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I just got sidetracked by a flashback to November, 2004. Bush had just stolen another election. Heather had just been published. And I had just released “Love & Other Indoor Games,” moved to 80th Street, and hit rock bottom. I read those words now and shiver. I remember being That Guy. I remember finding myself…

I don’t generally mind signing my name to checks, contracts and the like. I pretend I’m signing an autograph, and let the loops on the B, W, and G (which are the only distinguishable letters in my signature anyway) go wild. The wee hours of this morning, though, found Abbi and I scribbling our names…

She said yes. The question, it could be argued, was a long time coming. The concept, it could be argued, has inspired almost every song, every blog entry, and damn near every conversation prior to this one. For me, it was never a question of whether I’d get married; my parent’s divorce hadn’t sullied the…

I was face down on the massage table, a masseuse’s elbow deep into my shoulder blades, when it occured to me that the tinkling, piped-in Muzak overhead was Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” Kind of odd, I thought (between bouts of excruciating pain). Kind of sad, too. But frankly, it kind of worked. Like many before…

Truth is, given how little I’ve run in the last four months, I probably had no business tackling the Hollywood Hills. Runyon Canyon, a 130 acre city park, rises over 700 feet between Hollywood Boulevard and Mullholland Drive. My hotel was less than six blocks from the Fuller Avenue entrance. Straight uphill. Friday morning was…