At the ripe ol' age of 24 in 1994, I was beginning to feel the burnout of doing the road. I imagine that this year, I spent over half of the days of the 365 traveling to such hot spots as Rifle, Wyoming; Sioux City, Iowa; Petoskey, Michigan, and a bevvy of other comedy hotbeds.

Dara and I hit some hard times this year, and it'd be a flat-out lie to say that my being away so much didn't have something to do with it. So, in mid-November, I hit the road on a 4 week tour with my friend Huck Flynn (sweet tie, huh?) and decided that we'd see where we stood when I returned.

Dara headed to Nashville a week before Christmas whilst I was traversing the highways of Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, Colorado, and Wyoming, and I was to meet her there on the 27th. When I arrived, the emotions were palpable and undeniable: We'd missed the living crap out of each other.

She informed me that, while we'd be spending the night at her parents' place that night, the following afternoon, we were heading out to a small cabin in the woods of central Tennessee. When we arrived at the picture-perfect setting in the hills, we set ourselves up in the one room cabin, poured some wine, and began to spill our guts.

Then "it" happened.

Dara began telling me that she needed to move back to Nashville for awhile as her mother's condition was worsening. My heart sank, but I knew it was a necessary move to make. Then, she looked at me, batting those big, hazel eyes and said, "I need to move, but I want you to come with me. And if you come with me, I want us to make the promise that our relationship is permanent. I'm ready to make that commitment to you."

I remember the room shifting, like reality had been altered. Everything looked and smelled different.

So in that tiny cabin, surrounded by trees and animals, Dara Modglin proposed to me, my answer, if it was to be "yes", was to propose back to her when I felt it was right.

I've been integrating swimming with my running this week, Tuesday, Wednesday, and today, and I am knackered, dear viewers. I haven't been in the pool in 8 months, and it's kicking my ass, particularly when I spend 30 minutes splashing like a retarded amputee dog in a vat of chlorinated water and then immediately change and do a hard 4 mile run (somewhere around 30 mns).

This is, naturally, me, getting into the idea of doing triathlons.

Whatta dummy.

I've been pricing road bikes too, and I've managed to find a really nice Schwinn for $600, which isn't actually all that steep (tri bikes go for as high as $10,000...like 1/2 of a car. Yeah. Right.). After finishing my 50k ultramarathon in January, I'm really gonna give tri-training a full court press and attempt the Malibu tri in September.

I'm not sure why I'm putting this new challenge out there for myself. All I do know for sure is that men look like 20 pound sausages in 10 pound casings while wearing cycling apparel.

As we expected, the results of Duncan's tests came back and the tumors are, indeed, cancerous and malignant. Crappity, crap crap.

We're both incredibly sad, but since we were expecting it, we aren't as knocked over by the news, but the reality is beginning to settle in: This is the final few miles of The Dude's journey. No more operations, no radiation. The poor little fella's been through so much already, so we're just gonna keep an eye on him until he lets us know that "it's time".

Right now, though, he's completely crashed out on our (unmade) bed, dreaming about chasing butterflies or, more likely, dreaming about napping.

During my run around the old LA Zoo, the creepy, abandoned remains of city's original zoo that closed in 1956, I came across about 50 bicycle cops, all in training. It was an odd sight, particularly considering that I was in the middle of the woods, staring at rusted out cages that haven't housed an animal in 50 years.

Well, other than the occassional bum, hobo, or crack addict.

It's a cool trail, and if you live in the area, I highly recommend it for a pleasant weekend hike, or perhaps as a place to hide out to get offered blowjobs by cruising gay men.

We did it. As a married couple of 10 years, Dara and I have made the single, most important decision of our lives together.

We have purchased windows.

Oh, it only took 2 different companies and about, erm, 4 hours 'twixt the 2 of them, but it's gonna happen. There will be fresh, double-paned, 1/8" thick, vinyl bordered plates of glass on our abode within 8 weeks.

I'd love to type "oh, we're SO ADULT" here, or something, in a sarcastic response to our decision and it's banality, but...well, I'm actually somewhat happy about it.

That, and we're getting a new gate next week too.

Jesus, has it come to this?

Duncan has new tumors - did I mention? I took him to the holistic vet today, and she (a LOVELY woman by the way) took aspirate samples and will have results in a week, but I think....well....I think our brave boy is facing his final battle. Like when you reach the "boss" level of a video game, this little bastard, he's weathered so much shit, this is...the final smackdown. He's led a helluva life so far, and beaten SO MUCH, but in my heart, I know and accept that this might be his Waterloo.

So, we've decided to accept and go with it and, until he's no longer comfortable and happy, to enjoy every passing second with our wee, fuzzy friend of 14 years.

It's still incredibly sad though.

Like mom always said, "Wear your vegetables."

Or was that just my mom?

Just icing my knee after a loverly morning run at Griffith, a light mist, cool temps, and puddles galore. Damn, LA falls apart whenever it rains. It's like water is a completely new concept to people, the way most behave behind the wheel. There's one of two attitudes of LA drivers when even a drop of rain splashes on the pavement:

1. "Oh, shit! I'd better drive really fast to stay out of the rain!"

2. "Oh, shit! I'd better slam on my brakes and slow down!"

Retards. And the thing that actually irks me about this mentality is that most of these idiots are transplants from other states, where actual weather abounds. Some of these masters of the asphalt have driven their entire lives through rain, snow, slush, tornados, hurricanes, frogs and locusts, but you plant them out on the streets of Southern California during a drizzle and it becomes, "DUh, mE cANNt maKE CAR MoVe G00D in WeAtHer!!!!!" *tires squeal*

Funny sidenote: I went to the bank this morning to deposit my check only to discover I had 58 cents in my account.

Ha! Ha! I'm an adult!!!111!!

As hard as it is to believe, tomorrow is this woman's 41st birthday. I thoroughly ransacked the attic and have yet to turn up an aging painting, so I'm guessing it's genetics and all that clean living (ha!!!! Ask me about the picture from last year's bday where she's drinking beer out of a plastic hat.).

Aging is, I dunno, no big deal. I've long since made peace with the fact that I'm slowly falling apart instead of growing now, and it's getting comfy like an old pair of ratty, stinky, fucked up shoes. Caring less and less about what others think about you is the bestest part of growing older.

GET THE HELL OFFA MY LAWN!!!

I'm stocking up on sock garters, black socks and shorts, BTW.

So this past Saturday night, I spent 4 hours rubbing folks at Third Eye Gathering, a non-profit music/art/philosophy event (stay with me here, kids) in downtown LA, run by an old friend from Nashville days living out here. And non-profit means non-profit: After chair rental costs, equipment purchased, gas and all that, I think I walked away with $13 extra, but it was a swell experience to make people feel good, and I got to dole out some business cards as well.

Yesterday, the yearly battle was played out once again. Me versus the Halloween lights. Every year, this royal event takes places, wherein I, your humble hero, engages in ferocious interplay with strings of Halloween lights to be hung from the eaves of our house.

Sad to report, this year, the lights won.

The process itself runs about an hour in total - me, on a swaying ladder, tentatively stringing miles of lights to hooks screwed in beneath our roof's overhang. When at long last finished, I dusted off my palms and returned to the lights' beginnings to plug in and power up, thus creating a beacon of dazzling display that could be seen by millionaires on the moon. As I scuttled up the wooden steps, extension in hand, I discovered the female end of the lights awaiting me. Quickly looking down at the female end of the extension, the haunting reality seeped into my brains: I had put every last one of those fucking motherfuckers on the wrong way

i immediately stepped off the ladder, casually strolled inside, and poured myself a shot, sitting on the sofa in silence, save for the jingling of an ice cream cart being wheeled by outside.

1993 held more touring, tooling around this here country, learning what funnay really is to people, which, is to say more clearly, getting the fuck confused out of me by audiences. I specifically recall having one of the best shows of my "career" in a roadhouse bar in central Illinois, settled in the middle of a cornfield in a two room bar with a NASCAR theme. The microphone was an old "gooseneck" style (the kind your principal made announcements on, probably), with the "on" button duct taped down, and the entire apparatus duct taped to a mike stand. The sound was, of course, amplified through the juke box.

And I had one of the best sets of my life. I think I did an hour as an opener, and the headliner did so well, he stayed on for another hour.

Conversely, some of my *worst* shows were weeknight shows at big clubs in more metropolitan areas with big-time headliners.

Needless to say, I was learning, but growing bitter.

I also began the "Crack Me Up" comedy tour this year, with my good pals Pat Dodson and "Last Comic Standing" winner John Heffron. We squeezed together in a rental van for weeks at a time, performing at colleges all over this fucking dump great nation of ours. I recollect a TON of great memories, horrible situations, shared hotel rooms, and mom jokes like you wouldn't believe. We did 2 semesters together in that van, once driving all the way from Chicago to Sarasota, Florida for a single gig, the car catching on fire as Pat and I were mere blocks from getting home.

Thank Christ I was young.

Ohhhhh yeah, last Saturday night was the Chicken Little event at the (fucking amaaaazing) Orpheum Theatredowntown. Of the 4 movie events that we've attended for Diznay, this sucker blew them all outta the water.

Firstly, the theater is gorgeously renovated. Secondly, the producer and director performed a parody version of "Livin' on a Prayer" dressed as Bon Jovi, complete with wires flying them on and offstage. Thirdly, the movie itself is probably the best product Walt and Co. have put out in yersandyearsandyears. And finally, Dara's voice is in it!

She plays the role of "Hollywood Abby", voicing opposite Adam West, and it's truly one of the bigger laugh-out-loud moments in the film. It was really weird though: I kept watching her character onscreen, even when she wasn't talking, as if it was actually Dara up there.

The after party was a blast - lots of good food, booze, and even karaoke (embarrassingly pictured above). Yeees, "Love Shack" was dragged out of the mothballs one final time, to appease the masses.

Earlier in the evening, a woman approached me to have her photo taken with me, as she likes to take pictures of herself with "fake celebrities".

Yes, I do bear a strange resemblance .

Today, I actually put fingers to keys and wrote out a prose treatment for an idea for a series that popped in my head yesterday morning while fighting the urge to awake. I used my 2 hour run yesterday to flesh out the concept a little bit more, and I must say, like a 14 year old in a boobie factory, I'm fairly excited about it.

I rang up my ol' writing partner Jed and tossed the idea at him, and he seemed receptive to working it out with me. This is a good thing, because I'm one lazy mutherfucker relatively unmotivated. How the hell does one get this "motivation"? i see all of these people all over the place doing shit and I can't wrap my brains around how you get yourselves to do stuff. Honestly, I could (and have on occassion - AND WILL AGAIN!!) fill my days with internet pr0n, training runs, hanging out- i.e., sitting on our back deck reading some Fante and sipping a bourbon, and, on rare occasion, leaving my property to grab a bite.

But I always am hearing about projects people are involved in. Like our friend Billy, who is renovating an entire house up in Seattle so he and his wife can sell it. Or my friend Eva, who has written/produced 2 plays and a documentary on Civil War re-enactors. Or Mike, who is finishing nursing school this semester. Do you know how much fucking-around-time doing all of that would eat up? When would I fit in my 15 minute sitting on the toilet reading Entertainment Weekly time?

So some of you are now mumbling, "Yeah, Russ, spending 6 hours a week running isn't 'doing something', ya dumbass'." firstly, how DARE you speak to me in such a tone. Secondly, I *like* doing that. It's everything else that I can't stand.

All right, time to get back to....wait, what was I doing?