Up the Coast and On the Couch

After years of traveling east to Phoenix, the axis of family Christmas has shifted to the Pacific Northwest. Some family members are returning to old haunts, others have always lived there, while a few are newly landed. Whatever the case, it will be a Christmas with the most McCanns around in, oh, say 37 years. I'll drive up on Sunday, visit cousins in Oregon, then on to Washington, moving from near Olympia to outside Tacoma to Seattle. A few thousand miles there and back again.

No running for another month. This self-imposed ban will be an attempt to jump start my knee past the "almost healed" state its been in since mid-October. Lots of pool running, I'm thinking, but not with much enthusiasm.

Illinois: Land of Cash

Having grown up in Illinois, I've followed the Governor Blagojevich corruption scandal with a sense of nostalgia. My senior year in high school, Paul Powell, the Democratic Secretary of State, died of a heart attack. Under investigation for corruption, a maid found over 800k in cash stuffed in shoe boxes, briefcases and strongboxes in his Springfield hotel room. Powell walked liked he talked: "There's only one thing worse than a defeated politician, and that's a broke one."

Powell's saying should replace "Land of Lincoln," though you'd need a smaller font or bigger license plates.

Dead Race and Ruegger Art

Running on empty might describe the late Pasadena Marathon. Cancelled due to poor air quality, the race recently sent out an email asking for donations so as to hold the race in March. A tough tumble, considering all the work undergone to get it ready in the first place. Not to mention bummed out runners who peaked without a payoff.

Tom Ruegger recently drew many pages of fine characters. (Like the confused fellow above.) Paul Rugg and I will attempt to attach voices to him and others this week. As Hollywood is mostly closed until late January, its our way of generating work.

Until then, we'll live on left-over turkey.

Mysterious Gym

Working out at the gym yesterday on the cross-trainer. From behind me come a series of moans, like someone with a bad stomach ache. Looking around, I see a guy on a treadmill behind me making these odd sounds. His head lay down across the machine as if grieving. The sounds stopped, then started again. Short and long, grunt/moan combos. I considered asking him if he was Okay but didn't, just in case he wasn't.

Finishing up the cross-trainer, I moved to the treadmills to cool down. Everyone was giving the Moaner a wide birth. I found a machine in the second rank and started walking. Now I'm behind the Moaner. He finished up his workout, appearing quite refreshed. Fumbling around the floor, he grabbed a white and red, official blind man's cane and tapped his way down to another treadmill. Quietly, minus any interesting vocals, the Moaner began another workout.

Having once lived with a blind roommate, I know there is no correlation between exercise and blindness. Maybe that one treadmill brought back unpleasant memories? Maybe it was the machine, intolerant of the handicapped? This is but one of many stories in the mysterious gym.

Practice today saw the Phoenix marathoners running 16, and a solitary Honolulu walker going 18. I ran and walked about half of what I did last week with only minor knee pain. As a few of us waited for the walker, Liz and Inez made an In-and-Out run. What impressed me was how many people ordered by menu number. (Me: #3.)

Now I'm home and sore.

But not moaning.

Bailout Mentality

If a coach taught runners to train for a marathon by wearing iron boots and those runners were badly hurt, and no more runners went to the coach, and he was about to go out of business, but the government stepped in and gave him thousands of dollars to support him while he brought in new clients - would this be wise?

Marathon Scratched and Other Thoughts

Ash and smoke ended the inaugural Pasadena Marathon. Winds are dying down, but the air still smells like a fireplace. We've got the windows shut, but the burning scent seeps in.

Off to visit my pal Dale tonight. Dale was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2007. Near death, he successfully battled back, returned to work, and readjusted his priorities, realizing family and friends were more important than the many business deals that previously occupied his life. Now cancer has not only returned, but spread to liver and bones. Doctors are giving him three months. Maybe so. Dale's going through the grief process, but still determined to fight. Several of us visit on Sundays just to call him names and let him know he's remembered and loved as Dale enters the ring for what may be his last round.

For a man to struggle back, learn priceless lessons, then be terminally decked seems most unfair. There's a blog I read occasionally called The Anchoress. Its author lost a brother to illness and wrote on the painful troika of death, suffering, and dignity. Her conclusions allude to a subtle spiritual weaving between dying and comforters, an exchange of graces, a transfer of blessings, including humility, charity, and the self-awareness that our actions count because we're all on borrowed time.

I tend to miss the subtle. I usually want someone to be responsible for my loss so I have an object to focus pain, anger and bitterness upon.

Lost marathons, burned homes, and death rank differently on the hierarchy of hurt, irretrievable in degree. Loss would seem to be the norm in life. Our response allows us opportunities to deepen and grow. And if loss is inevitable, then what we have is all the more precious. If nothing else, I hope to remember that today.

Head Down

No posting lately because I'm blasting away on a long-delayed, original sitcom for my agent, a graphic novel outline — completed — and the book project from last year. End of December is my deadline.

My knee feels much better. I'm signed up for a chi running workshop in two weeks.

As the markets tumble and housing prices drop, I find myself relieved we sold our home when we did. As for the markets, I cashed out most of my inflated mutual funds over the last three years to make ends meet. They didn't. But being broke has its merits — you certainly don't worry about investments.

Random Thoughts: 9/11

K called from Florida, "Planes crashed into the World Trade Center and one of the towers just fell." Unemployed and half asleep at 7:30 AM, I shuffled downstairs to the TV, past MDW as she prepared for work. At first, all I saw was a dirty cloud obscuring southern Manhattan. Then a stunned announcer said the second tower had just collapsed. MDW joined me, work forgotten as we learned of the attack.

Other friends phoned throughout the day. Paul Rugg speculated about the pilots of the doomed aircraft, certain they weren't Americans forced to crash. TJ, a Vietnam vet, was incensed at the footage of jubilant Palestinians with their candy and AK-47s. He wished he could surprise them with a nice buttering of napalm. In a grim mood, I agreed.

Watching TV and power-chewing Nicorette, I mostly felt numb — except when the subject was jumpers. Then I felt horror. Go to work, sip coffee, joke with your pals, then decide whether you'll suffocate, burn alive, or leap a quarter mile to certain death. Questions of etiquette arise: jump solo or hold hands with a co-worker? Perhaps several of you link arms and form a chain, finding courage in numbers. Or do you clutch a table cloth and step into the air, desperately hoping it slows your fall?



The journey takes ten seconds.


Air velocity rips away your shoes.


You explode on impact.


I will always be haunted by the jumpers of 9/11.


Oceans of paper were blasted from the towers, filling the New York sky like the Devil's ticker tape. Invoices and wedding invitations floated down to gray sidewalks.

My friend Cathy, who worked in D.C., reported chaos as the government sent everyone home at once following the Pentagon attack. One jammed intersection turned scary as a man leaped out of an SUV brandishing a pistol and attempting to direct traffic.

Being murdered is not a heroic act, though it can be. Flight 93 passengers fought back and died, saving many more in their sacrifice. North Tower Port Authority employees rescued over 70 people before perishing.


There were many heroes that day.

MDW tried to give blood, but the hospital was overwhelmed with donations and refused.

Vulnerability, grief, dismay, anger.

Such a beautiful morning with a sky so blue.

(Photos from: Little Green Footballs.)

27 Years Ago

In Hollywood, at the Chula Arms Apartments, on July 5, 1981, the tenants decided to throw a party. Among them were the Dutchman and myself. We took a Sparkletts water bottle and filled it full of white wine, bought a ton of beer, and invited thirsty friends. We even hung out a banner facing the next door apartment. The banner suggested our neighbors alert the police and complain about the noise. Helpfully, it listed a number to call. (Though the number was for the Griffith Park Pony Rides.) In any case, the Dutchman and I started out in the afternoon, drank into the evening, walked to a nearby bar and closed it, then stopped off for a night cap in the apartment of an 88-year-old World War I veteran. After singing a rousing medley of "Over There," "It's A Long Way to Tipperary," and other period songs, the police finally showed up. They politely applauded our choral efforts, then asked us to hold it down. We did as the Dutchman and I passed out and didn't wake up until August.

Just remembering all that makes me grab for the Alka Seltzer.

Lost and Binary

My data, that is. Now the tech guy is saying lots of info has turned to hash. Fortunately, most of my writing is backed up. But all my financial stuff for the last three years hangs in the balance. Everything was fine until I installed Leopard back in May. Then the crashings commenced.

MDW points out that between the two of us, we've bought nine Macs over the years. They sort of owe us . . . you'd think.

Mr. Computer is Ill

A corrupted file - a file keen on drink or cards. In any case, I'm off to a computer doc today to seek repair.

Last night, I watched Beowulf. Maybe it looked better in 3D. As it was, I couldn't help feeling I was watching an R-rated version of Shrek. I kept expecting the donkey to appear. ("Say, Grendel, s'up with those bad ass teeth?")

Downpour Near Devil's Gate

. . . the weather man gets it right. I'd packed all day yesterday, hauled a bunch of stuff to storage, then went running. The sky was overcast and the weather report foretold thunderstorms, but, really, this is southern California in May. Parking at the Rose Bowl, I saw a few drops disturb the dust on my hood. Big deal. I started running.

Nearing mile one, the rain fell steadily. By mile two, hail had kicked in. Reaching a freeway overpass, I took shelter as the sky unloaded like the wet season in Phnom Penh. Rain fell in wavy sheets. Run-off water poured from a big, corrugated pipe into a nearby arroyo, splashing down boulders and splitting into twin waterfalls. Thunder rocked the sky overhead. Sheet lightning flared like a giant flashbulb while a lightning bolt performed an eerie shimmy. A huge branch from an oak tree cracked and fell down a hill side. More hail. This storm was a bit too Midwestern-nostalgic for my taste. Tornado, anyone?

Finally as the thunder grew fainter and the rain slacked, I finished my run, getting only slightly wetter than I already was.

Last Saturday, we had to call practice early because of the heat. Then there was heavy wind on Wednesday, usually a fall/winter occurrence, now a stinking cloudburst. I don't pay high taxes for this. I feel I'm owed sunny and clear with temperatures in the low 70s. Luckily, our legal system is so screwed up I'll have no trouble filing suit against California for unlawful atmospherics. A nice settlement would help pay for the paint job in the condo.

Gala Parade of Contractors

Decks and dry rot and termites, oh my. Like mile 20 of a marathon, we near the finish of our house sale, but the going gets slower. Our new place has its own contractor caravan lined up for the close of escrow.

Soon . . . it . . . will . . . be . . . over.

Lately

Double escrow as our bid is accepted on a roomy condo in Glendale. At Knott's Berry Farm last week, I ran a 10K with Team in Training - 53:07. I was fourth in my age group behind three guys who all finished within 42 seconds of each other. (They may well have been the famous Gallipto running triplets who haven't been heard from in years.) In any case, they edged me out of an age group medal and I will have my vengence one day. Oh, yes. The Eugene Marathon is in TWO WEEKS! I ran my final 20 miler ten days ago and feel confident that I can break 4 hours. Also running this year in Eugene are Amy and April from Tennessee. Follow their training exploits, plus marathon fashion updates, as they taper down for the big day. Furthermore that same Sunday, May 4, my friend Tom's wife, Annie, will be running Avenue of the Giants Marathon in Humboldt County, CA on the Oregon border. If you like big trees, this is the race for you. I think my wife and Tom will probably call each other that morning and discuss how absolutely bored they are by marathons. Coach Kate will run in tomorrow's Boston Marathon. Her goal is to finish in 3:19. How fast is that? Pretty darn fast on a hilly course. (7:38 per mile.) More on the move soon.

Eugene Bound

That's what it's felt like the last three weeks. What with realtor caravans, open houses, and showings, my wife and I have been absent from our dwelling more often than not. Coach Katie from TNT said that someone we both knew attended an open house and discovered that she was in my home. (A combination of framed animation cells and a Team in Training tee-shirt gave it away.)

But today marks our second day in escrow. We're off this afternoon to scout out new places to live. I'll miss the quiet up here. Too bad you can't bottle it. Meanwhile, the Eugene Marathon draws closer. I'm worn out from all this moving business and look forward to Oregon. I believe I'll break four hours. My one fear is that we'll be forced to leave our hotel room in order for prospective buyers to mill around.

Sometimes They Come Back

On Wednesday, I dispatched a large rat that had been causing mischief. I dumped the carcass in a drainage ditch that runs through the back of my property, knowing from experience that the ecological dining service — coyotes, owls, raccoons, bobcats — would handle matters from there.

On Thursday, I woke up early and took out the trash, leaving the garage door open. Two hours later, carpet cleaners arrived. One of them located me as I worked behind the house. He said there was a big dead rat in my garage. Sure enough, it was the same one I'd killed the day before. Perplexed, I deducted the following:

1. A large bird or animal seized the carcass, but for some reason dropped it by chance in my garage.

2. A human being(s) walked onto my property, into the drainage ditch, picked up a big dead rat, and placed it inside my garage.

3. Using cosmic rays, aliens reanimated the rodent. Seeking revenge, it attacked but expired once more before reaching me.

4. A human being(s) walked onto my property, into the drainage ditch, picked up a big dead rat, and accidentally dropped it inside my garage enroute to taxidermy class.

Then there's this possibility.

I invite theories.

Homes

Eleven years. I realize that I've lived in this house longer than I've lived in any one place. Second prize goes to my family's home in Skokie, Illinois. (Ten years until I left at age 19 to join the Marines.) And my friend Dave's guest house in Hollywood takes the bronze medal. (Almost six years.)

These thoughts arose as we looked at condos yesterday. There was one smallish condo in a nice building in a quiet area and that has become our template against which other condos/townhouses were judged. And they were judged harshly. There were nice condos in rotten complexes and rotten complexes with ill-kept condos, plus decently-priced, roomy condos in squalid, gang-diseased neighborhoods.

I really don't like viewing places where the people are home. They remind me of pet store animals, eager to be purchased. When our house hits the market, I'm gonna be parked in a coffee shop with the laptop. The only words I want to hear from a potential buyer are: "We'll take it!" ("We'll take it above the asking price" would be even better.)

Finally slept in my own bed last night. Our bedroom has been covered in plastic all week as the painters stripped wallpaper, sanded, primed, painted and conversed in Korean. We slept on a futon in my office. The painters are still here this week. I have a feeling they like the place. Possibly they'll make us an offer and save everyone a lot of trouble. Certainly they'll know what colors to paint once we're gone.

Weary with Moving

All this moving, cleaning, coordinating painters, electricians, termite slayers has worn me down. Much like mile 22 of a marathon, the goal no longer outweighs fatigue and quitting seems not only reasonable but long overdue. Plus I haven't worked in six months and have zero interest in writing anything other than an occasional post right here.

But, like mile 22, on I go.

Hot TV Night

So I'm watching television this evening when the set suddenly quits with a wierd pop. There's a high-pitched whine and smoke fills the air. I yank the power strip cord out of the wall and open an outside door to clear the smoke. I'm still enjoying tachycardia. On the bright side, a dead TV is one less item to move.

Sick of Stinking Boxes

I dream of them. We're packing up all our junk so painters and carpet cleaners can get in and do their thing. TNT kickoff was Saturday and training begins this week. As assistant coach, I'll be hanging around until the last runner finishes, then squeeze in my own training. Plus there's the matter of writing. I'm behind and need to pump up production on five book chapters, a short story, and a new sit-com pilot. But mostly I need boxes. Stinking boxes.