In 1992, I was a full-on, on the road, big-shit comedian-guy. Actually, it was more like strung-together-one-night-shows, getting-tows-from-the-local-pig-farmer, broke-and-lonely comedy douchebag, but who am I to rewrite history?

Not many details stand out from this year, so I'll regale you with fascinating tales of life on the road as a comic. Hmmmm, let's see: This would more than likely be the year I first did the Rushmore Comedy Tour by myself, a sad, sorry excuse for a standup tour that whipped you like a tornado through Iowa, North and South Dakotas, and Montana. To be completely honest, if a nice, juicy category 500 tornado ripped across this portion of the nation, the country's collective IQ would leap up 100 points. In other words: They loved me.

Picture this: Me, microphone in hand, wearing a denim button down and black vest (hey, it was the farking 90's for Christ's sake), standing about 15 feet high above a "lounge" crowd of 12 drunken sore losers in an Indian Casino in Aberdeen, South Dakota. What could possibly go wrong?

I developed not only my mighty comedy chops beginning during this period (yeah, RIGHT), but I also mastered the skill of chowing down on fast-food while driving with my knee. Oh, and how to snag a wink or three curled in the hatchback of my Tercel at truck rest stops. And how to threaten club owners when they tried to short you 10 bucks from your whopping $125 paycheck.

SWEEEEEEET.

The results of the tri have been posted, and they actually did break down each leg of the relays. I ran my 4 miles in 29:35, meeting my under 30 minute goal that I set! That means I ran 7 minute 23 second miles - crappity-crap, that's a personal record for me. Overall, I placed 16th in my division (out of 53, i think), and our swimmer placed 12th or something amazing like that.

We just got home from dining with our pal Mark, his girlfriend Diana and their baby girl, and his mom, visiting from London, Janet. I am filled with Brazilian meat, about 14 pounds of it. The waitress seemed unamused when I asked if I could get a "Brazilian" while we waited.

You swing for the fences sometimes, and you strike out.

So here I go again, blabbering on about yet another race, although this time, we're looking at only the 4 mile leg of a triathlon that both Dara and I did for Team Disney, so put down the gun and calm the hell down.

We had to drag ourselves out the door by 5am today, the effects of which will bceome panfuly obbvioiss soooon. We arrived at Zuma beach in Malibu to the sight of hundreds, ne, thousands of cars plugging the parking area. Waved to the very first lot, we began our 1.2 mile walk to the transition area, where athletes change from their wetsuits to their cycles and then again to run. We arrived and hooked up with our teammates, mine: Steve, our swimmer, and Rio, our cyclist. It was only about a half hour before they sent the swimmers into the sea, and whatta sight, I tells ya. The elite competitors FLEW the 1/2 mile distance, some in under 10 minutes. Steve ran into the transition area to pass off the timing chip to Rio in an awe-inspiring 15 minutes or so, and she was off, estimating an hour for the 18 mile bike race.

Dara and I hung out, chatted with other folk. She excitedly witnessed X Files stud David Duchovny (might not be safe for work or men's senses of self esteem) dash by in his wetsuit, 2 of her own fantasies come true at once. We laughed, ate some Gu gels, and then the cyclists started pouring in. I saw Rio dashing up the blue carpet laid out in the center of the transition area, and I waved her in to the bike rack area, where we'd exchange the timing chip. Of course, it took me almost a full minute to figure out how to velcro the little fucker to my ankle, and then I was off!

I decided, my leg of the race being only 4 miles, to push it hard the entire distance, and I sprinted off along the beach with the other runners. I was passed for the first mile by about 5 runners, 2 of them the elite traithletes (whose bodies were un-fuckin'-be-fuckin'-lievable), but then I began to overtake..and overtake...and overtake. I passed in total about 30 runners, and to be fair, quite a few of them were doing the entire triathlon, for which I felt incredibly guilty about passing them, giving them, "You're doing GREAT"s and "Looking strong"s along the route.

At the turnaround at mile 2, I stepped it up to a pace that was, what I believe, about a 7:30/mile. We were heading back towards the start, and runners just starting out dashed by on the right. Passing more runners, I came upon my little Dara, racing her ass off, who screamed, "Babaaay!" at me, and I almost didn't notice her since I was concentrating on keeping my upped pace. Luckily, I think I got out a "Gaaaah!" before she zipped by.

At the final mile, I hit the gas and went into a "sprint" (I'm sure the pace that I saw in my head and reality's tale were 180 degrees opposite, but it's the intention that counts...right?), overtaking a few more runners, one of which, from the Herbalife Team, yelled, "Burn it, team Disney!" as I passed. I lept through the finish chutes, the clock reading 1h, 56m. Since our starts were staggered, and our swimmer began 5 minutes after the official clocked started, I figure we polished off that sucker in 2h 2m or somethin' like that. Not half-friggin' bad for a trio of dorks.

So now, Dara's crashed out on the bed, and I'm trying to induce the same feelings of exhaustion, but they won't come (right now. Check with me later when I'm drooling on my pillow and twitching like a sleeping dog).

It's so wonderful to be back from Seattle, so I can finally enjoy the...rain? It POURED today in LA, which is an anomaly, at least for another few weeks, when the fall showers begin to cool this blazing hot mutha following a horribly hot, Valley summer.

Seattle has always been a dream city of ours to live in, and this weekend really sealed the dealio. It's so...ME there. I love the city, the people, the mountains, the rain, the lush greenery, the coffee, the Space Needle.

Okay, scratch that last one. That abomination to the eye blows.

We stayed the first two nights with our pals Billy and Dawn, who were married in Seattle the weekend we decided to elope, so we all celebrated our 10 years together. Then we plopped our asses in a downtown boutique hotel Saturday night, went to dinner, and emptied the mini bar (surprisingly cheap! Not really.). Sunday night, we headed out east to Dara's cousin's Kent's place in Issaqua, out in the moutains. Damn, I could see us livin' out thatta way. It was SO peaceful and beautiful, and being only 20 miles outside of the city, you're still in relative close proximity to civilization without the gaggle of assholes one encounters living in a city setting.

The above snapshot is us in what used to be the shop that we got hitched in. It's a record store now, but the floor is still emblazened with the fabulous "Glamoroma" lettering. The girl who worked there was probably 11 when we got married. Wow.

Welp, my dear, dear assholes friends, I fear that your pal Rustyboy is heading to Seattle Thursday morning through Monday night to celebrate 10 years with his wiferoo, so don't expect any updates. I'll be swimming in flannel, coffee, and this new music movement they call "the grunge" for the next few days, but return with pics, I shall!

I'm hoping to be able to get some serious mountain runs in while we're there, so if you don't hear from me ever again, a grizzly bear ate me.

Or somethin'.

Well, here we are again: 9/11. 4 years ago, while running on a treadmill in a gym in Nashville, TN, where I was shooting a show, I saw the horrific images that are permantly emblazened into all of our brains. And while I feel it's important and necessary to take a moment and recollect what the insanity of that day opened up for all of us, 9/11 has another, more uplifting milestone in my life:

10 years ago this day, in a storefront shop in Seattle, I married the love of my life.

I won't carry on and on about what marriage means to me, or what this woman is to me, because you'll all think I'm getting soft, and I want you to continue to revere and fear my awesome power. KNEEL!

But happy anniversary, dear Dara. We've weathered a lot, grown together, shed tears, bellowed with laughter, and there's plenty more to come. I wouldn't go through it with any other human being on this planet.

This afternoon, I dropped my $50 payment and application in the mail for the Calico ultramarathon, and I about shiat myself. I mean, I'm serious about this, I s'pose.

At 8:45 tomorrow AM, I'm meeting my triathlon team at Zuma Beach for a "dress rehearsal" for the race on the 25th. I'm kinda nervous since I haven't been training for speed in the least, mostly for endurance and distance, and I really want to finish my 4 miles in 28 minutes (a foolish quest, but ya gotta dream). I guess I'll see how I do. An how much I vomit.

I can't seem to get a grip on my writing. I'm nearly inspired to plug forth, but hesistant. Well, that's new, right? I have some ideas juggling around in my noggin', stuff I've been considering for years, but I can't seem to piece them together. Maybe they'll come to me during my runs this weekend.

P.S. - I'm still unemployed.

I am PSYCHED. The results from the 25k I ran last weekend are posted here, and I placed 112 out of 236! Crikey, that's the top 1/2 of the pack! So upon reading this, I did a fancy little jig, knocked over the little voice in my head saying, "You almost did really good: Breaking the top 100. You missed it by 5 minutes" and got really revved for the 50k at Calico.

I'm attaching a link that takes you to the race photo they snapped about 5 minutes from the finish line. I probably won't be forking over the dough for it, and there's a good chance the link will disappear in due time, but click right here, yo to witness the face of true exhaustion and elation at the sighting of the finish chutes. The perspective makes it look like I'm walking, but believe me, somehow, from somewhere, when I figured out that I was so close to the finish, I put on full thrusters and was clipping along. Admittedly too, when I saw the race photographer, I dug deep to get a shot of me in full-out racing mode. Naturally, this was thwarted by his camera's perspective. DAMN YOU 3rd DIMENSION!!!

In reading the race summary on the site, it turns out the temps topped out at 106-fucking degrees. I guess I'm well prepared for my eternity in hell.