Halle-fuckin-llujah.

After 7 months of unemployment (save for massages here and there and the occassional BJ given to a bum for a nickel), I just got the call that I'm back in action as of Monday at the E! network for at least the next 10 weeks, producing a couple of shows.

I had the interview yesterday afternoon, and I really like the Exec Producer (he's a good friend of a good friend), and I really like the show ideas and his approach.

And I really like the prospect of a paycheck, at least for a short spurt. So do the folks at Visa and Mastercard.

At the intersection of Aqua Vista and Lankershim, on the darkened corner across the street from where I worked for nearly 2 years, is the classiest watering hole ever constructed in Southern California. Yeah, you New Yorkers have your famed White Horse Saloon, where Dylan Thomas was rumored to have drunk himself to death; my hometown of Chicago has it's plethora of taverns many-a-fat-mustachioed-guy calls home, but for me, for now and forever, Rocky's is the first and only pub where everyone knows my name.

My pal Leamy and I would stand on our desk chairs, staring at the opened, welcoming doors through the high window of our office. More times than I care to count, we - and many other coworkers - wound up soused in the comfy confines during our lunch breaks, only to come stumbling back to the awful reality that was our jobs.

The joint has been around since the 1950's, when the San Fernando Valley was nothing but a vast splay of orange groves, dotted with a few housing tracts here and there, home to the working class of Los Angeles men and women condemned to the hot, dry wasteland. Rocky's cool draught brews and iced liquor drinks have quenched more than a million thirsty blue collared workers' whistles, and each and every time I walked in, I was greeted by the friendly local barflies, maternal, proficient barkeeps, all welcoming me to that third place that isn't work, but isn't quite home either.

Well, ol' Rocky's will be locking it's doors tomorrow night for the final time. A new landlord purchased the strip of shops where it's housed and has driven the rent through the leaky roof in hopes, one can assume, to out the riffraff. But they aren't riffraff at all: They were, and will always be, a tight knit family of hard working, middle class Joes who all thought of that old dump as a refuge where they could kick back, sip a whiskey or four, bullshit with and rib one another, and catch a game on the widescreen and cheer for the hometeam.

If you can manage, hoist one now and proclaim in your loudest, slurring drunken voice:

"To the ROCK!"

So today was my first job interview in I don't know how long. Probably in the neighborhood of 2 1/2 years, and I'm so desperately broke, I had high hopes for this position as a story editor.

All first indications were positive: The production office is 3 miles from the house. NICE. I show up and meet 2 very personable young ladies who inform me that this job as "story editor" is actually "story editor/logger/field notes-taker".

Ooookay...

Then they inform me that they had 3 teams of two people last cycle of shows, but this round, it would be 1 team of two people.

Ooookay...

Then they inform me that I would be required on-set to watch all of the tapings as I take notes. In Irvine. And we would spend 8 days straight there, 3 or 4 back home for me to piece the episode together, and then back out for 8 days, back for 3, etc., until the end of June.

Ooookay...

...no. Not "Oookay". WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? WHO TAKES THESE JOBS? I didn't ask the weekly rate that they were offering during the interview, but seriously, they're asking whomever takes this position to do the jobs of 6 people. This should put the pay at somewhere in the neighborhood of $3,500/week, but I guarantee-goddamn-ty ya, it's more like $1200/week, and you're probably working 60 hours per week.

Not for me. Let the youngins have at it.

Last night, Dara and I and two of her coworkers hit Ruth's Chris steakhouse for dinner and drinks and HOLY MOTHER OF FUCKING GOD, it was easily the tastiest steak I've ever laid teeth upon.

So now, off to the pool to get ride of it.

Today, on my first trail run in 2 weeks, and my first run over 3 miles since last Sunday's marathon (of 1 1/2 hours), I noticed a couple of things about hikers...

Firstly: Men like to pick up large sticks and carry them. I'm not certain if this is something left over from childhood, or perhaps genetically we feel we must do in the wild to protect ourselves, but I'd say about 20% of the men I come across hiking have either brought with them a large walking stick, or have gathered one from the trail. They all look like little Moseses

Secondly: Sometimes, when couples of Asian descent go hiking together, "together" is only in theory. Not once, not twice, but thrice today, I passed older Asian couples on hikes, and the man was a good 20 feet ahead of the woman each time. I then realized that I'd seen this dozens of times before: The man silently strides ahead, his hands tucked behind his back, and the woman struggles on behind him. Again, I don't know if this is an evolutionary "I'll walk ahead and make sure the path is safe" or what. It did give me something ponder as I sat at the counter of Jerry's Deli post-run, chowing down on a turkey Louisiana Burger and fries.

Well, the weather was perfect, and as Randy Newman's "I Love LA" (ironically, a song about NOT loving LA, but it somehow attached itself to the city) blasted through the speakers, 25,200 runners took off into the concrete jungle of Los Angeles.

This, being my first road race (I believe the highest number of participants in my trail races hovers around 315), I was blown away by the sheer SIZE of everything: Musicians playing in the streets, people hanging out to cheer us on, dodging and weaving for the first 5 miles around, not rocks and roots, but walkers and shufflers.

I was running with my friend Eric, who had been threatening to run this marathon for 8 years and challenged me only a few days after my 50k to run it with him. Well, I did have the base, but I was concerned that he'd only been running regularly for about 3 weeks at that point (he was a stellar track athlete in high school but had since fallen off the running wagon). I pointed him towards several training programs and told him to "catch up".

THE MUTHER FUGGIN' RACE

With the shot of the starting pistol, it took us about 6 minutes to cross the starting line, but once we got going, things were smooth sailing. Our first 10k, we clocked in at 55:14, a less than 9 mn/mile pace, which we'd been counting on. We both felt fantastic, and I was itching to push it, but I was there for Eric moreso than myself, so we trudged on enjoying the picture-perfect weather.

Our next split was at 13.1 miles, and we hit that at 1:55:33, still both flying high. I could tell that I was going to finish more than strongly at this pace, but I sensed hesitation in Eric. Slight, but I knew it was there. When we stopped so he could take a leak, it took him 2 minutes to get out of the port-o-john, so I knew something was up.

Dara and his wife Kate awaited us at a designated corner around 14 miles, and we rushed over, gave them sweaty, salty kisses, and got the hell out of Dodge. Into the back half, I was getting the warning signals from Eric that things were taking a turn, and by 15, I saw that glaze that overcomes runners who are approaching "the wall". Regardless of my constant insistence that we eat and drink more than we felt necessary, his reserves we running low, probably from a lack of long runs in his training, but I kept up words of encouragement and kept telling him, "We're finishing this together."

At mile 19, I was seriously losing him. Our pace was somewhere in the 10:30 neighborhood, and we were still in the middle of some hills. I pushed him, tried everything from humor to positive reinforcement, to getting him angry at the course, but I was losing him, and at mile 22, staring at the split clock, he looked at me and said, "Break 4 hours."

I had major gas in my tanks still, so I patted him on that back and said, "I will see you within 10 minutes of my finish. Keep moving. You can do it." I picked up my pace and left Eric behind, trudging, aching. I felt awful for doing it, and wouldn't have split off if he hadn't insisted.

The wives again were at mile 24, so I waved across the street and picked it up even more. NOTHING was gonna slow me down....at least I thought.

About 1/2 a mile later, I saw a runner in the middle of the road, holding his left hamstring. As I am wont to do whenever I see someone stopped and hurting during a race, I asked, "Are you okay?" and saw a grimacing, tearfilled face look back at me. He screamed as I hoisted his arm over my shoulders and shuffled him to the curb. An onlooker took him and screamed, "I've got him! Go!" and off I went.

I felt the leg burning and the nausea coming on from burning everything you've got in a race, but I was 1 mile from the finish and pushed even harder. I couldn't BELIEVE the throngs of cheering people as I entered the chutes, barely missing 4 hours at 4:02:19, placing 2,375 out of 25, 200 runners.

Our wives reunited with us and welcomed us with 2 bottles of delicious sports drink Guinness , which we thankfully guzzled in celebration. And Eric, after all of that struggling? The s'umbitch finished in 4:08! I shudder to think what he'll do with a big running base under his belt.

All in all, a great day, a fantastic experience, and now, to soak my legs in a hot bath...and enjoy another Guinness. Pics are coming - fucking blogger is refusing to allow me to post at the moment. Bastids.

Sunday marks the date of the LA Marathon, which I'll be running with my pal Eric. Basically, he's the only reason I'm tackling a road marathon a scant 60 days after my ultra marathon - said he, on January 17th, one day after the 50k: "Come on! You're totally trained for this! Besides, I'm not going to run it if you don't."

I am, how you say, a sucker and a dumbass.

The weekend before last, Dara bought me (and herself) our first road bikes so we can properly prepare for triathlon season. Ain't my wife a sweetheart?

I took her on a spin this afternoon (the bike, not Dara) to the YMCA where I swam, and I must say, she rides like a dream...although my ass hurts like I passed out at a frat party. And I didn't even get a phone number or free breakfast out of it.

Since I am absolutely positive that nothing good can come of anything that I do, I think I'll jinx the psuedo-good news on the horizon by blabbering about it here:

About 4 weeks ago, I was wrestling inside my head about how I could "earn a living" by trail running. I did the typical inside of the box approach: Thought about coaching and other things I'm completely underqualified for, and then started to expand the perameters.

"Okay," said I, seated on the toilet, where all brilliance is born, "what skills could you offer?" I could give out free massages after races in hopes of landing clients...okay, not the most lucrative or orginal thought....then it hit me.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, gathering a handful of Charmin, "I'm a tv producer!"

Duh.

The thought of documenting Badwater, known as the toughest footrace on Earth (135 miles through Death Valley in July), had always inspired me. Then it hit me: Ultra running legend Scott Jurek, who has won the Western States 100 mile race the past 7 years in a row DEVASTATED the Badwater record last year, by about 4 hours. I wonder if he's doing it again?

I contacted my buddy Michael, with whom I work from time to time, and asked if his agents had any contacts at ESPN or any sports-related network who might be interested in hearing a pitch such as this. Well, as it turns out, Fox sports is looking to expand into "reality programming", but they don't know what they want yet.

Michael dug the idea, so I sent an email to Scott Jurek, which, to me, is the same as a basketball fanatic dropping a note to Michael Jordan, giving him a brief synopsis of who we are, and what I was looking to do. His wife wrote me back the very same day, saying he would be out of town until after the weekend, and then, about an hour ago, Scott CALLED ME. I about shit myself, which, coincidentally, was what I was doing when I came up with the idea in the first place.

He was very interested and incredibly polite and inquisitive. So now, we present the initial idea to Fox via Michael's agents and cross our fingers that they show some interest.

Excuse me. To the bathroom i must go.

Directly across the street from us, in a painted, white house with two turqoise chairs on the front stoop, lived a man named Sydney. Sydney was born in 1904 in Sioux City, SD, and was a deliveryman for most of his life there.

Sydney moved into this house at 5709 Craner in 1950, the same year it was built, and he raised a small family in the San Fernado Valley in this neighborhood. Needless to say, Sydney outlived just about everyone he knew, and when the time came, his daughter, Iona, moved in with him as his caretaker. Whenever Dara and I would visit them, the old-timer would instantly recognize our voices outside the door, pull open the screen, and invite us in.

He kept up on news and loved to hear what people on the block were up to. He despised the present administration, one can only assume because he knew that history repeated itself first-hand. Sydney, up until about 6 months ago, could be seen on Tuesday mornings wheeling the trash cans up his drive back from the street.

Yesterday morning, 3 days before his 102nd birthday, Sydney didn't wake up. And at the moment, I'm looking at those empty trash cans, sitting curbside. I hope they stay out there awhile, at least until late today, so I can sit and sip a toast to Syd.

RIP, ol' man.