As mentioned in a previous episode of Bah Blah Blog, the windows beside my desk are a wall of reflective glass that look out onto a patio area. Sometimes, you catch the strangest things. And then you do something even stranger: You photograph someone you don't know fucking with their hair right in front of you.

The thing about work...

I have this incredible love, hate, HATE, HATE relationship with the reality of employment. Love? The dough. Hate? Responsibility to something I could give a rat's ass about. HATE? Having to go and exercise that responsibility by thinking/doing something about said something. HATE? 6 day work weeks on top of a 50 hour work week.

Yesterday, Saturday, myself, my EP and another writer spent about 5 hours performing triage on our show, which could use a little repairing and finetuning. This bonus workday was preceeded by a much-needed 2 hour, 40 mn trail run at Griffith Park early that morning, which cleared the cache a wee bit, but last night, I passed out around 9pm, only to awake at 6:00 and do a swim clinic in Santa Monica at 9, which KICKED what was left of my non-exisistent ass. (In all seriousness, I used to have a butt, but I noticed around age 28 a "sliding off" process, where my cheeks fell south of my kneecaps towards the Earth's core.)

Rigth now is my first break of the weekend after a 56 hour week, and I'm sipping my second margarita, feeling the stress and strain slip away like so many asscheeks.

Then I realize that in 14 hours, it starts all over again.

Since it's the official start of summer blockbusters (read:SUUUUUUUCKY MOVIES), thoughts began flying through my brain about perenial superhero, the grandaddy of them all:

That's right, Molemen and hot chicks in distress: Super-fucking-man.

Trying to get beyond the name is my first stumbling block. I suppose the word "super" was rarely, if ever, affiliated with hairy-chested men in leather vests grinding against one another on a dance floor back in the 1930's, but these days, when a "man" is called "super", all I can picture is some muscley dude in tights, perhaps adorned with a cape and shiny, knee-high boots.

Hey!

Above is pictured George Reeves, TV's first rendition of the cosmic visitor from Krypton. Let's see: Greasy hair....pot belly...high-waisted pants....wait a sec. That's not Superman. I've just described Morey Amsterdam from the Dick Van Dyke Show!

My other problem with "The Sup" is the fact that he was our first comic book hero, so straight out of the gates, you have the strongest man on the planet who happens to also be invincible. Well, where do we go from here, you ask? They shoulda started a wee bit smaller, so they could build up to him with, I dunno, "So-So Guy" or "Casual Crime Fighting Frank".

Even with these issues (that I apprently have too much time on my hands to ponder), you can bet your fortress of glass near the North Pole that I'll be seated in air-conditioned comfort this summer, ooing and ahhhing at the screen as the man who can save us all does his best to thwart evil.

that, or I'll be on the dance floor at Rage in West Hollywood, dancing the hell out of the joint, wearing my blue tights and cape.

It's been rather overcast here in sunny LA as of late. I'm staring out my window at the E! offices at a grey sky blanketing the entire city, sipping some crap coffee supplied by the E! kitchen around the corner, slung back in my ergonomic chair supplied by the E! ergonomics department (I shit you not).

Speaking of looking out my window: Our entire wall is one giant window that's reflective on the outside. Immediately on the other side of the window is a patio area, complete with tables and chairs. Well, E! being E!, their budgets are shyte, so yesterday, I witnessed a cameraman and small crew setting up a backdrop, obviously doing some down-n-dirty, high standard, ultra-journalistic shooting.

No.

Within seconds, a young blonde girl strutted out onto the patio in the tiniest bikini these eyes have seen (methinks it was a wicked weasel [kinda NSFW]), but there she stood, nearly nekkid to the residents of the Fairfax District, and of course, me, her thonged butt bouncing 10 feet from my face. As if I'm not easily distracted enough.

I cannot WAIT for them shoot the male version.

Here be a race report on the 10k that the wife and I ran yesterday morning:

Howdee all...

I have returned from my first race under 15k in...jeez, 3 years? It was a street race alongside the ocean in Santa Monica, run by myself, my wife, and 3 of our mutual friends.

Seeing as it was the 1st annual "Save The Bay" 5/10k, flukes were to be expected, and from the getgo, we got 'em. Firstly,the start was nowhere NEAR where the map detailed, so we wound up walking about 1.5 miles to stumble upon it (we weren't the only ones wandering Santa Monica in search of it). The start was to be signaled with the blowing of a conch shell, which, after 3 attempts to no avail, was switched to the classic, "On your marks, set, go!"

I set my goal on breaking my (incredibly pathetic) 45 minute PR for a 10k, so I set myself up in the 7mile/min corral and trotted along. Mile 1, "7:04" was announced, so I was on pace, pretty much, pounding the streets of Venice on a sunday morning, passing coffeeshop after coffeeshop of poseurs, barely clapping us on between latte sips and screenplay revisions.

Mile 2 pushed us to Ocean Ave, above the PCH, with a magnificent view of the Pacific. The salt air swirled through my lungs, refreshing and cool, as I hit mile 2 at 14:05, cutting some time, but I knew there was a lllloooong , gradual climb ahead, so I reduced pace as I felt the increase of grade.

Miles 2.5-4 were on a steep 4% grade, so I concentrated on breathing, knowing that, at the turnaround, I'd make up my time, and as I switched back at mile 4, I hit it. Hard.

Donwhill all the way, I passed my wife and our friends on their way up the hill, relishing in their cheers as I concentrated on my now, 6:30 pace. My wife, as she passed, screamed, "You GO, McGarry!" to which I responded, "No, McGarry, YOU go!", to which she responded, "No, YOU!". She looked so happy on her way up, and I felt a surge of pride in her attempt, as she rarely runs beyond 4 miles consecutively.

Smelling the barn door at mile 5, I slammed on the accelerator and gave chase to a runner who'd passed me 1/2 a mile prior. Drafting him, I kept up the pounding pace and hit the finish at 43:12, a new PR. No exhaustion, no nausea, I knew I'd run my race, and knew if I'd really pushed it, could have broken 43 without a problem.

I awaited our friends and my wife at the finish and saw them all trounce across the line, all smiled, my wife flashing the "rock goat horns" at the photographer snapping shots right before the chutes.

I was happy with my pace, as I'm not a speed demon by any means, as I finished 11th in my age group of 80.

2 weeks from now, I go for my 5k PR. Expect a race report that involves vomiting.