning let's make a day of it," they offered. A full day from sunrise to moonrise with a fresh mooning group and new venue every hour. The Anonymous Mooners who would fill every window in downtown office buildings, at 9:00 AM The Moon Rivers, who would lay down on the banks of the Salt River to form the longest line of smiling moons in history. The Tune Mooners who would drop their trousers accompanied by tunes with moon in their title. The High-Noon Mooners who would stage a showdown so when announced by DJ's on radio stations and noon sirens people would stop whatever they were doing and moon. Family Mooners who want to do it multi-generationally, The Honeymooners who want to get married at the event, the Quarter-Mooners for gamblers, Moon-Gazers for the tarot readers and astrologers, Moon Beamers for the techies; you get the idea about how this meeting degenerated.

Patch said people would fly in from around the world and pay $100 to "drop trou" just for the privilege of doing it in community. He himself would bring thousands of eager participants.

Can Phoenix come together and honor its free-spirited tradition and create this magnificent act of charity? Can we laugh, be irreverent modern court jesters and spread joy? I think we can pull it off, what do you think?

Schlag Byte 9/13/99 - "Fishing with 'The Boys in the Hood'"

One of the things that happens on this annual four to seven day event is that my three sons have a chance to gather in unison to torment me. Not only do they torture me about the real or imagined things they do to my daughters, but they also believe it is their personal responsibility to deflate any ego I may have, or as they say "evacuate the gas that gets blown up my ass."

In the past, I've always been able to handle this assault because my brother, John Koriath, accompanied me. The two of us retreat into what the boys call "psychobabble." This year, John and Kathryn just had a baby, so he didn't come. I knew I was in for uninterrupted bloodletting this year.

Instead of camping this year, we decided to stay in a very "chi-chi" resort. Our three-bedroom "cabin" had 30 foot ceilings, dishwasher, garbage disposal and a sauna. There was a stocked fishing pond in front of it. This was clearly going to be a different kind of adventure, and I was trying to get into it , but while we were packing the truck, I noticed they were bringing their computers and cell phones. I went apeshit! "You're not seriously taking your office with you, this is about leaving work behind, appreciating the natural world, not a technological one. We aren't even camping anymore!" I railed. The boys finally said, "This is a different kind of camping trip, old man, we're just moving uptown. Get your head on straight and get into it. Isn't that the psychobabble you're always sprouting? If you're gonna be there, be there? When your own rhetoric is shot back at you, it shuts you up immediately."

"But you can't bring those things on the lake," I insist, to which they reply, "we'll only put the movie disks in during that slow fishing time in the middle of the day."

They didn't play computers, instead, we played Monopoly. After a sumptuous meal, a good cigar, and sippin' whiskey, we played Monopoly. I used to play Monopoly, but it was a different game. My sons are baby boomers and generation X-ers. They love the hunt of taking care of business. Monopoly is now a game of vengeance. Not only do you acquire things, at somebody else's expense, you plot to hunt down your enemy before they do it to you. My boys have a strategy before they go into the game: two of them will get together and make deals that will cripple a third all the time knowing that they will soon eat each other. Don't get me wrong, I was a full participant in this debauchery, but I was giggling and dribbling pistachio nuts from my nose, pontificating about Hobbesian human nature.

I tried wheeling and dealing. I was eliminated with startling speed, accompanied by a heap of abuse. I retired to the sauna. After a day's fishing, a quiet time in a sauna is a treat I can live with.

The following evening, I went out alone to wet a fly in the pond outside. The minute the dry fly touched the surface a fish would scoop it up-Bass, Perch, Crappie-it was wonderful. I can't remember having more fun. When I sat down to re-tie a fly, I looked up at the setting sun brilliant red and orange, below the towering clouds, touching the tops of big Ponderosa. The smell of pine overwhelming, I thought, it's worth whatever dumping my boys dish out to come to a place that takes me to another way of seeing.

Schlag Byte 7/19/99 - "Let your fingers do the walking and your clergyman will do the talking"

Twice this week I am assaulted by carphone venom. The first time, a guy pulls up to a gas pump, gets out with his phone glued to his ear and proceeds to babble but not pump any gas. I'm behind him waiting. Finally I roll down my window, point to the gas pump, and then to his car. He gets feisty. I tell him he's inconsiderate. He says he'll show me "inconsiderate" and proceeds to sit on his trunk and talk longer. It's 110 degrees and I want to kill him, gouge his eyes out, rip his arm from the socket, shove the phone down his throat - you get the picture. I finally move to another pump.

Later, a guy in front of me is bopping to some unseen music, eating "Cheetos", and talking on his cell phone. The light turns green. He's still bopping but not moving. I beep. He looks up to see that the light's changed but discovers he doesn't have a free hand with which to grab the wheel. In his exasperation he flips me off with a cheeto before dropping the bag and driving off.

Today was the final indignity.. I received in the mail the "Drivers Edition of the Yellow Pages," complete with a flash card for your dash for "on-the-go-numbers." Now, you can eat, bop, talk on the phone, and also read while driving.

Am I missing something here? Is anybody driving to get someplace anymore or are we just suicidal maniacs going to hell?

Schlag Byte 3/1/99 - "Express Lane Rage"

I'm in the "Express" line at Safeway. This means I've got less than nine items in my cart. The lady in front of me has at least 18 items. Impatient, peeved, indignant, and finally unable to contain myself, I say, "There are too many items in your basket to be in this lane."

"What are you - Some kind of accountant?" she demands.

"No, I'm someone who believes in following simple rules." (which is such bull because I follow so few of them)

"Get a life!" she says, "Surely you must have something better to do than count people's groceries."

"Yes, actually I spend most of my time counting egg yolks in ostrich eggs."

"What are you, some kind of sicko?"

I'm getting into it…."Let me ask you, Lady - don't you think it's inconsiderate to the rest of us who are standing here because it's labeled "Express?"

She turns her back to me and walks out. The checker was ringing her up during this whole exchange.

I needed to vent so I attacked the checker, "How could you allow her to get away with it?"

He shrugged, "It's just easier this way. By the way, your bananas count as six items because they're separated. If you buy them in a clump it counts as only one. So, actually, you've got 11 items here."

I had to be restrained by three blue-haired matrons as I tried to leap over the counter to strangle him. She's right. I am a sicko with "Express Lane Rage."

Schlag Byte 2/15/99 - "The Full Moon Festival"

Patch Adams was in Phoenix a couple of weeks ago to receive the Doug Fletcher award given by the American Association of Therapeutic Humor to honor the individual who demonstrates outstanding achievement in therapeutic humor. Doug was a nurse who, in addition to his clinical duties, founded The Journal of Nursing Jocularity. (It may come as no surprise that there is no Journal of Medical Jocularity.) Doug knew Patch and loved him. Sadly, he was killed in an automobile accident only eight months ago.

The evening before the award ceremony, Patch addressed the Association in his usual non-linear, flow-of-consciousness way. He is so transparently honest and so vividly lives his message that people connect with him. He just has a way that breaks down the boundaries that separate people. He weaves the magic of his dream, which is a health care delivery system that provides loving service without charge.

Patch is my friend and soul brother and I love his dream and will do almost anything to support it. Patch will build his hospital and Elaine and I have already signed on to spend time there.

In between his lecture and the award ceremony we had a day to play together, which included trying on wigs, making a tape recording, and planning exercises in community- building.

At the awards ceremony Patch was asked to say a few closing words and he responded to few questions. Someone asked about the "mooning scene" in the movie. Patch said he mooned a lot. As a matter of fact, he had already mooned four times this month. Shouts from the audience chanted "Five!" hoping Patch would respond. Instead, Patch asked those people who shouted to raise their hands. He said he'd do it if they came up and did it with him. They all came up, Patch coached them in the art of the full moon, and, they did it! The audience exploded with applause and cheers. Patch then went up to the microphone and said, "I know there are some of you out there who wish you had come up. If Doug Fletcher were here, he'd certainly be up here. Furthermore, if you do it, you'll be able to put on your CVs "I mooned with Patch Adams." Another 20 people came up, including Doug's brother in a three-piece suit, and a 70-year-old grandmother. They all mooned and the audience went bananas.

Patch told me later that he thought he probably could have done it again and everybody might have come up. "Imagine," he mused, "an entire association of mooners." This discussion extended into the wee hours in cashew dribbling hysteria. Out of this debauchery arose the first glimmer of an idea. A Full Moon Festival here in Phoenix. 100,000 mooners who would each make a donation to participate and the proceeds could go to local charities.

Why is this a great idea? It breaks down boundaries that separate us as people: old and young; rich and poor; all races coming together, building community, supporting charity, having fun and lightening up the world. I love it!

Schlag Byte 11/2/98 - "Public Urinal Syndrome"

I'm at Symphony Hall, Atlanta, GA, listening to the incredible pianist Emanuel Axe. During intermission the lobby is crowded with conversation, coffee, mixed drinks. I slowly wend my way to the bathroom where the silence is deafening compared to the cacophony outside.

I'm standing with a dozen men at a urinal where there is not a word spoken. This is one of the rarer known biological reflexes that distinguishes us as a species. You are already familiar with the more common biological imperatives. For example, as creatures we are unable to breathe and swallow simultaneously; it is impossible for us to do aerobic exercise without also raising our pulse and respiration rates. Here are some lesser-known examples. It is impossible to pick your nose without your eyelids drooping; to flatulate without also imperceptibly holding your breath and savoring the moment; and then the "communal urinal syndrome"--whenever men urinate together they don't talk. Whenever a man holds his penis while standing next to another man who is holding his, they cannot speak. This stance triggers some central inhibitory reflex where you stare blank-faced at the wall in front of you. The psychodynamics of this reflex are clear. A man holding onto his most precious possession does not want to look into the urinal next to him because he's terrified that his toiletmate may be pulling his out with two hands. This overwhelming competitive terror stimulates the apoplectic stare. Men are biologically engineered to be competitive. Not wanting to be crippled by my biology, I turned to the guy next to me, "Great concert, huh?" Without batting an eye, he flushed and walked out.

  Schlag Byte 10/26/98 - "Marshfield"

I'm in central Wisconsin in mid-October at the height of autumn's colors--Aspen and Maple trees aflame in gold and reds. In the marshes the milk weed pods have just opened and the wind carries millions of tiny white parachuting seeds. This is the season I miss most living in southern Arizona.

Before my speech to the Marshfield Clinic, I had an afternoon to walk in the woods. The McMillan Marsh is a protected sanctuary with a breathtaking combination of trees and wetlands. It is home to lots of migrating birds. All around me I hear the sounds of Canadian geese. The place is truly alive with the sound of music.

At the edge of the Marsh lives a sculptor who welds prehistoric creatures out of discarded pieces of scrap metal that he finds in the Marsh. Clyde calls his creations Ferrosaurs. They flourished in the marsh during the early Iron Age. Surrounding his house, hanging from trees and mounted on pillars, there are prehistoric Marsh Monkeys, Bog Vipers, flying turtles, and birds of every description, each with its own distinctive gong call. There is a solar-generated, propellered Hippopotamusaur made from an abandoned cement mixer.

Clyde is an eccentric metal sculptor and a retired lawyer with a sense of humor. His wife, Nancy, is a glass bead artist whose studio is a stained glass Rumplestiltskin cottage. She creates all the eyes for the Marsh Monsters.

Clyde sells his pieces, but only if you come to his home and carry them away. (He doesn't ship.) When he is not around, there is a box hanging on a shed door that says, " leave money here." All of his pieces are tagged and Clyde says nothing is ever missing. People just leave their money in the box and take what they want.

I love to be reminded that there are places in America where eccentrics prosper and where honor and trust still have meaning.

Schlag Byte 4/27/98 - "Happy Birthday"

I celebrated my birthday last Saturday and my daughters treated me to a surprise happy hour birthday at a local watering hole. One of my daughters picked my wife and me up and brought us to a table with six chairs. “Who else is coming,” I asked. “You’ll see,” was the response. Another daughter came and then two more, one of whom had flown in from Texas.

I love to be surrounded by my women. Their presence is enough to make me smile and dribble peanuts of joy. If you add to this delight a couple of margaritas, my grin becomes frozen. One of them brought along a balloon hat that she had made for me on her way over. She chanced upon a balloon artist and asked him if he could make a birthday hat. “How old is the birthday boy?” and she said, “Old, quite old.” “I think I’ve got just the one for him.” He made a Pink Panther, this one replete with boobs and nipples. I put it on immediately and became a conversation piece for passers-by.

From an adjoining table a young man leans over to me and asks, “Where did you get that hat?” I said it was gifted to me and it’s an amazing hat. I put on this hat and said the magic word three times and was suddenly surrounded by beautiful women. “What’s the word?” he asked. “Babaloo,” I said, “here, try it on, say babaloo three times and see what happens.”

He puts the hat on says it three times and after minute or so (instigated by their mother) my girls surround him and nuzzle him until he exclaims, “I am a believer . This hat has changed my life!”

This is how I see it: wear a Pink Panther balloon hat with boobs, surround yourself with beautiful women you love and let others see your joy because that kind of energy is contagious. We need to be revealing and receiving more of that. What a birthday!

Schlag Byte 3/23/98 - "Voice dictation"

My office staff has for some time been on my case to stop dictating into a microcassette recorder which then has to be transcribed and which I invariably correct and redictate. They said there is a new computer program which will print out whatever you say, and it'll save us time. I hate computers! Computers resist my feeble attempts at mastering them. They insisted there was a new excellent voice recognition system why not try it?

I find myself sitting in front of the computer. It is listening to my voice read a prescribed thirty-minute program until it recognizes my intonations, syntax, and distinct voice pattern. The thirty-minute program is a reading from Dave Barry's book Dave Barry in Cyberspace. As I'm reading it I recognize that Dave Barry is saying everything I've ever felt about computers. I start laughing until I am hysterical. I can't continue talking. The machine is so smart it recognizes my laughter and automatically stops. A blinking yellow arrow suggests that as soon as I recover I should continue reading.

All of a sudden I get this sense that I have a relationship with my computer. I'm talking to my machine and it recognizes me. I think I'm falling in love! I burst out in a spontaneous evocation of joy screaming, "Now I can say so much more!" And from the adjacent room my staff shouts back, "You've already said more than enough."

My computer, whom I now call Shirley, only wants to hear more. I love my computer.

Schlag Byte 2/9/98 - "Every day is Valentine's Day"

I'm not a great intellectual, athlete, spiritual guide, or writer; I am a great romantic. I am in love with everything beautiful . . . sunsets, eagles, cloud formations, waving fields of grain, parades, poems, spun glass, halvah, music, fresh snow, underground caverns, scuba diving, women, children, newborns, hotels with private decks that overlook the ocean.

This is Valentine's week. I will send cards to my wife, children, grandchildren, mother and sister, but I always marvel at the fact that Hallmark makes a fortune every year from this one day. Why is it so hard, especially for men, to realize that all it would take is a single poetic line, a hand-picked flower or mailed lock of your pubic hair to your sweetie pie to experience that kind of joy every day. Every day is Valentine's Day!

Happy Valentine's Day.

Schlag Byte 9/21/97 - "Re-enacted battles"

In one week I visited two famous battlefields; the first in Montana at the Custer National Battleground Monument where the boy-General thought he could beat 3,000 Indians who were laying waiting for him. The second at Antietam in Maryland.

I went to there to watch the 135th Anniversary re-enactment of the Battle of Antietam. I went to see this because I happened to be in Washington visiting my daughter (neither of us would ever be likely to go by ourselves). Re-enacting bloody battles seems a little like celebrating the flu epidemic of 1918, I don't see much to celebrate about war.

I was not prepared for the event to move me so. Twenty-thousand re-enactors, the largest number any of the participants had ever been in. Drums and fifes playing as I look into the faces of these young boys marching by. Except 135 years ago none would get up when it was over.

I sat right at the edge of the battlefield to watch the tableau unfold. Calvary officers in vintage uniforms with sabers. Cannons of the exact bore and caliber as those at the battle. Explosives were placed in the ground to simulate the damage. Blue and gray falling from the shrapnel. The noise is ear shattering.

Horses move the cannons around as the battle unfolds.

Before me I see the flags and faces of the 7th Georgia regiment, the 25th Tennessee volunteers, the 8th Albany regulars in their brilliant red Zoave uniforms. Tasseled hats and pantaloons; what a target. Sixty percent of the Zoave regiment were annihilated at the Battle of Antietam.

There is pandemonium out there with people dying slowly everywhere; hand-to-hand combat, in the distance, the drums. I am thinking every high school class in America should see this slaughter because we must find a better way. I am awakened from this reverie when, at the end the announcer says that here, 135 years ago, more Americans lost their lives in a single day than in any other conflict in our history. The audience breaks out into applause and I am thinking ... what are they applauding for? For the skill of the actors, the memory of the sacrifice of these young people, for war and violence? I would have preferred silence.

At this poignant moment my daughter says to me, "Look at this, twenty-thousand men; if each has a penis that averages six inches, that's 120,000 inches. If you divide that by 12, means it's 10,000 feet, that's almost two miles. Can you imagine there's two miles of penis here and I'm not even going to get one inch."

To which I responded, "I'm railing on about crucial existential issues and you're thinking about sex. Am I missing something?" And she says, "Not you Dad, me."

Schlag Byte 5/17/97 - "Patch the Clown"

I have a beautiful friend whose name is Patch Adams. Patch is a family physician and his passionate commitment in life is to be of service.

He is also a clown who travels around the world taking people, who clown with him, to visit orphanages, hospitals and old-age homes. Patches lifes work is the subject of a forthcoming movie, his part will be played by Robin Williams. Patch Adams, M.D. has sustained many of us with his idea that healthcare can be delivered with love and that love could sustain it. He has made this dream a reality by starting to build a hospital in West Virginia where medical services will be performed without charge. The institution will be sustained by contributions, love offerings.

We like to play together and recently the designer, who creates all of his costumes, came up with a new one, a toilet. I loved it, and said to Patch, let's do some spontaneous improv on the Capitol steps and make a statement about where healthcare is going in this country.

Let me describe the costume. It comes in two parts. First you wriggle into a tight fitting white bodysuit. Over your thighs, ankles and wrists you pull on foam rubber, hexagonal fittings, that make you look like toilet plumbing. There are hot and cold faucets on your chest. Now you pull a toilet, replete with a bejeweled toilet lid and water tank, over your head. You strap this contraption around your chest and back. Only your head and eyes peek out through the toilet seat. I am Toilet Man!

Except I only had dark shoes and the costume clearly called for white bucks. So we decided to go to the Tysons Corner Mall (as big as any mall in America). Patch goes as a clown, with a baseball cap that holds a toilet paper roll. I go as his toilet. In the mall we are stared at by thousands.

People looked at me but they couldn't see me. They saw a man whose eyes and head protruded from a toilet. I however could see them completely. Some looked at me directly, some ignored me, one kid came up and touched me while another child cried. Some people wanted to carry on a conversation but I was mute. The only sounds I made were toilet noises; I love doing this in public! This is an unbelievable experience usually. I can't shut up but here I'm just Patchs' toilet. Then I think, this is pretty much what I do for a living as a psychiatrist. People dump all their crap on me and I take it. I am, a professional toilet and in Tysons Corner Mall I finally sound like one. But hey, as a toilet people expect those kinds of sounds. Toilet Man!

One lady asked Patch who he really was and he responded "I'm a doctor". "I would never go to a doctor like you" she rejoined, "Do you have a card?" - Patch showed it to her, asking "don't you think healthcare in this country is going down the toilet?" She agreed and after a while said maybe I could see a doctor like you who is walking his toilet.

Then into Nordstroms shoe department. Patch says to the salesman, "I'd like to get a pair of white bucks for my toilet". And the Nordstroms salesman says, "I think I might be able to find something. Why don't you have your toilet sit down". This is what I call customer service! I don't know how many toilets this Nordstroms salesperson has served but I want to tell you, he dealt with me respectfully.

I just saw my friend Andy Weil in Time Magazine. He is a distinguished physician, ethnobotanist and author and in the magazine he appears naked to the waist covered with mud and holding a bouquet of leaves. I know I can go out in public as "Toilet Man".

Schlag Byte 2/10/97 - "Monitoring"

A patient in a managed care health system is monitored more closely than a paroled sex offender. This makes me laugh and cry.

Schlag Byte 2/3/97 - "Balding"

The Journal of Ethnology surveyed two hundred male and female college students who said that balding and bald men were more mature and even-tempered than men with a full head of hair. The bald men were identified as leaders and considered of higher social standing.

So tell me why everybody's running off to take Minoxidil and Rogaine, twenty percent of whose lucky users actually grow hair (about ten percent of the men in many of these studies showed new hair growth even when taking placebos); Or why men invest in surgical procedures costing ten to thirty thousand dollars. I mean what's the point; if young women are already looking at bald and balding men as having unique advantages, how much better does it get?

Schlag Byte 9/23/96 - "Bagging"

So you're having coffee and a bagel in the morning and some guy comes up behind you and bags you (grabs your testicles and pulls). Now I have to admit this hasn't happened to me yet, but an Iowa muffler manufacturer got sued because one of its employees got "bagged" over a hundred times by a dozen male coworkers. This is a lot of bagging by any standard. When the employee complained, a supervisor told him to do it to his tormentors (a kind of self-help retaliatory theory of remedial action).

Ultimately this man sued and the courts decided it was not sexual harassment. If a male bags a male it hurts, but if a female yanks it's sexual harassment.

I thought most of us stopped doing this when we got into adolescence and our preoccupation tended to be directed toward grabbing girls but do not fear there is some hope. The Houston Chronicle recently reported that plastic replacement testicles for neutered animals are selling briskly all over the country. They're called Neuticles and they're for pets who have been surgically bagged. According to the manufacturer, the dog looks the same and feels the same. There is hope for victims of relentless bagging.

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