My Office Space Existence

From the movie, Office Space:

Bob Slydell: You see, what we're actually trying to do here is, we're trying to get a feel for how people spend their day at work... so, if you would, would you walk us through a typical day, for you?
Peter Gibbons: Well, I generally come in at least fifteen minutes late, ah, I use the side door - that way Lumbergh can't see me, heh heh - and, uh, after that I just sorta space out for about an hour.

Bob Porter: Da-uh? Space out?

Peter Gibbons: Yeah, I just stare at my desk; but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch, too. I'd say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work.
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As I sit here on this lovely February afternoon in my office sipping a Tall Boy, I have come to realize that more and more my life is slowly becoming very much like that of Peter Gibbons from the movie, Office Space filled with a lack of inspiration or motivation. As I have mentioned before, I am a trial attorney, which means that every week I basically pick a jury, open a case, try the case, close the sucker down, and wait for a verdict. If my case ends early in the week, I get a new one for the next week and start the whole process all over again. (Lather, rinse, repeat) Trials can be fun if that is what you want to do with your life, and yes there is a rush that comes with a getting a verdict but once again, that is only if this is what you want to do with your life.

For the last couple of weeks, however, I have not had a trial assigned to me since we have hit a lull in my office. As a result, I have started to find other ways to spend my time while at work such as reinvigorating this blog and surfing the web for porn. However, it has become readily apparent to me that slowly but surely whether I have a trial or not I am going to become Peter Gibbons because I just don't have the necessary desire, drive, or motivation to put any effort into this hapless job.

And I know its going this metamorphisis is going to happen because it already has started... I mean this week is a perfect example...

Monday-- Day after Super Bowl-- Called in sick.

Tuesday-- Contemplated calling in sick, but realized I had a basketball game with the office team that even so instead went to work around 10:30 when I am supposed to be there at 9. Minimal amount of work done. Considered doing more work but realized there is no point to doing any work.

Wednesday-- Arrived at work relatively early i.e. 9:30. Conducted a deposition and then took the rest of the day off to write.

Thursday-- Arrived at work a little before noon, went to lunch at 1, and failed to do a thing for the remainder of the day other than find out Anna Nicole died and then wrote about it.

Friday-- Got here around 9:40. Spent the remainder of the day surfing the web, sending links of articles to my friends, writing, and gchatting. I did do work for one hour because the big boss from Manhattan came to inspect us. After he left, I proceeded to crack a beer and write this thing.

Actually from that summary, I have a pretty easy/hooked up existence, but the problem is that I want to be challenged. I wanted to be motivated. I want to work hard. I don't want to become Peter Gibbons. This is not the life I aspired to have. I am tired of frittering it away.

I want to dance....

INFIDELS!!!

Thanks to the detective work of the my good friend Andrew of "Nobody Listens to Andrew" fame, I found out today that my old blog site, www.angryfornoparticularreason.blogspot.com, has been hijacked by spammers.

As a result, no longer do you get an error when you go there, but are instead met with a variety of spam links for the topic of "drafts sportscenter." There are ten links there that seem to run the spectrum from Sports Center highlights to debt consolidation, which actually is an ironic snapshot of my life. I feel partially responsible for the old site's fate as I never imagined that my simple change to a shorter easier-to-type name would result in such a quick demise for the my other address. Sorry old friend, I never meant for that to be your fate. And so, I promise to hunt down the bastards that did this to you, and publicly execute them on this site filming it all on a cell phone that will most likely be snuck in Savage or Bob Jingle. THEY WILL PAY... AS GOD AS MY WITNESS, THEY WILL PAY!!!

Anna Nicole Smith is Dead

And I just won my celebrity death pool....

Seriously, for a day in which I have done no work and have been questioning my future with my current employer, this little breaking news story has created quite the stir throughout my universe of gchatting friends and coworkers. I guess my take since you care is that when combine lot of pills, depression, the death of a son, which you may or may not have had a part in, and rapid weight loss/gain/loss, you are not exactly the healthiest person in the world and are probably on borrowed time. As well, you might have a little motivation to end it all in order to get away from the craziness that is your existence. And while it would have been easy to see this one coming, Anna Nicole seemed to have this crazy ability to remain alive even though she has been clearly under the influence of a veritable cocktail of narcotics for decades now.

Rest in Peace Anna... you defied the law of averages for years... you crazy stripper.

No Spitting Allowed

I spend most of my day in my office at work listening to Sirius Satellite Radio. The irony is that for the most part, the radio is tuned to ESPN radio, which can be tuned in on free radio throughout the country. Thus, proving once again that I am not the smartest person in the world and the most fiscally responsible.Anyway, since I listen to approximately six to seven hours of sports radio a day, I get to hear all the random stories that occur in the sports world each day. And that is exactly how I came to find out about this little nugget out of China.

Apparently, the country that willl be hosting the 2008 Summer Olympics has banned spitting in public for the upcoming games. (Read about how exactly the Chinese Government is destroying the country's artifacts andd past in order build the venues for the Olympics here.) Further, anyone that does spit will be fined 50 yuan, which is the daily income of a Chinese college graduate.

Fines for spitting? I know the Chinese Government likes to be in everyone's biznass all the time as exemplified by their whole belief in a lack of human rights protections or the fact that they tortured the shit out of Jack Bauer. But what is fining people for spitting really going to do? How are they going to enforce it? Can you pay the fine on the spot? Can you contest the spitting fine? (I bet the answers to all of those questions involve a small dark room where the offender ends up with electricity surging through your body while standing in a bucket of water.)

As for me, I will now have to cross off going to China for the time being because throughout my life, I have been someone who spits. (insert blowjob joke here) Even when people request me not to spit, I cannot stop myself from spitting. I am a spitter what can I say... I spit, it's what I do. As a result, I will not let the Chinese Government dictate my life and tell me when or where I can spit. So take that China, I am going to stay here in these United States where a man can spit on his own terms even if its into a mighty wind that propels it back into his own face.

For more on the spitting ban and its companion ban, the no cutting in line ban, check out this article from the Boston Herald.

No longer a face to go with the words?

Sorry guys,

I started doing trials recently, and as much as I would enjoy a potential juror to be able to find me via picture or name, I realize that for my own professional well being it is time to go sans picture and name for the near future. So here we go, Rain Delay is the name, and I will just continue to plug along writing, hating, and boring you as much as possible.

Darkness is my freedom.

42 minutes..

Is how long it took me to run home today. That's right, I ran home today from work in the cold, the bitter bitter cold. Currently, weather.com tells me that the temperature is 24 degrees outside, but that it feels like 11 degrees. (as if there is a difference at this point between the actual temperature and the what it feels like temperature with the recent cold snap that we have been having.)

Why did I run home you ask? I ran home because I am tired of being one of those people complaining about how damn cold it is outside. These people of course were the same people who weeks ago were complaining about how warm it was. The same suckers who I tried to warn to be careful what they wished for when they asked, "When does winter start?"

Further, I am tired of having the weather dictate what I can and cannot do. Sure, my cheeks currently feel like they may fall off and I can feel ice melting on my back, behind my ears, and some where near my balls, but I said screw it, laced up the shoes, and made it home. I was born and grew up in New England, GOD DAMMIT!!! I can remember running outside in high school during the middle of winter on a parking lot that resembled a speed skating rink and rowing on a river while ice formed on our oars. Thus, I need to snap out of this woosification spell that New York City has cast upon me and get tough. (atleast this is what I keep telling myself.)

For now, I ran home today from work.. maybe tomorrow, i will take a swim in the East River.

This just in...

Rutgers' recruiting class features this guy:






All is now right with the world.

Who wants to be a pitcher and who wants to be a catcher?

The time after the Super Bowl is always an odd point in the sporting year, mainly because it is the time of year that where there is no real sports story since some of the sports are in midseason (NBA and NHL), some are just starting to get interesting (College Basketball), and others have not even started again yet (MLB). As such, sports fanatics like myself find themselves wondering what they should focus on for the next couple of weeks until those seasons really get amped up. (Note: The NHL could be playing with a nuclear warhead strapped to the puck that may or may not detonate upon contact, and I still would not care enough to watch that stupid shit.)

As a result, we meaning me and the rest of the sporting nerds, start caring about things like signing day (today) in college football where college fans across the country find out who will be the future of their school on the grid iron and who at their school will someday find themselves in the police blotter for idiotic act that will undoubtily involve some type of narcotic, a halloween mask, a "borrowed" vehicle, and a paint or pellet gun. (If you are lucky both weapons will be involved along with an indescribable sex act.) An entire site dedicated to my alma mater's class can be found here.

Others of us start counting down the days till pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training as these are the first players to start the annual migration to either Florida or Arizona in Major League Baseball for the upcoming season. (My teams countdown to pitchers and catchers arrival can be found here.) For Red Sox fans like myself, this time of year used to mean that we would get our hopes up that this could be the year. Since 2004, however, with the winning of the World Series and the subsequent over exposure of our team, I now just obsess over whether or not this will help the team embarass those t-bags from the Bronx and avoid hopefully avoid the embarassment that was the 2006 season.

Another option is to find other sporting events to fill the void that football-less Saturdays and Sundays have created. This year, I have taken to watching real Football i.e. soccer in the form of the Premier League, which has games on Saturdays and Sundays on Fox Sports Network or is that Fox Soccer Network and features the best clubs in England. The current standings are here, and for those of you out there that want to find a team too cheer on, your research should start like with most things here. I tend to support Arsenal mainly because that is the team I use on FIFA Soccer 07 when playing on my Xbox. (Yes, my obsession has now creeped into my video game playing. What can I say, I am a catch.)

Finally, another popular source of distraction is to focus on a crazy little sport stories that otherwise would get no run at any other time during the year. One such story is that Alex Rodriguez, possibly the biggest tool in baseball, wrote a children's book called, Out of the Ballpark, which per HarperCollins is about a boy named Alex who knows what it’s like to swing at a wild pitch or have a ball bounce right between his legs. Now, for those of you out there who do not know, Alex Rodriguez had one of the most criticized seasons of his entire career in 2006. It was a season that featured more errors than ever in his career and plate appearances that made the average baseball fan wonder if Mr. Rodriguez had ever picked up a bat before. Of course, now he claims that the book has nothing to do with last season but more is a story about a child overcoming adversity and learning valuable life lessons on the way. (That is not a quote but isn't that what every crappy kids book written by an athlete is about?) Fact of the matter is the book is probably just another part of the annual Alex Rodriguez campaign to get people to like him instead of just realizing that he is trying way to hard and probably should just go the complete opposite direction becoming a villaneous wretch of a human being. Atleast then he could stop this charade.

So that is where we stand in the sports world at the present time in weird holding pattern where any random stories, sporting events, or feats of athleticism seize our attention without warning and for indeterminate periods of time. Waiting for the other sports to hit their stride or to start again. Now, if you will excuse me, the United States is playing Mexico this evening in soccer, and I have to figure out who exactly is on the US team so that I can scream at the television appropriately.

The Bitch Wore Diapers

Just to make sure I have this documented somewhere for the rest of my life, here is a story detailing the sordid astronaut love triangle complete with the interesting fact that Crazy Female Astronaut wore space diapers so she would not have to stop during her 1000 mile drive to confront the Female Air Force Captain with whom she was competing for the love of Sexy Male Astronaut, who we will call Joe Pie-Eater. (Joe Pie-Eater for those who did not grow up with me or my friends is the name that we gave to any guy who had the insane ability to get the ladies even though said guy was a clearly a giant tool. Yes, we were jealous, and yes, we made up this name while listening to Nirvana while drinking stolen booze in somebody's basement on a Friday night instead of even attempting to meet girls on our own.) I think the lesson to learn from this sordid astronaut love triangle is if someone is crazy enough to wear diapers to avoid having to do number one or two, you might want to steer clear of them at all costs....I mean that is a level of dedication at getting back at someone that I clearly lack... Love is crazy...

Story can be found here.

I have been told that maybe pasting the entire article might not be the smartest... (and I'm the attorney)...

Here are the relevant highlights..

Nowak, a Navy Captain, is accused of accosting Air Force Capt. Colleen Shipman, 30, in the parking lot of Orlando International Airport early Monday and spraying her with pepper spray. She told police she only wanted to talk with Shipman.

Nowak and Shipman were both "in a relationship" with Navy Cmdr. Bill Oefelein, another astronaut, according to a police report of the incident.

Nowak told police her relationship with Oefelein was "more than a working relationship and less than a romantic relationship."

Shipman has filed for a restraining order on Nowak in Brevard County, where Shipman lives and works, according to a copy of the order on the county's Web site.

In the paperwork for the order, Shipman said that Nowak had been stalking her for the past two months. A hearing for the order is scheduled for February 20.

Nowak, a married mother of three, made both of her court appearances shackled and wearing a dark-colored jumpsuit. In the afternoon session, for the attempted murder charge, she kept her eyes straight ahead....

According to the arresting affidavits, Nowak drove from Houston to Orlando after discovering Shipman's flight plans on Oefelein's computer.

She printed out detailed maps for the trip, which were found in her car during a police search, along with handwritten directions to Shipman's home. En route, she paid cash for hotel stays and registered under an assumed name.

Once in Orlando, according to the arresting affidavits, Nowak followed Shipman from the airport to her car in a satellite parking lot, where the confrontation took place about 3:45 a.m. Wearing a wig and glasses, Nowak approached Shipman as she got into her car and told her Nowak's boyfriend had not shown up to pick her up and she needed a ride.

Shipman refused, saying she would send help instead. When Nowak complained she couldn't hear Shipman and started to cry, Shipman opened her car window "about two inches" -- and Nowak sprayed pepper spray into the car, police said.

Shipman drove away and found police, who located Nowak at a bus stop. They also found a wig and a plastic bag containing a carbon dioxide-powered BB pistol in a nearby trash can, the report said.

Inside a bag Nowak was carrying, the officer found a tan trench coat, a new steel mallet, a new folding knife with a 4-inch blade, 3 to 4 feet of rubber tubing, several large plastic garbage bags and about $600 in cash, the report said.

Nowak admitted the details of Shipman's story, according to the police report, and permitted a search of her car.

Inside the car, police found an a half dozen latex gloves, MapQuest directions from Houston to Orlando International Airport, e-mails from Shipman to Oefelein, diapers Nowak said she wore to reduce stops along the highway and a letter indicating how much she loved Oefelein.

It is standard procedure for astronauts to wear diapers when they suit up for launch and re-entry.

The Name Has Changed

But the game remains the same.

For those of you that have found me, I felt I needed to change some stuff around on this old baby since I have been neglecting it over the past couple of months. So today in order to spark some new interest in this little fella, I tried to figure out other blog addresses that I could use in order to simplifly the lengthy and hard to type angryfornoparticularreason.blogspot.com.

My attempted address names included:

prior.blogspot.com--- which appears to be a foreign blog that has not been used since 2004. I am actually not even sure what the one entry on this site says or means. Hopefully, it was a not warning about an invasion from another planet or a terrorist attack. Of course, if it was a terrorist attack, the terrorists probably would have warned us by using one of these:





(Yes, it's a cheap shot at the City of Boston, and yes, I understand the seriousness of the world we live in... BUT that looks like a lite brite to me people.)

angryrunner.blogspot.com-- which appears to be a blog created by a teacher who runs early in the morning. It also appears that he or she may or may not have died in a running related accident shortly after starting this blog as it appears that she too has not blogged since sometime in 2005 and has only 2 entries. Hopefully, her other commitments in life such as the teaching of America's youth were more successful in terms of their longevity and that she was killed quickly and painlessly on that early morning run.

And finally,

rockstarrunner.blogspot.com-- which as you can see does not exist, but I was prevented from choosing as my address by the Evil Wizard, Sorcerer, or Garden Gnome that is in charge of this whole scam. It appears that not only have they figured out how to intergrate this whole show with google, but it now appears that they have the technology to pre-scan applicants to determine whether or not the individual requesting a certain address is cool enough for that address. I was clearly not....

So finally, after losing motivation and caring about what the new address would be, I ended up with runninganger.blogspot.com, which you probably already know since you found me here. I hope to use this a bit more than the last one just so that I can infuse some creativity into my otherwise uncreative life. We will see how that works since I have pledged that before, but for now, you can find me here as I delve into the worlds of running, anger, and running while angry...

Hey this is Jose

Last night in what has become a little bit of a tradition, I had 17 of my closest friends over for a little pre-thanksgiving turkey feast. For those that may not remember, the tradition started last year when I decided to cook a turkey for my family over the Thanksgiving holiday. As I had never cooked a turkey before, I decided that I needed to practice on my friends in preparation for the real Thanksgiving meal in order to determine if I could cook a turkey and to avoid killing my parents if things went horribly awry. Last year, the turkey turned out great even after a grease fire in the oven that filled the apartment at the 398 with an absurd amount of smoke forcing me to air out the entire place for over an hour.

This year, I went even bigger with a total of 17 guests and a 19 pound bird. Plus, I decided to brine the bastard adding a full day of preparation to my little endeavor. This part of the process was highlighted by my buddy, Shaun, passing out around 2 AM on a aerobed in the middle of my kitchen while me and my girlfriend placed the giant beast into the brine only inches from his head. (As well, there may or may not have been an appearance by Lucy, the cockroach, who may or may not have skampered across the counter coming uncomfortably close to the bird and the brine.)

Thankfully, once again everything turned out great with my friends really stepping up with an unbelievable assortment of foods to compliment the turkey including meat stuffing, stringbean casserole, mashed potatoes, breads, and pumpkin pie just to name a few. Throw in some amazing cranberry sugar poppy thingies and libations highlighted by Red Roosters and the evening was a giant success. (Even if I did end up calling my upstairs neighbor, Jose, when his name is actually Juan. Hopefully, the turkey was enough to make up for this minor faux pas. If not, I blame it all on the tall boys combined with sitting in a turkey fume infested apartment for over 12 hours on Sunday.)

Now, I need to start preparing for next year where I plan to deep fry a turkey and will try not to invent any new ethnic sounding names for my upstairs neighbor.

Useful Information

In recent months, I have become out of mind addicted to this website, http://curbed.com/. Basically, it's a blog that covers all of the comings and going of the New York City real estate market. It's also a great source to figure out why there is suddenly a giant hole next to your apartment or why that entire old building disappeared to. Anyway, check the site out and learn something.

The Return of the King

Actually it's just me, but since it has been awhile I figured a splashy headline was necessary. I have been MIA these last couple of months due to the ever evolving life that I lead.

For those that remember, the last time we spoke, I hated my job. Well I am happy to report that I still hate my job, but atleast I now get to do full time trials. As such, I get a case on a Wednesday the week before it is supposed to go to trial. Then, I prep the bad boy and take it to trial. It is a pretty sweet gig if I do say so myself.

This role started almost a month ago when I was given a trial against an old nemesis who I swear to god looks like Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons except with less hair on the top of his head. (He rocks a sweet pony tail.) Anyway, this attorney and I have had our share of terse moments in the past, which were highlighted by me once asking him if he would like to step outside the courtroom to settle this like men. (I believe at this point, I was a little too into Deadwood.) Of course, my office was fully aware of my past problems with the old dungeon master, but in their infinite wisdom, decided that my first trial should be against someone that I truly despise. A real good versus evil moment I guess.

Now usually, trials in my office last a week, maybe two, but never more than three unless of course you are me. Instead of the normal timeline for the case, I am happy to report that I spent the last four weeks on trial, which meant that basically, I spent four weeks with my good friend.

Now, four weeks of trial would be enough to drive any person insane, but then you add the fact that Comic Book tool is a snake who stretches the boundaries of the law at any time he can. As a result, I spent four weeks on edge waiting for the snake to pull some of his usual bull shit, which he did whenever he felt he needed to wiggle something in past the supervision of the Court. For example, having his client, thank each of the members of the jury everyday when they left Court. Something that is patently improper.

Anyway, the case itself involved a ceiling collapse in a building that was in such a state of disrepair that from the second I opened my mouth to when I closed in the first part of the case, the jury hated me. I mean this place had rats, maggots, plumbing issues, and ceilings with holes, a real shithole. And as a result of these deplorable conditions, the jury found in favor of the plaintiff in the liability portion of the trial. (Liability = whose fault was it and for the record, it took them five minutes to figure out that it was the City's fault, which is about four and half minutes longer than I thought it would take. I am just glad they actually left the court room to figure it out and didn't simply ask that I be hung right in the middle of the courtroom.)

Anyway, after losing the liability portion, we moved onto damages i.e. the show me the money portion of the trial. And this is where I figured i could make my biggest defense against the plaintiff as she claimed all these injuries like neck, back, and then carpal tunnel. The problem was that I knew that she had another accident and claimed the same injuries. Plus, her doctor was a crook and I intended to make him seem as much. Well, after a couple days of trial for that portion and with the plaintiff's attorney asking for a lot of money in his closing, the jury decided to give the plaintiff nothing. NOT ONE CENT... which meant that I had won my first case... Good had triumphed over Evil and Comic Book Guy had to go back to his lair to plot his next attack...

So after enjoying a couple of celebratory beverages, I am already locked and loaded for next week's case where someone fell and knocked out their front teeth, a true faceplant. Hopefully this blog does not become a memoir of my legal trials and tribulations but as soon as I join the million dollar club, I will be sure to let you guys know.

VMA's?

Disclaimer: I am watching the replay of the VMA's at 1:30 in the AM after several hours spent at Crash Mansion on the Bowery with Free Beck's and ROCK AND ROLL.

Seriously, what the hell is going on with the MTV and the VMA's? I mean I have never been one to hold MTV to a hire standard other than a crap factory for music and steroidal exploitation, but at some point, recently. I must have stopped really paying attention to what the kids are in touch with because I have no idea what is going on right now. I mean I noticed The Beyonce doing some kind of angry songsy diatribe with loud megaphone type effects and Justin opening the show with his white boy seizure moves, but I have not recognized a single nominee or atleast I am choosing not to. (Pussy Cat Dolls are a gimic show on Sunset, how could they possibly win a VMA?) Moreover, I don't even recognize the categories anymore, I mean a DANCE? category? For what? Dancing? Jesus give me a couple of shots a jack, a bong hit, and a Mountain Dew and I will dance all night, excellently. Better than the Clit Cats atleast. I mean do they sign anything or are they super sweet strippers.

Sadly, I feel like I may finally be losing touch with MTV and the VMA's and as I think about it more, I am pretty okay with this part of growing up. (until of course, I have to raise a young girl of my own, and in that case, GAME OVER MAN.... GAME OVER!!!)

I need to start drinking on the job... atleast it would take the pain away...

When we last left off faithtful readers, the buzzards were circling as the not-yet dead carcass of one of my co-workers lay helpless in the office of one of my bosses. Thankfully, some quick acting colleagues of mine led an inspired rescue mission and saved the young woman only moments before she would have been no doubt deemed deceased and promptly robbed of her worldly possessions. At last report, she had made it to the hospital and was released after alleviating her stomach woes by taking an apparently significant and life changing dump much to the chagrine of those hoping to make a little chip off her sudden stomach rebellion. I should have taken yesterday's little episode of "How NOT to Handle a Sick Coworker" as an omen that this week at the office was only going to get a bit more ridiculous and tedious as time went on and thusly called in sick this morning. This tactic I have employed several times this summer in order to avoid entering the hallowed halls of the place that makes me wish that I have never been born. Of course, being the fool that I am, I decided instead to show up some 45 minutes late to the office, another one of my new favorite tactics to demonstrate to the powers-that-be that I fucken loath them.

Unfortunately, the powers-that-be were waiting with the spite wagon, which meant that I was promptly informed that a colleague of mine had called in sick as she has several times this summer in her apparent attempt to mimic my tactic of avoidance, and that I would have handle her deposition. In addition, I started up my work email to find a nice little love note from my head boss asking me why I had not called in to inform them that I was running late and thus the deposition that I was to handle for the other sick colleague would now have to be handled by another poor sap. Of course, the powers-that-be managed to get a little dig in by stating that due to my apparent inability to call in and inform them that I was going to be late, I had forced another member of my office to have to handle MY DEPOSITION. (HEY CORRECTION SHIT HEADS, last night when I went home, I did not have a fucken deposition instead that was the responsibility of Little Miss-Call-In-Sick who apparently is free of your guilt inducing jitbag of an email...) While I did not have the time or the balls to inform my boss that the reason that I did not call in was because such a call would only be necessary if I:

A) Cared about my job; or

B) Gave two shits about whether or not the powers-that-be gave two shits about my whereabouts...

I did manage to track down the file before it was given to the other poor sap to handle. (While I may hate my job, my bosses, and the subject matter, I do not and will not piss of my colleagues. We are in the shit together... CHARLIE IN THE TREES...)

Anyway, as luck and kharma would have it, I then received the satisfaction of getting to sit through the seven hours of the questioning of a Ecuadorian man via Spanish interpreter about how he managed to have ladder he was standing on while cleaning asbestos collapse beneath him rendering him permanently disabled and with TMJ. Trust me, you really haven't lived until you spend a significant portion of your day trying to figure out how to explain through an interpreter that you want to know if said individual was able to get a boner before he had his traumatic little event since he now is as limp as I am after 12 beers. Not suprisingly, the words boner, hard-on, flesh rocket, do not apparently translate as easily as one would like but man did I try.

So after I walked out of the room after seven hours of incoherent responses and imperfect translations, I was further rewarded with a final kick in the nuts and asked why I had missed a meeting with one of my bosses at 2:30 this afternoon. Jeez guys, I don't know... Why don't you ask Mr. Perez and his limp penis... I am sure he can explain it better than I can... morons... On second thought, maybe, I will explain it by showing up tomorrow with a bottle of jack, a stripper, and no pants on... eat shit and die fuckbags.

Is this a sign...

Currently at my job there is a girl lying in my boss' office writhing in pain due to some mysterious stomach ailment that has gripped her being since coming to work today. Apparently, she cannot go home because she does not have the necessary leave time that would allow her to take the rest of the day off. Thankfully, my bosses are some of the most compassionate people on the Earth so I am sure that they are currently either helping her out of the office to a car service that they have called for her or have called the necessary medical personnel in case her little tummy thing is an exploding organ or something of that nature. Oh wait, my bosses are actually giant cocksuckers so instead of what I wrote above, they are probably just standing around poking this girl with a stick hoping that she will die so that they can steal her money and give her body to the vampires that work in the Title Search Office.

Even better is that this girl has been working here for less than a week but somehow her stomach has realized how fucken unbelievably shitty this place is and correctly decided to rebel against its host. If only my own body had taken similar action three years ago, so that I would not still find myself here, treading water, and hating my own professional existence. Sadly, my body did not take such measure, but for this newbie, there is hope. Run free little one.. head towards the light... DO NOT LOOK BACK...

And yes, I am jaded and absolutely hate my job... and soon you will too...

Tis the Season

For tons of weddings...

Just wanted to drop a quick note while I am here in Brooklyn regarding the craziness that is the wedding season that I am currently in the grips of... Last weekend was Charleston.. This week is two at the Florentine Gardens in NJ... next weekend, a much deserved break.. Then to Chicago for another.... another break weekend... Down the Shore for another Jersey bash... Break... Then finally one in Denver, CO... Oh and throw in an engagement celebration for the Popstar...(one of the happiest events that I will ever be a part of.) And so there goes my summer... one spent watching my closest friends tie the knot... and although I am complaining... I am doing so only mildly because no matter the expense or the weekends lost to weddings halls, churches, and hotels, I get to watch people that I truly care about get hitched....

and that makes it all worth it.

Two Mile Miracle

Almost a month ago, I ran a marathon in Vermont. As I posted before the actual event, I was experiencing some significant pain in my left leg prior to the actual race that forced me to take almost a month off. As such, I lost approximately 2-3 weeks of peak training that I knew as much as I would loved to have thought otherwise would invariably effect my ability to run a fast marathon. And so, I went to Burlington without many expectations and while I managed to finish the race, I spent the last month sitting around stewing about the injury that made me unable to run the marathon like I can.

As well for the last month, I have not written anything here because frankly, I did not want to as I have been bummed out feeling like the previous 18 weeks of my life prior to the marathon rendered my training meaningless. Not helping matters was that even after taking two weeks off from running altogether immediately following the marathon, I was feeling no better than I did immediately before the marathon as the pain in my left leg persisted showing up whenever I tried to run. As a result, every step reminded me of my injury and began to make me wonder if my leg would ever get better. (and then of course I wondered if this would prevent me from ever running again.)

As of last week, I was not running with my only physical activity consisting of hobbling around a softball diamond or doing the white man shuffle up and down the basketball court. Oh and I made a meager attempt at returning to the gym to get rid of the B-cups that I am developing at the rate of young supple 12 year old girl... (I am kidding you sick pedophiles... about the young girl, but the man boobs are on like Donkey Kong.) I, also, began to look for a doctor as the people close to me began to worry if there was something a little more serious with my leg that needed to be looked at by a real doctor. (As stated before, I only play one on TV.) The good thing was that while I was searching for this doctor, I totally did not even attempt to run nor did I even think about doing it.

Actually, I did not think about running until on my way home from work today when I was getting sick of being lazy and feeling like a fat piece of shit. As such, on the walk from the subway to my apartment, I decided to run two miles just to see for one last if I could run without pain. And as luck or just shear stupidity would have it, I ran without pain in either of my legs for the first time in almost two months. It was only two miles, and I definitely was not burning rubber, but there was still no pain. Now, I know that this means nothing since I could very well wake up tomorrow morning with pain again, but atleast it is a first step to possibly starting to run again. As a result, I am going to try it again later this week, and just continue from there with an immediate trip to the doctor as my only recourse if I begin to feel pain again.

As for the marathon, I do not remember my place, but I will tell you that for the first 18 miles, I went out there and jammed on the gas maintaining a sub-8:00 minute pace for that portion of the race. Of course, after those 18 miles, I still had 8 remaining and needless to say, the wheels came off shortly after passing mile 18. While I managed to finish the final miles, the weird walk/run combination that I utilized in order to do so was the method of a man whose training was lacking significantly.

And then again, I still finished under four hours with a sub-9:00 mile pace, which is usually the average pace of a Team in Training member but still a finish. More importantly, what happened to me out there will stay with me for as long as I am able to run and serve as a lesson learned. But for now, I will settle simply for my runs every once and awhile as I slowly creep back to running normally again.

If you get a chance...

I do not use this site for much these days for one reason or another, but earlier today, one of the greatest baseball journalists/analysts ever, Hall of Famer Peter Gammons, (or Old Leatherneck as I like to call him) had an aneurysm. Currently, he is in a Boston area hospital having surgery and could be touch and go for the next few days.

So I guess what I am asking is for you to take some time and read some of his stuff and then, think about this great man, who is in need of each of our thoughts at this point in his life.

As a starter, here is the speech he gave when he got inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame:

Steve Jobs' advice at that time to a graduating class of Stanford this year was 'find what you love.' I am here today because I found what I love. Understand, I grew up in a household where when I got home from school my mother greeted me with, 'Can you believe they traded Jim Piersall for Vic Wertz and Gary Geiger?' Ned weaned me on respect and reverence for the history and texture of the game. My sister Anne hit me fungoes in a small New England town where the Red Sox home opener was an acceptable legal excuse to leave school at 10 a.m. My father found what he loved in music and teaching and the goodness of man. He and Paul Wright, my godfather, teacher and mentor, remain the two greatest men I have ever known … teachers like Juney O'Brien and Jake Congleton. By the time I was 18, I knew my role models and my life's mission statement were defined. When this award was announced, Mike Barnicle left me a simple message. 'Tom Winship would be very proud.' Winship was the editor of the Boston Globe, a Branch Rickey of a man who changed the newspaper business in Boston and opened a world for kids who were dying for a chance. Mine came as a summer intern in 1968. It started the day Robert F. Kennedy was shot. In those days you had a morning Globe and afternoon Globe, and when I walked in, I was introduced to my fellow intern Bob Ryan, basketball Hall of Famer. We were told to call every team in business, ask them what they would do for Robert F. Kennedy and write a story. We did. The 3:30 late stocks edition came up, and there on the front page of the entire paper Mr. Ryan and Mr. Gammons had their first bylines. We went to the Erie Pub, raised a couple of 10-cent drafts and decided, you know, what we found what we loved. My career essentially has been very simple, Boston Globe, Sports Illustrated, ESPN. I have been fortunate enough to work for extraordinary people. There are hundreds, maybe thousands who I should thank, but it was Tom Winship and Fran Rosa who stuck their neck out to hire a kid who hadn't even graduated from college … Mark Mulvoy, who hired me twice at Sports Illustrated … Vince Doria, who brought me back to the Globe and anyone who I ever worked for believes is the best sports editor, if not the best boss who ever lived … John Walsh who had the crack-brained idea to bring a sportswriter into television because, as one of the businesses most creative visionaries, he understood that information is king. I am very proud to say today much of what ESPN is today is because of John Walsh and there are hundreds of people that have gone and followed me out of the print profession to ESPN because of Walsh.

I am not here as a television personality, but as an ink-stained wretch. Publishers and new editors have no clue. They have no understanding that the baseball beat is the toughest beat in the newspaper business. It means severe personal sacrifices. A few years ago Jayson Stark and I decided that over a 25-year period we probably talked to one another more than we talked to our wives and no one has sacrificed more than my wife Gloria, who saved me in an unpredictable storm of a business that knows no holidays.

The baseball beat today is much tougher now than when I was traveling with the Red Sox for the Globe. There is far less access, 10 times the bodies in the clubhouse. The Internet, radio, television have broadened the baseball information universe. And yet our business, I am proud to say, keeps producing generation after generation of young reporters who are tireless, good and fair. Throughout my career I have tried to be guided by one principle, that because I am human I have the right to like people. But because I am professional, I have no right to dislike any one. People ask me, as a New Englander, what was it like walking out there in the field when Aaron Boone hit a home run. To be honest, my first reaction was, I was ecstatic. I have known Aaron Boone since he was 13 years old, and that's my privilege. My second reaction, I saw Tim Wakefield, head down, and I felt despondent. He's one man who did not deserve that. As I walked out on the field to try to get introduced, I turned to my producer, Charlie Moynihan, and said, 'Look around here, you know what? I just got paid to cover the greatest game ever played in the greatest sporting venue in the world. I think I'm the luckiest man on earth.' Jerry Coleman, I am honored to be in Cooperstown with you -- war hero, World Series MVP, announcer, gentleman. Ryne Sandberg, I think of a 40-home run season, a 200-hit season, a 50-steal season and the ego of a clubhouse kid.

But, to be here the day Wade Boggs is inducted is a special thing for me. This is a guy who played seven minor-league seasons, hit three something a ridiculous six straight years, went through three Rule 5 drafts and kept saying, 'my success will be measured in terms of dealing with adversity.' In the last half-century, Wade Boggs is the oldest position player to debut in the major leagues and make the Hall of Fame. He is the model for overcoming adversity of all kinds. I remember that afternoon in the spring of '86 when you and I were driving with Ted Williams over to have that night of discussing hits with Don Mattingly. Ted leaned forward in the car and said, 'Hey Wade, did you ever smell the burn of a bat?' Well, there are very few people who have. I have never forgot that. When the All-Century Team gathered around Ted at Fenway before the '99 All-Star Game, Ted asked Mark McGwire the same question. He retold the story. He said, 'Did you ever smell the burn of the bat?' There were six National League players in the room at the time around McGwire. What is he talking about? Well, let's face it, the burning of a bat is the lexicon of the gods.

And to stand here in front of the Hall of Fame players is like standing in front of the baseball dieties, and yet I feel so fortunate to have known so many of them as humans. I think of Carlton Fisk and I think of eight to 10 hours a day of rehab in the winter of '73-'74, mostly in the Manchester YMCA, to come back from a knee injury that very few humans could have recovered from. Eddie Murray, I think of the hours he took, watching him take BP, which allowed him to know all of those thousands of clutch hits which were only by design, not chance. I think of Robin Yount and the fastest he ever got timed to first was 3.9 seconds, the slowest 4.0. And I remember that George Brett always used to say he wanted his career to end on a ground ball to second base on which he busted his hump down the line. I think of Mike Schmidt mowing and lining the field in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, so he can coach his son's high school team. Then there's Sandy Koufax telling me that I lived in L.A. the way he lived in Stonington, Maine. I think of Bob Gibson's handshake, of Tony Perez, Petuka Perez, I think he lived a quarter of mile from where I lived in Brookline, Massachusetts, and to this day not two weeks go by when someone doesn't say, you know, how are Tony and Petuka Perez? They are the greatest people who lived in this neighborhood. I think of the hours and I thank Jim Palmer and Tom Seaver for discussing pitching with me. I will never forget the day that Orlando Cepeda hit four doubles in one game in Fenway Park and could barely walk. I think of Reggie Jackson and the two of us wandering around Kenmore Square in Boston after the Angels had lost the 1986 ALCS, outraged because Reggie Jackson's team had lost. I think of Dennis Eckersley and I think of his start in the 1978 Boston Massacre, when nearly 100 writers surrounded Frank Duffy because he made an error. He started pulling them off. He shouted, 'He didn't load the bases. He didn't hang a 0-2 slider. Get to the locker and talk to the guy who has an L next to his name.' Dennis Eckersley defines teammate.

I think of Kirby Puckett, my favorite days in baseball while the lights were still off in the Metrodome at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Game Six, the night he won the World Series, probably the only guy in the world that called me Petey, says, 'Petey, get up in your SportsCenter and tell everyone that Puck is going to jack the Twins up on his back today.' Well, four hits, a game-saving catch, and a 11th-inning home run later, Puck took us to the greatest seventh game, World Series game I will ever experience: 10 innings, 1-0, Jack Morris. These players are great players whose success is measured in overcoming adversity, but no one had to be a great person, no one had to be a great player to be a great person stored in my memory bank. So I think from John Curtis to Bill Campbell to Jerry Remy, Buckethead Schmidt to Bruce Hurst, Ellis Hurst to George Lombard, I've been lucky to know thousands of people who loved the game as much as I do.

In 1985, the Globe sent me to Meridian, Mississippi, to do a story on Dennis 'Oil Can' Boyd's background. I had dinner with his father, Willie James, who was once a Negro League pitcher and maintained the field and team in Meridian. He was telling me how he financed his life in baseball by being a landscaper.

He told me a story of a day in 1964 when he was landscaping the yard of the grand dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. He remembered seeing the cars coming up. They all rolled up the street, up the road from Philadelphia [Miss.] to [Meridian] Mississippi to take care of some civil rights workers. Mr. Boyd looked me in the eye. He said, 'You know what? This is what makes this country great. Today that man is destitute and crippled with arthritis and my boy, Dennis Boyd, is pitching in the major leagues for the Boston Red Sox.' In my mind the Boyd family represents baseball's place in American society. Jackie Robinson was in the big leagues seven years before Brown versus the Board of Education and we should never forget it, just as we should never forget the important athletes of the 20th century, arguably one of the 10 most important Americans of the 20th century. I remember waking up to read the story of Roberto Clemente's death, a great baseball idol [who] died taking medical, food and clothing supplies to earthquake victims in Nicaragua. I was with Dave Stewart the morning after he won the third game of the 1989 earthquake series as he crawled through the rubble of the collapsed Cypress structure to hand out coffee and donuts to volunteers searching for bodies. I walked the streets of Manoguyabo, Dominican Republic, with Pedro Martinez and viewed the churches, school, athletic complex, day-care center and houses that he built for poor people in his hometown. I was not far from Fidel Castro when he stood for the American National Anthem at attention, his hat across his heart because baseball came to Havana in 1989. I remember George Bush strode out toward the mound at Yankee Stadium before the third game of the 2001 World Series, weeks removed from the World Trade Center attacks, and turned and said to Karl Ravech and Harold Reynolds, 'We are among the 55,000 people who just experienced one of the great chills of anyone's lifetime.' When Bud Selig asked us to embrace the World Cup, it's not T-shirts in Taiwan. It's about celebrating that baseball, more than any sport, is who we are. It is reflected in our immigration patterns, our history because we're all immigrants. We should want the world to see us not for our politics, not for our business, but for baseball as our metamorphic soul, inclusive, not exclusive, diverse, not divisive, fraternal, not fractionalized.

If any of you are familiar with the Cape Cod League you probably might have heard of Arnie Allen, a special needs gentleman who for 40 years was a batboy for the Falmouth Commodores. He was diagnosed with brain cancer in the summer of 2002. Seventy-two hours later a duffel bag of Angels paraphernalia arrived in Falmouth, courtesy of two Falmouth players, Darin Erstad and Adam Kennedy. Of course, the Angels went on to the World Series in 2002 and after winning one incredible sixth game coming from a five-nothing deficit in the eighth inning. Before Game Seven, Erstad and Kennedy pulled me aside before they went out to stretch and told me, 'We know you are going to be speaking at the Hall of Fame inductions in two weeks on the Cape.' They said in unison, 'As you speak, could you do us a favor, Arnie will be there probably for the last time. Could you just tell him that Darin and Adam Kennedy said we are thinking of him before they went out and won the World Series?'

Every day at the ball park, for me, there's been something that's great. Ozzie Smith fielding ground balls, just seeing Willie Mays, watching Tom Seaver throw a 3-1 changeup to Don Baylor in his 300th win, George, Gossage in 1980. More important, what I have taken from all of these years is the knowledge that the people who play this game inherently care so much about that game, fellow players and those who love it. I am very fortunate to have baseball as a part of my life for 35 years. I thank you, Gloria, and all my family for standing aside me and all baseball writers for their friendship, support and maintenance of a great and proud profession. The game is also about players. I thank the thousands of players that I have known for making this ride better than I ever could have imagined. Ted Williams used to tell me, 'Hey, Bush, someday you want to walk down the street and have people say you have the greatest job in America.' Ted, it happens almost every day. For that I thank all of you, every one who read or listened to me, allowed me to try to be your eyes and ears, that allowed me to find what I love and hold on to it long enough to experience this, the greatest day of my professional career. Thank you.

What would you do...

If everything that you spent the last five months or so working for seemed to be slipping away?

If something that once seemed to be achievable now seemed impossible?

Well, if you were me, you would be pretty pissed off, really disappointed, and desparately trying to figure out what the mother fucken next step is going to be, which is kind of even funnier or just a giant kick in the balls by irony since every step I take with my left leg these days results in jarring pain through my left ankle, shin, and knee. (And yes, I am going to whine, complain, and generally vent for the next couple of paragraphs. If you don't like it, go the fuck to hell because I need to do this before I totally lose my mind... and kill again... Note: Rain Delay's statements do represent the views of Blogspot.com and cannot be used in a court of law unless of course he does kill again. At which point, each of your were on notice and can give some weird statement to CNN, Fox News (doubtful), or whatever shit bag news broadcast that covers the whole ordeal and tell them how he told you all that he would kill again... unless of course I kill you, and in that case, GAME OVER MAN... GAME OVER!!! )

And you know what, I did it all to myself and that is why I am pissed off and disappointed. Back in January when I decided to train for this thing, I promised myself that if I got injured or more importantly started to feel like I was getting injured, I would take the time off, rehab, rest, and then get back on the horse. Of course, as the weeks went on and no real injuries arose, I began to feel more and more invincible and so I pressed a bit and overtrained (a classic mistake for a runner).

It was this false confidence and my desire to qualify for Boston that distracted me from listening to my body and so when my left leg started hurting shortly after the half marathon, I continued to run hard convincing myself that it was simply shin splints. (Pride, I fucken hate pride.) Making matters worse, the week after the Half should have been an easy one and yet in order to get all of my runs in, I ran consecutive days (up to four in a row I believe), which resulted in undue strain on my body, a body that no matter what I keep telling myself, really cannot handle more than two days in a row. This type of cavalier training continued for several weeks as I pressed through an 18 mile run, a 16 mile run, and finally a 20 mile run. After each, the pain was there as I could barely walk for the next couple of days and it sucked...

But I ignored my body, took Advil, iced, stretched, and pressed on, lying to myself that all of it would go away ignoring the fact that I was now walking with a limp as the pain in my shin extended down to my ankle and up to my knee.... Funny thing is that no matter how much denial I threw out there, I could never escape the fact that the pain was real and not going anywhere.

Last week, I gimped my way through three runs and prepared for a 15 miler on Friday, and then a strange thing happened, my body refused to run anymore. And so I stopped, walked home, sat on the couch for a bit, and realized that no matter how hard I wanted to keep going, I was going to have shut it down and try to heal so that I can actually run the marathon.

So here I sit typing this with two icebags on my left leg and pain that has remained even after taking three days off... I have not a clue as to when the next time that I will run again is... and I am not sure writing about it helped or that I am not going to go completely insane in the next couple of days because I am totally fucked...or that I have learned a great lesson here because I am starting to get the itch to pop some Advil and just hit the pavement givign a giant middle finger to the pain no matter what the cost...

atleast I still have Jesus... oh wait no I don't...

GAME OVER MAN... GAME OVER!!!!*




*The preceding was brought to you by the letters D, R, A, M, A, Q, U, E, E, and N...