Griffith Park has at last opened (nearly) all of it's trails!

Saturday, I went on a glorious 1 1/2 hour run up to the epicenter of the burn area. Hole. E. Shit. So much is barren. It really was like running on the moon...with gravity. And no flag standing straight out.

AND MY RUN WASN'T FAKED LIKE THE MOON LANDING.

I kid.

I reflected during my run: My leg is nearly 100% healed; it merely took the time it needed. And Griffith Park took the time it required to heal, grow, and return.

I commend the LA Fire Department on their brave fight against the blaze. The terrain they traversed in smoke and scorching flame is incredibly steep and dangerous. To witness what they managed to save is nothing short of miraculous.

Crossroads

There was a day, in 1995, somewhere in March, if memory serves, that I performed my final booked week as a comedian. It was a "Zanies" in Vernon Hills, Illinois, where I was opening act for George Wallace (the comic, not the former governor of Alabama...although that would have been interesting). I'd most likely booked the week around 6 months in advance, knowing that it would serve as my "grand finale" in the world of yucks. My Let It Be...or Abbey Road, for you true Beatles nuts.

I paraphrase Rodney Dangerfield when I say: "I quit showbusiness and came back to find...no one knew I'd left."

That's the legacy I was to leave behind: Strings of one night shows, for 6 years, in 48 of the 50 United States; at best, a select few left scratching their heads, stating on Monday morning at the work water-cooler: "Yeah, we went to comedy night at the Holiday Inn...there was this guy...pretty funny....I can't actually remember any of what he said...hey, are there any muffins left?"

And poof!, I vanished like Keyser Soze.

I find myself at a similar fork in an identical road. After 9 glorious (please bathe thineselves in the sarcasm) years in television as a writer/producer, I am no longer invested in what I'm doing. I don't care for where it would lead me, and I don't particularly enjoy pumping peoples' minds with, what I refer to as, "digital crack."

Digital Crack is also what your cable repairman shows you when he bends over and installs your equipment.

BADOOM-CHEE! I still got it.

So now what? And where?

This is a moment where I normally shit myself out of sheer terror, or I grow excited at the prospect of change. You know, like when you finally create another playlist for your iPod, and all the music seems SO ingenious, even though it's been sitting on your hard drive, unsorted, for over a year?

So now I'm on the exciting quest to begin writing a new chapter, which is chock full of blank pages and possibility.

I'm still wondering how I'll fit George Wallace into all of this.