Comic Con Freak-a-Note

On the subject of San Diego, as of this hour on a quiet Sunday morning, the pre-order info on the first season Freakazoid! DVD stands at:

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In addition to Paul Rugg and I, our old boss, Jean MacCurdy will be at the Comic Con panel on Thursday, July 24, between 10:30 and 11:30 AM at the San Diego Convention Center. (Tom Ruegger, alas, must attend to sundry family matters.)

Stop by if you're in the neighborhood, with time on your hands, and a desire to mingle with Klingons.

San Diego Marathon Notes

As previously noted, my marathon finishing times continue ending in different hours.

2008 San Diego: 7:28

2005 Honolulu: 6:01

2007 Chicago: 5:48

2007 Phoenix: 4:21

2008 Eugene: 3:59

17,828 runners and walkers started the marathon and 16,372 finished.

Average finishing time was 5:01:08.

Many junior high and high school cheerleaders lined the course. While most groups remained upbeat even to the bitter end, a few were sullen as if present under threat of a beating. Trying cheering under duress and see what comes out. Inspiring to others? Not a 100 percent, I'm thinking.

Teammates agreed that the latter miles of the marathon were made unneccesarily grim by the terrain — concrete freeway underpasses and smelly tidal inlets. Interestingly, the same company (Elite Racing) that hosts San Diego puts on the Phoenix Marathon. There also the crucial final miles wended through a bleak industrial district that looked like the terrain you see in movies where zombies attack. I suggested that Elite Racing worked with a psychologist who designed the courses to mirror the inner make-up of runners. They've certainly got beyond 20 miles down cold.

Staying Classy

After a marathon moving experience, I left for San Diego on Friday in search of the real thing. As the San Gabriel Team lacked a "sweeper," I'd volunteered for the job. Thus I had to enter the race as a participant, station myself toward the back and sweep along our runners and walkers, making sure they passed the cut-off points and crossed the finish line. I drove down with TNT mentors Ernesto and CJ. In the car, we had a long spirited discussion on international monetary policy, the existence of God, and driving while drunk.

As marathons go, San Diego was deceptively difficult. On the map, it appears you're running a pleasant course around Balboa Park, downtown, around Mission Bay, and finishing aboard the USMC Recruit Depot in Point Loma. However there were a number of long inclines and declines coupled with several miles on a slanted freeway that aggravated old running injuries. In the latter miles, IT bands, hamstrings, and calf pulls would be refreshed, feeling just as painful as the day on which they occurred.


Sunday arrived with an overcast sky. Our team milled around the start area. Pictures were snapped, trash bags worn to ward off the morning chill, and Port-a-Potties visited again and again. Steaks dropped by for a chat before setting off to run a sub-five hour race. Teammate Gordie had been the featured speaker the previous night at our send-off dinner. A cancer survivor, he was treated like a rock star by other TNTers except Gordie was coherent and didn't smash anything.

6:30 AM. Crack! A cheer. The race had begun! We advanced 14 feet then stopped. Then a few more feet and stopped. Then walked. Then stopped. Seventeen minutes later, we crossed the start mat. NOW the race began.

Mile One: Lots of laughs and fun. There were many people dressed as Elvis, including CJ. These running Elvi hoped to set a record for the most Elvis-garbed runners in a marathon. (How did they do? I can't say.) In addition, a woman ran with an artificial leg, several men ran with large American or MIA flags, and a blind woman with a shirt that read "China Gal," speed-walked without a guide, tapping like mad against the curb.

Mile Two: We passed over the 163 Freeway and started south along the east side of Balboa Park. Nice and downhill. I ran ahead, marking the position and disposition of teammates.

Mile Three: Still east of the park. A man jumped into a sumac bush to urinate, but found the bush already taken. These are the gritty set-backs that must be overcome for a successful marathon.

Mile Four: Coaches Katie and Kate said 'hi' and 'bye' as everyone was doing Okay.

Mile Five: Downtown. We passed a Hooters where two desperate men were already lined up at 7:30 in the morning.

Mile Six: More loping back and forth between groups. Several of our injured had cautiously begun running.

Mile Seven: A long uphill climb on Broadway. Coach Alfredo arrived to capture the moment in digital pictures. Away from the camera, I stopped to use a Port-a-Potty. The smell was most dire.

Mile Eight: We're on the 163 Freeway, heading north and uphill on slanted concrete. Aches and pains crop up. A man in a red Super Man cape tore up a hill as if pursued by a kryptonite dog, leaped a chain-link fence in several bounds, and disappeared behind a tree.

Mile Nine: Adios cloud cover. The sun emerged and the temperature rose instantly. Worse, it felt humid. We came upon TNT drag cheerleaders. There's nothing like screaming men with beards, wearing make-up and short dresses, to energize the weary.

Mile 10: We passed beneath University Avenue. There was a strange phenomena: locals strolling along the freeway. Apparently, the novelty of walking on a freeway was too rich to ignore. What fun San Diegans have!

Mile 11: Downhill. Huzzah!

Mile 12: Off the stinking freeway and west on Friars Road. To our left stretched a colossal mall. It was layered with smaller malls within the mother mall as well as satellite malls across the street. Truly, we were running through shopping Valhalla. Cut-off time loomed close.

Mile 13: Anna, Liz and several others picked up the pace. Other teammates nursed more serious hurts. They vowed to run again another day and stopped at the half-marathon. Coach Pete cheered us on, offering encouragement as well as an odd snack consisting of wheat thins floating in a pan of hot dog water. The encouragement was appreciated

Mile 14: I almost missed the cut-off. This would've have resulted in my appearing weak and foolish. Virginia and Stacy stood on a curb with a bag of Oreos. I took one and it disintegrated from the heat like a cookie dandelion.

Mile 15: We were now on the east side of Mission Bay, running north through parks and suburbs. Natasha had fallen behind her group of Sanchez and the sibling duo of Whitney and Kingsley. Her IT injury was acting up and she walked along, having been joined by a runner named Stu. Stu had completed ten marathons, five San Diego marathons, and had tickets to Pat Benatar that evening.

Mile 16: Hobbling to a curb, the woman with the artificial leg sat down. I caught up with Kirsten and Sonia, battling pain and fatigue, but determined to press on.

Mile 17: Heading back toward Natasha, I found she'd ditched Stu. We set out to pass the mile 19.4 cut-off. Miss this one and you were bussed to the finish area, given a half-marathon medal and sent on your jolly way. Our team manager, Tiffani, met us, wished us well, and successfully hit up several children for contributions to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

Mile 18: Despite IT pain, Natasha kept up a brisk pace. She remarked that her first name spelled backwards was "Ah Satan." True. But I felt it was the marathon talking.

Mile 19. We made the cut-off. Stopping in a medical tent, Natasha had ice wrapped around her IT band with yards of packing tape. It unraveled within a mile as we headed up a steep bridge. In the far distance, downtown San Diego shimmered in the haze. Rapid tapping. We turned as China Gal sped past, cane arcing from curb to pavement like a metronome.

Mile 20: Sea World was nearby. I'd been running and walking since early morning. I fantasized about dynamite fishing and Shamu.

Mile 21: Coach Sharla showed up somewhere around here. It was getting into the afternoon. We turned onto a dirt road, curving along some tidal inlet that smelled like dead sea lions. Trucks were dismantling water stations. Did I mention this was a rock 'n roll marathon with bands every mile? They were striking their gear. In fact, there was no shade and we sensed it had also been packed up.

Mile 22: Coaches Karla and Alfredo met us with ice for Natasha's head. As I was an unpaid volunteer, it was felt ice would be wasted on me.

Mile 23: All around, runners hobbled and limped. We walked by a water station that had everything but water. A street sweeping machine gobbled up the flattened cups, chasing us under a freeway and out again into the sun. Without question, we were at the butt end of the marathon.

Mile 24: Bleak concrete overpasses; scraggly bushes. We passed China Gal, tapping along, locked into pace.

Mile 25: Jets roared overhead from San Diego International Airport. To our left, we passed the Marine base where I went through boot camp 36 years ago. I wasn't in a nostalgic mood. Natasha's IT band hurt so much she was biting a piece of wood to keep from yelling. China Gal tapped past.

Mile 26: We're on the base. The end is near. Natasha vowed that no matter what happened, she wasn't finishing behind China Gal. We started running and passed that tapping machine.

Mile .2: But China Gal was a Terminator and would not quit. Tapping sounded from behind like the clock the crocodile swallowed in Peter Pan. We passed a guy with a "I Wish I Weren't Here" tee-shirt. We passed two chick in grass skirts. We crossed the finish line in seven hours and twenty-eight minutes.

But our adventures continued. The finish area was practically deserted, covered with trash and looking like the parking lot of a rock concert. We got our medals then tried to figure a way to reach the UPS trucks where our gear was stored. There was no crowd to follow, just wide open areas surrounded by fences and garbage. I climbed over a metal barrier near the trucks. Natasha and I tried dismantling the barrier, despite the fact there was an opening about twenty feet away. Eventually we spotted the opening, got our gear, stumbled over to the TNT sign-out area and called it a marathon.

That night there was celebration and drinking. (For some, a good deal of drinking.) Many first timers walked with the "marathon shuffle," a post-race gait that makes 28-year-olds look like doddering wrecks. CJ finished as Elvis and Ernesto finished despite a bum hamstring. Teammate Chris ran a phenomenal race, crossing the mat in 3:43. (On the 2008 highlight video, he's pumping up the crowd at 2:37.) Nevertheless, all who persevered and finished the marathon/half-marathon were exceptional.

Well done, Team.

Off Again

After my big stinking move, I'm heading down to San Diego this morning for the marathon. I'll be performing various coachly duties for Team in Training and otherwise relaxing after a most stress-filled week. More upon my return.

Really digging the new place. Leaf blowers sound outside and I don't have to think about paying the admirable Mr. Kim.

Phantom Home

Nerve endings curl so that amputees often "feel" sensations from ex-limbs. Tonight, as dusk fell on the condo, I felt the need to rise and turn on the outside lights. A few minutes later, a sprinkler hissed and I listened closely for gurgles or other signs that the rain bird needed replacing. Adjustments are occurring.

Yesterday afternoon, my gardener waited in his truck for me to return from errands so that he could say good-bye. Twice a week for eleven years, Mr. Kim managed my big wild yard: reseeding the lawn, loping back sumac, growing ice plants, as well as replacing busted sprinkler valves out of his own pocket. Every Christmas, I left him an envelope with a little cash bonus. In return, he'd leave me potted palms and orchids, in addition to traditional poinsettias. When we met, I was still unmarried and he was not yet a grandfather. Over the years we talked about insects that killed Monterey Pines, the joys and sorrows of his children, and the uncertain nature of my line of work. He had designed a hot-looking bonsai garden that faced the street and still got compliments from passers-by.

And so we stood in my driveway in the warm sun and wished each other the best. We had shaken hands when we had first met. Now we shook hands again in parting. (His were like sand paper.) Grey hair sticking out from under his baseball cap, Mr. Kim shuffled back to his Ford pick-up, bed bristling with lawn mowers and leaf blowers, and drove off around the curve.

As Dorothy said to the Scarecrow, "I think I'll miss you most of all."

And the Move Goes On

On top of it all, I have a slight hamstring pull. But onward we go. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to go online and read next to my mortage: PAID IN FULL. Sweet. Now if I can only avoid serious injury for the next 48 hours I'll be swell.

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.

Home Sale and Comic Con Invite

Sometime around 1:05 PM the buyers' loan went through. Sale! We lease our former home for another week. Meanwhile, MDW deals with contractors at the new place while I pack on.

Tiny Toons and Freakazoid DVDs are due to release July 29. In preparation, Warner Bros. has invited a number of the old crew, including Tom Ruegger, Paul Rugg and I, to attend a panel at Comic Con on July 24 between 10:30 and 11:30 AM.

I hemmed and hawed and finally agreed. -:)

Tick-Tick-Tick

Only a matter of hours until we sign the papers that sell our house and buy a condo. There is so much STUFF to still pack-lose-store.

Yesterday evening was our team's final track practice. As a farewell surprise, Coach Katie divided us up for a 200 meter relay race. We used her daughter's dolls as batons. (Bizarre, even by Los Angeles' standards.) Off we ran with the lead swinging back and forth. When my turn came, I had a 15-yard cushion as I bolted with maximum effort. This blazing start flooded my system with lactic acid (by-product of sudden strenuous exercise). Like an old watch, I wound down as my opponent gained. He caught me just as we handed off. Fortunately, our anchor was the fastest guy on either team. After trailing briefly, he kicked in the jets and won, thus saving me from being the oaf who blew a lead and lost it for our side.

Having already logged three miles at practice, I was sagging. That was the fastest I'd run in many years, recalling high school memories of my brief track career as a 400 meter fellow. Nostalgia aside, I'll be glad to resume less-speedy marathon training.

Pitching Movies with Paul Rugg

Paul Rugg and I shall once again craft a feature film idea and go a'pitching. We've done this twice. Back in 2002 we worked up a live-action idea about a group of actors undergoing military training in preparation for an upcoming war film. However, they are accidentally dropped off in a jungle and mistaken for real American troops by guerrillas. As I was preparing to leave for Cambodia at the time, we conducted a sales blitz, hitting nine production companies and studios in a little under three days — a blur of smiling faces, couches and bottled water.

In 2003 we prepared an idea about two tornado-chasing geeks sucked up by a twister and deposited in an Oz-like world where they blunder into a quest that changes their lives. A live-action idea, we pitched it around, here and there. (Eventually, I wrote it into a script.) Retooling our tale as animation for a 2005 Dreamworks meeting, we finished the pitch only to have the executive suggest we take it around as live-action.

Now we have an animated concept about dogs and honor and doing what is right, regardless of circumstances. We'll start building a story as soon as I get back from the San Diego Marathon. I have a most excellent feeling about this one, as it is just silly enough to warrant a sale.

UPDATE: Someone else had the same idea around the same time re. actors mistaken for real soldiers. In 2008, someone else's idea became a film called Tropic Thunder. Such are the cards of Fate.

Animation Update

Had a long chat with my agent yesterday. After a prolonged shake-up, the TV animation industry is settling down. New execs and/or new directions have emerged from the swirling uncertainty of the last six months. That said, very few new projects are in the works and an industry slow-down continues.

But that may change soon. TV animation shares many traits with real estate: it's cyclical, expensive, and often involves a septic system. In any case, we're long overdue for another boom. I can't wait.

MDW and I need an expensive vacation.