Welcome to WRITE ENOUGH!
for longtime Team in Training runner, David, who went in today for cancer surgery. Additional fine thoughts and prayers for his speedy recovery. Hopefully, he'll soon be dashing around the Rose Bowl again in his khaki hiking shorts.
For Thursday, July 24 and it says:
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.
In keeping with the family tradition of multiple part-time jobs, Mary McCann, has snared another radio gig. Along with djing Sunday afternoons on Seattle oldie station B97.3, Mary's now hosting the show on KPLU. Stream in Saturdays between 1:00 and 6:00 PM PST for jazz and NPR news. (But mostly jazz.)
I'm rereading Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House. Having just mentioned Norm Abrams, I thought of writing a story in which the Yankee carpenter arrives to rehang the doors in a sprawling, evil mansion. Themes would include isolation, madness and proper use of safety goggles. Maybe next month.
DVD director Troy of Trailer Park Productions emailed questions he'll use as spring boards during my upcoming interview. Fans will learn such second-season secrets as why a Saturday morning cartoon show would hire Norm Abrams to voice himself.
As mentioned before we overcame our aversion and photographed the odd bug. It does make a bee-like hum and, according to one of MDW's brainy friends, is attracted to fresh paint. Our condo is awash in fresh paint, hence the attraction. After careful, meticulous study we dropped a dictionary on it.
As to the old guy, a squad car zoomed up and almost flattened a departing cyclist, whose attention was focused on the injured man. The rider had to dump her bike at the last second to avoid becoming a grill stain. A fire truck and an ambulance arrived, lights flashing. Loading the old guy on a back board, paramedics took him to the hospital. 
This really stinks. My carefully considered thoughts after an eight-mile run yesterday. Temperatures were in the 90s well into late afternoon. I slowed way down, walked when necessary, and finished without heat exhaustion.
In addition to writing about insects, I've discovered an odd species clinging to the walls outside our condo. Over an inch long, these black and white critters have exceptionally long antennae, make no audible sound, and fly.
Our new condo offers a rich audio bouquet. On a street with other condos and apartments, there are trash trucks crashing into dumpsters, leaf blowers, horns honking, sirens whooping, kids yelling, Armenian parents yelling back.
Pal and playwright Mitch Watson has a hit on his hands. Klub (umlaut pronunciation on the "u," — Kloob — but I can't find the character on my keyboard) takes a dark look at the world of theatre through the eyes of a bitter clown. (Portrayed by the very busy Mitch Watson.) Check it out at the Actors' Gang.
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Brother coach, Alfredo, shot this as I ran up Broadway in San Diego. At that point, it was a young marathon, barely beyond seven miles.
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?")
Natasha and I performed a ritual mombo around mile 21. 
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:
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.
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.
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 Four: Coaches Katie and Kate said 'hi' and 'bye' as everyone was doing Okay.
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 20: Sea World was nearby. I'd been running and walking since early morning. I fantasized about dynamite fishing and Shamu.
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.
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. 
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?
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. .(1.85x2.52).4402.gif)
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.
'Twas suggested I post a few episodes of my work in a pleasant spot. I've chosen here. Sadly, not everything I've written has y...
