Tag: Personal

Testicular biopsies really take it out of ya! (Jan 22 2026) 

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In which Our Hero has a ball by losing part of one.*  

The second thing I told my partner after emerging from surgery: “That was fun. Can I get paid to do that?” (I guess it’s somewhat like the premise of the TV show Severance.)

I *really* like being unconscious. And awakening from anasthesia is exceedingly pleasant. 

This might not be everyone’s experience of surgery, but for mine: 

  • Before going in, I made a wager with my partner. She set the over-under line for duration at 26 minutes (from Julian leaves room to Julian re-enters room). I took the under.
    • As the doctors faffed around me in the operating room, the last thing I thought was “Eugh, I didn’t factor in this time”. 
    • Okay, the real last thing I thought was, “Huh, in the States the anesthesiologist tells you to count down as they knock you out. This guy is just waving “buh bye” at me.” 
  • After surgery, the first thing I did was tell a joke.
    • It’s my favorite bilingual Spanish joke. 
    • The doctors didn’t appreciate it. 
    • Perhaps I told it poorly. 
    • Perhaps they didn’t expect a bilingual joke from the clown who just woke up from surgery.
  • As I returned to the waiting room, I began to sing.
    • My partner tells me she knew I was returning because I’m the only person who would possibly sing in this context. 
  • Total duration: 44 minutes.
    • I even enjoyed losing the bet. 

I don’t know that there’s a job that pays like this for doing this. Medical experiments, perhaps, but I’m not sure I’d like to do those… 

Hmm. 

🤡
*(No, it’s not a reason for concern.)

The Gruffness of Manhood (Jan 21 2026)

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In which Our Hero has a ball 

Testicles should never be handled gruffly.

I met a man today who does exactly that.

A professional urologist, he receives testes on Wednesdays and Thursdays.

He begins with a long-winded explanation of two treatment options, each of which contradicts something he said previously. Then he gives vague instructions about how to sit on the bed, and panics when you do it wrong. 

Two days ago, I asked if I could see him in the morning. I would already be in the area at 9:30 a.m. I would rather not wait around until 5 p.m. The scheduler said I was lucky to get an appointment at all.

Fuck you, I thought. I’m paying for this. You’re a fertility clinic. You should have a urologist on staff. You’re not doing me a favor: this is your job. (This is my general experience with this clinic.)

Eventually, he slaps cold ultrasound goo on my balls and takes out the wand. He peers at the screen.

They look normal. No shit they do. He seems surprised. Has this man never seen a huevo before? 

And then, the best part: 

He cleans them.

There is something deeply satisfying about a gruff old man cleaning your testicles with visible irritation. No tenderness. No ceremony. Just the job, done thoroughly and against his will.

A small, immaculate fuck you.

I don’t respect doctors merely because they’re doctors. Many of them I respect less because they are. Authority that demands deference without earning it irritates me. 

So when a man who has done nothing but steadily lose my respect cleans my testicles—however gruffly—it brings me joy.

Going Whole Hog (Jan 20 2026)

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In which less risk it leads to less biscuit 

This upcoming Monday is the first day of spring term for clown school.

One student is going into immense debt for tuition.
Another student spent their inheritance to be here.
This school really must be something. 

I won’t be there. 

I’m not sure I committed to the school whole hog.
I committed with great intensity, sure. But underneath the intensity was an underlying “This isn’t my life. I’m not an actor/performer/clown. I’m here to learn the skills for myself, not for the purpose they’re teaching them.” 

This structure meant that some underlying part of me felt misfit.
The one course I was most intent on – Bouffon – drew me.
The foundational course Le Jeu also attracted.
The other courses I cared less for. 

Perhaps this disinterest led to a shallower relationship.
Pushing myself to achieve rather than it coming from an internal alignment. 

If my interests are aligned to my tastes and preferences,
Then my disinterest in some areas may not merely be cosmetic
But a substantive “go here and not there…” 

I’m most drawn to Bouffon for the outcast and grotesque.
First as a matter of my relationship to gender.
Later as a matter of my relationship to all. 

Greek tragedy: not so much. Melodrama, minorly. Vaudeville: sure. Mask play and clown: perhaps not. 

I don’t need to take everything or nothing.
I needn’t even take all the classes this year (as opposed to some the next).
That’s not the sort of whole hog I aim to be. 

Since all we ever have is now,
perhaps I align that way.

In the spirit of learning what kind of hog I am/I appear to others, I created an anonymous feedback form. If anything comes to mind, tell me!

Speedy Spanish Stories (Jan 19 2026)

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Two timely tidbits

Today I am jet-lagged. One part because I flew in from California two days ago. And one part because Spain is on the wrong timezone. 

Madrid is farther west than London. But it is also an hour earlier. 

Spain is on the same timezone as Warsaw. 

That’s the same east-west distance as New York to Denver, which is two hours behind. 

This is bad. 

Sunrise is at 8:30 in the morning. 

It’s not just that Spaniards wake late and eat dinner late. (Though those are also true). Their time zone also shifts them. 

The unseen rules have a big impact. 

And how can you see the rules when it’s dark outside? 

—

A friend of mine visited Barcelona 26 years ago. 

On the ride from the airport, the taxi driver warned him to avoid the local Moroccans. 

“Why?” my friend asked. 

“They’ll take your things”, the driver replied. 

My friend’s mother became defensive. She’s Moroccan. 

Later, walking down La Rambla, she said, “I don’t know what was wrong with that taxi driver. Those two Morroccans are saying nice things about us”  

“What are they saying?”, my friend asked. 

“It’s a great compliment in Morocco. They’re saying we look rich.” 

Squeaking By (Jan 18 2026)

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In which Our Hero enjoys a capital day. 

Dipping churros into chocolate, I could feel the blood throbbing in my left knee.

After walking 26,986 steps (13.34 miles) on a mostly-still-broken foot, inside a surgical boot that was actively coming apart, it was time for new shoes.

Most people don’t put hundreds of miles on their surgical boots.

Most people don’t buy a second surgical boot so both feet will be even.

Most people don’t sprint through Dallas/Fort Worth Airport in surgical boots when the announcement says they have three minutes to board, even though their ticket insists they really have eighteen.

I am not most people.

We landed in Madrid at 5:45 a.m.
By 6:45 a.m., we were failing to locate our Uber and choosing the subway instead. 

Our exit train from Madrid left at 4:45 p.m.

Ten hours in Spain’s capital.

After eight of them, my feet were finished. The boot—kept out of an abundance of caution—was now increasing my risk. Three weeks ago, I’d been cleared to wear normal shoes. I hadn’t. I’d stuck with the boot.

Safety, it turns out, has an expiration date.

I spotted a discount shoe store.

Since I return to France on Friday, I only needed shoes that would last five days.

The clerk showed me a pair of decent-looking sneakers: twenty euros. I tried them on. He only had the left shoe in size 44 and the right shoe in 45. The clerk agrees to a discount, and apologizes he cannot give us a greater one. After all, what shoe store only sells mismatched shoes? 

Little does he know, my right foot is the broken one. Mismatched shoes is actually a plus! 

I ate a second ham croissant. It rivaled the ones I’ve had in France. (It wasn’t a croissant in the way they make them there. But it was delicious.)

We strolled through Madrid’s central plaza.
We passed photos of gored bullfighters and Jimmy Carter. 

I learned I could buy an apartment of the same cost and size as my future one in this square. I concluded I’d rather have mine.

Why do people prefer the artsy second city?

Melbourne over Sydney.

Barcelona over Madrid.

In both, I have a strong preference. In both, it’s the business hub.

I prefer places where real people are real. Where life isn’t a reflection or performance of itself. And in Madrid, the live music is more prevalent than in Barcelona.

Ten hours.
Too-big, mismatched shoes. 

Clown. 

[Get the title? Squeaking? Like clown shoes? How they squeak? 

Tough crowd.] 

Giblets (Jan 17 2026)

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In which Our Hero feels offal.

Just to the left of my navel, I learn a truth.
Not about facts or the world,
but about how a topic feels to me
I think this is what people mean when they say “follow your heart” or “speak from the heart”.
It troubled me for many years — still does — because that place is not my heart. It’s at least five inches below my heart, and two to the outside.

We also advise “trust your gut”. Is the place I found not my heart but my gut? Am I misusing each location for its maximally effective purpose? Follow your heart in love; trust your gut in business?

After casting about for a writing theme a few days ago, a friend suggested I write as the ideal version of me would.

Hemingway says write the most true sentence. Then the next true sentence.

The truth is, I feel scared. Not all of me, but a good 80%. I’m pushing and shoving toward the biggest financial decision of my life. I’ve capped my downside risk at an acceptable amount. I’ve run the numbers by family and friends more risk-averse than me. The answer is go.

Courage is not the absence of fear. It’s action while in the presence of fear. In this case, it’s encircling the fear with my flabby squeezers and hugging it while I jump the two of us jump into an abyss.
Most of the time, the bungee cord holds. Take a situation that would otherwise be frightening: if you add safety, it becomes thrilling.

The fear is not me. The fear is not anything. Both it and I are transient (that’s a pun).
I see why people turn to religion in times of stress.
God is what we call the experience of being healed. There’s something addictively reassuring – especially in our most fearful moments – in believing someone is looking out for you, sending positive outcomes your way.

Let us run then, you and I
As the sun surmounts the sky
The icy clovers frost with dew
Let us dive then: me and you.

I fear nothing, though fear is present.
Fear is my friend. I stand atop its shoulders.
Together, our future rolls out a carpet to greet us.

Roots, Post-Wings

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In which Our Hero plants a seed so grass may grow.

For the last 7 years, I’ve known my next destination only upon leaving my current one. The farthest ahead of time that I bought a plane ticket was one month, and I ended up changing that flight. More often, I’m choosing the next place less than a week ahead of time. 

In many ways, it’s magical: 

  1. Carrying everything I need on my back gives me complete self-sufficiency. Like a human turtle.
  2. Traveling light became a necessity. A dear friend has a tattoo that says “Travel light.” A good policy.
  3. I’ve learned to make friends quickly. When lost, I talk to strangers. When found, I do the same.
  4. I’ve shared small moments that mattered: teaching a baby to use an airplane tray table; splitting mangosteen with a man in Laos.
  5. Surprising reconnections: three people I knew in high school, all in northern Thailand. A man I met in Indonesia who later booked a room in my flat at clown school.
  6. Humans are the same everywhere. Then again, culture is real. 

In others, it’s tough: 

  1. Feeling unrooted. I’ve sacrificed depth for breadth. (Depth within breadth is its own type of depth. But it only goes so far.) 
  2. Insufficient community. The people you see every day or week are the people you build strong bonds with. 
  3. Lack of habit. I used to be a habitual person. Moving into a van really changes things. Selling the van without a new place to live changes things even more.  It’s hard to eat your normal daily breakfast when the monastery you’re visiting fasts until noon. 

Today I received the final document for my apartment purchase. I’d like to live there for a long time. I’d enjoy tacking my kids’ heights on the doorjamb until they eventually leave to find their own Laotian mangosteen. 

The deal isn’t done yet, and then there’s still renovations, so I’m hesitant to get too excited. 

But the yearning for stability is strong in me.

Clown School Break Day 53: The Honking Subsides

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In which Our Hero clowns down. 

“I think you’re done with this theme. I think sometimes you have good things to say about games and clowns. But I think you’re too forced into a narrow hole.” –My partner, regarding my blog. 

It’s nice to have people tell you things you already suspected but hadn’t fully admitted to yourself. 

I’m not at clown school and haven’t been at clown school for 53 days. 

I’m not going to the next available clown course. 

My time and mind and attention are focused elsewhere. 

This is the state of the world of the JuJu. 

So what? 

I think I open up the subject matter of the blog. That sounds funny. 

Or, as my partner likes to say, “Julian plans and Julian laughs.” 

🤡

———-

For those of you curious, here was my daily blog before she made that comment: 

Is Jumanji a game? 

IN THE YES CATEGORY: 

  1. There are players 
  2. Players take turns
  3. On their turn, a player rolls dice and moves pieces
  4. Players act in pursuit of winning. 

IN THE NO CATEGORY: 

  1. It is NOT fun
  2. It is NOT separated from the rest of the world. (In fact, quite the opposite: elements come from the game to attack you in the world itself)
  3. The most crucial parts of the game are not clear from the rules 

Conclusion: 

  • Jumanji is a 1995 film starring Robin Williams. 

Clown School Break Day 52: Action through Fear

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A poem on discomfort.

I feel unsettled.

Much of me feels unsettled.

I feel unsettlement in my chest.

What is unsettlement but worry + desire?

But the fear that the thing I want may not occur?

But feeling uncomfortable until the uncomfortable becomes

normal, where it’s not even resolved but the sensation has just lived

there for so long that you get used to it and accept it and forget it exists and

maybe if you had done something a while back to remove it you’d feel okay now but

but

you didn’t.

And you don’t.

So you.

Here.

Pushing forward.

Taking melatonin to help sleep. 

Hoping tomorrow you’ll awake without

the pain your chest

and worrying that if you don’t

you’ll be too chicken then

as you were now

to fix it.

Clown School Break Day 51: Dumb, Dumb, Duh-dumb Dumb Dumb…  

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In which Our Hero, um, … um … um … 

I’ve been feeling dumber lately. Having trouble finding the right word. Finding myself thinking slower. What’s up with this?

Hypotheses: 

  1. Clowning makes one less intellectual
  2. The work that I’ve been doing has been effective, but not intellectually stimulating
  3. Something else

The first seems likely true. Does clowning make one less intellectual? Yes. Less intelligent? No. However, among the many types of intelligence, it does not contribute to improving one’s smartness. In fact, it teaches one to focus on pleasure and emotion to the detriment of smartness. Sacrifices must be made at the altar of pleasure! 

The second: also likely. I’ve recently been doing a lot of important and procedural, but not intellectual, work. (Among them: buying and renovating an apartment; writing articles that are squarely in my wheelhouse.)

The third: maybe it’s hormonal? The speed of my verbal fluency was stronger on œstrogen. ‘Twas notably stronger. And now, I have much more general go-go-go (whether that’s testosterone itself or simply my familiarity with the hormone, I’m not sure), but less verbal speed. I make fewer moves but each move is stronger.

Another option for the third: a life transition that requires adjustment. Selling my previous home. Buying a new one. Moving internationally. Building a relationship. All of these can wear you down. 

A final option for the third: lack of exercise. Since I broke my foot I have been a complete lazypants. The brain thrives on exercise. Perhaps it will return when the activity returns. This one seems very likely to be influential :!D

It’s an odd experience to feel myself being duller than I previously was. And the people around me aren’t noticing… or at least aren’t noticing enough to say anything.

Then again, would they notice? And if noticed, would they say? 👀