I was dumped recently.

Should you feel sorry for me? Sure, why not? I like attention. But here’s the good news. According to my single lady friends, the quality of men who are forty years old and single are a real horror show. So are most of the women, but I’m not worried. Crazy people find crazy people. And, thankfully, according to my therapist I’m not crazy. I pay her good money to re-confirm this opinion every week.

One thing I know for sure about dating – if you keep finding losers, or you keep getting dumped, it’s probably more your fault than theirs. But as long as you keep tweaking yourself and improving on your dysfunctions there’s a good chance you’ll start attracting higher quality partners. And that’s happened every time for me. With each relationship ending I end up with a better woman the next time around. Because I’m a better quality person today than I was a few years ago. Sure, I still get into a fistfight with a random nun every now and then (THOSEHABITSINFURIATEME), but nobody’s perfect. Plus, beating up a lady of God has nothing to do with opening a door for a date and I totally do all that chivalrous crap.

Allison Arnone and I talk to each other about our dating experiences all the time. I run a ton of ideas up the flagpole with her and take her advice seriously. Recently I was going to propose to a woman on date four (the old engagement ring I had custom made for the previous broad), and Allison suggested that I not proceed with this plan. Her exact words were, “Go drink arsenic instead, moron.” Okay, that story isn’t true, but this is a humor blog and I have to write a joke now and then. Allison does think I’m a moron, but I’m not going to propose to a prostitute on date four. I probably shouldn’t even be dating prostitutes. I mean, technically they’re escorts, but still.

That wasn’t true either. I date normal, boring women because I’m a normal, boring guy. Plus, regular non-escort women are expensive enough.

Who better to give dating advice than two people who are dating, like Allison and I? I’m going with nobody. And now we’re going to help you with your dating woes. Do you have hammer toe and refuse to take off your socks on the first date during a petting session? WE CAN HELP. Or maybe your girlfriend brought over a box of heavy flow pads and stuffed it under your bathroom sink without asking permission (ahem, Allison…). WE CAN HELP. If you’re a guy and taking bathroom shirt-off selfies to post to your Bumble profile and wondering why even total hags aren’t responding to your online advances, WE CAN HELP.

Click here to post your dating question – we’ll fix it for you.

Oh, and by the way, we don’t charge anything for our advice. I know – I’m surprised, too!

Once again, click here to post your dating issue, moron! (Insults help motivate people according to my mother)

photo credit: couple in nature via photopin (license)

For the past four days I’ve been at a Tony Robbins seminar in the suburbs of Chicago. Over five thousand people have come in from eighteen countries to listen to the man with the huge hands help them help themselves. During the past few days I’ve cheered, yelled, screamed to the heavens, cried, and danced to over fifty songs. I’ve hugged well over a hundred strangers and given group massages to participants. When I leave to go to the bathroom I instinctively high-five people coming out of the bathroom. This would not be well-received in polite society. But, hey, this is Tony Robbins. It’s the culture of the event. You drink the Kool-Aid.

One area where I was extremely suspicious was the firewalk on Day One. Just using my logical mind suggested that if this were really dangerous he wouldn’t have us do it. Nearly two million participants have walked on fire since his first seminar thirty-six years ago. He explained that in that entire history only twelve needed hospital attention. So, to me, this was not even a dangerous event. I wasn’t worried in the slightest.

Many people at the seminar, I could tell, were afraid of the firewalking. I don’t blame them. We’ve all touched a hot stove with our finger and felt the pain. I’ve heard burns are one of the most painful experiences the human body can endure. But a hot stove is only at roughly 650 degrees farenheit max. These coals were to be around 2000 degrees. Again, I wasn’t worried. Firewalking has been around for thousands of years, and people have been doing it for centuries without Tony Robbins’ help. We did have to sign a waiver of health liability, however.

Tony takes the safety of the participants very seriously. Even though there are only a few principles of firewalking, mechanically – stuff like how fast to walk, where to keep your eyes focused, and how to exit the firewalk without coals being stuck to you, he wanted to teach us how to go into a peak emotional and physical state so that our mind wouldn’t poop out during the experience.

For over two hours he taught us how to condition our nervous system to feel strong so that we could use all of our emotional, mental, and physical resources to get through this five second firewalk. At one point all five thousand of us even laid on the ground and did a hypnosis of sorts to get our unconscious mind in alignment.

Throughout all the hoopla, I was like, “C’mon, let’s move it along. I’m not afraid of this, and I don’t need all this conditioning. It’s only five seconds and there’s a lot of reseach that I’ve seen online that says it’s just about impossible to burn your feet if you walk at a regular clip.” Tony himself mentioned several times that this is not to prove to yourself that you can walk on fire – he says anyone can. This is a metaphor for being able to do something in life you thought you couldn’t do.

Well, that’s all great except I knew I could do it. So, I wasn’t as pumped about the firewalk as a lot of people.

In the midst of all of this, I made a decision – I would do the firewalk in the most unresourceful state possible. I’d summon fear, I’d walk slowly, I would not repeat the “cool moss” mantra (replaced with “This is hot!”), and I would actually “feel” my feet with every step. I wanted to try to feel the coals.

I knew it wasn’t dangerous, but I wanted to find out how non-dangerous it was, just because sometimes I’m weird like this.

When I got up to the grass and it was my turn, I feigned excitement. I got myself in the resourceful state, all pumped up to pass their gatekeeper. He has people that will assess whether you are in a peak state to be able to do the walk. If not, they yank you out for safety reasons. As soon as the guy yelled, “Go!” I dropped all the personal power I had and started walking.

The first few steps were fine. Sure I could feel the lava rocks beneath my feet and that is awkward, but it didn’t hurt. I thought, “See? This is no big deal. You don’t need all the pump-up to be okay. The feet can handle this all on it’s own.”

This lasted until my fourth step when I landed right in the middle of a coal and I felt it. I felt it hard. It fucking hurt. I had burned myself.

A few steps later and I had finished the firewalk. They hosed down my feet and I celebrated. I had made it. Slightly burned, but still. I had just walked on fire for chrissakes. I jumped up and down with my partner and we hugged. I yelled in his ear to ask if he got burned at all. He was like, “Nope – didn’t feel a thing!” He had followed all the instructions, along with probably everyone else. In the end five thousand people walked and nobody was injured.

My foot was mildly on fire (excuse the poor metaphor). I drove home that night and realized that my state probably did affect my experience. I didn’t have any marks on my feet but for the next few days I could feel it. It’s gone now and I’m fine, but I did learn a valuable lesson – my state is important.

That’s probably the most important thing I learned at the seminar. Our states affect our resources. We can snap into certainty and resourcefulness or laughter or empathy in a moment. My state at work affects my performance. And I need to get conscious about what I’m bringing to each situation.

In the end the seminar was life-changing. He really knows his stuff and, if you do the work, you’ll come out stronger than you came in.

Plus, I now have a bar stool story about walking on fire. Sure I got a little burned, but I’ll probably leave that part out.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month.

Now, the fun news – to help the Band with their annual fundraiser I’m going to host a twenty-four hour blog-a-thon. This means that I’m going to stay up for a whole day and post each hour. Yeah, that’s twenty-four posts. I didn’t pass calculus, but by my estimation that’s twenty-three more than I generally do in a given day.

We’re still working out the particulars. I plan on having giveaways and prizes, live Google+ webchats, games, and other fun ideas.

Since there’s no way I’m going to write twenty-four quality posts in a day, I need your help.

If you have a post you’d like to submit, drop me a line at dj@thoughtsfromparis.com. I’m looking for posts that reflect on mental health  issues   preferably with a humorous tint. If you’re a blogger there’s a 93% chance you have already written such a post. Send it over.

I’ll publish it and it will get seen by thousands that day and forever immortalized on my blog. Further, if you have a book or other gift you’d like to give away, let me know!

Email me your posts and I’ll judge their worthiness.

I’l probably do a few live interviews that day to publish as podcasts. If you’d like to be interviewed about your adventures or experiences with mental illness, let me know.

Thanks, yo.

D.J.

P.S. Date of the marathon session to be announced in the next week. Somebody needs to hook me up with some Class I stimulants, by the way. Don’t bogart.

I was driving to a doctor’s appointment this evening and talking to the friend I wrote about the other day where I offered to eat her kidney stone. I live in Chicago and it’s impossible to speed. I’m even one of those nerds that does a complete stop at stop signs. I’m not all law-abidin’, though. I turn on red all the time even when there isn’t a turn arrow in the left lane or if there’s a “no turn on red” sign in the right lane. I’m an outlaw when it comes to turning. But, this time I know I was just driving along at 27 mph through downtown Evanston.

In a way I was excited. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong and I wanted to see what the cop might say. Maybe my taillight was busted. Maybe he was a blog reader and recognized my profile. Maybe he was just lonely and wanted to get weird with someone.

Then it hit me.

Oh shit.

I went from chuckling at the idea of talking to the office to mildly freaking out. I realized I had two problems. First, my registration had expired two months back. My dad pointed it out over Thanksgiving. I must have missed the notice. I mean I hardly drive the car. You all know that I bike to work or ride the subway. I have one of those cars that takes premium and gas is expensive.

Well, it just so happened that I finally got off my fanny and renewed the registration a few days ago. Great timing.

Now the next thing – I didn’t have a new insurance card.

I remember growing up I feel like I got a new State Farm card every two months. I had a stack of those things and I never put them in my wallet. Who had the time to keep swapping them out? At sixteen I had cigarettes to smoke. I was busy.

Since I’ve only been pulled over (before this) twice in my twenty years of driving, I sort of forget that insurance cards are important. I’m insured and all, but don’t feel the need to flaunt it to my wallet every time those cards come in. Years ago I just got into the habit of tossing them. Not a great move.

The officer came up to my window, and while I know I’ve done nothing wrong, this is going to sound, well, not good.

Asked for license and insurance.

I found an insurance card in my wallet that expired back in December of 2011. I handed it to him and explained that I just called State Farm a few days back to order a new card (true). I assured him that I was insured and I was sorry not to have the updated card with me.

Then he said, “I pulled you over because of your registration had expired.” Of course.

Now I had to transition from the card to registration and provide basically the same answer.

I just renewed it this week (also true) online. I hadn’t realized it had been expired but as soon as I did I paid it in full.

He asked if I had any proof. I thought fast.

Yeah, I bet they emailed me a receipt. I’ll look for it!

He said that was fine and went back to his car. I searched through every inch of my deleted folder and inbox. Nothing. But I knew I had paid. He was walking back up when I thought fast.

I’m sorry – I don’t think they sent me a receipt, but I can pull up the credit card charge!

He stood over me as I punched up my bank app and headed to the credit card purchases. There is was – $128 to the state of IL for license renewal. He said that was fine. He also believed me about the insurance.

I’m sure he already knew this and had run the info in his car computer. They must be able to see if your registration is good and if you have insurance. But, even though I think cops are usually the dicks you went to high school with, I’ve always had good experiences. You just have to let them be the boss and give away your power. It’s worked for me.

I’m pretty excited to having gone two for two on pull overs and no tickets. The last time I did get a warning, but I still count it as a win. So, be a dick all you want – I really don’t care. If yelling at me means I avoid a ticket, then go ahead. I’ve been married before. I can take it.

photo credit: gaspi *yg via photopin cc

This will be my first speaking event where I address bloggers. I’m grateful to have been asked and over the past few months have tried to create a worthwhile presentation/discussion for attendees. My topic is about taking risks with your writing and trusting in your abilities.

When I was at BlogHer I was in a half-day seminar with thirty women. During one exercise we lined up on spectrum where one end represented “confusion” and the other end “clarity.” We were asked where we believe we are with our blog content. I just assumed everyone was confident about their writing and so I made my way over to the “clarity” side. Well, it was just me and two other women. The rest of the group was at the “confusion” side.

I felt like an egotistical dick. Who was I to feel confident about my crap? But I did feel confident – not egotistical, but comfortable. I’m not a good writer. I know this. I need to learn more about writing. But, I am clear about what I want this blog to be, and I feel damned competent.  My blog has always been about three things – humor, honesty, and vulnerability. While it started out as humor-only site I quickly realized I was not going to be able to hit joke  home runs  every day. I needed to expand my offering if I was to create any regular content. Jokes take too long to perfectly craft.  Over time I started to add in stuff (non-funny, mostly) about my day.

When I started experimenting with non-funny content, I was in the middle of a divorce. I had many feelings, mostly sadness and anger, that were  constant.  I wrote about these experiences. Even though I would pepper each post with jokes, it was primarily a confessional of what was going on in my life.

Growing up I thought if I was funny people would think I was cool. And yes, if you’re funny, people like you. Girls will dig you. But I thought if I shared my pain and sadness and anger, you’d see I was a big screw up and run away. Ironically, making a lot of jokes will almost guarantee that people will not feel close to you. I have best friends with whom I never shared anything  substantive. It took a lot of years to face pain that I’ve avoided myself. By learning how to courageously tell my loved ones about my struggle, they have felt closer to me and we have connected at a deeper level. The same has happened with my readers. So now when I write I always start with one question.

Do I have the courage today to write about what’s really going on?

Then, a second question.

What is really going on?

I realized the other day that I never have written about fear. I rant constantly about anger, sadness and shame, but never about fear. And the truth is that I’m terrified of many things. Scared that my girlfriend will leave me (like my wife did). Scared that I won’t ever make the money I want to make at my day job (or get fired). Scared that my readers will leave over time.

Fear is the hardest thing for me to address. Ironically, fear is a deep, connecting experiences. When I have exposed my shadows, this has done more to increase readership than the dad dick stories I’ve penned. I am insanely proud of those stories, by the way. I do have a mom vagina story that I need to write, too, but it’s not about my mom’s vagina. It’s about vagina advice my mother gave me. Oh yes. It’s good.

When I address everyone this Friday, even though I’m doing twenty-five minutes, I can really sum it up in two sentences.

Write the truth like you wouldn’t notice if your entire audience left. And, if they do leave, keep writing as a new audience will funnel in for the second show.

photo credit: Garrett Crawford via photopin cc

A problem I’ve had throughout my love life has been getting women to agree with me on all my opinions. If you disagree with my stance on something I feel passionate about, I take it as a personal attack. I then think we’re not a united front and mismatched. But I also think you’re lying about your position. That, under sodium  pentothal  and a heat lamp, you would admit that my stance on the topic was, in fact, your stance.

So, to sum up – you’re disagreeing with me to intentionally spar. This means that you really hate me, because why wouldn’t you just say, “Hey, that’s a really great opinion!”? So, since you hate me – I have to attack you to defend myself.

Once again – you know I’m right. You don’t want to concede I’m right. You make up a bullshit opposing position. I don’t believe you and try to get you to admit you’re lying. I get increasingly upset that you won’t admit you’re lying. I accuse you of horribly malicious stuff.

Can you imagine you’re dating me and just have a different opinion on a topic where I believe I’m right? After a few experiences with my insanity, you’re going to keep those viewpoints to yourself. And you’re going to feel that I don’t respect or acknowledge your thoughts. Basically, I’m going to make you feel like shit.

Welcome to my crazy.

I was telling my therapist all about this today – and just to put a few points in my good-guy column, I know this is nuts. I understand how this is all in my head and not appropriate behavior and that it can damage relationships. Plus, it’s plain not fair to my partner.

However, I never do any of it on purpose. I’m not trying to be combative. In the moment where you’re sharing a different viewpoint – I actually think you’re lying.

During therapy I wanted to work on me not needing my girlfriend to agree with me on every little topic. And also to not see every differing opinion as a personal attack. Even though I may think she’s wrong, she may think she’s right, and it’s okay to make room for her beliefs.

We worked on some basic active listening skills and what to do when I’m caught up in the moment and feeling attacked. I wanted to go back to the psychological roots of why I was doing this in the first place. Finally, she said, “I don’t think you’re listening to me.” That got me super pissed because I was listening.

“I’ve heard and agreed with each strategy you just discussed. I can tell you everything you just said if you’d like me to repeat it.”

Sure, go ahead.

(after repeating almost verbatim what she had said) – I was agreeing with you but I kept wanting to go back to the roots of the issue instead of strategies to cope when it comes up.

Okay, so clearly you were listening. But why would I think you weren’t?

Because while you were talking I was inside my head trying to figure out the roots of my issue, and at the same time processing your strategies. I can do both simultaneously.

That’s amazing. However, again, why did I think you weren’t listening?

My eyes were closed and I was inside my head trying to work this thing out myself. And I kept changing the topic to going back to what I wanted to talk about.

Right, we weren’t having a conversation. You were trying to control the direction of the session to get to where you wanted. You evaluated every strategy I gave you, and since you agreed with me, you immediately moved on to the next topic.

Ah – yes, that’s  true.

So, that’s not a conversation, D.J.

But as soon as I agree with you, can’t we just move on?

Oh boy…

— fin —

It’s time for me to learn that a conversation is not a monologue or rant of my thoughts. That’s merely performance. I need to be able to take in other people’s ideas and really digest them with them. This is intimacy and connectedness.

Strangely enough, to coworkers or friends I’m okay with your having a different stance on something. But when we’re dating (or married) you better damn well agree on everything I believe. Or else!

Yep – sadly, I have to own that this is me. But hopefully not for long.

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We all had a sad day today.  At least the few people I talked to.  And since four people is a relational sample to the rest of the earth’s population, this is apt.  We were sad.

Let us collectively stick out our lower lip and make a solid frowny-face.  That is actually fun so don’t do it too much as it takes the darkness out of depression.  Stay in the shadows for a little big longer, please.  I need you at your worst so I don’t feel alone.

Waking up today I saw that it was raining. While I normally ride my bike to work and burn a few hundred calories, it just wasn’t possible today.  The dog and I loaded up and took to the subway.  I think throwing off any of my normal routine is upsetting to my system.  Also, hard exercise on the way to work and getting all sweaty is a nice release of stress and tension.  It’s just plain exhausting and some of the awesome neurotransmitters start firing out pleasure.  Great way to feel good without two fingers of Scotch, although that works great, too.

The sun not being around does something funky. I know tons of people suffer from S.A.D. but I wouldn’t be surprised if it affected all of us a little in a depressive way.

So, no exercise, no sun.  Oh, and I didn’t bring an umbrella, because umbrellas take all the fun out of the rain.  I wear a suit and everything, but I’m not willing to give up getting wet. So even though the rain was nice, the humidity just made everything heavy, hot, and dark.

The day itself was fine, but when I got home I just fell headfirst into sadness and fear.  For years I studied self-improvement that taught you how to quickly climb out of these spaces.  But for me, I never allowed myself to climb in.  Sadness, depression, fear, anger, shame – all natural and normal human experiences.  In fact, my inability to sit in these dark places without running away caused most of my issues today.

It’s weird for me to write a post without humor, but that’s where I’m at right now.  It will be gone by tomorrow I’m sure.

What I’ve learned about sadness is that I need to  courageously push  into it to come out the other side. My inclination is to distract pain with television, food, or online activity.  I’m afraid to go in to the pain because it might just be too awful in there.  That’s where it helps to have friends who can pull you out if you get lost.  But I’ve found that by going in I usually come out of it very quickly and the pain subsides.

It’s weird to have sadness when you have a pretty good life. Nothing tragic happened today, and I am grateful for a lot of reasons. But I feel sad. And scared. I can own it.

Tomorrow – seventeen new dick jokes!  (I’ve written fourteen so far.)

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For some reason this thought popped into my head seemingly from nowhere:

I wish I had kidney stones so I could pass them because that would give me two weeks of blog material.

I’d like to clarify that I have a low tolerance for pain.  I’m not a fan.  I doubt I would enjoy passing a kidney stone.  But still, in my fantasy mind, I decided it would make a perfect story.  Plus, the sound of the crystallized calcium shooting out of my urethra and hitting the side of the bowl with a loud “ding”  would be funny.

This is how immature I am.  I know that it’s supposed to be one of the most painful experiences for men.  But in that moment I was actually sad I didn’t have kidney stones to write about.  Since it’s clear that I don’t have kidney stones, I had to move into another thought.  One that I’ve had for years.

I would like to grow out my mustache and beard for charity, and wax it all off.

One time I sort of did this.  I grew out my mustache for five days and then used some wax stuff.  I could only peel it slowly off and felt every hair being yanked from the root.  It hurt so bad I could only do one third of the ‘stache.  If I had been able to rip it clean off, it probably wouldn’t have been so intense.  That was the first and only time I ever waxed any of my face.

I’ve gone so far into this fantasy that I’ve even searched and found beard waxing videos on Youtube.  Done properly it actually doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.  One guy did it for Mo’vember which I have participated in the past.  I even sent him a personal message asking about it.  He said it was great and that he didn’t have to shave for two weeks.

Would you pay to see me grow my beard out and get it waxed?  I think it would be hilarious.  Yes, I’d cry and bleed, but it would give me at least two days’ worth of stories.

Now, lest you think I am unable to grow said beard and mustache, I say, “Quiet naysayers!”  Sure, I’m not a hairy Italian slob, but I still have to shave every day.  It’s mostly blonde and brown, with a little red thrown in.  Wouldn’t you care to see it ripped at the root?

Ooh… maybe for an extra hundred bucks I’d let the waxer dump a little rubbing alcohol on the skin afterwards.  That would really make for great video.  Plus, you’d see me punch an  aesthetician right in her face.  This is sounding better and better.

So, is there something psychologically unsound about me that I have a beard waxing fantasy?  My other fantasies generally involve pizza.  I’m a simple man.

Interestingly enough, waxing my chest (and I am pretty hairy there) does not appeal to me at all.  I’m not against the idea, but I wouldn’t seek it out.  Plus, I don’t want my nips to get ripped off on that sugarwax concoction.

photo credit: vanz via photo pin cc

You may disagree.  F you and your silly hat.

However, this is the first time I’ve had a true block.  Usually I can go back through my day and find something funny, interesting, or touching to talk about.  While I may not know where I’m going, within a few hundred words it takes shape.

I think I know why it’s hard today.

When I visit my parents at home (such as now), I regress.  I’m back in high school.  No responsibilities, lots of things to eat that are stocked by someone else,  and clean sheets and towels.  I don’t pay for dinner and nobody asks me to do much of anything.  It’s like a vacation without the invoice slipped under your hotel room door.

What I’ve learned about myself is that without a ton of hard work I don’t develop my potential.  Having things handed to me, while appreciated, ultimately allows certain emotional and mental muscles to atrophy.  My creativity goes away.

Since I’m not making decisions (most everything is provided here), I don’t have many real experiences.  I was looking back on this day and realized I didn’t do much.  I ate Chinese  food for breakfast followed by a big bag of popcorn.  Next, I went to Home Depot and my father helped me secure my car cover because it keeps blowing away.

Note : Car covers are usually reserved for douchebags.  I only have one  because my parking spot is directly under a tree filled with birds.  If I leave uncovered for one day, I have at least six shit stains on the hood by that evening.  After a week it looks like I’m driving the world’s  largest  dalmatian.

After the hardware store I passed out for two hours.  Woke up, went to dinner.  Home now.  About to sleep.

No kidding I have nothing to write about.  I didn’t do anything!

Going home is amazing because it is the ultimate escape from the real world.  Mortgages, work, cleaning the oven – none of this exists while I’m here.  That’s the upside.

The downside is you just read the worst post of the year.  I’d encourage you to come back tomorrow, when I’m back in my condo and pissed that I have to take care of myself.  It will be funnier.

Here’s another story that I’m sure many of you can relate to (and yes, I know you aren’t supposed to end sentences with prepositions, but it still works conversationally so I don’t care).

I used to be a juicing freak.  No, not steroids.  I’m talking about making freshly squeezed fruit and vegetable juice.  I’ve owned four different juicers over the years if that clues you into my obsession.

It’s ironic that I juice since I often eat fast food and hardly exercise.  But anyway.

I had never thought of juicing a beet before.  One of the guys I worked with, Kevin, told me they were great for your liver.  Since I was a pretty awful booze-bag, this seemed like a good idea.  If you haven’t seen a raw beet, they’re kind of intimidating.  They’re really hard and big.

Trying to cut into a beet is not easy.  You need a decent knife.  Also, do it in the sink, because your hands will look like you just committed homicide.  It will freak you out.  If you get any of it on your clothes, you may as well toss ’em.  I cut beets with my shirt off and my chest hair would end up looking like Ralph Malph’s head.

Okay, let’s move this story along.  Actually to the end.  So I juiced a beet and mixed it with spinach and six other vegetables.  Yes, I know – this is riveting storytelling.  An hour later I went to the water closet.

Now, if you know what I’m going to say next, YOU KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY NEXT.

I nearly fainted.  If you’ve never experienced what I’m talking about, I’m sure you have a pretty good idea.  Beets do a very interesting thing to your insides.  I really have no idea what, but man is it intense.

Because when you go to make number one, it will test your ability to not pass out.

We’ve all giggled about how asparagus makes your pee smell.  And by the way, I would amend that with “makes your pee smell AWESOME” – it’s like a little magic trick you can do with your body.  God, that’s fun.

Beets do something fun too, but you have to know in advance.  And somehow, my entire life, nobody had clued me into this craziness. Maybe less people know because beets sort of suck?  Nobody really hits the raw beet aisle over asparagus at the grocer.

I was trembling and I called Kevin.  “Hey man, do beets, uh, make things red?  Because I may be dying.”

He was laughing when he told me, “Same thing happened to me!  I freaked out!  Yes, they turn your pee red.  Wait until you see what they do to your shit!”

He was totally right.