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...

You may ask yourself...

How did I get here?

Alright, I need to get something off my chest. Something that has bothered me all morning from the point I got to the office through Court to right friggin' now.

And that is:

Why am I in a profession that I clearly do not belong in?

The question, which I have asked myself numerous times before, once again reared its angry head while I was on my way into work. As I shuffeled in, I noticed that the other attorneys entering my building were decked out in their newly pressed suits, perfectly shined shoes, crisp shirts with appropriately matching ties, their faces freshly shaven, and hair cut in just the right way.

And then there was me... non-pressed white dress shirt untucked with a crooked black tie hanging from my neck, baggy jeans that I think were last washed sometime during the month of March, black Airwalk sneakers, hair that has not been cut in months, and as documented a couple of days ago, I shaved last Thursday.

Furthermore, instead of the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, or any local daily paper in my hand, I had the latest issue of Spin Magazine from which I was reading an article announcing their new sex columnist. Actually, it was really the fact that I was reading this magazine and that article that caused me to really question what exactly I am doing at my current job.

Is it me or do I not belong here? And even further, am I really supposed to be an attorney?

I don't dress like these people, and I am pretty sure that most of them would not be reading a magazine article on sex advice although many of them probably need it. (HEY-O) The point being is that I have four months or so left at my current gig, and I am pretty sure that it is high time to start seriously evaluating my next step in life...

or else I better start dressing like one of the tribe, i guess?

Magic Bus

So yesterday upon returning to the Dirty Will from my brief sojourn to New Brunswick, I happened to take a quick peek out my window and gazed my eyes upon this bad boy...













At first, I thought that the bus, which is that murky green monster in the picture, possibly was the creation of one of my artistic neighbors, who thought it would be fun to paint a random old school bus green and parade it around Williamsburg as some type of portable art exhibit/hipster mobile.













Now, such a creation in my neighborhood seemed to be entirely plausible to me since the inhabitants of my neck of the woods have exhibited such flare for the absurd in the past like when there was a jet black school bus parked down the road from my house for months at a time that I think someone was living in. Actually come to think of it, maybe that was the anti-version of this bus and there is some kind of crazy bus turf war going on in my hood with the green bus people having secretly eliminated the black bus people several months ago. And once again that would not surprise me either...

Anyway after a little more investigation, I realized that this bus was not in fact some whacked out statement about individualism nor part of some bus gang battle but rather a kid's party bus that apparently can be rented for an afternoon for your child's birthday party, communion celebration, or social status booster event to make him or her cooler in the eyes of his peers.














Now on the inside, the bus appeared to contain a variety of activities for little children to enjoy as well as a slide running out the back door for the kiddies to slide down. I have no idea what specifically the games inside were, but I imagine bubbles and balls were prominently involved.

Now, I am not a parent as I do not have any children or don't know that any fruits of my loin exist out there in this crazy world, but a painted school bus just seems like an odd source of entertainment for a child's party. Actually, it's just downright creepy. I mean doesn't this whole business scheme just wreak of some kind of contorted way to molest children, and why in God's name would you let your child go to a party where the other kid's parents were going to rent a "bus" where the kids can then go inside and play. None of this causes any of these parents to wonder what exactly these parents or the crazy bus people are up to?

Moreover,is Chucky Cheese too cool for these people? Here's an idea, what about just getting a clown to make balloon animals?

Further, what the hell was going on in the minds of the proprietors of the Fun Bus when they decided that this is what they wanted to start as their business. I mean if they are not pedophiles how exactly did they decide that the way to make their fame and fortune was by getting an old school bus, clean it up, paint it crazy colors, put god knows what inside, and then let people rent out the bus as a source of entertainment for the kiddies. And again, how do convince people to rent this son of a bitch for the day and then, convince them to let their kids play in it?

AM I THE ONLY ONE THAT THINKS THE WHOLE IDEA IS WRONG AND FLAWED? WHO IS LETTING THESE PEOPLE REPRODUCE SO THAT THEY CAN LET THEIR KIDS PLAY ON SOME SKETCHY FUCKEN BUS? WHY ISN'T THE GOVERNMENT AFTER THE OWNERS OF THE FUN BUS OR TRYING TO TAKE THESE KIDS FROM THEIR PARENTS?

What is being done to stop these people? And finally, when the bus left today, did they take the children with them? And weren't the renters of the bus just asking for it if they did?

GOD DAMN YOU SUPER GREEN FUN BUS, WHEREVER YOU MAY BE....

Run Runner

I figured it was just about time for another self-indulgent update in Rain Delay's quest to qualify for the Boston Marathon. The last couple of weeks have been to say it nicely, rough. I found myself running alot of miles but with very inconsistent results. Last weekend while I was back home in the Nutmeg State, I went out for my longest run to date of 18 miles and absolutely bombed. I mean from the gun, I felt that it was a complete struggle and that is never good when you have 18 miles ahead of you. Furthering make this run less than enjoyable was the reemergence of the sun and 70+ degree weather which I am not at all used to running in. Needless to say, I wilted by the end of the run finishing with a very slow time and questions about whether or not any of my training actually was paying off.

I spent the next week here in Brooklyn beating myself up over this run as I still could not just accept the fact that some days you have it and some days you simply do not. Of course, the running gods wanted to get one more stomach punch in to make me further question my decision to run another marathon by telling my shin splints that I have battled for the last four years or so to start acting up again. And so, I slogged through a couple of pedestrian runs early in the week getting angrier and angrier at myself while of course resisting the true remedy of resting.

But then I got smart and although I did not shut it down for the week, I decided to forgo my speed workout and instead simply settle for a couple of nice three mile runs just to keep things moving in preparation for a long run on Saturday. Further, I put myself on a healthy regiment of lots of water, which I always consume, icing, and Advil in order to keep the shin splints at bay.

By Friday morning although achy, I was feeling a little better and at some point, I decided that it was time to give another long run a shot just to prove to myself that I was not losing my edge. Plus, I also go the great news that Lance Armstrong will be running this year's New York City Marathon so I have my next marathon goal after I qualify for Boston, BEAT LANCE. Finally, I decided that I did not want to wait until Saturday morning where I could potentially feel like crap and instead I would knock this sucker off on Friday evening after work.

So on last night with cooler temperatures from a week ago, I took off from the 398 running over the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. From there, I ran my usual route of down the East River Park to the Staten Island Ferry depot through Batter Park and then up the West Side Highway to Pier something. Then, I turned around and ran home. I am happy to report that I got what I wanted out of the run, a very consistent and quick pace that left me with the feeling that I had more to give for the actual marathon.

And thus that is where I am at, a little dinged up from all the mileage but with the ability to keep the injuries minor in order to give myself the best possible chance of obtaining my goal. In the next five weeks, I just stay healthy, get rest, and make sure I listen to whatever aches and pains, my body is currently exhibiting. (And yes, I wrote that simply as a reminder to myself that I need to pay attention to those things.) Next weekend, I do my one twenty miler for the training period and after that while I have the option of doing another run of that magnitude, it is pretty much all down hill from there.

We will see how it all works out in the end, but remember, you always run faster on race day...

But Still We Stand Strong (Final Countdown)

LEG THREE: HOMEWARD BOUND

April 9, 2006: Mileage: 298977: We are in Virginia somewhere near the Eastern Shore heading back to the Cit via Delaware. We spent the morning touring VA beach walking up the strip and down the beach, The entire way we battled a mighty wind that made us feel like we were reenacting the big screen classic, Ishtar.















On the way, we saw people riding horses,















a giant statue of Neptune,















destroyed balcony furniture,















closed piers,














multiple haunted houses,














and got to eat the worst breakfast south of the Mason Dixon line. (In retrospect, this was actually the worst food that I have eaten in my entire existence on the planet Earth. The bacon tasted like jerky and probably was. The eggs were runny and the sausages just plain blew. I am pretty sure that I am still suffering from the indigestion that this meal gave me and that my stomach may never be normal again. I wish we had fire bombed this place on the way out of town so that others never had to experience this little slice of hell again. I guess we should have realized that any place that advertises "All You Can Eat" for 7.49 might be a little too good to be true.)

3:55 PM: Unknown Location and mileage:

Bob Jingle: "Hey wait it's Palm Sunday."

Me: "Good I just had my first Palm Sunday beer."

BJ: "We're hauling through beers like its Palm Sunday."

(Note: This quote and conversation make no sense without the context that once while playing a rousing game of Asshole while on our trip out to Chicago last year. I announced at some point that we were hauling through beers like it was Christmas morning as if this is what my family did on Christmas. For the record, we inject heroine on Christmas, beers on Thanksgiving, and do meth on Easter. Palm Sunday is actually just a veritable choose your own adventure book for substance abuse.)

4:57 PM: Maryland: Mileage: 299071

We are on Route 13, which is very long, very straight, and very boring. As such, I decided to jot down what comes up on random for the next hour. Here is what transpires:

Track A: Public Enemy, "Radio Consultant"
Track B: Jimmy Eat World, "Bleed American"
Track C: Dashboard Confessional, "The Good Fight"
Track D: Warron Zevon, "Rub Me Raw"
Track E: U2, "One" (studio version)
Track F: Blink 182, "Dump Weed"
Track G: Led Zepplin, "Lemon Song"

5:28 PM: We realized that we are on the wrong road and have currently gone 15 miles in the wrong direction. This is the first and only time that we get lost on the entire trip.

Track H: U2, "Bad"
Track I: Dashboard Confessional, "Sharp Hint of New Tears"

Diz and Bob Jingle watch some dude pull out.

Track J: REM, "Flowers of Guatemala"

On review, we determine that there were two dairy queens, atleast three Subways, two 7-11's, and one Starbucks in the land that they call Virginia Beach. (Insert Subway wallpaper picture)

Track K: REM, "Laughing"
Track L: Nirvana, "Turnaround"
Track M: REM, "I'm most beautiful"

5:50 PM: Mileage: 299128: We have entered Delaware. (Note: on my own voyage back to New York, I am currently stuck in traffic on 68th and Columbus. I can honestly say that I did not miss this City at all since I have left it several days ago. It was nice to be away and to be in Boston. Oh well, I guess I live here and will have to deal. The young buck makes it round three, an intervention may be necessary.)

6:27 PM: After some Dunken Donuts, it is revealed that Bob Jingle knew the Sharkey's waitress's name but has now forgotten it. God bless narcotics. (Note: Our bus driver just slammed on the brakes and I heard Young Buck crash into the wall directly behind my seat. Justice has been served.)

6:58 PM: Mileage 299194: After listening to the Beastie Boys, Bob Jingle reminds each of us that the music at Sharkey's was spot on as the playlist included such classics as Arrested Development's Mr. Wendel and that god damn Chumba Wumba song. BUT FOR their fatal move of having a live band that performed god awful Blues/Jazz Fusion crapola, we would have stayed the entire evening. (Note: my bus driver must have a date with some hot piece of ass as we are currently throttling through the streets of NYC. As I try to type while being hurled from left to right, I notice that a dad has just taken his daughter into the crapper, I am sure that all of the urine will end up in its correct place... i.e. ALL OVER THEM)

7:37 PM: Mileage: 299230: In New Jersey on the turnpike: Although it is clear now that we are not going to reach the 300k mark, the return to the Garden State gives each of us a sense of accomplishment as we are now only a state away from home. Smiles, warm laughter and tales of the road are exchanged with glee.

8:58 PM: Mileage 299,268: Back in red pen mode, but Diz does not know so the authorities have not been notified. We are currently somewhere in the dirty jerz. It is dark and I am writing by the light provided by Jingle's portable dome light, the clicky kind. The fuzz is out in force so we must drive silently through these enemy lands. We hope to be home by 10 or 10:30. We will see if this goal becomes a reality. Important travel tip number 3000 of this trip: The Nathan's Hotdog place on the NJ turnpike in South Jersey fucken blizows. (Note: I am finishing this on a train back into the Jerz on Saturday, April, 22, 2006 around 2:36 PM, more on that later)

9:56 PM: Mileage: 299311: We hit a little traffic south of our current location, but it appears to that we have currently found a smooth patch of air. (I always wonder why airplane pilots announce this when you are flying, do we as passengers really want to think about how as flyers of the sky, we are at the whim of mother nature, who could simply send us crashing towards the earth at any second.)

Diz claims that his mother just called him, but I think it is his lady friend.














10:32 PM: Final Mileage: 299345: We are finally home. All and all a successful trip and glad to finally be home.

(I finished writing this while on yet another little life adventure back to my old stomping ground in New Brunswick, NJ where for four years of my life, I was a Scarlet Knight, and no that is not a gay pop boy band. Although if it was, who are you to judge me. We fucken rocked.)

In retrospect, the entire trip to VA Beach was a ton of fun and while I did not write down everything that went on while on our trip, I think all and all you get the gist. In the end, we fell short of our ultimate goal to roll the Faithful Steed over 300000 miles but we helped move the old beast just a little bit closer to reaching the ultimate goal. Moreover, the lessons learned and the friendships made will stay with each of the members of the road-trip crew forever, and yes, I just wrote that to see if you were paying attention and do not for one minute think that we learned anything or made any new friends. Except for Jingle, who I believe now has two new boyfriends in the VA Beach area.

The Time Has Come...

As the weather has turned warmer, my beard has become more and more unbearable. As such, I decided earlier this week that it was time to get rid of the beard and embrace the clean-shaven look. Since I have grown pretty connected to my beard, I decided to share the entire shaving process with each of you.... Without further ado, here are the pics... (Oh and for those of you awaiting the exciting conclusion of the roadtrip, well that shit will be finished this weekend after I am done mourning the end of my beard... let a man have his time to deal...)

In the beginning...there was a beard.. a lovely lovely beard...


















And then the beard became a really awful goatee with some mutton chops. This look could be useful if I wanted to be an extra on the Fox classic and recently concluded, That 70's Show... or if wanted to hang out with Aston Kutcher, that Valderama fellow, and Danny whatever his name is... I wonder if those guys ever go out rocking their looks from the show...something tells me they could go out in black face and still pull in the pussy... bastards...



















And then there is the fu manchu with flavor saver combo, which I think makes me look like the dude from Super Size Me or possibly like I should be on Deadwood like a true COCKSUCKER. I would rock this look if I wanted to try to make people feel uncomfortable while sitting next to me on the subway. I say try because this look would not have an effect on anyone living in New York City so I would probably have try this one in Tennessee or Kentucky. Then again, the inhabitants of those lovely places would probably adopt me as one of their own.


















But truly the only look that anyone ever wants to try to pull off is the good old fashioned mustache. A popular look for many of our fathers or that creepy uncle that may have just been a little to hands on for all of our liking. A look that in recent years has experienced a resurgence here in the Williamsburg area. Like my buddy, Diz, said, it takes courage to actually rock a mustache out in public. While I agree with this sentiment for most parts of the country, here in the Will, I think it just means that you are just another one of the flock trying desperately to look like an individual, but in the end looking just like the rest of morons out there. Anyway, here are a couple of photos of me with mustache. I have to say I look really really really really really, what is the word, CREEPY. I am giving you the dirty version and then, the version that my dad used to rock back in the 80's when he went to work, apparently on the set of some low budget porno.





































And finally, here is me all cleaned up... and ready to date your mom...


















The bus to hell is leaving now... I'll catch you losers later.

White Trash Bonanza: Virginia Beach After Dark

So after finally getting Dan to stop his seemingly endless pissing and finding a seedy little joint to rest our rain soaked bones, we ventured out into the night to figure out what exactly Virginia Beach had to offer once the sun went down.

First, we went to Sharky's, a combination sports bar, pool hall, and random game land where we were served by a giant titted waitress who I learned through an excessive amount of eaves dropping was a teacher by day and Sharky's waitress by night... a veritable renaissance woman. We also learned that Sharky'y cannot make calamari as we ended up with what I believe to be deep fried rubber bands.

As this was a sports bar, we got to watch the Red Sox beat the Orioles with Jonathan Paplebon getting his second save of the season. (In a related note, on Sunday, I got to see Pablebon, the savior of the Red Sox bullpen and the answer to our closer woes, record his sixth save of the season. NOOCH)

On a high note, I broke the high score on the rapid shoot basketball game at Sharky's earning a score of 69 (insert Bill and Ted's joke here) along with many fearful looks as I played game after game after game after game after game.....in order to do so.

On a low note, Bob Jingle made two new friends on the evening: First there was Jeremy who had been at Sharky's since noon that day and as such, bought us and probably the remainder of the bar beers. Further, he was convinced that the Brewers would win the NL Central title this year yet another indication that he had been there since noon. We also learned that Jeremy had a thing for our well-endowed waitress as she told us that he had brought her flowers, a teddy bear, and a book that evening. She did not seem to think that there was anything weird about these gifts or that Jeremy apparently came to Sharky's each week to see her. In a further related story, our waitress was a moron.

The next friend that Bob Jingle made was Logan an unbelievably intoxicated young gent who talked Mr. Jingle's ear off while we tried to play pool at a bar known simply as Retro. When asked about the conversation afterwards, Mr. Jingle confirmed that Logan may or may not have been speaking English and that he had not understood a single word that Logan had said.

We ended up at Retro's following the advice of our waitress, who we should have discredited after her previously discussed opinions of Jeremy. Retro featured all that a great bar should i.e. blaring meathead music of the Linkin Park variety, skateboard and surf videos on the TV's over the bard, and a solid gaggle of he VA Beach's finest locals, who apparently were each looking to star in X-Games 2010.

After leaving Sharky's, we took in one of VA Beach's rising musical acts, The Drunken Frat Boys, as we caught their 11 PM performance at the local karaoke bar where they performed such classics as "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen and "Bye Bye Bye" by N'Sync. Apparently, each of which can be performed in the exact same manner by screaming into a microphone at the top of your lungs.

Finally after a stop at the local gang run 7-11, we stayed at the Tropicana, which appeared to be hosting several underage drinking parties and possibly a prom. In another related note, our waitress at Sharky's also said that this was a nice place to stay as it had hosted her after-prom night of drinking. If I am not being clear, our waitress had issues.

Unfortunately, I did not take many pictures of this evening except for this interesting little mural that I found right near Sharky's. Kind of warms the heart and says welcome.

LEG TWO: A DAY OF RAINY TRAVEL DURING WHICH I THINK I SEE NOAH BUILDING AN ARK

12:00 PM: Departing Rockville, MD: We leave our gracious host after a great diner breakfast. It turns out that this will be the last really good meal that we have for the remainder of the trip since we apparently decided to dine only at place's that will never be even considered for Zagat's much less reviewed by them. The weather on this morning is a warm rain that varied from torrential downpour to torrential downpour. On the way to the breakfast spot, we pass atleast two individuals who are standing outside in this weather with placards on that ask passerby's to stop at whatever shop they are standing in front of. I wonder if this actually makes people stop because they feel sorry for these soaked souls or do people stop in order to kick the ass of the individual who sent this sucker out into this rain in the first place.

Before truly leaving Rockville, we have our first official notation of our faithful steed's mileage at 298707. We decide that a quick tour of DC is necessary... and so...



1:20 PM: DC In Our Rearview Mirror: 298719: During our extremely brief tour, we still manage to see Georgetown, the White House, the Washington Monument, the Capitol Building, the National Archives, a little rowing on the Potomac, and K-Street to boot. While we never left the confines of the faithful steed at any of these locations, I still feel we got to see some cool sites and got a good flavor for DC, which looks pretty gloomy when it is pouring rain outside.

Bob Jingle currently has to pee, but no matter what, we are heading south where the wind comes sweeping down the plain,.. where the waiving wheat it sure smells sweet.... but i digress.... Next Stop: destiny.

1:50 PM: Traffic in Northern VA: The random on the mp3 player is playing Runaway Train by Soul Asylum. Nothing really says roadtrip like the sweet musings of Dave ??? (last name unknown at the present time... text messages are sent to ascertain his last name.) Actually, there are a lot of songs that probably say roadtrip other than the random's current selection, but the random giveth and the random taketh away.

While waiting for this traffic to clear up, Bob Jingle asks Dirty Diz, whose current band is called the New Heathens, "New Heathens? Was there an Old Heathens?" Mr. Jingle's query is met with stark silence as both Diz and E "mother fucken" T stare at him evily. (Note: In real time, a large woman just entered the bathroom on my current voyage back to the Big Apple. Now, I am not Nostradomus, but I guarantee this is going to end very badly for myself and my fellow members of the back of the bus mafia. We may have to order a code red after this one. Thankfully, she returns after only thirty seconds in the bathroom, but is quickly followed by a boy, who appears to be under the age of 10 and thus does not probably know the rules since his parents have most likely neglected to inform the young buck of the rules of the road. Parents do us all a solid and school your children so that I don't have to. You won't like it when I do it.)

2:22 PM: 298750: After pissing ourselves, we see a trucker dumping out his own gallon size piss bottle on the side of the road. Well done, road warrior... well done.

2:24 PM: Diz takes over the book for the only time on the roadtrip as I need a break. After handing him the book and the red pen that I have been using for some time now, he writes: " I am informed that we are red pen mode. Authorities have been notified."

2:45 PM: From a source unknown, we learn that the name of Soul Asylum's lead singer is Dave Pirnier.

2:45 PM (Entry Two): Alternative title for this trip, Sherman's March.

2:50 PM: Currently following LI Egg on Route One, screw 95. Diz also writes that he just punched the rearview mirror. Bob Jingle says, "I am turning worse to you." Meaning and context are unknown.

(Note: reading all of this as I presently sit in traffic on the Greyhound shuttle to hell, I have no recollection of any of this stuff ever happening. From the way my memory has been functioning lately, I am lucky I remember that we went on a roadtrip. As another aside, I believe that the young buck just went for round two in the crapper, I am not going to stand for this much longer, my justice will be swift, but fair.)

5:16 PM: Near Williamsburg, VA: Mileage: 298866: We are on Scherman's March to the Sea. Currently, we have conquered Fredericksburg and are now marching onward to the Atlantic Ocean. Good luck and God bless our quest! We are wet and many of the men have scurvy. Hopefully, we will find food and safe water soon or else many will die. Our path is true, and our hearts are pure. Onward, we march. (Note: I clearly broke out the bong at this point of the trip.)



5:32 PM: Busch Gardens, VA: I say NO to the 52 dollar entry fee to the park. Dirty Diz's dreams of having fun on the roadtrip are crushed by my selfish decision, and he starts to have flashback's to family trips of the past, Kharma strikes me down as a I spill a road soda all over my crotch. We continue onward to VA beach.

6:00 PM: VA Beach: Mileage: 298, 911: Diz has to piss bad. I silently hope that he pees himself. I am a bad friend.

And as luck would have it that is where I stopped writing for the evening with Diz on the side of the road near some military base pissing his brains out while cars rushed by at 60+ miles per hour shaking our faithful steed to the core. It continued to rain as we entered the main strip of VA beach in search of a hotel and a bite to eat. (Note: on my own current journey, we have reached the giant driving range off of 95 near COOP City. For those of you who drive, you will know this area as the place where traffic comes to a dead stop no matter what time of year it is becauuse of the giant curve in the road. As well, I can hear someone towards the front of this shit mobile clipping their finger nails. God Iove that sound, and by love, I mean I want to find that person and personally remove each of their finger nails with some pliers and some rubbing alcohol...)

The Adventure continues...

And so like most things lately, my plans to actually write more on this blog fall to the wayside because I find myself involved with other plans and adventures. Ironically, the reason I have failed to continue to write about the most recent roadtrip to VA Beach is because this past weekend through this afternoon, I found myself in Connecticut for Easter weekend and then finally in Boston to enjoy the Red Sox, Patriot's Day, and the Boston Marathon.

I am happy to report, however, that finally after three days of fluctuating between drunk to sober and then sober to drunk, I have found some time to continue this little yarn because I am currently traveling back to the Big Apple on a Greyhound, which should take about four and half hours. Further, as luck would have it, I am seated directly in front of the urinal, which has been in constant use since we left Boston's South Station. Unfortunately, it appears that some members of our little adventure have not adhered to the unspoken rule of the road that we only utilize the facility for the purposes of urination and not to drop the kids off at the pool. As such, I am going to use the time to avoid thinking about the smell of all smells coming out of the lavatory.

With that being said, I now continue the adventure of Bob Jingle, the Dirty Diz, the Faithful Steed, E "mother fucken" T, and myself, who at the time of my last entry found themselves still thinking about leaving for points south but had yet to do anything about it.

LEG ONE: A LITTLE HOP TO THE DC AREA:














April 7, 2006: 6:30 PM-- Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York: We are currently attempting to leave New York after a brief delay for all parties to return home from work. The dashboard incense is burning, and the car is already squeaking. From the sounds of our faithful steed, we may not even make it three miles before this baby dies.

As we depart from Diz's apartment, we find ourselves immediately at a red light. I wonder if this is sign of things to come and whether or not, we will make it to DC by midnight or find ourselves sleeping at a rest stop at some point north of there. Diz lightens up the mood for all parties involves by commenting:

"I don't know what you do with a Hummer." as we pass an H3 leaving the Burg. Neither do we, Diz, neither do we.

6:39 PM: Currently in our first real batch of bumper to bumper traffic on the BQE, which is not a good sign at this early point in our journey. Meanwhile, Bob Jingle informs us that the reason that the faithful steed is currently making that noise is because of something to do with the rotors. While I am not a mechanic nor do I play one on TV, I do not believe that this is a good sign for anyone involved. (Note: While writing this entry the young girl sitting next to me on the bus is currently sleeping but doing the weird head nodding thing on my shoulder.... Go Greyhound!!!!)



7:03 PM: After continuing our early bout with New York City traffic, the decision is made to blow this popsicle stand by taking the Holland Tunnel instead of our anticipated path of travel via Staten Island. This tactical decision may pay dividends in the end but only the open road and time will tell.

7:31 PM: The Holland Tunnel turns into a turbo boost for the progress of our trip as we make it through Jersey City and to our first stop at a rest area. At which point, I announce: "I got to go pee and grab a burger."

9:10 PM: Delaware Memorial Bridge where I once again have to pee and decide that if I do not soon that I may kill again. As well, we all decide that EZ Pass always takes us to Happy Land.

And this is where the journal ended for the evening mainly due to darkness and the awful weather that we then experienced in the form of torrential downpours and spectacular lightning. We rolled into a little town called Rockville, MD around 11:30 PM where we rested for the evening thanks to the hospitality of a law school buddy of mine who gave us some beers, an air mattress, and couch. (And the Yankees lost, which always warms my heart.)

All and all, the first leg generally turned out to be a success as even at our leisurely pace we made it to the DC area with little problems and minimal traffic and with the hope that this would continue as we started leg two in the morning...

The Diary of a Madman: The Introduction

As I mentioned in a previous post, a couple of my buddies and I took a roadtrip last weekend to the strange and amazing lands located to our South. After last year's roadtrip to Chi-town, this year's quick sojourn to the land of the Confederacy for a weekend appeared, atleast on paper, to be a mere trip to the corner store compared to last summer's 18 hour trek out west. For this trip, our numbers decreased from five to three as we cut away some of the proverbial fat in order to become a lean mean roadtripping machine of all-stars. (Actually, I think we were the only one's who could go away last weekend.) Whatever the reasoning, this trip's cast included:

The Faithful Steed-- a Gold 1989 Volvo Wagon that started our voyage with approximately 298,400 miles to its credit as well as several odd noises. (more on that later)...(PICTURE PENDING AT THE TIME OF PUBLICATION, she is sensitive about being photographed.)

The Driver--














One, Mr. Bob Jingle, a fellow Nutmegger and patriot, who during his formative years was no stranger to the wrong side of the law incurring an unmatched portfolio of moving violations while tearing through the streets of little town Connecticut. Thankfully, in recent years, the Bobber has rehabilitated his driving record while still maintaining the same killer instinct that made him fully qualified to lead our trip.

The Navigator--














The Dirty Diz, a former Flanders All-Star and a man with an unmatched sense of direction, cartography, and a lethal ability to find an alternative route around any traffic jam. Some say that the Diz has ice running through his veins as he remains calm in the most stressful of situations on the open road. In truth, the Diz's talents are the direct result of numerous family roadtrips that he endured as a youth during which he promised to himself that when it was his time to hit the open road, he would not make the mistakes that haunted his family's past trips.


The Dude in the Backseat--














And here is where I come in as part trip manager, organizer of the backseat and trunk areas, drink bitch, and the general source of lunacy, unnecessary commentary, and all around non-sensicality (inventing words). While seemingly not as important as the driver or the navigator, who some would argue that without the roadtrip would never occur, I maintain that my position is just as critical to the overall success of any roadtrip as I am the provider, who ensures that the driver and the navigator maintain their mental edge even after hours of driving while still managing to keep the mood light enough to thwart any challenges that threaten to derail the entire trip. Most importantly, I maintained the position of scribe taking down all the adventures that we endured along the way.

The Mascot--














E "Mother Fucken" T, my faithful confidant and friend, who has traveled with me on almost every trip that I have made since I discovered him in the attic of my childhood home many years ago. Throughout this voyage, he remained our faithful icon who sat silently on the dashboard never looking at the road ahead but rather staring silently back at each us analyzing our souls as if to see whether or not we had the internal fortitude and mental strength to complete the quest at hand.

And so on Friday, April 7, 2006 around 6:30 PM, this team of all-stars left to explore the South with no real goal or destination other than the outside hope to see the Faithful Steed pass the 300,000 mile benchmark by journey's end...

Over the next couple of days, I hope to transcribe these adventures here so that you, my faithful readers, can get a flavor for what happens when three young men, a 17 year old car, and a plastic icon stop being polite and start... their roadtrip at 6:30 on a Friday evening in New York City i.e. the height of rush hour traffic...

Some Happy Thoughts

As I ran home from work today, I realized that I am a pretty happy camper these days. While it is true that I have consumer debt beyond my means, educational debt that will take me until I am put in the ground to repay, a job and career that I feel sucks the life out of me on a daily basis, and a nasty case of gas.... BUT I AM HAPPY...

And as such I figured that I would let you know what exactly has made me currently not mind living:

1. Baseball is back-- I know that I love sports and I know that it takes up too much of my life but yesterday, I stayed home from work and was able to catch the first Red Sox game of the season. As a result, I got to hear the first musings of the year from Don Orsillo and his partner in crime, Jerry Remy. Then, later that night, I got to watch the Yanks and their crack team of retards explain to me what exactly makes Yankees Baseball so much better than everything else on earth including cancer research, feeding the hungry, and striving towards world peace. But none of their cock smokery mattered because I realized that I would be able to watch my favorite sport for the next seven months or so... Moreover, it meant that all of the months of speculation are now over as the Red Sox finally get to play some real games and see exactly what the moves made during the off-season mean in terms of their success in 2006.. and so I was happy... (mark this one down, the Sox should piss me off soon enough.)

2. The Lights FINALLY Came Back On-- For the past several months, I have been running at night. Everyday when I get back from work, I put on my shoes, shorts, and top of choice and head out into the darkness to log my miles. To be quite honest with each of you, the fact that I have been spending most of my time running without the sun has started to bug the shit out of me. I mean I was getting downright depressed and I quickly was moving towards not being able to deal with another dance in the dark. Come to think of it, I probably saw that damn owl because he realized that I was becoming part of his nocturnal fraternity. And so, although I had to lose an hour of sleep in order to achieve my new found light, I might be the happiest person on earth that our clocks were moved ahead one hour last weekend so that I can now run during daylight hours. (A little sun never hurt nobody... actually that is not true at all... wear sunblock kiddies.)

3. Spring Has Sprung and People Are Nicer?-- It happens every year, the weather starts to warm up and people appear to lighten up a little bit and actually exhibit some emotion other than bitter bitter contempt when they encounter their fellow man. For example, just today on the run home, I experienced this thawing of human emotion as I received several smiles as I ran by people walking on the sidewalk we shared. Just months ago, I am sure that these were the same people who were trying to drive me into the street, the snow, the ice, the pits of hell, and anything else they could force me towards in order to abruptly end my run. But today, it was all smiles.... as well as some fine young gentleman actually cupped his cigarette when I ran by in order to avoid smoke heading my way... and so I guess maybe some of my faith in you bastards has been returned... (not all, some... we have a long way to go here people...)

4. One Word: ROADTRIP (that may be two words)-- That's right, this Friday, me and two buddies leave the confines of Gotham for points unknown in order to simply drive and get away. I have been on mini-roadtrips before but this weekend will be my first real trip where we could seriously end up anywhere... actually since we all have to work on Monday, probably not anywhere but we have nothing planned. It should be fun as we set our sights for warmer climates.. and hopefully the car will not break down and we will not have to eat each other to survive.. but then again, if that happpens, this blog would become a hell of a lot more interesting...

So there are some things that have made me happy lately... Oh I left out the fact that my half marathon this weekend turned out to be a giant success as me and one of my training buddies stuck 7 minute mile pace for the entire thing... now we just need to get faster, stay injury free, and focus... as there are eight weeks to go, we have a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we are wearing sunglasses... HIT IT... (and yes, I probably used that line before in one of my posts but GOD DAMN, it is a great line and a good one to end the night on...)

Later.

Rules of the Road

So months ago I started this little entry and then promptly forgot that I had started writing it until yesterday when I looked through my posts to see if had any drafts that I needed to finish. Funny thing is that even though I forgot about the damn thing, during every run that I have done since that time, I have thought about how I need to write about some general rules that I think that everyone should follow in terms of running. I mean its the least that I could do... so here is what I wrote way back when along with some new little bits and pieces...

(Cue the flashback noises from Wayne's World)

Today, while polishing off a quick three mile run through what has become the arctic that is New York City (remember, I warned everyone that the weather would soon bite us in the ass), I thought of some of the do's and mostly don'ts regarding running that I often want to bestow on people that I observe out their getting in their daily jaunt. As such, I decided that I would write them down and share my eternal wisdom to the world. I mean it is the holidays so here is some holiday cheer... (clearly I wrote this sometime after Christmas which is exactly around the time, i was trying to kick my extensive meth habit. As such, I blame the meth for me not remembering that i started this months ago.)

Rule #1: If You Can't Run, DON'T!!!!

Running is not for everyone, there are those that can and as I witness on a daily basis, there are those that simply cannot. And you know exactly who you are, cannot'ers, you are that overweight gentleman that I see each day doing some kind of fat man two step down the road at a pace that equals the speed of a normal human's walking gait OR you are the woman that I see each day who appear to be running like deer in slow motion bounding down the road absorbing every single step with the entirety of their bodies.

So to you and to the rest of the running disabled out there, I submit this simple plea, PLEASE STOP RUNNING...Now to backup a little bit, I am not saying that you never should run nor am I faulting you for attempting to run but the fact of the matter is that you are truly hurting your body more than you are actually benefiting it at this point. Mainly because running is a very very harsh activity physically. As such, your body is not going to like you very much if you continue to force your body to run because it cannot handle the constant pounding (insert porn joke). Further, this is why you probably feel like shit the day after you running and subsequently grow to hate running. Furthermore, there are plenty of lower impact activities that you can do that are not running and will benefit you and your body more like biking, walking, or using that elliptical thingy at the gym. (The one I fall off of when I use it.) Point is don't run atleast until you get in better shape and can handle running. (Yes, I am a running snob.)

Rule #2: Do Not Defer to Your Fellow Man's Own Decision Making When Running i.e. Don't Trust Anyone

So if you actually are one of the people that I will allow to run, the next rule basically means do not defer to anyone else's judgment or anticipate what anyone else is going to do while you are running. This means that if you see a biker coming towards you, do not assume that this person is going act rationally and move away from you and allow you to continue running in the direction in which you are running. I know from experience dude as I have been almost runover, sworn at, and basically run off the road by my friends on two wheels. I believe this mainly has to do with the inferiority complex that most bikers have towards running becuase they know that by biking they are simply cheating themselves out of a real workout since they can coast as much as they want. AND don't give me all that I really work when I am going up hills because I usually pass your douche bags when I am running.

Similarly, do not trust any of the cars that you see on the road because no matter what you think that they are going to do, they will do the exact opposite. Funny thing about this part of the rule is that at some point this winter, I failed to listen to my own rule and almost got totally douched by some dude from New Jersey. Basically, how it went down was that he had stopped at a stop sign while I approached on foot. At this point, I assumed (incorrectly) that he saw me and that I could run in front of his car. Clearly, I was mistaken as he started to move forward as soon as I was directly in front of his car. Then, a woman screamed and I jumped backwards barely missing getting runover. And why did this happen? BECAUSE I TRUSTED MY FELLOW MAN.... TRUST NO ONE WHEN YOU ARE RUNNING.... NO ONE.

Other caveats to this rule that I will not get into are bikers bike cause they cannot run and run against traffic so you see the person's face before they kill you.

Rule #3: Do What You Can to Support Your Fellow Runners

This is going to be my final rule for the evening mainly because I know that no one is reading my pathetic ramblings. And actually the last rule is pretty simple, respect the people who are out there running. No matter what I do and where I run, I always make sure that I waive hi, clap, nod or whatever when I see a fellow runner out there working the pavement because I know that at some point, I will need this kind of support on one of my runs. (I even do this for the people I discussed in Rule #1 because no matter what I may think that are doing i.e. dying, aggressive walking, or plodding, they are still essentially running.)

Now this rule finds it origins back in New England where I became a runner. Back in NE, everyone and I mean everyone greets fellow runners when they see them out on the streets. I mean I could be running 20 miles and feeling like death, I will still give a what's up to whomever I pass. Similarly in Tennessee where I spent some time running last year, everyone including cars driving by do that little one finger raised salute when they pass someone on the road including me running. Of course in New York City, everyone is too cool to give a hi or whatever mainly because we don't want to exhibit any type actions that may actually show that we care for anyone else but ourselves. Sure after 9/11, New Yorkers loved each other and went out of there way to show this love, but things have cooled enormously in Gotham since that time.

Sadly, when I first moved here, I too became an introvert and ignored my fellow brethren in the running society avoiding eye contact and any type of greeting. Instead, I coldly shuffled on alone in my own private running pain cave. BUT I am happy to report that since my recent running kick, I have decided to say FUCK IT and now greet every runner that I meet out on the City streets like a madman. Sure this causes uncomfort in some and pure terror in others, but I know that running kharma has a way of catching up to you sooner or later and I would rather appease the running gods rather than piss them off. As such, if you notice some bearded homeless guy running like he is being chased by the cops but waiving when he goes by, that's probably me in all of my running insanity.

So those are the rules. Do what you will with them but remember if you choose to ignore them, someday one of these rules will bite you in the ass while you are out on a run.... and then you will remember how Uncle Rain Delay once warned you about the rules of the road... Now if you will excuse me, I have to go back loving the way I run.

This is going to suck...

Before I post a real post later this evening, I figured that I would cheat a little bit in terms of something that you actually want to read and provide a little self progress report i.e. a quick update on my training for the big marathon in Burlington, VT in May. (I am also doing this because Mr. S. emailed me asking about the traing and that reminded me that I have not said a word about it in a month. For those that don't know, Mr. S. doored me about three years ago in a 10k and I secretly vowed to make sure that I was always in shape to run any race that he was in just so that he did not woop my ass again. Not that I am ashamed that he beat me, but I am ashamed that I talked a big game before and then had it handed to me for 10 kilometers.)

ANWAY, I now sit about 9 weeks or less off from the big dance and from what I can tell this is truly going to be a tough goal in qualifying for Boston. Although I never doubted that it would be, I also never really appreciated exactly what i am going to have to do in order to toe the line in April of 2007 up in Beantown as a qualifier. I mean I have to run really really fast.

Now, to some of you out there right now, you may be saying to yourself or outloud at the computer, "No shit man... it's a marathon that you are trying to run at 7:15 mile pace... and that just sounds impossible..." OR others of you are saying, "You are a crazy fucker and we want you to die." Now, I am not sure where that second perspective works into this whole puzzle, but I agree with the sentiment that I should have previously appreciated the true magnititude of what I was getting myself into before I started this whole training program. But the thing was that I trained for a marathon before and that in all honesty was not that bad. Now, however, with a track workout and a long run each week that has to be fast, training has started to really open my eyes to what I am going to take on in a few months. All I know is that no matter what I am going to be in serious pain and may go to the hospital by the end of it. So I have that to look forward to...

As for the training, I have run a couple of 16+ mile runs with one that I averaged 7:30 per mile, which I was mildly impressed with although it caused me the fear that I wrote about in the paragraph above. I have been basically laying fire to the track each time I step on it. As a result, even though though I may have some trepidation about what I have gotten myself into, qualifying for this bad boy may be in my proverbial wheelhouse...as long as I keep running... and running... and RUNNING...

of course the reality is...

It's still gonna suck.

My New Conundrum

The more i read about this Barry Bonds thing and the new book, the more I cannot shake the feeling that I am in someway suffering a huge case of denial about Lance Armstrong and what he did to win the Tour de France. I mean I am a fan of Lance, but isn't there the same type of paper trail and even a drug test that demonstrates that Lance cheated in order to win atleast his earliest tours? How do I totally believe that one did and yet ignore the facts when it comes to the other? I guess it has to do with the personalities involved with Lance being the survivor and Barry Bonds being a huge piece of shit. But at the same time, I feel like a hypocrite because I am simply choosing to ignore or even to consider the questions relating to their honesty about cheating from one but blindly proceeding on my ultimate path to crucify the other in my final act of ultimate condemnation. And sadly deep down, I think that they both probably cheated and no matter how much I would truly like to believe that my favorite athletes could do no wrong, I have to face the fact that deep down they are flawed like the rest of us. Actually probably more than the rest of us because their successes and failures are judged on a dailly basis by their performances under the pressure of the public eye. As such, I would guess that most would feel like they needed to stop at nothing in order to be successful. While weirdly I totally understand that feeling on an adult level, something deep down still feels that just like when Clemens and Boggs left the Red Sox I am heart broken as my idyllic view of sports and the athletes who play them is further shattered. Actually I think now they are simply grinding the god damn glass into the carpet.

Owls, Beaches, and the Trial of Miles

In Once a Runner, the book's protaganist refers to the Trial of Miles, a phrase he uses to basically described his personal history of running during his college career and how through it all no matter what crisis he faced, he ran. I am not currently going through a crisis, but I find myself looking more and more forward to the runs that I do each week as a way to refocus and meditate on what is going on in my crazy little life. Plus, sometimes like last weekend it serves as a nice little sojourn down memory lane. (It also helps that I am getting in killer mileage with 33 miles run last week in total.)

As I have a lot recently, I spent the weekend at my parents' places (old and new) in order to finish off the great family move that has featured them moving from their old house into a brand new shiny one. As such, I decided to vary from my planned long run, which was to be 16 miles this weekend to two shorter runs of around seven miles. This decision proved to be very sensible since this weekend featured some of the coldest of the season. (Once again, this is Popstar's fault.)

For the first run, I ran a loop that I have done since I was a wee little babe that brings me along the town's coast line through the mansion section and back home. It is relatively flat with only two real hills, but a great run nonetheless as I pass many of my old friends' houses and various places where I used to create problems for myself as a teenager. Saturday's version featured extremely cold temperatures, a bastard of a wind, and several aches and pains. Regardless it was nice opportunity no matter what the conditions to zone out and revisit this little run.

For the second run, I mapped a route through the woods near my old and new house to get to the state park nearby where my high school cross country team had its home course and where I spent many summers and winters either running the trails or cross country skiing when the weather cooperated. Also, this run brought me to my favorite part of the world, a little dock that juts out into the marsh in the state park where I feel most at peace. And yes, I am listening to John Denver right now.

The run went off as planned, and it was nice to run up the boardwalk through the pavilion, and into the woods. The best part of the entire run, however, occurred right at the outset while I was on the first trail near my house. As I was approaching a dense section of pines that creates a very dark section of trail, I saw out of the corner of my eye something flying out of no where. Now, I usually see birds and other various creatures, but the shear size of whatever the heck this thing was made me slow down and try to figure out where this thing went. Then as I saw a large gray head looking out from behind a tree craining its neck to get a good look at me, I realized this flying enigma was a good old fashioned owl, something I had never seen in the wild. (Actually after research at home, I saw a Grey Horned Owl, the second largest owl in the owl lineage and the largest of the eared owls.) And then, as soon as the owl realized that I was looking at him, he took off above me finally landing in a classic owl perch in the trees.

I thought about the significance of the owl during the remainder of my run and continued to think about it the remainder of the weekend and up until today. And while I still cannot figure out if it really means anything in terms of the effect the sighting may have on my life, it once again reaffirmed my need to get the hell out of the City someday and settle myself in an area where I can atleast hope to see another owl.

Trial and shizzle

So the last couple of days have been spent picking my first jury. It was a really interesting experience in that I basically spent two consecutive days in a room with complete strangers trying to figure out if they were the right fit for my case or if they were simply lying with the answers to my questions waiting to screw me once the trial started. It was an intensely mentally draining experience in that I essentially tried to read minds while looking interested at the same time. Plus, you cannot let them see you sweat as the saying goes... Is that even a saying... Anyway, after three days of trial, here are some highlights:

1. The 82 year old woman who sat their patiently in silence with no expression on her face until it was her turn to be questioned and then, when it her moment to shine...took us on a uniquely magical voyage involving her professional soccer player nephew, her job at a respected library, and the daughters that abandoned her (apparently) by moving to Colorado and getting married... But you know what, she was the most lucid person in the room at any point over the course of the two days.

2. The cranky old news editor who sat in the front row with a giant scowl the entire time he was in our presence.. or as my friend would say like the face a woman would make if she smelled a fart while she happened to be sucking on a lemon. Anyway, bitch pants sat there and judged the entire time until I asked him if he had any opinions about this great City of ours. His response, "I have many many opinions..." When I asked if he would like to discuss them outside, he informed me that it was his Constitutional Right to express them in the room. (I believe this falls under Amendment 9 or is that Article III) We topped this conversation off with a rousing game of All Lawyers Lie, which usually involves saying something about how all lawyers are liars. (the game stuck to form.)

3. Finally, today, before my case settled (ruining the ending), I had a conversation with the plaintiff's own son who informed me that he goes to the park by near my house where he practices karate and punches the concrete handball wall with different types of blows. He then asked me if I ever ran by the park in the morning, and if I knew what he meant by how he was punching the wall. Needless to say after the case settled, I ran from the court room hoping that he did not ask for my number or wait for me outside the office to follow me home. I will never run by the park again atleast not between the hours of 8 and 12 in the AM...

So that was that, the case settled, but I got to pick a real life no bull shit jury of 7 women and 1 man. Not sure how it would have all worked out if we had taken this thang the distance, but I am sure there will be more down the road. Atleast for now, I can relax, have a beer, get some sleep, and focus on running again.

No Mile Inside

As part of my training for this damn marathon, I have made a private and now public vow that I will not run a single mile of my training inside. Now this is not some source of inane pride (well it kind of is) or because I think I am better than everyone else (I am and way better looking) BUT more because as I have discussed to a point that it makes me numb to repeat it that I HATE THE GYM. Further, this is not to discount those that run indoors, PAF just ran 10 miles on the treadmill the other day mainly because she is a crazy crazy hard core chica, who needs to run a marathon to prove her real hard coreness(sp?). Anyway, the point being is that I don't care how cold it is outside or whether it is raining, snowing, or some crazy wintry mix of fucked up precipitation, I will be outside.

As such, this is exactly what I did yesterday the day after the BLIZZARD of 2006, which for the record, I blame on Popstar, who just started training again for her second marathon and thus doomed us to an awful remainder of the winter. Anyway, I went out and ran six miles while many of my fellow New Yorkers complained about puddles of melting snow or tried not to bust their tailbones on newly formed ice. Similarly, I went out on Saturday before the storm broke and got in a quick 14 miles just to make sure that good Old Mother Nature did not mess with my training schedule. Sure, I took Sunday off, but that was some serious snow, and anyway, I get Sundays off. BLOW ME.

And this is how I will continue to train through hell or high water, outside where it is only me, my music, and your mom... I mean the elements...

One Week in the Tank

So the training program has officially started, and I am happy to report that after the first week, I am easily in better shape both physically and mentally than I was when I ran the New Jersey Marathon back in April of 2005. I mean last week I absolutely crushed each of my runs as I cleared 30 miles for the week. These runs included a great 11 miler that I did back home in the Nutmeg State. Actually, I think that the run back home was fast mainly because it was run almost exclusively along Long Island Sound.. I love me some water... and it definitely beats running through the streets of Brooklyn and the odors that I constantly encounter. Not that they are bad, but they are pungent and sting the nostrils...

Of course, none of my early success would be possible if the weather was not cooperating like it has this winter. Now, I don't know if the recent weather is the result of the excessive use of AquaNet during the 80's, a sign that the apocalypse is upon us, El Nino, or simply a run of really great luck with this weather. Whatever the cause, it has made what would be a terrible winter of training into an enjoyable experience. Last winter, I distinctly remember days where I would go out, run, and with every step, all I could feel were the icicles that were forming in my lungs. Now, compare that to this winter, where I can count on my fingers, the times that I have had to run with my long pants on as I have been out there pounding the pavement for the majority of the winter. Hopefully, this weather will sustain its warmer pattern, and I hope that I did not just jinx everything. If I did, I apologize, and please feel free to send me tuperware containers containing your shit, you vengeful sons of bitches...

So for now that is all I got. Nothing really interesting, funny, or even thought provoking.. instead I am simply a man, who is running like I mugged someone in hopes that I will qualify to stand on that line in Boston on Patriots' Day 2007.

And now, back to Jack Bauer and his horrible horrible day.

I'm Not A Homeless Guy But I Play One On TV

Tonight is beard trimming night at the old Rain Delay residence. I grew a beard for the first time when I was studying for the Connecticut and New York Bar Exams during the summer of 2003. I figured that cutting out the need to shave and maintain any semblance of non-dirtbagness would allow me to focus more on the task at hand i.e. avoiding studying as much as possible. Sadly, my current job had other ideas about the beard as they called me in for not one but two final interviews during that summer. (It makes you feel really good about a company's desire to hire you when you end up getting a job after a total of five interviews... I am still not sure how I ended up getting an offer, someone must have died or something.) Due to my numerous trips to New York that summer, I soon scuttled my plan to be the bearded wonder.

The concept of growing the beard, however, stuck reemerging during the Red Sox momentous run to their first World Series title in 86 years during the fall of 2004, and since that time, I have been bearded for more time during the year than I have actually been clean shaven. What can I say, I thoroughly enjoy my beard, and I intend to continue to remain this way for the foreseeable future even when Johnny Damon has shaved his beard and trimmed his locks to join the hated Yankees. (He's a mercenary, the Sox knew it when they originally got him so there is no reason now to be angry about it... fucken Judas.)

At the present moment, however, the Winter of 2005-2006 version of the beard has gotten a little out of a control and at the hinting of my bosses at work, the scared looks of passersby on the streets, and the weird offers of food and spare change from complete strangers, I have decided that the old beard needs a little bit of a trim job... But since I am all about sharing and caring these days... remember its hugs not drugs kiddies, I figured I would post a picture of the beard before the clippers are taken to it and it becomes a shadow of its former self.. so here it is in all of its out of control glory...

What's in a Name

For the last couple of years, I have used the pen name or nom de plum, Rain Delay, to write on this blog, while playing Halo, or generally whenever, I do not feel like using my real name for something. I believe that the name provides me with a degree of entertaining mystery as the character that is Rain Delay has a level of freedom that I lack in my real life. Also, it is a nifty way to prevent my parents from ever finding this blog. Once again, I repeat that anyone who tells them that I write this thing will be asked to pack up their things and report to the principal's office where you will be fitted for a new pair of shoes to help you swim when we drop you in the East River. (get it, I am going to make sure you drown.)Anyway, while I have used the name frequently, I have never officially explained what the name means and why if you know me, the name is completely appropriate. (Note: I do not count the numerous times that I have told this story to my friends while intoxicated. Nothing is ever official when the booze is involved.)

It all started back in law school when my buddy, who we will call Tito, described my inability to get ready to go out or basically to do anything that required leaving my apartment in a timely fashion as a Human Rain Delay.

For those that do not know, rain delays happen in baseball and other sports when it rains too much, your team does not have a dome or atleast a retractable roof, and thus the game is appropriately delayed for the rain to pass. You can usually tell if the game that your team is supposed to be playing in is experiencing a rain delay because:

A. There will be a notation on your television that there is a rain delay.

B. Thurmon Munson will be at bat against Bill Lee; or

C. If you are at the game, there is a massive tarp on the field, and it is raining.

(I cannot believe I just explained that.)

As for Tito's observation, I cannot disagree with him and would like to formally apologize to him for forcing him to endure this little quirk of mine for three years of law school. It is not so much that I am high maintenance or that I take a long time to get ready. (My friends will disagree with that last sentence as there are stories out there of me spending a solid half an hour or more to find the perfect t-shirt for the evening. Of course, those stories are nothing more than rumors or hearsay, and I will deny that they ever happened.) Rather, I have the inexplicable talent of creating numerous little tasks that I must complete before I am able to leave my residence. These tasks and their completion, of course, seems totally rational and mandatory to me while being utterly nonsensical to anyone who is involved in getting me out of the house. I guess I am a little obsessive compulsive, but I can promise you that I will not enjoy my brunch or my evening out if I do not clean up all the clothes in my room, wash the dishes, pick up all the red fuzzy carpet droppings, or do whatever other task that comes to mind before I leave the house. They just have to be done, this is not negotiable.

So there it is, as Tito so aptly once noted, I am the human rain delay, a character that is not so much a super hero put on this earth to save the world, but rather, a source of endless frustration for all who I consider to be my friends. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go make sure that I turned off my space heater for the thirteenth time today.

Just for reference

Here is the training schedule that I am taking on... Any distance below is in miles, I don't understand the metric system.

BASE WEEK (JANUARY 16, 2006 TO JANUARY 22, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-5 Th-5 F-OFF S-10 S-3

Total for the Week: 27

WEEK ONE (JANUARY 23, 2006 TO JANUARY 29, 2006)

M-OFF T-6 W-5 Th-5 F-OFF S-10 S-3

Total for the Week: 29

WEEK TWO (JANUARY 30, 2006 TO FEBRUARY 5, 2006)

M-OFF T-6 W-5 Th-5 F-OFF S-10 S-3

Total for the Week: 29

WEEK THREE (FEBRUARY 6, 2006 TO FEBRUARY 12, 2006)

M-OFF T-5 W-6 Th-5 F-OFF S-12 S-3

Total for the Week: 31

WEEK FOUR (FEBRUARY 13, 2006 TO FEBRUARY 19, 2006)

M-OFF T-5 W-6 Th-5 F-OFF S-12 S-3

Total for the Week: 31

WEEK FIVE (FEBRUARY 20, 2006 TO FEBRUARY 26, 2006)

M-OFF T-5 W-6 Th-5 F-OFF S-14 S-3

Total for the Week: 33

WEEK SIX (FEBRUARY 27, 2006 TO MARCH 5, 2006)

M-OFF T-6 W-6 T-6 F-OFF S-RACE S-3


TERMS NEEDED TO UNDERSTAND THE REMAINDER OF THE PLAN:

Progression Long Run: Basically you are supposed to start to pick up
the pace with forty minutes left in the run so that your last thirty
minutes look like this: 10 minutes at marathon pace (MP) +20 seconds,
then 10 minutes at MP +10 seconds, and the final 10 minutes at MP.

Tempo Pace: 10 to 15 seconds slower than your 10-k pace.

Strides: Plan to do 10 X 100 meter pickups after one of the easy runs
each week.


WEEK SEVEN (MARCH 6, 2006 TO MARCH 12, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W- $ T-6 F-OFF S-% S-3

$ = 3 X 1.5 miles at tempo pace with a steady half mile between repeats.
%= Steady Long run of 13 miles at 10% slower than MP.

WEEK EIGHT (MARCH 13, 2006 TO MARCH 19, 2006)

M-OFF T-6 W-$ T-6 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 2X2 miles at tempo pace with a steady half mile recovery between repeats.
%= Progression long run of 16 miles

WEEK NINE (MARCH 20, 2006 TO MARCH 26, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-8 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 4 mile tempo run
%= Steady long run of 15 miles at 10% slower than MP

WEEK TEN (MARCH 27, 2006 TO APRIL 2, , 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-8 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 3X2 miles at MP, with a steady half mile recovery between repeats.
%= 10k race

WEEK ELEVEN (APRIL 3, 2006 TO APRIL 9, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-8 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 3X2 miles at MP, with a steady half mile recovery between repeats.
%= Progression run of 18 miles

WEEK TWELVE (APRIL 10, 2006 TO APRIL 16, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-8 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 3X2 miles at MP, with a steady half mile recovery between repeats.
%= Half-marathon

WEEK THIRTEEN (APRIL 17, 2006 TO APRIL 23, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-8 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 3X2 miles at tempo pace, with a steady half mile recovery between repeats.
%= Progression long run of 20 miles

WEEK FOURTEEN (APRIL 24, 2006 TO APRIL 30, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-8 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 5X2 miles at MP with a steady half mile recovery between repeats.
%= Steady long run of 16 miles at 10% slower than MP

WEEK FIFTEEN (MAY 1, 2006 TO MAY 7, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-5 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 3X3 miles at MP with a steady half mile recovery between repeats
%= Progression log run of 22 miles

WEEK SIXTEEN (MAY 8, 2006 TO MAY 14, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-5 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 2X4 miles at MP with a steady half-mile recovery between repeats.
%= Steady run off 15 miles (i shortened this from 18)

WEEK SEVENTEEN (MAY 15, 2006 TO MAY 21, 2006)

M-OFF T-5 W-$ T-4 F-OFF S-% S-3

$= 15 miles with the last 8 to miles at MP.
%= 2X3 miles at tempo pace with a steady half mile recovery between repeats

WEEK EIGHTEEN (MAY 22, 2006 TO MAY 28, 2006)

M-OFF T-4 W-$ T-3 F-OFF S-2 S-MARATHON

$= 8 with last 3 miles at MP.

Where Has The Time Gone

So once I used to write on this sucker pretty regularly and then, the transit strike happened, the holidays came and went, and I slowly neglected my little blog more and more... and instead I developed an unhealthy and often criticized addiction to Anchorman.

But thankfully, I have found some time this evening while watching Hour Three of the 24 to get in a quick update and to announce a new direction and the plans for the next coming months for Putting Myself Out There.

Here is the update:

1. The transit strike: man did that really blow. I had to walk to work four miles in the snow up hill while barefoot. At least that is what I am going to tell my grandkids when I get old and pop out some young spankies. Enough has been written about the strike but all and all I thought it was a nice although cold opportunity to realize how much we depend on mass transit and yet how we each can survive when it disappears. Now, go hug each other...

2. Holidays: this year's Christmas festivities really stepped it up a notch. Not only did we each receive a lot more gifts than usual due to some unknown mutual fear of underbuying that gripped each us before the actual day, but also, we got a little crazy with the holiday libations. I blame the second part of that sentence on my mother who introduced a little drink called the Poinsettia to the mix. Basically, this drink as originally described was supposed to be a sublime combination of champagne and cranberry juice. My mother, however, decided to up the ante and add her own ingredient, vodka. Needless to say, it became readily apparent that as the evening progressed mom's secret ingredient became the evening's holiday cheer as all involved became quite intoxicated. Happily, mom's little creation kept us laughing long into that cold winter night... Man, ever since I stopped writing, I have become really really soft... I will take my skirt off now.

3. Moving: my parents are moving out of our childhood home. Man, does this one suck. This past weekend, I spent my time cleaning out both the attic and the basement and I will be back next weekend further emptying my home of childhood memories. It has been a truly difficult process as we are cleaning out a house that we have lived in for 21 years. It is definitely hard not to get nostalgic during the course of the whole thing and wonder if they are doing the right thing. I love my parents' new place, but I wonder if it will ever be quite the same. I guess they say that we will have to just make our new memories there. We shall see.

4. Running: today is the first day of my marathon training and also a great segue into the new focus for a lot of what I will be writing here in the next couple of months. As I stated a long long time ago, I love to run, and over the course of the next 18 weeks, I will be devoted to running the fastest marathon of my life. As such, I plan to write often or atleast weekly about how training has been going along with a splash of high comedy that is my daily encounters. We shall see how it all works out, but I think with a new focus, I may be able to post on a more consistent basis as I am sure you will love to hear about how much I hate the training that I am doing and how much pain I am because of it.

Soon enough my fragile little flowers.. soon enough...