Oh, right, I have a blog

Boy, I keep falling off the wagon. This does not bode well for the day I hafta go to drug or alcohol rehab.

School’s out! School’s out! Teacher let the fools out!

Nevertheless, I still hafta go down there for work, which is spotty in this academic nether region known as summer. Today I went down and neither of the professors I work for were there. Since I’m not in the middle of any projects I can’t really busy myself except by surfing the web. So I did that for an hour and said screw it. From there I went to the gym, which was even more of a project than usual since the entrance is being remodeled. So I had to walk around three sides of the four-sided pyramid (don’t ask) to get in. The gym’s an utterly different place at 11.30. Usually I’m there somewhere in the 15.00-19.00 range, and it’s full of hot muscle boys and even hotter personal trainers, which make me feel entirely inadequate. At 11.30, though, it’s mostly older people doing PT or taking classes without worry of bumping into a muscle god twice their height and three times their width. So, I felt marginally better about my place on the gym spectrum. I still get slightly panicky when I do the ‘real’ weights, like the bench press, leg press, pull-ups, that sort of thing. I guess no matter how big a little gay boy gets, he still suffers from the ‘real boys will break me!’ phobia. Actually, for me, it’s more like ‘sweet purple Jesus, I’m going to swing the bench press bar badly to one side, the weights are going to fall off the down side, and then the bar will immediately torque to the other side and jettison those weights. Then everyone will point and laugh, their shapely deltoids and pecs rising and falling as they cackle and gesture rudely, while I ponder jumping through the sheet glass window into the basketball court two floors below.’

For another session, however, my luck seems to have held. I even added weight to my leg lifts, clasping a 7.5 pound dumbbell between my ankles as I swung them up. The flip side (oh, there’s always a flip side) is that my inguinal ligaments and lower abs feel like they’re going to snap like rubber bands and send my testes across the room like organic shotgun slugs. I’m fairly certain I don’t have a hernia, though, as Dad had one for years and I don’t see anything on my torso that resembles the odd protuberances he hid badly for so long.

In other domains, the slow-motion train wreck that is my glorious family continues on its inexorable path toward, well, something. Not exactly sure what. My great aunt B has weekly appointments to adjust the machine in her head that adjusts how much cerebrospinal fluid can move through her system. Her sister, great aunt P, is, as ever, a gin-soaked, meddlesome wench who calls us twice a day to demand that we do something for B. Exactly what we are expected to do is unclear, since she doesn’t call us until her third or fourth martini of the afternoon. How her liver hasn’t yet coughed up a quantum singularity is beyond me.

But I digress. She’s worried to death that B is going to die, which is amusing since when her twin sister, my “mom-mom”, died, she couldn’t be bothered to cut either her hair appointment or her subsequent Sweet Adeleine’s concert tour short. This is, it is worth nothing, the same great aunt that periodically calls someone in the family a slut. The first time she did so was when my mom and dad drove to Indiana so that Ma could meet his parents before they got married. Since they were unmarried, P hushedly but excitedly rang the family to gush over what a slut she was.

Now, however, the tables are beginning to turn. Her granddaughter, my second cousin C, is getting married next month. She and her fiancé are currently on a trip in Slovakia as a pre-wedding vacation. When P rang my aunt M (she of the uncensored mouth) in order to brag about her worldly and cosmopolitan granddaughter, M says it took all of her self-control not to remark, “Oh, that slut!”

And, since B is worried that she may in fact be dying, she’s telling all the deep dark family secrets she holds as the matriarch of the clan. Soon I’ll have to write to tell the Internets of the illegitimate black child or the time my great-great-grandmother was left at the altar after the vows had been said.

At least we serve wine with our dysfunctional family theatre.

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