Since I've fallen on difficult financial times (read: no job and the government teat has run dry as of last week), today, I took my first, faultering step of desperation.

I enlisted at a temp agency.

It's an entertainment industry-based agency, so they send you to the studios for the most part, but I have to say, it's been many-a-year since I subjected myself to such...sadness.

I arrived and was quickly greeted with 15 pages of nonsense to fill out, plus, I was subjected to a ridiculously retarded test about "Safety In The Workplace" (including questions like: "You are asked to pick up your boss' dry cleaning - Do you A. Say no, asshole, B. Cockpunch your boss, or C. Phone the agency as it is not part of your job description?", and finally met with an agent.

This woman, let's call her "I have a nervous tick of sniffing back every 5 seconds" - or "Anna" for short - had me sit beside her desk while she completed other paperwork, checked email, and gossiped with the other rotund, overly madeup, whining, bitching workers for 10 minutes as I sat, staring into space, biding my time, reminding myself that I need a job NOW, and that stabbing her in the eyeball with one of the 3 troll dolls on her monitor is mildly illegal.

Once done with her "tasks", she perused my resume, mumbled a couple of questions about what I'd like to do, and then sent me to the test computers, wherein a piece of testing software runs one through a variety of tasks on computer programs that you'll NEVER, EVER NEED to use ("Macros"? Ever tampered with that on your Microsoft Word software? Didn't think so).

I scored 100% on Word and Powerpoint, 80% on Outlook Express, and 60% on Excel (thank god. That reflects the lack of spreadsheets in my past). Suddenly, when I return with these results, Anna is all over me; sucking my dick, excited to have me with the company, etc. She must've seen dollar signs in my test scores, or noticed the 16" bulge in my pants as I walked back to her, as she handed me a "Welcome" packet and told me to call them every morning between 8 and 9 am.

I can't wait to see where this all leads.

...they tell us, "Better listen to the voice of reason",
but they don't give us any choice, 'cause they think that it's treason.
So you had better do what you are told.
You'd better listen to your radio."

- Elvis Costello


Hell-bent in my masochistic ways, I've pre-programmed KERTH 101, the Los Angeles oldies station, into my car stereo settings, and I have a few questions for the programmers of these stations:

1. Were there only 20 songs recorded between 1955 (the approximated birth of rock and roll) and 1970 (the year that seems to be the cutoff for "oldies" wherein they are moved into the "classic rock" category)? One would assume so, because I - and other listeners- are subjected to "Mony Mony" and "Do Wa Diddy" more often than we should be during the day.

2. Who the FUCK even likes "Doo Wa diddy" or "Mony Mony"? I mean, besides drunken dipshits in bars who love to sing the echo "Looks good!...looks fine!", or better yet, scream the hilarious frat house improv, "Get laid, get fucked!".

3. THE BEATLES RECORDED MORE SONGS THAN "SHE LOVES YOU" AND "I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND", DUMBASSES. In fact, they recorded *29* albums before your cutoff of 1971. Maybe they're hard to hear with your heads jammed so FAR UP YOUR ASSES THAT YOU CAN SEE THROUGH YOUR NAVELS.

I. Hate. Radio.

That is all.

The race results from my ultra are posted here, and I finished 38th out of a field of 80 runners!

The 1st place finisher got in almost two fucking hours before me. He had time to change clothes and watch a movie before I rolled in.

click above to enlarge

So I had a bizarre experience today:

As you probably read about in the previous post, during the 50k race on Sunday, my shoelace snapped, just as in my dream the night prior. The shoes are made by Salomon (a skiwear maker, predominately) and possess a quick-tie lacing system that actually requires one to send the shoe back to the manufacturer to fix. Yes, lame, but I do have a spare pair of trail shoes, so I dragged the old boys out of the closet to take them to REI.

Upon examination, I noticed a thick stick protruding from the outer sole of the shoe. It was jammed in at least 2" into the hard rubber. Christ, a little higher up on my ankle and it would have been drop-out-of-race-time for Rustyboy.

So I tote these incredibly worn (I've had them for 3 months and probably put about 700 miles on them), gaggingly smelly, beaten up shoes to REI where they inform me that I can get a brand new pair in exchange if they have my size. If not, I get a full refund.

After I found out that my size was unavailable, they refunded me $100 for my tattered and dessimated footwear and sent me on my merry way.

All I'm saying is: Buy Salomon footwear, and make sure to ruin them after you've beaten the crap out of 'em

I ache. I ache in a fucking way that you have no idea how.

But I did it.

Just to warn you, this is - yet another - race report, but I haveta awarn you: it's epic. Epic as in, "Put a roast in the crock pot, and by the time it's finished cooking, you'll nearly be done with this" epic. So grab your favorite beverage (and it had better be booze, ya homo) and read on:

We drove out to Calico Saturday afternoon, about a 2 1/2 hour drive towards Vegas. I registered at the ghost town after sunset (BOOOOOOO...well, not really. It was pretty hokey) and I took an acute notice to the howling winds careening through the canyons and mountains. Welp, maybe by morning, they'll subside and it'll be calm and clear.

*Buzzer*

Wrong answer.

We headed back to the hotel, and I readied my runnin' crap as we hunkered down to watch 3 hours of "Law and Order". I turned in earlier than Dara and passed out. In my unrestful and horrifically unfulfilling slumber, I had stressful dreams about the race. I dreamed that, at some point during the race, I reached down to tie my zip-tie lace and they snapped off my left foot. I woke up and my heart was racing. You know, like a true wussy.

I slept a wee bit and woke up a little before my wakeup call at 5:45, got dressed, grabbed some delicious (read: free) Frosted Flakes down in the lobby, and off Dara and I went to the race.

The start began with the resounding blast of a shotgun, and off we trodded, most of the first 6.8 miles a rolling downhill. I made small talk with a runner doing the 30k, and hit the first aid stationat 6.8 miles, feeling amazing. The sun was beginning to bake us a little, but the headwinds of, are you ready, THIRTY MILES PER HOUR, kept slapping us in the face. I finished that first leg in 1:10 or so and ambled off towards the backside of the mountains, legs alive, breath steady and slow.

Well, that was short lived.

The next leg began a slow, gradual climb into the mountains, and the sun began taking away the chills handed to us by the 40 degree morning and torrential winds. The headwind came to our backsides, making the climbs at miles 10-14 (somewhat) tolerable. I caught a runner who I'd seen ahead of me who was wearing a "San Diego 100" shirt. It turns out he'd just run it in September, his second 100, and this, his 5th 50k, he explained was one of the harder courses. Lucky me.

I began my uphill walking plan as the ascents became a little more extreme, so he ran ahead as the winds began to beat the crap out of us. Eventually, after an hour + of intense climbing, we reached the crest at an aid station that was being ravaged by winds of over 40 MPH. Holy. Mother. Of. God. Beyond that, we were informed, the downhills began. Another runner, an older gent named "Bud" and I began to run together. And this man became an inspiration to me.

The downhills were...how shall I say? FUCKING INTENSE. At one point, we traversed down a good 50% grade, half mile long descent comprised entirely of large, loose rock. It would have been a poor mistake to lose one's footing. As Bud yelped from behind me, "This is a real kick in the ass!!!"

Things flattened and more plateaued running began. I left Bud behind me as I continued on to the aid station at mile 22, an RV parked to block the horrendous winds. Munching on PB and Js, Bud caught up with me and we trucked on uphill into the blowing desert mountains, chatting and getting to know one another, and, more likely, trying to take our minds off the aches in our legs. It turns out Bud is a seasoned ultrarunner and has finished The Hardrock 100 Miler 3 times, one of the more grueling 100 milers in the States, and is using this 50k as a training run. Yeesh, was I humbled.

The guy was a stud on uphills, and he pushed me to keep up with him, almost acting as my pacer. He acted shocked when I told him that this was my 1st ultra, telling me that I had amazing legs on downhills and that I had the chops to be competative in ultras, which I took as a compliment to keep up my spirits. The winds were killing us as we banged out the miles together, our conversation dwindling as we struggled along the rolling up and downhills. Each time Bud wound up ahead of me on an uphill, he waved down to me and screamed, "Downhills!!!!" I'd reach the crest to find 200 yards of steep descents...followed by more steep ascents.

The final mile or two was a KILLER. Holy Jebus in heaven, my legs felt like they were about to fall to the center of the Earth. Bud was ahead of me by about 50 yards the rest of the way when I noticed that my left shoelace felt untied, so I stopped to fix the situtation.

My left shoelace snapped when I tried to tie it. Just like in my dream.

I said aloud, "Pre-mo-ni-tion!" and scrambled on to my final mile, which may as well have been another 50k, but as I entered the ghost town main street, a steep downhill stared me in the face as I heard "Runner in the street!" announced from the finish. Sprinting to the finish, my wife snapped pics of me and cheered me on as I approached the finish to find...BUD, holding out his hand for a high 5. I slapped his hand as I passed the finish at 5 hours, 43 min, a good 17 minutes ahead of what I'd projected. Bud grabbed me and introduced himself to my wife and said, "You are awesome! I want to see more of you at these races!"

Whatta guy. He was like a guardian angel.

Dara and I celebrated and ate a complimentary lunch in the cafeteria as we readied for the drive home; her, thrilled for my accomplishment and forgiving the amazing scent wafting from my body; me, immersed in my first huge step towards my 100 mile race goal.

Above are pics of the ghost town at sunset the night before the race, random pics of me being dopey before and as I approached the finish, and photos Dara snapped around the ghost town during the race. Yes, they had "gunfights" on the Main Street. And some runners had to go around them as they approached the finish line.

Don't ask.

Good news! The 7th Seal has finally been opened!

I've made mention of him here and there, but if you haven't, you need to know the truth about comedian Bill Hicks, as told in this biography Bill Hicks: Agent of Evolution. It really paints a wonderful, human, 3D portrait of this comedy "legend" (and I put that in quotes because he'd find it hilarious).

Dara and Bill were good friends in the late 80s and early 90s, and I had a few occassions to meet and hang out with Bill. He was incredibly polite and gentlemanly, but this bio really deconstructs the myth and presents to you the man, the dreams, the fears, and the tragic end of a life riddled with strange happenstances and brilliance.

I'll never forget the first words spoken to me by Bill: "You a comic?" It was filled with psuedo-sarcasm as I was wearing a sportjacket and Tshirt. Oftentimes, I think, "What would Bill say about what's going on in the world?", but his brother, Steve, says it best:

I wonder what it would be like to have Bill here, today.

He was merely a man, after all. A man missed and mourned by those who loved him.

Okay, so I'm pretty all-consumed with running the ultra next weekend. I'm a mere 6 days out, and I'm beginning to shart myself a little bit. Beinning last week, I started my "taper", which is to say, a serious reduction in mileage (2 weeks ago: 50 miles for the week, last week, 38, this week, 9 before the race). Yesterday, I began stuffing my face with starchy carbs and will continue this trend all week. Why? I'm glad you asked, and you, you are sorry that you did:

Filling your body full of carbs beginning a week or less out from a long race builds up the stores of glycogen in your system. After strenuous exercise of 60 minutes or more, peoples' glycogen stores normally get depleted, which causes your body to call on fat reserves for fuel. Problem being, fat doesn't provide as quick energy as glycogen - the result? Exhaustion, or, "hitting the wall".

When I woke up yesterday, around 8:30, I said to myself, "In one week, you'll have been running for an hour and a half already." We had breakfast, chatted, I slowly got my running gear together, drove to Griffith for my last 8 miler before the race, finished it, got home, showered, surfed the internet, looked at the clock...and it read 1:30. So I says to myself, I says, "You'll be finishing the race right about now."

Let the sharting commence!

A little while ago, I told the tale of my friend Wil and my psuedo-acquaintance Shane's ongoing blog war with their friend Annie. Well, the battle has been raised to a higher level. Check out what Wil and Shane had their friend, A.J., put together, and if you have time, read Annie's blog for a more in-depth and detailed description of what's been going on.

Ahhh, the internets.

I haven't made mention of it as of yet, but I am on day 5 without The Sauce.

I'm cutting das booze from my diet for the 2 weeks prior to my ultramarathon , or at least greatly limiting it, and last night was my foray into the world of "non-alcoholic alcohol". The night began with a trip to the corner liquor store and the purchasing of O'Douls Amber. When I asked the clerk behind the counter where the non-alcoholic beer was, a look of confusion crash landed on his face. It was though I walked into a neo-Nazi meeting asking where the bagels and schmear could be located...all the while wearing a prayer shawl.

I toted the 6er home (by the way, don't EVER use the phrase "6er") and popped a cap off the frosty, cool bottle. My first sip was...well, have you ever ordered Hot/Sour soup at a chinese restaurant, only to find that they'd filled the bowl with goat urine and bat guano? It's a very similar vibe.

I sat and surfed the 'net a little, all the while sipping this frothing, malty, concoction pissed straight from Satan's asshole, and eventually got used to the taste. It wasn't really all that bad - although that could have been the .5% booze talking. I guzzled 4 over the next couple of hours, only to discover the same benefits of real beer apply to near-beer: I had to whiz like a mofo, and let's just say the fermentation made a playground of my intestines.

I posed the bottle for it's above yearbook photo alongside the school bullies Gin and Rum. After the pic was snapped, all hell broke loose.

OH NOES, the Rose Parade is gettin' all rained upon!!!!111!!!

Yeah, for the first time in like, 4 million years, it's raining on the Rose Parade. And you should hear the cutting, insightful remarks made by our LA newscasters:

"This is the first time it's rained on the Rose Parade in 4 million years."

and

"It's been 4 million years since it last rained on the Rose Parade."


And it *is* raining like a mutherfarker out there. I went for a 22 mile run in the mountains on Saturday in a torrential deluge and wound up wetter than your mom at a cock convention (ooooh, POW! You walked right into that one!). Los Angeles needs this, though, yet, it never seems to be enough. As the now-dead-genius comic Bill Hicks once said:

Thing is, in Los Angeles, it'll rain...and then they'll say, "Well, it's raining, but it still won't help the drought." I've got some news for you: If rain doesn't help your drought....YOU'RE FUCKED. It's not like DuPont is creating some sort of anti-drought gel.