Author: Wil

The elevator doors opened and the roar of a lobby full of people came rushing in our face. It reminded me of a Vegas casino but without the “ching ching ching” of the slot machines or the blast of cigarette smoke that’s shoved up your nose.
We checked in before heading to the shuttle bus. Three forty-five in the morning in San Diego sure is dark and cold.
I had a nervous stomach the minute my alarm went off. A few days before heading to San Diego, Wil hurt his foot and leg. Some kind of plantar something or other. Even though there were thousands of people doing the marathon (17,420 to be exact) I was so nervous that Wil wouldn’t be able to finish it with me and I would have to motivate myself. Knowing that Kris and her husband were going to be at the finish line was very encouraging, but there were 26.2 miles between us.
We sat on the grass and stretched while trying to keep warm with Hefty bags over us like some kind of poncho. Surprisingly, it helped. The sun started to come up and race time was getting near. I must have asked Wil twenty times if he was going to be o.k.
I stood in the huge line for the port-o-potties (scary) before entering our corral (#19. You get placed in a corral according to how fast you think you’ll finish the race. Speedsters in the front and so on.) The start gun went off promptly at 6:45 am. Everyone was so excited as we all scooted slowly to the start line. It took ten minutes to reach the actual start line because there were so many people there.
Wil and I cruised along with all the other walkers and got out of the way of the runners making their way through the crowd. It was so exciting to finally be there after all the training and the wonderful response with donations. I kept saying “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” I also kept saying “Is your foot alright?” to Wil. I still wasn’t sure if he’d finish with me.
So along with the nervous stomach came the nervous bladder. Only two miles into the marathon, I was ready to experience the lovely facilities that only Andy Gump could provide. Unfortunately, so did at least fifteen other people. So Wil impatiently waited next to me in line telling me the whole time that we were getting really behind. See, the other nervous stomach thing that was happening to me was that we had to get to mile 12.7 by a certain time or they would re-route us directly to mile 23. There were so many people there that if there wasn’t some kind of schedule, people could be out there all day. After all the training and donations, I wanted to finish a FULL marathon, not part of one.
After our 15 minute (yes, we waited 15 minutes. Can you believe that?! Next marathon, it’s all about the bushes) stop, we decided we should run a little to make up for lost time. Not only did we have that 15 minute stop, but we lost that ten minutes at the start line so we needed to move!
We ran about a mile which I was stunned we could do. We had only trained to walk and although I thought I was in pretty good shape, my lungs felt otherwise. I had to slow down and just walk fast so I could catch my breath, but still try to make up that lost time.
The marathon set-up was very entertaining. There were bands all along the route singing and cheering everyone on. There was one band of three or four kids that were only in 7th grade. They sounded awesome and I thought it was so great of them to be out there so early on a Sunday morning to support the marathon.
After several surges of running mixed in with walking fast, I heard someone say there was a woman wearing a “Pacer” shirt and she was well, the pacer. We needed to be either with her or ahead of her if we were to make that 12.7 mile cut-off in time. So we ended up running most of mile 8, 9, and 10. Wil said he was feeling great and his foot was hardly bothering him at all. My lungs however, felt like I had spent an entire hot, smoggy, summer day in the over-chlorinated pool. I know you remember how that felt. Like someone standing on your chest and you can’t quite get enough air. But somehow, we caught up to her.
When we finally rounded a corner and caught up to the “pacer”, we were so relieved that we needed to celebrate with our old friend Andy Gump again. At least there wasn’t a line this time.
When we jumped out of Andy’s place, the pacer was nowhere in sight. DAMN! More running. It had become somewhat of a joke just trying to catch up and stay ahead of her. It was like a dream where you’re running away from someone but they’re moving fast and you’re hardly moving at all.
We were really wiped out as we neared mile 12. But this mile was a slight upgrade and would require more energy than I could muster. That is, until the lady at the top yelled “three minutes to cut-off!” What?! All this running and lung burning and there isn’t any extra time? “How the hell did that happen?” I said. “Fuckin’ Andy Gump is what happened” Wil said. Damn, I hate when he’s right. But at least he’s still with me, so I wasn’t about to complain.
We raced up the hill and made the cut-off with less than two minutes to spare. Two minutes! That was way too close. I looked down the hill at the hundreds of people that didn’t make it. It was kind of a Titanic moment.
In all our training, we were able walk 13 miles and feel great. So I figured when we did the marathon, it might me a bit tiring, but such a thrill to be there that it wouldn’t matter. Boy, was I wrong. By the time we reached that oh-so-exciting 13.1 mile marker (that would be the half way point for those of you keeping score at home) I was completely exhausted. “Half way!” I said as we approached the sign. Of course, the people around us probably thought I was excited but the truth was, I was pissed that I felt so terrible and it was only have way done. Or halfway left. However you want to look at it.
Wil and I both went through waves of feeling great and feeling like we couldn’t go on over the next ten miles. Of course, when Wil was feeling great, I had to listen to him make up songs about keeping our head up and our shoulders back. Mmm. That was nice. But when I was feeling really wiped out and in pain, I just kept saying “this is nothing compared to seven days of radiation or a month of chemo.” Then I felt like such a chump for even complaining at all.
Kris called me on my cell phone “Hey! Where are you guys?” she said. “Mile 22” I said. Boy, I thought we’d be further by now.
Kris and her husband were making their way through the Marine Corp. Recruitment Center to the stands that were set up at the finish line. Security was really tight there. I told her it would be about an hour before we finished. Hopefully.
Wil was starting to have major foot and leg pain by mile 24. I ended up jogging all of mile 25 just to get the pressure of my hips and onto my thighs. “Come on Wil! It’s so much easier if you just jog!” I yelled back. Now I was being the annoying songster. “Hell no!” he said.” I can’t do that anymore. And where’s your friend Andy? I’ve been looking for him for the past two miles!”
Andy eagerly awaited our arrival at mile 26. Good ‘Ol Andy.
I called Kris and told her we were making our way into the Marine Center (where there were Marine guys with machine guns patrolling the fence along the street. That was comforting.)
She said she could see us from the stands and would meet us at the finish line.
We walked through the archway and down the path to the finish line. I kept saying “I can’t believe we did it! I can’t believe we did it!” to Wil. Even now as I’m typing this, over a month later (overdue is more like it) I have tears in my eyes. We did it and so did Kris. She was there at the finish line, jumping and waving and yelling for us. It was by far, the most incredible moment of our lives.

We checked in at the finish (we came in something like 15, 200 something. All of that worrying and there were still 2,000 people behind us!) got our magic “26.2” pin (it’s not really magic. Just go with me on this one) and headed straight for the first aid tent for Wil’s leg.
I sat in a chair and talked to Kris and her husband while Wil got an ice pack treatment which he enjoyed while laying on a cot. The lady being treated next to him was having the blister the size of an egg on the ball of her foot examined. After all my whining, I made it with only a little soreness in my legs.( Well, sore legs and a huge ugly bruise on my big toenail from my shoe rubbing on it the last 6 miles. It still looks hideous. Gotta love nail polish!) Our time was 7 hours and 14 minutes. I can’t believe we would have finished in under 7 hours if it wasn’t for those stops. Not bad for a first marathon!
We headed back to the hotel for a nap and hobbled in to meet Kris and her husband at the “celebration” dinner two hours later. We hobbled everywhere for the next three days.
We ate fast (starving. 26.2 miles and all) and said goodnight before heading to bed early. We slept 10 hours that night. Actually, we napped during the day and slept 10 hours a night for the next three days. On our train ride home we kept getting up to stretch. Again, something we had to do for three days after the marathon.
I was surprised when we got home that we still got several donation checks. So the final count was $28,135. I still can’t believe it. Thanks to all of your help and the help of Kris’ family and friends, we more than reached our goal. We were all part of something great. Something that will make a difference. Thank you. The whole marathon raised 85 million dollars total.
A week after we got home, Kris went in to have the two surgically implanted catheters removed. They were removed because they aren’t needed anymore because her bone marrow test came back completely cancer-free. She’s officially in remission. She tells me every time I see her that our support of her and doing the marathon in her honor made all the difference. I know it did and I’m so glad we were able to do it. She also shows me new things that keep happening to her. Like all her eyelashes growing in and little sprouts of hair on her head.
Wil has donated platelets at City of Hope since being back. Unfortunately, my veins still don’t want to do that, so I’ll just be the driver. He wants to do that as often as he can to help others. Yep, that’s my husband. He’s pretty great like that.
We have also started jogging at least three times a week. Because next year, we’re RUNNING that marathon baby!!

Our 2004 Rock-n-Roll Marathon pictures are online.
The album is here.

Anne walked into the house yesterday afternoon, and said, “Will you set up the computer for me, so I can write the marathon story?”
“Yes. Yes I can,” I said. “The natives have been growing restless.”
“I know,” she said. “I finally have some time to do it.”
I pulled myself up off the floor, where I’ve spent much of the last two days with a very painful lower back, and did as she asked.
We’re going to link in some pictures and stuff, but I absolutely can’t sit here longer than a minute or so before I feel like I’m going to cry from the pain, so the full story won’t come out until Monday.
Until then, here’s a little bit of her entry:

In all our training, we were able walk 13 miles and feel great. So I figured when we did the marathon, it might be a bit tiring, but such a thrill to be there that it wouldn’t matter. Boy, was I wrong. By the time we reached that oh-so-exciting 13.1 mile marker (that would be the half way point for those of you keeping score at home) I was completely exhausted. “Half way!” I said as we approached the sign. Of course, the people around us probably thought I was excited but the truth was, I was pissed that I felt so terrible and it was only have way done. Or halfway left. However you want to look at it.
Wil and I both went through waves of feeling great and feeling like we couldn’t go on over the next ten miles. Of course, when Wil was feeling great, I had to listen to him make up songs about keeping our head up and our shoulders back. Mmm. That was nice. But when I was feeling really wiped out and in pain, I just kept saying, “This is nothing compared to seven days of radiation or a month of chemo.” Then I felt like such a chump for even complaining at all.

Have a great weekend, everyone, and check back on Monday for the full post.

We’re done with our sketch writing process at ACME. For the last four weeks, we’ve met each Tuesday, and presented an original sketch. Most company members work on material together, so they effectively get more than one turn, (for example, if I write with Kevin, Chris, and Jodi, I’d have three chances that night to make the list of funny sketches that will go in front of an audience) but I live so goddamned far away from everyone else, I ended up writing solo all four turns this time, which seriously limited my chances of making the show. I lucked out, though, and hit the comedy artery with my funny probe: I went 3-4, and I’m pretty sure my rewrite will make it, too. Depending on how our previews go, and what happens with everyone’s schedules, I could be in ACME shows starting on Saturday, September 18.
We’ve also started a new ACME improv company, called Zebra Company. Some of the greatest improvisers in Los Angeles are in this group, and auditions were very tough. I was lucky enough to make that cast, too (!) and our improv shows start September 24th.
While I drank my coffee this morning, I looked at the ACME schedule for the rest of the year, and if I’m in both Zebra and ACME Main company, I’ll pretty much be living down at the theatre. I’m conflicted about that, because I’ve really grown accustomed to working from home, and hanging out with my family whenever I want . . . but on the other hand, some of the happiest times and best performances of my acting life have been in that theatre . . . and performing twice a week will certainly give me something interesting to write about on a more regular basis. Once rehearsals are done, though, I’ll only be there on the weekends, and I’ll have an opportunity, twice a week, to perform as an actor again, which I haven’t gotten to do in far too long.
I’ll be on The David Lawrence Show again tonight, to talk about Just A Geek. When I was there for Dancing Barefoot, David and I used the entire three hours, so we just planned on that for tonight. It’s 7-10 Pacific time, and all the listening details are on the Online Tonight website.

Part one of this story can be found by following this handy link.
Also, in response to numerous requests . . .
Readers who are unfamiliar with hold-em rules can find them at ultimate bet dot com. Readers who are unfamiliar with poker terminology may want to read This glossary from CNN first. Or don’t. I’m not the boss of you.

The city of Commerce is just fifteen minutes down the freeway from Hollywood, but the Commerce Casino is a thousand miles away from Odessa. There’s no alley to walk down, no bouncer to deal with, and you’re more likely to talk to a valet than a crackhead on your way into the club.
From The Standard, we drove across the 10 and picked up the 5 in the East LA interchange. Even though it was after ten, it was backed up like rush hour. I pointed at a sign that advised 45 MPH on the turn.
“Since I was sixteen, every time I pass that sign, I laugh. I don’t think 45 has ever been a reduction in my speed through here.” I said.
Burns nodded. “That’s why you should ride a bike.”
He’s got two bikes: a racing bike, and a touring bike. Both monster Yamahas. “I’m not cool enough to ride a bike.”
“And I am?”
“Well . . . yeah.” I said. “How many times have you talked to Johnny Cash?”
“One.”
“That’s one more than me. How many times has Dusty Baker called you from the dugout at Wrigley?”
“One.”
“Again, that’s one more than me.” I said, “How many ti–”
“How many super-hot porn stars have hit on you?” He said.
“What?”
“Answer the question!” He said, in his best Tom Leykis voice.
“Uhm. One?”
“Yeah. That’s one more than me, and we’re calling it even.”
“I don’t think that–”
“Even!” He said. As if on cue, a racing bike flew past us along the shoulder, and punctuated the moment. I involuntarily jumped in my seat while Burns laughed.
“You’re still cooler than I am.”
He started to talk, and I honked my horn. “COOLER THAN ME!” I shouted. The guy in front of us looked at me in his mirror. I waved, he frowned. I made the “Live long and prosper” sign, and he quickly lost interest in keeping eye contact with me.
Burns paused a second and said, “Geek.”
“Thank you.”
We laughed, and continued to creep through the interchange.
I switched the radio from Fred to Ethel, to The System.
“I’m a little intimidated to play in an actual cardoom,” I said.
“Yeah, me too.” He said, “I’ve played in plenty of home games, but I’ve never played in a casino.”
“Have you read Lee Jones’s book?”
“Not yet. I’m still in Caro’s book.”
“Just play super-tight and be aggressive when you’ve got a hand,” I said. “Look for a reason to quit a hand if you’re raised.”
Good advice. Very good advice. Yep. Good, solid, useful, winning advice. Advice that I hadn’t heeded for weeks. Advice that I needed to hear even more than Burns did, because I’d been playing like complete and utter shit: too loose, too aggressive, and way too many hands. I had consistently lost, regardless of the game: pot-limit, low-limit, no-limit . . . Hold’Em, Stud, Draw . . . ring, tournament, home game, online game . . . I just couldn’t get it done.
When I was in my early twenties, I was a pretty good golfer. I usually shot in the low 90s, and I played every chance I got . . . then one day, I just lost my swing. My scores exploded into the 130s, and they still haven’t come back down. I hardly ever pick up my clubs; it’s too depressing. I was worried that my poker game was headed in the same direction.
Ten days ago, I was in a single table tournament that some friends put together, 10-20 No Limit Hold’Em. It wasn’t that big a deal — a fifty dollar buy got me 1500 in tournament chips, and the top three places paid out. Until recently, I’ve done really well in the tournaments I’ve played this year, always finishing in third place or higher and I usually kill these guys, so I was sure I could beat this game.
We were down to 5 players at level III. I had about T4100, and was second to the leader, who had something like T7000. So far, I’ve played a surprisingly solid game . . .

I don’t remember the specific pre-flop action, but it was called all around. The flop is Ah-3h-10c. I hold 10-9h.
I’ve got a four flush, and second pair . . . why did that goddamn ace have to come out?”
While I look at my cards, I realize that my left hand has picked up a stack of 100 dollar chips, and pushed them into the pot.
“Bet 1000.” The first mistake.

“Why did I do that? Was that the right way to play it? I don’t know. Probably not, but maybe I can represent the ace, and I had still have the flush draw. In any case, I’m not happy with that play. I hope nobody else at the table picks up on that.”
It’s folded to the button, who calls. The turn is the 4s.
I think about all the hands I had recently where I got killed: I can’t remember the last time rockets held up for me, and I’d had AK, KK, QQ —pretty much every premium hand I held — cracked so many times in limit games, I was starting to hope for The Hammer. When a draw starts to look good, you know you’re in trouble . . .
From a far away place, someone picks up my hands, and shoves all my chips forward. At the same time, he opens my mouth, and says, “All-in.” The second mistake.
The button thinks for a second, and calls.
I turn over my 10-9h. He turns over AJ and laughs. At me. My stomach turns.
“You’re going to tell yourself that you got outplayed, but you know the truth. You completely misplayed it. You blew it, jackass. He read you like a book. He knew he had you beat on the flop. You knew he had you beat on the turn. That guy who’s passed out at the bar knew you were beat. I’m pretty sure there’s some kid in Somalia who just looked up at his mother and said, ‘What the hell was Wil thinking?'”
The river doesn’t help me, and he wins it with two aces. I drop from second to last with something like 280, and tilt like a pinball machine in an earthquake.
The dealer pushes my stacks over to the winner, and spreads the muck around the table. I stare at the swirling action of his hands, occasionally catching glimpses of bright green felt beneath the blue-backed cards.
Tony Holden quotes Amarillo Slim Preston in Big Deal: “If you can’t quit the best hand, you can’t play.” I have it written down, and I read it to myself before every game. I read it so much, I guess it lost its meaning, because I have been falling madly, passionately, wildly in love with two pair, a suited ace, or any king with a medium kicker. Worse than that, I was so in love with these awful hands, I couldn’t get out of a pot when someone else clearly had me beat. In a ‘kill-some-time-game earlier that night, I knew that the guy behind me had hit his flush, but I couldn’t bring myself to muck my set of 8s. (I loved them! We’d been together since the flop!) I counted out a call, and before I capped it, I even said, “I hope you don’t have that flush, because if you do, you’ve got me beat.”
Yeah. I was such a fish, I had to wrap myself in newspaper to go to sleep.
“. . . to you.”
“What?”
“It’s to you.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
I peek at my hole cards, and almost immediately I’m running hand-in-hand through flower-filled fields with J8. A string quartet plays while we make eyes at each other. A cool breeze blows through my hair, as butterflies surround us. I absently shuffle some chips, and go all-in before the flop. It’s folded to the leader, who calls.
I flip up my precious J8. He flips up J7.
“I figured you for a tilt,” he says.
No shit.
“Well . . . I guess it was a semi-tilt,” I say. “I didn’t know how far I was going to get with 280.”
The flop is J-x-x. The turn is also a rag, and there’s an 8 for two pair on the river. I double through, and still feel like a loser. A few hands later, I finish fifth, with exactly the same to show for my efforts as the guy who went out 9th. To tell the truth, I had no business even getting this far.
Too loose, too aggressive, way too many hands . . . but it wasn’t until that game that I uncovered one fatal flaw in my game: I just couldn’t quit a hand, even when I knew I was beat. I’d been so worried about making the wrong play, I hadn’t been able to relax and make the right one.
I hear that poker players have ups and downs in their games, but I’d been down so long, it took busting out in a game that I normally dominate to see just how down I was. When I played, I wasn’t having fun, and I should have realized that something was seriously wrong.

“You sure got quiet,” Burns said as we passed the 710. The traffic did that weird thinning-out-for-no-apparent-reason thing that it always does in Los Angeles, and we were back up to 80. The Chemical Brothers thumped out of my radio.
“I was just thinking.”
“Not about the porn star, I hope. Because that’s a little creepy.”
I laughed. “No. I’ll save her for later.”
“What?!” He said.
“Just kidding,” I said. “I was thinking about my game.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
We neared our exit, and I merged right, onto the offramp. The one-story casino, dwarfed by an adjacent fifteen-story hotel, loomed large in front of us.