Thank you for many years of patient investment in RS Gannon Macaroons, makers of fine macaroon products and derivatives. As we leave behind a rocky 2008, I wanted to provide you our thoughts on the market and how it has affected the overall value of your shares.
Ha, ha, ha, ha. Oh, I'm sorry. This is serious. Several indicators point, heeheeheeheehee. Wait. Wait. Give me a minute. Hrmmm. There.
Historically, recessions such as the one we're currently in have lasted, oh, hahahahahaha. Bwaaaahahaha. I . . . I . . . 'Value?' Haha. Monopoly money has more value than your shares. BWOOOHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, what a stuffing you took! You were shagged and bagged and dry humped by leopards! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Old chum Katie has joined the Blogspot family. A fine mural artist, (museum curator, and Jill-of-Many-Trades), you can check out her work at Dreamscapes.
I'm posting in the lobby of my Phoenix Hotel because it's free down here, but costs fourteen bucks a day up in my room. Also I enjoy watching yesterday's runners do the marathon shuffle toward the front desk. (The marathon shuffle is a funky hitch-and-a-hop caused by lactic acid and other exercise waste products that looks a lot like the way Redd Foxx walked in Sanford and Son.)
On the road in an hour back to LA. It's been a stressful trip as illness, travel and marathon coaching do not mix. I didn't get to visit any of my Phoenix friends and barely had time to call home.
But I did get to ride the shiny new Metro Rail. Public rail is a lot like public housing: there's a brief spring of neatness and order before an immediate plunge into the winter of neglect, graffiti and unknown substances stuck to the furniture.
Yesterday, I lunched with several Warner alumni, including Tom Ruegger, Jean MacCurdy, Paul Dini, Paul Rugg, and still-Warner employed Alan Burnett. We exchanged stories about meetings gone wrong, executive blunders, and how broke we all are except for Alan Burnett. (He still has a job, did I mention that?) Jean is blissfully retired and occasionally drives to Sacramento and back for exercise.
Thanks to info supplied by DVD segment director Troy, I hereby post a release date for Freakazoid! season two, and that date is exactly the same as the date listed above: April 21. A Tuesday. A day like any other or is it? Will there be a Festival of Head Lice? Bobcats dancing in traditional Greek costumes? Or a Weena Mercator sighting? A Tuesday. They said on Tuesday. Hmmm, Tuesday.
My friend Tony is built wide and low to the ground. He's similar to Gimli the Dwarf if Gimli were beardless, sported a a crew cut, and came from Oaxaco, Mexico. In any case, Tony was laid off from his warehouse job. I knew he regularly hiked Griffith Park. Since we're both actively unemployed, I suggested tagging along on his next scheduled hike. Tony was cool.
In my mind, I pictured wandering leisurely along fire roads, stopping to sip bottled water and admiring the view. Of course, in my mind, I'm regularly given fortune and praise for very little work. Nevertheless, Tony knows every deer path, water pipe, and run-off gully in America's largest urban park and he's not afraid to use them.
Last Tuesday, Tony walked quickly out of the parking lot, across a perfectly flat fire road, and up into the chaparral, moving like a big puma. I kept pace. We hiked upward on narrow, dirt paths, sprinkled with loose, slippery earth. All around were reminders of the 2007 fire that burned over 800 acres and threatened a Los Feliz neighborhood adjacent to the park. A few blackened trees still stood among the fast-spreading greenery, split open and ready to topple at the slightest touch. Tony kept up a steady stream of conversation, even in parts of the trail where we were practically vertical. "Laid off gives me all this extra time. I'm getting more done around my apartment. I think I'll paint." "Hey, that's good," I wheezed. By keeping responses short, I could sound in better shape than I was.
Tony blew past another fairly level fire road and continued on up. Biting on a stick to keep from panting too badly, I followed.
We passed an old water tank, gained elevation and peered down to a ridge on our right where black spots were gradually filling in green. Crows circled both sides of the ridge in fives and tens. Lots of loud crows. Maybe something large died, a human body - not an uncommon occurrence in Griffith Park.
A few more twists and turns and we were crossing a horse bridge. Hoof prints pock-marked the surrounding trails, signs that the horsey set liked riding the high country — almost as high as the Hollywood Sign, but not as high as a pop star.
Cresting another hill, Tony slowed. Suddenly, on a clear L.A. afternoon, we could see the Observatory, downtown Los Angeles, Century City, the Verdugo Hills, the ocean. Pretty cool. No wonder Tony likes it up here. Though off to the east, haze formed a Mordor-like smog wall. Still, I never got a decent view whenever family and friends were in town. Only haze and a few downtown skyscrapers poking up out of the gray. (Photo courtesy of travelblog.viator.com/.../)
Our way back included trails both steep and slippery, where it didn't pay to look beyond your feet. I was winded and could feel hamstrings and glutes tell me tomorrow would be Sore Butt City. But a good hike overall and no knee pain. Tony appeared ready to hike the Rockies, but he had to go pick up his wife.
I may wait until I toughen up a bit before I tackle another Gimli hike.
Troy has a few links up at his site saluting the late Ricardo Montalban, dead today at 88. Ricardo was another of Paul Rugg's inspired casting choices and a real gentlemen. His health wasn't the best in '95 - '97 but he hung in there and always delivered. Here's a scene with Ricardo and Craig Fergueson.
UPDATE: I think we mention this on the 2nd season DVD, but at a Freakazoid! taping, Ricardo once related that the day he became an American citizen (in '95 or '96), he was wheeled into a homicide trial where they stopped proceedings so the judge could swear him in. Then he was wheeled out. (As opposed to being left in the courtroom several days.) May he grace Heaven with the same class he showed on earth.
(The following verse by truculent poet Dac Encanto appears in the University of California Press anthology, SurlyPostmodern Poems for Pre-Retro People. "Deuce Moon" explores Encanto's almost pathological hatred for the moon, a leitmotif critics have called "lunar hatred" or, in German, Mondblindheit meaning "moon blindness." I shall perform a short deconstruction, but no insight has yet surfaced to explain this Mondblindheit. Encanto will only spit in contempt if you ask.) Deuce Moon
by Dac Encanto Round and bright, idiot face, planet wannabe, taking up space, (Encanto's lunar works always refer to the moon as full. Once, on a Danish talk show, he was informed the moon appeared in phases and sometimes, not at all. Encanto grew confused and sarcastic, storming off the set, taking with him a pen and a coffee mug.)
Dumb ass satellite, so uncool, on your dusty surface, I'd drop a stool, (The threat of public defecation appears in many of Encanto's works. This was not an idle threat or a metaphor — as Duke Professor Gale Bogminder has suggested. If properly disturbed, Encanto will mete out a pooey punishment regardless of location or circumstance. The 2006 panel incident at the UCLA Book Fair is the reason all subsequent poet panels have been required to keep mobile screens and drums of disinfectant at the ready. Bogminder knows this.)
But I can't, (I'd die), You lucked out, No lie, G.I. (Encanto's poems are peppered with pidgin-english phrases often associated with Asian prostitutes such as "You Numba 10," and "Souvenir me carton of Salems, baby." Context often provides a hazy explanation. As to the moon having "lucked out," this refers to an incident at the height of Mondblindheit when Encanto tried bribing NASA to have the moon killed. All charges were eventually dropped. However, Encanto did serve jail time for an incident that took place in court involving the prosecutor's briefcase.)
Dear Mr. McCann,
