Update from the Mothership

So I find myself this evening writing this entry in secrecy from the Constitution State in the house of my youth. As I have stated previously, my parents have never been privy to any of my mindless babble, and I intend to keep it that way for the foreseeable future meaning if I find out that one of you ass ponies tells them, I will gut you like a fish.

Anyway, I have come home for a little relaxation and some quiet time with my parents, who I have not seen since some time in late July. I actually realized this fact today and have grown more and more angry with myself throughout the evening for letting that amount of time pass between my visits to see them. I really do enjoy their company because they make me smile and laugh with their constant "We Have Been Married Forever" bickering. Moreover, I thoroughly enjoy their unending questions about why I do not have a girlfriend or their bottomless stories about parents of classmates from my high school class, who they have seen around town and are wondering how I am doing.

Since I have been asked these questions and told of these inquiries for the last ten years now, I typically respond in the following manner. First, to the single guy question, I inform my parents that I do not have a girlfriend because I want to live life of a hermit, write a manifesto, and die alone. Then, when told who has been asking about me, I tell my parents that if anyone asks again about how I am doing that they should tell them that I am currently incarcerated and plan to kill again once released. Each of these responses usually results in my mother shaking her head and telling me that I just need to open my heart and stop being so cold.

Now, I really do love my mother and my father, but in reality, there is a method to my madness with these responses above and beyond the obvious of screwing with my parents. First, I do not really have the answer to why I am single, and I intend not to really search for that answer because I have a feeling as to that question, the more one looks the less one finds. BUT as to the people, who are being nosey and inquiring into my BIZNAZ, well they can simply fuck off because these people do not really care about how I am doing. Instead, they are asking these questions in order to get my parents to talk about me so that these other parents can then prattle on for fifteen to twenty about how little Joe is getting married and has a great supervisory position at Pfizer. It is a classic case of parental child flaunting, and I am not going to let my parents get wrapped up in this sham of conversation. Instead, I want them to avoid it as I am trying to protect my innocent parents from being pawns in this evil game of duplicity. Moreover, Joe was an asshole in high school and is probably an asshole now, who contributes little to nothing to society or even his own existence other than he probably now pees sitting down. (Not sure how that helps things but if you knew Joe , it would all make sense.) As such, my parents need to realize what the end game is here, accept the fact that Joe sucks, cut bait, and tell Joe's parents to eat shit! OR instead, simply tell them that I am in jail. Trust me there is no greater conversation killer than informing someone that little Rain Delay, whose life seemed to be so full of promise back in high school, is currently doing 15 to 20 and having his ass pummeled daily by Big Earl.

But to get back to the matter at hand, I have come home to hang out with the rents and experience some classic days of Autumn as discussed by my main man, Bob Jingle. There is no better season in the world than the Fall and no better place to experience it then in New England. (Just trust me on this one, it is not up for discussion.) Plus, I get to watch the Sox face the Yankees with my dad, which is always killer even though tonight he only made it to the seventh before sleeping. And finally, I get to hang out with little Miss Maggie, the family English Setter. (Yes, I am from New England and yes, my parents own a yuppy dog, deal with it.) Anyway, Mags has become the third child in my family being spoiled rotten by my parents, and since, I cannot own a dog in the City, I too baby the shit out her when I get home.

But for now I must get to sleeping as tomorrow looks to be a big day as I make my return to the road racing circuit with a 5k in the morning.. then, it looks like baseball, beers, and babes for the remainder of the day... I hope to get another post in before the weekend is out, but if I do not, I promise on Sunday evening, I will try to fill you in on the weekend that was here in Southeastern Connecticut.

Now I to sleep in a twin bed that is way to small for me.... Ahhh it's so damn good to be home!!!

Like the Wind

Apparently tonight is the night that Fall has decided to make its dramatic 2005 debut here in New York City as this evening featured unusually cold temperatures and a pretty kick ass wind. Of course, New Yorkers responded in their usually manner by immediately dressing like they were attempting to survive a god damn blizzard. For all of their bravado and tough guy outer appearances, New Yorkers have to be some of the weakest and lamest creatures on the planet when it comes to the weather.

Now, I will give you that it is decently cold outside right now and the wind is unlike one that we have seen yet this year BUT that is no reason to be sporting winter hats, gloves, and even scarfs... all of which I saw today while I was running through the streets of Brooklyn in shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt. While I admit that New Yorkers are not used to the rough and tumble of the hardened New England winters of my youth that made me into the fall and winter adoring human being that I am, they are still New Yorkers, who are considered by many to be the toughest, the brav est, and the finest that America has to offer and thus should be able to deal with a little bit of a chill in the air.

And plus, it was not even that fucken cold outside... I mean use that shit when it gets really cold out like in the middle of January when the wind blasts down the avenues and the temps fail to get above 20 degrees. Otherwise, if they keep up the current rate of dealing with the cold, New Yorkers are probably going to be lighting themselves on fire as soon as the temperature dips below freezing... And although they may piss me off sometimes, even I cannot advocate massive acts of personal arson (that is arson to one's person)...

So buck up New Yorkers, take off the hat, gloves, and even that ultra hip scarf you got in Soho... Find yourselves a sensible jacket and maybe even another layer if you're feeling frisky... and then, get out there and brave these conditions... trust me it will be ok... and if it is not, I will be here to criticize you.

Why I Am Getting Fired Today

Here are some random thoughts... and yes, I am writing all of this even though I still have two motions to get out this afternoon... I have basically decided to devote the entire afternoon to adding content to my blog instead of fulfilling my obligations to the man, and by the man, I mean Earl, the guy who cleans my office and makes me touch him in his special spot.

BUT I DIGRESS...

As I discussed in my previous entry, baseball is going to be the death of me this fall. I mean last year I was on the brink and BUT FOR the fact that the Sox won the World Series, I would be six feet under right now. Even with them doing me a solid, I still had walking pneumonia for two months after the season ended and can directly blame them for my massive drinking habit since I drank from the beginning of the playoffs onward. This year, the Sox have returned to finish me off in that they should have finished the Yanks off about three months ago... But instead, as of today, they find themselves in second place in the AL East and tied for the Wild Card. Their season has been one of the more frustrating as they have had injuries to key players (Schill, Foulke, Damon, etc.)and a bullpen that I believe now features the corpses of Satchel Paige and Cy Young as the featured middlemen. Furthermore, they cannot seem to hold a lead and have managed to score only at the most meaningless of times.

Meanwhile, the Yanks have managed to pull their collective heads out of their asses and are playing solid baseball. Of course, Yankees fans are making this out to be an amazing turn around by a bunch of blue collar underpaid over achieving ball players instead of the reality that it is i.e. the team with the highest payroll in baseball doing exactly what they should be doing, winning... nothing more, nothing less. Simply, the Boss puts up the money for this team to win every year and if they do not that has to be considered a failure. And so, they should be on the roll that they are on right now.

Similarly, the Red Sox should not be as inconsistent as they are right now because they pay their players a helluva alot more than most teams. And yet even with all of the failures of this season, I still have a good feeling about the Red Sox this year as long as they get into the playoffs because I think that this team is exactly what they appear to be i.e. a bunch of lazy slobs of ballplayers who ooze talent and yet have failed to use it for most of the season although they have still managed to win 90+ games. I think that this team even with their collective IQ of 30 understands what it means to be in the post-season and how to turn it at that particular time because even they can focus their abilities for that short amount of time. The post season is made for these ADD babies of Beantown and so if they can get in, I think the Sox should find themselves right back where they were last season... and no, not down three-nothing to the Yankees... IDIOTS!!!

A few more quick hits off the pipe for you...

The new Coheed and Cambria album entitled, "Good Apollo I'm Burning Star IV, Vol. 1: From Fear Through the Eyes of Madness", is the bomb even with its excessively pretentious title. Their music is definitely not for everyone or possible anyone besides me and the Dirty D, but if you like whacked out rock music, this is your band. Plus, these guys tear their instruments new assholes every time they play and sound better live... Also, I have a giant man crush on their drummer, who plays the drums unlike anything I have ever seen before. So go buy it and then blame me when you hate it. Of course, if you hate it, it just means that you do not know the first thing about good music and should save us years of hassle and kill yourself. Ok that was harsh just render yourself deaf.

In weekly poker news from the 398, Savage won at poker again last night. I am not sure what he has been doing lately although claims that he has been simply enjoying marathon sessions of the Sopranos. I think the reality is that he is watching the Sopranos and playing online poker. I am ordering surveillance for his ass, and yes, I have the ability to do that if I need to.

And finally, fall is my favorite season. The sewer outside my house smells like someone died in it, which is entirely possible since my entire neighborhood is "connected." And I turn 28 in less than a week...

Now get back to work and stop calling me...

Schnoogins.

Some Quick Updates

Since I am back on the wagon of blogging... (and possibly off the wagon in other parts of my life)... I figured I would highlight a couple of the blogs that I have added recently...

The first is Popstar, who is one of the my closest friends in the whole wide world... She was a roommate of mine in law school and helped me get through a lot of the bull shit that is my life and continues to do so. She is also one of the best attorneys I know and pretty much, fucken brilliant. She just started this blog, but already, her writing has proven to be amazing... read it or I will cut one of your arms off.

Next, McDougall's blog is by a friend of mine that I met through the now infamous Erminia from law school whose own travels and adventures could be a blog all by themself. I never knew that this individual wrote nor had an interest in writing, but apparently like Prince, she has entire catalog of writing that has never been put out there for public consumption... and she hates Edinburgh, Scotland... so what is there not to love here. Further, I think she may be just as angry as I am, which could threaten the future of the world and your personal safety. (No not you, the guy with the shoes next to you.. yeah him..)

Finally, J.A.'s blog is by a second cousin of mine who apparently is in Liberia. (Africa kids, Africa) My mother sent me this site, which almost resulted in me sending her a link to my own blog. I quickly decided that this was the idea of a mad man and simply thanked her for keeping me in the loop. I am very afraid that my parents would cry if they read what I write in the entries on my blog. I mean they are great but some of this shit cuts a little too close to home if you catch my drift. (I don't catch my own drift) Anyway, Jason's blog appears to be about his adventures in Liberia, and since I don't think anyone who reads this thing is there right now, you should read this to find out what that country is all about...I believe poverty, war lords, and a burgeoning adult porn industry... wear a condom that is all i am saying.

So read them, criticize them, and then, blame me for giving you something else to do instead of actually doing the work that you were hired to do.

Big Time Apology

I just wanted to apologize for disappearing for the last week or so. I keep meaning to write something but between work and the massive head cold that I have been trying to get over, sleep has become a top priority. Plus, during that time, I have had a couple of topics that I wanted to write about but all of it felt a bit forced and so I decided to spare you guys from reading that bull shit. (which is exactly what this apology is turning out to be.)

As well, the Red Sox and the Yankees have found themselves in a their annual battle to see who can make their fan base become more and more like the Living Dead at work the morning after each game. I mean I love baseball but couldn't this just have been decided months ago so that I would not be forced to watch three baseball games every evening? As it stands right now, I have two games on my computer and one on the television... and yes, I am still single... weird.

The point of the matter is that I plan to put finger to key this evening and produce something tangible besides a half ass apology post. Additionally, this weekend I am heading back to the mothership to see the folks, which is guaranteed to produce atleast twenty-five entries.

Finally, I am putting myself on a schedule, and thus, I am going to try to write something every Monday and every Thursday of the week. I don't want to force this thing, but I also need to have some kind of schedule in order to make sure that I keep writing... since really the point of this whole damn thing is for me to write and improve my skill set...(I said skill set people... you can pick one up in aisle three of your local Super Walmart...)

So like I said I am sorry for the lag... and for your face... get over it!

Want to play a game...

So yesterday, right around noonish, the telecommunication's server at my office went down. As a result, my office was without the ability to receive voicemails, email, and most importantly, we were unable to access the internet or as it is commonly known in the popular parlance of America's youth, the World Wide Web. As such, I was left with five hours, FIVE WHOLE HOURS, of nothing to do but work. I am not sure if you have ever tried to do work for five hours straight without interruption, but I can assure you that if I had to perform such a task on a daily basis, I would insist that I be compensated atleast ten thousand dollars for every hour that I worked. I mean it is hard and extraordinarily boring to have to work for that much time straight. In fact, I am not attorney, but I bet there are laws against it.

Now, such an outage has happened before at my office and everytime it happens, I am reminded of a classic SNL skit called "Wake Up and Smile" starring Will Ferrell, Nancy Walls, and the guest host of that night's show, David Alan Grier. Basically during the skit which is a mock of a network good morning show, the teleprompter breaks and as a result, the host (Ferrell) and his cohost (Walls) are left paralyzed and helpless as they no longer given what they are supposed to do and say... The skit basically proceeds with these characters breaking down as if they are in a real natural disaster facing a life and death situation culminating with them forming their own tribe and eating the weatherman in order to survive... with Ferrell's character saying:

The weatherman is DEAD! I KILLED the weatherman! His STRENGTH is in me!

Similarly, at my office when the internet goes down, people start to exhibit odd breakdowns of character that someday may in fact result in the death of a coworker in order to save the group... I mean some people do truly sit down and do work, but others start to simply roam the office as if they are searching for survivors of this metaphoric crash... They react in this manner mainly because they can no longer avoid doing work by checking their email, updating their fantasy teams, blogging, commenting on the blogs of others, surfing the web for porn, and/or playing their favorite internet games. (I do atleast three of those activities, but since I am writing here, I am exempt from criticism.) More often than not, these individuals tend to just end up standing in the doorway of my office with a weird shell-shocked like look of desperation hoping to talk about anything in order to calm the internal panic that has seized them because the internet is not working. (Note: Usually, we talk about all the things we could be doing on the internet instead of having that conversation.)

My favorite group or tribe of people that forms during these crisis are the Helpers or those individuals that feel the need to tell everyone they can that the internet is not working. For example yesterday, this group managed to inform the office of this fact at least a thousand times throughout the course of the afternoon. Of course, they not only told us that the internet was not working but some even tried to explain the problem as if they had suddenly gone to Devry and overnight received their computer degree making them experts on this problem. (It is amazing how most of these so-called "experts"work in the file room and exhibit a marked inability to grasp the alphabet on a daily basis. But for some reason understand why the entire telecommunication's hub at my office has shit the bed.) Now my reaction to these people, who I am certain deep down truly believe they are helping the greater good by spreading the word that there is an internet outage, was to walk around the office right around five o'clock after they had finished their rounds and ask random people if the internet was working. And of course, some people, mostly members of this group, felt the need to tell me that it was in fact not working and that it had not been working for awhile now. (No SHIT SHERLOCK! By the way, "S" follows "R" in the alphabet.)

Of course, this group are composed of the same people who everyday forward me some crazy bull shit of an email about a lost kid or how I should not flash my headlights at a car that has their's off because that is a gang initiation tactic and I will be shot. First of all, the kid is not lost... he ran the fuck away from you because you were always on his shit trying to help him. And if he was abducted, it was voluntary because once again he hates you. Furthermore, no god damn email is going to bring the little bastard back so go back to playing the Maze Game or whatever the fuck it is that you play on your computer all day long instead of doing work... (oh right you can't cause the internet is down... life's a bitch, buy a shotgun.) And as for the gang thing, well that has been around since atleast the 80's as an urban legend, but here is a little hint, if a gang wants to kill someone, they will just do it. They don't need you to blink your headlights at them for motivation. (Note: If this is in fact the way I die, kudos to the people who elevate this myth to reality) Actually, come to think of it, that kid from the picture that you sent in your previous email, who had run away, well he actually joined the same gang that shoots people for flashing your lights at them so you better WATCH THE FUCK OUT. Furthermore, all the emails that you send that include things that are supposed to make me happy, get closer to Jesus, and/or feel bad for others. IN REALITY, MAKE ME UNHAPPY, HATE JESUS, AND LOATHE PEOPLE WHO ARE WORSE OFF THAN ME... LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!! ( and for the record, pictures of puppies, cats, and other pets do not make my day go by faster nor do i think they are cute...) But i digress...

Thankfully, today, when I arrived at work, the internet was working and once again some kind of normalcy had returned to the office. Unfortunately, the Helpers were onto their next task of informing everyone that the internet was now working while incorporating some of the lingo from the IT people as to the cause of the problem and what was done to fix it. And of course, I still received at least three emails containing cute puppy dogs, a lost child from California, and a warning about phone calls from a fake area code...

Maybe tomorrow I will just call in sick...

BO KNOWS BO

Well here I am at work on this incredibly muggy day in the City... Thankfully, my day has been made that much more enjoyable by the fact that since I have walked into the office this morning, I have had an extraordinary case of Body Odor or BO as he is known around these parts that is currently making me more than a little nauseous... and causing my eyes to water...

What is amazing is that over the course of the last 12 hours or so I took two separate showers and I even used SOAP that I applied quite sufficiently to the areas of current resistance... And yet, here I am hanging out in my office with my friend BO in all of his glory... What is even more impressive is that BO has managed to fight off both a change of undershirt and a two re-applications of deodorant... Apparently, I am dealing with new stronger BO, the likes of which the world has never seen.

The irony of my current status as THAT GUY in my office is that I constantly berate others for failing to take the appropriate measures to leave BO at home before they report to work in the morning in order to save the remainder of the office from their stench. I mean sometimes you wreak of certain things like booze that you just cannot avoid or atleast you cannot avoid after you have been up until 5 AM downing boilermakers... But BO can be avoided, atleast I thought, through general hygiene like taking a shower in the morning and applying deodorant thereafter... (Of course there is another possibility in that this may not be a case of BO but rather what I am smelling is the stench of my insides slowing but surely dying and rotting...meaning that I may not make it until five... let's hope it's BO...)

Consequently, this current bout with BO is causing me to reevaluate my entire morning ritual, as tomorrow, I will use a veritable cocktail of soaps and shampoos to eradicate BO. By acting in this manner, I hope to eliminate a repeat of today since I do not want to take the title of STINKY MAN ON CAMPUS from the guy who works in the file room who I believe cannot help bringing BO to work with him because he is homeless.. (hell is going to be so warm).. For now, I will remain in seclusion as a solid to my fellow man who need not to feel the ill effects of my friend BO.

Tour de Gym

So tonight, I won the Tour de France of my gym. It was great.. I had been training for it for months running and cycling just for this evening's race. I mean all that hard work really paid off and I even got a yellow jersey as my reward...

Actually that is not true in the least, but I did participate in my first spin class at Maxim Fitness in the Dirty Will a.k.a Williamsburg. Now, as I stated a long long long time ago, I am not exactly the biggest fan of gyms as I often find the clientele to be less than desirable and because I have no idea what exactly I am to do once I get inside one of these bad boys.

On a typical trip to the gym, I end up running way to fast on the treadmill next to some gorgeous blond, who spends the entire time giving me a look of absolute disgust as I sweat profusely while making the treadmill violently shift and shake. By the end of my forty minute death run, the treadmill users on either side of me have found other cardiovascular machines to utilize or have left the gym entirely. Then, after my battle with the treadmill, I go and attempt to lift weights, which means that I try to pick up the heaviest weights that I can find disregarding any concept of form and/or the reality of my own physical strength. Generally, I fail miserably in this effort.

As a result of these cavalier workouts at the gym, I then usually spend the next couple of days in traction or at the very least in considerable amounts of inflexible pain. As such, I tend to go to the gym for like two weeks straight and then avoid it like the plague for a solid three months... lather rinse repeat...

Recently, I have been neglecting the gym entirely as I have been getting in four runs a week for a total of 20+ miles. While this is great as it keeps me from becoming a FAT ASS, generally, running as your only source of exercise puts you on the fast track for a variety of physical ailments and injuries such as stress fractures, shin splits, and tuberculosis. (I bet you never knew that you could get TB from running... it's true... NOm, no it is not...) In order to avoid these pitfalls especially TB and VD for that matter, I decided that I might as well put my gym membership to good use and try some of the classes that my gym offers in order to diversify my workout regiment and not be such a psychopath when it comes to utilzing the gym.

So tonight, I tried spinning, which for those that do not know (not sure who you are) is a glorified 21st century version of stationary biking. However, in order to make the workouts that much more extreme, the modern day spin classes as the kids call them (i think) mix in a healthy dosage of dark mood lighting and awful trance techno music (the kind that appears to lack both beginning and end but has a plethora of bass) coupled with extraordinarly hot temperatures... To complete the picture, gyms throw in a screaming nutbox of an instructor who along with her seven cups of coffee for the evening is also on a healthy dose of speed, crank, and oxycontin... (or maybe they simply main line Jack before the workouts, I mean it worked for Motley Crue.)

During the course of a workout, this instructor yells out a variety of commands that indicate to the spinners: what positions they are supposed to be in on their immobile bicycles (basically whether you should be standing or sitting), how fast they should be pedaling, what resistance the bike should be adjusted to, and what circle of hell they are now entering.... For the record, I believe tonight we entered the seventh circle....(for those keeping score at home, this circle contains bunny rabbits, the legendary WWF tagteam, the Killer Bees, and Teddy Ruxbin...all filming a really troubling snuff film... let's just say, the Bear gets it in the end...)

My class tonight had all of these elements along with the spazzy instructor, who with her thick Eastern European accent had the added twist in that she appeared to be a former member of the East German Women's Olympic team as her arms, legs, and chest were bigger than mine to the point that several times during the workout I had to remind myself that she was in fact a "she". Thankfully, she had not lost her flare for East German style workouts or the use of workout enhancers for that matter as she took me and the five women that were in my class (no other men) through one of the most exhausting, kick ass, hour long workouts that I have done, which by its end, caused me to forget that I was in fact pedaling as I had slipped into a weird euphoric state with the visuals discussed above... teetering on the brink of passing the fuck out... Furthermore, by the time that I was finished, I sweat enough that a moat had formed around my spinning mobile replete with alligators, piranhas, and other deadly human eating creatures. (I will save the story of how I escaped from the bike and avoided these creatures for another entry, one that I will write after I huff Freon from my air conditioner.)

Regardless of the pain and the fact that I am now questioning my own manhood, I loved every minute of it and will be back next week and every Monday for the foreseeable future... just so that Beata (that's her deliciously evil name) can bark orders at me like I am a member of the East German military during the Cold War... or her naughty sex slave.. What can I say, I am a sucker for excruciating pain especially when it is delivered by a screaming brick shit house of a woman with techno accompaniment...

A Date With An Old Friend

So tonight for the first time in over a month, I had some beers while playing a little poker with my friends. I was very apprehensive to have anything to begin with because I am very scared to fall back into past patterns of activity, but at the same time, I am want to see if I can actually be responsible in having a few beers every so often without it having any carryover effect with me drinking five to six days in a row during the week. Time will only tell as to whether or not I will be able to avoid this pitfall but for tonight, I have done pretty well as I drank five brewskis and am ready to stop and go to bed. All and all, I would consider tonight a minor victory as I think that this is a step towards responsibility, and I hope this is true.

AND NOW, to demonstrate the internal conflict that I am having with my decisions of this evening, I give to you.....


RAIN DELAY VERSUS THE BEER!!!














You may have won tonight beer... But I will crush you in the end....

This Time It's For Real

Alot of times in my own life, I forget that I am actually an attorney and that I do have a "real" job with "real" responsibility. I often forget these facts of my life until during moments of clarity like the other day when I was taking a piss, I realize that I actually have a career as an attorney and that this is no longer just me going to school to learn how to be the person that I now am.

Now, I do realize that I discussed this topic last week and thus, I apologize for rehashing this topic, but today and for the remainder of the weekend, I am preparing for my first real trial which kicks of on Monday at 9:45 in the morning so I am once again realizing more than ever that I am a practioner of the law.

This weekend, basically, I am creating the blueprint for my trial next week and mapping out every step that I am going to take in order to assure a victory for my client, the City of New York. As such, this afternoon and probably well into this evening and through tomorrow, I will be working on how I am going to select the appropriate jury to present my case to and what exactly I am going to say to those fuckers so that they decide the case in my favor. After that, I have to organize all the questions that I am going to ask the plaintiff on cross-examination and my witness on direct. Basically, I have decide on the best strategy to make the plaintiff look like an incompetent lying fool while making my guy look like the best damn human being ever to walk the earth. Finally, I have to write my closing where hopefully, I will wrap this sucker up into a nice little package with a cute little bow and seal the mother fucken deal. As of right now, I have no idea how I am going to do any of this but hopefully at some point in the next 30 hours or so I will have an epiphany and like the phoenix, my plan for operation domination will rise from the ashes... (maybe I will work that sentence into my opening.)

I guess for now, I best get back to writing and brainstorming. We shall see how this bad boy turns out...but one thing is for sure, the practice is now over...and on Monday, my trial is very very real....

Irrational Fear # 356

From the outside looking in, New York City would appear to be the land of opportunity for many things. In terms of dating, the City with its massive population would seem to be a veritable candy store for us single warriors who walk its streets a soldier and fight the world alone...AND NOW IT'S... 18 and life... (whoops, I just slipped into Skid Row mode there for a second)

Back on topic, the law of averages if applied to the single population of New York City basically dictates that in theory there should be a better chance to meet that special someone here or at very least, it would appear that there would not be a problem finding yourself a date in this gigantic City since there are so many different opportunities. Of course, in reality, the situation is more complex than that because the fact that New York City is so big probably makes it twice as hard if not more to actually meet someone because people here tend to have their guard up a bit more than anyone else. Why, you ask? Because just as there is a greater potential to meet people, there is also a greater chance to meet psychopaths who would like nothing more than to take you to dinner and then eat you for dessert...or just enjoy a little necrophilia. (look it up, it ain't pretty.)

What ever the actual reality of the potential for dating is in this fine ass City of mine, my reality is that since moving to this City, I can count the number of dates that I have actually gone on, on my left hand. For the record, I believe the number is five. (In comparison, the dates with my right hand, well we could be counting for a while.) The numbers do not lie, people, the fact of the matter is that I have not exactly been slaying the ladies since I made my move here from the Nutmeg State. (Of course, slaying may be the wrong word to use right here considering I just mentioned necrophelia and psychopaths previously in this entree... i mean entry. dammit!)

But now with all that I have realized in the past month or so i.e. when you spend 12 hours a day writing a stupid blog, you better run a shit load or else your ass becomes HUGE and that no matter how long you sit on a couch in front of a window, no lady is ever going to walk up to said window and ask you on a date. I have begun to consider exactly what my options are for getting my shit back in the proverbial game as it were... oh it were believe me. Of course, talking and doing are two completely different things and in terms of having any type of game or capability of meeting anyone, I tend to be less than successful in this area. (I believe the kids would say that I lack game... I wish the kids would come over to my apartment so I could give them a mouth full of bloody chicklets.)

Part of the problem is:

First, I don't try to pick ladies up at bars... that is sketchy and if I was a lady, which I am not, I would find it to be sketchy or atleast, I would seriously consider whether or not I was going to wake up in the guy;s bed the next day or at the bottom of the East River.

Second, I don't necessarily drink anymore, which means that in all social settings, I have eliminated the liquid courage portion of my game (i call it that loosely) in swooning the opposite sex. On second thought, this is probably a good thing because liquid courage in the past simply amounted to excessive amounts of liquid slurring and later in the evening, liquid spinning followed shortly thereafter by either one of its cousins, liquid vomiting or liquid passing out.

And finally, I don't know necessarily try to meet anyone. I acknowledge that this is completely my own fault as I am the only one that I can blame for being really lazy and enjoying my couch a little more than a human being should, atleast legally. On a side note, apparently, I have been enjoying the couch so much lately that tonight when I finally moved after a solid three hours on it, my roommate actually gasped and wondered if everything was ok. In the end, I guess I am not really into the whole effort thing and maybe that has to do with some crazy cracked out fear of rejection (which is not Irrational Fear #356). Actually it has everything to do with a fear of rejection, but I am not going to psychoanalyze this part of my life any further because I only got my minor in psychology (actually I also minored in sociology, yeah I DOUBLE MINORED.. talk about a loser) and thus, I am not qualified to delve into this any further or atleast I can use this as my cop out excuse to move this sucker along.

All of this leaves me with limited options in terms of meeting anyone, barring of course an act of God or a decision to act in a proactive manner and leave the couch, which seems highly unlikely.
Of course, there is always Irrational Fear #356 i.e. what I really wanted to write about since the beginning of this long winded crapfest that you have been reading and that is entering the world of Online Dating.

Now before, I explain why I would rather attempt to date my sister than attempt this option, I must first explain that in no way, shape, or form, does what I am about to write discredit anyone that participates in this activity. This is my irrational fear. In fact, I am very good friends with someone who actually met the love of their life through this vehicle and will soon marry that person. There is no judgment being passed here nor is that the point of what follows.

Originally, to me, the world of online dating was a scary, dark place that was only used by old men who want to prey on young unsuspecting teenagers or by computer nerds, who had never been laid, which at this point probably qualifies me. I thought that only losers used this medium in order to have some kind of hope of not dying alone as in my mind, online dating amounted to an internet support group for the damned. Now, this preconception is pretty harsh and at the present time, I no longer think any of these thoughts because of what I discussed above in that several of my close friends have used online dating to meet people that they are now very serious with. And these people are not pedophiles nor are they losers and/or virgins... they are actually well adjusted members of society... As a result, my preconceptions have been thrown out the window...

But this still leaves me with my fear of online dating. I am terrified to even try it. I mean I know that through things like match.com or e-harmony, they take all of your attributes and then match you 69 ways till sunday with potential dates or if I want to meet that little jewish girl that I always wanted, jdate is an option.

But that does not change the fact that I cannot even wrap my head around the concept of online dating itself and how it works because to me, online dating is like when you try to teach a grandparent how to use the internet. It is just beyond their comprehension because their minds are not wired to accept what you are trying to explain to them. The same thing happens when people try to have a rational conversation with me about online dating. My ears and thus, my mind, listen to what that person is saying but compute what is actually being said like the person is speaking like parents in the Peanuts cartoons. No matter how much people try to tell me about it, the less I actually hear. (And yes, I am close minded, but this is an irrational fear.)

My anxiety and fears get even worse when I think about what would happen if I ever got matched with someone or whatever it is called in this strange world. I mean how would I ever show up to meet someone that I do not even know? What the hell is that all about? What would I say to them? Who would sign up for such a situation willingly? The whole concept just seems downright tortuous and frought with potential rejection. I would rather chew glass.

And I do not know how to change any of these fears. I mean it has gotten to the point is that I cannot even bring myself to enter the websites into my web browser to learn about what is out there for me. I actually think at this point, I could be diagnosed with an honest to god phobia. It's crazy shit. But I guess when I get to the core of this problem I just am not prepared to put my fate in the hands of the internet gods and rely on them to find a suitable match for me, which is kind of interesting since the only thing I have found a perfect match with on my own in the last month is my sweet ass couch. And unfortunately that is where I will most likely remain for the foreseeable future, waiting either for divine intervention or for my testicles to drop so that I actually get myself out there and do something about this present dilemma.

Once again, this requires some form of effort that at the present time, I am more eager to force you losers to read my complaints about than to actually exert any type of effort on my own... So I guess in the end, I should blame each of you since if you were not reading me whine like the little bitch that I am, it may actually force me to leave said couch and figure out where exactly "she" is eagerly waiting my arrival or at the very least what catalogue "she" needs to be ordered from.

Thirty Ounces (Days) To Freedom

Today is the thirtieth and final day of my quest to regain control of my life. I have managed to make it through the past thirty days without partaking in any of the demons that had driven my life to the brink of being wildly out of control and fueled my penchant for self-loathing. Basically over the course of these thirty days, I have learned that my life does not need to revolve around being drunk or recovering from being drunk. Further, it has lead to me wanting to keep any future activities of consumption to a minimum so that I do not feel like I am wasting my time or my life sitting on the couch lamenting whatever it was that I did the previous evening... Clearly, I realize that I have a lot of work still to do, and clearly, I am not trying to take myself too seriously as there are people in this world, who have overcome problems that are far worse than the one's that I am dealing with... I guess the bottom line is that I needed to get my shit together and so far, I am well on my way to accomplishing that goal.

Word.

The Dumb Get Dumber

Congratulations has to go out to Mrs. Britney Spears-Federline or whatever she is called these days (I prefer played-out whore) as she gave birth today to a wee baby boy. I mean this is really great for her and her gold-digging husband, Kevin Federline, as they can now officially begin their plan to take over the world by populating it with talentless, nicotine addicted, white trash babies...

Thankfully to assist them in their quest, Kevin has already begun to procreate with another lady, Shar Jackson, and thus has alot of practice of raising children that will never amount to anything other than being frequent clients of California rehab clinics and VH1 reality television shows...

Of course, what celebrity birth story would be complete without the possible name for the new celebritard baby, and thankfully in this case, Brit and Kev have chosen a real winner for a name as they are apparently considering naming their boy, London, after the capitol city of England. (One has to really wonder if they know that is where they are getting this name from or does Denny's now serve London Broil?) But truly, the selection of this name makes perfect sense... both of them are from somewhere in the South, which um... uh.... ummmm...And thus.... uh ugh barf.... ugh... duh...(OH WAIT, Britney loves Madonna, and Madonna thinks she is English... and Madonna has become just as crazy as Britney with the whole Kabala thang.... so that must be the reason.... My head hurts... and I am sweating uncomfortably...I need to go and rake my eyes out...and then eat my eyeballs for dinner...)... God only knows the real reason....

I guess the real winner in all of this is Britney herself, who now gets to reintroduce herself to 40's, her three pack a day Kools habit...and her unofficial competition with Tara Reid to be the drunkest skankiest WHORE on the face of the earth...that I have to see on the cover of Trash Slut Magazine while I am trying to check out from the supermarket... (Of course, I will buy it and read the damn thing cover to cover.)

And finally one has to wonder how much time will pass until Vegas posts the over/under on when Brit and Kev give the kid his first pack of Marlboro's and introduce the little bastard to flavor country? I figure he has five years but with these two morons, it could be a matter of months.

Best Day Ever

Is not the description that I would use to describe Monday, September 12, 2005.

Instead today was just one of those days that could not end quickly enough. In addition to it being a Monday, which meant that there was no way for it NOT TO SUCK, today featured me at work until 7:15 PM trying to complete response papers to a plaintiff's motion, which I received at Friday at 5:30 PM, that is scheduled for oral argument tomorrow morning. Now this would have been manageable on any other day if I had not spent my entire morning in Court conferencing various cases and only returning to my office to handle this disaster well into the afternoon. Adding to the time sensitivity of this matter, the upper management in Manhattan took particular notice of this motion due to the issues that it involves and thus, I had the added stress of being under their constant scrutiny. (Note: I would tell you what the motion is about but that is confidential and I would have to kill you.) As a result of this scrutiny, I had to make sure that whatever I wrote today had to be crafted in such a way that it conformed with the big wigs' infinite wisdom and strategy on how to deal with this issue. Of course, I know that if we end up losing tomorrow, it will still be my ass on the line because it is easier to blame the old low man on the totem pole instead of the big guns, who decided on the strategy in the first place. (Note: As is the case with most jobs, my place of employment seems to not believe in the concept of personal accountability.)

Anyway, I rolled out of the office around 7:20 in hopes that I could get home before 8 in order to get a decent meal and just try to forget about the entire day in order to salvage what remained of my day. In order for this to be a reality, I had to first make it home, which required a little assistance from two of my favorite entity, the MTA and its baby, the New York City Transit system. (Note: The subways and the MTA are not actually departments of the City of New York nor are they managed by the City of New York as the MTA is actually its own autonomous corporation, separate, apart, and distinct from the City of New York so when you complain to the City about the subways really the MTA is the entity, who needs to be contacted. PHEW... I am tired after that one... I think I just passed out...)

After I entered the Jay Street Subway Station, however, I quickly realized that the subway gods were conspiring against me and that my attempt to get home before 8 was nothing more than a pipe dream as I observed my fellow subway patrons standing four deep awaiting the next Queens-bound A or C train. Unfortunately, once the A train arrived things went from awful to fucken really awful because the train instead of departing the station immediately after everyone boarded simply waited in the station with its doors open as the cars quickly filled up and reached rider capacity.

Thankfully, the MTA, which is the master of public relations, made this situation as painless as possible as their employees proceeded to scream in interesting versions of barely understandable English on both the station and subway car intercoms, "THE NEXT STOP WILL BE HOYT AND SCHERMERHORN STREET, PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS... PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS..." Of course, the doors did not close... nor did the train move... As such, the MTA should have just had their employees yell, "LISTEN YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKERS... THIS TRAIN AIN'T MOVIN... WE HAVE NO FUCKEN CLUE WHY THE TRAIN AIN'T MOVIN... BUT WE DO KNOW THAT IT AIN'T GONNA MOVE FOR QUITE SOME TIME... SO EITHER YOU IGNORANT MOTHER FUCKERS CAN GET OFF THE MOTHER FUCKEN TRAIN AND FIND AN ALTERNATE WAY TO GET YOUR SORRY WORKING LATE ASSES TO WHEREEVER THE FUCK YOU ARE GOING OR YOU CAN STAND ON THE TRAIN AND STARE AT EACH OTHER WONDERING WHEN THIS TRAIN IS GOING TO MOVE... BUT WHO THE FUCK KNOWS WHEN THAT WILL BE... NOT US... THAT IS FOR MOTHER FUCKEN SURE..."

As an added door prize to this lack of communication and/or effort from the MTA was the fact that the train had now been waiting for ten minutes in the station with the doors wide open providing ample time for my fellow man to play a rousing game of "Come On, We Can Fit One More." (Note: this game invented originally on college campuses throughout America with phone booths was brought to New York City in the early 80's by a group of Yalies, who wanted to have a little fun after a hearty night of drinking and reach arounds.) Today, this game can be found atleast twice a day during the morning and the afternoon rush hour when subway patrons attempt to squeeze as many people into each subway car no matter how full that car maybe nor how badly its occupants stink of body odor. (Note: I will never play this game nor will I ever comprehend it, mainly because I have no interest adding to the human crush in a subway car and even less interest in smelling the various flavors of ass that is contained therein.)

After realizing that my train was not leaving any time soon, I decided to circumvent the use of the A train and got on the next Brooklyn bound F train across the platform so that I could transfer to the G train at either the Bergen Street or Carroll Street stations. Thankfully, the F train came quickly and I departed this train at Carroll Street to transfer to a Queens bound G train...

Of course, the subway system was not done fucking with me... as it clearly had not satisfied its thirst for my blood or my sanity... Instead, as I departed the F train and began to walk to the stairs to transfer to the other side of the platform, the F train began to pull away and that is when it happened.... Because as I walked, I looked up and noticed the conductor of the F train leaning out of the train, glaring at me, and mouthing and I am not kidding about this "ASSHOLE" in my direction. At first I thought that I was clearly mistaken, but when he did it again.... "ASSHOLE"... I pointed to myself and mouthed back in response, "WHO ME?" To which, he responded by simulateneously nodding his head in affirmation... and repeating his declarations of "ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE!!!", two more times before he stuck his head back in the train right before the train disappeared into the tunnel.

Now, if you have read my blog up to this point, it is probably pretty clear that I am an asshole. As a matter of fact, I kind of embrace that role in life, but I never realized that just by looking at me, someone could tell that I am in fact an asshole. Clearly, I was mistaken becuse today, I di nothing more than walk down the subway platform to get to another train and yet that simple action coupled with whatever my face looked like at that particular moment made this conductor peg me correctly as an ASSHOLE!

Now, originally, immediately after this happened, I was irate because as discussed in amazingly boring detail above, I was already pretty pissed off about how my evening was already going. Therefore, it was not in anyone's best interest to add to my internal anger. As a result, I considered a variety of options including but not limited to attempting to chase the train down and boaring it in order to tear this guy's throat open with my teeth. Of course, this thought quickly left my mind as I do not truly have a taste for human blood and because I probably would have killed myself in the process. More seriously, I considered filing some form of complaint against this conductor by reporting him to the ticket booth. Of course, then, I thought about what would actually be done if I did complain and decided that the best I could hope for is that my complaint would become bulletin board comedy for all the train conductors on the F line who probably pull similar stunts on a daily basis just to break up the monotony of driving a fucken train all day long or possibly as some suckier MTA version of Punked.

And I guess that is when I realized the pure genius of what this conductor had done. I mean clearly he was trying to elicit some type of response whether it be shock, anger, or both by calling me an ASSHOLE. Further, he knew that there was pretty much nothing I could do about it because he was on a moving train and I did not appear to have the stunt capabilities of Jackie Chan. And in the end, why the fuck not call me an asshole, I mean I am one, but even more importantly, driving a train as stated above, must be pretty boring at times and maybe this clever act of lunacy brightened up his day or atleast provided a laugh for him and the boys over a couple of suds at Choo Choo Charlie's Bar and Grill or whatever the name of their watering hole is...

So if I was to bring just a little bit of sunshine to their worthless little lives, I feel like my commute home this evening was for the greater good regardless of the pain that it caused me. Of course, it would have been alot better if the MTA simply got its shit together and did not turn my thirty minute commute into an hour and a half affair.... but I guess that might be a bit too much to ask from an entity whose employees feel the need to fill the voids in their meaningless lives by calling unsuspecting strangers... assholes... but then again, I am one... and at the end of the day, that is really all that matters in this entire situation... isn't it?

Are You Awake Cause I am

I am up... it's 7 AM on Saturday and time to get to Boston. Apparently, my area of Brooklyn does not function before 7:15 AM on Saturday's because I just went to both the dry cleaners and the laundrymat and neither were open to take my dirty clothes. What up? I mean I am up they should be too.

Thankfully, the laundry mat opened at 7:10. Sadly, the nice Asian man at the laundrymat forgot my name again. I believe that he has some form of selective amnesia because at this point, he is remembering my name every other time I go in there. Other times and even creepier, he remembers calls me by the last four digits of my phone number, which is used as my laundrymat card code. I guess he gets some slack because he gets to handle my underwear on a weekly basis. I mean I don't even handle my underwear on a weekly basis.

Finally, a quick thought on New York City politics, how can a guy with the last name of Weiner run for Mayor here in New York City and further why does he have posters everywhere that say WEINER FOR MAYOR. I mean he does know that his name makes me and six year olds laugh for hours right? His commercials are even worse because the name is pronounced just like you would think it would be and concludes with the slogan, Weiner for mayor... I mean I know that it is juvenial and I know that I belong back in 4th grade, but his name is Weiner and sadly I cannot stop laughing. Once I hear the name, everything else he says is just background noise to my child-like giggling and laughter. Weiner... pee pee... oh whatever it's seven in the fucken morning...

I'm off like a prom dress.

Escape from New York

My favorite team, the Red Sox, have come to town this weekend to face the rival Yankees in the Toilet Bowl in the Bronx. As a result, the Yankees' propaganda machine has seized this lovely City, and as such, all of the Yankees' fans have decided to once again start caring about their team. (I understand that they are used to winning around these parts, but I have never seen a group of lamer fans, I mean these guys hibernate until September and then arise from their slumber and act like they have been living and dying with this team the entire season. Also they speak of Yankees baseball and their style of play like the game was invented here. I checked, it was not.)

As I am a Red Sox fan, this time of year becomes almost unbearable to live here because I have to constantly defend my team and NO this has not gone away since the Sox won the World Series. (Just for the record, THE SOX WON THE WORLD SERIES, BITCHES!!!) Thankfully, these barbs no longer has the same effect because all I have to say is, "Damn, I cannot believe your team lost four games in a row in the playoffs last year. I mean you were up three games to nothing... how do you lose four in a row... has that ever happened before? Oh wait no, NO, it has not..." And while generally, I would have no problem sticking around in order to remind these suckas about how their team had the worst collapse in the history of sports, I have decided to get the fuck out of dodge and head to Beantown for the weekend. There I can be far away from the Bronx and the members of Brainwashed Pinstripe Nation, who if I am not mistaken share the same brain or atleast share the same comeback for everything... 26 titles.... duh... 26... uh... BARF.... tools.

Hopefully while I am in Boston, the Sox will make up for tonight's loss and get their collective heads out of their asses winning the next two out of three... But if they do not, I am already prepared for the numerous copies of the Post and the Daily News that will be waiting for me when I return to work on Monday, each of which I am sure will declare that this weekend the Yankees rid the world of AIDS, cured cancer, eliminated poverty, and found Bin Laden...

BUT no matter what happens... I will always have this...















Have a wicked awesome weekend!!!

R.D.

Quiet Time in Greenwich Village

This is from last weekend... and I forgot to post it.. it is lame... But sometimes, like Curt Schilling this season, even I lose my fastball and cannot locate any of my pitches.

In the heart of Greenwich Village on Christopher Street is the Stonewall Inn where on June 27, 1969, members of the New York City Police Department attempted to raid this locale and simultaneously created the spark that started the Gay Right's Movement. Last night(now a week ago) I found myself mere yards away from this historic location as I visited one of my favorite bars in the City, The Riviera. In this heavily populated gay area of the City, the Riv, as it is known to its patrons, is the RED SOX bar in New York City, a veritable stronghold of Red Sox Nation deep within enemy lines. It is a place where a Yankees hat gets you booed while a Red Sox hat is the norm and on any given night, the Riv is filled with Sawx Talk as conversations range from Manny being Manny, the acquisition of Tony Graffanino, and the recent departure of post-season hero Mark Bellhorn to the hated Yankees.

I found the Riv a couple of years ago shortly after I moved to the City. My former roommate, the actor, mentioned a Red Sox bar somewhere in Greenwich Village called The Riviera. I having no clue about this area of the City wondered why a bar that allegedly was a safe haven for Sox fans had a name that I associated with France and topless sunbathing and thus was initially hesitant to enter this potential French enclave of the City. However, after enduring a couple of months of watching the YES network and hearing their announcers tout the wonders of YANKEES BASEBALL, I needed to find any bar in the City where Sox fans gathered.

Thankfully, the Riv turned out to have nothing to do with France and everything to do with a team who until last season had not won a World Series for 86 years. And although I have never seen anyone sans top within its friendly confines, the bar has become a go to for me whenever I want to catch my favorite baseball team and hear the all to familiar voices of Jerry Remy and Don Orsillo, the Red Sox announcers.

I am not sure why but right now as I am writing this piece I am not sure what I am supposed to write next without this whole thing turning into a restaurant review. I mean the food is good, and there is beer so if you want those things, the Riv can satisfy those needs. I guess I just wanted to mention that last night I went there and watched the Sox beat the Orioles 7-6 and had a reasonably decent time. Definitely nothing glamorous about the evening. (Note: As I am currently editing this thing one week later, the Yankees beat the Sox tonight in the opening of a huge series in the Bronx. I guess this piece has been doomed from its inception as it causes the Sox to play crappy baseball and my readers to want to rake their eyes out with a fork.)

After I went to the Riv, I went around the corner to The Kettle of Fish bar located on Christopher Street. Oddly, this bar is a Greeny Bay Packers and Wisconsin Badgers bar during football season as apparently, the area that is famous as the center of the start of the gay right's movement has now expanded to provide a safe haven for non-New York City sports fans. Kettle is a very chill bar with a small town bar atmosphere. Once again, I feel like I should be giving this place a star rating so I will give it four stars. The best part of this bar is that inside there is this cool picture of Jack Kerouac, who I guess used to booze there or maybe he just sat at the bar and angrily plotted his trip across the United States.



So I guess that was my night, one week ago. I think that this entry if nothing else just proves that no matter how glamorous your friends may tell you their lives are because they live in the Big Apple when they actually write about it, their evenings sound like a night out anywhere and everywhere in this country we call America. (and now I successfully ended my worst entry ever with the single worst sentence I have ever written in my life... I am putting myself on probation.)

The lights fade.... and the sound of American Pie by Don Maclean is heard in the background....

And scene...

Every Once and Awhile

I pretend that I am an attorney.

Tomorrow is one of those days because I have a witness to prep for my first trial ever that is coming up in a week. Now you would think that because this is my first trial, I would be really nervous, but I am not. Actually, I am kind of looking forward to the challenge and the mind fuck that I am going to lay on opposing counsel. While I am not necessarily nervous or stressed, I am realizing on a daily basis that I have no idea what I am supposed to do in terms of the actual trial meaning where I am I supposed to go, what am I supposed to bring, etc. Basically, instead of preparing the case, I am getting bogged down in simple details and all the meaningless practical crap. In reality, I probably should be more concerned with my opening, closing, cross examination, and direct examination, but for some reason, I think I will have all this figured out by the time the curtain opens.

It also does not help that there has been no work on the case up to this point so tomorrow is our first crack at figuring out what the hell happened in this matter. I guess it will probably be clearer tomorrow when I figure out why my guy's firetruck decided to crash into this guy's parked car. (that sentence is ripe with gay innuendo.) Of course, I highly doubt it because the more I work at this job, the more I realize that what seems to be simple just means that somebody is really lying in order to cover their own ass. There is no reason to expect tomorrow will be any different.

Now, the prep of the witness would not be a bad thing if I had not also been duly rewarded with a deposition in the afternoon. (For those that do not known, a deposition is when I get to sit in a room for five to six hours asking someone how they managed to trip and fall on a perfect sidewalk in the middle of beautiful summer day. Some attorneys only expend a couple of hours deposing people, but I kind of like to see how long my fellow man can go without food. If I am not eating, they are not eating.)

Now for tomorrow's big winners, basically what I have figured out from the hour of work I did to prepare for this disaster is that for some reason allegedly after a bit of roadwork near their residence, the plaintiffs' basement had a wee bit of a flood problem everytime that it rained. And when I say wee, I mean that up to six to seven feet of water would collect in their basement whenever it would rain. Now if you live in New York City, you know that if there is water coming in, everything else that collects on the street is coming in with it meaning that these people had various forms of municipal waste like leaves, oil, bottles, and of course, lots of dog shit.

The whole case seems pretty boring and so to spice it up, I think I am just going to ask these people how the flooding affected their ability to have intercourse, a question that is admissible if they are suing for loss of services. This question is probably my favorite question to ask plaintiffs because I can be as specific and get into as much detail as I want to meaning I can ask about frequency before and after, duration before and after, what they did before the accident, and what cannot do anymore. The best part of this question is that it really makes people turn bright red and squirm, and sometimes they will even drop the claim right then and there. I, myself, used to be hesistant to ask these questions, but now hey, if you are going to claim that your love life now blows because of something like a flood in your basement, be prepared for me to find out what kind of kinky shit you were into before you needed to build the damn ark.

Anyway, I guess I got to hit it so that I can have some form of a clear mind by tomorrow morning... time to play attorney... even if it is for one day only.

Zen of Phil

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my grandfather and how he was a great man. His son, my father, Big Phil, is an equally great man, actually he is greater... I mean this is the man that gave me some of my most treasured qualities like my strapping good looks, my anger, my temper, my sense of humor, my love for beer, and of course, my giant Irish noggin'. Further, he never pressured me into doing any sports or to do anything really, but has always been there smiling with great pride whenever I do accomplish something... (Except when he found weed in my sock in high school, then the look was that of betrayal as he wanted to know why I was holding out on him...)

Our relationship over the years can be characterized as being less like that of a father and son and more like that of two brothers with him being the older and wiser brother and me being the younger and whinier piece of shit brother. With these roles defined, my father through the years has been there time and time again to keep me in line and to always lend a bit of advice or atleast commentary when he felt that I needed to realize the error of my ways or simply to inform me as to what he found wrong with the way I did something. (Note: I love the man, I do... It's just you tend to tune someone out when they try to teach the proper way to stack wood or load a canoe on a car for the thirty-thousandth time.)

Anyway, since the Big Guy has always provided me with little pearls of knowledge throughout my life, I have decided that I will provide you, my loyal readers, with some of this advice, free of charge from time to time so that you may better live your life's more in tune and aligned with the Zen of Phil.

Lesson 1: Sweating: Badge of Public Dishonor

I am a sweater, and thus, during the summer months of 300% humidity and 110 degree heat, I sweat constantly whether it be day or night, inside or outside, I sweat. Making matters worse, I do not have any hair or atleast it is usually really short and thus, there is nothing to absorb the sweat from my head. As a result, when I sweat it tends to run all over my head and face... it is a very cute image, I assure you.

Anyway, this summer while attending one of the many weddings that I went to in order to watch someone else progress closer to what society considers being an adult, I found myself sitting in a Congregational Church in Old Lyme, Connecticut. Conveniently, this church had clearly been built at some point during the 1800's, which was a period of time during which there was apparently no air conditioning. Thankfully, the church had decided to open its windows in order to allow the stagnant June heat and humidity inside in order to maintain the unnecessarily hot conditions.

As such along with my parents and sister, I found myself sitting in the pews sweating profusely like R. Kelly at a girl scout meeting, a whore in church, or two rats humping in a wool sock. (please take your pick) Of course, shortly after we sat down, my father noticed that I was sweating and proceeded to glare at me. My mother, god bless her soul, noticed as well but offered me a tissue to wipe my face down while my sister, another angel from heaven, looked to see if she had anything to help. My father, who apparently decided to ignore the reality of the day i.e. the 90 degree temperatures and the fact that I happened to be wearing a GOD DAMN suit, stared increduously. Of course, he could not leave it at that, I mean the man has to comment and put his two cents in.... and so this is what followed:

Dad (in a semi-hushed tone): Andy, andy, what is wrong with you? Why are you sweating?
Me: (ignoring him.)
Dad (not satisfied and clearly thinking I had lost hearing, now louder): ANDY, ANDY, what is WRONG WITH YOU? WHY ARE YOU SWEATING SO MUCH?
Me (finally giving in): I don't know why I am fucken sweating....
Mom: (shaking her head and looking away)
Sister: (looking for other seating)
Dad (clearly not understanding this answer): WOULD YOU JUST STOP SWEATING...

Now, clearly, in retrospect, I feel bad about swearing at my friend's wedding before the ceremony in the church, but did I have an alternative. I mean I could have cut out the vulgarity but that was to drive home a point that I could not control the sweating since Mother Nature had clearly conspired against me and my fellow man to create sweat-only conditions. Maybe I should have given my father a more complete answer such as "Sorry dad, I did not get my heroine fix today, and thus I am going through a wee bit of withdrawal right now. If you could just take me to the nearest methadone clinic between the ceremony and the reception, I should be able to get this all straightened out so I can dance my ass off into the night."

And clearly, I feel bad that my mother and my sister had to endure this disagreement between my father and I... Of course, they have had to endure many of these over the years, and I believe that they are secretly running a pool amongst our family members and friends as to how much time will pass from the time we first see each other to when we have one of these spats... I wonder what the "buy in" is and how I can get in on that action...

But here is the thing, there was nothing wrong with the fact that I was sweating while sitting in an un-airconditioned church during the summer with a suit on... As a matter of fact, there were a number of other people including my own father sweating in the pews surrounding us... Moreover, the ushers were giving out bottles of water so that people would not pass out while at the church.

And yet, Dad decided that it was time to make sure that I knew that he did not think that I should be sweating at that particular moment regardless of the fact that it was beyond my ability to control it. Instead, he wanted me to figure out a way to shut my own body down defying the rules of human physiology. And that is why I love my dad... he always wants me to strive for the best and to make the impossible possible....Even if it means some type of near death experience.

So go forth with your day today, tomorrow, or whenever, and just remember, no matter where you are or what you are doing Phil is there watching to make sure that regardless of the temperatures, you are not sweating. Please try your best to appease him or else he will judge you. Or atleast, blame it on me.

My Favorite Commercial

It's the one with Emerald Nuts, a Unicorn, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny... and no, it will not get you arrested unless you are in China... and actually getting arrested there might be the best thing for you... not really... the ad is here.

The Great Poker Disaster

So last night my buddies and I got together for another weekly installment of the Williamsburg Four Poker Night. This week's tournament was aptly named, "The Labor Day Weekend Recovery Tournament," and held in my below street level apartment on Graham Avenue. This week's players, Bob Jingle, Dirty D, and Savage, played exceptional poker after taking a week off from playing while Bob Jingle traveled to the Sunshine State with his lovely wife, Mephistopholes, to live for a week with his sister-in-law, nieces, and nephews. (Note: I think he basically lost his will to live and decided that he needed to see if he could put himself on the fast track to suicide. Although the young nephew appears to be quite the chess player as well as a lover of Mephistopholes' chest.)

Unfortunately, I played some of the worst poker I have played in quite some time. My strategy was pretty simple as I tried to shake things up a bit betting when I usually would not and bluffing a shit load... and that blew up in my face... which it should have... Mid-game, however, it appeared that like Stella, I may have gotten my groove back and the game appeared to turn around so that I began to get that great feeling of fake confidence that only gambling can provide.

And then the whole game went to shit.... Basically, I lost all my money on a hand where I had a straight, king high. I believe that on the table were the following cards: Eight, ten, Queen, and King with another card that was meaningless to the straight. In my hand, I held a jack and a nine. As a result, the only hand that could beat me was if Bob Jingle, who I was facing head up for the pot, had an Ace and Jack in his hand. So I took a gamble and figured he did not have it... and went ALL IN.

AND THAT MY FRIENDS IS WHY I SUCK AT POKER!!! CAUSE HE HAD IT... and I lost all my money.

The rest of the night featured an intense game between Savage, Dirty, and Jingle while I downloaded porn and IM'ed the ladies on the interweb. (Atleast, I got something out of the deal I guess.) Unfortunately for me, due to my losses, I could not afford lunch today and that is the real tragedy of the entire evening.... Oh and that I cried after losing...















Yes, I was that sad, and apparently, I had my shirt off?!?!!?

I will rebound next week and win my five bucks back... You will all see... I want my FIVE DOLLARS...

Sun and Fun for Monday

I am off to the beach tomorrow morning for a little sun, a little fun, and some well needed relaxation. I truly believe that every weekend should be a three day weekend or at the very least, let's require one per month to provide our brains and our lives a little downtime from all the crap that we have to deal with on a weekly basis. (Even if this will never become a reality, the more I work, the more I appreciate the three day weekends that I do get as they provide me with a chance to simply become a human vegetable.)

Apparently, however, there are individuals in this society of ours that ignore the productivity that can result from the downtime provided by a three-day weekend and feel the need to work through these breaks. Although I may not agree with such a mindset, I cannot criticize these individuals as long their own desire to work 24/7 does not affect the lives of other individuals at their place of business. When it does, however, then, it's open season on this backwards mindset.

A sad example of such a situation is the friend of mine, who has spent the majority of the weekend working for a boss, who on Saturday of this weekend came to the office early and immediately began to complain about the fact that the remainder of the office was not there at nine in the morning. (ON LABOR DAY WEEKEND) I mean is this not Labor Day weekend, a weekend meant for the workers? A weekend that in the legal profession and most others marks the end of the calm summer months providing all of us with a chance to rest up for the upcoming stressful fall season.

In my friend's situation, however, instead of allowing his workers to spend a relaxing weekend with their families and friends in order to refuel, this boss has lost touch with reality and decided to force his office to work in an apparent attempt to exploit and alienate each of his employees. And sadly, I believe that he finds nothing wrong with the fact that his office is working this weekend while so many others are not. In his warped mind, he feels that the office needs to be working subscribing to the flawed philosophy of since "I am working, why shouldn't they?"

In my mind, such an approach has to be one of the more ignorant and simple minded philosophies that I have ever experienced because any type of output that is achieved by bringing in the office on the three day weekend is negated by the longlasting detrimental effect that such a practice has on office morale and future productivity. (Not to mention that half the office probably wants to quit on a daily basis.) I mean by making his employees come in this weekend, he is creating an work environment that is not only contentious but one where the employees have no respect for their boss. (In most cases, they probably hate the fucken man, which may actually be a positive since atleast they are unified in that regard.)

Moreover, even if they come in, are they really putting forth their full effort or are they simply stewing at their desks about the fact that they are in the office while their friends and family are at the beach or other places relaxing? Actually they are probably spending the majority of their time IMing anyone who is not at the office about how they want to murder their boss or atleast their not so secrete desire to leave a bag of shit under his desk when he leaves.

And how is this maximizing productivity? Clearly, it is not, instead this mandate to work this weekend is simply appeasing the insecurities of a workaholic who forgot a long time ago what it means to actually live life. The more I think about it there really should be counseling provided for this individual or atleast some type of public castration. Actually since I know he has a pretty firm grasp on the law, let's just make such practices illegal with fines to those violators who want to ruin other people's chance to get a free day off to spend with their families.

So to my friend, I wish that I could bring you to the beach with me tomorrow so that you do not have to spend anymore of your time doing work.

And to your boss, I hope he gets laid (actually maybe simply getting an erection will suffice) or atleast goes in for that medical procedure that removes the giant stick from his ass although I have a feeling that the stick is pretty well up there. Or maybe and more realistically, he needs to take his own personal three day weekend and spend that time trying to figure out where he lost his love for life while reconsidering his priorities and the life that that he is living. (And for this personal three day weekend, I am suggesting that you make him a three day supply of pot brownies to assist him in this life reevaluation.)

Write Something Funny

The above words are the instructions I received this evening when I asked a special someone what I should write about. The conversation came about because I found myself home alone on a Friday evening confined to a shitty couch polishing off 20 dollars worth of Thai food while simultaneously listening to the Red Sox game on the computer and watching Man on Fire with Denzel Washington and Dakota Fanning on the television. (There are jokes about both of these actors that I consider to be layups that I will let you figure out on your own time because I have not reached the point where I need to go to my garbage time humor, yet. Also, I turned the movie off after writing that I was watching a movie with Washington and Fanning in it... talk about a wake up call and a commentary on how low my life has sunken. I think I just judged myself.)

Anyway, while I am sitting on the couch desperately figuring out how to be funny, this someone finds themself at a bachelorette party with the name, Ivana Cumalot, as her code name for the evening, apparently there are name tags involved as well. For the record, the adoption of fake names is something that is a bachelorette party only idea as gentlemen tend to stick with having the ass of some naked stripper with a fake name grinding on their lap instead of creating a fake name for themselves. Further, I would love to make fun of the bachelorette party fake name thing, but the fact that she is wearing a name tag gives her a pass, I mean she is walking around with that name on her name tag, I think she may have suffered enough this evening.

Anyway, so this someone's only suggestion about what I should write was to write something humorous while she proceeded to go out and indulge in all that there is to indulge in at a bachelorette party. I believe they get together, give head to carrots, drink White Zin, get naked, and pillow fight.... atleast for the first hour until the Zin kicks in and then, they all proceed to sob for the next couple of hours and tell each other how much they love one another.

The problem, however, with a command of this nature is that I am not an automatically funny kind of guy meaning that I cannot just sit here and out of thin air create something that would be described as funny. (Some would also say that I am never funny, those people would be either be assholes or my seventh grade class who made fun of me for still having glasses... Just for the record, I got contacts now bitches... and what do you got, that's right, two kids and a mortgage... Eat a dick!)

Instead of being funny on call, I am a conversation and situation based humorist meaning that while people are talking, I am usually trying to figure out what whitty comment I can work into whatever they just said. (Note: I never listen to what anyone ever says to me other than to figure out how I can work a zinger in there.... so if it is really important email it to me so that I can atleast refer to the written word when I need to remember that you are dying of a flesh eating virus.) Now, the problem that this presents is that I am not funny unless I am in a situation involving other people. As such, I cannot be funny while sitting on my couch alone in a semi-comatose state feeling sick off Pad See Yu, Beef Satay, and TomYung Goong. (although I am having great visuals right now.)

The perfect example of this problem was a couple of year's ago when I was in Vegas with my buddy, Jason, from law school. Ironically, this was Jason's bachelor party during which I proceeded to spend so much money on booze, strippers, and gambling that my credit cards (all of them) got locked out by their respective companies two nights in a row because I had reached their nightly limits. (In the interest of full disclosure, never go to the champagne room because no matter how much money you spend ($400), she is not going to catch the next flight back to Hartford, Connecticut to marry you. Also, if you are spending alot of money (another $400), make sure that she spends the entire time giving you a lap dance and do not proceed to waste the majority of your time with her asking her about her entire life story as if you are going to save her from her current career choice. She is making so much more money than you are and is certainly not looking for an intervention.)

Point being, while in Vegas, I was apparently on some kind of a roll in terms of being funny. I mean I was also drunk beyond the point of being able to stand for the majority of the trip, but at the same time, I seemed to be able to say something funny no matter the situation. (At the present moment, I cannot think of exactly what I was saying or any of the jokes I told, mainly because I have smoked enough weed to support the entire country of Bolivia since that time.) Anyway, the streak was continuing nicely until Jason and I went to Caesar's Palace to meet up with a cousin of mine and her friends that just happened to be in town at the time at a hookah lounge located there. Now this would have been a great idea if it was not 2 in the morning after I had already gone to the strip club and lost approximately $200 at a blackjack table at the Hard Rock Casino. (That would be a thousand dollar evening people.) In order to pacify my outlandish losses, I had also proceeded to drink my face off just so that I could feel better about myself or atleast to forget about the losses. It was one of those evenings where you end up places and have zero recollection how you got there. I believe that I flew the entire evening with the help of teeny tiny fairies.

Needless to say I could barely speak by the time we arrived at the lounge, which in true Vegas fashion let me in without even questioning my inability to stand. Somehow, I managed to find my cousin and Jason and I proceeded to smoke the hookah with her and her two friends (I think there were two of them. And yes, if they had been "professionals" smoke the hookah would have meant blow jobs.) At some point, Jason, who was equally shitarded, began to tell them about how I was the "funniest guy in the world" and how I had been "making everyone the laugh the entire weekend." I sat there giggling to myself thinking about how I had been pretty funny and mentally patting myself on the back. This ego boost lasted until one of the girl's who clearly had not drank enough that evening, asked me in a most serious voice:

"Funny? Like how are you funny? What do you say that is so funny? Show me."

At this point, I froze, paralyzed by the misfiring of my synapses who had long ago lost their battle with Jack Daniels and his band of outlaws and did not know what to say... let alone something that was funny. The girls just looked at me, and I stared back at them, unable to say anything. This dramatic pause seemed to last five to ten minutes until thankfully, Jason responded, "He just is" and I laughing nervously turned bright red hoping the conversation would shift to other things, which thankfully, it soon did. (In restrospective, basically, I "Jimmy Falloned" my moment in the spotlight.)

But the story, even though not funny in and of itself, just further emphasizes that I am not funny on call. I cannot dance when you want me to... I don't have a go to schtick... I don't "bath daily" (farley bit)... I can only capitalize on the weaknesses of others... I am an opportunist...who twists the words of others to appear funny and whitty... I am a hack... And now I have been exposed...

So I apologize for not being able to come up with something funny for you tonight.. I guess I will have to think about it and hopefully tomorrow, when I wake up with a full head of steam, I will be able to write something other than the above which makes me look and sound like a true American ass hat... Or maybe this exactly what you wanted in the first place...

Good Night Ivana Cumalot... wherever you may be.

Somebody Got A Posse

Many of you criticized me for my piece about the Rooster stating that you thought that it was primarily just a ploy for me to fill some space on my blog during a period of writer's block and secondarily, a way to show my readers my office. (Many = one of the six of you that read this crap.) Tonight, however, I am writing to inform all of my readers that the writings about the Rooster were very real and that the situation has escalated since the last time that I wrote about him and his interference with my workday.

During that time, the Rooster was absent from my office for several days while he flew to Miami to attend the MTV Video Music Awards as the special guest of Kanye West's pet pigeon. Now as I discussed in a previous post, during the week's festivities, Suge Knight, somehow, ended up with a bullet in his leg at Kanye's party. Further, there are many rumors circulating as to how this happened that range from him being shot by a variety of suspects to a self-inflicted accidental gunshot wound.

Now, I am not saying that the Rooster shot Suge Knight, all I know is that he was at the party with the pigeon and that ever since he returned from Miami, he has been a little more on edge. (I also don't know how he could have held a gun, but he is a crazy Rooster so nothing is beyond reason at this point).

I mean for the first couple of days, he just sat in my office silently staring straight ahead looking blankly at the opposite wall. He would not move a muscle appearing almost as if he was a fake rooster. At times, I would think that he would move and try to catch him by turning my head without warning. Sadly, he would be right back in his original position just staring off into space. It got to be downright creepy, and I was starting to think that I needed to put a sheet over him to avoid his steely glare.

This solution would have worked if the situation had not gone from bad to worse this afternoon when I arrived at the office.... As a I entered my office, I observed the following...

That's right, the Rooster is now rollin' with a posse, running with a crew. He has not told me why and I have not asked him why, mainly because he does not talk, but I have a feeling it is because he is directly involved with the shooting of Suge Knight. As a result of his involvement, he now needs extra security, and thus, he has enlisted Bobblehead Calhoun and "E" MOTHER FUCKEN "T" as his ballerz to make sure somebody does not whack his ass. Of course this means that my office is now the hideout for one of most wanted playerz in the potentially revived rap wars.... and to say the least, I am not happy about this fact...But now that he has a posse, it is impossible for me to get rid of him... I am a hostage in my own office...

So Suge if you read this, it was not me man.. it was the Rooster, he shot you, Suge... I just work here man... I mean I hate my job, but I still want to live to work my job... Fucken Rooster...

In the words of the Snizzle Double Gizzle... "I'm innocent... I'm innocent.."

Dear Jane Businesswoman:

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