The Lusty Month, again

Time for every frivolous whim, proper or im-. Sorry I've been neglecting my readership so terribly. Nearly a moon since I posted last. I plead end-of-semester craziness. Here's a round-up of random stuff:

• Lovely new relationship discovery today: I can have a casual and intelligent conversation with M. over breakfast about Ben Jonson. This is more important to me than it is to most people, I suppose.
• I get to die on stage next week for the first time since playing Laertes. There's a funny story there, about a loudly exploding blood bag. Ask me to tell you sometime.
• The students who are not my favorite, the ones who I think hate me, turn out to give me the best evaluations. I even got a thank-you card from one of them. Bizarre.
• The revelation of the nature of The Black Rock has really fucked up my predictions for tonight's season finale of Lost. If you know what this means, you have my sympathies.
• I paid for a membership at the fitness room at the Nowhere Medical Center. When you work out in a hospital, it's lots easier to be the buffest guy in the room. And it's the only place in town that's open 24/7. It does feel a little weird to go to the E.R. to lift weights, but at least if something goes horribly wrong I can just push the code blue button.
• I lost about five pounds last week when I got my hair cut for the play. It hasn't been this short since high school, and now the trustees of the college refuse to believe that I'm not a student when they meet me.
• The haircut does not, however, much as it may appear so, have anything to do with my recent acquisition of combat boots and BDUs. I'm going to Kentucky in June as a faculty observer for an ROTC leadership course. Everyone says, "You?!" I know. I'm one of the least likely persons on campus ever to become a mouthpiece for military propaganda. Still, it's a few days in the woods on an anthropological observation of military minds and methods, rappelling and splashing in mud. I'll let you know how it goes. At any rate, since I got the haircut, when I try on the uniform, I no longer look like an actor in a gay porn film called "Shaving Ryan's Privates," which can only be a good thing. And I get to keep the boots.
  
• And finally, I apparently have some sort of plague. I'm covered in red spots that the doctor can't figure out. It's not fleas, scabies, chicken pox, allergies, or heat rash. She put me on antibiotics but it hasn't gone away. It's not itchy or communicable, and it's probably just a staph infection of the follicles, but it's certainly bewildering.