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Written on 2002-04-23, at 12:34 a.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Bag Wild Berry Skittles

4 Mini Black and White Cookies

1 12 Inch Angus Sirloin Sub

1 Large Coke

2 Taco Supremes

1 7-Layer Nachos

1/2 Quart Milk

John Live*


Soon, I won't even be able to fit in the frame.

*Not at all live

Today, I joined a gym.

Oh John, you're a bit late for April Fools Day.

Haaaaaaaaa ha ha...and we all enjoy a good laugh.

Woo...that was a good one.

Wait, no...that was the truth, I really did join a gym today.

Go ahead, I'll give you a moment to check flying pigs, frozen netherworlds, Republicans in Provincetown, etc...


Ok, well, yes, I decided to finally join a gym, and somehow force myself into shape.

And for me, the best way to do something like that is to spend an excessive amount of money on it, so that I feel financially obligated to stick by it.

Which, judging by the Prada backpack collecting dust in the corner, and a string of failed relationships, historically hasn't been the best modus operandi for me.

But I'm certain that this will work.


Well, because apparently this time I'm bound by some "law"...and this thing called a "contract".

How did I come to this decision, you ask?

I carefully considered it, weighing all the pros and cons, making sure that I knew exactly what I was getting into, and taking the time to sleep on it before making my final choice, didn't I?

I'd like to say I did, but the thought process went a little more like this...

"La la la la...Underneath your clothes...I hate this song...la la la...I'm drivin' down Kirkmaaaan, yeah yeah yeah...I'm drivin' down...OOOH A BALLY'S I'LL JOIN!!!"

And join I did.

I walked in, and was greeted by the official gym receptionist, who after hearing my plea for acceptance and membership, passed me off to a "Fitness Guide", who's job it was to sell me on the place.

The first thing that was done was to hand me a little "questionnaire".

"Don't worry, it has nothing to do with membership." they assured me.

Name, Address, Phone Number...

Boilerplate questions.

"When is the last time you were on a workout regiment?"

Hmm, does running to the car to get to Taco Bell before it closes count?

Assuming it didn't, I put 2 YEARS, guilt-ridden at beginning my relationship with my new gym on a filthy lie, as I knew that it had been over twice that long.

"How would you describe your eating habits?"

The responses were:

Excellent - Good - Fair - Poor

I circled "Good".

And I think that anyone who has been reading this journal for even the shortest amount of time knows that's a blatant falsehood.

"Are you a smoker?"

I circled "NO", guilt-free, as I've been almost totally successful in quitting as a result of my own personal motivational system called "STOP SMOKING YOU STUPID GAY BASTARD!!!".

It works wonders, I'm telling you.

So, Roman is leading me around the club, and I suddenly feel like the kid from Omaha who transferred to Beverly Hills High halfway through the second semester of their junior year.

I didn't look like anyone in the club, I was getting looked at like an intruder, a peasant who was simply there to stare at the toned torsos of the physiological ruling class.

And GOD, I can't wait to start looking at people that way.

I noticed something else though.

This gym has a reputation in Orlando for being a very cruise-y location.

That is to say, many gay men work out there, and the weights aren't the only things they're thinking about pumping.

Some looked at me as if to say "Oooh, fresh meat."

Some looked at me as if to say "Ugh, scrawny queen, back to my regiment of steroids and animal tranquilizers."

And some looked at me as if to say "Oh my...why is my right bicep walking around the club?"

I must say though, that I was a little taken aback by the equipment that they had.

The last time I really worked out on a regular basis was while I was swimming, in high school.

We had a big machine with lots of weights and wires on it, and then a few bars with heavy iron discs.

The equipment in this place looked to me like highly expensive medical research instruments. Like something which wasn't there necessarily for simple exercise, but more purposeful.

Im building up my abs, and getting a colonoscopy!

Some of the machines I could work out on my own as to their use, but others simply looked like a cross between a Volvo and a Picasso. Im not even sure that the staff has an explanation for those.

Oh that? Yes, well, iterrit goes BEEP BEEP BEEP every so often, and we have TWENTY OF THEM!

After our little site tour, Im taken into a small office, with an Apple IIe, and a plaque declaring for all who care to give it their attention that Roman has been recognized for exceptional sales and service. I can see why, as hes quite charming, and his perfect teeth flash a smile at me as he gives me the run down of pricing, the facility, checks my Universal ID, checks my drivers license, and hits a brick wall in his stride when I stop to read the entire contract before signing it.

Which is probably something I should have done, but instead, I just stared at the letters for a few minutes, as to give the impression that I was the savvy type of person who couldnt be fooled by the small print, when in actuality, Im the type of person who enjoys forcing awkward silence.

Once contracts are done, Romans out, and is quickly replaced by the effervescent blonde Lara.

Lara is to be my personal trainer, and my last stop before I leave the club today. She proceeds to ask me to remind her of my name three times in the five minutes it takes her to schedule our next meeting, Friday, where she will take all my measurements, supply me with nutritional supplements, set a regiment for me, scold me on my poor eating habits, and take a body fat reading.

As I leave, I think that that sounds just like a visit to my grandmothers, except Lara wont smell of Preparation-H and Chanel No. 5.

Be well


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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