The verdict: Grade II muscle strain in my calf

I have to stay off of it (not that the pain would let me stay on it) for a week. I’ll just be sitting at rehearsals. I have no idea how I’m going to drive my stick shift. Or sleep through the night.

But the big knot in my calf sure gives me a shapely gam.

Ice-cold Cherry Bubly? Check.

Two freshly homemade pies? Check. Gay-ass Longaberger pie carrier with gay-ass fruit-print ruffled liner? Check. New thingie I just bought to stick in my cigarette lighter and broadcast show tunes and podcasts from my phone to a radio station? Check. A library of more show tunes and podcasts than one person could listen to in five lifetimes? Check.

Full tank of gas to get me to my Galena weekend reunion vacation without having to stop?

Shit.

Happy 79th birthday to my dad!

My awesome father taught me how to throw a football (sorry that pastime didn’t stick) and cheat at cribbage (or that one) and swear more creatively than the other kids on the playground (that TOTALLY did), showed me how to drive a stick shift even on a steep hill, instilled in me a fascination with history, bought me My First Toolbox™ when I bought my first house, embraced me wholly as his gay son in an era when other dads would treat homosexuality as a family shame, dutifully cheered me on whether I was in a boring show or running a boring race, patiently and determinedly worked to help bring me back from and daily manage the unfathomable depths of bipolar depression—often just by telling me he’s glad I’m here—and accepted his blindness from macular degeneration with grace and humor and dignity. He continues to set a daily example of kindness and altruism that inspires me to try to be loving and decent and fair in every situation I encounter. I'm guessing you're probably having this read to you, Dad, so tell Mom to say this part with dramatic emphasis: I love you!

I’m off to my Gays Do Galena reunion weekend with some big gay Chicago friends I haven’t seen since our last reunion six months ago

To guilt them into enduring friendship, I’m bring multiple homemade (specifically, mom-made) pies in super-gay Longaberger baskets trimmed in super-gay fruit-print ruffles. Except we’re missing one basket lid, so we substituted a super-gay kitty towel.

Also: I’m bringing super-optimistic sunglasses in case we ever see the sun again.

Kill me now

It’s not every day you get to say adductor and post pelvic images online—much less have a relevant reason to brag about the amount of weight you just squatted—but I just added 10 pounds to my squat weight—I’m up to 215, baby!—and in the middle of my third set I felt a sharp pop in my left rear adductor that all but sent me toppling to the floor. (And if you’re a man who’s ever had an adductor injury, you know that its close physical proximity to your kill-me-now pain zone means that its crippling pain instantly radiates directly to your kill-me-now pain zone, which can literally make you beg to be killed now. Kill me now.)

So until you kill me now, I’m now gingerly hobbling—and lord-knows-how popping the clutch as I drive—through the rest of my evening until I decide how serious this injury—which is not uncommon for me but never at this intensity—is. I apologize in advance for any near-future lateness.

Fun bio-vocabulary fact: An aDductor is a muscle whose contraction moves a limb or other part of the body TOWARD the midline of the body while an aBductor is a muscle whose contraction moves a limb or part AWAY from the midline of the body. Abductor has the same etymology as the concept of abducting a person by taking him or her away from something. Kill me now.

Happy 78th birthday to my dad!

Happy 78th birthday to my dad, who taught me how to throw a football (sorry that pastime didn’t stick) and cheat at cribbage (or that one) and swear more creatively than the other kids on the playground (that TOTALLY did), showed me how to drive a stick shift even on a steep hill, instilled in me a fascination with history, bought me My First Toolbox™ when I bought my first house, embraced me wholly as his gay son in an era when other dads would treat homosexuality as a family shame, dutifully cheered me on whether I was in a boring show or running a boring race, patiently and determinedly worked to help bring me back from and daily manage the unfathomable depths of bipolar depression — often just by telling me he was glad I’m here — and accepted his blindness from macular degeneration with grace and humor and dignity. He continues to set a daily example of kindness and altruism that inspires me to try to be loving and decent and fair in every situation I encounter. I'm guessing you're probably having this read to you, Dad, so tell Mom to say this part with dramatic emphasis: I love you!