I realized I had a crappy first name when I was five.

Our family was moving from Chicago to Peoria. One day, close to moving time, sitting shotgun, my mother was running errands. At a stoplight she turned and said, “We’re moving somewhere where nobody knows you. If you’d like to change your first name, now is the time.” I had always gone by D.J. (and still do today), but the message I received in that moment was clear.

My parents must had made a horrible mistake naming me. So horrible, in fact, that it was in my best interest to use initials to hide both my first AND middle name. And maybe that wasn’t even enough. Maybe it would best to deep six the whole thing and start fresh.

And, to be fair, my mother was right. It’s not a first name you want as a child. Kids goofed on me because of it. Childhood is hard enough with a normal name like Gene, Paul, Ace or Peter (I’ve been listening to a lot of KISS recently). And let’s not forget how important it is to be popular in school. It’s everything. You don’t want something bizarre singling you out, making you a weirdo. You want to fit in. While I knew I couldn’t be cool with my real name, using “D.J.” seemed to work. So I kept it.

Over the years, however, I’ve found that I’ve grown to love my first name. People think the name is cool. It’s not – it’s just unique, but I’ll take the compliment. On first dates when my first name is revealed it is met with positive response. I suppose it makes me sound exotic. Mysterious. Like that Dos Equis guy.

I have a garbage memory, but, if mine serves me correctly (it often doesn’t) I believe I have never written about my first name on this site. I go by D.J. Paris in my personal and professional life. The D stands for Delfin.

The reason for the backstory is to establish context for the 2018 ThoughtsFromParis holiday card.

And, in case you didn’t click on any of the links above, my holiday card is a thing. More than a thing. It is, without question, the best holiday card any of my friends receive. I know this because they tell me. I also know this because their cards suck. Fourteen pictures of someone’s kids in a 4″x6″ collage is not exactly what I want to display on my mantle. (I don’t have a actual mantle, so I balance the cards atop the guest bathroom toilet tank next to the adult wipes.)

Let’s pause for a moment to reflect that I am so thoughtful in my role as host that I provide adult wipes in the bathroom to guests. I’m not saying I’m the most thoughtful person that ever lived, but I’m not not saying it either, okay?

Back to the holiday cards. In case I didn’t clap myself on the back hard enough earlier, my cards fucking rule. One year I was several meerkats. Another time I inserted myself into a weird family. And yet another weird family. I even once created my a fake family. I morphed into Poodle Businessman. Once I was Delf On The Shelf. Last year I was a Hallmark holiday movie star.

This year I was Waldo.

I have a Chihuahua named Meepers and a cat named Pantaloons. And while the name Meepers means nothing, Pantaloons is named after old-timey underwear. They’re in the picture above, too.

As I was working on this card, being Waldo meant I wouldn’t use my more common moniker. “Where’s D.J.?” doesn’t look right. “Where’s Delfin?” is funnier. And, let’s face it, that name is ridiculous. So I went with it, even though nobody on the planet calls me Delfin.

What if I really did have peeps at Shutterfly? I guess if I was famous they might give me special favors with my card orders, but in return each year I would be contractually obligated to mention them on the blog, or you know – no more 80% discount codes on glitter envelopes.

The reviews from the above card are in. The feedback is that this is my finest effort to date. And it probably is. The bad news is now I have to top it in 2019. I always thought that a full-nude painting of me would be the ultimate holiday card to my loved ones. But before I commit to it, I need to make a list. I’m not exactly at my fighting weight, so I ought to drop ten pounds first. I should do a few pushups, too. Ooh, and let’s not forget to manscape. And I should probably start perfecting the sultry look I’m going to give the camera as I make love to it with my eyes. It’s time to get organized. I have a bar to clear.

I believe that someone has to send cool cards. I’ll always believe that.

So, I do.

Recently I took a writing class with The Onion and started reporting about my weekly submissions.

Click Here For Week 1

Click Here For Week 2

Click Here For Week 3

Throughout the course we were taught the math behind The Onion’s News In Brief articles, the structure and composition of those articles, where to insert jokes, and how to tighten them up for maximum funny. I posted a few weeks worth of homework here, and then stopped. The reason for this is explained below.

Each week we learned a few “funny filters” which are types of jokes, and then sent home to write headlines and an article in those particular styles. For a while I would parrot back what I did in class. But I thought better of it in week four when we learned “shock.”

For “shock” jokes you wander out to the extreme edge of decency. Then you catapult yourself off the ledge into the abyss of darkness. That’s your base. After you find depravity, then you have to figure out a way to make “shock” funny. Because it’s actually very easy to be shocking. I think we can agree that telling a story to a friend where you called a nun the c-word would qualify as shocking.  The friend might even chuckle, because often times we laugh at shocking statements. It would be a cheap laugh, however because it isn’t particularly funny. Nor is it an insightful or intelligent critique of society. Satire is The Onion’s goal, which means you must have a point of view.

Years ago I was walking with a girlfriend and we saw a nun running at full speed down the street on the sidewalk, wearing a habit. I asked, “You know why nuns are able to run so fast? Because they’re always being chaste.” It’s a dumb pun, but I like dumb puns so go jump in a lake.

To be able to complete the shock homework your mind has to go to some dark places. And mine did. The good news is that I was in a class filled with humor writers who have no boundaries. You were allowed to say pretty much anything without judgement. But this is a public blog. I wrote some truly terrible things for that exercise. I can share a few of what was submitted, but I won’t post everything. I think the reason for this is obvious. Some readers would get offended. And rightfully so. So I ain’t sharing it, because I don’t need the hate on Twitter.

Well, I’ll share two – these were the least disgusting headlines I penned.

• Apple Watch 85% Accurate Predicting Diabetes And 100% Accurate Predicting Nerds
• Valentine’s Day Difficult For Nation’s Unlovable Residents

I’m also willing to post my article because I think you can handle it. Excuse the timing issue as this was completed in mid-February and the article is a goof on the Super Bowl.

I guess the following article could be offensive to Philadelphia residents, but screw them. They know where they live.

Fictional Character Rocky No Longer Philadelphia’s Greatest Achievement

PHILADELPHIA-Fresh off last Sunday’s Super Bowl upset victory, the Philadelphia Eagles have dethroned fictional boxer Rocky Balboa as the city’s single greatest achievement, marking the first time anything noteworthy has occurred in Philadelphia since the movie’s release back in 1976. “Look, for the last 30 years we’ve been known for Rocky, cheesesteaks, the Liberty Bell, and quite honestly, that was it on the positive side of the ledger,” revealed mayor Jim Kenney, adding that the parade for the football players should be a historic city moment and that he hoped the residents would stop destroying the city in a drunken victorious rampage long enough to enjoy the event. “We also boast the most number of A.A. meetings per capita in the U.S., but we try to keep that quiet,” noted Kenney before wincing a moment later as he had forgotten this was an on the record interview.

I’m currently taking a course with The Onion and each week we learn a few more of their “funny filters” and then are sent home to write ten headlines and one article. This is difficult for me.

Click here to read Week 1

Click here to read Week 2

This class we were taught three new filters – Reference, Character, and Irony. I won’t bore you with definitions of these filters, one because they’re relatively obvious, and two because nobody comes to this blog to be educated. People read this website for a chuckle, and usually at my expense. However, since I’m not writing about my folly these days you’ll have to settle for my submitted homework below.

I won’t even go into a whole thing about irony and how most people use the term incorrectly, because I actually enjoy that people say it wrong in that it makes me feel superior, and self esteem is important to me.

One positive thing that is happening as a result of the homework is that I write far fewer misses than hits. In previous weeks it would take fifty headlines to end up with ten winners. Now, I write maybe fifteen to get to ten. However, it still takes almost as many hours. Which means there’s a great deal of time where I’m staring at the wall waiting for a decent thought to emerge. Sometimes I’ll scan USA Today to see what’s going on in the world as a source of inspiration. If I was a smarter man I’d check out the Wall Street Journal but they have fewer pictures and use words I have to look up.

One of the exercises we perform each week in class, after learning that session’s funny filters, is immediately start writing examples of said filters. After a short period of time we pick our best and test them in class. Since we had just learned the particular joke structure minutes before, this is a way to test your resolve in humiliation. Because what you have just written is almost assuredly of poor quality, and you are now about to reveal it to all your classmates only to watch their blank expressions as the joke misses.

I’m a huge fan of Oliver Cromwell’s (minus the post mortem beheading), so here’s a few warts and all from this week’s in-class exercise.

Reference – Morning Of Dental Exam Area Man Decides To Start Flossing

Character – Shirtless Selfie Guy On Tinder Believes Optimal Lighting In Bathroom

Irony – After Baby’s Birth Dog Becomes Most Important Member Of Family

I’ll pause while you recover from holding your sides laughing maniacally. That’s sarcasm because they’re terrible. Well, I do like the Tinder one. But still. So, below is the homework I did submit, and I have to say, this was a bad week for me. I’m proud to say that I do get better as the classes progress from here. Bear with me.

– Headlines –

• Escape Room Experience Reveals Alpha Jerk In Circle Of Friends
• Bathroom Attendant Saw You Take Mint But Not Leave Tip
• Centaur Unsure Whether To Reveal Lower Half of Body In OkCupid Pics
• Terrifying Animatronic Chuck E Cheese Band To Embark On Nostalgia Tour
• Instacart Shopper Attempts To Conceal Judgement While Delivering Funyuns Order
• Emotional Support Peacock And Other Uncaged Birds Welcomed On Greyhound Buses
• Former Sous Vide Devotee Now All About Instapot
• Area Man’s DNA Home Test Reveals He’s 100% From Ohio
• Ed Sheeran Beats Out Four Silly Girls With Important Ballad About Body He Fancies
• Guy Who Wears Cologne To Office Doesn’t Understand Anger Directed At Him

– Article –

Area Man’s DNA Home Test Reveals He’s 100% From Ohio

TOLEDO—Local resident Jacob Smith expressed moderate disappointment when his 23andMe results showed that 100% of his DNA originated from the United States, and more specifically, Ohio, the state he was born in, grew up in, and currently resides. “My friend’s test showed that his ancestors are from Greece, Russia, and North Africa. My DNA shows that I’m mostly from Cleveland,” a defeated Jacob told reporters admitting that the report makes sense as that he remembered his grandparents once bragging that three generations of Smith family members all lived in the same cul-de-sac outside of Akron. “I was kind of kind of hoping for something more exotic, like Europe. Dutch would have been cool, I guess.” Jacob plans to visit Cincinnati later this year and reports that he’s excited for the Buckeyes upcoming season.

A few weeks ago I started a humor writing class with The Onion.

In this course we are taught about satire and how The Onion approaches comedy. The publication is known for its sharp, pithy headlines and these headlines are the primary focus of the class. Headlines, in fact, are so important, it’s how The Onion selects articles for publication. Every week hundreds of headlines are submitted by editors and five or so articles emerge from that list. Their very best writers only have about a 1 in 50 chance of their headline becoming an article. We are asked each week to bring our ten best headlines and one article to be evaluated by classmates and instructor.

I was pleased with my work in week one. The jokes went over in most cases, and I felt that I had the knack to keep knocking out decent work in subsequent sessions. This proved more difficult than I had anticipated. In week one it only took two hours to write fifty headlines. The reason to write fifty is that forty are bound to be terrible. For example I am 100% in love with this headline:

Study Finds Camels Who Smoke Prefer Kools

I’m clear that there’s not one person on the planet that will share my love of that headline. It’s dumb. So there’s no way I can submit it in class unless I’m interested in sucking all of out the funny of the room. And since I care very much what others think of me, I wouldn’t include that in my final list.

But still, two hours of work got me ten decent headlines which performed well in class. However, this past week, I spent ten hours to generate that same output. I’m not sure why it took three times longer, but I can tell you it was frustrating. When I whittled down my list of fifty, I wasn’t pleased with the final ten. By my estimate, only five of the ten were winners. And, I guess if I had put in another ten hours maybe I would have perfected all of them, but I don’t have that kind of time. Peaky Blinders doesn’t watch itself.

One bright spot was that my article came out stronger than last week. Read aloud in class most of the students didn’t laugh at the story, but that’s because I don’t think they understood the reference. My teacher thought it was good, and she’s the expert.

For your reading enjoyment (or non-enjoyment), here’s my submitted list, warts and all.

– Headlines –

• Alexa Always Listening, Silently Judging
• Man Encouraged Not To Ask Wife To Pick Up Dinner On Way Home From Women’s March
• Guy At Work Who Brags About Never Getting Sick Needs to Shut The Fuck Up
• Megyn Kelly Surprisingly Proud of Taking Down 80 Year Old Woman
• Local Man “Pretty Sure” Ex-Girlfriend Is Still Using His Netflix Account
• Multicolored Mystery Stain on Presenter’s Pant Leg Derails Corporate Meeting
• Gayle King Cancels “Gayle for VEEP” Bumper Sticker Order With A Deep Sigh
• First Monkey Successfully Cloned, Ready to Throw Feces At Zoo Patrons
• Shirtless Selfie Guy On Tinder Believes Best Photography Lighting In Bathroom

– Article –

Gwyneth Paltrow Re-Signs With Satan

LOS ANGELES, CA—A joint press release today announced that Goop CEO Gwyneth Paltrow and Lucifer have renewed their business partnership through 2023, with promises to continue to bring morally and ethically bankrupt products to Goop readers. “Goop is proud to keep working alongside the prince of darkness, or as we like to call him around the office, ‘the prince of profit!'” Paltrow joked, also noting that the success of Goop’s vaginal egg line, coffee enema cleanse kits, and frog venom antibiotics were entirely conceived and developed by the ruler of demons. “I’ve got a lot of ideas for new products that are both criminally dangerous to mind and spirit, and hilariously overpriced,” the fallen angel revealed with a smile, noting that Goop readers are always willing to put themselves at great personal risk while shelling out hundreds of dollars for incredibly stupid items.

In April 1992 I fell in love with National Lampoon Magazine.

I bought my first issue at a local drugstore and raced home, excited to find out if this would be a worthy successor to my Mad Magazine fascination as a child. I had matured, albeit slightly, and was seeking a more sophisticated type of funny. I found it in National Lampoon. I decided after reading the issue that I would make it a life’s goal to write something worthy of the magazine’s inclusion. The problem was that as a sophomore in high school, I had never written anything. Plus, I was unfunny. Oh, and the National Lampoon quit publishing about a year later. I shelved the dream of being a writer and re-focused my efforts on trying to bone senior Ashley Ripley who once smiled at me in homeroom, to which I assumed meant she wanted this (note – pointing currently at self). She didn’t.

About seven years ago I started ThoughtsFromParis because I figured I would DIY the dream of being a humor writer. Which sort of worked for the first few posts but then I ran out of stories. I knew that if I was going to continue I would need to talk more about myself. My blog became less about hilarious stories and more about finding the chuckle of everyday life. I have a normal job and not too much crazy happens to me on the regular.

After many years of writing about myself I feel that I have developed a strong skill set in this type of writing. But it’s never been what I wanted to do creatively. My dream was always to make up funny and outrageous stories that weren’t about me. Thankfully, some old National Lampoon editors have revived the idea with the hilarious print magazine American Bystander, and I’m close to submitting my first piece, which (at least the title) was well received by their editor in chief.

I also realized, in trying to complete the Bystander article, that I have very little ability in writing anything other than in the style of this dumb blog. I reached out to my friend Tim O’Malley for advice. Tim is one of the big-deals at Second City and knows what to do about such matters. He recommended a class that The Onion developed in partnership with Second City. I signed up immediately.

Over the remainder of this writing course I’ll be honing skills on how to write headlines and articles in the style of The Onion’s humor. Each week we submit ten headlines and one article to be evaluated and discussed by the professor and students. As a blogger, I’m not used to instant feedback. If I think something is good, I write it and click publish. Being in this class I’ve learned that not everything I pen resonates with other human beings. Watching something I’ve written fall flat in a room of other funny people is humbling and humiliating. It’s also a lot of fun.

Because I’m putting a ton of energy into this class I thought it might be interesting to post my weekly submissions. Please understand I know not all of these are winners. To get to ten headlines, I write close to fifty and edit down. I then take the strongest one of the ten and write a full article. This first batch was presented to the class the other night, and most of them were well-received.

By the way, these headlines and articles are in a very specific Onion style, called News in Brief.

– Headlines –

• Neighborhood Rabid Raccoon Wondering When Persecution Will End
• Study Finds Dogs Prefer Organic GMO-Free Kibble – Also Garbage
• Man Bravely Reheats Last Night’s Salmon Scaloppini In Company Microwave
• Chipotle CEO Admits He Has No Idea What Barbacoa Is
• Old Country Buffet in Shreveport Snubbed By Michelin. Again.
• Actual Shithole Countries Excited To Be In News
• Local Area Sexual Harasser Thrilled He’s Not A Celebrity These Days
• Study Finds High School Sex Down 44% – Teen Skanks Devastated
• Whole 30 Promises to Be Next Diet You Fail At

– Article –

Kevin Spacey Fan Club President Undeterred That Membership Is Down 8000%

SIOUX CITY, IA—Despite numerous shocking sexual abuse allegations against Hollywood actor Kevin Spacey, acting 2018 president of the a-lister’s fan club, Sherman Phillips, remains steadfast in supporting the celebrity through a fan-site and monthly print newsletter. “2017 was a tough year for our organization. Most of the management resigned, along with 97% of members,” Phillips said alluding to the actor’s troubles in the press, adding that they have begun selling rubber bracelets inscribed with WWFUD – What Would Frank Underwood Do in order to raise funds to keep the organization solvent. “Those [bracelets] are not selling well. However, we have a K-PAX temporary tattoo coming out next month which I believe will be a big hit with our remaining members.” When asked about the morality of keeping such a fan club active, Phillips deflected by launching into an impression of Spacey’s character from Glengarry Glen Ross where Spacey yells repeatedly at Alan Arkin to go to lunch.

I had to be talked into this year’s card.

My girlfriend was certain it would land big with our friends and family, but what did she know? I’d like to think, for my own self esteem, that I’m the only one in the relationship with a rapier wit. Turns out she was right and the card was well-received. Many even reported that it was my best card to date. The credit for this success lands 100% in Liz’s lap.

Here’s how the idea came to be.

Months ago I took Liz to go see one of my favorite stand-ups, Jen Kirkman. At some point during her set, Jen turned her attention to Hallmark Christmas movies. While the jokes about these movies were funny, I had never seen one (nor heard of them). But as I looked around the audience was howling. I would estimate that 75% of the audience were female, so I chalked it up to something that women know about, but men don’t. Like heavy spotting days.

Later that night Liz declared that this would be the theme of our holiday card. I tried to convince her that nobody would get the joke. Since I had never seen one of these movies, clearly the masses hadn’t either. Liz reassured me that, not unlike most of our arguments, she was correct. After more resistance from me, I was encouraged to shut up. Also, I didn’t have a better idea, so I relented and agreed to move forward.

We took to Google Images which, if you’re not familiar, is the best place to steal copyrighted images. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you Liz and I looked at forty Hallmark holiday movie posters before deciding on a winner. This took hours and contained some heated arguments. Should we pick the cover where the two main characters were playfully throwing snowballs at each other, or the one where the guy is trying to balance seventeen packages in his arms while the woman is staring at the camera shrugging? Eventually we selected one, but for the life of me I can’t remember why it was chosen.

Next, we needed a Photoshop expert. Via Fiverr I hired a graphic designer to do the superimposition. We had to go back and forth a few times, and ultimately he still made my face too big, but it was close enough.

I went back to make sure superimposition was a word, because I was pretty sure I had fabricated it. Turns out it’s legit! Use that at your next cocktail party to impress the babes.

Now again, I was concerned that the joke would fail. And I take a lot of pride with these dopey holiday cards. I try to make the jokes hit like a sledgehammer – obvious and vulgar. This time it wasn’t really a joke, per se. It was just a reminder of these dumb movies that Liz convinced me everybody (but me) knew about. A reference to a pop-culture juggernaut, if you will.

The cards went out and we waited for response. And, to my credit, a few people didn’t understand the reference. But out of the 100 or so cards that we sent, it was almost universally praised (unlike the quality of these movies).

I did finally watch one on Christmas Eve. It starred Alan Thicke (of course) and Candace Cameron (also, of course) and halfway through her trying save the ski lodge I nearly jammed a golf pencil into my jugular. If you’ve ever watched a Hallmark Christmas movie, you know how painful they are to absorb. But instead of ending my own life I retreated to the guest bedroom and yelled at the wall for a few minutes. That calmed me down and I was able to return in time to see dad and daughter reunite on Christmas day. Also, the ski lodge didn’t fold, so that was nice. And, even though the movie was complete garbage, watching Alan Thicke and Candace Cameron embrace while the credits rolled was admittedly satisfying. It felt like Christmas.

So, here’s the card, for those of you who didn’t make the mailing list cut. Enjoy.

This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission. Also, these words were made funnier by the editorial goodness of Sarah del Rio.

In 2012, Bic released a line of pens designed exclusively for women. They were called Bic for Her™ and they were just like their regular pens except that they came in pink and purple. This made sense because women like pretty colors.

These pens were not well-received by bloggers, the media, or anyone who owned a uterus. In fact, the backlash was so severe that I assumed the Bic for Her™ line had been taken out of production. I was wrong. Not only are they still available, they sell surprisingly well on Amazon.

So I got to thinking—maybe these pens could help me. If I used these pens, would I find myself writing in a more feminine style? Would these pens unleash my inner caged bird, like Maya Angelou? Would I be able to sculpt metaphysical poems, like Emily Dickinson? (I’d give more examples, but those are the only female writers I know.)

Long story short, I decided to find out how well these Bic for Her pens work. For him!

When the Bic for Her package arrived, I chose the pink pen as it was the more girly of the two. Excited for the beautiful prose sure to follow, I grabbed my notebook and opened to a blank page. Before my pen touched paper, a spider darted across the floor. Normally, I would have chased the invader down and crushed him into the linoleum barefooted. Imagine my surprise when I leapt atop my desk, terrified. Also, I was screaming.

Whoa… that never happened with my non-pink Bics. I called my friend Bob who promised to come right over and take care of the spider—he muttered something as he hung up, but I didn’t quite catch it.

After Bob left, I sat back down at my desk with my pink pen. Perhaps I was moments away from writing the pre-eminent opinion on breastfeeding, but then I felt something… down there. I looked toward my lap and realized: OH, SHIT! I’M HAVING MY FIRST EVER SPOTTING DAY! And of course I was wearing my Gap white capris. Dejected, I found a bag of Hershey’s chocolate chips in my baking drawer, and ate three huge fistfuls. Then I binge-watched Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.

I ended up tossing the Bic for Her pens. Maybe they were literally just “for her,” because I felt better almost as soon as I got rid of them. There were no more emotional outbursts or weird cravings. I was able to think and act in a rational manner. Sure, my writing still sucked. But at least I didn’t have to worry about frizz humidity.

I went to Nashville to see the eclipse because my dentist told me to.

Throughout my life, whenever anyone asks me to list my dream vacation destinations, I stare back with blank eyes. It has never occurred to me to cultivate places I’d like to visit. Even now, I have no idea of where I’d like to travel to next. I’ve never turned on the Travel Channel and I don’t find myself fantasizing of being anywhere other than where I currently am. That being said, I go on a fair number of trips. My only rule is that I never try to visit the same place twice. That’s for squares, if you ask me (you didn’t).

A few years ago I went to Nicaragua because someone tweeted the suggestion. Last year I did the fall color change thing in the North East due to a recommendation from a stranger. Because I have no travel goals of my own, I’m a blank canvas. If you provide me a good enough reason to visit Dubuque, Iowa, I just might load up the camper.

I do not own a camper, nor will I ever. My grandfather had a Winnebago and we once went on a multi-state trip. It was miserable. Riding in a Winnebago is the world’s most expensive way to travel third class.

As I was sitting in a dental cleaning this past spring, my dentist asked what my plans were for the global solar eclipse. I understood all three of those words individually, but I had never heard them said together at the same time. Whatever a global solar eclipse was, it must be important, I concluded. I didn’t want to sound like someone not-in-the-know, so I said, “Oh, I haven’t decided yet. What about you?” He said, “Well, ground zero is Nashville, so that’s where the wife and I are headed.”

I walked out of the dental office (no cavities) and texted my girlfriend. “We’re headed to Nashville for the global solar eclipse!” She replied back with, “Can’t wait! What’s that?”

So, we spent the eclipse weekend in Nashville, visiting the Opry, the Ryman Theater, eating barbeque, and watching honky tonk bands. We decided that for the eclipse we’d spend it at the Belle Meade Plantation as they were having a viewing party. We had planned on touring Belle Meade anyway, so this seemed like a good fit.

I hadn’t done the math that pre-civil war plantation + south = slavery. Had that occurred to me, I likely wouldn’t have chosen that location to celebrate the moon passing in front of the sun. As I was setting up the chair for a good view, I realized this was the exact area where people were forced to work and live against their will. It’s a bummer for sure.

My mood soon lifted as I noticed a woman nearby seated in the lotus position chanting and singing with eyes closed. It was, well, weird. I listened to her words and it became clear she was a sun worshipper. I’m guessing in the sun worship faith, an eclipse is a big deal. I started judging her as a kook, because, it’s only the sun and moon doing what they do.

And then I had a terrible realization. That woman was less crazy than me. Or at least not more crazy. She was praying to something you could actually see. I pray to an invisible man in the sky that nobody in history has ever photographed. The sun might not be able to forgive sins and stuff, but at least you can point at it. Also, if the sun didn’t exist, life wouldn’t either, so that could be argued as god-like, I guess.

As the time of the eclipse approached all of us in the plantation field put on our glasses. We watched an orange sun and moon move across the sky toward each other. About five minutes before totality the sky grew dark and the crickets started chirping. I guess they thought it was nighttime, even though it was only 1:25pm.

We stared at the sky with our glasses until the sun and moon were aligned perfectly. Then it was totally black in our glasses. The science lady on site yelled for everyone to take off our glasses. Hundreds of us all removed our glasses at the same time. Since I had done exactly zero research on eclipses, I had no idea what to expect.

At first everyone cheered and hollered. But only for a few seconds. Then, the whoops died and it became eerily quiet. We all were trying to process what we were seeing. There was a black circle in the sky with the whitest of light peering out from the around it. The light was animated and moved like the flames in a fire, around the moon. It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed, and I found myself unable to speak. I’m trying to stay away from hyperbole, but it may have been the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.

We were able to view the eclipse for about ninety seconds before the science lady told us it was time to put our glasses back on. As hundreds of us did, a collective applause filled the air. I could hear people crying. Others were whistling and shouting. It was really something.

I slumped in my chair. In books and movies characters witness something so beautiful that it brings them to tears. That had never happened to me. But there I was, sitting in my lawn chair trying to make sense of what I had just seen. The tears started. Not many, mind you. But a few.

Oh, and by the way, during totality I offered a prayer to the sun-god asking him (her?) to heal my tennis elbow by Tuesday so I could crush my opponent in league play. It didn’t work. My arm still hurts like hell. I guess I’ll go back to the physical therapist. Rats.

Photo Credit: dr.farisvelia Flickr via Compfight cc
Photo Credit: ongsoonkeat Flickr via Compfight cc

In order to get my hernia fixed, I first needed to get cleared for surgery.

If you missed part one where I wrote about the discovery of a disgusting belly button hernia, click here to familiarize yourself.

The surgeon who was to perform the hernia operation told me I must first see another doctor who could run the appropriate clearance tests. I guess once you become a surgeon you don’t have to do the low-level stuff. Like how the guy who drives the garbage truck doesn’t leave the driver’s seat. He’s got a guy riding on the back who deals with the actual garbage.

I protested that I didn’t need any tests and he could take my word that I was healthy enough to handle a small incision. My case was admittedly unconvincing as I didn’t have a fancy medical degree and my knowledge of gastroenterology was limited to knowing that word means “gut stuff.” I further weakened my position by acknowledging that I hadn’t read the medical questionnaire I was handed at the beginning of my appointment. He frowned when I told him this. But, c’mon, does anyone actually pour through those questions with precision? I simply checked “no” to every disorder, disease, or preexisting condition. If this was a more serious medical issue, like a triple heart bypass, I’d take the “Have you ever bled from the eyeballs?” question more seriously.

But even if I had completed the medical questionnaire correctly he would have made me get cleared for surgery anyway. It’s a malpractice thing. Lawyers ruin everything, right? I mean, until you need a lawyer to sue someone because they said you have a tiny wiener on Snapchat and though the message self-destructed a few people saw it and your reputation had been damaged enough to sue for restitution. I wouldn’t know because I don’t have a tiny wiener. Seriously. Let’s clear that shit up right quick.

Upon arrival at the medical testing facility I met the general practitioner who would perform the necessary exams. And while I feel that salespeople in general are annoying, I had to hand it to this guy. He was the best up-seller (note – not a word) I’ve ever seen. Halfway through the blood work he asks, “Hey, when’s the last time you had a physical?” It had been over a year and he said, “Should we tack it on?” I was already in my underwear so I said, “Sure.”

After the physical I was upsold again. “Hey, you’re dating, right?” I nodded. “You probably want to check for STDs, then. Should I perform the HIV test?” I told the doctor he did not need to sell me on an HIV test. In fact, I told him that for the rest of our relationship as a doctor-patient, he never again needed to ask me for permission to perform this test. He should just do the test. I don’t care if it’s free or costs $300. HIV is an important piece of information and I told him I would never say, “No thanks. I’m good.”

When he came back with the HIV-negative results a few minutes later, he pushed on. “You know, since we’re doing all this other stuff do you want us to test for every STD?” I said, “Once again, you never need to ask me that.” This doctor was now batting 1.000.. As he’s pricking my finger for herpes or whatever I asked, “Wait – does anyone actually turn down the STD test?” He said that many people do. Which made me feel superior to those people. Which felt good.

After all the tests were completed, he announced me I was in excellent shape for surgery, I added, “..also, in excellent shape to hit the disco tonight for some action, right Doc?” Not my best joke. “Actually,” he said, “We won’t know about the full STD results for three days. We’ll call you when they come in.”

I asked that they not call me unless it was bad news. I’d rather not be bothered. However, if they find out that I’m ridden with chlamydia, please go ahead and send word. He said that it was protocol to call with the results, positive or negative. I waived him off and said, “Seriously, just call if there’s bad news.”

A nurse called a few days later and told me the lab results came in and that I was negative on all STDs. I thought of making a joke telling her I went to an EDM concert over the weekend and that all hell broke loose and I’d need to get rescanned, but thought better of it.

I once dated a girl whose favorite genre was EDM. Every time I walked into her townhome that awful music was playing. And I’d have to take deep breaths until the feeling of wanting to smash the stereo over her head would leave me. It’s too stressful to date a chick with bad taste in music.

Now I knew I was healthy enough to get my hernia fixed, and healthy enough to start dating. The girl I was seeing at the time ended the relationship around right after this exam. Smart on her end because she was going to have to drive me to the hospital and sit there during the procedure. Like any good boy I called my mother and she was happy to fill the role.

In the next installment I’ll talk about how the procedure went (spoiler – I now have two belly buttons), and how after I went to a first date with a girdle.

photo credit: Tom Simpson Figure Slimmer, 1955 via photopin (license)

Only once had I been cut up before, and it was for this laser eye surgery vision thing. It’s not exactly the biggest deal. The doctor doesn’t make you wear a gown with the open fanny area. You’re not doped up with medical grade opiates. You can wear your business suit during the procedure. You open your eye lids, hold still for 20 seconds, and congrats, you now have eagle vision. You’re back in your cubicle by lunch.

I remember thinking after that procedure, “Well, gee, I hope my next surgery is more thrilling.” Maybe I’d be lucky and get my hand chopped off in a lumber mill accident and have to get a cadaver hand sewn on. (I don’t work in a lumber mill, but a boy can dream, no?) What if the donor’s hand was more tan than me and the coloring didn’t match at the wrist? Or what if they gave me a woman’s hand because that was the only one in the freezer at the time? What if after the surgery I was at an important business meeting and I went to shake someone’s hand, and my new hand came right off my arm and the other guy stood there shaking an orphaned hand? That would be embarrassing.

As it turns out, my second surgery wasn’t much more exciting than the first. It was just a boring old umbilical hernia surgery. I wish I something way cooler to report. But I don’t. I only had like a 2% chance of death while in the operating room. Snore. I didn’t even bother to update my will beforehand.

So, what is an umbilical hernia and how did I develop one? No idea. I guess it just happens. A natural part of aging, the surgeon told me. I didn’t even bother Googling it after the diagnosis, that’s how boring the thing is. How I found out that I HAD an umbilical hernia is sort of interesting, however. Several months ago I was dating a woman named Maureen and she was staring at my belly button one evening (as women do). All of a sudden Maureen’s face turned sour and scrunched up. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “You have something wrong with your belly button.” I looked down because, well, I wanted to see what she saw.

I’ve probably only looked at my own belly button one other time in my life and that was back in high school when I at a party and poured a shot of Early Times whiskey into it and asked if any girl would care to slurp it out. No takers.

But when I looked down, at now forty years old, to examine my navel for exactly the second time ever, I sort of saw what she was referencing. There was something wrong. My belly button wasn’t totally fucked up or anything. But it wasn’t, well, normal, either. It was misshapen. The best I can explain it without having you retch all over your Pumas is that some of the inside parts started making a dash for it. A move toward the light. To freedom!

I could have showed 20 of you my belly button at the time and 18 of you would have said, “Dude, you have a really sexy belly button. I mean, aside from the dark hair surrounding it. Wait, aren’t you blonde? Shouldn’t those stomach pubes be lighter?” In other words, to the non-medical professional, it looked no different from the male models gracing the cover of Men’s Health. Well, a little different. Less ab definition. I’m talking about the actual hole. It’s a pretty killer hole, if I do say so myself. And I do. Or rather, I just did.

But now it was less killer. Like an aging Hollywood starlet, it had lost symmetry. And like an aging Hollywood starlet, there was only one reasonable option – surgery.

Oh wait, let me go back to the discovery. I’m not good at linear storytelling.

So, Maureen, being a senior graphic designer at a prestigious advertising agency, knew a fucked-up belly button when she saw one. That previous sentence was meant to be sarcastic, because Maureen had no medical training at all. Her best skill was designing print advertisements for the largest cheese distributor in Utah. A noble skill, but not one that included the hippocratic oath. But since I believe virtually anything anyone tells me, I assumed she knew stuff about hernias.

I started freaking out and ran to the bathroom to see my now-imperfect belly button staring back at me. I yelled over to Maureen to ask why she was confident that I had a hernia. I pressed my right index finger directly into the hole, because I thought hernias were supposed to hurt. I was a little grossed out, but there wasn’t any pain. She replied that her last boyfriend had the same shape in his belly hole and it turned out to be an umbilical hernia. She went with him to the hospital for the procedure. Also, nursed him back to health. She promised she’d do the same for me.

The next day I called a surgeon that knows about this stuff. I walked into his office and fifteen seconds later he confirmed what my ladyfriend had asserted. I had an umbilical hernia. He told me there was nothing I could have done to prevent it and that it was not a big deal. He suggested I get the surgery, but said I didn’t have to do it immediately. I had a suspicion that Maureen was on the verge of dumping me and I wasn’t about to go back out in the dating world with a messed up belly button. It’s hard enough being single. The doctor told me to think about it and I said, “No need. Let’s do it!” He didn’t say so, but he must have been impressed by my decisiveness. It was an act of leadership.

On the way out, I casually mentioned to the surgeon, “Actually, doctor… I’ve had a hernia before. TWO, actually.” He stopped and said, “Oh, really?” And yes, that much IS true. I did have a double hernia once. But, to be honest, I was just showing off. I told him that when I was born the doctors screwed up my mom’s epidural and hit her spine with the needle. It immediately put her in a coma. I was born and hustled off to my two grandmothers while she recovered. And from day one, my two grandmothers put me on human food. A tactical error in hindsight. My dad probably didn’t know any better (I was the first child), and he was probably bummed his wife was in a coma. So, he didn’t notice I got fat pretty quick.

When my mom woke up from the coma a few weeks later and they took her home, I was already obese. A big, fat, disgusting baby. And babies are already disgusting, even when they’re not huge slobs like I was. It was so bad I was raced back to the hospital where the doctors performed an emergency double-hernia surgery on me. The doctor yelled at my mother for letting this happen and said, “I’ve never had to cut through so many layers of fat in a baby before. You ought to be ashamed!”

Funny enough, I’ve never had a weight problem since. I was only fat as a baby. Which is the best possible time to have a weight problem, now that I think about it.

Anyway, after I was done telling this story the doctor laughed. I’m not sure if he believed me, but he clasped his hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, D.J., congrats. You’re about to have a second hernia surgery.” I corrected him and said, “Third.” His mouth started to open to correct me that a double hernia isn’t really two hernia surgeries, but he realized I was just making a joke. He laughed and pointed at me with a look that said, “Good one!”

I left the office and took stock of my emotions. I wasn’t sad. Nor scared. Not even angry. I was kind of excited, actually.

I called Maureen and said, “Remember that thing about my belly button? You were right!” She was in the middle of a cheese video shoot for an Instagram campaign. I told her I’d need a ride to and from the hospital in two weeks. and reminded her of her promise.

My belly button was about to get back to perfect. And, even if Maureen dumped me, I’d once again have a perfect hole and likely a cool scar and we all know chicks dig scars. The only scar I possessed at the time was a two-incher on my butt where I fell through a glass table in high school. It’s not exactly the kind of scar that you’d call a panty-melter.

I was excited. Who wouldn’t be?

… part II coming up …