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 …

About fifteen years ago I was working as a marketer for a beer company. I toured around the country working with local distributors to set up and run events. I can’t remember exactly where we were (probably Los Angeles), but there was a rumor that Paris Hilton was going to come to this party we were attending. This was very exciting to me. I came up with a bit that I thought was amusing. I’d introduce myself as D.J. Paris and then say, “We should get married because then you’d be Paris Paris!” She’d laugh and we’d snap a picture. I’d pose on bended knee sliding a Ring Pop on her finger. The whole interaction would be less than a minute, but I’d be able to tell that story the rest of my life. Unfortunately she didn’t make it to the party that evening. I remember being pretty depressed.

As I think back what strikes me is this simple fact – I have never wanted to actually meet Paris Hilton. Other than for the joke I wanted to pull, she doesn’t interest me. I’m not even attracted to her physically. I suspect we wouldn’t have anything in common, even if we did strike up a real conversation. I’m not putting her down – a friend of mine did meet her a few months after my attempt and he said she was pleasant and sweet. So, why was I so upset that a woman I wasn’t trying to date or befriend didn’t show up at the hotel that evening?

Because she is a celebrity. And I find celebrities appealing.

If it was just the name-joke thing, I could find some random woman who resides in Chicago with the first name Paris. But then the story wouldn’t be as interesting. Nobody would care that I proposed to Paris Hughes, a 24 year old consultant who lives with her two roommates in Wrigleyville. It’s maybe a one on the “great story” meter. Paris Hilton would be a ten.

This past week America chose a celebrity to lead our nation.

To me, this is worth spending time thinking about. Let’s say you worked at a company that sold brake pads and due to some mismanagement the financials were in trouble and everyone was spooked. I can’t imagine you’d be celebrating that instead of hiring a competent CEO well-versed in successful turnarounds, the board of directors chose the world’s finest tenor saxophone player to lead the company. You could make the argument that this sax player has great discipline and doesn’t crack during performances. And maybe that could translate into more brake pad sales since those principles might translate. But it’s a stretch. Also unlikely. And the board of directors would be fired immediately for suggesting this replacement.

I don’t look at Donald Trump as a politician. Well, he is now. But I always thought of him as a celebrity. And, for sure, he’s one of the best celebrities that ever was. Very few can stay in the public eye for all those years and keep the public’s fascination. Whether or not you like him as a celebrity, you have to admire his success at the job. It’s something that can’t be argued, unlike his business practices. Some call him a business genius other call him a business failure, but one thing is certain – he knows how to keep the country interested in him. And he’s paid extremely well because of it.

Watching social media this week, there’s a tremendous amount of anger and sadness coming from those who didn’t support him. And, to be clear, I didn’t vote for him, either. Of course I was offended, like so many others, with his rhetoric throughout the campaign. But that’s not the reason I didn’t vote for him. I didn’t vote for him BECAUSE HE’S A CELEBRITY AND I DON’T WANT A CELEBRITY WITHOUT POLITICAL EXPERIENCE RUNNING OUR COUNTRY.

Donald Trump isn’t the problem. Or at least, not the real problem. He’s just one of the most famous people on the planet, and he realized two things that would enable him to win.

1. We love celebrities.
2. We hate politicians.

Now, I’m not a political scientist, and I avoided all those classes in college because it seemed like too much reading. But when a celebrity can beat all the politicians running against him, that’s an impressive victory. And if you don’t think Kim Kardashian could do the same thing in twenty years and win, you’re wrong. She could. You can make the argument that she’s an even more compelling celebrity than Donald Trump. She’s had less scandal, that’s for sure. Also, her business acumen is beyond reproach. But the question is – would you want her running the country? I wouldn’t. And this isn’t a slight to her – I know people who have worked with her at E! and say she’s lovely. But I don’t want a celebrity running the country.

So, what’s the solution? Somehow we have to bring reason and logic back into these important decisions. We have to realize emotional decision making isn’t usually a great idea. Remember the last time you got drunk and texted your ex? I hope it makes you shudder. The problem is that trying to get adults to change is difficult. Most people are in love with their thoughts and beliefs and it’s almost too late for anyone over twenty-one. But kids can be taught. Children can be told to look at problems with less emotion and more objectivity. It’s the same argument I made earlier this year that only members of Mensa should be allowed to vote. It was a joke, but it’s not the worst idea.

And, I’m no better than anyone else. The few times a celebrity has tweeted at me or laughed at something I’ve written has definitely has filled me with excitement that I don’t get from you non-celebs. Hell, I even got pumped when Jackie Stallone told me she was going to read one of my stories to Sly. So, trust me, I understand the celebrity fascination. And while I don’t think most of Trump’s supporters will admit it, his ability at being an amazing celebrity is really what won him the election.

People can change, however. I no longer fantasize about proposing to Paris Hilton. She’s just a person, just like all of us regular people. I mean, I’d still marry her and all, but that’s because she’s rich. Also, she’s blonde and I think it’s a good idea for blondes to marry blondes. We understand each other. Oh, and I just realized she’s a professional DJ and my name’s D.J.. Hmm… this is all lining up nicely. I take it back – I’m totally going after Paris Hilton. LET THE COURTSHIP BEGIN!

photo credit: marco-castelli Marco Castelli_by P.Genesini via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eva Rinaldi Celebrity and Live Music Photographer Kim and Khloe Kardashian via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eva Rinaldi Celebrity and Live Music Photographer Paris Hilton via photopin (license)

Women terrified me until I was twenty-two.

Without hyperbole I had a full, blown-out phobia of the fairer sex. Also bees. I can remember in first grade there was a girl who I wanted to date, or whatever we called it back then. I knew that I wasn’t good looking enough, however. That horrible self-image lasted until (in college) my first girlfriend told me that I was handsome. And she was beautiful. With her validation I realized that all those years I had been lying to myself. It’s not like after that moment I walked around campus believing I was chiseled from stone. But I no longer thought of myself as ugly. All it took was one person’s compliment and my lifetime of thinking I was gross-looking went away. I’d love to tell you that I came to an acceptance of my attractiveness through intense self-exploration and maturity. Nope. It just took the prettiest girl I knew to tell me I was hot. Sometimes that’s all you need.

The best part about being comfortable about one’s looks is that I simply stopped thinking about it. I don’t consider myself good looking or ugly. If I saw a beautiful woman sizing up the tangerines at the grocery, I’d approach. I’d get rejected, most likely, but it wouldn’t be confirmation that I was ugly. It would be confirmation that she has horrible taste. She’d continue on with her shopping, but make a near-fatal error reaching for the buttered pie tins in the baking aisle. She’d slip due to a not-yet-cleaned-up-but-still-invisible layer of coconut oil on the linoleum that a previous patron had knocked over. The cart and weight of its contents would press against her neck cutting off her ability to breathe. The irony of being killed by food which brings us life would not be lost on me! Despite my humiliation moments before, I’d spring to action. Using brawn, I’d remove the cart from her neck restoring her carotid artery to its working function. She’d kiss me deeply and whisper that she was sorry and had misjudged me over by the Mexican bananas. And then I’d laugh and say, “Don’t worry about it, kid.” I’d turn my back and leave the store a hero. Stock boys would toast me every December at the employee holiday party.

The point is that women don’t freak me out anymore. I found that after the phobia lifted, I enjoyed their company. I don’t understand them, of course. They’re nuts. Everyone knows that. But, I get along with women. I dig hanging with them.

When this blog began someone told me to go BlogHer, an all-women’s conference. Since I do what people tell me, I went. At the time I was writing for a humor website (the now defunct AimingLow) which was staffed by women. If I remember correctly I was the only male staff writer. That brings me to InThePowderRoom.

I met Leslie Marinelli at the Aiming Low Non-Conference, which actually was a conference, but we’re cool and irreverent and make fun of things like conferences. I also knew Leslie because she contributed to AimingLow and I was a fan of her work.

Every year I’d see Leslie at a conference or two and we’d chat it up about something. Once I was walking with Kate Hall and Stephanie Sprenger, both bonafide successes in the blogging world, and Leslie messaged me that I better get my ass down to the hotel lobby stat. Kate and Stephanie looked at me and said, “You know Leslie Marinelli?” I said I did and they both squealed with delight and asked if they could tag along. Everyone adores Leslie and she has true celebrity status in the blogging community. I just have a that’s-the-weird-guy-who-goes-to-women’s-blogging-conferences status.

At some point a few years ago Leslie took full control of InThePowderRoom and became its sole owner. Since it’s clear from the site’s title that the focus is on women, it never occurred to me to ask to write something for them. But, 99% of my blogging friends were women, most of my readers were women, and I feel like I can crank out toxic shock jokes like a broad. So, earlier this year I reached out to Sarah, the deputy editor, and pitched an idea. My thought was that it could be an interesting concept if a guy reviewed women’s products. If you watch television commercials you’ll see that men are often portrayed as morons. I would adopt a persona of a bumbling guy who would take a product specifically designed for a woman and write about how it confused him. Since their readers are largely married women with husbands, I felt this idea hit their demographic perfectly. I’d represent their idiot husbands. Sarah pitched to Leslie and they agreed to give it a test.

Since I’m not privy to their stats I have no idea if their audience actually liked my column. But Sarah and Leslie liked it. And we worked out an arrangement where I would give them exclusive, fresh content every month. This was a big deal to me. It was an honor to write for them on the regular and I worked like crazy on each sentence to make it perfect. Leslie’s the kind of person that, if I tweeted out a link to their site and it generated big traffic, she’d email to thank me directly. That’s thoughtful.

Sadly, Leslie and Sarah announced recently that the site has stopped publishing. It may be temporary, but nobody knows. While it never would have occurred to me to ask, Leslie reminded me that the contract I signed allowed me to republish the content I created for them on my own blog after a certain amount of time has passed. So, over the next few months I’ll start dripping in those pieces, because they are pretty damned funny. Because Sarah and Leslie are damned funny and they knew how to edit my stuff to make it better.

I hope they reopen the store at some point and I can’t wait to get back to work reviewing women’s products. There’s something called a Hermes Burkin bag which is like 20k and I have a lot to say about it. Just kidding. I have nothing to say about it. But I’ll make some shit up and send it over to Leslie and hope that she publishes it. Because that’s what you do with your friends. You build things together.

I’m honored to have been part of InThePowderRoom’s history and glad to have met Leslie. I doubt she’s written me into her will, but if she croaks and leaves the site to me, I’ll reopen it immediately. I even have a new tagline – “We Don’t Poop Because Women Don’t Do That.” Also, we’re going to have a lot more nudity. Playboy folded and that created a hole that needs filling. Unintentional pun there, but I’m leaving it in.

Thank you to Leslie and InThePowderRoom for creating amazing content for many years.

Here’s a link to everything I wrote for InThePowderRoom.

I’m going to write a part II to this celebration of InthePowderRoom discussing Leslie’s right-hand-woman, Sarah del Rio. She gets her own article.

First I released a new version of my Apple and Android app which include push notifications. Yes, you now get a popup whenever I write something new. Does my narcissism know no bounds?

Also I launched a Twitter web app which pokes around through your followers to see if anyone famous follows you. It’s pointless and silly but so are a majority of the activities in which I participate.

Okay, so now that the housecleaning is out of the way I’d like to publicly state that I’m a fantastic boyfriend.

This is not a proclamation from my ego. Believe me, there are many areas of life where I’m not proud. Just ask my therapist. She gets to hear all about it every Tuesday.

However, I have made a simple decision in my current relationship which has transformed the intimacy to a level I had never experienced before.

Years ago I was out at a party. There was a couple and the man was holding his girlfriend’s hand as they walked around the room. I watched them interact over the course of the evening and I noticed something that, at the time, seemed strange. He was constantly checking in with her and asking her what she needed.

He would make sure she had a full drink. Went around introducing her to his friends. Made sure she was having a good time.

Now, I know this couple. He’s not a controlling guy.  She’s not needy – in fact, she’s independent. However, you could see her appreciation each time he did something to show her he cared. It was obvious that she was the most important person at the party to him.

He understood a principle that I have only recently adopted.

Meeting your partner’s needs is the most important part of a relationship.

My guess is that at this party she felt insecure (she didn’t know anyone). To make her comfortable he never left her side. He was constantly touching and engaging her.

My girlfriend at the time remarked, “Wow – that’s a real man. Look at how he takes care of his woman.”

It took me seven years before I adopted this into practice. That’s not to say I was a jerk to my previous romances. I wasn’t. Often I tried my hardest to do things that I thought a good boyfriend should do. I didn’t, however, pay attention to what the woman actually needed.

This time I’m able to show up for the relationship in a new way. I make sure that my girlfriend’s needs are met first.

Now, I should point out that I’m dating an emotionally healthy person with reasonable needs. That helps.

I’ve paid attention over months and discovered what is most important to her. What makes her feel loved. Where and when she needs support. How to show appreciation in the way that she prefers.

Some of this I’ve learned by flat-out asking. “When you’re feeling sad, what should I do?” Other times I let my intuition take over and I do what comes natural.

The question I keep in the front of my mind is, “Does my woman need anything?” It’s a mantra to me.

When I see an opportunity, more often that not, I take action.

The damnedest thing has happened as a result of this focus. My woman feels like she is the center of my universe. She’s fulfilled.

Now, I’m far from perfect. I make mistakes and screw up in the relationship. She’s not always thrilled with me, I’m sure. But my batting average is solid.

In past relationships I used to worry about my needs being met. I withheld if I wasn’t receiving what I thought was fair. I no longer think or act this way. I now give at my fullest and assume that she will do the same. She does.

I wish somebody when I was younger would have sat me down and said, “If you take care of your partner, odds are they’ll take care of you. But you have to go first.”

Now, will I continue to put the work in as time wears on? I hope so.

But I don’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. This is all I can party with, people. A minor tinge of a half of a slight buzz.

It’s a side effect from ADD medicine that I started taking over the past few months. I have been on some form of ADD med for the past four years, but they’ve all been non-stimulant based. In the fall my doctor and I agreed to try a traditional approach to combatting Attention Deficit Disorder – stimulants.

I don’t know the science behind it, but maybe I don’t produce enough dopamine or  norepinephrine or something. Or maybe I produce the same as everyone else, but the neural reuptake process is screwy. All I know is something f’s with my ability to concentrate.

Because these drugs are highly controlled by the FDA they’re kind of a pain in the butt to obtain. Apparently non-ADDers abuse the stuff. At the pharmacy you have to show ID and they only give you a 30 day supply. If you walk in the next month even one day early they reject you. You have to be on top of things to never run out. And ADDers tend to have an issue with organization.

Anyway – I started taking this one and the most bizarre thing happened.

Now, mind you, I’m the king of high tolerance. I never get side effects from anything and most of the time I have to take double the normal dose to get the intended effect. I’m that guy that needs four ibuprofens to kill a headache. Thankfully I only get two headaches a year, so my liver is in good shape.

That’s was a weird assessment. How the hell do I know if I have a healthy liver? I didn’t exactly pass physician school. (It’s not really called that)

The ADD pill starts working pretty fast – I’d say within an hour or so. It’s supposed to last a total of six hours. I take it before lunch and then I have super-employee production in the afternoon. At around 2pm this strange side effect kicks in. All of a sudden I have the intense desire to connect intimately and emotionally with people. If I’m in a meeting I start appreciating all the great qualities the other members have. If I’m talking to my boss I silently thank him for employing me. The guy in the office who never says, “Bless you!” when I sneeze – he’s forgiven.

If I’m online I’ll have an overwhelming desire to send my girlfriend an “I love you!” instant message. She then replies with, “Meds are kicking in, huh?”

It’s a short-lived buzz and an hour later the side effect vanishes. The med then does it’s regular job of helping me focus. No more love party.

Well, today I forgot to take my med until around 6pm, when I got home.

So, yep, right about now I’m feeling pretty appreciative. I found myself looking at all the recent comments on the blog and wanting to virtually hug everyone who took the time out to write.

When I first felt this side effect I thought it was just a natural and genuine feeling. I didn’t realize it was the meds. I was very impressed with myself and thought maybe I had achieved nirvana or enlightenment. But then I remembered I don’t meditate and I can’t even touch my toes, let alone sit in the lotus position. I’m a naturally happy guy and all, but I ain’t that happy.

I Google’d it and yep, many people experience this “sense of appreciation” effect.

Now, when the short window opens with this feeling, I take advantage of it. I mentally list all the things I’m grateful for and step into that emotion. Screw writing out Oprah’s gratitude list. Just artificially create the feeling with pharmaceuticals! I’m kidding.

So, while it’s fresh in my mind, I do want to send out a very specific thank you to all who are reading these words. Yes, the meds are bumping up this sensation a little, but I mean it. The amount of traffic has increased to the point where I am migrating over to a new server with better hardware. You guys outgrew my old hosting.

Okay, the feeling’s about over. I’m back to my typical, non-appreciative self.

I still love ya, though. I really do.

photo credit: imsvsims via photopin cc

I don’t.

I realized this fact on Christmas Eve during our family’s annual holiday party. Carolyn and Laura are two sisters who grew up in our neighborhood. They’re both very successful. One’s a realtor and the other an attorney. The attorney (Carolyn) stated she always picks up change she stumbles across in the real world. Laura does not.

That led to a quick poll of the room.

About half of those in attendance said they picked up coins. When asked why they together barked, “Why not?” The picker-uppers didn’t have more explanation than that. Laura said, “Carolyn, you’re an attorney for God’s sake! You don’t need to pick up a penny.” Carolyn replied, “Yes, but now I’m one penny richer!”

What was interesting is that both camps did not understand the behavior of the others. We both thought each other was nuts.

To me, the idea of grabbing a penny off the ground doesn’t even register as something to do. I don’t use pennies in my life. I don’t use any change. The only time I used a coin in the past year was for a parking meter in a Chicago suburb. Oh, and also when my cat peed on my comforter and I had to go to the laundromat.

I pay for things in cash less than one percent of the time. Here in Vegas at a conference I do carry cash – for tipping. But other than that, it’s all credit cards. I want the airline miles!

I, with pride in my heart, whipped out my Mastercard two days ago at Walgreens for a $.37 purchase.

Now, I find coins on the ground three times a week minimum. Living in a big city, they’re everywhere. And I never bend down and grab them. Even if it’s a quarter, the holy grail of free change, I pass on by.

I started asking myself the tougher question. Like Descartes pondering existence, I wondered at what amount I would reach down and grab free cash. What is my threshold?

Pretty sure that Descartes joke is going to fall flat. I’m leaving it in.

The minimum amount is one dollar. If I ever come across a paper note, it’s going in my pocket. This has never happened.

So, now the question is begged – do I think I’m too good to pick up ground-change?

I’d like to say no, that it’s the dirtiness of the coins or that I’d hope someone else less fortunate finds it and puts it to use. But that shit ain’t true. I have no problem with dirt and grime, and I could always donate my change at the end of the year if I felt guilty about grabbing it.

No, the truth is this – I’m too good to pick up change.

I wish I weren’t typing that but it’s a sad reality. I feel powerful when I walk by a penny and refuse to stop. Like I’m a big shot who doesn’t have the time. And doesn’t need it.

Now, there’s no reality here – I’m not so wealthy that I don’t have the time. True, finding change isn’t going to speed up my retirement, but I’m not above visiting the CoinStar once a year to receive a small sum.

So, here’s my new proclamation – from now on I will now pick up EVERY coin I see lying in the street. I will donate all cash at the end of the year to something so I’ll feel like an ever bigger shot.

See what I did there? Clever, no?

• Window Blinds @MockingBirdDon’t

Let’s talk about window blinds – first of all, totally not necessary. We’re not vampires. You should be able to handle a little light peeking in from the sun at 6am. I sleep right through it like a man. Next – privacy. If you aren’t comfortable with the outside world seeing your bedroom antics, you’re probably doing something illegal. Take down the sex swing. I have blinds on all my windows and have never once used them. In fact even when I’m nude I don’t. I’m comfortable with my imperfect and, at times, unsightly body.

• Silk Flowers @Gee_Mae

Silk flowers sound awesome. Who doesn’t like flowers? And silk? Feels like perfection. Sadly, neither of these are what encompasses an actual silk flower. First, you’re impressing nobody with these fake organics. Spend $10 every two weeks and hit the farmer’s market. Buy a few tulips, for God’s sakes. You’re self-esteem can’t be that low that you’re not worth a lousy flower. You just have to put ’em in water and let ’em sit. It’s not calculus. I’m going to start shaming people who have silk flowers. You’ll see me standing at the end of the aisle of J0-Anne Fabrics just shaking my head disappointingly. It will work.

• Cheez-its @Shinigami_64

I have no opinion on Cheez-Its since I never buy them. I feel like when I’m at a party I’ll eat some, and they’re mildly satisfying. They’re not good enough to buy, but in a pinch will do. Like that La Croix water stuff. It’s not good – but not terrible. Nacho Cheese Doritos are way more exciting. Both will make you fat, so choose that one.

• Goblins @kmblyheus

Goblins are the greatest tiny creature to ever roam the earth. My last sentence presupposes that goblins do, in fact, exist. And let’s just assume they do. Why? Because it’s fun. You can use them to scare little children into doing stuff. I feel like we don’t have enough goblin horror movies. I love everything about them – the sharp teeth, the little arms and legs, everything. More goblins, I say!

• Who Got Hungry Enough to Think of Eating Capers? @expendablemudge

Not me. Capers are gross. So are green olives. Ironically, I love olive oil, but the green ones are too damned strong. But I also don’t drink, and a virgin dirty martini would send me to the toilet, puking. Ooh, here’s something. I caught my father drinking pickle juice the other day. It was on his birthday and I was visiting, so I didn’t bust balls. But I did nearly vomit on my shoe. It was the last pickle, so it’s not like he put the jar back in the ‘fridge. Still. Shameful.

• Rain @Lola_Wants

Couple of things. I’ve finally turned into a gigantic p-word and started using an umbrella. I used to pride myself of walking in the rain uncovered like a moron. I thought it was manly or something. So I went out and bought a $100 umbrella and now I feel I have to use it because it was so expensive. Next – it’s been raining so much here in the midwest that I haven’t been as able to ride my bike to work. This means I’ve become fatter. And while fatter is funnier, my beach body isn’t attracting any ladies these days. Of course I go to the Hispanic beach and the chicas aren’t exactly drawn to pale cabelleros anyway.

• A 50 Year Old Woman Who Forms a Punk Rock Band @BertMosa

I have the perfect name for this band. Toxic Shock. That’s pure punk, right there. It would need to be an all-girls band, of course. I feel like that opener was strong enough, so I’m going to end this segment right here.

• Jumping Off Niagra Falls Naked @Frostthedragon

Forget naked – whatever happened to the barrel guys? Did people really do that? I think some did. Hang on. Googlin’ time. Yes. Ten made it successfully. That is really something. It appears that tons of other people attempted and died. Can you imagine the family reunion?

What happened to cousin Jed – he drowned, right?

Sorta – he went over Niagra Falls in a barrel and the barrel exploded upon impact. They never did find the body.

Wow – that’s tragic and totally awesome at the same time. I mean, not to his wife and kids. But between you and me – he rocks!

• My High School Prom @combatose

I took a really hot chick to my senior prom. First I picked her up in my sister’s convertible that a raccoon had peed in the week before. Next I was sunburned as all hell from playing in a tennis tournament that day. Lastly, I had such low self-confidence about getting any action that we parked at an after party and I drank a six pack of Ice House. I think she had one beer. Then I walked in the party and passed out within twenty minutes. Not exactly the seductiveness of don Juan.

I’m still wholly unsure.

In fact, I have no idea how this thing is going to turn out, and I’m massively insecure about it. Oh well. I can always go back to stories about falling through glass tables.

My parents were nice enough to come up for Father’s Day. We were also celebrating my birthday which was last Monday. This morning at brunch the music at the restaurant was up a little too loud for my liking. It pierced my ears a bit. Now, I’ve written about how I probably have Sensory Processing Disorder which basically means that I’ve overly sensitive to stimuli. I don’t mind music at breakfast, but this was loud, hip-hop music, and it bugged me. I thought I was going to have to ask our waiter if they could turn down the volume.

Then I noticed in the lyrics they said the f-word a few times. Now, I’m no prude, and a good “fuck” can make for some great art. I use it all the time. But I didn’t want to hear it over orange juice at a trendy restaurant at ten in the morning. And then it hit me…

I can’t block out the music because I can’t control it.

My parents didn’t seem to notice the music. It was loud to me, but registered no impression on them. They didn’t hear the lyrics or mind the techno beats. That aggravated me even more. Sure, I have a little more sensitivity to stuff like this, but surely they were bothered! They weren’t.

Not having control over people, places, or things, I’ve come to realize, is a major issue for me.

At work, I have full control over my job. I’m very lucky. If I want to bring my dog in, I do. If I want to bike in, I do. Should I want to leave early, I can. Nobody tries to change what I do or how I do it.

I also live alone. Everything is within my control, too. I don’t have to deal with a girlfriend, wife, or roommate. Currently I’m single so I spend most of my time by myself. More control.

But when I’m in a situation where I’m not the center of the universe, I freak out.

I met a friend’s parents the other night for dinner. Even though they were perfectly lovely, I wanted to bolt after dinner but had to wait for them to finish their beers. I was uncomfortable even though I had no reason to be. They only had one beer all through dinner, yet I almost couldn’t wait the extra four minutes. Weird.

I was taken to a party recently where I literally only knew my date. There were over eighty people at this gathering. Part of my day-job is that I interview people for positions. I’m used to striking up conversations with strangers. I have no problem going over and talking with anyone.

But at this party I found myself annoyed at everything and everyone (except my date). I was so uncomfortable and rarely struck out on my own. I sat in one spot and just felt out of sorts and angered. I wanted the drunk dude to cease being so loud. I wanted to stop someone from singing karaoke because they sucked. I wanted my date to introduce me to more people. I wanted to be alone when I was eating the food. In short, I wanted to be in control. It’s a lot of “wanteds” that I couldn’t control.

Over the past few months this control thing has made it difficult for me to enjoy being in groups with people. I just want to go home and isolate. Not healthy.

How I got over the hip hop issue this morning is the lesson here. I knew that since I didn’t want to be a dick and ask them to change the volume just for me, I would just have to learn to tolerate it. Could I sit in discomfort and would that ease the discomfort?

Learning how to tolerate that which I don’t like is really tough for controlling personalities like mine.

Here’s what happened. About ten minutes in, the music drifted away and I didn’t notice it anymore. I mean, this was bizarre. I had such a visceral reaction initially. I sat through some tough feelings of wanting to control it, and over time my body acclimated. I actually enjoyed it!

When I let go of my need for control, I experienced relief from discomfort. In essence I need to tolerate that which I don’t like.

So, going forward I’m going to force myself to not run when faced with tough feelings. Not to go off by myself every time. Not to leave the social gatherings. In short, learn how to be out of control. This is a good thing.

For some reason I knew I was the ugliest man to walk the face of the earth. Only Rocky Dennis had it worse than me. I’m not sure where this idea came from. I mean, stupid Lisa Gulick rejected me back in seventh grade and I think that I just extrapolated out to every woman. It’s just good science.

Growing up my mother told me all the time that I was handsome. I couldn’t hear it. I had a big head and big crazy blonde hair. I knew better. I was an uggo.

It wasn’t until my first girlfriend in college (at age twenty one) Lisa told me she thought I was really good looking that I started believing I could actually attract a woman. But this story takes place well before Lisa hit the scene.

It was summer break after the first year of college, 1995. I had a job where I was a security guard at a Jewish retirement home. It was not exactly the most dangerous post in the dispatch. Once I spent a night guarding a bread factory in the heart of the ghetto in Peoria. A driver had been held up by gunpoint just the week before. That was scary. I just sat behind a desk and smiled at the nice residents. And secretly wished I was Jewish. For the food. You understand.

One of my friends, Adam lived at his grandmother’s condo. His grandparents were well-to-do and had this nice three bedroom place. It was well-decorated and modern. Adam always had women hanging around him. Whereas the opposite sex scared me silly, they excited him. He had no problem talking to any girl he fancied. Plus, he made a lot of friends with the women at our high school.

Adam was having a small party at his place – just a typical summer soiree. There were maybe ten of us in all. Three guys and the rest girls. Some beers, burgers, that sort of thing. We were nineteen and lived for these afternoons. No real responsibilities or consequences. We all had crappy jobs and either our parents paid for college or we had loans. Either way, it was an easy life.

I was thinking about how great life was at the very moment I fell through the glass table.

I had been sitting on a thin glass table on a tiny balcony having a drink. Not the best idea, because within seconds the glass broke and I fell right through. Blood starting spurting from my shorts and quickly covered my khakis. It was pouring down my leg, too. Since I immediately went into shock, I didn’t notice any pain. It was just like, “Wow – so that’s what blood looks like in bulk!” I hit the ground.

I looked down and around my side and noticed a big shard of glass sticking out of my butt. That was kind of cool. Also, didn’t hurt.

What freaked me out though was everybody yelling. I was on my knees and the party had come to a screeching halt. Since I was afraid of girls, to have them hurrying toward me with towels to mop up my fanny was pretty humiliating. We called the hospital and luckily it was directly across the street from the condo. I watched from the balcony as my ambulance was dispatched from the hospital.

I realized I was going to the hospital and starting thinking of things like, “Can I get arrested for having a few beers? Are the cops coming? Did I have grass in my car?”

I did have grass in my car.

I dispatched a friend to go retrieve the nickel bag of ditchweed and the KISS pipe hidden in my armrest. My parents were going to have to drive this car home, most likely.

From the balcony I watched the ambulance pull into the wrong cul-de-sac. I started yelling trying to alert them than I was in the condo building on the next street over. They looked up at me and realized the gaffe. Then they made their way to over to me.

It was the gurney that I was most concerned about. I didn’t want the seven women to see my bare ass. Well, I did want them to see my ass, but not in this capacity. I was humiliated.

Part II Coming Up!

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Coming up next week – Tracy Beckerman of Lost in Suburbia